HIDDEN WORTH.
"Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered ages since,
Come, care and pleasure, hope and pain,
And bring the fated fairy prince."
TENNYSON, _The Day Dream._
Through the winter weather Richard Harrison wandered eastward.
The dull listlessness from which his encounter with Astbury aroused him
for a moment, closed on him again as soon as he was once more alone;
the glimpse of his old ideals that had revisited him had faded, and
only left him with a dogged determination to do nothing unworthy of
them, but with no pride or pleasure in his resolve. And as he grew
more weary, more desperate of escape from his pursuers, he soon ceased
to think at all; political dreams, sorrow for the dead, hopes of
finding new friends and ambitions in a new world, all were forgotten,
the spirit within him was dulled by suffering; only the poor body cried
incessantly for rest, for food, for warmth, and most often craved in
vain.
So one February evening found him struggling across the moorlands that
fringe the coast of Norfolk between Hunstanton and Lynn. Thickets of
russet fern and gorse stretched from the dark firwoods to the grey
strand and the grey waters of the Northern Sea. The rooks croaked
drearily to each other as they winged their way inland, and the gulls
circled wailing over the heath before taking their flight to roost on
some lonely sand-bank, and no other sound broke the monotonous plunge
of the cold waves.
But across the heath a clump of trees rising against the pale sky
seemed to shelter a group of buildings, where possibly some charitable
hand might bestow broken meat on a beggar, or at least a corner in a
rick-yard might afford a shelter from the bitter frost that was numbing
his limbs. It was long since he had ventured into a town where he
might be questioned and recognized--the hunted man had only dared ask
food or lodging at solitary farms or lonely hamlets; and as he pushed
forward, the gables and twisted chimneys of a mansion house, with
garden walls and dove-cote, gave him hopes of help. He hurried on as
fast as his weary limbs could carry him, with a terror of the icy
darkness that was closing in like the shadow of death descending upon
him, and almost at a run he reached his goal, and stood on the
balustraded stone arch that crossed the ice-encumbered moat of the old
house. Then, as he raised his eyes to the building, a groan of despair
broke from him; it was but the mockery of shelter he could find there.
The gates before him creaked on their rusty hinges, the gryffons that
had ramped so proudly on the gate-posts, had fallen from their high
estate, and lay grovelling among the dead flags that fringed the moat.
Dead weeds bristled white with frost between the paving-stones of the
once stately courtyard, and the great house beyond loomed dark and
deserted in the twilight, with windows boarded up, or gaping black and
empty through their shattered casements.
The strength that had carried him so far, failed as his hopes dropped.
He stumbled, clutched with a last effort at the gate, and lay a huddled
heap on the threshold of the empty courtyard. All was silent. The dry
flags rustled, the ice cracked in the moat below, the wanderer lay
quiet at last.
A very homely sound broke the ghostly stillness. The click of pattens
on the paving-stones, and a carol hummed in the clear tones of a girl's
voice, as her tall lithe figure came round the corner of the apparently
deserted house. A greater contrast to the melancholy scene could not
be imagined than her young face glowing with life and health, the ruddy
coils of chestnut hair, and the bright hazel eyes that roved far and
wide over the empty landscape, as she caught the swinging gates, and
began to tie them in place with a piece of cord.
"Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the motionless
figure below her. "John! John! Old John! Come here! Here is one
sick or hurt! pray heaven he be not dead," she concluded in a lower
voice, as she stooped over the insensible man, and listened for sound
of breath. "Sir! sir! rouse yourself," and she shook the helpless man
gently by the shoulder. "Poor creature, this is no beggar, I warrant.
He has the face of a gentleman, and his clothes were fine enough not so
long ago. John, I say!" she called again. "'Tis just to vex me the
old fool feigns himself to be deaf. Sir, I pray you rouse; can you
make shift to stand, for here is shelter close by, if you can but walk
a step or two. 'Tis more than like he is one of those poor gentleman
in trouble with this new government, he has the very air of a hunted
man. I cannot leave him here to freeze," she muttered. "Well, if John
is too deaf or too cross to help, I must e'en manage the business
myself." And without more ado she lifted the helpless man by the
shoulders, and propped him up against the gate-post, and fell to
rubbing his hands. He opened his eyes, and gazed dully at her. "Can
you stand, and let me help you into the house?" she repeated.
