It was the 22nd of July 1820, and the shadows were beginning to
lengthen over Ashacombe village on a burning summer's afternoon. The
men were still at work, and most of the women also; for, early though
it was, a farmer was cutting a field of wheat over the hill on the far
side of the valley, a field which was always the first in the whole
parish to ripen. So the men were cutting and the women were binding,
for women did more work in the fields in those days than in these; and
now and again, when the booming of the mill-wheel ceased for a moment,
the sound of the hones on the sickles could be heard clinking musically
in the still heavy air. Two or three old women alone stood in their
porches, with their sun-bonnets over their neat white caps, gossiping
as they knitted, and speaking an occasional word to an old, old man who
sat in a high-backed chair basking in the sun. The children were all
down in the meadow below, the little maids mostly sitting in the shade
and making nosegays of forget-me-nots; while every boy that could walk,
and some of the maids also, were paddling in the little stream or
dancing about the bank in chase of such unhappy fish as had been too
lazy to leave the shallows when the stream was turned into the
mill-leat. Sometimes they were silent, and the next moment they broke
into chorus like a pack of hounds, while occasionally there came a
shrill rate from one of the old women who watched them from the
cottages, calling back some too venturesome boy from the deep water of
the mill-leat.
So the old women gossiped and the children played, for the daily
coaches up and down had passed some hours before, and there was little
excitement to be looked for in the road after they were gone.
Presently the old women stopped and listened, for they heard the gate
at the lodge clang as it opened and shut, and two children's voices
crying merrily, "Oh, corporal, corporal, put on your watering-cap!"
Then one of the old women hastened, though with infirm steps, across
her little garden towards the road, and stood by the edge of it among
tall stalks of red valerian and a great plant of periwinkle which hung
down over the wall. And there came along the road a tall man with
grizzled hair, dressed in drab breeches and gaiters just like any other
man, but wearing on his head a flat blue cap, widening out from brim to
crown, with a yellow band round the forehead--the watering cap of a
Light Dragoon. He walked very erect, though he limped slightly with
one leg; and over one shoulder he carried a clean white stable-rubber,
neatly folded, with a stable-halter tied across it. Hanging on to his
hand on one side was a little boy of about nine years old with great
brown eyes and glossy black hair, dressed in a very short little brown
jacket with brown breeches buttoning on to it, and a broad white
collar. On the Corporal's other side and clinging tight to his other
hand skipped a little girl with wide blue eyes and fair hair, dressed
all in white, and with her face almost hidden under a little white
sun-bonnet. Both children carried a little wreath of laurel in their
hands and seemed to have some very important business before them,
until they caught sight of the old woman looking down upon them, when
they cried out "Sally! Sally!" and letting go the Corporal's hand ran
up the steep little steps to her, while the Corporal limped more slowly
after them.
"Ah, my dear hearts," said old Sally, "I minded that it was Sallymanky
day, and I said to myself that Master Dick and Miss Elsie would surely
be coming in for the ribbins. Shall us go in to house and fetch mun?
Then please to come in. Please to come right in, Mr. Brimacott," she
added, addressing the Corporal. So they passed through the little low
door into the cottage, and in two seconds the children were standing on
chairs and examining all the treasures on the walls. For Sally had
been a servant at Bracefort Hall, and was never so glad as when little
Dick and Elsie Bracefort came to pay her a visit; first because she
thought there was no family to equal the Braceforts in the whole wide
world, and secondly, because these children had lost their father at
Salamanca just eight years before to a day. And there were wonderful
things on the walls, too. First and foremost there were two coloured
pictures, one of France and Britannia joining hands, with a very woolly
lamb and a very singular lion lying down together at their feet; and
the other of Commerce and Plenty, represented as two very slender
ladies with very short waists, loading Britannia with corn and fruit
and flowers of the brightest colours. The children had heard Sally
tell the story of them fifty times but were quite content to hear it
again--how Sally had bought them of a hawker in the year 1802, for joy
that peace was come at last, and how that wicked Boney had plunged all
the world into war again. Then Dick jumped up and brought down a china
figure of a man in a blue coat on a prancing horse with his hand
pointing upwards, who was no other than Boney, the terrible Bonaparte
himself, as he appeared when crossing the Alps.
"Ah, the roog," said Sally, as Dick flourished the figure. "Many's the
time that I've wanted to throw he behind the fire. He tooked from me
my boy, my Jan; ah, you knows the story of my Jan, don't 'ee, my dear?"
she added turning to Elsie.
