PRISONER OF WAR
The dream of the steep hill was only a dream. In time it ended, and
Merrylips found herself, such a weak little shadow of a Merrylips,
lying in her chamber at Larkland. Round her bed moved her own maid,
Mawkin, and other people whom she did not know. There were strange
serving-women, and a doctor dressed in black, and a tall, pale woman,
with hands that were dry and cold.
Little by little Merrylips guessed that the other dream that had
troubled her was no dream. By and by she got strength to ask questions,
and then she found that it was indeed true that Lady Sybil had gone
from Larkland and left her behind.
Mawkin told her the story one night when she watched at the bedside.
She told how the Roundhead soldiers had been almost at the gates of
Larkland; how, to save the jewels, which she dared trust to no other
hand, Lady Sybil had fled on horseback; and how she had been obliged to
leave Merrylips, who had that very night been stricken with fever.
"No doubt you took the sickness from that rascal boy whom you did bring
to shelter here," said Mawkin. "As if that little vagabond had not
brought trouble enough upon us without this! But in any case, you have
been most grievous ill. Full three weeks you have lain in sick-bed, and
we have all been in great fear for you."
At the moment Merrylips had strength only to wonder whom Mawkin meant
by "all." She asked no questions then, but as the slow days passed, she
came to know that Mistress Lowry, Will Lowry's wife and Lady Sybil's
cousin, was living at Larkland.
Upon Lady Sybil's flight, Will Lowry had seized her house. He said
that he had a right to it, because his wife was nearest of kin to Lady
Sybil, and Lady Sybil had proved herself an enemy to the Parliament, by
fleeing to the king's friends, and so had justly forfeited her house
and lands. Doubtless Mr. Lowry would have found it hard to make good
his claim to Larkland in the courts of law, but at such a time, when
the country was plunging into civil war, the courts had little to say.
So Lowry's men and maids served in the house of Larkland. Lowry's
steward gathered the harvests and collected the rents. And Lowry's
wife, who was sickly and wished the air of the Sussex Weald, left her
own house by the sea and came to rule in Lady Sybil's place.
Of the old household only Mawkin and Merrylips were left. Mawkin was
there because Merrylips needed her, and Merrylips was there because,
at first, she was too sick to be moved, and because afterward--but
afterward was some time in coming.
Meanwhile Merrylips grew slowly better and stronger. And every day,
and more than once each day, Mistress Lowry, the tall, pale woman with
the dry hands, was at her bedside. She brought possets and jellies to
the little girl. She read to her from a brown book with clasps. She
talked to her of what might have happened to her, if she had died in
the fever, after the careless life that she had led. So gravely did she
speak that Merrylips dared not go to sleep at night until she had a
candle burning on the table beside her.
Once or twice, too, Will Lowry himself, with the close mouth and the
square jaw, came into Merrylips' chamber, and patted her cheek and bade
her get well.
"Ay, sir," promised Merrylips. "I shall soon be well, and then I shall
go unto Walsover, shall I not?"
But to that Will Lowry answered that she must first get strong. It
would be time enough then to talk of the long journey to Walsover.
So Merrylips got well as fast as she could. She did not doubt that
Mistress Lowry meant to be kind, but she much preferred to be with her
father and her brothers and her dear godmother at Walsover.
Again and again she begged for news of her family. All that Mawkin
could tell her was that letters had come from Walsover. Mawkin did not
know a word that was in them. Then Merrylips questioned Mistress Lowry,
but she would tell her only that her kinsfolk all were well in body,
though they were given over, heart and soul, to the service of a wicked
king and a false religion.
When Merrylips heard her dear ones spoken of in this harsh fashion,
she could not help crying, for she still was very weak. This crying
and fretting and wondering as to when she should go home, did not help
her to get well quickly. Indeed it was autumn, and her birthday once
again,--her ninth birthday,--before she was able to fling crumbs to the
carp in the fish-pond and walk in the little village, as she had used
to do with Lady Sybil.
Then, one blowy October day, Mawkin came to Merrylips' chamber. Her
face was all red with weeping, and she blubbered out that she had been
dismissed from Mistress Lowry's service. The very next morning she was
to be sent packing off to Walsover.
"Thou art going to Walsover?" cried Merrylips. "Why, what hast thou
to weep on, thou silly Mawkin? Thou shouldst rather be smiling. Come,
we'll make ready our mails against the journey."
As she spoke, Merrylips started to rise from the broad window-bench
where she had been sitting. But Mawkin caught her in her arms, and
hugged her, and poured out her story, weeping all the while.
