Chapter Ten.Captain Miles.Fred’s way across the fields to the Manor was among sweet autumn scents, and with moth and bird taking his attention at almost every step.The white owl was out, with its peculiar grating cry; so was the tawny owl, breaking forth into its loud hail—hoi-hoi-hoi! Skimming about the oak-trees he saw the nightjars again, every swoop meaning death to some unfortunate moth or beetle.But all these objects were too familiar to call for more than a passing glance as the boy hurried on. Down in the hollows the mists were gathering and floating a little way above the ground, as if there were a fire near, while far away in the east a bright planet burned like silver opposite to the warm glow left in the west.“Hurrah! there we are,” cried Fred, as he topped the last hill, and looked down at the lights which showed where home lay; and he was not long in getting over the ground, almost quicker than he was satisfied with, for he was making his plans for the next morning respecting the discovery of the entrance to the passage.For the whole of the incidents in connection with the secret chamber had thoroughly excited him, and he felt as if he could not rest till he had found out everything about the place.To his great surprise, as he entered the house, he found that supper was not begun.“Been waiting for me, mother?” he cried to the calm, sweet-faced lady seated working by the light of rather a dim candle.“No, Fred,” she said, smiling gravely, as she drew him down and kissed his brow.“Because I had mine with Scar. Where’s father?”“In the library. He has a gentleman with him.”“Gentleman?”“Yes; he has come from Bristol to see your father on business.”“Oh!” said Fred, carelessly; and he sat down and rested his head upon his hand.“Does your head ache, my boy?” asked his mother.“Head? No, mother. I was only thinking,” said the boy, as his mother’s words brought him back from wandering in the water-floored passage.“Thinking of your studies?”Fred started a little, for his studies had been rather neglected of late.“No, mother, only of a hunt Scar and I had in the Hall woods to-day.”It was in the boy’s heart to tell his mother all that had passed, and their discovery from beginning to end, but he argued, “If I do, it will not be a secret any longer.”There was a pause.“Father said that a well-intentioned boy would have no secrets from his father and mother, and that they should be always looked upon as his best friends. But it isn’t mine altogether,” argued Fred, after another very long pause; “and I’ve no business to tell Scar’s secret to any one till he has told it to his own father and mother; and, besides, as it’s a private place, they would not like any one to know about it, and—”“Yes, Forrester, we may throw away all compunction now,” said a loud, firm voice; and Fred rose from his seat as his father entered in company with a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose grizzled, slightly curly hair was cut very close to his head, and whose eyes seemed to pierce the boy, as he gave him a sternly searching look. He had a stiff, military bearing, and he did not walk down the long low room, but seemed to march rather awkwardly, as if he had been riding a great deal.He nodded familiarly to Mistress Forrester, who looked at him in rather a troubled way, as he marched straight to Fred, slapped him sharply on the shoulder, and gripped it so hard as to give him acute pain. But the boy did not flinch, only set his teeth hard, knit his brow, and gazed resentfully in the visitor’s dark eyes, which seemed full of malice and enjoyment in the pain he was giving.“So this is Fred, is it?” he said in a harsh voice, which sounded as if he was ordering Colonel Forrester to answer.“Yes, sir,” said Mistress Forrester, with dignity, “this is our son;” and she looked wonderfully like her boy in the resentful glance she darted at her guest, for she could read Fred’s suffering.“Hah! made of the right stuff, like his father, Mistress Forrester. Did that hurt you, my boy?”“Of course it did,” said Fred, sharply.“Then why didn’t you cry out or flinch, eh?”This was accompanied by a tighter grip, which seemed as if the stranger’s fingers were made of iron.The grip was but momentary, and the boy stood like a rock.“Well,” said the stranger again, “why didn’t you cry out?”“Because I would not,” replied the boy, frowning.“Shake hands.”Fred tried to hold back, but the command was so imperious, and the firm, sinewy hand before his face seemed to draw him, and he laid his own within it, to feel the fingers close in a warm but gentle grasp, the pressure being firm and kindly; and in place of the fierce look a pleasant, winning expression came into the visitor’s countenance, while the left hand was now clapped upon the boy’s shoulder, and closed in a pressure as agreeable as the other was harsh.“Glad to know you, my lad. That’s frank and manly of you. The right stuff in him, Mistress Forrester. He’ll make a good man, colonel. Well?”“I didn’t speak, sir,” said Fred, in answer to the question and look.“That’s right, too. Don’t be in too great a hurry to speak,” said the visitor; and somehow, to his own astonishment, Fred felt himself drawn toward this imperious personage, who seemed to take command of every one in the place. “Well, Forrester, you’ll make a soldier of him.”“I—”The hesitatingly spoken pronoun came from Mistress Forrester, who seemed checked by the guest’s quick look of reproof.“I had not decided yet,” said Colonel Forrester, gravely; and Fred noticed that his father seemed to have suddenly grown rigid and stern in manner and tone of voice. “What do you say, Fred? should you like to be a soldier?”“Yes, father; like you have been.”“No, no, Fred, my boy!” cried his mother.“Madam,” said their guest, “ladies do not always understand Latin, but a certain Roman poet called Horace once said, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori’. Let me modify it by saying, ‘to offer in time of need to die for your country.’ It does not follow that a man who fights for his home and liberty dies. Good lad. Be a soldier.”“I will, sir,” said Fred, firmly. “Father didn’t die, mother.”“No, nor you shall not, my boy. There, now, we know one another, and I hope we shall become well-tried friends.”“But I don’t know you yet, sir. You have not told me your name.”The visitor clapped Fred on the shoulder again, and there was a merry, kindly light in his eyes as he cried—“Come, I like this, Forrester. Your Coombeland boys are the genuine, frank English stuff. Fred, my lad, I like your out-spoken ways. From some lads it would have been insolence, but from you it seems sturdy, honest independence. You may know me for the present, my boy, as Captain Miles.”“Miles, a soldier,” said Fred to himself but the visitor heard him.“Right,” he cried. “Miles, a soldier. Mistress Forrester, I congratulate you on your home and surroundings. And now, pardon my frankness, I have travelled far to-day and I journey far to-morrow, I am a-hungered and a-thirst, madam; and afterwards, as your good husband and tried soldier and I have done our business, I shall be glad to press a pleasant west-country bed.”With winning courtesy, but at the same time with a half-shrinking, troubled look in her eyes, Mistress Forrester led the way to the table, and as soon as he was seated the guest seemed to cast off his imperious military manner, and become the courtly scholarly gentleman who had read much, travelled far, and thought deeply. So pleasant and interesting was his conversation that Fred grew more and more attracted by him, and listened with wide-open eyes to all he said.Only once did the business-like, firm and decisive officer appear after supper, when he suddenly apologised and rose.“I have an old-fashioned way of looking after my best friends, Mistress Forrester,” he said. “At the present moment, on this journey, my horse is one of my best friends. You will excuse my visiting him?”“If you will trust me, Captain Miles,” said Colonel Forrester, placing some emphasis on the name, “I can promise you that your good horse has everything that will help him to make a long journey to-morrow.”“I do trust you, Forrester,” said the visitor, smiling. “I would I had ten men like you, and as worthy of trust.”As he spoke, he subsided into his chair, but Fred was already on his legs.“I’ll go and see after the horse,” he said.The visitor gave him a kindly approving nod, and the boy left the room.“How old is he, Mistress Forrester?” he said.“Sixteen,” replied the hostess, sadly.“Just on the dawn of manhood, madam. Hah, Forrester, old friend, it is a grand thing to be sixteen, and with life before you. God bless all boys! How little they know how grand a thing it is to be young!”There was silence after this speech—a silence which lasted till Fred entered eagerly.“The horse is quite right, sir,” he cried.“How do you know, boy?”“How do I know, sir? Because he is eating his corn so well, and feels so comfortable and cool. I say—”“Well?”“He’s a fine horse.”“Yes. So he is. A splendid fellow. There, my kind hosts, I’ll say good night. I would I had come on another mission, but it is only duty, and you must forgive me. I shall be off at dawn. Good night, madam. Good night, Forrester. I knew I could depend on you. Good night, my boy. You’ll forgive me for pinching your shoulder so hard. It was to try your mettle.”“Oh, I didn’t mind,” cried Fred. “Good night, sir; and when I do become a soldier, will you have me in your regiment?”“I will,” thundered out the guest. “Forrester, that’s a bargain. Good night.”There was silence in the room as the two men went out together; and as soon as the door was closed, Mistress Forrester dropped into the nearest chair, and covered her face with her hands.“Mother, dear mother,” cried Fred, going on his knees before her, and throwing his arms about her neck, “you are crying because I said I would be a soldier!”“No, my boy,” she said, looking up, “I was weeping for the evil days in store for us all. Heaven be with us, and guide us all aright. Good night, my boy, good night.”Fred kissed her tenderly, and suffered her to lead him to the door on his way to his room.He passed his father on the stairs, and there was a troubled look in the colonel’s eyes, as he bade his son good night.A quarter of an hour after, Fred was in bed dreaming of secret passages, and the captain helping him to fight men in rusty armour after they had won their way to the inner chamber where the old arms lay; and then it seemed to him that he heard the trampling of horses, and he woke to find it was morning, and the sun shining into his room.
Fred’s way across the fields to the Manor was among sweet autumn scents, and with moth and bird taking his attention at almost every step.
The white owl was out, with its peculiar grating cry; so was the tawny owl, breaking forth into its loud hail—hoi-hoi-hoi! Skimming about the oak-trees he saw the nightjars again, every swoop meaning death to some unfortunate moth or beetle.
But all these objects were too familiar to call for more than a passing glance as the boy hurried on. Down in the hollows the mists were gathering and floating a little way above the ground, as if there were a fire near, while far away in the east a bright planet burned like silver opposite to the warm glow left in the west.
“Hurrah! there we are,” cried Fred, as he topped the last hill, and looked down at the lights which showed where home lay; and he was not long in getting over the ground, almost quicker than he was satisfied with, for he was making his plans for the next morning respecting the discovery of the entrance to the passage.
For the whole of the incidents in connection with the secret chamber had thoroughly excited him, and he felt as if he could not rest till he had found out everything about the place.
To his great surprise, as he entered the house, he found that supper was not begun.
“Been waiting for me, mother?” he cried to the calm, sweet-faced lady seated working by the light of rather a dim candle.
“No, Fred,” she said, smiling gravely, as she drew him down and kissed his brow.
“Because I had mine with Scar. Where’s father?”
“In the library. He has a gentleman with him.”
“Gentleman?”
“Yes; he has come from Bristol to see your father on business.”
“Oh!” said Fred, carelessly; and he sat down and rested his head upon his hand.
“Does your head ache, my boy?” asked his mother.
“Head? No, mother. I was only thinking,” said the boy, as his mother’s words brought him back from wandering in the water-floored passage.
“Thinking of your studies?”
Fred started a little, for his studies had been rather neglected of late.
“No, mother, only of a hunt Scar and I had in the Hall woods to-day.”
It was in the boy’s heart to tell his mother all that had passed, and their discovery from beginning to end, but he argued, “If I do, it will not be a secret any longer.”
There was a pause.
“Father said that a well-intentioned boy would have no secrets from his father and mother, and that they should be always looked upon as his best friends. But it isn’t mine altogether,” argued Fred, after another very long pause; “and I’ve no business to tell Scar’s secret to any one till he has told it to his own father and mother; and, besides, as it’s a private place, they would not like any one to know about it, and—”
“Yes, Forrester, we may throw away all compunction now,” said a loud, firm voice; and Fred rose from his seat as his father entered in company with a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose grizzled, slightly curly hair was cut very close to his head, and whose eyes seemed to pierce the boy, as he gave him a sternly searching look. He had a stiff, military bearing, and he did not walk down the long low room, but seemed to march rather awkwardly, as if he had been riding a great deal.
