Chapter Ten.“Humphrey,” said Edward, “the sooner all this is over the better. As long as poor Jacob’s body remains in the cottage there will be nothing but distress with the poor girls.”“I agree with you,” replied Humphrey; “where shall we bury him?”“Under the great oak-tree, at the back of the cottage,” replied Edward. “One day the old man said to me that he should like to be buried under one of the oaks of the forest.”“Well then, I will go and dig his grave to-night,” replied Humphrey; “the moon is bright, and I shall have it finished before morning.”“I am sorry that I cannot help you, Humphrey.”“I am sorry that you are hurt; but I want no help, Edward. If you will lie down a little, perhaps you will be able to sleep. Let us change the potato poultice before you go on.”Humphrey put the fresh dressing on Edward’s arm; and Edward, who was very much exhausted, lay down in his clothes on the bed. Humphrey went out, and having found his tools, set to his task; he worked hard, and before morning had finished. He then went in, and took his place on the bed by the side of Edward, who was in a sound sleep. At daylight Humphrey rose, and waked Edward. “All is ready, Edward; but I fear you must help me to put poor Jacob in the cart; do you think you can?”“Oh yes; my arm is much easier, and I feel very different from what I did last night. If you will go and get the cart I will see what I can do in the meantime.”When Humphrey returned he found Edward had selected a sheet to wind the body in, but could not do more till Humphrey came to help him. They then wrapped it round the body, and carried it out of the cottage, and put it into the cart.“Now, Edward, shall we call our sisters?”“No, not yet; let us have the body laid in the grave first, and then we will call them.”They dragged the body on the cart to the grave, and laid it in it, and then returned back and put the pony in the stable again.“Are there not prayers proper for reading over the dead?” said Humphrey.“I believe that there are, but they are not in the Bible; so we must read some portion of the Bible,” said Edward.“Yes, I think there is one of the Psalms which it would be right to read, Edward,” said Humphrey, turning over the leaves; “here it is, the ninetieth, in which you recollect it says ‘that the days of man are threescore years and ten.’”“Yes,” replied Edward, “and we will read this one also,—the 146th.”“Are our sisters risen, do you think?”“I am sure that they are,” replied Humphrey, “and I will go to them.”Humphrey went to the door, and said, “Alice—Alice and Edith—come out immediately.” They were both ready dressed.Edward took the Bible under his arm, and Alice by the hand. Humphrey led Edith until they arrived at the grave, when the two little girls saw the covered body of Jacob lying in it.“Kneel down,” said Edward, opening the Bible. And they all knelt down by the grave. Edward read the two Psalms, and then closed the book. The little girls took one last look at the body, and then turned away weeping to the cottage. Edward and Humphrey filled up the grave, and then followed their sisters home.“I’m glad it’s over,” said Humphrey, wiping his eyes. “Poor old Jacob! I’ll put a paling round his grave.”“Come in, Humphrey,” said Edward.Edward sat down upon old Jacob’s chair, and took Alice and Edith to him. Putting his arm round each, he said:“Alice and Edith, my dear little sisters, we have lost a good friend, and one to whose memory we cannot be too grateful. He saved us from perishing in the flames which burnt down our father’s house, and has protected us here ever since. He is gone; for it has pleased God to summon him to Him, and we must bow to the will of Heaven; and here we are, brothers and sisters, orphans, and with no one to look to for protection but Heaven. Here we are, away from the rest of the world, living for one another. What then must we do? We must love one another dearly, and help one another. I will do my part, if my life is spared, and so will Humphrey, and so will you, my dear sisters. I can answer for all. Now it is no use to lament—we must all work, and work cheerfully; and we will pray every morning and every night that God will bless our endeavours, and enable us to provide for ourselves, and live here in peace and safety. Kiss me, dear Alice and Edith, and kiss Humphrey, and kiss one another. Let these kisses be the seals to our bond; and let us put our trust in Him who only is a father to the widow and the orphan. And now let us pray.”Edward and the children repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and then rose up. They went to their respective employments, and the labour of the day soon made them composed, although then, for many days afterwards, it was but occasionally that a smile was seen upon their lips.Thus passed a week, by which time Edward’s arm was so far well that it gave him no pain, and he was able to assist Humphrey in the work on the farm. The snow had disappeared, and the spring, although it had been checked for a time, now made rapid advances. Constant occupation and the return of fine weather both had the effect of restoring the serenity of their minds; and while Humphrey was preparing the paling to fix round the grave of old Jacob, Alice and Edith collected the wild violets which now peeped forth on sheltered spots, and planted the roots over the grave. Edward also procured all the early flowers he could collect, and assisted his sisters in their task; and thus, in planting it, and putting up the paling, the grave of the old man became their constant work-ground; and when their labour was done, they would still remain there and talk over his worth. The Sunday following the burial, the weather being fine and warm, Edward proposed that they should read the usual service, which had been selected by old Jacob, at the grave, and not in the cottage, as formerly; and this they continued afterwards to do, whenever the weather would permit; thus did old Jacob’s resting-placing become their church, and overpower them with those feelings of love and devotion which give efficacy to prayer. As soon as the paling was finished Humphrey put up a board against the oak-tree, with the simple words carved on it, “Jacob Armitage.”Edward had every day expected that Oswald Partridge would have called upon him, as he had promised to do before the week was out; but Oswald had not made his appearance, much to Edward’s surprise. A month passed away; Edward’s arm was now quite well, and still Oswald came not. One morning Humphrey and Edward were conversing upon many points—the principal of which was upon Edward going to Lymington, for they were now in want of flour and meal—when Edward thought of what old Jacob had told him relative to the money that he would find in his chest. He went into Jacob’s room and opened the chest, at the bottom of which, under the clothes, he found a leather bag, which he brought out to Humphrey; on opening it, they were much surprised to find in it more than sixty gold pieces, besides a great deal of silver coin.“Surely this is a great sum of money,” observed Humphrey. “I don’t know what is the price of things but it appears to me that it ought to last us a long while.”“I think so too,” replied Edward. “I wish Oswald Partridge would come, for I want to ask him many questions. I don’t know the price of flour or anything else we have to purchase, nor do I know what ought to be paid for venison. I don’t like to go to Lymington till I see him, for that reason. If he does not come soon I shall ride over and see what is the matter.”Edward then replaced the money in the chest, and he and Humphrey then went out to the farm-yard to go on with their work.It was not until six weeks after the death of old Jacob that Oswald Partridge made his appearance.“How is the old man, sir?” was his first question.“He was buried a few days after you left,” replied Edward.“I expected as much,” said the forester. “Peace be with him—he was a good man. And how is your arm?”“Nearly well,” replied Edward. “Now, sit down, Oswald, for I have a great deal to say to you; and first let me ask you what has detained you from coming here according to your promise?”“Simply, and in few words—murder.”“Murder!” exclaimed Edward.“Yes, deliberate murder, sir; in short, they have beheaded the king—beheaded King Charles, our sovereign.”“Have they dared to do it?”“They have,” replied Oswald. “We know little that is going on in the forest; but when I saw you last I heard that he was then in London, and was to be tried.”“Tried!” exclaimed Edward. “How could they try a king? By the laws of our country a man must be tried by his equals; and where were his equals?”“Majesty becomes nought, I suppose,” replied Oswald; “but still it is as I say. Two days after you left the Intendant hastened up to London; and from what I have understood, he was strongly opposed to the deed, and did all he could to prevent it, but it was of no use. When he left he gave me strict injunctions not to go away from the cottage for an hour, as his daughter was left alone, and as I promised, I could not come to you; but, nevertheless, Patience received letters from him, and told me what I tell you.”“You have not dined, Oswald?” said Edward.“No, that I have not.”“Alice, dear, get some dinner, will you? And Oswald, while you dine, excuse me if I leave you for a while. Your intelligence has so astounded me that I can listen to nothing else till I have had a little while to commune with myself and subdue my feelings.”Edward was indeed in a state of mind which required calming down. He quitted the cottage and walked out for some distance into the forest in deep thought.“Murdered at last!” exclaimed he. “Yes, well may it be called murder, and no one to save him—not a blow struck in his defence—not an arm raised. How much gallant blood has been shed in vain! Spirit of my fathers—didst thou leave none of thy mettle and thy honour behind thee? Or has all England become craven? Well, the time will come; and if I can no longer hope to fight for my king, at all events I can fight against those who have murdered him.”Such were Edward’s thoughts as he wandered through the forest, and more than an hour elapsed before his impetuous blood could return to its usual flow; at last, more calm, he returned to the cottage, and listened to the details which Oswald now gave to him of what he had heard.When Oswald had finished, Edward asked him whether the Intendant had returned.“Yes, or I should not have been here,” replied Oswald. “He came back yesterday, looking most disconsolate and grave, and I hear that he returns to London in a few days. Indeed, he told me so himself, for I requested permission to come over to see your grandfather. He said that I might go, but must return soon, as he must go back to London. I believe, from what Miss Patience told me, and what I have seen myself, that he is sincerely amazed and vexed at what has taken place; and so indeed are many more, who, although opposed to the king’s method of government, never had an idea that things should have turned out as they have done. I have a message from him to you, which is, that he begs you will come to see him, that he may thank you for the preservation of his child.”“I will take his thanks from you, Oswald: that will do as well as if he gave them me in person.”“Yes, perhaps so; but I have another message from another party, which is, the young lady herself. She desires me to tell you that she will never be happy till she has seen you, and thanked you for your courage and kindness; and that you have no right to put her under such an obligation, and not give her an opportunity of expressing what she feels. Now, Mr Edward, I am certain that she is earnest in what she says, and she made me promise that I would persuade you to come. I could not refuse her, for she is a dear little creature; as her father will go to London in a few days, you may ride over and see her without any fear of being affronted by any offers which he may make to you.”“Well,” replied Edward, “I have no great objection to see her again, for she was very kind to me; and as you say that the Intendant will not be there I perhaps may come. But now I must talk to you about other matters.”Edward then put many questions to Oswald relative to the value of various articles, and to the best method of disposing of his venison.Oswald answered all his questions, and Edward took down notes and directions on paper.Oswald remained with them for two days, and then bade them farewell, exacting a promise from Edward that he would come to the ranger’s cottage as soon as he could. “Should the Intendant come back before he is expected, I will come over and let you know; but I think, from what I heard him say, he expected to be at least a month in London.”Edward promised that Oswald should see him in less than ten days, and Oswald set out on his journey.“Humphrey,” said Edward, as soon as Oswald was gone, “I have made up my mind to go to Lymington to-morrow. We must have some flour, and many other articles, which Alice says she can no longer do without.”“Why should we not both go, Edward?” replied Humphrey.“No, not this time,” replied Edward. “I have to find out many things and many people, and I had rather go by myself; besides, I cannot allow my sisters to be left alone. I do not consider there is any danger, I admit; but something might happen to them. I should never forgive myself. Still, it is necessary that you should go to Lymington with me some time or another, that you may know where to purchase and sell, if required. What I propose is, that I will ask Oswald to come and stay here a couple of days. We will then leave him in charge of our sisters, and go to Lymington together.”“You are right, Edward; that will be the best plan.”As Humphrey made this remark, Oswald re-entered the cottage.“I will tell you why I have returned, Mr Edward,” said Oswald. “It is of no consequence whether I return now or to-morrow. It is now early, and as you intend going to Lymington, it occurred to me that I had better go with you. I can then show you all you want, which will be much better than going by yourself.”“Thank you, Oswald, I am much obliged to you,” said Edward.“Humphrey, we will get the cart out immediately, or we shall be late. Will you get it, Humphrey? For I must go for some money, and speak to Alice.”Humphrey went immediately to put the pony in the cart, when Edward said:“Oswald, you must not call me Mr Edward, even when we are alone; if you do, you will be calling me so before other people, and, therefore, recollect in future, it must be plain Edward.”“Since you wish it, certainly,” replied Oswald; “indeed it would be better; for a slip of the tongue before other people might create suspicion.”The pony and cart were soon at the door, and Edward, having received further instructions from Alice, set off for Lymington, accompanied by Oswald.
“Humphrey,” said Edward, “the sooner all this is over the better. As long as poor Jacob’s body remains in the cottage there will be nothing but distress with the poor girls.”
“I agree with you,” replied Humphrey; “where shall we bury him?”
“Under the great oak-tree, at the back of the cottage,” replied Edward. “One day the old man said to me that he should like to be buried under one of the oaks of the forest.”
“Well then, I will go and dig his grave to-night,” replied Humphrey; “the moon is bright, and I shall have it finished before morning.”
“I am sorry that I cannot help you, Humphrey.”
“I am sorry that you are hurt; but I want no help, Edward. If you will lie down a little, perhaps you will be able to sleep. Let us change the potato poultice before you go on.”
Humphrey put the fresh dressing on Edward’s arm; and Edward, who was very much exhausted, lay down in his clothes on the bed. Humphrey went out, and having found his tools, set to his task; he worked hard, and before morning had finished. He then went in, and took his place on the bed by the side of Edward, who was in a sound sleep. At daylight Humphrey rose, and waked Edward. “All is ready, Edward; but I fear you must help me to put poor Jacob in the cart; do you think you can?”
“Oh yes; my arm is much easier, and I feel very different from what I did last night. If you will go and get the cart I will see what I can do in the meantime.”
When Humphrey returned he found Edward had selected a sheet to wind the body in, but could not do more till Humphrey came to help him. They then wrapped it round the body, and carried it out of the cottage, and put it into the cart.
“Now, Edward, shall we call our sisters?”
“No, not yet; let us have the body laid in the grave first, and then we will call them.”
They dragged the body on the cart to the grave, and laid it in it, and then returned back and put the pony in the stable again.
“Are there not prayers proper for reading over the dead?” said Humphrey.
“I believe that there are, but they are not in the Bible; so we must read some portion of the Bible,” said Edward.
