"But how, how could I gain that key and use it at such an hour?" questioned James, in an eager whisper. "How could such a thing be? Are we not followed and watched everywhere?"
"Yet have you not eluded all watchful eyes times without number in your games with Harry? Have we not often searched the house for an hour, and then have had to call you to come to us? If you can elude watchful eyes in play, why not in earnest some day, whilst they think the play is going on, and will make no marvel of missing you for an hour or more? The days are getting long. Let us have our game after supper instead of before. Let us so play night by night for a week or more, that they will not dream we have any motive in the change. Let our friend the Colonel, if he is to be trusted, make his plans. Then, upon a certain night, when all is in readiness, and the boat is lying waiting for you, we will play our hide-and-seek with a difference, and whilst brother and servants are seeking for James within the house, and even the gardens—he will be far down the river, making for the vessel that is to carry him hence."
"But the key, Elizabeth, the key!" cried James, in great excitement; "how can I gain possession of that?"
"Listen, Jamie," answered Elizabeth, "I have thought of that. You must begin to pretend to have exhausted the hiding-places of our portion of the house, and you must ask to-day that the house steward will let you conceal yourself in his pantry. Then the next day get leave of the cook to hide somewhere in the kitchen. Another day be bolder still, and get into the hay-loft, where the coachman will be proud and merry to hide you. And then when the day comes that you ask the gardener for the key of his cottage, to hide you there awhile, neither he nor any other who hears will think it aught but a merry jest. Then as Harry will every day be an hour and more in hunting you, that should be time enough for you to change your attire and slip away through the gate; and if Colonel Bamfield only do his part, you should be out of reach ere the pursuit has fairly begun."
James suddenly flung his arms about his sister's neck.
"Oh! Elizabeth, Elizabeth! and you have thought of all that?"
"I think of nothing else whilst we are playing hide-and-seek night by night."
"And suppose they find out that you were privyto the scheme all the while, what will they do to you, Elizabeth!"
She looked into his eyes, a brave smile on her pale face.
"Think not of that, Jamie; in sooth I care little what they do to me. If you only get safe away let them take me to the Tower, or whither they will. Little Harry is too young to care greatly, so long as we are together; and I do not think they will take him from me, even though they do more straitly confine us."
"But you—what would you do in that grim place?" asked James, with something of a shudder.
"I think all places are alike to me now," answered Elizabeth, with her strangely spiritual smile, pathetic on the face of one so young; "God will take care of us there as well as here. Do not fear for me, Jamie. We must strive to do what our father wished. I shall be happy indeed in knowing that you are safe and free. For my part, I am content in feeling myself near to him, and in knowing that if he is a prisoner—so am I."
Who would have thought, to watch the merry games of the Royal children during the bright spring evenings that followed, what tumultuous thoughts were surging within them, and what a daring plan had been hatched in the brain of that delicate young girl, who so patiently hunted the house, evening byevening, with her little brother, in search of that clever hider, James.
The servants were by this time devoted to the children, who treated them with that invariable high-bred courtesy that never failed the hapless Stuarts, whatever else they might lack or fail in. Coachman, steward, cook, pantler—all were ready to assist the young Duke to some new hiding-place, night by night. They enjoyed the game almost as much as the children themselves. Indeed, they seemed to take a pride in lengthening out the search, though in the end some whispered hint would be given to the little brother if his energies showed signs of flagging, and he would start forth hot upon the scent that would eventually lead him to the hiding-place, if James did not spring out upon him first.
The Earl and Countess were well used to the shouts and cries of little Harry as he ran hither and thither through the house. The Earl generally visited his young charges early in the evening, often just after supper, and then he left them to their games till about nine o'clock, when he attended first the younger Prince, and then the elder to their rooms, and paid them the compliment of superintending in person their toilet for the night.
At last came the long-awaited Friday, the twenty-first day of April. The twilight lingered long now, and the game of hide-and-seek was regularly played after supper, lasting generally till the bedtime of the Duke of Gloucester.
He stopped short on seeing the Countess.Page125.
The Countess of Northumberland visited Elizabeth and her brothers this evening, and sat awhile with the Princess after supper. Little Harry was playing in a corner of the room; but the Countess looked rather anxiously into Elizabeth's face, and remarked how white it was.
"But I am not sick, I thank you, Madam," said the girl gently. "Belike it is but the first of the springtide heat. I pray you not to send the doctor. He does but give me physic which I know not how to swallow. I shall be better anon—in a few days, I trust."
At that moment James came running into the room, as though to speak to his sister. He stopped short on seeing the Countess; but then, coming forward, joined in the conversation, and chatted merrily enough. None noted the quick glances that passed between brother and sister, nor the strange wistfulness that brooded in Elizabeth's eyes.
Suddenly James started up, as though just bethinking him.
"Why, Harry, we must have our game; shall I hide again? Then give me five minutes' grace, and come after me!" He looked at Elizabeth, and said, "Wilt thou go with him? Or art thou tired to-night, sister?"
"In sooth, I think she is aweary," said the Countess; and James put his hands on Elizabeth's shoulders, boy fashion, and snatched a kiss from her lips.
"Then go to bed, sweetheart, and one of the servants shall attend Harry," he said; "but he will not be content without his game of play."
The boy was gone, and Elizabeth was thankful that little Harry now claimed the attention of the Countess; for she felt as though every drop of blood had ebbed from her face. What would be the next thing that she heard of her brother?
She could not be persuaded to remain in her room. She roamed all over the house with Harry, whilst the Countess went back to her husband. Harry's bedtime came at last; it was dark outside, save for the light of the moon; the Earl came out, and asked where the boy was, and learned that he was still seeking his brother.
"Then I must needs help find him too," said the good-natured nobleman, taking Harry's hand, and as the child seemed somewhat weary of the search, he looked inquiringly at the servants.
Then one came forward, and whispered that the Duke was hiding in the gardener's cottage, of which he had begged the key; and thither they all proceeded, Elizabeth commanding herself to laugh and chat with Harry, and wonder where next Jamie wouldhide, and how many more strange places were still left for him to find.
Harry ran gaily into the cottage, when somebody had forced open the locked door for him, at a sign from the Earl, whose face had suddenly clouded over. But ransack as they might, not a trace of the fugitive could be found.
With a stifled exclamation of dismay the Earl dashed down to the water-gate, which he found open. Then the truth flashed across him, and he bit his lips in perplexed confusion.
"Conduct the Princess and the Duke to the house," he said, "we must make further inquiries into this matter!"
