FOOTNOTES[45]The reader will perceive that there is something contradictory in these pious expressions; first he seems to think it dangerous to be with the majority, then he claims it as on his side.
[45]The reader will perceive that there is something contradictory in these pious expressions; first he seems to think it dangerous to be with the majority, then he claims it as on his side.
[45]The reader will perceive that there is something contradictory in these pious expressions; first he seems to think it dangerous to be with the majority, then he claims it as on his side.
When our youthful hero, so suddenly rescued from a bloody death, regained the full consciousness, of which the shock seemed to have deprived him for a time, he felt like one in a dream, such a dream as enables a prisoner to escape from the slime and darkness of a subterranean dungeon, to the happiness and joy of the domestic hearth, or of boundless liberty in verdant woods, breezy groves, or sun-lit hill-tops.
Was he in Paradise? The words he had often sung in choir came into his mind,—
“In loco pascuæ ibi me collocavit,Et super aquam refectionis educavit me.”[46]
“In loco pascuæ ibi me collocavit,Et super aquam refectionis educavit me.”[46]
“In loco pascuæ ibi me collocavit,
Et super aquam refectionis educavit me.”[46]
Had the gibbet and quartering block been endured and left behind, was he in the spirit while the mutilated and desecrated membersof his mortal body rotted on the gates of Exeter?
But as he regained fuller consciousness, he became aware of circumstances not resembling those which are commonly supposed to be the portion of the Blessed in Paradise—such as a comfortable down bed, richly embroidered curtains around him, Flemish tapestry on the walls of his chamber, and a bright autumnal sun pouring in between the window curtains.
He strove to rise, although he felt very weak; still curiosity overcame weakness, and he staggered, like one giddy, to the casement, and parting the curtains looked out.
It was early morn; a glorious bracing October morning,—such October mornings as they have in Devon,—and a scene of wondrous beauty lay before him, but all of this earth.
Immediately below lay a well-tended garden, with winding paths, terraces, flowers of varied hue, shrubs, and ornamental trees cut in strange fashions, and beyond lay a ruinous wall, through gaps in which he could see a deep hollow, which once had been a dyke or moat, in days when it was not safe to dwell beyond the shelter of such defences. But with all the bloody tyranny of the latter time it must be said that the strong hand of the government had given a sense of security, unknown before, from all violence save legalizedwrong,[47]andthatno defence of moat or wall could avert.
Beyond the garden the ground sloped down to the valley of the Exe; far away, on the left hand, lay the mighty ocean, in its deep repose, blue as the azure vault above it, the whole coast from the mouth of the Exe to Berry Head, beyond Torbay, was visible; with the line of ruddy cliffs, stretching out into headlands, and receding into bays: while, here and there, a rocky island remained, to show where a promontory had once extended ere the waters broke the connection with the mainland.
But straight across the lovely valley, rich in its autumnal livery of purple and gold, arose first the range of Halden, and glistening under the glorious sun and in the clear blue of heaven beyond, looking almost ethereal in the hues of distance, the rocks of Hey Tor and the cairn of Rippon Tor surmounted the nearer heights.
Beneath those mountains lay the happy home of the last six years; Hey Tor looked over Ashburton,and perhaps Isabel Grey was even now gazing at those same rocks. Oh, how the freed spirit laughed at distance: the sluggish body might be chained but the mind had flown across the valley of the Exe, over the ridge of Halden, and was there in the old familiar scenes hearing the sweet youthful voice, beholding the beloved features, wandering with the loved one around the enchanted borders of the moorland.
The reader who is versed in the topography of Devon will see that the home in which Cuthbert has found refuge, is situated on that lovely ridge of the heath, which rises about three miles from the eastern bank of the estuary of the Exe, of which Woodbury Castle is the most prominent point.
But he will wonder how he came there.
Listen! a step approaches, the door opens, and a familiar form enters the room.
“What, Cuthbert at the window! God bless thee, my boy, thou art better then—, thisisa sight for sore eyes.”
“Have I been ill, father?”
“Thy nurse has but now left the chamber to get her breakfast, and I came in to take her place, in case thou shouldst awake with recovered consciousness and wonder where thou art.”
“And where am I?”
“Not in Rougemont.”
“I see that, but where?”
“Amongst true friends; this is the mansion of Sir Robert Tremayne, an old friend of our house, to whom we are much indebted.”