“Yes, I think there is one of the Psalms which it would be right to read, Edward,” said Humphrey, turning over the leaves; “here it is, the ninetieth, in which you recollect it says ‘that the days of man are threescore years and ten.’”
“Yes,” replied Edward, “and we will read this one also,—the 146th.”
“Are our sisters risen, do you think?”
“I am sure that they are,” replied Humphrey, “and I will go to them.”
Humphrey went to the door, and said, “Alice—Alice and Edith—come out immediately.” They were both ready dressed.
Edward took the Bible under his arm, and Alice by the hand. Humphrey led Edith until they arrived at the grave, when the two little girls saw the covered body of Jacob lying in it.
“Kneel down,” said Edward, opening the Bible. And they all knelt down by the grave. Edward read the two Psalms, and then closed the book. The little girls took one last look at the body, and then turned away weeping to the cottage. Edward and Humphrey filled up the grave, and then followed their sisters home.
“I’m glad it’s over,” said Humphrey, wiping his eyes. “Poor old Jacob! I’ll put a paling round his grave.”
“Come in, Humphrey,” said Edward.
Edward sat down upon old Jacob’s chair, and took Alice and Edith to him. Putting his arm round each, he said:
“Alice and Edith, my dear little sisters, we have lost a good friend, and one to whose memory we cannot be too grateful. He saved us from perishing in the flames which burnt down our father’s house, and has protected us here ever since. He is gone; for it has pleased God to summon him to Him, and we must bow to the will of Heaven; and here we are, brothers and sisters, orphans, and with no one to look to for protection but Heaven. Here we are, away from the rest of the world, living for one another. What then must we do? We must love one another dearly, and help one another. I will do my part, if my life is spared, and so will Humphrey, and so will you, my dear sisters. I can answer for all. Now it is no use to lament—we must all work, and work cheerfully; and we will pray every morning and every night that God will bless our endeavours, and enable us to provide for ourselves, and live here in peace and safety. Kiss me, dear Alice and Edith, and kiss Humphrey, and kiss one another. Let these kisses be the seals to our bond; and let us put our trust in Him who only is a father to the widow and the orphan. And now let us pray.”
Edward and the children repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and then rose up. They went to their respective employments, and the labour of the day soon made them composed, although then, for many days afterwards, it was but occasionally that a smile was seen upon their lips.
Thus passed a week, by which time Edward’s arm was so far well that it gave him no pain, and he was able to assist Humphrey in the work on the farm. The snow had disappeared, and the spring, although it had been checked for a time, now made rapid advances. Constant occupation and the return of fine weather both had the effect of restoring the serenity of their minds; and while Humphrey was preparing the paling to fix round the grave of old Jacob, Alice and Edith collected the wild violets which now peeped forth on sheltered spots, and planted the roots over the grave. Edward also procured all the early flowers he could collect, and assisted his sisters in their task; and thus, in planting it, and putting up the paling, the grave of the old man became their constant work-ground; and when their labour was done, they would still remain there and talk over his worth. The Sunday following the burial, the weather being fine and warm, Edward proposed that they should read the usual service, which had been selected by old Jacob, at the grave, and not in the cottage, as formerly; and this they continued afterwards to do, whenever the weather would permit; thus did old Jacob’s resting-placing become their church, and overpower them with those feelings of love and devotion which give efficacy to prayer. As soon as the paling was finished Humphrey put up a board against the oak-tree, with the simple words carved on it, “Jacob Armitage.”
Edward had every day expected that Oswald Partridge would have called upon him, as he had promised to do before the week was out; but Oswald had not made his appearance, much to Edward’s surprise. A month passed away; Edward’s arm was now quite well, and still Oswald came not. One morning Humphrey and Edward were conversing upon many points—the principal of which was upon Edward going to Lymington, for they were now in want of flour and meal—when Edward thought of what old Jacob had told him relative to the money that he would find in his chest. He went into Jacob’s room and opened the chest, at the bottom of which, under the clothes, he found a leather bag, which he brought out to Humphrey; on opening it, they were much surprised to find in it more than sixty gold pieces, besides a great deal of silver coin.
“Surely this is a great sum of money,” observed Humphrey. “I don’t know what is the price of things but it appears to me that it ought to last us a long while.”
“I think so too,” replied Edward. “I wish Oswald Partridge would come, for I want to ask him many questions. I don’t know the price of flour or anything else we have to purchase, nor do I know what ought to be paid for venison. I don’t like to go to Lymington till I see him, for that reason. If he does not come soon I shall ride over and see what is the matter.”
Edward then replaced the money in the chest, and he and Humphrey then went out to the farm-yard to go on with their work.
It was not until six weeks after the death of old Jacob that Oswald Partridge made his appearance.
“How is the old man, sir?” was his first question.
“He was buried a few days after you left,” replied Edward.
“I expected as much,” said the forester. “Peace be with him—he was a good man. And how is your arm?”
“Nearly well,” replied Edward. “Now, sit down, Oswald, for I have a great deal to say to you; and first let me ask you what has detained you from coming here according to your promise?”
“Simply, and in few words—murder.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Edward.
“Yes, deliberate murder, sir; in short, they have beheaded the king—beheaded King Charles, our sovereign.”
“Have they dared to do it?”
“They have,” replied Oswald. “We know little that is going on in the forest; but when I saw you last I heard that he was then in London, and was to be tried.”
“Tried!” exclaimed Edward. “How could they try a king? By the laws of our country a man must be tried by his equals; and where were his equals?”
“Majesty becomes nought, I suppose,” replied Oswald; “but still it is as I say. Two days after you left the Intendant hastened up to London; and from what I have understood, he was strongly opposed to the deed, and did all he could to prevent it, but it was of no use. When he left he gave me strict injunctions not to go away from the cottage for an hour, as his daughter was left alone, and as I promised, I could not come to you; but, nevertheless, Patience received letters from him, and told me what I tell you.”
“You have not dined, Oswald?” said Edward.
“No, that I have not.”
“Alice, dear, get some dinner, will you? And Oswald, while you dine, excuse me if I leave you for a while. Your intelligence has so astounded me that I can listen to nothing else till I have had a little while to commune with myself and subdue my feelings.”
Edward was indeed in a state of mind which required calming down. He quitted the cottage and walked out for some distance into the forest in deep thought.
“Murdered at last!” exclaimed he. “Yes, well may it be called murder, and no one to save him—not a blow struck in his defence—not an arm raised. How much gallant blood has been shed in vain! Spirit of my fathers—didst thou leave none of thy mettle and thy honour behind thee? Or has all England become craven? Well, the time will come; and if I can no longer hope to fight for my king, at all events I can fight against those who have murdered him.”
Such were Edward’s thoughts as he wandered through the forest, and more than an hour elapsed before his impetuous blood could return to its usual flow; at last, more calm, he returned to the cottage, and listened to the details which Oswald now gave to him of what he had heard.
When Oswald had finished, Edward asked him whether the Intendant had returned.
“Yes, or I should not have been here,” replied Oswald. “He came back yesterday, looking most disconsolate and grave, and I hear that he returns to London in a few days. Indeed, he told me so himself, for I requested permission to come over to see your grandfather. He said that I might go, but must return soon, as he must go back to London. I believe, from what Miss Patience told me, and what I have seen myself, that he is sincerely amazed and vexed at what has taken place; and so indeed are many more, who, although opposed to the king’s method of government, never had an idea that things should have turned out as they have done. I have a message from him to you, which is, that he begs you will come to see him, that he may thank you for the preservation of his child.”
“I will take his thanks from you, Oswald: that will do as well as if he gave them me in person.”
“Yes, perhaps so; but I have another message from another party, which is, the young lady herself. She desires me to tell you that she will never be happy till she has seen you, and thanked you for your courage and kindness; and that you have no right to put her under such an obligation, and not give her an opportunity of expressing what she feels. Now, Mr Edward, I am certain that she is earnest in what she says, and she made me promise that I would persuade you to come. I could not refuse her, for she is a dear little creature; as her father will go to London in a few days, you may ride over and see her without any fear of being affronted by any offers which he may make to you.”
“Well,” replied Edward, “I have no great objection to see her again, for she was very kind to me; and as you say that the Intendant will not be there I perhaps may come. But now I must talk to you about other matters.”
Edward then put many questions to Oswald relative to the value of various articles, and to the best method of disposing of his venison.
Oswald answered all his questions, and Edward took down notes and directions on paper.
Oswald remained with them for two days, and then bade them farewell, exacting a promise from Edward that he would come to the ranger’s cottage as soon as he could. “Should the Intendant come back before he is expected, I will come over and let you know; but I think, from what I heard him say, he expected to be at least a month in London.”
Edward promised that Oswald should see him in less than ten days, and Oswald set out on his journey.
“Humphrey,” said Edward, as soon as Oswald was gone, “I have made up my mind to go to Lymington to-morrow. We must have some flour, and many other articles, which Alice says she can no longer do without.”
“Why should we not both go, Edward?” replied Humphrey.
“No, not this time,” replied Edward. “I have to find out many things and many people, and I had rather go by myself; besides, I cannot allow my sisters to be left alone. I do not consider there is any danger, I admit; but something might happen to them. I should never forgive myself. Still, it is necessary that you should go to Lymington with me some time or another, that you may know where to purchase and sell, if required. What I propose is, that I will ask Oswald to come and stay here a couple of days. We will then leave him in charge of our sisters, and go to Lymington together.”
“You are right, Edward; that will be the best plan.”
As Humphrey made this remark, Oswald re-entered the cottage.
“I will tell you why I have returned, Mr Edward,” said Oswald. “It is of no consequence whether I return now or to-morrow. It is now early, and as you intend going to Lymington, it occurred to me that I had better go with you. I can then show you all you want, which will be much better than going by yourself.”
“Thank you, Oswald, I am much obliged to you,” said Edward.
“Humphrey, we will get the cart out immediately, or we shall be late. Will you get it, Humphrey? For I must go for some money, and speak to Alice.”
Humphrey went immediately to put the pony in the cart, when Edward said:
“Oswald, you must not call me Mr Edward, even when we are alone; if you do, you will be calling me so before other people, and, therefore, recollect in future, it must be plain Edward.”
“Since you wish it, certainly,” replied Oswald; “indeed it would be better; for a slip of the tongue before other people might create suspicion.”
The pony and cart were soon at the door, and Edward, having received further instructions from Alice, set off for Lymington, accompanied by Oswald.
