* * * * *"Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner—never in my born days; I tells 'ee true, souls.""Ay, I seed 'ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens an' plum-pudden an' furmenty into your thropple till I thowt 'ee'd bust. 'Twere noble eatin', to be sure.""Ay, Soapy, an' cost a pretty penny, I warrant. Squire Harry be a different sart o' feller to old Squire as was. Never did he gi' us a warmen-up, nor never would, if there'd ha' bin farty weddens.""Why bean't every day a marryen day? 'T'ould keep all our innards warm an' cosy 'ithout us doen a hand's turn.""'T'ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like 'ee, Jemmy. I'm afeard 'ee'll never be a man, an' if 'ee got your vittles so easy 'ee'd be more like a fatted calf 'n ever.""Ah! I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur'. I mind how dazed I were the black day young pa'son went to Lun'on, and John painter made Mis'ess Joplady's pictur' the colour o' sut.""An' it'll be the colour o' sut to-morrer, souls, I gi' my word for that. They tells me 'tis treason, but John painter do blot out Queen's yead to-morrer, and inn turns to Berkeley Arms again.""Like a 'ooman, changes her name at a wedden.—Ah! here be neighbour Minshull; a scantling o' cheese and a mug o' old stingo for gaffer, Mistress Joplady; he'll want a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul, this night o' fearsome joy.""True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive. I ha' seed un home-along, souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at last, an' I be proud as a grandfeyther a'ready. Never did I think my boy an' young pa'son 'd say the awful words in church the same day. 'I take thee, Addle,' says Master Harry in a feelin' key, and 'I take thee, Katrinka,' says my boy when the gentry was done; and they little small words do have a world o' better or wuss in 'em.""Ay, gaffer; 'ee can sing 'Now lettest thou thy sarvant depart', wi' a honest mind, hey!""Hoy! Not me! I bean't got no vurther 'n 'My soul doth magnify' yet. I'll bide a bit longer afore I goos to churchyard, trust me. My boy as was do say there'll be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and Mis'ess Addle's mother be a-comen to't. He've been sweet on her, a' b'lieve, for many a forlorn day. My boy ha' carried many a noble gift from the man to th' 'ooman.""Two furreners makes a better match nor one o' one sart, t'other o' t'other. Mistress Addle be a goodly maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her be French; that you cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and vinegar.""And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?—tell me that, souls.""Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay 'ee on a matter o' that homeliness; but what med 'ee say o' the name? Addle! it bean't a very coaxen name for a squire's lady, be jowned if it be.""Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows 'ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn' grow so fiery red. What do a bide-at-home like 'ee know o' high names an' titles? Addle be the true French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself. Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?""Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess. But daze me, name or no name, 'tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young Squire—why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll, I will so.""I'll help 'ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o' Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe her'll gi' me another.""Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into 's ancient place o' constable. And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her nothen, for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo year poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish in the Queen's name once more.""Such changes as the world do see! Look 'ee, souls, I be eighty-vive, and I've seed a mort o' things in my time. I ha' growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs. To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so tarrible afeard on—be now eatin' the bread and water of affliction in a Lun'on prison-house! And they do say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch 'ooman o' great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces. An he were a right youth a'd pay his old feyther's debts an' set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he'll lay out all the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows. And there be Squire Harry—young pa'son as was: who'd a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha' been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I mind the sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news come o' Master Harry bein' true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps, and I know'd by the spread o' his petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an' I felt all leery down the small o' my back. 'God is the judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth down one, and setteth up another.' That were the holy text, out of Thy sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if pa'son didn't scarify old Squire as if 'twas pa'son hisself was choused out o' his rightful proputty. 'Twas a powerful bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin till Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key. Then 'twas a little Noah's flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o' tears bean't seed in Winton Simmary since pa'son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France.""And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o' killen, and bide at home wi' poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o' the field?""Ay, 'tis so. My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight or lard at a word wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an' friends. Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we poor souls, not to be the Lord's anointed.""Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?""Ay, 'tis so. Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock by way o' holy consolation to bride an' bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha' took his coat off; 'tis he do call the changes; and i' feck, the bells 'll romp through a rare randy afore he've done wi' 'em. Now, sonnies, what d'ye say to wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together? Then we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty as 'll cheer 'em up arter the Christian doens o' the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts o' music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o' tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d'ye say, sonnies?""Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let's out-along and make all the nise we can.""A thimbleful afore 'ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an' lift up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an' Lady Squire, wishen 'em long life an' a happy end. All together now; spet it out o' your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!"CHAPTER XXVIIVisitors at Winton HallWeather-bound—A Home Circle—Marlborough Unbends—Of Princes—A Certain Harry RochesterOne January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was gathered in the turret-room of Winton Hall. The wind was roaring without; snow had been falling steadily all day; but within all was warmth and peace. A big wood fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy glare as charming a scene as any English country-house could show. It was the children's hour; little Eustace Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five, stood by his mother's knee on one side of the hearth, and on the other, Mary, two years younger, nestled in her father's arms.Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of theCourant."The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adèle.""What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly."The Queen has sent away the great man who fought her battles so bravely; he will hang up his sword and perhaps never use it again.""Why did the naughty Queen send the great duke away, Faver?""Why naughty tween send dute away?" echoed Mary, a golden-haired fairy, the image, as Mevrouw Grootz was wont to declare, of Adèle at the same age."Because the Queen does not like him as she used to do. She likes somebody else better, and there are unkind people who whisper in her ear stories about him that are very likely not true. He is a great man, Eustace, and there are always little men to say unkind things about the great.""Are you a great man, Faver?""No, my son; I am a plain English squire, that would rather live here with you all than in any king's palace.""But your father might have been a great man," said Mistress Berkeley. "A great prince——""Nay, nay, my dear," interrupted the squire, "leave that story till the children are older. It is bed-time now, my chicks. Hark how the wind roars! Think of the little birds out in the cold; they have no warm cosy cots like yours. In the morning, remember, we are to make a figure of the great duke in the snow.—But what is that?"The deep-toned house-bell had clanged in the hall below."'Tis late for a visitor, and in this snowstorm too!"He threw open the door, and stood waiting. In a few moments a man appeared."An't please 'ee, sir, a coach be snowed up a hunnerd yards or so beyond church, an' the travellers be come afoot to axe if 'ee'll give 'em shelter.""Of course! I will come down. Tell Dick to take a couple of horses and haul the coach out of the drift, and ask Sherebiah to prepare some hot cordial."He followed the man downstairs. Just within the doorway stood two white figures muffled up to the ears in long cloaks. They doffed their snow-laden hats as Harry appeared, and the elder came forward."I crave your pardon, sir," he said in smooth mellow tones that revived old memories and quickened Harry's pulse—"I crave your pardon for troubling you at such an unseasonable hour, but my coach is blocked in a drift a hundred yards or so beyond the church, and as my friend Lord Godolphin is far from well, I have come to ask your hospitality until we can free the coach and return to the inn. I am the Duke of Marlborough.""Your grace is heartily welcome. But pray do me the honour to accept beds for the night. The inn is near a mile away, and you are cold and wet. Let me remove your things. I have already sent a man to bring your coach to my stables, and there is a good fire above.""I thank you. I cannot resist your invitation. To whom are we indebted for our welcome?""Henry Berkeley, my lord; this is Winton Hall.""Ah! I remember the name. There was some little romance, if I mistake not, about the inheritance a few years since. Thank you, Mr. Berkeley! this is indeed a haven of refuge to worn-out travellers."Divested of their outer garments and provided with slippers, the two noblemen preceded their host up the stairs. At the door of the turret-room he advanced a few paces."My dear, his grace the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Godolphin. They are our guests to-night."Mistress Berkeley rose and made a sweeping curtsy, blushing prettily, and throwing a half-startled, half-amused glance at her husband. The children made round eyes of wonder."Madame, 'tis a charming welcome. We were driving to my lord Pembroke's at Wilton Park, and were besnowed. 