IN the afternoon Lady Woodley was so much better as to be able to come
downstairs, and all the party sat round the fire in the twilight. Walter
was just come in from his fishing, bringing a basket of fine trout;
Eleanor and Charles were admiring their beautiful red spots, Lucy
wondering what made him so late, while he cast a significant look at his
eldest sister, showing her that he had been making a visit to Edmund.
At that moment a loud authoritative knocking was heard at the door;
Walter shouted to Diggory to open it, and was answered by Deborah’s
shrill scream from the kitchen, “He’s not here, sir; I’ve not seen him
since you threw your boots at him, sir.”
Another thundering knock brought Deborah to open the door; and what was
the dismay of the mother and children as there entered six tall men,
their buff coats, steeple-crowned hats, plain collars, and thick
calf-skin boots, marking them as Parliamentary soldiers. With a shriek
of terror the little ones clung round their mother, while he who, by his
orange scarf, was evidently the commanding officer, standing in the
middle of the hall, with his hat on, announced, in a Puritanical tone,
“We are here by order of his Excellency, General Cromwell, to search for
and apprehend the body of the desperate malignant Edmund Woodley, last
seen in arms against the Most High Court of Parliament. Likewise to
arrest the person of Dame Mary Woodley, widow, suspected of harbouring
and concealing traitors:” and he advanced to lay his hand upon her.
Walter, in an impulse of passion, rushed forward, and aimed a blow at him
with the butt-end of the fishing-rod; but it was the work of a moment to
seize the boy and tie his hands, while his mother earnestly implored the
soldier to have pity on him, and excuse his thoughtless haste to protect
her.
The officer sat down in the arm-chair, and without replying to Lady
Woodley, ordered a soldier to bring the boy before him, and spoke
thus:—“Hear me, son of an ungodly seed. So merciful are the lessons of
the light that thou contemnest, that I will even yet overlook and forgive
the violence wherewith thou didst threaten my life, so thou wilt turn
again, and confess where thou hast hidden the bloody-minded traitor.”
“This house harbours no traitor,” answered Walter, undauntedly.
“If thou art too hardened to confess,” continued the officer, frowning,
and speaking slowly and sternly, as he kept his eyes steadily fixed on
Walter, “if thou wilt not reveal his hiding-place, I lead thee hence to
abide the penalty of attempted murder.”
“I am quite ready,” answered Walter, returning frown for frown, and not
betraying how his heart throbbed.
The officer signed to the soldier, who roughly dragged him aside by the
cord that tied his hands, cutting them severely, though he disdained to
show any sign of pain.
“Young maiden,” continued the rebel, turning to Rose, “what sayest thou?
Wilt thou see thy brother led away to death, when the breath of thy mouth
might save him?”
Poor Rose turned as pale as death, but her answer was steady: “I will say
nothing.”
“Little ones, then,” said the officer, fiercely, “speak, or you shall
taste the rod. Do you know where your brother is?”
“No—no,” sobbed Lucy; and her mother added, “They know nothing, sir.”
“It is loss of time to stand parleying with women and children,” said the
officer, rising. “Here,” to one of his men, “keep the door. Let none
quit the chamber, and mark the children’s talk. The rest with me. Where
is the fellow that brought the tidings?”
Diggory, who had slunk out of sight, was pushed forward by two of the
soldiers, and at the same time there was a loud scream from Deborah.
“Oh! Diggory, is it you? Oh! my Lady, my Lady, forgive me! I meant no
harm! Oh! who would have thought it?” And in an agony of distress, she
threw her apron over her face, and, sinking on the bench, rocked herself
to and fro, sobbing violently.
In the meantime, the officer and his men, all but the sentinel, had left
the room to search for the fugitive, leaving Lady Woodley sitting
exhausted and terrified in her chair, the little ones clinging around
her, Walter standing opposite, with his hands bound; Rose stood by him,
her arm round his neck, proud of his firmness, but in dreadful terror for
him, and in such suspense for Edmund, that her whole being seemed
absorbed in agonised prayer. Deborah’s sobs, and the children’s
frightened weeping, were all the sounds that could be heard; Rose was
obliged to attempt to soothe them, but her first kind word to Deborah
produced a fresh burst of violent weeping, and then a loud lamentation:
“Oh! the rogue—the rogue. If I could have dreamt it!”
“What has she done?” exclaimed Walter, impatiently. “Come, stop your
crying. What have you done, Deb?”
“I thought—Oh! if I had known what was in the villain!” continued
Deborah, “I’d sooner have bit out my tongue than have said one word to
him about the pigeon pie.”
“Pigeon pie!” repeated Rose.