"Yes," said Elsie, who had heard the story so often as a mite of a
child that she told it herself with something of a Devonshire accent,
"poor Jan that 'listed for a soldier and went to Portingale to the
wars, and never come back, not he, nor wild Lucy that ran away for the
love of him, nor the boy that was born to them."
"Aye," said the old woman to the Corporal, but smiling sadly on the
child. "Killed he was, so they said, but they couldn't tell how nor
where; and missing they was, but I never could find out nought about
mun, though I hope still to hear somewhat; but it must come soon for
it's ten years agone now, and I reckon that my time's a getting short."
The Corporal nodded; but Dick had brought down another figure in china,
the figure of a man in a red coat with a hooked nose and two curves of
black whisker on his cheeks, underneath which was written WELLINGTON.
"Aye," said old Sally, triumphantly, "that was the boy to give Boney
what vor. And now here's the wreaths, my dears, tied with the family
colours, blue and white. I've a had they ribbins forty years, ever
since the great election, when Bracefort was head of the poll, your
grandfather that was. And now you'm going to catch the old Billy Pitt,
I reckon; dear, dear, to think that the horse should still be here and
the captain gone."
"But the Lieutenant's come back," said the Corporal. "Colonel
Fitzdenys, I should say, whom I mind as the captain's lieutenant; come
back only yesterday safe and sound from the Injies."
"That's well," said Sally, "for a fine brave gentleman he is, as never
passes me without a kind word. But don't 'ee go yet for a minute, my
dears," and she hobbled away to a large glass bottle, took out two
sticks of toffee, such as she sold to the village boys for a halfpenny
a piece, and gave them to Dick and Elsie.
The children took them gratefully, for it was little sweet stuff that
children got in those days; and old Sally watched them as they went up
the road, each of them breaking off a large piece for the Corporal.
They had not long been gone when a new and strange figure suddenly
bounded into the road from the bank at the side. It was that of a
young man who seemed to be about five and twenty, short in stature and
slight in figure, and dressed in a long skirted coat, breeches and
gaiters, which were all alike full of rents and patches. He wore no
hat, but his head was so thickly covered by a shock of brown hair that
he did not seem to want one. His face was brown and sunburnt and
partly covered by a fair downy beard, which, though not thick, added to
his wild and untidy appearance; and his eyes were very large, grey and
vacant. He sprang down from the bank as though he had lived there all
his life, like a rabbit, and then moved on towards the village at a
strange shambling pace, straying from side to side of the road and
waving his arms meaninglessly. Suddenly he stopped, and pulling a
squirrel out of his pocket began to play with it, cooing and whistling
to it as it ran over his arms, and chirping when it stopped and threw
its tail over its back. The two seemed to be the very best of friends,
and after playing for some time the man moved on with the squirrel on
his shoulder, drawing closer to the village; when of a sudden the boys
at play in the stream broke into such a storm of yells that he jumped
up on the bank again to look at them, and stood there for a time gaping
and grinning from ear to ear at what he saw.
For the boys had succeeded in driving a little eel into a corner and in
throwing it ashore; and there they were, dancing about like mad
creatures, unable to hold it, more than half afraid to touch it, but
always contriving to twitch the wretched wriggling thing further from
the water. One brave little maid managed for a moment to catch it in
her pinafore but dropped it instantly, as all the boys screamed: "Put
it down! he'll bite 'ee." And so they went on babbling their loudest,
when the ragged man in the road suddenly put the squirrel into his
pocket and ran down into the meadow, laughing louder than the loudest,
to take part in the fun. In spite of his long-skirted coat he was as
active as any of them, now clutching desperately at the eel with his
hand, now running at full speed for a few yards and then plunging down
on his knees, and all the while laughing and whinnying with a noise
more like that of a horse than of a man. The boys, though at first a
little startled at the appearance of such a figure in their midst, soon
screamed louder than ever with laughter at his strange antics; until at
last the ragged man got the eel fairly clamped between his fingers and
ran away with it, the whole of the children following him in full cry.
He had almost reached the road when his foot slipped and down he fell
violently on his face. The squirrel, scared to death, ran out of his
coat-pocket, and the eel slipped through his fingers into the long
grass by the ditch and was seen no more.
The man got up looking dazed and foolish, with his hair full of
forget-me-nots, into which he had plunged in his fall. The children
gathered round him hooting and screaming; and he stared at them
grinning vacantly without a word. From shouts the boys soon went on to
taunts of "Shockhead! Shockhead!" but still the ragged man stood and
grinned, until at last two of them caught sight of the squirrel and
began to hunt it about the field. Then the man's whole demeanour
changed in an instant; and charging down upon the boys he gave them a
push which laid both of them flat on the ground, while the squirrel ran
hastily up his leg and nestled in terror against his cheek. Then he
began to look, with the air of a hunted beast, for some means of
escape. The two boys got up whimpering, more frightened than hurt, and
at the sight of their tears the merriment of the rest turned instantly
to anger. The boys remembered suddenly that their eel was gone, and
crowded round the man, yelling continuously, "Where's our ale? Where's
our ale? You've stole our ale." And the ragged man with drooping
shoulders and white scared face slunk along the fence under the road,
looking for a weak place by which he might scramble out of the field.