He nodded familiarly to Mistress Forrester, who looked at him in rather a troubled way, as he marched straight to Fred, slapped him sharply on the shoulder, and gripped it so hard as to give him acute pain. But the boy did not flinch, only set his teeth hard, knit his brow, and gazed resentfully in the visitor’s dark eyes, which seemed full of malice and enjoyment in the pain he was giving.
“So this is Fred, is it?” he said in a harsh voice, which sounded as if he was ordering Colonel Forrester to answer.
“Yes, sir,” said Mistress Forrester, with dignity, “this is our son;” and she looked wonderfully like her boy in the resentful glance she darted at her guest, for she could read Fred’s suffering.
“Hah! made of the right stuff, like his father, Mistress Forrester. Did that hurt you, my boy?”
“Of course it did,” said Fred, sharply.
“Then why didn’t you cry out or flinch, eh?”
This was accompanied by a tighter grip, which seemed as if the stranger’s fingers were made of iron.
The grip was but momentary, and the boy stood like a rock.
“Well,” said the stranger again, “why didn’t you cry out?”
“Because I would not,” replied the boy, frowning.
“Shake hands.”
Fred tried to hold back, but the command was so imperious, and the firm, sinewy hand before his face seemed to draw him, and he laid his own within it, to feel the fingers close in a warm but gentle grasp, the pressure being firm and kindly; and in place of the fierce look a pleasant, winning expression came into the visitor’s countenance, while the left hand was now clapped upon the boy’s shoulder, and closed in a pressure as agreeable as the other was harsh.
“Glad to know you, my lad. That’s frank and manly of you. The right stuff in him, Mistress Forrester. He’ll make a good man, colonel. Well?”
“I didn’t speak, sir,” said Fred, in answer to the question and look.
“That’s right, too. Don’t be in too great a hurry to speak,” said the visitor; and somehow, to his own astonishment, Fred felt himself drawn toward this imperious personage, who seemed to take command of every one in the place. “Well, Forrester, you’ll make a soldier of him.”
“I—”
The hesitatingly spoken pronoun came from Mistress Forrester, who seemed checked by the guest’s quick look of reproof.
“I had not decided yet,” said Colonel Forrester, gravely; and Fred noticed that his father seemed to have suddenly grown rigid and stern in manner and tone of voice. “What do you say, Fred? should you like to be a soldier?”
“Yes, father; like you have been.”
“No, no, Fred, my boy!” cried his mother.
“Madam,” said their guest, “ladies do not always understand Latin, but a certain Roman poet called Horace once said, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori’. Let me modify it by saying, ‘to offer in time of need to die for your country.’ It does not follow that a man who fights for his home and liberty dies. Good lad. Be a soldier.”
“I will, sir,” said Fred, firmly. “Father didn’t die, mother.”
“No, nor you shall not, my boy. There, now, we know one another, and I hope we shall become well-tried friends.”
“But I don’t know you yet, sir. You have not told me your name.”
The visitor clapped Fred on the shoulder again, and there was a merry, kindly light in his eyes as he cried—
“Come, I like this, Forrester. Your Coombeland boys are the genuine, frank English stuff. Fred, my lad, I like your out-spoken ways. From some lads it would have been insolence, but from you it seems sturdy, honest independence. You may know me for the present, my boy, as Captain Miles.”
“Miles, a soldier,” said Fred to himself but the visitor heard him.
“Right,” he cried. “Miles, a soldier. Mistress Forrester, I congratulate you on your home and surroundings. And now, pardon my frankness, I have travelled far to-day and I journey far to-morrow, I am a-hungered and a-thirst, madam; and afterwards, as your good husband and tried soldier and I have done our business, I shall be glad to press a pleasant west-country bed.”
With winning courtesy, but at the same time with a half-shrinking, troubled look in her eyes, Mistress Forrester led the way to the table, and as soon as he was seated the guest seemed to cast off his imperious military manner, and become the courtly scholarly gentleman who had read much, travelled far, and thought deeply. So pleasant and interesting was his conversation that Fred grew more and more attracted by him, and listened with wide-open eyes to all he said.
Only once did the business-like, firm and decisive officer appear after supper, when he suddenly apologised and rose.
“I have an old-fashioned way of looking after my best friends, Mistress Forrester,” he said. “At the present moment, on this journey, my horse is one of my best friends. You will excuse my visiting him?”
“If you will trust me, Captain Miles,” said Colonel Forrester, placing some emphasis on the name, “I can promise you that your good horse has everything that will help him to make a long journey to-morrow.”
“I do trust you, Forrester,” said the visitor, smiling. “I would I had ten men like you, and as worthy of trust.”
As he spoke, he subsided into his chair, but Fred was already on his legs.
“I’ll go and see after the horse,” he said.
The visitor gave him a kindly approving nod, and the boy left the room.
“How old is he, Mistress Forrester?” he said.
“Sixteen,” replied the hostess, sadly.
“Just on the dawn of manhood, madam. Hah, Forrester, old friend, it is a grand thing to be sixteen, and with life before you. God bless all boys! How little they know how grand a thing it is to be young!”
There was silence after this speech—a silence which lasted till Fred entered eagerly.
“The horse is quite right, sir,” he cried.
“How do you know, boy?”
“How do I know, sir? Because he is eating his corn so well, and feels so comfortable and cool. I say—”
“Well?”
“He’s a fine horse.”
“Yes. So he is. A splendid fellow. There, my kind hosts, I’ll say good night. I would I had come on another mission, but it is only duty, and you must forgive me. I shall be off at dawn. Good night, madam. Good night, Forrester. I knew I could depend on you. Good night, my boy. You’ll forgive me for pinching your shoulder so hard. It was to try your mettle.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind,” cried Fred. “Good night, sir; and when I do become a soldier, will you have me in your regiment?”
“I will,” thundered out the guest. “Forrester, that’s a bargain. Good night.”
There was silence in the room as the two men went out together; and as soon as the door was closed, Mistress Forrester dropped into the nearest chair, and covered her face with her hands.
“Mother, dear mother,” cried Fred, going on his knees before her, and throwing his arms about her neck, “you are crying because I said I would be a soldier!”
“No, my boy,” she said, looking up, “I was weeping for the evil days in store for us all. Heaven be with us, and guide us all aright. Good night, my boy, good night.”
Fred kissed her tenderly, and suffered her to lead him to the door on his way to his room.
He passed his father on the stairs, and there was a troubled look in the colonel’s eyes, as he bade his son good night.
A quarter of an hour after, Fred was in bed dreaming of secret passages, and the captain helping him to fight men in rusty armour after they had won their way to the inner chamber where the old arms lay; and then it seemed to him that he heard the trampling of horses, and he woke to find it was morning, and the sun shining into his room.
Chapter Eleven.Nat is very much in the Way.Fred lay for some few moments thinking over his vivid dream and unable for a time to realise that he had been fast asleep. That was the morning sunshine sure enough, and this was his room; but his head felt in a whirl, and as if it was mixed up with some puzzle.But that was not the coinage of his brain that distantpit-patof a horse’s hoofs upon the hard road; and springing out of bed, he ran to the window, threw it open, and looked out, straining his neck to get a glimpse of the distant way.For a few moments he could see nothing. Then there came into sight, rising out of a hollow, the head and broad shoulders of a horseman. As he progressed, more and more of his figure appealed as he ascended a slope, till at last the horse was in full view, but directly afterwards they seemed to top the ascent and begin to go down on the other side, with the sun flashing from stirrup and buckle, and from the hilt of the rider’s sword. There were other bright flashes too all around, but they were from the dewdrops which spangled grass and leaf, as the rider seemed to grow shorter, his horse disappearing, till only his head and shoulders appeared above the ridge, and then they passed away, and thepit-patof the horse’s hoofs died out.“Gone!” said Fred, thoughtfully. “No! there he is again;” and he strained his eyes to gaze at the tiny distant form of the military-looking man who had made so strong an impression upon him, but he did not become visible; it was only the sound of his horse’s hoofs which were heard for the space of a minute, faint but clear, on the morning air. Then all was silent.“I half like that Captain Miles,” said Fred to himself. “Wish I was going with him. Wonder where he has gone? To Plymouth, perhaps.”Fred began to dress, after hesitating whether he should go to bed again. But the bright morning was so attractive, and after the first application of cold water, he felt a positive eagerness to get out in the fresh air.All the time he was dressing his head was full of his confused dream and the fight in the narrow passage, while the events of the preceding day had so impressed him that he hurried downstairs, glanced at the hall clock, which pointed to a quarter to five, and, taking his hat, ran out, and down the garden.“Morning, Master Fred,” came from behind the hedge; and it was so sudden that the lad jumped.“You, Samson?” he cried. “Yes; I’ve been starting that gen’leman who come yesterday. Had to get up at four and have his horse ready. Going fishing?”“No; only for a walk.”“Over to the Hall?”“Yes, Samson,” replied the lad, impatiently. “Then, if you see that bad brother o’ mine, Master Fred, don’t you speak to him. I’m getting ashamed of him.”“No: he’s getting ashamed of you, Sam,” cried Fred, tauntingly. “What?”“Well, he said so last night.”“Ashamed of me, sir. I should like to see him be ’shamed of me. I’d give him something to be ’shamed about.”“Oh yes, of course,” cried Fred; and he ran on, forgetting all about the gardener in his eagerness to get to the lake.The birds were twittering and singing in the woods and coppices, the soft, silvery mists were rising from the hollow, and each broad fern frond glistened as if set with tiny jewels of every prismatic hue. Away too in the distance, as he topped a hill, one corner of the Hall lake could be seen glistening like burnished silver set in a frame of vivid green.But these were too common objects to take the boy’s attention as he walked up the hill slope and trotted down the other side, for he was intent upon one thing only, a faint indication of which was given by his exclaiming once—“How surprised old Scar will be!”It was not to go under his window and rouse Scar by throwing pebbles up at the lattice-pane, for instead of taking the dewy path round, by the high trees, which would have taken him at once to the house, Fred ran down the sharp slope into the little coombe, through which ran off the surplus waters of the lake. Here there was a clump of alders growing amongst the sandstone rocks, and three of the larger trees had been cut down to act as posts, to one of which the old flat-bottomed boat was fastened by a chain.The boy had about fifty yards to go through this clump of alders, a little winding path trampled by the cattle forming his way; and along this he turned, so as to get to the opening where the trees had been cut down, and the boat lay.But before he was three-parts of the way through, he heard a peculiar scraping sound, followed by a splash, and then a repetition, and another repetition, in regular rhythm and measure.Fred stopped short, listening. “How tiresome!” he muttered. “Scar must have told old Nat to bale her out before he went to bed. Wonder how long he’ll be?” Evidently intending to wait until the man whom he heard was gone, Fred crept softly along, listening to the rhythmic splash of water, till he could peer through the thin growth at the person bailing out the boat.No sooner did he catch sight of him than he dashed forward to where Scarlett sat on the edge of the old punt wielding a shallow iron pot.“Fred!”“Scar!”“Why, what brought you over so soon?”“What are you doing there?”“Baling.”“Yes; and you were going over yonder without me?”Scarlett sat tapping the gunwale of the boat with the pot, having ceased to bale.“Yes, I knew you were,” continued Fred, in an altered tone, as the other remained silent.“Come, now, confess.”“I don’t know that I need call it confessing,” said Scarlett, throwing back his head and speaking haughtily. “It’s our boat, and our lake, and that place is all ours.”“Yes; but we were schoolfellows, and we found it together.”Scarlett winced a little at this. “And you were going to steal a march and find it all out by yourself. I do call it mean,” cried Fred, angrily. “I didn’t think you’d do such a thing, Scar, and—”“You thought just the same,” said Scarlett, quickly, “and meant to take the boat before I was up, and that’s why you are here.”He looked sharply at Fred, who thrust his hands in his pockets, and suddenly became interested in the movements of a bald coot, which was paddling in and out among the reeds which grew right into the lake.“There now, you’re found out too, and you’re as bad as I am,” cried Scarlett.“Well, I only meant it as a surprise. Is she very leaky?”Scarlett seemed disposed to hold off, but the interest of the project in hand swept all that away, and he replied sociably enough.“No; she has been so deep in the water and got so soaked, that I don’t think much comes in.”“Bale away, then,” cried Fred.“Suppose you have a turn. I’m getting hot.”Fred required no further hint, but stripping off his jerkin and rolling up his sleeves, he was soon at work scooping up the water and sending it flying and sparkling in the morning sunshine, while Scarlett sat and chatted.