Lucy now gave a cry, for she was, with all her faults, a truth-telling
child. “Mother! mother! I told Deb about the pigeon pie! Oh, what have
I done? Was it for Edmund? Is Edmund here?”
And to increase the danger and perplexity, the other two children
exclaimed together, “Is Edmund here?”
“Hush, hush, my dears, be quiet; I cannot answer you now,” whispered Lady
Woodley, trying to silence them by caresses, and looking with terror at
the rigid, stern guard, who, instead of remaining at the door where he
had been posted, had come close up to them, and sat himself down at the
end of the table, as if to catch every word they uttered.
Eleanor and Charles obeyed their mother’s command that they should be
silent; Rose took Lucy on her lap, let her rest her head on her shoulder,
and whispered to her that she should hear and tell all another time, but
she must be quiet now, and listen. Deborah kept her apron over her face,
and Walter, leaning his shoulder against the wall, stood gazing at them
all; and while he was intently watching for every sound that could enable
him to judge whether the search was successful or not, at the same time
his heart was beating and his head swimming at the threat of the rebel.
Was he to die? To be taken away from that bright world, from sunshine,
youth, and health, from his mother, and all of them, and be laid, a stiff
mangled corpse, in some cold, dark, unregarded grave; his pulses, that
beat so fast, all still and silent—senseless, motionless, like the birds
he had killed? And that was not all: that other world! To enter on what
would last for ever and ever and ever, on a state which he had never
dwelt on or realised to himself, filled him with a blank, shuddering awe;
and next came a worse, a sickening thought: if his feeling for the bliss
of heaven was almost distaste, could he be fit for it? could he dare to
hope for it? It was his Judge Whom he was about to meet, and he had been
impatient and weary of Bible and Catechism, and Dr. Bathurst’s teaching;
he had been inattentive and careless at his prayers; he had been
disobedient and unruly, violent, and unkind! Such a horror and agony
came over the poor boy, so exceeding a dread of death, that he was ready
at that moment to struggle to do anything to save himself; but there came
the recollection that the price of his rescue must be the betrayal of
Edmund. He would almost have spoken at that instant; the next he
sickened at the thought. Never, never—he could not, would not; better
not live at all than be a traitor! He was too confused and anxious to
pray, for he had not taught himself to fix his attention in quiet
moments. He would not speak before the rebel soldier; but only looked
with an earnest gaze at his sister, who, as their eyes met, understood
all it conveyed.
His mother, after the first moment’s fright, had reassured herself
somewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely that
Algernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him to
death; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him;
and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it could
at that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for her
eldest son.
A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that the
enemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory’s intimate
knowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery,
and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where they were welcome
to search as long as they chose, then to the barn-yard, all over the
house from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet were
heard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search,
and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer entered
the hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers,
Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his hands
unbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up to
her, knelt on one knee before her, saying, “Mother, dear mother, your
blessing. Let me see your face again.”
She threw her arms round his neck, “My son! and is it thus we meet?”
“We only meet as we parted,” he answered firmly and cheerfully. “Still
sufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willing
hearts.”
“Come, sir,” said the officer, “I must see you safely bestowed for the
night.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” entreated Lady Woodley. “It is six years since
I saw my son, and this may be our last meeting.” She led him to the
light, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, which
had in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, “How you are
altered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker his
hair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like your
father?”
“And my little sisters,” said Edmund. “Ha! Lucy, I know your little
round face.”
“Oh,” sobbed Lucy, “is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!”
“What does she mean?” asked Edmund, turning to Rose.
“I saw you take it out at night, Rose,” said poor Lucy. “I told Deb!”
“And poor Deborah,” added Rose, “from the same thoughtlessness repeated
her chatter to Diggory, who has betrayed us.”
“The cowardly villain,” cried Walter, who had come forward to the group
round his brother.
“Hush, Walter,” said Edmund. “But what do I see? Your hands bound? You
a prisoner?”
“Poor Walter was rash enough to attempt resistance,” said his mother.
“So, sir,” said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, “you attach great
importance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!”
“A blow with the butt-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man,”
answered the officer.
“When last I served in England,” continued the cavalier, “Cromwell’s
Ironsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You can
have no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, against
him.”
“Why—no, sir; but—however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I do
not care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannot
permit him to be at large while you are in the house.”
“Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. We
have been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting.”
“So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I am
willing to oblige you,” answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour had
curiously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly and
gentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. “Now, madam,
to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow.”
“Good-night, mother,” said Edmund. “Sleep well; think this is but a
dream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house.”
“Good-night, my brave boy,” said Lady Woodley, as she embraced him
ardently. “A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father’s
face you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow.
GOD’S blessing be upon you, my boy.”
