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.
