She looked at my foot which I was dipping in the water again.
“What a misfortune!” she says. “I cannot abide this idleness. It irks me to sit here, doing naught, as if we were rats in a cage.”
But since we were helpless I made no answerto her, and so there we sat, miserable as you please, and without the grey dawn widened into a dull morning.
The morning wore away in a sore discomfort until it came near to noon. Upon several occasions we heard folks pass along the road above our heads, and now and then a cart rumbled by, or a horseman made our hiding-place echo with the ring of his beast’s feet. But we heard no more of the cannon nor anything in the neighbouring meadows of our pursuers. As for my lame foot it was so damaged that I could see there was no chance of our going onward that day. The plentiful doses of cold water which I had administered to it had seemed to keep down the inflammation, but the swelling was still so great and the stiffness so stubborn that I could make no use of my leg from the knee downwards.
“Cousin,” says I, “look upon me as done for. I am winged as absolutely as a partridge that can only use its feet. It will be days before I can walk,” I says, groaning more with chagrin than with pain, though I had enough and to spare of that.
“Well?” says she.
“I don’t know what we’re to do next,” says I, sore perplexed. “There isn’t a house nearer than Darrington Mill, and you musn’t go there. If you go along the road to Wentbridge you’ll be seen. But when night falls you might try it, cousin. Dare you travel alone?” I says.
She looked round at me and laughed.
“Dare!” says she. “Dare, indeed!”
“Then will you?” says I.
“No,” says she, prompt enough.
“And why not?” says I.
“Because I shall not leave you,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could see you in safety.”
“’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,” says she.
“’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which smarts the more—your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you might be more civil,” I says.
“Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with her eyes.
“I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again.
“Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle,“confess, cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to death.”
“No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over to Anthony Dacre.”
She gave me a cool stare.
“And what harm would there be in that?” says she.
“What?” says I.
“I say what harm would there be in that?” she says.
“Oh, you did say so, did you?” says I. “Faith, I thought you did, but then I thought you didn’t.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” says she.
“Nay,” says I, “how do I know? I have given up trying to understand women.”
“Anthony Dacre,” says she, musingly, “is a handsome man, and a most devoted cavalier.”
“I wish I had my fingers at his throat!” says I.
“No man could be more attentive to ladies than he,” she says, still musing. “His manner is of the best.”
“Is it?” says I. “I wish he would come here and show us some of it.”
“He looks better in a withdrawing-room,” says she, giving the merest glance at my torn and mud-stained garments.
“I daresay he will grace some corner of hell,” says I, savage as a bear with a sore lug.
She turned and looked at me.
“You and I don’t seem to agree,” she says.
“Faith! I don’t care whether we do or not!” I says, like to weep with the pain of my foot, and the vexation into which she threw me.
She gave me a sharp glance, and suddenly I saw her eyes melt in the curiousest fashion. She was sitting near me on the wet stones and she put out her hand to mine with a quick gesture. But what she had it in mind to say or do——
There was a rustle at the mouth of the bridge, and we turned our heads to see a great hound glaring at us from between the bushes that his shoulders had pushed aside. “Tracked, by God!” says I, and without a thought I snatched a pistol from my belt and fired at the brute’s open jaws. He fell, a quivering heap, into the stream at our feet, and the noise of the pistol rolled and echoedalong the bridge, “Oh, foolish!” she cried, “they will hear it—they cannot be far off.” She looked at the dog and I saw her eyes fill with tears. “Poor dog!” said she.
But now that danger was at hand I was quick to think and to act. I drew out the bag of gold that I had carried—she already had the jewels in another bag—and handed it to her. “Here,” says I, “take this, cousin—and cousin,” I says, “whether we’ve agreed or not don’t forget that I tried to serve you. A curse on this foot o’ mine!” I says, struggling to get into a standing posture, “I’d give anything——”
There came the tramp of feet without and the sound of men pushing their way through the hedgerows. “The dog headed this way,” says a voice. “Why, this is the old bridge!” says another. But by that time I had got to my feet and drawn the other pistol from my belt. “Behind me, Alison!” says I, “We’ll have a life or two ere we yield.”
The bushes were suddenly filled with men. I saw Anthony Dacre’s face amongst the throng, and Merciful Wiggleskirk peering round the corner. I levelled the pistol full at Anthony and laughed to see him duck his head.“Coward!” says Alison in my ear. “Spare your powder for better men, Dick.”
She had never called me Dick before—at any rate, since we were children. I turned hastily to her. “Sweetheart!” I says, “this is the end, but by heaven, I love you!”
After that, I think I must have swooned and fallen. When I came to my senses again I was lying on the road above the bridge, with Alison and Merciful Wiggleskirk at my side, and Anthony Dacre talking to an officer on horseback close by. I strove to rise, half wondering where I was, and it was only the pain in my foot that suddenly reminded me of our position.
Having fairly recovered my senses I looked round me and found that we were in the midst of a score or so of troopers, apparently under command of a middle-aged officer who seemed fierce enough to eat hot lead. This worthy, turning from Anthony Dacre, with whom he had been conversing, presently approached me and enquired if I were now in a condition to travel.
“Aye,” says I,“but not a-foot, sir.”
“You shall have a mount, Master Coope,” says he, and beckons a trooper to bring up a horse, upon which I clambered with some pain and difficulty. “We must make what haste we can,” says he, “for Fairfax is somewhat impatient to meet you.”
He gave me a curious, knowing look as he turned from me to Alison.
“As for you, madam,” he says, “I fancy that some arrangement has been made for you by your kinsman, Master Dacre; you are free, at any rate, so far as I am concerned.”
“If Mistress Alison will accept my poor protection as far as her father’s house—” says Anthony, coming forward. But half-a-dozen paces away he stopped, frightened, I think, by the look she gave him.
