The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Hark ye, Dick, a plan has occurred to me while I have been here. I will try to get into Wales, where I have many subjects of proved loyalty. Once at Swansea, I can easily find means of embarking for France. Can you guide me to any place where I may safely cross the Severn?”

  “At Madeley there is a bridge. It is about seven miles distant.”

  “Only seven miles!” exclaimed Charles. “Then I will go to Madeley to-night after refreshing myself at thy cottage.”

  “As your majesty pleases. But I am sorry you mean to abandon Boscobel.”

  “I may go there yet,” said Charles.

  They then quitted the coppice and issued forth into the more open part of the forest.

  The rain had now ceased, and the clouds having entirely dispersed, the night promised to be clear and starlight. They marched along cautiously — halting ever and anon to listen for a sound — but heard nothing to occasion them alarm. Not a trooper was to be seen — indeed, they did not encounter a single individual on the way to Hobbal Grange.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI.

  HOW CHARLES SUPPED AT HOBBAL GRANGE, AND WHOM HE MET THERE.

  Hobbal Grange, the farm-house tenanted by Richard Penderel, was situated on a small green in the midst of the forest on the road between White Ladies and Boscobel. Though described by its owner as a cottage, it was a very comfortable abode. Richard Penderel was married, and his wife, a buxom, good-looking woman, had brought him one son, but he was from home at the time.

  On reaching his dwelling, Trusty Dick opened the door, and ushered the king into the house-place, as it was called — a spacious apartment with a huge fireplace at one end, and furnished with a long oak dining-table, a couple of benches, and some half-dozen chairs.

  A good fire burning in the grate gave the room a very comfortable look. The ceiling was low and whitewashed, as were the walls, and the rafters were garnished with hams and sides of bacon, while nets contained sundry oat-cakes. Dick’s wife and their niece, Frances, the daughter of William Penderel, a good-looking girl, who had just got into her teens, were frying some collops of meat, as the forester entered with his guest.

  “Mary,” cried Dick, winking at his wife, as he spoke, “this be Will Jackson, whom I told thee I should bring wi’ me to supper.”

  “Glad to see him, I’m sure,” replied Mary, dropping a curtsy, which the king returned with an awkward attempt at a clownish bow that provoked a smile from young Frances Penderel.

  “Master Jackson is going to Madeley,” pursued Dick, “and being unacquainted with the country, might get lost at night, so I have promised to show him the way there after supper.”

  “Then he ben’t going to sleep here?” observed Mary.

  “No, my good dame, I thank you,” said Charles. “To-night I shall sleep at Madeley, and to-morrow cross the Severn. I want to get to the Welsh coast as quickly as I can.”

  “Don’t ask any more questions, Mary, but get supper ready,” interposed Dick.

  “‘Twill be ready in a trice,” she replied. “Lay a clean cloth, Frances.”

  In a very few minutes a large dish of collops and a great bowl of potatoes were placed on the table, and the king and his host sat down to the meal, and were waited upon by Mary Penderel and her niece.

  A jug of strong ale helped to wash down the viands. Charles rather suspected from the good dame’s manner that she was aware of his rank, but he didn’t trouble himself on the subject, but went on with his supper.

  An unexpected interruption, however, was offered to the meal. Some one tried the door, and finding it fastened, knocked against it rather authoritatively. Charles instantly laid down his knife and fork and started to his feet.

  “Go see who is there,” said Dick to his wife. “But let no one in.”

  On this Mary went to the door, and in as firm a tone as she could command, for she was a good deal frightened, asked who knocked.

  “’Tis I! Don’t you know me, Mary?” cried a familiar voice.

  “Blessed Virgin!” she exclaimed. “’Tis Father Huddlestone himself!”

  “Your majesty may go on quietly with your supper,” whispered Dick to the king. “As I have told you, the holy man may be trusted. Open the door, dame.”

  Mary instantly complied, and a middle-aged and rather stout personage entered the room. His close-fitting cassock of black stuff was covered by a long black gown. His appearance was far from ascetic, his face being round, rosy, and good-humoured in expression, while his scrupulously shaved cheeks showed marks of a very black beard.

  Father Huddlestone was priest to Mr. Whitgreave, of Moseley Hall, in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton, and resided with that gentleman, who was a well-known Royalist.

  “Heaven’s blessings on this house and on all within it!” exclaimed the priest as he came in. “I do not blame you for keeping your door bolted during these troublous times, good daughter. An enemy might slip in unawares. You have a guest already, I perceive,” he continued, glancing at Charles. “I have brought you two more. Nay, do not start, my good woman. No danger need be apprehended from one of your own sex.”

  “What is this I hear, father,” cried Dick, getting up from the table, and stepping towards him. “You have brought some one with you, you say?”

  “Here she is,” replied Father Huddlestone. “Pray come in, fair mistress.”

  On this invitation, a young lady in a riding-dress entered the house, followed by a slim, good-looking page.

  In the young lady, Charles recognised Jane Lane at a glance. As to her attendant, he almost fancied, from the slightness of the figure, it must be a female in disguise.

  “Methought you said there was only a lady, good father?” cried Dick.

  “This page counts for nothing,” rejoined the priest. “The lady is Mistress Jane Lane, of Bentley Hall. I have promised her an asylum here for the night, and I am sure you will afford it her.”

  “There may be reasons why I should not remain here,” said Jane, perceiving the king. “I will go on with you to Moseley Hall, good father.”

  “There can be nothing to prevent you from staying here, so far as I am concerned, fair mistress,” observed Charles, who had risen from the table, but stood apart. “I am about to proceed on my journey immediately.”

  “Are you quite sure you had so decided before my arrival?” asked Jane.

  “Quite sure,” he replied. “Richard Penderel will tell you so.”

  “Who is this young man, Mary?” asked Father Huddlestone, looking very hard at the king. “He hath the dress of a woodward, but neither the look nor the manner of one.”

  “I will tell your reverence some other time,” she replied, evasively.

  “Perhaps your reverence can prevail on Mistress Jane Lane to sit down with us and share our supper,” said Charles to Father Huddlestone.

  “I shall need no entreaty, for in truth I am very hungry,” replied Jane, taking a place at the table, while the priest sat down beside her.

  “How are you named, good youth?” asked Charles of the supposed page.

  “Jasper,” was the reply.

  “Then come and sit down by me, Jasper,” said the king.

  “Shall I, madam?” inquired the page of his mistress, who signified her assent, and the so-called Jasper took a place by the king.

  Fortunately, Mary Penderel had made such bountiful provision that there was plenty for the new-comers.

  “No accident, I hope, has happened to your mistress, young sir?” observed Charles to the page.

  “We were on our way from Wolverhampton to Bentley Hall, when we were attacked by a patrol of rebels in the forest, who were in search for the king,” replied Jasper. “They did us no injury, but took our horses.”

  “How came it that you did not defend your mistress better?” asked Charles.

  “How could I defend her against half a dozen armed men?” cried the page. “If I had had a pistol, I would have shot the first Roundhead rascal who came up through the he
ad.”

  “Rather through the heart, I should say,” remarked the king, with a smile.

  “Heaven preserve his majesty, and deliver him from his enemies!” exclaimed Father Huddlestone. “May their devices be confounded.”

  “Amen!” ejaculated Jane Lane, fervently. “Could I communicate with his majesty, I would counsel him to embark for France as speedily as may be.”

  “Such, I doubt not, is his design,” remarked the priest. “But there is danger on every side,” he added in a significant tone, and looking at the king as he spoke.

  “I have heard no particulars of the battle of Worcester,” observed Jasper. “His majesty has escaped, I know, but I would fain learn that his aide-de-camp, Major Careless, is safe.”

  “Rest easy on that score, Jasper,” said the king. “I saw Major Careless this morning.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the page, unable to repress his emotion. “Oh, I am so glad. You have taken a great weight from my breast.”

  “You appear greatly interested in Major Careless,” remarked Charles. “Have you known him long?”

  “Only since his majesty arrived in Worcester. I hope I shall see him again.”

  “Have you any message for him, in case I should meet him?” whispered Charles.

  “None,” replied the page, in the same tone. “But he will remember the house in Angel-lane.”

  “Ah! then you are — —”

  The page imposed silence by a look.

  Just then Richard Penderel arose, and glanced significantly at Charles, who at once took the hint, and rose likewise.

  “Don’t let me disturb the company,” said Dick. “But Master Jackson and I have a long walk before us, and must be moving.”

  “Quite right, my son,” replied the priest. “But I should like to say a word to Master Jackson before he sets forth.”

  Taking Charles aside, he said to him in a low earnest tone: “I will not waste time in professions of loyalty and devotion, nor can I be of any present use to your majesty. Whatever your plans may be, I trust Heaven will prosper them, but should it be necessary for you to seek a place of concealment, you will be safe with my worthy friend and patron, Mr. Whitgreave, of Moseley Hall. Richard Penderel will guide you thither.”

  “Should occasion require it, I will take refuge in Mr. Whitgreave’s house,” replied Charles.

  “Your majesty will be pleased to learn that Lord Wilmot is now at Moseley,” pursued Father Huddlestone.

  “I am glad to hear it,” replied Charles. “Should he not hear from me in two or three days, he may conclude I have escaped to France. And now give me your blessing, father.”

  While preferring this request he bowed his head, and the good priest gave him his benediction.

  As the king passed her, Jane Lane fixed a meaning look upon him, and said in a low tone: “At Bentley Hall your majesty will find a safe place of refuge, should you require it.”

  A hasty adieu sufficed for the page, and with a warm expression of thanks to Mary Penderel, Charles quitted the house with her husband.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII.

  HOW CHARLES AND TRUSTY DICK WERE FRIGHTENED BY THE MILLER OF EVELITH.

  The night was so dark, that without a guide it would have been utterly impossible for the king to find his way through the forest. Trusty Dick, however, experienced no difficulty, but marched along through the trees at a quick pace, and Charles kept close beside him. The crackling of sticks and small branches which they crushed beneath their feet as they proceeded, and the rustling of fallen leaves, betrayed their course, but they did not talk much, lest they should be overheard by a patrol of the enemy. Now and then they paused to listen, and on one occasion, fancying he heard the sound of horses’ feet in the distance, Dick immediately struck into another path; but he did not stray far from the direct course.

  At this hour there was something mysterious in the gloom of the forest, that acted very powerfully on the king’s imagination, and led him to fancy that he discerned strange figures among the trees. But Richard Penderel, to whom he communicated his apprehensions, treated them very lightly.

  “Your majesty needn’t be alarmed,” he said. “The forms you behold are merely trunks of old trees, or projecting boughs. They have a weird look at this time, and I myself have been scared by ‘em.”

  At length they emerged from the forest, and got upon a wide common — greatly to the king’s relief, for he had begun to feel oppressed by the gloom. The fresh air, so different from the damp atmosphere he had just been inhaling, laden with the scent of decaying leaves and timber, produced an exhilarating effect upon him, and he strode along vigorously.

  While crossing the common, they descried a patrol of horse apparently proceeding in the direction of White Ladies or Boscobel, but they easily avoided them, and quitting the common, they soon afterwards mounted a steep hill, on the other side of which was a brook that turned a water-mill. As they drew near the mill, the sound of voices brought them to a halt. The hour being now late, it was singular that any persons should be astir, and Trusty Dick, naturally alarmed by the circumstance, at first thought of turning back. But to do so would have taken him and his companion considerably out of their course, and he therefore hesitated.

  “This is Evelith Mill,” he observed in a low voice to Charles, “Roger Bushell, the miller, is a cross-grained fellow, and I think a Roundhead, so I shouldn’t like to trust him.”

  “’Tis safer not,” replied the king. “How far are we from Madeley?”

  “About two miles,” replied Dick. “But if we were obliged to turn back it will add another mile, at least, to the distance.”

  “Then let us go on,” said the king.

  So they waited quietly for a few minutes, when the light disappeared, and the voices became hushed.

  “Roger Bushell has gone to bed at last,” observed Charles. “We may proceed on our way.”

  So they marched on without fear. But the king was wrong, in his supposition, for as they passed the mill a gruff voice called out, “Who goes there?”

  “’Tis the miller himself,” whispered Dick.

  “Well, answer him,” said Charles.

  Again the challenge was repeated, and more authoritatively than before, “Who are you? Speak!”

  “Friends,” replied Dick.”

  “I know you not,” cried the sturdy miller. “If you be friends, stand and give an account of yourselves, or sure as I’m an honest man, and you are a couple of rogues, I’ll knock you down.”

  And he brandished a stout staff as he spoke.

  “What shall we do?” asked Charles.

  “Beat a retreat,” replied Dick. “It won’t do to be stopped here.”

  And as the miller rushed forth to seize them they hurried off; and ascended another hill, never stopping till they were quite out of breath.

  “This is a most disgraceful retreat, I must say, Dick,” observed Charles.

  “I should like to have knocked the dust out of Roger Bushell’s jerkin,” rejoined Dick. “But I am certain he has got some rebels with him, or he would not have dared to act thus.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER VIII.

  HOW THE KING WAS RECEIVED BY MR. FRANCIS WOOLFE AT MADELEY COURT.

  It was past midnight when Charles approached Madeley, an ancient moated mansion, built of stone, and very pleasantly situated on the borders of the Severn. It belonged to Mr. Francis Woolfe, an old Cavalier, and father of the gallant Captain Woolfe, who figured at an earlier period of this history. As the hour was late, Mr. Woolfe and his family, with the whole of his household, had long since retired to rest, but they were disturbed by a loud knocking at the door, which continued with very little intermission until the old gentleman got up, and, accompanied by his butler, went to see what was the matter. On opening the door he found Richard Penderel, who was well known to him, and without giving the forester time to explain his errand, eagerly inquired whether he brought any tidings of Captain Woolfe.


  “I know my son was present at the battle of Worcester,” cried the old Cavalier; “and I fear he may be wounded, as I have not heard of him since.”

  “I am sorry I cannot relieve your honour’s anxiety respecting your son,” replied Dick. “But well knowing how staunch a Royalist you are, I am come to beg you to hide a fugitive Cavalier, who fought, like Captain Woolfe, at Worcester.”

  “Don’t ask me to do it, Dick! — don’t ask me! — I dare not harbour a Royalist!” cried Mr. Woolfe. “Willingly — right willingly would I do so, but there is too much hazard in it. I am already suspected by the rebels — there is a company of militia at Madeley, guarding the bridge and the river — and were they to search my house and find a fugitive Royalist concealed within it I should be most heavily fined — perhaps imprisoned — perhaps put to death! No, Dick, I will not run this risk for any one, except the king himself.”

  “Then what will your honour say when I tell you that he whom I ask you to shelter from his enemies is the king? The loyal Mr. Francis Woolfe, I am well assured, will never refuse his sovereign an asylum.”

  “You are right, my good fellow — you are right,” cried the old Cavalier, trembling. “I never supposed it was the king. Why did you not tell me so at first?”

  “Because his majesty forbade me,” rejoined Dick. “I have disobeyed his orders.”

  “But he might have trusted me,” cried Mr. Woolfe. “I would lay down my life for him. Where is his majesty?”

  “On the other side of the moat standing beneath yon great elm-tree,” said Dick.

  The old Cavalier required no more, but hastily crossing the bridge, proceeded to the spot indicated, followed by his butler and Richard Penderel.

  Seeing him advance Charles came forward, and as they met old Mr. Woolfe threw himself on his knee, while Charles, finding himself discovered, gave him his hand to kiss.

  “Sire,” cried the old Cavalier, “I never thought to see you at Madeley under such sad circumstances. My house and all within it are yours. Enter, I pray you.”