"It would have been better," Kink said, "if your uncle had handed you the license right away—not made a mystery of it."
"Oh, no," said Hester.
As it happened, they were destined not to reach Evesham that day, for at Abbots Salford Moses cast a shoe, and that meant the blacksmith and delay. When the accident was discovered, and the children were surrounding Moses and helping Kink in his examination of the hoof, a farmer who was walking by stopped and joined them. He asked the trouble, and offered them his advice.
"You put your caravan in my yard there," he said, pointing to a beautiful gateway just ahead, "and you make yourselves comfortable there while the horse is being shod. I'll show you the house if you like," he added; "it's very old, and haunted too, and there's a grand boatingplace at the weir just across the meadows. Don't worry about the horse or anything. If you go to bed early and get up early, it will come to the same thing as if you had gone right on."
Everyone except Robert, who liked to see his time-tables obeyed, and perhaps Gregory, who had been deprived for some days of his office of asking leave for a camping-ground, and was now balked again, was glad of the mischance that brought camp so early, and Hester was wild with pleasure, for Salford Hall is an old mansion of grey stone, built three hundred years ago, and now mysterious and, except for a few rooms, desolate. It has also an old garden and a fish-pond, and a little Roman Catholic chapel whose altar-candles have been alight for centuries.
The farmer was very kind. He gave the children leave to go anywhere and everywhere, but they must not, he said, run or jump, because the floors were not strong enough. He led them from room to room, to the dancing-gallery in the roof.
There was a very old bagatelle-table in one room, all moth-eaten, and a few old pictures still on the walls—a knight and his lady with Elizabethan ruffs, and a portrait of a greyhound. From a top window the farmer showed them Evesham's bell-tower.
But the most exciting moment was when each of them in turn was allowed to hide in the priest's hiding-hole. This was a very ingenious cupboard behind a row of shelves intended to have books or china on them, which swung back when you loosened a catch. Hester crouched here and shut her eyes, and firmly believed that the Protestants were after her.
In her next letter she implored her mother to take the Hall, and live there in the summer. "I am sure," she wrote, "it would be very cheap, because it is so shabby and is crumbling away in many places. I would gladly live in the priest's hiding-hole always. Please think about it seriously."
Afterwards the farmer showed them the way down to the weir, over the railway, and advised them to have the caravan taken down there, and sleep there that night near the rushing water.
"You couldn't have done it two months ago," he said.
"Why not?" Robert asked.
"Guess why," said the farmer.
And will you believe it, none of them could guess.
"Because it was flooded," said the farmer. "In winter it's often just a great lake, from the railway at the foot of our garden right to the Marlcliff Hills."
And so Moses (with a beautiful new shoe) was put into the shafts again, and they went gently over the soft green meadows to the weir, and there they had their supper, and explored the mill and the shaggy wood overhanging it, and rowed a little in a very safe boat, and stood on the little bridges, and watched the rushing water, and then walked slowly beside the still stream higher up as the light began to fade, and surprised the water-rats feeding or gossiping on the banks—none of which things could they have done had Moses had the poor sense to retain his near fore-shoe.
They left the weir very early the next morning, after a breakfast from the cold ham which Mrs. Avory had bought them at Stratford. On their way through the village they stopped at Salford Hall, because Hester and Gregory had had an argument as to whether or not it was possible to hear the breathing of the person in the hiding-hole. The farmer allowed them to go upstairs and try, and, as it happened, Hester was right, and you could hear it, if you had patience. Gregory came out again as purple as a plum through holding it in so long.
Then they said good-bye to the farmer and strode on through Harrington and Norton, and a little beyond this Robert took those that cared about it to see the obelisk on the site of the Battle of Evesham, at which Simon de Montfort was killed in 1265. And so they came through the orchards of plum-trees, on which the fruit was now forming, to Evesham itself.
It was while they were walking through Evesham, beside or behind the Slowcoach, in the middle of the road, that Janet felt a hand on her arm, and, looking round, perceived a very small and very neat and very anxious little servant maid.
"Please," she said, "Miss Redstone, my mistress says, will you all step into her house and partake of refreshment, and do her a very great favour?"
Janet could hardly believe her ears.
"All of us!" she exclaimed.
"Yes," said the little servant, "all, please."
Janet thought very hard for a moment or two. Who was this Miss Redstone? What would Mrs. Avory do under the same circumstances? she was asking herself. "Which house?" she inquired at last.
"That one," said the little anxious servant, pointing to the neatest and brightest little house you ever saw, with dazzling steps and a shining knocker, and a poor little pathetic face peering hopefully over the blind.
The pathetic little face settled it. "All right," Janet said at once, and, calling the others together and telling Kink to wait for them outside the town, she led them in.
They were shown into a tiny and spotless parlour, with woolwork footstools, where after a moment or so they were joined by Miss Redstone, the little old lady whom Janet had seen at the window, but whose face was now smiling and contented.
"You must think me very strange, my dears," she said, "but I will explain. I am Godfrey Fairfax."
