"Why, Barbara!" exclaimed Cicely in astonishment; "what would you with
the man? Would'st plenish thy store of linsey or tapes that thou art so
ready to see him?"
"An I dream not, Cis, he will have wares more precious than those."
"What!" cried Cicely with awakened interest. "Is it possible the fellow
hath stuffs from London with him? I would willingly buy, an it be so."
Barbara laughed and pinched her cousin's chin. "Thou little vanity!
Thou worshipper of gauds and ribbons!" she cried with much solemnity; "I
verily believe thou would'st sell thy soul for two dozen yards of Genoa
velvet. But come; we will see what he has to show us."
On entering the large wainscotted hall the girls found the pedlar
standing in the embrasure of one of the windows, his pack tying unopened
at his feet. He was an aged, wizened-looking creature upon whose face
greed and cunning had laid their stamp.
Cicely eagerly eyeing the pack addressed herself to him with a slight
air of hauteur.
"Well, fellow, where are your wares? Have you aught of rarity or value
to show us?"
"Ay, that have I, mistress," he answered in a high-pitched grating
voice, with an air of impertinent familiarity. "I have that here which
will bring light to the dullest eye, a blush to the palest cheek, and
joy to the saddest heart. 'Tis not over rare neither, yet 'tis ever
held to be of the greatest value."
"Why what mean you? What should this be?"
"A letter, mistress! a love-letter I doubt not."
"A letter! From whom?"
"From one of whom your ladyship hath long wished to hear, and hath
well-nigh heard from no more," he answered with a brutal laugh.
Cicely's eyes flashed, her whole body trembled with eagerness.
"Ah! give it me, give it me, my good man; why hast thou delayed so
foolishly?"
"Softly, softly mistress," answered the fellow coolly. "Here is the
letter sure enow," drawing a small white packet from his valise--"And
'tis from Sir Rupert." Here he showed the direction. "But first give
me my price."
"Oh yes, thou shalt be paid, never fear," cried Cicely with increasing
impatience. "Now give me the packet."
"Not so fast, mistress," he answered curtly; "I yield not up this packet
before I see my reward."
"Oh! you foolish fellow! name your price then."
"Five hundred crowns," he answered coolly.
"Five hundred crowns," cried Cicely in horror; "why, man, thou art mad,
I have not such a sum."
"Mad or no, that is my price."
"But I could not pay thee such a sum; you are a very extortioner, you
wicked fellow."
"Listen to me, mistress," interrupted the pedlar roughly; "and be not so
glib with thy tongue; hard words win no favours. I know nought of
politics, and Sir Rupert may hang twenty times for all I care. All I
know is that this letter is worth my price, and if ye will not pay it
there be others not a mile away who will be right willing to buy the
information it contains."
"Ah, sure you could not be so cruel," began Cicely piteously, but
Barbara intervened.
"Peace, Cicely, let me deal with the fellow. Now, my man," she
continued, turning on him sharply, "we will give thee twenty crowns for
that letter and not a penny more, dost hear me?"
"Oh, ay, mistress, I hear thee," drawled the pedlar jeeringly. "Well,
'tis but a small matter after all, 'tis but one more job for Tom
Boilman. I doubt not your ladyship hath heard the sentence of these
rebels," he continued turning to Cicely; "'Tis hanging, drawing and
quartering for them all. Oh, I warrant me they'll spare no toil to give
Sir Rupert a worthy death. He'll have music in plenty for his last
dance, and in case he find the hanging wearisome they'll cut him down
and cut him up before he chokes." He laughed brutally at his joke and
added coolly, "Maybe he'll live long enough to feel the boiling pitch,
they say some of them have done so, and Sir Rupert is hardy enow."
Cicely covered her face with her hands and sank shuddering to the
ground.
"Oh! Barbara, Barbara, what can we do?" she sobbed, while the pedlar
laughed once more.
"Plague take the man," muttered Barbara in desperation; "what could
Rupert be doing to trust in such a rogue! Well, something must be done,
but what?"
She looked round for inspiration and her glance rested on a long rapier
which lay on the central table. She turned again to the pedlar and her
eyes gleamed with excitement and triumph.
"He is but a poor creature," she muttered, "and by his face he should be
but a coward. I can but try it."
"Well, mistress," continued the fellow harshly, "am I to offer the
letter for sale down at the Winslow Arms yonder?"
"No, my man," answered Barbara calmly, "for an ye will not deliver it
fairly I purpose to take it myself." So saying she stepped aside,
picked up the rapier and raised the point full at the breast of the
pedlar.