“I didn’t care to ask Nat to clean out the boat,” he said, “for he’s such an inquisitive fellow. He’d have wanted to know what I was going to do, and if I hadn’t told him—”“I know,” said Fred, making a momentary iris as he sent the water flying, “he’d have hidden away and watched you.”“Yes; sure to.”“And Samson’s just the same. I have to cheat him sometimes. But it didn’t matter cheating old Nat. What I think was so shabby was trying to cheat me.”Scarlett was silent for a minute.“I should have told you afterwards,” he said. “Here, let me have a turn now.”“No; I shall finish,” replied Fred, wielding the old pot with increased energy, “just to show you how forgiving I am.”“Ah! but you’re found out too,” cried Scarlett.“Well, I didn’t mean any harm,” cried Fred, with a droll look, “and should have told you afterwards.”“Yes; but—”“Look here,” cried Fred, “you say another word about it, and I’ll throw all the water over you.”“Let’s make haste, then, and go and find the way in before breakfast.”For answer Fred scooped away at such a rate that he had soon cleared the boat down to the little well-like hollow arranged to catch the drainings.“Now then,” he cried, “I’m tired. You row.”Scarlett unhooked the chain, gave the boat a good thrust, seized the oars, and in ten minutes more they were coasting along as near to the bank as the overhanging trees and projecting bushes would allow.For quite half an hour they searched to and fro, but without result. There were plenty of likely looking places overgrown with ivy, and sheltered by the willows, alders, and birches, but not one showed a sign of having been built up with rough blocks of stone, or presented a hole such as they had seen from the inside.“We shall never find it like this,” said Fred, at last.“How are we to find it, then? And we must go soon, as some one will see us, and wonder what we are doing.”“Oh no; they’ll only think we are fishing,” said Fred. “I’ll tell you how to find it.”“How?”“We must cut a long willow, and strip it all but the leaves on the end.”“What for?”“Then one of us must go down the opening yonder, wade along the passage, poke the stick out through the hole, and shout.”“Yes; that would do it nicely,” said Scarlett. “But who’s to do it?”“Let’s both go.”“Then we should be no wiser, because there would be no one out here to listen.”“No,” said Fred; and then, “Let’s have another try.”They had another try—a long and careful search, but the entrance had been too cunningly masked.“It’s of no use,” said Scarlett, drawing in the oars. “One of us must go.”Silence. And Fred seemed to be deeply interested in the proceedings of a great flap-winged heron which had alighted on the further shore.“Will you go, Fred?” said Scarlett, at last.“No. It’s your place, and you ought to go.”“Yes,” said Scarlett, slowly; “I suppose I ought.”“No, no, I’ll go,” cried Fred, eagerly. “I will not be so shabby. Let’s cut a stick, and then set me ashore.”Scarlett nodded, and resuming the rowing, ran the boat’s head ashore, close to a clump of willows. Then, taking out his knife, he hacked off a rod about ten feet long, trimmed off the twigs and leaves, all but a patch on the end, and, before his companion could realise what he intended, he had leaped ashore, given the boat a thrust, and run up the bank.“No, no,” cried Fred. “I’ll go.”“It’s my place, and I shall go myself,” replied his companion. “Take the oars and row gently along. I don’t think I shall mind. If I do, I’ll come back and you shall go.”“But you have no light.”“No,” said Scarlett, gravely; “but I know the way now, and that there’s no danger, so I shall not care.” Before Fred could offer further remonstrance, Scarlett had run into the nearest patch of woodland and disappeared.“I don’t like letting him go,” muttered Fred, as he gazed at the spot where his companion had disappeared. “It seems as if I were a coward. Perhaps I am, for it does seem shivery work to do. Never mind, I’ll go next time,” he added quickly; and, taking the oars, he sat down where his companion had vacated the seat, and began to row slowly back to where he fancied the entrance must be.Then followed so long a period of waiting that the boy grew anxious, and after rowing to and fro for some time outside the thick growth which edged that portion of the lake, he made up his mind that something must be wrong, and determined to land and go in search of Scarlett.“How horrible if he has waded into a deep place, and gone down!” he muttered, as he bent over the oars, to pull with all his might, when he fancied he heard a distant hail.He ceased rowing, and the water rippled about beneath the front as he listened.“Where are you?” he cried.“Here,” came from apparently a great distance.“Where’s here?”“Here, here, here. Can’t you see?”The voice seemed to come from far away, and he drew in the oars, and stood up in the boat to look from side to side, searching eagerly, and trying to pierce the bushes and overhanging ivy, which screened the rocky shore.“Here! Hoy!”Fred faced round now, and looked across the lake, to see Nat standing on the farther shore.“What are you doing? Got any?” shouted Nat.Fred put his hands to the sides of his mouth, and shouted back.“No! not yet.”“Where’s Master Scarlett?”“Ashore.”“Oh!”“He thinks we’ve been setting eel-lines,” muttered Fred, as, to his great annoyance, he saw the gardener seat himself on the distant bank and watch him.“Oh, what a bother!” he cried, with an impatient stamp on the bottom of the boat. “Well, he must think so, then.”To induce the spy upon his proceedings to go on in this belief, Fred stooped down in the boat, and picked up and threw in an imaginary line. After which, he took up one oar, and, standing upright, began to paddle the boat in toward the bank, where a large birch drooped over and dipped its delicate sprays of leaves almost into the surface of the lake.“I’ll moor her fast here,” thought Fred, “and go ashore and warn Scar. We can’t do any more, with that fellow watching.”To this end, he paddled the boat close to the silver trunk of the birch, whose roots ran down into the clear water, forming quite a delicate fringe, amongst which the tiny perch loved to play.He was in the act of fastening the chain as he stood up, and had passed it round one of the lower boughs, being fairly well screened now from Nat’s observation by the delicate spray, when a fly seemed to tickle his ear.Fred struck at it viciously without looking round, and went on fastening the chain, when the fly again seemed to tickle him, this time low down in the nape of his neck.“Get out! Will you?” he cried: and he turned, sharply struck at the fly, and caught—The end of the willow rod with its tuft of leaves.“Oh!” he ejaculated, as the tug he gave at the wand was replied to by another at the end; and as he looked, he saw that it came from out of a dense mass of twiggy alder above his head, where a quantity of ivy grew.“Scar,” he cried, giving the wand a shake, “are you there?”“Yes,” came in a faint whisper that sounded very hollow and strange. “Didn’t you hear me shout!”“No.”“I was afraid to cry too loud, because it goes backward so, rumbling all along the passage. Whereabouts is it?”“By the big birch-tree; just where we thought it couldn’t be.”“Eh? Speak up.”“By the big birch-tree; just where we thought it couldn’t be; and I can’t speak louder, because Nat’s over the other side, watching.”“Can he see you now?”“No. But are you all right!”“Yes.”“You’re higher up than I thought. Stop till I push the boat closer, and I’ll see if I can find any loose stones.”“Stop a minute,” said Scarlett, in the same smothered voice, which sounded faint as a whisper. “Let me see if I can move any of them.”Fred waited, and, peering through the twigs, he could see that Nat was patiently waiting for him to come in sight again.“Some of them seem loose,” came from within; “but I can’t get them out.”“Don’t stop to try now,” said Fred. “Let’s come another time; we can’t make any mistake, now. Oh!”The cry was involuntary, for all at once a patch of ivy just above the level of the water seemed to be driven outward, and several stones about the size of his head fell with a splash down among the alder roots, followed by a heavy gush of water, which poured forth fiercely into the woody edge of the lake, and continued to pour as if a fresh lake was discharging its waters into the old one.So near was the edge of the boat, that the water nearly rushed in; but though it was afterwards slightly drawn toward it, a snatch at a bough drew it back, and Fred stood gazing wonderingly at the rush which foamed in.Then he looked across the lake, wondering whether Nat could hear and see. But he was too far distant to see more than a little ebullition which might have been caused by the movement of the oars and boat, for the water that poured in was discharged in quite a dense thicket of moisture-loving growth.“I say, Scar,” cried Fred, at last, alarmed by the silence, and after listening to the surging noise of the water for a few minutes.“Yes.”“Are you all safe?”“Yes, of course.”“What does all this water mean?”“I was pushing against the wall high up, and slipped, and my knees struck against the bottom, driving out some of the stones.”“Then— Stop a minute; Nat’s going away.”The lad held some of the twigs aside, and could see that the gardener was moving off, apparently tired of waiting, and, once he was out of sight, there was no occasion to be so particular about shouting, and a conversation was painfully carried on above the rushing noise of the water.“I can’t understand it, Scar,” cried Fred. “There must be a stream running through that passage.”There was no reply; but the willow wand was withdrawn, and the next minute it appeared through the hole where the water was rushing.“I say, Scar.”“Yes.”“Haven’t you done some harm, and oughtn’t we to let them know up at the house?”“I don’t know. I couldn’t help it.”“I thought the passage was partly under the water,” said Fred to himself, “and so it ran in; but it couldn’t have been meant to be wet like that. I say, Scar,” he cried aloud, “whereabouts is the bottom where your feet are?”“Eh?”“I say, where are your feet?”“Where this stick is,” came back more clearly now.And it suddenly struck Fred that the water was not pouring out in quite so great a volume. But for the moment he could not see the stick for the foam. Directly after, though, he made out where it was being moved to and fro, exactly on a level with the surface of the lake.“I’m coming back now,” cried Scarlett; and his voice was plainly heard, after which Fred sat watching the water, rapidly draining away with less and less violence, till he heard a shout, answered it, and soon after Scarlett came along, forcing his way through the hazels till he reached the edge of the lake, and, by the help of one of the boughs of the birch, swung himself lightly into the boat, and began looking curiously at the opening, nearly hidden by the growth, through which the water still poured.“No wonder we could not find the place,” he said, as he at once placed the right construction on the presence of the water; “and, do you know, all that could not have come from the lake.”“Where could it have come from, then?”“It must have drained in by degrees from the sides in wet weather, and the stones at the end dammed it up, so that it couldn’t get away.”“Nonsense! The water would have pushed the stones down.”“It did, as soon as I pushed too. The wall was only just strong enough before.”“I tell you it must have run in from the lake.”“It couldn’t, Fred. The bottom of the passage is higher; and when I came out the water was only just over my shoes. By to-morrow you see if it isn’t drained right out. There, you see, it has pretty well stopped now.”Scarlett was quite right, for the water was now flowing out silently, and in very small volume.“Well, we will not argue about it,” said Fred. “Perhaps you’re right, but I don’t think you are. Anyhow, we’ve found the way in, and you couldn’t have done it without me.”“No; nor you without me, Fred.”“No; and I say— Oh!”“What’s the matter?”“Don’t I want my breakfast.”“Yes; it must be nearly time. Come up and have some with me.”Fred shook his head.“No,” he said. “Your father did not seem to want me there last night.”“Nonsense!”“Oh no, it was not. You come home with me. What’s that?”Scarlett listened, for there was a rustling and crashing noise, as of some animal forcing its way down through the hazel stubs to get to the edge of the lake to drink.They waited breathlessly as the sounds grew nearer, and then stopped. The silence only lasted a minute, and then plainly enough came a familiar voice.“I thought it was just here. Now, where have they got themselves to?”Then the rustling was continued, and Nat came into sight.The boys glanced sharply at the place where the water flowed, but there was nothing now but a feeble trickle, not likely to excite attention.“Oh, there you are, Master Scarlett! Well, how many have you caught?”“Not one, Nat,” cried Fred, sharply.“You don’t put your lines in the right places, lads. Where are they now?”“Not going to tell you,” replied Fred, sharply. “There, hear that? Didn’t some one call?”“No,” cried Nat; “I didn’t hear nobody. Show me where your lines are laid. Aren’t put any down here, have you?”“No; it wouldn’t be any use.”“I should think not. Why, if you hooked an eel, he’d run in and out among the dead wood and roots till your lines would be all tangled together, and you’d lose them.”“Will you come and show us a good place, then, Nat?” said Fred, for Scarlett was a little puzzled as to what was going on.“Yes; I’ll show you,” said the gardener, who, like most of his class, was as much interested in the chance of a little fishing as the boys themselves. So, swinging himself into the boat, he took the oars, and, to the great relief of the two lads, rowed right away towards where a little rivulet entered the lake.“Glad I saw what you were both going to do,” continued Nat. “Only waste of time muddling in there among the wood. You might catch a few perch or an old carp, but that would be about all.”Ten minutes later he ceased rowing in front of the mouth of the rivulet.“There,” he said; “set your lines about here, and you’ll catch as many as you want, and—breakfast-time. Let’s get ashore.”