“Liar!” she said, and looked him up and down ere she turned away. She came up to me and laid her hand on my arm, “I am going with you,” she says in a low voice. “I am afraid—that man frightens me. What is it they will do to you, Richard?”
“Shoot me, I expect, cousin,” says I. There was naught to be gained by keeping the truth from her.
She went over to the officer. “Sir,” says she,“you will make me your debtor if you will carry me to Pomfret with you. I have a mind to go there,” she says, looking hard at him.
The man looked from her to Anthony. “Why, madam,” says he, “sure you are free to do what you please, and I should feel it an honour to give you any assistance, but——”
“You are to go with me to your father’s, cousin,” says Anthony, with a frown on his black face. “It was on these conditions only that I secured your liberty.”
But she paid no more heed to him than if he had been a stone. She still looked at the officer. “Then you will take me with you, sir?” she says.
“Faith, and so I will, mistress,” says he, “if you can make shift to ride on one of my men’s saddles.”
“You are wrong, Captain Stott,” says Anthony Dacre, “I agreed with Sands——”
“Look you, Master Dacre,” says the other, “the young woman is free, and I know naught of your arrangements with Sands or anybody else. And since she asks me for a lift into Pomfret,” he says, “why, she shall have it, and there’s an end.”
This matter being settled, much to AnthonyDacre’s chagrin and the further souring of his naughty temper, we presently set out for Pomfret, going thither by way of Darrington Mill and Carleton village, in passing through which the folk came out of their houses to stare at us. It gave me much pain to ride, and Captain Stott urged us forward at a brisk pace. But going up Swan Hill we came to a gentle walk and Stott brought his horse alongside mine and inquired after my condition.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I suffer somewhat smartly, I promise you, and this jolting does naught to help me.”
“Well,” says he, “you will have a speedy quittance of your pain, young gentleman, for as I am an honest man I believe Fairfax will shoot you.”
“I expect naught else,” says I.
“You’re mighty cool about it,” says he, “and I admire you for that. Lord! what is there that’s better than war for taking the sentiment out of a man? I am sure you’ll face a file of my troopers very brave,” he says, looking narrowly at me. “’Twill be but justice, young gentleman, for your offence was exceeding grave.”
“Sir,” says I,“you seem to know a deal more of my offence than I know myself. To tell you the truth,” says I, “I am in that state of mind which prevents me from caring whether I offend or not.”
“Oh, tired of life,” says he.
“On the contrary,” says I. “I want very much to live, and am cursing my fate as earnestly as I can. And yet,” I says, giving him a smile that was doubtless as grim as his own, “I am wise enough to know that all the cursing in the world won’t alter things.”
“You will certainly be shot,” says he.
“Well, sir,” I says, “then I will be shot. But if you would oblige a dying man—and you seem assured that I am one—say naught of it to my cousin there,” says I, pointing to Alison, who rode a little in advance, and out of earshot. “She has some inkling of it already, but you have such a cold-blooded style of saying things,” says I, “that she’ll look upon you as a butcher.”
“Why, ’tis my trade, lad,” says he, and laughs. “But I’ll respect your wish, seeing that it’s one of the last you’ll ever utter.”
We were now come to Pomfret, and for some moments I forgot my own affairs in looking about me and noting the evidences of warfare which were on every side. As we drew nearer to the marketplaceI saw many houses that had been shattered by the Castle artillery and now stood in ruins. Beyond the Moot Hill we passed the Main Guard, which they had erected at the top of Northgate, and out of which came several Parliamentarians to see us pass, and inquire of their fellows as to our business. Captain Stott, however, hurried us forward along Skinner Lane, and so we presently came to Fairfax’s camp, which was at the rear of a great horn-work that they had thrown up for the beleaguering of the Castle. We were now in full view of the Castle itself, and occasionally noted the discharge of its cannon which chiefly played, however, against the fort on Baghill, from whence most annoyance was caused to the besieged. Fairfax and Sands were closeted together in a farmhouse close by the camp, and thither Captain Stott conducted us and bade his men help me down from my horse. I was making shift to hobble along, leaning on the arm of a trooper, when Sands himself suddenly came out of the house and met us. He looked from me to Alison and seemed resentful of her presence.
“What do you do here, mistress?” says he, rudely. “I cannot remember that we sent you for any woman, Captain Stott,” he says.“That matter, I think, was arranged with Master Dacre there.”
“She came of her own accord,” says Stott. “She was free to go where she pleased for aught that I know to the contrary.”
“What is your business here, mistress?” says Sands. But ere she could reply he fell into a sudden fury. “Come!” says he, “get you gone, mistress, get you gone!—what, have we not had enough of trouble with you Coopes this last day or two that you must give us more? See her out of the camp, Master Dacre,” he says, turning upon Anthony. “See her to her father’s house as you arranged with me.” He turned from them and looked at me with a severe displeasure in his eyes. “Richard Coope, eh?” says he. “Bring him within—we are anxious to make acquaintance with you, Master Coope.”
“Sir,” says I, as I hobbled into the farmhouse after him, “I claim your protection on behalf of my cousin, Mistress French, without there.”
“She hath another cousin to protect her,” says he, ill-temperedly. “We have given her safe-conduct to her father’s house, and there’s an end on’t.”
“But——” says I.
“I’ll hear no more,” says he, savage as a bear,and he walked forward and into a room, the door of which he closed behind him. The three troopers that had me in charge waited in the passage with me in their midst. I looked from one to the other, and recognising Merciful Wiggleskirk amongst them, I begged him to run outside and see whether Alison had departed, and if not, to entreat her from me to seek out some friend in the town rather than trust herself to Anthony Dacre. This he did, but presently returned, saying that Mistress French had ridden away, and Master Dacre and his two men with her, whereat I turned sick at heart, and cared no more as to what might happen to me.
