Great was Lady Eleanor's distress when she heard from the Corporal what had happened. "Ah, if only Colonel Fitzdenys had been here!" she repeated more than once; but she could think of nothing that could be done except to send a letter at once to the colonel to tell him the whole story and to ask him to be present at Kingstoke, which lay close to Fitzdenys, when the prisoner should be brought up next morning. This was the Corporal's suggestion; but Lady Eleanor noticed that he was unusually silent and subdued, and she was rather surprised when he asked leave rather mysteriously to be absent from the house for the rest of the day. But she trusted him so implicitly that she granted his request without hesitation, and the Corporal, having sent off the letter, went out for the evening by himself.
The truth was that he was bitterly hurt and indignant at the hard words that Mrs. Mugford had used towards him, of having betrayed the children to the witch on the moor. The bare idea that he should have been false to his mistress and to the children, whom he worshipped, made him furious; and he went out with the determination of giving Mrs. Mugford a bit of his mind before night, but, like a wise man, not until he had thought the matter well over during a solitary walk. So he made his way through the woods and in due time came to the place where Dick had pointed out to him the ragged man, whom he had found skulking in the fern a short time before. Then it flashed across him suddenly that this man might be the deserter, and he blamed himself for his stupidity in not thinking of it at first. Once again he racked his brains to remember where he had seen the man before, for certainly he had seen him or some one very like him; and with his mind full of Mrs. Mugford he suddenly recalled her son Henry, who had enlisted for a marine, and had once come back on sick-leave. The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that the man whom he had found was Henry Mugford, for though he had not seen him for some years he had never heard that he had been discharged. That would account for Mrs. Mugford's anxiety to keep the Corporal out of the village, and to get the idiot arrested, for it would probably be some days before a serjeant of Marines could arrive from Plymouth, or the idiot himself could be sent there, to decide if he were the deserter Henry Bale or not. And, as to the name, the Corporal knew well enough by experience that men constantly enlisted under assumed names, while Bale was a likely name for this particular man to choose, as it had been Mrs. Mugford's own before she married.
Thus reflecting, the Corporal turned along the path that led through the woods lying above the village, stopped when he saw the roofs of the cottages below him, and went down through the covert towards the hedge that parted the cottage-gardens from it. It was dusk, so that he had little difficulty in remaining unseen, and as he drew nearer to the two cottages where Mrs. Fry and Mrs. Mugford lived, he heard the voices of the pair in violent altercation in the garden below.
"You said so plain as could be that you'd a-share the two guineas with me," Mrs. Fry was saying indignantly. "That's what you said."
"And don't I say that I'll give 'ee five shillings?" retorted Mrs. Mugford, "and that's more than nine out of ten would give. 'Twas I catched mun and not you. If I hadn't stopped mun in the road they'd never have catched mun at all, and 'twas a chance then that he might have killed me, mazed as he is. And you've a-taken pounds and pounds from the gentry for the harm that was done your Tommy, and never given me so much as a penny, though I've a-showed mun many times when you wasn't in house."
"Well," said Mrs. Fry defiantly, "then we'll see what people say when I tells what I've a-seen of a man coming round to your house night-times these weeks and weeks, and you going out to mun with bread and mate. I've a-seen mun, for all that you was so false."
Then they dropped their voices, and Mrs. Mugford appeared to be making new offers. But the Corporal had heard enough. Keeping himself carefully concealed he walked along the hedge until he found a rack over it, which seemed to be well worn, leading down to the cottages below, and by this rack he curled himself up in the bushes, and waited. In a short time the village was dark and silent, for in those days oil-lamps were never seen in a cottage; and the Corporal found waiting rather cold work, but he had bivouacked on colder nights in the wars, and lay patiently in his place. A little after ten the moon rose, but it was full eleven o'clock before the Corporal heard the bushes rustle, and at last made out a man creeping cautiously alongside the hedge. Nearer and nearer he came, straight to the rack in the hedge, where after pausing for a moment to listen, he was beginning to scramble up; when the Corporal suddenly laid hold of his ankles, brought him sprawling down, rolled him into the hedge-trough, and was instantly on top of him, with his knee on his chest and his hand on his throat. The unfortunate creature was too much paralysed by fright to resist; and the Corporal soon dragged his face round into the moonlight and saw that he had caught the man that he wanted.
"So you've come here again, Henry Bale," said the Corporal; "I told you that it would be the worse for you, if you did."
"My name's Mugford," gasped the man, now struggling a little.
"And when did you get your discharge?" asked the Corporal; "and why are you hanging about the woods instead of living with your mother like an honest man? But when you're back at Plymouth they'll know you as Henry Bale fast enough, I'll warrant."
The man trembled, and begged abjectly for mercy; but the Corporal only pulled out a knife, without relaxing his hold on his throat, turned him over on his face, and cut his waistband. "Now," he said, "the best thing that you can do is to surrender and come quietly along with me. Give me your hands." And pulling a piece of twine from his pocket he tied the man's thumbs together behind his back. Then raising him to his feet he shoved him over the rack in the hedge, and led him past Mrs. Mugford's windows, where a rushlight was burning, into the road and so to the stables at Bracefort. There he locked his prisoner into a separate loose-box with a barred window, having first tied his wrists before him, instead of his thumbs behind him; and then he sought out pen and paper and wrote; a letter to Colonel Fitzdenys, which, though it was not very long, took him much time to write, and ran as follows:—
"Honoured Col.—these are to inform you that I have the deserter Henry Bale saf under lock and kay which is all at present from your honour's most ob't humble serv't.—J. BRIMACOTT."
He put the letter into his pocket, and drawing a mattress before the door of the loose-box, went fast asleep on it till dawn, when he called a sleepy stable-boy from the rooms above and bade him ride over with the letter to Fitzdenys Court.