Then Elizabeth knew at least that James had escaped from the Palace, though she could not know for many days whether he would succeed in making good his escape to Holland.
She sought the privacy of her own rooms, and, falling upon her knees, gave thanks to God for His great goodness in watching over them thus far.
Every day she expected to hear that some severe punishment was to be inflicted upon her—perhaps even death itself, so little did she understand the laws of the land—for the part she had taken in her brother's escape. But strange to say her own complicity in the plot was never suspected at that time. Her very calmness and courage, which enabled her firstto plan the clever scheme and then to go through her own part so tranquilly, averted all suspicion from her.
Even the Earl, when all the facts of the case were known, was exonerated from blame. He had before told the Parliament that he declined absolute responsibility with regard to the Royal children, unless he made actual prisoners of them—a thing he was not prepared to do; and although there was some angry discussion in the House, and several stringent measures were recommended by certain extreme men, yet in the end humane counsels prevailed, and the Princess Elizabeth, together with her little brother, were permitted to remain beneath the kindly care of the Earl and Countess of Northumberland.
James escaped after a few perils, and got safe over to Holland; but the hasty kiss he snatched from his brave young sister upon that April evening was the last he ever gave or took from her.
The girl Elizabeth never recovered the shock of her father's death two years later, and though she lingered for more than a year, winning the hearts of all about her by her sweetness of disposition and the wonderful courage and fortitude she exhibited in the midst of so many trials and sufferings, she passed peacefully away to a world where pain and partings are no more, and where the sorrowful and weary are at rest.
Little Harry was with her to the last, receiving at her hands such few poor possessions as remained to her. A while later, by an unwonted freak of generosity on Cromwell's part, the boy was permitted to join his mother in France.
"Pirates! Oh, Charlotte, how romantic! How do you know? Are you sure? Oh, how I should love to see a real live pirate!"
Charlotte smiled a little grimly.
"I'm not quite so sure of that, Adela; I rather think if you were to encounter him you would wish he were anything but a live pirate—you would much prefer him dead!"
"What a horrid idea, Charlotte!" and Adela shivered slightly. "But do go on! Tell me some more! I thought there were no pirates left now. Smugglers one knows abound; but pirates!"
"I truly hope that there are not many such wretches in the world as the man Gow seems by all accounts to be," said Charlotte, who, as the daughter of the High-Sheriff of the island and county of Orkney spoke with a certain amount of authority. "If half the tales they tell of him are true, such a monster in human shape has seldom walked the earth. He and his mate Williams have been a pair; but he found his subordinate one too many for him, made hima prisoner, and handed him over to some English man-of-war, under charge of various crimes, and the wretch has probably been hanged ere this. But Gow yet goes scot-free!"
"And is his vessel in one of our bays?" asked Adela, in a tremor of excitement.
"If the man's story be true, who came and asked speech of father last night. He told a wonderful and a terrible tale. Father has gone off to-day to make some particular inquiries into the business. He seems to think very gravely of it."
"And where is this terrible pirate vessel now?"
"We do not know exactly. The seaman who came to seek for a magistrate does not know the coast, and could not describe the place accurately. It is not very near to our homes, thank heaven! We do not want pirates for our neighbours!"
"Oh, but pirates only rob at sea, not upon land," exclaimed Adela; "we need not be afraid. I should love to see what a pirate ship looked like! Does it carry a black flag? And do the men wear crimson sashes round their waists, and black crape masks upon their faces?"
Charlotte laughed a little. From her position as the daughter of the Sheriff she knew a little more of the grim realities of crime than did the younger and romantic Adela, whose pretty head was stuffed with a good deal of nonsense. Sheriff Honeymanwas very fond of his "little child," as he still called Charlotte, notwithstanding the fact that she had blossomed out into maidenhood of late years, and had left her childhood behind. She was always ready for a clamber along the cliffs with him, or a ride across the bare country on her sure-footed little pony. He talked to her with unusual freedom for those days of his own affairs, and was often amused by her shrewd comments and questions, as well as by her little airs of worldly wisdom and fragments of meditative speculation.
He noted in her with approval, too, an intrepid spirit, and a readiness of resource in moments of emergency, which she had inherited from him. He was sometimes caught in storms when his daughter was with him, both on land and on the sea, and he always admired her fearless spirit on these occasions, as well as her presence of mind and quickness to think and act.
Charlotte had no sister, and her brothers were all away either at school or college; but she was not lonely, for she had always plenty to occupy and amuse her, and for companionship there was ever Adela to be depended on; for Adela was an only child, and was devoted to Charlotte, who seemed to her to be like brother and sister in one.
Adela was the daughter of Mr. Fea, a wealthy gentleman (as wealth was accounted in those days and in those parts) of the island. He owned considerabletracts of land there, and he and Mr. Honeyman were intimate friends as well as near neighbours. In his youth he had been a poor man, but of late years things had greatly prospered with him, and he was accounted only second to Mr. Honeyman in importance in that district. As the two girls were walking up and down, and talking eagerly together over this matter, Mr. Fea himself appeared coming towards them.
Adela at once darted off, all eagerness to tell the news.
"Oh, papa, papa, what do you think! Charlotte says that there is a pirate vessel sheltering in one of the bays of our islands, and that we may all be murdered in our beds any day!"
Adela's face was quite glowing and beaming with excitement, and her father could not forbear a laugh, in which Charlotte joined.
"Well, my dear, that thought seems to give you wonderful pleasure! As the old proverb says, 'there is no accounting for taste!'" Then, turning to Charlotte, he asked: "But what is the sober sense of all this, my dear? What news has come to your father about pirates?"
"It is this, sir," answered Charlotte, turning to him quickly: "a poor seaman came early this morning and asked speech of my father, and when he was admitted he told a most terrible tale. Do you remember thereliving once in these parts a man of the name of Gow, who afterwards took to a seafaring life?"
"Gow? To be sure I remember him," answered Mr. Fea at once. "He and I were once at the same school—a hot-tempered, rather dangerous lad, of whom nobody spoke well. We were none of us sorry when he shipped himself off to sea. I have never heard of him since."
"Well, the man who came to speak to papa told him that Gow had been mate in a vessel called theGeorge Galley, where he was a seaman. They had a very good captain and officers; but Gow got up a mutiny on board, shot the captain and some of the officers, got the well-disposed sailors shut up helpless, took possession of the vessel, and changed its name to theRevenge. Since then he has been scouring the seas, making the seamen who did not join in the mutiny do the work of the vessel under threat of cruel punishment or death, taking prizes, robbing and sinking small vessels of many nations in the most reckless way, and now, by stress of weather and through lack of water, they have put in here, where they hope the news of their many misdeeds will not be known. They know themselves to be in sore peril, for they have committed such depredations on the high seas that their doings have become notorious, and they are being watched for in many ports and on many oceans. But here Gow thinks he may be safe for awhile, and, perhaps, evenyet he may elude justice, for he seems one of those men who carry charmed lives."