After some little time the door of the chamber into which Sands had withdrawn was opened again, and an officer looked out and bade the troopers bring me within. I hobbled into the room and found myself standing at the foot of a great table, at the head of which sat a man whom I immediately took to be Sir Thomas Fairfax himself. Sands sat by him on his right, and two other officers were placed on his left, while Captain Stott stood half-way along the table. They all gazed at me with some curiosity, and faith, I daresay I was a pretty sight tobehold, for I had had no time to smarten myself up for four days, and the mud of the ditch was thick on my clothes. However, I made my best bow, and was then forced to clutch and hold by the table lest I should fall, for the pain in my leg was turning me sick again.
“Master Richard Coope,” says Fairfax, looking at me.
“The same, sir,” says I.
“You seem to be in some distress,” says he, not unkindly.
“Sir,” I says, “I have hurt my foot, and the pain is exceeding sore at this moment.”
“Give Master Coope a chair,” says he.
“I thank you, sir,” says I, very polite. “Faith!” thinks I, “he is surely going to shoot me, or he would not be so attentive.” And I sat down and tried not to groan at the agony which every movement gave me.
“Now, Master Coope,” says he, “we have had you brought here after much trouble and annoyance to question you of your late doings.”
He paused and looked at me.
“Sir,” I says, regarding him steadily, “I am prepared to answer any question you are pleased to put to me.”
“Are you so?” says he.“Be assured, Master Coope, that we shall deal justly with you. And since we are sitting in court-martial upon you, you shall know what it is that you are charged with.” He took up a paper from the table. “You are charged,” he says, looking at it, “with a grave offence, namely, that you, being duly entrusted with the conveyance of a despatch from General Cromwell to me, Sir Thomas Fairfax, did desert your commission, and, attaching yourself to the enemies of the Parliament, did do, and cause to be done, many things hurtful to the cause which you had sworn to further. What say you to that, Master Coope?” he says, regarding me keenly.
“Sir,” says I, “if you will listen to my defence I shall hope to make myself clear to you.”
“You shall have all the consideration that is right,” says he. “So tell us your story, Master Coope, without fear.”
“I am a poor hand at it,” says I, “but this is a plain tale and the truth,” and I pulled my wits together and put the matter plainly before them. I told them how I had lost my horse, how I had chanced to overhear Anthony Dacre’s plot, how I had gone to the Manor House to warn my uncle, and had been trapped there ere I could leave, and how I had contrived to forward thedespatch by Merciful Wiggleskirk. “And that,” says I, coming to an end, “is the truth of this matter, wherein, if I have done wrong, it has been for the sake of folk that were dear to me. And, gentlemen,” says I, looking from one to the other, “if there were need I would do it again—and I have no more to say.”
After I had finished none of them spoke for awhile, but at last Fairfax looked at Sands. “I wish,” says he, “that we knew more about this man Dacre and the plot which his kinsman Coope alleges against him.” But Sands shook his head. “’Tis neither here nor there, Sir Thomas,” says he. “What have we to do with plots about carrying off a young woman? Here is Richard Coope confessing, yea, and glorifying himself because of it, that he deserted his commission, and joined himself to his uncle in resisting our warrant. A clearer case,” says he, “I never heard.”
Then the four of them withdrew into another apartment, leaving me there with Stott and the troopers. “Thy foot will not pain thee much longer, young man!” says Stott. “Faith,” says I, conceiving a great dislike to him all of a sudden, “’tis well for you, sir, that I am unable to use it!” And there might have been a prettyrow between us but that Sir Thomas and the others came back and took their seats. I glanced at Sands, and knew what was coming.
Fairfax looked at me with some kindness as he began to speak. But there was naught kind about his words. I had deserted my commission, and thereby caused great annoyance to the Parliament; I had joined myself with the Royalists, and had brought about the death of a useful officer, and it was impossible that my serious offence could be overlooked. And so I was to be shot at daybreak of the following morning.
I think I got to my feet and bowed to him when he made an end. And I must have winced with the pain that every movement gave me, for he looked at me with some consideration. “I am sorry that you suffer,” says he. “I will send my surgeon to see to your hurt.” “I am greatly your debtor, sir,” says I. And so we parted with much politeness on both sides, and the troopers helped me out, and presently installed me in a neighbouring cottage, with Merciful Wiggleskirk as a guard, and my own thoughts for amusement.
The place in which they installed me to wait for my end was a little cottage some fifty yards away from the farmhouse, where Fairfax had set up his quarters, and stood in an angle of the fields that lie ’twixt Skinner Lane and the hamlet of Tanshelf. It afforded but the most indifferent accommodation, there being naught in the way of furniture but a chair or two, a pallet bed in one corner and a deal table, but in my then condition these things were more than sufficient for my wants, and I made no complaint of them. Nay, when Merciful Wiggleskirk offered me some apology for the poor quarters he had brought me to I checked him, and pointed out that to a man who has but some sixteen hours to live a cottage is as fine as a palace.
“Why, sure,” says he, “death is the greatest leveller—but is there naught that we can do for your honour? Your honour,” he says, giving me a sly look, “is such a generous rewarder——”
“Friend,” says I, “I verily believe that I have not even a penny-piece upon me. As for reward then——”
“I meant you to understand,” says he, “that I had already received my reward, and was minded to do still more to deserve what you have already bestowed upon me. So if there is aught that you lack——”
“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says.
“You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the time,” says he, returning to my side.“A lame man can make little shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.”
“Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!” says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it, “I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.”
“Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little, hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my temper with him.
“Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my pain, or put my foot down!”
But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk as well as ever.”
“Thank you for naught,” says I, mightilyinclined to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!—why, man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like to see—I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.”
“Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!” says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for good in a few hours?”
“Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I always carry about my person—a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath worked the marvellousest cures.”
“With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand straight in the morning.”
He brought out the little box that containedhis ointment and began to rub my leg with it. “I have some acquaintance with the healing art,” says he. “I was boy to a doctor at one time, and made experiments on my own account. Besides, my merciful nature obliges me to exercise my office upon all that are in distress.”
