Introductory material (continued 2)

Chapter III Of my Second Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and its Results—and of my Serious Quandary as to which of two Duties must first be performed.

I.

I was by this time on the threshold, as it were, of my destination, for only a short seven miles lay ’twixt me and Fairfax’s headquarters, but seven miles to a weary man is no light thing to venture on, and the packet which lay in my doublet was of a strict importance. However, fate being plainly against me, I ceased to fight with it, and resolved to rest for awhile, leaning against a beech tree that was damp and black with the November mists, debating in my mind as to the advisability of doing this or that.

“Faith!” says I to myself at last. “With my knowledge of the country it shall go hard if I don’t reach Pomfret to-night, and on a good horse, too. And so let’s see for such means as the neighbourhood affords.”

As luck would have it the barking of a dog across the fields reminded me of a farmhouse that stood there. ’Twas a lonely place, lying a long way back from the road, and so well hidden by great trees that you might have passed it, going north or south, and never caught a glimpse of its gables. I had forgotten it quite till the dog barked. “Egad!” says I, hearing him. “Here’s the very thing for me. Reuben Trippett’s bay mare will carry me across this seven miles in a trice, and I’ll take her without as much as a ‘by your leave,’ if only the stable-door be open.” And without pausing to reflect upon such questions as to whether Reuben still lived there, and if the bay mare (which he had lent me more than once in by-gone days) was still his property. I climbed the hedge at the next convenient opening, and made my way across the dank meadows towards the farmhouse.

By this time the night was closing in, very dull and misty, and as there was no light in Reuben Trippett’s window by which to guide my steps, I had some little difficulty in finding my way. There were three fields to cross, and in the middle one I called to mind a wide stretch of marshy land in which as a lad I had gathered many a handful of rare butter-bums. “Keep me out o’ that!” says I to myself, but the words were scarce out of my mouth when into it I flops, to my sore discomfort, and the sad besmirching of my breeches. But having met with it—and floundered out on t’other side after some difficulty—I knew where I was, and so went forward until at last I saw the farmhouse chimneys make a faint outline against the grey sky. There was a glint of light through a crack in the kitchen shutters. “Softly does it,” says I, and I crept along the wall till the sneck of the fold gate lay in my hand. “Why, this,” I says, chuckling to myself, “is the rarest adventure”—and so I was across the rotting straw in the fold and at the stable-door quicker than a star can shoot. “These cobble-stones,” thinks I, “must be covered up, or they’ll hear the mare’s feet on ’em”—and I ran across to the tumbril in the middle of the fold and brought back an armful of straw and spread it carefully over the stones. “And pray God,” I says, “that old Reuben hears naught, for his blunderbuss will spread pepper-corns over a good twenty yards!”

The stable door was unlocked—there was naught for me to do but lift the sneck and enter. Once inside I stood listening. On the instant I knew that there were no horses there. The place was cold, damp, evil-smelling, and silent as a dead-house. Now a stable in which horses have their habitation is warm as one’s own bed at getting-up time, and so I knew from its very coldness that neither the bay mare nor any other mare or horse stood ready to hand. And I was outside again in a moment and standing on the straw that I had laid down so carefully just before, with my brains busily wondering what had come to Reuben Trippett, whose stables and byres had always been full of cattle.

As I stood stroking my chin, I minded me of the chink in the kitchen window. “I’ll peep within,” says I, “whatever comes of it,” for I was in the mood for adventures that night. And so, crossing the fold with cautious steps I approached the window very gingerly, and put my eye to the crack through which the light streamed. And seeing that within which interested me more than a little, I kept it there and took a longer and steadier look.

