Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 2 — page 82: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

214 simplicity and earnestness in great matters which were at this time too high for him. As for the maid, I took more note of her because Mistress Joyce’s signaling glances compelled me to. Ruth Prynne was in contrast with her mistress; not so tall and not so slight, lacking also that poise and indefinable dignity which marks the lady of fine birth and gentle training. * My lady was fair as a lily and like that in slender grace, with small, fine featyres and hair which made me think sunlight lingered in its gold coils even when she stood in shadow. Ruth, by contrast, was robust, red-cheeked, and her hair was of a dark brown deepening almost to blackness. In the end, when Tinker Bunyan could delay no longer (in honor to his craft) his verdict on the leaky vessels, he did the next best thing so that we might again have have excuse to visit the kitchen door of Eveleigh Manor. ‘“ Mistress,” said he, ‘ this prentice of mine having forgot the acid wherewith to do the work proper, my brand and solder avail not at present. I must even—”’ ‘* But, master,” I protested, ‘‘ ye did not bid me fetch the brand and solder!”’ “ What, dolt! Didst forget these also? I have a mind to cancel thy prentice articles! ‘“‘ Lady,” Bunyan added in apology to Mistress Joyce, whose eyes were moistly bright with mirth, “I must crave indul- gence for this lad. He is young and with- out practical experience in good tinkering. I must even then take away the pans, with thy permission, and-I do promise on my honor as a tinker to return them duly mended on the morrow, granted that these duties which at present first claim our—”’ A little quick gasp came from Mistress Joyce’s lips. Jack cut his speech short. We, all three—that is, Ruth, too—looked up in alarm. My lady’s face was pale, and she was staring in the direction of the wall of the kitchen-garden. Swiftly my glance followed the line of her vision. There was an elm-tree outside the wall, and its branches overhung on the garden side. For a moment so brief that I might well have been mistaken, I saw a face peering through the thick June foliage. It vanished THE ARGOSY. almost instantly; but the face was the face of Jonas Slythey. That it was no trick of my imagination was evident in the expres- sion on Jack Bunyan’s countenance and my lady’s agitation, and the fact that the face I had seen was more or less discolored and had a half-healed black eye. I did not stop to wonder why the sight of any man’s face should so startle Mistress Joyce, save that she must have been sur- prised and alarmed at the manner of the apparition. Springing to my feet, I ran to the wall, climbed to its parapet, and peered up into the tree. There was no one there. Slythey—if it was indeed he—had made his escape. The road to Naseby ran behind the wall, and was flanked on the far side by thick walllane bordering a small trout stream. No doubt the spying intruder had dropped from the tree, taken cover, and made his retreat be- hind the willow belt. Puzzled by the incident, I returned to the kitchen door to report. Mistress Joyce had retired within, and Jack Bunyan was plying a rather set-lipped Ruth with ques- tions concerning Jonas Slythey’s apparent ill-will against the lady of the manor and his reasons for spying upon the house. But Ruth’s lips were closed in a firm, thin line. She merely hinted that “ there were things she could speak of to no man,”’ whatever she may have meant by that. I could see that if Trooper Bunyan was to continue in her good favor he had better desist; which he did presently, consoled no doubt by the thought that he had an excuse to return on the morrow. Laden with the pans, we returned to camp, Hobgoblin pausing on the way through Naseby Village to borrow solder- ing material and a brand from a fellow tinsmith. But on the road we discussed Master Slythey and his latest appearance. ‘“ He is surely an emissary of antichrist,” declared John, naturally concluding, as was his way, that where the Hand of Providence was stirring a pot Satan was also at work to spoil the broth, if possible. ‘“‘ But what think ye the secret is, Master Wisehead?”’ ‘IT know not,” I confessed, “ save this— that milady holds the man in fear as well as despising.”’ NOOK C©