“Thou art a queer fellow,” says I. “But, come, tell me of what happened at the Manor House this morning. I am anxious to know how it fared with the serving-folk.”
“Oh,” says he, “at daybreak they hung out a flag and submitted themselves, and we had free entrance to the house, and were sore concerned, I promise you, to find naught there but servants. Captain Stott was for dealing sternly with them at first, but, what, they had but obeyed orders, and so he let them go their own ways, and set himself to track you and madam.”
“But we heard cannon discharged,” says I.
“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house, Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was. Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs to see to if you intend—but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with a curious smile,“that you will not need earthly residence much longer.”
“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.
“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.
“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave. “Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was ever sadder fortune?”
But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.
“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”
“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff—it has certainly given me relief.”
“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,” says he, proudly.“Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade, master, I shall set up as an empiric——”
“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart hath abated marvellously.”
“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So now you can fall to your writing, master.”
It was now past noon, and ere long there was brought to us food and drink, which we consumed together with as much satisfaction as we could get out of each other’s company. True, the thought of my condition did sometimes come upon me as I ate, and made my food to stick in my throat, but as there was no use in repining at my fate, I strove to be free of regret, and to behave myself like a man. And the food and drink putting some heart into me, I presently turned to the table, and began to write, in which occupation I found great comfort and relief.
Now, I verily believe that troubled as I was at my own fate (for I was troubled though I strove hard not to be) I was more concerned on account of Alison. After all that I had done to prevent it, she had in the end fallen into thehands of Anthony Dacre. I had no cause to be especially anxious for her safety when I first heard Anthony’s designs against her, for she and I, on the rare occasions of our meeting, had never been able to get on together, and she had treated me with a certain haughty contempt that I secretly resented. But I had never been able to endure the thought of her being in Anthony’s power, and after I had lived under the same roof with her, and seen much of her I felt that I would stay at naught to save her from him. And there was more than that, for, somehow, I had come to love her with a rare passion, even when she flouted and teased me. This made life exceeding bitter for me in what I believed to be its last hours. There I was, a prisoner in more ways than one, unable to move hand or foot to succour her whose image was constantly before me, while she, for aught I knew to the contrary, was in the hands of a man whom I knew from his own confession to be a black-hearted villain, and incapable of mercy or consideration where his own vile inclination was concerned.
There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of thosewomen that are accustomed—faith, there are precious few of them that I have seen during fifty years of life!—to think and act for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It was not that I had any jealous feeling—though she had teased me about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport—but that I had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done aught—aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it—to keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged as I was what could I do?—and so I hoped for the best, and sat me down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the packet delivered.
Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands—though not after the fashion that I had intended—and she has since taken the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However, what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening in writing—with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit—and that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied.
It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade him good-night.
But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself.
A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE TRANSACTION BETWEEN ALISON FRENCH AND ANTHONY DACRE, NOW SET DOWN AFTER A PLAIN FASHION BY THE FORMER.—A. F.
When Colonel Sands so rudely bade me begone from the camp, and I saw my cousin Richard led away by the troopers to what I felt assured must end in his death, I was so sore distrest that for some moments my wits forsook me and I knew not what to say or do. It was, I think, at that moment that I first discovered my love for my cousin, and that, perhaps, had as much to do with my confession as aught else. They gave him no time to speak with me ere they led him away, but he turned himself about at the door of the house into which they were conducting him, and gave me a swift glance, and when I met his eyes I knew that I loved him with all my heart, which had never till then been stirred by the thought of any man. Then he was gone, and I felt that all was over, and that for the rest of my life I should carry with me the pain of that moment which was yet mingled with the joy that comes to a womanwho suddenly discovers that she is loved and that she loves in return.
It was Anthony Dacre that woke me out of my reverie. He drew near and addressed me by name. I know not what sort of countenance I turned upon him, but he stood back and looked afraid. But on the instant I grew calm. There was naught but danger of the worst sort to the man I loved and to myself (and I was now the dearer to myself because he loved me) in that moment. “This is no time,” thought I, “for rashness or for ill-temper. I must keep my wits, and see if I cannot devise something to save Dick from his fate.” And therewith a thought flashed across my mind. My wit against all of them—my woman’s wit against Anthony Dacre’s subtlety and Fairfax’s decree. I had always prided myself on my strong-mindedness and my common-sense—of what avail were either if they could not help the man I loved when his need was of the greatest? Could not?—nay, but they should! I would be strong and wise: it should not be for lack of endeavour if I did not outwit them all.
I turned to Anthony Dacre with a gracious manner.
“And so you are to form my escort, cousin?” I said, speaking to him with a civility which belied the loathing and contempt I kept for him in my heart.
He looked at me with a great surprise, wondering perhaps what had brought this change over me.
“I have made some arrangements for you,” he said. “I shall conduct you to your father’s house with great pleasure. Will it please you to set out at once?”
“Why,” said I, affecting to treat the matter lightly, “I am ill-provided with riding-gear. Would it not suit your convenience to stay our progress at the Manor House so that I can fit myself out in proper fashion?”
“Anything that you desire, cousin,” said he.
“Then we will set out at once,” I said, and gave him my hand in order that he might assist me to the horse which stood near. “But I fear,” I said, when I had disposed myself as well as I could, “that we shall find the old house a heap of ruins, and my gear may not easily be come at.”
“It is certainly somewhat damaged,” said he, “and believe me, cousin, it was much against my will. But I am but a gentleman volunteer, after all, and things have gone beyond my power. I wish,” he said, as we rode away, followed by histwo men, “that you had thought better of me, cousin, at the beginning of this sad matter. It would have saved much bloodshed and trouble.”
Now there was naught that I so much desired at that moment as to turn in my saddle and look Anthony Dacre straight in the face and tell him my true thoughts. It would have given me the greatest relief—but there was so much at stake that I must needs lie to him and to myself if I would win the game I was playing.
