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MISTRESS SPITFIRE
* * * * * *
By the same Author.
WHERE HIGHWAYS CROSS.
“His study of the first and only love of a middle-aged man who,
for forty years, has lived only in his work and his thoughts,
has no touch of conventionality, but is a singularly truthful
and vivid rendering of the late, sudden, and almost convulsive
blossoming of a supreme passion.”--_Daily Chronicle._
“I very much doubt whether the story of a middle-aged man’s
first and last love has ever been told with more of truth and
tenderness than are found here.”--_The New Age._
“A charming idyll. Thoroughly original, and cleverly worked
out.”--_Guardian._
LONDON: J. M. DENT & Co.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: “Good day to you Master Poltroon!” says she]
MISTRESS SPITFIRE
A Plain Account of Certain Episodes in the History of RICHARD COOPE,
GENT., and of his Cousin, MISTRESS ALISON FRENCH, at the Time of the
Revolution, 1642-1644
Revised and Edited from the Original Ms. by
J. S. FLETCHER
Author of
“When Charles the First Was King,” etc.
[Illustration]
London
J. M. Dent & Co.
Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co.
1897
Second Edition
All Rights Reserved
_To_
MY FRIEND LIZZIE
_The Frontispiece to this book is by Mr J. Walter West, and the
Map has been specially drawn by Mr Lewis Kaberry._
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
OF CERTAIN EVENTS WHICH HAPPENED AT EAST HARDWICK MANOR
HOUSE, AUGUST 27-28, 1642 1
CHAPTER II
OF MY MEETING WITH MY KINSMAN, ANTHONY DACRE, AT THE WAYSIDE
INN--OF MY FURTHER ADVENTURES, MY DISINHERITANCE BY SIR
NICHOLAS, AND MY DOINGS WITH THE PARLIAMENTARIANS--AND OF
MY EMPLOYMENT ON AN IMPORTANT MISSION BY GENERAL OLIVER
CROMWELL 42
CHAPTER III
OF MY SECOND MEETING WITH ANTHONY DACRE, AND ITS RESULTS--AND
OF MY SERIOUS QUANDARY AS TO WHICH OF TWO DUTIES MUST
FIRST BE PERFORMED 77
CHAPTER IV
OF VARIOUS EVENTS OF IMPORTANCE WHICH TOOK PLACE DURING
ONE NIGHT, AND CAUSED US CONSIDERABLE UNEASINESS AND
OTHER EMOTIONS 103
CHAPTER V
OF MY RECONCILIATION WITH SIR NICHOLAS, OF HIS LAST WISH,
AND OF HIS DEATH AND OUR OWN SORE STRAITS 143
CHAPTER VI
OF MY REMARKABLE ADVENTURES WITH GREGORY AND OUR FORTUNATE
DISCOVERY, OF SIR NICHOLAS’S BURIAL IN HIS OWN HOUSE,
AND OF MY FLIGHT WITH MISTRESS ALISON 177
CHAPTER VII
OF OUR ADVENTURES UNDER THE BRIDGE AND THE PRIVATIONS WE
THERE ENDURED, AND OF MY INTERVIEW WITH FAIRFAX AND ITS
SAD RESULTS 207
CHAPTER VIII
OF MY SURPRISING DELIVERANCE FROM DEATH, MY LAST MEETING
WITH ANTHONY DACRE, AND OF CERTAIN NOTABLE PASSAGES
’TWIXT MISTRESS ALISON AND MYSELF 235
[Illustration]
Chapter I
Of certain Events which happened at East Hardwick Manor House,
August 27-28, 1642.
I.
At seven of the clock I turned away from the window, where, for a
full hour, I had stood flattening my nose against the pane in a
vain attempt to see something of interest in the dripping garden
or the dank meadows outside. Sir Nicholas moved in his deep chair
by the fire and then groaned, his old enemy catching him afresh
and tweaking his great toe. Seeing that his pain had awakened him
I went over and stood at his side. I saw the firelight glint on
his frosted hair, and it woke in me some sleeping memory of a by
gone winter. Yet then it was August, and had been a bright one,
but that day we had suffered from a heavy rain which came with the
dawn and kept pouring itself upon us without ceasing, so that no
man putting his nose out o’ doors could have said with certainty
whether he sniffed April or November in the air. As for me, I was
heartily sick of it and everything, and when my uncle’s silvery
hair reminded me of winter I thought regretfully of the previous
Christmas and of Mistress Catherine and the mistletoe that then
hung over the very spot where I now stood watching Sir Nicholas
making wry faces at his foot.
“Plague!” says he, “Plague on this toe of mine! Let me counsel
thee, nephew--but what o’clock is it? God’s body! I must ha’ slept,
gout or no gout, why, I must ha’ slept an hour.”
“An hour and a half, sir, by the clock,” says I. “But, by the time
that I have watched at the window, a year, at the least.”
“Ha! Dull, eh? Why, nephew, I make little doubt that thou hast
employed thyself in some fashion that was not altogether--the
devil fly away with my toe!--not altogether without amusement. Thy
thoughts, now--what, when I was thy age I could ha’ mused by the
day together on something pleasant. Ha! I mind me of a day that I
passed under a beech tree--I was then in love--I cut her name and
mine--they were enclosed in a heart, and through the thicker part
of it I carved an arrow. Cupid, eh, nephew?--and--and----”
“But I, sir,” says I, “have no maiden to think of, seeing that none
thinks of me.”
