WALTER ran down to the village at full speed. He first bent his steps
towards the “Half-Moon,” the little public-house, where news was sure to
be met with. As he came towards it, however, he heard the loud sound of
a man’s voice going steadily on as if with some discourse. “Some
preachment,” said he to himself: “they’ve got a thorough-going Roundhead,
I can hear his twang through his nose! Shall I go in or not?”
While he was asking himself this question, an old peasant in a round
frock came towards him.
“Hollo, Will!” shouted Walter, “what prick-eared rogue have you got
there?”
“Hush, hush, Master Walter!” said the old man, taking off his hat very
respectfully. “Best take care what you say, there be plenty of red-coats
about. There’s one of them now preaching away in marvellous pied words.
It is downright shocking to hear the Bible hollaed out after that sort,
so I came away. Don’t you go nigh him, sir, ’specially with your hat set
on in that—”
“Never mind my hat,” said Walter, impatiently, “it is no business of
yours, and I’ll wear it as I please in spite of old Noll and all his
crew.”
For his forefathers’ sake, and for the love of his mother and sister, the
good village people bore with Walter’s haughtiness and discourtesy far
more than was good for him, and the old man did not show how much he was
hurt by his rough reception of his good advice. Walter was not reminded
that he ought to rise up before the hoary head, and reverence the old
man, and went on hastily, “But tell me, Will, what do you hear of the
battle?”
“The battle, sir! why, they say it is lost. That’s what the fellow there
is preaching about.”
“And where was it? Did you hear? Don’t you know?”
“Don’t be so hasty, don’t ye, sir!” said the old slow-spoken man, growing
confused. “Where was it? At some town—some town, they said, but I don’t
know rightly the name of it.”
“And the King? Who was it? Not Cromwell? Had Lord Derby joined?” cried
Walter, hurrying on his questions so as to puzzle and confuse the old man
more and more, till at last he grew angry at getting no explanation, and
vowed it was no use to talk to such an old fool. At that moment a sound
as of feet and horses came along the road. “’Tis the soldiers!” said
Walter.
“Ay, sir, best get out of sight.”
Walter thought so too, and, springing over a hedge, ran off into a
neighbouring wood, resolving to take a turn, and come back by the longer
way to the house, so as to avoid the road. He walked across the wood,
looking up at the ripening nuts, and now and then springing up to reach
one, telling himself all the time that it was untrue, and that the King
could not, and should not be defeated. The wood grew less thick after a
time, and ended in low brushwood, upon an open common. Just as Walter
was coming to this place, he saw an unusual sight: a man and a horse
crossing the down. Slowly and wearily they came, the horse drooping its
head and stumbling in its pace, as though worn out with fatigue, but he
saw that it was a war-horse, and the saddle and other equipments were
such as he well remembered in the royal army long ago. The rider wore
buff coat, cuirass, gauntlets guarded with steel, sword, and pistols, and
Walter’s first impulse was to avoid him; but on giving a second glance,
he changed his mind, for though there was neither scarf, plume, nor any
badge of party, the long locks, the set of the hat, and the general air
of the soldier were not those of a rebel. He must be a cavalier, but,
alas! far unlike the triumphant cavaliers whom Walter had hoped to
receive, for he was covered with dust and blood, as if he had fought and
ridden hard. Walter sprung forward to meet him, and saw that he was a
young man, with dark eyes and hair, looking very pale and exhausted, and
both he and his horse seemed hardly able to stir a step further.
“Young sir,” said the stranger, “what place is this? Am I near Forest
Lea?”
A flash of joy crossed Walter. “Edmund! are you Edmund?” he exclaimed,
colouring deeply, and looking up in his face with one quick glance, then
casting down his eyes.
“And you are little Walter,” returned the cavalier, instantly
dismounting, and flinging his arm around his brother; “why, what a fine
fellow you are grown! How are my mother and all?”
