IN a very strong fit of restlessness did little Mistress Lucy Woodley go
to bed in Rose’s room that night. She was quite comforted on Edmund’s
account, for she had discernment enough to see that her mother and sister
did not believe Diggory’s dreadful narration; and she had been so
unsettled and excited by Mr. Sylvester Enderby’s notice, and by the way
in which she had allowed her high spirits to get the better of her
discretion, as well as by the sudden change from terror to joy, that when
first she went to Rose’s room she could not attend to her prayers, and
next she could not go to sleep.
Perhaps the being in a different apartment from usual, and the missing
her accustomed sleeping companion, Eleanor, had something to do with it,
for little Eleanor had a gravity and steadiness about her that was very
apt to compose and quiet her in her idlest moods. To-night she lay broad
awake, tumbling about on the very hard mattress, stuffed with chaff,
wondering how Rose could bear to sleep on it, trying to guess how there
could be room for both when her sister came to bed, and nevertheless in a
great fidget for her to come. She listened to the howling and moaning of
the wind, the creaking of the doors, and the rattling of the boards with
which Rose had stopped up the broken panes of her lattice; she rolled
from side to side, fancied odd shapes in the dark, and grew so restless
and anxious for Rose’s coming that she was just ready to jump out of bed
and go in the passage to call her when Rose came into the room.
“O Rose, what a time you have been!”
It was no satisfaction to Rose to find the curious little chatter-box so
wide awake at this very inconvenient time, but she did not lose her
patience, and answered that she had been first with Charlie, and then
with their mother.
“And now I hope you are coming to bed. I can’t go to sleep without you.”
“Oh, but indeed you must, Lucy dear, for I shall not be ready this long
time. Look, here is a great rent in Walter’s coat, which I must mend, or
he won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow.”
“What shall we have for dinner to-morrow, Rose? What made you eat so
much supper to-night?”
“I’ll tell you what, Lucy, I am not going to talk to you, or you will lie
awake all night, and that will be very bad for you. I shall put my
candle out of your sight, and say some Psalms, but I cannot talk.”
So Rose began, and, wakeful as Lucy was, she found the low sweet tones
lulled her a little. But she did not like this; she had a perverse
intention of staying awake till Rose got into bed, so instead of
attending to the holy words, she pinched herself, and pulled herself, and
kept her eyes staring open, gazing at the flickering shadows cast by the
dim home-made rush candle.
She went to sleep for a moment, then started into wakefulness again; Rose
had ceased to repeat her Psalms aloud, but was still at her needlework;
another doze, another waking. There was some hope of Rose now, for she
was kneeling down to say her prayers. Lucy thought they lasted very
long, and at her next waking she was just in time to hear the latch of
the door closing, and find herself left in darkness. Rose was not in
bed, did not answer when she called. Oh, she must be gone to take
Walter’s coat back to his room. But surely she might have done that in
one moment; and how long she was staying! Lucy could bear it no longer,
or rather she did not try to bear it, for she was an impetuous,
self-willed child, without much control over herself. She jumped out of
bed, and stole to the door. A light was just disappearing on the
ceiling, as if someone was carrying a candle down stairs; what could it
mean? Lucy scampered, pit-pat, with her bare feet along the passage, and
came to the top of the stairs in time to peep over and discover Rose
silently opening the door of the hall, a large dark cloak hung over her
arm, and her head and neck covered by her black silk hood and a thick
woollen kerchief, as if she was going out.
Lucy’s curiosity knew no bounds. She would not call, for fear she should
be sent back to bed, but she was determined to see what her sister could
possibly be about. Down the cold stone steps pattered she, and luckily,
as she thought, Rose, probably to avoid noise, had only shut to the door,
so that the little inquisitive maiden had a chink to peep through, and
beheld Rose at a certain oaken corner-cupboard, whence she took out a
napkin, and in it she folded what Lucy recognised as the very same
three-cornered segment of pie-crust, containing the pigeon that she had
last night been accused of devouring. She placed it in a basket, and
then proceeded to take a lantern from the cupboard, put in her rushlight,
and, thus prepared, advanced to the garden-door, softly opened it, and
disappeared.
Lucy, in an extremity of amazement, came forward. The wind howled in
moaning gusts, and the rain dashed against the windows; Lucy was chilly
and frightened. The fire was not out, and gave a dim light, and she
crept towards the window, but a sudden terror came over her; she dashed
back, looked again, heard another gust of wind, fell into another panic,
rushed back to the stairs, and never stopped till she had tumbled into
bed, her teeth chattering, shivering from head to foot with fright and
cold, rolled herself up tight in the bed-clothes, and, after suffering
excessively from terror and chill, fell sound asleep without seeing her
sister return.