"Pooh-pooh, my dear; I don't believe in that sort of charmed life. Those fellows always come to the gallows at last. But how did this man dare to come with such a story? Gow will cut his throat if ever it comes to his ears."
"Yes; but he is not going back to the vessel. He escaped from her to give notice to the authorities, and papa took him away with him, and has promised him protection and help, though he will be wanted to give evidence when Gow is brought to trial, as we hope to bring him. Papa has gone off to take counsel with some others, and will not be back till to-morrow; but the man said there was no fear that theRevengewould leave her moorings in that time. Gow was resolved to come ashore and enjoy himself, and there were several more sailors who hoped to escape from the ship, and to find their way to the mainland, there to give notice of the pirate vessel."
Mr. Fea was keenly interested in this story. He was a law-abiding citizen, with a horror of bloodshed and violence, and he made up his mind that he would do everything in his power to assist in the capture of the pirate ship. It irked him to think that an Orkney man should have sunk to the level of Gow, and the very fact of having known him in his early days made him the more anxious to bring him to justice. It wasa horrible thing that such men were still ranging the seas, plundering and murdering; and that honest seamen were forced to serve in such vessels on pain of instant death!
"I will see your father as soon as he returns," said Mr. Fea, "and we will talk together as to the best method of making the capture. A pirate sloop is not an easy prey to tackle; but we must see what can be done by strategy or by force."
Adela's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Oh, papa, will there be a battle? Shall we be able to see it? Will there be danger and fighting, and all that sort of thing?"
"I hope not, my dear; at least, not too much. There is always a little risk in these affairs; but I hope most sincerely we may get off without bloodshed. I should think that Gow was already sufficiently notorious, without wishing to draw down upon himself the further ire of the representatives of the law. Perhaps if he finds himself overmatched, he may yield without much of a struggle."
Mr. Fea was not in any way alarmed for his own or his neighbours' houses, even though there was a pirate schooner lying hidden in one of the many indentations of their coast. It seemed to him, from Charlotte's story, that Gow had run in here in the hopes of lying safe and quiet for a short spell, and that his aim and object would be to avoid stirring up any sort of inquiry abouthimself and his vessel. He appeared to desire to enjoy himself on shore for awhile, and he certainly would not be able to do that if he incriminated himself by any acts of violence there. So again telling Charlotte that he would be over the next day to see her father, and would meantime think of some plan as to what might be done to entrap the pirate and his crew, and gain possession of the vessel, he took his daughter with him, as he turned to go to his house, and Charlotte sped over the few dividing fields, and reached her own home just as the dusk was beginning to fall.
She and her mother took their supper comfortably together. Mrs. Honeyman was an elderly lady, of considerable spirit and strength; but she was very hard of hearing, though a little sensitive about this failing, so that she was content often not to understand exactly what was passing, rather than ask for an explanation.
Charlotte did not mention the pirates to her; for she thought if she shouted out the story, that some servant would be certain to hear, and take alarm, and there might be a sort of panic in the house. The butler knew, as Mr. Honeyman had given him a few extra instructions about locking up the plate at night; but he did not wish his household needlessly alarmed; the more so as he was not able to be himself at home till the next day.
After supper, it came into Charlotte's head that,in her father's study there was generally on this day a considerable amount of gold, ready for the payment of the weekly wage to labourers and people of the place on the morrow. It occurred to her that she would do well to take her father's cash-box up to her own room that night. Ordinarily, there was so little fear of robbery here, that many people forgot to lock their doors at night; but perhaps, with a crew from a pirate vessel lurking somewhere near, it would be better to be on the safe side.
So after supper she went away quietly, took the heavy cash-box out of the drawer, and carried it up to her room. She had in her keeping, in an old-fashioned bureau, a good many family heirlooms in the shape of jewels, some of them of great value; and beside these there were some precious family documents greatly prized by her parents.
Charlotte could scarcely have told why it was that she took these out of their hiding-place, folded them carefully up, and strapped them to the cash-box, which she wrapped in a cloak and placed the bundle in her wardrobe, where a dark driving-cloak and hood hung from a peg. She was conscious of feeling a little restless and excited, though hardly uneasy.
"It is Adela's nonsense about being murdered in our beds, and all that," she said to herself; "I will go down and get a book, and not trouble myself about those stories any more."
Everything was very quiet as Charlotte and her mother sat beside the cheerful log fire with their books. The house was rather a rambling building, having only one upper storey of rooms, and covering a good deal of ground. The sounds from one part of the house did not easily penetrate to another; and Charlotte had not heard anything to awaken any uneasiness, when suddenly, hasty steps sounded outside the door, which opened to admit of Peter, the butler, who had such a white, scared face, that, instinctively, Charlotte jumped up and placed herself so that her mother might not see the man's expression of terror.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Honeyman, being engrossed in her book, did not heed her daughter's movement, and, of course, had not heard the approach of the servant.
"The pirates! the pirates!" cried Peter, in strangled tones. "My mistress—my dear young mistress! Fly for your lives! They will murder every one who tries to thwart them!"
"How many are there?" asked Charlotte breathlessly.
"Ten; nine are to go through the house and take everything. The tenth guards the door. They say they will not hurt anybody who offers no resistance; but they will shoot the first one of us who tries to save his master's property!"
Charlotte's eyes flashed. Her spirit was risingwithin her; but she was no reckless fool to adventure herself and others in a futile struggle.
"The men are armed, of course?"
"To the teeth, with knives and pistols and cutlasses."
"Then, Peter, we cannot tackle them ourselves. We must get your mistress away at once. She must not even know what is happening in the house, else I am not certain she would not face the whole pirate crew herself, and defy and resist them. She must not run that risk. Be ready to follow up what I shall say. I do not like to deceive; but we must stoop to subterfuge for once."
Then, turning back into the room, she shouted to her mother—but rather slurring over her words, and making many breaks.
"Mamma—mamma, you are wanted. Something terrible has happened. Mrs. Fea—you must go there instantly. Please do not lose a moment. It may be life or death. Peter will take you. Your cloak and over-shoes are yonder in the lobby. That is the nearest way; and I will follow you quickly and see what is the matter."
