The land grew flatter than before. There were few trees upon the hills, and scarcely any springs at which to drink, but much tender gra.s.s, with countless sheep nibbling everywhere. The shower was soon blown away; the sun came out; and a pleasant wind sprang up out of the south. Here and there beside some cottage wall the lilacs bloomed, and the later orchard-trees were apple-pink and cherry-white with May.

They came to a puddle in the road where there was a dance of b.u.t.terflies. Cicely clapped her hands with glee. A goldfinch dipped across the path like a little yellow streak of laughter in the sun. "Oh, Nick, what is it?" she cried.

"A bird," said he.

"A truly bird?" and she clasped her hands. "Will it ever come again?"

"Again? Oh, yes, or, la! another one--there's plenty in the weeds."

And so they fared all afternoon, until at dusk they came to Chipping Norton across the fields, a short cut to where the thin blue supper-smoke curled up. The mists were rising from the meadows; earth and sky were blending on the hills; a little silver sickle moon hung in the fading violet, low in the western sky. Under an old oak in a green place a fiddler and a piper were playing, and youths and maidens were dancing in the brown light. Some little chaps were playing blindman's-buff near by, and the older folk were gathered by the tree.

Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, "We bid ye all good-e'en, good folk."

His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely's jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. n.o.body spoke, but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as mild kine stare at pa.s.sing sheep in a quiet lane.

"We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep," said Nick. "The beds must be right clean--we have good appet.i.tes. If ye can do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire--the 'Queen's Own Measure,' 'La Donzella,' the new 'Allemand' of my Lord Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the 'Galliard of Savoy.' Which doth it please you, mistresses?" and he bowed to the huddling young women, who scarcely knew what to make of it.

"La! Joan," whispered one, "he calleth thee 'mistress'! Speak up, wench." But Joan stoutly held her peace.

"Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight from my Lord Chancellor's dancing-master; and while she dances I will sing."

"Why, hark 'e, Rob," spoke out one motherly dame, "they two do look clean-like. Children, too--who'd gi' them stones when they beg for bread? I'll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let's see the Lord Chancellor's tantrums."

"'Tis not a tantrums, goody," said Nick, politely, "but a coranto."

"La! young master, what's the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks calls whittles 'knives,' and thinks 't wunnot cut theys fingers!"

Nick took his place at the side of the ring. "Now, Cicely!" said he.

"Thou'lt call 'Sa--sa!' and give me the time of the coup d'archet?" she whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring.

"Ay, then," said he, "'tis off, 'tis off!" and struck up a lively tune, snapping his fingers for the time.

Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.

It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and back across the gra.s.s, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and la.s.ses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! "La me!" gaped one, "'tis fairy folk--she doth na even touch the ground!" "The pretty dear!"

the mothers said. "Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?"

"Tut," sighed the buxom Doll, "I have na wingses on my feet!"

Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick's side asking, "Was it all right, Nick?"

"Right?" said he, and stroked her hair; "'twas better than thou didst ever dance it for M'sieu."

"For why?" said she, and flushed, with a quick light in her eyes; "for why--because this time I danced for thee."

The country folk, enchanted, called for more and more.

Nick sang another song, and he and Cicely danced the galliard together, while the piper piped and the fiddler fiddled away like mad; and the moon went down, and the cottage doors grew ruddy with the light inside.

Then Dame Pettiford gave them milk and oat-cakes in a bowl, a bit of honey in the comb, and a cup of strawberries; and Cicely fell fast asleep with the last of the strawberries in her hand.

So they came up out of the south through Shipston-on-Stour, in the main-traveled way, and with every mile Nick felt home growing nearer.

Streams sprang up in the meadow-lands, with sedgy islands, and lines of silvery willows bordering their banks. Flocks and herds cropped beneath tofts of ash and elm and beech. Snug homes peeped out of hazel copses by the road. The pa.s.sing carts had a familiar look, and at Alderminster Nick saw a man he thought he recognized.

Before he knew that he was there they topped Edge Hill.

There lay Stratford! as he had left it lying; not one stick or stack or stone but he could put his finger on and say, "This place I know!" Green pastures, gra.s.sy levels, streams, groves, mills, the old grange and the manor-house, the road that forked in three, and the hills of Arden beyond it all. There was the tower of the guildhall chapel above the cl.u.s.tering, dun-thatched roofs among the green and blossom-white; to left the spire of Holy Trinity sprang up beside the shining Avon. Bull Lane he made out dimly, and a red-tiled roof among the trees. "There, Cicely," he said, "_there--there!_" and laughed a queer little shaky laugh next door to crying for joy.

Wat Raven was sweeping old Clopton bridge. "Hullo, there, Wat! I be come home again!" Nick cried. Wat stared at him, but knew him not at all.

Around the corner, and down High street. Fynes Morrison burst in at the guildschool door. "Nick Attwood's home!" he shouted; and his eyes were like two plates.

Then the last lane--and the smoke from his father's house!

The garden gate stood open, and there was some one working in the yard.

"It is my father, Cicely," he laughed. "Father!" he cried, and hurried in the lane.

Simon Attwood straightened up and looked across the fence. His arms were held a little out, and his hands hung down with bits of moist earth clinging to them. His brows were darker than a year before, and his hair was grown more gray; his back, too, stooped. "Art thou a-calling me?"

he asked.

Nick laughed. "Why, father, do ye na know me?" he cried out. "'Tis I--'tis Nick--come home!"

Two steps the stern old tanner took--two steps to the latchet-gate. Not one word did he speak; but he set his hand to the latchet-gate and closed it in Nick's face.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

TURNED ADRIFT

Down the path and under the gate the rains had washed a shallow rut in the earth. Two pebbles, loosened by the closing of the gate, rolled down the rut and out upon the little spreading fan of sand that whitened in the gra.s.s.

There was the house with the black beams checkering its yellow walls.

There was the old bench by the door, and the lettuce in the garden-bed.

There were the beehives, and the bees humming among the orchard boughs.

"Why, father, what!" cried Nick, "dost na know me yet? See, 'tis I, Nick, thy son."

A strange look came into the tanner's face. "I do na know thee, boy," he answered heavily; "thou canst na enter here."

"But, father, indeed 'tis I!"

Simon Attwood looked across the town; yet he did not see the town: across the town into the sky, yet he did not see the sky, nor the drifting banks of cloud, nor the sunlight shining on the clouds. "I say I do na know thee," he replied; "be off to the place whence ye ha' come."

Nick's hand was almost on the latch. He stopped. He looked up into his father's face. "Why, father, I've come home!" he gasped.

The gate shook in the tanner's grip. "Have I na telled thee twice I do na know thee, boy? No house o' mine shall e'er be home for thee. Thou hast no part nor parcel here. Get thee out o' my sight."