XXIX
Of the Departure of Captain Trevor
Now, although I had been away from home but a few days, I had in that short space of time passed through such strange and remarkable adventures that it seemed to me as though ages had elapsed since I had last seen the familiar faces that smiled in welcome at my return. I almost expected to hear that something wonderful had taken place during my absence, and felt, I think, surprised when Jacob Trusty told me that all was going on as usual, and that nothing worthy of notice had transpired while I had been away.
“Though indeed,” said he, as he walked by my horse’s side toward the stables, “since you left us, Master William, that rapscallion carpenter at Darrington hath again beaten his wife and made a beast of himself with strong drink, which, if the saying be true, is no news, being what he hath done many a time afore. However, he now lieth in the parish stocks, and hath been well pelted with mud and rotten eggs, so that he is paid for his naughtiness, say I; only thou seest, William, he had our new cart in hand, and now we must needs wait a while for it, that was badly wanted. But other news than that there is none.”
“What of the gentleman that I brought in wounded? Is he better, Jacob?”
“The women,” said Jacob, “have coddled and nursed him, I promise you. What, he hath lived like a fighting cock, and is now able to move about again. Yea, yea, the young lasses do hover round him like a parcel of hens round a young cock’ril. ’Tis a fine thing, I warrant ye, William, to wear the King’s uniform and fight in the wars.”
“Why, for that matter, Jacob,” I answered, “I have worn his Majesty’s uniform while I’ve been away, and have not only fought but got wounded.”
“What, thou hast fought, lad? With a sword, and in battle? And hast killed thy man, I warrant, eh?”
“I killed one or two poor fellows, Jacob,” I said, sighing at the thought of the dead men’s faces.
“God be praised!” said Jacob. “The King hath the less enemies. Yea, I will warrant thee for a right swashing blow. ’Twas I who taught thee, lad, eh? And John, our parson’s son, did he kill his man, too? Ay, ay, ay! Oh, if I had but been there to see it! Thank the Lord for all mercies, say I.”
I was somewhat proud of my achievements, of which I had to give a full and particular account to my mother and the girls as soon as they appeared in the great kitchen to give me my breakfast. Not a jot of my story did they lose, nor did I spare any of the details save when their faces showed such signs of fear that I forbore to trouble them further. Glad indeed were they all three to see me back, and embraced me one and all as if I had returned from the dead instead of from so short a journey.
“But what of your guest, mother?” said I, when I had eaten and drunk and had delivered to Rose certain messages sent by her father. “Jacob tells me he can move about again and seems somewhat recovered.”
“He kept his bed until yesterday afternoon,” said Lucy, “and then came down into the garden a while. Such a white face as he has. You would not think that he had much fighting in him.”
“He has been very ill,” said my mother, “for he has lost a deal of blood, and I insisted on his keeping quiet. But he is now somewhat recovered, and will, please God, do well under my nursing. He has asked to see you, William, when you can find it convenient to attend him, for he heard of the battle yesterday and he is anxious to hear your news.”
So I presently went up to the sick man’s chamber and there told him all that I had seen and heard, he meanwhile listening with much sorrow that the King’s cause had again suffered a defeat.
“This Cromwell, Master Dale,” said he, “is showing himself such a leader that I fear me he will obtain the upper hand in the struggle. Time and again he beats us by sheer persistence in his own methods. Yea, I cannot see aught but defeat in this matter. Newcastle and his following, you say, have gone, and our forces are therefore the weaker. Alas! and while men are wanted, here I lie helpless and naught but a burden to you.”
“As to that, sir,” I hastened to say, “burden you are none, for we count ourselves happy in being able to serve you, and I am very sure that my mother will not let you out of her keeping until you are cured and sound.”