“Cousin,” I answered, as gracious in voice as if it gave me pleasure to be in his company, “I, too, am sorry that there have been misunderstandings. But when one is misinformed——”
“Ah!” he said eagerly. “So your mind was poisoned against me, cousin? Let me now swear to you that in all this I have sought nothing but your own comfort and safety. When Fairfax determined to attack Sir Nicholas I entreated that the matter might be placed in my hands so that no insult should be offered to yourself. Alas!—I know not what it was that prejudiced you against me in this. Suffer me to believe that you are satisfied with my explanation, cousin.”
“I am sorry that I did not know your true character earlier, cousin,” I answered.
“I am overjoyed to think that we are reconciled,” said he, “it has hurt me much to feel that I lay under your displeasure.”
“I have observed to others,” I said, still humouring him, “that you are a devoted cavalier, Master Anthony,” and I gave him a smile that fetched the colour to his face, “and so I expect you to attend me to my father’s house, and there you shall be duly rewarded—maybe with——”
“Ah!” said he, coming nearer to me. “With what, cousin?”
“Why,” said I, with another smile, “with what so devoted a knight has the right to expect,” and with that I whipped up my horse and rode forward as if in some confusion. He laughed and came after me, and so we pressed on to Hardwick agreeing very well indeed.
Now when we turned into the courtyard of the old house the sight of the ruin caused by the cannon was like to make me weep, but I restrained myself and suffered Anthony Dacre to lead me within. The kitchen and hall were least damaged of the lower apartments, and in the former we found old Barbara and Jasper who were pottering about in sore lamentation, and seemed vastly surprised to see us. I addressed Barbara in my grandest manner giving her atthe same time a glance that she understood plainly enough.
“Barbara,” I said, “Master Dacre is escorting me to my father’s house, but before we go forward we will refresh ourselves if you can make shift to give us food and drink. You will not refuse to dine with me, Anthony,” I said, turning to him with a smile that was meant to subdue him.
Now it is marvellous—and never so much so, I think, as to us women ourselves—that a woman’s beauty and manner hath power to change a man from his purpose more rapidly than any other form of persuasion. As I looked at Anthony Dacre I knew that I could do with him as I pleased. He mumbled something in the way of a compliment that I scarcely heard, though I affected to do so, and smiled back my thanks to him for it. He was won over—but oh, the anxiety that I still felt lest my plans should miscarry!
While Barbara prepared food and drink for us, I went over the house under pretence of making myself ready for our further progress. It was a sad sight that my eyes beheld. The upper storey of the house had been well-nigh shattered to pieces, and the room in which my uncle died was a heap of stones and dust. But my own chamber was undisturbed, and thither I presently repaired andmade such alterations in my apparel as were sorely needed. Nay, when I looked at myself in the mirror I marvelled that I had been able to make any impression on Anthony Dacre, for my adventures of that day and the previous night had made me anything but attractive. Now it was necessary (beauty being the greatest weapon which we women can arm ourselves and aid our natural cunning with) that I should make myself as attractive as possible, and so I gave some considerable attention to my toilet, and at last went downstairs to find Anthony Dacre, and proceed with the development of my plans.
I found him in the small parlour that adjoined the hall, where Barbara had contrived a hasty meal for us. He looked at me with some astonishment as I entered, and I noticed as I returned his glance that he, too, had taken some pains to smarten himself up. I walked to the head of the table, and motioned him to take a seat at my right hand. But he came forward and took my hand as if to lead me to my chair, and no sooner did his fingers touch mine than he broke out into the most extravagant profession of love for me, swearing by all that is holy that he adored me in the most devoted fashion, and beseeching me to have some pity on his condition.All this I was compelled to endure and even to affect to receive with complaisance, though inwardly I was filled with two thoughts—the first, that I could cheerfully have stabbed him where he stood; the second, that he was playing into my hands. I heard him to the end, and then I disengaged my hand from his and drew away from him.
“Cousin,” I said, “this is not the time or place for us to discuss these matters. It is possible,” I said, looking at him, “that I have been mistaken in you, as you say, and if so, I am indeed sorry, and will strive to make amends. But I think it will be best if you accompany me to my father’s house, and there prosecute your suit—if indeed, you really feel for me what you say—after the fashion usual amongst people of our degree. You must speak to my father first,” says I, with a coquettish glance at him that made him ready to obey me on the instant.
“But yourself?” said he. “What answer will you make to me if I fulfil your wishes in this?”
“Why,” I said, looking, I daresay, very modest and conscious,“I think that if you really obey me, I may perhaps be found more complaisant than you have fancied, cousin.”
“My angel!” he cried, and would have embraced me had I not anticipated some such proceeding on his part and escaped him.
“Come,” I said, smiling, “let us have some food, cousin—we have a long ride before us, and for myself I have had little to eat since last night.”
He took his seat near me, and I occupied myself in paying him much attention, and seeing to his comfort. As for me, it well-nigh choked me to eat a crumb of bread; but, lest he should observe that I was anxious or pre-occupied, I forced myself to make a hearty meal. Barbara had furnished the table with a flask of my uncle’s old Tokay, and more than once I filled Anthony’s glass with my own hands. What a comedy it all was, and yet what a tragedy seemed to be playing itself out in my heart at the time!
When at last he would eat and drink no more, I approached the subject that lay closest to my thoughts. “Now,” thought I, “Heaven send me strength and wit to carry out my project!” And I think my prayer must have been answered quickly, for I spoke with calmness, though every nerve in my body seemed to me to quiver with anxiety and apprehension.
“Cousin,” I said, “what will they do with Richard Coope?”
He looked at me narrowly. I could see that the mere question raised his jealousy and distrust on the instant.
“They will shoot him,” he answered, keeping his eyes on mine.
