“And I don’t know how we can get any,” said Rose. “We never see money. Our tenants, if they pay at all, pay in kind—a side of bacon, or a sack of corn; they are very good, poor people, and love our mother heartily, I do believe. I wish I knew what was to be done.”
“Time will show,” said Edmund. “I have been in as bad a case as this ere now, and it is something to be near you all again. So you like this place, do you? As well as our own home?”
Rose shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh no, Edmund; I try to think it home, and the children feel it so, but it is not like Woodley. Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the branches that came down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?”
“And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home from the justice-meeting. And the meadow where the hounds killed the fox that had baffled them so long! Do you hear anything of the place now, Rose?”
“Mr. Enderby told us something,” said Rose, sadly. “You know who has got it, Edmund?”
“Who?
“That Master Priggins, who was once justices’ clerk.”
“Ha!” cried Edmund. “That pettifogging scrivener in my father’s house!—in my ancestors’ house! A rogue that ought to have been branded a dozen years ago! I could have stood anything but that! Pretty work he is making there, I suppose! Go on, Rose.”
“O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear.”
“Neighbour’s fare! as you say,” replied Edmund, with a short dry laugh. “Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave man naturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries could not go in a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that in my father’s place is enough to drive one mad with rage! Come, what has he been doing? How has he used the poor people?”
“He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but Mr. Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.”
“I wonder what unlucky fate possessed that Enderby to take the wrong side! Well?”
“He could not tell us much of the place, for he cannot endure Master Priggins, and Master Sylvester laughs at his Puritanical manner; but he says—O Edmund—that the fish-ponds are filled up—those dear old fish-ponds where the water-lilies used to blow, and you once pulled me out of the water.”
“Ay, ay! we shall not know it again if ever our turn comes, and we enjoy our own again. But it is of no use to think about such matters.”
“No; we must be thankful that we have a home at all, and are not like so many, who are actually come to beggary, like poor Mrs. Forde. You remember her, our old clergyman’s widow. He died on board ship, and she was sent for by her cousin, who promised her a home; but she had no money, and was forced to walk all the way, with her two little boys, getting a lodging at night from any loyal family who would shelter her for the love of heaven. My mother wept when she saw how sadly she was changed; we kept her with us a week to rest her, and when she went she had our last gold carolus, little guessing, poor soul, that it was our last. Then, when she was gone, my mother called us all round her, and gave thanks that she could still give us shelter and daily bread.”
“There is a Judge above!” exclaimed Edmund; “yet sometimes it is hard to believe, when we see such a state of things here below!”
“Dr. Bathurst tells us to think it will all be right in the other world, even if we do have to see the evil prosper here,” said Rose, gravely. “The sufferings will all turn to glory, just as they did with our blessed King, out of sight.”
Edmund sat thoughtful. “If our people abroad would but hope and trust and bear as you do here, Rose. But I had best not talk of these things, only your patience makes me feel how deficient in it we are, who have not a tithe to bear of what you have at home. Are you moving to go? Must you?”
“I fear so, dear brother; the light seems to be beginning to dawn, and if Lucy wakes and misses me—Is your shoulder comfortable?”
“I was never more comfortable in my life. My loving duty to my dear mother. Farewell, you, sweet Rose.”
“Farewell, dear Edmund. Perhaps Walter may manage to visit you, but do not reckon on it.”
Thevigils of the night had been as unwonted for Lucy as for her sister, and she slept soundly till Rose was already up and dressed. Her first reflection was on the strange sights she had seen, followed by a doubt whether they were real, or only a dream; but she was certain it was no such thing; she recollected too well the chill of the stone to her feet, and the sound of the blasts of wind. She wondered over it, wished to make out the cause, but decided that she should only be scolded for peeping, and she had better keep her own counsel.
That Lucy should keep silence when she thought she knew more than other people was, however, by no means to be expected; and though she would say not a word to her mother or Rose, of whom she was afraid, she was quite ready to make the most of her knowledge with Eleanor.
When she came down stairs she found Walter, with his elbows on the table and his book before him, learning the task which his mother required of him every day; Eleanor had just come in with her lapfull of the still lingering flowers, and called her to help to make them up into nosegays.
Lucy came and sat down by her on the floor, but paid little attention to the flowers, so intent was she on showing her knowledge.
“Ah! you don’t know what I have seen.”
“I dare say it is only some nonsense,” said Eleanor, gravely, for she was rather apt to plume herself on being steadier than her elder sister.
“It is no nonsense,” said Lucy. “I know what I know.”
Before Eleanor had time to answer this speech, the mystery of which was enhanced by a knowing little nod of the head, young Mr. Enderby made his appearance in the hall, with a civil good-morning to Walter, which the boy hardly deigned to acknowledge by a gruff reply and little nod, and then going on to the little girls, renewed with them yesterday’s war of words. “Weaving posies, little ladies?”
“Not for rebels,” replied Lucy, pertly.
“May I not have one poor daisy?”
“Not one; the daisy is a royal flower.”
“If I take one?”
“Rebels take what they can’t get fairly,” said Lucy, with the smartness of a forward child; and Sylvester, laughing heartily, continued, “What would General Cromwell say to such a nest of little malignants?”
“That is an ugly name,” said Eleanor.
“Quite as pretty as Roundhead.”
“Yes, but we don’t deserve it.”
“Not when you make that pretty face so sour?”
“Ah!” interposed Lucy, “she is sour because I won’t tell her my secret of the pie.”
“Oh, what?” said Eleanor.
“Now I have you!” cried Lucy, delighted. “I know what became of the pigeon pie.”