“But have I been dreaming? I thought we were led to the scaffold together, that I heard the cathedral bell, the death bell toll for us, and the litany for the dying yet sounds in my ears; then came a scene of tumult and fury, cries of “rescue,” and we seemed to be passed from hand to hand, until at last we passed through a gate or low door into some house on the cathedral yard.”
“It was no dream, my son, our period was indeed near its accomplishment, and, but for the efforts, heroic, but perhaps mistaken, we had been two days (did they number there by days) in Paradise; but it is plain God has work for thee to do on earth; for me I care not how soon I awake to a fairer scene than this; I had hoped the martyr’s death had been our purgatory, and that we had gained the shore.”
“But this scene is very fair,” said the youth, “bright sun, beautiful vale, lovely sea, grand moorland hills; loth should I be to leave it too soon, for this is God’s world too, is it not, father?”
“Thou art young, dear son.”
“Tell me all, have I been ill long?”
“This is the third day since the rescue.”
“How came it about?”
“Public opinion made itpossiblefor a few score of men to do the work of hundreds; the mob alone, if hostile, might have hindered, nay prevented our escape, but many who dared not assist actively, did so passively, and closing together covered our retreat, until we found temporary concealment in the house of a friend to the cause, who had a passage leading from his shop in High Street into the cathedral yard. But ere we had been there long, thou didst faint, and we had much ado to restore thee to life.”
“How weak I must be!”
“Nay, my child, consider the torture chamber of which thy poor hands bear sufficient evidence, and the terrible strain of the approaching cruel death, of which we bore all the anticipation. Well, at midnight we smuggled thee through the west gate, in a litter, by the connivance of a sentinel, and so down stream to Topsham, dragging the boat with difficulty over the Countess’s Weir; thereby we escaped the pursuers on the road, and favoured by the night, reached this secluded hall unobserved.”
“And when shall we go to Glastonbury and complete our task?”
“Not at present, for they will be looking out for us there, I doubt not; we have a bitter enemy in Sir John Redfyrne; but when a monthor so has passed away, we may venture, well disguised.”
“And shall we never dare to return home again?”
“Nay, not while Henry reigns; it would not be worth the risk; there is no sufficient object.”
“And our poor brethren there?”
“They will, I trust, be undisturbed; before our trial I made a gift of the estate to Brother Cyril, late of Glastonbury, under his worldly name: after conviction our property would have become that of the state.”
“Then we are very poor, father?”
“Do’st thou love me less?”
“Nay, thou shalt see how true thine adopted son will be, God helping him.”
“I know it, dear boy, but it is not so bad as it appears at first sight, for foreseeing an evil day, I had forwarded considerable funds, for thy use and mine, to my old friend the Baron de Courcy, to whose care I purpose committing thee should we ever win our way to France, as now I trust we shall.”
“And we shall be exiles?”
“‘Omne solum forti patria,’ said the heathen poet: how much more true to the Christian! And now, my son, thou must yet repose a while, and ere noon-tide I will bring our kind host and hostess to see thee; they lost their son, anonly child, in the Pilgrimage of Grace, where he fought as a volunteer under Robert Aske. I knew the poor boy; they were strangely moved when thou didst arrive; the mother cried, ‘He is so like our Robin.’”
A few days of calm repose varied by walks, cautiously taken on the breezy moor behind the hall, soon restored the hues of health to Cuthbert’s cheeks, and renewed his earlier vigour. Oh, how sweet the boundless freedom of that wilderness, how invigorating the scent of the pine groves, how bright the glimpses of sea down the valleys. Not far off, scarce two miles, was a large farm house on the road to Budleigh Salterton, where a family of the name of Raleigh lived; but their politics were hostile to those of Sir Robin Tremayne and Sir Walter Trevannion; they, the Raleighs, were men who worshipped the rising sun, and who a few years later were eager in the suppression of the Catholic Rebellion in Devon and Cornwall. In that house which our Cuthbert often saw from a distance, was born a bright star to adorn Elizabeth’s Court but a few years later.[48]
So nearly a month passed away, an interlude between two periods of excitement, and at length came All Hallows Eve, with its memory of thepast, and a bright All Saints’ Day, a day when the words of our sweet modern singer might be realized:—
“Why blowest thou not thou wintry wind?When every leaf is brown and sere,And idly hangs, to thee resigned,The fading foliage of the year.”
