Kabanata Kabanata 21 · Chapter 21

. Chapter 21

There are now and then times in the life of every one when new and

strange things occur with such rapidity that one has hardly time to

catch one's breath between the happenings. It is as though the old were

crumbling away--breaking in pieces--to give place to the new that is

soon to take its place.

So it was with Myles Falworth about this time. The very next day after

this interview in the bed-chamber, word came to him that Sir James Lee

wished to speak with him in the office. He found the lean, grizzled old

knight alone, sitting at the heavy oaken table with a tankard of spiced

ale at his elbow, and a dish of wafers and some fragments of cheese on a

pewter platter before him. He pointed to his clerk's seat--a joint stool

somewhat like a camp-chair, but made of heavy oaken braces and with a

seat of hog-skin--and bade Myles be seated.

It was the first time that Myles had ever heard of such courtesy being

extended to one of the company of squires, and, much wondering, he

obeyed the invitation, or rather command, and took the seat.

The old knight sat regarding him for a while in silence, his one eye,

as bright and as steady as that of a hawk, looking keenly from under the

penthouse of its bushy brows, the while he slowly twirled and twisted

his bristling wiry mustaches, as was his wont when in meditation. At

last he broke the silence. “How old art thou?” said he, abruptly.

“I be turned seventeen last April,” Myles answered, as he had the

evening before to Lord Mackworth.

“Humph!” said Sir James; “thou be'st big of bone and frame for thine

age. I would that thy heart were more that of a man likewise, and less

that of a giddy, hare-brained boy, thinking continually of naught but

mischief.”

Again he fell silent, and Myles sat quite still, wondering if it was

on account of any special one of his latest escapades that he had been

summoned to the office--the breaking of the window in the Long Hall by

the stone he had flung at the rook, or the climbing of the South Tower

for the jackdaw's nest.

“Thou hast a friend,” said Sir James, suddenly breaking into his

speculations, “of such a kind that few in this world possess. Almost

ever since thou hast been here he hath been watching over thee. Canst

thou guess of whom I speak?”

“Haply it is Lord George Beaumont,” said Myles; “he hath always been

passing kind to me.

“Nay,” said Sir James, “it is not of him that I speak, though methinks

he liketh thee well enow. Canst thou keep a secret, boy?” he asked,

suddenly.

“Yea,” answered Myles.

“And wilt thou do so in this case if I tell thee who it is that is thy

best friend here?”

“Yea.”

“Then it is my Lord who is that friend--the Earl himself; but see that

thou breathe not a word of it.”

Myles sat staring at the old knight in utter and profound amazement, and

presently Sir James continued: “Yea, almost ever since thou hast come

here my Lord hath kept oversight upon all thy doings, upon all thy mad

pranks and thy quarrels and thy fights, thy goings out and comings in.

What thinkest thou of that, Myles Falworth?”

Again the old knight stopped and regarded the lad, who sat silent,

finding no words to answer. He seemed to find a grim pleasure in the

youngster's bewilderment and wonder. Then a sudden thought came to

Myles.

“Sir,” said he, “did my Lord know that I went to the privy garden as I

did?”

“Nay,” said Sir James; “of that he knew naught at first until thy father

bade thy mother write and tell him.”

“My father!” ejaculated Myles.

“Aye,” said Sir James, twisting his mustaches more vigorously than ever.

“So soon as thy father heard of that prank, he wrote straightway to

my Lord that he should put a stop to what might in time have bred

mischief.”

“Sir,” said Myles, in an almost breathless voice, “I know not how to

believe all these things, or whether I be awake or a-dreaming.”

“Thou be'st surely enough awake,” answered the old man; “but there are

other matters yet to be told. My Lord thinketh, as others of us do--Lord

George and myself--that it is now time for thee to put away thy boyish

follies, and learn those things appertaining to manhood. Thou hast been

here a year now, and hast had freedom to do as thou might list; but,

boy,”--and the old warrior spoke seriously, almost solemnly--“upon thee

doth rest matters of such great import that did I tell them to thee thou

couldst not grasp them. My Lord deems that thou hast, mayhap, promise

beyond the common of men; ne'theless it remaineth yet to be seen an he

be right; it is yet to test whether that promise may be fulfilled. Next

Monday I and Sir Everard Willoughby take thee in hand to begin training

thee in the knowledge and the use of the jousting lance, of arms, and of

horsemanship. Thou art to go to Ralph Smith, and have him fit a suit of

plain armor to thee which he hath been charged to make for thee against

this time. So get thee gone, think well over all these matters, and

prepare thyself by next Monday. But stay, sirrah,” he added, as Myles,

dazed and bewildered, turned to obey; “breathe to no living soul what

I ha' told thee--that my Lord is thy friend--neither speak of anything

concerning him. Such is his own heavy command laid upon thee.”

Then Myles turned again without a word to leave the room. But as he

reached the door Sir James stopped him a second time.

“Stay!” he called. “I had nigh missed telling thee somewhat else. My

Lord hath made thee a present this morning that thou wottest not of. It

is”--then he stopped for a few moments, perhaps to enjoy the full flavor

of what he had to say--“it is a great Flemish horse of true breed and

right mettle; a horse such as a knight of the noblest strain might be

proud to call his own. Myles Falworth, thou wert born upon a lucky day!”

“Sir,” cried Myles, and then stopped short. Then, “Sir,” he cried again,

“didst thou say it--the horse--was to be mine?”

“Aye, it is to be thine.”

“My very own?”

“Thy very own.”

How Myles Falworth left that place he never knew. He was like one in

some strange, some wonderful dream. He walked upon air, and his heart

was so full of joy and wonder and amazement that it thrilled almost to

agony. Of course his first thought was of Gascoyne. How he ever found

him he never could tell, but find him he did.

“Come, Francis!” he cried, “I have that to tell thee so marvellous that

had it come upon me from paradise it could not be more strange.”

Then he dragged him away to their Eyry--it had been many a long day

since they had been there--and to all his friend's speeches, to all his

wondering questions, he answered never a word until they had climbed the

stairs, and so come to their old haunt. Then he spoke.

“Sit thee down, Francis,” said he, “till I tell thee that which passeth

wonder.” As Gascoyne obeyed, he himself stood looking about him. “This

is the last time I shall ever come hither,” said he. And thereupon he

poured out his heart to his listening friend in the murmuring solitude

of the airy height. He did not speak of the Earl, but of the wonderful

new life that had thus suddenly opened before him, with its golden

future of limitless hopes, of dazzling possibilities, of heroic

ambitions. He told everything, walking up and down the while--for he

could not remain quiet--his cheeks glowing and his eyes sparkling.

Gascoyne sat quite still, staring straight before him. He knew that his

friend was ruffling eagle pinions for a flight in which he could never

hope to follow, and somehow his heart ached, for he knew that this must

be the beginning of the end of the dear, delightful friendship of the

year past.