Part 6

Very soon after the completion of this story Patience began another one, a Christmas story, a weird, mystical tale of medieval England, having for its central theme a “Stranger” who is visible only to Lady Marye of the Castle. The stranger is not described, nor does he speak a word, but he is presumedly the Christ. There are descriptions of the preparations for the Christmas feast at this lordly stronghold of baronial days, and the coarse wit of the castle servants and the drunken profanity of their master, “John the Peaceful,” form a vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady Marye and the simple love of the herder’s family at the foot of the hill. There are striking characters and many beautiful lines in this story, but it is not as closely woven nor as coherent in plot as the story of the fool and the lady.

THE STRANGER

’Twas at white season o’ the year, the shrouding o’ spring and summerstide.

Steep, rugged, was the path, and running higher on ahead to turret-topped and gated castle o’ the lordly state o’ John the Peaceful, where Lady Marye whiled away the dragging day at fingering the regal.[2]

Footnote 2:

Regal. A small portable pipe organ used in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It was played with one hand while the bellows was worked with the other.

From sheltered niche she looked adown the hillside stretching ’neath. The valley was bestir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his flock, and gentle folk did speak o’ coming Christ-time. Timon, the herder’s hut, already hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir boughs set to spice the air.

* * * * *

“Timon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, for winter promiseth a searching night.”

Thus spake Leta, who stands, her babe astride her hip.

“And come ye then within. I have a brew that of a truth shall tickle at thy funny bone. Bring then a bundle o’ brush weed that we may ply the fire. I vow me thy boots are snow carts, verily!

“Hast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye them the kids? They breathe it here that the boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of the sparing hours today our Leta did sniff her up the hill; nay, since the dawning she hath spread her smock and smirked.

“Leta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst wish the winter-painted bough to bloom, and like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch thee a bowl and put the bench to table-side. Thy sire wouldst sup. Go now and watch aside the crib. Perchance thee’lt catch a glimpse o’ heaven spilled from Tina’s dream.

“Timon, man, tell me now the doings o’ the day. I do ettle[3] for a spicey tale.”

Footnote 3:

Ettle. In this case, to have a strong desire.

(_Timon_) “Well, be it so then, minx. I did fell the kids at sun-wake, and thee’lt find the skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner there. And I did catch a peep aslaunch[4] at mad Lady Marye, who did play the pipes most mournfully. They tell me she doth look a straining to this cot of ours. And what think ye, Leta? She doth only smile when she doth see our wee one’s curls to glint. And ever she doth speak of him who none hath seen. ’Tis strange, think ye not?”

Footnote 4:

Aslaunch. Aslant or obliquely. As we would now say, “Out of the corner of the eye.”

(_Leta_) “Nay, Timon, I full oft do pause and peer on high to see her at the summertide. Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her garden ’long the lake, and even ’tempts to come adown the path to us below. And ever at her heels the pea-fowl struts.

“She ne’er doth see my beckoning, but do I come with Tina at my breast she doth smile and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise.

“They tell, but breathlessly, that she doth sadly say the Stranger bideth here.”

(_Timon_) “I’ll pit my patch ’gainst purse o’ gold, that ‘Mad Marye’ fitteth her as surely as ‘Peaceful John’ doth fit her sire. Thee knowest ’peace’ to him is of his cutting, and ’piece’ doth patch his ripping.

“They’ve bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye shouldst see the stir! I fain would see Sir John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with boar grease and soaked with ale, his mouth adrip with filth, and every peasant there who serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye setteth like a lily under frost!

“Leta, little one, thine eyes do blink like stars beshadowed in a cloudy veil. Come, bend thy knee and slip away to dream!”

(_Little Leta prays_) “Vast blue above, wherein the angels hide; and moon, his lamp o’ love; and cloud fleece white—art thou the wool to swaddle Him? And doth His mother bide upon a star-beam that leadeth her to thee? I bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire to watch full well his flock. And put a song in every coming day; my Tina’s coo, and mother’s song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night! I know He watcheth thee and me.”

(_Timon_) “He heareth thee, my Leta. Watch ye the star on high. See ye, it winketh knowingly. God rest ye, blest.”