Now Mrs. Honeyman was the most notable nurse in all the island, and in all cases of sudden emergency she was always sent for, and delighted to go and show her kindliness and skill. She was on her feet in a moment now, and hurried with Charlotte into a littlelobby on the other side of the room, where her walking things for the garden always hung, and where a side-door led straight out into the garden on that side of the house nearest to the Feas'. Peter caught up a cap and gave his arm to his mistress, but bent an imploring glance upon Charlotte.
"Missy, Missy, you must come too. I cannot leave you."
"I will be after you directly. I have but to run up these stairs here to my own room for something. Don't lose a moment. I shall overtake you. But I have something I must secure first. Lose not a moment in acquainting Mr. Fea with what has happened."
Mrs. Honeyman, was by this time unlocking the door, and Peter had no choice but to follow his mistress. Charlotte, drawing a long breath of relief in the consciousness that her mother was now safe, darted up the little stairway to her own room, and already fancied that she heard strange steps and voices in the house.
Her heart beat to suffocation in the thought that at any moment the other door might be dashed open, and some ruffian suddenly come in and snatch away her precious treasure. What a mercy it was that she had thought of secreting it like this! Here it was under her hand. She was already wrapped in her cloak; her precious package was in her arms, she was aboutto run down the little stairs again, when, to her horror, she heard rough voices in the parlour below, and the sound of oaths as the men called one to another in their hasty search.
"'Tisn't here! There's nothing here worth laying hands on. They must have hid it somewhere. Let's be off upstairs. Here's another staircase. Let's see where that leads to!"
Charlotte darted back into her room again, and drew the little bolt across it. But that would only give her a moment's respite, she knew. One or two heavy blows would bring the door crashing inwards; and what then? She could not fly out by the other one, down the main staircase, without encountering the man on guard at the hall-door. The sight of her precious package would be certain to attract their instant attention, and they had threatened with death all who strove to resist their project of robbery.
But if she were to give up the valuables? Then she might well escape. They had no personal quarrel with her; and nobody had told her to constitute herself the guard of the family property. For one brief instant, Charlotte hesitated; then, with a snort of contempt at her own cowardly thought, she dashed open the window, threw her precious package down into the garden beneath, and herself vaulted lightly after it.
She had performed this feat occasionally before, in the days of her tom-boy pranks with her brothers, but she had not often practised such a leap of late, and the darkness made it more difficult. She was conscious of a sharp thrill of pain in her foot as she reached the ground, but, striving not to think of this, she caught up her bundle and fled; a light instantly flashing from the window of the room she had quitted, showed her that she had only just made her spring in time.
With a heart that thumped so loud in her ears as to deaden all other sound, Charlotte sped onwards as fast as the injured foot would allow over the rough ground that separated her home from that of her friends. But, in a few moments, she was certain that she was pursued. She heard angry, threatening voices in the garden behind her. Glancing back she saw flashing lights, and through the still night air came the sound of curses, which bespoke very real disappointment. Evidently, the men had heard of the cash-box to be found in Mr. Honeyman's house, and were enraged that it was not forthcoming.
"Somebody has taken it and made off!" cried a stentorian voice. "After him, men!—scatter, and scour the place. He can't have got far! Blow out his brains if he resists. That money I will have. I don't come all this way on a fool's errand!"
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop.Page145.
Charlotte heard, and instantly was aware of flying footsteps in many directions, some coming her way. What could she do? Try as she would her progress was not rapid. The distance to the Feas' house, so short on ordinary days, now seemed endless. There were no trees to give cover. That windswept island was bare of any save stunted bushes, and even of these there were none to serve her purpose. If the moon should shine out she would instantly be seen. She was not certain that some of those fierce shouts did not mean that she had been seen already.
Breathless and terrified, but still clutching her treasure tightly, Charlotte made for a great hole in the bank that she had known from childhood. Into this friendly, yawning chasm she crept, pushing her bundle before her, and here she crouched in darkness, covered by the folds of her sombre cloak, expecting almost moment by moment to feel a rough hand pulling her forth, or the threat of a bullet through her brain if she did not instantly give up her treasure.
Footsteps came nearer and nearer. She shrank closer and closer into her hole. She felt her flesh creep as the ground shook beneath the heavy tread; it was all she could do to keep from uttering a cry. The horror of that approaching discovery was so very real to her.
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop. She had been discovered! She knew she had! Her senses almost forsook her. It was amoment that she never forgot. Then a voice spoke, a rough, raucous voice:
"You'd best come back. It's no good staying here. They're coming out from that other house with lights and servants. They've got wind of something up, and the sooner we get off with what we've found the better."
A sudden rebound of feeling made Charlotte almost cry aloud. And as she strained her ears to hear, the heavy tread of feet shook the ground once more, now in full retreat. A few minutes later, limping in her gait, her face as white as death, her dress covered with sand, her hands still grasping the bundle that held the treasure, Charlotte almost fell into Mr. Fea's fatherly arms, and told him all her tale.
"I don't know what Mr. Honeyman will say when he hears how near his little girl went to losing her life for the sake of some valuables," he said, as he led her into the house; "but one thing I know: he will be mighty proud of having such a heroine for a daughter."
"If he doesn't think I was only a little goose," panted Charlotte, beginning to look like herself. "But, oh, I am glad those wretches have not got the things! And are you sure they have hurt nobody?"
That was the end of Charlotte's personal exploit with the pirates; but there were many exciting days to follow, for in trying to get their vessel away quickly,they put out on a stormy night, and were driven ashore in the bay called Calf Sound, not far from the houses of Mr. Honeyman and Mr. Fea. There, after much effort and some little stratagem, the crew was finally captured, and Gow met his richly deserved fate and perished on the gallows.
"Eleanor! Sister! There be days when I know not how to bear it. I feel that I shall do something desperate."
"Nay, hush, Mary! hush! why shouldst thou speak so wildly? We must be patient! Things will not always be so black!"
"Patience, patience! I am sick to death of the word! We have borne with these odious men about the house, till sometimes I feel that I can bear it no longer. And now that our father hath gone, and Robert with him, I feel that the house is scarce a safe place for our mother or ourselves."
"Come, come, Mary, thou dost go something too far!"
"I trow not. Those bloody, hateful men of Kirke's, what do they care how they frighten or annoy those who are forced for a time to shelter them? The maid servants dare never be alone for an instant. They never know but that one of those half-tipsy fellows will not come lurching in upon them. And listen, 'twas only just now that I met one of them,smelling so vilely of beer and spirits that it made me sick to go near him, wandering up the stairs into our part of the house; and when I bid him begone to his own quarters, what thinkest thou the wretch did?"