'Tis indeed a delightful transformation."He patted the children's cheeks playfully. Lord Godolphin, who was evidently ill, had already thrown himself wearily into a chair."Well, my little man, what is your name?" asked Marlborough of the boy."Eustace Berkeley, sir.""A pretty name, egad. And what would you like to be when you are a man, eh?""A soldier, and wear a red coat, and a sword, and fight for the Queen.""A proper answer, indeed. Well, if you grow strong, and do what your father and mother tell you, you may be a soldier one day, and perhaps—who knows?—a great man.""I do not want to be a great man.""Why not, my boy?""Faver says people are not kind to great men, and the Queen likes somebody else better, and sends them away.""A little philosopher already, Mr. Berkeley," said my lord, smiling at the child. "Well, well, my little fellow, be a good man; not even the Queen could wish you better than that.""'Tis the children's bed hour, my lord," said Mistress Berkeley. "I pray you excuse me."As mother and children left the room, Sherebiah, who as butler at Winton Hall had settled down as a very comfortable man of peace, entered with a tray on which were silver tankards of mulled wine. The good fellow looked not a day older than when he had led Katrinka to the altar six years before. He placed the tray on a table and silently withdrew. The guests sipped the grateful liquor and sat in tired silence gazing into the fire.Presently Mistress Berkeley returned."Supper is served, my lords," she said."A sweet word to famished men."The duke offered her his arm and led the way to the supper room, followed by Lord Godolphin and Harry. At the table he kept up an animated conversation with his hostess, yielding as all men did to the charm of a rarely gracious personality. Lord Godolphin was as little inclined to talk as to eat. When the cloth was removed, and Sherebiah had placed bottles on the table and left the gentlemen to themselves, Marlborough crossed his knees and said:"Egad, Mr. Berkeley, you are a lucky man, with such a wife and such children. We could not have fared more happily—eh, my lord?""Nay indeed," replied Godolphin, thawing a little. "We could never have reached Wilton to-night. The wind, hark you, is gaining in fury—a sorry night for travellers.""Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his troubles. A sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I fear. 'Twas a broken soldier; they had clapt him in the stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a more piteous object. He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we alighted to dine and change horses. Had fought at Blenheim, he told me, captain in a Hanoverian regiment, Aglionby by name, and lately returned from the Indies. We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the inn. He was on his way to this very village to see a cousin, I bethink me he said. 'Tis thus we serve the men who have fought our battles."There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice."Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to the Plantations. He must have escaped.""Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. 'Put not your trust in princes': 'tis the truest of warnings, as we old stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know."A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced. Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once Lord Godolphin said:"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago.""Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange.""It all comes back to me. We were travelling to London—Frank and I, Jack—and our coach broke down as we left a cricket match. Sir Godfrey Fanshawe was good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had gone but a few miles on the road next morning when we were pulled up by a fallen tree, and in a trice were looking down the muzzles of half-a-dozen horse pistols. I had sent some of my young men ahead to arrange a change of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the midst of the gang. 'Twas an uncommonly tight place; Frank, always handy with his pistol, got in a shot, but in another half-minute we should have been stripped or worse when there came from the wall at our left a wild hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting for a fare. The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the wall sprang a man and a boy, and egad, I remember now how I laughed when they told me they'd done the trick betwixt 'em. 'Twas a rare flam. And the boy——""I think, my lord——" began Harry, feeling somewhat uncomfortable; but Marlborough, setting his glass down on the table, bent forward and interrupted."Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me. The boy—we were always going to do something for him. He found his way to the Low Countries, and showed himself a lad of mettle. I came across him once or twice; noted him—for the second time, by the way—for an ensigncy, and found that he was already a cornet in a Dutch regiment. He did well with Eugene, I believe. Rochester—that was his name—Harry Rochester. I wonder what became of him! Certainly he owed nothing to patronage—yours or mine. Wasn't he the son of the parson here? Mr. Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts? 'Pon my soul, I should like to meet him again.""I was about to explain, your grace, that—I am that Harry Rochester."* * * * * * * *A Selection from the Catalogue ofG. P. PUTNAM'S SONSComplete Catalogues senton applicationThe Light Brigadein SpainorThe Last Fight of Sir John MooreBy Herbert StrangAuthor of "Tom Burnaby," etc.With a Preface by Lieut.-Col. WILLOUGHBY VERNER.Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo. $1.50"In 'Boys of the Light Brigade' Mr. Strang draws upon the resources of the Peninsular War, and succeeds in extracting much freshness from well-worn themes, as Moore's retreat to Corunna and the heroic defence of Saragossa. The personal interest of the story is kept at a high tension.... It is a book which no boy will be able to put down when once started. The volume is provided with excellent maps and plans of the scenes in which the incidents take place."—The Standard."This author has fairly earned the right to be accepted as the legitimate successor of the late George A. Henty in furnishing entertainment for youth. Like Henty, Strang manages to galvanize the dry bones of history into a close semblance of glorious life.... The present volume contains vivid and spirited descriptions of campaign life in Spain ... with many rare and interesting episodes.... This is good reading for young and old."—Chicago Post."The author describes graphically with truth to history the last fight of the British commander, Sir John Moore. It is a stirring military story in the manner of those written by the late George A. Henty, but really with more authenticity."—Philadelphia Press."An interesting story, with extra good measure in its incidents and character ... and with some pretty little love passages."—Cleveland Leader.* * * * * * * *BY THE SUCCESSOR TO HENTYKOBOA Story of the Russo-Japanese WarBy HERBERT STRANGAuthor of "The Light Brigade in Spain," etc.Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo, $1.50"It is a dashing romance for boys, founded on the Russo-Japanese War and worthy of the late Mr. Henty at his best. A story that every schoolboy will enjoy and one that will be read with much pleasure and profit by many older readers as well."—Cleveland Leader."The story throughout bristles with adventures, it is well written and the author shows intimate knowledge of Japanese character and customs."—San Francisco Bulletin."In one respect Mr. Strang's tale is even better than many of the late G. A. Henty's. It has more dash and dialogue. These are strong points in the work of this writer, who is destined to fill the place vacated by the lamented author of 'Under Drake's Flag,' and 'With Clive in India.'"—The Dundee Advertiser."For vibrant actuality there is nothing to come up to Mr. Strang's 'Kobo.'"—The Academy."A great amount of actual military history is incorporated with an exciting and romantic plot."—The Westminster Gazette.* * * * * * * *By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKSHistoric Boys. Their Endeavors, Their Achievements and Their Times. With 29 full-page illustrations. 8vo, pp. viii + 259.Historic Girls. Stories of Girls Who Have Influenced the History of Their Times. 8vo, illustrated, pp. viii + 225.Chivalric Days and Youthful Deeds. Stirring Stories, presenting faithful pictures of historic times. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.25Heroic Happenings. Told in Verse and Story. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.25Great Men's Sons. Stories of the Sons of Great Men from Socrates to Napoleon. Fully illustrated, 8vo. $1.25Including the Sons of Socrates, Alexander, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, Mahomet, Charlemagne, Alfred, William the Conqueror, Saladin, Dante, Tamerlane, Columbus, Luther, Shakespeare, Cromwell, Peter the Great, Napoleon.The Long Walls. An American Boy's Adventures in Greece. A Story of Digging and Discovery, Temples and Treasures. By E. S. Brooks and John Alden. Illustrated by George Foster Barnes. 8vo. $1.25* * * * * * * *FOR YOUNG PEOPLEROYAL ROGUESBy ALBERTA BANCROFT. With Illustrations by Louis Betts. 12mo. $1.25There are few healthy-minded folk, whatever their time of life, who will not confess to a fondness for fairy tales of the right sort. "Royal Rogues" has that quality which makes a children's book win the hearts of grown-ups. The heroes are merry twin rogues, king's sons of course, but with a strain of fairy blood in their veins. Wildly strange and delightful are their explorations in the realms of fairyland."A charming story ... must be accounted one of the prettiest and cleverest of modern fairy stories."—Worcester Spy.ON BOARD A WHALERAn Adventurous Cruise through Southern Seas. By THOMAS WEST HAMMOND. With 16 full-page illustrations by HARRY GEORGE BURGESS. 12mo. $1.25"Thrilling throughout.... In the name of American youth, we thank Mr. Hammond for resuscitating a memory that had slumbered so long."—Com. Advertiser."The yarn he spins of that and other trips in search of oil is one of the best I ever read. It is indeed a thrilling, exciting, dangerous story of the sea, a tale of personal experience put into book form by as brave a sailor as ever chased whales, and it is full of that local color which makes a fellow's blood tingle as he turns the pages. The illustrations are excellent."—HENRY HAYNIE inThe Boston Times.G. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK LONDON* * * * * * * *By HERBERT STRANGThe Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene.The Light Brigade in Spain; or, The Last Fight of Sir John Moore.Kobo. A Story of the Russo-Japanese War.*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER***
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"Never did I ply my fark at such a roaren dinner—never in my born days; I tells 'ee true, souls."
"Ay, I seed 'ee myself, Lumpy, a-scoopen chidlens an' plum-pudden an' furmenty into your thropple till I thowt 'ee'd bust. 'Twere noble eatin', to be sure."
"Ay, Soapy, an' cost a pretty penny, I warrant. Squire Harry be a different sart o' feller to old Squire as was. Never did he gi' us a warmen-up, nor never would, if there'd ha' bin farty weddens."
"Why bean't every day a marryen day? 'T'ould keep all our innards warm an' cosy 'ithout us doen a hand's turn."