[Illustration: "Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the
motionless figure. [page 74.]
"Yes, yes," he muttered thickly, and made an effort to rise.
"That's well begun," she said brightly. "Now another try, and I
warrant you will find you can get the length of the court."
With the help of her strong young arm he stumbled to his feet, and let
her lead him round the house. The back of the old mansion had a very
different aspect to the front; a bucket of water stood by the well,
brightly scoured milk-pans leant against the porch, and through the
open door the glow of the fire streamed out into the twilight. The
girl glanced over towards the cowsheds, and then, with an impatient
shake of her head, and a murmur of "Lazy old John," she carefully
guided her bewildered guest into a great kitchen, and deposited him in
the corner of a settle by the fire. A minute afterwards she stood over
him with a bowl of steaming broth in her hand. The warmth of the
comfortable fire had already begun to thaw his frozen wits, and he made
shift to stammer a word of thanks as he fumbled with the spoon.
"There, I will hold the bowl," she said; "you must say nothing till
this broth is finished." And she watched, well pleased how the colour
came back to his face, and the starved glitter in his eyes softened
into gratitude as he met her glance.
"Madam," he said, when at length he laid down the spoon and
straightened himself, "I do truly hold you have saved my life this
night; and, indeed, not only have you delivered this poor body from
danger, but the new spirit your kindness hath infused into me will go
far to carry me to my journey's end. For all, I do tender my thankful
acknowledgement."
And the bow with which he concluded his little speech confirmed his
hostess in her assurance that she had to do with a man of position and
breeding. But the effect of his courtesy was sadly marred by a sudden
false step, as he rose to take leave.
"Nay, sir," she cried anxiously, "you must indeed not be in such haste;
you are still faint," and she caught his arm as he clutched at the
table and recovered himself.
"Indeed, kind mistress, little ails me but weariness. I have travelled
far and not fared over-sumptuously; but now I am near my journey's end,
and I must not linger on the way."
"Indeed, sir," she cried, "you will not lose time by resting a little
longer in the warmth here. 'Twould be poor speed to faint again in the
woods!"
"Ay," he answered, "and 'tis not very like I should there meet with a
second good Samaritan to succour me; but I trust I shall go forward
bravely now; 'tis but the warm room hath made me somewhat qualmish."
But the young lady was clearly accustomed to have her own way, and
quietly ignored his answer, as she continued--
"You can rest here undisturbed if you fear not ghosts, for no one lives
in the house. I do but come here by day to attend to the dairy,
so"--she concluded with a somewhat meaning tone--"you can shelter here,
to-night, without any one asking whence you come, or whither you go."
Richard looked at her. How came it that this girl had guessed his
secret at once when most people passed him, taking him but for a sturdy
beggar? What made her suspect him of being a fugitive? Was her offer
of shelter but careless good nature, or a heroic endeavour to save a
hunted man? At any rate he had not fallen so low as to draw suspicion
on a woman, and a young woman to boot, although she was plainly no
nervous, fanciful, fine lady, but a bright, resolute, country girl,
with good health and high spirits gleaming from every flash of her
bright eyes, and every turn of her auburn head.
"Madam," he answered at length, "'twere a poor return for your
kindness, did I not tell you that there are many who are no friends to
me, and 'tis best I should depart, as I have come, lest I bring trouble
on your hospitable house."
The girl turned on him quick with a little stamp, of her neat foot on
the sanded floor.
"Sir, I know not, nor do I greatly care, who you may be, or what may be
your reasons for keeping private; but 'tis very plain you are in
trouble, and 'tis not the fashion of the house of Perrient to let folk
go unsuccoured from our door."
Richard sprang to his feet. "Perrient! for heaven's sake, madam, of
what Perrients do you come?"
She looked at him with surprise. "I am Audrey Perrient of Hunstanton,"
she answered with a shade of coldness.
"Mistress Perrient! Mistress Audrey Perrient! Can it be possible you
are here in the flesh, or has God sent a blessed spirit in your shape
to succour my misery!"