“I supposed they would,” said I, affecting a rare carelessness. “Poor Dick! But ’tis I suppose, the fortune of war, eh, cousin?”
“’Tis the treatment always meted out to deserters and traitors,” he said.
“Well,” said I, “’tis a pity that a kinsman of ours should die a shameful death, is it not, cousin?”
“It is not to the credit of the family,” he answered. “But an offender against the cause must be punished.”
“Why,” I said, “I think Dick offended under some misapprehension, and ’tis rather a pity that he should die for that when you and I, cousin, have been so fortunate as to clear away our own misunderstanding. Could we do nothing to save him from so violent a death?”
“No,” he said, “naught. By this time it is probably over.”
It was only by the strongest effort that I wasable to preserve my composure when he said that. I affected to take no particular heed of it.
“I wish we could have saved him,” I said presently. “I fear my father will visit his displeasure upon both of us for our neglect to say a word in Dick’s favour. He thinks so much of family ties, cousin. But I trust he may not, for I do not wish you to meet with a frown from him when you conduct me home, under the—the circumstances that you spoke of a little time ago,” said I, giving him a sly glance.
“I would do aught to please you, cousin,” he exclaimed. “But in this matter of Dick Coope, what can I do, even if he be still alive, which I question? I have no influence with Fairfax.”
“You must surely have some,” I replied. “One who has rendered such service.”
“Why, I may have some slight claim upon him,” he said. “But come, cousin, what signifies Dick Coope—let us talk of ourselves.”
“Dear Anthony,” said I,“we shall have so much time for that afterwards, and i’ faith I am concerned about Dick—though indeed I have no cause to trouble myself about him, seeing that he and I could never abide one another’s presence—for the reason that my father and our relations will be sore vexed at his death. And I am so anxious that naught should occur to vex my father at this time,” I added, looking significantly at him, “that if it were in my power I would do something to save Dick, and get him out of the country. Is there aught that we could do in that way, cousin?”
“I won’t say that something might not be done,” said he. “I might contrive his escape if he still lives.”
“I would give something if that were done,” said I. “Why, that’s noble and generous in you, cousin! Come, I think the more of you for that. But is the thing possible?”
“There are three things that would make it so,” said he, looking narrowly at me.
“And what are they, cousin?” I enquired.
“Why,” said he, “first, if he’s still alive; second, if there’s money in the house to secure his release; and third, if you will reward me for my efforts on his behalf.”
“I reward you?” said I, affecting a great surprise. “How can I reward you, cousin?”
“By bestowing yourself upon me without delay, fair cousin!” he cried, throwing himself at my feet and seizing my hand.
“Why,” said I, affecting a pretty confusion,“I thought that I had already given you some promise of the sort—but ‘without delay’ sounds so formidable—will not a year hence suit you, cousin?” I said.
“A year hence? ’Tis an age—a century!” he exclaimed, possessing himself of both my hands. “It must be at once—I cannot endure my passion to remain unsatisfied, fair coz; indeed, I love thee so much.”
“I could do much for a man that gratified my whim,” said I.
“And by heaven,” said he, “I will gratify it if I’m in time! Promise me, cousin, that you’ll marry me to-night, and I’ll save Dick Coope—that is,” he said, with a sudden caution, “if he’s yet alive, and if you can find me money for the enterprise.”
“But to-night?” said I, much confused. “Oh, cousin—why, was ever aught so sudden? Let us say a month hence, or a fortnight.”
“No,” he said, “to-night—this very night. I will bring a clergyman with me.”
“I am so taken aback,” I said. “Let us say a week hence, cousin.”
“No,” he said.“A week? ’Tis a lifetime—you must make me the happiest of men to-night if I do this for you. Come, yes or no, coz?”
“Why,” said I, looking away from him, “you deserve to be rewarded for your enterprise, Master Anthony, so I will say yes. But—nay,” I said, as he made as if to embrace me, “let us defer all that until we have some leisure—bethink you what there is to do. We must bestir ourselves if you really mean to win me for your own ere to-morrow morning. What is our bargain, cousin? That you are to rescue Dick Coope and bring him here, and that I am then to reward you with my hand?”
“And your heart,” said he, still pressing me with his attentions.
“Why, of course,” said I, and laughed. “Come, cousin, let us sit down and make our arrangements,” and I contrived to keep the table between us. “Now, first,” I said, giving him the bag of gold which Dick had handed to me when we were caught by the troopers, “there is money for your needs in this matter. Now let us settle all other things. First, you are to set out forthwith for Pomfret and busy yourself about Dick’s escape. You will, I suppose, bribe those that have him in charge?”
“Leave that to me,” he answered, with a chuckle. “I know a trick or two of that sort.”
“I am sure of it,” said I.“Then you are to bring him here so that he can be furnished with money for his journey out of the country.”
“Must he come here?” said he. “If I manage his escape——”
“Why, to tell you the truth, cousin,” said I, “I want to see him for a good reason. Sir Nicholas on his death-bed confided to Dick a secret as to the hiding of some considerable treasure, and I want to have it out of him. He cannot refuse to tell me after what we have done for him,” I said.
“He shall be brought here,” he answered.
“And when will you return with him?” I said.
“Why,” said he, musingly, “I have a plan, and if it goes as I think it will, it will be within an hour after midnight.”
“Then I will expect you, cousin,” said I. I paused a moment, and then looked at him in a shy fashion. “And you will bring a clergyman with you?” I said, striving, and I hope with some success, to counterfeit a becoming modesty.
“Assuredly I will!” he cried.
“Then go, dear Anthony,” I said. “But stay, there are two other matters—I do not like the notion,” I said, looking about me with an air of distaste,“of spending my wedding night in this house—could not we ride to your own house at Foxclough immediately after the ceremony? I should find that much to be preferred, cousin.”