"'T'ould be the ruin of a poor stunpoll like 'ee, Jemmy. I'm afeard 'ee'll never be a man, an' if 'ee got your vittles so easy 'ee'd be more like a fatted calf 'n ever."
"Ah! I knows my dumb brain be weak by natur'. I mind how dazed I were the black day young pa'son went to Lun'on, and John painter made Mis'ess Joplady's pictur' the colour o' sut."
"An' it'll be the colour o' sut to-morrer, souls, I gi' my word for that. They tells me 'tis treason, but John painter do blot out Queen's yead to-morrer, and inn turns to Berkeley Arms again."
"Like a 'ooman, changes her name at a wedden.—Ah! here be neighbour Minshull; a scantling o' cheese and a mug o' old stingo for gaffer, Mistress Joplady; he'll want a summat to comfort un, poor aged soul, this night o' fearsome joy."
"True, Tom cobbler, I be gone eighty-vive. I ha' seed un home-along, souls; my boy Sherebiah be a man at last, an' I be proud as a grandfeyther a'ready. Never did I think my boy an' young pa'son 'd say the awful words in church the same day. 'I take thee, Addle,' says Master Harry in a feelin' key, and 'I take thee, Katrinka,' says my boy when the gentry was done; and they little small words do have a world o' better or wuss in 'em."
"Ay, gaffer; 'ee can sing 'Now lettest thou thy sarvant depart', wi' a honest mind, hey!"
"Hoy! Not me! I bean't got no vurther 'n 'My soul doth magnify' yet. I'll bide a bit longer afore I goos to churchyard, trust me. My boy as was do say there'll be another wedden afore long; the Dutchman and Mis'ess Addle's mother be a-comen to't. He've been sweet on her, a' b'lieve, for many a forlorn day. My boy ha' carried many a noble gift from the man to th' 'ooman."
"Two furreners makes a better match nor one o' one sart, t'other o' t'other. Mistress Addle be a goodly maid, nesh as a ripe apple; but her be French; that you cannet deny; and French and English be like oil and vinegar."
"And what do mix better in a sallet-dressen?—tell me that, souls."
"Ay, Mistress Joplady, we cannet gainsay 'ee on a matter o' that homeliness; but what med 'ee say o' the name? Addle! it bean't a very coaxen name for a squire's lady, be jowned if it be."
"Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows 'ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn' grow so fiery red. What do a bide-at-home like 'ee know o' high names an' titles? Addle be the true French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself. Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?"
"Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess. But daze me, name or no name, 'tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young Squire—why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll, I will so."
"I'll help 'ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o' Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe her'll gi' me another."
"Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into 's ancient place o' constable. And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her nothen, for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo year poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish in the Queen's name once more."
"Such changes as the world do see! Look 'ee, souls, I be eighty-vive, and I've seed a mort o' things in my time. I ha' growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs. To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so tarrible afeard on—be now eatin' the bread and water of affliction in a Lun'on prison-house! And they do say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch 'ooman o' great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces. An he were a right youth a'd pay his old feyther's debts an' set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he'll lay out all the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows. And there be Squire Harry—young pa'son as was: who'd a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha' been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I mind the sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news come o' Master Harry bein' true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps, and I know'd by the spread o' his petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an' I felt all leery down the small o' my back. 'God is the judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth down one, and setteth up another.' That were the holy text, out of Thy sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if pa'son didn't scarify old Squire as if 'twas pa'son hisself was choused out o' his rightful proputty. 'Twas a powerful bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin till Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key. Then 'twas a little Noah's flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o' tears bean't seed in Winton Simmary since pa'son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France."
"And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o' killen, and bide at home wi' poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o' the field?"
"Ay, 'tis so. My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight or lard at a word wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an' friends. Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we poor souls, not to be the Lord's anointed."
"Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?"
"Ay, 'tis so. Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock by way o' holy consolation to bride an' bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha' took his coat off; 'tis he do call the changes; and i' feck, the bells 'll romp through a rare randy afore he've done wi' 'em. Now, sonnies, what d'ye say to wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together? Then we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty as 'll cheer 'em up arter the Christian doens o' the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts o' music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o' tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d'ye say, sonnies?"
"Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let's out-along and make all the nise we can."
"A thimbleful afore 'ee goos, souls. Mugs all, an' lift up your hearts in a noble cheer for Squire an' Lady Squire, wishen 'em long life an' a happy end. All together now; spet it out o' your wynd-pipes; hurray! hurray! hurray!"
