The Splendid Spur/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
I LEAVE JOAN AND RIDE TO THE WARS.
You may guess how I felt at being thus properly fooled. And the worst was I could see no way to mend it; for against the barricado between us I might have beat myself for hours, yet only hurt my fists: and the wall was so smooth and high, that even by standing on Molly's back I could not—by a foot or more—reach the top to pull myself over.
There was nothing for it but to turn homewards, down the hill: which I did, chewing the cud of my folly, and finding it bitter as gall. What consoled me somewhat was the reflection that his threats were, likely enough, mere vapouring: for of any breach of the late compact between the parties I had heard nothing, and never seem'd a country more wholly given up to peace than that through which I had ridden in the morning. So recalling Master Tingcomb's late face of terror, and the confession in my pocket, I felt more cheerful. “England has grown a strange place, if I cannot get justice on this villain,” thought I; and rode forward, planning a return-match and a sweet revenge.
There is no more soothing game, I believe, in the world than this of holding imaginary triumphant discourse with your enemy. Yet (oddly) it brought me but cold comfort on this occasion, my wound being too recent and galling. The sky, so long clouded, was bright'ning now, and growing serener every minute: the hills were thick with fox-gloves, the vales white with hawthorn, smelling very sweetly in the cool of the day: but I, with the bridle flung on Molly's neck, pass'd them by, thinking only of my discomfiture, and barely rousing myself to give back a “Good-day” to those that met me on the road. Nor, till we were on the downs and Joan's cottage came in sight, did I shake the brooding off.
Joan was not in the kitchen when I arrived, nor about the buildings; nor yet could I spy her anywhere moving on the hills. So, after calling to her once or twice, I stabled the mare, and set off up the tor side to seek her.
Now I must tell you that since the day of my coming I had made many attempts to find the place where Joan had then hidden me, and always fruitlessly: though I knew well whereabouts it must be. Indeed, I had thought at first I had only to walk straight to the hole: yet found after repeated trials but solid earth and boulders for my pains.
But to-day as I climb'd past the spot, something very bright flashed in my eyes and dazzled me, and rubbing them and looking, I saw a great hole in the hill—facing to the sou'-west—in the very place I had search'd for it; and out of this a beam of light glancing.
Creeping near on tip-toe, I found one huge block of granite that before had seemed bedded, among a dozen fellow-boulders, against the turf—the base resting on another well-nigh as big—was now rolled back; having been fixed to work smoothly on a pivot, yet so like nature that no eye, but by chance, could detect it. Now, who in the beginning designed this hiding place I leave you to consider; and whether it was the Jews or Phœnicians—nations, I am told, that once work'd the hills around for tin. But inside 'twas curiously paved and lined with slabs of granite, the specks of ore in which, I noted, were the points of light that had once puzzled me. And here was Joan's bower, and Joan herself inside it.
She was sitting with her back to me, in her left hand holding up the mirror, that caught the rays of the now sinking sun (and thus had dazzled me), while with her right she tried to twist into some form of knot her tresses—black, and coarse as a horse's mane—that already she had roughly braided. A pail of water stood beside her; and around lay scatter'd a score or more of long thorns, cut to the shape of hair-pins.
'Tis probable that after a minute's watching I let some laughter escape me. At any rate Joan turned, spied me, and scrambled up, with an angry red on her cheek. Then I saw that her bodice was neater lac'd than usual, and a bow of yellow ribbon (fish'd up heaven knows whence) stuck in the bosom. But the strangest thing was to note the effect of this new tidiness upon her: for she took a step forward as if to cuff me by the ear (as, a day agone, she would have done), and then stopp'd, very shy and hesitating.
“Why, Joan,” said I, “don't be anger'd. It suits you choicely—it does indeed.”
“Art scoffing, I doubt.” She stood looking heavily and askance at me.
“On my faith, no: and what a rare tiring-bower the Jew's Kitchen makes! Come, Joan, be debonair and talk to me, for I am out of luck to-day.”