In extreme alarm and anger, Walter turned round as he caught these words. “Lucy, naughty child!” he began, in a voice of thunder; then, recollecting the danger of exciting further suspicion, he stammered, “what—what—what—are you doing here? Go along to mother.”
Lucy rubbed her fingers into her eyes, and answered sharply, in a pettish tone, that she was doing no harm. Eleanor, in amazement, asked what could be the matter.
“Intolerable!” exclaimed Walter. “So many girls always in the way?”
Sylvester Enderby could not help smiling, as he asked, “Is that all you have to complain of?”
“I could complain of something much worse,” muttered Walter. “Get away, Lucy?”
“I won’t at your bidding, sir.”
To Walter’s great relief, Rose entered at that moment, and all was smooth and quiet; Lucy became silent, and the conversation was kept up in safe terms between Rose and the young officer. The colonel, it appeared, was so much better that he intended to leave Forest Lea that very day; and it was not long before he came down, and presently afterwards Lady Woodley, looking very pale and exhausted, for her anxieties had kept her awake all night.
After a breakfast on bread, cheese, rashers of bacon, and beer, the horses were brought to the door, and the colonel took his leave of Lady Woodley, thanking her much for her hospitality.
“I wish it had been better worth accepting,” said she.
“I wish it had, though not for my own sake,” said the colonel. “I wish you would allow me to attempt something in your favour. One thing, perhaps, you will deign to accept. Every royalist house, especially those belonging to persons engaged at Worcester, is liable to be searched, and to have soldiers quartered on them, to prevent fugitives from being harboured there. I will send Sylvester at once to obtain a protection for you, which may prevent you from being thus disturbed.”
“That will be a kindness, indeed,” said Lady Woodley, hardly able to restrain the eagerness with which she heard the offer made, that gave the best hope of saving her son. She was not certain that the colonel had not some suspicion of the true state of the case, and would not take notice, unwilling to ruin the son of his friend, and at the same time reluctant to fail in his duty to his employers.
He soon departed; Mistress Lucy’s farewell to Sylvester being thus: “Good-bye, Mr. Roundhead, rebel, crop-eared traitor.” At which Sylvester and his father turned and laughed, and their two soldiers looked very much astonished.
Lady Woodley called Lucy at once, and spoke to her seriously on her forwardness and impertinence. “I could tell you, Lucy, that it is not like a young lady, but I must tell you more, it is not like a young Christian maiden. Do you remember the text that I gave you to learn a little while ago—the ornament fit for a woman?”
Lucy hung her head, and with tears filling her eyes, as her mother prompted her continually, repeated the text in a low mumbling voice, half crying: “Whose adorning, let it not be the putting on of gold, or the plaiting of hair, or the putting on of apparel, but let it be the hidden man of the heart, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight ofGodof great price.”
“And does my little Lucy think she showed that ornament when she pushed herself forward to talk idle nonsense, and make herself be looked at and taken notice of?”
Lucy put her finger in her mouth; she did not like to be scolded, as she called it, gentle as her mother was, and she would not open her mind to take in the kind reproof.
Lady Woodley took the old black-covered Bible, and finding two of the verses in S. James about the government of the tongue, desired Lucy to learn them by heart before she went out of the house; and the little girl sat down with them in the window-seat, in a cross impatient mood, very unfit for learning those sacred words. “She had done no harm,” she thought; “she could not help it if the young gentleman would talk to her!”
So there she sat, with the Bible in her lap, alone, for Lady Woodley was so harassed and unwell, in consequence of her anxieties, that Rose had persuaded her to go and lie down on her bed, since it would be better for her not to try to see Edmund till the promised protection had arrived, lest suspicion should be excited. Rose was busy about her household affairs; Eleanor, a handy little person, was helping her; and Walter and Charles were gone out to gather apples for a pudding which she had promised them.
Lucy much wished to be with them; and after a long brooding over her ill-temper, it began to wear out, not to be conquered, but to depart of itself; she thought she might as well learn her lesson and have done with it; so by way of getting rid of the task, not of profiting by the warning it conveyed, she hurried through the two verses ending with—“Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth!”
As soon as she could say them perfectly, she raced upstairs, and into her mother’s room, gave her the book, and repeated them at her fastest pace. Poor Lady Woodley was too weary and languid to exert herself to speak to the little girl about her unsuitable manner, or to try to bring the lesson home to her; she dismissed her, only saying, “I hope, my dear, you will remember this,” and away ran Lucy, first to the orchard in search of her brothers, and not finding them there, round and round the garden and pleasance. Edmund, in his hiding-place, heard the voice calling “Walter! Charlie!” and peeping out, caught a glimpse of a little figure, her long frock tucked over her arm, and long locks of dark hair blowing out from under her small, round, white cap. What a pleasure it was to him to have that one view of his little sister!
At last, tired with her search, Lucy returned to the house, and there found Deborah ironing at the long table in the hall, and crooning away her one dismal song of “Barbara Allen’s cruelty.”
“So you can sing again, Deb,” she began, “now the Roundheads are gone and Diggory come back?”
“Little girls should not meddle with what does not concern them,” answered Deborah.
“You need not call me a little girl,” said Lucy. “I am almost eleven years old; and I know a secret, a real secret.”
“A secret, Mistress Lucy? Who would tell their secrets to the like of you?” said Deborah, contemptuously.
“No one told me; I found it out for myself!” cried Lucy, in high exultation. “I know what became of the pigeon pie that we thought Rose ate up!”
“Eh? Mistress Lucy!” exclaimed Deborah, pausing in her ironing, full of curiosity.
Lucy was delighted to detail the whole of what she had observed.