“Why,” said he, “’tis a ten mile ride—and the old place is but poorly furnished—but since you wish it, cousin, I will despatch one of my men with strict orders to have it prepared for our reception during the night.”
“And your other man?” said I, “will you leave him here to protect me?—old Jasper is but a poor guard, and there is no one but Barbara and myself in the house.”
“Agreed,” said he. “And now I must hasten—egad, the time will go but slow till I return with the parson, fair coz!”
“Hasten!” said I, “you must fulfil your bargain if you would gain your prize. Nay,” I said, seeing that he was minded to embrace me, “lose no time, cousin—I shall be impatient for your return,” and I gave him a smile as he went out of the door that was intended to encourage him. I watched him across the kitchen and saw that he spoke to the two men; then he rode out of the courtyard and I returned to the parlour, calling Barbara to attend me there. And we had no sooner entered and closed the door than I swooned, the excitement of the scene I had justgone through proving too much for me to bear any longer.
“This will not do,” I said when Barbara had brought me round, and I sat up feeling somewhat recovered. “There is still much that I must undertake.” I began to plot and plan afresh, telling old Barbara sufficient of what was going on to explain my anxiety to her. Truly I was by that time in a sad condition, for there was first the fear lest Dick should already be beyond my help, and second, the thought that my plans should miscarry ere they could be worked out as I wished. “’Tis a desperate game,” I said to myself, “Heaven help me to play it to the end and give me success!” And therewith I began to consider my next movement.
Now so far as matters had turned out I had nothing to regret, and last of all, the seeming deception which I had practised on Anthony Dacre. It may seem to you who read this narrative that I had played upon him in the vilest and most heartless fashion by promising to marry him. But there was no deception in it, save on his side, for all the time that he spoke with me of marriage he was in reality meditating my ruin. I knew what he did not know that I knew—namely, that he was already married. I had come to know itby the most curious chance. Soon after Sir Nicholas Coope fell ill and took to his bed, there came to see him old Master Drumbleforth, a neighbouring clergyman, who chanced to inform him that he had married Anthony Dacre to one of his parishioners some few years previously, and that the woman still lived, though sore neglected by her husband. And I think it was because of knowing this that I felt it neither heartless nor deceitful to treat Anthony as I did. My own happiness and the life of the man I loved were at stake—what true woman would have let squeamish notions about nice points of honour stand in her way at such a time?
I now proceeded to carry out my further plans, all of which I had duly considered since my first notion of saving Dick entered my head. Towards the close of the afternoon I rode over to Master Drumbleforth’s vicarage and confessed to him all that I had done and all that I had it in my mind to do, and begged him to come to the Manor House that night in order to help me to carry out my last intentions. He promised to do so and gave me his blessing and sympathy, comforted by which I returned home. My next proceeding was to get rid of the man whom Anthony Dacre had left with us. I made up a parcel of my clothing,and giving it to him, bade him follow his fellow-servant to Foxclough and bide there until Anthony and I came in the night. He went without question, and when he was fairly departed, I mounted my horse again and rode off to Thorpe, where I saw John and Humphrey Stirk. I arranged that they should come to the Manor House early that night and remain there until Anthony Dacre returned. This done, my arrangements were all complete. I had carried out everything that my woman’s wit could devise, and there was naught left but to return home and wait with a fierce impatience for the outcome of my endeavours.
This is a true history of what I, Alison French, did on that distressing day. God send that no other woman be ever placed in such trying circumstances as those which I have here faithfully described. As for the end of them all, it will be much better spoken of by Richard, who has a turn for the writing of books, than by me, who have none.
This is the end of Mistress Alison’s account of her Transaction with Anthony Dacre.
I do not think that I had slept above half-an-hour when I was awoke by Merciful Wiggleskirk,who laid his hand on my shoulder and at the same moment bade me make no noise. There was a very dim moonlight flooding the cottage when I opened my eyes, and at first I took it for the dawn and thought that my last hour was come.
“So they are ready, eh, lad,” says I, sitting up. “Faith, the night’s been short, but thank God, I have slept soundly.”
“Hush, master,” says he. “The night’s not half over. We have work to do yet. Hearken to me—are you minded to escape if I show you the way?”
“What’s all this?” I says, staring at him in the dim light. “Say plainly what’s on your mind.”
“Why, then,” says he, “your cousin, Mistress French, has devised some plan of rescuing you, and it falls to me to carry out this part of it. Are you willing?”
“Willing!” I says. “Come, let us hasten.”
“First,” says he, “let me doctor your foot. We have still a quarter of an hour. I waked you in advance of the time so that I might be able to minister to your hurt. It may be that you’ll have to use that foot whether it pain you or no.”
“I’ll make shift,” says I, all impatient now that I knew Alison had not forgotten me. I wasanxious to proceed to our next movement, but Wiggleskirk made me sit down while he rubbed his balm of Gilead into my leg. He busied himself in this fashion for some minutes, and then proceeded to bandage my ankle and foot with linen swathes. “There,” says he at last. “Now stand up, master, and see if you cannot use your foot a little.”
Now, whether it was the healing powers of Merciful’s ointment, or my own excitement at the thought of regaining my freedom that worked such wonders in me, I don’t know, but whatever it was I found on putting my foot to the ground that I could walk with some little difficulty. There was still much stiffness and discomfort in my foot, but the pain had abated in marvellous fashion.
“Thou art a very miracle-monger,” says I. “Come, what do we turn to next?”
“Have patience,” says he. “There’s much at stake.” He opened the door of the cottage and looked forth. The moon was then dipping into a bank of cloud. “Now,” says he, “I think we may venture,” and he beckoned me to follow him. We left the cottage, and turning the corner crept along behind the hedgerow. For fifty yards I contrived to amble along, but then the painreturned, and I was forced to call a halt. “Pain or no pain,” says Merciful, “we must onward,” and he drew my arm within his and supported me. Soon we came to a little grove of trees. “Here are two men with four horses,” he whispers in my ear. “Ask no question of them—all you have to do is to mount and ride. I shall be at your side, and we are going to your cousin.”