By eight o'clock Colonel Fitzdenys arrived at a gallop from Fitzdenys Court. Having seen and questioned the Corporal's prisoner, who made a full confession, he left a message that he would return as soon as possible, and that he would want to see Mrs. Fry and Tommy; after which he rode back again, as fast as he had come, to Kingstoke. There his business was soon finished, for when the idiot was brought up before him (which he had already arranged to be done) he was able to discharge him directly, since he himself had ascertained that the true deserter had been captured. But none the less he gave the serjeant a guinea to console him for his disappointment in having caught the wrong man.
Then he went to speak to the idiot's mother and to tell her how sorry he was for the mistake that had been made; for the two had been locked up all night in Kingstoke. She did not receive him kindly, however, for all that she said was: "It's very well to be sorry now, and I don't say, sir, that it's no fault of yours, but they've agone nigh to kill my boy with their doings;" and indeed the idiot was so weak and white that he could hardly stand. Still more distressed was she when Colonel Fitzdenys told her that she could not go yet, but that she must first visit Bracefort Hall. She tried hard to obtain his leave to go to her own place at once, but he insisted, though with all possible kindness, that she must come with him to the Hall, and that then she should be free to go where she would. So very reluctantly she got into a market-cart with her son, who sat like a lifeless thing beside her, and was driven off, while Colonel Fitzdenys cantered on before them.
When the market-cart reached the door of the Hall, Lady Eleanor was there waiting to welcome her and to thank her for all that she had done for her own children; but the woman only said coldly that she was very welcome, and seemed to have no thought but for her idiot son, who remained sunk in the same abject condition. They brought him wine, which revived him enough to set him crying a little, but he would take no notice of anything. For a moment the woman softened, when Dick and Elsie came in and thanked her prettily for the kindness that she had shown to them, and she tried to rouse her son to take notice of them. But he only went on crying; and she was evidently much distressed.
Then the Corporal came to say that Mrs. Fry was come and had brought Tommy with her; on which Colonel Fitzdenys told the woman outright that she had been accused of bewitching the boy and depriving him of his speech. The woman's hard manner at once returned, and she laughed loud and scornfully.
"That's only their lies," she said. "How should I take away a boy's speech? they'm all agin me and my boy; that's all it is."
"Well, they say that he can't speak," said Colonel Fitzdenys. "You shall tell him to speak yourself, and then we shall be able to judge."
So Mrs. Fry was called in and told to hold her tongue, and Tommy, who had hidden himself in her skirts, was brought forward. The woman no sooner saw him than her eyes gleamed, and she said: "That's the one who throwed stones at my boy and called mun thafe. He not spake? He can spake well enough if he has a mind, I'll warrant mun."
"But his mother says that he cannot," said Colonel Fitzdenys. "See for yourself," and he led the trembling boy forward. "Tell him to speak to you."
"Spake, boy," said the woman not very amiably. "You can spake well enough, can't 'ee?"
"Yas," said Tommy nervously, to his mother's intense surprise.
"There! what did I tell 'ee?" said the woman contemptuously. "'Twas only their lies. He can spake so well as you and I."
Mrs. Fry, much taken aback, seized hold of the boy in amazement; but he begged so hard to be let go as to leave no doubt that his speech was restored; and Lady Eleanor lost no time in sending him off with his mother.
Then Lady Eleanor again thanked the idiot's mother for all that she had done for her own children, and asked what she could do for her; but the woman would accept no money nor reward, nothing but a few cakes which the children brought to her to take home for her son. Lady Eleanor offered her everything that she could think of, even to a remote cottage in the woods where she would certainly live undisturbed; but the woman only begged that she might not be asked to say where she lived nor to give any account of herself. She was quite alone with her son, she said, and lived an honest harmless life. As to Tommy Fry, she could not understand how any words of hers could have taken his speech from him; it was nonsense, and the women were fools. Finally, she said that if Lady Eleanor really wished to be kind she would let them go and not try to find them again; but she faithfully promised that if anything went wrong, she would come to her first for help.
So Lady Eleanor seeing that she was in earnest promised to do as she had said; and the woman thanked her with real gratitude. Then Dick and Elsie came in again to say good-bye, and the woman, taking her son by the arm, led him away. He moved so feebly that Lady Eleanor offered her a pony for him to ride, but his mother refused, though with many thanks; so the two passed away slowly across the park, and disappeared.
"Well, there is Tommy Fry cured at any rate," said Colonel Fitzdenys. "And I believe that the woman spoke the truth, when she said that she did not know what she had done to him. And now I must see to this man who is locked up in the stable."
But even while he spoke the Corporal came to say that Mrs. Mugford was come, and begged to be allowed to see her Ladyship. So in the poor thing came, crying her eyes out, to confess that her son in the stable was the true deserter, and to beg her Ladyship to have mercy and not to yield him up, giving such an account of the punishment that awaited him as nearly turned Lady Eleanor sick; for those were rough days in the army.
Colonel George meanwhile stood by without uttering a word; and when Mrs. Mugford had crawled from the room, utterly broken down, and Lady Eleanor turned to him with tears in her eyes, too much moved to speak, he only shook his head.
"The fellow must be given up and sent back to his corps," he said. "He has already got an innocent man into trouble, and even if he had not I am bound in duty to send him back."
"Could you not do something to intercede for him and save him from this horrible punishment?" asked Lady Eleanor. "I should be so thankful if you would."
Colonel George hesitated. "I have no wish to harm the poor wretch," he said, "but there are other men in the same case, very likely less guilty, who have no one to intercede for them. It is a question of discipline."
"Oh, don't be so hard," pleaded Lady Eleanor, "you who are always so gentle. You, who have done so much for me, grant me this one little thing more."
Colonel George looked at the beautiful face before him, and Lady Eleanor knew that she had gained her point. "Well, well," he said at last; "I will write on his behalf, and better still I will get my father to write also, which will have more effect. But it is all wrong," he added; "it is not discipline."
"I am quite sure that it will be all right," said Lady Eleanor with great decision.
