kindly.
"Why, sir, I hope so," answered Barbara cheerfully. "I am Barbara
Winslow of Durford Manor, and no Winslow yet was ever written coward,"
she added proudly, with a scornful glance round the shed.
"Noblesse oblige," he quoted, smiling at her sadly. "Ah, child, your
strength may seem great, but trust not in it too wholly, lest in the
hour of darkness it prove but a broken reed."
Barbara was puzzled. "What mean you, sir? Sure, 'tis not sinful to be
brave for a name's sake."
"Nay, I say not that," he answered gently. "There be three qualities
that have power to beget a courage unto death--Faith, Love, and Pride.
But of these three only the courage born of Faith has never been known
to fail. Yet whencesoever it springs, courage is the gift of God and a
blessing to man, and as such must be honoured."
Barbara looked at him curiously.
"You are a divine, sir, are you not?"
"Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have
been withheld from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have
lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when
they marched to support the defender of our religion, I followed to give
them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to
the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand
what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three
years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the
Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a
thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again
to the truth."
Barbara looked at him gravely.
"No," she said, "I do not understand."
His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at
her, as at a child.
"No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless."
"It should be easy to me to be courageous," she answered lightly. "I
have nought to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then
perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."
He smiled at her a trifle sadly.
"Aye, child, as you say, _in justice_ they could do no more."
She looked up at him doubtfully, but forbore to question further the
meaning of his words.
"But these folk," she continued, looking round, "have doubtless more to
fear."
"There is indeed little hope for them this side the grave," he answered
calmly, "save for a speedy and merciful death."
Barbara was startled.
"Surely not so--and yet--I had not thought on't," she muttered.
"Verily, sir, if this be true, my scorn was ill-timed, they have
courage. They are but rude peasants, with neither pride of birth nor
name to strengthen their hearts, yet they await death as calmly as any
noble. How comes this?"
"So thou deemest courage a monopoly of gentle folk, eh?" he asked,
laughing softly. "Ah, child, thou art young. But indeed," he continued
more seriously, "these men have fought in the Lord's cause, there is no
fear but He will send them strength to fight their battle bravely to the
end."
"How can it be God's cause when it hath failed?" asked Barbara bluntly.
"Failed, child? What mean you?"
"Why, call you not this failure?" she asked, glancing round.
"This! In good sooth, no; this is but the beginning of success, only
the times were unripe for rebellion, the leaders were unworthy of the
cause. Think you these men will die in vain? In God's name I tell you,
no. A cause strengthened by such devotion cannot but succeed; for every
drop of blood shed to-day there will spring up seeds of justice and
resolution in the hearts of the survivors which shall blossom forth into
a mighty power. I shall not see it, but thou mayest, for the day is not
far off when justice, toleration and true religion shall once more
flourish in this kingdom. Failure! Never! We are but the necessary
martyrs, the runners of success. The cause of justice was never yet won
save by a path of blood and tears."
His enthusiasm communicated itself to Barbara. Her face glowed with
eagerness; at that moment she had resolution to face block or scaffold
that she also might die for the Cause.
"Ah!" she cried, "this is the courage of which you spoke, the courage
born of Faith."
He bowed his head in assent, and there was silence between them while
Barbara pondered on his words. Presently she continued:
"And the third, the courage of Love? What mean you by that?" she asked.
Instantly his face was transfigured by a smile of great tenderness.
"I will show you," he answered gently. "Look."
Barbara followed the direction of his eyes. In a far corner of the
shed, apart from the rest of the prisoners, sat a man and a woman. She
lay in the circle of his arm, her head dropped back upon his shoulder,
and oblivious to all around them they sat gazing in one another's eyes.
Pale, ragged and unkempt, as were all the prisoners, yet beautiful in
each other's eyes, and transfigured by the light of perfect happiness,
by the glory of their love.
"It is their wedding-day," he continued softly. "I married them at
seven o'clock this morning."
"But who are they?" asked Barbara in bewilderment.
