"Keren Happuch."
"Yes, aunt."
The reply came only after a brief pause, as though the rosy-cheeked
maiden at the casement would fain have declined to answer to that
abhorred name had she dared--which was indeed pretty much the case;
for though it was undeniably her own, and she could not gainsay the
unpalatable fact, nobody in the world but Aunt Susan ever aggrieved
her by using it. Even her grave father had adopted the "Cherry"
that was universal alike with relatives and friends, and the girl
never heard the clumsy and odious appellation without a natural
longing to box the offender's ears.
"What art doing, child?" questioned the voice from below.
Now Cherry was undeniably idling away the morning hours by looking
out of her window at the lively scene below; and perhaps it was
scarce wonderful that the sights and sounds without attracted her.
It was a sunny November morning, and the sun was shining quite
hotly; for the soft wind from the south was blowing--it had
suddenly veered round in the night--and all nature seemed to be
rejoicing in the change. The river ran sparkling on its way to the
sea; the barges and wherries, and larger craft that anchored in the
stream or plied their way up and down, gave animation and
brightness to the great water way; whilst the old bridge, with its
quaint-timbered houses with their projecting upper stories, its
shops with their swinging signs, and noisy apprentices crying their
masters' wares or playing or quarrelling in the open street, and
its throngs of passers by, from the blind beggar to the gay court
gallant, provided a shifting and endless panorama of entertainment
to the onlooker, which pretty Mistress Cherry certainly
appreciated, if no one else in that grave Puritan household did the
like. But possibly she thought that her aunt's question must not be
too literally answered, for she hastily skipped across the panelled
chamber, seized her distaff, and answered meekly;
"I am about to spin, aunt."
"Humph!" the answer sounded more like a grunt than anything else,
and warned Cherry that Mistress Susan, her father's sister, who had
ruled his household for the past ten years, since the death of his
wife, was in no very amiable temper.
"I know what that means. Thy spinning is a fine excuse for idling
away thy time in the parlour, when thou mightest be learning
housewifery below. Much flax thou spinnest when I am not by to
watch! It is a pity thou wert not a fine lady born!"
Cherry certainly was decidedly of this opinion herself, albeit she
would not have dared to say as much. She liked soft raiment, bright
colours, dainty ways, and pretty speeches. Looking down from her
window upon the passers by, it was her favourite pastime to fancy
herself one of the hooped and powdered and gorgeously-apparelled
ladies, with their monstrous farthingales, their stiff petticoats,
their fans, their patches, and their saucy, coquettish ways to the
gentlemen in their train. All this bedizenment, which had by no
means died out with the death of a Queen who had loved and
encouraged it, was dear to the eyes of the little maiden, whose own
sad-coloured garments and severe simplicity of attire was a
constant source of annoyance to her. Not that she wished to ape the
fine dames in her small person. She knew her place better than
that. She was a tradesman's daughter, and it would ill have
beseemed her to attire herself in silk and velvet, even though the
sumptuary laws had been repealed. But she did not see why she might
not have a scarlet under-petticoat like Rachel Dyson, her own
cousin, or a gay bird's wing to adorn her hat on holiday occasions.
The utmost she had ever achieved for herself was a fine soft
coverchief for her head, instead of the close unyielding coif which
all her relatives wore, which quite concealed their hair, and gave
a quaint severity to their square and homely faces. Cherry's face
was not square, but a little pointed, piquant countenance, from
which a pair of long-lashed gray eyes looked forth with saucy,
mischievous brightness. Her skin was very fair, with a peach-like
bloom upon it, and her pretty hair hung round it in a mass of red
gold curls.
Cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair
uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her
family. But she had contrived to assume the softly-flowing
coverchief, more like a veil than a cap, which was infinitely
becoming to the sweet childish face, and allowed the pretty curls
to be seen flowing down on either side till they reached the
shoulders. For the rest, her dress was severely plain in its
simplicity: the snow-white kerchief, crossed in front and made fast
behind; the under-petticoat of gray homespun, just showing the
black hose and buckled shoes beneath; and the over-dress of sombre
black or dark brown, puffed out a little over the hips in the
pannier fashion, but without any pretence at following the
extravagances of the day. The sleeves buttoned tightly to the lower
arm, though wider at the cuff, and rose high upon the shoulder with
something of a puff. It was a simple and by no means an unbecoming
style of costume; but Cherry secretly repined at the monotony of
always dressing in precisely the same fashion. Other friends of her
own standing had plenty of pretty things suited to their station,
and why not she? If she asked the question of any, the answer she
always got was that her father followed the Puritan fashions of
dressing and thinking and speaking, and that he held fine clothes
in abhorrence. Cherry would pout a little, and think it a hard
thing that she had been born a Puritan's daughter; but on the whole
she was happy and contented enough, only she did reckon the rule of
Aunt Susan in her father's house as something of a hardship.
But it did not do to offend that worthy dame, who was the very
model of all housewives, and whose careful management and excellent
cookery caused Martin Holt's house to be something of a proverb and
a pattern to other folks' wives. So now the girl replied
submissively:
"I need not spin, an it please thee not, aunt. Hast thou aught for
me to do below?"
"Ay, plenty, child, if thou canst give thy mind to work. Abraham
Dyson and Anthony Cole sup with us tonight, and I am making a
herring pie."
A herring pie was a serious undertaking in the domestic economy of
the house on the bridge, and Mistress Susan prided herself on her
skill in the concoction of this delicate dish above almost any
other achievement. She had a mysterious receipt of her own for it,
into the secret of which she would let no other living soul, not
even the dutiful nieces who assisted at the manufacture of the
component parts. Cherry heaved a sigh when she heard what was in
prospect, but laid aside her distaff and proceeded to don a great
coarse apron, and to unbutton and turn back her sleeves, leaving
her pretty round white arms bare for her culinary task. But there
was a little pucker of perplexity and vexation on her forehead,
which was not caused by any distaste of cookery.
"If Uncle Abraham comes, sure he will bring Jacob with him; he
always does. If it were Rachel I would not mind; but I cannot abear
Jacob, with his great hairy hands and fat cheeks. And if I be pert
to him, my father chides; and if I be kind, he makes me past all
patience with his rolling eyes and foolish ways and words. I know
what they all think; but I'll none of him! He had better try for
Kezzie, who would jump down his throat as soon as look at him. She
fair rails on me for not treating him well. Let her take him
herself, the loutish loon!"
And tossing her head so that her coverchief required readjusting,
Cherry slipped down the narrow wooden staircase into the rooms that
lay below.
Kitchen and dining parlour occupied the whole of this floor, which
was not the ground floor of the house. That was taken up by the
shop, in which Martin Holt's samples of wools and stuffs were
exposed. He was more (to borrow a modern expression) in the
wholesale than the retail line of business, and his shop was
nothing very great to look at, and did not at all indicate the
scope of his real trade and substance; but it was a convenient
place for customers to come to, to examine samples and talk over
their orders. Martin Holt sat all day long in a parlour behind the
shop, pretty well filled with bales and sacks and other impedimenta
of his trade, and received those who came to him in the way of
business. He had warehouses, too, along the wharves of Thames
Street, and visited them regularly; but he preferred to transact
business in his own house, and this dull-looking shop was quite a
small centre for wool merchants, wool manufacturers, and even for
the farmers who grew the wool on the backs of the sheep they bred
in the green pastures. No more upright and fair-dealing man than
Martin Holt was to be found in all London town; and though he had
not made haste to be rich, like some, nor had his father before
him, having a wholesome horror of those tricks and shifts which
have grown more and more common as the world has grown older, yet
honest dealing and equitable trading had had its own substantial
reward, and wealth was now steadily flowing into Martin's coffers,
albeit he remained just the same simple, unassuming man of business
as he had ever been when the golden stream of prosperity had not
reached his doors.
