"But I saw the contract," I cried.
"Ay, but the king hath taken his oath," he laughed.
"What, to a lie!" I said.
"The oath of Charles Stuart!" said my father. "What was his father's oath worth? What is the son's oath worth? But you have spoiled your chance. What matters whether the thing is a forgery or no? Now that the thing hath come to light it doth not matter. That is what angers me. The son in whom I trusted to have clever wits hath acted like a Puritan."
"And am I to remain in gaol?" I asked.
"As to that, no," he replied. "Now that the thing hath come to light nought matters. Had I come back earlier I had set you at liberty long ago. As soon as I discovered how matters stood I took steps to gain your freedom."
"Then I may leave this place?" I cried.
"Ay, be thankful that your father is not a fool. You can e'en return to your old home to-morrow."
"And know you aught of Mistress Constance Leslie?" I asked.
"Ay, I do," he replied.
"What? Tell me!" I cried.
My father turned and looked around him before speaking, as though he feared some one was listening.
"Tell me all you know concerning her," he said. I told him quickly, feverishly, for I was eager to hear what he knew. I noticed, however, that he paid but little heed to our meeting near Folkestone, nor to my account of my journey to Bedford to set her at liberty. But when I described our meeting with the king he was all attention.
"The blackguard," he said presently, between his teeth.
"Who?" I asked.
"Charles Stuart," he said; "but pay no heed to me. After all, the king is king."
"But where is Constance now?" I asked. "I have been told that her father was hanged at Tyburn. Where is she?"
"What is she to you?" asked my father.
"She is everything to me," I replied.
"You fancy you are in love with her?"
I did not reply, for my father spoke, I thought, scornfully.
"I will admit that the maid is a brave maid. It is not often one hears of such daring, such resolution," he said presently.
"Ay," I replied, my heart all aglow. "She took her sister's guilt upon her own shoulders. For months she defied all pursuers, and when at last she stood before the king, she refused to do his bidding, refused to betray her sister's hiding-place. But what happened to her afterwards? Tell me, father, for pity's sake."
"You do not know? You have heard of nought that took place after the night when you behaved like a fool before the king, and were sent hither?"
"I have heard nothing."
"It was the best joke I have heard of for years," laughed my father. "Verily I believe it was that which made Charles hang old John Leslie. He hath let more guilty men go free; besides, Sir John was a harmless old fool, with nought against him save that he was over-religious."
"But tell me, father; tell me," I pleaded.
"Well," said my father, "no sooner did she leave his Majesty's presence than it seems that she began to look around for a means of escape. It seems also that during the time she appeared before the king, half-a-dozen young gallants lost their hearts over her, and she being a quick-Pwitted maid singled out the biggest fool of the whole batch. I suppose that during her midnight audience with the king these young fools waited around the corridors in the hope of having speech with her. How she did it I don't know; but she managed to gain audience with the young fool I have mentioned, and in five minutes he became wax in her hands. She persuaded him to bring her the gay and full outfit of a young Court gallant, and offered to run away with him."
"And then?" I cried, for my father stopped in the middle of his recital to laugh, as though he were telling a good joke.
"Then the next night, while the king was at supper, she managed to escape with this silly loon. It seems that they went away under the trees, both of them dressed like gay cavaliers, until they came to a spot where two horses where waiting for them. Then they both mounted, the maid I am told having the firmer seat of the two, and galloped away together. By this time night had come on, and then before this addlepate, Charles Fitzroy by name, knew where he was, he found himself alone. The girl had galloped away with his horse, and his fine attire, leaving him to get out of his scrape as best he could."
Again my father stopped to laugh.
"But how do you know the truth of this?" I cried.
"Oh, it was easy to know," replied my father. "Young Master Fitzroy rode around through the night, calling vainly for his lady-love until daylight, and presently happened upon another love-sick swain who had also beenaway love-making. Master Fitzroy was so overcome with grief that he actually told the other all that had happened."
"But was he not punished by the king?"
"As to that," replied my father, "he knew enough not to return to brave the king's anger. He ran away to Holland, and the king having been much beholden to Fitzroy's father hath not sent after him. Nevertheless, Charles was very angry. He was much struck with the maid's beauty; moreover, from what I can hear, his discomfiture hath been much laughed at by the wits of the town. Oh, the maid was clever, there can be no doubt of that, and verily she hath made me believe, almost in spite of myself, in the virtue of women."
"But you said you know where she is now," I said, for although my heart rejoiced at what I had heard, I longed much to know how she fared after these long weary months of my imprisonment.
"Did I say that?" said my father. "Then I said too much; but methinks I may be able to tell you that which may set you thinking."
"What?" I cried feverishly.
"As you know," went on my father, "the bishops and clergy of the Episcopal Church have prevailed on the king to pass stringent laws concerning these prating Puritans. In truth these men of God have so hedged them around, that a Nonconformist is nearly as badly placed as were Protestants during the reign of Mary. They are not allowed to preach, or to pray, except according to the bishops' will. In fact they are hardly able to live at all, for they be hunted like foxes and rats from one place to another. It is true they ought to subscribe to the Prayer-book, and take all the oaths which the king prescribes, but you see they will not. Thus they are fined and imprisoned by the hundreds."
"I have heard this," I cried; "but what hath it to do with the whereabouts of Constance?"
"I am coming to that," replied my father; "and the less you interrupt me the sooner you will know all I have to tell. As a consequence of these laws, there be hundreds of families without homes or friends, whom God must indeed pity. They have no shelter but the hedgeside; no food but what is free to the rabbits and the fowls of theair. Many of them were parish ministers, and since the Act of Uniformity and the other Acts their condition hath been piteous. Of course they be fools, for why cannot they swallow their scruples and be done with it? But they will not. The clergy refuse to be episcopally ordained, and they will continue to preach, and hence the trouble. Well, it seems that a Master Leslie, who was own cousin to Sir John, was one of these Presbyterian or Independent ministers who refused to be ordained by a bishop, and thus he was cast into the lanes, with a wife and six children. For a long time I suppose he had no shelter but the hedges, for the farmers were afraid even to give them a hiding place in their barns. At length, however, a farmer was brave enough to give them shelter in an outhouse; at any rate, he did not inform the vicar or the magistrates about them. Some say he even brought them food, but concerning that I have no certain knowledge. About a fortnight ago, however, the magistrates heard of them, and sent the constables to take them, on what pretext I don't know. It seems that just as the constables were entering the barn they saw a woman come out, and one of them swears it was Mistress Constance Leslie."
