Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: Mistress Barbara Winslow]
*BARBARA WINSLOW
REBEL*
*By ELIZABETH ELLIS*
ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN RAE
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
_Published January, 1906_
*Preface*
Whether James, Duke of Monmouth, would have succeeded in his enterprise
had a different fortune attended his army at Sedgemoor, is a favourite
subject for speculation among historians and others who interest
themselves in the consideration of such strange chances as have not
infrequently led to the downfall of great hopes. Certainly, had victory
attended the invader's troops in their first battle, many waverers would
have thereby been drawn to his standard, and the ranks of his supporters
might have been swelled by that large class of politicians who measure
the righteousness of a cause by its success.
But it was not ordained that Monmouth should free England from the
abuses and injustice under which she struggled during the latter days of
the Stuart dynasty; not into the hands of such men as this are entrusted
the destinies of nations. This slight man, torn by weak hopes, weak
fears, weak ambitions, small throughout his life, exceeding small and
pitiful in his death, was not the instrument to overthrow the power of
even so insecurely throned a monarch as James II. The history of the
world is the history of individuals, and proclaims in all its pages the
inexorable justice of God. A cause may be righteous, its vitality may
be fanned by the devotion of thousands and watered by the heart's blood
of heroes, but if the man in whom are centred the hopes of its
supporters be unworthy, if his life be undisciplined, his aims selfish,
his own faith weak, the glory of the struggle is clouded by the shadow
of his personality, and failure is preordained to wait upon the
enterprise.
James Monmouth, like his grandfather before him, like his cousin after
him, inspired in the hearts of his followers an enthusiastic devotion
that recked not of consequences, that gave all and asked nothing with
unquestioning loyalty. In him his followers saw the man sent by Heaven
to protect their religion and to purify the government of their country,
the defender of their faith and freedom, and they were ready to lay down
their lives at his bidding. But God, who reads the hearts of men, saw
in the pretender a man of petty vices, of pitiful ambitions, weak, and
selfish as the King he strove to dethrone, and though Monmouth offered
at the altar of destiny many hundreds of devoted hearts, God refused the
sacrifice and scattered his armies like the ashes of the offering of
Cain.
So Duke Monmouth failed. The history of the world's triumphs is the
history of individuals, but the world's failures are written in blood
upon the hearts and lives of thousands; for though the reward of success
may be the glory of one man, the suffering of many is the penalty
demanded for failure. Duke Monmouth failed and the story of this
abortive rebellion of the west is the story of the suffering of the
innocent for the sins of the guilty. Many of those who prompted and led
the invasion escaped in safety, to win pardon later from William of
Orange and to live out their lives in peace and prosperity. Monmouth
indeed died on the scaffold; but his worthless life was not to pay the
price of rebellion. It was for the poor misguided peasants who had left
their homes to fight for a religion dearer to them than life and
happiness; it was for them, by cruel torture and death, or by weary
years of suffering in the Plantations, to expiate their misplaced trust
in a leader unworthy of the cause they cherished.
And where are we to look in this to find the infallible Justice that
regulates the chances of this life?
Not indeed in the fair west country given over to pillage and the sword,
her towns shambles, her countryside a waste of ruined crops and deserted
farms; not in the attendant heartbreak and despair are the workings of
justice transparent to our eyes. But looking across the years that
followed is seen the reassuring ray of promise. The sacrifice offered
at the hands of Monmouth was indeed rejected, but the sacrifice was not
therefore vain. The wretched peasants had offered their lives for the
establishment of religion and truth, and the offering was accepted.
Their lives were indeed demanded of them on the battlefield, on the
scaffold, in the slave cabins of the Plantations--who shall say that
they did not receive their reward; and who, having regard to the
wonderful growth of religious tolerance, of justice and national honour
in England during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, will deny
that the seeds sown with blood and tears in that short-lived rebellion
of the west have blossomed in fadeless flowers? Here is a tale of two
who threw in their lot with those who followed Monmouth; not for love of
the Duke, but impelled thereto by an unexpected chain of circumstances.
Two whose lives drifted together on the fierce tide of war and in whose
hearts love was awakened by hatred of tyranny. It is a tale of dangers,
of sorrow and of suffering, yet of some merriment, of courage and of
great happiness withal, for she who inspired it was not one to let fear
of the future darken the present, or present suffering weaken the spirit
to endure. Rather she accepted whatsoever the Fates might send with a
quiet courage, laughing in the face of frowning fortune, and found among
the ashes of suffering and seeming desolation an exceeding great
treasure. If the memory of Barbara Winslow inspire any to face the
monotony of life with the same blithe courage with which she faced the
horrors of death, her story will not have been told in vain, but will
prove a seed bearing fruit in the life of a brave woman.
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
Mistress Barbara . . . . . . Frontispiece
"He Dropped the Point of His Rapier and Turned Away"
"Thus They Talked, These Two, Cut Off From All Their World"
"'Ah! Barbara, If You Know Mercy, Bid Me Not Leave You Now'"
*Barbara Winslow, Rebel*
*CHAPTER I*
"Truly, Sir Peter; 'tis a great honour you do me. Yet bethink you; if
every fugitive felt it a duty to offer his hand to each maid who had
favoured his escape, there would be busy doings in these troublous
times."
"Duty, Mistress Barbara, i' faith! 'Tis no thought of duty your
presence inspires."