(_At the Castle._)

(_Lady Marye_) “And I the Lady Marye, o’ the lord’s estate! Jana, fetch me a goblet that I drink.”

(_Jana_) “Aye, lady. A wine, perchance?”

(_Lady Marye_) “Nay, for yester thou didst fetch me wine, and I did cast it here upon the flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst thou fetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal drops, and I should cast it here, the greedy stone would sup it up, and where be then the stain? Think ye the stone then the wiser o’ the two?

“I but loosed my fancy from its tether to gambol at its will, and they do credit me amiss. I weave not with strand upon a wheel. ’Tis not my station. Nay, I dally through the day with shuttle-cock and regal—a fitting play for yonder babe.

“Jana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth see the Stranger? He knocketh at the sill o’ yonder cot.

“I saw him when the cotter locked the sheep to tap a straying ewe who lagged, and he did enter as the cotter stepped within—unbidden, Jana, that I swear—and now he knocketh there!”

(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, ’tis but a barish limb that reacheth o’er the door. The cotter heedeth not, ye see.”

(_Lady Marye_) “I do see him now to enter, and never did he turn! Jana, look ye now! Doth still befriend a doubt?”

(_Jana_) “Come, lady, look! Sirrah John hath sent ye this, a posey, wrought o’ gold and scented with sweet oils.”

(_Lady Marye_) “Ah, Jana, ’tis a hateful sight to me—a posey I may keep! Why, the losing o’ the blossom doth but make it dear!

“Stay! I know thee’lt say ’twas proffered with his love. But, Jana, thou hast much to learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort my tinder for its building and ply the glass to start its flame? The day is o’er full now of ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only when He toucheth thee and bids thee come and putteth to thy hand His own doth love abide with thee.

“Come to the turret, then. I do find me whetted for a look within.

“How cool the eve! ’Tis creepy to the marrow. Look ye down the hillside there below. See ye the cotter’s taper burning there? How white the night! ’Tis put upon the earth a mantling shroud, and sailing in the silver sky a fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the Babe.

“Jana, see’st thou the Stranger? He now doth count the sheep. Dare I trust him there? I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it close unto his breast.”

(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, ’tis the shepherd’s dog who skulketh now ahind the shelter wall.”

(_Lady Marye_) “Ah, give me, spite o’ this, the power to sing like Thine own bird who swayeth happily upon the forest bough and pours abroad his song where no man heareth him.

“Hear ye them below within the hall? They do lap at swine-broth. Their cups do clank. At morrow’s eve they feast and now do need to stretch their paunches. Full often have I seen my ladye mother’s white robe stained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I been gagged to swallow it. But, Jana, I do laugh, for the greatest jest is he who walloweth in slime and thinketh him a fish.”

(_Jana_) “See, Lady Marye! This, thy mother’s oaken chest, it still doth bear a scent o’ her. And this, thy gown o’ her own fashioning.”

(_Lady Marye_) “Yea, Jana, and this o’ her, a strand wound to a ball for mine own casting. And this! I tell thee, ’tis oft and oft she did press me to her own breast and chide me with her singing voice: ‘My Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours o’ seeking happiness. When ye would catch the rogue he flitteth on.’

“See, these spots o’ yellowed tears—the rusting of her heart away! Stay, Jana, I’ll teach thee a trick o’ tripping, for she full oft did say a heart could hide aneath a tripping.

“Thee shouldst curtsey so; and spread thy fan. ’Tis such a shield to hide ahind. Then shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its measure, so. See, I do laugh me now—nay, ’tis ne’er a tear, Jana, ’tis the mist o’ loving! Doth see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I swooning? ’Tis fancy. See, the cotter’s taper still doth flicker from the shutter. What’s then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He entereth the shelter place! Come, I fear me lest I see too much? Lend me thy hand. I’ve played the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem awry.

“Hear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, the feed-drunkened? My sire, Jana, my sire! I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at the setting o’ the feast I do wage him war at words! A porridge pot doth brew for babes; I promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain now, I weary me with reasoning.”