A dreadful silence fell on the room. The children looked at each other shamefacedly, and almost in fear, for they thought the little old lady must be mad.
As for her, she again looked the picture of woe. "O dear," she said, "is it possible that none of you have ever even heard of me! Surely one of my stories must have found its way to your house?"
"Do you write stories?" Janet asked.
"Yes, I have written lots, but I'm afraid they don't sell as they ought to. Of course, Godfrey Fairfax is not my real name; it is just the name I take as a writer, because people prefer that books should be written by a man rather than by a woman. I am really Miss Redstone. Why I called you in was to ask if you would be so very kind as to sit down and have some cake and milk while I read you my last story—quite a short one—and you can tell me what you think of it. There are so few children that I know here, and it makes such a difference to get some real criticism. Do you mind?"
They all said they didn't mind at all, and after the cake and milk had been brought in by the little servant, Godfrey Fairfax cleared her throat and began.
"It is a story," she said, "of Roundheads and Cavaliers—a very suitable story to write here, so close to the battlefields of Tewkesbury and Marston Moor. It is called 'Barbara's Fugitive.' Now listen, my dears."
On a bright June morning, early in the Protectorate, Colonel Myddelton, followed by a groom, rode through the gates of the old Hall and turned his horse's head towards London. At the bend in the road, halfway up Sheringham Hill, he stopped a moment and waved his hand in the direction of the house. A white handkerchief fluttered at an upper window in reply.
"My poor lonely Barbara!" said the Colonel, smiling tenderly as he passed again out of sight of his daughter.
"Dear father!" said Barbara, as the Colonel disappeared from view. She did not, however, at once leave the window, but remained leaning out, with the warm touch of the sun on her head, drinking in the morning sounds.
The village, half a mile distant, was just visible to Barbara through the trees—red-roofed, compact, the cottages gathering about the church like chickens round the mother hen. On a summer day like this anyone listening at the Hall could hear the busy noises, the hum of this little hive of humanity, with perfect clearness; the beat of the hammer on the anvil in Matthew Hale's smithy, the "Gee, whoa!" of the carter on the distant road, the scrunching of the wagon-wheels, the crowing cocks, and now and then the shouts of boys and the laughter of children. These audible tokens of active life were a comfort to Barbara. A moment before, on parting with her father, she was aware of a new and disturbing loneliness, but now she felt no longer with the same melancholy that she was solitary, apart from her fellows.
It was the time when the country was divided between the followers of the Throne and the followers of Cromwell; the time when sour visages, who were for the moment in the places of authority, glowered beneath black hats, and the village games were forbidden; the time when Royalist gentlemen dropped a crumb into their wineglasses after dinner, and, looking meaningly at each other, tossed off the red liquor, saying fervently as they did so, "God send this CRUMB WELL down." But actual fighting was over, and the country on the surface peaceable again, although a word often was sufficient to draw forth steel among the high folks or set an inn full of villagers to fisticuffs. There was not a Royalist in the country but awaited the moment when he could strike another blow to avenge his dead master and reinstate his young Prince. Among these loyal gentlemen Colonel Myddelton was not the least.
Colonel Myddelton was a widower, and Barbara, young though she was, had long acted as the mistress of the household. Yet, in spite of her good sense and caution, Barbara had been the obstacle to the Colonel's departure. She was, he considered, unfit to be left alone with no more stalwart companions than old Digger, the maids, and the children; but her repeated assurances that she felt no foreboding at last conquered, and that morning, as we have seen, he had ridden off.
"You know, father," she had told him again and again, "Philip is close at hand, and truly I can see no danger. Was not I alone for days and nights together when you were with the King and the Prince?"
"Well, well," the Colonel had responded at last; "but I shall speak a word to Matthew as I pass the forge to-day, and he will keep his eye on the place." Matthew Hale, the blacksmith, had served under Colonel Myddelton in more than one campaign, and he rang as true as his own anvil.
Thus it was that Barbara was left alone in the great house, with none to bear her company but Jack, who was but twelve, and Marjorie, who was but eight, and little Alys, and old Digger, the odd man, and the maids. There were also, it is true, stablemen and gardeners, but they lived in the village.
The next of age to Barbara was Philip (Philip Sidney Myddelton in full, so named after that sweet and noble gentleman and soldier who fell at Zutphen). Philip was sixteen, and at this time was still at his lessons with Mr. Fullarton, of Framshott, a village eight miles distant. Mr. Fullarton was a ripe scholar who kept a house wherein some score of boys whose parents had no strong liking for the great grammar schools were received and fitted with enough learning to take them into Oxford or Cambridge. The boys ranged in age from ten to seventeen, and at this time Philip was their leader. None could shoot with a crossbow as skillfully as he (that very spring he had killed twenty-three water-rats, and you know how wary they are); none was so fearless a rider; none more expert at flying the hawk or training hounds. The boys' worthy instructor received a liberal sum in payment for his services, and his house was thus made more of a home than a mere school. Each boy who wanted it was permitted to keep his own horse and dog, and after lessons were over their liberty was little encroached upon, provided that they observed the rules of the house.
