Long Will.

by Florence Converse.

I

The Lark and the Cuckoo

There were a many singers on the hill-top. They twittered in the gorse; they whistled from the old hawthorn tree, amid the white may; they sprang to heaven, shaking off melody in their flight; and one, russet-clad, lay at his length against the green slope, murmuring English in his throat.

"'T was in a May morning," he said, "'T was in a May morning,"--and he loitered over the words and drew out the "morwening" very long and sweet. Then, because there was a singing mote of a lark in the misty blue above him, his own song dropped back into his breast, and he waited.

He was young and lank, and his hair was yellow-red. He followed the lark up into the bright heaven with wide, unblinking eyes. The bird fell to earth; somewhere unseen a cuckoo chanted. Three sheep on the brow of the hill moved forward, slowly feeding.

"'T was on a May morning, on the Ma'vern Hills," whispered the singer, "on the Ma'vern Hills;" and he fell in a dream.

The Great Hill of the Malverns stood over against the dreamer, a bare, up-climbing majesty, a vasty cone, making its goal in long green strides. Below, a wrinkle hinted a pa.s.s, and on the high flat saddle between the Great Hill and the Small, the gra.s.s was trodden, albeit not worn away. A bell called softly from a valley hidden eastward; and up from the southwest, slantwise across a corner of the hill, a child came running into the dream, a gay lad in scarlet hosen and a green short coat, and shoes of fine leather. His eyes made a wonderment in his face, but his lips curled a smile at the wonder. A dark elf-lock danced on his forehead.

The dreamer moved no whit, but waited, level-eyed.

"What be these tricks?" cried the child in a voice betwixt a laugh and a gasp. "I saw thee from yonder hill, and thou wert distant a day's journey. Then the bell rang, and lo! I am here before the clapper 's swung to rest."

He in the russet smiled, but answered nothing.

The little lad looked down and studied him. "I 've missed my way," he said.

"What is thy way?"

"'T was the way o' the hunt, but marry, now 't is the way of a good dinner,--and that 's a short road to the Priory. I am of Prince Lionel's train."

"Ay," returned the other, as who should say, "No need to tell me that;" and he added presently, "The hunt is below in the King's Forest; how art thou strayed? Thou 'rt midway the top o' the Great Hill."

The child laughed, but, though his eyes were merry, yet were they shy, and the red mounted to his brow. He came a pace nearer.

"I made a little rondel to my lady; and it must be as my thought flew up, so clomb my feet likewise, and I was not aware."

He plaited his fingers in his belt and flushed a deeper red, half proud and half dismayed of his confession. "I trust thee for a secret man, shepherd," he added.

The eyes of the dreamer laughed, but his lips were circ.u.mspect. He sat up and nursed his knee with his two long arms.

"Ay, of a truth, a secret man, young master; but no shepherd," he answered.

The little lad eyed him, and questioned with a child's simplicity, "What art thou, then?"

The youth looked onward to the Great Hill. "I know not, yet," he said.

So for a little s.p.a.ce he sat, forgetful of his questioner, until the child came close and sat beside him, laying one hand upon his arm and looking up to his face thoughtfully.

"Thou long brown man, it may be thou 'rt a poet," he said at last.

"It may well be," the dreamer acquiesced, and never turned his eyes from the green hill.

"In London, at the court of the king, there be poets," the child continued; "but thou art of quite other fashion. Who is thy lady-love?"

"Saint Truth," the brown boy answered gravely.

"Saint--Truth!" repeated the child; "and is she dead, then?"

"Nay, I trow not; G.o.d forbid!"

"I marvel that thy lady chide thee not for thy mean apparel. In London is not a friar plays his wanton lute beneath a chamber window but he goeth better clad than thou."

"Hark you, young master, I follow not the friars!" the dreamer cried with a stern lip. "And for my lady, she careth for naught but that my coat be honestly come by. So far as I may discover, she hath not her abode in the king's palace."

"Forsooth, a strange lady!" said the child; and then, leaning his head against that other's shoulder, "Poet, tell me a tale."

"I pipe not for lordings, little master," the youth returned, anger yet burning in his eyes.

"Nay, then, I 'm no lord," laughed the child; "my father is a vintner in London. He hath got me in Prince Lionel's household by favour of the king; for that the king loveth his merchants of the city; and well he may, my father saith. There be others, lordings, among the children of the household; but I am none. I am a plain man like to thee, poet."

The dreamer shook his head with a mournful smile. "Not so close to the soil, master merchant, not so close to the soil. I smell o' the furrow."

"Nay, I 'm no merchant, neither," the lad protested. "Hark in thine ear, thou long brown stranger,--and I 'll call thee brother! My lady saith I 'll be a poet. She 's a most wise and lovely lady. Come,--tell me a tale!"

"I am no troubadour," sighed the brown youth; "I know one tale only, and that is over long for a summer day."

But the child was angered; his eyes flashed, and he clenched one hand and flung it backward, menacing:--

"I 'll believe thou mockest me," he cried. "Lying tongue! No poet thou, but a lazy hind."

Then the gray, smouldering eyes of the dreamer shot fire, and a long brown arm jerked the lad to his knees.

"I tell no lies. My lady is Saint Truth," the dreamer said. "Poet or no poet, as thou wilt, I 'll not gainsay thee. But a truthteller ever."

A little lamb that strayed near by looked up with startled face, and scampered down the hill, crying "Ba-a-a!" The huntsman's note came winding up from the green depths. The child arose and dusted his knees.

"There be poets that yet lie amazingly,--and boast thereof," he observed shrewdly; "but now I rede thy riddle of Saint Truth. 'T is a sweet jest. I love thee for it, and by that I know thee for a poet.

Tell me thy tale, and we 'll be friends again. Of a surety thou art no hind; Prince Lionel's self is not more haughty of mien than thou. Sing then, poet,--smile!"

The dreamer cleared his brow but half unwillingly: "Who could not choose but smile on such a teasing lad?" he asked; and then, "My tale is but begun, and what the end shall be, or whether there be an end,--who shall say? Hearken!

In a summer season when soft was the sun, I set me in a shepherd's coat as I a shepherd were; In the habit of a hermit, yet unholy of works, Wandered I wide in this world wonders to hear.

But in a May morning on Malvern Hills There befel me a wonder, wonderful methought it; I was weary of wandering and went me to rest Under a broad bank by a burn side, And as I lay and leaned and looked on the waters, I slumbered in a sleep"--

"No, no! not thus, not thus!" cried out the child on a sudden; "never thus! An thou come to court they 'll not hearken thy long slow measures. Thou shalt make thy verses the French way, with rhyme. Needs must thou learn this manner of the French ere thou come to court."

"I have no mind to come to court," the dreamer answered. "I have no mind to learn the manner of the French. There be a many souls in England that know not such light songs. It is for them I sing,--for the poor folk in cots. Think you that a poet may sing only for kings?"

"Nay, I trow he singeth neither for kings, nor for any manner wight, but for his own soul's health," quoth the child right solemnly; "and yet, 't were well for him if he have the good will of a king. My rhymes will not match an my belly be empty. But tell on thy tale. I like thine old fashion of singing."