BESSIE'S DISTRESS.
Maud did not wait to hear anything more that the messenger had to tell;
whether the Royalists had gained the victory or had to mourn defeat she
did not know, and hardly cared. This one fact was enough for her; Harry
was wounded--wounded and ill--perhaps dying among strangers. It might be
he was prisoner even, and then an ignominious traitor's death awaited
him. All the darkest possibilities of his fate rushed to her mind as she
walked down the lane to the cottage.
Here her grief was shared by Dame Coppins, who hardly knew what to say
to comfort her under such a trial, and could only point her to Him who,
having "borne our griefs and carried our sorrows," can sympathise and
comfort under the sorest trials.
On reaching the Grange, Maud found that the news had travelled thither
before her--news of humiliation, that had put Captain Stanhope quite out
of temper.
"By my faith, I cannot believe it!" he was saying, as Maud entered the
keeping-room. "Prince Rupert defeated by that son of a brewer and his
handful of sorry prentice lads? Master Drury, what think you is likely
to happen, forsooth?"
"This varlet messenger, may be, is mistelling the news," said Master
Drury, hoping it might be so, for he had thought the rebel troops well
nigh crushed out.
Maud wondered whether he had heard the news concerning Harry, and looked
across at Mistress Mabel, but that stern, impassive face told nothing,
and Mary's, in its proud resolve, no more; and she dared not utter the
forbidden name before so many, and so went in search of the children, to
ascertain from them what news had come.
She saw in a moment that they had heard both items, for Bessie was
sitting in a corner of the garden crying bitterly, while Bertram was
marching up and down, telling her what he would do to rescue Harry when
he was a man.
[Illustration: BESSIE'S GRIEF FOR HARRY.]
She sat down beside the little girl and tried to comfort her, but Bessie
would not be comforted. "It's very kind of you, Maud," she sobbed, "but
you are not Harry's sister--not a Drury, like Mary and I. If Mary would
only be a little sorry for him, I shouldn't cry so much, but now he's
only got me and Bertram to be sorry."
"Oh, Bessie, think you not that I am sorry, too?" said Maud.
"Yes, you are sorry, Maud, I know," said the little girl, hardly knowing
how to express herself; "but you know you are not his sister, and so he
won't expect you to cry for him."
"Marry, will he not," said Maud, scarce able to keep from laughing. "And
will he expect you to cry for him a great deal?" asked Maud, as the
tears broke out afresh.
"Mary won't," sobbed Bessie; and she seemed bent upon doing her sister's
share for her.
Maud could not help shedding a few tears in company, and Bessie threw
her arms round her neck and kissed her for them. At length Maud said,
"If Harry does not expect me to cry for him, there is something else he
will expect me to do, and that is to comfort his little sister;" and she
took the little girl in her arms, and laid the hot tear-stained cheek
against hers, and whispered gentle loving words, that soothed the
troubled heart. It was just what Harry would have done--just what he
would have her do, she knew, and she did it as though he were near and
watching her.
For the next few days Captain Stanhope was in a restless state of
impatience to ascertain whether the news brought to the village was
correct, but they were not the days of newspapers, and an army might be
within a few miles of Hayslope itself, and the inhabitants none the
wiser; so it was not strange that he could hear nothing of the movements
of an army away in Yorkshire.
But all suspense was at an end in a day or two. A messenger arrived
bearing despatches for Captain Stanhope, and in them mention was made of
the disastrous battle of Marston Moor. These despatches were commands
for the Captain to collect all the men he had been able to get in his
recruiting tour, and join the main body of the army in the west of
England.
So Mary's marriage, which was to have taken place in a few weeks, had to
be postponed until the autumn, or rather winter, for there could be no
certainty of his returning to Hayslope until then. There was always a
truce of a few months during winter. Wars could not be carried on
regardless of weather, as they are now, and thus it was that they often
lasted years.
After the departure of the Captain, life seemed to pass more slowly and
monotonously than ever at Hayslope Grange. Out of the direct main road,
strangers rarely came that way, and so little was known of how events
were tending in the mortal strife going on so near them.
The trial of Archbishop Laud was still being carried on by the London
Parliament; Oxford was supporting the King in the combat with his
subjects, the north having yielded to Fairfax, the Parliamentary
general. This was all the news that came to Hayslope through all the
remaining days of July and the sultry weeks of August. No word came from
Harry Drury, not a syllable that Maud was hungering to hear with a
hunger that paled her cheek and was wasting her strength.
The harvest--what there was--had to be gathered in by women for the most
part; and when Maud looked at these going out to their unwonted toil, a
baby in one hand and a reaping-hook in the other, and thought of the
burden of sorrow they had to carry as well, she reproached herself for
weakly yielding to her grief; and yet it was hard to combat sometimes.
She had been compelled to rebel against Mistress Mabel's command to sit
more closely to her spinning and sewing. Not that she disliked preparing
Mary's house linen, but because she could not endure the scrutiny of
those hard cold eyes, and to get away from them she did as Harry had
done many a time before--mounted Cavalier, and cantered away miles over
the fields, and then back to the village, to visit her friends there.
The months of September and October passed slowly enough, but about the
middle of November Roger and a few of the other men came back to the
village for the winter. It could not be said that they were not welcome,
and yet provisions were now so dear, owing to the scanty harvest and
heavy taxes, that every extra mouth to fill was felt as a heavy burden
by their distressed families; and then, being winter time, there was
scarcely any work they could do in the fields and gardens.