And that indeed she would not, for it was her great delight to be nursing and healing of sick people, as all that neighbourhood knew. So, however impatient Captain Trevor was of the delay necessitated by his wound, he was bound to remain at Dale’s Field until he was sound again, for my mother treated him like a child and prescribed and ordered for him just as she would have done for me or Lucy had we been in like case. Now and then her patient professed to repine at his cruel fate, but I do not think that there was much reality in his sorrow, for he had all that man can want and was never lonely.
Our harvest began early that year, and it was nearly over by the middle of August, and Captain Trevor was still with us. He had then so far recovered from the effects of his wound that he was able to walk about the garden and orchard, and even into the harvest field, which he often did, accompanied by Rose and Lucy, who had not been behindhand in nursing him. These two, indeed, chiefly amused him and saw to his needs, for I was out all day in the land, and my mother was busily occupied about the house. These three, then, became great friends, and you might find them at any hour of the afternoon under one of the great apple-trees in our orchard, the two maidens busy with their needles, and the captain telling them stories of his adventures, of which he had a considerable store, having travelled in many lands and seen much service. For myself, I was pleased that he and they should be thus diverted; but Ben Tuckett, coming one day and finding them thus engaged, was somewhat disturbed, and came straight to me with a face as long as a fiddle.
“It seems to me, Will,” said worthy Benjamin, “that one of us two, or maybe both, had better look to our own business.”
“That, Ben,” said I, “is just what I am doing, for I have been in this barley-field since five o’clock this morning.”
“A fig for the barley!” said he. “What has that to do with it? Oh, I know what these grand Cavalier soldiers are!”
“Speak plainly, Ben.”
“Why,” said he, “here I come and find yonder fine gentleman, whom you picked up on the wayside, philandering under the apple-trees with our two sweethearts. Body o’ me! I like it not. Why, as I live, he was rendering to them a sonnet that he had written this morning. A sonnet!”
“How will that hurt them, Ben? Let the lasses be amused. I do not think thou couldst write a sonnet.”
“As to that,” he answered, “I do not know. I could, I suppose, make ‘eyes’ rhyme with ‘skies,’ and ‘dove’ with ‘love,’ and so on, but that is neither here nor there. I tell thee, Will, I like it not.”
“Thou art a fool, Ben, to speak plainly, if thou thinkest that Lucy would give her heart to another man when she has given it to thee already. Fie upon thee, Ben! Why, thou shouldst trust her all in all.”
“Yea,” said he, looking somewhat ashamed of himself, “and so I do, Will, so I do. God knows I do, old Will—but, then, thou seest ’tis this way. ’Tis such a handsome gentleman, this officer, and hath such a mighty pretty manner of talking, and cannot even pass you a tankard of small beer without a bow and a compliment.”
“And what of that, man?”
“Why, as thou knowest, I have none of these airs and graces. I do not remember that anybody ever said I was handsome, for, indeed, my nose it is a snub, and my hair is red, and I have thought that my left ear was somewhat longer than my right. And when I stand up beside this fine gentleman, Will, I am at a disadvantage. Thou knowest that maidens do notice these things, and I am afraid that Lucy should make comparisons between me and Captain Trevor.”
“It is true,” said I musingly, “that thy nose is a snub.”
“It is, it is,” said he, turning very red. “Yes, it is, Will.”
“And that thy hair is somewhat red in colour.”
“Yes, yes; I said so just now.”
“And as for thy ears, I have myself noticed that one of them is bigger than the other.”
“I know it,” he groaned. “I thought somebody must have seen it.”
“And then thy mouth,” I continued, “is a good deal too wide, and one eye is set lower down in thy face than the other.”
“Oh!”
“In short, Ben, thou art not beautiful, but very plain.”
“Yes—as plain as a hayfork.”
“But thou hast a good heart, and I think the womenfolk who know thee could put up with right-down ugliness for the sake of it. What, man! you are a despairing lover.”
So I rallied him, having no fears about my own sweetheart, whose heart, I knew without question, was mine, and mine forever. Nay, I think that if I had seen her amidst a crowd of gay gallants, and each one paying compliments to her, it would not have troubled me, for she had given me her word, and nothing could have made me doubt her. And then, only the night before, as we walked under the orchard trees in the moonlight, I had teased her about this fine gentleman, and had been answered according to my wishes.