We were now close to the horses, and one of the men, coming forward, assisted Merciful to lift me into the saddle. “All clear,” says Merciful, and we set out across the fields, the three men closely surrounding me. One of the strange men led the way, and I observed that he was careful to keep clear of the town. For some time I was not sure as to the direction we were following, but after skirting the fields that lie between Tanshelf and Mill Hill we eventually came out on the Barnsdale road, and ere long I saw the top of the old manor rising up in the moonlight.
“Surely we cannot be going there!” I thought. But when we came to the corner of the village street our leader turned his horse, and in a few minutes they were assisting me to dismount in the courtyard. “Well, this,” thinks I, “is the strangest adventure,” but I said naught. The men tied their horses to the rings at the mounting-stone,and Merciful Wiggleskirk gave me his arm. And then all four of us were at the porch, and the door of the great kitchen opened, and there stood Alison, holding a lamp above her head, just as she had stood when I and the Stirks came to warn her of her danger but a few nights before. I stared at her as she looked at us and was amazed. Her eyes were bright, there was the rarest colour in her cheeks, she had never looked so handsome, I swear, but there was something in her face that I had never seen there before. It was excitement, apprehension, fear—I know not what; but when her eyes fell on me it vanished. She gave me one swift look, and then turned into the kitchen. The two strangers followed her close, with me and Wiggleskirk in attendance, and as we came into the light the foremost of them threw aside the cloak that had so effectively concealed him from me. It was Anthony Dacre!
I looked from him to her. She stood, proud and haughty by the hearth, and gave no more heed to me than if I had been a stone. Anthony Dacre spoke, setting his eyes on her boldly.
“There, madam,” says he, with a bow that began at her and finished at me,“you see how well I have executed your commands. Here stands Master Richard Coope, alive and unhurt Have I done well, fair cousin?”
“You have done excellent well, sir,” says she.
“Then there is naught left, madam,” says he, “but to claim my reward.”
“And that,” says she, “you shall have without delay. But first I must transact that business with Master Coope that I told you of. Master Richard, will it please you to step with me into the hall for a moment?”
But I looked at her and then at him.
“Hold!” says I. “What is the meaning of all this, and what is that reward you speak of, Master Dacre?”
He gave me a triumphant look.
“In return for saving your life,” says he, “Mistress French confers upon me her hand and heart. Here,” he says, motioning towards the man at his side, “is the clergyman who will presently marry us.”
“Is this true?” says I, and looked at Alison.
“And what right has Master Richard Coope to ask such a question?” says she, in her haughtiest manner. But she had contrived to get ’twixt me and Anthony, and she gave me a look which signified so much that I saw through all this mystery in an instant.“By heaven!” thinks I, “she has tricked him after all!” And I followed up her clue. “Nay,” says I, sulkily, “it’s naught to me, mistress. But what’s this business that you speak of?”
“Step with me into the hall,” says she. She turned to Anthony, and gave him the sweetest look. “We shall need but a few minutes, cousin,” she says.
I hobbled into the hall. She followed me close, and shut the door. I turned to her, and as our eyes met she threw her arms about my neck, and held me to her. “Oh, Dick!” she cries. “My dear, my dear, if you knew what I have gone through. But you are safe,” she says, starting away, “and there is so much to do. Come——”
“Alison,” I said, holding her hand. “What is all this—what does it mean?”
“Dick,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes, “do you love me?”
“As my life—and more!” says I.
“And will you marry me—now?” she says.
“Now?” I says. “But I will do aught that you wish,” I says, sore mystified.
“Come, come!” she says, and drags me to the door of the little parlour. “There are good friends here,” she says, and leads me within.
There was old Drumbleforth, the parson, there, with John and Humphrey Stirk. Alison led me up to the clergyman. “Stand by the door, John and Humphrey,” says she. “Now, Master Drumbleforth, will you wed me to my cousin?”
“You are both of a mind, children?” says the old man, looking from one to the other. “But I see you are,” he says, and opened his book.
So we were married, and as the parson said his last word I took my wife in my arms and kissed her for the first time.
By that time I was well nigh amazed with the succession of conflicting emotions that I had experienced during the day and night. I could not believe that things were real. I stood staring at Alison and old Parson Drumbleforth. She smiled at me, and then seemed to recollect herself.
“John,” says she, “do you and Humphrey see to your arms, and give my husband those that you have prepared for him. There may be need for them, but I think not. Now——” she left the parlour, and crossed the hall. She flung open the door. “I am ready for you, Master Anthony,” she cried. “Will you step this way with your friend?”
She came back and stood at my side, puttingout her hand to touch mine. And then came Anthony Dacre, followed by the other man, and they stopped on the threshold and stared at us.
Faith! I am not sure that I did not pity Anthony as he stood there. He looked at Alison and at me, and from us to old Parson Drumbleforth, and at sight of him his face turned from red to black, and from black to white. He looked back to Alison. “Tricked!” he says. She looked steadily at him: his eyes dropped: he turned to the door. But Merciful Wiggleskirk had followed them in, and had now closed the door behind them, and stood against it with a pistol in his hand.
Anthony Dacre turned to sudden rage. “Let me go,” he says.
“When Master Drumbleforth has answered some questions,” says Alison. She turned to the old man. “This afternoon,” she says, “Anthony Dacre asked me to marry him. Have you aught to say to that, sir?”
“Child,” says old Drumbleforth, “He is married already—I married him myself in my parish church of Darrington.”
“He has brought a clergyman with him to perform the ceremony,” says she, still watchingAnthony. “Step forward, friend—let us look at you.”
The man drew nearer, with evident unwillingness. He removed his cloak from his face. “He paid me to do it,” growls he, motioning towards Anthony.