“Why blowest thou not thou wintry wind?When every leaf is brown and sere,And idly hangs, to thee resigned,The fading foliage of the year.”
“Why blowest thou not thou wintry wind?
When every leaf is brown and sere,
And idly hangs, to thee resigned,
The fading foliage of the year.”
A chapel was attached to the hall wherein Father Ambrose, for so we shall call him in this connection, celebrated the Holy Mysteries, and they thought of Richard Whiting, as amongst the great multitude which no man could number.
Their plans were now matured; they were to assume the disguise of a farmer and his son, travelling on agricultural business, to stop, one night only, at an inn on the borders of Somerset, and to reach Glastonbury the second day, then to find shelter with old Hodge, and rising at midnight to seek the ruins, and do their appointed work.
After this they planned to take horse for Lyme Regis, where they doubted not Cuthbert’s reputed uncle, mentioned before in this story, would get them off to sea; of their reception in France, they were well assured.
A tried and trusted messenger was despatched to Glastonbury by Sir Robin, who knew the people and the country well; he brought back word that old Hodge and his wife were yet living and well, and that they were more than willing totake their own share of the risk, for it was death to shelter attainted men; and that, so far as he could learn, Sir John Redfyrne was living in his own manor house—the reader knows how he had made it “his own”—and was expected daily to return to court.
“Better wait till we are sure he has returned thither,” said Sir Robert.
“Nay, Redfyrne Hall is many miles from Glaston; there is little danger: besides we shall be well disguised; and we must remember every week makes the weather worse for crossing the Channel in an open boat.”
So the day came, a bright calm day within the octave of All Saints’, very mild and balmy for the season, the day for departure from their little Zoar, on their perilous errand.
They sat at breakfast for the last time. Do not let the word conjure up tea and coffee before the mind of the reader, it was a most substantial meal, composed of joints and pastry, washed down by ale and wine; but they ate little.
It was over, there was not much talk, the hearts of all were too full, and what there was ran in a subdued strain; the dear old lady was in tears, for Cuthbert had become a second Robin, and it was like losing her son again.
Before they parted, Sir Robert brought a sword from the armoury.
“It was my poor Robin’s; wear it, my son, for his sake, for thou art worthy of it.”
Their disguises were at hand, and they assumed them and departed, after a warm farewell and many deep expressions of gratitude.
Cuthbert felt a little sad at first, but the invigorating air, and the restoration to life and action soon revived his spirits, and the love of adventure, never wanting in the young, shed its glamour over him, as they rode over Woodbury Common on their way to Glastonbury.
And thence from that breezy height, looking back, he caught his last view of Dartmoor.
Decorative footer
FOOTNOTES[46]“He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort.”—Psalmxxiii. 2.[47]Witness, for instance, the case of Lord Dacre, of Hurstmonceux, executed for an offence which, a few generations earlier, would hardly have been considered an offence at all. Like Percy of Chevy Chase he had gone hunting in his neighbour’s grounds; a fray took place and he slew a gamekeeper. Henry would hear of no excuse, and the noble paid for the peasant’s blood on the scaffold at Tyburn, June 29th, 1541.[48]Sir Walter Raleigh, born six years later, in 1552.
[46]“He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort.”—Psalmxxiii. 2.
[46]“He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort.”—Psalmxxiii. 2.
[47]Witness, for instance, the case of Lord Dacre, of Hurstmonceux, executed for an offence which, a few generations earlier, would hardly have been considered an offence at all. Like Percy of Chevy Chase he had gone hunting in his neighbour’s grounds; a fray took place and he slew a gamekeeper. Henry would hear of no excuse, and the noble paid for the peasant’s blood on the scaffold at Tyburn, June 29th, 1541.
[47]Witness, for instance, the case of Lord Dacre, of Hurstmonceux, executed for an offence which, a few generations earlier, would hardly have been considered an offence at all. Like Percy of Chevy Chase he had gone hunting in his neighbour’s grounds; a fray took place and he slew a gamekeeper. Henry would hear of no excuse, and the noble paid for the peasant’s blood on the scaffold at Tyburn, June 29th, 1541.
[48]Sir Walter Raleigh, born six years later, in 1552.
[48]Sir Walter Raleigh, born six years later, in 1552.
In the library of Castle Redfyrne sat Sir John, the present lord of that ancient manor, at a writing table placed in the embrasure of a gothic window, whence he could look over the broad acres he had made his own.