"He is the son of the squire of Hardon, and an officer in Monmouth's
army; she, the daughter of a rich cloth-maker of Taunton, who joined the
army and met his death at Sedgemoor. He lodged in her father's house
when the army was first quartered here. Later, she was attainted a
rebel, and they met again, in prison. See now how mighty is love, that
it will even force its way into such a desert as this. They have lived
here together for three weeks as in a Paradise, and yesterday, feeling
the time of separation draw near, they besought me to join them forever
in God's sight, as man and wife. I know not whether I rightly
consented, yet who could refuse?"
"And the future?" whispered Barbara eagerly.
He shook his head.
"She has money, the charge against her is but slight, her friends will
buy her freedom. But for him, an officer in the rebel army, there can
be little doubt---- Is it not wonderful?" he continued softly, as
though to himself. "Thus they sit hour by hour. Hopes and fears alike
have faded in the great light of their love, and for to-day at least
they live as in the Garden of Eden, where there is neither past nor
future; nought but the present and themselves."
Barbara gazed silently at the couple, until suddenly a great sense of
loneliness overcame her, and her eyes darkened with a mist of tears.
She turned to her companion with a pathetic gesture of helplessness.
"Alas! ere I came here I had believed myself so strong, so fearless.
And here I find all others are brave, and I but a helpless fool."
There was something bewitching in this sudden confession of weakness,
and her companion's face softened for an instant as he looked at her.
Then he laughed, and his laughter was wise, for it stung her pride, and
recalled her former resolution.
"In truth, this discovery is to be deeply regretted, Mistress Winslow,"
he answered lightly, "seeing I had hoped to enlist the services of one
so stout-hearted in the work of cheering the weary hours of some of our
unfortunate comrades."
"My services! Why, what think you I can do?" asked Barbara eagerly.
"Wouldest have me clamber on a bale of wool and harangue these men upon
the duty and virtue of courage?" she added merrily.
"Nay, that were hardly woman's work. And 'tis not for men your help is
needed."
"For whom, then?"
"There is a poor girl, she is scarce more than a child, who was brought
hither yesterday with her younger sister. They were among those maids
of Taunton who presented to the Duke his banners, and for this innocent
action they have been arrested. I think, indeed, there is little fear
for them; they have rich friends, people of influence, who can save them
at a price. But the poor child is fragile. Terror hath gripped her by
the heart, and if she be not roused and cheered 'tis to be feared her
brain may give way."
"Take me to her, I will try."
"Come, then. Her sister is beside her, but the poor child is very young
and can do but little. It may be that you will be able to cheer her."
Barbara gathered up her dainty skirts and followed her companion. As
she passed along she was greeted by many a look of surprise and
admiration, but so intent was she upon her errand she scarce noted the
interest she aroused.
They found the two ill-fated children--they were both little
more--crouched against the wall in the darkest corner of the shed. Near
them sat a poor peasant woman weeping bitterly, while a second woman
offered rough attempts at comfort. Close beside the latter was a thin,
elderly woman, with the severe mouth and narrow forehead of a fanatic,
who stared straight before her, muttering rapidly to herself, oblivious
to her surroundings. These few, with Barbara and the young bride, were
the only female prisoners in the shed.
Barbara paused a moment, surveying the group curiously, then she
advanced slowly towards the two sisters. The elder of the two was scarce
sixteen, fragile and pale. She crouched beside the wall, her chin sunk
on her breast, silent, immovable, but when Barbara, touched her on the
shoulder she raised her head suddenly, and displayed a face so frozen
with despair and eyes so wild with terror that the girl was horrified.
In an instant all other considerations vanished before the great pity
and tenderness that filled her heart.
"My poor, poor child," she exclaimed gently, "what have they done to
thee? Nay, look not thus, none shall hurt thee, I promise it. See, I
will sit thus beside thee. Come, now thou art safe and hast nought to
fear."
She sank down beside her, drew the child close and encircled her
tenderly with her strong young arms.