There was naught in that kitchen (which I remembered as being well stocked with house stuff of all sorts) in the way of plenishing but a rickety table, a mouldering settle, and a crazy chair. The lath and plaster hung from the ceiling and walls in strips—’twas plain to me that old Reuben was either gathered to his fathers and sleeping quiet in Badsworth churchyard, or gone elsewhere. Nevertheless, there was human life in the place, and it was the form under which it came that surprised me. Three men sat on the settle, and a fourth leaned against the jamb of the black, empty fire-place, the fifth sat on the broken chair with his back to the window through which I peered. One of the three on the settle I recognised for Jack Bargery, as villainous a rogue as all Osgoldcross, either Upper or Lower, could show, the men on each side of him and the fellow leaning against the jamb I had no knowledge of. But the figure in the chair, and mark you, I saw nought of it but the back, which made a black mass against the light of the candle burning on the table, seemed somewhat familiar to me and set some memories itching in my brain. And then a sudden turn of the man’s head brought it all back to me, and I knew him at once for my precious kinsman, Anthony Dacre.

“Ho-ho!” thinks I to myself. “Here’s a pretty meeting by candle-light. What may these five sweet gentlemen be about?” I says. And because my curiosity was aroused I straight forgot everything, Cromwell’s despatch and all, in a rare desire to hear what the fellows were talking of. But ’twas no good straining my ear, for there was a thick pane of dullish glass ’twixt me and them, and I could make naught out, though I heard a mumbling sound, and saw their jaws move now and then. And just because ’twas Anthony Dacre that seemed to be doing all the talking, the others only putting in an occasional yea or nay, my curiosity warmed to boiling point and must needs be satisfied. So for the second time that night I began to cast about for means.

Now, in the old times, I knew every inch of the land round about my uncle’s estate, and the farmsteads were as familiar to me as the pump in our own stable-yard. I remembered, as I stood with my eye to the crack in the shutter, that in the rear of Reuben Trippett’s kitchen there was a lattice at which the maids used to hand in the milk-pails from the byre. ’Twas a matter of thin strips of lath, and in the daytime was left swinging as the wind liked, but in the night a shutter came down over it, and was secured by a bolt. If the shutter, by any good or ill luck,—I cared not which it might properly be called,—had been left up when the house was deserted, I should be able from the byre to hear every word spoken in the kitchen as well as if I had been inside. So, remembering this, I stole round the corner of the house to the byre, all agog to hear what mischief Master Dacre, that scamp Bargery, and t’other three were compassing. That it was mischief I never doubted for a moment; there was not an honest pair of eyes amongst the four that I had seen, and I remembered Anthony’s for more years than I could then call to mind.

The byre, like the stable, was cold and empty. I warrant me there had been no cows in it for a twelve-month. I had grown somewhat heated by my adventures in the bog, and the chill stuck to my bones and made me shiver. One glance at the far end of the mistal, however, helped me to forget cold and everything. They had forgotten to put down the shutter when they left the old house, and the lattice window made dim bars of shadow against the swimming light of the candle. There was naught left to me but to steal gently along the slimy walls of the byre (ugh! I can feel the damp of them now, and snuff their fetid odour, which then came thick and heavy to my nostrils) until I came to the lattice. And since I dared not venture to stick my head before it, lest the fellows within should catch sight of me, I got as near to the window frame as I dared, and listened with more attention than I had ever given, I think, to aught before.

Anthony Dacre was speaking when I put my ear as close to the latch as I dared, but he had evidently come to the tail of his sentence, and I could make little sense of it.

“Fair or foul,” says he, to wind up; “fair or foul.”

“And more foul than fair, I warrant me,” thinks I. “A deal more o’ the foul than the fair, Master Anthony, if I know aught o’ thee.” And I composed myself to hear somewhat more.

I heard a shuffling of feet on the kitchen floor, as if each man nudged his neighbour’s knee.

“Come,” says Anthony; “is there ne’er a tongue amongst the lot o’ you?”

The man Bargery spoke—I knew his voice, too.

“Why,” says he, “’tis like this: what use is speaking till we know Master Dacre’s plans? Or are we as soldiers that march under sealed orders?”

“Ah!” says another; “well put.”

“Why,” says Anthony, “I see no objection to telling you all that’s in my mind—why not? The main object’s in your knowledge already; ’tis the details that you’re curious about, eh?”