“Why,” says he, with an arch look in his eyes, “that’s but a poor
reason, Dick, for God’s faith, there are many men think of maidens
that never think of them! Is there--plague take it, nephew! sit
thee down like a Christian rather than stand lolling there on
one leg like a dancing Frenchman. Is there, I say, no little
pastry-cook’s wench in all Oxford that thou hast not set eyes on
since Easter, and thought softly of? Ha, Dick, I mind me----”
But in the midst of his memories the pain in his toe seized him
so violently that he screamed to me to fetch Barbara, who came
leisurely from the housekeeper’s room, and bade me go forth and
leave her with him, which I was not loth to do. And being heartily
wearied and sick of the rain, and my poor uncle’s gout, and the
house, which I had kept all day, I threw my cloak about me and
lounged into the porch, and stood there, one shoulder against the
wall, staring at the raindrops which pattered in the courtyard, and
made a musical tinkle in every pool.
But there was naught in the courtyard or in the land beyond it
likely to rouse me out of that dullness of spirit into which I was
fast falling. The walls were dripping wet, there were rivulets of
shiny water in the road outside, and across that lay the fields,
as befogged and gray with the long day’s weeping as ever I saw
them in autumn. ’Twas still early in the evening--the previous
night I had seen the top of Pomfret church as I leaned against
that door at the same hour--but already there was in the air a
misty darkness accompanied by a chilling cold that searched its way
through my thick cloak. I half regretted that I had not set out
that morning for Doncaster, where I had promised to spend a day or
two with my college friend, Matthew Richardson. ’Twould have been
a wet ride thither, certainly, but what matter when I should have
had good company and profitable conversation at the end of it?
When Sir Nicholas had a touch of the gout he was neither company
nor conversation for any man save in the way of quarrelling, and
therefore I had kept away from him most of that day, striving to
amuse myself with such books as he possessed in his justice room,
or with the old guns and muskets that stood in racks on his walls.
I never could abide a wet day in a country house--in a town house
it makes little difference, I think, for there are diversions and
amusements of one sort and another, let alone a man’s occupation,
but in the country I am minded to be abroad, on foot or on
horseback, and to be kept inside by a day’s rain is exceeding
irksome to me. So I stood in the porch feeling in no very good
humour that August evening, and still the rain continued to fall.
There were, perhaps, more matters than one to trouble me that
night. Here was I, Richard Coope, a young man of one-and-twenty
years, at that time a scholar of Pembroke College in the University
of Oxford, destined by my uncle, Sir Nicholas, to be one thing,
while I myself mightily desired to be another. Because my father,
John Coope, died young, leaving me no fortune, Sir Nicholas had
taken me in hand, kindly enough, and had charged himself with my
up-bringing and education. He was minded to send me to the bar, for
something had persuaded him that I should at least become Lord High
Chancellor, and add new glory to the family name. And that had been
well enow, had I myself possessed the least liking for the quips
and quiddities of the law, which, as a matter of fact, I hated
like poison. My taste was for other matters--wholly and first of
all for the finer things in literature, such as a rare book or
tract, a copy of elegant rhymes, or a page or so of prose that was
worth the third reading. I had made verses myself in hours which
should have been devoted to what the folk called serious business;
and though there were often great law-books propped before me, my
eyes took in little of their contents, so long as a broadsheet of
ballads or such-like intercepted their gaze. After that--and ’twas
a taste that no man need be ashamed of, I take it--I cared for
naught so much as the sights and sounds of country life, and the
peaceful occupations that are their accompaniment. What I desired
for myself was that Sir Nicholas should let me live my own life
in his old house, and leave me his estate when he died, so that
I, like him, might be a country gentleman, and want for naught.
I never could see any objection to that notion--it was not as if
I cared for great riches, or had any desire to rise to perilous
heights in the world. My uncle, ’tis true, was not a rich man, as
some would count riches; but there was his Manor House, with its
comfortable surroundings and a thousand pounds a year wherewith
to maintain it in quiet dignity; and there was none to whom he
could leave it but me and my cousin, Mistress Alison French, who
was already provided for, seeing that her own father was alive
and a well-to-do man. To my thinking, the life of a country
gentleman would suit me well--I should breed cattle and sheep, and
occasionally compose a set of well-turned verses after the fashion
of Sidney, whom I admired greatly, and more than all, I should have
the scent of hawthorn blossoms and of the brown soil, instead of
the stink of those musty parchments which I never could abide.
Now, Sir Nicholas and I had talked these matters over that
morning, and we had differed, as we always did--at least, upon
this particular question. He was all for what he called my
advancement--I was for a quiet life after my own fashion.
“’Slife!” said he, after hearing my notions for the twentieth time;
“to hear thee talk, boy, one would think that all the life and
energy had gone out of us Coopes. And, beshrew me, so it has, for
thou and I are the last of the lot, and I am too old to lift finger
again.”
“I am willing enough to lift finger, sir,” I answered. “You would
not find me wanting if occasion arose to fasten up the doors and
stand a siege----”
“Why, faith,” said he, “and that may come ere long, in these times.”
“But in the law, to which you destined me, there is precious little
lifting of fingers save with a goose’s quill in them,” said I.
“Every man to his taste, sir; ’tis a saying that I learnt from
yourself.”
He looked at me meditatively.
“First and last,” said he, “I have laid out as much as a thousand
pound upon thee, Dick.”
“Sir,” I said, “you have never doubted my gratitude.”
“Thou art a good lad,” he answered. “I have not. But a thousand
pound--’tis a great sum to be thrown away. I think, Dick, the law
must occupy thee. What man, a Coope can achieve aught that he sets
his mind to! Thy father, now, was Registrar to the Archbishop--I
make no doubt he would have been Vicar-General and Chancellor of
the Diocese if death had not removed him. As for thee, with all the
advantages I have given thee, thou should’st at least become Lord
Chief-Justice. ‘Lord Chief-Justice Coope’--’tis a high-sounding
title, though I see no reason why not Lord Chancellor Coope.
