Chapter IX: At the End of the Day

The children had been so absorbed and interested in the last play, which was a long one, that when the pageant was wheeled away, they were surprised to find the market-place all glowing in the light of sunset. Little pink clouds like feathers were floating in the sky, across which flights of birds were winging their way to nests in the trees round the city.

“Giles will soon be home!” said Mistress Harpham. “If there’s time for one more play this evening I shall be mistaken. It will soon be dark.”

“Do they stop when it gets dark?” asked Margery.

“But there are lots more to come!” objected Colin, looking at the “pageant book” which Master Gyseburn held open on his knee. Though he could not read, he saw by the long list which followed the _Massacre of the Innocents_ that scarcely half of the plays had as yet been performed.

Mistress Harpham had turned away to superintend arrangements for the supper she was about to offer her guests, but Master Gyseburn answered the children’s questions.

“The plays will go on all day to-morrow, and the next day too, I expect,” he told them. “It very seldom happens that any town gets through all its pageants on one day. Certainly not here in York, where we generally act forty of them.”

“But suppose it gets dark in the middle of a play?” asked Margery. “What happens then?”

“Then the torch-bearers are called out,” said Master Gyseburn. “I expect they’ll be needed before the next one is over,” he added. “The daylight will scarcely last.”

“And they’ll go on to-morrow, and we shan’t be here!” sighed Margery, so dolefully that Master Gyseburn laughed.

“You’re not tired of them? And yet you’ve had a long day of it!”

“Tired? Oh! I should love to see every one of them!” Margery declared.

“And so should I,” echoed her brother.

“A great many sad and dreadful scenes will come to-morrow,” said Master Gyseburn. “I really think you’ve seen all that would please you. The others are for grown-up people. And some are too horrible for _them_,” he added. “At least I think so.”

“Now children, come to supper!” called Mistress Harpham, who was busy lighting candles on the table, for the room with its dark oak-panelling, and heavy beams overhead, was growing very gloomy.

“We shall have to think about saying good-bye directly!” declared Farmer Short as he took his seat. “’Tis a long ride home, and we have to get the horses out of the stable.”

“Plenty of time for a meal!” said Mistress Harpham, bustling about and filling the children’s plates with good things.

“Will Giles come before we have to go?” asked Margery. “I do hope he will!”

Almost as she spoke, the door opened, and Giles came in.

He was welcomed rapturously by all the guests, and though the poor boy looked very tired, he was made to answer a hundred questions about the success of the Parchment-makers’ pageant in other parts of the town.

It had been well received everywhere apparently; and though Giles was very modest, his mother learnt with pride that her son’s acting had been praised almost as much as she desired.

“We missed you so much after you went,” whispered Margery to her cousin, a little shyly, for she was still very much impressed at the thought of his talents.

“But Master Gyseburn explained everything to us,” put in Colin. “And all the plays were _splendid_!”

Before long there was a general bustle and movement round the table. Many of the guests, like the children, had a long way to go to reach their homes, and they were anxious to set out before the day’s pageants were quite over.

“There’ll be a fine crowd in the streets by the time they’re all done,” said Master Harpham. “But if you go now, while some of the folk are still looking at the plays, you’ll reach the inn without much trouble.”

“Aye, and Robert will go with you and show you the quickest by-ways to reach it; won’t you, Robert?” suggested his wife, as she prepared to follow Mistress Short and the children to the best bedroom, where they had left their cloaks.

Colin and Margery were soon ready, and with their little hoods tied round their necks they returned to the parlour, and ran eagerly to the window, anxious up to the last moment to see all that was going on.

They found Giles kneeling on one of the wide window-seats, looking out into the street, and Margery climbed up beside him. She had taken a great fancy to her clever, interesting cousin, and she thought how pretty he looked with his fair head resting against the woodwork of the window.

“What are they doing now?” she asked before her own curly head appeared above the level of the window-sill.

“_The Child Jesus in the Temple_,” said Giles. “It’s the Spur-makers’ and Bit-makers’ pageant, and Andrew Martin is the Child Jesus. He’s a friend of mine,” he added.

“Oh! the torch-bearers are there!” exclaimed Colin. “It _has_ got dark quickly!”