“There might be cutting of throats, and such like,” said another. “’Tis best we should know. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.”

“Listen, then,” says Anthony. “Faith, I think you’ll say ’tis as pretty a bit o’ contrivance as was ever devised. Sir Nicholas, as you know, has made himself something beyond obnoxious to the Parliamentarians, and I saw a rare chance in that. So this morning I goes to Fairfax in his camp, and professes my devotion to the Parliament, and then spins him a long yarn about Sir Nicholas Coope and his efforts to keep the king’s flag flying over his old barn of a house. And, ’sdeath, lads! I played my cards so well that I got a warrant from him to apprehend my worthy relative, and take him before Fairfax. Here ’tis—there’s Fairfax’s own seal and fist.”

I heard a murmuring growl from the four men, and the shuffle of their feet as they drew near to the table to inspect the paper.

“But——” says Bargery.

“When I’ve finished,” says Anthony Dacre. “Now, here’s my plan: we shall go, the five of us, and apprehend Sir Nicholas, and thus get admission to the house, the door o’ which my pretty mistress keeps so persistently shut in my face. If the old knight calls up his fellows, we must give them as many tastes of cold steel as will suffice for their supper. I have little fear of trouble in that quarter, however.”

“There are four stout men i’ the house,” says Bargery, “and as many arms as would set up a troop.”

“What are four men to five, with Fairfax’s warrant behind them? And thy four men—zounds, there is but old Gregory, and ancient Jasper, and two lads that cannot tell the difference ’twixt a musket and Sir Nicholas’s cane! Besides, we go in peace—leave it to me to make fair professions. I look not for any fighting—nevertheless, ’tis as well to be prepared. But hark ye, lads, I have a second paper from Fairfax that I set more store by than the first. Look at that for a piece o’ rare generalship.”

I heard the shuffle of their feet again as the men approached the table, and a murmuring as if none of the four could read over well. “’Tis such a crabbed fist,” says Bargery at last, and they shuffled back to the hearth and the settle.

“But plain enough for all I want,” says Anthony. “’Tis a safe conduct, lads, granted at the request of Master Anthony Dacre to Mistress Alison French, so that she may pass through any opposition of the Parliamentary troops to her father’s house. Now ye see my plan, eh? We shall go to the old knight and arrest him, but I shall be so full of concern and care for my cousin that I shall tell ’em great tales of my procuring this favour for her lest she should experience discomfort.”

“But,” says Bargery, “they tell me that she sets great store by the old man, and she’ll therefore let it count heavy against you that you come to hale him out o’ the house.”

“And I thought o’ that, too,” says Anthony. “And so I arranged that two of Fairfax’s troopers should accompany us to the house. We shall, therefore, be seven to four if it comes to fighting. Now, hark ye, lads, this is the whole manner of it. At nine o’clock to-night we meet the troopers at the corner of Hardwick village. They, Bargery there, and myself, go to the Manor House, and seek admission—t’other three o’ you wait me in the lane that leads past Hundhill. We gain admission, and I, very sorrowful, crave private audience of Sir Nicholas. I tell him how it grieves me that he and I should think differently on these matters of state, but that I am at least an honest man. Then I go on to say that I have learnt in the camp that Fairfax has issued a warrant against him, and that being personally much concerned because of it, I am come with the troopers myself to see that no indignity is offered him. Eh, you follow my notions?”

“Excellent!” says Bargery. “I see the reason on’t.”

“Then I brings out my safe conduct for Mistress Alison,” continues Anthony, “and offers her myself and three o’ my own men as escort along the road. Once the old knight is off to Fairfax’s camp, she will set out with me and you three that have waited for us, towards Doncaster. And as for the rest,” he says, with a laugh, “why, I need say naught of it. And now, lads, we’ll make arrangements for our meeting.”