The Reverend Jeremy Fullarton was Royalist to the marrow, and only Royalists entrusted their sons to his keeping; hence the house was a home of Cavalier sentiment. The older boys had even constituted themselves into a little corps, and all games had given way before the joys of drilling and military tactics. Here again Philip led, although his sworn allies, Hugh Lorimer and Vernon Hutchinson (a nephew of the great Colonel Hutchinson, whose memoirs were written by his wife Lucy) and Rupert Ommaney, shared the command. Not often do you find a bond uniting as many as four schoolboys in devoted friendship, but such was the case with this gallant quartet, Philip and Hugh, Rupert and Vernon.
"IS IT INTERESTING?" THE LITTLE OLD LADY ASKED EARNESTLY.
"VERY," SAID JANET.
"I LIKE BARBARA," SAID HESTER.
"I LIKE PHILIP," SAID GREGORY.
GODFREY FAIRFAX WAS ABOUT TO BEGIN AGAIN, WHEN HORACE INTERRUPTED.
"EXCUSE ME," HE SAID. "BUT I'VE BEEN THINKING. DIDN'T YOU WRITE 'FOR THE GOOD CAUSE'?"
"YES," SHE SAID.
"WHY," SAID HORACE, "THAT'S MY FAVOURITE BOOK. YOU REMEMBER THAT, JACK? THE WARS OF THE ROSES AND THE YORKIST FAMILY? YOU MUST REMEMBER WHERE THE SPY—GILES FEATHERHEAD—IS CAUGHT IN THE BUTTERY, AND HOW THEY DUCK HIM?"
"OF COURSE I DO," SAID JACK. "IT'S PERFECTLY RIPPING."
GODFREY FAIRFAX WAS SO PLEASED TO HEAR THIS THAT HER VOICE FOR A MOMENT OR TWO WAS QUITE HUSKY. THEN SHE RESUMED.
In the evening Matthew Hale appeared bearing a basket of tools, and insisted upon testing all locks and bolts, and Barbara and he explored the house together, making all safe with the exception of a window in the library. This room was on the ground-floor, easily accessible, and, try as he would, there was one window which the blacksmith could not secure. The good fellow was for sleeping on the floor all night by way of guard, but Barbara would not hear of it, and, in the end, Bevis, the mastiff, the great dog that had followed Colonel Myddelton into camp in the late war, was chained outside the window. Satisfied with this arrangement, Matthew pulled his forelock and said good night, and Barbara prepared for bed.
Folks kept better hours in those days than we now do. First she peeped in at the sleeping children. Then she talked long and earnestly with the cook concerning the morrow's programme, and at nine o'clock she climbed to her room.
Barbara, however, could not sleep; so, after an hour or two had passed, she rose, lit a candle, threw on a wrap, and descended the broad staircase, intent upon a queer and enthralling Spanish book—the story of a mad knight and his comic, matter-of-fact attendant, which was a favourite of her father's.
The book was wont to stand in a corner of the library close to his hand as he sat writing by the window, and, opening the door, Barbara crossed the floor with her hand outstretched to take it. So familiar was she with the mad knight's position on the shelves that she carried no light.
Her hand was within a yard of the sheepskin cover when she leaped back with frozen blood, for there, a foot from her, in her father's chair, was the figure of a man. Instantly she remembered the open window. A breath from the roses floated in and fanned her face; until her dying day Barbara had but to be conscious of the scent of roses to see again that darkened room, to feel again that tightening of the heart. She could neither scream nor move.
The tension was snapped by the man himself, who suddenly awoke and stretched his arms, and, in doing so, smote Barbara on the shoulder. He sprang to his feet with a cry of astonishment and apology, and at that moment she was herself again.
"A thousand pardons," he said, bowing low before her.
"Who—who are you?" Barbara found words to ask. "And what is your business here? It is no part of a gentleman's behaviour to enter houses by the window."
"Nay," said the man, and Barbara noted that his speech was of one gently born—"nay, it is truly no gentleman's conduct, but in these days, when Kings are laid low at the hands of traitors"—and his voice had a bitter ring—"and rebels sit in high places, a gentleman must perforce descend to trickery and meanness now and then."
Barbara repeated her question. "But tell me who you are, and what you want? There is a gate to the place; there are servants to open it. Why did you steal upon us thus? And Bevis?" she added, as a sudden misgiving seized her, "he was chained by the window. Have you killed him? Oh, say you have not hurt Bevis?"
"Nay, I could not hurt an old friend," said the stranger. "Bevis and I are old friends. He remembered me at once."
Barbara's fear diminished somewhat at these words. "Old friends!" she exclaimed, half reassured.
"Yes," said the stranger, "we were together in the west. Colonel Mvddelton, whom I have striven hither to talk with, and I went through a campaign together; a futile campaign, I fear, with more of pursuit than pursuing, but for a high cause. I'faith, it seems my lot to be pursued. And you, fair lady (for, dark though it is, I know you are fair), are you Colonel Myddelton's daughter, the mistress Barbara, of whom he has told me?"
