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diff --git a/2606-0.txt b/2606-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fee2d62 --- /dev/null +++ b/2606-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3405 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pigeon Pie, by Charlotte M. Yonge + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Pigeon Pie + + +Author: Charlotte M. Yonge + + + +Release Date: January 10, 2015 [eBook #2606] +[This file was first posted on May 16, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIGEON PIE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1905 A. R. Mowbray & Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + THE PIGEON PIE + + + * * * * * + + BY + CHARLOTTE M. YONGE + _Author of_ “_The Heir of Redclyffe_” + + * * * * * + + NEW EDITION + + * * * * * + + A. R. MOWBRAY & CO. LIMITED + OXFORD: 106, S. Aldate’s Street + LONDON: 34, Great Castle Street, Oxford Circus, W + 1905 + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE +CHAPTER I. 1 +CHAPTER II. 19 +CHAPTER III. 34 +CHAPTER IV. 47 +CHAPTER V. 62 +CHAPTER VI. 77 +CHAPTER VII. 97 +CHAPTER VIII. 107 +CHAPTER IX. 117 + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +EARLY in the September of the year 1651 the afternoon sun was shining +pleasantly into the dining-hall of Forest Lea House. The sunshine came +through a large bay-window, glazed in diamonds, and with long branches of +a vine trailing across it, but in parts the glass had been broken and had +never been mended. The walls were wainscoted with dark oak, as well as +the floor, which shone bright with rubbing, and stag’s antlers projected +from them, on which hung a sword in its sheath, one or two odd gauntlets, +an old-fashioned helmet, a gun, some bows and arrows, and two of the +broad shady hats then in use, one with a drooping black feather, the +other plainer and a good deal the worse for wear, both of a small size, +as if belonging to a young boy. + +An oaken screen crossed the hall, close to the front door, and there was +a large open fireplace, a settle on each side under the great yawning +chimney, where however at present no fire was burning. Before it was a +long dining-table covered towards the upper end with a delicately white +cloth, on which stood, however, a few trenchers, plain drinking-horns, +and a large old-fashioned black-jack, that is to say, a pitcher formed of +leather. An armchair was at the head of the table, and heavy oaken +benches along the side. + +A little boy of six years old sat astride on the end of one of the +benches, round which he had thrown a bridle of plaited rushes, and, with +a switch in his other hand, was springing himself up and down, calling +out, “Come, Eleanor, come, Lucy; come and ride on a pillion behind me to +Worcester, to see King Charles and brother Edmund.” + +“I’ll come, I am coming!” cried Eleanor, a little girl about a year +older, her hair put tightly away under a plain round cap, and she was +soon perched sideways behind her brother. + +“Oh, fie, Mistress Eleanor; why, you would not ride to the wars?” This +was said by a woman of about four or five-and-twenty, tall, thin and +spare, with a high colour, sharp black eyes, and a waist which the long +stiff stays, laced in front, had pinched in till it was not much bigger +than a wasp’s, while her quilted green petticoat, standing out full below +it, showed a very trim pair of ankles encased in scarlet stockings, and a +pair of bony red arms came forth from the full short sleeves of a sort of +white jacket, gathered in at the waist. She was clattering backwards and +forwards, removing the dinner things, and talking to the children as she +did so in a sharp shrill tone: “Such a racket as you make, to be sure, +and how you can have the heart to do so I can’t guess, not I, considering +what may be doing this very moment.” + +“Oh, but Walter says they will all come back again, brother Edmund, and +Diggory, and all,” said little Eleanor, “and then we shall be merry.” + +“Yes,” said Lucy, who, though two years older, wore the same prim round +cap and long frock as her little sister, “then we shall have Edmund here +again. You can’t remember him at all, Eleanor and Charlie, for we have +not seen him these six years!” + +“No,” said Deborah, the maid. “Ah! these be weary wars, what won’t let a +gentleman live at home in peace, nor his poor servants, who have no call +to them.” + +“For shame, Deb!” cried Lucy; “are not you the King’s own subject?” + +But Deborah maundered on, “It is all very well for gentlefolks, but now +it had all got quiet again, ’tis mortal hard it should be stirred up +afresh, and a poor soul marched off, he don’t know where, to fight with +he don’t know who, for he don’t know what.” + +“He ought to know what!” exclaimed Lucy, growing very angry. “I tell +you, Deb, I only wish I was a man! I would take the great two-handled +sword, and fight in the very front rank for our Church and our King! You +would soon see what a brave cavalier’s daughter—son I mean,” said Lucy, +getting into a puzzle, “could do.” + +The more eager Lucy grew, the more unhappy Deborah was, and putting her +apron to her eyes, she said in a dismal voice, “Ah! ’tis little poor +Diggory wots of kings and cavaliers!” + +What Lucy’s indignation would have led her to say next can never be +known, for at this moment in bounced a tall slim boy of thirteen, his +long curling locks streaming tangled behind him. “Hollo!” he shouted, +“what is the matter now? Dainty Deborah in the dumps? Cheer up, my +lass! I’ll warrant that doughty Diggory is discreet enough to encounter +no more bullets than he can reasonably avoid!” + +This made Deborah throw down her apron and reply, with a toss of the +head, “None of your nonsense, Master Walter, unless you would have me +speak to my lady. Cry for Diggory, indeed!” + +“She was really crying for him, Walter,” interposed Lucy. + +“Mistress Lucy!” exclaimed Deborah, angrily, “the life I lead among you +is enough—” + +“Not enough to teach you good temper,” said Walter. “Do you want a +little more?” + +“I wish someone was here to teach you good manners,” answered the +tormented Deborah. “As if it was not enough for one poor girl to have +the work of ten servants on her hands, here must you be mock, mock, jeer, +jeer, worrit, worrit, all day long! I had rather be a mark for all the +musketeers in the Parliamentary army.” + +This Deborah always said when she was out of temper, and it therefore +made Walter and Lucy laugh the more; but in the midst of their merriment +in came a girl of sixteen or seventeen, tall and graceful. Her head was +bare, her hair fastened in a knot behind, and in little curls round her +face; she had an open bodice of green silk, and a white dress under it, +very plain and neat; her step was quick and active, but her large dark +eyes had a grave thoughtful look, as if she was one who would naturally +have loved to sit still and think, better than to bustle about and be +busy. Eleanor ran up to her at once, complaining that Walter was teasing +Deborah shamefully. She was going to speak, but Deborah cut her short. + +“No Mistress Rose, I will not have even you excuse him, I’ll go and tell +my lady how a poor faithful wench is served;” and away she flounced, +followed by Rose. + +“Will she tell mamma?” asked little Charlie. + +“Oh no, Rose will pacify her,” said Lucy. + +“I am sure I wish she would tell,” said Eleanor, a much graver little +person than Lucy; “Walter is too bad.” + +“It is only to save Diggory the trouble of taking a crabstick to her when +he returns from the wars,” said Walter. “Heigh ho!” and he threw himself +on the bench, and drummed on the table. “I wish I was there! I wonder +what is doing at Worcester this minute!” + +“When will brother Edmund come?” asked Charlie for about the hundredth +time. + +“When the battle is fought, and the battle is won, and King Charles +enjoys his own again! Hurrah!” shouted Walter, jumping up, and beginning +to sing— + + “For forty years our royal throne + Has been his father’s and his own.” + +Lucy joined in with— + + “Nor is there anyone but he + With right can there a sharer be.” + +“How can you make such a noise?” said Eleanor, stopping her ears, by +which she provoked Walter to go on roaring into them, while he pulled +down her hand— + + “For who better may + The right sceptre sway + Than he whose right it is to reign; + Then look for no peace, + For the war will never cease + Till the King enjoys his own again.” + +As he came to the last line, Rose returning exclaimed, “Oh, hush, Lucy. +Pray don’t, Walter!” + +“Ha! Rose turned Roundhead?” cried Walter. “You don’t deserve to hear +the good news from Worcester.” + +“O, what?” cried the girls, eagerly. + +“When it comes,” said Walter, delighted to have taken in Rose herself; +but Rose, going up to him gently, implored him to be quiet, and listen to +her. + +“All this noisy rejoicing grieves our mother,” said she. “If you could +but have seen her yesterday evening, when she heard your loyal songs. +She sighed, and said, ‘Poor fellow, how high his hopes are!’ and then she +talked of our father and that evening before the fight at Naseby.” + +Walter looked grave and said, “I remember! My father lifted me on the +table to drink King Charles’s health, and Prince Rupert—I remember his +scarlet mantle and white plume—patted my head, and called me his little +cavalier.” + +“We sat apart with mother,” said Rose, “and heard the loud cheers and +songs till we were half frightened at the noise.” + +“I can’t recollect all that,” said Lucy. + +“At least you ought not to forget how our dear father came in with +Edmund, and kissed us, and bade mother keep up a good heart. Don’t you +remember that, Lucy?” + +“I do,” said Walter; “it was the last time we ever saw him.” + +And Walter sat on the table, resting one foot on the bench, while the +other dangled down, and leaning his elbow on his knee and his head on his +hand; Rose sat on the bench close by him, with Charlie on her lap, and +the two little girls pressing close against her, all earnest to hear from +her the story of the great fight of Naseby, where they had all been in a +farmhouse about a mile from the field of battle. + +“I don’t forget how the cannon roared all day,” said Lucy. + +“Ah! that dismal day!” said Rose. “Then by came our troopers, +blood-stained and disorderly, riding so fast that scarcely one waited to +tell my mother that the day was lost and she had better fly. But not a +step did she stir from the gate, where she stood with you, Charlie, in +her arms; she only asked of each as he passed if he had seen my father or +Edmund, and ever her cheek grew whiter and whiter. At last came a +Parliament officer on horseback—it was Mr. Enderby, who had been a +college mate of my father’s, and he told us that my dear father was +wounded, and had sent him to fetch her.” + +“But I never knew where Edmund was then,” said Eleanor. “No one ever +told me.” + +“Edmund lifted up my father when he fell,” said Walter, “and was trying +to bind his wound; but when Colonel Enderby’s troop was close upon them, +my father charged him upon his duty to fly, saying that he should fall +into the hands of an old friend, and it was Edmund’s duty to save himself +to fight for the King another time.” + +“So Edmund followed Prince Rupert?” said Eleanor. + +“Yes,” said Lucy; “you know my father once saved Prince Rupert’s life in +the skirmish where his horse was killed, so for his sake the Prince made +Edmund his page, and has had him with him in all his voyages and +wanderings. But go on about our father, Rose. Did we go to see him?” + +“No; Mr. Enderby said he was too far off, so he left a trooper to guard +us, and my mother only took her little babe with her. Don’t you +remember, Walter, how Eleanor screamed after her, as she rode away on the +colonel’s horse; and how we could not comfort the little ones, till they +had cried themselves to sleep, poor little things? And in the morning +she came back, and told us our dear father was dead! O Walter, how can +we look back to that day, and rejoice in a new war? How can you wonder +her heart should sink at sounds of joy which have so often ended in +tears?” + +Walter twisted about and muttered, but he could not resist his sister’s +earnest face and tearful eyes, and said something about not making so +much noise in the house. + +“There’s my own dear brother,” said Rose. “And you won’t tease Deborah?” + +“That is too much, Rose. It is all the sport I have, to see the faces +she makes when I plague her about Diggory. Besides, it serves her right +for having such a temper.” + +“She has not a good temper, poor thing!” said Rose; “but if you would +only think how true and honest she is, how hard she toils, and how ill +she fares, and yet how steadily she holds to us, you would surely not +plague and torment her.” + +Rose was interrupted by a great outcry, and in rushed Deborah, screaming +out, “Lack-a-day! Mistress Rose! O Master Walter! what will become of +us? The fight is lost, the King fled, and a whole regiment of red-coats +burning and plundering the whole country. Our throats will be cut, every +one of them!” + +“You’ll have a chance of being a mark for all the musketeers in the +Parliament army,” said Walter, who even then could not miss a piece of +mischief. + +“Joking now, Master Walter!” cried Deborah, very much shocked. “That is +what I call downright sinful. I hope you’ll be made a mark of yourself, +that I do.” + +The children were running off to tell their mother, when Rose stopped +them, and desired to know how Deborah had heard the tidings. It was from +two little children from the village who had come to bring a present of +some pigeons to my lady. Rose went herself to examine the children, but +she could only learn that a packman had come into the village and brought +the report that the King had been defeated, and had fled from the field. +They knew no more, and Walter pronouncing it to be all a cock-and-bull +story of some rascally prick-eared pedlar, declared he would go down to +the village and enquire into the rights of it. + +These were the saddest times of English history, when the wrong cause had +been permitted for a time to triumph, and the true and rightful side was +persecuted; and among those who endured affliction for the sake of their +Church and their King, none suffered more, or more patiently, than Lady +Woodley, or, as she was called in the old English fashion, Dame Mary +Woodley, of Forest Lea. + +When first the war broke out she was living happily in her pleasant home +with her husband and children; but when King Charles raised his standard +at Nottingham, all this comfort and happiness had to be given up. Sir +Walter Woodley joined the royal army, and it soon became unsafe for his +wife and children to remain at home, so that they were forced to go about +with him, and suffer all the hardships of the sieges and battles. Lady +Woodley was never strong, and her health was very much hurt by all she +went through; she was almost always unwell, and if Rose, though then +quite a child, had not shown care and sense beyond her years for the +little ones, it would be hard to say what would have become of them. + +Yet all she endured while dragging about her little babies through the +country, with bad or insufficient food, uncomfortable lodgings, pain, +weariness and anxiety, would have been as nothing but for the heavy +sorrows that came upon her also. First she lost her only brother, Edmund +Mowbray, and in the battle of Naseby her husband was killed; besides +which there were the sorrows of the whole nation in seeing the King sold, +insulted, misused, and finally slain, by his own subjects. After Sir +Walter’s death, Lady Woodley went home with her five younger children to +her father’s house at Forest Lea; for her husband’s estate, Edmund’s own +inheritance, had been seized and sequestrated by the rebels. She was the +heiress of Forest Lea since the loss of her brother, but the old Mr. +Mowbray, her father, had given almost all his wealth for the royal cause, +and had been oppressed by the exactions of the rebels, so that he had +nothing to leave his daughter but the desolate old house and a few bare +acres of land. For the shelter, however, Lady Woodley was very thankful; +and there she lived with her children and a faithful servant, Deborah, +whose family had always served the Mowbrays, and who would not desert +their daughter now. + +The neighbours in the village loved, and were sorry for, their lady, and +used to send her little presents; there was a large garden in which +Diggory Stokes, who had also served her father, raised vegetables for her +use; the cow wandered in the deserted park, and so they contrived to find +food; while all the work of the house was done by Rose and Deborah. Rose +was her mother’s great comfort, nursing her, cheering her, taking care of +the little ones, teaching them, working for them, and making light of all +her exertions. Everyone in the village loved Rose Woodley, for everyone +had in some way been helped or cheered by her. Her mother was only +sometimes afraid she worked too hard, and would try her strength too +much; but she was always bright and cheerful, and when the day’s work was +done no one was more gay and lively and ready for play with the little +ones. + +Rose had more trial than anyone knew with Deborah. Deborah was as +faithful as possible, and bore a great deal for the sake of her mistress, +worked hard day and night, had little to eat and no wages, yet lived on +with them rather than forsake her dear lady and the children. One thing, +however, Deborah would not do, and that was to learn to rule her tongue +and her temper. She did not know, nor do many excellent servants, how +much trial and discomfort she gave to those she loved so earnestly, by +her constant bursting out into hasty words whenever she was vexed—her +grumbling about whatever she disliked, and her ill-judged scolding of the +children. Servants in those days were allowed to speak more freely to +their masters and mistresses than at present, so that Deborah had more +opportunity of making such speeches, and it was Rose’s continual work to +try to keep her temper from being fretted, or Lady Woodley from being +teased with her complaints. Rose was very forbearing, and but for this +there would have been little peace in the house. + +Walter was thirteen, an age when it is not easy to keep boys in order, +unless they will do so for themselves. Though a brave generous boy, he +was often unruly and inconsiderate, apt not to obey, and to do what he +knew to be unkind or wrong, just for the sake of present amusement. He +was thus his mother’s great anxiety, for she knew that she was not fit +either to teach or to restrain him, and she feared that his present wild +disobedient ways might hurt his character for ever, and lead to +dispositions which would in time swallow up all the good about him, and +make him what he would now tremble to think of. + +She used to talk of her anxieties to Doctor Bathurst, the good old +clergyman who had been driven away from his parish, but used to come in +secret to help, teach, and use his ministry for the faithful ones of his +flock. He would tell her that while she did her best for her son, she +must trust the rest to his FATHER above, and she might do so hopefully, +since it had been in His own cause that the boy had been made fatherless. +Then he would speak to Walter, showing him how wrong and how cruel were +his overbearing, disobedient ways. Walter was grieved, and resolved to +improve and become steadier, that he might be a comfort and blessing to +his mother; but in his love of fun and mischief he was apt to forget +himself, and then drove away what might have been in time repentance and +improvement, by fancying he did no harm. Teasing Deborah served her +right, he would tell himself, she was so ill-tempered and foolish; +Diggory was a clod, and would do nothing without scolding; it was a good +joke to tease Charlie; Eleanor was a vexatious little thing, and he would +not be ordered by her; so he went his own way, and taught the merry +chattering Lucy to be very nearly as bad as himself, neglected his +duties, set a bad example, tormented a faithful servant, and seriously +distressed his mother. Give him some great cause, he thought, and he +would be the first and the best, bring back the King, protect his mother +and sisters, and perform glorious deeds, such as would make his name be +remembered for ever. Then it would be seen what he was worth; in the +meantime he lived a dull life, with nothing to do, and he must have some +fun. It did not signify if he was not particular about little things, +they were women’s affairs, and all very well for Rose, but when some +really important matter came, that would be his time for distinguishing +himself. + +In the meantime Charles II. had been invited to Scotland, and had brought +with him, as an attendant, Edmund Woodley, the eldest son. As soon as he +was known to have entered England, some of the loyal gentlemen of the +neighbourhood of Forest Lea went to join the King, and among their +followers went Farmer Ewins, who had fought bravely in the former war +under Edmund Mowbray, several other of the men of the village, and +lastly, Diggory Stokes, Lady Woodley’s serving man, who had lately shown +symptoms of discontent with his place, and fancied that as a soldier he +might fare better, make his fortune, and come home prosperously to marry +his sweetheart, Deborah. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +WALTER ran down to the village at full speed. He first bent his steps +towards the “Half-Moon,” the little public-house, where news was sure to +be met with. As he came towards it, however, he heard the loud sound of +a man’s voice going steadily on as if with some discourse. “Some +preachment,” said he to himself: “they’ve got a thorough-going Roundhead, +I can hear his twang through his nose! Shall I go in or not?” + +While he was asking himself this question, an old peasant in a round +frock came towards him. + +“Hollo, Will!” shouted Walter, “what prick-eared rogue have you got +there?” + +“Hush, hush, Master Walter!” said the old man, taking off his hat very +respectfully. “Best take care what you say, there be plenty of red-coats +about. There’s one of them now preaching away in marvellous pied words. +It is downright shocking to hear the Bible hollaed out after that sort, +so I came away. Don’t you go nigh him, sir, ’specially with your hat set +on in that—” + +“Never mind my hat,” said Walter, impatiently, “it is no business of +yours, and I’ll wear it as I please in spite of old Noll and all his +crew.” + +For his forefathers’ sake, and for the love of his mother and sister, the +good village people bore with Walter’s haughtiness and discourtesy far +more than was good for him, and the old man did not show how much he was +hurt by his rough reception of his good advice. Walter was not reminded +that he ought to rise up before the hoary head, and reverence the old +man, and went on hastily, “But tell me, Will, what do you hear of the +battle?” + +“The battle, sir! why, they say it is lost. That’s what the fellow there +is preaching about.” + +“And where was it? Did you hear? Don’t you know?” + +“Don’t be so hasty, don’t ye, sir!” said the old slow-spoken man, growing +confused. “Where was it? At some town—some town, they said, but I don’t +know rightly the name of it.” + +“And the King? Who was it? Not Cromwell? Had Lord Derby joined?” cried +Walter, hurrying on his questions so as to puzzle and confuse the old man +more and more, till at last he grew angry at getting no explanation, and +vowed it was no use to talk to such an old fool. At that moment a sound +as of feet and horses came along the road. “’Tis the soldiers!” said +Walter. + +“Ay, sir, best get out of sight.” + +Walter thought so too, and, springing over a hedge, ran off into a +neighbouring wood, resolving to take a turn, and come back by the longer +way to the house, so as to avoid the road. He walked across the wood, +looking up at the ripening nuts, and now and then springing up to reach +one, telling himself all the time that it was untrue, and that the King +could not, and should not be defeated. The wood grew less thick after a +time, and ended in low brushwood, upon an open common. Just as Walter +was coming to this place, he saw an unusual sight: a man and a horse +crossing the down. Slowly and wearily they came, the horse drooping its +head and stumbling in its pace, as though worn out with fatigue, but he +saw that it was a war-horse, and the saddle and other equipments were +such as he well remembered in the royal army long ago. The rider wore +buff coat, cuirass, gauntlets guarded with steel, sword, and pistols, and +Walter’s first impulse was to avoid him; but on giving a second glance, +he changed his mind, for though there was neither scarf, plume, nor any +badge of party, the long locks, the set of the hat, and the general air +of the soldier were not those of a rebel. He must be a cavalier, but, +alas! far unlike the triumphant cavaliers whom Walter had hoped to +receive, for he was covered with dust and blood, as if he had fought and +ridden hard. Walter sprung forward to meet him, and saw that he was a +young man, with dark eyes and hair, looking very pale and exhausted, and +both he and his horse seemed hardly able to stir a step further. + +“Young sir,” said the stranger, “what place is this? Am I near Forest +Lea?” + +A flash of joy crossed Walter. “Edmund! are you Edmund?” he exclaimed, +colouring deeply, and looking up in his face with one quick glance, then +casting down his eyes. + +“And you are little Walter,” returned the cavalier, instantly +dismounting, and flinging his arm around his brother; “why, what a fine +fellow you are grown! How are my mother and all?” + +“Well, quite well!” cried Walter, in a transport of joy. “Oh! how happy +she will be! Come, make haste home!” + +“Alas! I dare not as yet. I must not enter the house till nightfall, or +I should bring danger on you all. Are there any troopers near?” + +“Yes, the village is full of the rascals. But what has happened? It is +not true that—” He could not bear to say the rest. + +“Too true!” said Edmund, leading his tired horse within the shelter of +the bushes. “It is all over with us!” + +“The battle lost!” said Walter, in a stifled tone; and in all the +bitterness of the first disappointment of his youth, he turned away, +overcome by a gush of tears and sobs, stamping as he walked up and down, +partly with the intensity of his grief, partly with shame at being seen +by his brother, in tears. + +“Had you set your heart on it so much?” said Edmund, kindly, pleased to +see his young brother so ardent a loyalist. “Poor fellow! But at least +the King was safe when I parted from him. Come, cheer up, Walter, the +right will be uppermost some day or other.” + +“But, oh, that battle! I had so longed to see old Noll get his deserts,” +said Walter, “I made so sure. But how did it happen, Edmund?” + +“I cannot tell you all now, Walter. You must find me some covert where I +can be till night fall. The rebels are hot in pursuit of all the +fugitives. I have ridden from Worcester by byroads day and night, and I +am fairly spent. I must be off to France or Holland as soon as may be, +for my life is not safe a moment here. Cromwell is bitterer than ever +against all honest men, but I could not help coming this way, I so much +longed to see my mother and all of you.” + +“You are not wounded?” said Walter, anxiously. + +“Nothing to speak of, only a sword-cut on my shoulder, by which I have +lost more blood than convenient for such a journey.” + +“Here, I’ll lead your horse; lean on me,” said Walter, alarmed at the +faint, weary voice in which his brother spoke after the first excitement +of the recognition. “I’ll show you what Lucy and I call our bower, where +no one ever comes but ourselves. There you can rest till night.” + +“And poor Bayard?” said Edmund. + +“I think I could put him into the out-house in the field next to the +copse, hide his trappings here, and get him provender from Ewins’s farm. +Will that do?” + +“Excellently. Poor Ewins!—that is a sad story. He fell, fighting +bravely by my side, cut down in Sidbury Street in the last charge. Alas! +these are evil days!” + +“And Diggory Stokes, our own knave?” + +“I know nothing of him after the first onset. Rogues and cowards enough +were there. Think, Walter, of seeing his Majesty strive in vain to rally +them, when the day might yet have been saved, and the traitors hung down +their heads, and stood like blocks while he called on them rather to +shoot him dead than let him live to see such a day!” + +“Oh, had I but been there, to turn them all to shame!” + +“There were a few, Walter; Lord Cleveland, Hamilton, Careless, Giffard, +and a few more of us, charged down Sidbury Street, and broke into the +ranks of the rebels, while the King had time to make off by S. Martin’s +Gate. Oh, how I longed for a few more! But the King was saved so far; +Careless, Giffard, and I came up with him again, and we parted at +nightfall. Lord Derby’s counsel was that he should seek shelter at +Boscobel, and he was to disguise himself, and go thither under Giffard’s +guidance. Heaven guard him, whatever becomes of us!” + +“Amen!” said Walter, earnestly. “And here we are. Here is Lucy’s bank +of turf, and my throne, and here we will wait till the sun is down.” + +It was a beautiful green slope, covered with soft grass, short thyme, and +cushion-like moss, and overshadowed by a thick, dark yew-tree, shut in by +brushwood on all sides, and forming just such a retreat as children love +to call their own. Edmund threw himself down at full length on it, laid +aside his hat, and passed his hand across his weary forehead. “How +quiet!” said he; “but, hark! is that the bubbling of water?” he added, +raising himself eagerly. + +“Yes, here,” said Walter, showing him where, a little further off on the +same slope, a little clear spring rose in a natural basin of red earth, +fringed along the top with fresh green mosses. + +“Delicious!” said the tired soldier, kneeling over the spring, scooping +it up in his hand to drink, opening his collar, and bathing hands and +face in the clear cool fountain, till his long black hair hung straight, +saturated with wet. + +“Now, Bayard, it is your turn,” and he patted the good steed as it sucked +up the refreshing water, and Walter proceeded to release it from saddle +and bridle. Edmund, meanwhile, stretched himself out on the mossy bank, +asked a few questions about his mother, Rose, and the other children, but +was too tired to say much, and presently fell sound asleep, while Walter +sat by watching him, grieving for the battle lost, but proud and +important in being the guardian of his brother’s safety, and delighting +himself with the thought of bringing him home at night. + +More was happening at home than Walter guessed. The time of his absence +seemed very long, more especially when the twilight began to close in, +and Lady Woodley began to fear that he might, with his rashness, have +involved himself in some quarrel with the troopers in the village. Lady +Woodley and her children had closed around the wood fire which had been +lighted on the hearth at the approach of evening, and Rose was trying by +the bad light to continue her darning of stockings, when a loud hasty +knocking was heard at the door, and all, in a general vague impression of +dread, started and drew together. + +“Oh my lady!” cried Deborah, “don’t bid me go to the door, I could not if +you offered me fifty gold caroluses! I had rather stand up to be a +mark—” + +“Then I will,” said Rose, advancing. + +“No, no, Mistress Rose,” said Deborah, running forward. “Don’t I know +what is fit for the like of you? You go opening the door to rogues and +vagabonds, indeed!” and with these words she undrew the bolts and opened +the door. + +“Is this the way you keep us waiting?” said an impatient voice; and a +tall youth, handsomely accoutred, advanced authoritatively into the room. +“Prepare to—” but as he saw himself alone with women and children, and +his eyes fell on the pale face, mourning dress, and graceful air of the +lady of the house, he changed his tone, removed his hat, and said, “Your +pardon, madam, I came to ask a night’s lodging for my father, who has +been thrown from his horse, and badly bruised.” + +“I cannot refuse you, sir,” said Lady Woodley, who instantly perceived +that this was an officer of the Parliamentary force, and was only +thankful to see that he was a gentleman, and enforced with courtesy a +request which was in effect a command. + +The youth turned and went out, while Lady Woodley hastily directed her +daughters and servant. “Deborah, set the blue chamber in order; Rose, +take the key of the oak press, Eleanor will help you to take out the +holland sheets. Lucy, run down to old Margery, and bid her kill a couple +of fowls for supper.” + +As the girls obeyed there entered at the front door the young officer and +a soldier, supporting between them an elderly man in the dress of an +officer of rank. Lady Woodley, ready of course to give her help to any +person who had suffered an injury, came forward to set a chair, and at +the same moment she exclaimed, in a tone of recognition, “Mr. Enderby! I +am grieved to see you so much hurt.” + +“My Lady Woodley,” he returned, recognising her at the same time, as he +seated himself in the chair, “I am sorry thus to have broken in on your +ladyship, but my son, Sylvester, would have me halt here.” + +“This gentleman is your son, then?” and a courteous greeting passed +between Lady Woodley and young Sylvester Enderby, after which she again +enquired after his father’s accident. + +“No great matter,” was the reply; “a blow on the head, and a twist of the +knee, that is all. Thanks to a stumbling horse, wearied out with work, I +have little mind to—the pursuit of this poor young man.” + +“Not the King?” exclaimed Lady Woodley, breathless with alarm. + +It was with no apparent satisfaction that the rebel colonel replied, +“Even so, madam. Cromwell’s fortune has not forsaken him; he has driven +the Scots and their allies out of Worcester.” + +Lady Woodley was too much accustomed to evil tidings to be as much +overcome by them as her young son had been; she only turned somewhat +paler, and asked, “The King lives?” + +“He was last seen on Worcester bridge. Troops are sent to every port +whence he might attempt an escape.” + +“May the GOD of his father protect him,” said the lady, fervently. “And +my son?” she added, faintly, scarcely daring to ask the question. + +“Safe, I hope,” replied the colonel. “I saw him, and I could have +thought him my dear old friend himself, as he joined Charles in his last +desperate attempt to rally his forces, and then charged down Sidbury +Street with a few bold spirits who were resolved to cover their master’s +retreat. He is not among the slain; he was not a prisoner when I left +the headquarters. I trust he may have escaped, for Cromwell is fearfully +incensed against your party.” + +Colonel Enderby was interrupted by Lucy’s running in calling out, +“Mother, mother! there are no fowls but Partlet and the sitting hen, and +the old cock, and I won’t have my dear old Partlet killed to be eaten by +wicked Roundheads.” + +“Come here, my little lady,” said the colonel, holding out his hand, +amused by her vehemence. + +“I won’t speak to a Roundhead,” returned Lucy, with a droll air of +petulance, pleased at being courted. + +Her mother spoke gravely. “You forget yourself, Lucy. This is Mr. +Enderby, a friend of your dear father.” + +Lucy’s cheeks glowed, and she looked down as she gave her hand to the +colonel; but as he spoke kindly to her, her forward spirit revived, and +she returned to the charge. + +“You won’t have Partlet killed?” + +Her mother would have silenced her, but the colonel smiled and said, “No, +no, little lady; I would rather go without supper than let one feather of +Dame Partlet be touched.” + +“Nay, you need not do that either, sir,” said the little chatter-box, +confidentially, “for we are to have a pie made of little Jenny’s pigeons; +and I’ll tell you what, sir, no one makes raised crust half so well as +sister Rose.” + +Lady Woodley was not sorry to stop the current of her little girl’s +communications by despatching her on another message, and asking Colonel +Enderby whether he would not prefer taking a little rest in his room +before supper-time, offering, at the same time all the remedies for +bruises and wounds that every good housekeeper of the time was sure to +possess. + +She had a real regard for Mr. Enderby, who had been a great friend of her +husband before the unhappy divisions of the period arrayed them on +opposite sides, and even then, though true friendship could not last, a +kindly feeling had always existed. + +Mr. Enderby was a conscientious man, but those were difficult times; and +he had regarded loyalty to the King less than what he considered the +rights of the people. He had been an admirer of Hampden and his +principles, and had taken up arms on the same side, becoming a rebel on +political, not on religious, grounds. When, as time went on, the evils +of the rebellion developed themselves more fully, he was already high in +command, and so involved with his own party that he had not the +resolution requisite for a change of course and renunciation of his +associates. He would willingly have come to terms with the King, and was +earnest in the attempt at the time of the conferences at Hampden Court. +He strongly disapproved of the usurpation of power by the army, and was +struck with horror, grief, and dismay, at the execution of King Charles; +but still he would not, or fancied that he could not, separate himself +from the cause of the Parliament, and continued in their service, +following Cromwell to Scotland, and fighting at Worcester on the rebel +side, disliking Cromwell all the time, and with a certain inclination to +the young King, and desire to see the old constitution restored. + +He was just one of those men who cause such great evil by giving a sort +of respectability to the wrong cause, “following a multitude to do evil,” +and doubtless bringing a fearful responsibility on their own heads; yet +with many good qualities and excellent principles, that make those on the +right side have a certain esteem for them, and grieve to see them thus +perverted. + +Lady Woodley, who knew him well, though sorry to have a rebel in her +house at such a time, was sure that in him she had a kind and considerate +guest, who would do his utmost to protect her and her children. + +On his side, Colonel Enderby was much grieved and shocked at the pale, +altered looks of the fair young bride he remembered, as well as the +evidences of poverty throughout her house, and perhaps he had a secret +wish that he was as well assured as his friend, Sir Walter, that his +blood had been shed for the maintenance of the right. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +ROSE WOODLEY ran up and down indefatigably, preparing everything for the +accommodation of the guests, smoothing down Deborah’s petulance, and +keeping her mother from over-exertion or anxiety. Much contrivance was +indeed required, for besides the colonel and his son, two soldiers had to +be lodged, and four horses, which, to the consternation of old Margery, +seemed likely to devour the cow’s winter store of hay, while the troopers +grumbled at the desolate, half-ruined, empty stables, and at the want of +corn. + +Rose had to look to everything; to provide blankets from the bed of the +two little girls, send Eleanor to sleep with her mother, and take Lucy to +her own room; despatch them on messages to the nearest cottage to borrow +some eggs, and to gather vegetables in the garden, whilst she herself +made the pigeon pie with the standing crust, much wishing that the +soldiers were out of the way. It was a pretty thing to see her in her +white apron, with her neat dexterous fingers, and nimble quiet step, +doing everything in so short a time, and so well, without the least +bustle. + +She was at length in the hall, laying the white home-spun, home-bleached +cloth, and setting the trenchers (all the Mowbray plate had long ago gone +in the King’s service), wondering anxiously, meantime, what could have +become of Walter, with many secret and painful misgivings, though she had +been striving to persuade her mother that he was only absent on some +freak of his own. + +Presently the door which led to the garden was opened, and to her great +joy Walter put his head into the room. + +“O Walter,” she exclaimed, “the battle is lost! but Edmund and the King +have both escaped.” + +“Say you so?” said Walter, smiling. “Here is a gentleman who can give +you some news of Edmund.” + +At the same moment Rose saw her beloved eldest brother enter the room. +It would be hard to say which was her first thought, joy or dismay—she +had no time to ask herself. Quick as lightning she darted to the door +leading to the staircase, bolted it, threw the bar across the fastening +of the front entrance, and then, flying to her brother, clung fast round +his neck, kissed him on each cheek, and felt his ardent kiss on her brow, +as she exclaimed in a frightened whisper, “You must not stay here: there +are troopers in the house!” + +“Troopers!—quartered on us?” cried Walter. + +Rose hastily explained, trembling lest anyone should attempt to enter. +Walter paced up and down in despair, vowing that it was a trick to get a +spy into the house. Edmund sat down in the large arm-chair with a calm +resolute look, saying, “I must surrender, then. Neither I nor my horse +can go further without rest. I will yield as a prisoner of war, and well +that it is to a man of honour.” + +“Oh no, no!” cried Rose: “he says Cromwell treats his prisoners as +rebels. It would be certain death!” + +“What news of the King?” asked Edmund, anxiously. + +“Not seen since the flight? but—” + +“And Lord Derby, Wilmot—” + +“I cannot tell, I heard no names,” said Rose, “only that the enemy’s +cruelties are worse than ever.” + +Walter stood with his back against the table, gazing at his brother and +sister in mute consternation. + +“I know!” cried Rose, suddenly: “the out-house in the upper field. No +one ever goes up into the loft but ourselves. You know, Walter, where +Eleanor found the kittens. Go thither, I will bring Edmund food at +night. Oh, consent, Edmund!” + +“It will do! it will do!” cried Walter. + +“Very well, it may spare my mother,” said Edmund; and as footsteps and +voices were heard on the stairs, the two brothers hurried off without +another word, while Rose, trying to conceal her agitation, undid the +door, and admitted her two little sisters, who were asking if they had +not heard Walter’s voice. + +She scarcely attended to them, but, bounding upstairs to her mother’s +room, flung her arms round her neck, and poured into her ear her precious +secret. The tremour, the joy, the fears, the tears, the throbbings of +the heart, and earnest prayers, may well be imagined, crowded by the +mother and daughter into those few minutes. The plan was quickly +arranged. They feared to trust even Deborah; so that the only way that +they could provide the food that Edmund so much needed was by Rose and +Walter attempting to save all they could at supper, and Rose could steal +out when everyone was gone to rest, and carry it to him. Lady Woodley +was bent on herself going to her son that night; but Rose prevailed on +her to lay aside the intention, as it would have been fatal, in her weak +state of health, for her to expose herself to the chills of an autumn +night, and, what was with her a much more conclusive reason, Rose was +much more likely to be able to slip out unobserved. Rose had an +opportunity of explaining all this to Walter, and imploring him to be +cautious, before the colonel and his son came down, and the whole party +assembled round the supper-table. + +Lady Woodley had the eggs and bacon before her; Walter insisted on +undertaking the carving of the pigeon-pie, and looked considerably +affronted when young Sylvester Enderby offered to take the office, as a +more experienced carver. Poor Rose, how her heart beat at every word and +look, and how hard she strove to seem perfectly at her ease and +unconscious! Walter was in a fume of anxiety and vexation, and could +hardly control himself so far as to speak civilly to either of the +guests, so that he was no less a cause of fear to his mother and sister +than the children, who were unconscious how much depended on discretion. + +Young Sylvester Enderby was a fine young man of eighteen, very +good-natured, and not at all like a Puritan in appearance or manner. He +had hardly yet begun to think for himself, and was merely obeying his +father in joining the army with him, without questioning whether it was +the right cause or not. He was a kind elder brother at home, and here he +was ready to be pleased with the children of the house. + +Lucy was a high-spirited talkative child, very little used to seeing +strangers, and perhaps hardly reined in enough, for her poor mother’s +weak health had interfered with strict discipline; and as this evening +Walter and Rose were both grave and serious under their anxieties, Lucy +was less restrained even than usual. + +She was a pretty creature, with bright blue eyes, and an arch expression, +all the droller under her prim round cap; and Sylvester was a good deal +amused with her pert bold little nods and airs. He paid a good deal of +attention to her, and she in return grew more forward and chattering. It +is what little girls will sometimes do under the pleasure and excitement +of the notice of gentlemen, and it makes their friends very uneasy, since +the only excuse they can have is in being _very little_, and it shows a +most undesirable want of self-command and love of attention. + +In addition to this feeling, Lady Woodley dreaded every word that was +spoken, lest it should lead to suspicion, for though she was sure Mr. +Enderby would not willingly apprehend her son, yet she could not tell +what he might consider his duty to his employers; besides, there were the +two soldiers to observe and report, and the discovery that Edmund was at +hand might lead to frightful consequences. She tried to converse +composedly with him on his family and the old neighbourhood where they +had both lived, often interrupting herself to send a look or word of +warning to the lower end of the table; but Lucy and Charles were too wild +to see or heed her, and grew more and more unrestrained, till at last, to +the dismay of her mother, brother, and sister, Charles’ voice was heard +so loud as to attract everyone’s notice, in a shout of wonder and +complaint, “Mother, mother, look! Rose has gobbled up a whole pigeon to +her own share!” + +Rose could not keep herself from blushing violently, as she whispered +reprovingly that he must not be rude. Lucy did not mend the matter by +saying with an impertinent nod, “Rose does not like to be found out.” + +“Children,” said Lady Woodley, gravely, “I shall send you away if you do +not behave discreetly.” + +“But, mother, Rose is greedy,” said Lucy. + +“Hold your tongues, little mischief makers!” burst out Walter, who had +been boiling over with anxiety and indignation the whole time. + +“Walter is cross now,” said Lucy, pleased to have produced a sensation, +and to have shocked Eleanor, who sat all the time as good, demure, and +grave, as if she had been forty years old. + +“Pray excuse these children,” said Lady Woodley, trying to hide her +anxiety under cover of displeasure at them; “no doubt Mrs. Enderby keeps +much better order at home. Lucy, Charles, silence at once. Walter, is +there no wine?” + +“If there is, it is too good for rebels,” muttered Walter to himself, as +he rose. “Light me, Deborah, and I’ll see.” + +“La! Master Walter,” whispered Deborah, “you know there is nothing but +the dregs of the old cask of Malmsey, that was drunk up at the old +squire’s burying.” + +“Hush, hush, Deb,” returned the boy; “fill it up with water, and it will +be quite good enough for those who won’t drink the King’s health.” + +Deborah gave a half-puzzled smile. “Ye’re a madcap, Master Walter! But +sure, Sir, the spirit of a wolf must have possessed Mistress Rose—she +that eats no supper at all, in general! D’ye think it is wearying about +Master Edmund that gives her a craving?” + +It might be dangerous, but Walter was so much diverted, that he could not +help saying, “I have no doubt it is on his account.” + +“I know,” said Deborah, “that I get so faint at heart that I am forced to +be taking something all day long to keep about at all!” + +By this time they were re-entering the hall, when there was a sound from +the kitchen as of someone calling. Deborah instantly turned, screaming +out joyfully, “Bless me! is it you?” and though out of sight, her voice +was still heard in its high notes of joy. “You good-for-nothing rogue! +are you turned up again like a bad tester, staring into the kitchen like +a great oaf, as you be?” + +There was a general laugh, and Eleanor said, “That must be Diggory.” + +“A poor country clown,” said Lady Woodley, “whom we sent to join my son’s +troop. I hope he is in no danger.” + +“Oh no,” said Mr. Enderby; “he has only to return to his plough.” + +“Hollo there!” shouted Walter. “Come in, Diggory, and show yourself.” + +In came Diggory, an awkward thick-set fellow, with a shock head of hair, +high leathern gaiters, and a buff belt over his rough leathern jerkin. +There he stood, pulling his forelock, and looking sheepish. + +“Come in, Diggory,” said his mistress; “I am glad to see you safe. You +need not be afraid of these gentlemen. Where are the rest?” + +“Slain, every man of them, an’t please your ladyship.” + +“And your master, Mr. Woodley?” + +“Down, too, an’t please your ladyship.” + +Lucy screamed aloud; Eleanor ran to her mother, and hid her face in her +lap; Charles sat staring, with great round frightened eyes. Very +distressing it was to be obliged to leave the poor children in such grief +and alarm, when it was plain all the time that Diggory was an arrant +coward, who had fancied more deaths and dangers than were real, and was +describing more than he had even thought he beheld, in order to make +himself into a hero instead of a runaway. Moreover, Lady Woodley and +Rose had to put on a show of grief, lest they should betray that they +were better informed; and they were in agonies lest Walter’s fury at the +falsehoods should be as apparent to their guests as it was to themselves. + +“Are you sure of what you say, Diggory?” said Lady Woodley. + +“Sure as that I stand here, my lady. There was sword and shot and smoke +all round. I stood it all till Farmer Ewins was cut down a-one-side of +me, ma’am, and Master Edmund, more’s the pity, with his brains scattered +here and there on the banks of the river.” + +There was another cry among the children, and Walter made such a violent +gesture, that Rose, covering her face with her handkerchief, whispered to +him, “Walter dear, take care.” Walter relieved his mind by returning, +“Oh that I could cudgel the rogue soundly!” + +At the same time Colonel Enderby turned to their mother, saying, “Take +comfort, madam, this fellow’s tale carries discredit on the face of it. +Let me examine him, with your permission. Where did you last see your +master?” + +“I know none of your places, sir,” answered Diggory, sullenly. + +Colonel Enderby spoke sternly and peremptorily. “In the town, or in the +fields? Answer me that, sirrah. In the field on the bank of the river?” + +“Ay.” + +“There you left your ranks, you rogue; that was the way you lost sight of +your master!” said the colonel. Then, turning to Lady Woodley, as +Diggory slunk off, “Your ladyship need not be alarmed. An hour after the +encounter, in which he pretends to have seen your son slain, I saw him in +full health and soundness.” + +“A cowardly villain!” cried Walter, delighted to let out some of his +indignation. “I knew he was not speaking a word of truth.” + +The children cheered up in a moment; but Lady Woodley was not sorry to +make this agitating scene an excuse for retiring with all her children. +Lucy and Eleanor were quite comforted, and convinced that Edmund must be +safe; but poor little Charlie had been so dreadfully frightened by the +horrors of Diggory’s description, that after Rose had put him to bed he +kept on starting up in his sleep, half waking, and sobbing about brother +Edmund’s brains. + +Rose was obliged to go to him and soothe him. She longed to assure the +poor little fellow that dear Edmund was perfectly safe, well, and near at +hand; but the secret was too important to be trusted to one so young, so +she could only coax and comfort him, and tell him they all thought it was +not true, and Edmund would come back again. + +“Sister,” said Charlie, “may I say my prayers again for him?” + +“Yes, do, dear Charlie,” said Rose; “and say a prayer for King Charles +too, that he may be safe from the wicked man.” + +So little Charlie knelt by Rose, with his hands joined, and his little +bare legs folded together, and said his prayer: and did not his sister’s +heart go with him? Then she kissed him, covered him up warmly, and +repeated to him in her soft voice the ninety-first Psalm: “Whoso dwelleth +under the defence of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the +Almighty.” + +By the time it was ended, the little boy was fast asleep, and the +faithful loyal girl felt her failing heart cheered and strengthened for +whatever might be before her, sure that she, her mother, her brother, and +her King, were under the shadow of the Almighty wings. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +IN a very strong fit of restlessness did little Mistress Lucy Woodley go +to bed in Rose’s room that night. She was quite comforted on Edmund’s +account, for she had discernment enough to see that her mother and sister +did not believe Diggory’s dreadful narration; and she had been so +unsettled and excited by Mr. Sylvester Enderby’s notice, and by the way +in which she had allowed her high spirits to get the better of her +discretion, as well as by the sudden change from terror to joy, that when +first she went to Rose’s room she could not attend to her prayers, and +next she could not go to sleep. + +Perhaps the being in a different apartment from usual, and the missing +her accustomed sleeping companion, Eleanor, had something to do with it, +for little Eleanor had a gravity and steadiness about her that was very +apt to compose and quiet her in her idlest moods. To-night she lay broad +awake, tumbling about on the very hard mattress, stuffed with chaff, +wondering how Rose could bear to sleep on it, trying to guess how there +could be room for both when her sister came to bed, and nevertheless in a +great fidget for her to come. She listened to the howling and moaning of +the wind, the creaking of the doors, and the rattling of the boards with +which Rose had stopped up the broken panes of her lattice; she rolled +from side to side, fancied odd shapes in the dark, and grew so restless +and anxious for Rose’s coming that she was just ready to jump out of bed +and go in the passage to call her when Rose came into the room. + +“O Rose, what a time you have been!” + +It was no satisfaction to Rose to find the curious little chatter-box so +wide awake at this very inconvenient time, but she did not lose her +patience, and answered that she had been first with Charlie, and then +with their mother. + +“And now I hope you are coming to bed. I can’t go to sleep without you.” + +“Oh, but indeed you must, Lucy dear, for I shall not be ready this long +time. Look, here is a great rent in Walter’s coat, which I must mend, or +he won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow.” + +“What shall we have for dinner to-morrow, Rose? What made you eat so +much supper to-night?” + +“I’ll tell you what, Lucy, I am not going to talk to you, or you will lie +awake all night, and that will be very bad for you. I shall put my +candle out of your sight, and say some Psalms, but I cannot talk.” + +So Rose began, and, wakeful as Lucy was, she found the low sweet tones +lulled her a little. But she did not like this; she had a perverse +intention of staying awake till Rose got into bed, so instead of +attending to the holy words, she pinched herself, and pulled herself, and +kept her eyes staring open, gazing at the flickering shadows cast by the +dim home-made rush candle. + +She went to sleep for a moment, then started into wakefulness again; Rose +had ceased to repeat her Psalms aloud, but was still at her needlework; +another doze, another waking. There was some hope of Rose now, for she +was kneeling down to say her prayers. Lucy thought they lasted very +long, and at her next waking she was just in time to hear the latch of +the door closing, and find herself left in darkness. Rose was not in +bed, did not answer when she called. Oh, she must be gone to