Chapter Eleven.“Could you have found your way to Lymington?” said Oswald, as the pony trotted along.“Yes, I think so,” replied Edward; “but I must have first gone to Arnwood. Indeed, had I been alone, I should have done so; but we have made a much shorter cut.”“I did not think that you would have liked to have seen the ruins of Arnwood,” replied Oswald.“Not a day passes without my thinking of them,” replied Edward. “I should like to see them. I should like to see if any one has taken possession of the property; for they say it is confiscated.”“I heard that it was to be; but not that it was yet,” said Oswald: “but we shall know more when we get to Lymington. I have not seen it for more than a year. I hardly think that any one will recognise you.”“I should think not; but I care little if they do. Indeed, who is there to know me?”“Well, my introduction of you will save some surmises, probably; and I shall not take you among those who may be inclined to ask questions. See, there is the steeple; we have not more than a quarter of an hour’s drive.”As soon as they arrived at Lymington, Oswald directed the way to a small hostelrie, to which the keepers and verderers usually resorted. In fact, the landlord was the party who took all the venison off their hands, and disposed of it. They drove into the yard, and, giving the pony and cart in charge of the hostler, went into the inn, where they found the landlord, and one or two other people, who were drinking.“Well, Master Andrew, how fare you?” said Oswald.“Let me see,” said the corpulent landlord, throwing back his head, and putting out his stomach, as he peered at Oswald; “why, Oswald Partridge, as I am a born man. Where have you been this many a day?”“In the forest, Master Andrew, where there are no few chops and changes.”“Yes, I heard you have a sort of Parliamentary keeper, I’m told; and who is this with you?”“The grandson of an old friend of yours, now dead, poor old Jacob Armitage.”“Jacob dead, poor fellow! As true as flint was Jacob Armitage, as I’m a born man! And so he is dead! Well, we all owe heaven a death. Foresters and landlords, as well as kings, all must die!”“I have brought Edward Armitage over here to introduce him to you, Master Andrew. Now that the old man is dead, you must look to him for forest meat.”“Oh, well, well, it is scarce now. I have not had any for some time. Old Jacob brought me the last. You are not one of the Parliamentary foresters, then, I presume?” continued the landlord, turning to Edward.“No,” replied Edward, “I kill no venison for Roundheads.”“Right, my sapling; right and well said. The Armitages were all good men and true, and followed the fortunes of the Beverleys; but there are no Beverleys to follow now. Cut off root and branch—more’s the pity. That was a sad business. But come in; we must not talk here, for walls have ears, they say, and one never knows who one dares to speak before now.”Oswald and Edward then entered with the landlord, and arrangements were made between Master Andrew and the latter for a regular supply of venison during the season at a certain price; but as it would now be dangerous to bring it into the town, it was agreed that when there was any ready, Edward should come to Lymington and give notice, and the landlord would send out people to bring it in during the night. This bargain concluded, they took a glass with the landlord, and then went into the town to make the necessary purchases. Oswald took Edward to all the shops where the articles he required were to be purchased; some they carried away with them; others, which were too heavy, they left, to be called for with the cart as they went away. Among other articles, Edward required powder and lead, and they went to a gunsmith’s where it was to be procured. While making his purchases, Edward perceived a sword, which he thought he had seen before, hanging up against the wall among other weapons.“What sword is that?” said he to the man who was measuring out the powder.“It’s not my sword, exactly,” replied the man; “and yet I cannot return it to its owner or to the family. It was brought me to be cleaned by one of Colonel Beverley’s people, and before it was called for the house was burnt, and every soul perished. It was one of the colonel’s swords, I am sure, as there is E.B. on a silver plate engraved on it. I have a bill owing me for work done at Arnwood, and I have no chance of its being paid now; so, whether I am to sell the sword, or what to do, I hardly know.”Edward remained silent for some little while, for he could not trust himself to speak; at last he replied: “To be candid with you, I am, and all my family have been, followers of the Beverley family, and I should be sorry if the colonel’s sword was to fall into any other hands. I think, therefore, if I pay the bill which is due, you may safely let me hold the sword as a security for the money, with the express understanding that if it is ever claimed by the Beverley family, I am to give it up.”“Certainly,” said Oswald; “nothing can be fairer or more clearly put.”“I think so, too, young man,” replied the shopkeeper. “Of course, you will leave your name and address?”“Yes; and my friend here will vouch for its being correct,” replied Edward.The shopkeeper then produced the account, which Edward paid; and giving on the paper the name of Edward Armitage, he took possession of the sword. He then paid for the powder and lead, which Oswald took charge of, and, hardly able to conceal his joy, hastened out of the shop.“Oswald,” cried Edward, “I would not part with it for thousands of pounds. I never will part with it but with my life.”“I believe so,” replied Oswald; “and I believe more, that it will never be disgraced in your hands; but do not talk so loud, for there are listeners and spies everywhere. Is there anything else that you require?”“No, I think not; the fact is that this sword has put everything out of my head. If there was anything else I have forgotten it. Let us go back to the inn, and we will harness the pony, and call for the flour and oatmeal.”When they arrived at the inn, Oswald went out to the yard to get the cart ready, while Edward went into the landlord’s room to make inquiries as to the quantity of venison he would be able to take off his hands at a time. Oswald had taken the sword from Edward, and had put it in the cart while he was fastening the harness, when a man came up to the cart, and looked earnestly at the sword. He then examined it, and said to Oswald:“Why, that was Colonel Beverley’s, my old master’s, sword. I knowed it again directly. I took it to Phillips, the gunmaker, to be cleaned.”“Indeed!” replied Oswald; “I pray what may be your name?”“Benjamin White,” replied the man; “I served at Arnwood till the night it was burned down; and I have been here ever since.”“And what are you doing now?”“I’m tapster at the ‘Commonwealth,’ in Fish Street—not much of a place.”“Well, well, you stand by the pony, and look that nobody takes anything out of the cart, while I go in for some parcels.”“Yes, to be sure I will; but, I say, forester, how came you by that sword?”“I will tell you when I come out again,” replied Oswald.Oswald then went in to Edward, and told him what had occurred.“He will certainly know you, sir, and you must not come out till I can get him away,” said he.“You are right, Oswald; but before he goes, ask him what became of my aunt, and where she was buried, and also ask him where the other servants are—perhaps they are at Lymington as well as he.”“I will find it all out,” replied Oswald, who then left Edward, and returned to the landlord and recommenced conversation.Oswald, on his return, told Benjamin in what manner the sword had been procured from the shopman, by the grandson of old Armitage.“I never knew that he had one,” replied Benjamin; “nor did I know that old Jacob was dead.”“What became of all the women who were at Arnwood?” inquired Oswald.“Why, Agatha married one of the troopers, and went away to London.”“And the others?”“Why, cook went home to her friends, who live about ten miles from here, and I have never heard of her since.”“But there were three of them,” said Oswald. “Oh yes; there was Phoebe,” replied Benjamin, looking rather confused. “She married a trooper—the jilt!—and went off to London when Agatha did. If I’d have thought that she would have done so I would not have carried her away from Arnwood behind me on a pillion, as I did; she might have been burnt with the poor children, for all as I cared.”“Was not the old lady killed?”“Yes; that is to say, she killed herself, rather than not kill Southwold.”“Where was she buried?”“In the churchyard, at Saint Faith’s, by the mayor and corporation; for there was not money enough found upon her person to pay the expenses of her burial.”“And so you are tapster at the ‘Commonwealth.’ Is it a good inn?”“Can’t say much for it. I shan’t stay longer than I can help, I can tell you.”“Well, but you must have an easy place, if you can stay away so long as you do now.”“Won’t I be mobbed when I go back! But that’s always the case, make haste or not, so it’s all one. However, I do think I must be a-going now, so good-bye, Mr Forester; and tell Jacob Armitage’s grandson that I shall be glad to see him, for old Jacob’s sake; and it’s hard but I’ll find him something to drink when he calls.”“I will: I shall see him to-morrow,” replied Oswald, getting into the cart; “so good-bye, Benjamin,” much to the satisfaction of Oswald, who thought that he would never go.They went away at a rapid pace, to make up for lost time, and soon disappeared round the corner of the street. Oswald then got out again, summoned Edward, and having called for the flour and other heavy articles, they set off on their return.During the drive Oswald made known to Edward the information which he had gained from Benjamin, and at a late hour they arrived safely at the cottage.They staid up but a short time, as they were tired; and Oswald had resolved upon setting off before daylight on the following morning, which he did without disturbing any one; for Humphrey was up and dressed as soon as Oswald was, and gave him something to eat as he went along. All the others remained fast asleep. Humphrey walked about a mile with Oswald, and was returning to the farm, when he thought, as he had not examined his pit-fall for many days, that he might as well look at it, before he went back. He therefore struck in the direction in which it lay, and arrived there just as the day began to dawn.It was the end of March, and the weather was mild for the season. Humphrey arrived at the pit, and it was sufficiently light for him to perceive that the covering had been broken in, and therefore, in all probability, something must have been trapped. He sat down and waited for daylight, but at times he thought he heard a heavy breathing, and once a low groan. This made him more anxious, and he again and again peered into the pit, but could not for a long while discover anything, until at last he thought that he could make out a human figure lying at the bottom. Humphrey called out, asking if there was any one there. A groan was the reply, and now Humphrey was horrified at the idea that somebody had fallen into the pit, and had perished, or was perishing for want of succour. Recollecting that the rough ladder which he had made to take the soil up out of the pit was against an oak-tree, close at hand, he ran for it, and put it down the pit, and then cautiously descended. On his arrival at the bottom, his fears were found to be verified, for he found the body of a lad half-clothed lying there. He turned it up, as it was lying with its face to the ground, and attempted to remove it and to ascertain if there was life in it, which he was delighted to find was the case. The lad groaned several times, and opened his eyes. Humphrey was afraid that he was not strong enough to lift it on his shoulders and carry it up the ladder; but on making the attempt, he found out, from exhaustion, the poor lad was light enough for him to carry him, which he did, and safely landed him by the side of the pit.Recollecting that the watering-place of the herd of cattle was not far off, Humphrey then hastened to it, and filled his hat half full of water. The lad, although he could not speak, drank eagerly, and in a few minutes appeared much recovered. Humphrey gave him some more, and bathed his face and temples. The sun had now risen, and it was broad daylight. The lad attempted to speak, but what he did say was in so low a tone, and evidently in a foreign language, that Humphrey could not make him out. He therefore made signs to the lad that he was going away, and would be back soon; and having, as he thought, made the lad comprehend this, Humphrey ran away to the cottage as fast as he could; and as soon as he arrived he called for Edward, who came out, and when Humphrey told him in few words what had happened, Edward went into the cottage again for some milk and some cake, while Humphrey put the pony into the cart.In a few moments they were off again, and soon arrived at the pit-fall, where they found the lad still lying where Humphrey had left him. They soaked the cake in the milk, and, as soon as it was soft, gave him some; after a time he swallowed pretty freely, and was so much recovered as to be able to sit up. They then lifted him into the cart, and drove gently home to their cottage.“What do you think he is, Edward?” said Humphrey.“Some poor beggar lad, who has been crossing the forest.”“No, not exactly; he appears to me to be one of the Zingaros or gipsies, as they call them: he is very dark, and has black eyes and white teeth, just like those I saw once near Arnwood, when I was out with Jacob. Jacob said that no one knew where they came from, but that they were all over the country, and that they were great thieves, and told fortunes, and played all manner of tricks.”“Perhaps it may be so; I do not think that he can speak English.”“I am most thankful to Heaven that I chanced this morning to visit the pit-fall. Only suppose that I had found the poor boy starved and dead! I should have been very unhappy, and never should have had any pleasure in looking at the cows, as they would always have reminded me of such a melancholy accident.”“Very true, Humphrey; but you have been saved that misfortune, and ought to be grateful to Heaven that such is the case. What shall we do with him now we have him?”“Why, if he chooses to remain with us, he will be very useful in the cow-yard,” said Humphrey.“Of course,” replied Edward, laughing, “as he was taken in the pit-fall, he must go into the yard with all he others who were captured in the same way.”“Well, Edward, let us get him all right again first, and then we will see what is to be done with him; perhaps he will refuse to remain with us.”As soon as they arrived at the cottage they lifted the lad out of the cart, and carried him into Jacob’s room, and laid him on the bed, for he was too weak to stand.Alice and Edith, who were much surprised at the new visitor, and the way in which he had been caught, hastened to get some gruel ready for him. As soon as it was ready they gave it to the boy, who then fell back on the bed with exhaustion, and was soon in a sound sleep. He slept soundly all that night; and the next morning, when he awoke, he appeared much better, although very hungry. This last complaint was easy to remedy, and then the lad got up and walked into the sitting-room.“What’s your name?” said Humphrey to the lad.“Pablo,” replied the lad.“Can you speak English?”“Yes, little,” replied he.“How did you happen to fall into the pit?”“Not see hole.”“Are you a gipsy?”“Yes, Gitano—same thing.”Humphrey put a great many more questions to the lad, and elicited from him, in his imperfect English, the following particulars.That he was in company with several others of his race, going down to the sea-coast on one of their usual migrations, and that they had pitched their tents not far from the pit-fall. That during the night he had gone out to set some snares for rabbits, and going back to the tents, it being quite dark, he had fallen into the hole. That he had remained there three days and nights, having in vain attempted to get out. His mother was with the party of gipsies to which he belonged; but he had no father. He did not know where to follow the gang, as they had not said where they were going, farther than to the sea-coast. That it was no use looking for them; and that he did not care much about leaving them, as he was very unkindly treated. In reply to the question as to whether he would like to remain with them, and work with them on the farm, he replied that he should like it very much if they would be kind to him, and not make him work too hard; that he would cook the dinner, and catch them rabbits and birds, and make a great many things.“Will you be honest, if we keep you, and not tell lies?” said Edward.The lad thought a little while, and then nodded his head in the affirmative.“Well, Pablo, we will try you, and if you are a good lad, we will do all we can to make you happy,” said Edward; “but if you behave ill, we shall be obliged to turn you out of doors; do you understand?”“Be as good as I can,” replied Pablo; and here the conversation ended for the present.Pablo was a very short-built lad, of apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age, very dark in complexion, but very handsome in features, with beautiful white teeth and large dark eyes; and there was certainly something in his intelligent countenance which recommended him, independent of his claim to their kindness from his having been left thus friendless in consequence of his misadventure. Humphrey was particularly pleased with and interested about him, as the lad had so nearly lost his life through his means.“I really think, Edward,” said Humphrey, as they were standing outside of the door of the cottage, “that the lad may be very useful to us, and I sincerely hope that he may prove honest and true. We must first get him into health and spirits, and then I will see what he can do.”“The fact is, my dear Humphrey, we can do no otherwise: he is separated from his friends, and does not know where to go. It would be inhuman, as we have been the cause of his misfortune, to turn him away; but although I feel this, I do not feel much security as to his good behaviour and being very useful. I have always been told that these gipsies were vagrants, who lived by stealing all they could lay their hands upon; and, if he has been brought up in that way, I fear that he will not easily be reformed. However, we can but try, and hope for the best.”“What you say is very just, Edward; at the same time, there is an honest look about this lad, although he is a gipsy, that makes me put a sort of confidence in him. Admitting that he has been taught to do wrong, do you not think that when told the contrary he may be persuaded to do right?”“It is not impossible, certainly,” replied Edward; “but, Humphrey, be on the safe side, and do not trust him too far, until you know more of him.”“That I most certainly will not,” replied Humphrey. “When do you purpose going over to the keeper’s cottage, Edward?”“In a day or two; but I am not exactly in a humour now to be very civil to the Roundheads, although the one I have promised to visit is a lady, and a very amiable, pretty little girl into the bargain.”