THE ESCAPE.
WINIFRED had talked over with her grandfather on Saturday night the
question of procuring a horse for Arthur Carew. And Master Evans, after
some consideration, had decided that he could spare the black mare,
which was a steady, strong beast, and more suitable in appearance for
a clergyman than any of the colts. He told Winifred that it would be
best for Arthur, after putting on his disguise, to come himself for the
mare. There would be nothing remarkable in his doing so, as many people
came to the Stonehill farm to buy horses, and it would be a safer
course than letting any of the men either at the Hall or the farm have
a guess at the secret.
"You are sure it will be quite safe for him, grandfather?" said
Winifred.
"Yes, I think so. Nobody about here has seen Master Arthur Carew for
many years, and so far as I can hear, no one has mentioned his name in
connection with the Duke of Monmouth. Indeed, there was a rumor some
time ago that he had died in foreign parts."
"He went by a different name, I know," said Winifred. "He called
himself Fullerton."
"I am glad he had at least that much sense," said Master Evans. "It was
a most mad undertaking for all concerned."
"Master Arthur only came along because of his affection for the duke,"
replied Winifred, feeling somehow that she did not like to hear Arthur
blamed.
"That may be some excuse, but it does not justify him. We have no right
to let our friends drag us into doing what we know to be foolish and
wrong. However, there is no help for it now. I think we have hit upon
the best way of managing the matter: Mr. Arthur can come as if from the
Hall, and if any one sees him, he will be taken for some poor scholar
whom my lady has been helping on his way. You had better tell my lady
all this yourself. I should say, the sooner the matter was managed the
better."
As her grandfather advised, Winifred disclosed the plan to Lady
Peckham, who arrived on her pony the next day, followed by a
serving-man bearing a good-sized bundle, and dismounted to see Jack.
Jack was very sensible of the honor, and also of the cakes my lady
brought him, and listened with all due respect and submission to the
lecture she read him upon doing as he was bid and keeping the fifth
commandment.
"And now, Winifred, if you are ready to guide me to the cottage, I
think we will dismiss Thomas," said her ladyship, rising. "I want him
to ride into Bridgewater and do some errands there. Mrs. Alwright will
give you your commissions, Thomas, and it is full time you were on your
way."
Thomas was well enough pleased to be excused from attending his lady
to the cottage of Dame Sprat, whom, like many other people, he looked
upon as a kind of white witch, or at least as knowing more than any
Christian ought to know. He made his reverence, therefore, and departed
on his errand, and Lady Peckham prepared to mount her horse once more.
"Whose voice is that?" she exclaimed, starting, as a man's voice was
heard without. "It is surely not your grandfather's!"
Jack saw the start and the change of color, and treasured them up as
some sort of excuse for his own terrors of the day before—terrors
of which he was more and more ashamed the more he thought of them.
He little guessed what cause for alarm the poor lady had, since, of
course, no one had dared to let him into the secret.
"It is only my father, madam," said Winifred. "He came home yesterday,
and understanding that your ladyship was to be here to-day, he desired
to pay his duty to you."
Lady Peckham was a true lady, both by nature and education, as well
as by name, and though she was all the time impatient to be gone, she
listened graciously while Gilbert Evans, in few but sensible words,
expressed his gratitude for her kindness to his daughter. He ended by
requesting her ladyship's acceptance of a valuable and curious piece of
China vase which he had brought from the East. Lady Peckham was really
pleased with the present, which was of a kind highly valued at that
time, and she was also pleased with the feeling which had evidently
prompted it. So there was great satisfaction upon all sides, and it was
arranged that Gilbert should himself carry the vase to the Hall next
day.
I will not attempt to describe the meeting between the brother and
sister, nor that between the lady and the old woman whom her father had
so deeply injured, and who had had such a rare opportunity of returning
good for evil. It is enough to say that the dame welcomed her guest
with true Christian politeness, and that Arthur greeted his sister with
the warmest affection—that Winifred kept watch at the door while the
interview lasted, and that it was settled that Arthur should come up to
the Hall early the next morning, that he might go from thence to Master
Evans' house.
The brother and sister had so many things to say to each other, that
it was not till Dame Sprat herself warned the lady of the danger of
such a long visit that they could make up their minds to separate. On
farther consideration, it was decided that Arthur should not risk being
recognized by any of the servants at the Hall, but that he should come
at once to the farm and thence depart without farther leave-taking.
The next morning Winifred was at work in the garden, gathering various
kinds of herbs and seeds. It was a task in which she took great
delight, finding much pleasure in observing the forms and markings of
the leaves, and the different ways in which the seeds were provided
for. She was so busy that she did not look up till she heard her
father's voice close beside her.
"Where is your grandfather, daughter? Here is a gentleman who desires
to see him about buying a horse."