In the shelves were ranged many printed books and curious manuscripts, in part the plunder of Glastonbury Abbey; and in truth never was typography clearer, or more beautiful than in the first century of its existence; nor on the other hand was caligraphy, as exemplified in ancient missals and breviaries, ever more a work of art than when about to be superseded by the printing press.
But Sir John was not thinking of these things, his evil heart was full of bitterness.
There is an old Spanish proverb,—“The man who has injured thee, will never forgive thee.” Sir John had injured his brother’s child, deeply, cruelly, and he could not forgive him.
He rose from the table and paced the room; his brow was knit; oft times he gnashed his teeth. So we are told that his namesake, king John, would roll on the floor and bite the straw which served in his royal palace as carpet, in his maniacal fits of passion. With his name, a double portion of his spirit had fallen upon the hapless Redfyrne of our tale.
The whole of that scene at Exeter was before his mind as he strode to and fro, painted by the vivid pencil of a too faithful memory.
At length he rang a bell which stood on the table, and soon Nicholas appeared in the door way.
He was now a tall youth; his hair was brighter than ever,—that hair had betrayed him more than once: when he was young, playing truant, he had hidden in a field of long grass, the schoolmaster was abroad, and after him, and by chance, gazing over the field, saw a head, bright as a poppy, peep up and disappear; it was enough, he was caught; thanks to the lively hues with which nature had ornamented him.
And the sly expression of his features was not altered; that sharp nose which had once won him the nick-name “Pointer,” gave him as fox-like an expression as ever.
The tie between him and Sir John was one of evil, yet Sir John loved him as much as it was inhis cold and selfish nature to love any one; he liked him for his very vices, in forming which he had taken no slight share; like those of whom the Apostle writes:—
“Who knowing the judgment of God, that they who do such things are worthy of death, not only do them, but take pleasure in them that do them.”
Nicholas was now rather the companion than the page, and on very familiar terms with Sir John.
“Didst thou lie awake long last night, Nick?”
“I was somewhat restless, sir.”
“Didst thou hear aught unusual?”
“No,” said Nicholas, after pausing to reflect.
“Think again; any loud noise?”
“I cannot remember any.”
Sir John again paced up and down as if communing with himself.
“Wasthere aught unusual, sir?”
“Yes, I distinctly heard a door shut with a loud clang.”
“May have been the wind.”
“Nay, that would not have startled me; the fact is, the sound was not that of any door about this place; it shut with a clang as of a dungeon door falling into a framework of stone.”
“There is no such door, save in the old oubliettes below the towers; I wish we hadCuthbert inone, and his reverend father in another.”
“No thereisnone; the fact startled me, and a strange thrill, which I cannot account for, went through me as I heard it.”
Sir John paused, and a visible tremor passed over him, which was strange in a man of his iron constitution.
“But I have not sent for you to talk about this; hast thou gleaned any tidings of Cuthbert at Glastonbury?”
“Yes; that a stranger called upon those old dolts, the foster father and mother of my friend Cuthbert; he came from the west, for his horse cast a shoe, and the smith remarked that the beast had been shod in Devon, from the make of his shoes. This happened in the hearing of a cunning fellow, Luke Sharp, who is in our pay, and he managed to entice the fellow to an ale house, and tried to make him drunk. Well, the messenger was, after all, a little too cute for that; but Luke told me that both from what the fellow did say, and from what he did not say, he was sure that he came from our old acquaintances; and I fancy they may both be expected to pay a visit to Glastonbury on particular business ere long.”
“Thou hatest this Cuthbert?”
“Ever since I have known him.”
“Because he once gave you a thrashing, hey, Nick?”
“No; I am not ashamed of that, for I fought as long as I could stand or see; but I only wish this, that I could try chances again with him; with the sword, not the fist. I would sooner have him face to face with me, on the sward, with nothing but our shirts between sword point and breast, than see him on the scaffold again: I believe I could master him, the reverend brethren are poor masters of fence, and scant mercy should he get were he down.”
Sir John laughed merrily; the cheerful sentiment delighted him.
“Nick,” he said, “mayst thou have thy desire, and may I be there to see; I should laugh heartily to see thee pink him; but I want thee to ride with me now; saddle our horses and be ready in ten minutes.”