“Why, Edward, what has made you feel more opposed to them than usual?”“In the first place, Humphrey, the murder of the king—for it was murder, and nothing better—I cannot get that out of my head; and yesterday I obtained what I consider as almost a gift from Heaven; and if it is so, it was not given but with the intention that I should make use of it.”“And what was that, Edward?”“Our gallant father’s sword, which he drew so nobly and so well in defence of his sovereign, Humphrey, and which I trust his son may one day wield with equal distinction, and, it may be, better fortune. Come in with me, and I will show it to you.”Edward and Humphrey went into the bedroom, and Edward brought out the sword, which he had placed by his side on the bed.“See, Humphrey, this was our father’s sword; and,” continued Edward, kissing the weapon, “I trust I may be permitted to draw it to revenge his death, and the death of one whose life ever should have been sacred.”“I trust that you will, my dear brother,” replied Humphrey; “you will have a strong arm and a good cause. Heaven grant that both may prosper! But tell me how you came by it.”Edward then related all that had passed during his visit with Oswald to Lymington, not forgetting to tell him of Benjamin’s appearance, and the arrangements he had made relative to the sale of the venison.As soon as dinner was over, Edward and Humphrey took down their guns, having agreed that they would go and hunt the wild cattle.“Humphrey, have you any idea where the herd of cattle are feeding at this time?”“I know where they were feeding yesterday and the day before, and I do not think that they will have changed their ground; for the grass is yet very young, and only grown on the southern aspects. Depend upon it we shall fall in with them not four miles from where we now are, if not nearer.”“We must stalk them as we do the deer, must we not? They won’t allow us to approach within shot, Humphrey, will they?” said Edward.“We have to take our chance, Edward; they will allow us to advance within shot, but the bulls will then advance upon us, while the herd increase their distance. On the other hand, if we stalk them, we may kill one, and then the report of the gun will frighten the others away. In the first instance there is a risk; in the second there is none, but there is more fatigue and trouble. Choose as you please, I will act as you decide.”“Well, Humphrey, since you give me the choice, I think that this time I shall take the bull by the horns, as the saying is; that is, if there are any trees near us, for if the herd are in an open place I would not run such a risk; but if we can fire upon them and fall back upon a tree in case of a bull charging, I will take them openly.”“With all my heart, Edward: I think it will be very hard, if, with our two guns and Smoker to back us, we do not manage to be masters of the field. However, we must survey well before we make our approach; and if we can get within shot without alarming or irritating them, we of course will do so.”“The bulls are very savage at this spring-time,” observed Edward.“They are so at all times, as far as I can see of them,” replied Humphrey; “but we are near to them now, I should think—yes, there is the herd.”“There they are, sure enough,” replied Edward: “now we have not to do with deer, and need not be so very cautious; but still the animals are wary, and keep a sharp look-out. We must approach them quietly, by slipping from tree to tree. Smoker, to heel!—down—quiet, Smoker—good dog!”Edward and Humphrey stopped to load their guns, and then approached the herd in the manner which had been proposed, and were very soon within two hundred yards of the cattle, behind a large oak, when they stopped to reconnoitre. The herd contained about seventy head of cattle, of various sizes and ages. They were feeding in all directions, scattered, as the young grass was very short; but although the herd was spread over many acres of land, Edward pointed out to Humphrey that all the full-grown large bulls were on the outside, as if ready to defend the others in case of attack.“Humphrey,” said Edward, “one thing is clear—as the herd is placed at present, we must have a bull or nothing. It is impossible to get within shot of the others without passing a bull, and depend upon it our passage will be disputed; and moreover, the herd will take to flight, and we shall get nothing at all.”“Well,” replied Humphrey, “beef is beef; and, as they say, beggars must not be choosers, so let it be a bull, if it must be so.”“Let us get nearer to them, and then we will decide what we shall do. Steady, Smoker!”They advanced gradually, hiding from tree to tree, until they were within eighty yards of one of the bulls. The animal did not perceive them, and as they were now within range, they again stepped behind the tree to consult.“Now, Edward, I think that it would be best to separate. You can fire from where we are, and I will crawl through the fern, and get behind another tree.”“Very well, do so,” replied Edward: “if you can manage, get to that tree with the low branches, and then perhaps you will be within shot of the white bull, which is coming down in this direction. Smoker, lie down! He cannot go with you, Humphrey; it will not be safe.”The distance of the tree which Humphrey ventured to get to was about one hundred and fifty yards from where Edward was standing. Humphrey crawled along for some time in the fern, but at last he came to a bare spot of about ten yards wide, which they were not aware of, and where he could not be concealed. Humphrey hesitated, and at last decided upon attempting to cross it. Edward, who was one moment watching the motions of Humphrey, and at another that of the two animals nearest to them, perceived that the white bull farthest from him, but nearest to Humphrey, threw its head in the air, pawed with his foot, and then advanced with a roar to where Humphrey was on the ground, still crawling towards the tree, having passed the open spot, and being now not many yards from the tree. Perceiving the danger that his brother was in, and that, moreover, Humphrey himself was not aware of it, he hardly knew how to act. The bull was too far from him to fire at it with any chance of success; and how to let Humphrey know that the animal had discovered him and was making towards him, without calling out, he did not know. All this was the thought of a moment, and then Edward determined to fire at the bull nearest to him, which he had promised not to do till Humphrey was also ready to fire; and after firing to call Humphrey. He, therefore, for one moment, turned away from his brother, and, taking aim at the bull, fired his gun; but probably from his nerves being a little shaken at the idea of Humphrey being in danger, the wound was not mortal, and the bull galloped back to the herd, which formed a closed phalanx about a quarter of a mile distant. Edward then turned to where his brother was, and perceived that the bull had not made off with the rest of the cattle, but was within thirty yards of Humphrey, and advancing upon him, and that Humphrey was standing up beside the tree with his gun ready to fire. Humphrey fired, and, as it appeared, he also missed his aim; the animal made at him; but Humphrey, with great quickness, dropped his gun, and, swinging by the lower boughs, was into the tree, and out of the bull’s reach, in a moment. Edward smiled when he perceived that Humphrey was safe; but still he was a prisoner, for the bull went round and round the tree roaring and looking up at Humphrey. Edward thought a minute, then loaded his gun and ordered Smoker to run in to the bull. The dog, who had only been restrained by Edward’s keeping him down at his feet, sprang forward to the attack. Edward had intended, by calling to the dog, to induce the bull to follow it till within gunshot; but before the bull had been attacked, Edward observed that one or two more of the bulls had left the herd, and were coming at a rapid pace towards him. Under these circumstances, Edward perceived that his only chance was to climb into a tree himself, which he did, taking good care to take his gun and ammunition with him. Having safely fixed himself in a forked bough, Edward then surveyed the position of the parties. There was Humphrey in the tree, without his gun. The bull who had pursued Humphrey was now running at Smoker, who appeared to be aware that he was to decoy the bull towards Edward, for he kept retreating towards him. In the meantime the two other bulls were quite close at hand, mingling their bellowing and roaring with the first; and one of them as near to Edward as the first bull, which was engaged with Smoker. At last one of the advancing bulls stood still, pawing the ground as if disappointed at not finding an enemy, not forty yards from where Edward was perched. Edward took good aim, and when he fired the bull fell dead. Edward was reloading his piece when he heard a howl, and looking round saw Smoker flying up in the air, having been tossed by the first bull; and at the same time he observed that Humphrey had descended from the tree, recovered his gun, and was now safe again upon the lower bough. The first bull was advancing again to attack Smoker, who appeared incapable of getting away, so much was he injured by the fall, when the other bull, who apparently must have been an old antagonist of the first, roared and attacked him; and now the two boys were up in the tree, the two bulls fighting between them, and Smoker lying on the ground, panting and exhausted. As the bulls, with locked horns, were furiously pressing each other, both guns were discharged, and both animals fell. After waiting a little while to see if they rose again, or if any more of the herd came up, Edward and Humphrey descended from the trees and heartily shook hands.
“Could you have found your way to Lymington?” said Oswald, as the pony trotted along.
“Yes, I think so,” replied Edward; “but I must have first gone to Arnwood. Indeed, had I been alone, I should have done so; but we have made a much shorter cut.”
“I did not think that you would have liked to have seen the ruins of Arnwood,” replied Oswald.
“Not a day passes without my thinking of them,” replied Edward. “I should like to see them. I should like to see if any one has taken possession of the property; for they say it is confiscated.”
“I heard that it was to be; but not that it was yet,” said Oswald: “but we shall know more when we get to Lymington. I have not seen it for more than a year. I hardly think that any one will recognise you.”
“I should think not; but I care little if they do. Indeed, who is there to know me?”
“Well, my introduction of you will save some surmises, probably; and I shall not take you among those who may be inclined to ask questions. See, there is the steeple; we have not more than a quarter of an hour’s drive.”
As soon as they arrived at Lymington, Oswald directed the way to a small hostelrie, to which the keepers and verderers usually resorted. In fact, the landlord was the party who took all the venison off their hands, and disposed of it. They drove into the yard, and, giving the pony and cart in charge of the hostler, went into the inn, where they found the landlord, and one or two other people, who were drinking.
“Well, Master Andrew, how fare you?” said Oswald.
“Let me see,” said the corpulent landlord, throwing back his head, and putting out his stomach, as he peered at Oswald; “why, Oswald Partridge, as I am a born man. Where have you been this many a day?”
“In the forest, Master Andrew, where there are no few chops and changes.”
“Yes, I heard you have a sort of Parliamentary keeper, I’m told; and who is this with you?”
“The grandson of an old friend of yours, now dead, poor old Jacob Armitage.”
“Jacob dead, poor fellow! As true as flint was Jacob Armitage, as I’m a born man! And so he is dead! Well, we all owe heaven a death. Foresters and landlords, as well as kings, all must die!”
“I have brought Edward Armitage over here to introduce him to you, Master Andrew. Now that the old man is dead, you must look to him for forest meat.”
“Oh, well, well, it is scarce now. I have not had any for some time. Old Jacob brought me the last. You are not one of the Parliamentary foresters, then, I presume?” continued the landlord, turning to Edward.
“No,” replied Edward, “I kill no venison for Roundheads.”
“Right, my sapling; right and well said. The Armitages were all good men and true, and followed the fortunes of the Beverleys; but there are no Beverleys to follow now. Cut off root and branch—more’s the pity. That was a sad business. But come in; we must not talk here, for walls have ears, they say, and one never knows who one dares to speak before now.”
Oswald and Edward then entered with the landlord, and arrangements were made between Master Andrew and the latter for a regular supply of venison during the season at a certain price; but as it would now be dangerous to bring it into the town, it was agreed that when there was any ready, Edward should come to Lymington and give notice, and the landlord would send out people to bring it in during the night. This bargain concluded, they took a glass with the landlord, and then went into the town to make the necessary purchases. Oswald took Edward to all the shops where the articles he required were to be purchased; some they carried away with them; others, which were too heavy, they left, to be called for with the cart as they went away. Among other articles, Edward required powder and lead, and they went to a gunsmith’s where it was to be procured. While making his purchases, Edward perceived a sword, which he thought he had seen before, hanging up against the wall among other weapons.
“What sword is that?” said he to the man who was measuring out the powder.
“It’s not my sword, exactly,” replied the man; “and yet I cannot return it to its owner or to the family. It was brought me to be cleaned by one of Colonel Beverley’s people, and before it was called for the house was burnt, and every soul perished. It was one of the colonel’s swords, I am sure, as there is E.B. on a silver plate engraved on it. I have a bill owing me for work done at Arnwood, and I have no chance of its being paid now; so, whether I am to sell the sword, or what to do, I hardly know.”
Edward remained silent for some little while, for he could not trust himself to speak; at last he replied: “To be candid with you, I am, and all my family have been, followers of the Beverley family, and I should be sorry if the colonel’s sword was to fall into any other hands. I think, therefore, if I pay the bill which is due, you may safely let me hold the sword as a security for the money, with the express understanding that if it is ever claimed by the Beverley family, I am to give it up.”
“Certainly,” said Oswald; “nothing can be fairer or more clearly put.”
“I think so, too, young man,” replied the shopkeeper. “Of course, you will leave your name and address?”
“Yes; and my friend here will vouch for its being correct,” replied Edward.
The shopkeeper then produced the account, which Edward paid; and giving on the paper the name of Edward Armitage, he took possession of the sword. He then paid for the powder and lead, which Oswald took charge of, and, hardly able to conceal his joy, hastened out of the shop.
“Oswald,” cried Edward, “I would not part with it for thousands of pounds. I never will part with it but with my life.”
“I believe so,” replied Oswald; “and I believe more, that it will never be disgraced in your hands; but do not talk so loud, for there are listeners and spies everywhere. Is there anything else that you require?”
“No, I think not; the fact is that this sword has put everything out of my head. If there was anything else I have forgotten it. Let us go back to the inn, and we will harness the pony, and call for the flour and oatmeal.”
When they arrived at the inn, Oswald went out to the yard to get the cart ready, while Edward went into the landlord’s room to make inquiries as to the quantity of venison he would be able to take off his hands at a time. Oswald had taken the sword from Edward, and had put it in the cart while he was fastening the harness, when a man came up to the cart, and looked earnestly at the sword. He then examined it, and said to Oswald:
“Why, that was Colonel Beverley’s, my old master’s, sword. I knowed it again directly. I took it to Phillips, the gunmaker, to be cleaned.”
“Indeed!” replied Oswald; “I pray what may be your name?”
“Benjamin White,” replied the man; “I served at Arnwood till the night it was burned down; and I have been here ever since.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“I’m tapster at the ‘Commonwealth,’ in Fish Street—not much of a place.”
“Well, well, you stand by the pony, and look that nobody takes anything out of the cart, while I go in for some parcels.”
“Yes, to be sure I will; but, I say, forester, how came you by that sword?”
“I will tell you when I come out again,” replied Oswald.
Oswald then went in to Edward, and told him what had occurred.
“He will certainly know you, sir, and you must not come out till I can get him away,” said he.
“You are right, Oswald; but before he goes, ask him what became of my aunt, and where she was buried, and also ask him where the other servants are—perhaps they are at Lymington as well as he.”
“I will find it all out,” replied Oswald, who then left Edward, and returned to the landlord and recommenced conversation.
Oswald, on his return, told Benjamin in what manner the sword had been procured from the shopman, by the grandson of old Armitage.
“I never knew that he had one,” replied Benjamin; “nor did I know that old Jacob was dead.”
“What became of all the women who were at Arnwood?” inquired Oswald.
“Why, Agatha married one of the troopers, and went away to London.”
“And the others?”
“Why, cook went home to her friends, who live about ten miles from here, and I have never heard of her since.”
“But there were three of them,” said Oswald. “Oh yes; there was Phoebe,” replied Benjamin, looking rather confused. “She married a trooper—the jilt!—and went off to London when Agatha did. If I’d have thought that she would have done so I would not have carried her away from Arnwood behind me on a pillion, as I did; she might have been burnt with the poor children, for all as I cared.”
“Was not the old lady killed?”
“Yes; that is to say, she killed herself, rather than not kill Southwold.”
“Where was she buried?”
“In the churchyard, at Saint Faith’s, by the mayor and corporation; for there was not money enough found upon her person to pay the expenses of her burial.”
“And so you are tapster at the ‘Commonwealth.’ Is it a good inn?”
“Can’t say much for it. I shan’t stay longer than I can help, I can tell you.”
“Well, but you must have an easy place, if you can stay away so long as you do now.”
“Won’t I be mobbed when I go back! But that’s always the case, make haste or not, so it’s all one. However, I do think I must be a-going now, so good-bye, Mr Forester; and tell Jacob Armitage’s grandson that I shall be glad to see him, for old Jacob’s sake; and it’s hard but I’ll find him something to drink when he calls.”