"I am Colonel Myddelton's daughter," said Barbara. "But you, sir?"
"Right, right," the stranger replied, more gaily; "you ply me hard, but my name stays secret, none the less. Yet this ring may perhaps convince you I am no common housebreaker. See, it was the gift of your father, and a passport, so he said, to Myddelton Hall by day or night." And he stretched forth a ring, which Barbara immediately recognized as an old signet of her father's which suddenly he had ceased to wear, he said not why. She was partially satisfied. "And Bevis," added the stranger—"take it, will you not, dear lady, as a good omen that Bevis let me pass almost unchallenged? But your father," he went on—"is he ill, or away? or will you lead me to him? Had I not fallen asleep, I was about to seek his room. As for entering by the gate, you must know, young mistress, the danger now run by friends of the late King."
"Ah, yes," said Barbara, with a sigh. "My father," she added, "rode this morning to London, where he will be a week yet; but I can tell you where he is lodged. Will you not follow him?"
"London!" the young man repeated, in disappointed tones; "what does he there? London is no place for a true man."
"He has ridden thither," said Barbara, "on matters touching his property, which the rebels would confiscate."
"Rebels!" cried the stranger excitedly. "Ha! a good word in your mouth, young mistress. I like to hear you say that thus roundly. Zounds!" he added; "it is ill news that your father is away, for I have but a few hours in this country, and I must even return without accomplishing my mission. To London I dare not adventure. But, mistress, will you not bring a light, that we may see if we still doubt each other; and then we must talk of a plan of safety."
"Stay where you are," said Barbara, "and I will fetch a candle."
During her absence the stranger had not moved. As she entered he stepped forward and took the light from her, holding it high and scrutinizing her face narrowly.
"Ah!" he exclaimed at last, with a sigh; "good as gold! Would that other lands could breed such grace! It is ill to be banished from one's own countrywomen."
Barbara blushed and turned away.
The young man, who was soberly clad, had dark, almost black hair, and dark eyes. His mouth was perhaps too loose, but he was prepossessing. A certain melancholy, an air of bafflement, seemed to overshadow him. Barbara's sympathy was his at that moment, and he knew it.
"There is a hiding-place in the house," he said, after a pause; "your father has told me of it."
Barbara started; but at these words, her last suspicion vanished. "There is," she replied simply.
"Then will you lodge me there?" the stranger answered. "The gravest issues depend upon the success with which my visit here is kept secret. So far, I believe I have eluded suspicion and pursuit, but these Roundheads are cunning as jackals. And, dear preserver, might I crave some food and drink?"
"Alas!" exclaimed Barbara, "I have delayed hospitality too long. But, you see," she added, smiling, "such visitors are rare at Myddelton Hall. Our gates fly wide to welcome my father's friends when we know of their approach, I assure you, sir."
The stranger bowed, and, smiling in reply, lost for the moment his air of melancholy.
"Your hiding-place is close at hand," she said, and looked again at the ring.
It was certainly her father's; she had often seen it on his hand. And Bevis, too! No, there could be no longer any doubt as to the stranger's genuineness. At least, if there were, she banished it forthwith, for, moving swiftly to the door, she locked it, and then, crossing the room to the fireplace, held up the light and revealed a portrait of an elderly man in Elizabethan costume.
"My great-grandfather," she said, "with whom, as I will show you, liberties have been taken."
So saying, she climbed on a chair, and, reaching upward, pressed her finger against the portrait's right eye. As she did so, a spring was set in motion, and the picture slid upwards, taking the top line of the heavy oak frame with it, and leaving the remaining three sides in their place, disclosing a cavity in the wall.
"Climb in there," Barbara said, handing the candle to the stranger, "and turn sharp to the right, and then to the left, and you will come to an iron door, which rises and falls like a portcullis. The handle is of no use, but on the ceiling you will see the motto,'Nil desperandum,'which you must take as counsel offered to yourself. Press the space in the centre of the D, and the door will open."
The stranger did so.
"Now," Barbara called to him, "wait a little, and I will bring you food."
She replaced the picture, and sought the kitchen, soon returning with the remains of a pasty and a flask of Rhenish, which, after again touching the spring, she handed up to her guest. He took them, and disappeared into the passage, whither, with the assistance of a chair and a scramble, Barbara followed him.
The room was a minute but very complete retreat. A little bed stood in the corner, and by its side a tiny table and chair, on which were writing materials.
"To-morrow, sir," said Barbara, "I will come and inquire after you. You want sleep now. I wish you good rest and good fortune." And, so saying, she left him.
GODFREY FAIRFAX PAUSED AGAIN. "WELL," SHE SAID, "DO YOU STILL LIKE IT?"
"VERY MUCH," SAID JANET.
"IT'S VERY EXCITING," SAID MARY.
"I LIKE THE HIDING-PLACE," SAID GREGORY.
