[1]As all students of history know, the story of the black box containing the marriage contract between Charles II and Lucy Walters obtained great credence after the Restoration, indeed, it is probable that belief in its validity had much to do with the Monmouth rebellion at a later date.—J. H.
[1]As all students of history know, the story of the black box containing the marriage contract between Charles II and Lucy Walters obtained great credence after the Restoration, indeed, it is probable that belief in its validity had much to do with the Monmouth rebellion at a later date.—J. H.
Bidding the woman be seated, and going straight to the room we called the library, I knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" asked my father.
"It is I, Roland."
My father opened the door, and looked at me questioningly. I saw that the woman Katharine Harcomb was standing by the chair on which she had sat during the time I had been in the room; but the hard defiant look in her eyes had gone. Rather I thought I saw fear, almost amounting to terror in them. Evidently my father had been speaking about matters which moved her mightily. She no longer bore the expression of one who would make her own terms, but rather as one who lived under the shadow of a great fear.
"You are back soon Roland," said my father, "it is not an hour since you left us."
"Nay," I replied, "but I met an old woman from St. Paul's Cross who was coming hither, who declared she must see Katharine Harcomb."
The woman gave a start as I spoke.
"Where is she?" she cried, "let me see her without delay."
"Tarry a little," said my father; "tell me more of this, Roland."
So without more ado I told him of my meeting with the dame, and of what had passed between us.
"I would speak to her, I would speak to her alone!" cried Katharine Harcomb, like one bereft of her senses, and she made for the doorway as if to pass me. But my father closed the door quickly and seemed to be deep inthought. A moment later I saw that he had made up his mind.
"Have any of the kitchen wenches seen her?" he asked.
"Nay," I replied. "I myself opened the door, and she is waiting in the hall."
"Then do you bring her here, Roland, and afterward do you leave us again."
I have no doubt I showed my disappointment at this, for I was eager to understand the meaning of it all. My father took but little heed, however, so doing his bidding I went to the hall, where the woman was still sitting.
It was at this time I called to mind that I had not heard her name, so without first telling her to follow me where my father was I said quietly, "What is your name, good dame?"
"Name," she replied, "when Katharine Harcomb knows that Mistress Walters is here she will not keep me waiting."
"That is well," I replied; "will you follow me?" But although I spoke quietly my heart beat quickly, for I felt sure that she was in some way connected with Lucy Walters, whose son, Katharine Harcomb said, was the next heir to the throne of England.
No sooner had the library door opened than I saw the two women exchange glances, but I had no opportunity of noticing more, for my father gave me a look which told me that I must leave them alone, which I did much to my impatience.
I did not go far away, however. It is true I left the house, for cool as the night had become the air seemed stifling, so I stepped on to the grass outside, and began to walk up and down in the light of the window, behind which I knew my father and the two women were. How long I stayed there I know not, but it must have been more than an hour, for I noticed that the moon which stood high in the heavens when I went out had dropped behind the trees. In a sense the time seemed long. To a lad barely twenty-three, to be kept away from the knowledge of a secret which promised to vitally affect his future, was calculated to multiply every minute into five. NeverthelessI had so much to think about, that I thought but little of the time, and that in spite of my impatience. The mystery of the box containing the marriage contract between the new king and Lucy Walters, and the woman's request that I should go on a voyage of discovery kept me wondering so much, that at times I almost forgot that I knew very little of the whole business, and that my father was even then talking about these things with the two women who had in such an unaccountable way entered my life.
The moon had sunk far behind the trees when I was startled by the loud noises of those within the house. A minute later I heard my father's voice.
"Roland, my son."
I entered the house again, and soon found myself in the room where I had left the two women. I could see that something of importance had passed between them. The woman Katharine Harcomb seemed much wrought upon, while in her eyes was a look which might mean anger or terror.
I looked from one to the other questioningly, for I was eager to know what had been said.
"Roland, my son," said my father, "you have long complained of idleness. You will have no need to complain longer."
I did not speak, although many questions came into my mind.
"Ay," cried the old woman, "and what is done must be done quickly and in secret, for remember the Duke of York is already at work. He knows that my grandson will be the lawful heir to the throne, and if he can find the marriage contract, my poor Lucy's child will be kept out of his rights."
"You mean the new king's brother?" I asked, for I was somewhat taken back by the vehemence of the dame's speech.
"Ay, who else?" she replied. "If Charles dies, will he not claim the crown? Already it is said that he speaks of what he will do when he is crowned."
"As to that," I made answer, "are not his chances small? He is but three years younger than the king,and may not live as long. Besides, Charles may marry again."
"He will," cried the dame, "he will, but there will be no children."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I do know, and that is enough," she replied. "Charles will never have a child which shall be heir to the throne of England save only the son of my daughter Lucy."
I took but little notice of this speech, although the dame uttered it with much warmth. I imagined that in spite of the severe measures which had been taken with witches, and those who professed to foretell the future, she had either consulted some of these people, or was perchance herself a "wise woman." Not that I paid much heed to these things, for my father, although he denied not that some had it in their power to reveal the future, had generally made light of their professions, and had taught me to treat them with scorn.
"Be that as it may," I said, "you have it that the new king married your daughter."
"Ay, I hold to that," she cried, "and poor and humble as I seem to be, I say that I am grandmother to him who should be king of England when his father dies."
"That remains to be proved," I said, for I was eager to get back to the question which had been broached by Katharine Harcomb when first we had met earlier in the evening.
"Ay, that remains," replied the dame, angrily I thought; "and it is by you, Master Roland Rashcliffe, that this is to be done."
"But why have you chosen me?" I asked, for young though I was, ay and eager to undertake any work which meant movement, and romance, I could not help asking why I among all others should be chosen for this work.