"Where was this?" I cried.
"At a parish about three miles from Bedford; I have forgotten the name."
"And how long ago?"
"I have just told you; it was about a fortnight ago."
"And was the constable sure it was she?"
"He can take his oath to it, he saith; he also rushed after her to take her, but she escaped in the darkness. Some say she tripped the constable up, and blew out the candle in his lantern. However, it may be all a mistake, especially as since that time the whole district hath been searched, and nought hath come of it. Especially hath search been made at Goodlands, the place which belonged to Sir John Leslie, but not a sight of her hath there been."
"And what hath become of Goodlands?" I asked, with a fast beating heart.
"Oh, it still appertaineth to the Leslies. It seems that the king is still determined to capture the pretty Constance,and so he hath done nought by Sir John's estates except to appropriate the rents. He believes that sooner or later the daughters will claim their property, and by this means he will be able to lay hands upon them. I am told that at present one of Leslie's farmers lives in the house."
I did not speak concerning this, nevertheless my heart beat high with hope. I had heard Constance say that when she was once in her father's house at Goodlands she had no fear of searchers. Was it not possible that she had escaped thither, and was still in hiding? I knew that her heart would go out in sympathy with the distressed clergyman who had been driven from his parish, and his vicarage, and that she would seek to bring him food and comfort. What more likely then than my father's story was true. But as I have said I was silent, for I knew that he would not be likely to think of her as I did.
"That is all there is to tell," he said presently, and I saw that his eyes rested searchingly on me, as though he would read the thoughts in my mind.
"What are you going to do?" he continued at length.
"I am going to find her," I said.
"And then?"
"I do not know," I replied, for although I was sure I had seen the light of love in her eyes that night when we stood in the presence of the king, I was afraid she had forgotten all about me during the long weary months I had been lying in prison.
"But what would you?" he asked.
"I would wed her," I replied.
"What, wed the daughter of a regicide!" he cried. "Wed a woman with a price set upon her head! Destroy all your chances in life, and that for no benefit to you save to satisfy a mad fancy!"
"What would you do if you were in my place, father?" I asked. "If Constance were my mother and you were my age, what would you do?"
For a moment my father's lips quivered, and then I knew that although he had become more cynical than of old, his heart was still warm towards the memory of my mother, and towards me his only son.
"But can you do aught? I tell you it is only throughthe influence of the king's brother that I have obtained your liberty. If his Majesty discovers that you have in aught tried to help this woman he will have no mercy. Doubtless he is easygoing as far as the State is concerned; for that matter his best friends see that he is ruining the country over which he pretends to reign. But he is bitter in his private hatreds. See how he hath treated those who had aught to do with his father's death. Not one shred of mercy hath he shewn. All are hanged, or imprisoned, save those who have escaped across the seas. You, Roland, have thwarted his will, and he believes that it is because this maid cares for you, that she fled from Windsor that night. I tell you he will have no mercy, and even although I have found the weak side of Duke James of York, I could do nothing for you."
"Still I must find her if I can."
"But you can do no good. If she hath a hiding-place you will only endanger her by trying to find her."
"No; I will not endanger her," I cried. "Besides, I know not what she may be suffering; I do not know what difficulty she hath in evading those who would place her under the king's power."
"You know her hiding-place?" said my father.
"No, I do not know it," I replied; "I can only guess."
"I tell you Goodlands is watched closely, and the whole countryside is watched. If she is anywhere in the district then——," and my father shrugged his shoulders, French fashion, as he ceased to speak.
"Then she needs me all the more."
"Oh, you fool, you fool!" said my father, and yet I thought his voice was kind and caressing.
"Look here," he went on presently. "I have influence with Duke James of York, who I verily believe will soon be king. Charles will not live to be an old man. He cannot. No man can live long who spends his days and nights as he doth. And let me tell you this: Duke James doth not think unkindly of you, if Charles doth. Even now I can put you into the way of advancement, for Duke James hath much power. If you give up all thoughts of this woman I can even yet promise you a career. The duke thought you a dashing youth with a ready wit and a strong arm.But if you do what is in your heart to do, I can see nothing for you but the prison or the gallows."
"Neither," I cried boldly, for what he had said had made me brave and hopeful.
"What then?"
"I know not. But I will go and help the woman I love. If she will wed me, no man in England will be so happy as I."
"How will you live?" said my father with a sneer.
"I will escape to New England, even as some of our forefathers did," I cried. "Some of her forefathers are also there."
"And if you did this what would you do?"
"I am not a fool, even although you say I am," I cried. "I am young, and at her side I shall be strong. Men no better than I have had a career in other lands, and I will be in no whit behind them."
My father smiled sadly. "Well, come with me to the old home, and then we can think of these things together," he said presently.
"If mother were where Constance is, what would you do?" I asked again.
At this my father became silent for a time, then he burst out.
"Have you any of these Puritan beliefs?"
"Which would you rather I became?" I said. "A Puritan, or like unto the swashbucklers which I am told throng the king's court?"
"But hath this woman converted you?"
"I do not know," I replied; "but I would be worthy of her. Whom would you have me wed, father, a woman such as she is, or one of the women whom Charles loves to have around him."
"The women of Charles' Court!" he cried, and he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to me. "Great God! I have thought since I returned, that there doth not remain a pure woman in London. The example of the king hath corrupted the country. Morality is laughed at, while the preachers wink at things which five years ago were regarded with holy horror. And yet no man can find favour in these days unless he licks Charles'boots and praises his way of living. I did not realize it while I was in France, but since I have returned I have seen what I thought might come. England is turned into a pigsty, and those who would live for faith and purity are treated like vermin!"