“Forgit it, then” (and she pointed to the sun), “whiles yet some o't is left. Tell me a tale, an thou'rt minded.”
“Of what?”
“O' the bloodiest battle thou'st ever heard tell on.”
So, sitting by the mouth of the Jew's Kitchen, I told her as much as I could remember out of Homer's Iliad, wondering the while what my tutor, Mr. Josias How, of Trinity College, would think to hear me so use his teaching. By-and-bye, as I warm'd to the tale, Joan forgot her new smartness; and at length, when Hector was running from Achilles round the walls, clapp'd her hands for excitement, crying, “Church an' King, lad! Oh, brave work!”
“Why, no,” answered I, “'twas not for that they were fighting;” and looking at her, broke off with, “Joan, art certainly a handsome girl: give me a kiss for the mirror.”
Instead of flying out, as I look'd for, she fac'd round, and answered me gravely—
“That I will not: not to any but my master.”
“And who is that?”
“No man yet; nor shall be till one has beat me sore: him will I love, an' follow like a dog—if so be he whack me often enow'.”
“A strange way to love,” laughed I.
She look'd at me straight, albeit with an odd gloomy light in her eyes.
“Think so, Jack? then I give thee leave to try.”
I think there is always a brutality lurking in a man to leap out unawares. Yet why do I seek excuses, that have never yet found one? To be plain, I sprang fiercely up and after Joan, who had already started, and was racing along the slope.
Twice around the tor she led me: and though I strain'd my best, not a yard could I gain upon her, for her bare feet carried her light and free. Indeed, I was losing ground, when coming to the Jew's Kitchen a second time, she tried to slip inside and shut the stone in my face.
Then should I have been prettily bemock'd, had I not, with a great effort, contrived to thrust my boot against the door just as it was closing. Wrenching it open, I laid hand on her shoulder; and in a moment she had gript me, and was wrestling like a wild-cat.
Now being Cumberland-bred I knew only the wrestling of my own county, and nothing of the Cornish style. For in the north they stand well apart, and try to wear down one another's strength: whereas the Cornish is a brisker lighter play—and (as I must confess) prettier to watch. So when Joan rush'd in and closed with me, I was within an ace of being thrown, pat.
But recovering, I got her at arm's length, and held her so, while my heart ach'd to see my fingers gripping her shoulders and sinking into the flesh. I begg'd off; but she only fought and panted, and struggled to lock me by the ankles again. I could not have dream'd to find such fierce strength in a girl. Once or twice she nearly overmaster'd me: but at length my stubborn play wore her out. Her breath came short and fast, then fainter: and in the end, still holding her off, I turned her by the shoulders, and let her drop quietly on the turf. No thought had I any longer of kissing her; but stood back, heartily sick and ashamed of myself.
For awhile she lay, turn'd over on her side, with hands guarding her head, as if expecting me to strike her. Then gathering herself up, she came and put her hand in mine, very meekly.
“Had lik'd it better had'st thou stamped the life out o' me, a'most. But there, lad—am thine for ever!”
'Twas like a buffet in the face to me. “What!” I cried.
She look'd up in my face—dear Heaven, that I should have to write it!—with eyes brimful, sick with love; tried to speak, but could only nod: and broke into a wild fit of tears.
I was standing there with her hand in mine, and a burning remorse in my heart, when I heard the clear notes of a bugle blown, away on the road to Launceston.
Looking that way, I saw a great company of horse coming down over the crest, the sun shining level on their arms and a green standard that they bore in their midst.
Joan spied them the same instant, and check'd her sobs. Without a word we flung ourselves down full-length on the turf to watch.
They were more than a thousand, as I guess'd, and came winding down the road very orderly, till, being full of them, it seem'd a long serpent writhing with shiny scales. The tramp of hoofs and jingling of bits were pretty to hear.
“Rebels!” whisper'd I.
Joan nodded.
There were three regiments in all, whereof the first (and biggest) was of dragoons. So clear was the air, I could almost read the legend on their standard, and the calls of their captains were borne up to us extremely distinct.