There was an ominous glint in the speaker's eyes which caused his
companion to interrupt him quickly with a nervous laugh.
"In that case, sir, 'twere best I should leave you; 'twere small good
urging upon you the duty of saving your life by instant departure, if my
presence play traitor to my words by bidding you stay. So fare thee
well; I wish you a safe journey."
"Alas, madame, and will you indeed send me away without one word of
hope? I will die an you do. What is life to me without your favour? I
entreat you, have pity."
Sir Peter's protestations were eager, nay ardent, but they tripped too
glibly from his tongue, they smacked too much of experience in the art
of wooing and moved Mistress Barbara to naught save amusement.
"Nay, but listen to me, sir," she answered with mock solemnity. "As you
well know, there are many who since the rising have been in hiding like
yourself. For Rupert's sake, I will give help and shelter to all who
need it, but it were too much to expect me to give to all such
unfortunates what now you seek. Bethink you what complications might
arise hereafter."
"But, madame, 'tis possible all will not adore you as devotedly as do
I."
"'Twere scarcely worth my while to consider such a remote possibility,
sir," she answered demurely. "Nor do I see reason why you should prove
an exception."
A man and a maid seated together on a bank of moss in the moonlight have
been seen oft in England; nor, if the maid were fair and not unwilling
to listen (and what maid ever refused?), was it ever matter for surprise
if the man has made wise use of the opportunities the Fates had given to
him to perfect a romantic harmony of time and place by pouring forth
protestations of undying devotion and of admiration for the incomparable
charms of his companion; for moonlight is in truth a marvellous loosener
of tongues; the greatest matchmaker of the universe is the pale witch
queen of the night.
But natural though the affair may at first sight appear, in the present
case it was attended by certain untoward circumstances which would have
rendered the conventional occupation of Sir Peter and the lady
productive of astonishment to an onlooker.
For it was but a week since the disastrous engagement at Sedgemoor where
Sir Peter had commanded one of the foot regiments in Monmouth's
ill-fated army. And though the ardour of his wooing for a time almost
led him to forget the fact, he was nevertheless a condemned rebel with a
price upon his head and little hope of life unless by some means he
could reach the coast and so compass his escape from the country.
Within a mile of where he sat there were those who were seeking high and
low to take his person, dead or alive; yet despite his danger he seemed
oblivious to everything beyond his immediate surroundings. He devoted
himself to the wooing of his companion's favour with the same passionate
assiduity which he had ever displayed in more peaceful days in the calm
precincts of Whitehall, or even in the perhaps less reputable regions of
Old Drury.
Three days after the rout at Sedgemoor, after experiencing the miseries
of starvation and despair which fall to the lot of a hunted man, Sir
Peter Dare had reached the village of Durford, hoping thence to escape
to the coast. Driven by hunger and distress to desperate ventures, he
had presented himself at the Manor House, trusting to his ready tongue,
his handsome face and his large experience in the management of the sex
to gain the sympathy and assistance at least of the women of the
household. He met with a welcome even more kindly than he had dared to
hope for. Mistress Barbara Winslow had a tender heart for all rebels,
her own brother, Rupert, having also ridden with Monmouth, and being
himself even then in hiding, she knew not where. Therefore, she and her
cousin Lady Cicely gave shelter to Sir Peter gladly, and for some days
he remained at the Manor House, lauding the Fates for directing him to
such a pleasant haven, and employing his time, having nought else to do,
in losing his heart to his fair hostess, who, being a woman, thought no
worse of him for his obvious admiration, which, to do her justice, she
considered but her due.
But not many days could the wanderer remain in safety at Durford. The
country was closely patrolled by those searching every hole and corner
for fugitives from Monmouth's army, and a small search party had their
headquarters in the village itself. The Manor House was suspected, and
the Winslows could not hope longer to conceal the presence of their
guest, especially as their household consisted exclusively of
women--creatures of unquestioned loyalty but irresponsible tongues.
In the meantime, however, news had been received of a fishing vessel
lying off the coast, some three miles from Listoke, and with the help of
one Peter Drew, a smith by trade, and a devoted admirer of Mistress
Barbara, arrangements had been made with the skipper to take the
fugitive on board.
Four days, therefore, after his arrival, Sir Peter reluctantly bade
farewell to his hostess, and prepared to ride away once more upon his
wanderings.
But ere he started finally on his journey, Mistress Barbara, moved
either by the beauty of the evening, or by pity for his somewhat forlorn
condition, proposed to accompany him to the end of the narrow lane,
leading from the Manor House to the high road, and so set him on his
way.
Now at the side of this lane ran a mossy bank, and the night being warm,
and the moonlight inspiring, it befell that an hour after his departure
from the house, Sir Peter was still seated on the bank at the feet of
Mistress Barbara, oblivious alike to her repeated assertions that if he
would not depart she at least could remain no longer, and to her warning
that each moment's delay meant additional danger.
Still they sat there, until Sir Peter, moved by the sweet tones of his
companion's voice, by the gleam of her eyes in the moonlight, and by
gloomy reflections on their approaching separation, threw prudence to
the winds, and burst forth into desperate, and for the time being
heartfelt, protestations of devotion, mingled with entreaties that she
would at least give him hope of one day winning her favour.