“I will: I shall see him to-morrow,” replied Oswald, getting into the cart; “so good-bye, Benjamin,” much to the satisfaction of Oswald, who thought that he would never go.
They went away at a rapid pace, to make up for lost time, and soon disappeared round the corner of the street. Oswald then got out again, summoned Edward, and having called for the flour and other heavy articles, they set off on their return.
During the drive Oswald made known to Edward the information which he had gained from Benjamin, and at a late hour they arrived safely at the cottage.
They staid up but a short time, as they were tired; and Oswald had resolved upon setting off before daylight on the following morning, which he did without disturbing any one; for Humphrey was up and dressed as soon as Oswald was, and gave him something to eat as he went along. All the others remained fast asleep. Humphrey walked about a mile with Oswald, and was returning to the farm, when he thought, as he had not examined his pit-fall for many days, that he might as well look at it, before he went back. He therefore struck in the direction in which it lay, and arrived there just as the day began to dawn.
It was the end of March, and the weather was mild for the season. Humphrey arrived at the pit, and it was sufficiently light for him to perceive that the covering had been broken in, and therefore, in all probability, something must have been trapped. He sat down and waited for daylight, but at times he thought he heard a heavy breathing, and once a low groan. This made him more anxious, and he again and again peered into the pit, but could not for a long while discover anything, until at last he thought that he could make out a human figure lying at the bottom. Humphrey called out, asking if there was any one there. A groan was the reply, and now Humphrey was horrified at the idea that somebody had fallen into the pit, and had perished, or was perishing for want of succour. Recollecting that the rough ladder which he had made to take the soil up out of the pit was against an oak-tree, close at hand, he ran for it, and put it down the pit, and then cautiously descended. On his arrival at the bottom, his fears were found to be verified, for he found the body of a lad half-clothed lying there. He turned it up, as it was lying with its face to the ground, and attempted to remove it and to ascertain if there was life in it, which he was delighted to find was the case. The lad groaned several times, and opened his eyes. Humphrey was afraid that he was not strong enough to lift it on his shoulders and carry it up the ladder; but on making the attempt, he found out, from exhaustion, the poor lad was light enough for him to carry him, which he did, and safely landed him by the side of the pit.
Recollecting that the watering-place of the herd of cattle was not far off, Humphrey then hastened to it, and filled his hat half full of water. The lad, although he could not speak, drank eagerly, and in a few minutes appeared much recovered. Humphrey gave him some more, and bathed his face and temples. The sun had now risen, and it was broad daylight. The lad attempted to speak, but what he did say was in so low a tone, and evidently in a foreign language, that Humphrey could not make him out. He therefore made signs to the lad that he was going away, and would be back soon; and having, as he thought, made the lad comprehend this, Humphrey ran away to the cottage as fast as he could; and as soon as he arrived he called for Edward, who came out, and when Humphrey told him in few words what had happened, Edward went into the cottage again for some milk and some cake, while Humphrey put the pony into the cart.
In a few moments they were off again, and soon arrived at the pit-fall, where they found the lad still lying where Humphrey had left him. They soaked the cake in the milk, and, as soon as it was soft, gave him some; after a time he swallowed pretty freely, and was so much recovered as to be able to sit up. They then lifted him into the cart, and drove gently home to their cottage.
“What do you think he is, Edward?” said Humphrey.
“Some poor beggar lad, who has been crossing the forest.”
“No, not exactly; he appears to me to be one of the Zingaros or gipsies, as they call them: he is very dark, and has black eyes and white teeth, just like those I saw once near Arnwood, when I was out with Jacob. Jacob said that no one knew where they came from, but that they were all over the country, and that they were great thieves, and told fortunes, and played all manner of tricks.”
“Perhaps it may be so; I do not think that he can speak English.”
“I am most thankful to Heaven that I chanced this morning to visit the pit-fall. Only suppose that I had found the poor boy starved and dead! I should have been very unhappy, and never should have had any pleasure in looking at the cows, as they would always have reminded me of such a melancholy accident.”
“Very true, Humphrey; but you have been saved that misfortune, and ought to be grateful to Heaven that such is the case. What shall we do with him now we have him?”
“Why, if he chooses to remain with us, he will be very useful in the cow-yard,” said Humphrey.
“Of course,” replied Edward, laughing, “as he was taken in the pit-fall, he must go into the yard with all he others who were captured in the same way.”
“Well, Edward, let us get him all right again first, and then we will see what is to be done with him; perhaps he will refuse to remain with us.”
As soon as they arrived at the cottage they lifted the lad out of the cart, and carried him into Jacob’s room, and laid him on the bed, for he was too weak to stand.
Alice and Edith, who were much surprised at the new visitor, and the way in which he had been caught, hastened to get some gruel ready for him. As soon as it was ready they gave it to the boy, who then fell back on the bed with exhaustion, and was soon in a sound sleep. He slept soundly all that night; and the next morning, when he awoke, he appeared much better, although very hungry. This last complaint was easy to remedy, and then the lad got up and walked into the sitting-room.
“What’s your name?” said Humphrey to the lad.
“Pablo,” replied the lad.
“Can you speak English?”
“Yes, little,” replied he.
“How did you happen to fall into the pit?”
“Not see hole.”
“Are you a gipsy?”
“Yes, Gitano—same thing.”
Humphrey put a great many more questions to the lad, and elicited from him, in his imperfect English, the following particulars.
That he was in company with several others of his race, going down to the sea-coast on one of their usual migrations, and that they had pitched their tents not far from the pit-fall. That during the night he had gone out to set some snares for rabbits, and going back to the tents, it being quite dark, he had fallen into the hole. That he had remained there three days and nights, having in vain attempted to get out. His mother was with the party of gipsies to which he belonged; but he had no father. He did not know where to follow the gang, as they had not said where they were going, farther than to the sea-coast. That it was no use looking for them; and that he did not care much about leaving them, as he was very unkindly treated. In reply to the question as to whether he would like to remain with them, and work with them on the farm, he replied that he should like it very much if they would be kind to him, and not make him work too hard; that he would cook the dinner, and catch them rabbits and birds, and make a great many things.
“Will you be honest, if we keep you, and not tell lies?” said Edward.
The lad thought a little while, and then nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Well, Pablo, we will try you, and if you are a good lad, we will do all we can to make you happy,” said Edward; “but if you behave ill, we shall be obliged to turn you out of doors; do you understand?”
“Be as good as I can,” replied Pablo; and here the conversation ended for the present.
Pablo was a very short-built lad, of apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age, very dark in complexion, but very handsome in features, with beautiful white teeth and large dark eyes; and there was certainly something in his intelligent countenance which recommended him, independent of his claim to their kindness from his having been left thus friendless in consequence of his misadventure. Humphrey was particularly pleased with and interested about him, as the lad had so nearly lost his life through his means.
“I really think, Edward,” said Humphrey, as they were standing outside of the door of the cottage, “that the lad may be very useful to us, and I sincerely hope that he may prove honest and true. We must first get him into health and spirits, and then I will see what he can do.”
“The fact is, my dear Humphrey, we can do no otherwise: he is separated from his friends, and does not know where to go. It would be inhuman, as we have been the cause of his misfortune, to turn him away; but although I feel this, I do not feel much security as to his good behaviour and being very useful. I have always been told that these gipsies were vagrants, who lived by stealing all they could lay their hands upon; and, if he has been brought up in that way, I fear that he will not easily be reformed. However, we can but try, and hope for the best.”
“What you say is very just, Edward; at the same time, there is an honest look about this lad, although he is a gipsy, that makes me put a sort of confidence in him. Admitting that he has been taught to do wrong, do you not think that when told the contrary he may be persuaded to do right?”
“It is not impossible, certainly,” replied Edward; “but, Humphrey, be on the safe side, and do not trust him too far, until you know more of him.”
“That I most certainly will not,” replied Humphrey. “When do you purpose going over to the keeper’s cottage, Edward?”
“In a day or two; but I am not exactly in a humour now to be very civil to the Roundheads, although the one I have promised to visit is a lady, and a very amiable, pretty little girl into the bargain.”
“Why, Edward, what has made you feel more opposed to them than usual?”
“In the first place, Humphrey, the murder of the king—for it was murder, and nothing better—I cannot get that out of my head; and yesterday I obtained what I consider as almost a gift from Heaven; and if it is so, it was not given but with the intention that I should make use of it.”
“And what was that, Edward?”
“Our gallant father’s sword, which he drew so nobly and so well in defence of his sovereign, Humphrey, and which I trust his son may one day wield with equal distinction, and, it may be, better fortune. Come in with me, and I will show it to you.”
Edward and Humphrey went into the bedroom, and Edward brought out the sword, which he had placed by his side on the bed.
“See, Humphrey, this was our father’s sword; and,” continued Edward, kissing the weapon, “I trust I may be permitted to draw it to revenge his death, and the death of one whose life ever should have been sacred.”
“I trust that you will, my dear brother,” replied Humphrey; “you will have a strong arm and a good cause. Heaven grant that both may prosper! But tell me how you came by it.”
Edward then related all that had passed during his visit with Oswald to Lymington, not forgetting to tell him of Benjamin’s appearance, and the arrangements he had made relative to the sale of the venison.
As soon as dinner was over, Edward and Humphrey took down their guns, having agreed that they would go and hunt the wild cattle.
“Humphrey, have you any idea where the herd of cattle are feeding at this time?”
“I know where they were feeding yesterday and the day before, and I do not think that they will have changed their ground; for the grass is yet very young, and only grown on the southern aspects. Depend upon it we shall fall in with them not four miles from where we now are, if not nearer.”
“We must stalk them as we do the deer, must we not? They won’t allow us to approach within shot, Humphrey, will they?” said Edward.
“We have to take our chance, Edward; they will allow us to advance within shot, but the bulls will then advance upon us, while the herd increase their distance. On the other hand, if we stalk them, we may kill one, and then the report of the gun will frighten the others away. In the first instance there is a risk; in the second there is none, but there is more fatigue and trouble. Choose as you please, I will act as you decide.”
“Well, Humphrey, since you give me the choice, I think that this time I shall take the bull by the horns, as the saying is; that is, if there are any trees near us, for if the herd are in an open place I would not run such a risk; but if we can fire upon them and fall back upon a tree in case of a bull charging, I will take them openly.”
“With all my heart, Edward: I think it will be very hard, if, with our two guns and Smoker to back us, we do not manage to be masters of the field. However, we must survey well before we make our approach; and if we can get within shot without alarming or irritating them, we of course will do so.”
“The bulls are very savage at this spring-time,” observed Edward.
“They are so at all times, as far as I can see of them,” replied Humphrey; “but we are near to them now, I should think—yes, there is the herd.”
“There they are, sure enough,” replied Edward: “now we have not to do with deer, and need not be so very cautious; but still the animals are wary, and keep a sharp look-out. We must approach them quietly, by slipping from tree to tree. Smoker, to heel!—down—quiet, Smoker—good dog!”
Edward and Humphrey stopped to load their guns, and then approached the herd in the manner which had been proposed, and were very soon within two hundred yards of the cattle, behind a large oak, when they stopped to reconnoitre. The herd contained about seventy head of cattle, of various sizes and ages. They were feeding in all directions, scattered, as the young grass was very short; but although the herd was spread over many acres of land, Edward pointed out to Humphrey that all the full-grown large bulls were on the outside, as if ready to defend the others in case of attack.
“Humphrey,” said Edward, “one thing is clear—as the herd is placed at present, we must have a bull or nothing. It is impossible to get within shot of the others without passing a bull, and depend upon it our passage will be disputed; and moreover, the herd will take to flight, and we shall get nothing at all.”
“Well,” replied Humphrey, “beef is beef; and, as they say, beggars must not be choosers, so let it be a bull, if it must be so.”
“Let us get nearer to them, and then we will decide what we shall do. Steady, Smoker!”
They advanced gradually, hiding from tree to tree, until they were within eighty yards of one of the bulls. The animal did not perceive them, and as they were now within range, they again stepped behind the tree to consult.
“Now, Edward, I think that it would be best to separate. You can fire from where we are, and I will crawl through the fern, and get behind another tree.”
“Very well, do so,” replied Edward: “if you can manage, get to that tree with the low branches, and then perhaps you will be within shot of the white bull, which is coming down in this direction. Smoker, lie down! He cannot go with you, Humphrey; it will not be safe.”