Colonel George shook his head smiling; but he and old Lord Fitzdenys wrote, as he had promised; and it may as well be said that they obtained pardon for Henry Mugford the deserter.
The village was not a little awed by the strange turn that affairs had taken, for the two noisiest tongues in it had been silenced, Mrs. Fry's by the restoration of her Tommy's power of speech, Mrs. Mugford's by the arrest of her son. The Corporal had been vindicated and his slanderers confounded; but Lady Eleanor as usual did all that she could to make unpleasant things as little unpleasant as possible. The deserter was sent away to Plymouth so quietly that hardly any one found it out, and his disconsolate mother was somewhat comforted by Lady Eleanor's assurance that everything would be done to obtain mercy for him. Moreover the Corporal declared that he would not touch the two guineas reward that he had earned, but would hand them over to Lady Eleanor to spend for the good of the parish as she should think best; which fact leaking out through the servants at the Hall did much to regain for him the goodwill that he had so unjustly lost.
Another thing also helped to restore harmony; for Dick could not leave home for school without going round to say good-bye to all his friends, and these were so numerous that there was hardly a cottage at which he did not step in, being always sure of welcome and good wishes. The farewells ended with a visit to old Sally Dart, who, feeble and crippled though she was, had prepared a great feast of hot potato-cake (which was made under her own eye by a neighbour, since she was too weak to make it herself) honey and clouted cream; while the little silver cream-jug and the six silver spoons, which the old squire and his lady had given her at her marriage, were all brought out for so great an occasion. A great meal they ate, the Corporal attacking his potato-cake and cream as heartily as Dick himself; and when all the old stories had been related for the fiftieth time, old Sally produced the greatest treasure that she owned, a little snuff-box mounted in silver, which had been made from the horn of an ox that had been roasted whole at the great election, when old Squire Bracefort had stood at the head of the poll. This she gave to Dick for his own, and then setting the boy in front of her she put his hair off his forehead and begged him that if ever any child or children of her son Jan should appear, he would be kind to them for her sake, and that he would think of this when he looked at the box. Dick promised this readily, though he was a little puzzled at her earnestness; and then she bade him good-bye and God bless him, and prayed that he might grow up to be such another man as his father had been. So the children and the Corporal returned to the Hall thoughtful and subdued, though the children hardly knew why.
Two days later, early in the morning, Dick and the Corporal drove off to meet the coach. Little Elsie stood on the steps crying silently, but Dick was so much excited at the prospect of the journey, that he held up bravely, and fluttered his handkerchief out of the window as long as the house was in sight. So Lady Eleanor and Elsie waited until the handkerchief could be seen no more, and then went in sadly together. Lessons were a heavy task that morning; and when they were over and Elsie was gone out, Lady Eleanor felt lonely and depressed and out of heart with everything. She was roused by the sound of a horse on the gravel; and presently Colonel Fitzdenys came in to say that he had seen Dick off by the coach, and that the boy was in good spirits. Lady Eleanor never felt more thankful for his presence than on that morning; but they had not talked for very long, when a maid-servant came in with a scared face to say that the strange woman from the moor was come, and begged, if she might, to see her Ladyship directly.
So Lady Eleanor went out and Colonel George with her; and there the woman was, with her face ghastly white, her eyes wild and weary, and every line in her countenance ploughed thrice as deep as when they had last seen her. She was sitting in a chair which the frightened maid had brought to her, but rose wearily as Lady Eleanor came to her.
"Are you in trouble, my poor soul?" said Lady Eleanor, shocked at her appearance. "Tell me what has happened!" and she motioned to her to sit down again.
The woman waited for a moment and then said in a hard voice, "'Tis my boy Jan; I can't rightly tell what's wrong wi' mun"—and then she stopped, but seeing the sympathy in Lady Eleanor's eyes broke out hurriedly, "Oh, my Lady, I believe that they've a-killed mun. Since I took mun home three days agone he won't eat and won't take no notice of naught, but lieth still; and 'twas only when I left mun for a minute that he made a kind of crying and clung to me like. I had to carry mun home herefrom the day I left you."
"You carried him home?" broke in Colonel George astonished.
"Yes," said the woman simply; "'most all the way, for he soon gived out walking; and ever since he's growed weaker and weaker, till this morning at daylight he didn't take notice of me no longer, so then I was obliged to leave mun"—she stopped a minute and went on in a harder voice—"I couldn't help it; I come to ask you if you could spare mun a drop of wine or what you think might do mun good, for"—she stopped again and buried her face in her hands.
Lady Eleanor did not speak; she only laid her hand gently on the woman's shoulder, which sank down and down until she was bent double. Colonel George at once slipped out of the room and presently returned with wine, which he gave to Lady Eleanor. The woman revived when she had drunk a little, and then Colonel George said to her: "Now, my good woman, you must let me go back with you to your son and take with me some things for him. Don't be afraid"—(for the woman was shaking her head)—"I am your friend and you may trust me to keep your secret if you have any to keep. Think, now, if I know the way, you can stay with your son and I can bring him up whatever he wants on any day that you please; and I'll bind myself not to show the way to any one, nor to come back except on the day that you choose."
The woman hesitated and looked from Colonel George to Lady Eleanor, who said: "Colonel Fitzdenys is right. You can trust him, and you will show him the way; and I must come too in case I can be of use. Remember that you saved my children for me."
The woman still shook her head, but she was evidently wavering. Colonel George's tone of quiet authority at last prevailed with her, and she consented to show them the way, saying gruffly that she would always prefer a soldier, who knew what he was about, to a doctor. But she refused to ride a pony which Lady Eleanor offered to her, and insisted on starting off by herself, appointing a place in a valley by the edge of the moor where she promised to meet them without fail. And with that she strode away across the park, while Lady Eleanor ordered her horse and ran to put on her habit.