But the ground floor of the bridge house being occupied in business
purposes, the first floor had of necessity been given up to cookery
and feeding. The front room was the eating parlour, and was only
furnished by a long table and benches, with one high-backed
armchair at either end. It overlooked the street and the river,
like the living parlour above; and behind lay the kitchen, with a
back kitchen or scullery beyond. From the windows of either of
these back rooms the busy cooks could fling their refuse into the
river, and exceedingly handy did they find this, as did likewise
their neighbours. Nor did the fact that the river water was drunk
by themselves and a large number of the inhabitants of the city in
any way interfere with their satisfaction at the convenience of
these domestic arrangements. The beat, beat of the great water
wheel was always in their ears to remind them; but no misgivings
had yet assailed our forefathers as to the desirability of drinking
water polluted by sewage and other abominations. True, the plague
was constantly desolating the city, and had been raging so
violently but a single year back that the King's coronation had
well nigh had to be postponed, and he dared not adventure himself
into London itself, nor summon his Parliament to meet him there.
But it was for another generation to put together cause and effect,
and wonder how far tainted water was responsible for the spread of
the fatal malady.
As Cherry entered the eating parlour, her two sisters looked up
from their tasks, as if with a smile of welcome. Jemima was busy
with the almond paste, which was an important ingredient of the
herring pie; Keziah was stoning the dates, grating the manchet, and
preparing the numerous other ingredients--currants, gooseberries,
barberries--which, being preserved in bottles in the spring and
summer, were always ready to hand in Mistress Susan's cookery. From
the open door of the kitchen proceeded a villainous smell of
herrings, which caused Cherry to turn up her pretty nose in a
grimace that set Keziah laughing. Both these elder damsels, who
were neither blooming nor pretty nor graceful, like their youngest
sister, though they bid fair to be excellent housewives and docile
and tractable spouses, delighted in the beauty and wit and
freshness of Cherry. They had never envied her her pretty ways and
charming face, but had taken the same pleasure in both that a
mother or affectionate aunt might do. They spoke of her and thought
of her as "the child," and if any hard or disagreeable piece of
work had to be done, they both vied with each other in contriving
that it should not fall to Cherry's lot.
Cherry, although she dearly loved her homely sisters, as well she
might, never could quite realize that they were her sisters, and
not her aunts. Although Keziah was only six years her senior, it
seemed more like ten, and Jemima had three years' start of Keziah.
They treated her with an indulgence rare between sisters, and from
the fact of their being so staid and grave for their years, Cherry
could scarcely be blamed for feeling as though she was the only
young thing in the house. Her father talked of grave matters with
her aunt and sisters, whilst she sat gaping in weariness or got a
book in which to lose herself. They understood those mysterious
theological and political discussions which were a constant source
of perplexity and irritation to Cherry.
"As if it mattered one way or another," she would say to herself.
"I can't see that one way is a bit better than another! I wonder
folks can care to make such a coil about it."
"Hast come to help us with the pie, Cherry?" asked Jemima kindly.
"There, then, take my place with the paste; 'tis almost ready, but
would do with a trifle more beating. And there be fowls to draw and
get ready for the oven, and I know thou lovest not such a task."
Cherry shuddered at the thought, and gladly took Jemima's place,
tasting the almond with an air of relish, and going about her tasks
with a dainty air that would have angered Aunt Susan, but which
honest Keziah regarded with admiration.
"How many be coming to supper tonight?" asked Cherry. "Is it to be
a gathering?"
"Nay, I scarce know. I have only heard what aunt said to thee.
Father spoke of guests without saying the number, and she said our
uncle would be there, and Master Anthony Cole and his son. Whether
there be any others I know not; belike Rachel and Jacob may come
too."
"Now I am sore puzzled anent this Anthony Cole," said Cherry, as
she beat her paste and leaned towards Keziah, so that her voice
might not carry as far as the kitchen.
"And wherefore art thou puzzled, child?"
"Marry, because it was but a short while ago that we were forbid
even to speak with him or any in his house, neighbours though we
be; and now he comes oft, and father gives him good welcome, and
bids him to sup with us. It fairly perplexes me to know why."
Keziah also lowered her voice as she replied:
"We were forbid his house because that he and his household be all
Papists."
"Ay, verily, that I know. But they be none the less Papists now,
and yet we give them good day when we meet, and sit at the same
board with them in all amity. Are they turning Protestant then, or
what?"
