Wildly beat his heart, and his blood began to race.

Then--there came a light step and, suddenly, beside him Stood his lady Alice, with a light upon her face.

'Quick,' she said, 'O, quick,' she said, 'they want you, Richard Whittington!'

'Quick,' she said; and, while she spoke, her lighted eyes betrayed All that she had hidden long, and all she still would hide from him.

So--he turned and followed her, his green-gowned maid.

There, in a broad dark oaken-panelled room Rich with black carvings and great gleaming cups Of silver, sirs, and ma.s.sy halpace built Half over _Red Rose Lane_, Fitzwarren sat; And, at his side, O, like an old romance That suddenly comes true and fills the world With April colours, two bronzed seamen stood, Tattered and scarred, and stained with sun and brine.

'_Flos Mercatorum_,' Hugh Fitzwarren cried, Holding both hands out to the pale-faced boy, 'The prentice wins the prize! Why, Whittington, Thy cat hath caught the biggest mouse of all!'

And, on to the table, tilting a heavy sack, One of the seamen poured a glittering stream Of rubies, emeralds, opals, amethysts, That turned the room to an Aladdin's cave, Or magic goblet brimmed with dusky wine Where cl.u.s.tering rainbow-coloured bubbles clung And sparkled, in the halls of Prester John.

'And that,' said Hugh Fitzwarren, 'is the price Paid for your cat in Barbary, by a King Whose house was rich in gems, but sorely plagued With rats and mice. Gather it up, my lad, And praise your master for his honesty; For, though my cargo prospered, yours outshines The best of it. Take it, my lad, and go; You're a rich man; and, if you use it well, Riches will make you richer, and the world Will prosper in your own prosperity.

The miser, like the cold and barren moon, Shines with a fruitless light. The spendthrift fool Flits like a Jack-o-Lent over quags and fens; But he that's wisely rich gathers his gold Into a fruitful and unwasting sun That spends its glory on a thousand fields And blesses all the world. Take it and go.'

Blankly, as in a dream, Whittington stared.

'How should I take it, sir? The ship was yours, And ...'

'Ay, the ship was mine; but in that ship Your stake was richer than we knew. 'Tis yours.'

'Then,' answered Whittington, 'if this wealth be mine, Who but an hour ago was all so poor, I know one way to make me richer still.'

He gathered up the glittering sack of gems, Turned to the halpace, where his green-gowned maid Stood in the glory of the coloured panes.

He thrust the splendid load into her arms, Muttering--'Take it, lady! Let me be poor!

But rich, at least, in that you not despise The waif you saved.'

--'Despise you, Whittington?'-- 'O, no, not in the sight of G.o.d! But I Grow tired of waiting for the Judgment Day!

I am but a man. I am a scullion now; But I would like, only for half an hour, To stand upright and say "I am a king!"

Take it!'

And, as they stood, a little apart, Their eyes were married in one swift level look, Silent, but all that souls could say was said.

And 'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's.

'Tell it, and be quick,' laughed the prentices below!

'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!

Peal for a wedding,' said the big Bell of Bow.

He shall take a kingdom up, and cast it on the sea again; He shall have his caravels to traffic for him now; He shall see his royal sails rolling up from Araby, And the crest--a honey-bee--golden at the prow.

Whittington! Whittington! The world is all a fairy tale!-- Even so we sang for him.--But O, the tale is true!

Whittington he married her, and on his merry marriage-day, O, we sang, we sang for him, like lavrocks in the blue.

Far away from London, these happy prentice lovers Wandered through the fern to his western home again, Down by deep Dorset to the wooded isle of Purbeck, Round to little Kimmeridge, by many a lover's lane.

There did they abide as in a dove-cote hidden Deep in happy woods until the bells of duty rang; Then they rode the way he went, a barefoot boy to London, Round by Hampshire forest-roads, but as they rode he sang:--

_Kimmeridge in Dorset is the happiest of places!

All the little homesteads are thatched with beauty there!

All the old ploughmen, there, have happy smiling faces, Christmas roses in their cheeks, and crowns of silver hair.

Blue as are the eggs in the nest of the hedge-sparrow, Gleam the little rooms in the homestead that I know: Death, I think, has lost the way to Kimmeridge in Dorset; Sorrow never knew it, or forgot it, long ago!

Kimmeridge in Dorset, Kimmeridge in Dorset, Though I may not see you more thro' all the years to be, Yet will I remember the little happy homestead Hidden in that Paradise where G.o.d was good to me._

So they turned to London, and with mind and soul he laboured, _Flos Mercatorum_, for the mighty years to be, Fashioning, for profit--to the years that should forget him!-- This, our sacred City that must shine upon the sea.

London was a City when the Poulters ruled the Poultry!

Rosaries of prayer were hung in Paternoster Row, Gutter Lane was Guthrun's, then; and, bright with painted missal-books, _Ave Mary Corner_, sirs, was fairer than ye know.

London was mighty when her marchaunts loved their merchandise, Bales of Eastern magic that empurpled wharf and quay: London was mighty when her booths were a dream-market, Loaded with the colours of the sunset and the sea.