“Well!” cried Deborah, “if ever I heard tell the like! That slip of a thing out in all the blackness of the night! I should be afraid of my life of the ghosts and hobgoblins. Oh! I had rather be set up for a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, than set one foot out of doors after dark!”
As Deborah spoke, Walter came into the hall. He saw that Lucy had observed something, and was anxious every time she opened her lips. This made him rough and sharp with her, and he instantly exclaimed, “How now, Lucy, still gossipping?”
“You are so cross, I can’t speak a word for you,” said Lucy, fretfully, walking out of the room, while Walter, in his usual imperious way, began to shout for Diggory and his boots. “Diggory, knave!”
“Anon, sir!” answered the dogged voice.
“Bring them, I say, you laggard!”
“Coming, sir, coming.”
“Coming, are you, you snail?” cried Walter, impatiently. “Your heels are tardier now than they were at Worcester!”
“A man can’t do more nor he can do, sir,” said Diggory, sullenly, as he plodded into the hall.
“Answering again, lubber?” said Walter. “Is this what you call cleaned? You are not fit for your own shoe-blacking trade! Get along with you!” and he threw the boots at Diggory in a passion. “I must wear them, though, as they are, or wait all day. Bring them to me again.”
Walter had some idle notion in his head that it was Puritanical to speak courteously to servants, and despising Diggory for his cowardice and stupidity, he was especially overbearing with him, and went on rating him all the time he was putting on his boots, to go out and try to catch some fish for the morrow’s dinner, which was likely to be but scanty. As soon as he was gone, Diggory, who had listened in sulky silence, began to utter his complaints.
“Chicken-heart, moon-calf, awkward lubber, those be the best words a poor fellow gets. I can tell Master Walter that these are no times for gentlefolks to be hectoring, especially when they haven’t a penny to pay wages with.”
“You learnt that in the wars, Diggory,” said Deborah, turning round, for, grumble as she might herself, she could not bear to have a word said by anyone else against her lady’s family, and loved to scold her sweetheart, Diggory. “Never mind Master Walter. If he has not a penny in his pocket, and the very green coat to his back is cut out of his grandmother’s farthingale, more’s the pity. How should he show he is a gentleman but by hectoring a bit now and then, ’specially to such a rogue as thou, coming back when thy betters are lost. That is always the way, as I found when I lost my real silver crown, and kept my trumpery Parliament bit.”
“Ah, Deb!” pleaded Diggory, “thou knowst not what danger is! I thought thou wouldst never have set eyes on poor Diggory again.”
“Much harm would that have been,” retorted Mrs. Deb, tossing her head. “D’ye think I’d have broke my heart? That I’ll never do for a runaway.”
“’Twas time to run when poor Farmer Ewins was cut down, holloaing for quarter, and Master Edmund’s brains lying strewn about on the ground, for all the world like a calf’s.”
“’Tis your own brains be like a calf’s,” said Deborah. “I’d bargain to eat all of Master Edmund’s brains you ever saw.”
“He’s as dead as a red herring.”
“I say he is as life-like as you or I.”
“I say I saw him stretched out, covered with blood, and a sword-cut on his head big enough to be the death of twenty men.”
“Didn’t that colonel man, as they call him, see him alive and merry long after? It’s my belief that Master Edmund is not a dozen miles off.”
“Master Edmund! hey, Deb? I’ll never believe that, after what I’ve seen at Worcester.”
“Then pray why does Mistress Rose save a whole pigeon out of the pie, hide it in her lap, and steal out of the house with it at midnight? Either Master Edmund is in hiding, or some other poor gentleman from the wars, and I verily believe it is Master Edmund himself; so a fig for his brains or yours, and there’s for you, for a false-tongued runaway! Coming, mistress, coming!” and away ran Deborah at a call from Rose.
Now Deborah was faithful to the backbone, and would have given all she had in the world, almost her life itself, for her lady and the children; she was a good and honest woman in the main, but tongue and temper were two things that she had never learnt to restrain, and she had given her love to the first person by whom it was sought, without consideration whether he was worthy of affection or not. That Diggory was a sullen, ill-conditioned, selfish fellow, was evident to everyone else; but he had paid court to Deborah, and therefore the foolish woman had allowed herself to be taken with him, see perfections in him, promise to become his wife, and confide in him.
When Deborah left the hall, Diggory returned to his former employment of chopping wood, and began to consider very intently for him.
He had really believed, at the moment of his panic-terror, that he saw Edmund Woodley fall, and had at once taken flight, without attempting to afford him any assistance. The story of the brains had, of course, been invented on the spur of the moment, by way of excusing his flight, and he was obliged to persist in the falsehood he had once uttered, though he was not by any means certain that it had been his master whom he saw killed, especially after hearing Colonel Enderby’s testimony. And now there came alluringly before him the promise of the reward offered for the discovery of the fugitive cavaliers, the idea of being able to rent and stock poor Ewins’s farm, and setting up there with Deborah. It was money easily come by, he thought, and he would like to be revenged on Master Walter, and show him that the lubber and moon-calf could do some harm, after all. A relenting came across him as he thought of his lady and Mistress Rose, though he had no personal regard for Edmund, who had never lived at Forest Lea; and his stolid mind was too much enclosed in selfishness to admit much feeling for anyone. Besides, it might not be Master Edmund; he was probably killed; it might be one of the lords in the battle, or even the King himself, and that would be worth £1,000. Master Cantwell called them all tyrants and sons of Belial, and what not; and though Dr. Bathurst said differently, who was to know what was right? Dr. Bathurst had had his day, and this was Cantwell’s turn. There was a comedown now of feathered hats, and point collars, and curled hair; and leathern jerkin should have its day. And as for being an informer, he would keep his own counsel; at any rate, the reward he would have. It was scarcely likely to be a hanging matter, after all; and if the gentleman, whoever he might be, did chance to be taken, he would get off scot free, no harm done to him. “Diggory Stokes, you’re a made man!” he finished, throwing his bill-hook from him.