However, when that comes I shall be dead and gone. In the days of
thy greatness, Dick, forget not to come here at times. The old
place will make a country house for thee--thou canst turn aside to
it in journeying ’twixt London and York--’twill be but poor lodging
for a Lord Chancellor, but----”
As I stood watching the rain patter on the flags I remembered
this, and laughed for the first time that day. Sir Nicholas was
so certain of the things of which I was filled with doubt that
his assurance gave me vast entertainment. He had regarded me as
a future Lord Chancellor from my boyhood, and now it was too
late to persuade him that such dignity was beyond my reach and
capabilities. I began to wonder whether it was worth while to
attempt persuasion upon him. In the very nature of things he could
not live many years, being then much beyond three-score: it would
therefore become me to follow his behests while he lived, and study
my own inclinations when he was dead. I think it was the laughter
which woke in me on remembering his prophecies as to my great state
that moved me to this sensible reflection--howbeit, some of my
gloom shifted itself, and I turned inside to make enquiry after my
good relative and see if I could do aught to entertain him until
his bed-time.
II.
Because of the rainy night Barbara had caused a rousing fire to be
lighted in the great kitchen, and near this as I passed through
were grouped the half-dozen serving men and lads whom Sir Nicholas
kept in his employ. Two of them were ancient retainers; the
remainder, lads that helped in the stables and with the cattle,
and led an easy life under the old knight’s rule. Of the two elder
men, one, Gregory, stood behind his master’s chair at meals, and
kept the key of the cellar; the other, Jasper, was half-hind and
half-steward. These two, as I turned into the kitchen, stood a
little apart from the rest, conversing with Barbara. Gregory,
holding in one hand his great bunch of keys and in the other a
flask which he had just brought from the cellar, stood open-mouthed
listening to Jasper; Barbara, her hands on her plump sides, stood
by him, wide-eyed and eager. The lads at the fire watched these
three, and from the scullery door two kitchen wenches peeped
wonderingly at Jasper’s nodding head.
Gregory brought me to a stand with an appealing look.
“Master Richard,” says he, in a whisper, “if so be you’ll pause
a moment, sir--Sir Nicholas is comfortable, thank God--there’s a
little matter----”
“What is it?” says I.
“Jasper has come in from Pomfret, Master Richard,” he says, still
whispering; “with the seven load of wheat a’ went, and has returned
with great news.”
“Exceeding great news,” says Jasper, shaking his head. “And the
wheat, Master Richard, sir----”
“Come,” says I, impatient, “what’s your news, Jasper--out with it,
and let the wheat rest.”
“We were afraid to let the master hear it, Master Richard,” says
Gregory. “’Tis of an upsetting nature----”
“’Tis news of war, Master Richard,” says Jasper, interrupting
him. “The King and the Parliament is going to fight. I heard it
talked of in Pomfret market. They do say that the fighting has
begun--somewhere in the south country, I think--but I was that put
about over the wheat that I didn’t rightly catch all particulars.
But they were certain that it’s war at last, and the castle is to
be garrisoned for the king.”
Now there was naught much to be surprised at in this, for it was
what we had expected for many a long day. We had heard rumours of
it all that month, and it was well known that the country gentlemen
all over the riding were making themselves ready against such time
as the fight ’twixt King and Commons should come to a head. But
now that the final news came to me I felt some little shock, one
reason of which you shall presently understand. Also I felt some
debate within my own mind as to my uncle’s position and safety.
His Manor House of East Hardwick stood within three miles of the
Castle of Pomfret, and I had little doubt that the latter would
eventually become a centre of active operations, in which case the
neighbouring houses of any importance were not unlikely to suffer
at the hands of beleaguering troops. These things I thought of as I
listened to Jasper’s news.
“Say naught to the lads and maidens,” says I. “They’ll only blab it
over the village within the hour. I will mention it to Sir Nicholas
myself----”
“Pray God it bring not another fit of his complaint!” says
Barbara. “’A suffered a terrible twinge after you was gone out,
Master Dick.”
“’Twill be more likely to make him forget it,” I answers, going
towards the door which led into the great hall. But before I could
lay hands on the latch, there came a great stamping of feet in
the porch outside and a loud voice calling for a groom. The lads
tumbled out, with Jasper in their rear, and presently there came
blustering in a great man of loud voice, demanding Sir Nicholas,
and protesting that the night was not fit for a dog to be out in.
He caught sight of me and stared, and came stamping across the
kitchen with a wet hand outstretched.
“That should be young Dick,” says he. “’Tis a long time since I saw
thee, youngster--wast then a lad the height o’ my knee. Art grown a
man now, and hast sinews of thy own, I warrant me.”
“’Tis Sir Jarvis Cutler,” whispered Gregory, as I took the man’s
hand.
“Thou art right, old cock!” says Sir Jarvis. “Gad! I like the
look of thy nose and of the bottle thou carriest. And how does my
old friend Sir Nicholas, young Dick--well and hearty, I hope--for
there’s need of him now, i’faith.”
“I fear that need must still be needy, then, sir,” says I. “My
uncle suffers much at present, and stirs only from his couch to his
chair.”
“’Sdeath!” says he. “’Tis bad news, that--but, what, he will find
a substitute in thee, I doubt not. Hark thee, Dick, I have ridden
hither from Stainborough, and my horse, poor beast, ’tis hard put
to it--we will not to Pomfret to-night--there’s no hurry--see to it
that my horse is cared for--Sir Nicholas, I am sure, will grudge
neither it nor me a night’s lodging. And help me to some dry gear,
lad, that I may go in and see thy uncle--’od’s body, as bad a night
as ever I was out in!”