Causeless fears pursue those who are not in the right path, and turn from
what alone can give them confidence. A sense of protection supports
those who walk in innocence, though their way may seem surrounded with
perils; and thus, while Lucy trembled in an agony of fright in her warm
bed, Rose walked forth with a firm and fearless step through the dark
gusty night, heedless of the rain that pattered round her, and the wild
wind that snatched at her cloak and gown, and flapped her hood into her
eyes.
She was not afraid of fancied terrors, and real perils and anxieties were
at this moment lost in the bounding of her young heart at the thought of
seeing, touching, speaking to her brother, her dear Edmund. She had been
eleven years old when they last had parted, the morning of the battle of
Naseby, and he was five years older; but they had always been very happy
and fond companions and playfellows as long as she could remember, and
she alone had been on anything like an equality with him, or missed him
with a feeling of personal loss, that had been increased by the death of
her elder sister, Mary.
Quickly, and concealing her light as much as possible, she walked down
the damp ash-strewn paths of the kitchen-garden, and came out into the
overgrown and neglected shrubbery, or pleasance, where the long wet-laden
shoots came beating in her face, and now and then seeming to hold her
back, and strange rustlings were heard that would have frightened a
maiden of a less stout and earnest heart. Her anxiety was lest she
should be confused by the unwonted aspect of things in the dark, and miss
the path; and very, very long did it seem, while her light would only
show her leaves glistening with wet. At last she gained a clearer space,
the border of a field: something dark rose before her, she knew the
outline of the shed, and entered the lower part. It was meant for a
cart-shed, with a loft above for hay or straw; but the cart had been lost
or broken, and there was only a heap of rubbish in the corner, by which
the children were wont to climb up to inspect their kittens. Here Rose
was for a moment startled by a glare close to her of what looked like two
fiery lamps in the darkness, but the next instant a long, low, growling
sound explained it, and the tabby stripes of the cat quickly darted
across her lantern’s range of light. She heard a slight rustling above,
and ventured to call, in a low whisper, “Edmund.”
“Is that you, Walter?” and as Rose proceeded to mount the pile of
rubbish, his pale and haggard face looked down at her.
“What? Rose herself! I did not think you would have come on such a
night as this. Can you come up? Shall I help you?”
“Thank you. Take the lantern first—take care. There. Now the basket
and the cloak.” And this done, with Edmund’s hand, Rose scrambled up
into the loft. It was only the height of the roof, and there was not
room, even in the middle, to stand upright; the rain soaked through the
old thatch, the floor was of rough boards, and there was but very little
of the hay that had served as a bed for the kittens.
“O Edmund, this is a wretched place!” exclaimed Rose, as, crouching by
his side, one hand in his, and the other round his neck, she gazed
around.
“Better than a prison,” he answered. “I only wish I knew that others
were in as good a one. And you—why, Rose, how you are altered; you are
my young lady now! And how does my dear mother?”
“Pretty well. I could hardly prevail on her not to come here to-night;
but it would have been too much, she is so weak, and takes cold so soon.
But, Edmund, how pale you are, how weary! Have you slept? I fear not,
on these hard boards—your wound, too.”
“It hardly deserves such a dignified name as a wound,” said Edmund. “I
am more hungry than aught else; I could have slept but for hunger, and
now”—as he spoke he was opening the basket—“I shall be lodged better, I
fear, than a king, with that famous cloak. What a notable piece of
pasty! Well done, Rose! Are you housewife? Store of candles, too.
This is noble!”
“How hungry you must be! How long is it since you have eaten?”
“Grey sent his servant into a village to buy some bread and cheese; we
divided it when we parted, and it lasted me until this morning. Since
then I have fasted.”
“Dear brother, I wish I could do more for you; but till Mr. Enderby goes,
I cannot, for the soldiers are about the kitchen, and our maid, Deborah,
talks too much to be trustworthy, though she is thoroughly faithful.”
“This is excellent fare,” said Edmund, eating with great relish. “And
now tell me of yourselves. My mother is feeble and unwell, you say?”
“Never strong, but tolerably well at present.”
“So Walter said. By the way, Walter is a fine spirited fellow. I should
like to have him with me if we take another African voyage.”
“He would like nothing better, poor fellow. But what strange things you
have seen and done since we met! How little we thought that morning that
it would be six years before we should sit side by side again! And
Prince Rupert is kind to you?”
“He treats me like a son or brother: never was man kinder,” said Edmund,
warmly. “But the children? I must see them before I depart. Little
Lucy, is she as bold and pert as she was as a young child?”