The horses were soon ready, and Colonel George and Lady Eleanor started off; but it was only by a long circuit that they could ride to the appointed spot on horseback, and when they reached it the woman was already there before them. She then led them by a very rough path, which was unknown to Colonel George, to the very head of a deep combe, where the oak coppice grew thinner and thinner until at last it died out in the open moor. Among these thin trees was a rough Exmoor pony, hobbled, which the woman caught and mounted, and then led the way straight on over the hill.
"I don't understand this," said Colonel George to Lady Eleanor, "I have always been told that the ground before us was impassable. It is the bog in which most of the rivers in the moor rise. I have crossed it a mile east and west of this after deer, and the ground is bad enough there; but I had no idea that it could be crossed here."
"No," said the woman, who had evidently overheard him, "the deer don't never cross here, but I know my way across well enough."
These were the only words that she spoke during the ride, except now and again to bid her companions keep to right or left, for presently they were on the treacherous ground across which she had guided the children, and the horses sank deeper in it than the ponies. With all his knowledge and experience of the moor the colonel found it difficult to pick his way, and Lady Eleanor's horse floundered so deep that she was once or twice obliged to dismount before he could get out. Still the woman led them on until at last the worst of the ground was past, though the horses still sank at least fetlock-deep at every step. The watershed was left behind and the ground began to fall rapidly, though it was so heavily seamed by a network of deep drains dug by the water through the turf, that without a guide any one would have found it almost impossible to find a way out. Colonel George watched carefully for landmarks as he went on, and looked out keenly for the hut, but could see nothing. Once or twice the woman smiled grimly as she saw his eyes roving in every direction, and the colonel smiled back and said: "It's a good job that the deer do not cross here, mistress, for no horse could live with them;" but she only shook her head and said nothing.
At length the rank red and yellow grass of the boggy ground showed a patch or two of heather. They were riding upon a ridge between two streams, and Colonel George was wondering which of the two they were about to follow, when the woman turned sharply downward on one side and followed the stream up for a little way; and then suddenly there opened out a little cross combe, so deep and narrow that the colonel might have been excused for not seeing it. At one point a mass of rock rose out abruptly from the earth, which had evidently turned the water from above, so that for a short distance the stream ran almost the reverse way to its true course. Against the rock the washing of centuries had thrown up a bank of pebbles, now thickly overgrown with grass; and there lay the hut, almost invisible from any point, against the rock, sheltered from the westerly gales and gathering more of the eastern and southern sun than could have been thought possible. The goats ran bleating towards the three as they rode up, for they had not been milked that morning; and the woman's face was set hard as she went to the door of the hut and presently returned to beckon Lady Eleanor in.
Still the woman led them on.[Illustration: Still the woman led them on.]
Still the woman led them on.[Illustration: Still the woman led them on.]
It was little that could be seen of the sick man, except a white shrunken face and closed eyes, as he lay on his bed of heather, with every description of garment piled upon him. He lay quite still and quiet, breathing rather heavily; and when his mother poured some wine down his throat from the basket that Colonel George carried with him, he only stirred slightly and composed himself again as it were to sleep. Then Lady Eleanor came out to hold the horses and Colonel George went in. She heard him ask a few questions, and when he came out he could only shrug his shoulders in answer to her inquiring glance. "I can make nothing of it and get nothing out of her," he said, "but I have seen that look on a man's face before, and it is not a look that I like to see. She seems unwilling to tell anything of the reason for his illness, but there must be some story at the bottom of it all, if we could only get at it. Go in and try."
So Lady Eleanor went in, while Colonel George stood at the door holding the horses, and sat for a time looking at the sick man in silence, till at last she asked the woman if she thought the bandsmen had hurt him when they seized him.
"No, 'twasn't the bandsmen," said the woman absently, and without looking up; "'twas the sarjint as did it."
"What did the serjeant do to him?" asked Colonel George from the door. "It is a shameful thing if he hurt him, for Brimacott told me that he had begged him not to be hard on him."
But the woman gave no answer, seeming rather ashamed to have said so much; and after another silence Lady Eleanor asked another question or two which was answered very shortly, and said something about calling in a doctor.
"Doctor, no!" answered the woman fiercely. "They never do nought but bleed a man to death."
"Are you sure?" said Colonel George. "I know there were army-doctors who used to bleed men disgracefully. You remember," he added, turning for a moment to Lady Eleanor, "what Charlie Napier of the Fiftieth wrote from Hythe, that the doctors thought bleeding to death the best way of recovering sick soldiers. But I don't suppose, my good woman, that you have ever had to do with such."
"What! not I?" said the woman scornfully, but instantly restrained herself and stopped.
"I should give him a drop more wine from time to time, mistress," said Colonel George, as if taking no notice of what she had said; and hitching the reins of the horses round the poles of the hut he took a spoon, and poured a little between the sick man's lips himself. "The poor fellow's dreadfully weak," he went on. "Was he ever sick or hurt as a boy, mistress? Did you ever see him taken like this before? If you could tell us, we might know better how to treat him." And as he asked the question he looked straight into the woman's face, very keenly but very kindly, and she dropped her eyes with a half sigh. "You see," he went on, "my Lady's little son came home and told us of a coat that you had put on him, which sounded to me like a drummer's coat; though of course as I haven't seen it I may be quite wrong; but I was wondering if he had ever been a soldier, as I am myself, and been wounded at some time."
"No, he wasn't never a soldier," said the woman hastily.
"Ah," said Colonel George; "it was his knowing how to drum that made me think so. And so you had to carry the poor fellow all this way the other day? Well, it's more than many a strong man could have done. Many's the man I've seen break down from the weight of his pack, and many's the wife I've seen take the load off her husband's back and carry it for him like a brave soul." He looked up at the woman and saw her eyes glisten. "Ay," he said, "you've seen it too, maybe? Now, my good mistress, just tell me what the serjeant did to your son here, or what has happened to him to bring him to this state."
The woman hesitated long. "'Tis a long story," she said at last, "but maybe it's time that it was told; for I'm thinking that before long there may be none to tell it. You've been kind to my boy, the both of 'ee, and you've a promised to keep my secret. So if you have a mind to hear, I'll tell 'ee."