CHAPTER XXVII
Visitors at Winton Hall
Weather-bound—A Home Circle—Marlborough Unbends—Of Princes—A Certain Harry Rochester
One January evening, in the year 1712, a little group was gathered in the turret-room of Winton Hall. The wind was roaring without; snow had been falling steadily all day; but within all was warmth and peace. A big wood fire blazed on the open hearth, lighting up with its ruddy glare as charming a scene as any English country-house could show. It was the children's hour; little Eustace Berkeley, a sturdy boy of five, stood by his mother's knee on one side of the hearth, and on the other, Mary, two years younger, nestled in her father's arms.
Squire Berkeley looked up from his copy of theCourant.
"The duke is dismissed from all his offices, Adèle."
"What that mean, Faver?" said the boy instantly.
"The Queen has sent away the great man who fought her battles so bravely; he will hang up his sword and perhaps never use it again."
"Why did the naughty Queen send the great duke away, Faver?"
"Why naughty tween send dute away?" echoed Mary, a golden-haired fairy, the image, as Mevrouw Grootz was wont to declare, of Adèle at the same age.
"Because the Queen does not like him as she used to do. She likes somebody else better, and there are unkind people who whisper in her ear stories about him that are very likely not true. He is a great man, Eustace, and there are always little men to say unkind things about the great."
"Are you a great man, Faver?"
"No, my son; I am a plain English squire, that would rather live here with you all than in any king's palace."
"But your father might have been a great man," said Mistress Berkeley. "A great prince——"
"Nay, nay, my dear," interrupted the squire, "leave that story till the children are older. It is bed-time now, my chicks. Hark how the wind roars! Think of the little birds out in the cold; they have no warm cosy cots like yours. In the morning, remember, we are to make a figure of the great duke in the snow.—But what is that?"
The deep-toned house-bell had clanged in the hall below.
"'Tis late for a visitor, and in this snowstorm too!"
He threw open the door, and stood waiting. In a few moments a man appeared.
"An't please 'ee, sir, a coach be snowed up a hunnerd yards or so beyond church, an' the travellers be come afoot to axe if 'ee'll give 'em shelter."
"Of course! I will come down. Tell Dick to take a couple of horses and haul the coach out of the drift, and ask Sherebiah to prepare some hot cordial."
He followed the man downstairs. Just within the doorway stood two white figures muffled up to the ears in long cloaks. They doffed their snow-laden hats as Harry appeared, and the elder came forward.
"I crave your pardon, sir," he said in smooth mellow tones that revived old memories and quickened Harry's pulse—"I crave your pardon for troubling you at such an unseasonable hour, but my coach is blocked in a drift a hundred yards or so beyond the church, and as my friend Lord Godolphin is far from well, I have come to ask your hospitality until we can free the coach and return to the inn. I am the Duke of Marlborough."
"Your grace is heartily welcome. But pray do me the honour to accept beds for the night. The inn is near a mile away, and you are cold and wet. Let me remove your things. I have already sent a man to bring your coach to my stables, and there is a good fire above."
"I thank you. I cannot resist your invitation. To whom are we indebted for our welcome?"
"Henry Berkeley, my lord; this is Winton Hall."
"Ah! I remember the name. There was some little romance, if I mistake not, about the inheritance a few years since. Thank you, Mr. Berkeley! this is indeed a haven of refuge to worn-out travellers."
Divested of their outer garments and provided with slippers, the two noblemen preceded their host up the stairs. At the door of the turret-room he advanced a few paces.
"My dear, his grace the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Godolphin. They are our guests to-night."
Mistress Berkeley rose and made a sweeping curtsy, blushing prettily, and throwing a half-startled, half-amused glance at her husband. The children made round eyes of wonder.
"Madame, 'tis a charming welcome. We were driving to my lord Pembroke's at Wilton Park, and were besnowed. 'Tis indeed a delightful transformation."
He patted the children's cheeks playfully. Lord Godolphin, who was evidently ill, had already thrown himself wearily into a chair.
"Well, my little man, what is your name?" asked Marlborough of the boy.
"Eustace Berkeley, sir."
"A pretty name, egad. And what would you like to be when you are a man, eh?"
"A soldier, and wear a red coat, and a sword, and fight for the Queen."
"A proper answer, indeed. Well, if you grow strong, and do what your father and mother tell you, you may be a soldier one day, and perhaps—who knows?—a great man."
