CHAPTER XXIV
THE DARKEST DAY
In the dull light of the dripping morning Rupert and Merrylips sat up and looked at each other. The packet that had held their food gaped emptily at their feet, and the flask lay forlornly on its side.
"What shall we do? And whither shall we go now, Rupert?" Merrylips asked.
She chafed her cold little hands while she waited hopefully for his reply.
Rupert had his answer ready. Indeed, for twenty-four hours he had thought of little else.
"We cannot well go back to Monksfield," he said, "for no doubt the place hath fallen by now."
Merrylips nodded gravely.
"If I had known!" she said in a low voice. "I wish now I'd shaken hands with Lieutenant Digby, since he was fain to do so."
"Well," said Rupert, "we can't go back, so we must needs go forward. And since King's Slynton is no longer a Royalist garrison, we must make our way to the nearest place that is. But we will not make such long marches as we made yesterday!" he added.
Merrylips was glad to hear those last words, for she was lame in every muscle. But she did not say that she was glad, lest Rupert think her a little milksop to be so quickly tired. Instead she asked:—
"Where is the Royalist garrison to which we shall go now? I pray thee, tell me!"
No doubt Rupert would have liked to seem wise in everything to this younger lad, but he was an honest boy. Though he hesitated, he presently spoke the truth.
"That I do not rightly know," he said. "These parts are strange to me, and Captain Norris was so sure that we should find shelter at King's Slynton that he told me nothing of the ways beyond. But we must go westward, I know, to reach the king's country."
"Ay," said Merrylips, "for Walsover lieth in the west."
"But first of all," Rupert went on, "for this I learned yesterday in the village, we must cross the river Slyne that barreth our passage into the west. And we cannot cross it by the bridge at King's Slynton, now that the rebels are there, so we must go northward to a village called Slynford, where there is a fording place."
"And is it far?" Merrylips asked as she rose stiffly to her feet.
"Not far, I think," Rupert cheered her. "Not above two league, I am sure."
Now two leagues may sound a very little distance, when the words are read by a snug fireside. But two leagues, when tramped through drizzling wet and mire, on tired feet, become a weary long journey, as Merrylips and Rupert found. It was sunset, if there had been a sun to set upon that damp and gloomy day, when they limped at last down the sticky road into Slynford.
The first sound that greeted them, as they set foot in the village street, was a dirty little boy's shouting to his mate:—
"Haste ye, Herry Dautry! The sojers do be changing guard at the ford. Come look upon 'em for a brave show!"
Then they knew that they had come too late. Here in Slynford, as at King's Slynton, was an outpost of the rebel army that barred the passage into the west.
Perhaps if they had gone straight to the ford and asked to be let cross, they might have got leave, for they were very young and harmless-looking travellers. But Rupert and Merrylips were both too tired and hungry and discouraged to pluck up heart for such a bold undertaking.
Moreover, after his sad experience in King's Slynton, Rupert was shy of getting within arm's reach of rebel soldiers. He might be robbed of what money was left him, he told Merrylips. So they agreed that they should do well to leave Slynford and try to cross the river farther north.
There followed for the two children a week of wandering that would not have been easy even for grown men. All the time they were in terror,—more than they need have been, perhaps,—lest they fall into the hands of the cruel rebels. Indeed, the country through which they passed was swarming with soldiers and with camp followers of the Parliament. And Rupert and Merrylips were sure, and rather proud of the fact, that in dress and bearing they themselves looked so much like Cavaliers that they should instantly be known for such, if they let themselves be seen by their enemies.
So they kept away from towns and villages, where they were likely to be stopped and questioned. For greater safety they travelled by night, and their food—coarse bread, and meat, and fresh cheese—they bought at lonely cottages. They slept in woods and thickets, where sometimes they found nuts and haws with which to piece out their meals. They dared not even ask too many questions about the roads that they should take, and so it happened often that they went astray. Still, they travelled northward, in the main, along the river Slyne, till one morning they met with a rebel patrol.
The soldiers shouted to them to stand. They were half in jest, no doubt, but it was no jest to Rupert and Merrylips. In great fright they ran for their lives, as they believed, into a wood close by. They heard a shot fired after them. They heard a crashing of horses that were forced through the bushes in their rear. They ran madly up hills and down muddy hollows. When Merrylips stumbled, Rupert caught her hand and dragged her along. Not till they had left the pursuit far behind them did they drop down, all scratched and bemired, and lie sobbing for breath.
After that they shaped their course eastward, away from the danger belt between the lines, where they had been travelling. Presently, said Rupert, they would turn westward again, but for now, till the country was quieter, they would keep to the settled parts that were held for the Parliament.
It was at this time that he thought up a story to tell, if they were caught and questioned. He would say that they were cousins and that their name was Smith, for that was a common, honest-sounding name. He would say, too, that they had been at school near Horsham and had run away to join the Parliament army and fight the Cavaliers.
"And we must call 'em wicked Cavaliers, and abuse 'em roundly," said Rupert, who was very proud of his plan, "and then no doubt they'll believe us little rebels and let us go about our business."