Ah! Lucy, Lucy, you little thought of the harm your curiosity and chattering had done, as you saw Diggory stealing along the side of the wood, in the direction leading to Chichester!
Inthe afternoon Lady Woodley was so much better as to be able to come downstairs, and all the party sat round the fire in the twilight. Walter was just come in from his fishing, bringing a basket of fine trout; Eleanor and Charles were admiring their beautiful red spots, Lucy wondering what made him so late, while he cast a significant look at his eldest sister, showing her that he had been making a visit to Edmund.
At that moment a loud authoritative knocking was heard at the door; Walter shouted to Diggory to open it, and was answered by Deborah’s shrill scream from the kitchen, “He’s not here, sir; I’ve not seen him since you threw your boots at him, sir.”
Another thundering knock brought Deborah to open the door; and what was the dismay of the mother and children as there entered six tall men, their buff coats, steeple-crowned hats, plain collars, and thick calf-skin boots, marking them as Parliamentary soldiers. With a shriek of terror the little ones clung round their mother, while he who, by his orange scarf, was evidently the commanding officer, standing in the middle of the hall, with his hat on, announced, in a Puritanical tone, “We are here by order of his Excellency, General Cromwell, to search for and apprehend the body of the desperate malignant Edmund Woodley, last seen in arms against the Most High Court of Parliament. Likewise to arrest the person of Dame Mary Woodley, widow, suspected of harbouring and concealing traitors:” and he advanced to lay his hand upon her. Walter, in an impulse of passion, rushed forward, and aimed a blow at him with the butt-end of the fishing-rod; but it was the work of a moment to seize the boy and tie his hands, while his mother earnestly implored the soldier to have pity on him, and excuse his thoughtless haste to protect her.
The officer sat down in the arm-chair, and without replying to Lady Woodley, ordered a soldier to bring the boy before him, and spoke thus:—“Hear me, son of an ungodly seed. So merciful are the lessons of the light that thou contemnest, that I will even yet overlook and forgive the violence wherewith thou didst threaten my life, so thou wilt turn again, and confess where thou hast hidden the bloody-minded traitor.”
“This house harbours no traitor,” answered Walter, undauntedly.
“If thou art too hardened to confess,” continued the officer, frowning, and speaking slowly and sternly, as he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Walter, “if thou wilt not reveal his hiding-place, I lead thee hence to abide the penalty of attempted murder.”
“I am quite ready,” answered Walter, returning frown for frown, and not betraying how his heart throbbed.
The officer signed to the soldier, who roughly dragged him aside by the cord that tied his hands, cutting them severely, though he disdained to show any sign of pain.
“Young maiden,” continued the rebel, turning to Rose, “what sayest thou? Wilt thou see thy brother led away to death, when the breath of thy mouth might save him?”
Poor Rose turned as pale as death, but her answer was steady: “I will say nothing.”
“Little ones, then,” said the officer, fiercely, “speak, or you shall taste the rod. Do you know where your brother is?”
“No—no,” sobbed Lucy; and her mother added, “They know nothing, sir.”
“It is loss of time to stand parleying with women and children,” said the officer, rising. “Here,” to one of his men, “keep the door. Let none quit the chamber, and mark the children’s talk. The rest with me. Where is the fellow that brought the tidings?”
Diggory, who had slunk out of sight, was pushed forward by two of the soldiers, and at the same time there was a loud scream from Deborah. “Oh! Diggory, is it you? Oh! my Lady, my Lady, forgive me! I meant no harm! Oh! who would have thought it?” And in an agony of distress, she threw her apron over her face, and, sinking on the bench, rocked herself to and fro, sobbing violently.
In the meantime, the officer and his men, all but the sentinel, had left the room to search for the fugitive, leaving Lady Woodley sitting exhausted and terrified in her chair, the little ones clinging around her, Walter standing opposite, with his hands bound; Rose stood by him, her arm round his neck, proud of his firmness, but in dreadful terror for him, and in such suspense for Edmund, that her whole being seemed absorbed in agonised prayer. Deborah’s sobs, and the children’s frightened weeping, were all the sounds that could be heard; Rose was obliged to attempt to soothe them, but her first kind word to Deborah produced a fresh burst of violent weeping, and then a loud lamentation: “Oh! the rogue—the rogue. If I could have dreamt it!”
“What has she done?” exclaimed Walter, impatiently. “Come, stop your crying. What have you done, Deb?”
“I thought—Oh! if I had known what was in the villain!” continued Deborah, “I’d sooner have bit out my tongue than have said one word to him about the pigeon pie.”
“Pigeon pie!” repeated Rose.
Lucy now gave a cry, for she was, with all her faults, a truth-telling child. “Mother! mother! I told Deb about the pigeon pie! Oh, what have I done? Was it for Edmund? Is Edmund here?”
And to increase the danger and perplexity, the other two children exclaimed together, “Is Edmund here?”
“Hush, hush, my dears, be quiet; I cannot answer you now,” whispered Lady Woodley, trying to silence them by caresses, and looking with terror at the rigid, stern guard, who, instead of remaining at the door where he had been posted, had come close up to them, and sat himself down at the end of the table, as if to catch every word they uttered.