“Well, quite well!” cried Walter, in a transport of joy. “Oh! how happy
she will be! Come, make haste home!”
“Alas! I dare not as yet. I must not enter the house till nightfall, or
I should bring danger on you all. Are there any troopers near?”
“Yes, the village is full of the rascals. But what has happened? It is
not true that—” He could not bear to say the rest.
“Too true!” said Edmund, leading his tired horse within the shelter of
the bushes. “It is all over with us!”
“The battle lost!” said Walter, in a stifled tone; and in all the
bitterness of the first disappointment of his youth, he turned away,
overcome by a gush of tears and sobs, stamping as he walked up and down,
partly with the intensity of his grief, partly with shame at being seen
by his brother, in tears.
“Had you set your heart on it so much?” said Edmund, kindly, pleased to
see his young brother so ardent a loyalist. “Poor fellow! But at least
the King was safe when I parted from him. Come, cheer up, Walter, the
right will be uppermost some day or other.”
“But, oh, that battle! I had so longed to see old Noll get his deserts,”
said Walter, “I made so sure. But how did it happen, Edmund?”
“I cannot tell you all now, Walter. You must find me some covert where I
can be till night fall. The rebels are hot in pursuit of all the
fugitives. I have ridden from Worcester by byroads day and night, and I
am fairly spent. I must be off to France or Holland as soon as may be,
for my life is not safe a moment here. Cromwell is bitterer than ever
against all honest men, but I could not help coming this way, I so much
longed to see my mother and all of you.”
“You are not wounded?” said Walter, anxiously.
“Nothing to speak of, only a sword-cut on my shoulder, by which I have
lost more blood than convenient for such a journey.”
“Here, I’ll lead your horse; lean on me,” said Walter, alarmed at the
faint, weary voice in which his brother spoke after the first excitement
of the recognition. “I’ll show you what Lucy and I call our bower, where
no one ever comes but ourselves. There you can rest till night.”
“And poor Bayard?” said Edmund.
“I think I could put him into the out-house in the field next to the
copse, hide his trappings here, and get him provender from Ewins’s farm.
Will that do?”
“Excellently. Poor Ewins!—that is a sad story. He fell, fighting
bravely by my side, cut down in Sidbury Street in the last charge. Alas!
these are evil days!”
“And Diggory Stokes, our own knave?”
“I know nothing of him after the first onset. Rogues and cowards enough
were there. Think, Walter, of seeing his Majesty strive in vain to rally
them, when the day might yet have been saved, and the traitors hung down
their heads, and stood like blocks while he called on them rather to
shoot him dead than let him live to see such a day!”
“Oh, had I but been there, to turn them all to shame!”
“There were a few, Walter; Lord Cleveland, Hamilton, Careless, Giffard,
and a few more of us, charged down Sidbury Street, and broke into the
ranks of the rebels, while the King had time to make off by S. Martin’s
Gate. Oh, how I longed for a few more! But the King was saved so far;
Careless, Giffard, and I came up with him again, and we parted at
nightfall. Lord Derby’s counsel was that he should seek shelter at
Boscobel, and he was to disguise himself, and go thither under Giffard’s
guidance. Heaven guard him, whatever becomes of us!”
“Amen!” said Walter, earnestly. “And here we are. Here is Lucy’s bank
of turf, and my throne, and here we will wait till the sun is down.”
It was a beautiful green slope, covered with soft grass, short thyme, and
cushion-like moss, and overshadowed by a thick, dark yew-tree, shut in by
brushwood on all sides, and forming just such a retreat as children love
to call their own. Edmund threw himself down at full length on it, laid
aside his hat, and passed his hand across his weary forehead. “How
quiet!” said he; “but, hark! is that the bubbling of water?” he added,
raising himself eagerly.
“Yes, here,” said Walter, showing him where, a little further off on the
same slope, a little clear spring rose in a natural basin of red earth,
fringed along the top with fresh green mosses.