Keziah shook her head.
"It is not that," she said.
Nay, then, what is it?"
"Marry, methinks it is that we are companions in distress, and that
a common trouble draws us the closer together. Thou must have
heard--"
"Oh, I hear words, words, words! but I heed them not. It is like
eating dust and ashes."
"Nay, thou art but a child, and these things are not for children,"
answered Keziah, indulgently. "And, indeed, they are hard to be
understood, save by the wise and learned. But this much I gather:
When the King came to the throne, all men hoped for better
days--liberty to think each according to his conscience, liberty
each to follow his own priest or pastor, and join without fear in
his own form of worship. The Papists believed that the son of Mary
Stuart would scarce show severity to them. The Puritans were
assured that one bred up by the Presbyterians of Scotland would
surely incline to their ways of worship and thought. But the King
has disappointed both, and has allied himself heart and soul with
the Episcopal faction and the Church of the Establishment; and, not
content with that, is striving to enforce the penal statutes
against all who do not conform as they were never enforced in the
Queen's time. Wherefore, as thou mayest understand, the Papists and the
Puritans alike suffer, and so suffering are something drawn together as
friends, albeit in doctrine they are wide asunder--wider than we from
the Establishment or they from it. But trouble drives even foes to
make common cause sometimes."
Cherry sighed impatiently.
"I would that men would e'en forget all these vexed doctrines and
dry dogmas, and learn to enjoy life as it might be enjoyed. Why are
we for ever lamenting evils which none may put right? What does it
matter whether we pray to God in a fine church or a homely room? I
would fain go to church with the fine folk, since the King will
have it so, and strive to find God there as well as in the bare
barn where Master Baker holds his meeting. They bid us read our
Bibles, but they will not let us obey the commands laid down--"
"Nay, hush, Cherry! hush, hush! What and if Aunt Susan heard?"
"Let her hear!" cried the defiant Cherry, though she lowered her
voice instinctively at the warning; "I am saying naught to be
ashamed of. I know naught about these matters of disputing; I only
know that the Bible bids folks submit themselves to the powers that
be, whether they be kings, or rulers, or magistrates, because the
powers that be are of God. So that I see not why we go not to
church as the King bids us. And again I read that wherever two or
three are gathered together in Christ's name, there will He be in
the midst of them. So why we cannot go peacefully to church, since
He will be there with us, I for one cannot see. I trow even the
boldest Papist or Puritan would not dare deny that He was as much
in the midst of those congregations as in ours. If they do they be
worse than Pagans, for every one that goes to church goes to pray
to God and to Jesus Christ."
Keziah looked flustered and scared. Cherry's words, though spoken
in some temper and despite, contained certain elements of shrewd
insight and sound common sense, which she had doubtless inherited
from her father. She had something of the boldness and independence
of mind that a spoiled child not unfrequently acquires, and she was
not accustomed to mince her words when speaking with her sisters.
Hush! oh hush, child! Father would not list to hear such words from
a daughter of his. It is for women to learn, and not to teach; to
listen, but not to speak."
"Oh yes, well do I know that. Have I not listened, and listened,
and listened, till I have well nigh fallen asleep; and what sense
is there in all the wranglings and disputations? Why cannot men
think as they like, and let other folks alone? What harm does it do
any that another should have a different opinion of his own?"
"I trow that is what father really thinks," said Keziah,
thoughtfully; "but all men declare that it is needful for there to
be outward uniformity of worship. And I trow that father would be
willing to conform if they would but let our preachers and teachers
alone to hold private meetings in peace. But so long as they badger
and persecute and imprison them, he will have naught to do with the
bishops and clergy who set them on, nor will he attend their
churches, be the law what it may. He says it is like turning back
in the hour of peril: that is not his way."
"I like that feeling," answered Cherry, with kindling eyes. "If
that be so, I mind it less. Father is a good man, and full of
courage; but I grow full weary of these never-ending talks. Kezzie,
thinkest thou that he will be put in prison for keeping from church
with his whole house? Some men have been sent to prison for less."