The distance of the tree which Humphrey ventured to get to was about one hundred and fifty yards from where Edward was standing. Humphrey crawled along for some time in the fern, but at last he came to a bare spot of about ten yards wide, which they were not aware of, and where he could not be concealed. Humphrey hesitated, and at last decided upon attempting to cross it. Edward, who was one moment watching the motions of Humphrey, and at another that of the two animals nearest to them, perceived that the white bull farthest from him, but nearest to Humphrey, threw its head in the air, pawed with his foot, and then advanced with a roar to where Humphrey was on the ground, still crawling towards the tree, having passed the open spot, and being now not many yards from the tree. Perceiving the danger that his brother was in, and that, moreover, Humphrey himself was not aware of it, he hardly knew how to act. The bull was too far from him to fire at it with any chance of success; and how to let Humphrey know that the animal had discovered him and was making towards him, without calling out, he did not know. All this was the thought of a moment, and then Edward determined to fire at the bull nearest to him, which he had promised not to do till Humphrey was also ready to fire; and after firing to call Humphrey. He, therefore, for one moment, turned away from his brother, and, taking aim at the bull, fired his gun; but probably from his nerves being a little shaken at the idea of Humphrey being in danger, the wound was not mortal, and the bull galloped back to the herd, which formed a closed phalanx about a quarter of a mile distant. Edward then turned to where his brother was, and perceived that the bull had not made off with the rest of the cattle, but was within thirty yards of Humphrey, and advancing upon him, and that Humphrey was standing up beside the tree with his gun ready to fire. Humphrey fired, and, as it appeared, he also missed his aim; the animal made at him; but Humphrey, with great quickness, dropped his gun, and, swinging by the lower boughs, was into the tree, and out of the bull’s reach, in a moment. Edward smiled when he perceived that Humphrey was safe; but still he was a prisoner, for the bull went round and round the tree roaring and looking up at Humphrey. Edward thought a minute, then loaded his gun and ordered Smoker to run in to the bull. The dog, who had only been restrained by Edward’s keeping him down at his feet, sprang forward to the attack. Edward had intended, by calling to the dog, to induce the bull to follow it till within gunshot; but before the bull had been attacked, Edward observed that one or two more of the bulls had left the herd, and were coming at a rapid pace towards him. Under these circumstances, Edward perceived that his only chance was to climb into a tree himself, which he did, taking good care to take his gun and ammunition with him. Having safely fixed himself in a forked bough, Edward then surveyed the position of the parties. There was Humphrey in the tree, without his gun. The bull who had pursued Humphrey was now running at Smoker, who appeared to be aware that he was to decoy the bull towards Edward, for he kept retreating towards him. In the meantime the two other bulls were quite close at hand, mingling their bellowing and roaring with the first; and one of them as near to Edward as the first bull, which was engaged with Smoker. At last one of the advancing bulls stood still, pawing the ground as if disappointed at not finding an enemy, not forty yards from where Edward was perched. Edward took good aim, and when he fired the bull fell dead. Edward was reloading his piece when he heard a howl, and looking round saw Smoker flying up in the air, having been tossed by the first bull; and at the same time he observed that Humphrey had descended from the tree, recovered his gun, and was now safe again upon the lower bough. The first bull was advancing again to attack Smoker, who appeared incapable of getting away, so much was he injured by the fall, when the other bull, who apparently must have been an old antagonist of the first, roared and attacked him; and now the two boys were up in the tree, the two bulls fighting between them, and Smoker lying on the ground, panting and exhausted. As the bulls, with locked horns, were furiously pressing each other, both guns were discharged, and both animals fell. After waiting a little while to see if they rose again, or if any more of the herd came up, Edward and Humphrey descended from the trees and heartily shook hands.
Chapter Twelve.“A narrow escape,” said Edward, as he held his brother’s hand.“Yes, indeed we may thank Heaven for our preservation,” replied Humphrey; “and poor Smoker! Let us see if he is much hurt.”“I trust not,” said Edward, going up to the dog, who remained quite still on the ground, with his tongue out, and panting violently.They examined poor Smoker all over very carefully, and found that there was no external wound; but on Edward pressing his side the animal gave a low howl.“It is there where the horn of the bull took him,” observed Humphrey.“Yes,” said Edward, pressing and feeling softly; “and he has two of his ribs broken. Humphrey, see if you can get him a little water, that will recover him more than anything else; the bull has knocked the breath out of his body. I think he will soon be well again, poor fellow.”Humphrey soon returned with some water from a neighbouring pool. He brought it in his hat and gave it to the dog, who lapped it slowly at first, but afterwards much faster, and wagging his tail.“He will do now,” said Edward; “we must give him time to recover himself. Now then, let us examine our quarry. Why, Humphrey, what a quantity of meat we have here! It will take three journeys to Lymington at least.”“Yes, and no time to lose, for the weather is getting warm already, Edward. Now what to do? Will you remain while I go home for the cart?”“Yes, it’s no use both going; I will stay here and watch poor Smoker, and take off the skins ready by the time you are back again. Leave me your knife as well as my own, for one will soon be blunt.”Humphrey gave his knife to Edward, and taking up his gun, set off for the cottage. Edward had skinned two of the bulls before Humphrey’s return; and Smoker, although he evidently was in great pain, was on his legs again. As soon as they had finished and quartered the beasts, the cart was loaded, and they returned home; they had to return a second time, and both the pony and they were very tired before they sat down to supper. They found the gipsy boy very much recovered, and in good spirits. Alice said that he had been amusing Edith and her by tossing up three potatoes at a time, and playing them like balls; and that he had spun a platter upon an iron skewer and balanced it on his chin. They gave him some supper, which he ate in the chimney-corner, looking up and staring every now and then at Edith, to whom he appeared very much attached already.“Is it good?” said Humphrey to the boy, giving him another venison-steak.“Yes; not have so good supper in pit-hole,” replied Pablo, laughing.Early on the following morning Edward and Humphrey set off to Lymington with the cart laden with meat. Edward showed Humphrey all the shops and the streets they were in where the purchases were to be made—introduced him to the landlord of the hostelrie—and having sold their meat, they returned home. The rest of the meat was taken to Lymington and disposed of by Humphrey on the following day; and the day after that, the three skins were carried to the town and disposed of.“We made a good day’s work, Edward,” said Humphrey, as he reckoned up the money they had made.“We earned it with some risk, at all events,” replied Edward; “and now, Humphrey, I think it is time that I keep my promise to Oswald, and go over to the Intendant’s house and pay my visit to the young lady, as I presume she is—and certainly she has every appearance of being one. I want the visit to be over, as I want to be doing.”“How do you mean, Edward?”“I mean that I want to go out and kill some deer; but I will not do it till after I have seen her: when my visit is over, I intend to defy the Intendant and all his verderers.”“But why should this visit prevent you going out this very day, if so inclined?”“I don’t know, but she may ask me if I have done so, and I do not want to tell her that I have; neither do I want to say that I have not if I have; and therefore I shall not commence till after I have seen her.”“When will you set off?”“To-morrow morning; and I shall take my gun, although Oswald desired me not; but after the fight we had with the wild cattle the other day I don’t think it prudent to be unarmed; indeed, I do not feel comfortable without I have my gun, at any time.”“Well, I shall have plenty to do when you are away—the potatoes must be hoed up, and I shall see what I can make of Master Pablo. He appears well enough, and he has played quite long enough; so I shall take him with me to the garden to-morrow, and set him to work. What a quantity of fruit there is a promise of in the orchard this year! And Edward, if this boy turns out of any use, and is a help to me, I think that I shall take all the orchard into garden, and then enclose another piece of ground, and see if we cannot grow some corn for ourselves. It is the greatest expense that we have at present, and I should like to take my own corn to the mill to be ground.”“But will not growing corn require plough and horses?” said Edward.“No; we will till it by hand: two of us can dig a great deal at odd times, and we shall have a better crop with the spade than with the plough. We have now so much manure that we can afford it.”“Well, if it is to be done, it should be done at once, Humphrey, before the people from the other side of the forest come and find us out, or they will dispute our right to the enclosure.”“The forest belongs to the king, brother, and not to the Parliament: and we are the king’s liegemen, and only look to him for permission,” replied Humphrey; “but what you say is true, the sooner it is done the better, and I will about it at once.”“How much do you propose fencing in?”“About two or three acres.”“But that is more than you can dig this year or the next.”“I know that; but I will manure it without digging, and the grass will grow so rich to what it will outside of the enclosure, that they will suppose it has been enclosed a long while.”“That’s not a bad idea, Humphrey: but I advise you to look well after that boy, for he is of a bad race, and has not been brought up, I am afraid, with too strict notions of honesty. Be careful, and tell your sisters also to be cautious not to let him suppose that we have any money in the old chest, till we find out whether he is to be trusted or not.”“Better not let him know it under any circumstances,” replied Humphrey; “he may continue honest, if not tempted by the knowledge that there is anything worth stealing.”“You are right, Humphrey; well, I will be off to-morrow morning and get this visit over. I hope to be able to get all the news from her, now that her father is away.”“I hope to get some work out of this Master Pablo,” replied Humphrey; “how many things I could do if he would only work! Now, I’ll tell you one thing—I will dig a saw-pit and get a saw, and then I can cut out boards, and build anything we want. The first time I go to Lymington I will buy a saw—I can afford it now; and I’ll make a carpenter’s bench for the first thing, and then, with some more tools, I shall get on; and then, Edward, I’ll tell you what else I will do.”“Then, Humphrey,” replied Edward, laughing, “you must tell me some other time, for it is now very late, and I must go to bed, as I have to rise early. I know you have so many projects in your mind that it would take half the night to listen to them.”“Well, I believe what you say is true,” replied Humphrey, “and it will be better to do one thing at a time than to talk about doing a hundred; so we will, as you say, to bed.”At sunrise Edward and Humphrey were both up; Alice came out when they tapped at her door, as she would not let Edward go without his breakfast. Edith joined them, and they went to prayers. While they were so employed, Pablo came out and listened to what was said. When prayers were over, Humphrey asked Pablo if he knew what they had been doing.“No, not much; suppose you pray sun to shine.”“No, Pablo,” said Edith, “pray to God to make us good.”“You bad then?” said Pablo; “me not bad.”“Yes, Pablo, everybody very bad,” said Alice; “but if we try to be good, God forgives us.”The conversation was then dropped, and as soon as Edward had had his breakfast, he kissed his sisters, bidding them and Humphrey farewell: he then threw his gun over his arm, and calling his puppy, which he had named Holdfast, set off on his journey across the forest.Holdfast, as well as Humphrey’s puppy, which had been named Watch, had grown very fine young animals. The first had been named Holdfast, because it would seize the pigs by the ears and lead them into the sty, and the other because it was so alert at the least noise: but, as Humphrey said, Watch ought to have learnt to lead the pigs, it being more in his line of business than Holdfast’s, which was to be brought up for hunting in the forest, while Watch was being educated as a house and farm-yard dog.Edward had refused to take the pony, as Humphrey required it for the farm-work, and the weather was so fine that he preferred walking; the more so, as it would enable him on his return across the forest to try for some venison, which he could not have done if he had been mounted on Billy’s back. Edward walked quick, followed by his dog, which he had taught to keep to heel. He felt happy, as people do who have no cares, from the fine weather—the deep green of the verdure chequered by the flowers in bloom, and the majestic scenery which met his eye on every side. His heart was as buoyant as his steps, as he walked along, the light summer breeze fanning his face. His thoughts, however, which had been more of the chase than anything else, suddenly changed, and he became serious. For some time he had heard no political news of consequence, or what the Commons were doing with the king. This reverie naturally brought to his mind his father’s death, the burning of his property, and its sequestration. His cheeks coloured with indignation, and his brow was moody. Then he built castles for the future. He imagined the king released from his prison, and leading an army against his oppressors; he fancied himself at the head of a troop of cavalry, charging the parliamentary horse. Victory was on his side. The king was again on his throne, and he was again in possession of the family estate. He was rebuilding the hall, and somehow or another it appeared to him that Patience was standing by his side, as he gave directions to the artificers—when his reverie was suddenly disturbed by Holdfast barking and springing forward in advance.Edward, who had by this time got over more than half his journey, looked up, and perceived himself confronted by a powerful man, apparently about forty years of age, and dressed as a verderer of the forest. He thought at the time that he had seldom seen a person with a more sinister and forbidding countenance.“How now, young fellow, what are you doing here?” said the man, walking up to him, and cocking the gun which he held in his hand as he advanced.Edward quietly cocked his own gun, which was loaded, when he perceived that hostile preparation on the part of the other person, and then replied, “I am walking across the forest, as you may perceive.”“Yes, I perceive you are walking, and you are walking with a dog and a gun: you will now be pleased to walk with me. Deer-stealers are not any longer permitted to range this forest.”“I am no deer-stealer,” replied Edward. “It will be quite sufficient to give me that title when you find me with venison in my possession; and as for going with you, that I certainly shall not. Sheer off or you may meet with harm.”“Why, you young good-for-nothing, if you have not venison, it is not from any will not to take it; you are out in pursuit of it, that is clear. Come, come, you’ve the wrong person to deal with: my orders are to take up all poachers, and take you I will.”“If you can,” replied Edward; “but you must first prove that you are able so to do; my gun is as good and my aim is as sure as yours, whoever you may be. I tell you again, I am no poacher, nor have I come out to take the deer, but to cross over to the Intendant’s cottage, whither I am now going. I tell you thus much, that you may not do anything foolish; and having said this, I advise you to think twice before you act once. Let me proceed in peace, or you may lose your place, if you do not by your own rashness lose your life.”There was something so cool and so determined in Edward’s quiet manner, that the verderer hesitated. He perceived that any attempt to take Edward would be at the risk of his own life; and he knew that his orders were to apprehend all poachers, but not to shoot people. It was true that resistance with firearms would warrant his acting in self-defence; but admitting that he should succeed, which was doubtful, still Edward had not been caught in the act of killing venison, and he had no witnesses to prove what had occurred. He also knew that the Intendant had given very strict orders as to the shedding of blood, which he was most averse to under any circumstances; and there was something in Edward’s appearance and manner so different from a common person, that he was puzzled. Moreover, Edward had stated that he was going to the Intendant’s house. All things considered, as he found that bullying would not succeed, he thought it advisable to change his tone, and therefore said, “You tell me that you are going to the Intendant’s house; you have business there, I presume? If I took you prisoner, it is there I should have conducted you; so, young man, you may now walk on before me.”