But Mistress Barbara, though she had found satisfaction in Sir Peter's
open admiration, was in no wise pleased at so serious a turn to the
conversation. She shrewdly suspected that it was by no means the first
time such vows had passed his lips, and was consequently quite unmoved
by his despair; but this unexpected change from moonlight dreams in the
present to practical discussions of the future brought back her mind to
realities with a sudden shock. She had no inclination to enter into a
serious discussion of the matter, so she put a sudden end to the affair
by springing to her feet and insisting upon her companion taking his
departure forthwith, lest he miss the tide.
Sir Peter, recognising that further pleading would be useless, heaved a
forlorn sigh, at which Mistress Barbara smiled under cover of the
darkness and they walked to the end of the lane in silence. Here they
paused and Barbara gave her final directions.
"I can go with you no further. I would we could have kept you with us
longer, but indeed it is not safe; they have traced you here and are
hunting high and low for you. Your only hope is to cross the water. I
have told you the road; two hours' riding should bring you to the place.
Pray Heaven you fall not in with Captain Protheroe and his men. But if
you do you should soon outstrip them, for their horses will be weary;
they have been out seeking you since daylight, though thanks to their
belief in their own intelligence they have sought diligently in the
wrong direction. But they will come back to quarters presently and you
must be gone. Farewell, my friend, and a pleasant ride."
Sir Peter stooped to kiss her hand and mounted his horse reluctantly.
"Farewell, madame. It were useless to try to thank you. But at least I
shall hope for some future occasion of repaying my debt."
"I shall deem it well repaid if you can contrive to send me word of
Rupert's safety," answered the girl with a sigh. "That he will escape I
am assured; Rupert could never come to harm; but the waiting for news is
weary, and on some days hope is only a duty, not a consolation."
"See what it is to be a brother," exclaimed Sir Peter mournfully. "You
care more for his little finger than you do for the offer of my heart."
"Well, sir, and is not the rarer commodity ever the more precious?" she
answered saucily. "Rupert hath but two little fingers, whereas----"
"I have but one heart, madame."
"True, sir; but what limit to the times it may be offered?"
"Ah! Mistress Barbara, you know naught of the matter, for you yourself
have no heart at all."
"And I marvel that you should still have one, considering how frequently
you have lost it."
"I vow----"
"Hush!"
The jingle of accoutrements sounded round the corner of the road, and at
the same moment they became aware of horses slowly approaching, a sound
which hitherto they had been too much engrossed in their conversation to
heed.
"Alack! 'Tis the troopers," whispered Barbara. "Back, ere it be too
late."
But the time for escape had passed; for even as she spoke, and before
Sir Peter had fully grasped the situation, the troopers had rounded the
corner of the road, and were face to face with the fugitive.
They could scarcely be described as an imposing-looking force. Since
daybreak they had been out scouring the country for rebels, beating the
woods, ransacking the barns, following a wild-goose chase after false
information extracted from the sullen country-folk, and were now
returning to the village, worn out, dejected, and mud-stained. It would
have been difficult to find a more forlorn-looking crew, even among the
unfortunate men whom they hunted.
But at sight of the couple before them their dejection instantly
vanished. The man's rich dress, handsome still, despite its draggled
appearance, his presence on the road at this hour, and the horrified
exclamation of the girl, all tended to prove that this was the man whom
they sought. With a quick exclamation, the leader sprang from his horse
and striding up to Sir Peter seized his horse's bridle, crying sharply,
"I arrest you in the King's name. Surrender like a wise man, or take
the consequences."
Sir Peter reined his horse back abruptly, and glanced round at his
enemies with a muttered curse. But in Mistress Barbara the danger only
roused a spirit of excitement and mischief. She flung up her head and
laughed.
"Cock-a-doodle-do! Who is afraid of you?" she sang saucily.
Captain Protheroe was somewhat discomfited by this unexpected answer.
He threw an angry glance in the direction of the girl, and otherwise
ignoring her presence, turned again to his prisoner.
"Come, sir, I ask you again, do you surrender, or must I order my men to
seize you?"
"And I repeat," remarked the girl again, "that you crow too loudly,
noble sir."
One of the troopers in the background laughed, and the captain turned
furiously on Barbara.
"Peace, wench," he began sharply. But at that moment, when all eyes
were turned on the girl, Sir Peter dealt a furious blow in the captain's
chest, driving him back against the bank, and at the same time wrenched
the reins from his grasp and dug his spurs into the horse's flanks. The
animal leaped forward suddenly, and before the men could recover from
the confusion and make a further move to stop him, the prisoner was
clear of the surrounding circle and galloping rapidly down the road,
while Mistress Barbara clapped her hands and laughed delightedly at
their discomfiture.
Captain Protheroe sprang to his feet in an instant, furious with rage,
but quickly realising that it would be vain with their wearied horses to
attempt to overtake the fugitive, he opened his lips to give the order
to fire, that the man might be stopped, dead or alive. But ere he could
speak the word, two arms were flung round his neck, and two soft hands
were pressed tightly over his lips, while again the girl's mischievous
laugh rang in his ears.
For a moment the captain was too much astonished to move, then
astonishment gave place to anger.
Roughly seizing the girl's wrists, he pulled away her hands and shouted
to the men to fire at once. But it was already too late, the fugitive
was out of sight, and though several troopers presently set out in
pursuit, it was obvious that the hope of recapture was very slight,
seeing he rode a fresh horse, and the moon, already low in the sky,
promised soon to give the pursued the protection of darkness.