"You shall know some day Roland," said my father. "It is enough for you to know now you have a great work to do, a work which if successfully done will make you a power in England."
"But what is it?" I asked somewhat impatiently, for it seemed to me that I was asked to do something the nature of which was hidden from my eyes.
"To bring hither the marriage contract," he replied.
"Ay, but where is it?"
"It is in England," replied Katharine Harcomb, and then she looked at me with keen, searching eyes.
At this I doubt not I made an impatient gesture, for truly they seemed to regard me as a child who might not be trusted.
"Nay, be not angry," said my father, almost gently I thought. And this surprised me, for although I was a man in years he had not ceased to expect absolute and unquestioning obedience from me. In truth he held strongly that every man should be complete master in his house, and that no one should dare to dream of questioning his will.
But if I was not angry I was impatient. I had been on the tip-toe of expectation for hours, I had been told that I had a great work to do and yet I had only received hints as to how that work was to be done. For to be told that the marriage contract was in England was to tell me nothing, as any one can see. Still I held my peace and waited, wondering what was to come next.
"The marriage took place at a place called The Hague," said the old dame with downcast eyes, "away across the sea in that outlandish country called Holland. It was performed in secret by a Papist priest. The priest had to swear that he would never reveal the marriage, nevertheless my daughter Lucy, for the sake of her good name, so cajoled the priest that he drew up the contract and gave it to her, unknown to the king. For fear it should be taken from her she determined to place it in safe keeping."
At this the woman ceased speaking, while I, who had been waiting for some news which would give me something like a reason for action, felt as though she were conjuring up a story.
"This showed," she went on presently, "that my daughter was not foolish as some have said, neither was she careless of her good name."
"But to whom did she give this precious document?" I asked, "and where is it now?"
"She gave it one in whom she trusted," said the dame sourly. "But he betrayed her trust. He found out thevalue of the paper, and brought it to England. Since then it hath changed hands again; but Katharine Harcomb hath discovered where it is now."
"Where?" I asked eagerly.
"It is at the house of Master Elijah Pycroft, who lives within five miles of Folkestone town," said Katharine Harcomb.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I have been told by one who knows," she replied mysteriously.
"And who is Master Elijah Pycroft?" I asked again, for the whole business seemed to be as unsubstantial as a vapour cloud.
"Ah, it is easy to tell you who he is, but difficult to say what he is," replied the woman. "But there be many stories told about him. Some say he hath sold himself to the devil, others that he is at the head of a gang of highwaymen, and that although he never appears among them, it is he who gives them information and shelters them when they are in danger. I have also been told that he is a Papist who is a servant of the Pope, and is plotting to bring England back to Popery again. But it is he who hath the contract, and it is he who will make use of it, if it be not taken from him. Some have it that the priest who married Lucy Walters to King Charles is in league with him."
Now this seemed to be a cock-and-bull story, and yet it had enough of meaning to set my nerves a-tingling again.
"What is the name of the priest?" I asked. "Is his home at The Hague? Because he is the man to find out first of all. If he confesses to the marriage, then——"
"Do you dare to doubt that my Lucy was a lawful wedded wife?" cried the old dame angrily. "She that is dead now, poor child. Why think ye that the young King's mother, the old dowager queen, would have taken the boy if there was no marriage?"
"Still it would be well to find him out," I urged. "Do you know his name?"
"That I do," cried she. "He is a French priest, and was in Holland only by stealth, seeing that the people who live in Holland do hate the priests so much owing to theirpast sufferings. But Lucy told me his name, she did, ay, she told me when she was in England before they put her in the Tower. For my Lucy was a Catholic at heart, being brought to that way of thinking while she was in those foreign parts. He told her his name, and told her where he lived."
"Ah," I said, "that is better. Tell me, good dame."
"He lives at Boulogne," said the woman, "and his name is Father Pierre Rousseau, and I have been told that his church is the Church of St. Antony; but of that I am not sure."
But here at last was something definite to go upon. Boulogne was only a few hours' sail from English shores, and if Father Pierre Rousseau lived there he could be easily found out. I imagined that it would be easy to find out whether the woman's story were true or false, and upon this discovery a plan of action could be formed.
After this we fell to talking again, but beyond what I have written down, little of import could be gathered. I saw that much heed was paid to old wives' stories if they agreed with the desires of the women, but as to well proved facts there seemed nothing besides these two things. Still this was something. I could quickly find out whether Father Pierre Rousseau were flesh and blood, while the discovery of Master Elijah Pycroft should also be easy.
Had I been older, and known more of the ways of the world, I should, I doubt not, have asked many more questions, but by this time my mind was all aflame with the prospect of something to do, while the nature of my work was all that a youth might ask for. Neither did I trouble much as to why I should be chosen. My father had told me that I should know some day, and with this I was fain content. I had a work to do, and that was enough.
"It may be that this priest knows more than he has told you," I cried at length; "my first business therefore will be to go to Boulogne, and after that to seek out Master Elijah Pycroft."
My father nodded his head approvingly, and yet I thought I saw doubt in his eyes.
"But what about the coming of the king?" I went on. "You told me only to-day that we must go to Doverto meet him, and if he comes to England soon, there will be no time for me to set out on my journey before seeing him."
"The king will not arrive for two weeks," replied my father.
"Two weeks?" I said questioningly.
"Ay, two weeks. This dame hath it, that according to messages which have been received in London town he will not come until the twenty-seventh or the twenty-eighth day of the month. There will therefore be time, if fortune favours you, to do much of your work before he comes hither."
Now being hot of blood, and not being aware of the many things which might hinder me, I was content with this reply, and determined not to fail being at Dover when the king should land.