(_Morning at the Castle Gate._)

(_Tito_) “Aho, within! Thine eyes begummed and this the Christ-eve and mornin’ come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do fetch ye sucklings agagged with apples red. Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To whiff a hungerfull would make the sages wag.”

(_Petro_) “Amorrow, Tito. Thee’lt wear thee white as our own Lady long afore ye e’en canst dip thy finger in the drip.”

(_Tito_) “Pst! Petro, I did steal the brain and tung. Canst leave me have a peep now to the hall? Jesu! What a breeder o’ sore bellies. I’d pay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a briskish rub with mullien o’er the back.

“They do tell me down below that trouble bideth Timon. His Tina layeth dull and Leta doth little but mumble prayer.”

(_Petro_) “Tito, thee art a chanter of sad lays at this Christ-time. Go thou to the turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the sucklings to the kitchen, aside the fire dogs there. And Tito, thee’lt find a pudding pan ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it there!”

(_To Sir John_) “Aye, I do come, my lord. ’Tis but the sucklers come. I know not where in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and ye’ll surely hear the pipes.”

(_Sir John_) “Bah! Damn the drivelling pipes! I do hear them late and early. ’Tis a fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! But no, I’d tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get thee, thou grunting swine! And take this as thy Christ-gift. I’d deal thee thrice the measure wert not to save these lordly legs. Here, fetch me a courser. I’d ride me to the hounds. And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste me not a blow. Dost like the smart? Or shall I ply it more? Thee’lt dance to tune, or damn ye, run from cuts!

“Ho, Timon, how goes it with the brat? The world’s o’erfull o’ cattle now!”

(_Timon_) “Yea, sire, so did my Leta say when she did see thee come. ’Tis with our Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, and God forgive thee.”

(_In Lady Marye’s Chamber._)

(_Lady Marye_) “Jana, morn hath come. ’Tis Christ-tide and He not here! My limbs do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro’ the day? The feast, the feast, yea, the feast! The day doth break thro’ fog in truth!

“My mother’s bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch it me, and one small holly bough. Lend me a hand. I fain would see the cot.

“See thou! The sun doth love it, too, and chooseth him to rise him o’er its roof! Hath thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the shelter place? And, Jana, did all seem well to thee? Nay, the Stranger, Jana! See, he still doth hold the lamb! ‘My Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours.’ In truth, ’tis put.

“Jana, I did dream me like a babe the night hours through; a dream so sweet, o’ vast blue above wherein the angels hid, and I did see the Christ-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, maid of sorrows, led to him adown a silver beam.

“Then thee dost deem my fitful fancy did but play me false? Stay thou, my tears, and, heart o’ me, who knoweth He doth watch o’er thee and me?

“Her robe! Ah, Fancy, ’tis thy right that thou art ever doubted. For thou art a conjurer, a trickster, verily. What chamming[5] joy didst thee then offer her?

Footnote 5:

Obsolete form of “champing.” Used here figuratively.

“Thou cloud of billowed lace, a shield befitting her pure heart! And I the flowering of the bud! Hear me, all this o’ her! I love thee well, and should the day but offer a bitter draft to quaff, ’tis but to whet me for a sweeter drink. And mother, heart o’ me, hearken and do believe. I love my sire, Sir John.

“Come, Jana. Hear ye the carolers? Their song doth filter thro’ my heart and lighten it. The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like pipes to ’company them. Cast ye a bit o’ holly and a mistletoe.

“The feasters come to whet them with a pudding whiff. See, my sire doth ride him up the hill and o’er his saddle front a fallow deer. Hear thee the cheering that he comes! Her loved, my Jana, and her heart doth beat through me!

“Christ-love to thee, my sire! Dost hear me here? And I do pledge it thee upon His precious drops caught by the holly tree. He seeth not, but she doth know!”

(_Christmas Eve._)

(_Jana_) “My lady, who doth come a knocking at the door? ’Tis Petro, come to bid ye to the feast.”

(_Petro_) “The candles are long since lit and Sirrah John hath wearyed him with jest. The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth wait thee to drink a health to feasters in the hall.”