"Then what would you have me do father?" I asked.
He was silent for a time, then he said quietly—
"You will be able to walk out of here to-morrow a free man. I have seen to that. It is not far from here to theVirgin Queen, where our old servant Caleb Bullen lives. Caleb will expect you, and you may find out when you get there what I would have you do."
He kissed me affectionately as he bade me good-bye; indeed, it seemed to me as though he were taking a long farewell. But I knew not what was in his mind, neither did I ask questions, for my father was never a man who made known his secret thoughts with readiness. And yet the feeling which had possessed me at first concerning him had passed away. He had grown more and more like he was during my boyish days as our interview proceeded. Nay, more; I thought he had sympathized with me as I spoke to him, even although he was angry that I had not behaved with more worldly wisdom.
When I left the prison on the following morning I heard the Nonconformists comforting each other by singing hymns, and by prayers, so that while I could not understand many of their scruples my heart went out to them in sympathy. I noticed, too, that my gaolers paid me much respect as I left, and I judged that my father had somehow made them think of me as different from those whom they usually guarded.
As I walked up Ludgate Hill towards St. Paul's Cross no one paid heed to me, and yet as I caught sight of myself in one of the windows as I passed by, I scarce knew myself, for I had grown a beard several inches long, while my face was as pale as the face of a dead man.
When I entered theVirgin Queenold Caleb Bullen started back like a man frightened.
"Great Lord! Is that you, Master Roland?" he cried. "If it had been night I should e'en have taken you for a ghost."
"If you will give me some breakfast, I will prove to you that I am no ghost, Caleb," I replied.
"Ay, but that hath been ready this last half-hour, Master Roland," he replied. "Your father gave orders concerning it last night. In truth, so particular was he about it, that I cut a new ham, the very best I have, and six eggs have I had fried for you. But come this way, Master Roland," and he led me into the room I had occupied long months before.
"My father," I said, to Caleb, "is he here?"
"Not one word will I speak about him till you have had something to eat," said Caleb. "Faith, Master Roland, but it makes my flesh creep to see you. No, no, I will speak no word, not one word until you have eaten half a pound of ham. It was a good pig, Master Roland, twenty score weight, and fed on good barley."
In truth, although I was anxious to know what my father had said to him, the smell of the ham was so appetising that I fell to eating without further parley, while Caleb stood by watching me as though he was deriving great comfort by doing so.
"It does me good to see you, Master Roland," he said presently. "Why, you are looking better already. Another rasher now, Master Roland, just one more rasher."
"Not another particle, Caleb," I said with a laugh, for a hearty meal had made me feel like a new man. "Now tell me, is my father here?"
"No, Master Roland."
"Where is he? Do you know?"
"No, I do not, but he left this for you," and he brought a bag and placed it on the table before me.
I heard the jingle of money, and on opening the bag I found a large number of gold pieces. As I judged, there must have been a hundred pounds. But it was not of this that I paid so much heed. Besides the gold pieces I found a letter, and this was what my father had written:
"God bless you, my son—my only son. I do not think you have disappointed me much, though for a time I was sorely angered. After all, a youth cannot help loving at some time, and if the woman he loves be good and true, his love should not be laughed at. In my young days wesaid that the more danger there was in the rescue, the more was the rescue worthy of a brave man. I grieve much that we cannot spend some days together in the old home, but that I must leave to you. Black Ben is in the stable of theVirgin Queen. I knew you would like to have him, so I obtained him, although with difficulty. In this bag are a hundred pounds; you may need them. Rest a day and a night before you begin to do what is in your heart. You will need all your strength. I can do nought for you, but your mother would, I know, have you do what is in your heart. So would I. If you succeed, and have need to come to the old home, see that you take many precautions. But whatever may happen, be sure that your father loves you."
My eyes were full of tears when I finished reading this, and I knew then that although he often spoke words which seemed hard and bitter, his heart was full of love towards me.
I rushed out to the stable, where Black Ben welcomed me with a whinney. In truth, I thought he trembled with joy as he saw me.
"I have more work for you, my beauty!" I said, whereupon he rubbed his nose against my arm.
"Great God, help me!" I prayed, as I thought of what lay before me; and into my heart came a great resolution to do what was in my heart to do. I longed much to start on my journey that day, but I was too weak. Nevertheless, at an early hour next morning, I rode through Barnet on my way to Bedford.
I could scarce believe after I passed through Barnet that it was indeed I, Roland Rashcliffe, who bestrode Black Ben. All the long weary months which had passed since last I had ridden along that road seemed like a painful dream. Then the summer was in the full glory of its loveliness. The trees were clothed in their green garments, flowers bloomed everywhere, while the heavens resounded with the song of the birds. The sky was, I remember, of perfect blue, while the lambs sported in the fields as we rode along; and even although I was a prisoner, the woman I loved was by my side, and we were excited at the thought that we were journeying to the presence of the king. Besides, I was then strong and vigorous; my nerves felt like steel, and my heart beat high with hope. Now all was different. A year and nine months had passed away, and we were in March. Not a sign of spring appeared, although I saw the farmers sowing oats and barley. Showers of sleet and snow were swept across the country by cold, biting east winds. The song of the birds was nowhere to be heard. The cold hand of winter still gripped the earth, and the cattle stood shivering by the hedge as if longing for the shelter of their houses.
Then, moreover, the country was rejoicing at the coming of the king. Men were glad because they had escaped the strict morality of the Puritan reign, and expressed the hope of happier times under an indulgent king. But that, too, had changed. Those who had built their hopes for a happier time under Charles hadbeen disappointed, Cromwell had left the country strong and great. Under Charles II it was becoming weak and despised. Louis XIV of France regarded Charles as a kind of vassal, while Holland looked upon us with contempt. Heavy taxes were levied to pay for the king's extravagances, and even his best friends looked upon him as a weak, pleasure-loving, sensual man. He longed to be regarded as an absolute monarch, yet would he not take the trouble to rule the nation righteously. Men saw everywhere that the resources of the land were being drained for no good purpose.