Without wasting time by retailing what was said further, I hasten on to say that by break of day on the following morning I was on my horse's back, clad in my best attire, on my way to Folkestone town, whither I hoped to get a passage to the coast of France. I was in gay spirits. I had pistols in my holsters, a sword by my side, and more money in my pouch than I ever hoped my father would give. Servant I had none, and that for two reasons. The first was, there was no man in my father's house who was fitted for such a post, even although I were rich enough to keep him; but more than this, it was deemed best that I should go quietly and alone, so that no one should suspect what my business might be. Servants, as all the world knows, have a way of talking about their masters' business, and if I had one he might unwittingly endanger me in my work.
My father had spoken gaily and confidently to me on my departure.
"I shall be at Dover on the twenty-sixth day of the month," he said. "I shall make my way to theFox and Hounds Inn, and thither you must come and meet me, if your affairs allow you."
To this I gladly assented, thinking of the things I might have to tell him by that time.
"And mark you, Roland," continued my father earnestly, "be wary and bold in this matter. If you succeed,you will have such power at your command that even the new king will not be able to deny you what you ask. But be bold, my lad, and be wary. Speak but few words, and when you speak impart but as little information as possible. Ask questions without seeming to ask them, and ask them in such a way as to befool those you ask. Never allow want of courage to keep you from obtaining what you desire. If you have to strike, strike hard. Be careful of your companions. Trust no man with your secrets. Remember that in ninety-nine times out of a hundred every man hath his own ends to serve, and if you are not eager and brave another will outdo you. Don't expect gratitude, and never trust any party or faction. Had I acted upon the advice I am giving you now, I should not be called 'landless Rashcliffe,' and you would not be a poor man's son. God be with you."
It was with these words ringing in my ears that I set my face towards London town on a bright May morning, and although it lay fully twelve miles from my home, I saw St. Paul's Church before seven o'clock, so early was I in the starting.
My heart was strangely light, I remember, for although I was much in the dark concerning my mission, its very nature stirred my blood, and made me fearless at coming difficulties. Nay, I rejoiced in them: who would not, when the fate of the country depended on my success? To find the king's marriage contract, and thus alter the succession to the crown of England! Surely that were enough to give nerve to a letterless ploughboy, much less the only son of the bravest gentleman in the county of Essex.
So early was I in London town that I had to wait fully an hour before I could get breakfast, but this I presently obtained at an inn which stood close by Ludgate, and within sight of Fleet Prison.
I found that the talk of every one was concerning the coming of the new king, and every man seemed to be on the tip-toe of expectation concerning the revelries which were to take place when he appeared.
"Ay," said the innkeeper to me, "I know that Old Nol made the English feared the world all o'er, while neversuch an army was ever known as he led to battle; but what of that? He wanted to turn the whole land into Independent meeting houses. He wanted every man to turn psalm-singer, and would have none about him but those who spoke the Puritan cant. If ever a man loved to see a cock-fight, or a bull baited, he was treated like a murderer, while no man dared to drink as an Englishman should drink. But that is all over now. The king loves his wine and his pleasure even as a king should. That's why he could not do with the sour-faced Scots. When he comes we shall be able to drink again, and these psalm-singing chaps will have to bark at back doors. Old Drury will have its fun, and a man will be able to speak to a pretty woman without being placed in the lock-up."
"Think you that aught will be done to those who fought against the new king's father?" I asked.
"Ay, that is what people say. Men have it that every Puritan will be dragged out of his house, and every man who fought against his sacred Majesty's person will be hanged. As for these Independents, well, already they who carried their heads so high be slinking along back ways like whipped dogs. Ah well, it is right. Let us live a merry life, and God save the king!"
Presently, as I went towards the river, I found out that the man had spoken truly: I saw men clad in sober-coloured garments talking one to another, as though some calamity were near. And this was no wonder, for presently, as the number of the people in the streets increased I saw that these same men were howled at by the mob. Some pointed to the Bibles which hung from their girdles, and called out "Pharisees, hypocrites!" Others again cried out "Psalm-singing rogues!" while others threatened them with the stocks and the pillory when the king came.
"It becomes worse each day," I heard one of these sober-clad men say to another.
"Ay the Scriptures be fulfilled; and the devil is unloosed."
"The people of God will fare badly, methinks."
"Nevertheless, the new king hath promised that every man shall be forgiven for what he hath done."
"The new king! The son of Charles Stuart, a traitor and a liar whom our great Oliver beheaded! As well expect mercy from a wolf."
"Hush, man! If we be heard we shall be taken note of. Let us be wise as serpents and harmless as doves."
And this kind of thing I found everywhere as I rode through London streets. On the one hand was a kind of lawless joy, which prevailed greatly; and on the other fearful foreboding as to the coming days.
But I stayed not long in London, for I was eager to make my way to Folkestone. The wedding contract hidden in the black box was more to me than the rejoicings of the Royalists, or the fears of the Separatists.
It took me two days to reach Folkestone; indeed, I did not reach this town till the evening of the second day. Moreover, the second day of my journey had been rainy, and I was both wet and tired when I reached theBarley Sheaf Inn, which looked homely and comfortable, for the which I was very thankful. As the evening was rainy, I thought I should perchance be the only traveller; but no sooner had the ostler taken my horse from me than I saw two persons ride up, which interested me greatly. Perhaps this was because they both seemed anxious to hide their faces. The one was, as far as I could judge, a strongly-built man, but of what age I could not judge; the other was a woman, clad from head to foot in a long cloak. Moreover, she wore a hood, which almost hid her face. Nevertheless, I caught one glimpse of it as she passed in at the door. It was as pale as death, while her eyes were full of terror.
"Private rooms," said the man, "and that without delay."
After they had passed out of sight I fell to wondering who they were; but I never dreamed then that their fate would be linked with mine in such a wondrous way.