She laughed with a puzzled scrutiny of his face. "Sir, how do you know
my name? I am indeed a living woman, though this be a haunted house!
It is sure no miracle to find me here at Inglethorpe, where my Aunt
Isham lived for forty years past."
Richard still stared at her like a man in a trance. "Verily, God
leadeth the blind by a way they know not," he said at length. "We all
believed you in America. I can but admire the chance, or rather
miracle, that hath directed my steps hither. Madam, my name is well
known to your honoured father. I am Richard Harrison."
The girl's bright cheek paled. "Master Harrison!" she gasped; "the
nephew of Major-General Harrison?"
"Ay, madam," he answered, "the nephew, and well nigh the son of that
martyr now in glory."
There was silence for a minute, and then the girl recovered herself and
the colour came back to her face.
"But, good sir," she cried, "why are you in hiding? How can you be in
danger? I know General Harrison was very forward against King Charles,
and sat among the judges who sentenced him; but you--you must have been
a mere boy when--when the king died. 'Twas no concern of yours? Sure
this new king is not a Herod that he should make war on men for what
they did as babes in their cradles! You were but a child in those
days!"
"Nay, madam, I was fifteen years old on the memorable day that the
people of England did justice upon a king, even before the eyes of all
nations. I was already a soldier, and had the honour of wearing a
sword, when my uncle's regiment kept guard round the scaffold at
Whitehall. Though in years I was but a lad, I do indeed believe I felt
in my heart the terror of the presence of God, that was with his
servants that day; and were that great deed to do again, I would with
my heart's best blood set thereto my seal that it was just and right."
Prompt and decided came his words. The soldier had no questionings
concerning the justice of the cause in which he had fought.
Audrey interrupted him hastily. "Oh, silence, sir! Why say such
dangerous words?"
"Because, madam, dangerous words befit a dangerous man," he answered
more gently. "And"--smiling sadly at his own excitement--"and there
are many that will tell you I am a dangerous man."
"No, no; I am sure you are no evil doer, and, I am sure you can if you
list, keep silence from such wild words."
"Ay, madam, 'tis easier to keep silence than to testify; and I would
not willingly vex you, but I desire that you should know me in my true
colours.
"I am not like to mistake the colours of Master Harrison--or Captain
Harrison, is it not?" answered the girl; "and whatever differences did
latterly divide us in mind, though not in love, from General Harrison,
you must needs know we were all for the Parliament here--my
grandfather, my father, and I; that is how I came to guess you for one
in hiding from the king's men; but for your own sake I would have you
careful, lest even walls should have ears."
"It is but too true," he answered. "I am no fit company for quiet
folks and dainty maidens; but," he added rising, "it hath been a
cordial to see the face of a friend, and the memory of it will abide
long with me." And as he spoke, the sudden life that had flashed into
his eyes, seemed to flicker and go out like a candle, the soldier was
changed back into a dull and spiritless wayfarer.
Her face changed as quickly, the pained and alarmed look vanished.
"No, no," she cried merrily, stepping before the door. "No, no,
Captain Harrison; you have betrayed yourself, and now you are my
prisoner. You do not depart hence till you have my leave! Sit down!"
she added peremptorily. "I am going to prepare supper, and you are in
my way; and afterwards you must confess to me whither you are bound,
and what are your plans for escape, if escape you must."
The charming masterfulness of her manner, the toss of her proud little
head, might have quickened duller pulses than those of Richard
Harrison. It was so sweet to him to be commanded, to meet this glowing
life and kindliness after the weeks of dull solitude that had almost
bereaved him of his wits. For a little while he might delay; let him
have just a few moments more in the warmth and brightness; let him keep
one fair memory to take out with him into the cold darkness.
He met her challenge with a flash of his old spirit. "Mercy, fair
jailor!" he cried. "What torment have you in store for me should I
refuse to plead?"