"I know not how that may be," answered Keziah, gravely. "He is a
useful citizen, and a man of substance; and by what I hear, such as
these are left alone so long as they abide quiet and peaceable.
Just now the Papists are being worse treated than we. Methinks that
is why father is so sorry for them."
"Too much talk! too much talk!" cried Aunt Susan's voice from the
adjoining kitchen. "Hands lag when tongues wag; wherefore do your
work in silence. Is that almond paste ready, Keren Happuch? Then
bring it quickly hither; and your manchet and sugar, Keziah, for
the skins are ready to be stuffed."
And as the girls obediently brought the required ingredients, they
found themselves in a long, low room, at the end of which a huge
fire burned in a somewhat primitive stove, whilst a tall, angular,
and powerful-looking dame, with her long upper robe well tucked up,
and her gray hair pushed tightly away beneath a severe-looking
coif, was superintending a number of culinary tasks, Jemima and a
serving wench obeying the glance of her eye and the turn of her
hand with the precision of long practice.
Certainly it was plain that Martin Holt's guests would not starve
that night. The herring pie was only the crowning delicacy of the
board, which was to groan beneath a variety of appetizing dishes.
The Puritans were a temperate race, and the baneful habit of sack
drinking at all hours, of perpetual pledgings and toastings, and
the large consumption of fiery liquors, was at a discount in their
houses; but they nevertheless liked a good table as well as the
rest of their kind, and saw no hurt in sitting down to a generously
supplied board, whilst they made up for their abstemiousness in the
matter of liquor by the healthy and voracious appetite which
speedily caused the good cheer to melt away.
Mistress Susan was so intent on her preparations that she scarcely
let her nieces pause to eat their frugal midday dinner. Martin
himself was out on business, and would dine abroad that day, and
nothing better pleased the careful housewife than to dispense with
any formal dinner when there was a company supper to be cooked, and
thus save the attendant labour of washing up as well as the time
wasted in the consumption of the meal.
Jemima and Keziah never dreamed of disputing their aunt's will; but
Cherry pouted and complained that it was hard to work all day
without even the dinner hour as a relief. Mistress Susan gave her a
sharp rebuke that silenced without subduing her; and she kept
throwing wistful glances out of the window, watching the play of
sunshine on the water, and longing to be out in the fresh air--for
such a day as this was too good to be wasted indoors. Tomorrow
belike the sun would not shine, and the wind would be cold and
nipping.
Jemima and Keziah saw the wistful glances, and longed to interpose
on behalf of their favourite; but Mistress Susan was not one it was
well to interfere with, and Cherry was not in favour that day. But
an inspiration came over Jemima at last, and she suddenly
exclaimed:
"Sure, but how badly we need some fresh rushes for the parlour
floor! There be not enough to cover it, and they all brown and old.
There has been scarce any frost as yet. I trow the river rushes
will be yet green, and at least they will be fresh. Could not the
child be spared to run out to try and get some? She is a better
hand at that than at her cooking. I will finish her pastry if thou
wilt spare her to get the reeds. I love not a floor like you, and
methinks father will chide an he sees."
Mistress Susan cast a quick glance at the rush-strewn floor, and
could not but agree with her niece. She had all the true
housewife's instinct of neatness and cleanliness in every detail.
The filthy habit of letting rushes rot on the floor, and only
piling fresh ones on the top as occasion demanded, found no favour
in this house. It was part of Cherry's work and delight to cut them
fresh as often as there was need, but a spell of wet weather had
hindered her from her river-side rambles of late, with the
consequence that the supply was unwontedly low.
"Oh, any one can do Keren Happuch's work and feel nothing added to
her toil," was the sharp response. "Small use are her hands in any
kitchen. We had better make up our minds to wed her to a fine
gentleman, who wants naught of his wife but to dress up in grand
gowns, and smirk and simper over her fan; for no useful work will
he get out of her. If rushes are wanted, she had better go quickly
and cut them--
"And mind, do not stray too far along the banks, child; and watch
the sky, and be in before the sun is down. The evenings draw in so
quick now; and I would not have you abroad after nightfall for all
the gold of Ophir."