“You will think your poor Will but dull company,” I said, “when Captain Trevor goes away from us. Can you not get him to teach me some of his accomplishments?”
“And what accomplishments would you learn?” she answered quickly. “Do you think, Will, that I should love you any the better if you could sing a French love-song or scribble a bad sonnet? It is you that I love, my dear, and you are enough.”
And with that I was content, and if it had not been plenty, I had only to look into her dear eyes to read double assurance of the great love that she had for me. So you see that I was only amused when poor Ben came to me with his doubts and fears.
But while I had not found it possible to believe that either Lucy or Rose should fall in love with Captain Trevor, I had not calculated on the effect they might either of them produce on him. It did not occur to me that, thrown into their society as he was, he would naturally fall in love with one of them. And yet, considering that they were both good and beautiful maidens, I ought to have thought of it, and probably should have done if I had not been inexperienced in such matters.
The morning after Ben’s complaint to me, Captain Trevor came up to my side, as I stood in the stackyard, and asked me to walk aside with him. I noticed that he looked somewhat careworn and haggard.
“Master Dale,” said he, “I am going to leave you today.”
“I am sorry, sir,” I answered. “You do not look fit to ride yet awhile. I am afraid my mother will not let you go.”
“Alas!” said he, smiling, “your good mother has spoiled me, I fear. Never, I think, has man had such kind treatment as I have had in this house.”
“Then stay, sir,” I said. “We shall be glad of your company as long as ever it pleases you to be with us. And you are not fit for service yet, I think.”
“No,” he answered. “No, I must lay up for a while yet. You are very kind. But it must not be.”
He went away from me a little space and walked a while by himself under the apple-trees, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, so that it seemed as if he were engaged in deep thought. But presently he came to me again and stood before me.
“Master Dale,” said he, looking me frankly and honestly in the face, “why should I not tell you all that is in my mind? You have been so kind to me, you and yours, that it would seem wrong to me if I did not open my heart to you. Do you know, Master Dale, it is not well for that same heart if I stay here!”
“No, sir?” I said, not understanding him.
“I have stayed too long,” he said, “too long already. And I do not think that when I have gone I shall ever forget one that I shall leave behind.”
Then my heart gave a great bound, for I knew what he meant, and for an instant something like fear came into it.
“Nay,” said he, perhaps seeing the apprehension in my face, “nay, Master Dale, there is naught that need disturb you. She is yours, and she hath never had the slightest cause to suspect how it is with me. But who, indeed, could see her and not love her? Let that be my excuse.”
Now, I knew not what to say, being inwardly much troubled that so honourable and gallant a gentleman should have given his love where no love could be given back to him. And as I could find no words, being always very tongue-tied when I most wanted to speak, I held out my hand to him so that the grip of my fingers might tell him what I felt.
“And now,” said he, after we had clasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, “and now, Master Dale, if you will have my horse saddled, I will ride away. I was loath to be stopped by you, but I am more loath to go.”
And, indeed, he had hard work to get away from us, for my mother at first would not hear of his going, and the girls were very much cast down about it, having found him such good company. But he was firm in his resolution, and at last he had said farewell to each of us and to Jacob Trusty, and was mounted on his horse and at the gate. As for my mother, she had become so attached to him that she shed tears at his going, and the maidens were not far from sharing in her grief.
“Let us go down to the gate to see him off,” said I to Rose, and she went with me. “Give him a flower to put in his coat, Rose. He will remember us by it until it fades at least.”
But I knew that he would keep forever what came from her hands. She plucked a white rose from a bush that stood near and gave it to him, as he leaned from his horse to bid us farewell once more. He lifted it to his lips, like the gallant cavalier he was, and placed it above his heart. And then with one last word to us he rode away, and we stood watching him until he disappeared in the distance.