So I sent Gregory to tell Sir Nicholas of Sir Jarvis Cutler’s
arrival and to prepare food and drink, and I had Sir Jarvis to my
own chamber in order to provide him with dry clothes.
“We are much of a build, thou and I,” says he. “Faith, thou hast
grown mightily o’ late, lad. But thou art more for books than
swords, eh, Dick? Why, so Sir Nicholas gave me to understand,
but in these times there’ll be more sword-work than book-work,
boy--aye, marry!”
“Then the war has broke out, sir?” says I. “We heard something of
it, but our news was scanty.”
“’Tis true enough,” he says, struggling somewhat with his
garments. “Faith, I can give thee an inch or maybe two in the
shoulders, Master Dick. Yes, lad, true enough--His sacred Majesty
hath set up his flag against the rebels and traitors.”
“His Majesty hath set up his flag?” I says. “When and where, sir,
might that be?”
“At Nottingham, lad, five days ago. I myself was there at the time,
and came north with charges and messages enow to fill better heads
than mine. But let us to Sir Nicholas, Dick. I have much to say to
him.”
We found my uncle greatly excited over the arrival of Sir Jarvis,
and giving orders as to food and drink to Gregory, who was laying a
table close to the hearth. He made an effort to rise from his chair
as we entered, but the gout tweaked his toe, and he sat there,
groaning and making wry faces as he stretched out his hand to the
knight.
“Plague on this gout!” says he. “It prevents me from playing
my part, Sir Jarvis, as I should; but you are welcome, indeed.
Gregory, a flask of my Tokay--fine stuff, Sir Jarvis, on such
a night as this. Draw near to the fire, Sir Jarvis. Dick, thy
manners, boy--give Sir Jarvis a seat near me--’tis parlous weather,
Sir Jarvis, and must needs have its effect on them that have crops
out.”
“There are other matters than crops to think of, neighbour,” says
Sir Jarvis. “If crops were all----”
“Ah, you bring us news? We hear rumours o’ things in this quarter,
but unless a neighbour visits us----”
“The King hath declared war against the rebels,” says Sir Jarvis.
“His Majesty set up the Royal Standard at Nottingham five days ago.
I marvel you have not heard it sooner.”
“Jasper heard it in Pomfret this afternoon,” I says. “I was coming
to tell you of it, sir, just as Sir Jarvis arrived.”
“God save His Majesty!” says my uncle. He sat staring at the
blazing logs in the hearth. “It vexes me sore that I cannot lift
sword in his honour. Once upon a time----”
“Aye,” says Sir Jarvis, “the dog cannot always run, neighbour!
Howbeit----”
He addressed himself to the good things which Gregory set before
him. While he ate and drank I slipped away and went to my own
chamber to think over the news which he had brought. For me it bore
a significance which I was not able to explain to either Sir Jarvis
Cutler or my uncle, nor indeed to any one in the Manor House. I
have said that when I heard definite rumour of it from Jasper it
gave me some sort of shock. And the reason was that I now knew the
time for action was at hand. I and others of my way of thinking
had banded ourselves together at Oxford, and had taken oath that
when the moment came for striking a blow for the rights and
liberties of Englishmen we would give in our open adherence to the
Parliamentarians, and do our best to bring to an end the tyrannical
rule under which good men and true citizens had long suffered.
There was scarce one of our society that did not spring from a
Royalist family, even as I myself did, and for that reason we had
been obliged to keep our tongues strictly guarded; saying naught,
though we heard much. We were all young men of a certain turn of
thought, that is to say, our philosophical studies, prosecuted for
the most part according to our own tastes, had led us to favour
republicanism rather than monarchy, and this in spite of the fact
that we were surrounded by every influence likely to make our
opinion tend in the opposite direction. Now, we had resolved that
whenever war should break out, as we felt it must, our theories
should find their practical outcome in taking arms in defence of
the popular cause, and so as soon as I heard the definite news
brought by Sir Jarvis Cutler I knew that ere long there must be
open breach between my uncle and myself. I had hoped that this
might never be, for I knew Sir Nicholas would bitterly resent
what he would term my treachery to the King. However, I could not
take my hand from the plough even had I wished, for I was bound
by a solemn oath. And, indeed, save for Sir Nicholas’s sake I had
no wish to do so, I, like many a young man of those times, being
heartily sick of the cruelties and oppressions under which so many
of my countrymen suffered.
I was now sorry that I had not ridden over to Doncaster that day to
my friend Matthew Richardson, who was one of our society, and acted
as a kind of centre round which the rest of us revolved. I should
have been glad of his counsel--besides which I knew that he would
be in possession of full information as to all that was going on.
It was apparent to me that I should shortly have to declare myself,
for Sir Nicholas would certainly design my assistance for the King,
and that, let come what might, I knew could never be given. So I
sat there some time, wondering what would next happen, and wishing
that things might be so ordered that no breach should occur between
me and my worthy relative. But presently there came a tapping at my
chamber door, and Gregory pushed in his head to inform me that a
man waited my coming in the porch below.
“’A seems to have ridden hard and far,” said Gregory, as we went
down the stair together. “Pray God he ask not a night’s lodging,
Master Dick, for Sir Jarvis’s beast has got our only empty stall,
and the night is too wild to turn one of our own horses into the
fold.”
“’Twill but be some post that brings me a letter,” I answered. “I
shall not invite him to tarry.”
“A mug of ale, sir,” said Gregory. “Maybe he would stay long enough
for that. If you----”
I nodded, and crossing the kitchen shut the door behind me. There
was a lamp hanging in the porch, and by its light I saw the
messenger--a thick-set fellow--standing in the doorway, muffled to
the eyes in his cloak, and holding his horse’s bridle over his arm,
across which the brute thrust a wet nose that sniffed at the light.
“Good-even, friend,” says I, standing before him.