The glad, happy times for which people had hoped, had degenerated into wild, lawless orgies. Virtue among women was not believed in; in men the idea of it was scorned. The Church had become the tool of those in authority, and was made to condone the most frightful abuses. Those who longed for a pure morality and the advancement of true religion, were sneered at as Puritans, and were denied preferment. Nonconformists were persecuted everywhere. Every prison in the country was full of them, and the only charge brought against them was that they sought to pray and preach in another fashion than that ordained by law. The expressed determination of the Episcopal clergy was to stamp out dissent by the iron heel of force. Dissenters were hunted from place to place and persecuted on every hand, and those who in any way sympathized with them were boycotted and persecuted.
All this made my work the harder, for I reflected that Constance was a Nonconformist, and her father had been hanged as a regicide. Moreover, I had no plan of action. I determined to find Constance's hiding-place, and yet I must do so without giving any one else a clue to where she was. Even when I had found her, I knew not how I could help her. My body had been enfeebled by long months of imprisonment, and although at starting out I was buoyed up by the hope of seeing Constance again, I quickly realized that I could not reach Bedford that day, as I had hoped.
Still, I was neither dismayed nor cast down. I knew my strength would soon come back to me, for everybreath I drew was the breath of liberty and hope. I bestrode Black Ben, surely the best horse ever a man rode. At my side hung a good blade, my pistols were ready to hand, and I possessed enough money for my needs. I had also obtained new clothes according to the fashion of the times. I again presented a brave appearance.
I was told that footpads beset the road to the north, but no man molested me.
Towards evening on the second day of my journey I drew near to Bedford, when I set myself to thinking seriously what I should do. I knew that in less than an hour I should see the river coil its way through the town, seeing I was but five miles away. I could not ride fast, for my day's journey had wearied me, and so allowed Black Ben to amble along at will. I was just entering a lonely part of the road, when I saw a man of venerable appearance standing in the road.
He held up his hand at my approach, at the which I stopped.
"You have not seen a woman leading two little children, have you?" he said.
I shook my head.
"Have you seen a little girl about ten, accompanied by a boy of twelve?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
He sighed deeply, whereupon I asked him if he were in trouble.
"Ay, I am in deep trouble," he said, "for I fear evil hath happened to my wife and dear ones. When we parted this morning, I said I would try and get work among the farmers, so as to earn enough to buy them bread, while they said they would make known our condition to some friends who are still faithful. We also arranged to meet here at five o'clock. Is it not about that time, young master?"
"It is past that hour," I replied.
"Then I fear evil hath happened to them," he said, and I saw the tears well up into his eyes.
"But surely this is strange," I said; "you do not look like a man who should be seeking work of the farmers.You look rather to be a man of learning and of quality."
"I am an unworthy preacher of the Word; but I have been driven from my vicarage, and now nought but starvation stares me in the face."
"What parish were you in?" I asked.
"I was the incumbent of St. Martin's," he replied. "I would not conform, so I was e'en driven out."
"Why would you not conform?" I asked.
"E'en because I felt it would be a sin so to do. I had received my ordination from God, and I could not profess to belief in the Prayer-book, which was full of Popish errors. But God's will be done. I was of the Presbyterian persuasion, and I fear that, like the Episcopalians, I desired uniformity. But that is all over now. I see that the Independents and the Quakers are men of God even as we are, and our persecutions have linked us together."
"And what hath become of you since you were driven from your parish?"
"Ah, God knows! We have lived how we could, and it hath been terribly hard. Sometimes for days together we have scarcely had food. Our clothes are worn out too, and sometimes we have been terribly cold. Thank God, the winter cannot last much longer now! Even now I do not think it is quite as cold as it was a week ago;" but the man shivered as he spoke.
"But have you no property at all?" I asked.
"I have but ten pounds a year, and my wife hath nothing at all. All our little savings were soon eaten up, for the children are hearty, thank God! Directly after Bartholomew's Day we were cast forth from our dwelling, and since then we have had nought but trouble. I have no friends but those in my own parish, and Master Gilloch, the new vicar, and Master Graystone, the magistrate, have done their utmost to make it impossible for us to get help. Moreover, times are bad, and those who would help us cannot. I thought while I was in prison that I suffered enough, but I think it hath been worse since I came out."
"Have you been in prison?" I asked.
"Ay," he replied, "in truth I have. For what couldI do? Could I be silent when God had commanded me to preach? 'Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel.' I know now what our brother John Bunyan felt, although a year ago I did but little sympathize with him. The Word of God was like fire in his bones, and he could not help declaring it, so he was cast into prison. After I was ejected from my parish I still preached, and I was cast into prison, and kept there for three months; but I still preach, and, thank God! I still comfort those who are distressed. But for the Word of Life I could not bear my troubles, and who am I that I should keep it from others?"
"But what was the occasion of your being imprisoned?" I asked.
"Oh, we had met, a few of us, in a barn, some half a mile from the king's highway. We met to read God's word and for prayer. As we read I was mightily moved upon to expound the meaning of God's word, and while I was in the act of expounding and exhorting, the constables came, and dragged three of us to gaol. One of the magistrates who judged me was Master Gilloch, who is now the minister in my old parish, and, as I say, I was kept three months in the company of the worst men and women I ever met. But God had use for me, for while there I was the means of leading more than one to accept the Gospel."
"And what did your wife and children do while you were in prison?" I asked.
"Oh, a godly farmer gave them a home, until the squire, Master Graystone, a man who had often eaten bread at my table, came and told the farmer that if he did not drive them from his house he should e'en take his farm from him. Nevertheless, the Lord mercifully provided for them. Since I came out of prison I have been able to provide bread for them by selling my books, and by writing a few letters for those who knew not the craft of writing."
"And have you no special friend now?" I asked, for, as may be imagined, Constance was in my mind all the time.
"Ay, but that friend hath to help in secret," he cried.
I wanted to ask more concerning this, but I saw he turned away his head as he spoke, and seemed desirous of being silent.
"Perchance the hearts of the squire and the vicar may grow softer," I said.