Then, balked of his prisoner, Captain Protheroe turned furiously upon
the cause of his failure.
"You hussy," he exclaimed harshly, "I will teach you----"
He stopped abruptly, for the girl's hood had fallen back, and he found
himself gazing into the most wonderful eyes he had ever beheld.
Then a soft voice drawled in sympathetic tones, "'Deed, captain, hath he
really escaped thee? How vastly annoying. For, an I mistake not, the
orders were to take him at all costs, dead or alive, and now, being but
few miles from the coast, and being well mounted, 'tis very like he may
be altogether quit of the country by to-morrow morn. I vow 'tis too
bad. But sure, you are eager to pursue him, so I will no longer delay
you. I wish you a very good even."
She dropped him a sedate curtsey and turned to walk back to the house.
But by this time Captain Protheroe had recovered from the effect of her
eyes. He seized her roughly by the wrist and dragged her back.
"Not so fast, my girl. I must have some information from you first
concerning this same rebel."
Barbara eyed him in grave astonishment.
"You are hurting my wrist," she complained reproachfully.
The captain dropped her wrist instantly, and she held it out to him
gravely, that he might see the red marks of his fingers on the white
flesh.
"Come," he began, somewhat abashed, "tell me but this: Was that Sir
Peter Dare who hath escaped us, and if so, where and how did you fall in
with him?"
"Indeed, sir," answered the girl demurely, "you are surely forgetful of
the place and hour. Bethink you, 'tis scarce meet that I remain here
alone, parleying thus with strangers."
"Tut! girl," answered the captain, laughing, "that excuse will not
avail. You thought it no shame ten minutes since to remain here
parleying with one man. There is safety in numbers."
"Ah! That is a different matter, sir," she answered with a most
innocent glance. "He was a gentleman."
"A gentleman! Well! What then?"
"Such do not mishandle women, sir," she said and pointed again
reproachfully to her injured wrist.
"Peste!" muttered the captain angrily. In truth he was somewhat puzzled
as to whom the girl might be. She wore a rough scarlet cloak and hood
common to all the country maids, and he could not see her dress beneath.
Furthermore she spoke with a slight Somersetshire accent, and this,
together with her saucy manner, had at first led him to suppose her to
be merely a simple country wench. But now the suspicion grew that she
was but masquerading in the part.
The only thing of which he felt certain was that she had the sweetest
voice and the most bewitching dimple in the corner of her mouth of any
woman he had ever met.
"Come now," he continued more gently, "I am sorry I hurt thee, girl, but
an answer I must have. Who was the fellow?"
She looked at him gravely.
"Well, sir, an you will have it, he was--he was a certain Captain Miles
Protheroe."
Captain Protheroe laughed unwillingly at her coolness.
"Come, you must give a better account of him than that, mistress."
"Nay, is that no good account?" she exclaimed with elaborate
astonishment. "Marry! How one may be deceived. I have ever heard
Captain Protheroe spoken of as passably honest, though perchance not
overwise, and decidedly hard-featured."
But this was too much, and Captain Protheroe lost all patience. Yet if
the girl persisted in her saucy masquerade, he resolved at least to play
up to her, and let her see how she enjoyed the part.
"A truce of this fooling, girl," he began harshly.
"Faith, sir, an my conversation please you not, I will e'en take my
leave," she interposed quickly, and again turned to leave him.
But Captain Protheroe seized her cloak and held her fast.
"Listen to me, my girl," he said sharply, "and bridle your saucy tongue.
Give me the information I require or, by Heaven, I'll march you back to
the village and keep you prisoner till you learn to obey. Make up your
mind. Which shall it be?"
Barbara turned and regarded him gravely from head to foot.
"I like you not," she remarked coolly, as the result of her critical
survey.
"That may well be," he answered, smiling scornfully. "But an you answer
not my questions, and that speedily, I must find means to make you do
so. Now speak; which shall it be?"
Barbara glanced round eagerly for a way of escape, her mouth drooped,
her eyes opened wide with fear, her hands were clasped convulsively at
her throat, the fingers fidgeting with the ribbons of her cloak. She
shook her head once or twice helplessly, casting at the captain glances
of indignation, pleading, and reproach.
But he remained resolute. Then she began in a trembling voice:
"Well, sir, if there be no other way of escape, I must--I must e'en----I
must run!" And as she spoke the word, with a quick movement she twisted
herself free from the cloak which she had previously unfastened, leaving
it in the captain's hands, and darting up the bank by the roadside,
disappeared into the plantation beyond.
One or two of the troopers made a motion to pursue her, but the captain
called them back.
"Let her go. You would never find her in the dark." And added,
laughing, "The wench deserves her freedom. Fall in, men, and back to
quarters; we can do no more to-night."
Nothing loth, the troopers resumed their way back to the village; but
ere he departed, Captain Protheroe stooped and tore a ribbon from the
discarded cloak, and with a short, half-shamed laugh twisted it round
his wrist.