She seized a great ladle, and flourished it gaily. "I am a magician,"
she laughed, "and this is my wand. I make no doubt when my prisoner
tastes my Norfolk dumplings even his hard heart will be softened, and
he will make fair confession. And I have here besides a noble collar
of brawn that would turn even a heathen to a better mind! But, indeed,
sir," she added, changing her banter to a winning tone of apology. "I
would not pry into your confidence, but whatever service I can render
to General Harrison's nephew, that I am bound to give."
"Nay, madam," he answered, "I have no secret that I should keep from
your kindness. There were some who were no friends to me in General
Harrison's lifetime, and who would gladly have seen me share his fall.
I need not particularize concerning their malice, as by God's help I
have escaped it for the time. But should they lay hands on me, I run
some chance of sharing the lot of poor Venner and the other Fifth
Monarchy men they hanged last month."
"But are you indeed a Fifth Monarchy man?" cried Audrey, turning
hurriedly from the great pot she was skimming and tasting.
"No, no, on my honour I am not!" he answered earnestly. "Perchance
were I a better man, I were a greater fanatic! My dear uncle was often
very round with me, accounting me no better than a luke-warm Laodicean
where the Fifth Monarchy was in question. But truly, madam, I have in
great part to thank your honoured grandfather that I was not carried
away by the wild beliefs of one whom I did in all other matters desire
to honour and obey. The last time I saw Sir Gyles Perrient we had much
speech concerning my uncle's plans. Sir Gyles feared much General
Harrison might be set on some rash action, and by throwing things into
confusion, would leave the way open for the Cavaliers to join with the
vile levelling party to root out all good in the land."
"When was that time?" cried Audrey, disregarding the young man's deep
interest in his political story; "when did you see my grandfather?"
"When I was on my way to London in May two years ago," he answered
flushing unaccountably.
"That was when my father was lecturing at Ipswich," she answered, "and
I was with him, and we were there still when the tidings came of the
fit that carried off my grandfather suddenly; so you saw him later than
I," she concluded wistfully. "Can you mind any of the things he spoke
of?"
"We spoke much of public matters," he answered evasively, flushing yet
deeper. "Sir Gyles did earnestly desire to heal the breach betwixt my
dear uncle and the Lord Protector, for he knew Oliver was ready to join
hands with my uncle if he would but sit still and talk no more of a
Fifth Monarchy rising. I believe 'twas all of Sir Gyles Perrient's
good counsel that General Harrison took no more heed of the fanatics'
desire he should be their leader."
"Ah, and is that also why you were too lukewarm a Laodicean to go out
in Venner's rising last month?"
"Indeed, Sir Gyles' words were wise enough to turn a very fool from his
folly; but I was not in London when Venner broke out, but in hiding in
Staffordshire. Nevertheless, mine enemies found it an easy thing to
bring witnesses to swear I was seen in Venner's company, and pressed
hard on my hiding-place; so seeing I was not wealthy enough or easy
enough to bribe their witnesses to refrain from lies, I e'en fled, and
have the hue and cry after me for a dangerous plotter. One of my name
can scarce hope for much mercy in the very loyal city of London this
day!"
"But you have done wonders to reach so far as this. And whither now
are you bound?"
"I thought perchance I might make my way to King's Lynn: there is a
minister there, Mr. Marsham, who was a good friend of mine uncle: and I
know hath often helped many in distress to escape to Holland. I
thought he might help me to a ship to some Dutch port, and thence I can
go forward to New England when the way seems open."
"'Tis an excellent plan," answered Audrey, thoughtfully, "and indeed I
heard talk of the _Little Charity_ sailing to Rotterdam the end of this
week. But your plan may be so far amended that you will do best to
stay here in hiding till the day before the ship may sail. I can send
in a private message from you to your friend, but Lynn is so distraught
with loyalty that it might fare ill with Mr. Marsham were he found
harbouring you for many days."
"But how would it fare with Mistress Perrient, were she found
harbouring me?" he asked, with a smile. "Methinks it smacks somewhat
of cowardice to drag a lady into my peril?"
"Tush, there's no peril!" she answered gaily. "No one comes here save
the crows and seagulls, or maybe a ghost. I trust, Captain Harrison,
you fear not ghosts?"
