HE THAT WAS LOST
"First of all," Rupert began, "my name is not Rupert Hinkel, no more
than thine is Tibbott. I am no kinsman to Claus Hinkel, nor to any
peasant folk. I am a gentleman's son, and come of as good blood, they
say, as any in all England."
Indeed, as he spoke, with his head thrown back and his chin uplifted,
Rupert looked what he claimed to be. Merrylips believed him, only
hearing him say it.
"My right name," he went on, "is called Robert Lucas."
"Lucas! 'Tis a name I've heard," said Merrylips. "Perchance I shall
remember where."
He looked at her eagerly.
"If thou couldst but help me!" he sighed. "I'll tell thee all, but
there's so much I do not know and I can never learn. For I was but a
little babe when both my father and my mother died. My father was an
English gentleman, one Captain Lucas. He was an officer in the army of
the Emperor Ferdinand, and he was serving in High Germany. My mother
was with him. She was an Englishwoman, a great lady in her own country,
and with a face like an angel, so my nurse hath ofttimes told me.
"My mother held that the camp was too rude a place in which to nurture
me. So she gave me, but three months old, to a good woman, Jettchen
Kronk, a farmer's wife, who nursed me with her own child. Each week my
mother would leave the camp, and ride across the hills on her palfrey,
with men to attend her, and visit me for an hour.
"One day, when I was eight months old, she gave me this ring from her
hand to play with. I fell asleep holding it fast, and she would not
waken me to take it from me, when it came her time to go. She would get
her ring when next she came unto me, she said, and bade my nurse guard
it safely, for 'twas dear to her and bore the crest of her house. Then
she kissed me as I slept, my nurse hath told me, and went her way, and
never came again.
"For there fell a great fever on the camp, and among the rest my father
and my mother must have died, for never a word was heard of them more.
Many of the officers perished, as well as of the soldiers. Doubtless
among them were those of my father's friends that would have been
mindful of me. And presently, to save the remnant of the troops, they
were sent to another camp, miles away, across the mountains, and I was
left behind, for there was none now to take thought of me.
"But Jettchen Kronk loved me. Her own child, my foster-brother, died
that year, and her husband was slain, and she said that I was all was
left unto her. So when her kinsmen bade her cast me forth as a beggar
brat, she drove them from her house. And she reared me tenderly, as if
I had been her own.
"She had me taught to read and write, both German and Latin, by the
priest of the village. And she told me always how I was a gentleman and
the son of a gentleman, and she showed me this silver ring that she
had kept for me. Through this ring, she said, I should one day find
my English kindred, who would be glad to welcome me. But the journey
into England was very long, and the country was vexed with war, and
she herself was poor and all unable to furnish me for the road. So I
could not hope to travel into England until I was old enough and strong
enough to make mine own way thither.
"'Twill be three years agone, come Eastertide, that dear Jettchen fell
into a lingering sickness. She was in great fear for me, for she knew
that there was none to stand my friend when she was gone. But while
she was thus troubled, there came to her a cousin, Claus Hinkel, a
kind, true soul that had been for years a soldier in the army of the
Emperor. He promised Jettchen that he would take me into England, to my
kinsfolk there, and so she died with her heart at peace. God rest her!
She was kinder to me than any in all this world."
For a little time after that Rupert sat blinking fast. Merrylips did
not like to speak to him in words, but timidly she laid her hand on
his, and he did not withdraw it.
"I was a very little boy," he broke out suddenly, "and foolish--and so
was poor Claus!--to think 'twas an easy task we went upon. First of
all, we had no money, for my nurse's kindred seized on all she owned.
So for a winter I dwelt with Claus in camp in Bohemia, while he put by
money for our journey into England. And there was one in the ranks, a
broken Englishman, who was good-natured, and such time as he was sober,
taught me my father's tongue and told me much of England.
"At last in the spring, we set out across the seas. For we had heard
rumors that there would be war in this country. War was Claus Hinkel's
trade, and he thought to maintain us with his sword, should we be a
long time in finding my kinsfolk. But we did not think to be long
about it. We were right hopeful!
"'Twas at Brighthelmstone we landed, and hard by, in a town called
Lewes, we went unto a gentleman, a magistrate, to whom the country
folk directed us. I asked him whereabout in England the Lucases were
dwelling. The talking fell to me, thou dost understand, for Claus had
little mastery of English. But this gentleman did but laugh and bid us
be off, and the next to whom we did apply was angry and threatened to
set us in the stocks for landleapers and vagrants.
"Then we were afraid, so we stayed to question no more, but hastened
northward, as fast as we could travel. And that was not fast, for I was
sickening with a fever. So we came, as thou knowest, unto Larkland and
oh! what a good rest I had that night, in a fair bed with sheets, and I
dreamed my mother came unto me.
"But Claus was in great fear, for the lady of Larkland asked him many
questions. And he, that knew little of English, and remembered the
angry magistrate that had threatened us with the stocks, thought that
harm was meant unto us. In the early dawn he roused me, saying that
we must get thence. And I was stronger, for I had slept sweetly those
hours, so I rose and went forth at his side.