There, in all their glory, with the Virgin on their bannerols, Glory out of Genoa, the Mercers might be seen, Walking to their Company of Marchaunt Adventurers;-- Gallantly they jetted it in scarlet and in green.

There, in all the glory of the lordly Linen Armourers, Walked the Marchaunt Taylors with the Pilgrim of their trade, Fresh from adventuring in Italy and Flanders, _Flos Mercatorum_, for a green-gowned maid.

_Flos Mercatorum!_ Can a good thing come of Nazareth?

High above the darkness, where our duller senses drown, Lifts the splendid Vision of a City, built on merchandise, Fairer than that City of Light that wore the violet crown,

Lifts the sacred vision of a far-resplendent City, Flashing, like the heart of heaven, its messages afar, Trafficking, as G.o.d Himself through all His interchanging worlds, Holding up the scales of law, weighing star by star,

Stern as Justice, in one hand the sword of Truth and Righteousness; Blind as Justice, in one hand the everlasting scales, Lifts the sacred Vision of that City from the darkness, Whence the thoughts of men break out, like blossoms, or like sails!

Ordered and harmonious, a City built to music, Lifting, out of chaos, the shining towers of law,-- Ay, a sacred City, and a City built of merchandise, _Flos Mercatorum_, was the City that he saw.

And by that light," quoth Clopton, "did he keep His promise. He was rich; but in his will He wrote those words which should be blazed with gold In London's _Liber Albus_:--

_The desire And busy intention of a man, devout And wise, should be to fore-cast and secure The state and end of this short life with deeds Of mercy and pity, especially to provide For those whom poverty insulteth, those To whom the power of labouring for the needs Of life, is interdicted._ He became The Father of the City. Felons died Of fever in old Newgate. He rebuilt The prison. London sickened, from the lack Of water, and he made fresh fountains flow.

He heard the cry of suffering and disease, And built the stately hospital that still Shines like an angel's lanthorn through the night, The stately halls of St. Bartholomew.

He saw men wrapt in ignorance, and he raised Schools, colleges, and libraries. He heard The cry of the old and weary, and he built Houses of refuge.

Even so he kept His prentice vows of Duty, Industry, Obedience, words contemned of every fool Who shrinks from law; yet were those ancient vows The adamantine pillars of the State.

Let all who play their Samson be well warned That Samsons perish, too!

His monument Is London!"

"True," quoth Dekker, "and he deserves Well of the Mermaid Inn for one good law, Rightly enforced. He pilloried that rogue Will Horold, who in Whittington's third year Of office, as Lord Mayor, placed certain gums And spices in great casks, and filled them up With feeble Spanish wine, to have the taste And smell of Romeney,--Malmsey!"

"Honest wine, Indeed," replied the Clerk, "concerns the State, That solemn structure touched with light from heaven, Which he, our merchant, helped to build on earth.

And, while he laboured for it, all things else Were added unto him, until the bells More than fulfilled their prophecy.

One great eve, Fair Alice, leaning from her cas.e.m.e.nt, saw Another Watch, and mightier than the first, Billowing past the newly painted doors Of Whittington Palace--so men called his house In Hart Street, fifteen yards from old Mark Lane,-- thousand burganets and halberdiers; A thousand archers in their white silk coats, A thousand mounted men in ringing mail, A thousand sworded henchmen; then, his Guild, Advancing, on their splendid bannerols The Virgin, glorious in gold; and then, _Flos Mercatorum_, on his great stirring steed Whittington! On that night he made a feast For London and the King. His feasting hall Gleamed like the magic cave that Prester John Wrought out of one huge opal. East and West Lavished their wealth on that great Citizen Who, when the King from Agincourt returned Victorious, but with empty coffers, lent Three times the ransom of an Emperor To fill them--on the royal bond, and said When the King questioned him of how and whence, 'I am the steward of your City, sire!

There is a sea, and who shall drain it dry?'

Over the roasted swans and peac.o.c.k pies, The minstrels in the great black gallery tuned All hearts to mirth, until it seemed their cups Were brimmed with dawn and sunset, and they drank The wine of G.o.ds. Lord of a hundred ships, Under the feet of England, Whittington flung The purple of the seas. And when the Queen, Catharine, wondered at the costly woods That burned upon his hearth, the Marchaunt rose, He drew the great sealed parchments from his breast, The bonds the King had given him on his loans, Loans that might drain the Mediterranean dry.

'They call us hucksters, madam, we that love Our City,' and, into the red-hot heart of the fire, He tossed the bonds of sixty thousand pounds.

'The fire burns low,' said Richard Whittington.

Then, overhead, the minstrels plucked their strings; And, over the clash of wine-cups, rose a song That made the old timbers of their feasting-hall Shake, as a galleon shakes in a gale of wind, When she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea:--

Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what shall it profit you Thus to seek your kingdom in the dream-destroying sun?

Ask us why the hawthorn brightens on the sky-line: Even so our sails break out when Spring is well begun!

_Flos Mercatorum!_ Blossom wide, ye sail of Englande, Hasten ye the kingdom, now the bitter days are done!

Ay, for we be members, one of another, 'Each for all and all for each,' quoth Richard Whittington!

_Chorus:_--Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, Marchaunt Adventurers, the Spring is well begun!