XI
Of My Second Meeting with Rose Lisle
Now, it seemed to me when I heard Philip Lisle’s voice, that I was walking in a dream from which I should presently wake to find myself elsewhere, so strange was it to meet with him and Rose standing almost where I had left them so many years before. Yet the strange thrill of pleasure which shot through my heart was no dream, and the clasp of Black Phil’s hand was warm and real as he bent from his saddle to greet me.
“Ha!” said he, “I am glad to meet thee, Will Dale. Rose, give Will thy hand. How many years is it, I wonder, since thou and he rode together down yonder bank on horse Caesar’s back? Ye have both grown somewhat since then, and I have grown older and grayer.”
Rose stretched out her hand to me and looked curiously at me in the moonlight. She must indeed have wondered to find the lad she remembered grown into such a strapping man as I was then. Yet she could not be more surprised than I was when I came to look at her in the full light of the moon. She had grown into a tall and stately maiden of gracious presence and rare beauty, in which I could still trace some resemblance to the child that had bent over me in the wood when I fell down from the stormcock’s nest. Now, I had never until then looked much upon maidens, always having my mind intent on other matters, but I felt that having once seen Rose Lisle I could go on watching her dark eyes forever. So we stood looking at each other in the moonlight, each no doubt wondering by what magic means time had so soon wrought this great change in us.
“Well,” said Philip Lisle, “and how goes the world with you, Will? I have never ridden this way since that sad night many a year ago, and I dare say ye have all well-nigh forgotten me.”
“That, indeed, we have not, sir. We have thought often of you and of Mistress Rose here, and wondered why you brought her not to see us as you promised.”
“Ah, lad, I have had much to do. My time has been spent far north, Carlisle way, this ten years. For dost know, Will, I had given up my old trade when I found thee kneeling by thy poor father’s body that night. I have been a King’s man since then; nay, I was even then upon the King’s business. Rose and I have had a quiet billet in Carlisle this many years.”
I was glad to hear that, and said so.
“But who knows, lad, how much longer it may be quiet? There is trouble afoot. You have heard of it, Will?”
“We have heard such news as travellers bring,” I answered.
“There is war at hand, Will,” said he. “War and no less. You have heard that the King and Commons are at daggers drawn. I fear it will be a great struggle, of which no man can yet see the end.”
Now, in our parts we knew very little of the discussion between the King and the Parliament, for news travelled slowly, and we had enough to do to look after our own concerns without troubling about those of our betters. Nevertheless, so unsettled had been the times during the past ten years that people had talked more than usual about the doings of those in high places, and we were thus somewhat familiar with certain great events which had lately happened. We had heard, for example, of the levying of ship-money on the port towns which had caused so much ill-feeling throughout the country, and travellers had told us of the resistance offered to it by Mr. John Hampden and others. We had heard, too, of the harsh punishment meted out to Prynne, the lawyer, and to his companions Burton and Bastwick, whose path from the prison to the pillory in Palace Yard the populace had strewn with flowers. Then had come to us news of the disturbances in Scotland, where the King was fighting against numerous malcontents. Nothing but trouble and sorrow, indeed, seemed to follow the King at that time, and every traveller brought bad news of great affairs. The Earl of Strafford had been executed. The House of Commons had passed its Grand Remonstrance against the King, who, in his turn, had impeached five of its members of high treason, and attempted to seize them in the House itself. Things, indeed, were in a sad state, and yet because we were a long way from London it seemed to us that we were out of danger and need do nothing but attend to our own matters and thank God that we had been born to quiet lives.
“Think you we shall hear aught of it in these parts?” I asked, thinking these matters over as I stood by Philip Lisle’s horse.
“Nay, lad, I cannot say. But, hark ye, Will, I am on my way to Nottingham, where is to be a meeting of the King’s friends this week, and I shall hear news there. And so little faith have I of returning to Carlisle yet awhile that I have brought Rose southwards with me. We came here but an hour ago, and Rose is going to stay with the old woman at the inn yonder for a couple of days until I return with more certain news.”
