fault, not Winny’s, that we have not called on you long before. I have
only waited to see some serious business settled which has troubled me
a great deal. Yet now I think I was wrong. Let me walk home with you
now.’
‘No!’ I said sternly—‘no, sir! I shall take my daughter home; and as
I wish to have no further argument in the street, I shall bid you
good-night.’
The tears, which had been standing in Winny’s eyes, had now overflowed,
and were trickling down her cheeks. My heart ached as I saw this;
but I grew angry, too, at seeing her, instead of at once joining me,
turn her pale face to him with an inquiring look, as though asking
permission—asking permission of _him_ to obey her father!
‘Yes, Winny dear,’ he said gently, ‘you had better go. Your father
does not understand all, and is naturally hurt; but I will see him
to-morrow. Keep up a good heart, dearest!’ And with that he bent his
head and kissed her, she lifting her face without the least shyness or
shame.
I took her arm, and without another word, led her away. I hailed an
omnibus, and we got in. I did this on purpose that there might be no
opportunity for argument or pleading until we reached home. When we
did so, I quickly lit the gas, drew down the blinds, and so forth;
while Winny, having taken off her bonnet and pelisse, stood as pale and
motionless as a statue, leaning on the table in the middle of the room.
I never felt a greater difficulty in speaking than I did then; not only
was my voice hoarse, but my throat seemed blocked; however, it had to
be done. ‘Winifred,’ I said, ‘I could not have believed it possible
that you would have had an acquaintance unknown to me—and such an
acquaintance! A man who’—— I could not help hesitating here—what I had
to say was so dreadfully unpleasant.
‘Father!’ cried Winny—her voice was low but distinct; it was firmer
than mine—‘Mr Godfrey Harleston is at least a friend of whom I need not
be ashamed. I am not ashamed of him!’
‘Poor silly girl!’ I exclaimed; ‘you will be only too soon’——
‘Never!’ she interrupted, in the same low firm tone.
‘You little know what is before you,’ I continued; ‘and I only wish I
had been aware of this intimacy earlier, to have saved you, perhaps,
from some suffering. That young man is a suspected forger, and
certainly an accomplice of burglars!—Hear me out, Winny! It will be
best. I have been on his track for weeks, and at last all is brought
home. I fear it will shock you to learn it, but he is a lost man; and
in the morning I am under an engagement to apply at the Mansion House
for a warrant for his arrest! There is no hope or chance for him; he
will sleep in prison to-morrow night!’
I saw that Winny repressed a shriek by a great effort. For a moment a
spasm convulsed her features, which quite frightened me, and then, in
a strange gasping voice, which had nothing in it like my Winifred’s
gentle tones, she cried, again clasping her hands tightly upon her
breast: ‘He a criminal! He to be thrown in prison by you—by _you_,
father! Never! You know not what you are saying. Father, you are
talking of my husband!’
A TALE OF NASEBY FIELD.
About four miles from Market-Harborough lies a little village, which
we will call Bullenham. It is one of the most peaceful spots in all
the peaceful Midlands. The houses are scattered here and there,
divided from each other by orchards and farm-closes; one or two quiet
shops supply the modest wants of the people; and several large farms
provide the rude fathers of the village with labour. The old church,
square-towered and gray, stands amidst the cottages. The curfew bell
is still rung every night, and many another quaint custom survives
the displacement of old-world life made all over England by modern
manufactures and railways. The only disturbance to which the village
is now liable is the invasion of its wide street and spacious green
by foxhounds and scarlet-coated hunters, who, during the season,
often meet there. But two centuries ago the village was invaded by
the Cavalier army on its way from Harborough to Naseby, there to
meet defeat at the hands of Fairfax and Cromwell and their undaunted
Roundheads. The military events of that time, and the momentous
national changes they effected, are familiar to every one; and as they
form no part of our story, we shall not dwell on them; for on the edge
of the splendid blazonry of history there are often homely incidents
which the historian and philosopher reject, and it is such an event,
full of domestic and human interest, that we propose to narrate.