*CHAPTER II*
A man might journey far afield and find no sweeter spot than the village
of Durford as it appeared on a certain sunny September afternoon in the
year of grace 1685. The low white houses with their heavy overhanging
thatched roofs were bowered in roses; while in each miniature garden the
riot of colour and perfume intoxicated the senses. The low sun spread
the long, cool shadows of the trees across the brilliant emerald and
gold of the meadows, and lighted up each leaf and flower distinct from
its fellows. The square tower of the old grey church and the grey-green
clump of the yew trees behind it were silhouetted against a golden haze
like the head of a haloed saint. The summits of the distant hills faded
in golden mist like the mystic scopes of Paradise. In the neighbouring
orchards the trees bent beneath the weight of their russet burdens, the
fields spread golden with the harvest, and the wooded hills burned with
the bright, burnished tints of early autumn. It was as though in this,
the evening of the year, mother earth were moved in emulation of the sky
to deck herself in all the varied colours of the autumn sunset.
In the woods the birds were practising for their autumn chorus, voicing
the ecstatic joy of life in little unexpected trills and bursts of song,
while the heavy drone of the bees and the occasional cry of the
grasshoppers denoted a more sober contentment. The soft, warm air was
heavy with a myriad delicate scents; breathing over the imagination
faint, suggestive memories of a happy past and formless dreams of a
golden future.
But as the heart of man is still untamed by the sweet influences of
nature, so, on the afternoon in question, a scene was being enacted on
the green before the Inn, as foul as the surrounding picture was fair,
as though heaven and hell, God's love and tenderness to man, and man's
brutality and cruelty to his fellows, were here met side by side.
In the centre of the green stood a tall whipping-post, and tied to this
was a small boy of some nine years of age. His back was bare, his eyes
were wide with fear, and his teeth were resolutely clenched to repress
the sobs which ever and anon forced their way through his lips.
Over the boy, whip in hand, stood a man dressed in the uniform of a
corporal of the 2d Tangiers Regiment, a stout, purple-faced fellow, with
scrubby black hair and beard, near-set cunning eyes, a cruel mouth, and
over all an air of supreme importance and self-satisfaction. This was
Corporal Crutch, a man whose life was alternately glorified by his own
assurance of his remarkable ability and embittered by the world's
blindness towards the same.
Some half dozen troopers stood around watching the scene, and on the
edge of the group were three or four sobbing women and a crowd of
wide-eyed, terrified children.
"Now, my lad," cried the corporal, with a gleeful chuckle, "let us have
no more of this obstinacy. Nay, an thou wilt not speak, I warrant me a
taste of this whip will help me to the finding of thy tongue, and
doubtless of thy father into the bargain. An thou beest a wise lad
thou'lt speak now, once my arm gets to work on thee 'twill not be so
ready to stop, maybe."
Some of the troopers laughed, and the women's sobs increased, but the
boy remained resolutely silent.
"So thou wilt have it then," cried the corporal; and the whip descended
with a sickening swish on to the boy's bare back.
Once! Twice! Thrice! The boy shuddered and sobbed, but no word came
from his lips, and the corporal, angered by this unexpected
determination on the part of his victim, doubled the weight of his
blows.
Suddenly a shout interrupted the proceedings and a loud, clear voice
rang out imperiously:
"Hold, fellow! What art thou doing to the child? Loose him instantly."
The crowd round the corporal fell back hurriedly, and he himself paused
and slowly turned his head in the direction whence the voice came.
The speaker was a tall, slender girl, with a face of such exquisite
beauty as men may hope to see but once or twice in a lifetime, and
having seen, may never hope to forget. The beautiful oval face,
clear-skinned and glowing with colour, was outlined by soft dark hair,
shading to black in the shadows, waving back from the low white brow in
soft rippling curls. The clear-cut perfection of her features was
relieved from coldness by the unmanageable dimple at one corner of her
mouth, and by the frank directness of the deep blue eyes, which looked
out upon the world from beneath their dark lashes with habitual
fearlessness. The expression of her face was habitually happy and
friendly, only the firm lines of her mouth and chin belying the general
expression of good-tempered recklessness.
She was mounted on a rough pony, and had drawn rein at the top of the
hill leading down to the village, moved by an idle curiosity to learn
the cause of the crowd before the Inn.
The faces of the sobbing women brightened when they saw the girl, and
the men glanced at each other sheepishly.
"'Tis Mistress Barbara Winslow from the Manor House," muttered one.
"Thou hadst best send the lad about his business, corporal."
But Corporal Crutch was an obstinate man, and one moreover who was
imbued with a strong sense of his own importance; he had no mind to
allow any woman, whether of high or low degree, to interfere with his
chosen occupation. Moreover the Manor House was suspected of harbouring
rebels, and its occupants were judged little better than rebels
themselves. So paying no heed either to the command or the advice, he
turned his back upon the advancing figure and raised his whip for
another blow on the back of his trembling victim.
"Hold! I tell thee, fellow," cried the girl again angrily. "Dost thou
not hear me? Nay, an thou wilt not, by Heaven I'll make thee obey."
Without further ado she galloped straight at the group on the green
which scattered to right and left as she passed, then with a sudden
quick movement cracked out the long lash of her riding whip, curling it
lasso-like around the corporal's neck, and not checking her pace dragged
him stumbling and stuttering backwards till he fell to the ground. Then
releasing the whip handle and reining back her pony to admire her
handiwork she burst into a peal of laughter. And indeed 'twas a fit
subject for merriment, for the corporal was stout and angry and the lash
was exceedingly long and heavy. The corporal alternately swore and
struggled, and the lash became every minute more tightly entangled round
his neck.
