AFTER pacing up and down Rose’s room till he was tired, Walter sat down
to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest he
should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with his arms
crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell sound
asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and calls of
“Rose! Rose!” were heard outside the locked door.
He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily
recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the
door.
He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little
things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother, all
gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and Charles
clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means understood this; and
Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he would not like it. “How
you crowd?” he exclaimed.
“Mistress Rose,” began Deborah, coming half way up stairs—Lucy let go his
hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he could not
move. “Don’t be troublesome, children,” said he, trying to shake them
off; “can’t you come near one without pulling off one’s hands?”
“Mistress!” continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and did
not immediately attend, she exclaimed, “Oh, she won’t even look at me! I
thought she had forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you!” said he, starting. “Stuff and nonsense; what’s all this
about? You were a fool, that’s all.”
Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young
lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor, and
held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry: “Mistress Rose,
shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young gentlemen, poor
souls?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “No, wait a bit. Only to my mother, I
mean, just at present.”
“And the soldiers,” continued Deborah—“they’re roaring for breakfast;
what shall I give them?”
“A halter,” he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and
answered, “What you can—bread, beef, beer—”
“Bread! beef! beer!” almost shrieked Deborah, “when she knows the colonel
man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two Christmases,
and bread, there’s barely enough for my lady and the children, till we
bake.”
“Well, whatever there is, then,” said Walter, anxious to get rid of her.
“I could fry some bacon,” pursued Deborah, “only I don’t know whether to
cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the garden.
Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out of the
frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way.”
The tinker was too much for poor Walter’s patience, and flinging away
from her, he exclaimed, “Mercy on me, woman, you’ll plague the life out
of me!”
Poor Deborah stood aghast. “Mistress Rose! what is it? you look wildly,
I declare, and your hood is all I don’t know how. Shall I set it right?”
“Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine!” cried Walter.
“Alack! alack!” lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down stairs,
Charlie running after her. “Mistress Rose is gone clean demented with
trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this poor house yet.”
“There!” said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; “I have held my tongue this
time. O Walter, you don’t do it a bit like Rose!”
“Where is Rose!” said Eleanor. “How did you get out?”
“Well!” said Walter, “it is hard that, whatever we do, women and babies
are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found me out, but
mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to guess what I am
telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose is gone with
him—’tis safest not to say where.”
“But is not she coming back?” asked Eleanor.
“Oh yes, very soon—to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till she
comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I never was
properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!”
“Oh don’t stride along so, or they will find you out,” exclaimed Eleanor.
“And don’t mince and amble, that is worse!” added Lucy. “Oh you will
make me laugh in spite of everything.”
“Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my—her room, and see nobody!” said
Walter; “you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don’t let Deb drive me
distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the
rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives.”
“But only tell me, how did you get out?” said Lucy.
“Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing,” said Walter, shutting
the door in her face.
“Now, don’t be curious, dear Lucy,” said Eleanor, taking her hand. “We
shall know in time.”
“I will not, I am not,” said Lucy, magnanimously. “We will not say one
single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything. Come
down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose’s work, for we must be
very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that Edmund is safe.”
Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained
undisturbed for some time, while Deborah’s unassisted genius was exerted
to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption was from
Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call “Walter,” and then
hastily turning it into “Rose!” He opened, and she said, with tears in
her eyes, “O Walter, Walter, the wicked men are really going to take dear
mother away to prison. She is come down with her cloak and hood on, and
is asking for you—Rose I mean—to wish good-bye. Will you come?”
“Yes,” said Walter; “and Edmund—”
“They were just sending up to call him,” said Eleanor; “they will find it
out in—”
Eleanor’s speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next room.
“Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!” with many confused
exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor stood
frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine caper,
clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in an exulting
whisper, “Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long enough for him!”
then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the hall. His mother,
dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a glance of hope and joy
lighting on her pale features, but her swollen eyelids telling of a night
of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and Charles were by her side, the front
door open, and the horses were being led up and down before it. Walter
and Eleanor hurried up to her, but before they had time to speak, the
rebel captain dashed into the room, exclaiming, “Thou treacherous woman,
thou shalt abye this! Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the
coast. Smite them rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling
of the blood-thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I
say!”
“Which way, sir?” demanded the corporal.
“The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport. Or
here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles? Ah,
there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy mother by
telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy wiles, and will
visit them on thee and on thy father’s house, unless thou dost somewhat
to merit forgiveness.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Walter, swelling with passion.
“Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of the
righteous are escaped.”
“You are not wrong there, sir,” said Walter.
“I tell thee,” said the captain, sternly, “thy joy shall be turned to
mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou and
thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless—”
Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, “You know you
have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use such
threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!”
“Ha!” said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady’s manner
of replying. “Is it thus the malignants breed up their daughters, in
insolence as well as deceit?”
The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and
striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, “Take that, for
giving the lie to a gentleman.”
“How now?” cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the hood
fell back. “’Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search the house
instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second time.”
He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw
himself into his mother’s arms, exclaiming, “O mother dear, I bore it as
long as I could.”
“My dear rash boy!” said she. “But is he safe? No, do not say where.
Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!” and so indeed
her face proved.
“All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she—but I’ll say
no more, for fear. He left love—duty—Rose left all sorts of greetings,
that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them lumbering about the
house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are welcome—”
“Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will gain,”
whispered his mother. “Oh this is joy indeed!”
“Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word,” interposed Lucy; but
there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the captain
returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a soldier, who
was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was completed.
After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain through
the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went off to scour
the neighbouring country, and examine every village on the coast.
Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime locked
into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered not to let
Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and Walter were warned
that they were to be carried the next morning to Chichester, to answer
for having aided and abetted the escape of the notorious traitor, Edmund
Woodley.
It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady
Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust that
the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be safe with
Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels should search the
villages before Edmund had time to escape.