After I had partaken of food, I made my way to the harbour for the purpose of finding out when a boat might be leaving for the neighbourhood of Boulogne. By this time the rain had ceased, and although the night was wellnigh upon the town I was able to see something of its character. Not that it was of any great note. It consisted of only a few narrow streets, which being wet, looked miserable and squalid. The bold outline of the cliffs impressed me greatly, however, and I judged that on fair days the whole district must be pleasant to behold.
I found as I passed through, that here as well as in London the sole subject of conversation was the coming of the new king, and of the changes his coming would bring about. Here also as in London, men had it that it would go hard with those who had fought against the late king, and especially against those who had put him to death. Nevertheless none, as far as I could discover, spoke against him; rather they even praised the profligacy of which all seemed to believe him guilty.
But much to my disappointment I could hear of no vessel that would leave for the French coast, at least for three days, and as I had not enough money to hire one for myself I had to content myself with the prospect of spending that time in the vicinity of Folkestone. I was not at all dismayed at this, for I reflected that I might be able to discover something of Master Elijah Pycroft, and might not indeed have to go to France at all.
When I returned to the inn I found my way into a large low room where several persons were sitting. Somewere playing cards, others were drinking, as it seemed to me for the sake of drinking, while others still were laughing at their own wit for want of something better to laugh at.
No one seemed to take note of my entrance, save one, who pointed to a seat by his side, as if to bid me welcome.
"What will you drink?" he asked.
"What is the house noted for?" I asked, for although I determined not to drink, remembering the old adage that "when the drink's in the wit's out," I thought it best to attract no notice by failing to fall in with the custom.
"Sack, my master, sack," replied the man. "There is no better sack between here and London town than can be bought at theBarley Sheaf, and what is more a man can drink his fill and no questions asked. We be no longer troubled by a sour-faced Independent constable who is ever on the watch for a man who seeks to be merry."
"Did they trouble you much in Cromwell's days?"
"Trouble me! Marry, and that they did. No man pleased unless he carried a Bible at his belt, and sung psalms through his nose. Why a man could in no wise make merry. The man who kept a dog or a cock was watched day and night, while those who were suspected of having a Prayer-book in his house was almost as much in danger as those who read the Bible in Queen Mary's days. Why even the town crier had to speak through his nose, as though he were singing psalms in church."
At this he laughed as though he had made a good joke.
"But all will be changed now?" I suggested.
"Ay, but they be changed already, young master," said another man who was listening. "Already Old Nol's people be seeking to make friends with those who be shouting 'God save the king!' while a man may kiss his sweetheart, and no questions be asked. And what would you? The king, who hath received fifty thousand pounds from Parliament to buy himself good clothes, and good wine, hath sent word to us that we must drink his health in the best wine and ale that our town affords."
"Ay," said the other, "and painters be everywhere washing out the State's arms and painting the Lion and the Unicorn instead. I do hear, too, that the king hath given orders that all the vessels built by Old Nol are to berenamed, as his Majesty doth much dislike the present names."
"Have you heard aught concerning what will be done to those who took part in the king's father's death?" I asked.
"I would not stand in their shoes for something," he replied significantly.
"In spite of the Act of Oblivion," I suggested.
"Act of Oblivion! Think you that the new king will forget the name of those who killed his father? Why I do hear that Sir Charles Denman is even now being followed by those who were faithful to Charles I."
"Sir Charles Denman, who is he?" I asked, for I had never heard his name before.
"Never heard of Sir Charles Denman! Why where have you lived, young master? He was one who cried loudest for the death of Charles I, and who hath ever since Richard Cromwell died done his utmost to persuade General Monk against having aught to do with the new king. He hath spoken words which are said to be treasonable, and what is more is as fanatical a preacher as Hugh Peters himself."
"Ay, but there are no edicts out against him?" I queried.
"But there are, young master; at least so men say. Some have it that the king, no sooner was he invited to come back to his throne, than he sent secret instructions that Sir Charles should be arrested and imprisoned until his Majesty's pleasure be known."
"Know you aught of Sir Charles?" I asked.
"Nay, I know naught, but men have it that he is a dangerous man, and not to be trusted. I have been told that his very preaching is only a cloak to cover up his misdoings. Men say he hath never married, and yet he is accompanied on his journeys by one who ought to be his wife. It is said, too, that he whips her as a man might whip a spaniel. A sullen, cruel man whom no one loves."
At this I was silent, whereupon the man went on.
"Some have it that he is married to this woman, who is of low degree, while other gossips say that he hath stolen her from her father's house, because she will inherit a great fortune when her father dies."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"Nay, but I am told he is the best swordsman in the kingdom, that he is deadly with the pistol, and that he shews no mercy anywhere?"
"And are all the people loyal around here?" I asked.
"Ay, what would you?"
"And all the old families will receive the new king with open arms?"
"Ay, all as far as I know."
"I do not know the names of these families—at least not of all," I said, feeling my way towards the information I desired, "but you as an important man doubtless know them all."
"Ay," he replied, sitting back in his chair with a look of importance on his face. "There be the Jeffries and old Sir Michael Oldbury, and Admiral Billton, and Squire Barton, and my Lord Bridgman, and others. Most of them nod to me when they come to town."
"I think I have heard of a Master Pycroft," I said, "know you him?"
He shook his head. "No," he replied, "there be no man of note within ten miles of Folkestone who bears that name."
At this my heart seemed to sink in my shoes, for it seemed as though I had come on a fool's errand. Still I kept a brave face, and answered as though the matter were of no import.
"I must have mistaken the name," I said, "or perchance he lived in some other part of the country."