“Nay,” said I, “why should Mistress Rose stay at the inn when Dale’s Field is so near? Mistress Rose, persuade your father to bring you up to Dale’s Field. Come, sir, if you are in no great need to ride on, go up and sup with me. My mother and sister will be glad to see you once more, and they will welcome your daughter heartily.”
“Thou speakest kindly, Will,” said Philip Lisle. “What do you say, Rose? Wouldst rather stay with Mistress Dale than at the inn yonder?”
“I would rather stay with Mistress Dale,” said Rose.
“Then we will go up with thee, Will. Indeed, man, I should have come to see thee but for fear of waking sad memories. It was but a sad time when I saw thy poor mother last. But now, here is Rose’s horse at the inn stable. What shall we do with him?”
“I will send a man for him, sir,” said I. “Make yourself easy about that.”
So we went up the hill and turned in at the orchard gate of Dale’s Field and went into the house. Parson Drumbleforth and Jack had gone homeward, but Ben Tuckett had gotten himself a few days’ holiday and was to stay with us over the festivities, and we now found him making himself agreeable to my mother and Lucy. I led Philip and Rose into my mother’s parlour and fetched her in to them from the great kitchen, whispering to her who our visitors were and what I wanted. And she, receiving them with hearty hospitality, would not be content until they sat down and ate and drank, and she sent Lucy off to prepare a chamber for Rose, and herself pressed Philip Lisle to remain overnight with us and continue his journey next day. But to that he could not consent.
“Indeed,” said he, “I ought to be an hour on my journey now, and should have been, only I must needs linger on the bridge saying farewell to this maid of mine until Will yonder comes up and presses me to enjoy your hospitality, Mistress Dale. And glad enough I am, I assure you, to leave my Rose in such good hands for a day or two, for ’tis but poor work for young maidens to stay at a wayside inn, though well enough for old campaigners like myself.”
“We shall take good care of her here, sir,” said my mother, stroking Rose’s hand with her own as she sat by her. “Please God you will bring us back good news, for we need better than we have had lately.”
But on that point Philip Lisle could say nothing certain. Presently he rose and bid my mother and Lucy farewell, and kissed Rose, and I went out with him and walked by his horse’s side to the gate, where he stayed a moment to speak to me.
“I may return this way, Will,” said he, “tomorrow night, or next day. When I come I shall have news. Say naught to anyone, lad, but I fear that there are great things at hand.”
“You fear war?”
“Ay, and such war as is worse than war ’twixt two nations. It will be war of brother upon brother, which is a bad and sorry matter. However, let us do our best. Fare thee well, good Will, till I come again.”
And with that he shook Caesar’s bridle and rode away into the moonlight, and I stood there until the sound of the horse’s hoofs died away, and then went indoors to find Lucy and Ben Tuckett telling Rose about our doings that day, and of the grand entertainment we were to have on the morrow.
Now to see Rose Lisle sitting there in my own house by my mother’s side was to me the greatest delight I had ever known. For it seemed somehow as if Rose and I were old and familiar friends, though, indeed, we had only met once in all our lives, and that many years before, when we were but boy and girl. I could not choose but look at her as she sat there talking to my mother, and I wondered if there were any other maidens in the world who were half so fair as she. I had never forgotten how she looked that afternoon when I tumbled out of the elm-tree, having kept the memory of her fresh in my heart. Then she was a little dark-eyed, gipsy-looking maiden, with a merry laugh and an arch way of looking at you. Now she had become tall and stately and graver of face, but she was more beautiful, and when she smiled I saw the old arch look in her dark eyes. Very often she glanced at me as I sat watching her, and it seemed to me that a man could have no greater happiness than to have such eyes for his light all through life.
Now, Ben Tuckett was nothing if not softhearted, and when my mother and Lucy had taken Rose to her chamber, what must he do but pull his chair up to mine and begin to pour out his sorrows into my ear.