In a dismal dell or hollow glen, which had been worn from the side of a hill, in the course of ages by a streamlet, filled with brambles, nettles, and the slime of rotting vegetation, was a squalid hut, and therein dwelt an old blear-eyed, toothless hag, named Gammer Gatch.
By common repute she was a witch, and wouldlong since have tasted of a lighted tar-barrel, and a few faggots to help, but for the protection extended to her by her landlord, Sir John.
Years of persecution had made her a lonely misanthrope, believing absolutely in her communion with Satan, and her power for evil; poor wretch, whatever may have been her degree of Satanic inspiration she was guilty in intention; and when, after her temporary protector was gone, she was at last brought to trial, she gloried in her supposed alliance with Satan, and so made it easy for the judge and jury to send her with clear consciences to the stake.
Those who read the terrible literature which exists on this subject will be puzzled about many things, but will not doubt that several who suffered for impossible crimes, lacked but thepower, not thewillto have performed them.
It has often been noticed that men who have renounced their belief in Christianity, or even in a God, have become willing captives to the grossest forms of superstition, a truth not lacking examples in our own days; and thus it came to pass that Sir John, denying the existence of God, believed, instead, in Gammer Gatch; and thither he was bound now.
Leaving Nicholas on the brink of the glen in charge of the horses, he descended into the dell, and entered the hut which was avoided by allChristian people, save a few, who despite of their creed, came to consult the “wise woman” in divers difficulties.
Lying, littered about, were human bones, a few grinning skulls, unclean reptiles, uncouth wax figures; the wall was blackened by cabalistic signs. The hut was built against the rocky side of the glen, and a ragged curtain concealed an aperture in the natural wall.
“Mother,” said Sir John, “I have business to talk over; there are foes who hide from me, foes of mine, and of the king, whom I would fain crush; canst thou help me to discover their whereabouts?”
“The blackamoor may help us, if thou hast courage to face him.”
Sir John winced;—“I would rather not see him if it can be done without.”
“Couldst thou bear to hear his voice?”
“I could, methinks.”
“Come, then, follow me, and we will do our best; thou shalt ask one question, and if he be in the mood he will answer.”
She took up a torch of pine, and lit it at the fire. “Follow,” she said, and drew aside the curtain; a dark passage seemed to lead into the very bowels of the earth.
It was one of those celebrated limestone caves of which so remarkable an example exists in theCheddar valley; the water which oozed through the rifts had a strange petrifying power, and objects upon which it fell were in due time either incrusted with stone or actually petrified.
From the roof descended long spars of stone in shape like icicles; fantastic resemblances of various objects met the gaze; here were shrouds and winding sheets, there delicate tracery like lace; here hung graceful curtains, and there were grotesque caricatures of animal life, but all in cold stone. The height of the passage varied; once Sir John had to follow his haggard guide on hands and knees, but onward they crawled or walked, deeper and deeper beneath the bowels of the earth, until they reached a dark cave, which seemed to be hung round with funereal trappings of black stone; in the centre was a sombre pool, into which heavy drops of water from above kept falling with a monotonous splash.[49]
The hag renewed some half obliterated marks with chalk, which represented a circle inscribed in a pentagon, and motioned Sir John to stand beside her within its protection,—“Not a foot or hand outside,” she said earnestly; then she repeated some mystic words in an unknown tongue; a mephytic vapour arose, the poolboiled like a geyser, the cave appeared to tremble, and a deep voice said—
“Why hast thou brought me up?”
“Ask thy question at once,” whispered the witch.
“Where may I meet my foes?” said Sir John.
“In the Abbot’s lodging, within the ruined Abbey, at the third midnight from hence.”
All was still, the pool became quiet, the atmosphere cleared, and the hag seizing the hand of Sir John began to retrace her steps. To him the whole seemed like a dream.
But is it not possible thatHe, Who sent an evil spirit into the mouths of the false prophets of Ahab, to lure him to his doom at Ramoth Gilead, and permitted the witch of Endor, not by any power of her own, to raise up the spirit of Samuel, that he might foretell to the unhappy Saul his coming fate; thatHeallowed the instrumentality of this wretched victim of a terrible delusion, to accomplish his end—that end which the progress of our tale will reveal as the direct consequence of this episode.
With difficulty Sir John dragged his failing limbs back to the hut, and for a time he and the hag sat by the fire, all in a tremor. She seemed as shaken as he: perhaps she, too, had been taken aback by the phenomenon, when simply preparing some jugglery.
At length Sir John rose, like one from stupor.
