The White Horses

WHO RIDES FOR THE KING?

Up through the rich valley known now as Wensleydale, but in those days marked by the lustier name of Yoredale, news had crept that there was civil war in England, that sundry skirmishes had been fought already, and that His Majesty was needing all leal men to rally to his standard.

It was an early harvest that year, as it happened, and John Metcalf, of Nappa Hall, stood at his garden-gate, watching the sunset glow across his ripening wheat. There were many acres of it, gold between green splashes of grass-land; and he told himself that they would put the sickle into the good crop before a fortnight's end. There was something about Squire Metcalf--six feet four to his height, and broad in the beam--that seemed part of the wide, lush country round him. Weather and land, between them, had bred him; and the night's peace, the smell of sweet-briar in the evening dew, were pleasant foils to his strength.

He looked beyond the cornfields presently. Far down the road he saw a horseman--horse and rider small in the middle of the landscape--and wondered what their errand was. When he had done with surmises, his glance roved again, in the countryman's slow way, and rested on the pastures above the house. In the clear light he could see two figures standing there; one was his son Christopher, the other a trim-waisted maid. Squire Metcalf frowned suddenly. He was so proud of his name, of his simple squiredom, that he could not bear to see his eldest-born courting defeat of this kind. This little lady was niece to his neighbour, Sir Timothy Grant, a good neighbour and a friend, but one who was richer than himself in lands and rank, one who went often to the Court in London, and was in great favour with the King. Squire Metcalf had seen these two together in his own house, and guessed Christopher's secret without need of much sagacity; and he was sorely troubled on the lad's account.

Christopher himself, away at the stile yonder, was not troubled at all except by a pleasant heartache. He had youth, and Joan Grant beside him, and a heart on fire for her.

"You are pleased to love me?" she was saying, facing him with maddening grace. "What is your title to love me, sir?"

"Any man has the right to love," Kit protested sturdily. "He cannot help it sometimes."

"Oh, granted; but not to tell it openly."

"What else should a man do? I was never one for secrets."

Joan laughed pleasantly, as if a thrush were singing. "You speak truth. I would not trust you with a secret as far as from here to Nappa. If a child met you on the road, she would read it in your face."

"I was bred that way, by your leave. We Metcalfs do not fear the light."

"But, sir, you have every right to--to think me better than I am, but none at all to speak of--of love. I had an old Scots nurse to teach me wisdom, and she taught me--what, think you?"

"To thieve and raid down Yoredale," said Kit unexpectedly. "The Scots had only that one trade, so my father tells me, till the Stuarts came to reign over both countries."

"To thieve and raid? And I--I, too, have come to raid, you say--to steal your heart?"

"You are very welcome to it."

"But do I want it?" She put aside her badinage, drew away from him with a fine strength and defiance. "Listen, sir. My Scots nurse taught me that a woman has only one heart to give in her lifetime; that, for her peace, she must hide it in the branches of a tree so high that only a strong man can climb it."

"I'm good at tree-climbing," said Christopher, with blunt acceptance of the challenge.

"Then prove it."

"Now?" he asked, glancing at a tall fir behind them.

"Oh, sir, you are blunt and forthright, you men of Nappa! You do not understand the heart of a woman."

Kit Metcalf stood to his brawny six-foot height. "I'm needing you, and cannot wait," he said, fiery and masterful. "That's the way of a man's heart."

"Then, by your leave, I shall bid you good e'en. No man will ever master me until----"

"Until?" asked Kit, submissive now that he saw her retreating up the pasture.

She dropped him another curtsey before going up the steep face of the hills. "That is the woman's secret, sir. It lives at the top of a high tree, that 'until.' Go climbing, Master Christopher!"

Kit went back to Nappa, in frank revolt against destiny and the blue face of heaven. There was nothing in the world worth capturing except this maid who eluded him at every turn, like a butterfly swift of wing. He was prepared to be sorry for himself until he came face to face with his father at the garden gate.

"I saw two young fools at the stile," said Squire Metcalf. "I've watched you for half an hour. Best wed in your own station, Kit--no more, no less. No Metcalf ever went dandying after great ladies yet. We've our own proper pride."

Christopher, in spite of his six feet, looked a small man as he stood beside his father; but his spirit was equal to its stubborn strength. "I love her. There's no other for me," he said sharply.

The Squire glanced shrewdly at him. "Ah, well," he said at last, "if it goes as deep as that, lad, you'll just have to go on crying out for the moon. Sir Timothy has been away in London all the summer--trouble with the Parliament, and the King needing him, they say. He'd have taken Miss Joan with him if he'd guessed that a lad from Nappa thought he could ever wed into the family."

"We've lands and gear enough," protested Kit.

"We have, but not as they count such matters. They've got one foot in Yoredale, and t'other in London; and we seem very simple to them, Kit."

Shrewd common sense is abhorrent to all lovers, and Kit fell into a stormy silence. He knew it true, that he felt rough, uncouth, in presence of his mistress; but he knew also that at the heart of him there was a love that was not uncouth at all.

The Squire left Kit to fight out his own trouble, and fell to watching the horseman who was more than a speck now on the landscape. The rider showed as a little man striding a little mare; both were weary, by the look of them, and both were heading straight for Nappa Hall. They had a mile to cover.

"Father, I need to get away from Nappa," said Kit, breaking the silence.

"Ay," said the Squire, with a tolerant laugh, "love takes all men that way in the first flush of it. I was young myself once. You want to ride out, lad, and kill a few score men, just to show little Miss Joan what a likely man o' your hands you are. Later on, you'll be glad to be shepherding the ewes, to pay for her new gowns and what not. Love's not all mist and moonshine, Kit; the sturdier part comes later on."

Up the lane sounded the lolopping pit-a-pat of a horse that was tired out and near to drop; and the rider looked in no better case as he drew rein at the gate.

"You're the Squire of Nappa, sir?" he said, with a weary smile. "No weary to ask the question. I was told to find a man as tall as an oak-tree and as sturdy."

"Yet it would have been like seeking a needle in a bundle of hay, if you hadn't chanced to find me at the gate," the other answered. "There are six score Metcalfs in this corner of Yoredale, and nobody takes notice of my height."

"The jest is pretty enough, sir, but you'll not persuade me that there's a regiment of giants in the dale."

"They're not all of my height--granted. Some are more, and a few less. This is my eldest-born," he said, touching Christopher on the shoulder. "We call him Baby Kit, because he's the smallest of us all."

The horseman saw a lad six foot high, who certainly looked dwarfed as he stood beside his father. "Gad, the King has need of you! Undoubtedly he needs all Metcalfs, if this is your baby-boy."