“Will,” said he, “I know you are in love with Mistress Rose yonder, for no one who is not blind could fail to see it.”
“You can see more than I can, then, Master Ben,” I answered. “Why, man, I have never seen her since she was a child until this night.”
“No matter,” said he. “Time is nothing to a lover. You see your sweetheart, and it is all over in an instant. Why, Will, your eyes were upon her every minute of the time!”
I made an impatient movement, not being inclined for this sort of conversation.
“However,” continued Ben, “I am not going to talk of that, having other matters which are perhaps more interesting to me. Will, dear lad, hast ever noticed how it is with me?”
I knew quite well what he was aiming at, but I was willing to jest with him a little.
“Nay,” I said, “what is it, Ben? You are certainly not so fat as you were, but ’tis the hot weather that has pulled you down.”
“You will jest, Will. But there are other matters than hot weather that pull a man down. Though as to being fat, I am not sorry to see myself going thinner. I had rather be a beanstalk than a butter-tub. But seriously, Will, have you any objection to me for a brother-in-law?”
“Nay, lad,” said I, “not a whit. I love thee, old Ben, just as I love Jack and Tom, which is to say, as if ye all three were brothers of mine already.”
He shook my hand heartily at that, and said he was sure of it.
“You see, Will,” he continued, “I am now out of my apprenticeship, and my old master, having had enow of trade, is minded to give up his business to me, so that I shall be my own master in future and doing for myself. And so, lad, having loved Lucy this many a year, I shall now ask her to marry me.”
“I wish you success, Ben,” I said. “You will get a good wife.”
“No better,” said he, “in all the world. Oh, Will, ’tis a rare thing to be a lover! The world seems a new place to a man in love, even if he be such a humdrum individual as I. Well, ye will not be long out of love yourself, Will. Mistress Rose’s dark eyes will be too powerful for you.”
But I dare not think of aught of that sort yet, for Rose seemed to me like a young goddess whom all might admire and reverence, but none claim for his own. Yet I thought much of her that night, for the excitement of the day had made me restless, so that I could not sleep, which was a rare thing with me. However, I paid for it next morning, sleeping two hours over my usual time, and waking to find that it was already seven o’clock, and the sun high in the heavens. When I went downstairs I found that Lucy and Ben Tuckett had gone into the barn to make some arrangements for the evening’s festivities, and that my mother and Rose were in the garden, which my mother was very fond of showing to her visitors. There I joined them, and found Rose more attractive than ever in the fresh morning light. Presently my mother went indoors to hurry on the breakfast preparations, and Rose and I were left together. And of what we talked I know not, save that it was about ourselves, and that I could have stayed there forever, listening to her voice, and watching the smiles come and go on her sweet face. And then I suddenly remembered the primrose she had given me years before, and led her to the corner of the garden where I had buried it in my lead box.
“Do you remember, Mistress Rose,” I said, “the primrose you pinned in my coat that afternoon, and the guinea your father gave me when he carried you away? Let us see if they are still where I put them.”
I got a spade, and began to turn up the soil, which had never been disturbed since the day I buried the lead box there. Presently I turned it up to the light, and placed it in her hands, and bade her open it, while I looked over her shoulder, to see how the treasures had fared.
“Oh!” she cried; “see, the primrose is still unfaded, and here is the guinea. And you have kept them all these years! But was it not a strange place to keep them, where you could never see them?”
“Why,” I said, “it was the only place I could call my own. Let me put them back, and do you put another flower in the lead box, and we will dig them up again at some future time, and see how they fare.”
“What shall I put in?” she said. “There are nothing but roses now, I think. This red rose?” and she put it with the primrose, and shut the box, and gave it back to me with a merry laugh, and watched me carefully bury it again. Then, as we were going back to the house, she said:
“I, too, kept some of the primroses gathered that afternoon, and they are pressed between the leaves of an old book at home. Some day, perhaps, I shall show them to you.”
That made me very happy, for I saw that Rose had not forgotten the day when she first met me in the woods above the old mill, but had thought sometimes of it and of me.