"Ay, young master, there seems but little chance of that. Why, only last night a few pious souls were met together for prayer, and as they prayed the constable entered, and they were dragged away to gaol. The trial is to be held to-morrow, but they will get no mercy."
"To-morrow?" I said. "At what time?"
"At such time as it may suit the magistrates, but it is given out for ten o'clock."
"And what will you do to-night?"
"I know not what to do—ah! praise God, here are my wife and children coming!"
I turned and saw a woman, accompanied by four children, coming towards us, and as they saw us they seemed to quicken their footsteps as if for gladness. The man with whom I had been speaking, kissed them all affectionately, and then each looked to the other as if for news.
"I have obtained enough for food to-night," said the man. "We can e'en call at Elizabeth Jory's and get bread, and we can all sleep in the cottage in the wood."
"I am very cold," whimpered one of the children.
"But I can soon light a fire. Do not be afraid, my dear ones. The Lord will provide. But how have you fared, good wife?"
The woman shook her head. "She dares not come till to-morrow night," she said.
"The Lord will provide till then," said the man; but his voice was piteous, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes.
"You have a friend who will help you to-morrow night?" I said eagerly; but to this the woman made no reply, rather she turned away her head like one afraid.
"You said the Lord would provide," I said, as I took some coins from my pouch. "Perchance He hath sent me to help you. Here is something that will meet your needs till your friend cometh."
"Are you one of the Lord's children?" asked the man, as he looked at my somewhat gay attire.
"I trust so," I said, for in truth I knew not what better to say.
"But are you one who hath also suffered for God's work? Forgive my asking, for while your attire is that of a Court gallant, your face is as if set towards the city of God."
"I have suffered imprisonment for not obeying the king," I made answer.
He looked at me steadily. "Surely I have seen you before," he said, "and yet your face is strange to me. Have you by chance ever visited this neighbourhood before?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Long ago, young master? Oh, you need not fear to tell me. If you have suffered because of your disobedience to the king, you should be one of God's children."
"I was in the Chapel of Herne twelve months ago last June," I replied.
"Surely, surely you cannot be he who helped our friend out of——" He stopped and gazed eagerly at me as if afraid to say more.
"My name is Roland Rashcliffe," I said, whereupon he grasped my hand in joy.
"This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes," he said.
"Know you aught of her?" I said, wellnigh overcome with the hope that was in my heart.
"Know aught of her!" he cried. "Why——"
"Husband, husband!" interrupted the woman.
The man ceased speaking for a moment. "Thank you, wife," he said, after a pause; "the road is full of pitfalls, and a promise should be faithfully kept."
"But I desire to be your friend," I cried eagerly. "Here, take this money, and if further help fails you, will you let me know, and I will give you more."
"Young master, I believe the Lord hath touched your heart," he cried, "and surely He hath brought you to us. May God bless you, and make you a blessing! But I am not a beggar, neither have I asked you for aught."
"But be pleased to take this," I cried. "You will give me joy by taking it. I have plenty, and I desire to help you."
I saw that pride and desire struggled in the man's heart, and I verily believe the former would have conquered had not one of the children cried bitterly:
"Father, I am so cold, and so hungry," she said; "let us go to the cottage, and light the fire."
"Thank you, young master," he said as he took the money; "perchance I shall be able to repay you some day."
"You have repaid me already," I replied. "You have made me happy by enabling me to give your children food and fire to-night. Will you tell me where your cottage is, and then, perchance, I can come and see you again."
Again he looked steadily at me, and it was some time before he spoke. "You see that stile there?" he said. "If you follow the footpath into the wood for half a mile you will see my cottage."
"See that the children have good food and a fire to-night," I said with a laugh, for my heart had grown light and joyful with hope.
"Thanks to you, they shall," he cried; and I saw the tears trickling down his wan cheek. "Oh, may the Lord forgive me for ever doubting His word! Did not David say, 'I have been young, and now am old, yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' No, I shall not be forsaken, and the Lord will provide. Ay, and the word of the Lord shall triumph too. The eyes of the wicked may stand out with fatness, yet will I not fret myself because of evildoers. I will trust in the Lord, and do good, and I will dwell in the land and follow after faithfulness. I will delight myself in the Lord, and He will give me the desires of my heart."
"And what may your name be?" I asked.
"Forgive me if I have seemed afraid to trust you," he said, "but it behoveth those who are surrounded by enemies to behave with caution. But I believe that the Lord hath sent you to me. My name, young master, is John Day, who for ten years ministered to his flock in the parish church at St. Martin's."
All my weariness and fatigue had gone as I rode intoBedford. I was afraid of nothing, for I believed that God had led me hither. Again and again I went over in my mind the conversation between Master John Day and myself, and the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that the friend who had helped them was the woman I loved. It accorded with what my father had told me concerning her, and although Master Day had been afraid to tell me aught, he had said enough to confirm my hopes.
I did not think it best to go toThe Bullat Bedford, but seeing an inn calledGeneral Fairfax, I made my way thither. If an innkeeper was bold enough to keep an inn bearing such a name, I reflected, it might be that I should be safer there than elsewhere. Not that I feared recognition. As Caleb Bullen had said, my appearance had been so changed during my prison life that scarce any one would know me. When I was in Bedford last, I was brown and strong; now I was pale, and looked weak and ill. Moreover, my clothes were so different from what I wore then that they altered my appearance much. Besides, I had but little to fear. No warrant was out against me, neither had I done anything to cause those in authority to take note of me.
The inn, moreover, was of a quieter order than the others, neither were any troublesome questions asked of me.
After supper I found my way into the room where several men sat with their mugs of ale before them, and I found that they were talking about the trial which was to take place on the following morning.
"How many are to be tried?" asked one. "Know you, James Bilsom?"
"Ay, I think there be a score or more."
"They will be all sent to prison, I'll wage."
"There can be no doubt about that. Parson Gilloch is most terrible and bitter against these Dissenters; as for Squire Graystone, he fair hates them. Not that I can see they have done aught wrong. They do but pray and preach as they did before the coming of the king. As for their piety—well, if I lay a-dying I'd rather have one of them to pray with me than I'd have the parson, for all his long white gown."
