"To Oxford, then--how much? Be quick!" Nick thrust his hand into his breast where he carried the burgesses' chain.

"Eightpence the day, for three days out--two shilling 'tis, and find yourself; it is an honest fare."

The tapster's knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the shadow of the door.

"Wilt carry us for this?" Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the fellow's hands.

He gasped and almost let it fall. "Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!" said he, "art thou a prince in hiding, boy? 'T would buy me, horses, wains, and all. Why, man alive, 'tis but a nip o' this!"

"Good, then," said Nick, "'tis done--we'll go. Come, Cicely, we're going home!"

Staring, the carrier followed him, weighing the chain in his hairy hand.

"Who art thou, boy?" he cried again. "This matter hath a queer look."

"'Twas honestly come by, sir," cried Nick, no longer able to conceal a quiver in his voice, "and my name is Nicholas Attwood; I come from Stratford town."

"Stratford-on-Avon? Why, art kin to Tanner Simon Attwood there, Attwood of Old Town?"

"He is my father, sir. Oh, leave us go with thee--take the whole chain!"

Slap went the carrier's cap in the dirt! "Leave thee go wi' me?

Gadzooks!" he cried, "my name be John Saddler--why, what? my daddy liveth in Chapel lane, behind Will Underhill's. I stole thy father's apples fifteen years. What! go wi' me? Get on the wain, thou little fool--get on all the wains I own, and a plague upon thine eightpence, lad! Why, here; Hal telled me thou wert dead, or lost, or some such fairy tale! Up on the sheepskin, both o' ye!"

The Dutchman came from the tap-room door and spoke to the tapster's knave; but the words which he spoke to that tapster's knave were anything but Dutch.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

WAYFARING HOME

At Kensington watering-place, five miles from London town, Nick held the pail for the horses of the Oxford man. "h.e.l.lo, my buck!" quoth he, and stared at Nick; "where under the sun didst pop from all at once?" and, looking up, spied Cicely upon the carrier's wain. "What, John!" he shouted, "thou saidst there were no more!"

"No more there weren't, sir," said John, "but there be now"; and out with the whole story.

"Well, I ha' farmed for fifty year," cried honest Roger Clout, "yet never have I seen the mate to yonder little maid, nor heard the like o'

such a tale! Wife, wife!" he cried, in a voice as round and full of hearty cheer as one who calls his own cattle home across his own fat fields. "Come hither, Moll--here's company for thee. For sure, John, they'll ride wi' Moll and I; 'tis G.o.dsend--angels on a baggage-cart!

Moll ha' lost her only one, and the little maid will warm the c.o.c.kles o'

her heart, say nought about mine own. La, now, she is na feared o' me; G.o.d bless thee, child! Look at her, Moll--as sweet as honey and the cream o' the brindle cow."

So they rode with kindly Roger Clout and his good wife by Hanwell, Hillingdon Hill, and Uxbridge, where they rested at the inn near old St.

Margaret's, Cicely with Mistress Clout, and Nick with her good man. And in the morning there was nothing to pay, for Roger Clout had footed all the score.

Then on again, through Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, into and over the Chiltern Hills in Buckinghamshire. In parts the land was pa.s.sing fair, with sheep in flocks upon the hills, and cattle knee-deep in the gra.s.s; but otherwhere the way was wild, with bogs and moss in all the deeps, and dense beech forests on the heights; and more than once the guards made ready their match-locks warily. But stout John Saddler's train was no soft cakes for thieves, and they came up through Bucks scot-free.

At times it drizzled fitfully, and the road was rough and bad; but the third day was a fair, sweet day, and most exceeding bright and fresh.

The shepherds whistled on the hills, and the milkmaids sang in the winding lanes among the white-thorn hedges, the smell of which was everywhere. The singing, the merry voices calling, the comfortable lowing of the kine, the bleating of the sheep, the clinking of the bridle-chains, and the heavy ruttle of the carts filled the air with life and cheer. The wind was blowing both warm and cool; and, oh, the blithe breeze of the English springtime! Nick went up the green hills, and down the white dells like a leaf in the wind, now ahead and now behind the winding train, or off into the woods and over the fields for a posy-bunch for Cicely, calling and laughing back at her, and filling her lap with flowers and ferns until the cart was all one great, sweet-smelling bower.

As for Cicely, Nick was there, so she was very well content. She had never gone a-visiting in all her life before; and she would see Nick's mother, and the flowers in the yard, the well, and that wondrous stream, the Avon, of which Nick talked so much. "Stratford is a fair, fair town, though very full of fools," her father often said. But she had nothing to do with the fools, and daddy would come for her again; so her laughter bubbled like a little spring throughout the livelong day.

As the sun went down in the yellow west they came into Oxford from the south on the easterly side. The Cherwell burned with the orange light reflected from the sky, and the towers of the famous town of olden schools and scholars stood up black-purple against the western glow, with rims of gold on every roof and spire.

Up the High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church, a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England's best, clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.

There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains; and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet the company. "Well, good Dame Clout," said she, "art home again? What tales we'll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll; we've missed thy b.u.t.ter parlously." And then quite free she kissed both Nick and Cicely.

"What, there, Dame Davenant!" cried Roger Clout, "art pa.s.sing them around?" and laughed, "Do na forget me."

"Nay, nay," she answered, "but I'm out. Here, Nan," she called to the s.m.u.tty-faced scullery-maid, "a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll's busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town."

So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams,"

There's no leaving it to the boys," said he, "for they'd rub 'em down wi' a water-pail, and give 'em straw to drink."

When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to Master Roger Clout. "Ye've done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my heart; but I've a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I'd rather stand on mine own legs. Ye will na mind?" And when they all were seated at the board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear: "Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs, to glad your hearts with hearing."

Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side of the room upon a bench by the server's board, and sang together, while he played upon Mistress Davenant's gittern:

"Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!

How high he singeth clear: 'Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing That cometh in all the year!

Oh, a morn in spring is the sweetest thing That cometh in all the year!'

"Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime; How full of heart a body feels!

Sing hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly, When springtime cometh with the summer at her heels!

"G.o.d save us all, my jolly gentlemen, We'll merry be to-day; For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May!

For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May!"

Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon the board, roaring, "Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!"

until the rafters rang.

[Ill.u.s.tration:

1. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth clear. O a morn in Spring is the sweeter thing That cometh in all the year; O a morn in Spring is the sweet-est thing That com-eth in all the year!

REFRAIN. Piano.

Ring! Ting! It is the mer-ry Spring-time. How full of heart a bod-y feels! Sing hey trol-ly lol-ly! O to live is to be jol-ly, When Spring-time cometh with the Summer at her heels!

2. G.o.d save us all, my jol-ly gen-tle-men! We'll mer-ry be to-day; For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May; For the cuc-koo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May!

_Repeat Refrain after 2d Stanza._]

"What, lad!" cried good Dame Davenant, "come, stay with me all year and sing, thou and this little maid o' thine. 'Twill cost thee neither cash nor care. Why, thou'ldst fill the house with such a throng as it hath never seen!" And in the morning she would not take a penny for their lodging nor their keep. "Nay, nay," said she; "they ha' brought good custom to the house, and left me a brave little tale to tell for many a good long year. We inns-folk be not common penny-grabbers; marry, no!"

and, furthermore, she made interest with a carrier to give them a lift to Woodstock on their way.

When they came to Woodstock the carrier set them down by the gates of a park built round by a high stone wall over which they could not see, and with his wain went in at the gate, leaving them to journey on together through a little rain-shower.