“I thank you,” replied Edward, “but walk on before you I will not: but if you choose to half-cock your gun again, and walk by my side, I will do the same. Those are my terms, and I will listen to no other; so be pleased to make up your mind, as I am in haste.”The verderer appeared very indignant at this reply, but after a time said, “Be it so.”Edward then uncocked his gun, with his eyes fixed upon the man, and the verderer did the same; and then they walked side by side, Edward keeping at the distance of three yards from him, in case of treachery.After a few moments’ silence, the verderer said, “You tell me you are going to the Intendant’s house; he is not at home.”“But young Mistress Patience is, I presume,” said Edward.“Yes,” replied the man, who, finding that Edward appeared to know so much about the Intendant’s family, began to be more civil. “Yes, she is at home, for I saw her in the garden this morning.”“And Oswald, is he at home?” rejoined Edward.“Yes, he is. You appear to know our people, young man; who may you be, if it is a fair question?”“It would have been a fair question had you treated me fairly,” replied Edward; “but as it is no concern of yours, I shall leave you to find it out.”This reply puzzled the man still more; and he now, from the tone of authority assumed by Edward, began to imagine that he had made some mistake, and that he was speaking to a superior, although clad in a forester’s dress. He therefore answered humbly, observing that he had only been doing his duty.Edward walked on without making any reply.As they arrived within a hundred yards of the Intendant’s house, Edward said:“I have now arrived at my destination, and am going into that house, as I told you. Do you choose to enter it with me, or will you go to Oswald Partridge and tell him that you have met with Edward Armitage in me forest, and that I should be glad to see him? I believe you are under his orders, are you not?”“Yes, I am,” replied the verderer, “and as I suppose that all’s right, I shall go and deliver your message.”Edward then turned away from the man, and went into the wicket-gate of the garden, and knocked at the door of the house. The door was opened by Patience Heatherstone herself, who said, “Oh, how glad I am to see you! Come in.” Edward took off his hat and bowed; Patience led the way into her father’s study, where Edward had been first received.“And now,” said Patience, extending her hand to Edward, “thanks, many thanks, for your preserving me from so dreadful a death. You don’t know how unhappy I have been at not being able to give you my poor thanks for your courageous behaviour.”Her hand still remained in Edward’s while she said this.“You rate what I did too highly,” replied Edward; “I would have done the same for any one in such distress: it was my duty as a—man,” cavalier he was about to say, but he checked himself.“Sit down,” said Patience, taking a chair,—“nay, no ceremony; I cannot treat as an inferior one to whom I owe such a debt of gratitude.”Edward smiled as he took his seat.“My father is as grateful to you as I am—I’m sure that he is; for I heard him when at prayer call down blessings on your head. What can he do for you? I begged Oswald Partridge to bring you here, that I might find out. Oh, sir, do pray let me know how we can show our gratitude by something more than words.”“You have shown it already, Mistress Patience,” replied Edward; “have you not honoured a poor forester with your hand in friendship, and even admitted him to sit down before you?”“He who has preserved my life at the risk of his own becomes to me as a brother—at least I feel as a sister towards him: a debt is still a debt, whether indebted to a king or to a—”“Forester, Mistress Patience, that is the real word that you should not have hesitated to have used: do you imagine that I am ashamed of my calling?”“To tell you candidly the truth, then,” replied Patience, “I cannot believe that you are what you profess to be. I mean to say, that although a forester now, you were never brought up as such. My father has an opinion allied to mine.”“I thank you both for your good opinion of me, but I fear that I cannot raise myself above the condition of a forester; nay, from your father’s coming down here, and the new regulations, I have every chance of sinking down to the lower grade of a deer-stealer and poacher; indeed, had it not been that I had my gun with me, I should have been seized as such this very day as I came over.”“But you were not shooting the deer, were you, sir?” inquired Patience.“No, I was not; nor have I killed any since last I saw you.”“I am glad that I can say that to my father,” replied Patience; “it will much please him. He said to me that he thought you capable of much higher employment than any that could be offered here, and only wished to know what you would accept. He has interest—great interest—although just now at variance with the rulers of this country, on account of the—”“Murder of the king, you would or you should have said, Mistress Patience: I have heard how much he was opposed to that foul deed, and I honour him for it.”“How kind, how truly kind you are to say so!” said Patience, the tears starting in her eyes; “what pleasure to hear my father’s conduct praised by you!”“Why, of course, Mistress Patience, all of my way of thinking must praise him. Your father is in London, I hear?”“Yes, he is; and that reminds me that you must want some refreshment after your walk. I will call Phoebe.” So saying, Patience left the room.The fact was, Mistress Patience was reminded that she had been sitting with a young man some time, and alone with him—which was not quite proper in those times, and when Phoebe appeared with the cold viands, she retreated out of hearing, but remained in the room.Edward partook of the meal offered him in silence, Patience occupying herself with her work, and keeping her eyes fixed on it, unless when she gave a slight glance at the table to see if anything was required. When the meal was over, Phoebe removed the tray, and then Edward rose to take his leave.“Nay, do not go yet—I have much to say first; let me again ask you how we can serve you.”“I never can take any office under the present rulers of the nation; so that question is at rest.”“I was afraid you would answer so,” replied Patience gravely: “do not think I blame you; for many are there already who would gladly retrace their steps if it were possible. They little thought, when they opposed the king, that affairs would have ended as they have done. Where do you live, sir?”“At the opposite side of the forest, in a house belonging to me now, but which was inherited by my grandfather.”“Do you live alone—surely not?”“No, I do not.”“Nay, you may tell me anything, for I would never repeat what might hurt you, or you might not wish to have known.”“I live with my brother and two sisters, for my grandfather is lately dead.”“Is your brother younger than you are?”“He is.”“And your sisters, what are their ages?”“They are younger still.”“You told my father that you lived upon your farm?”“We do.”“Is it a large farm?”“No; very small.”“And does that support you?”“That and killing wild cattle has lately.”“Yes, and killing deer also until lately?”“You have guessed right.”“You were brought up at Arnwood, you told my father; did you not?”“Yes, I was brought up there, and remained there until the death of Colonel Beverley.”“And you were educated, were you not?”“Yes; the chaplain taught me what little I do know.”“Then, if you were brought up in the house and educated by the chaplain, surely Colonel Beverley never intended you for a forester?”“He did not; I was to have been a soldier as soon as I was old enough to bear arms.”“Perhaps you are distantly related to the late Colonel Beverley?”“No; I am notdistantlyrelated,” replied Edward, who began to feel uneasy at this close cross-examination; “but still, had Colonel Beverley been alive, and the king still required his services, I have no doubt that I should have been serving under him at this time. And now, Mistress Patience, that I have answered so many questions of yours, may I be permitted to ask a little about yourself in return? Have you any brothers?”“None; I am an only child.”“Have you only one parent alive?”“Only one.”“What families are you connected with?”Patience looked up with surprise at this last question—“My mother’s name was Cooper; she was sister to Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper, who is a person well-known.”“Indeed! Then you are of gentle blood?”“I believe so,” replied Patience, with surprise.“Thank you for your condescension, Mistress Patience; and now, if you will permit me, I will take my leave.”“Before you go, let me once more thank you for saving a worthless life,” said Patience: “well, you must come again when my father is here; he will be but too glad to have an opportunity of thanking one who has preserved his only child. Indeed, if you knew my father, you would feel as much regard for him as I do. He is very good, although he looks so stern and melancholy; but he has seldom smiled since my poor mother’s death.”“As to your father, Mistress Patience, I will think as well as I can of one who is joined to a party which I hold in detestation: I can say no more.”“I must not say all that I know, or you would perhaps find out that he is not quite so wedded to that party as you suppose. Neither his brother-in-law nor he are great friends of Cromwell’s, I can assure you; but this in confidence.”“That raises him in my estimation; but why then does he hold office?”“He did not ask it; it was given to him, I really believe, because they wished him out of the way; and he accepted it because he was opposed to what was going on, and wished himself to be away. At least I infer so much from what I have learnt. It is not an office of power or trust which leagues him with the present Government.”“No; only one which opposes him to me and my mal-practices,” replied Edward, laughing. “Well, Mistress Patience, you have shown great condescension to a poor forester, and I return you many thanks for your kindness towards me: I will now take my leave.”“And when will you come and see my father?”“I cannot say; I fear that I shall not be able very soon to look in his injured face, and it will not be well for a poacher to come near him,” replied Edward: “however, some day I may be taken and brought before you as a prisoner, you know, and then he is certain to see me.”“I will not tell you to kill deer,” replied Patience; “but if you do kill them, no one shall harm you—or I know little of my power or my father’s. Farewell then, sir; and once more, gratitude and thanks.”Patience held out her hand again to Edward, who this time, like a true cavalier, raised it respectfully to his lips. Patience coloured a little, but did not attempt to withdraw it, and Edward, with a low obeisance, quitted the room.
“A narrow escape,” said Edward, as he held his brother’s hand.
“Yes, indeed we may thank Heaven for our preservation,” replied Humphrey; “and poor Smoker! Let us see if he is much hurt.”
“I trust not,” said Edward, going up to the dog, who remained quite still on the ground, with his tongue out, and panting violently.
They examined poor Smoker all over very carefully, and found that there was no external wound; but on Edward pressing his side the animal gave a low howl.
“It is there where the horn of the bull took him,” observed Humphrey.
“Yes,” said Edward, pressing and feeling softly; “and he has two of his ribs broken. Humphrey, see if you can get him a little water, that will recover him more than anything else; the bull has knocked the breath out of his body. I think he will soon be well again, poor fellow.”
Humphrey soon returned with some water from a neighbouring pool. He brought it in his hat and gave it to the dog, who lapped it slowly at first, but afterwards much faster, and wagging his tail.
“He will do now,” said Edward; “we must give him time to recover himself. Now then, let us examine our quarry. Why, Humphrey, what a quantity of meat we have here! It will take three journeys to Lymington at least.”
“Yes, and no time to lose, for the weather is getting warm already, Edward. Now what to do? Will you remain while I go home for the cart?”
“Yes, it’s no use both going; I will stay here and watch poor Smoker, and take off the skins ready by the time you are back again. Leave me your knife as well as my own, for one will soon be blunt.”
Humphrey gave his knife to Edward, and taking up his gun, set off for the cottage. Edward had skinned two of the bulls before Humphrey’s return; and Smoker, although he evidently was in great pain, was on his legs again. As soon as they had finished and quartered the beasts, the cart was loaded, and they returned home; they had to return a second time, and both the pony and they were very tired before they sat down to supper. They found the gipsy boy very much recovered, and in good spirits. Alice said that he had been amusing Edith and her by tossing up three potatoes at a time, and playing them like balls; and that he had spun a platter upon an iron skewer and balanced it on his chin. They gave him some supper, which he ate in the chimney-corner, looking up and staring every now and then at Edith, to whom he appeared very much attached already.
“Is it good?” said Humphrey to the boy, giving him another venison-steak.
“Yes; not have so good supper in pit-hole,” replied Pablo, laughing.
Early on the following morning Edward and Humphrey set off to Lymington with the cart laden with meat. Edward showed Humphrey all the shops and the streets they were in where the purchases were to be made—introduced him to the landlord of the hostelrie—and having sold their meat, they returned home. The rest of the meat was taken to Lymington and disposed of by Humphrey on the following day; and the day after that, the three skins were carried to the town and disposed of.
“We made a good day’s work, Edward,” said Humphrey, as he reckoned up the money they had made.
“We earned it with some risk, at all events,” replied Edward; “and now, Humphrey, I think it is time that I keep my promise to Oswald, and go over to the Intendant’s house and pay my visit to the young lady, as I presume she is—and certainly she has every appearance of being one. I want the visit to be over, as I want to be doing.”
“How do you mean, Edward?”
“I mean that I want to go out and kill some deer; but I will not do it till after I have seen her: when my visit is over, I intend to defy the Intendant and all his verderers.”
“But why should this visit prevent you going out this very day, if so inclined?”
“I don’t know, but she may ask me if I have done so, and I do not want to tell her that I have; neither do I want to say that I have not if I have; and therefore I shall not commence till after I have seen her.”
“When will you set off?”
“To-morrow morning; and I shall take my gun, although Oswald desired me not; but after the fight we had with the wild cattle the other day I don’t think it prudent to be unarmed; indeed, I do not feel comfortable without I have my gun, at any time.”
“Well, I shall have plenty to do when you are away—the potatoes must be hoed up, and I shall see what I can make of Master Pablo. He appears well enough, and he has played quite long enough; so I shall take him with me to the garden to-morrow, and set him to work. What a quantity of fruit there is a promise of in the orchard this year! And Edward, if this boy turns out of any use, and is a help to me, I think that I shall take all the orchard into garden, and then enclose another piece of ground, and see if we cannot grow some corn for ourselves. It is the greatest expense that we have at present, and I should like to take my own corn to the mill to be ground.”
“But will not growing corn require plough and horses?” said Edward.
“No; we will till it by hand: two of us can dig a great deal at odd times, and we shall have a better crop with the spade than with the plough. We have now so much manure that we can afford it.”
“Well, if it is to be done, it should be done at once, Humphrey, before the people from the other side of the forest come and find us out, or they will dispute our right to the enclosure.”
“The forest belongs to the king, brother, and not to the Parliament: and we are the king’s liegemen, and only look to him for permission,” replied Humphrey; “but what you say is true, the sooner it is done the better, and I will about it at once.”
“How much do you propose fencing in?”
“About two or three acres.”
“But that is more than you can dig this year or the next.”
“I know that; but I will manure it without digging, and the grass will grow so rich to what it will outside of the enclosure, that they will suppose it has been enclosed a long while.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Humphrey: but I advise you to look well after that boy, for he is of a bad race, and has not been brought up, I am afraid, with too strict notions of honesty. Be careful, and tell your sisters also to be cautious not to let him suppose that we have any money in the old chest, till we find out whether he is to be trusted or not.”
“Better not let him know it under any circumstances,” replied Humphrey; “he may continue honest, if not tempted by the knowledge that there is anything worth stealing.”
“You are right, Humphrey; well, I will be off to-morrow morning and get this visit over. I hope to be able to get all the news from her, now that her father is away.”
“I hope to get some work out of this Master Pablo,” replied Humphrey; “how many things I could do if he would only work! Now, I’ll tell you one thing—I will dig a saw-pit and get a saw, and then I can cut out boards, and build anything we want. The first time I go to Lymington I will buy a saw—I can afford it now; and I’ll make a carpenter’s bench for the first thing, and then, with some more tools, I shall get on; and then, Edward, I’ll tell you what else I will do.”
“Then, Humphrey,” replied Edward, laughing, “you must tell me some other time, for it is now very late, and I must go to bed, as I have to rise early. I know you have so many projects in your mind that it would take half the night to listen to them.”