"But still, the king is king, and law is law."
"Ay, I suppose so. Still, although I was no lover of Old Nol, we were better off in his days. There was less thieving, less drinking, less loose living, and more piety. Of that I am free to confess."
"Say not so too loud, for if Parson Gilloch hears of it he will e'en make you smart. Why, think of what hath befallen the Dissenters."
"Ay, a man can hardly call his soul his own, that he cannot. Are you going to the trial to-morrow?"
"Nay, I cannot sleep after I have been to these trials. I cannot help thinking of the women and children. It is terrible hard for them."
"Ay, it is; how they manage to live I know not."
"Think you there is any truth in the stories about Sir John Leslie's daughter?"
"Nay, I think not. If there were she'd have been found before this."
"I don't know. She's a clever maid. Why, think how she guarded her sister, and got her out of the country. I do hear she's joined Sir Charles in Holland."
"Ay, but she can't be in these parts now. How can she be? Every house is watched; besides, how can she get meat to eat?"
"I don't know; but I tell you, she hath all her wits, and she's more than a match for Parson Gilloch. Peter Blewitt swears it was she that he saw before she tripped him up and blew out his candle."
After this they talked much in this fashion, but they said nought that gave me any clue to the secret of her hiding place, although they gave me much food for reflection.
The next morning I made my way to the Chapel of Herne, in the hopes that I might hear something which might help me in the work I had set myself to do.
"The court house is not so full to-day."
"Nay. Do you mind when John Bunyan was tried? Ay, but he answered the justices boldly, and so cleverly that they could not gainsay him."
"True, but they clapped him into gaol for all that."
"Ay, they did; but that did not depend upon the trial. They had made up their minds to do that before he was brought hither. John was among the first, and people thought much of the trials then. We have had so many since that we be getting used to them."
"Well, it makes it pay to be religious."
"Nay, say rather it makes it a paying business to go to church. There's nought of religion in sending godly people to prison for praying in their own way."
"Hush, man! Men be spying around everywhere, and it takes but little to get fined. I hear there is a lot of paid spies, whose business it is to go around to hear folks talk and to give information to the justices."
"Ay, I suppose so. And yet these Dissenters pray and preach more than ever. I am told that they be increasing in number every week."
"And yet I hear that the king and the clergy say they'll never stop until there's not a Dissenter left in the land."
"Ay, I suppose so."
All this and much more I heard as I stood in the Chapel of Herne that March morning, for although it was wellnigh ten o'clock as I entered the building, the justices did not come until late. The reason for this was, that although only the petty sessions were to be held that day, so great was the interest taken in the Nonconformists that bothSir Henry Chester, of Tilsworth, and Sir George Blundell, of Cardington Manor, had declared their intention of being present, I heard, moreover, that both these worshipful gentlemen were very bitter against the Dissenters, and that Sir George Blundell had said that he would "sell a cow for a shilling" rather than the work against them should not go forward. It was also said that when Sir Matthew Hale visited Bedford, he would have set John Bunyan at liberty but for Sir Henry Chester, who declared that Bunyan was a good-for-nothing fellow, who preferred going around stirring up dissension to working at his proper trade, which was that of a travelling tinker.
It was because they were late that proceedings did not begin at the proper hour that morning. When they arrived near noon-day, however, their entrance made a great stir, and they took their seats on the bench with a great show of importance.
I stayed only during the trial of one who was brought thither that morning, but I was told that the other cases were dismissed with great speed, as the justices had some appointment elsewhere which they wished to keep. The man who was tried while I was there was called James Ireton, whose name, I was told, went much against him, seeing that Colonel Ireton had been hanged by the king only a little time before.
He was only a young man, it may be of twenty-five years of age, and looked a harmless sort of fellow, although I saw by the look of quiet determination in his eyes that he was not one who would be easily turned aside from his purposes. He was a blacksmith by trade, and one, I judged, of tremendous strength of arm and body. The indictment brought against him was in these words:
"James Ireton, you are accused of devilishly and perniciously abstaining from coming to church to hear divine service, and for being a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom, and contrary to the laws of our sovereign lord the king."
The man replied that he did indeed attend a meeting of godly people for praise and prayer, but that it was held inan outhouse nearly half a mile from the king's highway, and that there was not a dwelling-house near it.
"But do you know that such a meeting is unlawful?" cried the magistrate.
"I find nothing in the Word of God against it," replied the man.
"I do not mean the Word of God, of which you are ignorant," replied the magistrate, "but the laws of this country."
"I always put the laws of God above every law," replied the blacksmith, "and there I do find I am commanded to continue in prayer."
"Ay, and the law hath provided the church for you to pray. Do you go to church?"
"Ay, I do go to the Church of God," replied the man.
"What church?"
"A church composed of those who meet together in Christ's name," replied he.
"Ah, some conventicle! That is no church. How can you call that a church?"
"I have Christ's own words," replied the man. "He said, 'Wheresoever two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them,' and it is Christ that makes the church."
"I cannot allow this blasphemy," said the justice. "The question is, do you go to the parish church?"
"No," replied Ireton, "I do not."
"And why?"
"Because I do not find the Scriptures faithfully proclaimed, because many Romish practices are performed, and because I get no good to my soul."
"Thou art a naughty, law-breaking varlet!" said the justice.
"Nay, that is not so. In truth there was a time when this was true of me; for I was a drunkard, and I treated my wife with great cruelty. For this I was not punished; but now that I am trying to obey God's word, and to lead others to holy life, I am e'en haled before you."
"But didst thou go to church when thou wert what thou sayst?"
"Ay, that I did. I was one of the bell-ringers at the parish church."
"Well now, wilt thou not promise to be a decent fellow again? A man who can ring one of a peal of bells is a useful man, and no man can say to the contrary. Now, why not be as you were before? I don't mean as to the wife-beating, that is, of course, wrong. But can't you be religious in the right way, go to church regularly, and drink your ale in moderation?"
"Why," said the man, "I knew nought about religion till I heard John Bunyan preach; then I realized that I had been a sinner, and that I must repent of my sins, and accept Christ as my Saviour. On doing this such a joy and peace came into my heart, that I longed to tell others of the good news which had come to me."
