CHAPTER XXV
AFTER THE STORM
At first Merrylips could not guess what had happened to her. Perhaps, she thought, she had been drowned. Her face was all wet and dripping, and she could hear a rushing sound of water.
But when she raised her heavy eyelids, she saw bare willow branches against a gray sky. She lay by a brookside, she remembered. The sound of water that she had heard must be the rushing of the brook.
Then she found that Rupert was bending over her. But this was a Rupert whom she had never known. This Rupert had a gray, drawn face that twitched and eyes that were wide and frightened. He was chafing her hands in his and saying over and over:—
"Tibbott! Tibbott! Don't die! Prithee, say thou wilt not die! I did not know. I am sorry. Only don't die, Tibbott! Say thou wilt not die!"
She did not understand. She could remember only that he had struck her, and she shrank from his touch.
She heard a sound of sobbing. But she knew it was not she that cried. She had promised Munn that she would be brave. She raised her eyes again, and she saw Rupert on his knees beside her, with his ragged sleeve pressed to his face. It was he that was sobbing, for all that he was a big boy.
"But wilt thou not even let me touch thee—when 'tis to help thee?" he begged. "For I'm sorry, Tibbott. And here's thy ring again. As soon as I knew, I ran back and found thee fainting. And I would not ha' done it, Tibbott, but indeed they were very like. So I thought thou hadst taken mine, and—and it meaneth much to me, more than I can tell thee, Tibbott. And I thought, there at King's Slynton, when the rebels searched me, they would find it and take it from me. So many times since I've dreamed 'twas taken from me and was lost! So when I woke and thought to see it in thy hands, so careless, I was angered. Tibbott, wilt thou not understand and—and not forgive me, perhaps, but let me help thee? For indeed they are so like! Look but upon them, Tibbott!"
She thought that she must be very ill indeed, and that she was seeing things double. For there in Rupert's hand, as he held it out to her, lay two rings, wrought of dull old silver in the shape of two hearts entwined. She stared at them blankly, and Rupert, who thought from her silence that she was still angry, hid his face in his arms.
But in that silence Merrylips began slowly to understand what had happened. She saw that Rupert, how or why she could not guess, had had a ring like hers and prized it dearly. No wonder, then, that when he had seen her handling such a ring he had thought her a little thief, until he had searched and found his own ring in its place. He was not wholly to blame, and until that hour he had been kind.
How glad she was to feel that she could forgive him! "Rupert!" she whispered, but so softly that he did not heed.
Then she dragged herself to him and put her two arms round his shoulders.
"Rupert!" she said again, and bent and kissed him.
He put his arms about her, and for a moment they clung to each other.
"Thou art the strangest lad, Tibbott!" choked Rupert. "But thou dost not bear me ill will? Indeed thou dost not?"
Merrylips nodded, as she settled herself beside him. She felt too weak to talk, but she was very happy.
For a moment Rupert too was silent, while he busied himself in tying Merrylips' ring once more upon the broken cord. But presently he said, in a humble voice:—
"Wilt thou tell me, Tibbott—if 'tis not a secret—how thou ever camest by this ring which is like mine own?"
"I had it of my godmother," Merrylips answered, and she was almost too faint to notice what she said. "My godmother, with whom I dwelt at Larkland—Lady Sybil Fernefould—she for whom I am named."
Rupert let his hands fall from the cord with which he was fumbling. In blank surprise he looked at her, and suddenly from his face she knew what she had said. In her dismay she roused from her faintness.
"Oh, Rupert!" she cried, and hid her hot face in her hands. "And I promised not to tell—and I have told!"
It seemed to her a long time that she sat with her face hidden and grieved for her broken promise. Then she heard Rupert say in a puzzled voice, but quite gently:—
"Lady Sybil—for whom thou art named? But then—Why, Tibbott, is it true thou art not Tibbott—that thou art a little maid?"
"Ay!" she answered with her face hidden.
Presently she felt her two hands found and taken into Rupert's hands.
"Prithee, look up!" he said. "And be not sorry. My word, I might ha' guessed it—only no one of all the men mistrusted! 'Twas because thou wast a maid, belike, thou hadst so tender a heart, even for the pestilent rebels. And I mocked at thee for it. I am right sorry, mistress."
She looked up at Rupert then. She felt that at last they knew each other and would be friends. She was so glad that she smiled at him, and he too laughed as he knelt before her.
"How thou didst trick us all!" he cried. "Why, Tibbott—mistress, I mean—"
"My brothers call me Merrylips," she said.
Rupert cocked his head, as if he thought the name odd, but he repeated, "Merrylips," and they laughed together.
"I never knew of such a maid," Rupert kept repeating. "How couldst thou walk as thou hast done, and fare so poorly, and not fret, thou that hast been reared a gentlewoman?"
Then he hesitated and seemed to remember something.
"Merrylips," he asked, "did I dream it, or didst thou say indeed that thou didst dwell with thy godmother at a place called Larkland?"
Merrylips nodded. Rupert passed his hand across his forehead.
"There was a house called Larkland," he said slowly, "when we came first into England, Claus and I, and a sickness was on me. And there was a kind little maid that led us home, and said we should be friends."
He paused, and sat gazing at Merrylips.
"Yes," she answered, "and next morning I sat in the cherry tree and saw thee stealing away from Larkland."
"Then it was thou indeed!" cried Rupert. "And I never knew thee, Tibbott,—Merrylips, I mean,—though I had thought upon thee often, for thou wast so kind, when every one was harsh unto us."
But now that Merrylips remembered the old days at Larkland and her godmother's suspicions of Rupert, she grew sober again.
"Wilt thou not tell me, Rupert," she said, "why thou didst steal away from Larkland, so like a thief, when we all would have used thee kindly?"
For a moment Rupert was silent. Then he drew from his pocket the silver ring that was the counterpart of the one that hung at Merrylips' neck.
"If I tell thee a part, I will tell thee all," he said, "and I am fain to tell thee, if thou wilt listen."
"Tell me everything," bade Merrylips.
So the two children settled themselves, side by side, under the bare willows, and Rupert told the story of his silver ring.