“Good-even, master,” he answers, scanning me very close. “A wet
night and foul ways.”
“Aye,” says I.
“Master Richard Coope, I think?” says he.
“The same, friend,” says I.
He fumbled at his reins and drew the horse nearer to him with a
movement of his hand.
“The sword of the Lord,” he says in a low voice, looking full at me.
“And of Gideon!” says I.
He plunged his free hand into his breast and brought out a packet,
which he presented to me without loss of time.
“That is my duty, master,” says he; “the rest you know as well as
I. I will now go on my ways--there is more to be done to-night, bad
as the weather is.”
He backed his horse from the door. I followed him into the still
falling rain. He had one foot in the stirrup as I spoke to him.
“This is not my house,” I says, speaking low, “but I could get you
food and drink if you have need.”
“None, master,” says he. “At such times as these we must take no
risk for the sake of carnal delights.”
“But is there no answer to this packet?” I says. “Did not they that
sent you----”
“You will answer the message in person, master, I doubt not,” he
says. “Fare you well--the Lord protect you.”
The darkness swallowed him up ere he reached the open door of the
courtyard, but I lingered a moment in the porch and listened to the
sound of his horse’s feet on the road outside. I heard him ride to
the corner. The horse broke into a quick trot: I knew by the sound
that the man was making along the road to Pomfret.
I went back into the house. A stable-lad nodded his head by the
kitchen fire, and Gregory was coming from the cellar with a mug of
ale.
“’Tis for the man without, Master Richard,” says he. “On such a
night----”
“The man is gone,” says I. “He would stay for naught--’tis but a
book he has brought me--drink the ale yourself, Gregory.”
I hastened to my own chamber and broke the seal of the packet,
which bore my name and address in Matthew Richardson’s hand. There
was little writing within for anybody to read, but the lines
signified much to my eyes.
“That which you wot of,” it ran, “has come to pass, and it now
behoves us to do what we are resolved upon. Within twenty-four
hours of your receipt of this, then, you will join me at the
third milestone on the road between Doncaster and Sheffield.--M.
R.”
As I finished reading this brief epistle for the second time,
Gregory came tapping at my door again.
“Your uncle is asking for you, Master Richard,” says he. “Sir
Jarvis has finished his supper, and they are talking of the
war--Lord help us all!--though, indeed, it seems as if Sir Nicholas
forgot his pains in discussing of fights and such-like. But I
misdoubt that to-morrow----”
He lighted me down the stair, shaking his grey hair and muttering
to himself. In the great kitchen he left me, and I went over to the
hearth and placed Matthew Richardson’s letter amidst the glowing
cinders. I stood there until I saw it crumble into white ashes.
III.
When I went into the hall, my uncle and Sir Jarvis sat in their
chairs by the hearth, the great screen protecting them from the
draught, and the fire piled up with logs, and glowing so bright
that you had fancied it was a winter’s night rather than an August
evening. On the table between them stood a second flask of Sir
Nicholas’s Tokay, and I observed that in his excitement my good
uncle had filled his own glass and sipped largely from it, which
was a bad thing for his gout, and to be paid for afterwards. Sir
Jarvis Cutler was smoking tobacco from a pipe--a newfangled habit
which I knew my uncle could not abide, but which he evidently
forgave in a guest so much after his own heart.
“Sit thee down, Dick,” says Sir Nicholas. “Od’s body, I wondered
what had got thee. These boys, Sir Jarvis, will for ever be at
their books--pour thyself out a glass of wine, Richard: ’tis vastly
different stuff, I warrant me, to what you find in your common
rooms at Oxford. Sir Jarvis, spare not--there is more where that
came from--if it were not for the gout I would help you to crack
more bottles than one. Nay, Dick, forget thy books and rhymes,
man!--this is no time for a long face.”
“With due respect, neighbour,” says Sir Jarvis, “’tis a time that
will bring long faces enow. But as for books, I agree--’tis rather
a time for swords than words. Thou wilt have to lay aside the pen,
lad,” he says, turning himself to me, “and take up the sword.”
“I trust not, sir,” says I. “I have no mind to see fighting ’twixt
folk of one speech and blood.”
“Why,” says he, “that’s well said from one point o’ view, but
neither here nor there at this present. For fighting there will be,
aye, ’twixt father and son, and brother and cousin.”
“Say, rather,” chimes in Sir Nicholas, “’twixt loyal and disloyal,
faithful and unfaithful. A plague on all rebels, say I!”
“I have been telling thy good uncle, Dick,” says Sir Jarvis,
pressing fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, “of what there
is afoot in these parts amongst those of us that are true to the
King’s Majesty. Now that his Highness hath necessities we must
needs help him with ourselves and our substance. There’s been a
meeting in York, Dick, amongst certain of us--but for his plaguey
gout your good uncle had been there--and we came to a decision--no
hangers back, Sir Nicholas--to do what we could, and that’s our
best. Some have given a hundred pound, some three hundred, some
five--’od’s body! why trouble about the amounts?--each gentleman
has done what he could--it mounts up in some cases to as much as
ten thousand pound. Then men are being enlisted, and are to be
maintained at our charges--a costly business, Sir Nicholas, but one
that must be endured. And now that His Majesty’s flag is raised in
defiance of these traitors, we are forming a garrison for Pomfret
Castle, and it shall go hard with us, but we’ll hold it against
every rebel of them.”
“Tell the lad what names you have amongst you, Sir Jarvis,” says my
uncle. “’Tis a fine list of worthy and gallant gentlemen, and any
man should be proud to join their company.”