(_Lady Marye_) “Yea, Petro, say unto my sire, the Lady Marye comes. And say ye more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say thee more, she doth bear the blessings of her Lady Mother who wisheth God’s love to them all. And fetch ye candle trees to scores, and fetch the dulcimer and one who knocketh on its strings, and let him patter forth a lively tune, for Lady Marye comes.

“Jana, look ye once again to the valley there. The tapers burn not for Christ-night. Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how he doth hold the lamb! And o’er his face a smile—or do my eyes beblur, and doth he weep?”

(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, all is dark. ’Tis but the whitish snow and shadow pitted by the tapers’ light.”

(_Lady Marye_) “Fetch me then my fan. I go to meet my Lord. Doth hear? Already they do play. I point me thus, and trip my heart’s full measure.”

(_In the Hall._)

(_Sir John_) “So, lily-lip, thee’lt scratch! Thy silky paw hath claws, eh? Egad! A phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth split and where my tung? Get ye! Why sit like grinning asses! And where thy tungs? My God! What scent o’ graves she beareth with that shroud!”

(_Lady Marye_) “God cheer, my lord, and doth my tripping suit thee well? These flags are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them well for thee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my fan. To shield my tears, ye think? Nay, were they to fall like Mayday’s rain and thee wert buried ’neath a stone, as well then could’st thou see! And yet I love thee well. See thee, my sire, I pour this to thee!

“Look ye, good people at the feast; the boar is ready to slip its bones.

(_Aside_) “God, send Thy mantling love here to Thine own! For should I judge, when Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as Thine own?

“To thee, my sire, to thee!”

* * * * *

And gusted wind did flick the tapers out and they did hear her murmuring “The Stranger! He doth bid me come!”

And to this day they tell that Lady Marye cast the wine into a suckler’s mouth and never did she drink!

“By all the saints! Do thee go and search!”

Thus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the long night thro’ the torches gleamed, but all in vain. And they do say that Sirrah John did shake him in a chilling and flee him to a friar, while still the search did last.

(_In Timon’s Cot._)

(_Leta_) “Timon, waken ye! Our Leta still doth court her dreams and I do weary me. The long night thro’ the feasters cried them thro’ the hills and none but Him could shield our Tina from their din.

“Take heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look within the crib. Hold thou my hand, man. Nay, not yet! Come, waken Leta that she then do feed thy lambs.”

(_Timon_) “Come, Leta, wake! The sun hath tipped the crown o’ yonder hill and spread a blush adown her snow-white side.”

(_Leta_) “Yea, sire. And Tina, how be she?”

(_Timon_) “A fairy, sleeping, Tad.”

(_Leta_) “Ah, sire, but I did dream the dark o’ yesterday away. And, mother, she doth strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glistened. See, the frost-cart dumped beside our door, and look ye! he, the Frost man, put a cap upon the chimney pot. I’ll fetch a brush and fan away his cloak. My Christ-gift, it would be my Tina’s smile. She did know me not at late o’ night; think ye it were the dark? Stay, sire! I’ll cast the straw and put the sheep aright!” (_Exit._)

* * * * *

(_Timon_) “My Leta, come! Thy Christ-gift bideth o’er our Tina’s lips and she doth coo!”

(_Leta_) “Timon, call aloud, that she heareth thee. Leta! Leta! Little one! Dost hear thy sire to call? Why, what’s amiss with thee? Thy staring eyes, my child! Speak thou!”

(_Leta_) “Sh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother’s come! And, ah, my heart! All white she be an’ crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and one white arm doth circle o’er a lamb! See, sire, the snow did drift it thro’ and weave a fairy robe to cover her.”

(_Timon_) “Who leaveth by the door; a stranger?”

(_Leta_) “Nay, He bideth here.”

(_Timon_) “The Lady Marye, on my soul! Leta, drop ye here thy tears, for madness bideth loosed upon the earth! And shouldst——”

(_Leta_) “Nay, sire! Who cometh there?”

* * * * *

And searchers there did find the Lady Marye, dead, amid the lambs and snow—a flowering o’ the rose upon a bush o’ thorn.

And hark ye! At the time when winter’s blast doth sound, thee’lt hear the wailing o’ the Lady Marye’s pipes, and know the Stranger bideth o’er the earth.

