CHAPTER II.
WALTER ran down to the village at full speed. He first bent his stepstowards the “Half-Moon,” the little public-house, where news was sure tobe met with. As he came towards it, however, he heard the loud sound ofa man’s voice going steadily on as if with some discourse. “Somepreachment,” said he to himself: “they’ve got a thorough-going Roundhead,I can hear his twang through his nose! Shall I go in or not?”
While he was asking himself this question, an old peasant in a roundfrock came towards him.
“Hollo, Will!” shouted Walter, “what prick-eared rogue have you gotthere?”
“Hush, hush, Master Walter!” said the old man, taking off his hat veryrespectfully. “Best take care what you say, there be plenty of red-coatsabout. There’s one of them now preaching away in marvellous pied words.It is downright shocking to hear the Bible hollaed out after that sort,so I came away. Don’t you go nigh him, sir, ’specially with your hat seton in that—”
“Never mind my hat,” said Walter, impatiently, “it is no business ofyours, and I’ll wear it as I please in spite of old Noll and all hiscrew.”
For his forefathers’ sake, and for the love of his mother and sister, thegood village people bore with Walter’s haughtiness and discourtesy farmore than was good for him, and the old man did not show how much he washurt by his rough reception of his good advice. Walter was not remindedthat he ought to rise up before the hoary head, and reverence the oldman, and went on hastily, “But tell me, Will, what do you hear of thebattle?”
“The battle, sir! why, they say it is lost. That’s what the fellow thereis preaching about.”
“And where was it? Did you hear? Don’t you know?”
“Don’t be so hasty, don’t ye, sir!” said the old slow-spoken man, growingconfused. “Where was it? At some town—some town, they said, but I don’tknow rightly the name of it.”
“And the King? Who was it? Not Cromwell? Had Lord Derby joined?” criedWalter, hurrying on his questions so as to puzzle and confuse the old manmore and more, till at last he grew angry at getting no explanation, andvowed it was no use to talk to such an old fool. At that moment a soundas of feet and horses came along the road. “’Tis the soldiers!” saidWalter.
“Ay, sir, best get out of sight.”
Walter thought so too, and, springing over a hedge, ran off into aneighbouring wood, resolving to take a turn, and come back by the longerway to the house, so as to avoid the road. He walked across the wood,looking up at the ripening nuts, and now and then springing up to reachone, telling himself all the time that it was untrue, and that the Kingcould not, and should not be defeated. The wood grew less thick after atime, and ended in low brushwood, upon an open common. Just as Walterwas coming to this place, he saw an unusual sight: a man and a horsecrossing the down. Slowly and wearily they came, the horse drooping itshead and stumbling in its pace, as though worn out with fatigue, but hesaw that it was a war-horse, and the saddle and other equipments weresuch as he well remembered in the royal army long ago. The rider worebuff coat, cuirass, gauntlets guarded with steel, sword, and pistols, andWalter’s first impulse was to avoid him; but on giving a second glance,he changed his mind, for though there was neither scarf, plume, nor anybadge of party, the long locks, the set of the hat, and the general airof the soldier were not those of a rebel. He must be a cavalier, but,alas! far unlike the triumphant cavaliers whom Walter had hoped toreceive, for he was covered with dust and blood, as if he had fought andridden hard. Walter sprung forward to meet him, and saw that he was ayoung man, with dark eyes and hair, looking very pale and exhausted, andboth he and his horse seemed hardly able to stir a step further.
“Young sir,” said the stranger, “what place is this? Am I near ForestLea?”
A flash of joy crossed Walter. “Edmund! are you Edmund?” he exclaimed,colouring deeply, and looking up in his face with one quick glance, thencasting down his eyes.
“And you are little Walter,” returned the cavalier, instantlydismounting, and flinging his arm around his brother; “why, what a finefellow you are grown! How are my mother and all?”
“Well, quite well!” cried Walter, in a transport of joy. “Oh! how happyshe will be! Come, make haste home!”
“Alas! I dare not as yet. I must not enter the house till nightfall, orI should bring danger on you all. Are there any troopers near?”
“Yes, the village is full of the rascals. But what has happened? It isnot true that—” He could not bear to say the rest.
“Too true!” said Edmund, leading his tired horse within the shelter ofthe bushes. “It is all over with us!”
“The battle lost!” said Walter, in a stifled tone; and in all thebitterness of the first disappointment of his youth, he turned away,overcome by a gush of tears and sobs, stamping as he walked up and down,partly with the intensity of his grief, partly with shame at being seenby his brother, in tears.
“Had you set your heart on it so much?” said Edmund, kindly, pleased tosee his young brother so ardent a loyalist. “Poor fellow! But at leastthe King was safe when I parted from him. Come, cheer up, Walter, theright will be uppermost some day or other.”
“But, oh, that battle! I had so longed to see old Noll get his deserts,”said Walter, “I made so sure. But how did it happen, Edmund?”
“I cannot tell you all now, Walter. You must find me some covert where Ican be till night fall. The rebels are hot in pursuit of all thefugitives. I have ridden from Worcester by byroads day and night, and Iam fairly spent. I must be off to France or Holland as soon as may be,for my life is not safe a moment here. Cromwell is bitterer than everagainst all honest men, but I could not help coming this way, I so muchlonged to see my mother and all of you.”
“You are not wounded?” said Walter, anxiously.
“Nothing to speak of, only a sword-cut on my shoulder, by which I havelost more blood than convenient for such a journey.”
“Here, I’ll lead your horse; lean on me,” said Walter, alarmed at thefaint, weary voice in which his brother spoke after the first excitementof the recognition. “I’ll show you what Lucy and I call our bower, whereno one ever comes but ourselves. There you can rest till night.”
“And poor Bayard?” said Edmund.
“I think I could put him into the out-house in the field next to thecopse, hide his trappings here, and get him provender from Ewins’s farm.Will that do?”
“Excellently. Poor Ewins!—that is a sad story. He fell, fightingbravely by my side, cut down in Sidbury Street in the last charge. Alas!these are evil days!”
“And Diggory Stokes, our own knave?”
“I know nothing of him after the first onset. Rogues and cowards enoughwere there. Think, Walter, of seeing his Majesty strive in vain to rallythem, when the day might yet have been saved, and the traitors hung downtheir heads, and stood like blocks while he called on them rather toshoot him dead than let him live to see such a day!”
“Oh, had I but been there, to turn them all to shame!”
“There were a few, Walter; Lord Cleveland, Hamilton, Careless, Giffard,and a few more of us, charged down Sidbury Street, and broke into theranks of the rebels, while the King had time to make off by S. Martin’sGate. Oh, how I longed for a few more! But the King was saved so far;Careless, Giffard, and I came up with him again, and we parted atnightfall. Lord Derby’s counsel was that he should seek shelter atBoscobel, and he was to disguise himself, and go thither under Giffard’sguidance. Heaven guard him, whatever becomes of us!”
“Amen!” said Walter, earnestly. “And here we are. Here is Lucy’s bankof turf, and my throne, and here we will wait till the sun is down.”
It was a beautiful green slope, covered with soft grass, short thyme, andcushion-like moss, and overshadowed by a thick, dark yew-tree, shut in bybrushwood on all sides, and forming just such a retreat as children loveto call their own. Edmund threw himself down at full length on it, laidasid
e his hat, and passed his hand across his weary forehead. “Howquiet!” said he; “but, hark! is that the bubbling of water?” he added,raising himself eagerly.
“Yes, here,” said Walter, showing him where, a little further off on thesame slope, a little clear spring rose in a natural basin of red earth,fringed along the top with fresh green mosses.
“Delicious!” said the tired soldier, kneeling over the spring, scoopingit up in his hand to drink, opening his collar, and bathing hands andface in the clear cool fountain, till his long black hair hung straight,saturated with wet.
“Now, Bayard, it is your turn,” and he patted the good steed as it suckedup the refreshing water, and Walter proceeded to release it from saddleand bridle. Edmund, meanwhile, stretched himself out on the mossy bank,asked a few questions about his mother, Rose, and the other children, butwas too tired to say much, and presently fell sound asleep, while Waltersat by watching him, grieving for the battle lost, but proud andimportant in being the guardian of his brother’s safety, and delightinghimself with the thought of bringing him home at night.
More was happening at home than Walter guessed. The time of his absenceseemed very long, more especially when the twilight began to close in,and Lady Woodley began to fear that he might, with his rashness, haveinvolved himself in some quarrel with the troopers in the village. LadyWoodley and her children had closed around the wood fire which had beenlighted on the hearth at the approach of evening, and Rose was trying bythe bad light to continue her darning of stockings, when a loud hastyknocking was heard at the door, and all, in a general vague impression ofdread, started and drew together.
“Oh my lady!” cried Deborah, “don’t bid me go to the door, I could not ifyou offered me fifty gold caroluses! I had rather stand up to be amark—”
“Then I will,” said Rose, advancing.
“No, no, Mistress Rose,” said Deborah, running forward. “Don’t I knowwhat is fit for the like of you? You go opening the door to rogues andvagabonds, indeed!” and with these words she undrew the bolts and openedthe door.
“Is this the way you keep us waiting?” said an impatient voice; and atall youth, handsomely accoutred, advanced authoritatively into the room.“Prepare to—” but as he saw himself alone with women and children, andhis eyes fell on the pale face, mourning dress, and graceful air of thelady of the house, he changed his tone, removed his hat, and said, “Yourpardon, madam, I came to ask a night’s lodging for my father, who hasbeen thrown from his horse, and badly bruised.”
“I cannot refuse you, sir,” said Lady Woodley, who instantly perceivedthat this was an officer of the Parliamentary force, and was onlythankful to see that he was a gentleman, and enforced with courtesy arequest which was in effect a command.
The youth turned and went out, while Lady Woodley hastily directed herdaughters and servant. “Deborah, set the blue chamber in order; Rose,take the key of the oak press, Eleanor will help you to take out theholland sheets. Lucy, run down to old Margery, and bid her kill a coupleof fowls for supper.”
As the girls obeyed there entered at the front door the young officer anda soldier, supporting between them an elderly man in the dress of anofficer of rank. Lady Woodley, ready of course to give her help to anyperson who had suffered an injury, came forward to set a chair, and atthe same moment she exclaimed, in a tone of recognition, “Mr. Enderby! Iam grieved to see you so much hurt.”
“My Lady Woodley,” he returned, recognising her at the same time, as heseated himself in the chair, “I am sorry thus to have broken in on yourladyship, but my son, Sylvester, would have me halt here.”
“This gentleman is your son, then?” and a courteous greeting passedbetween Lady Woodley and young Sylvester Enderby, after which she againenquired after his father’s accident.
“No great matter,” was the reply; “a blow on the head, and a twist of theknee, that is all. Thanks to a stumbling horse, wearied out with work, Ihave little mind to—the pursuit of this poor young man.”
“Not the King?” exclaimed Lady Woodley, breathless with alarm.
It was with no apparent satisfaction that the rebel colonel replied,“Even so, madam. Cromwell’s fortune has not forsaken him; he has driventhe Scots and their allies out of Worcester.”
Lady Woodley was too much accustomed to evil tidings to be as muchovercome by them as her young son had been; she only turned somewhatpaler, and asked, “The King lives?”
“He was last seen on Worcester bridge. Troops are sent to every portwhence he might attempt an escape.”
“May the GOD of his father protect him,” said the lady, fervently. “Andmy son?” she added, faintly, scarcely daring to ask the question.
“Safe, I hope,” replied the colonel. “I saw him, and I could havethought him my dear old friend himself, as he joined Charles in his lastdesperate attempt to rally his forces, and then charged down SidburyStreet with a few bold spirits who were resolved to cover their master’sretreat. He is not among the slain; he was not a prisoner when I leftthe headquarters. I trust he may have escaped, for Cromwell is fearfullyincensed against your party.”
Colonel Enderby was interrupted by Lucy’s running in calling out,“Mother, mother! there are no fowls but Partlet and the sitting hen, andthe old cock, and I won’t have my dear old Partlet killed to be eaten bywicked Roundheads.”
“Come here, my little lady,” said the colonel, holding out his hand,amused by her vehemence.
“I won’t speak to a Roundhead,” returned Lucy, with a droll air ofpetulance, pleased at being courted.
Her mother spoke gravely. “You forget yourself, Lucy. This is Mr.Enderby, a friend of your dear father.”
Lucy’s cheeks glowed, and she looked down as she gave her hand to thecolonel; but as he spoke kindly to her, her forward spirit revived, andshe returned to the charge.
“You won’t have Partlet killed?”
Her mother would have silenced her, but the colonel smiled and said, “No,no, little lady; I would rather go without supper than let one feather ofDame Partlet be touched.”
“Nay, you need not do that either, sir,” said the little chatter-box,confidentially, “for we are to have a pie made of little Jenny’s pigeons;and I’ll tell you what, sir, no one makes raised crust half so well assister Rose.”
Lady Woodley was not sorry to stop the current of her little girl’scommunications by despatching her on another message, and asking ColonelEnderby whether he would not prefer taking a little rest in his roombefore supper-time, offering, at the same time all the remedies forbruises and wounds that every good housekeeper of the time was sure topossess.
She had a real regard for Mr. Enderby, who had been a great friend of herhusband before the unhappy divisions of the period arrayed them onopposite sides, and even then, though true friendship could not last, akindly feeling had always existed.
Mr. Enderby was a conscientious man, but those were difficult times; andhe had regarded loyalty to the King less than what he considered therights of the people. He had been an admirer of Hampden and hisprinciples, and had taken up arms on the same side, becoming a rebel onpolitical, not on religious, grounds. When, as time went on, the evilsof the rebellion developed themselves more fully, he was already high incommand, and so involved with his own party that he had not theresolution requisite for a change of course and renunciation of hisassociates. He would willingly have come to terms with the King, and wasearnest in the attempt at the time of the conferences at Hampden Court.He strongly disapproved of the usurpation of power by the army, and wasstruck with horror, grief, and dismay, at the execution of King Charles;but still he would not, or fancied that he could not, separate himselffrom the cause of the Parliament, and continued in their service,following Cromwell to Scotland, and fighting at Worcester on the rebelside, disliking Cromwell all the time, and with a certain inclination tothe young King, and desire to see the old constitution restored.
He was just one of those men who cause such great evil by
giving a sortof respectability to the wrong cause, “following a multitude to do evil,”and doubtless bringing a fearful responsibility on their own heads; yetwith many good qualities and excellent principles, that make those on theright side have a certain esteem for them, and grieve to see them thusperverted.
Lady Woodley, who knew him well, though sorry to have a rebel in herhouse at such a time, was sure that in him she had a kind and considerateguest, who would do his utmost to protect her and her children.
On his side, Colonel Enderby was much grieved and shocked at the pale,altered looks of the fair young bride he remembered, as well as theevidences of poverty throughout her house, and perhaps he had a secretwish that he was as well assured as his friend, Sir Walter, that hisblood had been shed for the maintenance of the right.
The Pigeon Pie Page 2