The cunning smile died from the man's face and he looked doubtfully from
the shining blade to the resolute face of the girl.
Barbara watched him with a cheerful smile. "I fear me, fellow, you have
made a sad mistake," she remarked coolly, "an you deemed you could act
the bully undisturbed. We be two women, 'tis true, but not defenceless,
as you will soon learn an you try to resist, for I can wield a rapier as
well as any man; Cicely, reach me hither yonder pistol; 'tis loaded?
Yes. Now my man, the letter, if you please."
This turn of events was totally unexpected by the pedlar. He
half-doubted the girl's threat, but few such men as he would care to
risk a rush against a loaded pistol and a rapier wielded by a resolute
hand. He made an attempt to snatch the rapier but the girl easily
fenced his attempt, and the rapidity of her disengagement showed him
that her boast of skill had been no idle threat. Barbara stood betwixt
him and the door, the window was closed, he could see no way of escape.
After a moment or two of hesitation during which Barbara watched him
breathlessly, he decided on a prudent course; placed the letter on the
window-seat and answered sulkily:
"There is the packet then, give me the twenty crowns and let me go."
"Not so, friend," answered Barbara sweetly. "The Winslow Arms is still
conveniently near, and I have not so low an estimate of your cunning as
to doubt your knowledge of the contents of yonder letter. We must keep
you here a little space. Oblige me by mounting those stairs."
The hawker made a step forward, only to find the point of the rapier
against his breast, and seeing resistance to be useless he turned with a
muttered curse and commenced to climb the wide staircase. Barbara
followed him, the sword in her right hand, the pistol in her left, for
being thoroughly skilled in the use of the rapier she felt more
confidence in that weapon than in the pistol, which latter aroused in
her as in many of her sex feelings rather of doubt and suspicion than of
confidence, in fact she carried it but to give an air of greater
resolution to her action.
"What a grace it is to be firm of countenance," she chuckled to herself
as she slowly followed her victim. "The poor fool! and he did but know
how my heart trembles, for in truth, if he resists, I could not hurt
him. If I did pink him with my rapier 'tis very like I should but faint
at sight of his blood, but he is too great a coward to attempt it. What
a tale this will be for Rupert."
Now when either man or woman is embarked upon any hazardous undertaking
'tis but scant wisdom to indulge in triumphant rejoicing before the
success of the enterprise be thoroughly assured. Had Barbara borne this
in mind and given less rein to her hopeful imagination she had doubtless
been better prepared for what followed. For as they approached the top
of the stairway and she was hugging herself over the success of her
bravado, the pedlar suddenly stumbled forward upon his face, slipped
down two steps, striking his boots against the girl's ankles, and before
she rightly realised what was happening had twisted himself backwards
under the guard of her rapier, knocked up her arm and flinging her
roughly aside he started down the stairs.
Barbara clutched at the balustrade to save herself from falling
headlong, and in so doing dropped the pistol. The suddenness of the
attack had completely shattered her nerve, she could do nothing save
cling to the oak railing and gaze helplessly after the retreating figure
of the pedlar.
As for Simon, he paused neither for his pack nor his letter, but made
all speed to reach the open door of the hall, and he would assuredly
have escaped unopposed but for the sudden intervention of an unexpected
enemy.
He had already reached the threshold, and in another minute would have
been free, when Cicely, with a sudden thought born of the very nearness
of the danger, sprang to her feet and gave a shrill whistle. There was
a low, fierce growl, a quick rush of feet.
"Down with him, Butcher, at him! at him!" cried Cicely, and the next
moment the pedlar was pulled to the ground and struggling wildly with
the enormous wolfhound which had answered his mistress's eager summons
and now stood over Simon shaking and worrying him as if he had been a
rat.
If the man's life were to be saved there was clearly no time to be lost,
and the two girls hurried to the spot to interpose between the dog and
his victim.
It was no easy task, for the dog was savage with fury, but at length
Cicely succeeded in dragging him away, while Barbara fell on her knees
beside the man anxiously inquiring of his injuries.
"Oh! I can trust thou art not greatly hurt," she gasped; "tho' in truth
'twere but thy deserts. Canst not speak, fellow? Nay, prithee what
ails thee? Alack! I fear me Butcher has hurt thee sorely, and yet truly
I would it were more. Indeed the dog should be chained, tho' I am right
thankful he was free."
So she continued, torn between a woman's compassion for his overthrow
and a deep sense of relief at their escape.