"Stay," said the man, "there is an old place called 'Pycroft,' but it hath been in ruins for years. It is an old house among the Pycroft woods, and is said to be haunted. No man lives there, but I have heard that an old miser had it long years ago. He was killed for his money, and ever since the place hath been infested by evil spirits. Years ago, about the time the king was beheaded, I mind me that I passed by it, but not a soul was to be seen. The windows were broken, and the gardens were all covered with weeds. Neither sight nor sound of living being could I see or hear. Even the birds seemed afraid to sing."
"What was the name of the miser?" I asked.
"People called him 'Solomon the Fool,'" replied the man; "'Solomon,' because he was said to have much learning, and 'The Fool' because he did not know how to use it. Ah, and now I come to think of it, I have heard that it was once held by the Denmans, but whether they were any kin to Sir Charles, of whom we have been speaking, I know not."
After this I learnt but little more, for a man came in who said he had ridden from Dover, and began to tell of the grand preparations which were being made to welcome King Charles II when he landed on English shores. So feeling somewhat weary, and desiring to think of what I had heard, I made my way to the chamber the innkeeper had allotted to me, and then by the light of the candle which had been given to me, I sought to set down in order what had happened to me since I left London town. I had come to my chamber very quietly, but even if I had made a noise the shouts of the revellers in the room below had drowned any sounds I might have made. When I had been alone an hour or more, however, they began to grow more quiet, which led me to think they were leaving the inn for their homes. I therefore decided that I would undress and go to bed, but on second thoughts I simply pulled off my riding boots and doublet and threw myself on the bed. I did not feel at all sleepy, but ere long I felt myself becoming drowsy; but even then I did not think I should fall asleep. In this I was mistaken, however, for after that I remembered nothing until I suddenly awoke.
At first I scarce remembered where I was, but the sound of someone sobbing brought everything to my recollection with great clearness.
"No, no! Not that!"
I heard the words with great distinctness, and they were spoken by a woman. Moreover, the one who spoke them was in great terror, for although she spoke not loudly, I detected the anguish in her voice.
As may be imagined, the woman's cries caused me to listen intently.
"I tell you, yes." It was a man's voice I heard, and the partition between the room in which I lay and the next,from whence the sounds came, was so thin that I could hear much of what was said. "This must be done. It is my will."
He spoke in a low voice, but it vibrated with passion.
"But it is more than five miles away, and it is midnight."
This the woman said in a low, fearsome voice.
"What of that? The distance is not too great for you to walk easily. You have rested, and you have had food. As to its being night, so much the better. Every one is now abed, and no one will see you."
"But the way is lonely; besides, the place hath an evil name. You have told me yourself that it is haunted."
"So much the better for my purposes. You must go thither, and find out what I have told you of. You can be back here before folks be astir."
"It is cruel, cruel," said the woman with a sob.
"It is your duty; you owe it to me," replied the man. "Besides, you dare not refuse. If I speak but a word you know what will happen, so do my bidding, and that without delay."
"But who shall I find there? It is said to be an empty house; besides, perchance I cannot find it. It is in the midst of woods; and even if I met some one on the road, I dare not ask them where Pycroft is."
At this, as may be imagined, my heart gave a great bound. These people were speaking of the very place I desired to enter; moreover, there was evidently some secret surrounding it. Did this man know aught of what had been told me? Did he seek to find the king's marriage contract as well as I? Besides, who was he, and what was his relation to this woman? These and many other questions I asked myself as I lay silently on my bed, for in my eagerness I did not realize that I was playing the eavesdropper. In truth, everything had come upon me so suddenly that I scarce understood what was taking place.
"There will be no difficulty in finding the way," said the man. "You will climb the hill out of the town, then you will take the road that leads to London. This road you wot of as well as I. When you come to the pond by the roadside you will see the gate on the right side of theroad, and from there you can easily follow the path leading to the house."
"But why can you not go yourself?" said the woman.
"Because it is not my will," replied the man. "Besides, it would not be safe for me to go until I know the old man's thoughts: he might betray me, and then what would happen to you?"
"To me?" repeated the woman.
"Ay, to you. Whither can you go if I cease to protect you? Ay, and what will befall you?"
"But I have done nothing."
"Nothing! Then go and show yourself to him. Ay, let it be known in the inn who you are. If I had not given you my name, where would you be now?"
I have recorded this conversation as well as I am able; nevertheless I cannot vouch for its entire correctness, seeing that many of the words were almost inaudible.
After this I heard sounds as though some one were preparing to go out; a little later there were footsteps along the passage, and then silence. My nerves were all tingling, while my brain was in a whirl. What did all this mean, and what had I to do?
In a minute my mind was made up. I would wait until all was silent, and time given for the man to return to his chamber, and then I would creep out of the house, and follow the road the man had so clearly marked out. If their interest was at Pycroft, so was mine; besides, my heart went out in sympathy towards the woman whose voice was so plaintive, and whose condition seemed so piteous.
Presently I heard stealthy footsteps outside my door. They passed along the corridor, and presently were lost in the distance. Now was the time for me to act. All my weariness had gone; I was eager and alert; the mystery upon which I had happened threw its spell upon me, and I longed to discover its meaning. Besides, it fell in with my plans; and I remembered my father's words warning me never to allow want of courage to stand in the way of fulfilling my purpose.
I fastened my sword carefully by my side, and having seen to my pistols, I took my riding boots in my hand, andcrept carefully along the passage towards a doorway I had noted during the evening. No one seemed astir, and the house was as silent as death. When I came to the door, I found that it was unbolted. Evidently the man had left it so that the woman might enter when she had performed his mission.