The bright face, cheery smile, and gentle voice, all tended to excite
confidence, as did also the firm pressure of human touch. The child
gazed at her for a few moments in doubt and bewilderment, then suddenly
clung to her fiercely and burst into wild tears.
"Oh! they will kill me," she sobbed. "Do not let them. Do not let them
take me away."
"No, no, they shall not, I swear they shall not harm thee," answered
Barbara soothingly, though with more rashness than conviction. "Only
look cheerily, sweetheart, and be brave and all will be well."
"Will you take me home? Prithee, take me home," she begged, sobbing.
"Nay, we must bide here for a day or two, but what of that? It will not
harm you, and 'tis for a great cause. Bethink you of the saints, of the
martyrs; they suffered even death without fear. Bethink you, childie,
how many women have striven and suffered manfully for their cause, and
be you courageous and proud to suffer thus little for yours."
"Tell me of those women," whispered the younger child, creeping near to
their new-found protector. She was stronger; she did not suffer as did
her sister, but her poor puzzled brain could not understand why this
imprisonment had befallen them; she grasped eagerly at the reference to
martyrs. 'Tis easier to be brave in paths which others have trod before
us.
So Barbara settled herself between the two children and bent all her
efforts to recollecting and relating to the best effect every tale of
heroism she had ever read, heard, or imagined, incidents culled from the
histories of many nations, from romances, ballads, and legends. From her
earliest childhood she had loved to listen to all such tales of prowess
and brave endurance; her store seemed unlimited, she had a clear memory,
and above all, she possessed that rarest of all gifts, the art of
story-telling.
The two children were soon listening with deep interest. She raised her
voice, that beautiful voice, not the least of her many charms, and
presently the woman sitting near them ceased her sobbing to listen; some
of the men even raised themselves from their lethargic musings and drew
near, so that she became in time the centre of a large group of
prisoners. Cheered with this success, Barbara braced herself to an
increased effort. She related story after story of the heroes of many
countries and times, stories of love and tenderness, of fierce passions,
of high devotion to a worthy cause, till her audience were infected with
the enthusiasm and followed her words with startling eagerness. For a
time prison walls faded away, trial, punishment, death were forgotten,
they lived again in the past.
It is a wonderful power, the art of story-telling, and is given to few,
especially among Western peoples, but it is a power which, when combined
with the magnetism of a beautiful presence, is irresistible.
Thus intermittently for several hours Barbara continued, and to her
hearers the long day passed quickly, until late in the afternoon the
pealing of bells and a roll of drums were heard from without. These
sounds betokened, as some guessed, the expected arrival of the king's
judges. On the morrow, therefore, would commence the Assize trial,
which was to decide for each whether he, too, was destined to follow in
the footsteps of the long line of martyrs and heroes who had suffered
and died in the cause of freedom.
The charm cast around them by Barbara was broken, and she finished her
narrative lamely, as her audience grew inattentive and relapsed into
moody restlessness. As the darkening shadows gathered in the wool-shed a
silence fell, the silence of an overhanging doom.
Suddenly and with startling effect the silence was broken by a clear
voice which rang through the room. "Be strong and He shall 'stablish
your hearts, all ye that put your trust in the Lord."
The words seemed to echo like a battle-clarion, an incentive to lead all
men to victory.
It was Barbara's friend of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle, the
noncomformist divine.
When other comfort had failed he was at hand to show these untutored
peasants the true source of strength in danger, of consolation in
affliction, the promise of their God. Few and simple were his words,
yet charged with the fervour of belief, they served their purpose well.
Again the courage of Faith strengthened them, the peace of God filled
their hearts, and when at the close of his address he besought all to
sing with him the eighty-sixth psalm, they joined him with a cheerful
heartiness which made the rafters of the barn ring again.
So night drew down upon them, but there was light in their hearts, and
they settled to rest in peace.
Barbara carried off her children to their pallet bed in the corner.
With the darkness the poor child Katherine's terror had revived
somewhat, and for a time she could not be induced to lie down. But
gradually Barbara soothed her, talking hopefully of her probable return
home on the morrow, and crooning tender child ballads such as her mother
sang. Nature was merciful; clinging to the hand of her protectress she
sank at last to sleep.