At last he found one and made a bound to climb up it; but the bank was
too steep and he fell back. The boys seeing that he was afraid of them
began to raise the cry of thief, or, as they called it, thafe. Half a
dozen of them ran round to the gate of the meadow to cut him off, while
the rest yelled round him like a pack of baying hounds, with cries of
"Thafe! Thafe! Thafe!" The man made a second attempt to climb up the
bank, and this time reached the top, where he lay for a few moments
sprawling, amid the jeers of his tormentors; and Tommy Fry, who was the
scapegrace of the village, picked up a clod of earth and threw it at
him. The clod, which was full of little stones, struck him full on the
cheek and drew blood. The man gave a little whine of pain, and
struggled quickly to his feet; but the boys were in the road before
him, and, worse than that, the women hearing the cry of thief were
hastening to the spot; for they thought of clean clothes that might be
drying on their garden hedges, and, if there be a creature which
villagers dread and detest, it is a tramp. The man looked fearfully up
and down the road, and saw that it was blocked on every side by
hurrying women and children; and then sinking down by the roadside he
buried his face in his hands and blubbered aloud, while the squirrel,
fully as frightened as he was, nestled close to his bleeding cheek.
Then there was a babel of voices, scolding, complaining and accusing,
but the man sat blubbering and took no heed. Two or three children
were ready to start to fetch the men from the harvest-field, and one
old crone was declaiming with great eloquence on the iniquity of
tramps, when a strange woman suddenly forced her way through the crowd
to the sobbing man and took him by the arm. Her sun-bonnet was so tied
before her face that they could see little of it but two eyes, which
gleamed black and keen like the eyes of a hawk. She raised the man
gently to his feet, and then turned round fiercely upon the ring of
women and children about her.
"Now," she said imperiously, "cease your bawling, and let mun go. The
poor soul a'nt done no harm to you, I'll warrant mun. Let mun go, and
shame upon 'ee."
The man rose to his feet still blubbering, and the squirrel moved back
from his face. Then she saw the blood on his cheek, and her eyes
glowed like fire as she said in a voice that trembled with rage:
"Who's been a drowing stones at my boy?"
"He stole our ale," shouted Tommy Fry boldly, and the rest of the
children took up the chorus--"He stole our ale!" And Tommy Fry ended
the cry with the word, "Thafe."
The strange woman turned upon him instantly. "_You_ drowed the stone,"
she said, quivering with rage. "_You_ dare to call mun thafe. You
don't spake again till I tell 'ee--mind that. I'll tache 'ee to call
my boy names." And Tommy Fry shrank back with staring eyes, appalled
at her fury, while she put her arm again tighter round that of the
ragged man and began to lead him away.
"No, no, no," broke in a village woman who came up breathless at this
moment: "You'm too fast by half. 'Tis the like of he that we want to
catch, taking our linen off the hedges. I lost some but two months
agone, and I'll be bound 'twas he that did it. What was it was taked
away, Mary?" she asked, turning to one of the little girls. "Two pair
of stockings and a chimase or one pair of stockings and two chimases?
No, no, no; run, my dear, and fetch father home quick. No, stop! Here
comes Mr. Brimacott."
And as she spoke there was a sound of hoofs and the Corporal appeared
leading a brown horse with a little wreath of laurel hung round his
ears and the white rubber spread over his back, on which were seated
Dick and Elsie, Dick riding in front brandishing his toffee, while
Elsie with her arm round his waist sat quietly behind him.
"What's all this?" said the Corporal, as the horse pricked up his ears
over the hubbub before him; and without waiting for a moment he lifted
the two children to the ground. Then all the women came clamouring
round him with their complaints; and the Corporal frowned, for he loved
a tramp as little as any of them.
"'Tain't true," said the strange woman firmly, "'tain't true. He's but
a poor harmless lad. Sarch mun, if you will, maister; ye won't find
nought."
The Corporal eyed the ragged man keenly. "He looks to be a half-baked
body," he said as if to himself.
"Aye, the poor thing's mazed," bleated out an old man who had hobbled
down to the edge of his garden to look on.