As they rode leisurely past, I thought of Master Tingcomb's threat, and wonder'd what this array could intend. Nor, turning it over, could I find any explanation: for the Earl of Stamford's gathering, he had said, was in the north-east, and I knew such troops as the Cornish generals had to be quarter'd at Launceston. Yet here, on the near side of Launceston, was a large body of rebel horse marching quietly to the sou'-west. Where was the head or tail to it?
Turning my head as the last rider disappear'd on the way to Bodmin, I spied a squat oddly-shap'd man striding down the hill very briskly: yet he look'd about him often and kept to the hollows of the ground; and was crossing below us, as it appeared, straight for Joan's cottage.
Cried I: “There is but one man in the world with such a gait—and that's Billy Pottery!”
And jumping to my feet (for he was come directly beneath us) I caught up a great stone and sent it bowling down the slope.
Bounce it went past him, missing his legs by a foot or less. The man turn'd, and catching sight of me as I stood waving, made his way up the hill. 'Twas indeed Captain Bilty: and coming up, the honest fellow almost hugg'd me for joy.
“Was seeking thee, Jack,” he bawled: “learnt from Sir Bevill where belike I might find thee. Left his lodging at Launceston this mornin', and trudged ivery foot o' the way. A thirsty land, Jack—neither horse's meat nor man's meat therein, nor a chair to sit down on: an' three women only have I kiss'd this day!” He broke off and look'd at Joan. “Beggin' the lady's pardon for sea manners and way o' speech.”
“Joan,” said I, “this is Billy Pottery, a good mariner and friend of mine: and as deaf as a haddock.”
Billy made a leg; and as I pointed to the road where the cavalry had just disappeared, went on with a nod—
“That's so: old Sir G'arge Chudleigh's troop o' horse sent off to Bodmin to seize the High Sheriff and his posse there. Two hour agone I spied 'em, and ha' been ever since playin' spy.”
“Then where be the King's forces?” I made shift to enquire by signs.
“March'd out o' Launceston to-day, lad—an' but a biscuit a man between 'em, poor dears—for Stratton Heath, i' the nor'-east, where the rebels be encamp'd. Heard by scouts o' these gentry bein' sent to Bodmin, and were minded to fight th' Earl o' Stamford whiles his dragooners was away. An' here's the long an' short o't: thou'rt wanted, lad, to bear a hand wi' us up yonder—an the good lady here can spare thee.”
And here we both look'd at Joan—I shamefacedly enough, and Billy with a puzzled air, which he tried very delicately to hide.
She put her hand in mine.
“To fight, lad?”
I nodded my head.
“Then go,” she said without a shade in her voice; and as I made no answer, went on—“Shall a woman hinder when there's fightin' toward? Only come back when thy wars be over, for I shall miss thee, Jack.”
And dropping my hand she led the way down to the cottage.
Now Billy, of course, had not heard a word of this: but perhaps he gather'd some import. Any way, he pull'd up short midway on the slope, scratch'd his head, and thunder'd—
“What a good lass!”
Joan, some paces ahead, turn'd at this and smil'd: whereat, having no idea he'd spoken above a whisper, Billy blusht red as any peony.
'Twas but a short half-hour when, the mare being saddled and Billy fed, we took our leave of Joan. Billy walked beside one stirrup, and the girl on the other side, to see us a few yards on our way. At length she halted—
“No leave-takin's, Jack, but 'Church and King!' Only do thy best and not disgrace me.”
And “Church and King!” she call'd thrice after us, standing in the road. For me, as I rode up out of that valley, the drums seem'd beating and the bugles calling to a new life ahead. The last light of day was on the tors, the air blowing fresher as we mounted: and with Molly's every step the past five months appear'd to dissolve and fall away from me as a dream.
On the crest, I turn'd in the saddle. Joan was yet standing there, a black speck on the road. She waved her hand once.
Billy had turn'd too, and, uncovering, shouted so that the hilltops echoed.
“A good lass—a good lass! But what's become o' t'other one?”