Meanwhile Cicely having somewhat pacified the indignant Butcher returned
to the pedlar's side. She could not repress a smile as she listened to
her cousin's contradictory outburst. She had no pity to spare for the
man who had so threatened the life of her lover.
"Tut, Barbara! 'tis my belief the fellow is but little injured save in
the loss of his garments," for the pedlar's coat was in rags. "Come,"
she continued, turning sharply to the man, "be thankful the dog has
dealt so gently with you, 'twould not be so the next time an ye attempt
to escape again. Up with you, fellow."
With many groans and heartfelt curses Simon struggled to his feet. As
Cicely had suspected he was rather terrified than hurt, but the dog had
shaken out of him what little courage he possessed. He turned without
further attempt at resistance, and slowly mounted the stairs, followed
once more by Barbara, who, having well-nigh paid dearly for her
experience, did not relax her wariness until she had safely secured him
in one of the upper chambers whence there was no possibility of escape.
This done she hurried down into the hall, where Cicely sat engrossed
already in her letter, and burst into a merry laugh.
"Well done, Cis, well done," she cried, flinging herself down beside her
cousin. "I vow thou art a very virago, but for thee he would have
escaped. Alack! 'tis small use to have the wrist, eye, and skill of a
man when one has but a woman's nerve. But what news, coz; what says the
letter?"
"He is safe, he has reached the coast, and to-morrow will take sail in a
vessel bound for Holland. He---- But I will tell thee the rest anon,"
answered Cicely somewhat hurriedly, and then passed into the garden
still reading her letter.
"Plague take these lovers!" exclaimed Barbara, looking after her
whimsically, "they are not too generous with their news. But now, how
to rid me of yon same discontented gentle upstairs." She paused and bit
her lip thoughtfully. "Ah! well, there is time for that; he is safe
enough now, and belike a plan will suggest itself later."
Then she stretched her arms as though a great load were lifted from her
shoulders, and laughed again softly.
"'Tis selfish to be happy when there be so many still in sorrow," she
murmured. "But with Rupert safe again I cannot feel a care. All! 'tis
a good world, a good world, and therefore," she cried, springing to her
feet with a laugh, "I will go out and rejoice in it."
*CHAPTER IV*
The old-fashioned garden was the glory of the Manor House. Generations
of flower-lovers had tended it year by year, and every nook and corner
bore testimony to the loving care of its owners. As Barbara tripped
along the trim box-edged paths between banks of hollyhocks and
proud-faced dahlias and sweet clusters of late roses, she looked, in her
soft blue gown, with her happy face and shining eyes like the very
spirit of Hope just escaped from the box of Pandora, and meet to face
and vanquish all the evils of the world. But when she emerged upon the
lawn and came in sight of the grey stone sun-dial she stopped short, for
on the steps of the dial sat Sorrow herself in the person of Cicely, her
head leaning forlornly against the stone pillar, her eyes streaming with
tears, her hands clasped and her breast convulsed with bitter sobs.
The laughter died out of Barbara's face, and was replaced by a look of
the utmost astonishment and desperation.
"Now may I be forgiven, Cicely, an thou beest not the most ungrateful
girl in Christendom," she exclaimed reproachfully. "Shame on you to sit
there weeping like a very fountain, when thou shouldest be glad and
thankful at Rupert's escape."
"Ah, indeed, Barbara! I am thankful, but----"
"Nay, then Heaven preserve me from such a melancholy display of
thankfulness," responded Barbara drily. Then seating herself beside her
sobbing cousin she continued coaxingly, "Come, tell me what ails thee,
Cicely. Thou sayest Rupert has reached the coast in safety and
to-morrow will take ship for Holland where he will wait until we can
make his peace with the King. Is it not so? I confess I see no great
cause for tears in news such as this."
"Ah, Barbara, 'tis different with thee, Rupert is only thy brother."
"Well, and were he ten thousand times thy sweetheart, I still cannot see
why thou shouldest weep at his escape."
"Thou dost not listen, Barbara," answered Cicely somewhat petulantly.
"I thank Heaven for his safety, but, oh, Barbara! I cannot let him go
without seeing him once more, just once; and he says likewise he will
not go without seeing me. Bethink you, we may not meet for years, and
so he being but ten miles distant, he purposes to ride over to-night and
bid farewell; and so I must weep, Barbara, for if he comes he will
assuredly be taken, and if he comes not I shall assuredly die."
Barbara sprang to her feet with a gesture of despair.