"WE'VE JUST SEEN ONE AT SALFORD HALL—ONLY THAT WAS FOR PRIESTS—INSIDE A CHINA CUPBOARD. I GOT IN IT. THE PICTURE'S MUCH BETTER."
"DO YOU LIKE IT?" MISS REDSTONE SAID TO ROBERT.
"PRETTY WELL," HE ANSWERED; AND THEY ALL LAUGHED.
"DON'T LAUGH," SAID MISS REDSTONE; "THAT'S JUST THE KIND OF REMARK I WANT. NOW TAKE SOME MORE CAKE, ALL OF YOU, AND I WILL GO ON."
Barbara awoke almost with the birds, after two or three hours of fitful sleep, and with a rush came the memory of last night's events. Her first thought was for the quick and safe departure of the stranger, and weariness of head told her it was time to seek advice.
"Oh, if father were here!" was the burden of her thoughts. But he was far away, and the immediate question was whom to ask for help. She ticked off the neighbouring gentlemen, and decided against them one by one. Old Digger was useless. Matthew Hale was sound, but stupid. Everything pointed to her brother Philip.
No sooner had she made up her mind than Barbara turned to her writing-table and penned a laborious letter to the Rev. Jeremy. Poor Barbara! Spelling was not her strongest point, nor, indeed, did anyone then mind whether spelling was good or bad. She wrote as follows:
DEARE AND REVEREND SIR,"My father has riden to London and I would faine not be without manlie companie in so grate an house (olde Digger being worthie and trustie but a lyttel deaf and stiffe). Therefor I pray you let me have my brother Philip and his friends for this daye that I may be more at mine ease."Your servant, BARBARA MYDDELTON.
Having sanded and folded the paper Barbara awakened Jack.
"Jack!" she called, shaking him in his bed. "Jack, I have an errand for you. Jump up quickly and dress, and then saddle Roger, and I will get you some food, and then you must ride at a gallop to Framshott to Mr. Fullarton's, and he will send back Philip with you, and Hugh and Vernon and Rupert."
Having seen the little fellow off, Barbara set the servants to work on a business that would keep them remote from the library, and then visited her guest. She first knocked three times on the chimney—a sign that had been agreed on. After a minute had passed he replied, and, having made certain that no one could enter or see into the library, Barbara removed the picture and waited.
The young man immediately sprang into the room.
"Good morrow, sir," said Barbara simply, with a curtsey.
"Good morrow, fair hostess and preserving angel," said the young man, with a bow.
"We must come to business at once," said Barbara, and forthwith she told him of her message to her brother. "Philip is very young," she added, "but true as steel, and his head is older than his years."
"Good," said the stranger, and he unfolded his plans. That night he must embark for France. He was expected by the master of theAntelope,a schooner lying all ready to weigh anchor at Portallan, the harbour twelve miles distant. She would sail by the night tide, with or without him. It was understood that, if he were not there, evil had befallen him.
"Everything depends," he explained, "on my departure to-night. The cause hangs upon it. A blight on my evil luck!" he cried. "Were Colonel Myddelton at home, I should not be fleeing from my own country empty-handed. I shall be writing to him most of this day, but a spoken word is worth a volume of pen stuff."
It was arranged at length that as soon as the dusk came three of the boys, with the stranger wearing the clothes of the fourth, should ride out, ostensibly on the return to the schoolhouse.
Thus, no suspicion would be aroused, and, once in the road, it would be simple to turn the horses' heads towards the sea and gain the harbour.
That settled, Barbara gave breakfast to her guest, and he returned to his hidingplace for the rest of the weary day with a store of candles and an armful of books and paper.
Two hours later the boys rode in, all excitement, and Barbara watched them attack the loaded breakfast-table. Philip's friends were, of course, all devoted to this grave, sweet girl, although not bitter rivals.
"Philip dear," said Barbara swiftly, when, after breakfast, she had drawn her brother into her room and locked the door "there is in the castle at this moment a messenger from the Prince, who has come to see our father on grave business. You can guess what such business would be. He dare not follow him to London, and must leave to-night for the nearest seaport, his errand all unperformed. I sent for you and your friends because the gentleman is our guest, and must be treated with courtesy and care. He is unattended, and the countryside is alive with traitors. You and your friends will protect him to-night, will you not?"
"To the death," said Philip.
"Ah, I knew!" said his sister proudly.
"Barbara," exclaimed Philip, "it was fine of you to send for us!" And he hugged her mightily. "But where is the gentleman?"
"In hiding," she answered; "but mind, not a word of this to the others. Tell them enough to stop questions. Not a soul knows he is here save you and me. Later they must know, for one of you will have to lend him clothes. Only three of you can ride as his guard."
"But, Barbara," cried Philip in alarm, "it is not I who will stay behind? It could not be. I am his host. And what build of man is he, Barbara? Say he is not my size."
"No, Phil dear; he is taller by a hand's breadth."
"Ah," sighed Philip, with intense relief, "then it must be Rupert! Poor Rupert!"