take +Walter’s coat back to his room. But surely she might have done that in +one moment; and how long she was staying! Lucy could bear it no longer, +or rather she did not try to bear it, for she was an impetuous, +self-willed child, without much control over herself. She jumped out of +bed, and stole to the door. A light was just disappearing on the +ceiling, as if someone was carrying a candle down stairs; what could it +mean? Lucy scampered, pit-pat, with her bare feet along the passage, and +came to the top of the stairs in time to peep over and discover Rose +silently opening the door of the hall, a large dark cloak hung over her +arm, and her head and neck covered by her black silk hood and a thick +woollen kerchief, as if she was going out. + +Lucy’s curiosity knew no bounds. She would not call, for fear she should +be sent back to bed, but she was determined to see what her sister could +possibly be about. Down the cold stone steps pattered she, and luckily, +as she thought, Rose, probably to avoid noise, had only shut to the door, +so that the little inquisitive maiden had a chink to peep through, and +beheld Rose at a certain oaken corner-cupboard, whence she took out a +napkin, and in it she folded what Lucy recognised as the very same +three-cornered segment of pie-crust, containing the pigeon that she had +last night been accused of devouring. She placed it in a basket, and +then proceeded to take a lantern from the cupboard, put in her rushlight, +and, thus prepared, advanced to the garden-door, softly opened it, and +disappeared. + +Lucy, in an extremity of amazement, came forward. The wind howled in +moaning gusts, and the rain dashed against the windows; Lucy was chilly +and frightened. The fire was not out, and gave a dim light, and she +crept towards the window, but a sudden terror came over her; she dashed +back, looked again, heard another gust of wind, fell into another panic, +rushed back to the stairs, and never stopped till she had tumbled into +bed, her teeth chattering, shivering from head to foot with fright and +cold, rolled herself up tight in the bed-clothes, and, after suffering +excessively from terror and chill, fell sound asleep without seeing her +sister return. + +Causeless fears pursue those who are not in the right path, and turn from +what alone can give them confidence. A sense of protection supports +those who walk in innocence, though their way may seem surrounded with +perils; and thus, while Lucy trembled in an agony of fright in her warm +bed, Rose walked forth with a firm and fearless step through the dark +gusty night, heedless of the rain that pattered round her, and the wild +wind that snatched at her cloak and gown, and flapped her hood into her +eyes. + +She was not afraid of fancied terrors, and real perils and anxieties were +at this moment lost in the bounding of her young heart at the thought of +seeing, touching, speaking to her brother, her dear Edmund. She had been +eleven years old when they last had parted, the morning of the battle of +Naseby, and he was five years older; but they had always been very happy +and fond companions and playfellows as long as she could remember, and +she alone had been on anything like an equality with him, or missed him +with a feeling of personal loss, that had been increased by the death of +her elder sister, Mary. + +Quickly, and concealing her light as much as possible, she walked down +the damp ash-strewn paths of the kitchen-garden, and came out into the +overgrown and neglected shrubbery, or pleasance, where the long wet-laden +shoots came beating in her face, and now and then seeming to hold her +back, and strange rustlings were heard that would have frightened a +maiden of a less stout and earnest heart. Her anxiety was lest she +should be confused by the unwonted aspect of things in the dark, and miss +the path; and very, very long did it seem, while her light would only +show her leaves glistening with wet. At last she gained a clearer space, +the border of a field: something dark rose before her, she knew the +outline of the shed, and entered the lower part. It was meant for a +cart-shed, with a loft above for hay or straw; but the cart had been lost +or broken, and there was only a heap of rubbish in the corner, by which +the children were wont to climb up to inspect their kittens. Here Rose +was for a moment startled by a glare close to her of what looked like two +fiery lamps in the darkness, but the next instant a long, low, growling +sound explained it, and the tabby stripes of the cat quickly darted +across her lantern’s range of light. She heard a slight rustling above, +and ventured to call, in a low whisper, “Edmund.” + +“Is that you, Walter?” and as Rose proceeded to mount the pile of +rubbish, his pale and haggard face looked down at her. + +“What? Rose herself! I did not think you would have come on such a +night as this. Can you come up? Shall I help you?” + +“Thank you. Take the lantern first—take care. There. Now the basket +and the cloak.” And this done, with Edmund’s hand, Rose scrambled up +into the loft. It was only the height of the roof, and there was not +room, even in the middle, to stand upright; the rain soaked through the +old thatch, the floor was of rough boards, and there was but very little +of the hay that had served as a bed for the kittens. + +“O Edmund, this is a wretched place!” exclaimed Rose, as, crouching by +his side, one hand in his, and the other round his neck, she gazed +around. + +“Better than a prison,” he answered. “I only wish I knew that others +were in as good a one. And you—why, Rose, how you are altered; you are +my young lady now! And how does my dear mother?” + +“Pretty well. I could hardly prevail on her not to come here to-night; +but it would have been too much, she is so weak, and takes cold so soon. +But, Edmund, how pale you are, how weary! Have you slept? I fear not, +on these hard boards—your wound, too.” + +“It hardly deserves such a dignified name as a wound,” said Edmund. “I +am more hungry than aught else; I could have slept but for hunger, and +now”—as he spoke he was opening the basket—“I shall be lodged better, I +fear, than a king, with that famous cloak. What a notable piece of +pasty! Well done, Rose! Are you housewife? Store of candles, too. +This is noble!” + +“How hungry you must be! How long is it since you have eaten?” + +“Grey sent his servant into a village to buy some bread and cheese; we +divided it when we parted, and it lasted me until this morning. Since +then I have fasted.” + +“Dear brother, I wish I could do more for you; but till Mr. Enderby goes, +I cannot, for the soldiers are about the kitchen, and our maid, Deborah, +talks too much to be trustworthy, though she is thoroughly faithful.” + +“This is excellent fare,” said Edmund, eating with great relish. “And +now tell me of yourselves. My mother is feeble and unwell, you say?” + +“Never strong, but tolerably well at present.” + +“So Walter said. By the way, Walter is a fine spirited fellow. I should +like to have him with me if we take another African voyage.” + +“He would like nothing better, poor fellow. But what strange things you +have seen and done since we met! How little we thought that morning that +it would be six years before we should sit side by side again! And +Prince Rupert is kind to you?” + +“He treats me like a son or brother: never was man kinder,” said Edmund, +warmly. “But the children? I must see them before I depart. Little +Lucy, is she as bold and pert as she was as a young child?” + +“Little changed,” said Rose, smiling, and telling her brother the +adventures at the dinner. + +As cheerfully as might be they talked till Edmund had finished his meal, +and then Rose begged him to let her examine and bind up the wound. It +was a sword-cut on the right shoulder, and, though not very deep, had +become stiff and painful from neglect, and had soaked his sleeve deeply +with blood. Rose’s dexterous fingers applied the salve and linen she had +brought, and she promised that at her next visit she would bring him some +clean clothes, which was what he said he most wished for. Then she +arranged the large horseman’s cloak, the hay, and his own mantle, so well +as to form, he said, the most luxurious resting place he had seen since +he left Dunbar; and rolled up in this he lay, his head supported on his +hand, talking earnestly with her on the measures next to be taken for his +safety, and on the state of the family. He must be hidden there till the +chase was a little slackened, and then escape, by Bosham or some other +port, to the royal fleet, which was hovering on the coast. Money, +however—how was he to get a passage without it? + +“The Prince, at parting—heaven knows he has little enough himself—gave me +twenty gold crowns, which he said was my share of prize-money for our +captures,” said Edmund, “but this is the last of them.” + +“And I don’t know how we can get any,” said Rose. “We never see money. +Our tenants, if they pay at all, pay in kind—a side of bacon, or a sack +of corn; they are very good, poor people, and love our mother heartily, I +do believe. I wish I knew what was to be done.” + +“Time will show,” said Edmund. “I have been in as bad a case as this ere +now, and it is something to be near you all again. So you like this +place, do you? As well as our own home?” + +Rose shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh no, Edmund; I +try to think it home, and the children feel it so, but it is not like +Woodley. Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the branches that +came down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?” + +“And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home from +the justice-meeting. And the meadow where the hounds killed the fox that +had baffled them so long! Do you hear anything of the place now, Rose?” + +“Mr. Enderby told us something,” said Rose, sadly. “You know who has got +it, Edmund?” + +“Who? + +“That Master Priggins, who was once justices’ clerk.” + +“Ha!” cried Edmund. “That pettifogging scrivener in my father’s +house!—in my ancestors’ house! A rogue that ought to have been branded a +dozen years ago! I could have stood anything but that! Pretty work he +is making there, I suppose! Go on, Rose.” + +“O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear.” + +“Neighbour’s fare! as you say,” replied Edmund, with a short dry laugh. +“Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave man +naturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries could not go +in a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that in my father’s +place is enough to drive one mad with rage! Come, what has he been +doing? How has he used the poor people?” + +“He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but Mr. +Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.” + +“I wonder what unlucky fate possessed that Enderby to take the wrong +side! Well?” + +“He could not tell us much of the place, for he cannot endure Master +Priggins, and Master Sylvester laughs at his Puritanical manner; but he +says—O Edmund—that the fish-ponds are filled up—those dear old fish-ponds +where the water-lilies used to blow, and you once pulled me out of the +water.” + +“Ay, ay! we shall not know it again if ever our turn comes, and we enjoy +our own again. But it is of no use to think about such matters.” + +“No; we must be thankful that we have a home at all, and are not like so +many, who are actually come to beggary, like poor Mrs. Forde. You +remember her, our old clergyman’s widow. He died on board ship, and she +was sent for by her cousin, who promised her a home; but she had no +money, and was forced to walk all the way, with her two little boys, +getting a lodging at night from any loyal family who would shelter her +for the love of heaven. My mother wept when she saw how sadly she was +changed; we kept her with us a week to rest her, and when she went she +had our last gold carolus, little guessing, poor soul, that it was our +last. Then, when she was gone, my mother called us all round her, and +gave thanks that she could still give us shelter and daily bread.” + +“There is a Judge above!” exclaimed Edmund; “yet sometimes it is hard to +believe, when we see such a state of things here below!” + +“Dr. Bathurst tells us to think it will all be right in the other world, +even if we do have to see the evil prosper here,” said Rose, gravely. +“The sufferings will all turn to glory, just as they did with our blessed +King, out of sight.” + +Edmund sat thoughtful. “If our people abroad would but hope and trust +and bear as you do here, Rose. But I had best not talk of these things, +only your patience makes me feel how deficient in it we are, who have not +a tithe to bear of what you have at home. Are you moving to go? Must +you?” + +“I fear so, dear brother; the light seems to be beginning to dawn, and if +Lucy wakes and misses me—Is your shoulder comfortable?” + +“I was never more comfortable in my life. My loving duty to my dear +mother. Farewell, you, sweet Rose.” + +“Farewell, dear Edmund. Perhaps Walter may manage to visit you, but do +not reckon on it.” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +THE vigils of the night had been as unwonted for Lucy as for her sister, +and she slept soundly till Rose was already up and dressed. Her first +reflection was on the strange sights she had seen, followed by a doubt +whether they were real, or only a dream; but she was certain it was no +such thing; she recollected too well the chill of the stone to her feet, +and the sound of the blasts of wind. She wondered over it, wished to +make out the cause, but decided that she should only be scolded for +peeping, and she had better keep her own counsel. + +That Lucy should keep silence when she thought she knew more than other +people was, however, by no means to be expected; and though she would say +not a word to her mother or Rose, of whom she was afraid, she was quite +ready to make the most of her knowledge with Eleanor. + +When she came down stairs she found Walter, with his elbows on the table +and his book before him, learning the task which his mother required of +him every day; Eleanor had just come in with her lapfull of the still +lingering flowers, and called her to help to make them up into nosegays. + +Lucy came and sat down by her on the floor, but paid little attention to +the flowers, so intent was she on showing her knowledge. + +“Ah! you don’t know what I have seen.” + +“I dare say it is only some nonsense,” said Eleanor, gravely, for she was +rather apt to plume herself on being steadier than her elder sister. + +“It is no nonsense,” said Lucy. “I know what I know.” + +Before Eleanor had time to answer this speech, the mystery of which was +enhanced by a knowing little nod of the head, young Mr. Enderby made his +appearance in the hall, with a civil good-morning to Walter, which the +boy hardly deigned to acknowledge by a gruff reply and little nod, and +then going on to the little girls, renewed with them yesterday’s war of +words. “Weaving posies, little ladies?” + +“Not for rebels,” replied Lucy, pertly. + +“May I not have one poor daisy?” + +“Not one; the daisy is a royal flower.” + +“If I take one?” + +“Rebels take what they can’t get fairly,” said Lucy, with the smartness +of a forward child; and Sylvester, laughing heartily, continued, “What +would General Cromwell say to such a nest of little malignants?” + +“That is an ugly name,” said Eleanor. + +“Quite as pretty as Roundhead.” + +“Yes, but we don’t deserve it.” + +“Not when you make that pretty face so sour?” + +“Ah!” interposed Lucy, “she is sour because I won’t tell her my secret of +the pie.” + +“Oh, what?” said Eleanor. + +“Now I have you!” cried Lucy, delighted. “I know what became of the +pigeon pie.” + +In extreme alarm and anger, Walter turned round as he caught these words. +“Lucy, naughty child!” he began, in a voice of thunder; then, +recollecting the danger of exciting further suspicion, he stammered, +“what—what—what—are you doing here? Go along to mother.” + +Lucy rubbed her fingers into her eyes, and answered sharply, in a pettish +tone, that she was doing no harm. Eleanor, in amazement, asked what +could be the matter. + +“Intolerable!” exclaimed Walter. “So many girls always in the way?” + +Sylvester Enderby could not help smiling, as he asked, “Is that all you +have to complain of?” + +“I could complain of something much worse,” muttered Walter. “Get away, +Lucy?” + +“I won’t at your bidding, sir.” + +To Walter’s great relief, Rose entered at that moment, and all was smooth +and quiet; Lucy became silent, and the conversation was kept up in safe +terms between Rose and the young officer. The colonel, it appeared, was +so much better that he intended to leave Forest Lea that very day; and it +was not long before he came down, and presently afterwards Lady Woodley, +looking very pale and exhausted, for her anxieties had kept her awake all +night. + +After a breakfast on bread, cheese, rashers of bacon, and beer, the +horses were brought to the door, and the colonel took his leave of Lady +Woodley, thanking her much for her hospitality. + +“I wish it had been better worth accepting,” said she. + +“I wish it had, though not for my own sake,” said the colonel. “I wish +you would allow me to attempt something in your favour. One thing, +perhaps, you will deign to accept. Every royalist house, especially +those belonging to persons engaged at Worcester, is liable to be +searched, and to have soldiers quartered on them, to prevent fugitives +from being harboured there. I will send Sylvester at once to obtain a +protection for you, which may prevent you from being thus disturbed.” + +“That will be a kindness, indeed,” said Lady Woodley, hardly able to +restrain the eagerness with which she heard the offer made, that gave the +best hope of saving her son. She was not certain that the colonel had +not some suspicion of the true state of the case, and would not take +notice, unwilling to ruin the son of his friend, and at the same time +reluctant to fail in his duty to his employers. + +He soon departed; Mistress Lucy’s farewell to Sylvester being thus: +“Good-bye, Mr. Roundhead, rebel, crop-eared traitor.” At which Sylvester +and his father turned and laughed, and their two soldiers looked very +much astonished. + +Lady Woodley called Lucy at once, and spoke to her seriously on her +forwardness and impertinence. “I could tell you, Lucy, that it is not +like a young lady, but I must tell you more, it is not like a young +Christian maiden. Do you remember the text that I gave you to learn a +little while ago—the ornament fit for a woman?” + +Lucy hung her head, and with tears filling her eyes, as her mother +prompted her continually, repeated the text in a low mumbling voice, half +crying: “Whose adorning, let it not be the putting on of gold, or the +plaiting of hair, or the putting on of apparel, but let it be the hidden +man of the heart, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is +in the sight of GOD of great