The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      The purpose of his going thus far with them made itself evident.  It was to see them past the turning to Beaulieu.  No doubt he wished to tell the story in his own way, and that they should not present themselves there as orphans expelled from their father’s house.  It would sound much better that he had sent them to ask counsel of their uncle at Winchester, the fit person to take charge of them.  And as he represented that to go to Beaulieu would lengthen their day’s journey so much that they might hardly reach Winchester that night, while all Stephen’s wishes were to go forward, Ambrose could only send his greetings.  There was another debate over Spring, who had followed his master as usual.  John uttered an exclamation of vexation at perceiving it, and bade Stephen drive the dog back.  “Or give me the leash to drag him.  He will never follow me.”

      “He goes with us,” said Stephen.

      “He!  Thou’lt never have the folly!  The old hound is half blind and past use.  No man will take thee in with him after thee.”

      “Then they shall not take me in,” said Stephen.  “I’ll not leave him to be hanged by thee.”

      “Who spoke of hanging him!”

      “Thy wife will soon, if she hath not already.”

      “Thou wilt be for hanging him thyself ere thou have made a day’s journey with him on the king’s highway, which is not like these forest paths, I would have thee to know.  Why, he limps already.”

      “Then I’ll carry him,” said Stephen, doggedly.

      “What hast thou to say to that device, Ambrose?” asked John, appealing to the elder and wiser.

      But Ambrose only answered “I’ll help,” and as John had no particular desire to retain the superannuated hound, and preferred on the whole to be spared sentencing him, no more was said on the subject as they went along, until all John’s stock of good counsel had been lavished on his brothers’ impatient ears.  He bade them farewell, and turned back to the lodge, and they struck away along the woodland pathway which they had been told led to Winchester, though they had never been thither, nor seen any town save Southampton and Romsey at long intervals.  On they went, sometimes through beech and oak woods of noble, almost primeval, trees, but more often across tracts of holly underwood, illuminated here and there with the snowy garlands of the wild cherry, and beneath with wide spaces covered with young green bracken, whose soft irregular masses on the undulating ground had somewhat the effect of the waves of the sea.  These alternated with stretches of yellow gorse and brown heather, sheets of cotton-grass, and pools of white crowfoot, and all the vegetation of a mountain side, only that the mountain was not there.

      The brothers looked with eyes untaught to care for beauty, but with a certain love of the home scenes, tempered by youth’s impatience for something new.  The nightingales sang, the thrushes flew out before them, the wild duck and moorhen glanced on the pools.  Here and there they came on the furrows left by the snout of the wild swine, and in the open tracts rose the graceful heads of the deer, but of inhabitants or travellers they scarce saw any, save when they halted at the little hamlet of Minestead, where a small alehouse was kept by one Will Purkiss, who claimed descent from the charcoal-burner who had carried William Rufus’s corpse to burial at Winchester—the one fact in history known to all New Foresters, though perhaps Ambrose and John were the only persons beyond the walls of Beaulieu who did not suppose the affair to have taken place in the last generation.

      A draught of ale and a short rest were welcome as the heat of the day came on, making the old dog plod wearily on with his tongue out, so that Stephen began to consider whether he should indeed have to be his bearer—a serious matter, for the creature at full length measured nearly as much as he did.  They met hardly any one, and they and Spring were alike too well known and trained, for difficulties to arise as to leading a dog through the Forest.  Should they ever come to the term of the Forest?  It was not easy to tell when they were really beyond it, for the ground was much of the same kind.  Only the smooth, treeless hills, where they had always been told Winchester lay, seemed more defined; and they saw no more deer, but here and there were inclosures where wheat and barley were growing, and black timbered farm-houses began to show themselves at intervals.  Herd boys, as rough and unkempt as their charges, could be seen looking after little tawny cows, black-faced sheep, or spotted pigs, with curs which barked fiercely at poor weary Spring, even as their masters were more disposed to throw stones than to answer questions.

      By and by, on the further side of a green valley, could be seen buildings with an encircling wall of flint and mortar faced with ruddy brick, the dark red-tiled roofs rising among walnut-trees, and an orchard in full bloom spreading into a long green field.

      “Winchester must be nigh.  The sun is getting low,” said Stephen.

      “We will ask.  The good folk will at least give us an answer,” said Ambrose wearily.

      As they reached the gate, a team of plough horses was passing in led by a peasant lad, while a lay brother, with his gown tucked up, rode sideways on one, whistling.  An Augustinian monk, ruddy, burly, and sunburnt, stood in the farm-yard, to receive an account of the day’s work, and doffing his cap, Ambrose asked whether Winchester were near.

      “Three mile or thereaway, my good lad,” said the monk; “thou’lt see the towers an ye mount the hill.  Whence art thou?” he added, looking at the two young strangers.  “Scholars?  The College elects not yet a while.”

      “We be from the Forest, so please your reverence, and are bound for Hyde Abbey, where our uncle, Master Richard Birkenholt, dwells.”

      “And oh, sir,” added Stephen, “may we crave a drop of water for our dog?”

      The monk smiled as he looked at Spring, who had flung himself down to take advantage of the halt, hanging out his tongue, and panting spasmodically.  “A noble beast,” he said, “of the Windsor breed, is’t not?”  Then laying his hand on the graceful head, “Poor old hound, thou art o’er travelled.  He is aged for such a journey, if you came from the Forest since morn.  Twelve years at the least, I should say, by his muzzle.”

      “Your reverence is right,” said Stephen, “he is twelve years old.  He is two years younger than I am, and my father gave him to me when he was a little whelp.”

      “So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee,” said the good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke.  “Come in, my lads, here’s a drink for him.  What said you was your uncle’s name?” and as Ambrose repeated it, “Birkenholt!  Living on a corrody at Hyde!  Ay! ay!  My lads, I have a call to Winchester to-morrow, you’d best tarry the night here at Silkstede Grange, and fare forward with me.”

      The tired boys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water before him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the first, tried to lap, lying down.  Silkstede was not a regular convent, only a grange or farm-house, presided over by one of the monks, with three or four lay brethren under him, and a little colony of hinds, in the surrounding cottages, to cultivate the farm, and tend a few cattle and numerous sheep, the special care of the Augustinians.

      Father Shoveller, as the good-natured monk who had received the travellers was called, took them into the spacious but homely chamber which served as refectory, kitchen, and hall.  He called to the lay brother who was busy over the open hearth to fry a few more rashers of bacon; and after they had washed away the dust of their journey at the trough where Spring had slaked his thirst, they sat down with him to a hearty supper, which smacked more of the grange than of the monastery, spread on a large solid oak table, and washed СКАЧАТЬ