The two dramatic stories presented here were but a paving of the way for larger work. “The Stranger” had been hardly completed when Patience announced, “Thee’lt sorry at the task I set thee next.” And then she began the construction of a drama that in its delivery consumed the time of the sittings for several weeks, and it contained when finished some 20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, each with a descriptive prologue, and three of the acts have two scenes each, making nine scenes in all. It, like the two shorter sketches, is medieval in scene, and the pictures which it presents of the customs and costumes and manners of the thirteenth or fourteenth century (the period is not definitely indicated) are amazingly vivid. It has a somewhat intricate plot, which is carried forward rapidly and its strands skillfully interwoven until the nature of the fabric is revealed in the sixth act. This play is much more skillfully constructed in respect of stage technique than the two playlets that preceded it, and it could, no doubt, be produced upon the stage with perhaps a little alteration to adapt it to modern conditions. Some idea of its beauty, its sprightliness and its humor may be obtained from the prologue to the first act, which follows:

Wet earth, fresh trod.

Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels born in with o’erloading. A flank o’ daisy flowers and stones rolled o’er in blanketing o’ moss. Brown o’ young oak-leaves shows soft amid the green. Adown a steep unto the vale, hedged in by flowering fruit and threaded through with streaming silver o’ the brook, where rushes shiver like to swishing o’ a lady’s silk.

Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who mothereth the brook, and ivy hath climbed it o’er the trunk and leafless branch o’ yonder birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a folly dance.

Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h!

From out the thick where hides the logged and mud-smeared shack.

Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h! And hark ye, to the tanner’s song!

Up, up, up! and down, down, down! A hammer to smite And a hand to pound! A maid to court, And a swain to woo, A heiffer felled And I build a shoe! A souse anew in yonder vat, And I’ll buy my lady A feathered hat!

The play then begins with the tanner and his apprentice, and the action soon leads to the royal castle, where the exquisite love story is developed, without a love scene. There is no tragedy in the story. It is all sentiment, and humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider, for example, this description of Easter morn, from the prologue to the sixth act:

The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A deadened apple twig doth blush at casting Winter’s furry coat, to find her naked blooms abath in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do carol, “He hath risen!” E’en the crow with envy trieth melody and soundeth as a brass; and listening, loveth much his song. Young grasses send sweet-scented damp through the hours of risen day. The bell, atoll, doth bid the village hence. E’en path atraced through velvet fields hath flowered with fringing bloom and jeweled drops, atempting tarriers. The sweet o’ sleep doth grace each venturing face. The kine stand knee depth within the silly-tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft breath ascent and lazy-eyed, they wait them for the stripping-maid.

The play is permeated with rich humor, and to illustrate this I give a bit of the dialogue between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the castle cook. To appreciate it one must know a little of the story. The hand of the Princess Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a doddering old rake, whom she detests, but whom for reasons of state she may be compelled to accept. However, she vows she will not speak while he is at court, nor does she utter a word, in the play, until the end of the last act. She has fallen in love with a troubadour, who has come from no one knows where, but who by his grace and his wit and his intelligence has made himself a favorite with all the castle folk. Anne has a roast on the spit, and is scouring a pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters the kitchen.

_Dougal._—“Anne, goody girl, leave me but suck a bone. My sides have withered and fallen in, in truth.”

_Anne._—“Get ye, Dougal! Thy footprints do show them in grease like to the Queen’s seal upon my floor!”

_Dougal._—“The princess hath bidden me to stay within her call, but she doth drouse, adrunk on love-lilt o’ the troubadour, and Prince of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone long since to beauty sleep. He tied unto his poster a posey wreath, and brushed in scented oils his beauteous locks, and sung a lay to Ermaline, and kissed a scullery wench afore he slept.”

_Anne._—“The dog! I’d love a punch to shatter him! And Ermaline hath vowed to lock her lips and pass as mute until his going.”

_Dougal._—“Yea, but eye may speak, for hers do flash like lightning, and though small, her foot doth fall most weighty to command.

“Yester, the Prince did seek her in the throne room. He’d tied his kerchief to a sack and filled it full o’ blue-bells, and minced him ’long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing like to a frozen pump.