price.” + +“And does my little Lucy think she showed that ornament when she pushed +herself forward to talk idle nonsense, and make herself be looked at and +taken notice of?” + +Lucy put her finger in her mouth; she did not like to be scolded, as she +called it, gentle as her mother was, and she would not open her mind to +take in the kind reproof. + +Lady Woodley took the old black-covered Bible, and finding two of the +verses in S. James about the government of the tongue, desired Lucy to +learn them by heart before she went out of the house; and the little girl +sat down with them in the window-seat, in a cross impatient mood, very +unfit for learning those sacred words. “She had done no harm,” she +thought; “she could not help it if the young gentleman would talk to +her!” + +So there she sat, with the Bible in her lap, alone, for Lady Woodley was +so harassed and unwell, in consequence of her anxieties, that Rose had +persuaded her to go and lie down on her bed, since it would be better for +her not to try to see Edmund till the promised protection had arrived, +lest suspicion should be excited. Rose was busy about her household +affairs; Eleanor, a handy little person, was helping her; and Walter and +Charles were gone out to gather apples for a pudding which she had +promised them. + +Lucy much wished to be with them; and after a long brooding over her +ill-temper, it began to wear out, not to be conquered, but to depart of +itself; she thought she might as well learn her lesson and have done with +it; so by way of getting rid of the task, not of profiting by the warning +it conveyed, she hurried through the two verses ending with—“Behold how +great a matter a little fire kindleth!” + +As soon as she could say them perfectly, she raced upstairs, and into her +mother’s room, gave her the book, and repeated them at her fastest pace. +Poor Lady Woodley was too weary and languid to exert herself to speak to +the little girl about her unsuitable manner, or to try to bring the +lesson home to her; she dismissed her, only saying, “I hope, my dear, you +will remember this,” and away ran Lucy, first to the orchard in search of +her brothers, and not finding them there, round and round the garden and +pleasance. Edmund, in his hiding-place, heard the voice calling “Walter! +Charlie!” and peeping out, caught a glimpse of a little figure, her long +frock tucked over her arm, and long locks of dark hair blowing out from +under her small, round, white cap. What a pleasure it was to him to have +that one view of his little sister! + +At last, tired with her search, Lucy returned to the house, and there +found Deborah ironing at the long table in the hall, and crooning away +her one dismal song of “Barbara Allen’s cruelty.” + +“So you can sing again, Deb,” she began, “now the Roundheads are gone and +Diggory come back?” + +“Little girls should not meddle with what does not concern them,” +answered Deborah. + +“You need not call me a little girl,” said Lucy. “I am almost eleven +years old; and I know a secret, a real secret.” + +“A secret, Mistress Lucy? Who would tell their secrets to the like of +you?” said Deborah, contemptuously. + +“No one told me; I found it out for myself!” cried Lucy, in high +exultation. “I know what became of the pigeon pie that we thought Rose +ate up!” + +“Eh? Mistress Lucy!” exclaimed Deborah, pausing in her ironing, full of +curiosity. + +Lucy was delighted to detail the whole of what she had observed. + +“Well!” cried Deborah, “if ever I heard tell the like! That slip of a +thing out in all the blackness of the night! I should be afraid of my +life of the ghosts and hobgoblins. Oh! I had rather be set up for a +mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, than set one foot out +of doors after dark!” + +As Deborah spoke, Walter came into the hall. He saw that Lucy had +observed something, and was anxious every time she opened her lips. This +made him rough and sharp with her, and he instantly exclaimed, “How now, +Lucy, still gossipping?” + +“You are so cross, I can’t speak a word for you,” said Lucy, fretfully, +walking out of the room, while Walter, in his usual imperious way, began +to shout for Diggory and his boots. “Diggory, knave!” + +“Anon, sir!” answered the dogged voice. + +“Bring them, I say, you laggard!” + +“Coming, sir, coming.” + +“Coming, are you, you snail?” cried Walter, impatiently. “Your heels are +tardier now than they were at Worcester!” + +“A man can’t do more nor he can do, sir,” said Diggory, sullenly, as he +plodded into the hall. + +“Answering again, lubber?” said Walter. “Is this what you call cleaned? +You are not fit for your own shoe-blacking trade! Get along with you!” +and he threw the boots at Diggory in a passion. “I must wear them, +though, as they are, or wait all day. Bring them to me again.” + +Walter had some idle notion in his head that it was Puritanical to speak +courteously to servants, and despising Diggory for his cowardice and +stupidity, he was especially overbearing with him, and went on rating him +all the time he was putting on his boots, to go out and try to catch some +fish for the morrow’s dinner, which was likely to be but scanty. As soon +as he was gone, Diggory, who had listened in sulky silence, began to +utter his complaints. + +“Chicken-heart, moon-calf, awkward lubber, those be the best words a poor +fellow gets. I can tell Master Walter that these are no times for +gentlefolks to be hectoring, especially when they haven’t a penny to pay +wages with.” + +“You learnt that in the wars, Diggory,” said Deborah, turning round, for, +grumble as she might herself, she could not bear to have a word said by +anyone else against her lady’s family, and loved to scold her sweetheart, +Diggory. “Never mind Master Walter. If he has not a penny in his +pocket, and the very green coat to his back is cut out of his +grandmother’s farthingale, more’s the pity. How should he show he is a +gentleman but by hectoring a bit now and then, ’specially to such a rogue +as thou, coming back when thy betters are lost. That is always the way, +as I found when I lost my real silver crown, and kept my trumpery +Parliament bit.” + +“Ah, Deb!” pleaded Diggory, “thou knowst not what danger is! I thought +thou wouldst never have set eyes on poor Diggory again.” + +“Much harm would that have been,” retorted Mrs. Deb, tossing her head. +“D’ye think I’d have broke my heart? That I’ll never do for a runaway.” + +“’Twas time to run when poor Farmer Ewins was cut down, holloaing for +quarter, and Master Edmund’s brains lying strewn about on the ground, for +all the world like a calf’s.” + +“’Tis your own brains be like a calf’s,” said Deborah. “I’d bargain to +eat all of Master Edmund’s brains you ever saw.” + +“He’s as dead as a red herring.” + +“I say he is as life-like as you or I.” + +“I say I saw him stretched out, covered with blood, and a sword-cut on +his head big enough to be the death of twenty men.” + +“Didn’t that colonel man, as they call him, see him alive and merry long +after? It’s my belief that Master Edmund is not a dozen miles off.” + +“Master Edmund! hey, Deb? I’ll never believe that, after what I’ve seen +at Worcester.” + +“Then pray why does Mistress Rose save a whole pigeon out of the pie, +hide it in her lap, and steal out of the house with it at midnight? +Either Master Edmund is in hiding, or some other poor gentleman from the +wars, and I verily believe it is Master Edmund himself; so a fig for his +brains or yours, and there’s for you, for a false-tongued runaway! +Coming, mistress, coming!” and away ran Deborah at a call from Rose. + +Now Deborah was faithful to the backbone, and would have given all she +had in the world, almost her life itself, for her lady and the children; +she was a good and honest woman in the main, but tongue and temper were +two things that she had never learnt to restrain, and she had given her +love to the first person by whom it was sought, without consideration +whether he was worthy of affection or not. That Diggory was a sullen, +ill-conditioned, selfish fellow, was evident to everyone else; but he had +paid court to Deborah, and therefore the foolish woman had allowed +herself to be taken with him, see perfections in him, promise to become +his wife, and confide in him. + +When Deborah left the hall, Diggory returned to his former employment of +chopping wood, and began to consider very intently for him. + +He had really believed, at the moment of his panic-terror, that he saw +Edmund Woodley fall, and had at once taken flight, without attempting to +afford him any assistance. The story of the brains had, of course, been +invented on the spur of the moment, by way of excusing his flight, and he +was obliged to persist in the falsehood he had once uttered, though he +was not by any means certain that it had been his master whom he saw +killed, especially after hearing Colonel Enderby’s testimony. And now +there came alluringly before him the promise of the reward offered for +the discovery of the fugitive cavaliers, the idea of being able to rent +and stock poor Ewins’s farm, and setting up there with Deborah. It was +money easily come by, he thought, and he would like to be revenged on +Master Walter, and show him that the lubber and moon-calf could do some +harm, after all. A relenting came across him as he thought of his lady +and Mistress Rose, though he had no personal regard for Edmund, who had +never lived at Forest Lea; and his stolid mind was too much enclosed in +selfishness to admit much feeling for anyone. Besides, it might not be +Master Edmund; he was probably killed; it might be one of the lords in +the battle, or even the King himself, and that would be worth £1,000. +Master Cantwell called them all tyrants and sons of Belial, and what not; +and though Dr. Bathurst said differently, who was to know what was right? +Dr. Bathurst had had his day, and this was Cantwell’s turn. There was a +comedown now of feathered hats, and point collars, and curled hair; and +leathern jerkin should have its day. And as for being an informer, he +would keep his own counsel; at any rate, the reward he would have. It +was scarcely likely to be a hanging matter, after all; and if the +gentleman, whoever he might be, did chance to be taken, he would get off +scot free, no harm done to him. “Diggory Stokes, you’re a made man!” he +finished, throwing his bill-hook from him. + +Ah! Lucy, Lucy, you little thought of the harm your curiosity and +chattering had done, as you saw Diggory stealing along the side of the +wood, in the direction leading to Chichester! + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +IN the afternoon Lady Woodley was so much better as to be able to come +downstairs, and all the party sat round the fire in the twilight. Walter +was just come in from his fishing, bringing a basket of fine trout; +Eleanor and Charles were admiring their beautiful red spots, Lucy +wondering what made him so late, while he cast a significant look at his +eldest sister, showing her that he had been making a visit to Edmund. + +At that moment a loud authoritative knocking was heard at the door; +Walter shouted to Diggory to open it, and was answered by Deborah’s +shrill scream from the kitchen, “He’s not here, sir; I’ve not seen him +since you threw your boots at him, sir.” + +Another thundering knock brought Deborah to open the door; and what was +the dismay of the mother and children as there entered six tall men, +their buff coats, steeple-crowned hats, plain collars, and thick +calf-skin boots, marking them as Parliamentary soldiers. With a shriek +of terror the little ones clung round their mother, while he who, by his +orange scarf, was evidently the commanding officer, standing in the +middle of the hall, with his hat on, announced, in a Puritanical tone, +“We are here by order of his Excellency, General Cromwell, to search for +and apprehend the body of the desperate malignant Edmund Woodley, last +seen in arms against the Most High Court of Parliament. Likewise to +arrest the person of Dame Mary Woodley, widow, suspected of harbouring +and concealing traitors:” and he advanced to lay his hand upon her. +Walter, in an impulse of passion, rushed forward, and aimed a blow at him +with the butt-end of the fishing-rod; but it was the work of a moment to +seize the boy and tie his hands, while his mother earnestly implored the +soldier to have pity on him, and excuse his thoughtless haste to protect +her. + +The officer sat down in the arm-chair, and without replying to Lady +Woodley, ordered a soldier to bring the boy before him, and spoke +thus:—“Hear me, son of an ungodly seed. So merciful are the lessons of +the light that thou contemnest, that I will even yet overlook and forgive +the violence wherewith thou didst threaten my life, so thou wilt turn +again, and confess where thou hast hidden the bloody-minded traitor.” + +“This house harbours no traitor,” answered Walter, undauntedly. + +“If thou art too hardened to confess,” continued the officer, frowning, +and speaking slowly and sternly, as he kept his eyes steadily fixed on +Walter, “if thou wilt not reveal his hiding-place, I lead thee hence to +abide the penalty of attempted murder.” + +“I am quite ready,” answered Walter, returning frown for frown, and not +betraying how his heart throbbed. + +The officer signed to the soldier, who roughly dragged him aside by the +cord that tied his hands, cutting them severely, though he disdained to +show any sign of pain. + +“Young maiden,” continued the rebel, turning to Rose, “what sayest thou? +Wilt thou see thy brother led away to death, when the breath of thy mouth +might save him?” + +Poor Rose turned as pale as death, but her answer was steady: “I will say +nothing.” + +“Little ones, then,” said the officer, fiercely, “speak, or you shall +taste the rod. Do you know where your brother is?” + +“No—no,” sobbed Lucy; and her mother added, “They know nothing, sir.” + +“It is loss of time to stand parleying with women and children,” said the +officer, rising. “Here,” to one of his men, “keep the door. Let none +quit the chamber, and mark the children’s talk. The rest with me. Where +is the fellow that brought the tidings?” + +Diggory, who had slunk out of sight, was pushed forward by two of the +soldiers, and at the same time there was a loud scream from Deborah. +“Oh! Diggory, is it you? Oh! my Lady, my Lady, forgive me! I meant no +harm! Oh! who would have thought it?” And in an agony of distress, she +threw her apron over her face, and, sinking on the bench, rocked herself +to and fro, sobbing violently. + +In the meantime, the officer and his men, all but the sentinel, had left +the room to search for the fugitive, leaving Lady Woodley sitting +exhausted and terrified in her chair, the little ones clinging around +her, Walter standing opposite, with his hands bound; Rose stood by him, +her arm round his neck, proud of his firmness, but in dreadful terror for +him, and in such suspense for Edmund, that her whole being seemed +absorbed in agonised prayer. Deborah’s sobs, and the children’s +frightened weeping, were all the sounds that could be heard; Rose was +obliged to attempt to soothe them, but her first kind word to Deborah +produced a fresh burst of violent weeping, and then a loud lamentation: +“Oh! the rogue—the rogue. If I could have dreamt it!” + +“What has she done?” exclaimed Walter, impatiently. “Come, stop your +crying. What have you done, Deb?” + +“I thought—Oh! if I had known what was in the villain!” continued +Deborah, “I’d sooner have bit out my tongue than have said one word to +him about the pigeon pie.” + +“Pigeon pie!” repeated Rose. + +Lucy now gave a cry, for she was, with all her faults, a truth-telling +child. “Mother! mother! I told Deb about the pigeon pie! Oh, what have +I done? Was it for Edmund? Is Edmund here?” + +And to increase the danger and perplexity, the other two children +exclaimed together, “Is Edmund here?” + +“Hush, hush, my dears, be quiet; I cannot answer you now,” whispered Lady +Woodley, trying to silence them by caresses, and looking with terror at +the rigid, stern guard, who, instead of remaining at the door where he +had been posted, had come close up to them, and sat himself down at the +end of the table, as if to catch every word they uttered. + +Eleanor and Charles obeyed their mother’s command that they should be +silent; Rose took Lucy on her lap, let her rest her head on her shoulder, +and whispered to her that she should hear and tell all another time, but +she must be quiet now, and listen. Deborah kept her apron over her face, +and Walter, leaning his shoulder against the wall, stood gazing at them +all; and while he was intently watching for every sound that could enable +him to judge whether the search was successful or not, at the same time +his heart was beating and his head swimming at the threat of the rebel. +Was he to die? To be taken away from that bright world, from sunshine, +youth, and health, from his mother, and all of them, and be laid, a stiff +mangled corpse, in some cold, dark, unregarded grave; his pulses, that +beat so fast, all still and silent—senseless, motionless, like the birds +he had killed? And that was not all: that other world! To enter on what +would last for ever and ever and ever, on a state which he had never +dwelt on or realised to himself, filled him with a blank, shuddering awe; +and next came a worse, a sickening thought: if his feeling for the bliss +of heaven was almost distaste, could he be fit for it? could he dare to +hope for it? It was his Judge Whom he was about to meet, and he had been +impatient and weary of Bible and Catechism, and Dr. Bathurst’s teaching; +he had been inattentive and careless at his prayers; he had been +disobedient and unruly, violent, and unkind! Such a horror and agony +came over the poor boy, so exceeding a dread of death, that he was ready +at that moment to struggle to do anything to save himself; but there came +the recollection that the price of his rescue must be the betrayal of +Edmund. He would almost have spoken at that instant; the next he +sickened at the thought. Never, never—he could not, would not; better +not live at all than be a traitor! He was too confused and anxious to +pray, for he had not taught himself to fix his attention in quiet +moments. He would not speak before the rebel soldier; but only looked +with an earnest gaze at his sister, who, as their eyes met, understood +all it conveyed. + +His mother, after the first moment’s fright, had reassured herself +somewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely that +Algernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him to +death; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him; +and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it could +at that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for her +eldest son. + +A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that the +enemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory’s intimate +knowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery, +and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where they were welcome +to search as long as they chose, then to the barn-yard, all over the +house from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet were +heard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search, +and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer entered +the hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers, +Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his hands +unbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up to +her, knelt on one knee before her, saying, “Mother, dear mother, your +blessing. Let me see your face again.” + +She threw her arms round his neck, “My son! and is it thus we meet?” + +“We only meet as we parted,” he answered firmly and cheerfully. “Still +sufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willing +hearts.” + +“Come, sir,” said the officer, “I must see you safely bestowed for the +night.” + +“One moment, gentlemen,” entreated Lady Woodley. “It is six years since +I saw my son, and this may be our last meeting.” She led him to the +light, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, which +had in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, “How you are +altered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker his +hair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like your +father?” + +“And my little sisters,” said Edmund. “Ha! Lucy, I know your little +round face.” + +“Oh,” sobbed Lucy, “is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!” + +“What does she mean?” asked Edmund, turning to Rose. + +“I saw you take it out at night, Rose,” said poor Lucy. “I told Deb!” + +“And poor Deborah,” added Rose, “from the same thoughtlessness repeated +her chatter to Diggory, who has betrayed us.” + +“The cowardly villain,” cried Walter, who had come forward to the group +round his brother. + +“Hush, Walter,” said Edmund. “But what do I see? Your hands bound? You +a prisoner?” + +“Poor Walter was rash enough to attempt resistance,” said his mother. + +“So, sir,” said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, “you attach great +importance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!” + +“A blow with the butt-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man,” +answered the officer. + +“When last I served in England,” continued the cavalier, “Cromwell’s +Ironsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You can +have no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, against +him.” + +“Why—no, sir; but—however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I do +not care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannot +permit him to be at large while you are in the house.” + +“Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. We +have been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting.” + +“So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I am +willing to oblige you,” answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour had +curiously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly and +gentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. “Now, madam, +to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow.” + +“Good-night, mother,” said Edmund. “Sleep well; think this is but a +dream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house.” + +“Good-night, my brave boy,” said Lady Woodley, as she embraced him +ardently. “A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father’s +face you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow. +GOD’S blessing be upon you, my boy.” + +And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by a +soldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter. Edmund +next kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing them +good-night, and assuring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon. Rose whispered +to him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weep +piteously. + +“Deborah,” he said, “I must thank you for your long faithful service to +my mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that you +were doing me any harm.” + +“Oh, sir,” cried poor Deborah, “Oh don’t speak so kind! I had rather +stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army than +be where I am now.” + +Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged to +hasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for the +night. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor little +Charles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion. + +Deborah’s troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, and +seeing Walter’s basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once for +him. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceeded +to her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time. + +“Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have been +the death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! ’Tis +little I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love the +very best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at the +root! I wish—I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in the +Parliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after having +known him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer? +Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heart +less.” + +And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her apron +over her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards as +before. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted to +be softened into an insinuating tone. “I say, Deb, don’t take on.” + +She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him. +“Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?” + +“Come, come, don’t be fractious, my pretty one,” said Diggory, in the +amiable tones that had once gained her heart. + +But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. “Your’n, +indeed! I’d rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the +Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you. +O Diggory Stokes,” she added ruefully, “I’d not have believed it of you, +if my own father had sworn it.” + +“Hush, hush, Deb!” said Diggory, rather sheepishly, “they’ve done hanging +the folk.” + +“Don’t be for putting me off with such trash,” she returned, more +passionately; “you’ve murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat, +and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you’ve broke my +lady’s heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And +now you think to make up to me, do you?” + +“Wasn’t it all along of you I did it? For your sake?” + +“Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?” cried Deb, her voice +rising in shrillness with her indignation. + +“Patience, Deb,” said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. “No more +toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and no +wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See +here, Deb,” and he held up a piece of money. + +“Silver!” she exclaimed. + +“Ay, ay,” said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, “and there be +plenty more where that came from.” + +“It is the price of Master Edmund’s blood.” + +“Don’t ye say that now, Deb; ’tis all for you!” he answered, thinking he +was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive the +difference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding. + +“So you still have the face to tell me so!” she burst out, still more +vehemently. “I tell you, I’d rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, if +they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you. +Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy in +Dorset but will cry shame on you.” + +“But Deb, Deb,” he still pleaded. + +“You will have it, then!” And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, away +ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping and +astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on his +hands and knees. + +Suddenly a voice exclaimed, “How now, knave, stealing thy mistress’s +goods?” and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidable +halberd, stood over him. + +“Good master corporal,” he began, trembling; but the soldier would not +hear him. + +“Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberd +about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight of +Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart.” Here Diggory judged +it prudent to slink away through the back door. “And so,” continued the +Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, “and so the +gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!” + +In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to +Walter’s bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside the +door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with a +gesture of rage and despair. “The villains! the rogues! To be betrayed +by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life. O Edmund, +Edmund!” + +“It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance,” returned Edmund. +“Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkable +proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me; +but I should have thought my mother’s gentle kindness must have won the +love of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging to +her.” + +A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence, +then suddenly exclaimed, “The surly rascal! I verily believe it was all +spite at me, for—” + +“For—” repeated Edmund. + +“For rating him as he deserved,” answered Walter. “I wish I had given it +to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,” added he, +hesitating, “perhaps if I had been civiller—” + +“I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue,” said Edmund, +smiling. + +“It is what my mother is always blaming me for,” said Walter; “but +really, now, Edmund, doesn’t it savour of the crop-ear to be picking +one’s words to every rogue in one’s way?” + +“Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from +France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we are +cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low. You +should see our young King’s frank bright courtesy; and as to the little +King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old _poissarde_ in +the streets.” + +Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if +consoling himself, “He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue, +whom hanging is too good for.” + +“Don’t let us spend our whole night in abusing him,” said Edmund; “I want +to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other.” + +“O, Edmund! you don’t mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is there +no way out of this room?” cried Walter, running round it like one +distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it +down. + +“Hush! this is of no use, Walter,” said his brother. “The window is, I +see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape.” + +Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay. + +“For one thing I am thankful to them,” continued Edmund; “I thought they +might have shot me down before my mother’s door, and so filled the place +with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time for +preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me.” + +“Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!” + +“I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert’s.” + +Walter squeezed his hands fast together. “And how—how can you? Don’t +think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—” + +“Never, I am sure,” repeated Edmund. + +“But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolish +to believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought of +dying, then—” + +“You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter,” +said Edmund; “nor have you led so wandering and weary a life.” + +“I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die,” said Walter. + +“Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge we +must meet,” said Edmund; “but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows that +it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. We +may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grant +us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late, +Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow.” + +Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowful +and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following what +he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and at +the same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all he +had hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had been +of very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm, +and added to his mother’s distress; he had been nothing but a boy +throughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such an +agony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in +the room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother. +Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control! + +The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, both +occupying Walter’s bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep, +and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who was +giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, should +Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely to +become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly to +protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding all +compromise with the enemies of the Church. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +FOREST LEA that night was a house of sorrow: the mother and two sons were +prisoners in their separate rooms, and the anxieties for the future were +dreadful. Rose longed to see and help her mother, dreading the effect of +such misery, to be borne in loneliness, by the weak frame, shattered by +so many previous sufferings. How was she to undergo all that might yet +be in store for her—imprisonment, ill-treatment, above all, the loss of +her eldest son? For there was little hope for Edmund. As a friend and +follower of Prince Rupert, he was a marked man; and besides, Algernon +Sydney, the commander of the nearest body of forces, was known to be a +good deal under the influence of the present owner of Woodley, who was +likely to be glad to see the rightful heir removed from his path. + +Rose perceived all this, and her heart failed her, but she had no time to +pause on the thought. The children must be soothed and put to bed, and a +hard matter it was to comfort poor little Lucy, perhaps the most of all +to be pitied. She relieved herself by pouring out the whole confession +to Rose, crying bitterly, while Eleanor hurried on distressing questions +whether they would take mamma away, and what they would do to Edmund. +Now it came back to Lucy, “O if I had but minded what mamma said about +keeping my tongue in order; but now it is too late!” + +Rose, after doing her best to comfort them, and listening as near to her +mother’s door as she dared, to hear if she were weeping, went to her own +room. It adjoined Walter’s, though the doors did not open into the same +passage; and she shut that which closed in the long gallery, where her +room and that of her sisters were, so that the Roundhead sentry might not +be able to look down it. + +As soon as she was in her own room, she threw herself on her knees, and +prayed fervently for help and support in their dire distress. In the +stillness, as she knelt, she heard an interchange of voices, which she +knew must be those of her brothers in the next room. She went nearer to +that side, and heard them more distinctly. She was even able to +distinguish when Edmund spoke, and when Walter broke forth in impatient +exclamations. A sudden thought struck her. She might be able to join in +the conversation. There had once been a door between the two rooms, but +it had long since been stopped up, and the recess of the doorway was +occupied by a great oaken cupboard, in which were preserved all the old +stores of rich farthingales of brocade, and velvet mantles, which had +been heirlooms from one Dame of Mowbray to another, till poverty had +caused them to be cut up and adapted into garments for the little +Woodleys. + +Rose looked anxiously at the carved doors of the old wardrobe. Had she +the key? She felt in her pouch. Yes, she had not given it back to her +mother since taking out the sheets for Mr. Enderby. She unlocked the +folding doors, and, pushing aside some of the piles of old garments, saw +a narrow line of light between the boards, and heard the tones almost as +clearly as if she was in the same room. + +Eager to tell Edmund how near she was, she stretched herself out, almost +crept between the shelves, leant her head against the board on the +opposite side, and was about to speak, when she found that it yielded in +some degree to her touch. A gleam of hope darted across her, she drew +back, fetched her light, tried with her hand, and found that the back of +the cupboard was in fact a door, secured on her side by a wooden bolt, +which there was no difficulty in undoing. Another push, and the door +yielded below, but only so as to show that there must be another +fastening above. Rose clambered up the shelves, and sought. Here it +was! It was one of the secret communications that were by no means +uncommon in old halls in those times of insecurity. Edmund might yet be +saved! Trembling with the excess of her delight in her new-found hope, +she forced out the second bolt, and pushed again. The door gave way, the +light widened upon her, and she saw into the room! Edmund was lying on +the bed, Walter sitting at his feet. + +Both started as what had seemed to be part of the wainscoted wall opened, +but Edmund prevented Walter’s exclamation by a sign to be silent, and the +next moment Rose’s face was seen squeezing between the shelves. + +“Edmund! Can you get through here?” she exclaimed in a low eager +whisper. + +Edmund was immediately by her side, kissing the flushed anxious forehead: +“My gallant Rose!” he said. + +“Oh, thank heaven! thank heaven! now you may be safe!” continued Rose, +still in the same whisper. “I never knew this was a door till this +moment. Heaven sent the discovery on purpose for your safety! Hush, +Walter! Oh remember the soldier outside!” as Walter was about to break +out into tumultuous tokens of gladness. “But can you get through, +Edmund? Or perhaps we might move out some of the shelves.” + +“That is easily done,” said Edmund; “but I know not. Even if I should +escape, it would be only to fall into the hands of some fresh troop of +enemies, and I cannot go and leave my mother to their mercy.” + +“You could do nothing to save her,” said Rose, “and all that they may do +to her would scarcely hurt her if she thought you were safe. O Edmund! +think of her joy in