CHAPTER XX
LADY SYBIL'S GODDAUGHTER
When Merrylips stopped running, she found herself in the darkest corner of the bare, stone-paved room that took up the ground-floor of the wash-house. At her feet was a heap of old sacks, and she burrowed in among them, and lay gasping for breath.
She was sure that Miles Digby would follow her. On that account she had not dared run to her own chamber. For she was afraid of Digby now—yes, and afraid of all the men in Monksfield that had been her friends.
As she lay in the darkness that deepened in the wash-house, she saw the faces of Lieutenant Crashaw and her own brother Munn, as they looked on indifferently, while they wasted the corn of the poor folk at Storringham. She saw the face of Lieutenant Digby, as he struck Dick Fowell down. Such deeds were a part of war, which she had thought was all brave riding and feats of honor and bloodless victory.
She pressed her face between her arms, and as she did so, felt against her cheek the blood that had stiffened on her sleeve. At the feel of it she cried aloud.
Oh, she was sick and frightened of it all! She was ashamed of the boy's dress that she wore, of Digby's oaths that had been on her tongue, of the draught that she had drunk at the buttery hatch, of the loud threats that she had spoken against the rebels. She was not the lad, Tibbott Venner, and she knew it now. She was Lady Sybil's little goddaughter. She wanted to be again where she could wear her own girlish dress, where she would hear only gentle voices, where such things as she had seen this day could never be done.
"But I did not kick him after he had fallen," she kept repeating. "I remembered not to strike one that was weaker than myself."
She found her only comfort in thinking that in this, at least, she had done as Lady Sybil would have wished her to do. For in that hour she felt so soiled in body and in soul that she feared that she never again could be Lady Sybil's little girl.
It was pitchy dark in the wash-house when Merrylips heard steps just outside and the clatter of the door flung open. She burrowed deeper among the sacks and held her breath. In the stillness she heard rough voices speak:—
"In with you, you cursed rebel!"
"Stand on your feet, you dog!"
Then she heard a sound as of a dead weight let fall upon the floor, the bang of a door shut to, the rattle of a bolt in its socket. Softly she drew breath again, and as she did so, she heard in the darkness a stifled moan.
All at once she realized what had happened. A wounded rebel, a dying man, it might be, had been imprisoned in the very place where she was hidden. In terror she flung aside the sacks that covered her. No matter if she was afraid of Digby! She was more afraid to stay here with this Roundhead. She would run to the door and shout to them to open and let her out.
But as Merrylips rose softly to her feet, a pale light flickered through the wash-house. It came from the narrow window, high in the eastern wall, that looked into the great court, where, no doubt, torches had been newly kindled. The light fell upon a man who was sitting on the stone floor, not ten feet from her corner, with his arm cast across his knee and his head bowed heavily upon his arm. His hair was chestnut-colored, ruddy in the light, like Munn's, and by that token Merrylips knew him for Dick Fowell.
For many moments she stood, without daring to move, while she wondered what she should do. For if she called at the door, as she had planned to do, perhaps Digby would come. If he came, perhaps he would strike Fowell again. Perhaps he would try to make her strike him. No, no, she could not call now, but surely she could not stay a prisoner for hours with this Roundhead!
While she was thus thinking, Dick Fowell groaned again. He would be ashamed, no doubt, when he found that he had let a child see that he was in pain. Somehow it seemed to Merrylips not quite honorable to be there without his knowing it.
Hesitatingly she went toward him, but it was not until she stood right over him that Fowell looked up. She saw his face, all drawn and ghastly under the sweat and blood that were dried upon it, and his haggard eyes that looked upon her, yet did not seem to see her. In that moment she forgot that he was a Roundhead, such as she had hoped to slay. She saw only that he was hurt and suffering, and down she went on her knees beside him.
"Doth thy poor head hurt?" she whispered, in her tenderest girl-voice.
With her two arms about him—and a heavy weight he was!—she eased him down till he rested on the floor. She dragged the old sacks from the corner and pillowed his injured head upon them. He did not speak, but he seemed so far conscious of her presence that he stifled his groans right manfully.