A few days before the battle, a troop of Rupert’s horse was holding the
village of Bullenham, and, with wild riot and plunder, terrifying the
hearts of the farmers and their wives. The post was of some importance,
for it lay just half-way between Harborough, where King Charles was
staying, and that wide moorland on which the Parliamentary army was
manœuvring. Nearly the whole of the Royalist soldiers passed through
Bullenham, so that the villagers saw enough and to spare of the pomp
and circumstance of war. The young officer who commanded the cavalry
troop quartered in the village was named Henry Melford, and he had
established himself in a small farmhouse. The household consisted of
the farmer and his wife and one daughter, their only child. Captain
Melford was not a rough soldier, but a refined man, accustomed to good
society. At the same time, he had a delightfully frank manner, quick
sympathies, and a homely naturalness and power of adaptation which
went far to reconcile Dame Dimbell to the invasion of her household
privacies and the subversion of all her established hours and methods.
Her husband’s talk was of oxen, and he took little interest in the
questions that were then riving society to its centre. A stolid,
characterless man, he rose with the dawn to go through his placid
routine of occupations, and smoked his pipe in the chimney in the
evening. The outdoor work of his small farm he managed almost entirely
himself, while his wife and neat-handed daughter reigned inside the
threshold. Barbara was a bright, plump, merry creature, who sang old
ballads from morning till night, save when a snatch of some favourite
church anthem broke in graver notes from her lips. She had lived in
unwonted excitement since the soldiers had entered the village, and
what mischief might have come about had she been allowed to yield to
her own coquettish impulses it is hard to say. But Captain Melford had
none of the licentiousness which characterised many of the Royalist
soldiers: he had indeed something of the chivalrous purity of an olden
knight, and he had not only warned Barbara against possible danger, but
had made it well understood that the maiden was not to be approached by
the soldiers. Consequently, the pretty damsel was comparatively safe;
and honest John Sprayby, who for a year or two had been hovering about
her, was not likely to be discarded for some bolder and lighter wooer.
One evening, after Captain Melford had received the reports of his
sergeant, and had given orders for the various watches to be kept
during the night, he began to take his ease in the spacious farm
kitchen. The table was spread for supper, and he sat down to do hearty
justice to the homely old English fare.
‘Come, dame,’ he cried, ‘give me a draught of your home-brewed. ’Tis
the best drink I have tasted since Prince Rupert gave me a stirrup-cup
a week ago.—And what’s this? By all that’s good, a stuffed chine! Ah!
this is better than all your court kickshaws, and will stay my stomach
well if there should be any fighting to-morrow;’ and so saying, he laid
at once a pound or so upon his plate and applied himself vigorously to
its consumption. ‘And where is your pretty daughter, Mistress Dimbell?’
he asked after a time. ‘Is she with her sweetheart? Ah, if you’ll only
wait until we’ve beaten these confounded Roundheads, I’ll see that they
get married. There’s a certain fair lady breaking her heart over me
now, and so I can feel for pretty Barbara in these wild times.’
‘I’m sure your honour’s very good,’ said the farmer’s dame; ‘and I wish
you were safe out of all this fighting, for I should be sorry to see
you come by any hurt.’
Just then a loud knock shook the door, and going to it, Mrs Dimbell saw
a trooper leading his horse. Both man and beast were covered with dust
and sweat from hard riding. ‘Is Captain Melford in?’ he asked in a loud
tone. Melford could not avoid hearing the question, for the kitchen
opened directly on the road, and so he jumped up and hurried to the
door.
‘These for you, sir,’ said the trooper respectfully on seeing the
captain, and handed him a large packet of papers. ‘There are stirring
times at hand, and we’re going to have at Old Noll.’
‘Ah!’ said the captain, ‘is that so? Well, come in, Radbourne, and eat
something while I read these letters. You can tie your horse up to
yonder tree; there is a sentinel will have an eye on him.’
‘Thank your honour,’ said the soldier: ‘I shall be none the worse for a
comfortable meal. We’ve been on the march since sunrise this morning,
and I’ve tasted nothing but a pot of small beer since noonday.’ Having
fastened his horse’s bridle to the tree, he soon seated himself at the
table, where he made a mighty attack on the stuffed chine, and emptied
almost at a draught the brown jug of ale.