Then there was a silence, and I wondered what they were doing, and whether I had best not slip away ere they came out of the house. But I think the four men must have been staring at each other, each wanting to say something that was on his mind. For presently one of them, a fellow with as hoarse a voice as ever I heard, growls out, “And our pay, Master Dacre; ye han’t said e’er a word o’ that.” At that I pricked up my ears. “Ha, ha!” says I. “Now there’s a chance for honest men.” But as luck would have it there was no falling out amongst these rogues, for Anthony promised to satisfy their demands, and presently they talked of parting. Thereat I stole away from the hatch and into the fields. The night had come on as black as a dog’s throat, and I found it hard work to make my way back to the road, but, faith! I had so much to think of that I never once stayed to consider the whereabouts of the marshy ground. And it was most likely, because I never remembered it, that I missed it and went sailing along in the darkness, comfortable enough—for I never thought of the discomfort—until I found myself in the hedge which separated me from the road. That I had not perceived, but I forgave it, for all that it had run various thorns into tender parts o’ my body. And so I climbed over it—having hurried alongside it till I found a post and rails—and stood on the road, once more wondering what to do next.

“Here’s a pretty coil!” says I. “Egad, Master Anthony, I used to trounce thee in the old days—why did I not give thee such a trouncing that thou hadst never needed more?”

But what was the good of that? The thing was to do—not to stand there thinking. But as thought goes before action—at least with wise men—I gave two minutes to it. And this is what I thought: First, it was plain that my rascally kinsman, Anthony Dacre, whom I there and then prayed God to utterly confound, meditated some serious injury to Mistress Alison French, and was minded to stop at naught, not even the seizure of Sir Nicholas himself by force, in order to compass his evil intentions. Second: There was nobody but myself who, knowing his plans, could warn my uncle and cousin of their danger. Third: I had a packet from Cromwell to Fairfax in my breast, which I was in honour bound to deliver as quickly as I might. Fourth: It seemed but a Christian-like thing to stay at my uncle’s house and tell him and Alison of that villain Anthony’s notions concerning them. Fifth: What was I going to do?—go straight on to Fairfax’s camp, or proceed to the Manor House? Sixth: Why the dickens should I interfere on behalf of Sir Nicholas (who had misunderstood me) or of my cousin Alison (who had—to my face, too!—called me a poltroon). Seventh: I hated Anthony Dacre, and would give much to circumvent him. Eighth: Blood is a deal thicker than water. Ninth: If I made haste I could inform Sir Nicholas, speak a word of warning in my cousin’s ear, and go forward to Pomfret before nine o’clock. And tenth: Soldier of the Parliamentary army as I was, and faithful to the cause of the people, and to the special trust that their leaders had reposed in me, I would see Parliament, people, Cromwell, Fairfax, and everything, damned before Anthony Dacre should have his will of an old man and an innocent girl!

“But God send,” says I to myself, “that there be no need of it!” And I set off along the road at a round pace. The night seemed to grow darker, and there is something in me—and there was a deal more of it in those days—that cannot abear darkness, but I trotted along, being pretty sound in wind and limb, keeping my ears open for any noise, until I came to the cross roads, having Thorpe on one side o’ me and Wentbridge on t’other. And here a notion struck me, for which I thanked God many a time in the days to come. There were two brothers, John and Humphrey Stirk, yeomen, exceeding true and honest fellows, that lived in their farmhouse at Thorpe, and farmed their own bit of land—egad! they were the very men to do a good deed! I had played with ’em many a time when we were lads together, and so had little Alison, and I knew that they would put themselves out of the way to serve either her or me. The thought of them came into my mind as I trotted up to the cross roads, and so I never stopped in my run but turned the corner to the left and went forward to their house. There was a light in the kitchen window—and so I was within, half-breathless, holding a hand of each, and looking from one honest pair of eyes to another.

“God save us!” says Humphrey. “’Tis Master Dick!” “We thought you was at the wars,” says Jack. “And, faith, you look as if you had been!” “Natheless,” says Humphrey, “we’re glad to see you home again—and sit you down, Master Dick,” says he.