"Now a plague on you both for a pair of mad lovers. He cannot come here,
'tis madness. Thou knowest, Cicely, the house and roads are watched
night and day by these scarlet-coated, scarlet-faced troopers, and they
say yonder dark-visaged captain of theirs is a very dragon of vigilance.
'Tis clear they deem such a visit likely, seeing how closely they watch
our movements; 'twere fair courting capture if Rupert came."
"I know the risk well enow. But, oh, Barbara, I cannot live another day
without seeing him. Ah, to feel he is so near, so near, and I may not
see him, feel his hand, hear his voice. Oh! I cannot endure it," and
leaning her head once more against the cold stone pillar of the dial,
she burst into a passion of sobs.
Barbara regarded her with an expression of helpless bewilderment.
"'Tis passing strange," she murmured. "Come, Cis, I am Rupert's self in
face and figure. I will kiss and cozen thee and call thee pretty names
to thy heart's content; why may not that suffice thee?"
In spite of her tears Cicely could not repress a smile at this strange
offer of a substitute.
"'Tis very clear, Barbara, thou hast never loved."
"Truly no," was the frank rejoinder. "I know nought of the matter; it
passeth my understanding altogether and indeed methinks it is but
nonsense. Rupert is very well where he is and you shall see him in a
year or two at most. What more can you wish tho' you were a thousand
times in love. Come, Cis, dry thine eyes, and we will send to forbid
him to come."
But Cicely only wept the more persistently.
"Ah! Barbara, thou hast no heart, I must see him once again, indeed I
must. I must let him hold me in his arms, and feel him near me.
Barbara, you do not understand, but I shall die if I may not see him.
Sure thou couldst help me an thou wouldst. My heart will break else.
Oh, Barbara! try to understand."
Barbara gave a sigh of sheer desperation, then yielded to her cousin's
plea.
"'Tis stark madness, Cis," she cried; "but thou shalt have thy way.
Only look cheerily and Rupert shall come. But now how to devise it."
She clasped her chin in her hands and bent her brows in thought. "What
said he in the letter?"
"Thou mayest read it, an thou wilt not laugh."
Barbara took the note and turned away to pace up and down the lawn lest
her cousin should see the involuntary twitching of her lips as she read
the tender epistle; it was so strange to her to think of Rupert writing
thus--Rupert, who to her seemed the personification of boyish gaiety.
As she raised her head from perusing the note her attention was
momentarily arrested by a rustling sound from within one of the large
laurel bushes bordering the lawn and a strange shimmer behind the
leaves. She stared at the bush a moment in surprise and then passed on
towards the foot of the garden still deep in thought. Here she paused
long, gazing into the stream which there flowed by the garden, her face
wrinkled with anxiety and bewilderment as she puzzled her brain over the
situation, her eyes darkened with a shadow, of fear.
Suddenly with a flash the inspiration came. Her bent brows relaxed, her
eyes glanced mischievously, she gave a gasp at the very magnificence of
the idea, and breaking into the gayest laughter she fairly danced back
to her cousin, clapping her hands with delight.
"Cicely, Cicely," she cried, "never let it be said again that Barbara is
a brainless madcap. I have conceived the properest plot, a very prince
of plots. Thou shalt see thy Romeo to-night, my poor lovelorn Juliet,
and I----faith! I will have the maddest prank that ever woman played."
And flinging herself on to the grass, she laughed till the tears ran
down her cheeks.
Cicely stared at her in undisguised astonishment.
"Barbara," she remarked solemnly, "I verily believe thou art mad."
"Thou wouldest say so indeed an thou knewest my plan."
"Come then, tell me."
"Not I," laughed Barbara. "Be thou content with thy beloved Romeo, and
leave me my jest to myself."
"But, Barbara, I am afraid. What if the plan should fail!"
"Talk not to me of failure, Cis. There is a risk, I do not deny it;
but," she continued, laughing, "if danger befall can we not fight our
way out? Butcher is a mighty ally; I am well nigh as handy as Rupert
with the rapier, and thou mightest perchance discharge a pistol or so,
if it were possible to do so and cover thine ears at the same moment."
"In Heaven's name, Barbara, what have you in your mind?" cried Cicely in
dismay.
"Fear nothing, coz; leave all to me. Listen, Peter the smith can always
be trusted; he or little Jacky Marlow would carry our message to Rupert.
If he start at twilight he should be here before ten. We can hide
him----"
"Whist, Barbara!" interrupted Cicely softly, "didst not hear a rustle in
yonder bush? Can anyone be in hiding there?"
"Tut, tut! thou trembler! Thou wouldest see a spy in every pansy face.