finding you were escaped! the misery of her anxiety +now!” + +“Yet to leave her thus! You had not told me half the change in her! I +know not how to go!” said Edmund. + +“You must, you must!” said Rose and Walter, both at once. And Rose +added, “Your death would kill her, I do believe!” + +“Well, then; but I do not see my way even when I have squeezed between +your shelves, my little sister. Every port is beset, and our hiding +places here can no longer serve me.” + +“Listen,” said Rose, “this is what my mother and I had planned before. +The old clergyman of this parish, Dr. Bathurst, lives in a little house +at Bosham, with his daughter, and maintains himself by teaching the +wealthier boys of the town. Now, if you could ride to him to-night, he +would be most glad to serve you, both as a cavalier, and for my mother’s +sake. He would find some place of concealment, and watch for the time +when you may attempt to cross the Channel.” + +Edmund considered, and made her repeat her explanation. “Yes, that might +answer,” he said at length; “I take you for my general, sweet Rose. But +how am I to find your good doctor?” + +“I think,” said Rose, after considering a little while, “that I had +better go with you. I could ride behind you on your horse, if the rebels +have not found him, and I know the town, and Dr. Bathurst’s lodging. I +only cannot think what is to be done about Walter.” + +“Never mind me,” said Walter, “they cannot hurt me.” + +“Not if you will be prudent, and not provoke them,” said Edmund. + +“Oh, I know!” cried Rose; “wear my gown and hood! these men have only +seen us by candle-light, and will never find you out if you will only be +careful.” + +“I wear girl’s trumpery!” exclaimed Walter, in such indignation that +Edmund smiled, saying, “If Rose’s wit went with her gown, you might be +glad of it.” + +“She is a good girl enough,” said Walter, “but as to my putting on her +petticoat trash, that’s all nonsense.” + +“Hear me this once, dear Walter,” pleaded Rose. “If there is a pursuit, +and they fancy you and Edmund are gone together, it will quite mislead +them to hear only of a groom riding before a young lady.” + +“There is something in that,” said Walter, “but a pretty sort of lady I +shall make!” + +“Then you consent? Thank you, dear Walter. Now, will you help me into +your room, and I’ll put two rolls of clothes to bed, that the captain may +find his prisoners fast asleep to-morrow morning.” + +Walter could hardly help laughing aloud with delight at the notion of the +disappointment of the rebels. The next thing was to consider of Edmund’s +equipment; Rose turned over her ancient hoards in vain, everything that +was not too remarkable had been used for the needs of the family, and he +must go in his present blood-stained buff coat, hoping to enter Bosham +too early in the morning for gossips to be astir. Then she dressed +Walter in her own clothes, not without his making many faces of disgust, +especially when she fastened his long curled love-locks in a knot behind, +tried to train little curls over the sides of his face, and drew her +black silk hood forward so as to shade it. They were nearly of the same +height and complexion, and Edmund pronounced that Walter made a very +pretty girl, so like Rose that he should hardly have known them apart, +which seemed to vex the boy more than all. + +There had been a sort of merriment while this was doing, but when it was +over, and the moment came when the brother and sister must set off, there +was lingering, sorrow, and reluctance. Edmund felt severely the leaving +his mother in the midst of peril, brought upon her for his sake, and his +one brief sight of his home had made him cling the closer to it, and +stirred up in double force the affections for mother, brothers, and +sisters, which, though never extinct, had been comparatively dormant +while he was engaged in stirring scenes abroad. Now that he had once +more seen the gentle loving countenance of his mother, and felt her +tender, tearful caress, known that noble-minded Rose, and had a glimpse +of those pretty little sisters, there was such a yearning for them +through his whole being, that it seemed to him as if he might as well die +as continue to be cast up and down the world far from them. + +Rose felt as if she was abandoning her mother by going from home at such +a time, when perhaps she should find on her return that she had been +carried away to prison. She could not bear to think of being missed on +such a morning that was likely to ensue, but she well knew that the +greatest good she could do would be to effect the rescue of her brother, +and she could not hesitate a moment. She crowded charge after charge +upon Walter, with many a message for her mother, promise to return as +soon as possible, and entreaty for pardon for leaving her in such a +strait; and Edmund added numerous like parting greetings, with counsel +and entreaties that she would ask for Colonel Enderby’s interference, +which might probably avail to save her from further imprisonment and +sequestration. + +“Good-bye, Walter. In three or four years, if matters are not righted +before that, perhaps, if you can come to me, I may find employment for +you in Prince Rupert’s fleet, or the Duke of York’s troop.” + +“O Edmund, thanks! that would be—” + +Walter had not time to finish, for Rose kissed him, left her love and +duty to her mother with him, bade him remember he was a lady, and then +holding Edmund by the hand, both with their shoes off, stole softly down +the stairs in the dark. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +AFTER pacing up and down Rose’s room till he was tired, Walter sat down +to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest he +should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with his arms +crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell sound +asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and calls of +“Rose! Rose!” were heard outside the locked door. + +He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily +recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the +door. + +He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little +things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother, all +gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and Charles +clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means understood this; and +Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he would not like it. “How +you crowd?” he exclaimed. + +“Mistress Rose,” began Deborah, coming half way up stairs—Lucy let go his +hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he could not +move. “Don’t be troublesome, children,” said he, trying to shake them +off; “can’t you come near one without pulling off one’s hands?” + +“Mistress!” continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and did +not immediately attend, she exclaimed, “Oh, she won’t even look at me! I +thought she had forgiven me.” + +“Forgiven you!” said he, starting. “Stuff and nonsense; what’s all this +about? You were a fool, that’s all.” + +Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young +lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor, and +held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry: “Mistress Rose, +shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young gentlemen, poor +souls?” + +“Yes, of course,” he answered. “No, wait a bit. Only to my mother, I +mean, just at present.” + +“And the soldiers,” continued Deborah—“they’re roaring for breakfast; +what shall I give them?” + +“A halter,” he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and +answered, “What you can—bread, beef, beer—” + +“Bread! beef! beer!” almost shrieked Deborah, “when she knows the colonel +man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two Christmases, +and bread, there’s barely enough for my lady and the children, till we +bake.” + +“Well, whatever there is, then,” said Walter, anxious to get rid of her. + +“I could fry some bacon,” pursued Deborah, “only I don’t know whether to +cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the garden. +Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out of the +frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way.” + +The tinker was too much for poor Walter’s patience, and flinging away +from her, he exclaimed, “Mercy on me, woman, you’ll plague the life out +of me!” + +Poor Deborah stood aghast. “Mistress Rose! what is it? you look wildly, +I declare, and your hood is all I don’t know how. Shall I set it right?” + +“Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine!” cried Walter. + +“Alack! alack!” lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down stairs, +Charlie running after her. “Mistress Rose is gone clean demented with +trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this poor house yet.” + +“There!” said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; “I have held my tongue this +time. O Walter, you don’t do it a bit like Rose!” + +“Where is Rose!” said Eleanor. “How did you get out?” + +“Well!” said Walter, “it is hard that, whatever we do, women and babies +are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found me out, but +mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to guess what I am +telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose is gone with +him—’tis safest not to say where.” + +“But is not she coming back?” asked Eleanor. + +“Oh yes, very soon—to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till she +comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I never was +properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!” + +“Oh don’t stride along so, or they will find you out,” exclaimed Eleanor. + +“And don’t mince and amble, that is worse!” added Lucy. “Oh you will +make me laugh in spite of everything.” + +“Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my—her room, and see nobody!” said +Walter; “you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don’t let Deb drive me +distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the +rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives.” + +“But only tell me, how did you get out?” said Lucy. + +“Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing,” said Walter, shutting +the door in her face. + +“Now, don’t be curious, dear Lucy,” said Eleanor, taking her hand. “We +shall know in time.” + +“I will not, I am not,” said Lucy, magnanimously. “We will not say one +single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything. Come +down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose’s work, for we must be +very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that Edmund is safe.” + +Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained +undisturbed for some time, while Deborah’s unassisted genius was exerted +to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption was from +Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call “Walter,” and then +hastily turning it into “Rose!” He opened, and she said, with tears in +her eyes, “O Walter, Walter, the wicked men are really going to take dear +mother away to prison. She is come down with her cloak and hood on, and +is asking for you—Rose I mean—to wish good-bye. Will you come?” + +“Yes,” said Walter; “and Edmund—” + +“They were just sending up to call him,” said Eleanor; “they will find it +out in—” + +Eleanor’s speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next room. +“Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!” with many confused +exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor stood +frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine caper, +clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in an exulting +whisper, “Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long enough for him!” +then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the hall. His mother, +dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a glance of hope and joy +lighting on her pale features, but her swollen eyelids telling of a night +of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and Charles were by her side, the front +door open, and the horses were being led up and down before it. Walter +and Eleanor hurried up to her, but before they had time to speak, the +rebel captain dashed into the room, exclaiming, “Thou treacherous woman, +thou shalt abye this! Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the +coast. Smite them rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling +of the blood-thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I +say!” + +“Which way, sir?” demanded the corporal. + +“The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport. Or +here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles? Ah, +there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy mother by +telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy wiles, and will +visit them on thee and on thy father’s house, unless thou dost somewhat +to merit forgiveness.” + +“What do you mean?” demanded Walter, swelling with passion. + +“Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of the +righteous are escaped.” + +“You are not wrong there, sir,” said Walter. + +“I tell thee,” said the captain, sternly, “thy joy shall be turned to +mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou and +thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless—” + +Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, “You know you +have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use such +threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!” + +“Ha!” said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady’s manner +of replying. “Is it thus the malignants breed up their daughters, in +insolence as well as deceit?” + +The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and +striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, “Take that, for +giving the lie to a gentleman.” + +“How now?” cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the hood +fell back. “’Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search the house +instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second time.” + +He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw +himself into his mother’s arms, exclaiming, “O mother dear, I bore it as +long as I could.” + +“My dear rash boy!” said she. “But is he safe? No, do not say where. +Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!” and so indeed +her face proved. + +“All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she—but I’ll say +no more, for fear. He left love—duty—Rose left all sorts of greetings, +that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them lumbering about the +house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are welcome—” + +“Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will gain,” +whispered his mother. “Oh this is joy indeed!” + +“Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word,” interposed Lucy; but +there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the captain +returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a soldier, who +was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was completed. + +After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain through +the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went off to scour +the neighbouring country, and examine every village on the coast. + +Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime locked +into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered not to let +Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and Walter were warned +that they were to be carried the next morning to Chichester, to answer +for having aided and abetted the escape of the notorious traitor, Edmund +Woodley. + +It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady +Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust that +the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be safe with +Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels should search the +villages before Edmund had time to escape. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +CAUTIOUSLY stealing down stairs, Rose first, to spy where the rebels +might be, the brother and sister reached the kitchen, where Rose provided +Edmund with a grey cloak, once belonging to a former serving-man, and +after a short search in an old press, brought out various equipments, +saddle, belt, and skirt, with which her mother had once been wont to ride +pillion-fashion. These they carried to the outhouse where Edmund’s horse +had been hidden; and when all was set in order by the light of the +lantern, Rose thought that her brother looked more like a groom and less +like a cavalier than she had once dared to hope. They mounted, and on +they rode, across the downs, through narrow lanes, past farm houses, +dreading that each yelping dog might rouse his master to report which way +they were gone. It was not till day had dawned, and the eastern sky was +red with the approaching sun, that they came down the narrow lane that +led to the little town of Bosham, a low flat place, sloping very +gradually to the water. Here Rose left her brother, advising him to keep +close under the hedge, while she softly opened a little gate, and entered +a garden, long and narrow, with carefully cultivated flowers and +vegetables. At the end was a low cottage; and going up to the door, Rose +knocked gently. The door was presently cautiously opened by a girl a few +years older, very plainly dressed, as if busy in household work. She +started with surprise, then held out her hand, which Rose pressed +affectionately, as she said, “Dear Anne, will you tell your father that I +should be very glad to speak to him?” + +“I will call him,” said Anne; “he is just rising. What is— But I will +not delay.” + +“Oh no, do not, thank you, I cannot tell you now.” Rose was left by Anne +Bathurst standing in a small cleanly-sanded kitchen, with a few wooden +chairs neatly ranged, some trenchers and pewter dishes against the wall, +and nothing like decoration except a beau-pot, as Anne would have called +it, filled with flowers. Here the good doctor and his daughter lived, +and tried to eke out a scanty maintenance by teaching a little school. + +After what was really a very short interval, but which seemed to Rose a +very long one, Dr. Bathurst, a thin, spare, middle-aged man, with a small +black velvet cap over his grey hair, came down the creaking rough wooden +stairs. “My dear child,” he asked, “in what can I help you? Your mother +is well, I trust.” + +“Oh yes, sir!” said Rose; and with reliance and hope, as if she had been +speaking to a father, she explained their distress and perplexity, then +stood in silence while the good doctor, a slow thinker, considered. + +“First, to hide him,” he said; “he may not be here, for this—the old +parson’s house—will be the very first spot they will search. But we will +try. You rode, you say, Mistress Rose; where is your horse?” + +“Ah! there