Eleanor and Charles obeyed their mother’s command that they should be silent; Rose took Lucy on her lap, let her rest her head on her shoulder, and whispered to her that she should hear and tell all another time, but she must be quiet now, and listen. Deborah kept her apron over her face, and Walter, leaning his shoulder against the wall, stood gazing at them all; and while he was intently watching for every sound that could enable him to judge whether the search was successful or not, at the same time his heart was beating and his head swimming at the threat of the rebel. Was he to die? To be taken away from that bright world, from sunshine, youth, and health, from his mother, and all of them, and be laid, a stiff mangled corpse, in some cold, dark, unregarded grave; his pulses, that beat so fast, all still and silent—senseless, motionless, like the birds he had killed? And that was not all: that other world! To enter on what would last for ever and ever and ever, on a state which he had never dwelt on or realised to himself, filled him with a blank, shuddering awe; and next came a worse, a sickening thought: if his feeling for the bliss of heaven was almost distaste, could he be fit for it? could he dare to hope for it? It was his Judge Whom he was about to meet, and he had been impatient and weary of Bible and Catechism, and Dr. Bathurst’s teaching; he had been inattentive and careless at his prayers; he had been disobedient and unruly, violent, and unkind! Such a horror and agony came over the poor boy, so exceeding a dread of death, that he was ready at that moment to struggle to do anything to save himself; but there came the recollection that the price of his rescue must be the betrayal of Edmund. He would almost have spoken at that instant; the next he sickened at the thought. Never, never—he could not, would not; better not live at all than be a traitor! He was too confused and anxious to pray, for he had not taught himself to fix his attention in quiet moments. He would not speak before the rebel soldier; but only looked with an earnest gaze at his sister, who, as their eyes met, understood all it conveyed.
His mother, after the first moment’s fright, had reassured herself somewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely that Algernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him to death; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him; and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it could at that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for her eldest son.
A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that the enemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory’s intimate knowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery, and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where they were welcome to search as long as they chose, then to the barn-yard, all over the house from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet were heard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search, and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer entered the hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers, Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his hands unbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up to her, knelt on one knee before her, saying, “Mother, dear mother, your blessing. Let me see your face again.”
She threw her arms round his neck, “My son! and is it thus we meet?”
“We only meet as we parted,” he answered firmly and cheerfully. “Still sufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willing hearts.”
“Come, sir,” said the officer, “I must see you safely bestowed for the night.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” entreated Lady Woodley. “It is six years since I saw my son, and this may be our last meeting.” She led him to the light, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, which had in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, “How you are altered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker his hair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like your father?”
“And my little sisters,” said Edmund. “Ha! Lucy, I know your little round face.”
“Oh,” sobbed Lucy, “is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!”
“What does she mean?” asked Edmund, turning to Rose.
“I saw you take it out at night, Rose,” said poor Lucy. “I told Deb!”
“And poor Deborah,” added Rose, “from the same thoughtlessness repeated her chatter to Diggory, who has betrayed us.”
“The cowardly villain,” cried Walter, who had come forward to the group round his brother.
“Hush, Walter,” said Edmund. “But what do I see? Your hands bound? You a prisoner?”
“Poor Walter was rash enough to attempt resistance,” said his mother.
“So, sir,” said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, “you attach great importance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!”
“A blow with the butt-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man,” answered the officer.
“When last I served in England,” continued the cavalier, “Cromwell’s Ironsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You can have no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, against him.”
“Why—no, sir; but—however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I do not care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannot permit him to be at large while you are in the house.”
“Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. We have been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting.”
“So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I am willing to oblige you,” answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour had curiously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly and gentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. “Now, madam, to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow.”
“Good-night, mother,” said Edmund. “Sleep well; think this is but a dream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house.”
“Good-night, my brave boy,” said Lady Woodley, as she embraced him ardently. “A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father’s face you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow.God’sblessing be upon you, my boy.”
And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by a soldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter. Edmund next kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing them good-night, and assuring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon. Rose whispered to him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weep piteously.
“Deborah,” he said, “I must thank you for your long faithful service to my mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that you were doing me any harm.”
“Oh, sir,” cried poor Deborah, “Oh don’t speak so kind! I had rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army than be where I am now.”
Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged to hasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for the night. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor little Charles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion.
Deborah’s troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, and seeing Walter’s basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once for him. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceeded to her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time.
“Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have been the death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! ’Tis little I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love the very best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at the root! I wish—I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after having known him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer? Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heart less.”
And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her apron over her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards as before. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted to be softened into an insinuating tone. “I say, Deb, don’t take on.”
She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him. “Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?”
“Come, come, don’t be fractious, my pretty one,” said Diggory, in the amiable tones that had once gained her heart.
But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. “Your’n, indeed! I’d rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you. O Diggory Stokes,” she added ruefully, “I’d not have believed it of you, if my own father had sworn it.”
“Hush, hush, Deb!” said Diggory, rather sheepishly, “they’ve done hanging the folk.”
“Don’t be for putting me off with such trash,” she returned, more passionately; “you’ve murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat, and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you’ve broke my lady’s heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And now you think to make up to me, do you?”
“Wasn’t it all along of you I did it? For your sake?”
“Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?” cried Deb, her voice rising in shrillness with her indignation.
“Patience, Deb,” said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. “No more toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and no wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See here, Deb,” and he held up a piece of money.
“Silver!” she exclaimed.
“Ay, ay,” said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, “and there be plenty more where that came from.”
“It is the price of Master Edmund’s blood.”
“Don’t ye say that now, Deb; ’tis all for you!” he answered, thinking he was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive the difference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding.
“So you still have the face to tell me so!” she burst out, still more vehemently. “I tell you, I’d rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, if they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you. Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy in Dorset but will cry shame on you.”
