Sixteen years had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir
Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at
Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter,
the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now
grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of
the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose
loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the
mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer
in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king,
and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this
moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at
Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had
reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village,
and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of
Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal
troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing
the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware
that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his
troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what
was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed?
Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these
questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would
be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily
had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the
perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a
would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh
would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang
back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped
a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence,
and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put
a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother
had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that
September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without
breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing
down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping
herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the
chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden.
She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on
her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was
not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily
on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than
in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her
soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as
she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of
steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk
with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears
were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing
the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her
some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that
formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the
loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with
bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twig recalled
her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs
of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name
whispered--
"Cecily!"
She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the
next words reassured her.
"'Tis I--Hugh--make no sound!"
"Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it--we have heard all"; and the
girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it
was seized and held.
"Yes, they are after me--hunting me down as though I were some red
deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have
come, bringing peril to my mother and you."
"No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help
you--you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which
would not be instantly discovered."
"The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one
must know I am near the place. Hark!"--and far away in the distance
could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel.
"Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do--what can we do?"
For answer the young man pushed his way through the branches, and,
standing beside his cousin, said:
"What is this you are wearing, child?"
"My cloak."
"The very thing! Give it to me"; and as he took it off her shoulders,
"Now go and see that there is no one in front of the house. It will be
in shadow at present, till the moon is higher, and, thank God, there
will not be much of that this night, for she is yet but young; if none
be about, then raise your kerchief to your face and continue your walk."
"And you?" asked Cecily, as she turned back down the path.
"Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the horses rising the hill."
Cecily made her way along the front of the Abbey, and then, turning,
retraced her steps with her handkerchief held to her face. She did her
best to assume the manner of a person taking a careless evening stroll,
but at the same time her eyes were on the alert, and she could just
discern the figure of her cousin creeping along close to the wall of
the Abbey, until her steps carried her beyond, and she dare not turn
her head for fear the simple movement might be seen by someone and
attract attention. In a few minutes she had reached the evergreens
again, and here she once more turned, and again passed in front of the
Abbey; but, though she scanned the building as well as she was able
through the gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.
Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What had become of him? There was
no door near through which he could have entered the house, and the
cessation of the slight scrunching of the gravel beneath his feet had
told her that he had not proceeded further. But she had small space for
conjecture, for there were galloping steads on the drive leading to the
house, and the next moment she found herself surrounded by a number of
the dreaded Ironsides.
"Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that maiden, and bring her within the
house; she may possess the information we desire. Sergeant Piety,
follow me with six men. The rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround
the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go out or come in, and search
the bushes and thickets."
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" inquired Cecily, assuming an
indignant and surprised air, in answer to the commands given by the
leader of the party.
"I wot ye know full well already, maiden; but if it be otherwise, ye
shortly shall know. Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to your
duties."
Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was led back into the house, and
here the leader took up his position in front of the huge fireplace and
kicked the logs on the hearth into a blaze, as he indicated the spot
where his prisoner was to stand. After warming his hands a moment or
two in silence, he turned about and said:
"One of you remain here with the maid and me; the rest search the
house, and mind ye find him, for he is here. We have certain knowledge
of the fact. Leave no hole or corner unvisited, but bring him before me
alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what gentle means may do in this
direction"--nodding towards the girl.
The troopers separated, some making their way to the kitchen and
chambers on the ground floor, while others mounted the stairs to the
upper rooms and attics.
Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in face of the peril. In after
times when she came to think it all over she wondered at herself, but
she recalled the fact that at the moment she was well-nigh certain her
cousin was not on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the Abbey, and
she had felt that if there were a safe hiding-place to be found his
intimate knowledge of his own home would stand him in good stead in the
emergency.
"Well, maiden, where is this traitor? You had best speak at once, and
save time and trouble, for I doubt not you are well informed of his
movements."
"We have no traitors among the dwellers at Combe Abbey, sir, and if
there be any here now they are no welcome guests, I promise you,"
replied the girl calmly, looking the officer straight in the face.
"I would have you keep a civil tongue in your head, as becomes a modest
maid," replied her interrogator. "Tell me at once, where is this
pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?"
"I know of no 'pestilent rogue' of that name, though that same name is
the property of my cousin and the owner of this house."
"And he is here at this moment."