So Colonel George stood in the doorway holding the horses, while Lady Eleanor sat on the turfen table by the sick man; and the woman began her story.
"Years agone, long afore you ever come this way, my Lady, my father lived not above seven or eight mile herefrom, up to Loudacott; you must surely have heard the name of the place. Well, there he lived with his own bit of land, for he was a yeoman, he was, and the Clatworthys had lived up to Loudacott hundreds of years, as he used to tell me. There wasn't but the three of us, my father—Jeremiah Clatworthy was his name—my mother and myself; for I was the only child they had a-living. It's a lonely place, is Loudacott, and it wasn't many folks that we saw there when I was a child; but when I growed up into a comely maid, and men seed me now and again to market or fairing time, they began to come a-courting; for 'twasn't me only that they would get, but forty acre of land with me, if father liked mun well. There was more came than you'd a think for, plenty enough to turn the head of a silly maid; and there was one that father favoured particular, for he had land close nigh by Loudacott, but I didn't like he—never could. There wasn't but one that pleased me, and that was Jan Dart. You know his old mother that lives to Ashacombe, or used to live, for they tell me that she's a-dying. She couldn't never abide the name of me, Jan's mother couldn't; and father, he couldn't abide Jan. For his father hadn't been more than a servant with the old squire, nor his mother neither, and Jan, he'd a been bound 'prentice to a shoemaker, and wasn't long out of his time; while we was the Clatworthys to Loudacott.
"Well, the men come, and I was well enough pleased to keep mun dancing round me, and poor Jan with the rest of mun, for you may depend that I wasn't going to let he go. I'd a-been a bit spoiled, for my mother had had a boy and another maid besides me, and fine children too, as I've been told; but she'd a-lost the both of them o' smallpox, so that there wasn't but me left. So I couldn't tell what to do, for I know'd but one thing for sartain, that the man that father wanted for me wasn't the man that I wanted for myself. But there was a wise woman—Betsy Lavacombe her name was, I mind well, but what use to tell you that?—that I used to see; and terrible afeared of her the folks was. It was she that built this house, and no one knew where she lived except myself, nor knoweth till this day. But I wasn't afeared of her, for I had a-helped her more than once, and used to put out a bit of mate for her now and again when I could; and she would always carry any message from me to Jan or from Jan to me. And I asked her many times which of mun I should marry, but she wouldn't never tell me more than that I should cross the sea and come back with gold. 'That's enough for 'ee,' she would say, 'don't ask no more. You shall cross the sea and there will be lords and gentlemen with 'ee, and your bed shall be so good as theirs, and you shall come back with gold.'
"So time went on and Jan kept courting o' me and I kept a playing with Jan, as foolish maids will, till at last one day, I forget what it was I said to mun, but he flinged away like a mazed man. 'I'll never come nigh 'ee again,' he said, 'you'll have to find me if you want to see me more; and till you find me you won't never find a man as loves you so well as I do.' And I laughed so as he could hear as he walked away, for I made no doubt but he'd come again so soon as I called mun. And I mind well then that the old Betsy comed out of a hedge soon afterward—she'd a been listening, I reckon—and saith she, 'Shall I call mun back to 'ee now? Best lose no time,' she saith. But I let mun go, for I depended that he'd come back, though I don't deny that I wasn't easy.
"And it wasn't above a week afterward that the old Betsy cometh back and saith, 'You'd best have let me call mun back when I told 'ee'; and then she told me that a serjeant was come to Ashacombe and that Jan was listed for a sojer and was agone. It was evening then and I heard mother calling, so I went into house like a dumb thing, for I couldn't think what I should do without Jan; and I minded the words that he had said, that I must come and find mun if I wanted to see him more; and I lay awake all night a-crying to think that I couldn't tell where to seek for mun, for find mun I must. But next day when I went out I glimpsed the old Betsy on the road not far away and whistled to her (for she never showed herself about Loudacott if she could help, but watched for me and whistled), and when she saw my face, 'Where's your rosy cheeks gone, my dear?' she saith. 'A red coat's red enough without they to dye mun, I reckon.' But she wouldn't tell me where he was agone, till I said that if she did not I would go out to find mun for myself. 'Do you mane that?' she saith—I mind it as if 'twas yesterday—'Then I'll take 'ee to mun. 'Ere, look 'ee! I'll give 'ee time to think about it, and if you mane to go sarch for mun, do you meet me here with your clothes o' this day fortnight when the moon rises.'
"And with that she went away and showed herself down Ashacombe ways 'most every day, to make folks think she was busy thereabouts—that false and artful she was. But when the days was gone, and mortal long days they was to me, she was waiting for me as she said, for I wasn't agoing to change my mind; and then it was that she brought me to this house and told me to mark the way well. We stayed here till night, and then we started off walking across the moor, the both of us, until morning, for she wasn't going to let a maid like me walk by myself, she said. We took a bit of mate with us and flint and steel, and many was the things that she taught to me on the road for a body to make herself nighly as comfortable in the open air as in ever a house.
"We walked night-times only till we was fifty miles away from home, and then we could keep the road middling well, though I kept my bonnet tied across my face. And so we drew nigh to Gloucester town, and then the old Betsy told me that Jan was there with his ridgment, and that I must find he by myself. And she wished me good-bye, and then the poor soul fell a-crying, for she said that there was no one left now to be kind to her. 'And there's hard times before 'ee, my tender,' she saith—I mind the words well—'but not yet. Good luck will be with 'ee first along. There's a man loves 'ee, and a man he is; make the most of mun. You shall cross the sea and come back with gold, but don't 'ee forget my little house, and if I bean't there, dig under the table, and think kindly of the old Betsy.'