Closing the door silently behind me, I pulled on my boots, and a minute later was creeping silently up the hill out of the town. Once away from the houses, I realized the cruelty of the man in sending out a woman on such an errand. It is true the night was neither dark nor cold, but for a woman to take such a long weary journey alone at such a time was hard indeed. The country, since Oliver Cromwell's death, had become infested with footpads, while the thought of going to a haunted house was terrible enough for a man, much less a woman. Besides, she was troubled by some fear. The man had some power over her beyond the ordinary, or she would never submit to his will. What was it? I called to mind the story told me concerning Sir Charles Denman that very night. Was this man Sir Charles? And was this woman the one who had been associated with him? This might be the case; and yet I could not believe it, why I could not tell. Perhaps it was because I had learnt to be wary of stories told at taverns and inns, perhaps because I desired another solution to the mystery.
When I was well out in the country I stopped and listened. I also looked eagerly along the road, but I could neither hear nor see the woman I had come out to follow. Thereupon I started running, for the road was better than ordinary, and the light of the moon revealed all pits and dangerous places. Presently I reached the top of the hill, where the road crossed an open space. Neither hedge nor ditch hid aught from me, although a mile on, skirting the open plain was a belt of trees. Here I stopped again, and gazed eagerly along the roadway. Yes, there could be no doubt about it, away in the distance was a dark object.
Up to this time I had formed no plan of action save to follow the woman. Now it came to me that if I desired to speak to her I should not know what to say, while if Iwatched her without letting her know of my presence I should be acting the part of a spy. She was alone and unprotected, she did not know that I heard something of what had passed between her and the man at the inn. Therefore my presence would give her a fright, while I had no excuse for intruding upon her as she took this lonely and mysterious night journey.
What an older man might have done I may not say. What I should do now that I have passed the age of impetuous youth I dare not hazard. But then I was young, I knew naught of the world, and the mission upon which I myself had come caused me to surround everything with the halo of youthful vision. I determined that I would overtake her, tell her that I had heard what had passed between her and the man at theBarley Sheaf, and then offer to accompany her on her journey. Doubtless an older man would have acted differently, but I suspect that my decision was that which any youth of my age will understand.
I therefore commenced running again, and I saw that every step lessened the distance between me and the dark form which toiled silently along the lonely road. Not a house was in sight, neither could I see aught but the line of road curling its way along the heather covered land, and the belt of trees which lay beyond. I ran silently, because I kept on the edge of the road, where grass grew, and as I drew nearer I saw that the woman kept straight on, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Presently the moon, which had been under a cloud, shot into the clear sky, so that I could see her plainly. She was clad from head to foot in a long garment, while on her head she wore a hood, as if even in the loneliness of midnight she desired to hide her face. I could see, too, that she was tall and that she moved with rapidity and ease; but that was all, for her back was toward me, and although the light of the moon was bright I could not even tell the colour of the garment she wore.
As I came up close to her, my heart fell to beating wildly, not because of my exertion in overtaking her, but because of the strangeness of my adventure. In truth it seemed as though I were in a dream from which I should presently awake, only to find what had taken place was but the wildfancy which comes to one when one loses control over one's own imaginings.
Whether I should have dared to speak to her I know not, but when I was only a few yards from her I happened to kick a stone which lay in my way, and as it rattled along the road she turned around sharply, and with a cry of fear.
"What do you wish?" she asked, and I noted that her voice trembled not one whit.
But I did not reply; I was so much wrought upon that no words would come to me.
"I have naught to give you," she said, "so pass on and allow me to go my way."
As she spoke her hood dropped from her face and I saw her every feature plainly.
My first glance at the woman's face showed me that it was the same as I had seen a few hours before. In the moonlight she looked very pale, and I saw that she was young, not indeed as I judged more than twenty years of age. But what struck me most was the fact that she betrayed no fear; rather I saw a look of defiance, and I could not understand how a woman who had, as I thought, been cowed by the man at the inn could meet me here alone at midnight and be so brave. Nay, as I thought, there was a look of defiance in her face, and a confidence in her own strength.
"I desire naught from you, and I have no will to molest you," I said.
"Then go your way."
"Ay, I will go my way," I replied, "and perchance my way may be yours."
"It cannot be. If you have no will to molest me, take your road and I will take mine."
Her quiet confidence almost angered me. Fearfulness I was prepared to meet, while cries I expected; but to be quietly commanded to pass on, knowing what I knew, made me somewhat impatient, and hence more at my ease.
"It may be, mistress, when I have told you what is in my mind, you will not be so desirous to be rid of me."
"There can be naught in your mind that concerns me." Then with a flash as quick as light she said, "Do you boast of gentle blood, young sir?"
"I am of gentle birth," I replied.
"Then you must know that when a lady would be alone no man of honour will stay by her side."
"That's as may be," I replied. "The lady may besurrounded by dangers of which she knows nothing, in which case the man of honour will stay and protect her even against her will!"
For a moment she gazed around her as if she apprehended danger, but only for a moment.
"Will it please you to pass on?" she said.
"Not until I have told you what is in my mind."
"Then you are a spy."
"As you will," I replied, for the words angered me, and even although I had no sufficient excuse for remaining by her side, I determined to know more of her.
"Perhaps my first impression was right," she went on, "and you are a common thief. If so, it is useless coming to me, I have no money."
At this I was silent, for my brain refused to give me a suitable answer.
"So having no money, and having no desire to remain longer in your company, I will e'en go on my way."
"No you will not."
At this her eyes flashed like fire.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you are afraid to let me know where you are going."
At this she gazed fearfully at me, but she spoke no word.
"Nevertheless, I know the place for which you are bound," I said. "But if I were you I would not go."
"Why?"
"Because the man who sent you seeks only his own safety and not yours. Because he desires to use you only as a key to unlock the door by which he would enter, because he has gained power over you only to make you his tool."
"What do you know of the man who sent me?"