“But Deb, Deb,” he still pleaded.
“You will have it, then!” And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, away ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping and astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on his hands and knees.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed, “How now, knave, stealing thy mistress’s goods?” and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidable halberd, stood over him.
“Good master corporal,” he began, trembling; but the soldier would not hear him.
“Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberd about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight of Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart.” Here Diggory judged it prudent to slink away through the back door. “And so,” continued the Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, “and so the gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!”
In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to Walter’s bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside the door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with a gesture of rage and despair. “The villains! the rogues! To be betrayed by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life. O Edmund, Edmund!”
“It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance,” returned Edmund. “Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkable proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me; but I should have thought my mother’s gentle kindness must have won the love of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging to her.”
A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence, then suddenly exclaimed, “The surly rascal! I verily believe it was all spite at me, for—”
“For—” repeated Edmund.
“For rating him as he deserved,” answered Walter. “I wish I had given it to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,” added he, hesitating, “perhaps if I had been civiller—”
“I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue,” said Edmund, smiling.
“It is what my mother is always blaming me for,” said Walter; “but really, now, Edmund, doesn’t it savour of the crop-ear to be picking one’s words to every rogue in one’s way?”
“Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we are cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low. You should see our young King’s frank bright courtesy; and as to the little King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every oldpoissardein the streets.”
Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if consoling himself, “He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue, whom hanging is too good for.”
“Don’t let us spend our whole night in abusing him,” said Edmund; “I want to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other.”
“O, Edmund! you don’t mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is there no way out of this room?” cried Walter, running round it like one distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it down.
“Hush! this is of no use, Walter,” said his brother. “The window is, I see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape.”
Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.
“For one thing I am thankful to them,” continued Edmund; “I thought they might have shot me down before my mother’s door, and so filled the place with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time for preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me.”
“Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!”
“I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert’s.”
Walter squeezed his hands fast together. “And how—how can you? Don’t think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—”
“Never, I am sure,” repeated Edmund.
“But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolish to believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought of dying, then—”
“You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter,” said Edmund; “nor have you led so wandering and weary a life.”
“I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die,” said Walter.
“Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge we must meet,” said Edmund; “but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows that it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. We may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grant us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late, Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow.”
Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowful and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following what he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and at the same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all he had hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had been of very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm, and added to his mother’s distress; he had been nothing but a boy throughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such an agony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in the room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother. Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!
The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, both occupying Walter’s bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep, and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who was giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, should Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely to become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly to protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding all compromise with the enemies of the Church.
Forest Leathat night was a house of sorrow: the mother and two sons were prisoners in their separate rooms, and the anxieties for the future were dreadful. Rose longed to see and help her mother, dreading the effect of such misery, to be borne in loneliness, by the weak frame, shattered by so many previous sufferings. How was she to undergo all that might yet be in store for her—imprisonment, ill-treatment, above all, the loss of her eldest son? For there was little hope for Edmund. As a friend and follower of Prince Rupert, he was a marked man; and besides, Algernon Sydney, the commander of the nearest body of forces, was known to be a good deal under the influence of the present owner of Woodley, who was likely to be glad to see the rightful heir removed from his path.
Rose perceived all this, and her heart failed her, but she had no time to pause on the thought. The children must be soothed and put to bed, and a hard matter it was to comfort poor little Lucy, perhaps the most of all to be pitied. She relieved herself by pouring out the whole confession to Rose, crying bitterly, while Eleanor hurried on distressing questions whether they would take mamma away, and what they would do to Edmund. Now it came back to Lucy, “O if I had but minded what mamma said about keeping my tongue in order; but now it is too late!”
Rose, after doing her best to comfort them, and listening as near to her mother’s door as she dared, to hear if she were weeping, went to her own room. It adjoined Walter’s, though the doors did not open into the same passage; and she shut that which closed in the long gallery, where her room and that of her sisters were, so that the Roundhead sentry might not be able to look down it.
As soon as she was in her own room, she threw herself on her knees, and prayed fervently for help and support in their dire distress. In the stillness, as she knelt, she heard an interchange of voices, which she knew must be those of her brothers in the next room. She went nearer to that side, and heard them more distinctly. She was even able to distinguish when Edmund spoke, and when Walter broke forth in impatient exclamations. A sudden thought struck her. She might be able to join in the conversation. There had once been a door between the two rooms, but it had long since been stopped up, and the recess of the doorway was occupied by a great oaken cupboard, in which were preserved all the old stores of rich farthingales of brocade, and velvet mantles, which had been heirlooms from one Dame of Mowbray to another, till poverty had caused them to be cut up and adapted into garments for the little Woodleys.
Rose looked anxiously at the carved doors of the old wardrobe. Had she the key? She felt in her pouch. Yes, she had not given it back to her mother since taking out the sheets for Mr. Enderby. She unlocked the folding doors, and, pushing aside some of the piles of old garments, saw a narrow line of light between the boards, and heard the tones almost as clearly as if she was in the same room.
Eager to tell Edmund how near she was, she stretched herself out, almost crept between the shelves, leant her head against the board on the opposite side, and was about to speak, when she found that it yielded in some degree to her touch. A gleam of hope darted across her, she drew back, fetched her light, tried with her hand, and found that the back of the cupboard was in fact a door, secured on her side by a wooden bolt, which there was no difficulty in undoing. Another push, and the door yielded below, but only so as to show that there must be another fastening above. Rose clambered up the shelves, and sought. Here it was! It was one of the secret communications that were by no means uncommon in old halls in those times of insecurity. Edmund might yet be saved! Trembling with the excess of her delight in her new-found hope, she forced out the second bolt, and pushed again. The door gave way, the light widened upon her, and she saw into the room! Edmund was lying on the bed, Walter sitting at his feet.