"Nay," he answered earnestly. "If any blessed spirit did speak to me,
it were indeed a grace and a light shining in darkness; but as they be
evil spirits, they can scarce be more dangerous than when I withstood
them in the flesh at Worcester fight and Dunbar. Nevertheless, I have
no great desire to behold such wonders, for a man cannot tell, till the
trial come, if he shall bear himself manfully therein."
"I did but jest," she answered; "but the common folk have much talk of
ghosts in this house since it hath been left so desolate, and so they
shun it; and if any man saw or heard you here, 'tis more likely they
would hold you for some dead Cremer or Inglethorpe than for a mortal
man. But here is my broth ready; and, in common courtesy, you must
tell me my supper was worth waiting for!"
With housewifely pride, Audrey had dished up her country fare, and
smiled to see her guest's enjoyment of it. The great logs roared on
the hearth and lit up the shining pewter on the dresser and the one
silver tankard that was Audrey's pride. Empty though the great kitchen
was, its dainty cleanliness and the splendid solidity of the oak
rafters and settle, saved it from any look of squalid poverty. Yet the
simple surroundings could not fail to strike the stranger.
"Madam," he said at length, "may I pray you to resolve me the riddle
how I find you dwelling in Norfolk? We heard you had departed to the
New England plantations near two years ago, with your honoured father."
"My father, indeed, did sail to Rhode Island, but he left me here, with
my great-aunt Isham, till he had prepared a home for me there. And
then, when I would have followed him, my great-aunt was grown so old
and failed, that he deemed it my duty to stay with her to the last.
Now she is lately dead, and I am in haste to depart to join my dearest
father. Right glad am I you chanced not here a few weeks later, or you
might, in good truth, have found but a ghost to welcome you. Indeed,
your visit came pat to the minute, for I was just shutting up for the
night when you must needs get in the way of the gate," and she laughed
saucily. "Had you but come five minutes later, I should have been away
at my cowman's cottage, where I dwell now till I am ready to take ship.
This house does but serve me for withdrawing-room, when I am weary of
old Molly's clack and out of patience with her husband. My poor aunt
Isham loved this ruined Inglethorpe too well to leave it till she was
carried to the church-yard, but I have no fancy to awake some morning
to find I am but another of the Inglethorpe ghosts, and my body buried
in the ruins of Inglethorpe Hall. Therefore, I give the preference to
the attic in the cottage below there for a state chamber."
"Madam," he answered slowly, "if, indeed, this house is held for
uninhabited, and you do purpose leaving the country so soon, methinks
it may truly not bring you into danger if I take your generous offer
and hide here for to-night. You will scarce be questioned yonder in
Providence Plantation concerning the malefactors you harboured in
Norfolk, therefore will I thankfully close with your offer."
"That's well," she cried, springing from her seat, and clapping her
hands. "I knew no man alive could resist the charm of my dumplings!
Now, take patience but a little, and you shall see how well I order
things for my visitor!" and she ran gaily out of the room.
A mighty noise above stairs of moving furniture and the patter of light
footsteps came to Harrison as he basked by the great fire; and it was
not till the evening was growing late that Audrey reappeared, and,
dropping a curtsey with a charming air of demureness, prayed leave to
marshal his worship to his bedchamber.
He followed her up the stairs to a chamber over the kitchen.
"The real guest-chambers I may not offer you," she sighed, as she poked
up the logs that blazed on the rusty andirons; "seeing the rats have
made such havoc in them, and 'tis many years since any one slept there.
But the rats do not affect this chamber greatly, and the roof is sound;
also my aunt's woman slept here and saw no ghosts. And if need comes
you should hide--which God forbid--you see this little stair in the
corner? It leads up to the great attic that is full of lumber, where
you could play hide-and-seek with a regiment; and were you pressed
there--see"--and she ran lightly up the stair and pushed open the door
into the lumber-room. "Look at those bedsteads and chests and the
great loom. They make a very rampart! And if that were forced, the
ceiling is all broken at that end, so 'twere easy to scramble up on the
rafters and lie hid under the tiles. There, surely no one would follow
you; leastways, not our constables from hereabouts. They are too lusty
for such mountebank scrambles! And now, sir, your fire burns bright,
and I will wish you good night, and God keep you in safety."