While he was thus engaged, the captain was busy reading his despatches
and writing a reply to one of them. When he was ready, he called the
soldier, and said: ‘Here, Radbourne; you must hurry back with all
speed. Give this letter to the Prince, and say that all shall be done
as he orders. You had better take your horse to the stable and rub him
down and feed him, for it won’t do to break down to-night. But don’t
delay starting, and keep your pistols loose.’
‘All right, captain,’ said Radbourne, as he prepared to carry out these
directions, at the same time casting a fond look at the empty ale-jug.
The captain saw his glance, and said laughingly: ‘Come, good Mistress
Dimbell, get this thirsty soul another draught, and he shall drink it
to your health when he’s ready to start.’
When the trooper was gone, Captain Melford went to the door and
whistled loudly, whereupon the sergeant of his troop came from a
neighbouring cottage, and to him the captain gave certain orders, and
then turned back to his interrupted supper. On entering the kitchen
again, he found pretty Barbara Dimbell there, and seated in a corner
was a rustic youth, who evidently, even in those exciting times, found
in Barbara’s smiles an attraction of the most potent kind. Melford
greeted him with a friendly smile, for he had found considerable
amusement in watching the unsophisticated courtship of these two
blushing lovers.
Mrs Dimbell said to him: ‘Come, sir, it’s a shame you can’t have a meal
in peace; now, do sit down and finish.’
He looked graver than usual as he resumed his place at the table, and
after a while said, almost as if he were speaking to himself: ‘This may
be my last meal; who knows? I and my men are to set off by cockcrow,
and I fear we shan’t all come back. Perhaps it’s my turn this time.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘every bullet has its billet, as
the saying is; but don’t be cast down. I hope we shall see you come
riding back all right. But, God help us! these are bad times, when
a man can’t be sure of his own life, let alone the beasts as he has
brought up and the crops he has reaped. There’s our corn-stack has been
carried half away this very week as ever was; and if it hadn’t been for
your honour speaking up, we should not have had a cow left; and as for
Barbara and John coming together, why, it’s my opinion as they’ll have
to wait years before we can turn ourselves again.’
The lovers looked up at this new view of things, and stared with
undisguised dismay at each other.
But Captain Melford burst into a hearty laugh, and cried out: ‘Nay,
things are not so bad as that.—Cheer up, my little apple-blossom, and
see if you don’t get married before the year is out; and if I can’t
come and dance at your wedding, I’ll send you something to remember me
by.—But where is your husband, mistress, for I want to see him before I
go to bed?’
The farmer, being called by his wife, made his appearance from one of
the outhouses, where he had been attending to the wants of his cattle.
He saluted the captain respectfully, and waited to hear what he had to
say.
Beckoning them both into another room, the captain said: ‘Dimbell, I’ve
got orders to march early in the morning, as a big fight is expected
to-morrow. Now, I want you and your good wife to take care of this
money for me. There’s nearly four hundred pounds in this bag, and it’s
too much to carry about, especially when a man may get an ugly knock
that will settle him entirely. So do you put it in some safe corner;
and if I come out of the fight all right, you shall give it me again,
and I’ll pay you well for what I’ve had here. But if I should be
killed, you may keep the money for yourselves, and buy a bigger farm
with it.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘I’m sure I’ll do my best to keep it
safe, and I hope as how you’ll come back to claim it; for your honour
has been a civil gentleman to us, and has kept us from being eaten up
by them soldiers, and I’m sure we all wish you might come back safe.’
‘Thanks, my good friends,’ was the reply. ‘And now I’ll go to bed and
get a few hours’ sleep.’
The next morning he was up and away almost before the proverbial
cockcrow. After his departure, Dimbell and his wife spent some time
in searching for a secure hiding-place for the money intrusted to
their care. That day, little work was done in the village, for the
wild sounds of war came fitfully on the air as the incidents of the
epoch-making battle of Naseby succeeded one another through the day.