"Has any one missed anything?" the Corporal went on after hearing the
rest of the story. "Who's got any clothes drying to-day?"
There was a long silence and much shaking of heads, till some one said:
"'Twas Mary Mugford was saying that she missed something or 'nother;
stockings, was it, or chimases, two months agone. Where's Mary
Mugford?" But Mary Mugford had discreetly retired, for she saw a new
figure coming up the road, the figure of a lady, tall and slender,
dressed all in black and with a huge black bonnet, from which there
peeped out the oval face with the chestnut curls and the great blue
eyes, which we saw in the picture at Bracefort Hall, with the name of
Lady Eleanor underneath it. Dick and Elsie ran to her at once, and the
Corporal shortening the horse's halter in one hand, drew himself up,
saluted, and made his report.
"It's a poor half-witted lad, my Lady, and they thought he had stolen
some clothes. He got playing with the boys over an eel which they
caught, and let it get away, but I can't find that he meant no harm nor
hasn't taken nothing, but the boys got worriting him and scared him a
bit, I am afraid."
The strange woman looked at the Corporal with softened eyes and a sigh
of relief; and then Lady Eleanor turned to her, with her hand resting
on Dick, who had come round to her side, and said very gently:
"Is it true that he is not quite right in his head?"
The strange woman nodded.
"Have you ever known him steal?"
"Never," she answered hoarsely. "'Tis seldom I let mun out of my sight
among strangers, but he slipped away from me to-day."
"You have no other children?"
"No," answered the woman, almost fiercely.
"I see that the boys have hurt him," Lady Eleanor went on. "Bring him
down the road by the well, and let me wash the blood away;" and leading
the way she dipped her handkerchief into the water and was about to
wash the blood-stained face herself, but stopped and gave the
handkerchief to the woman. The villagers had withdrawn respectfully
apart, and the idiot, no longer frightened by their presence, had
ceased blubbering. He blinked foolishly while his face was washed; but
when it was clean he looked at Lady Eleanor's beautiful face and
grinned, and then at Dick and grinned wider, and lastly at Elsie and
grinned wider still. He looked so much like a great simple boy that
little Elsie came forward to give him what was left of her toffee,
whereupon Dick, not to be outdone, did the like, though there was not
much of his remaining. Finally the Corporal produced his share of
toffee also from his pockets and gave it to the children for the ragged
man, who seemed so much pleased that they did not regret parting with
it.
"There is no harm done, I think," said Lady Eleanor to the woman, "but
it was a wicked thing to throw stones at him."
"It's nought, thank you. Good-evening," said the woman, taking the
ragged man by the arm.
"Have you far to go?" asked Lady Eleanor.
"A middling ways," was the only reply; and the woman turned round to go.
"Stop!" said Lady Eleanor. "My name is Lady Eleanor Bracefort, and if
ever you want anything for your poor son, I hope you will tell me."
"Thank you, my Lady, he wants for nothing," answered the woman rather
gruffly, and turning the man round she led him away across the bridge.
They watched her until she disappeared, a tall powerful woman, with her
back somewhat bent, as if by carrying heavy burdens.
Then Lady Eleanor turned to the children.
"Now, my darlings! Give Master Dick a leg up, Corporal. Wo-ho, Billy;
now, Elsie, up behind him. How young the old horse looks, Corporal!
Are you ready? Walk, march." And away she walked fondling Billy Pitt
as she led him, and with good reason, for, old though he was, his legs
were as clean as a four-year-old's, his muzzle fine and taper, and his
eye full and bright, while he walked with the swinging easy stride that
surely tells of good blood. Indeed, but that his tail was docked
rather short, as was once the rule in the Light Dragoons, and that he
had a large scar on his neck, you could not have wished to see a
handsomer horse. So on they went, through the lychgate to the church;
and while the Corporal waited outside with the horse. Lady Eleanor and
the children went in. There at the back of a square family pew, among
strange old monuments, all showing heraldic shields coloured white and
blue, was a tablet: "To the memory of Captain Richard Bracefort of the
116th Light Dragoons, who fell in the glorious action of Salamanca, on
the 22nd of July, 1812, and was buried with his dead comrades on the
field of battle." Just below it was a second but smaller and simpler
tablet: "To the memory of Private John Dart, of the 128th Foot, and
late of this parish, who fell in the retreat to Corunna under Sir John
Moore, January 1809;" and in very small letters were added the words
"Erected by Eleanor Bracefort." Around both were the words, "Death is
swallowed up in Victory," and midway between the two, Dick placed the
wreath of laurel. Then they went back to the Corporal and Billy Pitt,
and returned, as they had come, to the Hall.