“Why, first,” says Sir Jarvis, “there’s Colonel Lowther, that will
govern and command us, and with him Colonel Wheatley and Colonel
Middleton. As for the gentlemen Volunteers, we have formed them
into four divisions. Colonel Grey will lead the first, Sir Richard
Hutton the second, Sir John Ramsden the third, and Sir George
Wentworth the fourth. I myself am second in command to Sir John,
and I warrant thee, Master Dick, we have some pretty fellows with
us, as have all the other captains. Some hundred and thirty gallant
gentlemen we are in all; but we can find room for more, and as thy
worthy uncle is beyond fighting at this moment, why, we will make a
place for thee, his representative.”
“Sir,” says I, “you’re very kind; but I have no mind for wars and
battles. My occupations are of a peaceful nature; if I fight it
must be with pens and parchment for weapons rather than pikes and
swords.”
“’Slife, Dick!” exclaims my uncle, peevishly. “This is no time for
peaceful acts, man.”
“’Twas but this morning you counselled me not to be led astray from
my profession that is to be, sir,” says I; “and I’ve thought things
over, and decided to follow your wise advice. If I am to be Lord
Chancellor, ’tis time I gave more heed to my books.”
“Tut, tut!” says he, still more peevish, for his toe began to tweak
him again. “Since morning, lad, a good many things have happened.
We must needs deny ourselves for the king’s sake, and ’tis my wish
that you should assist our neighbours in keeping Pomfret Castle for
His Majesty. Say no more on’t: Sir Jarvis, fill your glass.”
“I doubt the prospect of war has little charm for thee, Master
Dick,” says Sir Jarvis, eying me in a fashion I had no liking for.
“I am not a soldier,” says I, putting as much ill-humour into my
voice as I could, for I was playing a part, and wished to do it
well. “And I am not minded to engage in brawls----”
“Brawls!” he cries. “’Sdeath, lad, thou hadst best not use that
word before one of His Majesty’s officers! Brawls, quotha! Why,
boy----”
“Fie on thee, Dick!” says my uncle. “Fie! Brawls, indeed! Why,
’tis the most righteous of quarrels into which His Majesty hath
entered. Say no more, Sir Jarvis; the lad hath been bred to papers
and books, but he will fight well enough, I warrant you, when he is
once shown the trick of the thing. I wish I had had thee trained in
fence, Dick; but I never thought there would be occasion for thy
use of it. Sir Jarvis, help yourself to the bottle. Nay, man, be
not sparing--who knows what there may not be in store of hard work
to-morrow? If it were not for this plaguey gout of mine, I would
help you more freely; but, i’faith, friend, I am in sore pain, and
will ask your leave to go to my bed. Dick, play the host to Sir
Jarvis, boy. Spare not the Tokay, Sir Jarvis--Gregory will serve
you.”
Now, when Gregory and Barbara between them had helped my uncle to
his own chamber, Sir Jarvis and I sat before the fire, not over
lively companions. He smoked his tobacco, and from time to time
refilled his glass, and now and then he cast sidelong glances at
me, who watched him out of my eye-corners.
“Thou art not too fond of the king, then, Master Dick?” says he at
last, glancing at me.
“Sir,” says I; “I know no reason why I should discuss His Majesty
with you or any man.”
“Aye,” says he; “I have heard that answer before, and know what it
means, lad. Faith, you may deceive the old knight upstairs, but
not the one that sits with you down below. I have heard there is
disaffection amongst some of you young Oxford sparks--aye, I heard
it a six-month since.”
“’Tis a matter of complete indifference to me, sir,” I says, as
cool as I could.
“’Od’s body, lad!” he exclaims with a sudden fervour. “Thou art
prettily unconcerned about these things, but if I met an enemy to
the king I would run him through as soon as look at him!”
“Would you, sir?” says I.
“Aye, would I!” says he. “Were he my brother, aye, or father, I
would, Master Dick.”
I laid hands on the flask and poured myself out a glassful.
“Here’s your health, sir,” I says, bowing to him.
“I never thought to find thee disaffected,” says he, taking no heed
of my compliment.
“Have you done so, sir?” I asks him.
He favoured me with a hard look.
“Faith!” he says, half muttering to himself, “I don’t find much
enthusiasm in you.”
“You forget, sir,” I answers, “that I am to be a lawyer. ’Tis not
my trade to show my feelings, but rather to conceal them.”
“Be damned to your feelings!” he raps out. “’Slife, man, there
are half the lads in England shouting for one side or t’other
to-night, instead o’ sitting as you do with a face as long as those
parchments you pour over.”
“I am quite agreeable, sir,” says I. “Let them shout--I suppose I
have a right to preserve my voice for the courts of law.”
“Oh, preserve it!” he answers.
“Will you take some more wine, sir?” I says very polite, and
pushing the flask towards him.
He stared at me from under his bushy eyebrows and laid his pipe on
the table.
“No!” he says. He rose and stretched himself on the hearth, his big
body seeming to eclipse the leaping flames. “I’ll to bed,” he says.
“Good-night--and more spunk to you. Master Richard,” and he strode
across the hall to the door.
I jumped up at that.
“By God!” says I, a sudden passion raging within me. “If occasion
should ever serve, Sir Jarvis, you shall see what spunk I have!”
With his hand on the door he turned and looked long at me, as I
leaned forward over the table staring straight into his eyes.
“Aha!” says he at last. “I see how it is--egad, Dick, I thought it
strange if I could not draw thee! Well--well--as I said before,
’twill be house against house, and brother against brother, aye,
and son against father. Good-night to thee, Dick.” He swung through
the door and left it open. I heard his heavy tread on the kitchen
flags, and then the clank of his sword’s heel as it caught each
stair. I stood there in the same attitude until all was still
again. The fire crackled behind me. I suddenly bethought me of
the letter which Matthew Richardson had sent me, and ran out to
the kitchen hearth, half afraid that some scrap of it might have
escaped the flames. The fire had smouldered away; it was all dead
ashes; and before it sat Jasper, his hands folded across his
stomach, fast asleep.