But there was no thought of sitting down in my mind. And in a few words I had told them sufficient of what I knew, and had begged their assistance. “Willing enough,” says Humphrey. As for Jack, he says naught, but goes to the wall and takes down his musket. “There’s powder and shot,” says Humphrey, “in the cupboard,” and he lays hands on his own musket, that stood in the corner. “Let’s have enow of both, brother,” he says, and Jack nods his head. “Trust me,” says Jack. “’Tis but poor work to go fowling with a single charge.”

And so within five minutes of seeing their lighted window I was back in the road again, with one on each side of me, and all three of us making our way towards my uncle’s house. “Anthony,” I says to myself, “will have a greeting that he recks not of.” And I laughed at the thought of it. But my laughter died away quick when I reflected upon everything. In good sooth, chance, fate, or Providence, had put me in as tight a corner as a man could wish to be out of.

III.

As we hurried along the road I made up my mind as to my course of action. I would go to the Manor House and warn my uncle and Alison of their danger, and leave with them John and Humphrey as a bodyguard. That done I would make my way across the fields and through Carleton to Fairfax’s camp before Pomfret. I would tell him of my wayside adventure, and beg his protection for Sir Nicholas and my cousin, and straightway return to East Hardwick. My credentials were from Cromwell himself—I felt assured that Fairfax would grant any request I made to him. One thing, however, was certain—I could not, although it was my strict duty to do so, go forward to Pomfret without giving my relations warning of their danger.

Neither John nor Humphrey were lads of many words, and so there was little talk between us till we came to the Manor House. It stood gaunt and gloomy against the sky, and dark as the night was, I saw the king’s flag still flapping against the staff above the gable. There was a faint light in one or two of the windows that overlooked the garden, but in the courtyard everything was dark. The great door was fast, and the stone lions above it seemed to threaten us as we tried the latch. But there were holes in the wall that had served me for stepping-stones to the top many a time, and within a minute we were on t’other side and making softly for the house door. It was some minutes before any response came to our knock, but at last we heard the shuffle of feet within, and then Jasper’s voice asking who we were. Now we were not minded to shout and bawl so that folk in the street could hear us, if any were about, so I put my lips to the great keyhole and calling Jasper by name, whispered to him my own. I heard him utter some sound of great surprise, but he began to undo the bolts and bars, and presently held the door open a few inches and looked out at us from over his lanthorn. “The Lord ha’ mercy!” says he, “I thought it must be your spirit, Master Richard. And is that John and Humphrey Stirk that’s with you? But we thought you was at the wars and——”

“Let’s in, Jasper,” says I, pushing my way past him with John and Humphrey close at my heels. “And hark ye, Jasper, bolt and bar the door again—is every door and shutter secure for the night?”

“Lor-a-massy, Master Dick, is there aught wrong? Yes, indeed, Master Dick, everything is fast for we’re abiding in parlous times and never know who’s about. But——”

“Go round the house, Jasper,” says I. “Say naught to anybody, but go round and see that all’s fast. Bolt, bar, and chain—we may have to stand a siege this night. And now let’s within—where is Mistress Alison?” But ere he could answer me the door into the great kitchen opened, and Mistress Alison herself stood before us. She carried a lamp in one hand and held it up as she stopped on the threshold to look at us. Faith, I shall never forget her as she was at that moment, looking as proud and impatient as only a woman of her sort can!

“Who——?” she says, staring from Jasper to us, with a haughty interrogation in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. “Ah!” she says, suddenly recognising me. “Mr Richard Coope,” she says, and stares straight into my eyes with a contempt that brought the blood to my face.

“Mistress,” says I, hurriedly, “this is no time for talk nor for quarrels. By chance or providence I have learned that Sir Nicholas and yourself are in great peril, and I have come here to warn you of it, and have brought John and Humphrey to protect you.”

“Indeed,” says she. But she stood there in the doorway making no offer to permit us into the kitchen.

“Let me see my uncle,” says I. “He must be warned of his peril at once.”