And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by a
soldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter. Edmund
next kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing them
good-night, and assuring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon. Rose whispered
to him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weep
piteously.
“Deborah,” he said, “I must thank you for your long faithful service to
my mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that you
were doing me any harm.”
“Oh, sir,” cried poor Deborah, “Oh don’t speak so kind! I had rather
stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army than
be where I am now.”
Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged to
hasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for the
night. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor little
Charles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion.
Deborah’s troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, and
seeing Walter’s basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once for
him. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceeded
to her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time.
“Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have been
the death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! ’Tis
little I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love the
very best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at the
root! I wish—I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in the
Parliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after having
known him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer?
Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heart
less.”
And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her apron
over her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards as
before. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted to
be softened into an insinuating tone. “I say, Deb, don’t take on.”
She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him.
“Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?”
“Come, come, don’t be fractious, my pretty one,” said Diggory, in the
amiable tones that had once gained her heart.
But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. “Your’n,
indeed! I’d rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the
Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you.
O Diggory Stokes,” she added ruefully, “I’d not have believed it of you,
if my own father had sworn it.”
“Hush, hush, Deb!” said Diggory, rather sheepishly, “they’ve done hanging
the folk.”
“Don’t be for putting me off with such trash,” she returned, more
passionately; “you’ve murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat,
and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you’ve broke my
lady’s heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And
now you think to make up to me, do you?”
“Wasn’t it all along of you I did it? For your sake?”
“Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?” cried Deb, her voice
rising in shrillness with her indignation.
“Patience, Deb,” said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. “No more
toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and no
wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See
here, Deb,” and he held up a piece of money.
“Silver!” she exclaimed.
“Ay, ay,” said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, “and there be
plenty more where that came from.”
“It is the price of Master Edmund’s blood.”
“Don’t ye say that now, Deb; ’tis all for you!” he answered, thinking he
was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive the
difference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding.
“So you still have the face to tell me so!” she burst out, still more
vehemently. “I tell you, I’d rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, if
they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you.
Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy in
Dorset but will cry shame on you.”
“But Deb, Deb,” he still pleaded.
“You will have it, then!” And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, away
ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping and
astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on his
hands and knees.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed, “How now, knave, stealing thy mistress’s
goods?” and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidable
halberd, stood over him.
“Good master corporal,” he began, trembling; but the soldier would not
hear him.
“Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberd
about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight of
Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart.” Here Diggory judged
it prudent to slink away through the back door. “And so,” continued the
Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, “and so the
gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!”
In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to
Walter’s bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside the
door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with a
gesture of rage and despair. “The villains! the rogues! To be betrayed
by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life. O Edmund,
Edmund!”
“It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance,” returned Edmund.
“Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkable
proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me;
but I should have thought my mother’s gentle kindness must have won the
love of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging to
her.”
A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence,
then suddenly exclaimed, “The surly rascal! I verily believe it was all
spite at me, for—”
“For—” repeated Edmund.
“For rating him as he deserved,” answered Walter. “I wish I had given it
to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,” added he,
hesitating, “perhaps if I had been civiller—”
“I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue,” said Edmund,
smiling.
“It is what my mother is always blaming me for,” said Walter; “but
really, now, Edmund, doesn’t it savour of the crop-ear to be picking
one’s words to every rogue in one’s way?”
“Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from
France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we are
cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low. You
should see our young King’s frank bright courtesy; and as to the little
King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old _poissarde_ in
the streets.”
Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if
consoling himself, “He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue,
whom hanging is too good for.”
“Don’t let us spend our whole night in abusing him,” said Edmund; “I want
to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other.”
“O, Edmund! you don’t mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is there
no way out of this room?” cried Walter, running round it like one
distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it
down.
“Hush! this is of no use, Walter,” said his brother. “The window is, I
see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape.”
Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.
“For one thing I am thankful to them,” continued Edmund; “I thought they
might have shot me down before my mother’s door, and so filled the place
with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time for
preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me.”
“Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!”
“I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert’s.”
Walter squeezed his hands fast together. “And how—how can you? Don’t
think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—”
“Never, I am sure,” repeated Edmund.
“But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolish
to believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought of
dying, then—”
“You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter,”
said Edmund; “nor have you led so wandering and weary a life.”
“I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die,” said Walter.
“Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge we
must meet,” said Edmund; “but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows that
it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. We
may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grant
us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late,
Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow.”
Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowful
and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following what
he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and at
the same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all he
had hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had been
of very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm,
and added to his mother’s distress; he had been nothing but a boy
throughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such an
agony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in
the room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother.
Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!
The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, both
occupying Walter’s bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep,
and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who was
giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, should
Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely to
become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly to
protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding all
compromise with the enemies of the Church.