IV.
When I came into the hall next morning it was later than my usual
hour for appearing before my uncle. I had slept ill during the
first part of the night, and kept my bed late in consequence.
During the night the weather had changed, and the sun was now
shining brightly across the meadows and the garden outside our
windows. My uncle, evidently relieved of his pain to some extent,
sat at the table, breaking his fast, but there was no sign of Sir
Jarvis Cutler.
“Thou art late, Dick,” says my uncle as I made my obeisance to him,
“and Sir Jarvis is well on his way to Pomfret if a’ be not there
already. In these times, lad, one must stir one’s self and be up
and about.”
“I trust that your pain is relieved, sir,” says I, feeling glad
that our guest had departed.
“Why,” he answers, stifling a groan, “’tis certainly somewhat
abated, nephew, and I have made shift to walk with a stick from
my own chamber. In these days”--this time the groan came in spite
of his rare fortitude--“a man must not think as much of his own
ills and aches as of his Majesty’s necessities. It behoves me, Sir
Nicholas Coope, knighted by His Majesty’s father, to do my duty,
nephew Dick--even as it behoves thee to do thine.”
“I trust, sir,” says I, “that you will not find me wanting in my
duty to you.”
“I’ve no doubt of that, boy,” says he, with a keen look at me, “but
I wish thou wouldst show a little more enthusiasm for the good
cause. ’Od’s body, mightst ha’ been a crop-eared Anabaptist last
night, by thy long face, instead of a Royalist gentleman!”
“Why, sir,” I rejoins, “to my mind there is no occasion for
rejoicing at the prospect before us. It seems to me time for
weeping and mourning rather than laughing and carousing. I see no
pleasure in watching Englishmen slay Englishmen.”
“Thou art a curious dull dog, Dick,” says my uncle, giving me a
queer look. “’Sdeath, man--why, when I was thy age it would have
rejoiced me to see prospect of a broken head or two. But this is
neither here nor there when there’s business to talk of. Touching
this matter of the garrisoning of Pomfret for the king, Dick, I
have promised Sir Jarvis that thou shalt fill the place which I
should have taken myself. Thou shalt not go empty-handed, either,
lad--thou shalt have a good horse and good money, and a man--Robin
shall attend thee--he has a pretty knowledge of many things that
will be useful to thee. As for the law, it must wait. Tis a pity,
but we must do the king’s behests first of all.”
Now I was by that time in a tight corner, and felt myself fairly
put to it. But into Pomfret Castle I would not go, and so there was
naught for it but to say my say.
“With all respect, sir,” says I, “I humbly venture to disagree with
you. I have no wish to volunteer under Sir Jarvis Cutler, or any
other gentleman. I desire to prosecute my studies, and to further
my own advantage, as you have always desired me to do. I have no
taste for wars, and least of all for a war of this sort. So I beg
you, sir, to permit me to return to my peaceful avocations, and do
what I can with them until such time as peace may be mercifully
vouchsafed to us again.”
Which was all most damnable hypocrisy, seeing that I was as much
filled with desire for war as he himself, and as ardently wishful
that my cause might triumph as he was that his might succeed. But
’twas pardonable, I think, for I did it to avoid giving the old man
more pain than was necessary. If I had told him in so many words
that I was leaving him to join the Parliamentarian army it had
killed him, of a surety; to leave him under the impression that I
was returning to my studies would only disappoint and grieve him.
He stared at me across the table, and I saw the veins swell in his
forehead.
“’Od’s life!” he says. “I believe thou art naught but a tame cock
after all. Do I understand thee, nephew, to refuse service to His
Majesty, and to prefer thy stinking parchments and musty folios to
the sword and pistol?”
“Infinitely, sir,” says I, lying harder than ever.
He got up from the table, gave a deep sigh, and hobbled over to his
chair. I ran forward to help him: he pushed me away testily.
“Leave women’s work to women,” he says, giving me a spiteful look.
“Lord! that thou hadst been a lass, and Alison French a man!”
“I am not the less a man because I am a man of peace, sir,” I
answers, more damnably hypocritical than ever.
“Confound your cool manners!” says he, losing his temper. “’Od’s
body, a pretty fellow you have turned out, setting yourself
against the king’s interests! Now hark thee, nephew--either go to
Sir Jarvis and take service under him as I desire, or else leave
here at once and return to thy books and parchments: I’ll have no
laggards dangling about my hall in time o’ war.”
“Dear sir,” says I. “I was about to ask your permission to return
to Oxford this day. ’Tis still far from term time, but there is a
professor there with whom I am anxious to continue my reading.”
“Aye,” he says, as if to himself. “Aye--oh, return at once! I could
not abide to see thee playing with books when thou shouldst be
practising fence.”
“Then I have your leave, sir?” I asks him, abusing myself inwardly
for my deceit, now as it was for his own sake.
“Oh, take it, nephew,” he answers. “Take it, by all means.” He
turned himself to the fire and tapped his stick impatiently on the
hearth. “I am disappointed in thee, Dick,” he says, presently.
“’Slife, what are all the young men coming to? Had it been Alison,
now--what art loitering there for?” he screams. “Get thee ready,
boy--get thee ready and go--go! We are going to have war and
bloodshed--thou wilt faint if the scullery-wench gets her finger
pricked!”
So it came about that within the hour my horse stood saddled and
bridled in the courtyard and I was ready to depart. I went in to
say farewell to my uncle and found him cold and ceremonious.
