JOURNEY'S END
But by the time that they had ridden down the long slope in the
twilight, and reached the outermost of the barriers that now were built
round Walsover, Merrylips' heart was light again. For she had before
her a great happiness. Indeed, it was no small matter to come home at
last, after two full years of absence.
They laid a plot in whispers, she and Munn, as they rode past the
sentinels. Munn should present her to her father as a little boy,
and see if he would recognize her. Then they should have sport in
presenting her to each one of her kinsfolk in turn. Last of all, they
should tell Lieutenant Crashaw that she was no boy, but a little girl.
"For 'tis clear he is so newly come to Walsover that he hath not yet
had time to learn of our father which child of his was lost from
Monksfield," Munn concluded.
He chuckled at the thought of the laugh that he should have at Crashaw.
And truly it was a beautiful plot! But Dick Fowell could have warned
the plotters that such surprises sometimes turn out unexpectedly for
their inventors. And so it proved with Munn and Merrylips.
Soon they had come into Sir Thomas Venner's presence. He stood, tall
and martial, on the hearth in the great hall, ready to receive the
envoy that had been sent to him under the white flag. And Munn played
his part well. He greeted his father, with all respect and affection,
and presented to him Lieutenant Fowell, as one to whom he was much
bound in gratitude. Then he began soberly:--
"And, sir, I would further bespeak your kindness for this young lad--"
But there Merrylips spoiled everything. For as she gazed at her father,
who was so big and strong and splendid in his officer's dress, she
remembered that sad day, months ago, when she had parted from him. She
felt that she could not bear it, even for a moment and by way of jest,
to have him look at her as if she were a stranger.
So when Sir Thomas turned to look at the little boy of whom Munn had
spoken, Merrylips ran to him and caught his hand.
"Daddy! Mine own daddy! Do you not know me, then?" she cried.
Well, for an instant he truly did not, and he was the more perplexed
when Crashaw said kindly:--
"Sir, 'tis your s-son Tibbott."
"'Tis the first time ever I heard that I had such a son," Sir Thomas
answered.
The way in which he said it was so like him that Merrylips laughed,
only to hear him. And then, as he looked on her laughing face, a great
light seemed to break upon him.
"Merrylips!" he shouted. "Good faith! And is it thou, brave little
wench?"
Merrylips never heard what Lieutenant Crashaw said in the next few
minutes to Munn, now that he knew the secret and how he and all
Monksfield had been befooled. For she was swept up bodily into her big
father's arms, and when next she was stood upon her feet, it was in the
west parlor that she remembered.
It was the very room where long ago her mother had told her the
dreadful news that she was to be sent to her unknown godmother at
Larkland. The parlor had been green that day with the shadows of the
vines, but now it was cheery with candles and with firelight. A group
of gentlewomen in silken gowns were seated there, and a stout handmaid
was in attendance on them.
Sir Thomas stood Merrylips upon a great chair in the middle of the room.
"And who is there here that knoweth this lad?" he cried.
Before Merrylips could be quite sure of the presence in which she
found herself, a slender gentlewoman rose from her seat by the fire.
Her brown hair was thickly streaked with gray, and she had the kindest
smile in the world.
"Merrylips! My little Merrylips!" she said in a breathless voice, and
stretched out her arms.
Thus Merrylips and Lady Sybil found each other again. They were
laughing and crying and asking questions long before the others in the
parlor had taken breath. But soon Merrylips found them all thronging
round her.
Here was her mother, grave and careful as ever, who was glad to see
her, but not over-pleased at her dress. And indeed, for a little girl
who had been sent away to receive such nurture as became a maid,
Merrylips had come home in strange attire.
Here was sister Puss, who was a tall young gentlewoman now, and fairer
even than Betteris or Allison Fowell. Here was Pug, who was rosier and
rounder than ever. If you will believe it, she was hemming a napkin,
just as Merrylips remembered her, for all the world as if she had come
out of _A Garland of Virtuous Dames_!
And here, too, was Merrylips' own maid, Mawkin, who was waiting upon
the gentlewomen. She hugged Merrylips harder than any, and blubbered
aloud with joy that she had come safe home at last.
Hardly had the women begun exclaiming over Merrylips, when in came
more company. Her brother, Longkin, came in his lieutenant's dress. He
was grown such a fine young gallant that Merrylips found it hard to
believe that he had ever done such an undignified thing as to romp with
his brothers on the terrace. After Longkin, Flip came running. He was
all legs and arms, and he squeezed Merrylips as if she were a bear or
another boy.
"And oh! Flip," she heard her own voice saying, "I ha' been to the
wars, for all I am but a wench! I ha' been in a siege, and fired
upon a many times, and chased by the enemy, and a prisoner among the
Roundheads. And thou, what battles hast thou been fighting, Flip?"
"I'm a gentleman volunteer!" cried Flip, very red and angry. "If father
would let me ride into battle, I'd speedily show thee what mettle I am
made of."
Now that she had begun squabbling with Flip, Merrylips felt that she
had indeed come home. So it seemed quite a matter of course, when
presently she found herself seated by the fire, with her hand in Lady
Sybil's hand, and telling all her strange adventures.
While she was speaking, Sir Thomas Venner remembered the courtesy that
he owed Lord Caversham's envoy. He went from the room, and Longkin,
too, when he heard that the envoy was his old college mate, Dick
Fowell, hurried out to speak with him. Merrylips wondered if this were
the hour when her father would hear Rupert's story. While she wondered,
she rambled in her talk and grew silent. Then her godmother vowed that
she must be weary and sleepy and were best in bed.
"All the rest thou shalt tell us on the morrow, heart's dearest," she
said.
So Lady Sybil led Merrylips to her own chamber and helped her to her
own bed. In the pale candlelight, when they two were alone, they said
many things that they would not say downstairs. And Merrylips told how
often she had thought about her godmother, and had tried to do what
would please her, both as a girl and as a little boy.
They were talking thus together, while Merrylips sat up in bed, with
her head on Lady Sybil's shoulder, just as she had sat in twilight
talks at Larkland, when there came a tap at the door.
"Oh, your Ladyship!" cried Mawkin's voice. "Sir Thomas doth pray you,
of your courtesy, come unto his study."
Then Merrylips guessed that Lady Sybil was to hear the great news about
Rupert, and she cried:--
"Oh, godmother, prithee go quickly! 'Tis such rare news!"
But as she saw Lady Sybil rise from beside her bed, she felt a sharp
little stab of fear, and perhaps of jealousy. She caught at her
godmother's gown with one hand.
"But pray you, kiss me first," she said. "For it may be, presently, you
will not have so much love to give unto me."
"Thou silly child!" whispered Lady Sybil, and kissed her, and went her
way.
Merrylips knew that she was silly. But she was very tired, now that the
day was ended, and she could not help having sad thoughts. As she lay
alone in the quiet chamber, she pictured how Lady Sybil, at that very
moment, was opening her arms to a child that was blood-kin to her. Her
heart grew heavy. How did she know that Rupert would not take her place
in Lady Sybil's love?
In that foolish fear Merrylips had fallen asleep. When she woke, it was
dark, but she found herself clasped tight in two arms, and she heard
Lady Sybil speak:--
"And thou couldst think I had not love enough for two--oh! thou little
silly one! Merrylips! Little true heart, that didst believe in my poor
lad, even when I myself distrusted him! Oh, child, how can I ever love
thee enough--thou, through whom, under God, my dead sister's son hath
this hour been given unto me!"