“Mother, here is money for thee; keep the secret.”
“Or it would cost me my life; but, Sir John, beware of the Abbey at midnight, I fearhemeans thee harm.”
“Thou carest for me, then?”
“What would become of me wert thou gone?”
He shook his head and returned to Nicholas.
“Good heavens, how pale thou art, sir!”
“So wouldst thou be hadst thou been with us.”
“She ought to be burnt.”
“She is useful just now, and ministers to our designs.”
Not one word did Sir John speak all the ride homeward; perhaps he hesitated in his purpose, but at length his mind was made up.
They supped together, Nicholas waiting on his lord, but yet enjoying the privilege of supping at the same table.
After supper, as they discussed some hot sack, the patron said—
“Nicholas, I wish thee to go out on the western road which leads from Glastonbury to Exeter, and thou mayst pass the night at the ‘Robin Hood;’ I have a strange impression our mutual friends will stop there to-morrow night. If thou meetest them stick to them like a leech, and follow them, thyself unseen, if possible, to Glastonbury;then join me in the Abbey, and we will await them there; it is their purpose, I am sure, to enter that secret chamber and destroy the papers, and I would fain seize them in the act, and so learn the great secret.”
“There is much gold hidden there,” said Nicholas.
“There is, and it may be advisable for us to anticipate the work of the executioner on the spot, in which case”—
“I will answer for Cuthbert,” said Nicholas, even eagerly. “No one living knows the amount of gold and jewels; and we may deal with the papers as shall seem advisable; make our market of them, either with the parties compromised or with the government.”
They said no more, for up to this moment no idea of acting otherwise than the law would sanction had crossed the mind of Sir John: to minister to the vindictive feelings of the king, and to gratify the royal cupidity, thereby securing his own advancement, had been the original motives which had actuated him, but now—
He looked at Nicholas, but neither spoke again on the subject that night.
Sir John retired to rest a little before midnight; his page slept in the adjoining room. He was soon asleep, but with sleep came a strange dream,—his dead brother again stood by the bed side, andheld an hour-glass, in which the sand was fast running out, but a few particles left. “What does it mean?” The dead one shook his head mournfully, and Sir John awoke—
Awoke to hear an awful sound; he felt it coming before it came, something seemed moving through space; then came a sudden clang as when the iron door of an oubliette shuts for ever upon the captive of a living tomb.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!”
“What is the matter, sir?”
“Didst thou not hear?”
“Nay, I was awake, and all was still; thou wert dreaming, Sir John.”
Decorative footer
FOOTNOTES[49]The reader who has penetrated the Cheddar caves will recognize the description.
[49]The reader who has penetrated the Cheddar caves will recognize the description.
[49]The reader who has penetrated the Cheddar caves will recognize the description.
A month had passed away since the scaffold had lost its victims at Exeter, and although the agents of government had made every enquiry, searched every suspicious nook, and each house supposed to belong to malcontents, no trace of those who had been snatched from the hungry jaws of tyranny when about to crush them, had rewarded the zealous and obsequious spies.
Neither did the common people care to disguise their satisfaction, although it must be owned there were those whom we have already called “cannibals,” who grieved that so goodly a show had been spoilt at the very crisis. The frequent executions, and sanguinary spectacles which this paternal government had provided, like the shows of the amphitheatre at an earlier age, had created a craving for the excitement of witnessing bloodshed amongst certain morbid spirits, to thedestruction of all better feelings and human sympathies.
A month, and our scene is changed.
Upon the hilly ground which separates the counties of Devon and Somerset, not many miles from Honiton, stood a lonely inn called the “Robin Hood;” the traveller will search in vain for it now, but there it stood in the days of which we write, on the main road, near the summit of a long ascent. Many plantations of fir and pine were thereabouts, and yielded that sweet scent, so favourable as we are told to the health of the consumptive, and in front of the rambling house the eye roamed down a rich valley, until, over the old tower of Colyton Church, appeared a glimpse of the blue sea, set in a frame of delicious purple and green, the green of woodland and the purple of heather.
In these days invalids would go to live in such a place, and tourists would linger there for days, drinking in its sweet pine-scented atmosphere, or gazing upon the dreamy scenery: but inthosetimes men had but a faint appreciation of the beauties of nature, and the inn knew only such guests as tarried but a day, save when snowed in, or otherwise weather-bound.