“Your uncle is in his bed, sir,” she answers, still keeping her place. “He is ill, and is not to be disturbed by anyone.”

“Then let me see you within, mistress, that I may tell you my news,” says I.

“You can tell it to me here, sir,” she says.

“Then, by God, I won’t!” I raps out, losing my temper under her provocation. “Look you, cousin, I am perilling myself to serve you, and you treat me like a dog! Is it mannerly to keep me and my friends standing here as if we were beggars?”

I saw the colour flash into her cheeks at that, and she stepped back into the kitchen with a motion to us to follow. As we came into the glare of the lights I noticed, though it was no time for thinking of such matters, that her beauty was of the rarest sort and had deepened since I had last set eyes on it. She stood by the fire, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other still holding the lamp—faith! ’twas the prettiest sight to see her thus with her fine gown and the dainty slippers peeping from beneath it, and her face turned to me with the scorn still lingering in the delicate lines of her mouth.

“Now, sir?” says she.

But I glanced at the lads who waited in one corner. “What we have to say is private,” says I. “Is there no more private room in the house than this?” I says. But she would take no hint, only she nodded her head to the serving-lads and they slunk into the scullery.

“Madam,” says I, “you seem to forget that I am Sir Nicholas’s nephew and a gentleman.”

She turned and looked me from head to foot and from foot to head. “A renegade!” she says, and looks straight into my eyes. “Your news, sir! I have no time to waste in bandying compliments or exchanging opinions.”

“Faith, madam,” says I, “but you’ve no objection to applying epithets. But renegade or no, I am here to serve you and my uncle, and so I’ll tell you all about it,” and I straightway proceeded to give her a faithful account of all that I had overheard in the kitchen at Reuben Trippett’s old farmstead. She heard me without a sign or a word, save that when I mentioned Anthony Dacre’s name her lip curled with a rare scorn (’sdeath, I wish he had been there to see it!) and her white fingers closed tighter over the rail of the chair. But when she had heard me to the end, and I had told her my plans for their protection, she did not soften a whit, but looked at me with the same cold, hard dislike.

“I thank you, sir,” says she, very icily. “It was the act of a gentleman to warn us.” She seemed to melt there somewhat. “And now I will not trouble you to delay your departure longer”—she hardened again—“we are in no need of assistance.”

“Nay,” says I, “but that’s just what you are in need of, mistress! ’Tis foolish to belittle your danger—Anthony Dacre——”

“I have no fear of him,” says she, very contemptuous, in her own high manner. “And as for Fairfax’s troopers, they will not gain admittance to the house. I myself will see to the bolts and bars.”

“But,” says I, “’tis not a matter of bolts and bars that will prevent them. Bethink you, they will force an entrance and seize Sir Nicholas.”

“He is ill in his bed,” says she. “They cannot move him.”

“They will stop at naught,” says I. “Come, cousin, be advised. Let John and Humphrey stay with you, and allow me to return as quickly as I can. ’Tis what my uncle would do.”

“I am able to think for myself, sir,” says she. “And I have come to my own opinion in the matter. And so I thank you for your good offices and decline your further help.”

And there she stood, still looking disdainfully at me, as if I had been some upstart that had dared to address her. “Here’s a pretty coil!” says I, and looks at John and Humphrey. “By your leave, madam,” I says, and pulls my two companions aside. “What shall we do?” I says. “If we leave this spirited lass to have her own way there will be mischief. What do you advise?” And we all three looked at each other.

“Why,” says John at last, “I should pay no manner of heed to her.”

“Nor me,” says Humphrey.

“’Tis a man’s job,” says John.

“Aye,” says Humphrey.

“If I were you, Master Dick,” says John, “I should call in Jasper and Gregory and the lads, tell ’em the trouble, and take counsel for defending the house. As for me and Humphrey,” he says, “here we stay while need be.”

“Well said,” says Humphrey.

But I was half afraid as I turned to Mistress Alison.