But presently, while she knelt beside him, he whispered, as if the words were forced from him:—
"Water! Give me to drink!"
She laid her hand lightly on his face. She could feel how cracked and dry were his lips.
"I'll fetch it to thee," she promised, saying "thou" to this tall Dick Fowell as if he were her brother or a little child.
In the wash-house was an old bucking-tub on which she could stand. And in the western wall was a window that looked upon the little paved court, where only yesterday she had been playing ball. The window was too narrow for Dick Fowell to have escaped that way, and so his jailers knew, but little slender Merrylips had no trouble in scrambling through it.
From the little court she stole to the buttery hatch, where all night long strong waters were served out to the weary and wounded soldiers. As she went, she kept close in the shadow of the buildings, for she was sick with the dread of meeting Miles Digby. But she found no one to hinder her. Except for the sentries, who kept watch upon the walls, the Monksfield garrison were resting on their arms against the morning.
From the man at the buttery hatch Merrylips got a flasket full of wine and water.
"For the lieutenant," she answered when she was questioned.
She guessed that such was Dick Fowell's rank, and she hoped that it was no lie she told, even though the man should believe that it was for Lieutenant Crashaw or Lieutenant Digby that she had been sent to fetch the wine and water.
From the same man she begged a great leathern bottle, and this she filled with water at the well in the middle of the courtyard. As she drew the water, she looked about her. Above her head the stars were shining cold, and far away, across the walls, upon the hills that lay to eastward, she could see the ruddy fires where the rebels lay encamped.
With the bottle and the flasket Merrylips hurried back to the little paved court. She sought out the form that she had left yesterday by the wall of the herb garden. She pushed it beneath the window of the wash-house, and climbing upon it, soon had scrambled back into Dick Fowell's prison.
She held the flasket to his lips, and he drank, with long breaths of content. Then, in a dark corner, she stripped off her shirt and replaced her doublet and her leathern coat upon her bared shoulders. With a rag torn from the shirt she washed the dust and blood from Dick Fowell's face, and cleansed the wound on his head, as well as she was able. Then she bandaged the hurt place with strips of the shirt and she gave him again to drink from the flasket. After that she could do nothing but sit by him upon the paved floor, and when he muttered, half delirious, as once or twice he did, try to quiet him, with her hand against his cheek.
The light flickered and faded in the wash-house, as the torches in the courtyard died down. Once, in the west, a burst of firing rattled out, and sank again to deeper silence. Through the western window came the chill light of the setting moon. Merrylips had dozed for a moment, perhaps, but she roused at the sound of a bolt withdrawn. She looked up, and in the open doorway she saw Miles Digby stand.
Yet she was not afraid. She kept her place, on her knees, at Fowell's side, with her hand upon his hand, and "Hush!" she said to him, for he had stirred uneasily, as if he, too, had caught the sound of Digby's coming. Across his helpless body she looked at Digby.
"He is hurt. Thou must not waken him," she said.
"He is hurt. Thou must not waken him," she said.
"He is hurt. Thou must not waken him," she said.
"He is hurt. Thou must not waken him," she said.
Digby, with the reek of battle half cleared from his brain, looked upon her in the moonlight. In that moment perhaps he saw, kneeling by the wounded man, something greater in strength than the boy Tibbott, with whom he had jested and played, something greater in compassion even than the maid, Sybil Venner, that little Merrylips should one day be.
In any case, he came no farther into the room. Perhaps he dared not face what faced him there in the form of a little child. For an instant he stood with his hand upon the latch, and then he went forth again, and slammed and bolted the door behind him.
"What was't?" Dick Fowell whispered, and suddenly he tightened his grasp on Merrylips' hand.
"I dreamed," he whispered. "I dreamed—Miles Digby was come—to settle the old score."
"Think not of him," soothed Merrylips. "For he will not harm thee, Dick. I will not suffer him to do thee harm."