"Is he? Then why detain and question me, since you are so well
informed? Permit me to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who is but
poorly, and who will be disturbed by this unwonted turmoil, for Combe
Abbey is a peace-loving house." And Cecily made as though she would
cross the hall and mount the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid
his hand on her arm and detained her as the officer continued:
"Stay where you are, wench; this giddy talking will avail you nothing."
"Sir, methinks those that preach would do well to set an example," said
Cecily, with a slight curl of disdain on her lip.
"Ah, in what way mean you?"
"Those that prate of civil tongues should be possessed of the same."
"Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy slut!"
"After that I listen to no more of your instructions, sir. I will not
have you as my master"; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference to the
officer, who, losing his temper, said loudly--
"A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh Travers?"
"I know not."
"But he is here."
"So you tell me."
"You have seen him."
"So you say."
"I will have him!"
"That is as may be. Can I tell you ought else?"
"I can tell _you_ that it will be the worse for all here if he be not
given up at once. The Lord Protector has his eye upon this house."
"Then I wonder he has not seen the owner, since you say he is here."
"Faugh! 'Tis folly to bandy words with a woman! Ah, here is
something!"--as a trooper was seen coming down the stairs leading Lady
Travers.
At the sight Cecily broke away from her captor, and, running to meet
her aunt, offered her arm as a support.
"What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?" asked the old lady.
"It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman has brought us news of
Cousin Hugh, since he asserts that he is here."
"Hugh--here? Where? Why was I not informed?"
"Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready with her tongue, and by
verbal quips has been endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin's
presence here."
"Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I have not seen my son for this
many a long day. Would God I had! But that he was with the army at
Worcester we know full well, since he sent us word of the fact but a
few days since."
"You hear, sir?"
"Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and I will----"
"As you will, sir. The word of a lady counts nought with a soldier
nowadays, it seems."
The officer gave a glance at the young girl as if about to frame a
retort, but it may be the presence of Lady Travers deterred him, for
with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to the troopers and bade one of
them follow him upstairs, while the other remained as a guard over the
ladies. This latter man--the one who had brought Lady Travers from her
room--appeared to possess some shade of good feeling, for as soon as
his officer had disappeared he withdrew to the other side of the hall,
leaving the ladies practically alone in front of the fire, where they
could converse undisturbed.
Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear as unconcerned as possible,
informed her aunt, in a tone that could easily reach the sentry's ears,
how her evening stroll had been so rudely interrupted by the soldiers,
and how she had been made a prisoner and detained in the hall while the
house was being searched. Lady Travers, being totally unconscious of
the near presence of her son, had nothing to conceal, and therefore,
all unknowingly by what she said, ably seconded Cecily's efforts. It
was in this way the ladies conversed for some time, until the captain
descended the stairs after what, from his manner, had evidently been an
unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied him with questions as to
her son's fate. These he answered grudgingly, as though doubting their
genuineness.
Meanwhile the servants had been driven into the hall like a frightened
flock of sheep, and were each interrogated in turn; but their
answers threw no light on the subject, and the officer's expression
at the conclusion of the examination was more puzzled than at the
commencement. He sent for Lieutenant Champneys, and on his arrival
he could report no better success than had attended his captain.
Not a soul had been seen outside the building, save the grooms in
the stable-yard; the gardens, the park and the plantations had been
searched without a trace being found. There were no suspicious
circumstances; no one seemed to wish to conceal anything; no obstacles
had been placed in the way, and yet, from certain information possessed
by the officer, he knew that Hugh Travers, if he had not actually been
in the house or grounds, had been very close to them. He was baffled.
He had anticipated an easy capture, but instead of that the chances of
one seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh Travers was not the only
fugitive on whose head was set a price; there were others suspected
of being in the neighbourhood, and it would be folly to sacrifice all
for the sake of this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was piqued
by Cecily's taunts, and loth to own himself defeated. At any rate,
he would make one more effort. He himself would go round the outside
of the Abbey, and Cecily should accompany him. The moon had risen
by this time, and there was more light than when he had arrived. He
might possibly to able to discover something, or the girl might betray
herself in some way, though he was by no means so certain now as he had
felt at first that she had anything to betray.
Cecily offered no objection to his request for her company, and, having
sent one of the maids for a wrap, they set out together. At first
little was said by either of them, but then it occurred to the girl
that the sound of her voice might act as a warning of danger to her
cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at hand, and she commenced to
talk loudly and rapidly about anything that came into her mind.