"I do not want to be a great man."
"Why not, my boy?"
"Faver says people are not kind to great men, and the Queen likes somebody else better, and sends them away."
"A little philosopher already, Mr. Berkeley," said my lord, smiling at the child. "Well, well, my little fellow, be a good man; not even the Queen could wish you better than that."
"'Tis the children's bed hour, my lord," said Mistress Berkeley. "I pray you excuse me."
As mother and children left the room, Sherebiah, who as butler at Winton Hall had settled down as a very comfortable man of peace, entered with a tray on which were silver tankards of mulled wine. The good fellow looked not a day older than when he had led Katrinka to the altar six years before. He placed the tray on a table and silently withdrew. The guests sipped the grateful liquor and sat in tired silence gazing into the fire.
Presently Mistress Berkeley returned.
"Supper is served, my lords," she said.
"A sweet word to famished men."
The duke offered her his arm and led the way to the supper room, followed by Lord Godolphin and Harry. At the table he kept up an animated conversation with his hostess, yielding as all men did to the charm of a rarely gracious personality. Lord Godolphin was as little inclined to talk as to eat. When the cloth was removed, and Sherebiah had placed bottles on the table and left the gentlemen to themselves, Marlborough crossed his knees and said:
"Egad, Mr. Berkeley, you are a lucky man, with such a wife and such children. We could not have fared more happily—eh, my lord?"
"Nay indeed," replied Godolphin, thawing a little. "We could never have reached Wilton to-night. The wind, hark you, is gaining in fury—a sorry night for travellers."
"Ay; that poor wretch at Basingstoke is well quit of his troubles. A sad case, Mr. Berkeley; but too common, I fear. 'Twas a broken soldier; they had clapt him in the stocks as a vagrant; never in my life saw I a more piteous object. He was outside the inn, and hailed me as we alighted to dine and change horses. Had fought at Blenheim, he told me, captain in a Hanoverian regiment, Aglionby by name, and lately returned from the Indies. We had him released; but the poor fellow was even worse than he seemed; for he died of a sudden before we left the inn. He was on his way to this very village to see a cousin, I bethink me he said. 'Tis thus we serve the men who have fought our battles."
There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice.
"Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to the Plantations. He must have escaped."
"Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. 'Put not your trust in princes': 'tis the truest of warnings, as we old stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know."
A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced. Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once Lord Godolphin said:
"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago."
"Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange."
"It all comes back to me. We were travelling to London—Frank and I, Jack—and our coach broke down as we left a cricket match. Sir Godfrey Fanshawe was good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had gone but a few miles on the road next morning when we were pulled up by a fallen tree, and in a trice were looking down the muzzles of half-a-dozen horse pistols. I had sent some of my young men ahead to arrange a change of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the midst of the gang. 'Twas an uncommonly tight place; Frank, always handy with his pistol, got in a shot, but in another half-minute we should have been stripped or worse when there came from the wall at our left a wild hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting for a fare. The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the wall sprang a man and a boy, and egad, I remember now how I laughed when they told me they'd done the trick betwixt 'em. 'Twas a rare flam. And the boy——"
"I think, my lord——" began Harry, feeling somewhat uncomfortable; but Marlborough, setting his glass down on the table, bent forward and interrupted.
"Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me. The boy—we were always going to do something for him. He found his way to the Low Countries, and showed himself a lad of mettle. I came across him once or twice; noted him—for the second time, by the way—for an ensigncy, and found that he was already a cornet in a Dutch regiment. He did well with Eugene, I believe. Rochester—that was his name—Harry Rochester. I wonder what became of him! Certainly he owed nothing to patronage—yours or mine. Wasn't he the son of the parson here? Mr. Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts? 'Pon my soul, I should like to meet him again."
"I was about to explain, your grace, that—I am that Harry Rochester."
* * * * * * * *
A Selection from the Catalogue of
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Complete Catalogues senton application
The Light Brigadein Spain
or
The Last Fight of Sir John Moore
By Herbert Strang
Author of "Tom Burnaby," etc.
With a Preface by Lieut.-Col. WILLOUGHBY VERNER.
Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo. $1.50
"In 'Boys of the Light Brigade' Mr. Strang draws upon the resources of the Peninsular War, and succeeds in extracting much freshness from well-worn themes, as Moore's retreat to Corunna and the heroic defence of Saragossa. The personal interest of the story is kept at a high tension.... It is a book which no boy will be able to put down when once started. The volume is provided with excellent maps and plans of the scenes in which the incidents take place."—The Standard.