Fred lay for some few moments thinking over his vivid dream and unable for a time to realise that he had been fast asleep. That was the morning sunshine sure enough, and this was his room; but his head felt in a whirl, and as if it was mixed up with some puzzle.
But that was not the coinage of his brain that distantpit-patof a horse’s hoofs upon the hard road; and springing out of bed, he ran to the window, threw it open, and looked out, straining his neck to get a glimpse of the distant way.
For a few moments he could see nothing. Then there came into sight, rising out of a hollow, the head and broad shoulders of a horseman. As he progressed, more and more of his figure appealed as he ascended a slope, till at last the horse was in full view, but directly afterwards they seemed to top the ascent and begin to go down on the other side, with the sun flashing from stirrup and buckle, and from the hilt of the rider’s sword. There were other bright flashes too all around, but they were from the dewdrops which spangled grass and leaf, as the rider seemed to grow shorter, his horse disappearing, till only his head and shoulders appeared above the ridge, and then they passed away, and thepit-patof the horse’s hoofs died out.
“Gone!” said Fred, thoughtfully. “No! there he is again;” and he strained his eyes to gaze at the tiny distant form of the military-looking man who had made so strong an impression upon him, but he did not become visible; it was only the sound of his horse’s hoofs which were heard for the space of a minute, faint but clear, on the morning air. Then all was silent.
“I half like that Captain Miles,” said Fred to himself. “Wish I was going with him. Wonder where he has gone? To Plymouth, perhaps.”
Fred began to dress, after hesitating whether he should go to bed again. But the bright morning was so attractive, and after the first application of cold water, he felt a positive eagerness to get out in the fresh air.
All the time he was dressing his head was full of his confused dream and the fight in the narrow passage, while the events of the preceding day had so impressed him that he hurried downstairs, glanced at the hall clock, which pointed to a quarter to five, and, taking his hat, ran out, and down the garden.
“Morning, Master Fred,” came from behind the hedge; and it was so sudden that the lad jumped.
“You, Samson?” he cried. “Yes; I’ve been starting that gen’leman who come yesterday. Had to get up at four and have his horse ready. Going fishing?”
“No; only for a walk.”
“Over to the Hall?”
“Yes, Samson,” replied the lad, impatiently. “Then, if you see that bad brother o’ mine, Master Fred, don’t you speak to him. I’m getting ashamed of him.”
“No: he’s getting ashamed of you, Sam,” cried Fred, tauntingly. “What?”
“Well, he said so last night.”
“Ashamed of me, sir. I should like to see him be ’shamed of me. I’d give him something to be ’shamed about.”
“Oh yes, of course,” cried Fred; and he ran on, forgetting all about the gardener in his eagerness to get to the lake.
The birds were twittering and singing in the woods and coppices, the soft, silvery mists were rising from the hollow, and each broad fern frond glistened as if set with tiny jewels of every prismatic hue. Away too in the distance, as he topped a hill, one corner of the Hall lake could be seen glistening like burnished silver set in a frame of vivid green.
But these were too common objects to take the boy’s attention as he walked up the hill slope and trotted down the other side, for he was intent upon one thing only, a faint indication of which was given by his exclaiming once—
“How surprised old Scar will be!”
It was not to go under his window and rouse Scar by throwing pebbles up at the lattice-pane, for instead of taking the dewy path round, by the high trees, which would have taken him at once to the house, Fred ran down the sharp slope into the little coombe, through which ran off the surplus waters of the lake. Here there was a clump of alders growing amongst the sandstone rocks, and three of the larger trees had been cut down to act as posts, to one of which the old flat-bottomed boat was fastened by a chain.
The boy had about fifty yards to go through this clump of alders, a little winding path trampled by the cattle forming his way; and along this he turned, so as to get to the opening where the trees had been cut down, and the boat lay.
But before he was three-parts of the way through, he heard a peculiar scraping sound, followed by a splash, and then a repetition, and another repetition, in regular rhythm and measure.
Fred stopped short, listening. “How tiresome!” he muttered. “Scar must have told old Nat to bale her out before he went to bed. Wonder how long he’ll be?” Evidently intending to wait until the man whom he heard was gone, Fred crept softly along, listening to the rhythmic splash of water, till he could peer through the thin growth at the person bailing out the boat.
No sooner did he catch sight of him than he dashed forward to where Scarlett sat on the edge of the old punt wielding a shallow iron pot.
“Fred!”
“Scar!”
“Why, what brought you over so soon?”
“What are you doing there?”
“Baling.”
“Yes; and you were going over yonder without me?”
Scarlett sat tapping the gunwale of the boat with the pot, having ceased to bale.
“Yes, I knew you were,” continued Fred, in an altered tone, as the other remained silent.
“Come, now, confess.”
“I don’t know that I need call it confessing,” said Scarlett, throwing back his head and speaking haughtily. “It’s our boat, and our lake, and that place is all ours.”
“Yes; but we were schoolfellows, and we found it together.”
Scarlett winced a little at this. “And you were going to steal a march and find it all out by yourself. I do call it mean,” cried Fred, angrily. “I didn’t think you’d do such a thing, Scar, and—”
“You thought just the same,” said Scarlett, quickly, “and meant to take the boat before I was up, and that’s why you are here.”
He looked sharply at Fred, who thrust his hands in his pockets, and suddenly became interested in the movements of a bald coot, which was paddling in and out among the reeds which grew right into the lake.
“There now, you’re found out too, and you’re as bad as I am,” cried Scarlett.
“Well, I only meant it as a surprise. Is she very leaky?”
Scarlett seemed disposed to hold off, but the interest of the project in hand swept all that away, and he replied sociably enough.
“No; she has been so deep in the water and got so soaked, that I don’t think much comes in.”
“Bale away, then,” cried Fred.
“Suppose you have a turn. I’m getting hot.”
Fred required no further hint, but stripping off his jerkin and rolling up his sleeves, he was soon at work scooping up the water and sending it flying and sparkling in the morning sunshine, while Scarlett sat and chatted.
“I didn’t care to ask Nat to clean out the boat,” he said, “for he’s such an inquisitive fellow. He’d have wanted to know what I was going to do, and if I hadn’t told him—”
“I know,” said Fred, making a momentary iris as he sent the water flying, “he’d have hidden away and watched you.”
“Yes; sure to.”
“And Samson’s just the same. I have to cheat him sometimes. But it didn’t matter cheating old Nat. What I think was so shabby was trying to cheat me.”
Scarlett was silent for a minute.
“I should have told you afterwards,” he said. “Here, let me have a turn now.”
“No; I shall finish,” replied Fred, wielding the old pot with increased energy, “just to show you how forgiving I am.”
“Ah! but you’re found out too,” cried Scarlett.
“Well, I didn’t mean any harm,” cried Fred, with a droll look, “and should have told you afterwards.”
“Yes; but—”
“Look here,” cried Fred, “you say another word about it, and I’ll throw all the water over you.”
“Let’s make haste, then, and go and find the way in before breakfast.”
For answer Fred scooped away at such a rate that he had soon cleared the boat down to the little well-like hollow arranged to catch the drainings.
“Now then,” he cried, “I’m tired. You row.”
Scarlett unhooked the chain, gave the boat a good thrust, seized the oars, and in ten minutes more they were coasting along as near to the bank as the overhanging trees and projecting bushes would allow.
For quite half an hour they searched to and fro, but without result. There were plenty of likely looking places overgrown with ivy, and sheltered by the willows, alders, and birches, but not one showed a sign of having been built up with rough blocks of stone, or presented a hole such as they had seen from the inside.
“We shall never find it like this,” said Fred, at last.
“How are we to find it, then? And we must go soon, as some one will see us, and wonder what we are doing.”
“Oh no; they’ll only think we are fishing,” said Fred. “I’ll tell you how to find it.”
“How?”
“We must cut a long willow, and strip it all but the leaves on the end.”
“What for?”
“Then one of us must go down the opening yonder, wade along the passage, poke the stick out through the hole, and shout.”
“Yes; that would do it nicely,” said Scarlett. “But who’s to do it?”
“Let’s both go.”
“Then we should be no wiser, because there would be no one out here to listen.”
“No,” said Fred; and then, “Let’s have another try.”
They had another try—a long and careful search, but the entrance had been too cunningly masked.
“It’s of no use,” said Scarlett, drawing in the oars. “One of us must go.”
Silence. And Fred seemed to be deeply interested in the proceedings of a great flap-winged heron which had alighted on the further shore.
“Will you go, Fred?” said Scarlett, at last.
“No. It’s your place, and you ought to go.”
“Yes,” said Scarlett, slowly; “I suppose I ought.”
“No, no, I’ll go,” cried Fred, eagerly. “I will not be so shabby. Let’s cut a stick, and then set me ashore.”
Scarlett nodded, and resuming the rowing, ran the boat’s head ashore, close to a clump of willows. Then, taking out his knife, he hacked off a rod about ten feet long, trimmed off the twigs and leaves, all but a patch on the end, and, before his companion could realise what he intended, he had leaped ashore, given the boat a thrust, and run up the bank.
“No, no,” cried Fred. “I’ll go.”
“It’s my place, and I shall go myself,” replied his companion. “Take the oars and row gently along. I don’t think I shall mind. If I do, I’ll come back and you shall go.”
“But you have no light.”
“No,” said Scarlett, gravely; “but I know the way now, and that there’s no danger, so I shall not care.” Before Fred could offer further remonstrance, Scarlett had run into the nearest patch of woodland and disappeared.