"Now," said Barbara, "forget all about it, and have a good holiday with the boys. The evening is distant yet."
"I wish it were here!" Phil exclaimed fervently as he ran off.
Philip at once sought out Rupert, and, slipping his hand into his arm, led him away from the others. He wanted to break the news gently.
"I say, Rupert," he said, "you remember that crossbow of mine you wanted so much?"
Rupert remembered.
"Well, it is yours," said Philip. "And I want you to ride Tiger oftener than you do." (Tiger was Philip's most prized horse.)
Rupert was beginning to be mystified, but he could see that all this was but the preamble to something more important.
"And, Rupert," Philip continued, "you know how keen we all are to smash those Roundheads, don't you?"
Rupert knew.
"But it isn't always possible, you understand, for everyone to fight and be in the front, is it? Some have to do quieter work where they are not seen, haven't they?"
Rupert agreed, a little impatiently. "But Phil," he added, "what does all this mean? What do you want me to do?"
"Well," said Philip, "I can't tell you everything; but to-night it may be necessary for some of us to ride to Portallan, and one to stay behind, and I thought I would try to make it easier for you to be the one to stay behind, that's all. It must be you, I'm afraid, poor old fellow!"
The reader paused again.
"I LIKE THAT BIT ABOUT SPELLING," SAID JACK.
"I THINK BARBARA AND PHILIP WERE VERY LUCKY," SAID ROBERT. "THERE'S NO FUN LIKE THAT NOW. WY IS ALL THE FUN IN THE PAST?"
"I THINK IT'S FUN TO GO FOR A CARAVAN-TOUR," SAID MISS REDSTONE; "AND THAT'S IN THE PRESENT."
"OH, YES," SAID ROBERT, "THAT'S FUN, NO DOUBT; BUT IT DOESN'T COMPARE WITH FIGHTING AGAINST ROUNDHEADS."
"I THINK BARBARA WAS MOST HORRIBLY LUCKY," SAID HESTER, "BECAUSE, OF COURSE, THE STRANGER WAS—"
"HUSH!" SAID THE AUTHOR; AND SHE BEGAN TO READ ONCE MORE.
The day wore on slowly. Barbara did her best to go through the household duties naturally, but the tension was severe. She was perpetually conscious of a fear that, after all, in spite of his confidence in his skill, the stranger might have been tracked and pursued.
She had, indeed, in the peace of the afternoon, but just dismissed the suspicion, when the white face of Philip appearing suddenly at the door of the library, where she was sitting, brought back all her tremors.
"Roundheads!" he gasped.
Her heart stood still. "Oh, if father were here!" was all she could murmur moaningly, as the clatter of hoofs rung out in the courtyard.
A minute later old Digger tottered in shaking like a reed, followed by an officer and three soldiers. Barbara rose to meet them, biting her lips to repress her emotion "What is it?" she inquired coldly.
"Guard the doors and the windows! said the Captain to his men, ignoring her. He looked round the room, and then condescended to reply.
"We are seeking a rebel," he said. "He has been traced to this neighbourhood, and it would be natural for him to seek hospitality here. The Myddeltons are fond of such dirt."
"This roof shelters no rebels," said Barbara simply.
"Colonel Myddelton, this doddering old fool tells me," said the Captain, indicating Digger, "is away."
"Clearly," said Barbara, "or your language would be more guarded."
"And no one has come seeking refuge?" the Captain pursued, adding, to Barbara's intense relief: "But asking questions is sheer waste of breath. I have no time to talk. We must search the house."
Barbara sank into her chair again. Surely they must hear the beating of her heart, she thought. Oh, anything, anything to appear calm! The risk was double—first, that they might themselves discover the secret place; secondly, that in tapping the walls, as they were even now doing, they might give her signal to the fugitive, and thus cause him to betray himself. She buried her face in her embroidery, but was aware that the Captain's eyes were on her. The soldiers were passing round the room slowly, thoroughly. In the stress of her perturbation Barbara rose and moved to the door, controlling her agitation with a tremendous effort.
"Follow the lady," said the Captain to one of the soldiers. "Don't lose sight of her for a moment." ("The minx knows something," he muttered in his moustache.)
"You brute!" cried Philip, drawing his sword. "Do you dare to order my sister to be dogged? Come on." And he made a lunge at the Roundhead.
"Steady!" said the Captain, parrying the thrust—"steady, young fellow!"
Barbara, catching at the door, screamed and swooned.
Philip thrust at him again.
"Be still," muttered the Captain; "we must have no bloodshed here." And he twitched the weapon from the boy's hand, adding: "Very well, I withdraw the order. Carry your sister to her room, and my soldier shall merely stand sentinel at her door. Another word, you puppy, and I'll have you in irons!"
With an effort Philip obeyed, remembering the duty the night held for him; and he and Digger together carried Barbara to her room, followed by the soldier, who took up his stand at the door.
On resuming their search, the soldiers did no more than thrust their pikes up the chimney, and in a few minutes proceeded to the other rooms.