Some adventurous youths, who had followed the Royalist troops on their
march, brought back fragmentary tidings of fierce strife and strange
confusions, and of how they had seen the king’s carriage, and the king
himself sitting in it. As the afternoon wore away, tumultuous bands
of men came hurrying through the village and made with all speed for
Market-Harborough. Their numbers increased, until it became evident
that the Royalist army was in full retreat. At last, when the main
bodies of both horse and foot had passed, and only wounded stragglers
were to be seen, there came riding into the village a compact body of
stern horsemen, who speedily occupied every point of vantage and took
prisoners all the Royalist soldiers they found. The post was now in the
hands of the Parliamentary army, and it was not long before trembling
and terrified Mistress Dimbell was bidden to prepare accommodation for
two officers in her house. The next day, fresh dispositions were made,
and the village was left in comparative quiet, only a dozen soldiers
remaining to prevent communications with the Royalist army.
The third day after, as John Sprayby was returning home from some
rustic occupation in the dusk of the evening, he saw a strange figure
crawling along under the shadow of the hedge. At first, it seemed like
some beast; but as he drew nearer, he heard human groans proceeding
from it. Evidently some wounded soldier was dragging himself painfully
along, and John went towards him to see if he could render any help. He
then saw that the poor man was crawling on his hands and one foot, the
other foot being broken and crushed. Approaching still closer, he felt
a shock of surprise and grief as he recognised Captain Melford.
‘Why, Master Melford,’ said he, ‘is that you, sir? Oh! what a pity!
Here, lean on me, sir;’ and the good-hearted John blubbered lustily as
he knelt down and strove to ease the poor man’s pain.
The captain was so exhausted that he could hardly speak, but he held
John’s hand tightly as he said feebly: ‘How far is it to Mistress
Dimbell’s? Are there any soldiers in the village?’
‘Well, sir,’ replied John, ‘there’s a few of ’em left; but there’s none
at Dimbell’s now; so, if you would stop here a bit, I’ll go and fetch
somebody, and we’ll make shift to get you there. Perhaps, if we take
you the back way over the fields, none o’ the soldiers’ll see us.’
‘Do, John,’ said the wounded man; ‘and I’ll lie down here and stop
quiet. But, for God’s sake, don’t be long, for I’m almost done.’
Upon this away went John, and soon returned with help enough to carry
the wounded man to his old quarters in the farmhouse. The good dame and
her daughter, who had prepared a bed immediately upon John’s report,
hastened to wash and roughly dress the wound, and to feed the famished
and half-dead man. All night they watched and tended him, but in the
morning he was evidently worse, and seemed sinking down to death. There
was no surgical aid near, and they dare not let his presence be known,
for fear of the soldiery. All day he lay in a kind of stupor, hardly
noticing the presence of any one; but in the evening he revived a
little, and could speak. He called the farmer to him, and said brokenly
to him and his wife: ‘My good friends, you’ve been very kind to me. I
know I’m dying; you must be my heirs. Keep that money—the money I left
with you. Let pretty Barbara get married. Tell John I thank him for
bringing me here. I hope you’ll prosper. I shall be gone soon. May God
have mercy on my king, and on my country! I die willingly for them.’
After this, he conversed no more, but lay breathing heavily, with his
eyes fixed, and acknowledging only by a touch the kind offices that
were done him. About ten o’clock at night, the farmhouse door was flung
rudely open, and a loud voice called for the master of the house.
Hurrying forward, Dimbell found himself confronted by a Parliamentary
officer, and saw that the house was surrounded by soldiers. The officer
said: ‘Whom have you got up-stairs? I shall require you to answer for
harbouring traitors. Come, show me the way.’
The farmer, with a sinking heart, showed the officer the room, and he
entered noisily, crying: ‘Come, come, who are you?’
The dying man, somewhat aroused, turned his glazing eyes towards the
sound, but took no further notice.
‘O sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, weeping and wringing her hands, ‘I’m
afeared as he’s dying. Look at him, and you’ll see as he can’t be
moved. O dear, O dear! Good gentleman, don’t you touch him.’