"This author has fairly earned the right to be accepted as the legitimate successor of the late George A. Henty in furnishing entertainment for youth. Like Henty, Strang manages to galvanize the dry bones of history into a close semblance of glorious life.... The present volume contains vivid and spirited descriptions of campaign life in Spain ... with many rare and interesting episodes.... This is good reading for young and old."—Chicago Post.
"The author describes graphically with truth to history the last fight of the British commander, Sir John Moore. It is a stirring military story in the manner of those written by the late George A. Henty, but really with more authenticity."—Philadelphia Press.
"An interesting story, with extra good measure in its incidents and character ... and with some pretty little love passages."—Cleveland Leader.
* * * * * * * *
BY THE SUCCESSOR TO HENTY
KOBO
A Story of the Russo-Japanese War
By HERBERT STRANG
Author of "The Light Brigade in Spain," etc.
Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. 12mo, $1.50
"It is a dashing romance for boys, founded on the Russo-Japanese War and worthy of the late Mr. Henty at his best. A story that every schoolboy will enjoy and one that will be read with much pleasure and profit by many older readers as well."—Cleveland Leader.
"The story throughout bristles with adventures, it is well written and the author shows intimate knowledge of Japanese character and customs."—San Francisco Bulletin.
"In one respect Mr. Strang's tale is even better than many of the late G. A. Henty's. It has more dash and dialogue. These are strong points in the work of this writer, who is destined to fill the place vacated by the lamented author of 'Under Drake's Flag,' and 'With Clive in India.'"—The Dundee Advertiser.
"For vibrant actuality there is nothing to come up to Mr. Strang's 'Kobo.'"—The Academy.
"A great amount of actual military history is incorporated with an exciting and romantic plot."—The Westminster Gazette.
* * * * * * * *
By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS
Historic Boys. Their Endeavors, Their Achievements and Their Times. With 29 full-page illustrations. 8vo, pp. viii + 259.
Historic Girls. Stories of Girls Who Have Influenced the History of Their Times. 8vo, illustrated, pp. viii + 225.
Chivalric Days and Youthful Deeds. Stirring Stories, presenting faithful pictures of historic times. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.25
Heroic Happenings. Told in Verse and Story. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.25
Great Men's Sons. Stories of the Sons of Great Men from Socrates to Napoleon. Fully illustrated, 8vo. $1.25
Including the Sons of Socrates, Alexander, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, Mahomet, Charlemagne, Alfred, William the Conqueror, Saladin, Dante, Tamerlane, Columbus, Luther, Shakespeare, Cromwell, Peter the Great, Napoleon.
The Long Walls. An American Boy's Adventures in Greece. A Story of Digging and Discovery, Temples and Treasures. By E. S. Brooks and John Alden. Illustrated by George Foster Barnes. 8vo. $1.25
* * * * * * * *
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ROYAL ROGUES
By ALBERTA BANCROFT. With Illustrations by Louis Betts. 12mo. $1.25
There are few healthy-minded folk, whatever their time of life, who will not confess to a fondness for fairy tales of the right sort. "Royal Rogues" has that quality which makes a children's book win the hearts of grown-ups. The heroes are merry twin rogues, king's sons of course, but with a strain of fairy blood in their veins. Wildly strange and delightful are their explorations in the realms of fairyland.
"A charming story ... must be accounted one of the prettiest and cleverest of modern fairy stories."—Worcester Spy.
ON BOARD A WHALER
An Adventurous Cruise through Southern Seas. By THOMAS WEST HAMMOND. With 16 full-page illustrations by HARRY GEORGE BURGESS. 12mo. $1.25
"Thrilling throughout.... In the name of American youth, we thank Mr. Hammond for resuscitating a memory that had slumbered so long."—Com. Advertiser.
"The yarn he spins of that and other trips in search of oil is one of the best I ever read. It is indeed a thrilling, exciting, dangerous story of the sea, a tale of personal experience put into book form by as brave a sailor as ever chased whales, and it is full of that local color which makes a fellow's blood tingle as he turns the pages. The illustrations are excellent."—HENRY HAYNIE inThe Boston Times.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK LONDON
* * * * * * * *
By HERBERT STRANG
The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene.
The Light Brigade in Spain; or, The Last Fight of Sir John Moore.
Kobo. A Story of the Russo-Japanese War.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER***