"One look he cast upon the bier,
Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,
Then, like the high bred colt when freed
First he essays his fire and speed,
He vanished---"
SCOTT.
Steadfast was worn and wearied out with grief and slept heavily, knowing
at first that his brother was tossing about a good deal, but soon losing
all perception, and not waking till on that summer morning the sun had
made some progress in the sky.
Then he came to the sad recollection of the last dreadful day, and knew
that he was lying on Master Blane's kitchen floor. He picked himself up,
and at the same moment heard Jephthah calling him from the outside.
"Stead," he said, "I am going!"
"Going!" said poor Stead, half asleep.
"Yes. I shall never rest till I have had a shot at those barbarous
German princes and the rest of the villains. My father's blood cries to
me from the ground for vengeance."
"Would father have said like that?" said the boy, bewildered, but
conscious of something defective, though these were Bible words.
"That's not the point! Captain Venn called every man to take the sword
and hew down the wicked, and slay the ungodly and the murderers. I
will!" cried Jeph, "none shall withhold me."
He had caught more phrases from these fiery preachers than he himself
knew, and they broke forth in this time of excitement.
"But, Jeph, what is to become of us? The girls, and the little one! You
are the only one of us who can do a man's work."
"I could not keep you together!" said Jeph. "Our house burnt by those
accursed sons of Belial, all broken up, and only a lubber like you to
help! No, Goody Grace or some one will take in the girls for what's left
of the stock, and you can soon find a place--a strong fellow like you;
Master Blane might take you and make a smith of you, if you be not too
slow and clumsy."
"But Jeph--"
"Withhold me not. Is it not written--"
"I wish you would not say is it not written," broke in Stead, "I know it
is, but you don't say it right."
"Because you are yet in darkness," said Jeph, contemptuously. "Hold your
tongue. I must be off at once. Market folk can get into the town by the
low lane out there, away from the camp of the spoilers, early in the
morning, and I must hasten to enlist under Captain Venn. No, don't call
the wenches, they would but strive to daunt my spirit in the holy work
of vengeance on the bloodthirsty, and I can't abide tears and whining.
See here, I found this in the corn bin. I'm poor father's heir. You
won't want money, and I shall; so I shall take it, but I'll come back
and make all your fortunes when I am a captain or a colonel. I wonder
this is not more. We got a heap of late. Maybe father hid it somewhere
else, but 'tis no use seeking now. If you light upon it you are welcome
to do what you will with it. Fare thee well, Steadfast. Do the best you
can for the wenches, but a call is laid on me! I have vowed to avenge
the blood that was shed."
He strode off into the steep woodland path that clothed the hill side,
and Steadfast looked after him, and felt more utterly deserted than
before. Then he looked up to the sky, and tried to remember what was
the promise to the fatherless children. That made him wonder whether
the Bible and Prayer-book had been burnt, and then his morning's duty of
providing milk for the little ones' breakfast pressed upon him. He took
up a pail of Mrs. Blane's which he thought he might borrow and went off
in search of the cows. So, murmuring the Lord's Prayer as he walked,
and making the resolution not to be dragged away from his trust in the
cavern, nor to forsake his little sister--he heard the lowing of the
cows as he went over the hill, and found them standing at the gate of
the fold yard, waiting to be eased of their milk. Poor creatures, they
seemed so glad to welcome him that it was the first thing that brought
tears to his eyes, and they came with such a rush that he had much ado
to keep them from dropping into the pail as he leant his head against
Croppie's ruddy side.
There was a little smouldering smoke; but the rain had checked the fire,
and though the roof of the house was gone and it looked frightfully
dreary and wretched, the walls were still standing and the pigs were
grunting about the place. However, Steadfast did not stop to see what
was left within, as he knew Ben would be crying for food, but he carried
his foaming pail back to Goody Grace's as fast as he could, after
turning out the cows on the common, not even stopping to count the sheep
that were straggling about.
His sisters were watching anxiously from the door of Goody Grace's
hovel, and eagerly cried out "Where's Jeph?"
Then he had to tell them that Jeph was gone for a soldier, to have his
revenge for his father's death.
"Jeph gone too!" said poor Patience, looking pale. "Oh, what shall we
ever do?"
"He did not think of that, I'll warrant, the selfish fellow," said Goody
Grace. "That's the way with lads, nought but themselves."
"It was because of what they did to poor father," replied Stead.
"And if he, or the folks he is gone to, call that the Christian
religion, 'tis more than I do!" rejoined the old woman. "I wish I had
met him, I'd have given him a bit of my mind about going off to his
revenge, as he calls it, without ever a thought what was to become of
his own flesh and blood here."
"He did say I might go to service (not that I shall), and that some one
would take you in for the cattle's sake."
"O don't do that, Stead," cried Patience, "don't let us part!" He had
only just time to answer, "No such thing," for people were coming about
them by this time, one after another emerging from the cottages that
stood around the village green. The women were all hotly angry with Jeph
for going off and leaving his young brothers and sisters to shift for
themselves.
"He was ever an idle fellow," said one, "always running after the
soldiers and only wanting an excuse."
"Best thing he could do for himself or them," growled old Green.
"Eh! What, Gaffer Green! To go off without a word or saying by your
leave to his poor little sister before his good father be cold in his
grave," exclaimed a whole clamour of voices.
"Belike he knew what a clack of women's tongues there would be, and
would fain be out of it," replied the old man shrewdly.
It was a clamour that oppressed poor Patience and made her feel sick
with sorrow and noise. Everybody meant to be very kind and pitiful, but
there was a great deal too much of it, and they felt quite bewildered
by the offers made them. Farmer Mill's wife, of Elmwood Cross, two miles
off, was reported by her sister to want a stout girl to help her, but
there was no chance of her taking Rusha or the baby as well as Patience.
Goody Grace could not undertake the care of Ben unless she could have
Patience, because she was so often called away from home, nor could she
support them without the cows. Smith Blane might have taken Stead, but
his wife would not hear of being troubled with Rusha. And Dame Oates
might endure Rusha for the sake of a useful girl like Patience, but
certainly not the baby. It was an utter Babel and confusion, and in the
midst of it all, Patience crept up to her brother who stood all the
time like a stock, and said "Oh! Stead, I cannot give up Ben to anyone.
Cannot we all keep together?"
"Hush, Patty! That's what I mean to do, if you will stand by me," he
whispered, "wait till all the clack is over."
And there he waited with Patience by his side while the parish seemed
to be endlessly striving over them. If one woman seemed about to make a
proposal, half-a-dozen more fell on her and vowed that the poor orphans
would be starved and overworked; till she turned on the foremost with
"And hadn't your poor prentice lad to go before the justices to shew the
weals on his back?" "Aye, Joan Stubbs, and what are you speaking up
for but to get the poor children's sheep? Hey, you now, Stead
Kenton--Lack-a-day, where be they?"
For while the dispute was at its loudest and hottest, Stead had taken
Rusha by the hand, made a sign to Patience, and the four deserted
children had quietly gone away together into the copsewood that led
to the little glen where the brook ran, and where was the cave that
Steadfast looked on as his special charge. Rusha, frightened by the loud
voices and angry gestures, had begun to cry, and beg she might not be
given to anyone, but stay with her Patty and Stead.
"And so you shall, my pretty," said Steadfast, sitting down on the stump
of a tree, and taking her on his knee, while Toby nuzzled up to them.
"Then you think we can go on keeping ourselves, and not letting them
part us," said Patience, earnestly. "If I have done the house work all
this time, and we have the fields, and all the beasts. We have only lost
the house, and I could never bear to live there again," she added, with
a shudder.
"No," said Steadfast, "it is too near the road while these savage
fellows are about. Besides--" and there he checked himself and added,
"I'll tell you, Patty. Do you remember the old stone cot down there in
the wood?"
"Where the old hermit lived in the blind Popish times?"
"Aye. We'll live there. No soldiers will ever find us out there, Patty."
"Oh! oh! that is good," said Patience. "We shall like that, shan't we,
Rusha?"
"And," added Steadfast, "there is an old cowshed against the rock
down there, where we could harbour the beasts, for 'tis them that the
soldiers are most after."
"Let us go down to it at once," cried the girl, joyfully.
But Steadfast thought it would be wiser to go first to the ruins of
their home; before, as he said, anyone else did so, to see what could be
saved therefrom.
Patience shrank from the spectacle, and Rusha hung upon her, saying the
soldiers would be there, and beginning to cry. At that moment, however,
Tom Gates' voice came near shouting for "Stead! Stead Kenton!"
"Come on, Stead. You'll be prentice-lad to Dick Stiggins the tailor, if
so be you bring Whitefoot and the geese for your fee; and Goodman Bold
will have the big wench; and Goody Grace will make shift with the little
ones, provided she has the kine!"
"We don't mean to be beholden to none of them," said Steadfast,
sturdily, with his hands in his pockets. "We mean to keep what belongs
to us, and work for ourselves."
"And God will help us," Patience added softly.
"Ho, ho!" cried Tom, and proud of having found them, he ran before them
back to the village green, and roared out, "Here they be! And they say
as how they don't want none of you, but will keep themselves. Ha! ha!"
Anyone who saw those four young orphans would not have thought their
trying to keep themselves a laughing matter; and the village folk, who
had been just before so unwilling to undertake them, now began scolding
and blaming them for their folly and ingratitude.
Nothing indeed makes people so angry as when a kindness which has cost
them a great effort turns out not to be wanted.
"Look for nothing from us," cried Dame Bold. "I'd have made a good
housewife of you, you ungrateful hussy, and now you may thank yourself,
if you come to begging, I shall have nothing for you."
"Beggary and rags," repeated the tailor. "Aye, aye; 'tis all very fine
strolling about after the sheep with your hands in your pockets in
summer weather, but you'll sing another song in winter time, and be
sorry you did not know when you had a good offer."
"The babe will die as sure as 'tis born," added Jean Oates.
"If they be not all slain by the mad Prince's troopers up in that place
by the roadside," said another.
Blacksmith Blane and Goody Grace were in the meantime asking the
children what they meant to do, and Stead told them in a few words.
Goody Grace shook her head over little Ben, but Blane declared that
after all it might be the best thing they could do to keep their land
and beasts together. Ten to one that foolish lad Jephthah would come
back with his tail between his legs, and though it would serve him
right, what would they do if all were broken up? Then he slapped Stead
on the back, called him a sensible, steady lad, and promised always to
be his friend.
Moreover he gave up his morning's work to come with the children to
their homestead, and see what could be saved. It was a real kindness,
not only because his protection made Patience much less afraid to go
near the place, and his strong arm would be a great help to them, but
because he was parish constable and had authority to drive away the
rough lads whom they found already hanging about the ruins, and who had
frightened Patience's poor cat up into the ash tree.
The boys and two curs were dancing round the tree, and one boy was
stripping off his smock to climb up and throw poor pussy down among them
when Master Blane's angry shout and flourished staff put them all to
flight, and Patience and Rusha began to coax the cat to come down to
them.
Hunting her had had one good effect, it had occupied the boys and
prevented them from carrying anything off. The stable was safe. What had
been burnt was the hay rick, whence the flames had climbed to the house.
The roof had fallen in, and the walls and chimney stood up blackened and
dismal, but there was a good deal of stone about the house, the roof was
of shingle, and the heavy fall, together with the pouring rain, had
done much to choke the fire, so that when Blane began to throw aside the
charred bits of beams and of the upper floor, more proved to be unburnt,
or at least only singed, than could have been expected.
The great black iron pot still hung in the chimney with the very meal
and kail broth that Patience had been boiling in it, and Rusha's little
stool stood by the hearth. Then the great chest, or ark as Patience
called it, where all the Sunday clothes were kept, had been crushed
in and the upper things singed, but all below was safe. The beds and
bedding were gone; but then the best bed had been only a box in the wall
with an open side, and the others only chaff or straw stuffed into a
sack.
Patience's crocks, trenchers, and cups were gone too, all except one
horn mug; but two knives and some spoons were extracted from the ashes.
Furniture was much more scanty everywhere than now. There was not much
to lose, and of that they had lost less than they had feared.
"And see here, Stead," said Patience joyfully holding up a lesser box
kept within the other.
It contained her mother's Bible and Prayer-book. The covers were turned
up, a little warped by the heat, and some of the corners of the leaves
were browned, but otherwise they were unhurt.
"I was in hopes 'twas the money box," said Blane.
"Jeph has got the bag," said Patience.
"More shame for him," growled their friend. Steadfast did not think it
necessary to say that was not all the hoard.
Another thing about which Patience was very anxious was the meal chest.
With much difficulty they reached it. It had been broken in by the fall
of the roof, and some of the contents were scattered, but enough was
gathered up in a pail fetched from the stable to last for some little
time. There were some eggs likewise in the nests, and altogether Goodman
Blane allowed that, if the young Kentons could take care of themselves,
and keep things together, they had decided for the best; if they could,
that was to say. And he helped them to carry their heavier things to
the glen. He wanted to see if it were fit for their habitation, but
Steadfast was almost sorry to show anyone the way, in spite of his trust
and gratitude to the blacksmith.
However, of course, it was not possible to keep this strange
hiding-place a secret, so he led the way by the path the cattle had
trodden out through the brushwood to the open space where they drank,
and where stood the hermit's hut, a dreary looking den built of big
stones, and with rough slates covering it. There was a kind of hole for
the doorway, and another for the smoke to get out at. Blane whistled
with dismay at the sight of it, and told Stead he could not take the
children to such a place.
"We will get it better," said Stead.
"That we will," returned Patience, who felt anything better than being
separated from her brother.
"It is weather-tight," added Stead, "and when it is cleaned out you will
see!"
"And the soldiers will never find it," added Patience.
"There is something in that," said Blane. "But at any rate, though it be
summer, you can never sleep there to-night."
"The girls cannot," said Stead, "but I shall, to look after things."
These were long days, and by the evening many of the remnants of
household stuff had been brought, the cows and Whitefoot had been
tied up in their dilapidated shed, with all the hay Stead could gather
together to make them feel at home. There was a hollow under the rock
where he hoped to keep the pigs, but neither they nor the sheep could
be brought in at present. They must take their chance, the sheep on the
moor, the pigs grubbing about the ruins of the farmyard. The soldiers
must be too busy for marauding, to judge by the constant firing that had
gone on all day, the sharp rattle of the musquets, and now and then the
grave roll of a cannon.
Stead had been too busy to attend, but half the village had been
watching from the height, which accounted perhaps for the move from the
farm having been so uninterrupted after the first.
It was not yet dark, when, tired out by his day's hard work, Stead
sat himself down at the opening of his hut with Toby by his side. The
evening gold of the sky could hardly be seen through the hazel and
mountain-ash bushes that clothed the steep opposite bank of the glen and
gave him a feeling of security. The brook rippled along below, plainly
to be heard since all other sounds had ceased except the purring of a
night-jar and the cows chewing their cud. There was a little green glade
of short grass sloping down to the stream from the hut where the rabbits
were at play, but on each side the trees and brushwood were thick, with
only a small path through, much overgrown, and behind the rock rose like
a wall, overhung with ivy and traveller's joy. Only one who knew the
place could have found the shed among the thicket where the cows were
fastened, far less the cavern half-way up the side of the rock where
lay the treasures for which Steadfast was a watchman. He thought for a
moment of seeing if all were safe, but then decided, like a wise boy,
that to disturb the creepers, and wear a path to the place, was the
worst thing he could do if he wished for concealment. He had had his
supper at the village, and had no more to do, and after the long day
of going to and fro, even Toby was too much tired to worry the rabbits,
though he had had no heavy weights to carry. Perhaps, indeed, the poor
dog had no spirits to interfere with their sports, as they sat upright,
jumped over one another, and flashed their little white tails. He missed
his old master, and knew perfectly well that his young master was in
trouble and distress, as he crept close up to the boy's breast, and
looked up in his face. Stead's hand patted the rough, wiry hair, and
there was a sort of comfort in the creature's love. But how hard it was
to believe that only yesterday he had a father and a home, and that now
his elder brother was gone, and he had the great charge on him of being
the mainstay of the three younger ones, as well as of protecting that
treasure in the cavern which his father had so solemnly entrusted to
him.
The boy knelt down to say his prayers, and as he did so, all alone in
the darkening wood, the words "Father of the fatherless, Helper of the
helpless," came to his aid.