Maud had hoped that she should hear something of Harry when the men came
back, and how much her returning health and strength had depended upon
this she did not know until the hope was taken away and the faint
sickening languor again stole over her frame. It might have grown upon
her more than it did, but the wants of the poor people in the village,
and the demands of Mistress Mabel, that she should assist in the
preparations for Mary's wedding, left her very little time to spend in
sitting alone and thinking of Harry.
Mary was to be married at Christmas, and go with Captain Stanhope to
Oxford. The two seemed mutually pleased with each other, and quite
satisfied with their bargain, but Maud could not tell whether they loved
each other. She hoped they did, but Mary never gave her an opportunity
of speaking upon this subject, and indeed the preparations for the
coming event seemed to occupy her mind so fully that she had no thought
for anything else.
This wedding afforded the villagers the most satisfaction, perhaps, for
Master Drury was to give them an ox to be roasted on the green, and the
prospect of a good dinner was very pleasant to them under the present
circumstances. Captain Stanhope gave them a barrel of ale in which to
drink his bride's health, but Mary seemed to think no one wanted
anything but herself.
She packed up all the books and little trifles lying about that had
belonged to Harry, and when Maud ventured to remonstrate with her about
this, saying that Bertram would want them by-and-by if Harry did not
return, she retorted, "Harry Drury never will return to this house,
Maud, and Bertram will be expelled too if you continue to encourage him
in thinking Harry right in what he has done."
Maud looked surprised. "What can you mean?" she exclaimed.
"Marry, nothing but what is true. You are teaching Bertram to think
Harry right in rebelling against the King, and his father, too,"
retorted Mary.
"I do not think Harry is wrong in following the guidance of his
conscience," said Maud, slowly; "but I have not sought to teach Bertram
that Harry's way is right for him. I have only told him to keep the fear
of God before his eyes, and follow the teaching of His Holy Spirit, as I
believe Harry has done."
"And so you think it is this that has made Harry a traitor," said Mary,
with rising anger.
"I don't think Harry is a traitor," said Maud, calmly. "It is the King
who has----"
"By my troth I will not listen to such dreadful words," interrupted
Mary, and she went out of the room; but she evidently did not alter her
opinion, for she confiscated to her own use every article that had
formerly belonged to her brother.
After the wedding festivities were over, and Mistress Mary Stanhope had
departed with her husband to Oxford, the house seemed more dull than
ever, and Mistress Mabel more severe and exacting.
About the middle of January came news that thrilled every one with
horror, and put Master Drury into a fever of mingled anger and sorrow. A
man had stopped at the blacksmith's shed on his way from London, and
brought the news that Archbishop Laud had been beheaded on Tower Hill
the day before he left.
Mistress Mabel was speechless with indignation for a few minutes, and
her first act was to take the bright cherry-coloured bow off Bessie's
hair.
The little girl looked up in surprise, and saw her aunt taking the
ruffles from her own neck and wrists. "This is not the time for such
bravery as this," said the lady, looking angrily at the ribbons and
ruffles. Bessie wondered what they had to do with it, while Mistress
Mabel stood upright, watching her brother as he walked up and down the
room, murmuring, "They have slain the Archbishop--murdered the Lord's
anointed."
"For which all good Christians ought to fast and mourn," put in Mistress
Mabel; "and I hope, brother, that you will see to it that your household
is not lacking in this matter," she added.
"Nay, nay, I leave all such to you," said Master Drury; "order whatever
is seemly at this time. I know not what has come to this evil-minded
generation," he added.
"An evil generation they are, as you say," quoth Mistress Mabel. "Where
will their iniquity end? They will put forth their hand against the King
next, I trow."
Bertram and Bessie shivered at the bare idea of such a thing, and Maud,
who felt she must say something in defence of the Parliament, said,
"Nay, nay, Mistress Mabel, they will not put forth their hand against
the King's majesty."
"But they will, I trow, if they have the power," said the lady. "And
that God may rescue this nation from their hands, it behoves us to
appear before Him in decent raiment of mourning at this time."
"Are we all to go into mourning?" asked Bessie, in some surprise.
"Would you be wearing ribbons and ruffles, and such light vanities at
this time?" angrily demanded the lady.
Bessie looked down, feeling very much ashamed of herself, but hardly
knowing how she had offended, until Bertram asked, "Will everybody wear
mourning for the Archbishop, aunt?"
"Every honest Christian soul will nathless wish to do so," replied
Mistress Mabel, with a severe look at Bessie.
The little girl felt the reproof, and when she went upstairs she put
away all her bright ribbons and the gay dresses that had been worn at
her sister's wedding. "I don't mind wearing the black hood and wimple,
Maud," she said; "but then I thought people wore mourning because they
felt sorry, and I can't feel so sorry about the Archbishop as I did
about Harry going away."
"Of course not, dear, because----"
"But aunt seems to think we ought," interrupted the little girl; "and
father never looked so sorry about Harry as he did to-day about the
Archbishop."
"Your father may not let us see how sorry he is about Harry," said Maud,
"but I am sure he is often thinking of him."
Maud spoke of this as though she were sure it was so, as in truth she
was. She had noticed a great alteration in her guardian lately. His hair
was rapidly changing from brown to silver white, his tall erect form was
bowed as with the weight of an added twenty years; and she thought with
a keen pang that if Harry did not soon come he would never see his
father again. And then arose the question, where was Harry?--for no news
had come but that one voice from the battle-field, telling them he was
sick and wounded.