Winifred looked up with a start. She could hardly believe her eyes.
Could this middle-aged clergyman in spectacles, with his full periwig,
flapped hat, and somewhat worn black suit—could this be Arthur Carew?
"Is this your daughter, my friend?" said the stranger, in formal,
measured tones. "Truly, a fine child, and one my Lady Peckham tells me,
of great promise. I think I have seen you with my lady at the Hall,
have I not, my little maid?" he asked, while the least bit of a roguish
twinkle showed itself in his eyes. "But I dare say you do not remember
me."
Winifred could only courtesy and say that she remembered the gentleman
very well.
"Will it please you to walk into the house, and wait for my father,
sir?" said Gilbert Evans. "He is in the house field, but I will soon
call him."
"With your good leave I will repose here," replied the stranger,
seating himself on the bench under the great pear-tree. "This soft
autumn air is grateful to my senses, and I am somewhat weary with my
walk. And so you did know me, Winifred, after all?" he added, as soon
as Gilbert Evans was out of hearing.
"I don't think I should have done so, if I had not known you were
coming," answered Winifred, surveying him from head to foot. "No, I
am sure I should not. The wig seems to alter the shape of your face
entirely."
"So much the better! Now, Winifred, that we are alone, I wish to say a
few serious words to you. You have saved my life and the credit of my
family. Whether we shall ever meet again, God only knows, but I shall
never forget you, and you must always remember me. Will you promise to
do so?"
Winifred tried to keep back her tears, as she said she should never
forget Mr. Arthur as long as she lived.
"I am but a wanderer—a hunted exile, without home or country," resumed
Arthur, "and you are hardly more than a child even now. But if ever I
return, I shall come to find you. I must not even write to you, since
it would not be safe for either, but I shall think of you, and meantime
I want you to wear this."
He took from his breast a beautiful little locket and chain, decorated
with a crest and figures in black and green enamel.
"This locket contains my mother's and sister's hair, and in all my
wanderings I have never parted with it. Put it round your neck under
your kerchief—so. Now, have you nothing to give me in exchange—no
little silver penny or sixpence?"
"I have only this," said Winifred, taking from her pocket the broad,
thin Moorish gold coin which Colonel Kirke had given her.
"That will do, nicely. Now farewell, my own Winifred! Be as much as may
be with my sister, and learn all you can of her and of good Alwright.
Give them my last love. Pray for me, sweetheart! You and the good dame,
between you, taught me that the Christian religion is a reality. There,
I hear your good grandfather coming."
Winifred stood feeling like one in a dream, while Roger led out the
black mare from the stable. The stranger looked her over, and seemed to
talk about the price, while the saddle was put on her and the stirrups
adjusted. At last all was settled, the stranger mounted, bowed politely
to her grandfather, put something into old Roger's hand, and rode away,
turning at the last point where he could see Winifred and raising his
hat.
Then she drew a long breath and went back to her work, wondering how it
was that all the interest seemed to have gone out of it, and that she
could think of nothing but the last glimpse of Arthur Carew.
"The master have sold the black mare, Miss Winifred, and the saddle and
bridle he bought of the Widow Oldmixon!" said Roger, presently, coming
through the garden. "The gentleman as bought them paid all in gold and
gave me a crown-piece to boot. He was a bookish-looking sort of man
like a parson, but he seemed a goodish judge of a horse too, and he
rode away more like a dragoon than a scholar, to my mind."
There was an uneasy feeling in Winifred's heart that night. She was
not sure that she had done right in exchanging tokens with Mr. Carew
in that way, and for the first time in all her life she felt a certain
disinclination to open her mind to her mother. But the life-long habit
of openness prevailed, and at bed-time, the usual hour for confidences,
she showed the locket to her mother and told her all about it.
Dame Magdalen was not a little disturbed. "Beshrew the man and his
courtier's compliments!" said she to herself. "I wish he had gone
anywhere else for a horse!"
But as she looked at Winifred's steadfast, modest gray eyes, she could
not think any harm had yet been done. "I am heartily glad he is out of
the way!" was her second comment.
But she only said: "There was no harm in it. Mr. Carew naturally wished
to give you a token, and I suppose he had nothing else which he thought
would please a young maid. As to the exchanging of tokens, that is but
one of his court fashions. I dare say he will spend your gold piece at
the first tavern."
"Then I may keep the locket, mother?" said Winifred, somehow feeling
that her heart was not particularly lightened by this view of the case.
"Yes, if you please, child, so you do not show it. It is too valuable
an ornament for one in your station."
There was no danger of her showing it, Winifred thought. Neither would
she bring herself to believe that Mr. Carew would spend her gold piece
at the first tavern. She had slept alone in the little room over the
porch since her father's arrival, and that night, for almost the first
time in her life, she cried herself to sleep.