CHAPTER XXVII_Merrylips

HOW RUPERT WAS TOO CLEVER

After all the wonders of the last hour, Merrylips and Rupert were keyed

high with excitement. They felt as if they could walk right along and

never tire until they came to Walsover. But before they had gone a mile

they found that Master Robert Lucas and Mistress Sybil Venner were just

as hungry and footsore as those little ragamuffins, Rupert Hinkel and

Tibbott Venner, had ever been.

They sat down at last under a hedge. Rupert pulled off his doublet and

folded it about Merrylips, though she begged him keep it for himself.

"I am hardier than thou," he said. "And I must care for thee tenderly,

since thou art a little maid."

"But I'm a boy," Merrylips answered. "Munn bade me be a boy, and so I

still must be, unto all save thee, until I come among mine own people.

So do not thou fret thyself for me, Rupert, for I am not cold nor am I

overweary."

They sat side by side and hand in hand while the twilight closed round

them. Across the sombre fields they saw the small lights of a village

kindle one by one. Then suddenly Rupert slapped his knee.

"I've a plan!" he cried.

Off he posted, and Merrylips was left alone in the dark. She watched

the stars shine out above her, and called them by the names that Lady

Sybil had taught her. Then she thought of Lady Sybil and of the joy

that would be hers, when she saw her lost nephew. And in that thought

she almost forgot that she was cold and hungry.

It was late in the evening and the village lights were dimmed, when

Rupert came stumbling back across the fields.

"Here's bread," he panted, "a huge crusty piece, and a bit o' cold

bacon, and two great apples, and I've a ha'penny besides, and one on

'em gave me a sup of ale, but that I might not bear away. Now eat of

the bread, Merrylips. Eat all thou wilt, for to-morrow we'll have more."

"But how didst thou come by it, Rupert?" she asked.

"Honestly, I warrant thee," he said, and then he laughed in a

shamefaced manner.

"I went unto the village alehouse, and I sang for the greasy clowns

were sitting there. At Monksfield the officers said that I was a lusty

lad at a catch. So when I sang and spoke up saucily, these rude

fellows gave me of their food. So thou seest," he ended, "I've sung for

thee at last, Merrylips, though at Monksfield I would not do't for the

asking."

Rupert joked and laughed about it bravely. But Merrylips knew that, in

plain words, he had gone a-begging to get food for them.

It was the first time, even in his rough life, that Rupert had had to

do a thing that was so hateful to his pride, but it was not the last

time. They had to have food, those two poor little travellers, and they

had no money with which to buy it. So time after time Rupert did the

only thing that he could do. He slipped into a farmyard or a lonely

alehouse, and there, with his songs and his pert speeches, he got now a

piece of bread, and now a ha'penny, and now, far oftener than he told

Merrylips, only cuffs and curses for his pains.

While Rupert went on these risky errands, Merrylips hid in the fields.

But one afternoon, when she was seated under a straw-stack, she was

found by the surly farmer that owned the field. He shook her as soundly

as ever a little boy was shaken, and threatened to set his dog upon

her. After that Rupert thought it best not to leave her alone, but to

take her with him wherever he went.

He was sorry to do this. He feared that she might be hurt or frightened

by the rough men among whom he had to go. He feared too lest the sight

of such a young lad as she seemed, might make people ask questions. And

just then he was very eager to escape notice.

They were now drawing near to the rebel lines, which they must cross,

if they would ever reach Walsover. To north of them lay the town of

Ryeborough, which was held for the Parliament by Robert Fowell, Lord

Caversham. It was a walled town with a castle,--a strong place, from

which bands of rebels went scouting through the countryside.

This much Rupert had learned in the alehouses. And he and Merrylips

remembered, too, that it was from Ryeborough that men and guns had been

sent to the siege of Monksfield. They feared the very name of the town,

and they would have been glad to slip from one hiding-place to another,

and never show themselves to any one, till they had left it long miles

behind them.

But they could not keep on marching, unless they had food to eat. And

in order to get food, they must go where people were. And since the

cross farmer had frightened Merrylips, they felt that they must go

together. So after some hours of hunger they screwed up their courage,

and late of a chill afternoon limped, side by side, into a hamlet of

thatched cottages that was called Long Wesselford.

"Be not feared!" Rupert whispered to Merrylips, as they passed slowly

down the village street. "There are no soldiers here, for I questioned

yesternight at the alehouse. Indeed I have been wary! Now do thou keep

mum and let me talk for both. And perchance, an we get a penny, we'll

spend it for a night's lodging, and lie beneath a roof for once."

"That would like me mightily!" sighed Merrylips.

In spite of herself she shivered in her worn clothes. Up to that time

the weather had been mercifully mild, but now the night was falling

wintry cold. The puddles in the road were scummed with ice, and in the

air was a raw chill that searched the very marrow of the bones.

Halfway down the street the two children found that a stone had got

into Merrylips' shoe. So they sat down on the doorstep of a cottage

that was larger than the others, while Rupert untied the shoe-lace and

shook out the stone. They were just ready to rise and trudge on, when

behind them they heard the door of the cottage flung open.

Out stepped a big, blowzy young woman that made Merrylips think of

Mawkin. Before they could rise and run away, she was bending over them.

"Whither beest thou going, sweetheart?" she asked Merrylips.

Rupert looked surprised. You may be sure that he was not spoken to in

that kindly way, when he went alone into the village alehouses! But

Rupert was almost thirteen, and looked a hardy little fellow, while

Merrylips, in her ragged boy's dress, did not seem over nine years old,

and she looked tired and piteous besides.

So the blowzy woman did perhaps what any woman would have done, when

she took Merrylips by the hand and drew her into the cottage. Merrylips

went meekly, because the woman was so large and determined, and Rupert

went because Merrylips went.

Almost before they knew how they had come there, they both were seated

in a warm chimney-corner, in a well-scoured kitchen. They had a big

bowl of porridge to share between them, and the blowzy woman and her

old father, who had sat nodding by the fire, were asking them a heap of

questions.

Merrylips ate the hot porridge in silence, but Rupert told the story

that he had planned to tell.

"My name is called Hal Smith," he said glibly, "and this is my cousin

John. And we were put to school down in the Weald of Sussex, but we

are fain to fight the--the Cavaliers--" he tried hard to say "wicked

Cavaliers," but in that he failed utterly--"so we have quitted the

school and are bound unto the army."

"Lawk! The brave little hearts! Didst ever hear the like?" cried the

woman, and filled their bowl afresh.

But the old father chuckled.

"Runaways, I's wager!" said he. "Pack 'em back to their schoolmaster,

Daughter Polly."

Of such a danger Rupert had never dreamed. For the first time he saw

now that any grown folk would surely try to send them back to the

school about which he had made up his clever story. He had told one fib

from choice, and he found now, as often happens, that he must tell many