'Twas but a rat or a rabbit. Get thee in and send for Peter; I will
write my note to Rupert."
"I know not why I trust you, Barbara," said Cicely doubtfully, "for thou
art ever a madcap. But I must see him."
"Well so thou shalt, so thou shalt; now leave me alone to think."
Left alone by the sun-dial Barbara resumed her favourite attitude for
thought, one foot tucked beneath her, her head bent, her chin resting
upon her clasped hands.
She thought deeply. Twice or thrice she raised her head and laughed
aloud suddenly, as though catching some new and entertaining idea. Once
indeed her face grew grave and her eyes fearful, and she shuddered as
she weighed the dangers before her, but presently with a laugh she
banished the thought. Was she not a Winslow? and whenever was Winslow
yet who let fear turn him from the path he chose to tread?
At length she drew paper and pencil from her reticule, and wrote a short
note. Then gathering up her flowers she rose and walked towards the
house.
As she passed the clump of laurel she paused and plucked a few sprigs,
glancing sharply through the leaves the while; then with a laugh and a
shake of the head she passed on.
But having passed, there lay behind her in the centre of the path two
roses and the little white note which had slipped from her fingers to
the ground.
No sooner had Barbara vanished from sight than the branches of the
laurel were parted and a purple face peered cautiously out. The face
was followed by the stout figure of Corporal Crutch, who crawled from
behind the bush, pounced upon the paper, and with a low chuckle of
delight disappeared with his prize, leaving the garden once again
deserted.
*CHAPTER V.*
Corporal Crutch, having obtained possession of the coveted note, and
seeing nothing more to be gained by remaining at his uncomfortable post,
withdrew softly from the garden. Stealing into the adjoining coppice,
he seated himself beneath the shady trees, mopped his brow and proceeded
to decipher the letter, pausing occasionally to chuckle slyly and
congratulate himself upon the unexpected success of his espionage.
The letter was written in a bold round hand, and ran as follows:
DEAR RUPERT.--Thou art indeed the very apostle of rashness, but seeing
thou art resolved to venture here to bid Cicely farewell, 'twere waste
of words to attempt to dissuade thee. Yet prithee think no shame to be
cautious, for the risk is great; we are much suspected and the house and
lanes are closely watched. But to-day I will convey a message to this
worthy captain, as from a trusted informant, that it is thine intention
to meet me at the Lady Farm. These troopers swallow any bait; 'twill go
hard an they ride not thither on a wild goose chase. As for you, an you
come with caution over the hill and down the stream (the boat is moored
among the willows at the old place) you will surely escape them. Once
in the garden thou art safe enough; they dare not show their faces there
and they love not the copse at night, deeming it damp,--as assuredly it
is,--and haunted,--as doubtless it may be. We will be on the watch for
thee, and the old hiding place is ready, an it should be needed.
Farewell, thou rash and lovelorn fool. Thy sister,
BARBARA.
"Ods zooks! here's a prize!" chuckled the corporal, tossing the paper in
the air and catching it again in the very ecstacy of delight. "Ha, Ha!
my pretty mistress, thou'lt sing a different tune ere I've done with
thee to-night. Now what to do? What were best? The captain (curse him)
is away to Spaxton wi' three o' the men, to search the Squire's papers;
he'll not be back till nightfall. The better fortune that; I'll see to
this business myself, and 'twill go hard an I have not this same 'rash
and lovelorn fool' in my safe keeping ere day dawns. Now how to work
it?" he mused. "It were easier had they but said where the fellow lies.
Should I set one to follow her messenger, and so discover his
hiding-place? Yet that were difficult, perchance dangerous; 'tis very
like we would but be led astray; these peasants are cursedly
untrustworthy, and monstrous shrewd. Or post men up the stream, and
take him on the road? That, too, were risky. Perchance 'twere wiser to
watch him into the house, and there trap him. Yes, by Jupiter!" he
muttered excitedly, "trap him and trap them all. Two traitors are
better than one, and if she be not judged traitor for thus harbouring
rebels, may I dance to Kirke's music myself. Why, 'tis no less than
Mistress Lisle lost her head for last week. Yes, it must be so. Ah!
the pretty fool, wi' her prince of plots. She may plot, ay, and
counter-plot, but she'll not out-plot Jonathan Crutch, I warrant me. But
soft, who comes here?"
It was Peter Drew, the smith, from the village, who strode through the
coppice on his way to the Manor House. He greeted the Corporal with a
scowl.
"Good-day, fellow," began that worthy. "What do you up here?"