Barbara herself lay long awake listening to the heavy breathing of the
sleepers around her and to the dull tramp of the sentries in the street
without.
Sleep! the very thought of it seemed ill-timed with the lives of all
these men at stake, and some way, surely some way was to be found, could
she but think of it, to save them. To her active spirit it seemed past
belief that escape should be impossible; intolerable to think that these
forty or more around her, strong and healthy men, should go quietly to
their deaths without one bid for freedom.
She tossed from side to side upon her mattress, racking her brains to
devise a plan. Had she not wit and cleverness more than common? Sure
she could find some way! But in vain; her thoughts wandered round and
round in a circle, a circle she could not break. At length she sprang
to her feet in desperation.
"'Tis no use," she exclaimed, "I can think of nothing. But he hath
brains and he cares for their safety, I will go to him. Together surely
we may devise some means of escape."
Softly she stepped out into the shed, and picked her way carefully among
the sleepers, looking right and left for the face she sought. The
moonlight poured in through the windows high in the room so that her
passage was not difficult. She came at length upon the man she sought,
the Reverend Mr. Hardcastle. Half the night he had spent at the side of
one or another of his weaker comrades, cheering and strengthening each
by his sympathy. Now at last he had found time for repose, and lay
sleeping quietly, his Bible still open at his side. His slumbers were
light, for he awoke at her slightest touch, and raised himself to his
feet, instantly alert.
"What is the matter, child, do you need me?" he cried.
Barbara's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes gleamed strangely and
she clutched his arm with desperate eagerness.
"Surely something can be done to save them all," she cried confusedly.
"It cannot be impossible."
"What mean you, child?"
"Why, here are fifty brave men, at most but half a dozen guards. Can we
not break prison, rush the door, devise some mode of escape? 'Tis
intolerable to sit here in idleness while the lives of all these are at
stake. 'Tis monstrous. Sure, something can be done!"
"Peace, child," he answered sternly; "you know nought of the matter. We
be fifty to six, 'tis true, but those six are armed and behind them are
many more. If the door were passed we could not escape the town, or if
perchance we won from the town where could we hide? The royal troops are
everywhere. 'Twere but a hopeless venture which must cost the lives of
all."
"Yet, sure, 'twere better to venture some effort than to sit thus
helplessly awaiting their fate," she pleaded impatiently.
"Ah! Mistress Barbara, you have yet to learn that the highest courage
may lie in such waiting. And I charge you, child, say nought of this to
the men. They are nerved now to meet their fate, I will not have them
distressed by false hopes. You have played your part well to-day, your
place is with yon poor children. Go to them now, and leave these men to
me."
Unaccustomed though she was to contradiction, Barbara was yet too
strongly awed by his air of command to disobey. Reluctantly she turned
away and with a glance of hopeless pity at the sleepers around her,
passed beyond the partition and again took her place beside the weary
children.
So the long night hours passed slowly away and the first morning of the
Bloody Assize of Taunton grew rosy in the east.
*CHAPTER XI*
When Cicely Winslow was parted from her cousin she went at once to seek
a lodging in the house of Master Thomas Lane, one of the most
flourishing wool-merchants of Taunton. For many years the Winslows had
purchased their stuffs from the house of Lane, in fact ever since the
time when the founder after a long and devoted service at the Manor
House had established himself in business at Taunton. Therefore, when
Cicely presented herself at the house of the worthy merchant she met
with a hearty though respectful welcome, and felt confident of all
possible assistance.
But though comforted by the warmth of her welcome, Cicely was not slow
to perceive that while the long business connection betwixt the two
families assured to her every consideration and respect, yet the
political opinions of her family met with anything but approval from her
host.
For, indeed, the Lanes, unlike the majority of the townsfolk of Taunton,
were the staunchest of Tories. They had ever stood firm for the King,
and having suffered considerably for their opinions during Monmouth's
brief reign of power in the West, it was perhaps but natural that now
they should feel harshly disposed towards those who had favoured the
Duke in his rebellion against their lawful sovereign.
