Long Will Part 4

"An thou knowest the Romaunt so well, wherefore shall I tell it thee?"

he asked.

"What cometh after, where Reason prateth, I know not. I do never know."

"Then I 'll not waste raisonable words upon thee," laughed her father.

"Come, tell me of thyself! Was 't a plenteous feast day, or a hungry one?"

"Not hungry," she cried, with eyes alight. "There was one praised thee. 'T is not every day I taste honey."

She waited, watching him, but he said nothing; he only leaned his chin upon his hand and looked out of the doorway.

"Thou wilt not ask a share o' my feast? Yet is it all thine," she coaxed. "If any spake fair words of me, how should I pine to know!"

She pressed his face betwixt her two hands and looked close, merrily, into his eyes. "But thou shalt hear, whether or no. Hearken! 'T was in Paul's churchyard where they played the Miracle, thy Miracle, the Harrowing o' h.e.l.l,--a yeoman made as he would kiss me,"--

Her father was attentive now; his eyes were sombre.

"I was fair sick with the touch of him. I cried out. And there was one standing by thrust off the yeoman."

She lost herself, musing. Meanwhile, her father watched her, and presently, "Where is my little feast of praise?" he asked.

She started and took up the tale, but now her eyes were turned from his to the twilight s.p.a.ce outside the door, and beyond that, and beyond.

"He was young," she said,--"he was young; he wore a broidered coat; green it was, all daiseyed o'er with white and pink. He doffed his cap to me,--never no one afore did me that courtesy. He wore a trailing feather in his cap. 'If thou stand o' this side, out o' the press, still mayst thou see and hear,' saith he. And after, he saith 't was no common patcher, but a poet, wrote that Miracle. And I did tell him 't was my father. Then he would have my name as well, and, being told, he must needs recall how Nicolette, in that old tale, had a squire. He saith--he saith--'I would I were thy squire.'"

"Anon?" her father questioned, rousing her.

"Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle."

"A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire." said Will Langland slowly.

"I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore," she answered; and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.

He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her thoughts meanwhile.

"Father," she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by his side, "father,--here in the Vision, thou dost write that the ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the son o' the knight?"

He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity; he held her two hands in his own.

"My Calote,--'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day, nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free for pilgrimage to Truth."

"But if he read thy Vision, father, he will."

"The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision.

I shall be dead afore that time cometh,--and thou."

"Yet there be them that say the hour is not far distant when the people shall rise and rule," she persisted. "Wat Tyler ever threateneth the wrath of the people. He saith the land is full of villeins that have run from the manors, for that the Statute maketh them to labour for slave wage. He saith the people will make themselves free. John Ball goeth about to hearten men to rise against oppression."

"In my vision I saw neither war nor the shedding of blood," Langland answered.

"Oh, father!" she cried, and cast her arms about his neck, "art thou content to wait,--so idly?"

"Nay, I am not content," he said; "I am not content."

He kissed her and they were silent, thinking their several thoughts, until Calote said:--

"If the knight wed the peasant, and there come a child,--is that a knight or a peasant?"

"Most like the next of kin doth make a suitable complaining to the Pope, and so the child is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Thou mockest me, father; I see thee smile," she protested.

"Nay, 't is not thee I mock, my sweet,--not thee. But hark, Calote: this love of knights and damosels is not the one only love. Read thy Reason in the Romaunt,--and she shall tell thee of a love 'twixt man and man, woman and woman, that purifieth the soul and exalteth desire; nay, more: Reason shall tell thee of a love for all thy fellows that haply pa.s.seth in joy the love for one. The King's Son of Heaven,--He knew this love."

"And thou," whispered Calote.

"I dream more than I love," he said; "I do consider my pa.s.sion."

"Yet is it a very pa.s.sion, father. Wherefore wilt thou ever humble thyself?"

"And there is a love betwixt the father and the child," he continued; and those two kissed each other.

"I would know all these loves," cried Calote.

"Yet wilt thou do well to pray the Christ that no knight come to woo."

She hung her head; and the long day trembled to latest dusk.

CHAPTER III

They That Mourn

Now as these two sat silent, the door at the far end of the room, looking on Cornhill, opened, and a man came in and shut it again, and stood in the shadow.

"Wat?" said Langland.

"Art thou he men call Long Will?" asked the man out of the dark.

"Yea, I am he. Who art thou that fearest light? I took thee for Wat Tyler that is my friend."

"I am another friend," said the man, and came down the room. "My name is Peter. I have run from Devon."

"So,--Peter!" quoth Langland, and rose up to meet him. "And for that is thy name, and haply thou art a ploughman, dost thou believe that the truth resteth with thee?"

Calote, who knew her father's voice, saw also the grim smile that curled his lip, but the man could not see because of the twilight.