“I don’t like letting him go,” muttered Fred, as he gazed at the spot where his companion had disappeared. “It seems as if I were a coward. Perhaps I am, for it does seem shivery work to do. Never mind, I’ll go next time,” he added quickly; and, taking the oars, he sat down where his companion had vacated the seat, and began to row slowly back to where he fancied the entrance must be.
Then followed so long a period of waiting that the boy grew anxious, and after rowing to and fro for some time outside the thick growth which edged that portion of the lake, he made up his mind that something must be wrong, and determined to land and go in search of Scarlett.
“How horrible if he has waded into a deep place, and gone down!” he muttered, as he bent over the oars, to pull with all his might, when he fancied he heard a distant hail.
He ceased rowing, and the water rippled about beneath the front as he listened.
“Where are you?” he cried.
“Here,” came from apparently a great distance.
“Where’s here?”
“Here, here, here. Can’t you see?”
The voice seemed to come from far away, and he drew in the oars, and stood up in the boat to look from side to side, searching eagerly, and trying to pierce the bushes and overhanging ivy, which screened the rocky shore.
“Here! Hoy!”
Fred faced round now, and looked across the lake, to see Nat standing on the farther shore.
“What are you doing? Got any?” shouted Nat.
Fred put his hands to the sides of his mouth, and shouted back.
“No! not yet.”
“Where’s Master Scarlett?”
“Ashore.”
“Oh!”
“He thinks we’ve been setting eel-lines,” muttered Fred, as, to his great annoyance, he saw the gardener seat himself on the distant bank and watch him.
“Oh, what a bother!” he cried, with an impatient stamp on the bottom of the boat. “Well, he must think so, then.”
To induce the spy upon his proceedings to go on in this belief, Fred stooped down in the boat, and picked up and threw in an imaginary line. After which, he took up one oar, and, standing upright, began to paddle the boat in toward the bank, where a large birch drooped over and dipped its delicate sprays of leaves almost into the surface of the lake.
“I’ll moor her fast here,” thought Fred, “and go ashore and warn Scar. We can’t do any more, with that fellow watching.”
To this end, he paddled the boat close to the silver trunk of the birch, whose roots ran down into the clear water, forming quite a delicate fringe, amongst which the tiny perch loved to play.
He was in the act of fastening the chain as he stood up, and had passed it round one of the lower boughs, being fairly well screened now from Nat’s observation by the delicate spray, when a fly seemed to tickle his ear.
Fred struck at it viciously without looking round, and went on fastening the chain, when the fly again seemed to tickle him, this time low down in the nape of his neck.
“Get out! Will you?” he cried: and he turned, sharply struck at the fly, and caught—
The end of the willow rod with its tuft of leaves.
“Oh!” he ejaculated, as the tug he gave at the wand was replied to by another at the end; and as he looked, he saw that it came from out of a dense mass of twiggy alder above his head, where a quantity of ivy grew.
“Scar,” he cried, giving the wand a shake, “are you there?”
“Yes,” came in a faint whisper that sounded very hollow and strange. “Didn’t you hear me shout!”
“No.”
“I was afraid to cry too loud, because it goes backward so, rumbling all along the passage. Whereabouts is it?”
“By the big birch-tree; just where we thought it couldn’t be.”
“Eh? Speak up.”
“By the big birch-tree; just where we thought it couldn’t be; and I can’t speak louder, because Nat’s over the other side, watching.”
“Can he see you now?”
“No. But are you all right!”
“Yes.”
“You’re higher up than I thought. Stop till I push the boat closer, and I’ll see if I can find any loose stones.”
“Stop a minute,” said Scarlett, in the same smothered voice, which sounded faint as a whisper. “Let me see if I can move any of them.”
Fred waited, and, peering through the twigs, he could see that Nat was patiently waiting for him to come in sight again.
“Some of them seem loose,” came from within; “but I can’t get them out.”
“Don’t stop to try now,” said Fred. “Let’s come another time; we can’t make any mistake, now. Oh!”
The cry was involuntary, for all at once a patch of ivy just above the level of the water seemed to be driven outward, and several stones about the size of his head fell with a splash down among the alder roots, followed by a heavy gush of water, which poured forth fiercely into the woody edge of the lake, and continued to pour as if a fresh lake was discharging its waters into the old one.
So near was the edge of the boat, that the water nearly rushed in; but though it was afterwards slightly drawn toward it, a snatch at a bough drew it back, and Fred stood gazing wonderingly at the rush which foamed in.
Then he looked across the lake, wondering whether Nat could hear and see. But he was too far distant to see more than a little ebullition which might have been caused by the movement of the oars and boat, for the water that poured in was discharged in quite a dense thicket of moisture-loving growth.
“I say, Scar,” cried Fred, at last, alarmed by the silence, and after listening to the surging noise of the water for a few minutes.
“Yes.”
“Are you all safe?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What does all this water mean?”
“I was pushing against the wall high up, and slipped, and my knees struck against the bottom, driving out some of the stones.”
“Then— Stop a minute; Nat’s going away.”
The lad held some of the twigs aside, and could see that the gardener was moving off, apparently tired of waiting, and, once he was out of sight, there was no occasion to be so particular about shouting, and a conversation was painfully carried on above the rushing noise of the water.
“I can’t understand it, Scar,” cried Fred. “There must be a stream running through that passage.”
There was no reply; but the willow wand was withdrawn, and the next minute it appeared through the hole where the water was rushing.
“I say, Scar.”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t you done some harm, and oughtn’t we to let them know up at the house?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t help it.”
“I thought the passage was partly under the water,” said Fred to himself, “and so it ran in; but it couldn’t have been meant to be wet like that. I say, Scar,” he cried aloud, “whereabouts is the bottom where your feet are?”
“Eh?”
“I say, where are your feet?”
“Where this stick is,” came back more clearly now.
And it suddenly struck Fred that the water was not pouring out in quite so great a volume. But for the moment he could not see the stick for the foam. Directly after, though, he made out where it was being moved to and fro, exactly on a level with the surface of the lake.
“I’m coming back now,” cried Scarlett; and his voice was plainly heard, after which Fred sat watching the water, rapidly draining away with less and less violence, till he heard a shout, answered it, and soon after Scarlett came along, forcing his way through the hazels till he reached the edge of the lake, and, by the help of one of the boughs of the birch, swung himself lightly into the boat, and began looking curiously at the opening, nearly hidden by the growth, through which the water still poured.
“No wonder we could not find the place,” he said, as he at once placed the right construction on the presence of the water; “and, do you know, all that could not have come from the lake.”
“Where could it have come from, then?”
“It must have drained in by degrees from the sides in wet weather, and the stones at the end dammed it up, so that it couldn’t get away.”
“Nonsense! The water would have pushed the stones down.”
“It did, as soon as I pushed too. The wall was only just strong enough before.”
“I tell you it must have run in from the lake.”
“It couldn’t, Fred. The bottom of the passage is higher; and when I came out the water was only just over my shoes. By to-morrow you see if it isn’t drained right out. There, you see, it has pretty well stopped now.”
Scarlett was quite right, for the water was now flowing out silently, and in very small volume.
“Well, we will not argue about it,” said Fred. “Perhaps you’re right, but I don’t think you are. Anyhow, we’ve found the way in, and you couldn’t have done it without me.”
“No; nor you without me, Fred.”
“No; and I say— Oh!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t I want my breakfast.”
“Yes; it must be nearly time. Come up and have some with me.”
Fred shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Your father did not seem to want me there last night.”
“Nonsense!”
“Oh no, it was not. You come home with me. What’s that?”
Scarlett listened, for there was a rustling and crashing noise, as of some animal forcing its way down through the hazel stubs to get to the edge of the lake to drink.
They waited breathlessly as the sounds grew nearer, and then stopped. The silence only lasted a minute, and then plainly enough came a familiar voice.
“I thought it was just here. Now, where have they got themselves to?”
Then the rustling was continued, and Nat came into sight.
The boys glanced sharply at the place where the water flowed, but there was nothing now but a feeble trickle, not likely to excite attention.
“Oh, there you are, Master Scarlett! Well, how many have you caught?”
“Not one, Nat,” cried Fred, sharply.
“You don’t put your lines in the right places, lads. Where are they now?”
“Not going to tell you,” replied Fred, sharply. “There, hear that? Didn’t some one call?”
“No,” cried Nat; “I didn’t hear nobody. Show me where your lines are laid. Aren’t put any down here, have you?”
“No; it wouldn’t be any use.”
“I should think not. Why, if you hooked an eel, he’d run in and out among the dead wood and roots till your lines would be all tangled together, and you’d lose them.”
“Will you come and show us a good place, then, Nat?” said Fred, for Scarlett was a little puzzled as to what was going on.
“Yes; I’ll show you,” said the gardener, who, like most of his class, was as much interested in the chance of a little fishing as the boys themselves. So, swinging himself into the boat, he took the oars, and, to the great relief of the two lads, rowed right away towards where a little rivulet entered the lake.
“Glad I saw what you were both going to do,” continued Nat. “Only waste of time muddling in there among the wood. You might catch a few perch or an old carp, but that would be about all.”
Ten minutes later he ceased rowing in front of the mouth of the rivulet.
“There,” he said; “set your lines about here, and you’ll catch as many as you want, and—breakfast-time. Let’s get ashore.”