Cherry had no desire for such a thing to happen either. London in
the darkness of the night was a terrible place. Out from all the
dens of Whitefriars and other like places swarmed the ruffian and
criminal population that by day slunk away like evil beasts of
night into hiding. The streets were made absolutely perilous by the
bands of cutthroats and cutpurses who prowled about, setting upon
belated pedestrians or unwary travellers, and robbing, insulting,
and maltreating them--not unfrequently leaving the wretched victim
dead or dying, to be found later by the cowardly watchman, who
generally took good care not to be near the spot at the time of the
affray. Ladies of quality never went abroad unattended even by day;
but Cherry was no fine lady, and Martin Holt had no notion of
encouraging the child's native vanity by making any difference
betwixt her and her sisters. Jemima and Keziah had been always
accustomed to go about in the neighbourhood of their home
unmolested, and thought nothing of it; and though Cherry's rosy
cheeks, slim, graceful figure, and bright, laughing eyes might
chance to take the fancy of some bold roisterer or dandy, and lead
to an address which might frighten or annoy the maid, her father
considered this the less danger than bringing her up to think
herself too captivating to go about unguarded; and up till now she
had met with no unwelcome admiration or annoyance of any kind in
her limited rovings.
So she set forth blithely this afternoon, her cloak and hood
muffling well both face and figure, her clogs on her feet, since
the river bank would be muddy and treacherous at this time of year,
and a long, open basket on her arm, thinking of nothing but the
delights of escaping from the weary monotony of pastry making and
herb shredding, and from the overpowering odour of that mysterious
herring pie. Cherry liked well enough to eat of it when it was
placed upon the board, but she always wished she had not known
anything of the process; she thought she should enjoy it so much
the more.
Crossing the bridge, and exchanging many greetings as she tripped
along, for every neighbour was in some sort a friend, and
bright-eyed Cherry was a favourite with all--she turned to the
right as she quitted the bridge, and walked in a westerly direction
along the river bank, towards the great beds of reeds and rushes
that stretched away in endless succession so soon as the few houses
and gardens springing up on this side the river had been passed by.
Certainly there was no lack of green rushes. The autumn had been
mild, and though the past few days had been chill and biting, it
had not told to any great extent upon the rushes yet. Cherry
plunged eagerly amongst them, selecting and cutting with a
precision and rapidity that told of long practice. She was resolved
to take home as many as ever she could carry, and these all of the
best, since the supply would soon cease, and she knew the
difference in the lasting power of the full, thick rushes and the
little flimsy ones.
But it was later than she had known when she left home. The
brightness of the sunshine had deceived her, and she had been
detained a few minutes upon the bridge, first by one and then by
another, all asking kindly questions of her. Then her fastidious
selection of her rushes caused her to wander further and further
along the banks in search of prizes; and when at last her big
basket was quite full, and correspondingly heavy, she looked round
her with a start almost of dismay; for the gray twilight was
already settling down over the dark river, and she was full a mile
away from home, with a heavy load to carry.
Cherry's heart fluttered a little, but it was rather in fear of her
aunt's displeasure than of any mischance likely to happen to
herself. She had been often to these osier beds, and had never
encountered a living soul there, and she would soon reach the
region of walls and gardens that adjoined the southern end of the
bridge. So taking her basket on her arm, she pushed her way upwards
from the river to the path along which lay her road, and turning
her face homeward, made all the haste she could to get back.
But how dark it looked to the eastward! Did ever evening close in
so fast? And how black and cold the river looked! She never
remembered to have seen it quite so cheerless and gloomy before. A
thick white fog was rising from the marshy lands, and she could not
see the friendly twinkling lights upon the bridge. Despite her
exertions, which were great, she felt chill and shivery; and when
at last she heard the sound of a lusty shout behind her, her heart
seemed to stand still with terror, and she stopped short and gazed
wildly back, to see whence the noise came.