"Ay, but how can an ignorant man like thee be fit to preach?"
"I have often thought of that myself, and truly I have tried not to. But I have felt what I think the Apostle must have felt when he said, 'Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel.' Besides, God hath blessed me wonderfully, and hath used me in leading many to conversion."
After this many other questions were asked, which the man answered in a like fashion.
"Now," said Sir Henry Chester presently, "it hath been proved that thou hast been a naughty, law-breaking varlet. Thou hast devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church, and thou hast been guilty of the sin of preaching. For either of these things thou dost deserve to be punished with great severity. But we are inclined to be merciful. If thou wilt promise to go to church as the law dictates, and never to preach again, thou shalt be forgiven. Come now, that is a great mercy."
"Nay," said the man, "I cannot promise, for I must e'en obey God rather than man."
After this he was threatened with many cruel threats, but being obstinate he was committed to gaol as though he were an ordinary felon. No sooner was the man dragged away by the constables than I left the court house, partly because I did not see how I could make any discoveries as to the whereabouts of Constance while there, and secondly, because I thought I saw some of the magistrates casting suspicious eyes upon me.
During the rest of the day I cast my mind about as to what I should do. I discovered that the constables were on the look-out for Constance, and that the whole countryside was being watched, so that if she in any way shewed herself, she should be arrested and thrown into prison. But in this matter many opinions were afloat. Some had it that she had never returned to Bedford at all, but had escaped to Holland directly after her father's death, whither her sister Dorcas had gone. Others, again, held with Peter Blewitt the constable, that it was she who helped many of the Dissenters in their trouble, and, indeed, kept them from starving. This, however, seemed impossible, for how could she, who must keep in constant hiding, be able to help others?
As far as I could judge, no man seemed to recognize me. My long imprisonment had much changed my appearance, while my beard acted almost like a mask. In order to test this, I even went so far as to have a chat with the landlord ofThe Bull, and so little was he aware as to who I was that I laughed at the fears I had about the magistrates eyeing me with suspicion.
I dared not go to Goodlands, however. I knew that the place was being watched, and thus, if Constance were there—as, remembering what she had told me long months before, I believed she was—I should only increase her danger. And yet I longed to see her more than words could say, for my long imprisonment had not lessened my love. It had increased it. So that the thought that she was only a few miles from me tempted me to discard all prudence, and boldly seek her out. But this I did not do, for true love doth not seek its own pleasure, but the welfare of the one who is beloved. I therefore possessed my soul in patience until night, when I made my way to the cottage where the expelled minister told me he had taken up his abode. I remembered the words that had passed between the husband and the wife when I had seen them on the highway near Bedford, and I believed that it was Constance whom the woman had said had promised to come to them that night.
It must have been nine by the clock as I reached the stile which the man had pointed out to me, but althoughit was dark, I had but little difficulty in following the path. In truth it seemed like a much trodden road, and one on which many people had lately passed. I had not gone far before I saw a tiny twinkling light, after which I heard the sound of voices singing.
A few minutes later I was so close that I could hear what they were singing. I did not think that the voices were very musical; nevertheless, there was a plaintiveness of tone mingled with triumph that I could not help being moved.
"The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?
"The Lord is the strength of my life: of whom shall I be afraid?
"When evildoers come upon me to eat up my flesh, even mine adversaries and my foes, they stumbled and fell.
"Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.
"One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after.
"That I may dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life."
After this I heard the voice of John Day, the man who had been the minister of the parish church of St. Martin's.
"My friends," he said, "I feel constrained to speak a few words of comfort and hope to you, for truly the Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad; but before I try to expound God's holy word, let us ask Him for wisdom and light, so that I may speak his words with wisdom, rightly dividing the word of truth."
"It will be well that one of us do go out and watch," said a voice, "for the magistrates be very bitter against us. John Ireton and many others have been sent to gaol to-day, and I do hear that orders have been given to watch some of us, and especial mention hath been made of you, Master Day."
"I do not fear," said the old clergyman; "the Lord hath called me to preach the Gospel, and I may not hold my peace. Still, seeing we live in evil times, it may be as you say, therefore do one of you watch while we seek to eat of the Bread of Life."
I had come up to the cottage unheeded by theworshippers. As far as I could gather there were not a dozen in all, who were evidently labouring men and their wives. Standing where I was, however, I could see the cottage plainly, and I noticed that one of their number went out, and stood at a place where he could take note of any that might come.
After Master John Day had prayed, he began to speak to the people. First of all he expounded the Scriptures to them, and then he sought to enforce his teaching concerning God's providence by example. "You know, my friends," he said, "how I have been put to great straits for bread. You have helped me all you could; but you have had barely enough for your own necessities. I have tried to obtain service at the hands of those who employ labour, but few would hire me. In truth, I should have starved, but for one dear friend who shall be nameless. Then the time came when even she was powerless, and yesterday I and my little ones would have starved had not the Lord sent a stranger along the road, who hath given us enough for our necessities for several days. Shall we doubt the Lord, dear friends? It is true we have been driven from our home, and we have even been forbidden to take religious exercises together, yet hath the Lord watched over us, ay, and He will watch over us, even to the last."
He had scarcely said these words than the man who had been appointed as a watcher rushed in.
"The constables!" he cried; "they will be here in a minute more."
"Shall we stay and meet them boldly?" said Master John Day.
"What good will it do?" one cried. "I know that the Quakers take no note of them, but we be wiser than they. We must e'en disband."
"Nay, but I will gladly suffer for Christ's sake," said John Day. "Still, I must remember my wife, and my dear little ones."
Upon this the light was extinguished, and a few seconds later I heard hurrying footsteps.
I waited hidden behind a thick bush, and presently I heard stealthy footsteps approaching.
"All is dark," said a voice.
"Ay, but they have been here."
"Yes, but they are gone. Let us go in and see if Master Day is there."
"That will be no use. If we go in it will make them more watchful against another time."