The officer, like most men of his class, though stern and
uncompromising in duty, was far from unkindly, and was a deeply
religious man. In the presence of death, all differences were dwarfed,
and common humanity asserted itself. He turned to the dying man with a
subdued manner and grave inquiries. ‘Ah! brother,’ said he, ‘this is
an hour to prove the vanity of earthly things. I would fain ask if you
have made your peace on high, and laid down your weapons of rebellion
against the Divine Majesty? Bethink you that He is a God pardoning
iniquity, transgression, and sin, and showing mercy unto all truly
penitent souls. Look to the risen and glorified Mediator; for I am not
one of those who would bid men fix their thoughts on Calvary, as if
what was done there were still in course of being accomplished. But
rest ye on a completed Atonement whereby thy peace is purchased for
ever. Then thou shalt have no fear even in the gloomy valley.’
The dying man had recognised the officer as an opponent, and at first
there had been a faint thrill of resistance to his words. But the
tone was so sincerely kind, and there was such evident human interest
and religious earnestness, that he accepted with a grateful look the
exhortation addressed to him. No word passed his lips, but his eyes
glanced upwards as if in silent prayer. The officer knelt down, and
poured out with Puritan quaintness and fervour strong intercessions
for the sufferer, praying that he might not fail of eternal glory. The
awed farmer and his wife listened as to a strange tongue, and when the
voice ceased Captain Melford was heard to say ‘Amen.’ They then saw one
convulsive shudder pass through his frame, and all was over—Death had
claimed his own.
What remains can be narrated briefly. The officer gave orders that the
funeral should be conducted reverently; and on learning the name and
rank of Captain Melford, undertook to communicate with his friends.
After a time, the soldiers withdrew from the village, and its quiet
life once more flowed into its former channels. John Sprayby and
Barbara Dimbell were then married; and the old folks cautiously brought
forward Captain Melford’s legacy, and set up the young ones on a farm.
It was the beginning of assured prosperity to them; and to this day
their descendants, still bearing the name of Sprayby, are found on
the same farm. The little village of Bullenham bears no trace of the
rough edge of war which once descended upon it, nor do many even of the
neighbours know how from the red soil of battle sprang the large and
peaceful prosperity of the Sprayby family.
THE GORSE.
As I lingered at the window,
Weary of the summer heat,
Looking out upon the shadows
Of the now deserted street,
Came with gleam of yellow blossoms
Scattered memories faintly glad,
Wakened by the gorse and heather
In the cap of country lad.
Ah! the moor, horizon-bounded,
With its wealth of blossom-gold;
Ah! the reach of swelling upland,
Boulder-dotted, bare and cold;
Ah! the sweep across the bracken
Of the breezes, wild and free,
Bringing from the land of sunrise
Distant murmurs of the sea.
In the grayness of the dawning,
Ere the sun had tinged the deep
With the glory of his coming,
And the hills were yet asleep,
Merrily we pressed the heather
As we went towards the sea,
For the world was all before us,
And the day was yet to be.
There we planned a noble future;
As the heralds of the light
Bearing messages of succour
To the children of the night.
We would face the world together,
Fight the evil hand in hand,
As the knights in ancient legend
Slew the tyrants of the land.
Thus we dreamed, and thus we purposed
With the eager hearts of youth,
And we gathered yellow blossoms
As the emblems of our truth;
For the ridicule and scoffing
Would be thorns upon our way,
But the gold of love would sweeten
All the labours of the day.
But our dreaming never deepened
Into deeds of hero might;
For the Shadow Angel beckoned
At the coming of the night.
One obeyed the spirit-summons,
And the waking comrade wept,
While the darkening mists of sorrow
O’er the plains of morning crept.
Through the summer and the winter,
Through the sunshine and the cold,
Evermore the gorse is blooming,
Crowning all the heath with gold;
And a toiler in the city
Dreams of moments grave and glad
As he sees the sprig of heather
In the cap of country lad.
C. A. DAWSON.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._