Both started as what had seemed to be part of the wainscoted wall opened, but Edmund prevented Walter’s exclamation by a sign to be silent, and the next moment Rose’s face was seen squeezing between the shelves.
“Edmund! Can you get through here?” she exclaimed in a low eager whisper.
Edmund was immediately by her side, kissing the flushed anxious forehead: “My gallant Rose!” he said.
“Oh, thank heaven! thank heaven! now you may be safe!” continued Rose, still in the same whisper. “I never knew this was a door till this moment. Heaven sent the discovery on purpose for your safety! Hush, Walter! Oh remember the soldier outside!” as Walter was about to break out into tumultuous tokens of gladness. “But can you get through, Edmund? Or perhaps we might move out some of the shelves.”
“That is easily done,” said Edmund; “but I know not. Even if I should escape, it would be only to fall into the hands of some fresh troop of enemies, and I cannot go and leave my mother to their mercy.”
“You could do nothing to save her,” said Rose, “and all that they may do to her would scarcely hurt her if she thought you were safe. O Edmund! think of her joy in finding you were escaped! the misery of her anxiety now!”
“Yet to leave her thus! You had not told me half the change in her! I know not how to go!” said Edmund.
“You must, you must!” said Rose and Walter, both at once. And Rose added, “Your death would kill her, I do believe!”
“Well, then; but I do not see my way even when I have squeezed between your shelves, my little sister. Every port is beset, and our hiding places here can no longer serve me.”
“Listen,” said Rose, “this is what my mother and I had planned before. The old clergyman of this parish, Dr. Bathurst, lives in a little house at Bosham, with his daughter, and maintains himself by teaching the wealthier boys of the town. Now, if you could ride to him to-night, he would be most glad to serve you, both as a cavalier, and for my mother’s sake. He would find some place of concealment, and watch for the time when you may attempt to cross the Channel.”
Edmund considered, and made her repeat her explanation. “Yes, that might answer,” he said at length; “I take you for my general, sweet Rose. But how am I to find your good doctor?”
“I think,” said Rose, after considering a little while, “that I had better go with you. I could ride behind you on your horse, if the rebels have not found him, and I know the town, and Dr. Bathurst’s lodging. I only cannot think what is to be done about Walter.”
“Never mind me,” said Walter, “they cannot hurt me.”
“Not if you will be prudent, and not provoke them,” said Edmund.
“Oh, I know!” cried Rose; “wear my gown and hood! these men have only seen us by candle-light, and will never find you out if you will only be careful.”
“I wear girl’s trumpery!” exclaimed Walter, in such indignation that Edmund smiled, saying, “If Rose’s wit went with her gown, you might be glad of it.”
“She is a good girl enough,” said Walter, “but as to my putting on her petticoat trash, that’s all nonsense.”
“Hear me this once, dear Walter,” pleaded Rose. “If there is a pursuit, and they fancy you and Edmund are gone together, it will quite mislead them to hear only of a groom riding before a young lady.”
“There is something in that,” said Walter, “but a pretty sort of lady I shall make!”
“Then you consent? Thank you, dear Walter. Now, will you help me into your room, and I’ll put two rolls of clothes to bed, that the captain may find his prisoners fast asleep to-morrow morning.”
Walter could hardly help laughing aloud with delight at the notion of the disappointment of the rebels. The next thing was to consider of Edmund’s equipment; Rose turned over her ancient hoards in vain, everything that was not too remarkable had been used for the needs of the family, and he must go in his present blood-stained buff coat, hoping to enter Bosham too early in the morning for gossips to be astir. Then she dressed Walter in her own clothes, not without his making many faces of disgust, especially when she fastened his long curled love-locks in a knot behind, tried to train little curls over the sides of his face, and drew her black silk hood forward so as to shade it. They were nearly of the same height and complexion, and Edmund pronounced that Walter made a very pretty girl, so like Rose that he should hardly have known them apart, which seemed to vex the boy more than all.
There had been a sort of merriment while this was doing, but when it was over, and the moment came when the brother and sister must set off, there was lingering, sorrow, and reluctance. Edmund felt severely the leaving his mother in the midst of peril, brought upon her for his sake, and his one brief sight of his home had made him cling the closer to it, and stirred up in double force the affections for mother, brothers, and sisters, which, though never extinct, had been comparatively dormant while he was engaged in stirring scenes abroad. Now that he had once more seen the gentle loving countenance of his mother, and felt her tender, tearful caress, known that noble-minded Rose, and had a glimpse of those pretty little sisters, there was such a yearning for them through his whole being, that it seemed to him as if he might as well die as continue to be cast up and down the world far from them.
Rose felt as if she was abandoning her mother by going from home at such a time, when perhaps she should find on her return that she had been carried away to prison. She could not bear to think of being missed on such a morning that was likely to ensue, but she well knew that the greatest good she could do would be to effect the rescue of her brother, and she could not hesitate a moment. She crowded charge after charge upon Walter, with many a message for her mother, promise to return as soon as possible, and entreaty for pardon for leaving her in such a strait; and Edmund added numerous like parting greetings, with counsel and entreaties that she would ask for Colonel Enderby’s interference, which might probably avail to save her from further imprisonment and sequestration.
“Good-bye, Walter. In three or four years, if matters are not righted before that, perhaps, if you can come to me, I may find employment for you in Prince Rupert’s fleet, or the Duke of York’s troop.”
“O Edmund, thanks! that would be—”
Walter had not time to finish, for Rose kissed him, left her love and duty to her mother with him, bade him remember he was a lady, and then holding Edmund by the hand, both with their shoes off, stole softly down the stairs in the dark.