"So she went back and I walked into the town alone, feeling terrible fluttered; but I hadn't a-gone very far before I meets with a man in a red coat and his hair a-powdered, a-walking along by hisself, for it was evening. I looked at mun and hardly knowed mun at first; but Jan it was, and beautiful he looked in his ridgmentals sure enough. The old Betsy had a-promised me good luck first along, and yet I was most afraid to speak to mun, though nobody was by. And when he saw me he turned so white as death, and saith quite hoarse like, 'Lucy, what do you here?' And I couldn't say no more than 'I've a come to find you, Jan.' And the blood come back into his face, and we didn't want to say no more, not then. Dear Lord! That was a day!
"We was married so soon as could be, though a sojer's pay is little enough, asyouknow, your honour; for the half of what is given is took away again, so far as I can see. But Jan could always make something with his shoe-making, while I could wash, and get many a little job besides from the officers' ladies. So we did middling well, and Jan got one of the men that was a bit of a scollard to write to his mother, and got a hawker to take the letter along for the mending of his shoes. And in six months the hawker came back to say that mother was dead and that father had sold Loudacott and was gone to live in the town, where he was drinking and doing no good. I reckon 'twas the old Betsy had told mun; and I suppose that really 'twas all o' my account, but 'twas too late to think of that. And it was less than six months after this news come that my boy was a-born—"
She stopped a minute to pass her hand over the sick man's head, and went on:
"A beautiful boy he was, sure enough, and glad I was, when he was about a twelvemonth old, that the peace came and there was no chance for Jan to be sent to the war. Scores of men was discharged, but Jan said we should do better to stay, for there wasn't nowhere for us to go to if we went, and he'd a got fond of the sojer's life, as I had, so long as I was with he; and they was glad to keep so fine a man. But then the war come again, and a terrible way I was in, for they said the ridgment was sure to be sent soon to the Injies or some place. But it chanced that another ridgment was raising a new battalion in Gloucester, and there was a young chap that was got into trouble and wanted to cross the sea as soon as might be, so wished, if he could, to change with Jan. And by good luck 'twas done, and we was sent to the new battalion. So there we stayed to Gloucester nighly four year. Those was the days when they said that Boney was a-coming over, but he never come, as you know very well, for he didn't dare.
"And at Gloucester it was that I had a little maid born to me, so sweet a little maid as ever was seen, with blue eyes and golden hair like your own little lady's. But there was a terrible lot of sickness among the men. Whether it was that our other battalion brought it back from Egypt, I can't tell, but so it was. The men died fast, for all that the doctors would do was to bleed mun like pigs; and whether it was that, or what it was, I couldn't say, but the little maid sickened and died, when she was fifteen months old. Jan was terrible distressed, I mind, and so was I; but since then I've a-thought often that it was better so.
"But Jan and the boy kept well and strong, and as the boy growed bigger, he got mazed with soldiering. Nothing would sarve mun but he must be a drummer; and one of the drummers took up with mun and taught mun almost so soon as he was big enough to hold the sticks, and it was wonderful to see how quick he learned. It was pretty, too, to see his little hands a-twinkling, for very soon he could beat so well as any of mun. So he became a bit of a favourite, for he was a sweet pretty boy, and the officers took notice of mun, and the tailor he made mun a little coat and breeches and dressed mun out for all the world like a riglar drummer. For the tailor's wife hadn't no children you see, my Lady, and was wonderful took up with my boy; and Jan he made her a beautiful pair of shoes in return, I mind. And it was a saying that our ridgment had the smallest drummer in the army, and the best. Look 'ee, I've a kept the very coat."
And she pulled the outer clothes off the sick man's chest, and showed the little coat which Dick had worn, tied by the sleeves about his neck. He moved slightly and his mother poured a few drops of wine between his lips; but he made no further sign of revival, and she went on with her story.
"Well, it was in the year seven, I mind well, that the other battalion of the ridgment was sent to the war in Denmark and then on to Portingale. I didn't like that, for it seemed that the war was coming nigh home to us, and our good luck had lasted long; and I couldn't never get the old Betsy's words out of my head, that I must cross the sea. And at last in the autumn of the next year, the year eight that was, the day come. Our battalion was ordered to find men to fill up the place of those that was dead in the other battalion, and Jan was a-chosen for one. There was only six women to every company allowed to go with them, and they was drawed by lot. Ah, well I mind the drawing of they lots. It was pity to see the poor wives a-screeching and crying, as one after another was told that she must bide home. Many a one was on her knees to the officer begging mun to take her, and the officer hisself oftentimes was near crying as he was forced to say No. My turn came at last, and I was drawn to go; and then I couldn't help a-crying so loud as any of mun for joy.
"So we was put a board ship with Jan, the boy and I was, and away we went to sea; and the poor things that was left behind stood crying, and the men aboard cheered and cheered again. Many's the time I've a-thought of that day. I reckon you've a knowed what it is yourself, my Lady, to see the ships sail away; but I was happy enough, for I was with Jan.
"Well, we got to Lisbon, where Sir John Moore was a-waiting for us; and the army marched away from Portingale into Spain. The women was all told that they might sail back to England if they would; but 'twasn't likely that any would leave their husbands, let alone me who was only just come. So we marched with the army, and long marches it was, they winter days, nighly five hundred mile in six weeks as I've been told. But Jan kept up brave, for he was a strong man, and I was always hearty, while the boy tramped along wonderful too; and when he was a-tired there was always Jan or others of the men would carry mun, or I would carry mun for a time myself. And what I had learned from the old Betsy 'bout walking and camping sarved me well, for I was nigh so handy as any of mun.
"Well, after six weeks we come to a place—I forget the name—something like sago I think it was."
"Sahagun," said Colonel George.