Presently Mistress Barbara checked her laughter, slipped from her pony
and crossed to the whipping-post where the sobbing boy stood watching
the scene with eager eyes in which hope and fear still strove for the
mastery.
"Loose him," she cried imperiously, and the troopers hastened to obey
her.
"My poor brave laddie," she murmured, bending over him tenderly. "Ah!
but they have hurt thee cruelly. Get away to thy mother and fear not.
They shall not touch thee again."
Then drawing herself up to her full height, and she was more than common
tall, she faced round upon the group of men.
"Brutes," she cried. "Brutes ye are, and no men to treat a poor
helpless laddie thus. What! Have ye no manhood? Think shame of
yourselves to stand by and let such work go on. An I were but a man I'd
teach you a lesson you would not soon forget."
"'Tis well enough to talk," grumbled one of the troopers angrily; "but
the lad's father is in hiding and we must know where he is, The boy
could tell us well enough an he would speak. We caught him slipping
thro' the wood an hour back. Yon basket of food he carried was for him,
I warrant."
"'Tis very like," answered Barbara coldly. "What then?"
"What then? Why the fellow is a rebel."
"And what of that, pray? An his father be a rebel to King James, is
that reason why the lad should be traitor to his own father? Shame on
you! You who are fathers yourselves; would you have your sons cast such
a teaching in your teeth?"
By this time the corporal had freed his neck from the lash and recovered
his equanimity. Now he bustled to the front with an air of importance.
"Best beware, mistress," he cried roughly. "Best beware. 'Tis ill work
to interfere wi' the just punishment of traitors."
Barbara turned to him and laughed softly.
"Ha! Sir Gallows-Bird. So thou hast escaped the hemp; welcome on thy
return to this wicked world."
"I tell thee, madame," stuttered the corporal angrily, "'tis ill work
jesting----"
"Peace, fool!" she cried imperiously. "I marvel thou art not ashamed to
show thy face after this day's work. I knew already you and your masters
think it no shame to fight against women, but at least methought
children might go unharmed. They can do but little harm to King James."
"Pshaw! Ye know nought of the matter," blustered the corporal. "I
brook no interference in the exercise of my duty. Bring back the boy,
Sam Perry, and proceed with the interrogation."
"Do not attempt it," answered the girl quietly, "for I will not permit
it."
Sam Perry hesitated.
"What!" roared the corporal, "are ye afraid of a chit of a girl? Why do
you not obey?"
"At your peril," cried Barbara sharply, moving before the men.
How the matter would eventually have terminated is doubtful had not a
second interruption occurred.
The door of the Inn opened, and a figure emerged at sight of which the
troopers shrank back sheepishly, and the corporal's air of importance
vanished pitifully.
"What is the meaning of this disturbance?" sharply demanded the new
arrival.
Barbara turned eagerly towards him.
"Are you the leader of these butchers, sir?" she enquired haughtily.
Though somewhat astonished at this unexpected mode of address, Captain
Protheroe, for he it was, smiled slightly and answered politely enough:
"I am the captain of these men, if that is what you would ask, madame.
Are all soldiers butchers in your estimation?"
"Soldiers!" she cried scornfully. "Call ye them soldiers? But perhaps
you are even as they, and 'tis by your orders they torture women and
children and make a veritable hell of God's earth. I wish you joy of
such work."
"Pardon my dulness, madame," answered the captain calmly, "but I have
not the least idea to what you are alluding or how I have incurred your
displeasure."
"No? Then hearken, sir." And in burning words she described the cause
of her indignation.
The captain listened with a gathering frown to her story, and at the
conclusion turned on the corporal with a look that boded ill for that
self-satisfied mortal.
"So, sirrah! Is this the way you carry out my orders? Have I not said I
will have no violence to the village folk? And by Heaven I will be
obeyed. I have long known thee for a knave. Art fool and coward, too,
that you must needs force children to help thee with thy work? Is this
thy notion of a soldier's work? I'll teach thee better knowledge of thy
duty ere I've done with thee. 'Tis not the first time I've heard such
complaints; see to it it be the last, or by the saints 'twill be the end
of thy service. I'll have no bullies in my troop. Go, sirrah!"
The discomfited corporal slunk off down the street casting an ugly
glance over his shoulder at the girl who had brought such a rating upon
him. But for her part Barbara laughed and waved her hand after the
retreating figure.
"Fare thee well, Sir Knight of the whipcord," she cried gaily.
When the corporal had vanished, followed by other troopers, the captain
turned towards Barbara with a bow and said coldly:
"I trust you are satisfied with these orders, madame."
"I shall be satisfied, sir, when I know that the orders are executed,"
she answered coolly.
"Madame, I command here. Where I command I am obeyed."
"'Twere easy to believe it, sir," she answered with a half-smile and a
glance at his resolute face. "But I have heard there be many orders
delivered thus readily in public which privately are never intended to
be performed."
The captain flushed hotly, but gave no further sign of anger at this
insinuation.
"Indeed, I know not wherein I have deserved your distrust, madame."