It was a lovely evening during the week after All Saints’ Day—for there are sometimes lovely days in November, when the last gleams ofautumn seem to shine upon the scene, when the golden foliage looks richer than the duller tints of summer, and the leaves hail the rough blasts which are close at hand, dressed in their richest garb of gold and purple, ere they are blown away to die, like good vain people, who would fain dress in their best for the closing scene of all.
The sun had gone down over the western ridge, in a flood of fiery light, and the full moon poured her silvery beams over the scene, when two riders came slowly up the long ascent, and drew bridle before the porch.
“Canst give us a room to ourselves, landlord, to-night—both to sup and sleep?”
“Thee must sit with thy neighbours and sup with them, but mayst have a bed room all to your two selves.”
“Won’t money do it?”
“There isn’t time for Crooks the mason to build for you, if you laid the money down for bricks and mortar: you should give us a month’s notice.”
“Needs must then,” said the elder; “take the horses, my son. Is the ostler at hand?”
“He will be here in a minute or two, if you are above looking to your own beasts.”
“We should be poor farmers if we were,” said the elder. “Come, John, my son, the stable is over this side, I see. What hour is your supper?”
“Curfew,” said the Boniface, “and you will find good company: a priest, a lawyer, a leech, a youth who looks like a page, and my worthy self, who have filled that chair for twenty years, to carve for you.”
“Could not be better, the very idea appetizes me; come, John, in with the horses.”
Soon father and son joined the motley company in the great common room of the inn, with its huge settles, its capacious hearth, and blazing fire; the priest sat in a corner of the room conning his book of hours: the leech (or doctor, as folk now call him,) talked to a rheumatic countryman who shook with his ailments: the lawyer discussed some recent statutes with a client who travelled with him to the approaching assize at Exeter: and the page—
Well, he was a good-looking stalwart fellow, who bore his burden of twenty years or so jauntily,—good-looking, but not prepossessing; he had that particularly sharp and bright appearance a hair of reddish hue often gives, and which was once esteemed an ornament, and sign of high blood,[50]although silly people like to poke jokes at the wearer now-a-days. Moreover,there was a sly expression about his face which provoked mistrust; whether deservedly or not, the reader must judge by his deeds.
This page, then, when the farmer and son entered the room, started, then looked again, and an expression of surprise, not unmingled with satisfaction, crossed his flexible features.
Gradually the talk lost its technical character, and became general; once or twice it approached politics, but the great danger which then attended political or religious discussions, wherein one incautious word, as it had often done in fact, might cost a man his life, made men very shy of expressing their opinions. The bluff hearty way in which Englishmen of the Plantagenet period (in which time we include the houses of York and Lancaster) expressed their honest opinions, was gradually losing itself in a reserved and distrustful manner, which did not improve the national character, once so frank and open.
And moreover, the political system, inaugurated by Cromwell, had filled the country, as we have seen, with spies; so that men were chary of expressing their opinions before strangers. Still they discussed, with bated breath, the king’s failing health: the question whether the Conservative party, under the Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner, with its Catholic sympathies, or the Reforming party, with the Archbishop atits head, would win the royal sympathy and hold the reins of power. It was not then a question which held a majority in parliament, but which party pleased the king.
The lawyer here made a diversion.
“Has any one heard aught of the fugitives who escaped rope and quartering knife at Exeter?”
The red-haired page on hearing this gazed intently, with a very malicious smile, upon the face of the farmer’s son.
“Why, no,” said the leech, who was travelling from Exeter to Wells; “and yet they have made diligent search; but who can explore the wilds of Dartmoor, where they are doubtless hidden?”
“Has no one been hung for that affair?” inquired the merchant. “Hemp is going down in the market!”
“No oneas yet,” said the page, with a slight laugh, which sat unamiably on one so young.
“Well, then,” said the lawyer, “some one will have to be.”
Again the page looked at the young farmer, who returned a broad stare with the greatest apparent unconcern, and observed, in a broad Devonian dialect, that “Dartmoor was a cranky place to hide in.”
The page looked puzzled.
Here “mine host” announced supper, and it soon smoked on the board: a sucking-pig stewedin its own gravy, a saddle of mutton, a chine of pork, a loin of beef, all well cooked and savoury; bread in plenty, but no vegetables; salt, but no pepper or mustard; wooden platters, rude abundance, but no luxury.
“Give me the roast beef of old England,” said our farmer, and stuck to the joint.