“I wish thee a safe journey, nephew,” says he. “When it will be
possible to ask thee to visit me again is more than I can say,
seeing that the times are so troublous. Hold--here is money in this
purse--”
“Dear sir,” says I. “I am already furnished through your
generosity, and shall want for nought yet awhile.”
He stared at me, and then returned the purse to his drawer, from
which he took out a sealed packet.
“You ride south, nephew?” says he, “Be good enough to call at my
brother French’s house as you go towards Doncaster, and deliver
this letter to your cousin.” He put the packet into my hand. He
looked at me narrowly. “By God, Dick!” he says, suddenly, losing
his politeness, “I never thought to see the day when a Coope would
run away from a bit o’ fighting. Get thee gone--get thee gone, boy!”
So I was perforce obliged to ride away from the Manor House leaving
a wrong impression behind me. And yet, of two evils I think I chose
the lesser one, for it was better that my uncle should believe me
a coward, loving the peaceful occupations of art and letters more
than the alarms of war, than that he should know me to be what he
would have termed a renegade, a traitor, an enemy to God, king, and
country. Nay, if he had known the true facts of the case I doubt
if he would have allowed me to leave him at all--he would rather
have sent me under strong guard to Pomfret Castle and bade Colonel
Lowther deal with me for a rebel.
At the top of the hill over against Thorpe village I turned in my
stirrups and looked back at East Hardwick. I saw the roof of the
Manor House beyond the trees, and as I watched I caught the flutter
of gay colours from the pole at its north gable. Sir Nicholas had
caused to be hoisted the royal standard, in defiance, doubtless,
of all the disaffected in those parts. It waved against the light
breeze, and I looked at it again and at the roof beneath it ere I
clapped spurs to my horse and went on towards the Barnsdale woods.
It was then drawing near to eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and
though the roads were heavy because of the previous day’s rain, I
had time enough and to spare, both in doing my uncle’s errand and
in keeping my rendezvous with Matthew Richardson. As for the errand
I had little pleasure in undertaking it, for my cousin Alison
French and myself had never met in all our lives without falling
out. She had the hot quick temper of all the French’s, and was as
ready to give as she was to resent a sharp word. That, indeed, was
the memory which I had retained of her since our last meeting,
which was many years previously, she being then but a chit of a
girl and I a boy of some twelve years. As I rode along I recalled
one little incident in which both had played a part.
“As if,” quoth she, “I cared for a great lubberly boy like you!
Why, there are lads in the village----”
“There are lasses in the village too!” said I, not to be outdone.
“And half-a-dozen of them that are prettier than you.”
We were standing in Sir Nicholas’s kitchen-garden at the time,
at a spot where Jasper had recently set down a row of raspberry
canes. She snatched one of them up and began to belabour me soundly
across head and shoulders, caring nothing where the blows fell. I
remembered with a whimsical sense of humour that at first I had not
known what to do, but that at last I had twisted the cane out of
her little hands and broken it across my knee, whereupon she had
burst into tears. In truth, she was a curious creature as a child,
and I had little relish in the prospect of meeting her again, so
I determined that if I came across some trusty servant in Francis
French’s park, I would give him the packet and go on my way.
But as chance would have it, I had hardly just turned out of the
highroad when whom should I light upon but Mistress Alison herself,
going abroad with two great hounds, whom she kept to heel with a
stout whip. Although I had seen naught of her for nine years I knew
her again at once, for there was no mistaking the flash of her
hawk’s eye nor the quick fashion in which she turned it on myself.
But she had forgotten me, and at that I felt some natural pique,
and resented her forgetfulness.
“Mistress Alison French?” says I, drawing rein at her side, and
staring hard at her beauty as I swung my cap to the saddle bow.
“The same, sir,” says she, that quick glance of hers mixed with a
little wonder. “But----” and then she recognised me. “Ah,” says
she, “’tis Dick Coope! So you know me, Dick, although----”
“Although you have grown so monstrous handsome, cousin,” says I, a
little rudely.
“’Tis just because you yourself are a proper-looking man that I did
not recognise you,” she said with a frown. “You were as ungainly a
boy as ever I saw, Master Richard, and I don’t think your manners
are improved even now.”
I said naught, but sat staring at her. She had grown to a divine
tallness, her figure was as plump and ripe as a woman’s should be,
there was a rich colour in her cheeks, and a fine glossiness in her
dark hair that was mighty taking. As for her mouth it was as sweet
a morsel as a man could wish to taste, and I could see that if
her eyes would melt they would put one in such a way as few women
can--they were so full of that swimming roguishness that can become
tender and alluring. Howbeit, she kept them hard enough at that
time.
“And what brings Master Dick here?” asks she, fingering her whip.
“This packet, fair cousin,” says I, and handed her Sir Nicholas’s
letter.
“From my uncle,” she says. “You give me leave to read it, cousin? I
can ill bide delay of any sort.”
“’Tis reward enough,” says I teasingly, “to sit by and gaze on so
much beauty.”
But at that she frowned heavily, and when she cut the silk and was
fairly amongst the crabbed lines within, she frowned still more,
and once I saw her white teeth close on the pretty nether lip and
crush the blood out of it, whereby I guessed that Sir Nicholas had
given her news that was none too sweet. And at last she folds up
the sheet with a rustle and whips it into her breast, and looks at
me with a glance that had made the great Turk himself shake in his
shoes.
“So you prefer books to swords, Master Richard?” says she.
“Did I say so?” says I.
And for very love of sport I laughed mockingly. She drew herself up
to her full height--egad! I had never seen aught so taking!--and
her pretty mouth curled itself, while the rich colour flushed over
her dark cheek.
“Good-day to you, Master Poltroon!” says she.
“Good-day to you, Mistress Spitfire!” says I.
And with mutual consent we turned our backs on one another. But I
laughed long and loud as I trotted away to keep my tryst.