CHAPTER XXXIV
JOURNEY'S END
But by the time that they had ridden down the long slope in the twilight, and reached the outermost of the barriers that now were built round Walsover, Merrylips' heart was light again. For she had before her a great happiness. Indeed, it was no small matter to come home at last, after two full years of absence.
They laid a plot in whispers, she and Munn, as they rode past the sentinels. Munn should present her to her father as a little boy, and see if he would recognize her. Then they should have sport in presenting her to each one of her kinsfolk in turn. Last of all, they should tell Lieutenant Crashaw that she was no boy, but a little girl.
"For 'tis clear he is so newly come to Walsover that he hath not yet had time to learn of our father which child of his was lost from Monksfield," Munn concluded.
He chuckled at the thought of the laugh that he should have at Crashaw. And truly it was a beautiful plot! But Dick Fowell could have warned the plotters that such surprises sometimes turn out unexpectedly for their inventors. And so it proved with Munn and Merrylips.
Soon they had come into Sir Thomas Venner's presence. He stood, tall and martial, on the hearth in the great hall, ready to receive the envoy that had been sent to him under the white flag. And Munn played his part well. He greeted his father, with all respect and affection, and presented to him Lieutenant Fowell, as one to whom he was much bound in gratitude. Then he began soberly:—
"And, sir, I would further bespeak your kindness for this young lad—"
But there Merrylips spoiled everything. For as she gazed at her father, who was so big and strong and splendid in his officer's dress, she remembered that sad day, months ago, when she had parted from him. She felt that she could not bear it, even for a moment and by way of jest, to have him look at her as if she were a stranger.
So when Sir Thomas turned to look at the little boy of whom Munn had spoken, Merrylips ran to him and caught his hand.
"Daddy! Mine own daddy! Do you not know me, then?" she cried.
Well, for an instant he truly did not, and he was the more perplexed when Crashaw said kindly:—
"Sir, 'tis your s-son Tibbott."
"'Tis the first time ever I heard that I had such a son," Sir Thomas answered.
The way in which he said it was so like him that Merrylips laughed, only to hear him. And then, as he looked on her laughing face, a great light seemed to break upon him.
"Merrylips!" he shouted. "Good faith! And is it thou, brave little wench?"
Merrylips never heard what Lieutenant Crashaw said in the next few minutes to Munn, now that he knew the secret and how he and all Monksfield had been befooled. For she was swept up bodily into her big father's arms, and when next she was stood upon her feet, it was in the west parlor that she remembered.
It was the very room where long ago her mother had told her the dreadful news that she was to be sent to her unknown godmother at Larkland. The parlor had been green that day with the shadows of the vines, but now it was cheery with candles and with firelight. A group of gentlewomen in silken gowns were seated there, and a stout handmaid was in attendance on them.
Sir Thomas stood Merrylips upon a great chair in the middle of the room.
"And who is there here that knoweth this lad?" he cried.
Before Merrylips could be quite sure of the presence in which she found herself, a slender gentlewoman rose from her seat by the fire. Her brown hair was thickly streaked with gray, and she had the kindest smile in the world.
"Merrylips! My little Merrylips!" she said in a breathless voice, and stretched out her arms.
Thus Merrylips and Lady Sybil found each other again. They were laughing and crying and asking questions long before the others in the parlor had taken breath. But soon Merrylips found them all thronging round her.
Here was her mother, grave and careful as ever, who was glad to see her, but not over-pleased at her dress. And indeed, for a little girl who had been sent away to receive such nurture as became a maid, Merrylips had come home in strange attire.
Here was sister Puss, who was a tall young gentlewoman now, and fairer even than Betteris or Allison Fowell. Here was Pug, who was rosier and rounder than ever. If you will believe it, she was hemming a napkin, just as Merrylips remembered her, for all the world as if she had come out ofA Garland of Virtuous Dames!
And here, too, was Merrylips' own maid, Mawkin, who was waiting upon the gentlewomen. She hugged Merrylips harder than any, and blubbered aloud with joy that she had come safe home at last.
Hardly had the women begun exclaiming over Merrylips, when in came more company. Her brother, Longkin, came in his lieutenant's dress. He was grown such a fine young gallant that Merrylips found it hard to believe that he had ever done such an undignified thing as to romp with his brothers on the terrace. After Longkin, Flip came running. He was all legs and arms, and he squeezed Merrylips as if she were a bear or another boy.
"And oh! Flip," she heard her own voice saying, "I ha' been to the wars, for all I am but a wench! I ha' been in a siege, and fired upon a many times, and chased by the enemy, and a prisoner among the Roundheads. And thou, what battles hast thou been fighting, Flip?"
"I'm a gentleman volunteer!" cried Flip, very red and angry. "If father would let me ride into battle, I'd speedily show thee what mettle I am made of."
Now that she had begun squabbling with Flip, Merrylips felt that she had indeed come home. So it seemed quite a matter of course, when presently she found herself seated by the fire, with her hand in Lady Sybil's hand, and telling all her strange adventures.
While she was speaking, Sir Thomas Venner remembered the courtesy that he owed Lord Caversham's envoy. He went from the room, and Longkin, too, when he heard that the envoy was his old college mate, Dick Fowell, hurried out to speak with him. Merrylips wondered if this were the hour when her father would hear Rupert's story. While she wondered, she rambled in her talk and grew silent. Then her godmother vowed that she must be weary and sleepy and were best in bed.
"All the rest thou shalt tell us on the morrow, heart's dearest," she said.
So Lady Sybil led Merrylips to her own chamber and helped her to her own bed. In the pale candlelight, when they two were alone, they said many things that they would not say downstairs. And Merrylips told how often she had thought about her godmother, and had tried to do what would please her, both as a girl and as a little boy.
They were talking thus together, while Merrylips sat up in bed, with her head on Lady Sybil's shoulder, just as she had sat in twilight talks at Larkland, when there came a tap at the door.
"Oh, your Ladyship!" cried Mawkin's voice. "Sir Thomas doth pray you, of your courtesy, come unto his study."
Then Merrylips guessed that Lady Sybil was to hear the great news about Rupert, and she cried:—
"Oh, godmother, prithee go quickly! 'Tis such rare news!"
But as she saw Lady Sybil rise from beside her bed, she felt a sharp little stab of fear, and perhaps of jealousy. She caught at her godmother's gown with one hand.
"But pray you, kiss me first," she said. "For it may be, presently, you will not have so much love to give unto me."
"Thou silly child!" whispered Lady Sybil, and kissed her, and went her way.
Merrylips knew that she was silly. But she was very tired, now that the day was ended, and she could not help having sad thoughts. As she lay alone in the quiet chamber, she pictured how Lady Sybil, at that very moment, was opening her arms to a child that was blood-kin to her. Her heart grew heavy. How did she know that Rupert would not take her place in Lady Sybil's love?
In that foolish fear Merrylips had fallen asleep. When she woke, it was dark, but she found herself clasped tight in two arms, and she heard Lady Sybil speak:—
"And thou couldst think I had not love enough for two—oh! thou little silly one! Merrylips! Little true heart, that didst believe in my poor lad, even when I myself distrusted him! Oh, child, how can I ever love thee enough—thou, through whom, under God, my dead sister's son hath this hour been given unto me!"