The Herd Boy and His Hermit. Yonge Charlotte Mary

had heard no names save Hob and Hal, she had seen no arms, she had heard nothing southland. The lad was a mere herd-boy, ordered out to milk ewes and tend the sheep. She answered briefly, and with a certain sullenness, and young Selby at last turned on her. ‘Look thee here, fair lady, there’s a saying abroad that the heir of the red-handed House of Clifford is lurking here, on the look-out to favour Queen Margaret and her son. Couldst thou put us on the scent, King Edward would favour thee and make thee a great dame, and have thee to his Court—nay, maybe give thee what is left of the barony of Clifford.’

      ‘I know nothing of young lords,’ sulkily growled Anne, who had been hitherto busy with her pets, striking her hand on the table.

      ‘And I tell thee, Bertram Selby,’ exclaimed the Prioress, ‘that if thou art ware of a poor fatherless lad lurking in hiding in these parts, it is not the part of an honest man to seek him out for his destruction, and still less to try to make the maid he rescued betray him. Well done, little Anne, thou knowest how to hold thy tongue.’

      ‘Reverend Mother,’ expostulated Bertram, ‘if you knew what some would give to be on the scent of the wolf-cub!’

      ‘I know not, nor do I wish to know, for what price a Selby would sell his honour and his bowels of mercy,’ said Mother Agnes. ‘Come away, Nan; thou hast done well.’

      Bertram muttered something about having thought her a better Yorkist, women not understanding, and mischief that might be brewing; but the Prioress, taking Anne by the hand, went her way, leaving Bertram standing confused.

      ‘Oh, mother,’ sighed Anne, ‘do you think he will go after him? He will think I was treacherous!’

      ‘I doubt me whether he will dare,’ said the Prioress. ‘Moreover, it is too late in the day for a search, and another snow-shower seems coming up again. I cannot turn the youth, my kinsman, from my door, and he is safer here than on his quest, but he shall see no more of thee or me to-night. I may hold that Edward of March has the right, but that does not mean hunting down an orphan child.’

      ‘Mother, mother, you are good indeed!’ cried Anne, almost weeping for joy.

      Bertram, though hurt and offended, was obliged by advance of evening to remain all night in the hospitium, with only the chaplain to bear him company, and it was reported that though he rode past Blackpool, no trace of shepherd or hovel was found.

      CHAPTER V. – MOTHER AND SON

           My own, my own, thy fellow-guest

           I may not be, but rest thee, rest—

           The lowly shepherd’s life is best.

—WORDSWORTH.

      The Lady Threlkeld stood in the lower storey of her castle, a sort of rough-built hall or crypt, with a stone stair leading upward to the real castle hall above, while this served as a place where she met her husband’s retainers and the poor around, and administered to their wants with her own hands, assisted by the maidens of her household.

      Among the various hungry and diseased there limped in a sturdy beggar with a wallet on his back, and a broad shady hat, as though on pilgrimage. He was evidently a stranger among the rest, and had his leg and foot bound up, leaning heavily on a stout staff.

      ‘Italy pilgrim, what ails thee?’ demanded the lady, as he approached her.

      ‘Alack, noble dame! we poor pilgrims must ever be moving on, however much it irks foot and limb, over these northern stones,’ he answered, and his accent and tone were such that a thrill seemed to pass over the lady’s whole person, but she controlled it, and only said, ‘Tarry till these have received their alms, then will I see to thee and thy maimed foot. Give him a stool, Alice, while he waits.’

      The various patients who claimed the lady’s assistance were attended to, those who needed food were relieved, and in due time the hall was cleared, excepting of the lady, an old female servant, and Hob, who had sat all the time with his foot on a stool, and his back against the wall, more than half asleep after the toils and long journey of the night.

      Then the Lady Threlkeld came to him, and making him a sign not to rise, said aloud, ‘Good Gaffer, let me see what ails thy leg.’ Then kneeling down and busying herself with the bandages, she looked up piteously in his face, with the partly breathed inquiry, ‘My son?’

      ‘Well, my lady, and grown into a stalwart lad,’ was Hob’s answer, with an eye on the door, and in a voice as low as his gruff tones would permit.

      ‘And wherefore? What is it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Be they on the track of my poor boy?’

      ‘They may be,’ answered Hob, ‘wherefore I deemed it well to shift our quarters. As hap would have it, the lad fell upon a little wench lost in the mosses, and there was nothing for it but to bring her home for the night. I would have had her away as soon as day dawned, and no questions asked, but the witches, or the foul fiend himself, must needs bring up a snow-storm, and there was nothing for it but to let her bide in the cot all day, giving tongue as none but womenfolk can do; and behold she is the child of the Lord St. John of Bletso.’

      ‘Nay, what should bring her north?’

      ‘She wonnes at Greystone with the wild Prioress Selby, who lost her out hawking. Her father is a black Yorkist. I saw him up to his stirrups in blood at St. Albans!’

      ‘But sure my boy did not make himself known to her?’ exclaimed the lady.

      ‘I trow not. He has been well warned, and is a lad of his word; but the two bairns, left to themselves, could scarce help finding out that each was of gentle blood and breeding, and how much more my goodwife cannot tell. I took the maid back so soon as it was safe yester morn, and sent back my young lord, much against his will, half-way to Greystone. And well was it I did so, for he was scarce over the ridge when a plump of spears came in sight on the search for him, and led by the young squire of Selby.’

      ‘Ah! and if the damsel does but talk, even if she knows nought, the foe will draw their conclusions!’ said the lady, clasping her hands. ‘Oh, would that I had sent him abroad with his little brothers!’

      ‘Nay, then might he have fallen into the hands of Bletso himself, and they say Burgundy is all for the Yorkists now,’ said Hob. ‘This is what I have done, gracious lady. I bade my good woman carry off all she could from the homestead and burn the rest; and for him we wot on, I sent him and his flock off westward, appointing each of them the same trysting-place—on the slope beneath Derwent Hill, my lady—whence I thought, if it were your will and the good knight Sir Lancelot’s, we might go nigher to the sea and the firth, where the Selby clan have no call, being at deadly feud with the Ridleys. So if the maiden’s tongue goes fast, and the Prioress follows up the quest with young Selby, they will find nought for their pains.’

      ‘Thou art a good guardian, Hob! Ah! where would my boy be save for thee? And thou sayest he is even now at the very border of the forest ground! Sure, there can be no cause that I should not go and see him. My heart hungers for my children. Oh, let me go with thee!’

      ‘Sir Lancelot—’ began Hob.

      ‘He is away at the Warden’s summons. He will scarce be back for a week or more. I will, I must go with thee, good Hob.’

      ‘Not in your own person, good madam,’ stipulated Hob. ‘As thou knowest, there are those in Sir Lancelot’s following who might be too apt to report of secret visits, and that were as ill as the Priory folk.’

      It was then decided that the lady should put on the disguise of a countrywoman bringing eggs and meat to sell at the castle, and meet Hob near the postern, whence a path led to Penrith.

      Hob, having received a lump of oatcake and a draught of very small ale, limped out of the court, and, so soon as he could find a convenient spot behind the gorse bushes, divested himself of his bandages, and changed the side of his shepherd’s plaid to one much older and more weather-beaten; also his pilgrim’s hat for one in his pouch—a blue bonnet, more like the national Scottish head-gear, hiding the hat in the gorse.

      Then he lay down and waited, where