Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 12

"Be curst for a black, ugly rogue."

"That's no answer!"

"'Tis all you'll get o' we, save 'ard knocks!" says the man, spitting in his hand and taking firm grip of his bludgeon.

"Why then I must take him!" says I.

"Try and be d.a.m.ned!" roared the fellow. "Ha--look alive, Jem!" And whirling up his staff, he made at me amain; but I sprang aside and, as his rush carried him past, my answering stroke caught him fairly 'twixt wrist and elbow and his cudgel spun harmlessly into the hedge; breathing curses he sought to close with me, but I, keeping my distance, smote him (very blithely) how and where I would until he (his arm useless), misliking my bludgeon-play and reading no mercy in my look, very wisely betook him to his heels. Hereupon I turned to find the little peddler sitting astride his man's neck and his fist against the fellow's nose:

"Smell it, Job!" he was saying. "Smell it, lad, 'tis the fist of a man as would be a-groping for your liver if it weren't for the respect I do bear your old mother--skin me else! So thank your old mother, lad, first as you've got a liver and second for a-saving o' that same liver.

And now, get up, Job--begone, Job, arter your pal, and tell folk as kind G.o.dby, though sore tempted, never so much as set finger on your liver, and all along o' your good old mother--away wi' ye!" So the fellow got him to his legs (mighty rueful) and sped away after his comrade.

"Pal," says the little peddler, reaching out and grasping my hand, "here's full quittance for that pannikin o' water as you never got!

And now--what's the word?"

"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"

"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all my heart!"

Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife holding fast to the other. At sight of us he dropped the weapon and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands in hearty welcome. So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed the ale G.o.dby described our late encounter with great exactness.

"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my hand again, "what might your name be?"

"Martin."

"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"

"None!"

"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place for you or me arter to-day! So what I says is, lets you and me pad it, pal--the road, lad--the good high-road, aha! How say ye, Martin?"

"No!"

"Why no, pal?"

"Because, after to-night, if I chance to be neither dead nor in prison, I'm for shipboard."

"'Tis an ill life, pal!"

"Why, life is an ill thing!" says I.

"Nay, look'ee, Martin, life may be worth whiles now and then--aye, lad, there be times, good times."

"What times?"

"Well, Martin, to lie snug 'neath hedge o' star-time, when your fire's low an' the stars peep down through leaves at a man--wink, they go, and wink, wink, till, watching 'em, a man forgets his troubles awhile and knows something o' content. Aha, many's the time o' star-time they have winked me and my troubles asleep. Then there's wakings o'

bird-time, wi' the sun up, dew a-sparkle and life calling within ye and without, and the birds--O the birds, Martin--a-filling the world wi'

brave songs o' hope new-born like the day! Ah, many's the morn the birds ha' waked me and I as merry as any grig--Lord love their beaks and wings! There's hay-time o' the evening full o' soft, sweet smells--aye, sweet as lad's first kiss; there's wheat-time at noon wi'

the ears a-rustle and the whitt-whitt o' scythe and whetstone; there's night, Martin, and the long, black road dipping and a-winding, but wi'

the beam o' light beyond, lad--the good light as tells o' journey done, of companionship and welcomes and belike--eyes o' love, with--"

"l.u.s.ty ale!" quoth Roger, setting three new-filled pipkins before us.

"And none better nor ourn--eh, wife?"

"That I do swear to, Roger!" laughed the peddler, "Choke me else! But now, as to the sea, Martin pal--'tis a dog's life!"

"You know the sea, then?"

"Like my hand, Martin, and all along o' my father's G.o.dliness. A fine, big man he was and devout as he was l.u.s.ty. Having begot me his next duty was to name me, and O pal, name me he did! A name as no raskell lad might live up to, a name as brought me into such troublous faction ash.o.r.e that he packed me off to sea. And if you ax me what name 'twas, I'll answer ye bold and true--'G.o.d-be-here Jenkins,' at your service, though G.o.dby for short and 'twixt friends."

Now the more I saw of this little peddler the better I liked him, so that the hour was late when, having supped excellently well, I rose to take my leave.