Afterpacing up and down Rose’s room till he was tired, Walter sat down to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest he should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with his arms crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell sound asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and calls of “Rose! Rose!” were heard outside the locked door.
He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the door.
He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother, all gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and Charles clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means understood this; and Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he would not like it. “How you crowd?” he exclaimed.
“Mistress Rose,” began Deborah, coming half way up stairs—Lucy let go his hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he could not move. “Don’t be troublesome, children,” said he, trying to shake them off; “can’t you come near one without pulling off one’s hands?”
“Mistress!” continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and did not immediately attend, she exclaimed, “Oh, she won’t even look at me! I thought she had forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you!” said he, starting. “Stuff and nonsense; what’s all this about? You were a fool, that’s all.”
Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor, and held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry: “Mistress Rose, shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young gentlemen, poor souls?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “No, wait a bit. Only to my mother, I mean, just at present.”
“And the soldiers,” continued Deborah—“they’re roaring for breakfast; what shall I give them?”
“A halter,” he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and answered, “What you can—bread, beef, beer—”
“Bread! beef! beer!” almost shrieked Deborah, “when she knows the colonel man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two Christmases, and bread, there’s barely enough for my lady and the children, till we bake.”
“Well, whatever there is, then,” said Walter, anxious to get rid of her.
“I could fry some bacon,” pursued Deborah, “only I don’t know whether to cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the garden. Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out of the frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way.”
The tinker was too much for poor Walter’s patience, and flinging away from her, he exclaimed, “Mercy on me, woman, you’ll plague the life out of me!”
Poor Deborah stood aghast. “Mistress Rose! what is it? you look wildly, I declare, and your hood is all I don’t know how. Shall I set it right?”
“Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine!” cried Walter.
“Alack! alack!” lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down stairs, Charlie running after her. “Mistress Rose is gone clean demented with trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this poor house yet.”
“There!” said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; “I have held my tongue this time. O Walter, you don’t do it a bit like Rose!”
“Where is Rose!” said Eleanor. “How did you get out?”
“Well!” said Walter, “it is hard that, whatever we do, women and babies are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found me out, but mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to guess what I am telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose is gone with him—’tis safest not to say where.”
“But is not she coming back?” asked Eleanor.
“Oh yes, very soon—to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till she comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I never was properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!”
“Oh don’t stride along so, or they will find you out,” exclaimed Eleanor.
“And don’t mince and amble, that is worse!” added Lucy. “Oh you will make me laugh in spite of everything.”
“Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my—her room, and see nobody!” said Walter; “you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don’t let Deb drive me distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives.”
“But only tell me, how did you get out?” said Lucy.
“Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing,” said Walter, shutting the door in her face.
“Now, don’t be curious, dear Lucy,” said Eleanor, taking her hand. “We shall know in time.”
“I will not, I am not,” said Lucy, magnanimously. “We will not say one single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything. Come down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose’s work, for we must be very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that Edmund is safe.”
Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained undisturbed for some time, while Deborah’s unassisted genius was exerted to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption was from Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call “Walter,” and then hastily turning it into “Rose!” He opened, and she said, with tears in her eyes, “O Walter, Walter, the wicked men are really going to take dear mother away to prison. She is come down with her cloak and hood on, and is asking for you—Rose I mean—to wish good-bye. Will you come?”
“Yes,” said Walter; “and Edmund—”
“They were just sending up to call him,” said Eleanor; “they will find it out in—”
Eleanor’s speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next room. “Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!” with many confused exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor stood frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine caper, clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in an exulting whisper, “Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long enough for him!” then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the hall. His mother, dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a glance of hope and joy lighting on her pale features, but her swollen eyelids telling of a night of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and Charles were by her side, the front door open, and the horses were being led up and down before it. Walter and Eleanor hurried up to her, but before they had time to speak, the rebel captain dashed into the room, exclaiming, “Thou treacherous woman, thou shalt abye this! Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the coast. Smite them rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling of the blood-thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I say!”
“Which way, sir?” demanded the corporal.
“The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport. Or here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles? Ah, there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy mother by telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy wiles, and will visit them on thee and on thy father’s house, unless thou dost somewhat to merit forgiveness.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Walter, swelling with passion.
“Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of the righteous are escaped.”
“You are not wrong there, sir,” said Walter.
“I tell thee,” said the captain, sternly, “thy joy shall be turned to mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou and thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless—”
Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, “You know you have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use such threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!”
“Ha!” said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady’s manner of replying. “Is it thus the malignants breed up their daughters, in insolence as well as deceit?”
The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, “Take that, for giving the lie to a gentleman.”
“How now?” cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the hood fell back. “’Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search the house instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second time.”
He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw himself into his mother’s arms, exclaiming, “O mother dear, I bore it as long as I could.”
“My dear rash boy!” said she. “But is he safe? No, do not say where. Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!” and so indeed her face proved.
“All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she—but I’ll say no more, for fear. He left love—duty—Rose left all sorts of greetings, that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them lumbering about the house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are welcome—”
“Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will gain,” whispered his mother. “Oh this is joy indeed!”
“Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word,” interposed Lucy; but there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the captain returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a soldier, who was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was completed.
After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain through the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went off to scour the neighbouring country, and examine every village on the coast.
Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime locked into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered not to let Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and Walter were warned that they were to be carried the next morning to Chichester, to answer for having aided and abetted the escape of the notorious traitor, Edmund Woodley.
It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust that the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be safe with Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels should search the villages before Edmund had time to escape.