“Doesn’t it look nice in this light?” said Margery; and Giles nodded, too intent upon the play to reply.

At the foot of the pageant, all holding flaming torches aloft, four boys were stationed, and the ruddy glow flickered over a beautiful group on the stage. The learned doctors in their long robes leant upon one another’s shoulders or whispered together, their eyes fixed upon a youthful figure in their midst, Who in a grave yet charming voice was reading something from a roll of parchment.

“It’s Jesus when He was a Boy, isn’t it?” whispered Margery; and again Giles nodded.

The boy wore a long sheepskin coat, and his fair hair was made brighter by gilding. His legs were bare, and on his feet were sandals.

“Andrew is wonderful!” said Giles gravely, “all his gestures are good and dignified. And so is his voice. This was the part they wanted me to play, but I would not attempt it. I knew Andrew would do it better.”

Margery glanced at her cousin admiringly. In her little mind she felt sure that Giles too was wonderful, and that all she had heard about the great things he was to do in the future had not been exaggerated. Some day, she was certain, Giles would be a famous man. Her thoughts were put to flight, however, by the entrance of her mother and a large company of other guests all ready for departure; so leave-takings were very hurried.

But she found time to hug Giles, who in spite of the laughter which went round, allowed himself to be kissed with very good grace.

“We will go out by the back way,” called Master Harpham, and the children soon found themselves in a quiet street, where the noise from the market-place sounded only as a faint murmur.

By winding lanes and passages Master Harpham led his guests towards the “Dragon” inn where they had left their horses and their wagons. Every now and then however, when they turned a corner, Margery and Colin caught a glimpse of a crowd, of flaming torches, and of the top of one of the pageants stationed sometimes half-way up a street, sometimes in a little open space, sometimes beneath a city gate.

“They are still going on!” Colin exclaimed.

“Yes; but only till the pageant of the _Doctors in the Temple_ has been played at the last halting-place,” said Master Harpham, looking back over his shoulder at the little boy. “It’s all over for to-night in our market-place, for instance; but the Doctors’ play won’t reach Girdlegate, the last place, for another half-hour, perhaps.... Now, here’s the inn! Hurry, all of you, and you will get out your horses before there’s too much of a crush.”

Dobbin and Jock, looking quite fresh after their long day’s rest, were soon led out from their corner of the stables, and in a moment Margery was perched on Dobbin’s back, in front of her father.

“Good-nights” were called, and, in company with various other travellers, the children rode along the cobble-paved streets towards Mikelgate, from which the pageants had long ago departed, leaving the road to the gate clear.

“’Tis luck to have moonlight!” exclaimed Farmer Short, as they emerged upon the country-road.

Margery looked back towards the city they had left, over which hung a dull red glow from the torchlights which still streamed and flickered there; and as she looked she drew a long sigh.

“She’s tired!” said her mother; but Margery indignantly denied the fact.

“I was thinking what a lovely day it’s been,” she declared; “and about all the plays they will be acting to-morrow and the next day. But Master Gyseburn says they will be sad plays. So perhaps I shouldn’t like to see them after all. I didn’t like it when the babies were killed!”

“Yes,” said a neighbour; “there are about twenty still to come. They’ll need two days more at least. The saddest plays will come last, when the Tapestry-weavers act the _Trial of Christ_; and the Tile-makers and Painters _The Crucifixion_.”

“’Twas a mercy it was fine,” exclaimed Mistress Short. “And likely to be fine to-morrow,” she added, with a glance at the clear sky, in which a full moon sailed.

Both the children grew silent as they jogged towards home along the white road, upon which fell their shadows and the shadows of the horses and of overhanging trees. It was very quiet and peaceful in the country, and they were both sleepy. All the curious and novel things they had seen during the day began to appear like a dream, in which the three kings passed and re-passed; and Herod, with his flashing sword, stamped and raved; and beautiful angels, with golden wings, hovered above a stable in Bethlehem; and the serpent talked to Adam and Eve. But more frequently than any of the other figures in the plays Margery saw the little white-robed Isaac begging for his life; and, when the cottage was reached at last, and she was in bed and really asleep, it was of him she dreamt.