"Ay, that was it; and there we was told we women must bide while the men went vor against the French. And then I began to think that the bad luck of which the old Betsy had a-spoke was come at last. It was two days before Christmas, I mind well, and we wondered what ever Christmas Day would bring. But the very next day the news come that the French was stronger than we, and that we must go back; and many ridgments turned back that very day. But we waited, for Jan's ridgment was gone farther on, expecting mun all through the night, and in the morning sure enough they came; and out we ran through the snow, for the snow was on the ground, and there was Jan alive and well, but a bit tired. But there wasn't no time for rest; and we had to go on to once. The rain came down, the snow began to thaw, and the roads was so slushy and heavy that it was miserable travelling. The men was angry too at turning away from the French, and they kept asking if the time wasn't never coming to halt: but on they had to go.
"My boy soon began to tire, for the way was terrible soggy, and Jan carried mun for a bit: but he hadn't had but little to ate and had marched a long ways already. So before very long Jan was obliged to give mun to me, and I carried mun along as best I could. But I couldn't help dropping behind a bit, for Jan said that I could catch mun up first halt, and that the boy would be able to get along better after being carried a bit. I couldn't get no help, for all the men that I saw was so tired as I was, and worse. Now and again one would fall down not able to go no furder, and it's my belief that every one of mun would have done the like if it hadn't been for the General (Craufurd was the name of mun) who rode up and down, driving mun on as if they'd a-been sheep. But he wouldn't let mun go like sheep, not he. 'Kape your ranks and move on. No straggling,' he kept saying. And you'd see the men a-looking up and scowling at mun: but he was a-scowling worse than they, and if they didn't mind he'd break out at them like a mad thing; and then look out! I never see a man fly into such passions as he, swearing and cursing in his strange Scotch tongue. You'd have thought he was going to kill the men, and sometimes I believe he would, for he talked of hanging mun often enough.
"It was late at night before we got to the town where we was to rest; and the boy was so bate that it was all I could do to bring mun in. 'Twas raining so heavy that we couldn't light a fire out of doors, so there was little to eat; but I got a bit for the boy, and Jan tried to mend my shoes, which was in a sad way; but there was many crying out to have their shoes mended, and he was that tired that he couldn't do naught, but falled asleep over his awl and bristles. The next morning it was march again, tired as we was. The boy was fresher after a bit of sleep and could walk for a bit, and Jan and me managed to get mun along so well as we could; but we growed weaker and he growed weaker every day. How many days and nights it was I can't tell, for there was no rest, and the French was said to be close by; so days and nights we tramped on, through the wind and the rain and the sleet; and every day there was more men dropped down. There was hardly a pair of shoes among the lot, officers nor men, and our feet was cut and bleeding; but still that General Craufurd kept driving of us on. He was always the first ready to start, and there he would stand waiting, his beard all white with frost on the bitter mornings, looking to the men with their clothes all in rags, so cold and stiff and faint that they was hardly able to move; and this I will say, that he favoured hisself no more than he favoured the men. It was terrible to see mun looking them over, for you could see that he feeled for them; but then he would open his mouth and give the word to march in a voice that made you jump to hear. And when once they was a-moving, if ever a man dropped behind, a sarjint went at mun for all the world like a sheep-dog, and a dog that knowed how to use his teeth too. My boy got terrible 'feared of they sarjints, for he heard mun use rough words, ay, and more than words, to our men, and more than once he thought the sarjint was speaking to he, and clinged to me tight, poor little soul; and night-times he would wake and cry that the sarjint was come for mun.
"It must have been nighly a week after we started that General Craufurd tooked a different road from we; and we went on without mun. And then we found what it was to have such a man, hard though he was in driving us 'vor and keeping the men in order. For we came to a town where there was stores and stores of wine; and there the sojers, that had marched on before us, was lying in the gutter by scores, or staggering about the streets more like to pigs than Christian men. I seed General Moore that night. Ah! that was a man. The handsomest man in the army they said he was, for all that one of his cheeks was scarred where a bullet had gone through it years before; and sure enough I never see a finer man 'cepting my Jan. But he was terrible stern too, and I never saw man look so dark and angry as he did then. I seed mun many times afterward, for he was always a-looking to the rear where our ridgment was, a-helping and encouraging so well as he could. Well, I got a drop of wine for the boy—it was the morning of New Year's day I mind—which did mun good, and next morning we started again.
"But worse was avore us than we had left behind, for till now the cavalry had been behind us and had kept away the French; but now the cavalry was sent forward, and there was nothing betwixt us and the enemy. Two days afterward the French came upon us sure enough, and the muskets was going all night. I couldn't sleep, for I knowed that Jan was there, but sat with the boy, who was lying by me, tossing and tumbling, for he was ill with the wet, and the cold, and the long ways. Some women that was with me told me to go to sleep and not be a fule, for 'twas naught but a scrimmage; but I couldn't do that. Ah, the night was long; but a bit before dawn the boy grew quiet, and as the light come in I heard our men was a-coming back, and runned out to see Jan. And there was Jan's company a-standing in line and the sarjint calling the roll. I heard mun call Jan Dart, but couldn't hear Jan's voice answer; but there was a chance that he might be carrying a wounded man or something or another, so I called 'Jan Dart, can anyone say where Jan Dart is?' but no one answered; and then the captain asked the same, and a man stepped out and said that he had seen mun fall. And I cried out, 'Oh take me to mun,' and the captain (a kind gentleman he always was) told the man to show me where he seed mun last; but he saith, 'You mustn't stay long, my poor woman, for the French will be here again directly;' and I knowed what that meant. So the man showed me the way and there was Jan, sure enough, a-lying on his face. I turned mun over, and, as I did, his hand fell across my knees, and his face was so quiet that I thought for a minute that he was only a-dropped asleep from weariness; but it wasn't of no use, for he was dead—shot through the heart.
"And there I reckon I should have stayed, spite of all that the officer said; but the man took me by the arm and told me to come on. 'The saints rock his soul to rest in glory,' he saith, crossing hisself, for he was an Irishman, 'and have mercy on us that is still living;' and then I remembered the boy, and I left Jan and come away. The boy was terrible weak and ailing, but we set off to walk, though very soon I had to carry mun; and so I dropped behind. The road lay through the mountains now, and was terrible rough and steep, while the snow come down and made the ways so slippy that it was hard to move without falling. But on I went, I can't tell how, though there was many that dropped behind me and never come up again. That march was terrible long, and the boy kept crying to be put down; but when I laid mun down for a minute or two he couldn't rest for long, but would cry out again that the sarjint was after mun, so I had to pick mun up and go on again.