“Little changed,” said Rose, smiling, and telling her brother the
adventures at the dinner.
As cheerfully as might be they talked till Edmund had finished his meal,
and then Rose begged him to let her examine and bind up the wound. It
was a sword-cut on the right shoulder, and, though not very deep, had
become stiff and painful from neglect, and had soaked his sleeve deeply
with blood. Rose’s dexterous fingers applied the salve and linen she had
brought, and she promised that at her next visit she would bring him some
clean clothes, which was what he said he most wished for. Then she
arranged the large horseman’s cloak, the hay, and his own mantle, so well
as to form, he said, the most luxurious resting place he had seen since
he left Dunbar; and rolled up in this he lay, his head supported on his
hand, talking earnestly with her on the measures next to be taken for his
safety, and on the state of the family. He must be hidden there till the
chase was a little slackened, and then escape, by Bosham or some other
port, to the royal fleet, which was hovering on the coast. Money,
however—how was he to get a passage without it?
“The Prince, at parting—heaven knows he has little enough himself—gave me
twenty gold crowns, which he said was my share of prize-money for our
captures,” said Edmund, “but this is the last of them.”
“And I don’t know how we can get any,” said Rose. “We never see money.
Our tenants, if they pay at all, pay in kind—a side of bacon, or a sack
of corn; they are very good, poor people, and love our mother heartily, I
do believe. I wish I knew what was to be done.”
“Time will show,” said Edmund. “I have been in as bad a case as this ere
now, and it is something to be near you all again. So you like this
place, do you? As well as our own home?”
Rose shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh no, Edmund; I
try to think it home, and the children feel it so, but it is not like
Woodley. Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the branches that
came down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?”
“And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home from
the justice-meeting. And the meadow where the hounds killed the fox that
had baffled them so long! Do you hear anything of the place now, Rose?”
“Mr. Enderby told us something,” said Rose, sadly. “You know who has got
it, Edmund?”
“Who?
“That Master Priggins, who was once justices’ clerk.”
“Ha!” cried Edmund. “That pettifogging scrivener in my father’s
house!—in my ancestors’ house! A rogue that ought to have been branded a
dozen years ago! I could have stood anything but that! Pretty work he
is making there, I suppose! Go on, Rose.”
“O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear.”
“Neighbour’s fare! as you say,” replied Edmund, with a short dry laugh.
“Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave man
naturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries could not go
in a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that in my father’s
place is enough to drive one mad with rage! Come, what has he been
doing? How has he used the poor people?”
“He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but Mr.
Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.”
“I wonder what unlucky fate possessed that Enderby to take the wrong
side! Well?”
“He could not tell us much of the place, for he cannot endure Master
Priggins, and Master Sylvester laughs at his Puritanical manner; but he
says—O Edmund—that the fish-ponds are filled up—those dear old fish-ponds
where the water-lilies used to blow, and you once pulled me out of the
water.”
“Ay, ay! we shall not know it again if ever our turn comes, and we enjoy
our own again. But it is of no use to think about such matters.”
“No; we must be thankful that we have a home at all, and are not like so
many, who are actually come to beggary, like poor Mrs. Forde. You
remember her, our old clergyman’s widow. He died on board ship, and she
was sent for by her cousin, who promised her a home; but she had no
money, and was forced to walk all the way, with her two little boys,
getting a lodging at night from any loyal family who would shelter her
for the love of heaven. My mother wept when she saw how sadly she was
changed; we kept her with us a week to rest her, and when she went she
had our last gold carolus, little guessing, poor soul, that it was our
last. Then, when she was gone, my mother called us all round her, and
gave thanks that she could still give us shelter and daily bread.”
“There is a Judge above!” exclaimed Edmund; “yet sometimes it is hard to
believe, when we see such a state of things here below!”
“Dr. Bathurst tells us to think it will all be right in the other world,
even if we do have to see the evil prosper here,” said Rose, gravely.
“The sufferings will all turn to glory, just as they did with our blessed
King, out of sight.”
Edmund sat thoughtful. “If our people abroad would but hope and trust
and bear as you do here, Rose. But I had best not talk of these things,
only your patience makes me feel how deficient in it we are, who have not
a tithe to bear of what you have at home. Are you moving to go? Must
you?”
“I fear so, dear brother; the light seems to be beginning to dawn, and if
Lucy wakes and misses me—Is your shoulder comfortable?”
“I was never more comfortable in my life. My loving duty to my dear
mother. Farewell, you, sweet Rose.”
“Farewell, dear Edmund. Perhaps Walter may manage to visit you, but do
not reckon on it.”