What she saw by no means reassured her. Some fifty yards behind,
but mounted on fine horses, were two young gentlemen, plainly in a
state of tipsy merriment, and by no means disposed to allow any
prey, in the shape of a woman old or young, to escape them without
some sort of pleasantry on their part. Cherry heard their laughter
and their coarse words without understanding what it all meant; but
a great terror took hold of her, and leaving her basket in the
middle of the path, in the vain hope of tripping up the tipsy
riders, she fled wildly along in the direction of home. Her hood
falling back, disclosed her pretty floating curls beneath, and so
gave greater zest to the pursuit. Fleet of foot she might be, but
what availed that against the speed of the two fine horses? She
heard their galloping hoofs closer and closer behind her. She knew
that they were almost up with her now. Even the osier beds would
afford her no protection from horsemen, and she feared to trust
herself to the slippery ooze when the daylight had fled. With a
short, sharp cry she sank upon the ground, exhausted and half dead
with terror, and she heard the brutal shout of triumph with which
the roisterers hailed this sight.
In another moment they would be upon her. She heard them shouting
to their horses as they pulled them up. But was there not another
sound, too? What was the meaning of that fierce demand in a very
different voice? She lifted her head to see a third rider spurring
up at a hand gallop, and before she had time to make up her mind
whether or not this was a third foe, or a defender suddenly arisen
as it were from the very heart of the earth, she felt herself
covered as by some protecting presence, and heard a firm voice
above her saying:
"The first man who dares attempt to touch her I shoot dead!"
There was a great deal of blustering and swearing and hectoring.
Cherry, still crouched upon the ground, shivered at the hideous
imprecations levelled at her protector, and feared every moment
to see him struck to the ground. But he held his position
unflinchingly, and the tipsy gallants contented themselves with
vituperation and hard words. Perhaps they thought the game not
worth the candle. Perhaps they deemed a simple city maid not worth
the trouble of an encounter. Perhaps they were too unsteady on
their legs to desire to provoke the hostile overtures of this tall,
dark-faced stripling, who appeared ready to do battle with the pair
of them, and that without the least fear. At any rate, after much
hard swearing, the estimable comrades mounted their horses again,
and rode on in the gathering darkness; whilst Cherry felt herself
lifted up with all courtesy and reverence, and a pleasant voice
asked in bashful accents, very unlike the firm, defiant tones
addressed to her persecutors, whether she were hurt.
"Not hurt, only frightened, fair sir," answered Cherry, beginning
to recover her breath and her self possession, as she divined that
her protector was now more embarrassed at the situation than she
was herself. "How can I thank you for your timely help? I was well
nigh dead with terror till I heard your voice holding them at bay.
Right bold it was of you to come to my assistance when you had two
foes against you."
"Nay, fair lady, I were less than a man had I stayed for twenty."
"I like you none the less for your brave words, sir, and I believe
that you have courage to face an army. But I may not linger here
even to speak my thanks. I shall be in sore disgrace at home for
tarrying out thus long in the dark."
"But you will grant to me to see you safe to your door, lady?"
"Ay, truly will I, an you will," answered Cherry, as much from real
nervous fear as from the coquetry which made such companionship
pleasant. "But I would fain go back a few paces for my poor reeds,
that I go not home empty handed. And you must catch your steed, Sir
Knight; he seems disposed to wander away at his own will."
"My steed will come at a call. He is a faithful beast, and not
addicted to errant moods. Let us fetch your basket, lady, and then
to your home.
"Is this it? Prithee, let me carry it; its weight is too much for
you. See, I will place it so on Dobbin's broad back, and then we
can jog along easily together."
Cherry, her fears allayed, and her imaginative fancy pleased by the
termination to this adventure, chatted gaily to her tall companion;
and as they neared the bridge with its many twinkling lights, she
pointed out one of the houses in the middle, and told her companion
that she dwelt there. His face turned eagerly upon her at hearing
that.
"I am right glad to hear it, for perchance you can then direct me
to the dwelling of Master Martin Holt, the wool stapler, if he yet
plies his trade there as his father did before him."
"Martin Holt!" cried Cherry, eagerly interrupting. "Why, good sir,
Martin Holt is my father."
The young man stopped short in amaze, and then said slowly,
"Verily, this is a wondrous hap, for Martin Holt is mine own uncle.
I am Cuthbert Trevlyn, the son of his sister Bridget."