Merrylips was not over-pleased at the thought of telling so many fibs, nor did she wish to pass herself off as a rebel. More than ever she feared and hated all that party since the meeting with the Roundhead patrol. But she said nothing, for she wished to do as Rupert wished, since he was kind to her.
For Rupert had kept his word, ever since that twilight outside King's Slynton. Not once had he been rough with Merrylips. He made her rest, while he went alone to get their food. He gave her all the choicest bits. He carried her on his back when they forded streams. Because he was the older and the stronger, he took good care of her, as he had promised to do. But all the time she knew that it was only because she was weak that he was kind.
She meant to be very brave and strong. But she did not find it so easy to be a boy, out in the cold woods, as she had found it in the cheery mess-room at Monksfield. She did not whimper, no, not once, but she could not walk so stoutly as Rupert, for all her trying. And she caught a cold, and she had such a sore throat that she could scarcely eat their hard food. Rupert did not scold, but she knew that she must seem to him weak and cowardly.
Now before long Merrylips had blistered her feet. Rupert had strained a tendon in his ankle, at the very outset, and though he made light of it, he went each day more lame. Thus crippled, they could not travel far in a single day. So it was that, about the time when they turned westward again, they found that, though they had not half finished their journey, they had spent all their money.
Soon they had nothing left but Merrylips' three half-pence. These Rupert gave one morning for a noggin of milk and a piece of soft bread, which he bought at a farmyard gate. And he made Merrylips drink and eat it, every drop and crumb.
The dairymaid from whom they bought the food must have run and told her mistress about them, for scarcely had Merrylips done eating, when the farmer's wife, a big, rosy woman, came bustling out of the house. She looked at the two little boys, who were standing forlornly by the bars, in the cold dawn, and then she called to them to come in.
Merrylips was so tired and sick that she would have gone to the woman, even if she were a rebel. But Rupert whispered:—
"'Tis a trap! No doubt she would betray us to the Roundhead soldiers!"
So saying, he caught Merrylips by the arm and hurried her away. He would not let her stop running till he had led her deep into a lonely growth of willows that drooped above a swollen brook.
"But I doubt—if she would have served us—an ill turn," Merrylips panted, as soon as she got breath. "She looked right kind."
"Ay, she was one of thy rebel friends," sneered Rupert, and flung her hand from his.
Yet there was some excuse for his ill humor. After all, he was but a young boy, and he suffered cruelly with his aching foot, and he had not eaten in hours. What with pain and hunger and fear for the future, it was no wonder, perhaps, that he was quite savage. In any case, he went and lay down in the shelter of a bank, and turned his back upon his little comrade.
Merrylips was left sitting alone by the brookside. She wondered what would become of them now. Here they were, in the enemy's country, without money, and without friends, and without strength to travel farther. Perhaps they would die right there, like the poor babes in the old ballad that Goody Trot used to sing.
When she thought of Goody Trot, she thought of all the kind old days at Larkland, and she was almost ready to cry. But she drew from within her shirt the silver ring, and kissed it, and laid her cheek against it. She thought of Lady Sybil, and how she had told her that she could be as brave as a boy, whatever dress she wore. Then she grew ashamed that she, who was Lady Sybil's goddaughter and Sir Thomas Venner's child, should be cast down, only because she was a little cold and hungry. So she made herself sing softly, and she sat turning the ring between her fingers while she thought what a brave, merry face she would have to show to Rupert when he woke.
Suddenly, like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky, she felt a stinging blow across her cheek. Her head rang with it. Her eyes were dazzled with dancing stars. Through a haze she saw Rupert standing over her with fists clenched and eyes that flamed.
"Tibbott Venner, thou little thief!" he choked. "Give me that ring."
From where she had fallen upon her elbow Merrylips stared up at him.
"But, Rupert," she said, "'tis mine! 'Tis mine own ring."
"Thou dost lie!" he cried. "I could ha' forgiven thee aught else. But to serve me such a turn—when I had cared for thee, well as I knew! I gave thee the last o' the bread and the milk—all of it I gave thee, because thou wast little. And then thou—thou lying little trickster! I vow I'll beat thee for't!"
Still Merrylips looked at him steadily.
"Thou art strong. Thou canst do it," she whispered.
Rupert lifted his clenched fist, but he let it fall as he met her eyes. He did not strike her. Instead he bent and snatched at the ring, where it hung about her neck. So fiercely did he snatch that he broke the cord and brought the ring away in his hand.
"Shift for thyself now!" he flung the words at her. "I'll bear wi' thee no longer, thou liar! thou thief! And to do't while I slept and trusted thee!"
Still Merrylips said not a word. Dumb and wide-eyed, she sat with her hand to her throbbing cheek, while she watched Rupert turn and stride away along the brookside. She watched till he had passed out of sight, and the branches that he had thrust aside no longer stirred.
Then she groped with her fingers and touched the broken cord where the ring had hung. She had not dreamed it, then. Rupert had robbed her, and forsaken her. She did not cry, but she gave a little moan, and drooping forward, sank upon her face.