"In such troublous times as these my distrust is given before my
confidence, sir; and pray what have you done to prove that distrust is
misplaced? You claim to be a gentleman, but by Heaven 'tis no gentle's
work to hunt down poor wretches led astray by others who should have
known a wiser path; 'tis no gentle's work to harry helpless women and
children; 'tis no gentle's work to listen behind doors and spy through
keyholes. By my faith, sir," she continued, her temper increasing at
the remembrance of her many grievances; "By my faith, sir, this poor
wretch of a corporal whom you have so rated is virtue itself compared
with you. He but executes the orders which you conceive, hiding
yourself behind the name of gentleman."
The last words were delivered with biting scorn, and having concluded
her tirade, Barbara turned her back upon him and stepped towards her
pony.
Captain Protheroe had remained politely silent during this harangue.
When her back was turned he smiled slightly and followed the indignant
lady.
"Permit me to assist you to mount, madame," he said with grave
politeness.
Barbara drew her skirts around her and answered with as much haughty
dignity as her rising anger would permit:
"No, sir. When you have shown yourself capable of a gentleman's work
you may be worthy of a gentleman's privileges. Until that time I prefer
to mount alone and keep myself from the pollution of your touch."
But instead of being crushed as she had intended he should be, Captain
Protheroe merely smiled again and stood politely aside to watch her
mount. The pony was restless, two or three attempts were necessary
before the feat was accomplished, and during the struggle both Barbara's
dignity and temper suffered considerably. Captain Protheroe wisely made
no further offer of assistance, but watched her efforts with an amused
twinkle in his eyes.
Suddenly an idea struck him. He laughed softly, and placing a detaining
hand upon the pony's bridle he turned once more to the lady, an ironical
smile playing about his lips.
"Madame, since I am unworthy to touch your foot, I fear I am equally
unworthy to retain this small token of remembrance which you so
obligingly bestowed upon me that evening some weeks ago when you did me
the honour to embrace me." So speaking he placed his hand in the pocket
of his coat and drew forth the scarlet ribbon of the cloak which she had
left in his hands when she fled from him at their first meeting.
Had there been magic in the small piece of ribbon it could not well have
wrought a greater change in Barbara. Her attempt at dignity vanished.
A wave of crimson passed over her face, her eyes blazed, and when she
spoke it was in a voice choked with passion.
"How dare you, sir! 'Tis a most cowardly lie. 'Twas no embrace, as you
might know well. 'Twas--'Twas--an assault."
Her persecutor was as unmoved by her passion as he had been by her
rating.
"No embrace?" he drawled in polite astonishment. "Nay, then I pray you
pardon my mistake, which you will grant me was a natural one. Truly an
that be your manner of assaulting your enemies, I forgive the Fates for
having ranked me among their number, and shall desire of them nothing
better than continuous battery at your hands."
"Have your desire then," cried Barbara furiously, and doubling up her
first she dealt him a fierce blow on the side of his face.
With a quiet smile he turned his head.
"The other cheek, madame?"
Barbara gasped and for a moment stared down into the cool face raised to
hers. Then suddenly her eyes twinkled, her mouth dimpled, and she broke
into a soft, half-angry laugh which, however, she as quickly repressed.
"By Heaven, sir, an you be not the most aggravating man in the kingdom,
Heaven grant I may never meet him. How dare you detain me thus? Loose
my pony instantly."
He drew back with a low bow.
"Your pardon, madame, your way is free. In the meantime I will keep
this token till ye redeem it by another embrace--I should say, assault."
"Then you will keep it forever, sir."
"It is nought but the alternative that I should desire more," answered
the captain still with the same quiet smile. But Barbara was too
furious to answer, and whipping up her pony she galloped away.
The captain stood silently watching her till she disappeared from the
narrow village street, then he turned and walked into the Inn.
In the taproom sat the corporal, his wounded pride somewhat soothed by
generous potations, holding forth upon the subject of his grievances to
the half-dozen troopers collected there.
"'Tis a fine state of things when any blue-eyed wench is to be allowed
to interfere in the administration of justice and say this ye shall and
this ye shall not do, for all the world like the general himself. 'Tis
no sort of work. 'Twas very different in the old days wi' Captain
Carrington. Then an a lad would not speak we had ways to teach him.
But now----" He paused cautiously and confided his criticism of his
superior officer to the depths of his tankard.
"This Mistress Barbara is a bold wench," ventured Sam Perry cautiously.
The corporal's face darkened.
"Mistress Winslow had best be careful," he muttered. "Her brother is
attainted as a rebel, and lieth somewhere in hiding, and I warrant yon
haughty wench knows where. Zounds! I'll keep a careful watch of
her--and I doubt not soon to surprise her secret. 'Twere a sweet
revenge," he muttered, rubbing his fingers gleefully; "and 'twould teach
her 'tis scant wisdom to bandy words wi' them in authority and fling
whips i' an honest man's face."
Meanwhile Barbara rode home slowly, talking to herself as was her wont.
"Odd's bodikin! as Rupert would say, but how the fat corporal did puff
and splutter. Poor Cicely would say 'twere wicked folly thus to anger
our enemies against us, but sure such a prank can do no harm. The
corporal is patently a fool, I fear him not; and as for the other----"
Here she paused and laughed half-angrily. "He surely would not venge
his quarrel with me on Rupert. But what an immovable fellow it is. How
I would love to see him angry. 'Twere perchance a dangerous experiment,
but I were no true woman did I not long to try. Ah! well, an he remain
here much longer I fear he may have many chances to taste of my temper.