"Perhaps that is so. We have missed them this time, but we will pounce upon them unawares another time. You know that Parson Gilloch told us we should have a crown apiece and a gallon of strong ale if we caught Master Day in the act of preaching."
"Ay, that is so. Well, we had better go for the night."
I heard them creep away as silently as they had come, and in a few more minutes all was still. The worshippers had evidently gone to their homes, and not a sound could I hear disturbing the stillness of the night.
Still I waited. I felt that here was my opportunity of finding out the truth concerning the whereabouts of Constance, and I determined to remain where I was until the minister's fears were stilled, after which I would try and have speech with him.
After a time a light twinkled in the cottage again, and I heard the low murmur of voices. The night had become perfectly still, and not a breath of wind moved the bare tree branches. I thought I smelt the breath of spring in the air, the thought of which gave me joy, I knew not why.
"She cannot be coming here to-night," I thought. "It is now wellnigh midnight, and this place must be at least three miles from Goodlands, even although there be a short cut across the fields." This thought made my heart cold, and yet I stayed there in hope, my eyes hungering for a sight of her face. How long I stayed I know not, but presently I thought the voices grew louder, whereupon I crept silently forward, until I could hear more plainly.
"It is because of the goodness of God that you have come to me, my child," the old clergyman said, "and we thank you beyond all telling. Yet do I wish you had not come. The way is long to your hiding place, and the night is dark. Besides, God hath ministered to our necessities. He hath sent a friend to help us."
"Who hath he sent?"
My heart almost stood still! It was the voice ofConstance which I heard, and in an instant it seemed to me as though my full strength had come back again. My weakness I felt not, and my weariness had passed away, even as snow ceases to be when the hot sun shines.
"It was yester eve," said the old clergyman. "I was in despair because I had no food for my wife and children, and because I was afraid harm had happened to them. While I was waiting for them, a youth came along riding a raven black horse. We fell to speaking together, and the Lord touched his heart."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"Ay, my child, and although you have told me nought, I cannot help believing that his coming will be good news to you. His name is Roland Rashcliffe."
"Tell me more! Tell me more!"
After that I could not stay outside a moment longer, for she spoke with eagerness and joy. I called to mind the look she had given me when we stood together in the presence of the king, and I felt that she had not forgotten me.
Without ado I opened the door, and stood before them. At first I thought she looked afraid, and this made me say what I should not have dared to say otherwise.
"Constance," I said, "I could not come before, but I have loved you all the time, even as I told you I should."
Her eyes were lifted to mine as if in great wonder, then I saw the tears well up in them; but they were not tears of sorrow.
"You are not angry with me, are you?" I said.
And then she burst out sobbing upon my shoulder, while I, unheeding Master Day and his wife, strained her to my heart.
We did not stay long at the cottage. I gave Master Day enough money to meet his needs for some time to come, and then Constance and I walked to Goodlands together along the silent, lonely road whither she had come.
I will not write of all the things we spoke about during that long journey. Enough to say that she had escaped from the king's palace as my father had told me, and had made her way to Goodlands, which she entered by a secret known only to herself, and to the faithful farmer whooccupied the kitchen part of the house and looked after the Goodlands estate. Here she was able to remain unmolested. The entrance to the house, she told me, was by a secret underground passage, the opening of which could only be discovered with great difficulty. Here, moreover, were rooms in which her forefathers had been hidden in the days of Queen Mary, the secret of which had defied all searchers. It was here she had hidden Father Solomon, whose real name was John Walters, and her sister Dorcas, and it was from here she had sent her sister to Holland to meet her husband.
She told me, moreover, that this old man, who claimed to be the father of Lucy Walters, had been driven wellnigh mad because of his daughter's shame, and that he had left his wife because she encouraged her child in her evil ways. He had, moreover, become friendly with Sir Charles Denman, who had given him the right to live in the lonely house. For years he had been a student of the occult sciences, in order, he said, to find out the hiding place of the marriage contract between his daughter and the king, and it was here that her sister came, after she, in a fit of religious frenzy, had sought to take the life of General Monk.
Constance told me, moreover, that she had been taught to fear this old man; yet did she visit him for her sister's sake, on the night when we first met. Whether the marriage contract was genuine, or whether it had been forged by the old man or no, she could not tell, neither did she know where he was now. Directly after her sister had escaped to Holland, he also had disappeared; but before he went he declared that he would yet see his daughter owned as the king's wife, while her son should be king of England.
But it was not these things which troubled me as I walked by Constance's side that dark night in March. I was thinking rather of my great love for her, and how I could take her from the hands of her enemies. For she was now all alone in the world. Her father was dead, hanged by the king, while her sister had rejoined her husband, a man whom Constance regarded with fear and anger.
Although she had stayed long at Goodlands, she feltthat her stay there must soon come to an end. She could not live much longer under such circumstances, especially as she felt sure that she was suspected of being hidden in the house.
Of the love we confessed one to another I will not write, for that is not the affair of those who may read this; but that she did love me I did not doubt. How could I doubt it when for me she had defied the king? How could I doubt after the way she had sobbed out her love for me in Master John Day's cottage?
Thus it was that the long walk was to me a joy beyond words. At last my love was by my side, and so I did not dread the dark clouds that hung in our sky, I did not fear the enemies which beset her on every hand.
"There is nought for us to fear," I said to her, for at that moment everything seemed possible to me.
"Oh, I have prayed for this so long, so earnestly," she said. "That night when we stood before the king, I wanted to tell you what was in my heart, but—but—" and then she told me again what my heart was hungering to hear.
"We cannot stay in England," I said, "but we can go across the seas, and make a home in New England, even as your Puritan forefathers did. Will you, Constance?"
"Whither thou goest, I will go," she said; "where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."
Then I thanked God with a full heart for all His great goodness to me, and there and then we arranged that I should come for her the following night, and that we should ride together to my father's house before setting out to find a new home.
"Good-night, my beloved," I said as we parted; "we will trust, and not be afraid."
"Come as early as you dare," she said shyly, "for in truth I feel I can no longer live without you."
And this I promised with a right good will and with a light heart, for I did not then know what would soon be revealed to me.