"If you must be away, young master," said the buxom Cicely, "don't 'ee forget there be ever a welcome for 'ee at the Hop-pole--eh, Roger?"

"There is so!" nodded the landlord. "Likewise a pipkin of ale and a bite and all gratus to a pal!"

"And look 'ee, Martin my cove," quoth the peddler, grasping my hand, "there be ever and always the good high-road leading on and away to better things, so happen ye should change your mind, seek me here 'twixt this and dawn, if to-morrow ye shall hear o' G.o.dby at the Fox at Spelmonden. So luck go wi' ye, my bien cull."

"And you," says I, "should you be minded to sail with me, go to the Peck-o'-Malt at Bedgbury Cross--the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and ask for Adam Penfeather."

So I presently stepped forth of the little tavern where I had found such kindliness and, turning from the narrow lane, struck off across the fields.

It was a sweet, warm night, the moon not up as yet, thus as I went I lifted my gaze to the heavens where stars made a glory. And beholding these wondrous fires I needs must recall the little peddler's saying and ponder his "good times"--his "times of stars and birds, of noon and eventide, of welcomes sweet and eyes of love."

And now I was of a sudden filled with a great yearning and pa.s.sionate desire that I too might know such times. But, as I climbed a stile, my hand by chance came upon the knife at my girdle, and sitting on the stile I drew it forth and fell to handling its broad blade, and, doing so, knew in my heart that such times were not for me, nor ever could be. And sitting there, knife in hand, desire and yearning were lost and 'whelmed in fierce and black despair.

CHAPTER IX

HOW I HAD WORD WITH THE LADY JOAN BRANDON FOR THE THIRD TIME

The moon was well up when, striking out from the gloom of the woods, I reached a wall very high and strong, whereon moss and lichens grew; skirting this, I presently espied that I sought--a place where the coping was gone with sundry of the bricks, making here a gap very apt to escalade; and here, years agone, I had been wont to climb this wall to the furtherance of some boyish prank on many a night such as this.

Awhile stood I staring up at this gap, then, seizing hold of ma.s.sy brickwork, I drew myself up and dropped into a walled garden. Here were beds of herbs well tended and orderly, and, as I went, I breathed an air sweet with the smell of thyme and lavender and a thousand other scents, an air fraught with memories of sunny days and joyous youth, insomuch that I clenched my hands and hasted from the place. Past sombre trees, mighty of girth and branch, I hurried; past still pools, full of a moony radiance, where lilies floated; past marble fauns and dryads that peeped ghost-like from leafy solitudes; past sundial and carven bench, by clipped yew-hedges and winding walks until, screened in shadow, I paused to look upon a great and goodly house; and as I stood there viewing it over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard a distant clock chime ten.

The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save in one lower chamber. So I waited patiently, my gaze on this light, while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the soft night-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.

Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my patience waning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows, and, ascending the terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and gnarled, overspreading this wing of the house. Groping amid the leaves I found that I sought--a stout staple deep-driven between the bricks with above this another and yet other again, the which formed a sort of ladder whereby, as a boy, I had been wont to come and go by night or day as I listed.

Forthwith I began to climb by means of these staples and the ivy, until at last my fingers grasped the stone sill of a window; and now, the lattice being open, I contrived (albeit it with much ado) to clamber into the room. It was a fair-sized chamber, and the moonlight, falling athwart the floor, lit upon a great carven bed brave with tapestried hangings. Just now the silken curtains were up-drawn and upon the bed I saw a bundle of garments all ribands, laces and the like, the which, of themselves, gave me sudden pause. From these my gaze wandered to where, against the panelling, hung a goodly rapier complete with girdle and slings, its silver hilt, its guards and curling quillons bright in the moonbeams. So came I and, reaching it down, drew it from the scabbard and saw the blade very bright as it had been well cared for.

And graven on the forte of the blade was the Conisby blazon and the legend:

ROUSE ME NOT.

Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long blade, I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the stairs without and a voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that brake out a-singing, and the words it sang these:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee, Sighing Willow, willow, willow!

O willow, willow, willow!

And O the green willow my garland shall be!"