"But I am to go alone, sweet little mistress! That wicked rebel Lowry
and his sanctified wife are sending your poor Mawkin away, because she
loveth you, mine own poppet, and would mind you of home, and they mean
that you shall never go again unto Walsover, but stay here with them
forever and ever, and forget your father and your mother!"
"But wherefore?" asked poor Merrylips, who was quite dazed at this news.
Many times, both on the day of Mawkin's sorrowful departure, and in
the days that followed, Merrylips repeated that question. At the time
she got no answer that she could understand. It was not till she was
much older that she learned the reasons that had lain behind what might
almost be called her captivity.
Out of policy Will Lowry had kept Merrylips at Larkland. He had
brothers and nephews fighting for the Parliament in the west country,
where Merrylips' father was commanding a troop for the king. He
believed that Sir Thomas was powerful enough to befriend these kinsmen,
if they should be taken prisoners, and he believed that Sir Thomas
would be more likely to do so, if Sir Thomas knew that his own little
daughter was in the hands of the enemy. As a possible hostage, then,
Will Lowry kept his masterful grasp on Merrylips.
For a different reason Mistress Lowry was not willing to let the little
girl go. She had but one child, a son who was away at school, and, as
Will Lowry had said, on the day when he seized the arms at Larkland,
she wanted a little daughter. Now, like many other people, Mistress
Lowry thought Merrylips a sweet child, and she wanted her for her own,
and so she calmly took her.
Stranger still, Mistress Lowry believed that she did a praiseworthy
thing in keeping the little girl from her parents and her friends. She
meant to bring Merrylips up in the straitest sect of the Puritans.
With such a bringing up she thought that Merrylips would be better and
happier than if she were bred among her own kindred, for, according to
Mistress Lowry, they were careless and evil people. No doubt Mistress
Lowry, in her own way, dearly loved Merrylips, but it was a selfish and
a cruel way.
So Will Lowry, from policy, and Mistress Lowry, from what she called
love, were both determined to keep Merrylips at Larkland. And when they
were thus determined, who could stop them? There were no courts of law,
with power over men of both parties, to make Roundhead Will Lowry give
back to Cavalier Sir Thomas his stolen child.
Neither could Sir Thomas risk the lives of his soldiers by marching
a hundred miles or so into the enemy's country and taking back his
little daughter by force of arms. When Sir Thomas had written a couple
of hot-tempered letters to Will Lowry, he had done all that he could
do. Perhaps at times he even forgot about Merrylips. He was so busy
fighting for the king that he had no time to think about a little girl
who, after all, was in no danger of ill-treatment.
But all these things Merrylips knew only when she was older. At the
time, in the dreary autumn of 1642, she could not understand why
the Lowrys kept her at Larkland, nor why her own kindred let her
stay there. But at least she knew that she did not at all like it at
Larkland, so, as soon as she felt strong and well again, she started
off, one damp November day, to make her way alone to Walsover.
She had her crossbow to keep off padders and Roundheads, and a big
piece of gingerbread to eat on the way. She took the silver ring,
shaped like two hearts entwined, and hung it on a little cord about her
neck, within her gown. She wished to have it with her for luck, because
it was the last token that Lady Sybil had given her.
Thus she started off in the early morning, and at twilight she
was found under a hedge, eight miles from home. She had eaten the
gingerbread, and lost one shoe, and draggled her petticoat in the mud
and wet. She was tired and half-frightened, but she still clung to her
crossbow, and she lifted a brave little face to the searchers when they
came upon her.
Will Lowry himself was at the head of the little band of serving-folk.
He had come down from London, where he sat in Parliament, to see how
matters were going at Larkland, and he did not seem much pleased at
having to ride out and hunt for a naughty little runaway.
When once he had Merrylips seated on the saddle before him, he said
sharply:--
"An thou wert a lad, I'd flog thee soundly for this."
"An I were a lad," said Merrylips, swallowing her tears, "you'd not
flog me at all, for I'd 'a' been clear to Walsover by now."
She was quite sure that she should be flogged now, even though she was
a girl. She was too tired and down-hearted to care.
But to her surprise, Will Lowry, instead of being more angry at her
answer, laughed.
"A stout-hearted wench!" said he. "'Tis pity thou art not indeed a lad!"
Then Lowry unstrapped the cloak that was bound behind his saddle, and
wrapped it about Merrylips, and brought her back to Larkland very
tenderly. Better still, he would not let a word of reproof be spoken
to her. The child was punished enough, he said, with the weariness and
fright that she had suffered. He was kind, and Merrylips knew it.
But after that night, by order of this same kind Will Lowry, Merrylips
was never allowed to set foot outside the garden, unless one of the
servants was with her. So never again did she have a chance to run away
to Walsover.