"I reckon that it must have been the next day—but I can't tell, for days turns to years at such times—that as I was a tramping on I seed a crowd of women a-stooping down to the ground to gather up something or another, and scrambling, and fighting, and squabbling like a lot of fowls when they'm fed. It was money they was a-fighting for. The oxen a-drawing the carts with the money was foundered, and the Gineral had gived orders to throw the money away. I picked up some few pieces myself, thinking it might buy something for the boy, but there was one woman that loaded herself like a bee with dollars, and said she would be a lady when she got home.
"After that, she and I was a good bit together, she carrying her dollars and I carrying the boy; but the way grew worse and worse, and but for the boy I think that I should have gived out myself as so many did. Once I remember I saw a sojer and his wife a-lying down by the wayside; they couldn't go no farther and had lain down to die together; and I wished that it had been Jan and me; but I had the boy on my back and I went on. Well, I won't tell you what terrible sights we saw on the road; but I'll tell 'ee this, that I have seen grown men a-sobbing like children for pain and cold and hunger. It was enough to turn the head of a grown man, let alone a child. And so it was that after a time the boy stopped crying and complaining and went quite quiet. I couldn't think what was come to mun, that he was always a-staring and never speaking nor taking no notice; but I reckoned that if I could carry mun on to the end, he would recover hisself. And I did carry mun on to the end to—what was the name of the place again?—something like currants it was."
"Corunna?" said Colonel George.
"Ay, that was it, Corinner—but when we got there, there wasn't no ships, and General Moore had to fight the French and bate mun before he could sail home. And he was a-killed, poor gentleman, he was, as you know, and many other brave men besides. But we and the sick and the wounded was put aboard before the battle was fought, and a strange thing there was that happened. The woman that had taken the dollars come aboard with me, but her hands were so full that she gave me a part of the money to hold, while she climbed from the boat to the ship's side. And as she stepped on the ladder, her foot slipped, and she fell into the sea and sank like a stone; for she had dollars sewn up in her clothes so heavy, that down she went and never come up again. So there was I left with what she give me, and as her husband was killed in the battle and there wasn't no one else belonging to her to take the money, I reckoned I might keep it. And then one day I thought of what the old Betsy had said, that I should cross the sea and bring back gold, though it wasn't gold, but silver.
"Well, on board ship the boy didn't change, though he got a bit stronger in his body. We had a terrible storm on the way home, and for all I could do I couldn't keep mun from being knocked about; the ship rolling and plunging so that the men could hardly save themselves. And when we got home and was set ashore on the beach, I could see that my boy wasn't the only one that was gone wrong. I tell 'ee, my Lady, that some men was even blind with the toil of that march, and hunger and cold and misery.
"So there I was alone with my boy, for hardly a man of Jan's company was left and not many of the whole ridgment, while what there was of them was mostly sick. 'Twas lucky that I had money, or I can't think what I should have done. But the worst was that my boy remained just the same as he was. I showed mun to the doctors, and they took blood from mun once and wanted to take more, but I wouldn't have that, for I'd a-seen what they was with their lancets if they was let alone; and at last they telled me that his mind was gone and wouldn't never come back. But he grew stronger in his body after a bit, and I was able to take mun abroad; and though he liked the sound of the drums he was a bit frightened at the sight of a red coat, for fear that it should be a sarjint, and if it was a sarjint he would run like a rabbit. So I was obliged to move away as soon as I could; but go where I would there was no peace, for he'd a-lost his speech except some few sounds, and I couldn't let mun run with other children, for they always make sport of such poor things as he. So for a long time we wandered from place to place, getting little but hard words, though the boy was happy enough, I believe; for living in the air as we did he took up with every bird and every beast that he could find, and they seem to know mun for a friend. Many was the young one that he took and made so tame as could be.
"Then at last the money began to run short, for all that I was careful, and that now and again we could earn a little bit; so I minded what old Betsy Lavacombe had said, and thought I would go back and find she. It was a long way to go, but we walked on day after day till we got nigh to the moor, when I chose my road very careful and walked night-times only till we come to this house. The old Betsy was agone, and the house was nigh failed to pieces, and I've a-heard since that she was found drowned in a lime-pit some years back. But I digged under the table as the old Betsy had said, and there deep down was a box wrapped up in a sheepskin, full of silver money, and a little gold too. How she got it, I can't tell, unless she took it from her husband, who had been a sailor, as she told me once, though sailors isn't given to saving. So we built up the house again and here I made up my mind to live, where no one couldn't hurt my boy, for he was shy of grown-up folks, and children won't leave mun alone.
"So here we've a-been now these many years, and the boy's been so happy as could be. Jackdaws, hedgehogs, squirrels, deer, naught comes amiss to mun: and he knows the moor and the woods so well as the deer themselves. He growed stronger too, though I wouldn't never take him with me when I went down to the villages to buy meal: but he would always keep out of sight and wait for me. And I suppose that just lately he may have been getting a bit better in his head, for he runned down to join the children that day when I come to Ashacombe, as you remember; and for all that he was a bit frightened then, he was so took up with your little lady that I hadn't the heart to keep mun from going to look at her, though I was always hid not very far from mun. It was me that your servant saw in the woods the day Jan brought the bullfinch; but Lord, Lord, I never thought that it would have come to this."
She stopped, and pulling the clothes aside looked sadly at the sick man's face. "See there," she said in a hard, changed voice, "that's how he looked often when we was marching back to Corinner. I thought that I should never get mun back alive then, but I did hope never to see mun look so again. And though he can't spake I know what he's a-thinking. He thinks that the sarjint's come for mun, and it's a killed the heart within mun."