XII
Of the First Tidings of War
That day was an eventful one to us at Dale’s Field in more than one way. As soon as breakfast was over we had to commence our preparations for the evening’s festivities, which were to be on a larger scale than those of the previous day. Everybody was busily engaged, and there seemed some difficulty as to what should be done with Rose, until she offered to help my mother.
“For I know something about these matters, Mrs. Dale,” said she, “and will help you if I may, and you will command me. I dare say you will find me of some use where all are so busy.”
And therewith my mother furnished her with a large apron and set her to dust the best china, which was a great honour, as I presently told her, no one but my mother ever daring so much as to touch those priceless cups and platters.
“Then, indeed, I am highly honoured,” she said, while I stood there and watched her graceful fingers move about the things. “But you, Master William, is there nothing that you can do? For you seem to be the only one who is doing nothing.”
Now, I ought to have been riding round the fields at that moment, but I felt compelled to stay where I was—why, I know not.
“There is nothing that I can do,” I said. “I am so awkward and clumsy that they trust nothing to me. If you like, I will help you to wipe these dishes, Mistress Rose.”
“Nay,” she said, “if you are so awkward as all that, I fear the poor dishes would come to the ground. But why do you not help your sister and Master Tuckett to decorate the barn? I saw them go across the fold a few minutes ago with a basket of flowers.”
“They will be as well pleased at my absence as with my company,” I said, “or better.”
“And why?”
“Because two’s company and three’s none, and Ben and Lucy are very fond of each other’s company.”
“But surely there must be something you can be doing,” she said. “A man should never be idle.”
“I am well enough here watching you,” I answered.
“If you watch me, I shall be sure to let the china fall, and then your mother will be sorry she entrusted it to my hands. Now, see, there is a young gentleman riding into the yard; you must go out and see him.”
“Nay,” said I, glancing out of the window, “ ’tis only Jack Drumbleforth, our parson’s son. He will find his way in here readily enough without my meeting him.”
And presently, indeed, we saw Jack striding across the fold in the direction of the kitchen-door, which he threw open a minute later with a cheery salutation. I can yet see his start of surprise and the astonished look on his face when he found me leaning against the wall talking to a beautiful young lady whom he had never seen before.
“Come in, Jack,” said I. “Let me present thee to an old friend of mine, Mistress Rose Lisle. Mistress Rose, this gentleman is my old schoolmate, Master John Drumbleforth.”
Then I stood smiling upon them while Jack made his best bow and Rose curtsied to him in the finest fashion.
“Mistress Rose,” said Jack, still astonished of face, “I am your most humble servant. What Will here says of me is indeed true, for we were lads together. But he did never tell me of his old friend, Mistress Rose Lisle.”
“Master Dale is jesting with you, sir,” said Rose. “He hath nothing better to do this fine morning, when we are all so busy.”
“Nay,” said I, “ ’tis true enough. Did I never tell thee, Jack, of how I fell from the elm in Went Vale yonder and was ministered to by an angel?”
“But that is many years ago,” said Rose, “and the angel was a little girl in a red hood.”
“But, nevertheless, it was Mistress Rose Lisle. So that I was right in saying ‘an old friend,’ eh, Jack?”
“I am not sorry thou didst fall out of the elm-tree, Will,” said Jack, “if it made Mistress Rose friend of thine. I have had many a tumble myself, but I never fell in Fortune’s way. However, there may be a chance Will, what dost say if I go to the wars?”
“To the wars? Man, thou art to be a parson.”
“Time enough for that when we have done with fighting. For fighting there will be erelong, so sure as my name is Jack Drumbleforth.”
“Have you heard some fresh news, sir?” asked Rose.
“Nay, mistress, nothing very fresh, save that it is said the King and Commons have come to an open breach at last, and that blood will certainly be shed. Hah!” said Jack, taking down and looking lovingly at my ancient broadsword, “I am afraid there is more of the swashbuckler about me than the parson. I did ever love a fight, Will, as you know. Well, there will be heads broken.”
“But which side wilt thou fight for, Jack?”
But at that he shook his head. It was a question which puzzled many men at that time.
“Nay, lad, that I cannot answer yet awhile. I am for the monarchy, of course, for there is warrant for that. Yet I would hear something of the other side of the question before I take sword in hand. Mark thee, Will, there will be many a man in England take sides in this quarrel who knows nothing of what he is fighting for. It will be enough for such that they fight.”
Which saying was true enough as events proved. But we had no time to discuss it then, for my mother entered the kitchen, and bade us both begone for idlers, at which Rose laughed, and we perforce departed into the fold.
“Zounds, Will!” said Jack, when we were clear of the house, “it is not like thee to have kept the fame of Mistress Rose Lisle to thyself. Ah! thou hast a keen eye for beauty, my old friend Will. Well, I wish thee good luck. I will dance at thy wedding, an I be not killed first.”
“Why, man,” said I, “have I not told thee I never saw Mistress Rose yonder but once, when she was a little maid that high, and I a great boy with a thick head? It is soon to talk of weddings.”
“May be,” said he, “but if thou art not falling in love with her, call me a Dutchman. I know the signs, Will. What! I was in love myself at Oxford with Gillian, the pastrycook’s daughter. Poor Gillian—the lightest foot, I think, that ever trod a measure, and could make you the sweetest tarts I ever set tooth in! Well, I am like to be happy with ye here at Dale’s Field, for there are Ben and Lucy looking unutterable things at each other in the barn, and thou wilt be sighing like a furnace erelong. As for me, I shall never marry, Will. An I survive the wars I will take orders and live in some sweet spot where I can compose madrigals and sonnets to Phyllis. I flatter me that I have as pretty a taste in that line as man need have.”
