The study door was ajar, and we peeped in. There the old, familiar figure was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. He was reading aloud, in a monotonous, squeaky half-pitch. Latin hexameters they were, for even his voice could not hide all the music in them, and as I listened it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the account of the fall of Troy in the second Aeneid.
I put my fingers on my lips and crept on, followed by Mistress Waynflete. In the little back room I whispered, "My old school and schoolmaster. We will not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothing that he can do can help us. Let him be."
She nodded assent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half a loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "Eat," said I, "and think it's rabbit-stew." I made her take all the milk, but shared the bread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we passed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over.
From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimes dreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newer still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. Moreover, things had gone with such a rush that I had had no time to shake and sift them into order. At the foot of that wall all I knew, and that but dimly, was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth living for.
"Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's no need to hurry."
She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for herself, she only said:
"And this was your school?"
"For many years, seven or more."
She was silent for a time and then went on.
"You have led a quiet life, Master Wheatman?"