Long Will Part 19

"Not if I believe in G.o.d,--and Christ the King's Son of heaven."

"And is this the end of all trusting in G.o.d, that a man shall fold his hands and do nothing?"

He winced, and she had flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her cheek to his, and she was sobbing; he tasted the salt of her tears against his lips.

"Father, forgive me! Say thou dost forgive me!--But all my little lifetime thou hast laboured on this poem--when I was a babe I learned to speak by the sound of thy voice a-murmuring the Vision. All the light o' learning I have to light me to G.o.dward and to my fellows, I got it from the Vision. All the fire o' love I have in my heart was kindled at its flame;--yea--for all other love I quench with my tears; I will not let no other love burn. And now, when the fire is kindled past smothering, and the light burns ever so bright, thou dost turn the Vision against itself, for to confound all them that have believed on thy word. Wilt thou light a light but to snuff it back to darkness?

Wilt thou kindle a fire but to choke us with smoke? 'T is now too late. Haply 't is thy part to sit still and sing; but I--I cannot sing, and I cannot sit still. I am not so wise as thou, nor so patient. Is 't kind to 'wilder me with thy wisdom, my father? Is 't wise to cover me with a pall of patience, if I must needs die to lie quiet?"

"An I give thee leave, what is 't thou 'lt do?" he asked her, in a level, weary voice.

"I 'll follow the King to Gloucester, and there have speech of him and a token. After, I 'll bid the people to know the King loveth them,--and they are to come up to London to a great uprising, what time John Ball, and Wat, and Jack Straw shall give sign. Then there shall be no more poor and rich; but all men shall love one another, the knight and the cook's knave, the King and the ploughman. Much more I 'll say, out of the Vision; and of fellowship, such as John Ball preacheth."

"The clergy clap John Ball into prison for such words, whensoever they may."

"And for this reason is it better that I should be about when he may not; for what am I but a maiden? Clergy will not take keep of me. I 'm not afeared of no harm that may befal me;--though haply--harm may."

"Knoweth that young squire aught of this journey?"

"Nay, father."

"Hast thou bethought thee of what folk will say if thou go to Gloucester in the tail of the court? There be many on Cornhill have seen that youth; they know whence he is.--If thou go, and come not again for many months?"

He felt her cheek grow hot against his own, and then she drew away from him and looked in his eyes piteously:--

"Dost thou not believe I must do that Conscience telleth me is right, father?"

"Yea."

"Then wherefore wilt thou seek to turn me from well-doing?"

"Thou art my daughter," he answered gravely; "small wonder if I would shield thee from dangers and evil-report. Shall I not be blamed of all men, and rightly, if I let thee go o' this wild-goose chase?"

"All thy life I have never known thee give a weigh of Ess.e.x cheese for any man's praise or blame."

"'T is very true!" he a.s.sented in moody fashion; and sat still with his head bent.

After a little she touched him, and "Thou 'lt bless me, father?" she said.

"To Gloucester, sayst thou?" he questioned absently; and then, "That 's nigh to Malvern Priory, and the Hills,--the Malvern Hills."

She had sat down below him on the ground and laid her chin upon his knee, and so she waited with her eyes upon his face.

"My old master that learned me to read and to write, and unloosed the singing tongue of me, dwelleth in Malvern Priory. He said, if ever I had a golden-haired daughter--Well, thou shalt take a copy of the Vision to him, Calote. Give it to the porter at the gate,--and bide.

Thy mother shall say round and about Cornhill that thou art gone to mine old home, to take the Vision to the old master. He is called Brother Owyn."

"Father, father!" she cried, "I am filled full of myself, and mine own desire. Wherefore dost thou not beat me and lock me behind doors,--so other fathers would do?"

He smiled wistfully, and kissed her: "So! now thou hast thy will, thou 'lt play penitent. Nay,--hush thee, hush thee, my sweet! 'T is time for laughter now, and joyousness. Thou 'rt going forth to learn all men to love one another. Be comforted; dry thy tears!"

"I am a very wicked wight!" she sobbed. "I will not leave thee."

"Thou art aweary, my dear one, the dawn cometh. Go thou to rest, and the morrow all will be bright. When dost thou set forth o' this pilgrimage?"

"On the morrow!" she whispered; and then with more tears, "But I will not go, father,--forgive me!"

He gathered her into his arms and carried her through the weeds and up the wooden stair to the door of the gabled room.

"Go in," he said, "and sleep! There are yet a fifty lines lacking to the copy of the Vision that thou wilt take with thee; I must write them in."

But when he was come back to the long dark room, he lit no rush for an hour or more; instead, he paced back and forth, talking with himself:--

"Pity me, G.o.d! I am a weak man!--I did never no deeds but them I thought not to do;--never, all my life long! Count my deeds, O G.o.d,--they are so few,--and all of them have I condemned afore in other men. Now, I let my daughter go forth on a fool's errand, and in a child's plot that must fail; mayhap she will meet worse than death on the road; but I give her my blessing. Jesu,--Mary,--guard this my daughter that I have so weakly put forth upon the world! How may a man dare say nay to his child, if she be a better man than he,--an actyf man, a doer o' deeds? How may a man dare forbid any soul to follow Conscience? Good Jesu, I am but a jongleur,--a teller o' tales,--I am afeared o' deeds. I see them on so many sides that I dare move nor hand nor foot. And if I do, I trip. Best never be doing.--If a man might be all words, and no deeds!"

PART II

The Pilgrimage

"And I shall apparaille me in pilgrimes wise, And wende with yow I wil til we fynde Treuthe."

_The Vision Concerning Piers Plowman._ B. Pa.s.sUS V.

CHAPTER I

In the Cloisters

King Richard stretched himself and yawned, took off his velvet bonnet and thrust his fingers through his long light-brown hair, rubbed his left leg, and looked on his favourite squire with a smile half-quizzical, half-ashamed.

They two stood in the cloisters of the Abbey at Gloucester, in that part of the cloisters that was not yet finished. The workmen carving the fan-tracery--that Abbey's proud boast and new invention--looked aside from their blocks of stone to the young King, then bent their heads and went on c.h.i.n.king. From somewhere about came a kind of clamorous noise that was the Commons still sitting in the Chapter House,--though 't was past dinner time. John of Gaunt strode laughing down the cloisters by the side of a gray-beard Oxford priest who carried a parchment in his hand, and they went together into the church. Lord Richard Scrope, the new-appointed chancellor, stood out in the middle of the cloister garth, under the noon sun, and Master Walworth and Philpot and other merchants of London with him, their heads together, their speech now buzzing low, now lifted in protest, now settling to a chuckle.

Richard whacked his leg smartly and stiffened it.

"My foot 's asleep," said he. "'T is a most deep-seated chair. An I must listen many more days to mine uncle's long-winded friend from Oxenford, thou wert best get me a fatter cushion. My legs do dangle out of all dignity."

"'T shall be found to-morrow, sire!" Etienne answered.

"Nay, not to-morrow, mon ami; to-morrow I go a-hunting, and the next day, and the next, if I will."

"A-hunting!" exclaimed Etienne; "but Parliament sits."

"Saint Mary!" cried Richard; "and who should know this better than I?

Sits!--One while methought I 'd sent forth rootlets and must go through life a-sitting. Almost I 'll welcome old days, and Sir Simon Burley's stinging birch, to start me out of my numbness."