This she said, as I thought, involuntarily, for she quickly went on: "How do you know I have been sent? In these days even a woman may——" and then she stopped suddenly, like one afraid.
"Because I have been staying at theBarley Sheaf," I replied. "Because I saw you come to the inn; because I heard your conversation to-night with the man who hath sent you to do his bidding, against your own will."
"Then youarea spy?"
"If you will, but let me tell you what is in my mind before you call me by that name again. I was awakened an hour or two ago by the sound of a woman sobbing. She was pleading with some man not to send her out at midnight, but he persisted. I heard him threaten her, I heard him tell her that if her name were known some dread calamity would happen to her. I knew that he had some power over her, possessed some secret concerning her, and that she had perforce to do his will."
"Well, what then, sir?" she asked sharply.
"He commanded her to go to Pycroft, along a road that is infested by footpads."
"And what have you to do with this?"
"Nothing except that I determined to follow her, and offer her what protection and help I could give her. Ay, and more, to rid her from the man who is so unworthy to call himself her protector."
At this she came up close to me, and looked steadily into my face.
"Is that all you know?" she said.
"That is all."
"And that is your reason for following me?"
"That is my reason."
"What is your name?"
I could see no harm in telling her. My name was unknown, and my mission hither was, I believed, a secret.
"Roland Rashcliffe," I said.
"Of Epping?"
"Of that family, yes."
"And this is true?"
"On my word as a gentleman, yes."
Again she looked at me steadily as if she were in sore straits what to do, and did not know whether she might trust me.
"You know nothing about me beyond what you have said?"
"Nothing."
"And you desire only to see me safe from harm?"
"That is all," and at the time it was true, for underthe influence of the woman's presence my own mission to Pycroft seemed of little import.
"And if I allow you to accompany me you will ask me no questions?"
"I desire you to answer no questions of mine, nor to reveal to me anything which you would keep secret."
"You do not know my name—nor his name?"
"No."
Again she scanned me eagerly, and then looked around her. All round us was a weary waste of uncultivated land, beyond the dark woods a cloud shot over the moon, while away in the distance the horizon was blackened by what looked like a coming storm. The winter had gone, and the spring was upon us, nevertheless the night had grown cold. I saw her shudder.
"What are you?" she said. "Roundhead, or Cavalier?"
"I do not know."
At this she looked at me suspiciously.
"My father fought for the king in the first Civil War," I replied. "But I have stayed at home all my life. I have not interested myself in politics. I have helped to look after what remains of my father's estates."
"You have spent your life in idleness?"
"I have sought to learn those things which may become a gentleman," I replied. "I can use a sword, and I am not altogether an ignoramus."
"You love books then?"
"I have read the writings of both William Shakespeare and John Milton," I replied, "and I know a little of such writings of Corneille and Molière as have been brought to this country."
"You know French then?"
"A little. But that hath nothing to do with my desire to befriend you. You are in trouble, and I would help you."
"You desire not to harm me?"
"So help me God, no."
"But why are you here?" she asked suspiciously. "If your home is at Epping Forest, what are you doing at Folkestone?"
"I came at my father's bidding," I replied after a moment's hesitation.
"Ah, you have a secret, too," she cried.
At this I was silent, while I wondered at the quickness with which she fastened upon the truth. Nevertheless, I was sure her voice was friendly, and I thought she was glad to have me near. And this was no wonder, for courageous although she might be, her mission was one which must strike terror in the bravest heart.
But still she hesitated. What was passing in her mind I knew not; but I imagined that two fears fought one against the other in her heart. One, the fear of going alone to the haunted house situated amid the great Pycroft woods, and the other the fear of accepting the protection of one of whom she knew nothing, and whom she had never seen until that hour.
The winds blew colder, while away in the distance I heard the rumble of thunder, and this I think decided her. Had it been day I do not believe she would have listened to me for a moment, but it was night and a thunderstorm was sweeping towards us; besides, although a courageous one, she was still a woman.
"Promise me again that you will not seek to interfere with my mission, or to harm me," she said.
"I promise," I replied.
"I will accept your escort," she said. "Come quickly, for what is done must be done quickly."
We walked together across the broad open land, while the black cloud grew larger and larger. The moon had also sunk low, and the night had grown dark. Even now a strange feeling comes into my heart as I think of our journey towards the old house, for reared in the country as I had been, ay, and in the very midst of the great forest which lies east of London town, I thought I never knew any place so lonely as this. Besides, I knew naught of my companion. That she was young, and fair to look upon, I could not help seeing, but I knew not her name, neither did I understand the mystery which surrounded her life.
Twice I saw her turn and gaze furtively at me, as though desiring to know what was in my mind, but for the mostpart she walked straight on, never turning to the right nor to the left.
Nearer and nearer we came to the pine woods which stood on the edge of the open land, and as we did so drops of rain began to fall upon us. Then I thought I saw her shudder, but she spoke no word. In spite of the way she had spoken to me, I fell to pitying her more than ever. For truly it was a sad predicament for a young maid, evidently well-born and tenderly reared, to be placed in. From what she had said to the man at the inn, she knew nothing either of Pycroft or its inmates, neither could she tell what her welcome to the lonely house would be like.
Once she stopped and listened as though she heard strange sounds near, and then presently moved on again without a word. By and bye we came to a pond beside the road, close by which was a gateway. Beyond were, as far as I could judge, dense dark woods.
"This is the place," I said.
"How do you know?"
"It accords with the description the man gave you at the inn."
"Yes, but you know nothing of those who live at the house?"
"Nothing."
"You may accompany me until we come in sight of the house, but after that you must go no further."
"Why?"
"You promised to ask no questions."