The household was about to sit down to supper when Cicely arrived, but
they waited respectfully until she was ready to join them in the large
lofty room, where, according to the fashion of the day, it was the
custom for master and family to sup in company with the apprentices and
others forming the household.
Knowing well the differences of opinion which existed between themselves
and their guest, Master Lane and his good wife endeavoured to avoid all
reference to current events, but the all-pervading topic would not be
stayed from creeping into the conversation, and so at length Master Lane
deemed it best boldly to set their relations on a more definite and
clear footing.
"You are heartily welcome, Lady Cicely," he began gravely, "and I will
gladly render you what help I can; at the same time I cannot disguise
from you, indeed it were not right to do so, how heartily I disapprove
of the step young Sir Rupert has taken. So much opposed to what I am
sure his father would have wished. Sir Rupert in thus wilfully aiding
rebellion against his lawful sovereign has proved himself unworthy of
his noble name, and of the high and honourable position he should hold
in the country."
Cicely's eyes filled with tears at this unexpected attack. She had not
Barbara's spirit, and could not enter into eager discussion with her
sedate and solemn host, as her cousin would doubtless have done under
similar circumstances. She had no full knowledge of the questions which
stirred men's hearts at the time, only to her, what Rupert did was
right, and now in her loneliness it tried her sadly to hear his actions
thus ruthlessly condemned, and that, moreover, by one whose opinions she
could not but respect.
But the good merchant was quite oblivious to her distress. He knew
nothing of the close relations between her and Sir Rupert, and was
intent only upon removing any misapprehension on her part as to what
were his real feelings, while at the same time he deeply pitied the
misfortunes which had overtaken the family with which he had been long
honourably associated.
"The late Duke of Monmouth," he continued solemnly, "set foot in this
realm in open rebellion; not only so, but he and those under him
deliberately invented and spread abroad scandal concerning the religion,
the honourable intentions, and the virtue of our noble sovereign.
Moreover, he had the effrontery actually to declare himself, here at
Taunton, lawful King of Britain, thereby seeking to depose his own
uncle. Furthermore, he hath since proved himself coward, not alone by
his conduct upon the field of Sedgemoor, but also by the manner of his
meeting death. That men should be so ready to turn from allegiance to
their king, to support the claims of such an one, so worthless and so
base, betrays a condition of mind unstable and untrustworthy. For
howsoever they may choose to prate of religion and justice, they show
but shallow reasoning. For religion and justice are protected by our
lord, the King, and need no other defender, and the alleged dangers
threatening the Protestant Church are but the inventions of fools. 'Tis
no regard for religion and justice which directs such men, but a love of
excitement or a hope to escape from patient, honest toil by a chance
turn of events in the fortune of war." Here he cast a severe glance
down the table in the direction of his apprentices. "For Mistress
Barbara," he continued, "I will, if only for her honoured father's sake,
do what I can, and I have small fear but that all severe punishment may
be averted. But a woman hath no reason to interfere in such affairs,
and she must not be surprised if she meet her reward. I rejoice, for
his sake, that Sir Rupert hath escaped, and pray that his misfortunes
and hardships may tame his hot blood. 'Tis indeed a sad business."
So the old man droned on solemnly, his wife from time to time nodding
approval, till Cicely choked over her meat, and felt she could endure no
more, but must scream aloud to stop this dreary tirade, every word of
which was a sword-thrust in her over-wrought heart.
But diversion came from an unexpected quarter.
Among the apprentices at the lower end of the table sat a
broad-shouldered, long-legged youth, whose sharp, eager face was
surmounted by a shock of fiery red hair. Throughout this discourse he
had evinced the utmost restlessness, shaking his head, clenching his
fists, half-rising from his seat, and showing all the signs of entire
dissension from the speaker. At length he could restrain himself no
longer, but bidding defiance to all custom and etiquette at his master's
table, he leaned forward eagerly and broke into the conversation.