“Delicious!” said the tired soldier, kneeling over the spring, scooping
it up in his hand to drink, opening his collar, and bathing hands and
face in the clear cool fountain, till his long black hair hung straight,
saturated with wet.
“Now, Bayard, it is your turn,” and he patted the good steed as it sucked
up the refreshing water, and Walter proceeded to release it from saddle
and bridle. Edmund, meanwhile, stretched himself out on the mossy bank,
asked a few questions about his mother, Rose, and the other children, but
was too tired to say much, and presently fell sound asleep, while Walter
sat by watching him, grieving for the battle lost, but proud and
important in being the guardian of his brother’s safety, and delighting
himself with the thought of bringing him home at night.
More was happening at home than Walter guessed. The time of his absence
seemed very long, more especially when the twilight began to close in,
and Lady Woodley began to fear that he might, with his rashness, have
involved himself in some quarrel with the troopers in the village. Lady
Woodley and her children had closed around the wood fire which had been
lighted on the hearth at the approach of evening, and Rose was trying by
the bad light to continue her darning of stockings, when a loud hasty
knocking was heard at the door, and all, in a general vague impression of
dread, started and drew together.
“Oh my lady!” cried Deborah, “don’t bid me go to the door, I could not if
you offered me fifty gold caroluses! I had rather stand up to be a
mark—”
“Then I will,” said Rose, advancing.
“No, no, Mistress Rose,” said Deborah, running forward. “Don’t I know
what is fit for the like of you? You go opening the door to rogues and
vagabonds, indeed!” and with these words she undrew the bolts and opened
the door.
“Is this the way you keep us waiting?” said an impatient voice; and a
tall youth, handsomely accoutred, advanced authoritatively into the room.
“Prepare to—” but as he saw himself alone with women and children, and
his eyes fell on the pale face, mourning dress, and graceful air of the
lady of the house, he changed his tone, removed his hat, and said, “Your
pardon, madam, I came to ask a night’s lodging for my father, who has
been thrown from his horse, and badly bruised.”
“I cannot refuse you, sir,” said Lady Woodley, who instantly perceived
that this was an officer of the Parliamentary force, and was only
thankful to see that he was a gentleman, and enforced with courtesy a
request which was in effect a command.
The youth turned and went out, while Lady Woodley hastily directed her
daughters and servant. “Deborah, set the blue chamber in order; Rose,
take the key of the oak press, Eleanor will help you to take out the
holland sheets. Lucy, run down to old Margery, and bid her kill a couple
of fowls for supper.”
As the girls obeyed there entered at the front door the young officer and
a soldier, supporting between them an elderly man in the dress of an
officer of rank. Lady Woodley, ready of course to give her help to any
person who had suffered an injury, came forward to set a chair, and at
the same moment she exclaimed, in a tone of recognition, “Mr. Enderby! I
am grieved to see you so much hurt.”
“My Lady Woodley,” he returned, recognising her at the same time, as he
seated himself in the chair, “I am sorry thus to have broken in on your
ladyship, but my son, Sylvester, would have me halt here.”
“This gentleman is your son, then?” and a courteous greeting passed
between Lady Woodley and young Sylvester Enderby, after which she again
enquired after his father’s accident.
“No great matter,” was the reply; “a blow on the head, and a twist of the
knee, that is all. Thanks to a stumbling horse, wearied out with work, I
have little mind to—the pursuit of this poor young man.”
“Not the King?” exclaimed Lady Woodley, breathless with alarm.
It was with no apparent satisfaction that the rebel colonel replied,
“Even so, madam. Cromwell’s fortune has not forsaken him; he has driven
the Scots and their allies out of Worcester.”
Lady Woodley was too much accustomed to evil tidings to be as much
overcome by them as her young son had been; she only turned somewhat
paler, and asked, “The King lives?”