“Thou seemest resolved that there shall be some fighting, Jack.”
“Why, yes. For, dost thou not see, the land is now in such a state that heads must be broken ere ever things will heal? ’Tis a sad business, but war there must be.”
Then we went to our respective duties, Jack to superintend certain arrangements which he had taken upon himself, and I to ride round the farm on my horse, in which usual task I spent two hours, so that the morning was far advanced when I returned to the house. Ben and Lucy were still busied in the barn, in which we were to dance that evening, and very fine they had made it look when I put my head in at the door to peep at them. The walls were ornamented with green stuff; there were seats all round for the old folks, and such as did not dance; and there was a raised platform at one end for the fiddler to sit on. Calling my approval to Ben and Lucy, I went round the buildings to the garden, where I expected to find Jack. There, indeed, I did find him, leaning against the wall, with his coat off and his hat pushed back from his forehead, his kerchief in one hand, and a tankard of ale in the other. And there in front of him, laughing at some joke of his, stood Rose, bearing a trencher, on which was a jug from which she had just filled Jack’s tankard. When she saw me she set down the trencher, and ran away to the kitchen, returning presently with another tankard, which she filled and offered to me as I came up to them.
“Mistress Rose,” I said, “I know not why it is, but surely our ale never tasted half so fine as this.”
“Well said, Will,” said Jack. “That, indeed, is just what I thought. For mark you, I have been toiling so hard that my mouth was as dry as a bone, and I could not forbear imploring Mistress Rose to bring me a tankard of ale. And indeed ’tis nectar, and Mistress Rose is Hebe, and we are gods.”
But Rose laughed and ran away, and Jack and I were left alone.
“Jack, Jack!” I said. “I fear me thou hast a soft heart. What, dost not know the way to our cellar thyself long before this?”
“There is a deal in service, lad. I cannot away with your ugly waiter who sets down your pot with a scowl on his ill-favoured countenance. But a Hebe with eyes like violets, and a shape like Spring—why, the liquor seems to leap divine in the pewter. ’Tis a beautiful maiden, though, Will, and a good, and will make thee such a wife as a man should pray for. Ah me! it must be a fine thing to be wedded to a good woman.”
“Thou speakest as if thou wert married to some old shrew,” said I.
“Why, in one sense, Will, I am, for I am married to myself, and what worse partner can a man have? I am neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring. However, I may be good enough to go to the wars and handle a pike.”
So the day wore on, and at last all my preparations were made, and it was time for our guests to arrive. We were all arrayed in our finest clothes, and looked, I think, very grand, especially Ben Tuckett, who had brought with him a new lace coat which was very fine indeed, and much admired by everybody. There had been much consultation during the day between Lucy and Rose, for the latter had brought but a simple gown and riding-habit with her upon her travels, and she was puzzled how to honour my coming of age in a fitting manner. However, she and Lucy were much of a size, and at last Rose appeared in a white gown that Lucy had lent her, and looked so beautiful in it that Jack and Ben and myself were struck dumb with admiration, and swore amongst ourselves that we had never seen so fair a maiden, though Ben immediately afterwards recanted, and said that he must on consideration give the palm to Lucy.
My mother had insisted on asking all our friends and acquaintance to honour us with their presence, and by six o’clock in the evening there was quite a large assemblage on our lawn, and our stables were full of horses ridden by their owners from a distance. When we were all assembled, we adjourned to the great kitchen, where we were able to accommodate nearly one hundred guests, and there we all sat down to supper, I again sitting at the head of the table, with Parson Drumbleforth on my right, and Lawyer Hook on my left. And after dinner there were speeches made, and my health was drunk, and I was loudly congratulated. But I thought somehow that Jack had the best time of it after all, for he sat next to Rose, and talked to her constantly. However, as I found out afterwards, the honest fellow was sounding my praises in her ears all the time, which was just like him. After supper was well over, we walked about on the lawn and in the orchard for a time, while Jack Drumbleforth and Ben Tuckett saw to the lighting of the lamps and candles in the barn. This done, we all went thither, and the fiddler, being supplied with a jug of ale, was bidden to ply his elbow merrily for a country dance. Then arose within me considerable wonder as to which of my guests I should ask to dance with me. This question Lucy settled to my satisfaction by saying that as Rose was the greatest stranger I should lead off the dance with her. So then I had the great happiness of leading Rose out into the middle of the floor, and Ben Tuckett led out Lucy, and the others followed in due course, and the fiddler scraped away with his bow, and we all felt as happy as children. But just as we were beginning the first steps, and Rose was laughingly showing me what to do next, for I was no great hand at it, I heard the sound of a horse’s feet on the stones in the yard. And then I saw Philip Lisle coming in behind the people, dusty, travel-stained, and tired. Rose and I made for him through the throng. The people gave over dancing, and the fiddler stopped with his bow in midair.
“What news?” I cried, for I saw that he had news. The people crowded round him to hear his answer. He stayed on the threshold, and raised his hat.
“God save the King!” he cried. “His Majesty raised his flag at Nottingham against his enemies the day before yesterday. God save the King!”
Now, there were some that echoed Philip Lisle’s cry heartily. But there were others who said nothing and looked very grave, while Parson Drumbleforth shook his head sadly, saying that the kingdom which is divided against itself shall not stand. And thus the red shadow of war suddenly loomed over all our merrymaking.