"He did not hurt thee?" quoth Eleanor, with sudden solicitude.
The eyes of the younger girl flashed fire.
"Had he laid a finger upon me, methinks I would have slain him as he stood!" she cried.
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! hush!" pleaded Eleanor. "It is not good in these times to speak such rash words."
"A pretty pass things have come to if sisters may not speak freely together in their own home!" flashed out Mary, whose quick temper was easily aroused, and whose pent up indignation of weeks was coming upon her like a flood. "No, the creature did not dare lay hands upon me. I gave him a look—that was enough; but he vowed with many a vile oath that he would kiss me ere he did my bidding. If I had shown one mite of fear, Eleanor, I verily believe that he would have been as good as his word."
The fair Eleanor shivered with a sense of keen disgust. She had not her sister's courage and readiness and masterful looks and ways. Suppose she had met one of these men upon the stairs, and hehad spoken thus to her, would she have been able to escape the hated salute? It turned her sick to think of it—albeit in those days kisses were given and received much more commonly than has since become the fashion between men and women, youths and maidens. Mary read her sister's thoughts, and cried out:
"Yes, yes, that is how I feel! Suppose it had been thou! Suppose insult were offered to thee,—or to our mother,—who is there to defend you? Oh, why was I not born a boy that I could set these surly knaves in their place? Robert should not have gone and left us, when our father was called hence too. It is not right or fitting; and with all these fearful things going on around us. It is enough to make one turn against the King, when he makes use of such vile instruments!"
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! have a care! It is not safe to talk in that reckless fashion. Who knows but that there may be some meddling spy prowling about? And they say men and women are sent to prison and to death for such small offences now."
"Ah, yes, it is the cruelty, the horrid cruelty we see perpetrated on every hand that makes me so desperate. Think of that man Kirke, feasting and laughing on the balcony overlooking the place where his victims were being hanged and dismembered! think of it, Eleanor! and calling for music for them to 'dance to' when their poor bodies twitched and swayed on thegibbets; eating and drinking and making merry when human lives were passing from the world in all that agony and shame!"
"Thou shouldst not listen to such stories, Mary, it does no good; and it does but make life seem unbearable sometimes."
"And then, after Sedgemoor!" cried Mary, without heeding; "I heard another thing of him there. Did they tell it thee too, Eleanor? There was a man about to die—without trial—without condemnation—just strung up as so many were on the trees by the moor's edge, at the bidding of that man of blood! He was one of many; and the bystanders said that he was the fleetest runner of any on the country side, and could run with a galloping horse. Colonel Kirke asked him if that were true; and he said he had done it. Kirke asked if he would like to do it again to save his life; and he caught eagerly at the proffered hope. He ran with the horse, he kept up the whole course, he returned breathless, exhausted, but full of hope of the promise of life, and what does that monster of cruelty and injustice do?—just has him swung up with the rest, ere the poor wretch can find breath to plead for the promised pardon! Oh, it makes my blood boil—it makes my blood boil! I have been loyal to the King's cause all this while; but how can we help loathing and despising a monarch who will use such tools as that?"
"Perhaps he does not know," faltered Eleanor.
"Not know!" echoed Mary, in scorn. "It is because he knows all too well their temper that he sends them here! Hast heard what men are whispering now?—that soon there will be an assize in the west to try all those who have been concerned in this rebellion; and they say that His Majesty will choose for the judge the most cruel, the most notoriously evil, the most passionate and ungoverned of all the judges on the bench, and that his name is Jeffreys. And people say if once he come hither, no man in Taunton, nor in the west country will ever forget his coming. We shall have such a deluge of blood as has never run in England before."
"Oh, Mary, what fearful tales thou dost get hold of!"
"They are fearful; but they are true. That is what makes them so terrible," answered Mary. "Oh, how I hate and detest cruelty and lust of blood! Art thou not glad, Eleanor, that even Kirke himself could not cozen or threaten any Taunton man into acting as executioner to those poor wretches taken on the field of Sedgemoor? They had to send to Exeter or elsewhere to get a man to do that bloody work. Fancy cutting the poor wretches down ere they were quite dead, and cutting out their hearts, and flinging them on the fire, whilst the Colonel made merry at his window, and the music drowned thecurses of the crowd and the cries of the victims or their friends! Methinks we have gone back to the days of the Druids and their human sacrifices. Oh, how can the King permit it? It is enough to drive the whole nation to hate him!"
"And yet we do not want a usurper to rule over us, even if the lawful King be such an one as His Majesty is now. Thou art not foolish enough to wish that the Duke of Monmouth had been victorious, Mary?"
"N-no, I suppose not! I love not usurpers; and our father hath always averred that it is an open question whether the Duke is the son of the late King Charles. No man seems able to say for certain what is his parentage, albeit he was treated like a son; and there be those who swear that the King did marry his mother in secret, and that he is rightful heir to the crown."
"Mary, Mary, thou dost not believe all those foolish stories that thou hast heard passing about? Men are always ready to believe that which they desire to believe. But the Duke of Monmouth, if the late King's son at all, has no claim upon the crown. Had it been otherwise he would have been acknowledged as heir; for every man likes his son to reign in his place. Our father thinks that the Duke is the son of one of the Sydneys; he says he is so strangely like him; and the King never called him son, though hewas so fond of him, except when he presumed too far."
"Oh, I know, I know," answered Mary restlessly, "I have heard it all argued a thousand times over. No, I do not want the Duke of Monmouth or any other pretender; but I long for a King who can show mercy and kindness and generosity; not a man full of the most bitter and vindictive spite, who chooses as his tools and instruments those to whom cruelty is a delight!"
It was no wonder that Mary Bridges' soul was stirred within her at this time. She was the second daughter of Sir Ralph Bridges, of Bishop's Hull, near Taunton, and when she was a young girl of some fourteen summers, the whole district was stirred into violent excitement and violent emotion by the sharp outbreak of rebellion under the Duke of Monmouth.
The unpopularity of James II. was on the increase in those places where the Protestant faith had its strongholds. It was openly asserted that the King was a professed Romanist now, and that, in time, the whole constitution of the country would be undermined by him, and that persecutions of a terrible kind would break out under his rule.
The Duke of Monmouth came as the champion of the Protestant faith; and hundreds who would not, in calmer moments, have admitted his claim, or have thought it right for a moment to support one whosebirth was so very doubtful, were carried away by religious enthusiasm, and let themselves be easily persuaded that this young man was the champion of the faith; and that, be he who he might, he was a heaven-sent messenger for the truth.
Far-seeing men, however, and men who knew something of the true character and the past history of the Duke, were not so easily carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment. Even had his claim been sounder, he was not the man to push the enterprise to a successful issue. His first burst of success, which had raised the hopes of his followers, and had occasioned a certain alarm and uneasiness in the minds of his opposers, had quickly been followed by a succession of reverses, and on the field of Sedgemoor the hopes of the Duke and his adherents met with a final overthrow.
Sir Ralph Bridges had been one of those who had watched the course of the rebellion with keen interest, and had thrown his influence upon the side of law and order. He had upheld the lawful King throughout, and had done good service in keeping order in his own immediate neighbourhood. But now that the revolt was at an end, and that the proportions to which it had swelled had not been very great, it seemed to Sir Ralph and to others as though clemency and consideration might be meted out to the victims of the ill-timed movement; and he had been greatlyscandalised and shocked by the fury shown by Colonel Kirke and his men—his "Lambs" as they had been named in fierce derision—for the heartless brutality of their conduct.
It was, in fact, this indignation on the part of Sir Ralph which had caused him to leave his home somewhat suddenly, and before the withdrawal of the King's soldiers, billeted upon his house, in order that he might post to town with all possible speed, and join with other influential persons interested in the matter in seeking to win over the King, through his ministers and advisers, to a milder and less vindictive policy in dealing with the many persons now under arrest for having been concerned in the rebellion. He had gone with some reluctance; but it was told him by Kirke himself that the soldiers would very shortly be removed from his house, and he had taken his son with him as a precautionary measure; for he was a hot-headed youth, rather of Mary's disposition, and the father was afraid that the lad would get into trouble if he were not there to look after him; his disgust against the atrocities of "Kirke's Lambs" being almost as great as was Mary's. It was from her brother she had learned most of the more ghastly tales of which her mind was full. Eleanor and her mother shrank from hearing such terrible things; but Mary seemed consumed by that fearful curiosity that longs, and yet hates, to know.
The very next day, to the immense relief of Lady Bridges, who, though ever a dignified and self-contained woman, was one of a nervous temperament, the order came from Colonel Kirke that the soldiers were to depart from Bishop's Hull. Great was the satisfaction of the household and its mistress; but equal was the disgust of the men. They had had a fat time of plenty in this house where everything they demanded was accorded by its mistress, who, since the departure of her lord, had found it easier to give than withhold, although Mary's heart often burned with anger at hearing the insolent demands of the brutal fellows, who seemed to her to drink and carouse from morning till night. They had been away during the time of the battle; but they were soon back again, more swaggering, more insolent, more insupportable than ever; and, in the absence of Sir Ralph, there seemed no end to their exactions.
The order which came was that they were to depart upon the morrow; and it was fervently hoped that they would take themselves off at break of day; but this was an idea which never seemed to enter their heads. They called for more wine and beer than ever; sat drinking and dicing in the buttery hall, as though that was their only occupation in life; and when asked when they were going to take themselves off, replied only with curses and foul abuse.
So insolent and intolerable did they become at last, that even Lady Bridges' wrath was stirred within her. She and her daughters and household had been dining as usual in the upper hall; and when the noise from below at last became overpowering, she bid her house-steward go and send the men away, saying that they should have nothing more from her larder or brew-house, that their Colonel had recalled them, and they had no longer any right to be there.
Mary clasped her hands together in delight at hearing this message. The tables in the hall were now cleared. The servants had dispersed save a few who were setting the place in order, Lady Bridges and her daughters were standing upon the daïs where was the upper table, when suddenly several drunken soldiers came lurching towards them in a state of such anger and intoxication as made them fearful and repulsive objects.
They were swearing and cursing after the foul fashion of the day; and though sober enough to see the ladies and make straight towards them, they were not sober enough to choose their words, and continued to pour out vile and insulting threats and abuse.
Lady Bridges, trembling in every limb, sank down in her chair, giving hasty and terrified glances round her to see if help were near, and yet mortally afraid of doing anything that could be construed by spitefulmisrepresentation into a charge of treason. The King's soldiers were the King's servants. And who knew what power they might not have?
Eleanor cowered behind her mother as the soldiers lurched up the hall, making gross demands of their hostess, and speaking in violent and insulting language to all three ladies. The frightened servants crowded together in the background waited for their lady's orders ere interfering; and she, fearing to speak the word, only sat there rigid and trembling, whilst ever nearer and nearer came the threatening soldiers with their evil faces and foul words.
Mary's eyes were blazing. Her whole frame was shaken with a passion of fury. If they dared to come up the steps and lay hands upon her mother,—dared to touch one of them,—she drew in her breath, she clenched her hands till the nails dug into the palms. Her eyes were upon the foremost man. They had begun to sparkle strangely. Just as he staggered up the first step she darted forward, stooped quickly, and drew from its sheath the shining sword he carried. Then, backing a few steps in front of her mother and sister, she cried in a voice shaken with passion:
"Dare to come one step nearer, dare to lay hands upon any of us, and thou shalt see what a maid of Taunton will do!"
What happened in those next few seconds it were hard to say. The girl stood rigidly before hermother and sister with the keen blade in her slim hands, pointing it immovable at the drunken soldier still advancing in menacing fashion. He did not believe in the girl's threat, or in the strength of those little white hands. He laughed to see her pointing the sword at him, and words even grosser than anything that had passed before were hurled at her as he came on with drunken violence and brutality. Was it the impetus of that lurch forward, or did Mary herself lunge her weapon at him? Those who looked on could never rightly determine. Mary herself never could answer the question. But the sword pointed straight at the man's heart was so firmly held by those girlish hands, that, as he precipitated himself upon her to break down her guard, the shining blade ran clean through his body, and he fell pierced to the heart, a dead corpse at Mary's feet.
Eleanor shrieked, and covered her face with her hands. Lady Bridges fell back white, and gasping:
"Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? Unhappy child! God be merciful to thee and to us!"
Mary stood very straight and upright. There was no colour in her face; yet there was no faltering in her eyes. Soldiers and servants alike stood still and motionless, too much startled and awed by what had occurred to move or speak; all eyes being fixed upon the motionless figure of Mary.
"Take that thing away!" she said at last, pointing with a fierce repulsion to the dead soldier at her feet. "Take him and begone every one of you! Is it for girls to teach you the lesson how to be men and not brutes?"
In absolute silence, and with something like fear in their faces, the other soldiers, thoroughly sobered, came and carried off the corpse of their companion, and withdrew from the house. Only one significant word was spoken by the chief of the band ere he finally withdrew.
"Colonel Kirke will have to hear of this, mistress," he said, addressing Mary with more of respect in his glance than there had ever been before. She was standing in precisely the same spot and in the same attitude, and she merely bent her head very slightly as she heard the words.
"Tell him everything!" she exclaimed suddenly, as the man turned to go. "Do you think I am afraid?"
He gave her a look of admiration, bowed, and retired. It was then and only then that her mother and sister broke into lamentation and tears; and Lady Bridges, holding her to her breast, sobbed in the bitterness of a mother's anguish.
"Oh, Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? And what can they do to thee? Oh, that man of iron! that cruel, cruel Kirke! And is it before him thou must go?"
Mary kissed her mother, and freed herself gently from her embrace; her nerves were still strung tensely up. She felt no qualm of fear.
"Mother," she said, "there was no one else to defend you and Eleanor. None else would have dared to lift a hand against a soldier of the King's. Was I to stand by and see and hear such things? God in heaven alone knows whether it was my act or his that did him to death. But even if I did strike him to the heart, is not he a man of blood? And is it not written that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword?"
"Oh, my child, my child," wept the mother, "God in His mercy grant that such a fate be not thine own!"
It was two days later when Mary Bridges stood pale and dauntless before that terrible soldier, Colonel Kirke. Her offence was judged to be a military one, and she was arraigned before him by court-martial. Lady Bridges, her self-command and dignity recovered, stood close beside her daughter; and behind them clustered a number of servants, all ready to swear upon their Bible oath that Mistress Mary had never lunged at the soldier by so much as a hair's breadth, but that the man had run upon the weapon with which she was defending her mother and sister.
But their testimony was not destined to be asked or given. Colonel Kirke was a man of few words, and of rapid decision. It was seldom that anycase coming before him was granted any space for discussion and hair-splitting.
His own soldiers told the tale fairly enough, admitting the insult, the drunken violence of their dead comrade, and the fact that they had no real right to be in Lady Bridges' house or presence at all. They described the death in detail; and Mary stood silent listening to all that passed; but speaking never a word, nor giving one sign of wavering or of fear.
The Colonel's sombre glance rested again and again upon her face; and, when the accusation was brought to an end, he asked her to state her defence.
"I did it," she answered, speaking fearlessly, "I am going to tell you what your 'Lambs' are like, and you can kill me afterwards in any way you choose. I am not afraid. Your men are cowards and drunkards. I grant they can fight; but they are cowards in their cups. They insult women and girls; they make themselves feared and hated and detested wherever they go. Men speak of them with execration, and they will go down to posterity hated and loathed. Mother, don't try and stop me! I will speak now that I have the chance. Colonel Kirke, have you a mother? Were you ever asked to stand by and hear her grossly threatened and insulted? If you had been there, what would you have done? I am not a man, I am only a weak girl, but I was not going to endure that. I would have killed every man who had soughtto attack her. Whether I killed him by an open pass at him, or whether he ran upon his own sword, I do not know—I do not care. I stood there to save my mother and my sister from outrage. You can condemn me to death for it, if you will. I am not afraid!"
There was deathly silence in the hall for a few seconds after those words were spoken. Then Colonel Kirke's voice rang out firm and clear:
"Bring me the sword with which this deed was done!"
The sword was brought. The Colonel took it in his hands and looked upon it. There was the stain of blood upon the shining blade.
Lady Bridges gasped when she saw him turn towards Mary. Was he about to slay her child before her very eyes?
Straight and tall towered the terrible Colonel before Mary; he then did a very strange thing—a thing so strange that those who witnessed it drew their breath in silent amaze. He slightly bent the knee, and placed the naked sword very gently in Mary's hands.
"Mistress Mary Bridges," he said, in that voice which had caused so many to tremble, and which had of late given so many fearful orders of merciless savagery, "this sword is yours. Take it; and take with it the full acquittal of this court. The act thatyou have performed is no crime; it is an honour to the strong young hands that performed it, and the noble young heart that nerved those hands to the deed. Take this sword, and keep it; let it be in your family a treasured heirloom. Let it be handed down to other Mary Bridges yet to come, and with it the tale of how, in the past, a girl, a daughter, a tender maiden, was found strong enough to rally to the defence of her mother, whilst craven hirelings shrank and feared, and coward soldiers looked on and raised no hand to check the violence of a comrade!"
His fierce eyes swept round the hall, and many shrank before the glance; then it softened once more, and he looked straight at Lady Bridges.
"Madam, I bid you farewell. Take home your daughter, and be proud of her. Guard her well; and when the time does come, find her a mate worthy of herself. Mistress Mary Bridges, I kiss your hand. Fare you well, and may you be known to posterity when this tale is told, as 'Mary Bridges of the Sword.'"
The city was ringed about with walls of fire. By night it presented a terrible aspect to those who could gain a safe vantage ground out of range of the batteries, and watch for awhile the fearful glare from them, as the fiery missiles were sent hurtling forth, charged with their errand of death and destruction. And even if the batteries were silent there was generally some terrible glow of fire in the sky, for almost every day a conflagration broke out in some portion of the city, and the terrified inhabitants never knew from day to day whose turn might not come next.
Theresa lived with her widowed mother in one of those large houses common in all great cities, where the poor were herded together at close quarters, and in days like these had to suffer many privations, as well as all the nameless terrors which beset men's hearts at such a time. Some of their neighbours had fled before the encompassing army shut in the city; but Theresa and her mother remained. For they knew not where else to go. And if Pierre, awayfighting for his country, should be recalled by the exigencies of war, and the siege should suddenly be raised by help from without, where would the poor boy find them, if not in the old home?
"The good God will care for us and protect us, if we trust ourselves to Him," the Widow Duroc had said; and, whilst others collected their few possessions and quitted the city, she and her daughter remained in the almost deserted house.
It was necessary for them to remain, if possible, as it was in the city that Theresa's work lay. She went daily to one of the shops where fine starching and ironing was done, and, with the money she earned in this way, she had kept the little home comfortable for some time. Her mother was a cripple, and could only do a little needlework when she was able to procure it. Sometimes Theresa was enabled to bring her home some from the shop, but for the rest they were dependent upon the earnings of the girl. If they were to seek to fly the city they had nowhere to go, and would lose their only means of support. It seemed better to remain and risk the peril within the walls than fly they knew not where.