The supper over, for we will not pursue the desultory conversation which enlivened it, the guests betook themselves to their several bed-chambers, which lay immediately beneath the high slanting roof, the long garret being divided into chambers by partitions of board, each with its dormer window.
Two truckle beds, in one of those chambers, which was central in its position, accommodated the father and son, who were no sooner alone than they became once more our old friends Sir Walter Trevannion and Cuthbert, as the reader has doubtless long since surmised, on their way to Glastonbury to fulfil the dying wishes of the last Abbot, ere leaving England for ever, and travelling under assumed characters, for reasons needless to mention.
“Cuthbert,” said his adopted parent, “we must follow different roads to-morrow for the sake of greater security; you must travel through Ilminster and Langport, I must take the southern road through Crewkerne and Ilchester; thosewho look out for two travellers, corresponding to the descriptions already advertized of our persons, will be less likely to recognize either.”
Cuthbert looked very sad at this.
“Mustwereallyseparate, father?” he said; “there is danger, and I would fain be nigh thee. I am young and vigorous, and might bear the brunt. Listen, I recognized an old Glastonbury boy, a former Abbey scholar, who was my especial enemy at school, and far worse than that, he guided the men who took the sainted Abbot,—’twas that red-haired page, his name is Nicholas Grabber, I think he knew and suspected me, although I tried hard to stare him out of countenance.”
“All the more reason, my dear son, that we should separate, one at least may arrive safely, and each has now the secret. Our lives are as nothing in comparison with this duty; one day’s riding will suffice, if we start about day-break, and at midnight we will meet in the Abbot’s chamber; the moon will be full, and there will be none to disturb us in the roofless desecrated pile; we can destroy those papers, and then seek Lyme Regis, and your uncle’s bark—you feel sure we may trust him?”
“Quite sure; at least he loves me for his brother’s sake, my foster father, Giles Hodge.”
“And we need not tell him any more than isnecessary; it will be safer for him. And now let me ask once more about the secret chamber, to make quite sure I can master the door.”
“The rose, fourth in order from the door and the third from the ground.”
The good father took out his tablets, and made a note thereof.
“Now, dear Cuthbert, our Compline office, and then to rest. We must be waking early.”
The sun rose brightly upon the old inn; it was a fresh, invigorating morning, with a keen frosty air, just such as would invite one to ride, walk, or run.
Cuthbert came out, his valise strapped on by a belt, and was ready to mount; his reputed father had already gone, for he had the longer journey, and Cuthbert was about to depart in turn.
He slipped a rose-noble into the hand of the ostler, whose face brightened as he received this unexpected donation, which was hardly a consistent or prudent one on Cuthbert’s part, at least in his assumed character.
“Thee beest a gentleman, and dang’d if I don’t tell thee all: I knows thee, I was in Exeter t’otherday, when two folks were to have been strapped and cut up.”
“You will not betray me, then?”
“Not I; ’twor a mortal shame to think of cutting such a likely lad, like a pig to be stowed away in flitches; but I have a word more to say, thee hast an enemy here, or at least hewashere.”
“Indeed, who was he?”
“Red-haired chap—foxey like. Was you two talking much after you went to bed? if so, I hope you did not tell each other any secrets.”
“Why? pray tell me.”
“Because in next chamber slept red-haired chap—‘foxey’ I calls him,—and as I was going by to my bed at the end of the passage, I seed him through his door, which he had left ajar, with his ear as fast, as if he were glued to the partition, where I knowed there was a little hole.”
Cuthbert looked serious as he said, “And were we talking just then?”
“Yes, I heard summut about Ilminster and Langport, and some other places; you were talking too loudly, and I don’t doubt ‘foxey’ heard it all, too; beest thee going that way?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Can’t ye take another? He’s gone that ere way before thee, I saw him start; he had a sword by his side, and may lurk in ambush for thee.”
“No, no,” thought Cuthbert, “it meansworsethan that; he knows about our meeting at midnight, and his plan will be to surprise both of us, and the secret: Sir John may be at Glastonbury, and he would go to him at once.”
“Good bye, and many thanks,” he said, aloud, “he has more need to fearmethan Ihim. Imustcatch him, he must never reach Glastonbury before me, it would be utter hopeless ruin. Good bye, keep our secret to yourself, and God bless you.”
And setting spurs to his horse, he rode off at a brisk trot.