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?”