Chapter Twelve.The Colonel’s Message.No farther visit was paid to the passage that day; but the next, in the afternoon, the boys made their way down toward the lake, and met Nat, who approached them with rather a mysterious look on his face.“What’s the matter?” asked Scarlett.“Ah, that’s what I want to know, sir. You didn’t hear it, of course, because you were out in the boat.”“Hear what?”“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said the gardener, mysteriously. “I’ve just come from the kitchen, where the servants was talking about it.”“About what?”“It, sir, it; I don’t know what it is. I told ’em it was howls, but I don’t think it was. Still, if you tell maid-servants as there’s something wrong in the house, they’ll either go out of the house or out of their skins.”“Do you know what you are talking about, Nat?”“Yes, sir. Course I do.”“Well, then, just be a little plain, and don’t go smothering your words up as if they were seeds that you’d put in to come up in a month. Now, then, what is it?”“You needn’t be quite so chuff with a man, Master Scarlett—a man as is trying to do his duty.”“Well, go on, then.”“I will, sir. I went into the kitchen, and the women was all talking about it. Her ladyship’s maid was the one who heard it, yes’day morning, before breakfast.”“Heard what?”“Groans, sir, and cries.”“Where?”“That’s what they can’t make out. All she could say was that it sounded close to the best bedroom, and it was as if somebody was crying for help in a weak voice, and then shouting, ‘Red—red!’ which they think means blood.”“Stuff and rubbish, Nat!” cried Fred, hastily.“That’s what I said to them, sir.”“Then go and tell them so again,” cried Fred. “Come along, Scar; I want a run.”He hurried his companion away, and they went off down to the lake, leaving Nat staring after them before going slowly away toward the garden, muttering to himself—“It’s all very well,” he said; “but it couldn’t be howls.”“What made you hurry away so?” cried Scarlett, as they walked on, and he came to a stop. “Let’s go back and speak to my father. Something may be wrong. How do we know? Nat—”Fred burst out laughing.“Why, don’t you see?”“No: what do you mean?”“Didn’t you tell me you were afraid to shout yesterday because your voice went echoing along the passage?”“Yes.”“Well, what did you call?”“Fred—Fred!”“Well, wouldn’t that sound to any one who heard it like, ‘Red—red’?”“Of course,” cried Scarlett, laughing. “I never thought of that.”“Now, then, which way shall we go? Straight to the mouth where the water ran, or to the hole in the wood?”“To the hole;” and, after taking the trouble to make quite a circuit, so as to be sure of avoiding observation, they entered the little wood, made their way to the prostrate oak, and found that the bottom of the hole was dry.“There!” cried Scarlett, “I was right.”They dropped down, and found that by the time they had reached the end of the portion illumined by the light which came down the hole, faint rays were there to meet them from the other end, the light striking in strongly from the bottom of the walled-up entrance, and showing that the floor which they had to follow was damp, but every drop of water had drained away.On reaching the end, it was quite light; and a little examination proved that other stones at the bottom were sufficiently loose to be easily pushed out, Fred sending out a couple, which went down into deep water at once.“I wouldn’t have done that,” said Scarlett. “It’s like opening a way for any one right into our house.”“But any one will not know the way,” replied Fred, as he went down on hands and knees, and thrust out his head and shoulders. “Easy enough to get out now,” he said, as he thrust the bushes aside, “only we should want the boat. Water’s quite deep here. Stop a moment!” he cried excitedly, as he twisted himself round and looked up before drawing his head back. “Why, Scar, we could climb up or down there as easily as could be.”“Could we?”Scarlett crept partly out in turn, and looked up for a minute or two.“Yes,” he said, as he returned, “that would be easy enough.”“Then, do you know what we have to do next?”“No.”“Go and stop up the big hole in the wood.”Scarlett thought for a moment, and then agreed, following his companion to the opening, and climbing out in turn.“How shall we do it?” he said.“The rougher the better,” cried Fred, who was by far the more practical of the two. “Let’s get great dead branches, and lay them over anyhow, leaving a hole like a chimney, so as to give light. Come along; I’ll show you. The more natural the better, in case any one should come here.”“Which is not likely,” replied Scarlett.“I don’t know; Nat might. Work away.”They did work away, and with good effect. They had no difficulty in getting plenty of rough pieces, which they laid across, first like the rafters over a shed, and then piled others upon them in the most careless-looking fashion, after which some long strands of ivy and bramble were dragged across, to act the double purpose of binding all together and looking natural.“But they seem as if they had been just placed there,” said Scarlett, looking rather dissatisfied with their work.“Of course they do to-day; but before a week has gone by, they’ll have all their leaves turned up to the light, and go on growing fast. Now, then, who could tell that there was a way down there?”Scarlett was fain to confess that the concealment would be perfect as soon as the leaves were right, and a shower of rain had removed their tracks.“And we shall not want to come here at all now, only get in by the proper way. I wish that hole was not broken through.”“We should not have found it without.”“Oh yes, we should,” said Fred; “because some day we should have bought candles, and waded down to the mouth.”“Well,” said Scarlett, as they strolled away at last, “what’s the good of it all, now we have found it out?”“It doesn’t seem quite so much now we have found everything; but still it is interesting, and it will do to hide in when we want to get away from everybody.”“But we never do.”“No,” said Fred. “But never mind; there’s no knowing of what use it may be, and it’s our secret, isn’t it?”“Oh yes, it’s our secret, Fred.”“And how we could scare the servants now, by hiding and groaning.”“Till my father examined and found it all out. I shouldn’t like to look him in the face when he did.”“No,” said Fred; “it wouldn’t be nice. I say, what stupids we should look!”“Did you get up so early on purpose to come over here yesterday?” said Scarlett, suddenly.“No. I was woke up by hearing Captain Miles go.”“Captain Miles? Who is he?”“I don’t know; an old fellow-officer of my father, I think. I say, Scarlett, I’m to be a soldier.”Scarlett laughed, and his companion felt nettled.“Well,” he said, “I shall grow older and stronger some day.”“Why, you couldn’t pull a sword right out of its sheath,” said Scarlett.“Couldn’t I? Let’s go into the house and try.”“Come along, then,” cried Scarlett; and the two lads ran right into the Hall, where Fred seized an old weapon from one of the suits of armour, and proved his ability by drawing it from the sheath, Scarlett following his example.“Now, then!” cried Fred; “en garde!”Nothing loth, Scarlett crossed swords with him, just as his father came thoughtfully out of the library, and stopped to watch them.“I say, this old sword is heavy though,” said Fred, as the point of the long blade seemed attracted toward the ground.“It’s because you haven’t muscle enough,” replied Scarlett, as the blades grated together. “Wonder whether this one ever cut off a man’s head?”“Is this an omen?” said Sir Godfrey to himself. “Friend against friend, perhaps brother against brother, all through our unhappy land. Well, Heaven’s will be done! My duty is to my king.”Meanwhile, the two boys were laughingly making a few cuts and guards with the clumsy old weapons; but directly after they started apart in confusion, as Sir Godfrey said aloud—“Boys, do you remember the words of Scripture!”Neither answered; but, with the points of the swords resting on the old oak floor, they stared at him abashed.“‘They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’”There was silence in the grand old hall for a brief space, as the two boys stood there in the centre, with the bright lights from the stained-glass windows showering down upon them, and the portraits of Scarlett’s warlike ancestors seeming to be watching intently all that was taking place.Then Sir Godfrey moved slowly across the hall, paused and looked back, and then said gently—“Put the weapons away, my lads. Warfare is too terrible to be even mimicked in sport.”He sighed and passed through the farther door, leaving the boys gazing at each other in silence.“How serious he is!” said Scarlett, at last. “Let’s put them away. I thought he was going to scold us for taking them down.”“Yes, I thought that,” said Fred. “But I should like to be a soldier, all the same, only without any war. Ugh! only fancy giving a man a chop with a thing like that,” he added, as he replaced the weapon. “Here, I’m off home,” he cried, as he ran to the door.“Good-bye, old soldier without any war. I say, Fred.”“Well?”“That will be a capital place for you to hide in when you are a soldier, and the war comes.”“That’s right,” said Fred, good-humouredly; “laugh away. I dare say I am a coward, but I don’t believe everybody is brave. Coming over to-night?”“Perhaps,” was the reply; and Fred went off homeward at a trot, thinking of how delightful it would be to grow into a man, and carry a sword and ride about on a horse like Captain Miles.He thought a good deal about Captain Miles as he went home, and wondered whether he had gone to Plymouth.“Because he might have been going to Tavistock or Barnstaple.”The recollection of the sturdy, keen-eyed soldier seemed to oust every other thought from the boy’s brain, and he saw in imagination the distant figure as it mounted the rising ground, and, passing over, disappeared.“I wonder what he came for?” thought Fred. “It didn’t seem like the visit of a friend, and it could not be about business, because father never does any business now; but they were so serious, and my mother looked so troubled.”Fred gave his ear a rub, as if he were vexed.“I suppose it was thinking so much about that rabbit-hole of a place up at the Hall,” he muttered. “I never thought any more about mother looking so serious, and having tears in her eyes. I’ll ask her what’s the matter.”He walked slowly on till he came in sight of the western road, which looked like a narrow path crossing the distant hill.“Why, there’s somebody coming,” he cried, as he sheltered his eyes to make out what was evidently a mounted man moving slowly along the road. “He’s coming this way,” said Fred, musingly. “I wonder who it is?”Not much of a matter for consideration, in modern days; but to the dwellers in that retired part of Coombeland, far away from a town, the coming of a strange horseman was an event, and, regardless of where he put his feet, Fred went on trying to keep the mounted man in view, as he disappeared at times in the hollows, and then came into sight again, evidently moving at a foot’s pace.“It must be Captain Miles coming back,” cried Fred, as the figure disappeared from view in consequence of the lad having to descend into a hollow before rising the opposite hill.“That old place will be no end of a game when we have cleared it out,” mused the boy, as he went slowly down the hill. “It will be a lot of trouble though, and we shall have to sweep and clear away the dust and cobwebs too. I wish we could set Samson and Nat to work, only we can’t do that, because, if we did, it wouldn’t be a secret place; and, besides, they would do nothing but quarrel, and get no work done. Wonder whether brothers always do quarrel. Why, they’re worse than Scar and I are, though we do have a pretty good row sometimes.”Ten minutes later he was mounting the hill, and, as he reached the top, he hastened his pace, so as to get within view of the coming horseman, who was for the moment shut out from view by a patch of woodland; but the regular beat of the horse’s hoofs came plainly enough.“Sounds in the distance just like my pony’s trot,” said Fred, thoughtfully; and directly after he burst out with a loud, “Oh!” full of vexation in its tone. “Why, it’s only old Samson, after all,” he cried. “Think of me taking him for Captain Miles!”He set off at a sharp run across the moorland, so as to cut off a great piece of the road, and reach a point by which the Manor gardener must pass.Samson was not long in recognising him, and, checking the speed of the stout cob he rode, the mutual effort brought the two together at the sought-for spot.“Here you, Samson, who told you to exercise my pony?”“Exercise, Master Fred? You look at him.”“Look at him? I am looking at him. Poor old fellow! he’s all in a lather.”“Yes; he hasn’t had such a gallop for months.”“How dare you, then! Jump off directly, and walk him home.”“Shan’t!” was the laconic refusal, accompanied by a grin.“What!” cried Fred, doubling his fists threateningly.“Shan’t come off, sir. There!”“Oh, won’t you!” cried Fred, seizing Samson by the leg, and proceeding as if to tilt him over.“You leave your father’s special messenger alone, Master Fred, or you’ll get into trouble.”“Did my father tell you to take the pony?”“Course he did, and to take what he called a despatch.”“Despatch?”“Yes. To Barnstaple.”“What for?”“How should I know? It was a big letter, all tied round with ribbon and sealed up, and I’ve got another like it in here.”As he spoke in a voice full of importance, he tapped a leathern wallet slung over his right shoulder.“Why, Samson, who did you take it to?”“To that gen’leman who was here the other night.”“Captain Miles?”“Yes. At Barnstaple, and some more gen’lemen was with him when I got there, and he read the letter, and they read the letter, and then they said they’d write another, and I was to go down and have some bread and cheese and cider, and I did—a lot.”“I wonder what it means?” said Fred, as he walked on beside the pony, holding by its thick mane, for it was uphill.“I think I know, Master Fred.”“You do? What is it?”“Well, sir, it’s something to do with the king and the Parliament. They were talking about it at the Red Hind.”“King and the Parliament?”“Yes, Master Fred; and there were some there as said we should most likely have to fight for our rights.”“But we haven’t got any rights to fight for.”“Oh yes, we have, Master Fred,” said Samson, importantly. “A man there told me all about it.”“What did he say?”“Well, sir, I don’t quite understand, but they’re trying to take our rights away.”“Who are?”