An hour later the Captain sent for Philip, who sauntered into his presence whistling a country dance.
"I am going at once," said the Captain.
Philip had it in his mind to press him ironically to stay, with a word of regret that his visit was so short; but he stifled the temptation, and simply nodded.
"But I am not in the least satisfied," the Captain continued, "and I mean to leave three soldiers behind to guard the entries and your sister's room. No one leaves the Hall to-night."
Philip's face fell. "But I must," he said. "I am at school at Framshott, and we, my companions and I, must ride back to-night."
"Your companions!" said the Captain.
"Yes," said Philip; "I will call them." And he shouted from the window to the boys playing bowls in the garden.
They came up, and were passed before the scrutinizing eyes of the Roundhead.
"Royalist whelps!" he muttered. "Very well," he said at length, "you may go. But mind, no one else leaves the house."
Then, giving careful instructions to the three men left in charge, he rode off with the others.
News spreads rapidly in villages at all times, and it was, therefore, not surprising that Matthew Hale should hear that there were Roundheads at Myddelton Hall very soon after they had clattered into the courtyard.
"Roundheads at the Hall, are there?" he said. "Then I reckon I'll join them. It won't be the first time I've met a Roundhead—no, nor smashed one, either." So saying, he laid aside his hammer, and, taking instead a bar of iron, he left his boy in charge of the smithy, and set out for the Hall.
Matthew reached the Hall a few minutes after the Captain and two of the Roundheads had ridden off. The first person he saw was Philip, who, with the three boys and little Jack, were plotting together in the shrubbery.
"Hullo, Matt!" cried Philip; "come here. We want you."
Matthew turned aside from the carriageway, and joined the little group. They all looked profoundly grave and important.
"What is it, young master?" said the blacksmith. "And where's Mistress Barbara? Don't say she's ill."
Then Philip told him the story, omitting all reference to the refugee, whose existence was a secret to the other boys, from the arrival of the Captain to his departure, ending:
"And at this very moment, Matt, there are three Roundhead soldiers on guard in the Hall—two at the doors, and one standing—can you believe it?—standing at my sister's door. I've fought him once," Philip continued, "but he's too strong, and now the others are keeping us out of the house, and we've charged them several times, but without doing any good, and there are a thousand reasons why we shouldn't any of us be hurt."
"But where are the grooms and gardeners?" Matthew asked.
"Oh, they all disappeared," said Philip. "I suppose they feared an inquiry might be dangerous. It's bad for the health and reputation to fight a Roundhead."
Matthew laughed grimly. "It's bad for the Roundhead's health if he runs against this," he said, raising the iron bar.
At this moment Jack interrupted. "See, Phil," he cried, "Barbara's waving to you at the window."
It was so. They all glanced up, and at the window Barbara's pale face was visible.
A sudden thought came to Philip, and, leading Matthew into the open, he pointed to the blacksmith, and threw an inquiring look to his sister. She hesitated a second or two, and then nodded yes with cheery emphasis, so Philip led Matthew away and supplemented the story he had already told him with the startling announcement that all the time there actually was a fugitive Cavalier in the house.
Matthew Hale whistled; he had no words.
"And he must reach Portallan," said Philip, "to catch the midnight tide. Three of us are going to ride with him, and he takes Rupert's clothes. We should have got him away finely if it hadn't been for these soldiers."
"Then we must smash the soldiers," said Matthew simply. "How many are they? Three, and one of them upstairs. And we are five, not counting Master Jack. Very well. So long as they don't use gunpowder, we can beat them."
In a few minutes the old soldier had sketched out a plan of action.
GODFREY FAIRFAX AGAIN PAUSED.
"IT'S GETTING RATHER GOOD," SAID ROBERT.
"HOW SPLENDID IF WE COULD HAVE A CIVIL WAR NOW!
"I LIKE MATTHEW HALE BEST," SAID GREGORY.
"ARE THEY REALLY GOING TO FIGHT? ARE THE BOYS REALLY GOING TO KILL ANYONE? IT'S SO ROTTEN IN MOST STORIES, BECAUSE THEY ONLY TALK ABOUT IT."
"WAIT," SAID THE AUTHOR.
The sentinels were stationed each at one door at the back of the house, twenty or thirty yards apart. The principal entrance they had locked, so that there remained to guard only the two doors into the courtyard. Their instructions were to permit the boys to pass in and out, and to ride off at evening unmolested, but the attacks made upon them prompted the additional precaution to keep the aggressive four out of the house altogether. The two men walked up and down at their posts, and occasionally exchanged a remark together, and occasionally threw a glance at the shrubbery. They seemed, however, to feel no apprehension.
"Can any one of you climb?" the blacksmith asked suddenly.
"I can," said Jack.
"Famous!" said the blacksmith; "then come with me." So saying, he led the way down the shrubbery until the front of the house was in view. "Now," he added, "you shall climb that pipe." And he pointed to a pipe by the doorway. "The ivy will help you."
"And when I am at the top?" Jack asked.