'Tis a brutal world." And so alternately laughing and frowning, she
rode home to the Manor House.
*CHAPTER III*
The Durford Manor House, which for many generations had been the home of
the Winslows, was a low, rambling structure of grey stone, full of
strange nooks and corners and curious hiding places. Part of the house
dated back to the fifteenth century, and had sheltered fugitives from
Bosworth field. It had witnessed many strange scenes during the years
of the Civil War; many a Royalist had found refuge there, and it had
been twice besieged. Here, in the great oak-panelled hall, Lady
Elizabeth Winslow, grandmother of the present Sir Rupert, had
entertained the Parliamentarian officers to supper while her husband was
held prisoner in the neighbouring room, and after disarming their
suspicions by her wit and gaiety, had eluded their vigilance and slipped
out of her window when her guests had retired for the night, and ridden
through the darkness to Taunton. Here she roused the townsfolk, and
herself riding at their head had surprised the small force conducting
her husband to Gloucester and rescued him just when all hope of escape
seemed dead. Here Mistress Penelope Winslow, the proud beauty of the
House, whose portrait, a stiff, lifeless shadow of the beauty which had
set fire to all the hearts in the countryside, still hung above the
stairs, had refused her twenty suitors and finally given her hand to a
nameless Scotch soldier and ridden away with him to the wilds of his
Highland home. Here Richard Winslow, that renowned soldier, had been
brought after the battle of Worcester, the very remnant of a man, spared
by the clemency of Parliament to drag out a weary existence in the house
of his fathers, and dream what his life might have been had not a fatal
shot left him at once blind, deaf and paralysed. Here Stephen Winslow,
after impoverishing his house and risking his life for his sovereign,
had eaten his heart out through long years of baffled ambition and
bitter disappointment, learning the gratitude of kings.
The Winslows had ever been loyal to the Stuarts, giving all and asking
little in return, and, though she would not for the world confess it, it
had been a sore trouble to Mistress Barbara that her twin brother
Rupert, the last representative of his line, should have chosen to cast
in his lot with the usurper Monmouth and rebel against his lawful
sovereign.
She had acquiesced, as she acquiesced in all he proposed, but her heart
boded no good of the matter, and when the fatal battle of Sedgemoor had
sent Monmouth to captivity and the block, and had made of her own
brother a fugitive from home, in hiding she knew not where, she
experienced anxiety and misery indeed, so far as her sunny hopeful
nature would allow, but no surprise.
More than two weary months had passed since that fatal morning, but no
news of the wanderer had reached the Manor House. From time to time her
more humble neighbours crept back in secret to the village they had left
so hopefully that bright morning in June when they went out to join one
whom they believed to be the Heaven-sent defender of their faith and
freedom. But they came back, alas! only to creep away again to some
dreary hiding-place in moor or wood, for the village was watched by the
soldiers and home could no longer offer safe refuge to the weary,
despairing men. From time to time came rumours of the escape or capture
of this or that follower of the Duke and terrible stories of punishment
meted out by brutal judges; still no news of young Sir Rupert Winslow
came to allay the anxiety of his sister or soften the hopeless misery of
his young cousin Cicely, to whom he had been betrothed but three short
weeks before his departure. But no suspense, however terrible, can last
forever, and at length, early in September, the longed-for news arrived.
Mistress Barbara and her cousin were at breakfast in the sunny parlour
of the Manor House, and the former had just sought to win a smile from
the sad face of her companion by relating her adventure with Corporal
Crutch in the village on the previous afternoon. When she ended her
story Cicely looked up fearfully and shook her head.
"Indeed, Barbara, thou art too rash. Thou hast but made an enemy of the
man, and God wot we have enemies enough already."
"Nay, prithee do not chide me," answered her cousin coaxingly; "the
fellow can do us no harm. And indeed, Cicely, I must be merry
sometimes, or I verily believe I should die."
"Merry!" exclaimed Cicely somewhat bitterly. "Ay, perchance thou canst
be merry, Rupert is but thy brother; yet to me----"
"He is thy betrothed. Then truly by all showing I should be more
distressed than thou. New lovers may be gotten by the score, but by no
power could I win me another brother. Nay, dear, I did but jest, I
meant not to vex thee," she added contritely, seeing her cousin's lip
quiver unsteadily; "thou knowest my tongue runs ever faster than my
brain, plague on it."
"Thou hast not vexed me, Barbara, only---- I would I had the secret of
thy courage."
"Nay, thou hast courage enough, only somewhat too much thought. Were I
to sit and dream all day of what evils might befall Rupert I should be
as sad-eyed as thou art. But indeed no news is good news. The world is
a good place, and I see not why one may not hope for happy days until
sad ones befall us, eh!"
They were interrupted by the entrance of the waiting-maid. "I were loath
to trouble ye, Mistress Barbara," she began, "but 'tis a zertain
tiresome vellow, Simon the pedlar, who asks to show you his wares. To
my thinking he hath nought worth a glance, and I had zent un about his
bizness speedily; but a be a mozt stubborn fellow and will not depart
until a zee ye. A zays a hath zomething of great value but a be a
vellow will say aught to gain a hearing, I know un well."
Barbara's face brightened suddenly and she sprang eagerly from her seat.