"We were skirting the garden wall when we heard a rustling in a cherry
tree above us. Claus hid him under some elder bushes that grew by the
wall, but I--I was loath to hide. And then thou didst speak unto me,
Merrylips, so winningly that it seemed to me I'd liefer than all the
world stay there at Larkland. And I did hate to tell thee an untruth,
indeed I did, but Claus was signing to me, where he lay hidden, so I
promised falsely to await thee there.
"So soon as thou wert gone, we hastened away, and great part of the
time Claus bore me in his arms. Then we learned that the lady of
Larkland had sent to seek us and hale us back, so we were affrighted
and hid us and travelled always by night till we were far away."
"Oh, Rupert!" cried Merrylips, for she could wait no longer with what
she had to tell. "If thou hadst but been found that time and brought
back unto Larkland, how well it would have been with thee! For Lady
Sybil that is mistress of Larkland--canst thou not guess who she is?"
Rupert shook his head.
"No," he said, but he began to breathe fast, like a runner when he sees
the goal.
"'Twas she that came to thy bed the night that thou didst dream thy
mother stood nigh thee," Merrylips went on. "Rupert, in very truth, my
dear godmother must be thy mother's sister and own aunt to thee."
Rupert clenched and unclenched his hands, and for a moment did not
speak.
"Art thou sure?" he said at last. "How dost thou know? Don't jest with
me, I pray thee!"
She touched the ring at her neck, and Rupert held out his that was like
it.
"Nurse said 'twould be the ring would bring me to mine own!" he
muttered.
"There were two rings," Merrylips poured out her story, "wrought by
order of his Grace of Barrisden with the crest of the Fernefoulds, two
hearts entwined. And one ring was given to his daughter, Lady Sybil,
that is my godmother, and here it lieth in mine hand. And the other was
given to his daughter, Lady Venetia, that married Captain Edward Lucas
and went into Germany, where they both died of a fever, as my godmother
hath told me. And her ring she left unto her little son, and thou dost
hold it there, Rupert, and surely, by that token, thou art the Lady
Venetia's child."
Then Rupert caught her hands in his and kissed them, though he did it
roughly, as if he were not used to such courtesy.
"Thou dost believe me, dost thou not?" he kept repeating.
Merrylips was almost as wild as he. She forgot that an hour before she
had been tired and hungry and discouraged. Over and over she said how
glad she was, how glad Lady Sybil would be, how, when they came to
Walsover, Rupert would be welcomed by every one, and would have his
rightful name and place, and never again be poor and friendless and
unhappy.
But while Merrylips talked on, Rupert's face grew sober and more sober.
At last he checked her, though gently.
"But I must tell thee, Merrylips," he said hesitatingly. "'Twill not be
so easy as thou dost think, and as I did think when I was a little boy.
For after we fled from Larkland, we came unto Oxford, and there I took
courage to tell my story once again unto a great magistrate.
"This magistrate asked me questions: what was my father's Christian
name? what was my mother's surname ere she was married? And I could
not tell him, nor where I was born, nor by whom christened. And when I
showed him the ring, he said, how could I prove that it had not been
stolen and given to me, a peasant boy, to bring into England, if haply
I might win money with a lying tale of my gentle birth. And he called
me impostor and bade me begone out of Oxford, and threatened to take
the ring from me.
"So after that we said no more, Claus and I, for indeed it seemed
hopeless. And we went into the king's army to win us bread till one day
when I was older perhaps men would listen to me, or perhaps I might
learn something further of my lost kinsfolk."
"And so thou hast to-day!" cried Merrylips.
"Ah, but will they believe me?" asked Rupert, wistfully. "Thou dost
believe me, Merrylips, for thou art the kindest and truest little maid
in all the world, and thou knowest I do not lie to thee. But will the
grown folk believe me--thy godmother, and thy father, and thy brothers?
Oh, Merrylips, dost think in truth that they will believe that I am son
to Captain Lucas?"
For one instant Merrylips hesitated. They were strange folk indeed, the
grown folk. Even dear Lady Sybil had thought Claus and Rupert spies
when they came, sick and weary, to Larkland. Even her brother Munn had
looked on and smiled at the distress of the poor people at Storringham.
They did not always believe and pity so quickly as did she, who was
young and foolish. Maybe they would treat Rupert as that heartless
magistrate at Oxford had treated him.
But then Merrylips met Rupert's eyes, that had grown miserable with
doubt in the moment while he saw her hesitate. So she hesitated no
more. Laughing, she rose to her feet, and drew him up by the hand.
"Word a' truth!" she cried in her stoutest voice. "They shall believe
thee, Rupert. Come, let us be off this hour unto Walsover! They shall
believe that thou art my godmother's nephew that was lost. And if they
do not believe at first, why, Rupert, somehow we will win them to
believe!"