"When you are at the top," said the blacksmith, "you will loosen a stone and drop it on the head of one of your friends yonder"—indicating the courtyard with a jerk of his head. "That will settle him. At the same moment I'll overwhelm the other. We must prevent them firing at any costs. But don't miss him, whatever you do, or we are worse off than before."
"No," said Jack, "I shall aim very carefully. I will wait till he is exactly underneath, and then, plob! It will get him on his topknot."
The ivy was, of course, out of sight of the two sentries so long as they stayed at their posts; but, as anyone who knows Myddelton Hall, which is little altered since that time, will understand, a very trifling extension of his beat would bring one of them into a position to command the carriagedrive which Jack had to cross to get from the shrubbery to the house. However, the boy sauntered off, looking as aimless as a piece of floating thistledown, and gained the house unperceived. Directly he was past the soldiers' line of vision he became brisker, and in a few minutes the party in the shrubbery, who had by this time returned to their original post, and at the point in the bushes nearest to the sentries, saw him scrambling over the roof.
"If he were hurt," said the blacksmith, "the Colonel would never forgive me."
"He's climbed that too often for danger of accidents," said Philip.
Jack was now crawling along a coping just over the farther sentry, and they watched him picking out the mortar from between two big stones with his knife. In five minutes he had it loose, and, grasping it with both hands, he pushed it close to the edge, and then peeped over. The soldier was some yards from the plumb. Jack looked down at the shrubbery for guidance. The smith raised his hand to signify patience. Jack waited. Breathlessly the ambushed party watched the two soldiers, who were now talking together. Would they never return to their doors? Five anxious minutes passed, and then, with a look round, Jack's man began to move nearer his position under the coping. Once he stopped, and, retracing half a step, called out a facetious after-thought. The boys grunted impatiently, and the blacksmith swore in his beard. Then the soldier took another step back, laughing at his wit, yet moving irresolutely, as though he had another word or two to add to the joke. After this his progress backwards was steady.
At last, when he was within a yard of the precise spot, and not one of the attacking party had a grain of patience left, the smith dropped his hand, and Jack toppled the stone over the edge. It fell with a terrible swiftness; the soldier completed his yard of step, and the block took him, not on the crown, but on the right shoulder. It was, however, enough. Down he fell without a sound.
His companion, glancing up at the instant, saw him fall, and, leaving his matchlock, ran to his assistance. At the same moment the smith and the boys rushed from the shrubbery. The soldier, running towards his friend, observed them approaching, checked himself in bewilderment, and then swung round on his heel and made for his weapon. But Matthew was too quick for him. The smith was quite twenty yards distant, but, gathering himself together, he flung out his arm, and with all his might threw the iron bar at the retreating sentry. The missile sped true; over and over it twisted in the air, and, catching the soldier with a horrid thud in the back, laid him low.
"Hurrah!" cried Philip.
"Hurrah!" cried Jack, peering down from the roof as the others bound the two wounded men with ropes. It was quickly done, and they were hauled into the stable and secured safely therein, and old Digger told off to watch them and mind them as well as he might.
"Now we can go ahead," was Matthew's comment, grimly uttered, as he opened the door. Philip was for accompanying him, but Matthew said no. "In a minute or two I will be back with your sister," he added. "I want to settle the other man alone. I have a few scores to pay off."
He sprang up the stairs three at a bound, grasping his iron bar firmly, and at last came to Barbara's landing. There before the door stood the Roundhead, who evidently had heard nothing of the disturbance below.
"Ha, smith," he cried, on spying Matthew, "what are you looking for?"
"I came to have a little talk," said Matthew easily, taking in his man with a quick glance.
"Well, then, you had best descend those stairs again," replied the soldier; "I'm in no mood for talking."
"Now, that's curious," said Matthew genially, leaning against the wall, "because I am. I never felt more disposed to conversation in my life."
The soldier scowled and fingered his matchlock.
"But perhaps," Matthew continued, darting forward suddenly, and with a blow of the iron bar knocking the gun from the man's hand—"perhaps a little tussle would be more to your liking. I have a mind to smash your face. What do you say?"
The soldier drew his sword.
"No," said Matthew, striking it down with the bar; "I don't want iron. It's so noisy. I have the sound of iron all day in my smithy. Give me a little change." He kicked the sword along the passage, and threw his bar after it.
"Now," said he, "we are equal. Come!"
So saying, the blacksmith tapped the Roundhead on the chin. The soldier made an attempt to defend himself, but fisticuffs were out of his line, and Matthew had a series of easy openings. The smith punished him badly for a while, and then, remarking that he had set his heart on spoiling one or two more Roundheads before he died, followed the words with a blow on the soldier's nose that laid him low.
The blacksmith pulled himself together, and then, opening a cupboard door near by, pushed the sentry into it and turned the key.
The next thing was to liberate Barbara, who, when she heard what had happened, asked with nice tact if Matthew did not think that they could talk more comfortably in the kitchen, and Matthew replied that his brain was always more fertile in the presence of cold pasty and ale than at any other time.