"I promised not to interfere with your mission," I replied, "neither will I. I have kept by your side for more than two miles without speaking a word concerning it. Nevertheless I have not promised to obey you in all things. Had I, I should not be by your side now. I cannot promise not to go too close to the house. It may be that you will need help, and I mean to keep close by your side."
"But why?" and I thought my words gave her comfort.
"Because I desire to be your friend."
In this I spoke the truth, for although I had it in my heart to enter the house in order to carry out my plans,yet my pity for the maid, and my determination to befriend her became stronger each minute.
"My friend!" she said. "You do not know what you say. Do you know what it would cost to be my friend? Besides, why should you? You do not know who I am; you have never heard my name."
"No," I replied, "I have never heard your name, I do not know who you are."
"Then why should you desire to befriend me?"
I could not answer her, neither for that matter could I answer myself when the question came to me. But I think I know now. Although my father had taught me to distrust all men, he had always led me to think of my mother as a beautiful noble woman, one who was as pure as an angel, and as truthful as the sun which shines in the heavens. Thus it came about that I was led to look at womanhood through the medium of my mother's life, and to regard it as a gentleman's duty ever to treat them with respect and reverence. Nay, more, I had learnt, I know not how, to regard it the first duty of a man of honour ever to seek to befriend a gentlewoman, and that at all hazards.
"Because you are a gentlewoman, and you are in trouble," I said.
We had been standing beside the pond during this conversation, as though we desired to delay entering the dark woods close by. Once beneath the shadows of the trees we should scarce be able to see each other, but here no shadow fell, and I could see her plainly. I heard her sob, too, as though my words had touched her heart.
"Do not be afraid," I said, "I will let no man harm you."
I spoke as a brother might speak to a sister, and there was naught but pity in my heart. Perhaps my voice had a tremor in it, for I was much wrought upon. Be that as it may, for the first time she lost control over herself, and she gave way to tears.
"I am afraid, oh, I am afraid," she said.
"You need not be," I said, "no harm shall befall you."
"Oh, but you do not know. You do not know who is by your side, you do not know what I fear."
"You need not fear to tell me," I said.
"Fear to tell you!" she cried, "but I do. Ay and if it were known that you walk by my side, and that you seek to befriend me, your life would be in danger. You do not know why I have consented to come here, you do not know of what I am accused. Nay, if I told you my name, you would either drag me back to Folkestone town and tell—" Here she ceased speaking, as though she were frightened at her own words.
"No I should not," I made answer.
"Why?"
"Because I do not believe you are capable of committing a crime."
At this she laughed aloud. A hard, cruel, bitter laugh.
"You had better go back to your bed, Master Rashcliffe," she said. "You do not know why I am here, you do not know what my mission is. I will tell you. I am here because I fear the devil, and because I seek to do his bidding."
She said this as if through her set teeth, and, as it seemed to me, with terrible passion. In spite of myself I felt a shiver pass through my veins. Nevertheless I still pitied her. For be it remembered I was only twenty-three, and the sight of the maid was in truth piteous. All the same the words I spoke next were dragged from me almost against my will.
"What!" I cried. "Have you sold yourself to the devil?"
"Ay, Master Rashcliffe, that is it, and I have found him a hard master."
I saw her clench her hands as if in a frenzy, while her eyes gleamed with a great passion.
"I do not believe in such things," I said, for although many witches had been burnt in England, even in my time, I had no faith in much of what I had heard.
"Why do I go up to the old house in Pycroft woods?" she went on. "Is it for pleasure? Have you not heard it is haunted? I tell you deeds are done there which would frighten you, brave as you think you are. And I go because I must. Now had you not better go back and leave me?"
"No," I made answer. "I will accompany you even as I have said."
"But you promised not to hinder me."
"No, I will not hinder you, because, in spite of what you say, I do not believe evil is in your heart."
"There you make a mistake, Master Rashcliffe. I have evil in my heart. And it is not without reason. Have you a sister?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"Because if you had you might understand me. If you had a sister, bound to obey a bad man, as his wife, would she not be justified in having evil in her heart?"
"His wife?" I cried.
"Ay, his wife!" and at this she laughed bitterly. "Now you see how useless it is for you to try and help me, for a wife must obey her husband no matter what he commands her. Do you think I would be here else? Look!" and she showed me her left hand, where I saw a plain gold ring.
At this I said nothing, nevertheless I did not in any wise think of giving up my determination to accompany her.
"You are still determined to enter this old house?" I said quietly.
"I go because I must," she replied.
Without another word I opened the gate and motioned her to pass in.
"You still persist in going?" she said, as if in astonishment, but she passed through the open gate, while I walked quietly by her side.
It was not easy to keep to the track, but I managed to follow it while the woman, who I was sure felt glad that I had persisted in accompanying her, kept near me. How long we walked I do not know. The woods grew darker and thicker, while the very air we breathed seemed laden with mystery and dread.
Once or twice I stopped, for I thought I heard footsteps, but as I listened all was silent.
"Oh, I am afraid," she said again and again. I did not reply to her, for I had no word of cheer to offer. In truth I was not far from being afraid myself. An open enemyI could meet as well as another, but the dreadful silence, with the occasional suggestion of stealthy footsteps, made my heart grow cold in spite of myself.
At length the track ended in an open space, and then my heart gave a leap, for a little distance away I saw the dark outline of an old house. Never until then did I realise how dark and lonesome a human habitation could be. Not a sound could I hear save the beating of our own hearts, naught could I see but the grim walls of the time-worn building.
"Look," she whispered fearfully. "Yonder is a light."
She spoke truly, for almost hidden by a large evergreen tree, yet plainly to be seen was a tiny light.
"That will be Master Pycroft!" I said almost involuntarily.
For answer she only shuddered, and then without saying a word she walked in the direction of the light.