“Well, I believe what you say is true,” replied Humphrey, “and it will be better to do one thing at a time than to talk about doing a hundred; so we will, as you say, to bed.”
At sunrise Edward and Humphrey were both up; Alice came out when they tapped at her door, as she would not let Edward go without his breakfast. Edith joined them, and they went to prayers. While they were so employed, Pablo came out and listened to what was said. When prayers were over, Humphrey asked Pablo if he knew what they had been doing.
“No, not much; suppose you pray sun to shine.”
“No, Pablo,” said Edith, “pray to God to make us good.”
“You bad then?” said Pablo; “me not bad.”
“Yes, Pablo, everybody very bad,” said Alice; “but if we try to be good, God forgives us.”
The conversation was then dropped, and as soon as Edward had had his breakfast, he kissed his sisters, bidding them and Humphrey farewell: he then threw his gun over his arm, and calling his puppy, which he had named Holdfast, set off on his journey across the forest.
Holdfast, as well as Humphrey’s puppy, which had been named Watch, had grown very fine young animals. The first had been named Holdfast, because it would seize the pigs by the ears and lead them into the sty, and the other because it was so alert at the least noise: but, as Humphrey said, Watch ought to have learnt to lead the pigs, it being more in his line of business than Holdfast’s, which was to be brought up for hunting in the forest, while Watch was being educated as a house and farm-yard dog.
Edward had refused to take the pony, as Humphrey required it for the farm-work, and the weather was so fine that he preferred walking; the more so, as it would enable him on his return across the forest to try for some venison, which he could not have done if he had been mounted on Billy’s back. Edward walked quick, followed by his dog, which he had taught to keep to heel. He felt happy, as people do who have no cares, from the fine weather—the deep green of the verdure chequered by the flowers in bloom, and the majestic scenery which met his eye on every side. His heart was as buoyant as his steps, as he walked along, the light summer breeze fanning his face. His thoughts, however, which had been more of the chase than anything else, suddenly changed, and he became serious. For some time he had heard no political news of consequence, or what the Commons were doing with the king. This reverie naturally brought to his mind his father’s death, the burning of his property, and its sequestration. His cheeks coloured with indignation, and his brow was moody. Then he built castles for the future. He imagined the king released from his prison, and leading an army against his oppressors; he fancied himself at the head of a troop of cavalry, charging the parliamentary horse. Victory was on his side. The king was again on his throne, and he was again in possession of the family estate. He was rebuilding the hall, and somehow or another it appeared to him that Patience was standing by his side, as he gave directions to the artificers—when his reverie was suddenly disturbed by Holdfast barking and springing forward in advance.
Edward, who had by this time got over more than half his journey, looked up, and perceived himself confronted by a powerful man, apparently about forty years of age, and dressed as a verderer of the forest. He thought at the time that he had seldom seen a person with a more sinister and forbidding countenance.
“How now, young fellow, what are you doing here?” said the man, walking up to him, and cocking the gun which he held in his hand as he advanced.
Edward quietly cocked his own gun, which was loaded, when he perceived that hostile preparation on the part of the other person, and then replied, “I am walking across the forest, as you may perceive.”
“Yes, I perceive you are walking, and you are walking with a dog and a gun: you will now be pleased to walk with me. Deer-stealers are not any longer permitted to range this forest.”
“I am no deer-stealer,” replied Edward. “It will be quite sufficient to give me that title when you find me with venison in my possession; and as for going with you, that I certainly shall not. Sheer off or you may meet with harm.”
“Why, you young good-for-nothing, if you have not venison, it is not from any will not to take it; you are out in pursuit of it, that is clear. Come, come, you’ve the wrong person to deal with: my orders are to take up all poachers, and take you I will.”
“If you can,” replied Edward; “but you must first prove that you are able so to do; my gun is as good and my aim is as sure as yours, whoever you may be. I tell you again, I am no poacher, nor have I come out to take the deer, but to cross over to the Intendant’s cottage, whither I am now going. I tell you thus much, that you may not do anything foolish; and having said this, I advise you to think twice before you act once. Let me proceed in peace, or you may lose your place, if you do not by your own rashness lose your life.”
There was something so cool and so determined in Edward’s quiet manner, that the verderer hesitated. He perceived that any attempt to take Edward would be at the risk of his own life; and he knew that his orders were to apprehend all poachers, but not to shoot people. It was true that resistance with firearms would warrant his acting in self-defence; but admitting that he should succeed, which was doubtful, still Edward had not been caught in the act of killing venison, and he had no witnesses to prove what had occurred. He also knew that the Intendant had given very strict orders as to the shedding of blood, which he was most averse to under any circumstances; and there was something in Edward’s appearance and manner so different from a common person, that he was puzzled. Moreover, Edward had stated that he was going to the Intendant’s house. All things considered, as he found that bullying would not succeed, he thought it advisable to change his tone, and therefore said, “You tell me that you are going to the Intendant’s house; you have business there, I presume? If I took you prisoner, it is there I should have conducted you; so, young man, you may now walk on before me.”
“I thank you,” replied Edward, “but walk on before you I will not: but if you choose to half-cock your gun again, and walk by my side, I will do the same. Those are my terms, and I will listen to no other; so be pleased to make up your mind, as I am in haste.”
The verderer appeared very indignant at this reply, but after a time said, “Be it so.”
Edward then uncocked his gun, with his eyes fixed upon the man, and the verderer did the same; and then they walked side by side, Edward keeping at the distance of three yards from him, in case of treachery.
After a few moments’ silence, the verderer said, “You tell me you are going to the Intendant’s house; he is not at home.”
“But young Mistress Patience is, I presume,” said Edward.
“Yes,” replied the man, who, finding that Edward appeared to know so much about the Intendant’s family, began to be more civil. “Yes, she is at home, for I saw her in the garden this morning.”
“And Oswald, is he at home?” rejoined Edward.
“Yes, he is. You appear to know our people, young man; who may you be, if it is a fair question?”
“It would have been a fair question had you treated me fairly,” replied Edward; “but as it is no concern of yours, I shall leave you to find it out.”
This reply puzzled the man still more; and he now, from the tone of authority assumed by Edward, began to imagine that he had made some mistake, and that he was speaking to a superior, although clad in a forester’s dress. He therefore answered humbly, observing that he had only been doing his duty.
Edward walked on without making any reply.
As they arrived within a hundred yards of the Intendant’s house, Edward said:
“I have now arrived at my destination, and am going into that house, as I told you. Do you choose to enter it with me, or will you go to Oswald Partridge and tell him that you have met with Edward Armitage in me forest, and that I should be glad to see him? I believe you are under his orders, are you not?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the verderer, “and as I suppose that all’s right, I shall go and deliver your message.”
Edward then turned away from the man, and went into the wicket-gate of the garden, and knocked at the door of the house. The door was opened by Patience Heatherstone herself, who said, “Oh, how glad I am to see you! Come in.” Edward took off his hat and bowed; Patience led the way into her father’s study, where Edward had been first received.
“And now,” said Patience, extending her hand to Edward, “thanks, many thanks, for your preserving me from so dreadful a death. You don’t know how unhappy I have been at not being able to give you my poor thanks for your courageous behaviour.”
Her hand still remained in Edward’s while she said this.
“You rate what I did too highly,” replied Edward; “I would have done the same for any one in such distress: it was my duty as a—man,” cavalier he was about to say, but he checked himself.
“Sit down,” said Patience, taking a chair,—“nay, no ceremony; I cannot treat as an inferior one to whom I owe such a debt of gratitude.”
Edward smiled as he took his seat.
“My father is as grateful to you as I am—I’m sure that he is; for I heard him when at prayer call down blessings on your head. What can he do for you? I begged Oswald Partridge to bring you here, that I might find out. Oh, sir, do pray let me know how we can show our gratitude by something more than words.”
“You have shown it already, Mistress Patience,” replied Edward; “have you not honoured a poor forester with your hand in friendship, and even admitted him to sit down before you?”
“He who has preserved my life at the risk of his own becomes to me as a brother—at least I feel as a sister towards him: a debt is still a debt, whether indebted to a king or to a—”
“Forester, Mistress Patience, that is the real word that you should not have hesitated to have used: do you imagine that I am ashamed of my calling?”
“To tell you candidly the truth, then,” replied Patience, “I cannot believe that you are what you profess to be. I mean to say, that although a forester now, you were never brought up as such. My father has an opinion allied to mine.”
“I thank you both for your good opinion of me, but I fear that I cannot raise myself above the condition of a forester; nay, from your father’s coming down here, and the new regulations, I have every chance of sinking down to the lower grade of a deer-stealer and poacher; indeed, had it not been that I had my gun with me, I should have been seized as such this very day as I came over.”
“But you were not shooting the deer, were you, sir?” inquired Patience.
“No, I was not; nor have I killed any since last I saw you.”
“I am glad that I can say that to my father,” replied Patience; “it will much please him. He said to me that he thought you capable of much higher employment than any that could be offered here, and only wished to know what you would accept. He has interest—great interest—although just now at variance with the rulers of this country, on account of the—”
“Murder of the king, you would or you should have said, Mistress Patience: I have heard how much he was opposed to that foul deed, and I honour him for it.”
“How kind, how truly kind you are to say so!” said Patience, the tears starting in her eyes; “what pleasure to hear my father’s conduct praised by you!”
“Why, of course, Mistress Patience, all of my way of thinking must praise him. Your father is in London, I hear?”
“Yes, he is; and that reminds me that you must want some refreshment after your walk. I will call Phoebe.” So saying, Patience left the room.
The fact was, Mistress Patience was reminded that she had been sitting with a young man some time, and alone with him—which was not quite proper in those times, and when Phoebe appeared with the cold viands, she retreated out of hearing, but remained in the room.
Edward partook of the meal offered him in silence, Patience occupying herself with her work, and keeping her eyes fixed on it, unless when she gave a slight glance at the table to see if anything was required. When the meal was over, Phoebe removed the tray, and then Edward rose to take his leave.
“Nay, do not go yet—I have much to say first; let me again ask you how we can serve you.”
“I never can take any office under the present rulers of the nation; so that question is at rest.”
“I was afraid you would answer so,” replied Patience gravely: “do not think I blame you; for many are there already who would gladly retrace their steps if it were possible. They little thought, when they opposed the king, that affairs would have ended as they have done. Where do you live, sir?”
“At the opposite side of the forest, in a house belonging to me now, but which was inherited by my grandfather.”
“Do you live alone—surely not?”
“No, I do not.”
“Nay, you may tell me anything, for I would never repeat what might hurt you, or you might not wish to have known.”
“I live with my brother and two sisters, for my grandfather is lately dead.”
“Is your brother younger than you are?”
“He is.”
“And your sisters, what are their ages?”
“They are younger still.”
“You told my father that you lived upon your farm?”
“We do.”
“Is it a large farm?”
“No; very small.”
“And does that support you?”
“That and killing wild cattle has lately.”
“Yes, and killing deer also until lately?”
“You have guessed right.”
“You were brought up at Arnwood, you told my father; did you not?”
“Yes, I was brought up there, and remained there until the death of Colonel Beverley.”
“And you were educated, were you not?”
“Yes; the chaplain taught me what little I do know.”
“Then, if you were brought up in the house and educated by the chaplain, surely Colonel Beverley never intended you for a forester?”
“He did not; I was to have been a soldier as soon as I was old enough to bear arms.”
“Perhaps you are distantly related to the late Colonel Beverley?”
“No; I am notdistantlyrelated,” replied Edward, who began to feel uneasy at this close cross-examination; “but still, had Colonel Beverley been alive, and the king still required his services, I have no doubt that I should have been serving under him at this time. And now, Mistress Patience, that I have answered so many questions of yours, may I be permitted to ask a little about yourself in return? Have you any brothers?”
“None; I am an only child.”
“Have you only one parent alive?”
“Only one.”
“What families are you connected with?”
Patience looked up with surprise at this last question—
“My mother’s name was Cooper; she was sister to Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper, who is a person well-known.”
“Indeed! Then you are of gentle blood?”
“I believe so,” replied Patience, with surprise.
“Thank you for your condescension, Mistress Patience; and now, if you will permit me, I will take my leave.”
“Before you go, let me once more thank you for saving a worthless life,” said Patience: “well, you must come again when my father is here; he will be but too glad to have an opportunity of thanking one who has preserved his only child. Indeed, if you knew my father, you would feel as much regard for him as I do. He is very good, although he looks so stern and melancholy; but he has seldom smiled since my poor mother’s death.”
“As to your father, Mistress Patience, I will think as well as I can of one who is joined to a party which I hold in detestation: I can say no more.”
“I must not say all that I know, or you would perhaps find out that he is not quite so wedded to that party as you suppose. Neither his brother-in-law nor he are great friends of Cromwell’s, I can assure you; but this in confidence.”
“That raises him in my estimation; but why then does he hold office?”
“He did not ask it; it was given to him, I really believe, because they wished him out of the way; and he accepted it because he was opposed to what was going on, and wished himself to be away. At least I infer so much from what I have learnt. It is not an office of power or trust which leagues him with the present Government.”
“No; only one which opposes him to me and my mal-practices,” replied Edward, laughing. “Well, Mistress Patience, you have shown great condescension to a poor forester, and I return you many thanks for your kindness towards me: I will now take my leave.”
“And when will you come and see my father?”
“I cannot say; I fear that I shall not be able very soon to look in his injured face, and it will not be well for a poacher to come near him,” replied Edward: “however, some day I may be taken and brought before you as a prisoner, you know, and then he is certain to see me.”
“I will not tell you to kill deer,” replied Patience; “but if you do kill them, no one shall harm you—or I know little of my power or my father’s. Farewell then, sir; and once more, gratitude and thanks.”
Patience held out her hand again to Edward, who this time, like a true cavalier, raised it respectfully to his lips. Patience coloured a little, but did not attempt to withdraw it, and Edward, with a low obeisance, quitted the room.