“Well, that’s what I didn’t get quite clear, you see, sir. But it’s some’at like this. Every man has—I don’t quite remember what it was he said there, but I do recollect he said that if things were not altered, we should have to fight.”Fred looked at him wonderingly.“I should have got it all quite pat, you see, only just as I was getting into the marrow of it and understanding it all, that captain sent for me, and give me the big letter I’ve got in here. And now I must hurry on.” For the top of the hill was reached, and the pony broke into a sharp trot without urging.But Fred kept hold of the mane, and ran easily by his side, coming soon after in sight of Colonel Forrester, standing at the garden gate, evidently waiting for his messenger’s return.As soon as he saw them descending the slope, he walked quickly forward to meet them, holding out his hand for the despatch, and looking so anxious and severe that his son forbore to speak.“Take the cob round to the stables, and treat him well,” said the colonel, sharply, as he tore open the missive and began to read.Fred felt eagerness itself to know its contents, and he was about to stop, examining the missive the while with eager eyes; but, recollecting himself, he went off at a trot after Samson, who had dismounted, and was leading the pony.“Hope it’s good news, Master Fred.”“I dare say it is. I don’t know.”“The captain said I was a gardener, wasn’t I; and I told him the truth, and said I was.”“Why, of course, stupid.”“Ah, you don’t understand, Master Fred. It isn’t every day that a gardener has to carry despatches. And then he said, as he give me the answer, ‘Well, you say you are a gardener, don’t let the grass grow under your feet.’ I didn’t, Master Fred. Ask Dodder.”“No need to ask him, poor old fellow,” said Fred, patting his favourite’s neck.“Fred!” came from the road.“Yes, father,” cried the boy, and he ran back.“I thought you were by me, my boy,” said the colonel, gravely, as he laid one hand upon his son’s shoulder, and held the despatch in the other, gazing thoughtfully before him toward the old house they were approaching.“I hope you have not had bad news, father,” hazarded Fred.“No, on the whole, good. It must come—it must come.”Fred looked at him inquiringly.“What are you, Fred—sixteen, isn’t it?”“Yes, father.”“Ah, if you had been six and twenty, how useful to me you could have been!”Fred flushed.“I could be useful to you now, father, if you would let me be,” he said in an injured tone. “I could have ridden over to Barnstaple with your letter quicker than Samson did, and I shouldn’t have tired Dodder so much.”“Yes, I thought of that, Fred, but you are only a boy, and you were at play.”There was a silence for a few moments, and then Fred spoke.“Is it wrong for a boy to play, father?”“Heaven forbid. No; of course not. Play goes with youth, and it gives boys energy, strength, and decision. Yes, Fred, play while you can. Manfully and well. But play.”Fred looked up at his father in a puzzled way, as he stopped short, and began beating his side with the despatch he had received. There was a dreamy look in his eyes, which were fixed on vacancy, as he muttered—“Yes; I must be right. I have hesitated long, but it is a duty. But what does it mean—friendships broken; the land in chaos; brother against brother; perhaps father against son. No, no,” he added, with a shudder, as he turned sharply on his boy. “Fred, my lad,” he tried, “if trouble comes upon our land, and I have to take side with those who fight—”He stopped short.“Who fight, father? You are not going to fight.”“I don’t know yet, my boy; but if I do, it will be for those I believe to be in the right. What I believe to be right, you, too, must believe in, and follow.”“Of course, father,” said the boy, quietly.“No matter what is said against me, or how you may be influenced. I know about these matters better than you do, and I shall ask you to trust to me.”Fred smiled, as if his father’s words amused him, for it seemed absurd that he should have any opinion against his own father.“Why, of course, I shall do as you tell me,” he said, taking hold of his father’s arm, and they walked together into the house, where Mistress Forrester, looking pale and large-eyed, was awaiting her husband’s return.She did not speak, but looked up in his eyes with so eager and inquiring an air that he bent down and kissed her forehead.“Yes,” he said.“Oh, husband!”“It cannot be avoided. My duty is with the people. That duty I must do.”“But home—me—Fred?”“You will be safe here,” he said. “It is not likely that the tide of trouble will flow this way.”“But Fred,” she whispered.“Fred. Ah, yes, Fred,” said the colonel, thoughtfully.“Oh no, no, no,” cried Mistress Forrester, in agony, as she saw her husband’s hesitating way, and suspected the truth. “No, no, husband, he is too young.”“He will grow older,” said the colonel, with quiet firmness. “Wife, when the country calls for the help of her son, he must give it freely. If your boy is needed in his country’s service, he will have to go.”Fred heard these words, and went slowly and thoughtfully away—thoughtfully, for his head was in a whirl—the coming of his father’s military friend—his father’s old life as a soldier—and these hints about civil war.“I don’t think I should mind,” he said to himself, “not if Scar went too. He and I could get on so well together. Of course we should be too young for regular soldiers, but we should soon grow older.”Then he began to recall different things of which he had heard and read, about youths going off to the war in olden times to be esquires, and after deeds of valour to become belted knights who had won their spurs.Fred’s was not a romantic nature, for that night, quite late, after he had gone up to bed, he sat at his window looking out at the starlit sky. And as he gazed all the thoughts of the evening came back to make him burst into a derisive laugh.“It’s all nonsense,” he said; “knights and squires never did half the things they say. And if we had a war, and I had to go, I’m afraid it would be all rough and different to life here at home. But if Scar went too, I should not mind. They want all the men at such a time as this. Samson would have to go, and Nat, and no end of the farm lads about.”Fred rose from his seat, and closed the window softly, for fear that he should be heard, and at last lay down, but not to sleep, for his young brain was excited, and a feeling of awe came over him as he began thinking of her who was sleeping only a few yards away.“If father goes and takes me with him, and there is a terrible war, what will my mother say?”
No farther visit was paid to the passage that day; but the next, in the afternoon, the boys made their way down toward the lake, and met Nat, who approached them with rather a mysterious look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” asked Scarlett.
“Ah, that’s what I want to know, sir. You didn’t hear it, of course, because you were out in the boat.”
“Hear what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said the gardener, mysteriously. “I’ve just come from the kitchen, where the servants was talking about it.”
“About what?”
“It, sir, it; I don’t know what it is. I told ’em it was howls, but I don’t think it was. Still, if you tell maid-servants as there’s something wrong in the house, they’ll either go out of the house or out of their skins.”
“Do you know what you are talking about, Nat?”
“Yes, sir. Course I do.”
“Well, then, just be a little plain, and don’t go smothering your words up as if they were seeds that you’d put in to come up in a month. Now, then, what is it?”
“You needn’t be quite so chuff with a man, Master Scarlett—a man as is trying to do his duty.”
“Well, go on, then.”
“I will, sir. I went into the kitchen, and the women was all talking about it. Her ladyship’s maid was the one who heard it, yes’day morning, before breakfast.”
“Heard what?”
“Groans, sir, and cries.”
“Where?”
“That’s what they can’t make out. All she could say was that it sounded close to the best bedroom, and it was as if somebody was crying for help in a weak voice, and then shouting, ‘Red—red!’ which they think means blood.”
“Stuff and rubbish, Nat!” cried Fred, hastily.
“That’s what I said to them, sir.”
“Then go and tell them so again,” cried Fred. “Come along, Scar; I want a run.”
He hurried his companion away, and they went off down to the lake, leaving Nat staring after them before going slowly away toward the garden, muttering to himself—
“It’s all very well,” he said; “but it couldn’t be howls.”
“What made you hurry away so?” cried Scarlett, as they walked on, and he came to a stop. “Let’s go back and speak to my father. Something may be wrong. How do we know? Nat—”
Fred burst out laughing.
“Why, don’t you see?”
“No: what do you mean?”
“Didn’t you tell me you were afraid to shout yesterday because your voice went echoing along the passage?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what did you call?”
“Fred—Fred!”
“Well, wouldn’t that sound to any one who heard it like, ‘Red—red’?”
“Of course,” cried Scarlett, laughing. “I never thought of that.”
“Now, then, which way shall we go? Straight to the mouth where the water ran, or to the hole in the wood?”
“To the hole;” and, after taking the trouble to make quite a circuit, so as to be sure of avoiding observation, they entered the little wood, made their way to the prostrate oak, and found that the bottom of the hole was dry.
“There!” cried Scarlett, “I was right.”
They dropped down, and found that by the time they had reached the end of the portion illumined by the light which came down the hole, faint rays were there to meet them from the other end, the light striking in strongly from the bottom of the walled-up entrance, and showing that the floor which they had to follow was damp, but every drop of water had drained away.
On reaching the end, it was quite light; and a little examination proved that other stones at the bottom were sufficiently loose to be easily pushed out, Fred sending out a couple, which went down into deep water at once.
“I wouldn’t have done that,” said Scarlett. “It’s like opening a way for any one right into our house.”
“But any one will not know the way,” replied Fred, as he went down on hands and knees, and thrust out his head and shoulders. “Easy enough to get out now,” he said, as he thrust the bushes aside, “only we should want the boat. Water’s quite deep here. Stop a moment!” he cried excitedly, as he twisted himself round and looked up before drawing his head back. “Why, Scar, we could climb up or down there as easily as could be.”
“Could we?”
Scarlett crept partly out in turn, and looked up for a minute or two.
“Yes,” he said, as he returned, “that would be easy enough.”
“Then, do you know what we have to do next?”
“No.”
“Go and stop up the big hole in the wood.”
Scarlett thought for a moment, and then agreed, following his companion to the opening, and climbing out in turn.
“How shall we do it?” he said.
“The rougher the better,” cried Fred, who was by far the more practical of the two. “Let’s get great dead branches, and lay them over anyhow, leaving a hole like a chimney, so as to give light. Come along; I’ll show you. The more natural the better, in case any one should come here.”
“Which is not likely,” replied Scarlett.
“I don’t know; Nat might. Work away.”
They did work away, and with good effect. They had no difficulty in getting plenty of rough pieces, which they laid across, first like the rafters over a shed, and then piled others upon them in the most careless-looking fashion, after which some long strands of ivy and bramble were dragged across, to act the double purpose of binding all together and looking natural.
“But they seem as if they had been just placed there,” said Scarlett, looking rather dissatisfied with their work.
“Of course they do to-day; but before a week has gone by, they’ll have all their leaves turned up to the light, and go on growing fast. Now, then, who could tell that there was a way down there?”
Scarlett was fain to confess that the concealment would be perfect as soon as the leaves were right, and a shower of rain had removed their tracks.
“And we shall not want to come here at all now, only get in by the proper way. I wish that hole was not broken through.”
“We should not have found it without.”
“Oh yes, we should,” said Fred; “because some day we should have bought candles, and waded down to the mouth.”
“Well,” said Scarlett, as they strolled away at last, “what’s the good of it all, now we have found it out?”
“It doesn’t seem quite so much now we have found everything; but still it is interesting, and it will do to hide in when we want to get away from everybody.”
“But we never do.”
“No,” said Fred. “But never mind; there’s no knowing of what use it may be, and it’s our secret, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, it’s our secret, Fred.”
“And how we could scare the servants now, by hiding and groaning.”
“Till my father examined and found it all out. I shouldn’t like to look him in the face when he did.”
“No,” said Fred; “it wouldn’t be nice. I say, what stupids we should look!”
“Did you get up so early on purpose to come over here yesterday?” said Scarlett, suddenly.
“No. I was woke up by hearing Captain Miles go.”
“Captain Miles? Who is he?”
“I don’t know; an old fellow-officer of my father, I think. I say, Scarlett, I’m to be a soldier.”
Scarlett laughed, and his companion felt nettled.
“Well,” he said, “I shall grow older and stronger some day.”
“Why, you couldn’t pull a sword right out of its sheath,” said Scarlett.
“Couldn’t I? Let’s go into the house and try.”
“Come along, then,” cried Scarlett; and the two lads ran right into the Hall, where Fred seized an old weapon from one of the suits of armour, and proved his ability by drawing it from the sheath, Scarlett following his example.
“Now, then!” cried Fred; “en garde!”
Nothing loth, Scarlett crossed swords with him, just as his father came thoughtfully out of the library, and stopped to watch them.
“I say, this old sword is heavy though,” said Fred, as the point of the long blade seemed attracted toward the ground.
“It’s because you haven’t muscle enough,” replied Scarlett, as the blades grated together. “Wonder whether this one ever cut off a man’s head?”
“Is this an omen?” said Sir Godfrey to himself. “Friend against friend, perhaps brother against brother, all through our unhappy land. Well, Heaven’s will be done! My duty is to my king.”
Meanwhile, the two boys were laughingly making a few cuts and guards with the clumsy old weapons; but directly after they started apart in confusion, as Sir Godfrey said aloud—
“Boys, do you remember the words of Scripture!”
Neither answered; but, with the points of the swords resting on the old oak floor, they stared at him abashed.
“‘They that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’”
There was silence in the grand old hall for a brief space, as the two boys stood there in the centre, with the bright lights from the stained-glass windows showering down upon them, and the portraits of Scarlett’s warlike ancestors seeming to be watching intently all that was taking place.
Then Sir Godfrey moved slowly across the hall, paused and looked back, and then said gently—
“Put the weapons away, my lads. Warfare is too terrible to be even mimicked in sport.”
He sighed and passed through the farther door, leaving the boys gazing at each other in silence.
“How serious he is!” said Scarlett, at last. “Let’s put them away. I thought he was going to scold us for taking them down.”
“Yes, I thought that,” said Fred. “But I should like to be a soldier, all the same, only without any war. Ugh! only fancy giving a man a chop with a thing like that,” he added, as he replaced the weapon. “Here, I’m off home,” he cried, as he ran to the door.
“Good-bye, old soldier without any war. I say, Fred.”
“Well?”
“That will be a capital place for you to hide in when you are a soldier, and the war comes.”
“That’s right,” said Fred, good-humouredly; “laugh away. I dare say I am a coward, but I don’t believe everybody is brave. Coming over to-night?”
“Perhaps,” was the reply; and Fred went off homeward at a trot, thinking of how delightful it would be to grow into a man, and carry a sword and ride about on a horse like Captain Miles.
He thought a good deal about Captain Miles as he went home, and wondered whether he had gone to Plymouth.
“Because he might have been going to Tavistock or Barnstaple.”
The recollection of the sturdy, keen-eyed soldier seemed to oust every other thought from the boy’s brain, and he saw in imagination the distant figure as it mounted the rising ground, and, passing over, disappeared.
“I wonder what he came for?” thought Fred. “It didn’t seem like the visit of a friend, and it could not be about business, because father never does any business now; but they were so serious, and my mother looked so troubled.”
Fred gave his ear a rub, as if he were vexed.
“I suppose it was thinking so much about that rabbit-hole of a place up at the Hall,” he muttered. “I never thought any more about mother looking so serious, and having tears in her eyes. I’ll ask her what’s the matter.”
He walked slowly on till he came in sight of the western road, which looked like a narrow path crossing the distant hill.
“Why, there’s somebody coming,” he cried, as he sheltered his eyes to make out what was evidently a mounted man moving slowly along the road. “He’s coming this way,” said Fred, musingly. “I wonder who it is?”
Not much of a matter for consideration, in modern days; but to the dwellers in that retired part of Coombeland, far away from a town, the coming of a strange horseman was an event, and, regardless of where he put his feet, Fred went on trying to keep the mounted man in view, as he disappeared at times in the hollows, and then came into sight again, evidently moving at a foot’s pace.
“It must be Captain Miles coming back,” cried Fred, as the figure disappeared from view in consequence of the lad having to descend into a hollow before rising the opposite hill.
“That old place will be no end of a game when we have cleared it out,” mused the boy, as he went slowly down the hill. “It will be a lot of trouble though, and we shall have to sweep and clear away the dust and cobwebs too. I wish we could set Samson and Nat to work, only we can’t do that, because, if we did, it wouldn’t be a secret place; and, besides, they would do nothing but quarrel, and get no work done. Wonder whether brothers always do quarrel. Why, they’re worse than Scar and I are, though we do have a pretty good row sometimes.”
Ten minutes later he was mounting the hill, and, as he reached the top, he hastened his pace, so as to get within view of the coming horseman, who was for the moment shut out from view by a patch of woodland; but the regular beat of the horse’s hoofs came plainly enough.
“Sounds in the distance just like my pony’s trot,” said Fred, thoughtfully; and directly after he burst out with a loud, “Oh!” full of vexation in its tone. “Why, it’s only old Samson, after all,” he cried. “Think of me taking him for Captain Miles!”
He set off at a sharp run across the moorland, so as to cut off a great piece of the road, and reach a point by which the Manor gardener must pass.
Samson was not long in recognising him, and, checking the speed of the stout cob he rode, the mutual effort brought the two together at the sought-for spot.
“Here you, Samson, who told you to exercise my pony?”
“Exercise, Master Fred? You look at him.”
“Look at him? I am looking at him. Poor old fellow! he’s all in a lather.”
“Yes; he hasn’t had such a gallop for months.”
“How dare you, then! Jump off directly, and walk him home.”
“Shan’t!” was the laconic refusal, accompanied by a grin.
“What!” cried Fred, doubling his fists threateningly.
“Shan’t come off, sir. There!”
“Oh, won’t you!” cried Fred, seizing Samson by the leg, and proceeding as if to tilt him over.
“You leave your father’s special messenger alone, Master Fred, or you’ll get into trouble.”
“Did my father tell you to take the pony?”
“Course he did, and to take what he called a despatch.”
“Despatch?”
“Yes. To Barnstaple.”
“What for?”
“How should I know? It was a big letter, all tied round with ribbon and sealed up, and I’ve got another like it in here.”
As he spoke in a voice full of importance, he tapped a leathern wallet slung over his right shoulder.
“Why, Samson, who did you take it to?”
“To that gen’leman who was here the other night.”
“Captain Miles?”
“Yes. At Barnstaple, and some more gen’lemen was with him when I got there, and he read the letter, and they read the letter, and then they said they’d write another, and I was to go down and have some bread and cheese and cider, and I did—a lot.”
“I wonder what it means?” said Fred, as he walked on beside the pony, holding by its thick mane, for it was uphill.
“I think I know, Master Fred.”
“You do? What is it?”
“Well, sir, it’s something to do with the king and the Parliament. They were talking about it at the Red Hind.”
“King and the Parliament?”
“Yes, Master Fred; and there were some there as said we should most likely have to fight for our rights.”
“But we haven’t got any rights to fight for.”
“Oh yes, we have, Master Fred,” said Samson, importantly. “A man there told me all about it.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, sir, I don’t quite understand, but they’re trying to take our rights away.”
“Who are?”
“Well, that’s what I didn’t get quite clear, you see, sir. But it’s some’at like this. Every man has—I don’t quite remember what it was he said there, but I do recollect he said that if things were not altered, we should have to fight.”
Fred looked at him wonderingly.
“I should have got it all quite pat, you see, only just as I was getting into the marrow of it and understanding it all, that captain sent for me, and give me the big letter I’ve got in here. And now I must hurry on.” For the top of the hill was reached, and the pony broke into a sharp trot without urging.
But Fred kept hold of the mane, and ran easily by his side, coming soon after in sight of Colonel Forrester, standing at the garden gate, evidently waiting for his messenger’s return.
As soon as he saw them descending the slope, he walked quickly forward to meet them, holding out his hand for the despatch, and looking so anxious and severe that his son forbore to speak.
“Take the cob round to the stables, and treat him well,” said the colonel, sharply, as he tore open the missive and began to read.
Fred felt eagerness itself to know its contents, and he was about to stop, examining the missive the while with eager eyes; but, recollecting himself, he went off at a trot after Samson, who had dismounted, and was leading the pony.
“Hope it’s good news, Master Fred.”
“I dare say it is. I don’t know.”
“The captain said I was a gardener, wasn’t I; and I told him the truth, and said I was.”
“Why, of course, stupid.”
“Ah, you don’t understand, Master Fred. It isn’t every day that a gardener has to carry despatches. And then he said, as he give me the answer, ‘Well, you say you are a gardener, don’t let the grass grow under your feet.’ I didn’t, Master Fred. Ask Dodder.”
“No need to ask him, poor old fellow,” said Fred, patting his favourite’s neck.
“Fred!” came from the road.
“Yes, father,” cried the boy, and he ran back.
“I thought you were by me, my boy,” said the colonel, gravely, as he laid one hand upon his son’s shoulder, and held the despatch in the other, gazing thoughtfully before him toward the old house they were approaching.
“I hope you have not had bad news, father,” hazarded Fred.
“No, on the whole, good. It must come—it must come.”
Fred looked at him inquiringly.
“What are you, Fred—sixteen, isn’t it?”
“Yes, father.”
“Ah, if you had been six and twenty, how useful to me you could have been!”
Fred flushed.
“I could be useful to you now, father, if you would let me be,” he said in an injured tone. “I could have ridden over to Barnstaple with your letter quicker than Samson did, and I shouldn’t have tired Dodder so much.”
“Yes, I thought of that, Fred, but you are only a boy, and you were at play.”
There was a silence for a few moments, and then Fred spoke.
“Is it wrong for a boy to play, father?”
“Heaven forbid. No; of course not. Play goes with youth, and it gives boys energy, strength, and decision. Yes, Fred, play while you can. Manfully and well. But play.”
Fred looked up at his father in a puzzled way, as he stopped short, and began beating his side with the despatch he had received. There was a dreamy look in his eyes, which were fixed on vacancy, as he muttered—
“Yes; I must be right. I have hesitated long, but it is a duty. But what does it mean—friendships broken; the land in chaos; brother against brother; perhaps father against son. No, no,” he added, with a shudder, as he turned sharply on his boy. “Fred, my lad,” he tried, “if trouble comes upon our land, and I have to take side with those who fight—”
He stopped short.
“Who fight, father? You are not going to fight.”
“I don’t know yet, my boy; but if I do, it will be for those I believe to be in the right. What I believe to be right, you, too, must believe in, and follow.”
“Of course, father,” said the boy, quietly.
“No matter what is said against me, or how you may be influenced. I know about these matters better than you do, and I shall ask you to trust to me.”
Fred smiled, as if his father’s words amused him, for it seemed absurd that he should have any opinion against his own father.
“Why, of course, I shall do as you tell me,” he said, taking hold of his father’s arm, and they walked together into the house, where Mistress Forrester, looking pale and large-eyed, was awaiting her husband’s return.
She did not speak, but looked up in his eyes with so eager and inquiring an air that he bent down and kissed her forehead.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh, husband!”
“It cannot be avoided. My duty is with the people. That duty I must do.”
“But home—me—Fred?”
“You will be safe here,” he said. “It is not likely that the tide of trouble will flow this way.”
“But Fred,” she whispered.
“Fred. Ah, yes, Fred,” said the colonel, thoughtfully.
“Oh no, no, no,” cried Mistress Forrester, in agony, as she saw her husband’s hesitating way, and suspected the truth. “No, no, husband, he is too young.”
“He will grow older,” said the colonel, with quiet firmness. “Wife, when the country calls for the help of her son, he must give it freely. If your boy is needed in his country’s service, he will have to go.”
Fred heard these words, and went slowly and thoughtfully away—thoughtfully, for his head was in a whirl—the coming of his father’s military friend—his father’s old life as a soldier—and these hints about civil war.
“I don’t think I should mind,” he said to himself, “not if Scar went too. He and I could get on so well together. Of course we should be too young for regular soldiers, but we should soon grow older.”
Then he began to recall different things of which he had heard and read, about youths going off to the war in olden times to be esquires, and after deeds of valour to become belted knights who had won their spurs.
Fred’s was not a romantic nature, for that night, quite late, after he had gone up to bed, he sat at his window looking out at the starlit sky. And as he gazed all the thoughts of the evening came back to make him burst into a derisive laugh.
“It’s all nonsense,” he said; “knights and squires never did half the things they say. And if we had a war, and I had to go, I’m afraid it would be all rough and different to life here at home. But if Scar went too, I should not mind. They want all the men at such a time as this. Samson would have to go, and Nat, and no end of the farm lads about.”
Fred rose from his seat, and closed the window softly, for fear that he should be heard, and at last lay down, but not to sleep, for his young brain was excited, and a feeling of awe came over him as he began thinking of her who was sleeping only a few yards away.
“If father goes and takes me with him, and there is a terrible war, what will my mother say?”