They were passing the front of the Abbey, and, as the faint moonlight
fell upon the grey stone face, making the shadows that lingered in the
corners still more deep, Cecily was pointing out the windows of the
various rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved above the doorway.
"And higher up," she continued, "are two niches, in the one stands
the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of the house, for, as its
name must have informed you, sir, it was formerly a religious house,
and I trust it is worthy of the designation now, though in a slightly
different sense; and in the other---- Oh!"--and Cecily swayed, and
almost fell, but the next moment caught the arm of her companion and
steadied herself.
"Ah, what is it?" exclaimed the officer, looking round suspiciously.
"Forgive me," said Cecily, looking on the ground as if seeking
something. "It was very sharp at the moment. A newly broken flint, I
suppose. May I take your hand for a minute? It is hard to see where one
puts one's foot in this light."
"Certainly, madam," said the officer, rather pleased than otherwise;
for, though a Puritan, he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially
when no one was by to see him. "I trust you feel better already?"
"I thank you, sir--yes."
"You were saying----"
"Ah, yes--about the niches. In one was placed the figure of Abbot
Swincow, and in the other that of a Father Anthony, who was supposed to
have aided him in the building and institution of the house. But they
have suffered much through time and weather, and now bear but small
resemblance to the originals, I trow."
"As a true servant of the Lord Protector it is my duty to destroy such
images, as contrary to the tables of the law, and being the work of
men's hands, but other business is to the fore at the moment, and the
capture of rebels is a more meritorious employment than knocking off
the heads of statues."
"Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your time, seeing it is
some hundreds of years since they took up their position."
"Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks are not seemly in a woman, nor
in a man either, seeing the days are evil. You and I have got on better
since you have bridled your tongue."
"As you will, sir; and now, if it be your pleasure, I will lead you to
the gardens and stables."
"Ah, trooper! Any news?"--as a figure approached them from out the
gloom.
"None, captain--not a living soul--not so much as a rabbit has crossed
my path."
"Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your ears and eyes open, and we may
yet prevail. Lead on, maiden."
Round the gardens, through the stables, up into the loft and store
chambers went the captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the time,
but in a lower tone and far more naturally than before the stumble on
the gravel in front of the Abbey.
At length the round was completed, and as the officer again entered the
hall with Cecily, he said--
"Well, all has been done that can be done. The man I want is not here.
He must have passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot wherein to
rest. But I'll have him yet."
"That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case, I trust that you will not
deem either my aunt or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you all
the help in our poor power in your search."
"Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have done all you can to aid the
ruler of this realm. You have done your duty."
"I have," thought Cecily, though she merely bowed modestly and kept
silence.
"Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the men together; we must away."
"Not before you have supped with us, sir?" said the courteous Lady
Travers. "Combe Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were he friend or
enemy."
"I thank you, madam--not to-night. There is work to be done, and the
soldiers of the Lord think less of their stomachs than their duty." And
going to the door, the officer watched the mounting of his men.
It was then that Cecily found the opportunity to whisper to one of the
serving-men.
"Count how many there be, Roger, and then away to the village through
the orchard and see if the numbers be the same there, and that they
have left none behind to spy. Bring me word as soon as may be."
A few minutes later, and with a farewell salute, the officer led his
men down the avenue, and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.
It was after supper, and when Lady Travers had retired, that Roger
returned.
"The number was the same, mistress, and I followed them a good two
miles or more, and none fell out."
"That is well, Roger; then we may have peace again for a time. And now
to bed, for we are all upset by this night intrusion."
But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole
down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a
roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads.
"Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened
her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the
parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There
was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all
extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over
an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of
care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words,
"Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow
below.
"A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that
came upwards in reply, almost like an echo.
"It is I--Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father,
since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support."
"And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to
boot."
The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until
at length came the direction--
"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The
place is clear of the bloodhounds?"
"Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to
Meerdale."
"Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a
whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to
the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?"
"Of a surety, yes."
"Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at
once. He will not see me."
"It shall be done."
"My mother--does she know I am here?"
"No one knows but me."
"Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will
send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be
nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done,
and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his
wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you
feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with
you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I
would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart,
little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time."
"Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"
And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in
the ivy.
* * * * *
More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter
and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king.
And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey
in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the
villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow
he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple,
seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on
the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the
night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.
[THE END.]
[Illustration]
CHINA MARKS.
ENGLISH PORCELAIN.