And now they were fast shut in, and had grown so well used to the booming of the guns or the sharp scream of the shell hurtling through the air, that they spoke and moved in the midst of the tumult as quietly as they had done before it began.Indeed, sometimes, when for a night, or for part of a day, the batteries became suddenly silent, the stillness would seem almost more awful than the roar that had gone before. It would cause them to awake from sleep with a start, or to stop suddenly in what they were saying or doing, and always the question arose in the heart, or to the lips:
"What is it that has happened? Has the city fallen?"
The tall house in which they lived was far more silent and empty now than it had been before the siege began. The authorities had encouraged all those who were able, to depart before escape should be impossible. They foresaw that food was likely to become scarce, and the fewer useless mouths there were to fill the better for all. But those who had sons, or husbands, or brothers in the army were suffered to remain, as were all who could not leave without suffering heavily; and it was known to Theresa, from what she heard spoken about her, that should famine threaten, and the city be put upon rations, she and her mother would be entitled to receive a share, as being among those whose bread-winner was with the army.
But at first there seemed little fear of this, and Theresa's work went on as before. The tall house where they lived was not in range of any of the batteries, and though their hearts were often tornby fear for others, and by sorrow for their beautiful buildings being so sorely shattered and ruined, they themselves did not suffer, and they grew accustomed to the conditions which had seemed at first so strange and terrible.
But day after day passed by, and the days lengthened into weeks, and still the hoped-for relief did not come; those within the beleaguered city only heard whispers from the world without, and knew not what was passing there.
"If only our Pierre could get a letter to us!" the widow would say, again and again; "then we should know how it was faring with him and with the army."
Theresa going daily to her work heard all the flying rumours which reached the city; but she did not speak of them always to her mother, for she knew not how much or how little to believe, and she feared either to buoy her up by false hopes, or to crush her with needless fears.
Gay Paris is slow to believe in disaster, or to credit that the arms of France can meet with any severe reverse. Each generation is as full of hopeful confidence as the one that has gone before, as full of enthusiasm and patriotic fervour, as little disposed to believe in misfortune.
"The victorious army will march to our relief!" was the cry that was always finding expression. "A little more patience—only a little more!—and theseaccursed foes will be flying before our bravegarçonsof soldiers like chaff before the wind."
And nobody believed this more implicitly than Theresa for a long, long time. The soldiers would come, and Pierre with them. They would see them marching in, in all the bravery of their gay trappings. Oh, what a day that would be! How the bells would ring, and the guns salute, and the people go mad with joy! She lived through the experience a hundred times a day as she stood at her ironing-table and worked at her piles of snowy linen. But the sullen boom of the guns was still the accompaniment of all her musings. And every week as it passed brought home to her heart the conviction that things were not going well: that the lines of the enemy were being drawn ever closer and closer: that there could not be good news from the outer world, else surely it would be noised abroad with acclamation.
But soon a trouble was to fall upon her for which she was quite unprepared. Fires had become sadly common in the city. A glare in the sky was such an ordinary sight that it scarcely aroused any interest or speculation, save in the immediate neighbourhood where it occurred. Soldiers and citizens were always on the alert to put it out wherever a conflagration occurred, and often the flames were speedily extinguished. Nevertheless, the number of burnt anduninhabitable houses was becoming daily larger, and persons were removing their goods and furniture from those streets where the danger threatened into safer localities; so that the house where the Durocs lived had already been invaded by various newcomers, seeking an asylum from the storm of shot and shell.
Theresa, however, knew little or nothing of their new neighbours. She was busy with her work by day, and her mother did not get about easily enough to learn much of those who had arrived in this sudden fashion. They were of the class that, in the English phrase, preferred to "keep themselves to themselves."
One morning Theresa started forth to her work as usual, and, after taking the accustomed turnings, found herself in the familiar street. But once there she stopped short and rubbed her eyes. For what did she see? The whole side of the street, where her workshop had stood, lay a mass of smoking ruins; and the people from the opposite houses were hurrying away, carrying their goods and chattels with them.
The terrible news was passing from mouth to mouth. A new battery had been opened. A new portion of the city was in peril. People small and great were hastening away before another fusillade should shatter the remaining part of the quarter. Theresa stood gazing in great dismay at what she saw. Where was her occupation now? Where was her kindly employer whom she had served so long?
Even as she asked herself the question a woman from an adjacent house, well known to Theresa, came hurrying out, the tears raining down her face.
"Alas! alas! little one, she is dead—God rest her soul!—buried beneath the fall of the house in the dead of night! Ah, those accursed Germans! What have they not to answer for? Our good neighbour Clisson!—so kindly, so merry, so ready to lend a helping hand. And thou, my poor child—what wilt thou do? Everything swept away in one night! And who knows whose turn may come next?"
Theresa was indeed dismayed for herself as well as for others. The terrible fate of her kind mistress cut her to the heart; but when that shock had passed by, there came the other thought suggested by the kindly neighbour. What was to become of her and her mother, now their only means of support was taken from her?
"Thou wilt have to apply for rations as others do," said her friend, with a look into the troubled face. "Courage, little one! These black days cannot last for ever! We shall soon see thosecanailleof Prussians flying helter-skelter before our bravegarçons. The good God will hear our prayers and will send us succour. It will only be for a time, and then our beautiful city will be gayer and more beautiful than ever!"
But Theresa had heard words like these too often toput the old faith in them. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was revolving many plans by which she might still earn something and support her mother. But the price of food was rising so fearfully that already she scarcely knew how to keep the wolf from the door; she knew, too, that her mother desired, if possible, not to be forced to send for the doled-out rations from the great Government building; and no one could more desire to be spared the task of fetching it daily than Theresa herself.
She had heard what that meant from others. The long, long, weary wait in the daily increasing crowd; the hustling and the jostling before one could get a place in thequeue; the bitter cold often to be faced when the wind blew down upon the crowd; the peril, sometimes, of having the hardly earned food snatched away in some back street by a hungry ragamuffin before ever it had reached its destination.
All this Theresa knew that she would have to face if they lost all other means of support. And, moreover, for her was another great danger: to reach the quarter of the city where the food was doled out, she would be forced to cross a wide boulevard that was swept from end to end by the guns of a battery, and each time that she went she would have to take her life in her hands, as it were.
"But mother must never know that," she said to herself, as she thought of these things. "She is fearfulenough as it is of having me go about the streets. She must never know that, else she would not enjoy a moment's peace. Perhaps the good God will save me from it. Perhaps I shall get work elsewhere. And if I must go—for mother's sake—I must pray to Him to keep me safe, as so many are kept who have to go day by day."