“He was last seen on Worcester bridge. Troops are sent to every port
whence he might attempt an escape.”
“May the GOD of his father protect him,” said the lady, fervently. “And
my son?” she added, faintly, scarcely daring to ask the question.
“Safe, I hope,” replied the colonel. “I saw him, and I could have
thought him my dear old friend himself, as he joined Charles in his last
desperate attempt to rally his forces, and then charged down Sidbury
Street with a few bold spirits who were resolved to cover their master’s
retreat. He is not among the slain; he was not a prisoner when I left
the headquarters. I trust he may have escaped, for Cromwell is fearfully
incensed against your party.”
Colonel Enderby was interrupted by Lucy’s running in calling out,
“Mother, mother! there are no fowls but Partlet and the sitting hen, and
the old cock, and I won’t have my dear old Partlet killed to be eaten by
wicked Roundheads.”
“Come here, my little lady,” said the colonel, holding out his hand,
amused by her vehemence.
“I won’t speak to a Roundhead,” returned Lucy, with a droll air of
petulance, pleased at being courted.
Her mother spoke gravely. “You forget yourself, Lucy. This is Mr.
Enderby, a friend of your dear father.”
Lucy’s cheeks glowed, and she looked down as she gave her hand to the
colonel; but as he spoke kindly to her, her forward spirit revived, and
she returned to the charge.
“You won’t have Partlet killed?”
Her mother would have silenced her, but the colonel smiled and said, “No,
no, little lady; I would rather go without supper than let one feather of
Dame Partlet be touched.”
“Nay, you need not do that either, sir,” said the little chatter-box,
confidentially, “for we are to have a pie made of little Jenny’s pigeons;
and I’ll tell you what, sir, no one makes raised crust half so well as
sister Rose.”
Lady Woodley was not sorry to stop the current of her little girl’s
communications by despatching her on another message, and asking Colonel
Enderby whether he would not prefer taking a little rest in his room
before supper-time, offering, at the same time all the remedies for
bruises and wounds that every good housekeeper of the time was sure to
possess.
She had a real regard for Mr. Enderby, who had been a great friend of her
husband before the unhappy divisions of the period arrayed them on
opposite sides, and even then, though true friendship could not last, a
kindly feeling had always existed.
Mr. Enderby was a conscientious man, but those were difficult times; and
he had regarded loyalty to the King less than what he considered the
rights of the people. He had been an admirer of Hampden and his
principles, and had taken up arms on the same side, becoming a rebel on
political, not on religious, grounds. When, as time went on, the evils
of the rebellion developed themselves more fully, he was already high in
command, and so involved with his own party that he had not the
resolution requisite for a change of course and renunciation of his
associates. He would willingly have come to terms with the King, and was
earnest in the attempt at the time of the conferences at Hampden Court.
He strongly disapproved of the usurpation of power by the army, and was
struck with horror, grief, and dismay, at the execution of King Charles;
but still he would not, or fancied that he could not, separate himself
from the cause of the Parliament, and continued in their service,
following Cromwell to Scotland, and fighting at Worcester on the rebel
side, disliking Cromwell all the time, and with a certain inclination to
the young King, and desire to see the old constitution restored.
He was just one of those men who cause such great evil by giving a sort
of respectability to the wrong cause, “following a multitude to do evil,”
and doubtless bringing a fearful responsibility on their own heads; yet
with many good qualities and excellent principles, that make those on the
right side have a certain esteem for them, and grieve to see them thus
perverted.
Lady Woodley, who knew him well, though sorry to have a rebel in her
house at such a time, was sure that in him she had a kind and considerate
guest, who would do his utmost to protect her and her children.
On his side, Colonel Enderby was much grieved and shocked at the pale,
altered looks of the fair young bride he remembered, as well as the
evidences of poverty throughout her house, and perhaps he had a secret
wish that he was as well assured as his friend, Sir Walter, that his
blood had been shed for the maintenance of the right.