is one difficulty,” said Rose, “Edmund is holding him now; but +where shall we leave him?” + +“Let us come first to see the young gentleman,” said Dr. Bathurst; and +they walked together to the lane where Edmund was waiting, the doctor +explaining by the way that he placed his chief dependence on Harry +Fletcher, a fisherman, thoroughly brave, trustworthy, and loyal, who had +at one time been a sailor, and had seen, and been spoken to by King +Charles himself. He lived in a little lonely hut about half a mile +distant; he was unmarried, and would have been quite alone, but that he +had taken a young nephew, whose father had been killed on the Royalist +side, to live with him, and to be brought up to his fishing business. + +Edmund and Rose both agreed that there could be no better hope of escape +than in trusting to this good man; and as no time was to be lost, they +parted for the present, Rose returning to the cottage to spend the day +with Anne Bathurst, and the clergyman walking with the young cavalier to +the place where the fisherman lived. They led the horse with them for +some distance, then tied him to a gate, a little out of sight, and went +on to the hut, which stood, built of the shingle of the beach, just +beyond the highest reach of the tide, with the boat beside it, and the +nets spread out to dry. + +Before there was time to knock, the door was opened by Harry Fletcher +himself, his open sunburnt face showing honesty and good faith in every +feature. He put his hand respectfully to his woollen cap, and said, with +a sort of smile, as he looked at Edmund, “I see what work you have for +me, your reverence.” + +“You are right, Harry,” said Dr. Bathurst; “this is one of the gentlemen +that fought for his Majesty at Worcester, and if we cannot get him safe +out of the country, with heaven’s blessing, he is as good as a dead man.” + +“Come in, sir,” said Fletcher, “you had best not be seen. There’s no one +here but little Dick, and I’ll answer for him.” + +They came in, and Dr. Bathurst explained Edmund’s circumstances. The +honest fellow looked a little perplexed, but after a moment said, “Well, +I’ll do what in me lies, sir; but ’tis a long way across.” + +“I should tell you, my good man,” said Edmund, “that I have nothing to +repay you with for all the trouble and danger to which you may be +exposing yourself on my behalf. Nothing but my horse, which would only +be bringing suspicion on you.” + +“As to that, your honour,” replied Harry, “I’d never think of waiting for +pay in a matter of life and death. I am glad if I can help off a +gentleman that has been on the King’s side.” + +So the plan was arranged. Edmund was to be disguised in the fisherman’s +clothes, spend the day at his hut, and at night, if the weather served, +Fletcher would row him out to sea, assisted by the little boy, in hopes +of falling in with a French vessel; or, if not, they must pull across to +Havre or Dieppe. The doctor promised to bring Rose at ten o’clock to +meet him on the beach and bid him farewell. As to the horse, Fletcher +sent the little boy to turn it out on the neighbouring down, and hide the +saddle. + +All this arranged, Dr. Bathurst returned to his school; and Rose, dressed +in Anne’s plainest clothes, rested on her bed as long as her anxiety +would allow her, then came down and helped in her household work. It was +well that Rose was thus employed, for in the afternoon they had a great +fright. Two soldiers came knocking violently at the door, exhibiting an +order to search for the escaped prisoner. Rose recognised two of the +party who had been at Forest Lea; but happily they had not seen enough of +her to know her in the coarse blue stuff petticoat that she now wore. +One of them asked who she was, and Anne readily replied, “Oh, a friend +who is helping me;” after which they paid her no further attention. + +Her anxiety for Edmund was of course at its height during this search, +and it was not till the evening that she could gain any intelligence. +Edmund’s danger had indeed been great. Harry Fletcher saw the rebels +coming in time to prepare. He advised his guest not to remain in the +house, as if he wished to avoid observation, but to come out, as if +afraid of nothing. His cavalier dress had been carefully destroyed or +concealed; he wore the fisherman’s rough clothes, and had even sacrificed +his long dark hair, covering his head with one of Harry’s red woollen +caps. He was altogether so different in appearance from what he had been +yesterday, that he ventured forward, and leant whistling against the side +of the boat, while Harry parleyed with the soldiers. Perhaps they +suspected Harry a little, for they insisted on searching his hut, and as +they were coming out, one of them began to tell him of the penalties that +fishermen would incur by favouring the escape of the Royalists. Harry +did not lose countenance, but went on hammering at his boat as if he +cared not at all, till observing that one of the soldiers was looking +hard at Edmund, he called out, “I say, Ned, what’s the use of loitering +there, listening to what’s no concern of yours? Fetch the oar out of yon +shed. I never lit on such a lazy comrade in my life.” + +This seemed to turn away all suspicion, the soldiers left them, and no +further mischance occurred. At night, just as the young moon was +setting, the boat was brought out, and Harry, with little Dick and a +comrade whom he engaged could be trusted, prepared their oars. At the +same time, Dr. Bathurst and Rose came silently to meet them along the +shingly beach. Rose hardly knew her brother in his fisherman’s garb. +The time was short, and their hearts were too full for many words, as +that little party stood together in the light of the crescent moon, the +sea sounding with a low constant ripple, spread out in the grey hazy blue +distance, and here and there the crests of the nearer waves swelling up +and catching the moonlight. + +Edmund and his sister held their hands tightly clasped, loving each +other, if possible, better than ever. He now and then repeated some +loving greeting which she was to bear home; and she tried to restrain her +tears, at the separation she was forced to rejoice in, a parting which +gave no augury of meeting again, the renewal of an exile from which there +was no present hope of return. Harry looked at Dr. Bathurst to intimate +it was time to be gone. The clergyman came close to the brother and +sister, and instead of speaking his own words, used these:— + +“Turn our captivity, O LORD, as the rivers in the south.” + +“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.” + +“He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall +doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him.” + +“Amen,” answered Edmund and Rose; and they loosened their hold of each +other with hearts less sore. Then Edmund bared his head, and knelt down, +and the good clergyman called down a blessing from heaven on him; Harry, +the faithful man who was going to risk himself for him, did the same, and +received the same blessing. There were no more words, the boat pushed +off, and the splash of the oars resounded regularly. + +Rose’s tears came thick, fast, blinding, and she sat down on a block of +wood and wept long and bitterly; then she rose up, and in answer to Dr. +Bathurst’s cheering words, she said, “Yes, I do thank GOD with all my +heart!” + +That night Rose slept at Dr. Bathurst’s, and early in the morning was +rejoiced by the tidings which Harry Fletcher sent little Dick to carry to +the cottage. The voyage had been prosperous, they had fallen in with a +French vessel, and Mr. Edmund Woodley had been safely received on board. + +She was very anxious to return home; and as it was Saturday, and +therefore a holiday at the school, Dr. Bathurst undertook to go with her +and spend the Sunday at Forest Lea. One of the farmers of Bosham helped +them some little way with his harvest cart, but the rest of the journey +had to be performed on foot. It was not till noon that they came out +upon the high road between Chichester and Forest Lea; and they had not +been upon it more than ten minutes, before the sound of horses’ tread was +heard, as if coming from Chichester. Looking round, they saw a gentleman +riding fast, followed by a soldier also on horseback. There was +something in his air that Rose recognised, and as he came nearer she +perceived it was Sylvester Enderby. He was much amazed, when, at the +same moment, he perceived it was Mistress Rose Woodley, and stopping his +horse, and taking off his hat, with great respect both towards her and +the clergyman, he hoped all the family were well in health. + +“Yes, yes, I believe so, thank you,” replied Rose, looking anxiously at +him. + +“I am on my way to Forest Lea,” he said. “I bring the order my father +hoped to obtain from General Cromwell.” + +“The Protection! Oh, thanks! ten thousand thanks!” cried Rose. “Oh! it +may save—But hasten on, pray hasten on, sir. The soldiers are already at +home; I feared she might be already a prisoner at Chichester. Pray go on +and restrain them by your authority. Don’t ask me to explain—you will +understand all when you are there.” + +She prevailed on him to go on, while she, with Dr. Bathurst, more slowly +proceeded up the chalky road which led to the summit of the green hill or +down, covered with short grass, which commanded a view of all the country +round, and whence they would turn off upon the down leading to Forest +Lea. Just as they came to the top, Rose cast an anxious glance in the +direction of her home, and gave a little cry. Sylvester Enderby and his +attendant could be seen speeding down the green slope of the hill; but at +some distance further on, was a little troop of horsemen, coming from the +direction of Forest Lea, the sun now and then flashing on a steel cap or +on the point of a pike. Fast rode on Sylvester, nearer and nearer came +the troop; Rose almost fancied she could discern on one of the horses +something muffled in black that could be no other than her mother. How +she longed for wings to fly to meet her and cheer her heart with the +assurance of Edmund’s safety! How she longed to be on Sylvester’s horse, +as she saw the distance between him and the party fast diminishing! At +length he was close to it, he had mingled with it; and at the same time +Dr. Bathurst and Rose had to mount a slightly rising ground, which for a +time entirely obscured their view. When at length they had reached the +summit of this eminence, the party were standing still, as if in parley; +there was presently a movement, a parting, Rose clasped her hands in +earnestness. The main body continued their course to Chichester, a few +remained stationary. How many? One, two, three—yes, four, or was it +five? and among them the black figure she had watched so anxiously! “She +is safe, she is safe!” cried Rose. “Oh, GOD has been so very good to us, +I wish I could thank Him enough!” + +Leaving the smoother slope to avoid encountering the baffled rebels, Dr. +Bathurst and Rose descended the steep, the good man exerting himself that +her eagerness might not be disappointed. Down they went, sliding on the +slippery green banks, helping themselves with the doctor’s trusty staff, +taking a short run at the lowest and steepest part of each, creeping down +the rude steps, or rather foot-holes, cut out by the shepherd-boys in the +more perpendicular descents, and fairly sliding or running down the +shorter ones. They saw their friends waiting for them; and a lesser +figure than the rest hastened towards them, scaling the steep slopes with +a good will, precipitancy, and wild hurrahs of exultation, that would not +let them doubt it was Walter, before they could see his form distinctly, +or hear his words. Rose ran headlong down the last green slope, and was +saved from falling by fairly rushing into his arms. + +“Is he safe? I need not ask!” exclaimed Walter. + +“Safe! in a French vessel. And mother?” + +“Safe! well! happy! You saw, you heard! Hurrah! The crop-ears are sent +to the right about; the captain has done mother and me the favour to +forgive us, as a Christian, all that has passed, he says. We are all +going home again as fast as we can, young Enderby and all, to chase out +the two rogues that are quartered on us to afflict poor Deb and the +little ones.” + +By this time Dr. Bathurst had descended, more cautiously, and Walter went +to greet him, and repeat his news. Together they proceeded to meet the +rest; and who can tell the tearful happiness when Rose and her mother +were once more pressed in each other’s arms! + +“My noble girl! under Providence you have saved him!” whispered Lady +Woodley. + +The next evening, in secrecy, with the shutters shut, and the light +screened, the true pastor of Forest Lea gathered the faithful ones of his +flock for a service in the old hall. There knelt many a humble, loyal, +trustful peasant; there was the widowed Dame Ewins, trying to be +comforted, as they told her she ought; there was the lady herself, at +once sorrowful and yet earnestly thankful; there was Sylvester Enderby, +hearing and following the prayers he had been used to in his early +childhood, with a growing feeling that here lay the right and the truth; +there was Deborah, weeping, grieving over her own fault, and almost +heart-broken at the failure of him on whom she had set her warm +affections, yet perhaps in a way made wiser, and taught to trust no +longer to a broken reed, but to look for better things; there were Walter +and Lucy, both humbled and subdued, repenting in earnest of the +misbehaviour each of them had been guilty of. Walter did not show his +contrition much in manner, but it was real, and he proved it by many a +struggle with his self-willed overbearing temper. It was a real +resolution that he took now, and in a spirit of humility, which made him +glad to pray that what was past might be forgiven, and that he might be +helped for the future. That was the first time Walter had ever kept up +his attention through the whole service, but it all came home to him now. + +Each of that little congregation had their own sorrow of heart, their own +prayer and thanksgiving, to pour out in secret; but all could join in one +thank-offering for the safety of the heir of that house; all joined in +one prayer for the rescue of their hunted King, and for the restoration +of their oppressed and afflicted Church. + + * * * * * + +Nine years had passed away, and Forest Lea still stood among the stumps +of its cut-down trees; but one fair long day in early June there was much +that was changed in its aspect. The park was carefully mown and swept; +the shrubs were trained back; the broken windows were repaired; and +within the hall the appearance of everything was still more strikingly +cheerful, as the setting sun looked smilingly in at the western window. +Green boughs filled the hearth, and were suspended round the walls; fresh +branches of young oak leaves, tasselled with the pale green catkins; the +helmets and gauntlets hanging on the wall were each adorned with a spray, +and polished to the brightest; the chairs and benches were ranged round +the long table, covered with a spotless cloth, and bearing in the middle +a large bowl filled with oak boughs, roses, lilac, honey-suckle, and all +the pride of the garden. + +At the head of the table sat, less pale, and her face beaming with deep, +quiet, heartfelt joy, Lady Woodley herself; and near her were Dr. +Bathurst and his happy daughter, who in a few days more were to resume +their abode in his own parsonage. Opposite to her was a dark soldierly +sun-burnt man, on whose countenance toil, weather, and privation had set +their traces, but whose every tone and smile told of the ecstasy of being +once more at home. + +Merry faces were at each side of the table; Walter, grown up into a tall +noble-looking youth of two-and-twenty, particularly courteous and +gracious in demeanour, and most affectionate to his mother; Charles, a +gentle sedate boy of fifteen, so much given to books and gravity, that +his sisters called him their little scholar; Rose, with the same sweet +thoughtful face, active step, and helpful hand, that she had always +possessed, but very pale, and more pensive and grave than became a time +of rejoicing, as if the cares and toils of her youth had taken away her +light heart, and had given her a soft subdued melancholy that was always +the same. She was cheerful when others were cast down and overwhelmed; +but when they were gay, she, though not sorrowful, seemed almost grave, +in spite of her sweet smiles and ready sympathy. Yet Rose was very +happy, no less happy than Eleanor, with her fair, lovely, laughing face, +or— + +“But where is Lucy?” Edmund asked, as he saw her chair vacant. + +“Lucy?” said Rose; “she will come in a moment. She is going to bring in +the dish you especially ordered, and which Deborah wonders at.” + +“Good, faithful Deborah!” said Edmund. “Did she never find a second +love?” + +“Oh no, never,” said Eleanor. “She says she has seen enough of men in +her time.” + +“She is grown sharper than ever,” said Walter, “now she is Mistress +Housekeeper Deborah; I shall pity the poor maidens under her.” + +“She will always be kind in the main,” rejoined Rose. + +“And did you ever hear what became of that precious sweetheart of hers?” +asked Edmund. + +“Hanged for sheep stealing,” replied Walter, “according to the report of +Sylvester Enderby. But hush, for enter—” + +There entered Lucy, smiling and blushing, her dark hair decorated with +the spray of oak, and her hands supporting a great pewter dish, in which +stood a noble pie, of pale-brown, well-baked crust, garnished with many a +pair of little claws, showing what were the contents. She set it down in +the middle of the table, just opposite to Walter. The grace was said, +the supper began, and great was the merriment when Walter, raising a +whole pigeon on his fork, begged to know if Rose had appetite enough for +it, and if she still possessed the spirit of a wolf. “And,” said he, as +they finished, “now Rose will never gainsay me more when I sing— + + “For forty years our Royal throne + Has been his father’s and his own, + Nor is there anyone but he + With right can there a sharer be. + For who better may + The right sceptre sway, + Than he whose right it is to reign? + Then look for no peace, + For the war will never cease + Till the King enjoys his own again. + + “Then far upon the distant hill + My hope has cast her anchor still, + Until I saw the peaceful dove + Bring home the branch I dearly love. + And there did I wait + Till the waters abate + That did surround my swimming brain; + For rejoice could never I + Till I heard the joyful cry + That the King enjoys his own again!” + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIGEON PIE*** + + +******* This file should be named 2606-0.txt or 2606-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/6/0/2606 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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