“Madam,” says I, very respectful, “I am sorry to do aught against your will, but I have taken counsel with my friends here, and for your own sake and for my uncle’s, I cannot agree to your wishes. And so, mistress, you must be pleased to leave this matter in my hands to settle as I please.”

“What,” she says, “you dare——”

“Madam,” says I. “No daring about it. You will please to regard me as master in this house, my uncle being a-bed, and leave me to do what I think good. John and Humphrey,” I says, “get the men together, and let us set the matter before them,” and as they made for the scullery I turned and gave her a long stare. She flushed crimson from neck to forehead, and looked at me with a sudden rage.

“How dare you!” she says. “How dare you!”

“Cousin,” says I. “I dare aught. I know what you think of me, and for that I neither care nor fret. But when it comes to a contest ’twixt us I am not going to be beaten by a woman. And so I’ll let you see which of us two is the stronger. Faith!” I says, “’tis for your own good. Renegade as I am, I’m perilling my neck to save you.”

She stood looking at me with more wonder than I had ever seen in a woman’s eyes. “I am mistress here,” says she at last.

“Not while I am master,” says I, coolly. “And as I have but a short ten minutes wherein to be master I shall exact the strictest obedience. Dare but to question one of my orders, madam, and I shall have you locked in your chamber.” And with that I gave her a look that was meant to be as hard as one of her own, and marched forward to meet old Gregory, who was coming in with the others. But ere I could speak to him in runs one of the lads to say that four men on horseback were asking admission at the courtyard door. “They’re here!” says John Stirk. And so there I was caged, with Cromwell’s despatch in my doublet that should by that time have been delivered to Fairfax. “Present needs first!” says I, and I settled down to the business of the moment.

Chapter IV Of Various Events of Importance which took place during one night, and caused us considerable Uneasiness and other Emotions.

I.

As they began to knock at the door, at first with a certain gentleness, but afterwards in as peremptory a manner as if the king himself had waited without, I turned to my cousin again, and again favoured her with a hard look. She stared at me with a rising indignation in her eyes, but I saw a questioning look in them that nerved me to preserve my stern attitude.

“Mistress,” says I, “the enemy is at our gate, and we must perforce parley with him. There is no one amongst us better fitted to that task than yourself. And so, mistress,” I says, still keeping my eyes on hers, “I must ask you to take your orders from me after this fashion. First——”

But here she broke in upon me, standing very straight, and holding her head very high, and looking me up and down as if I had been some country lout that had dared to address her.

“Master Richard Coope,” says she, “I take no man’s orders, and yours least of all. Your orders!” she says, with fine scorn. “Your orders!”

“Nay, mistress,” says I, “we do but waste time. Do not let us waste more in explanations. You will not only take my orders, but what is more, you will do them. What! will you oppose your girlish whims and fancies to Sir Nicholas’s good estate?”

“Insolent!” says she, her pretty face all aflame. “You to speak—I must be dreaming or going mad,” she says, suddenly.

“Why,” says I, “’tis a pity indeed if you are, cousin, for we have no time to listen to dreams or to deal with mad folk, nor with mutineers either,” says I, putting on my sternest air again, “so come, mistress, let us to business——”

“Prithee, madam,” says old Barbara, “do what Master Richard asks of you, else we shall all be murdered in cold blood. Thank the Lord, say I, that Master Richard should happen in on the nick o’ time,” she says, “a man is a rare comfortable thing to have in a house at times like these.”

But Mistress Alison gives her a cold stare and looks at me. “What is it that you wish, sir?” she says. “Since I am in your power——”

“Nay, cousin,” says I, forgetting all my stern manner in a trice, “it is to serve you that—but come, accompany me and John here to the chamber over the door; I wish you to speak with these men through the window. And believe me,” I says, lowering my voice as she walked at my side, “I am deeply grieved to give you so much trouble, but ’tis necessary for both my uncle’s sake and your own. And so——”

“Nay, sir,” says she. “Spare me fine speeches, I pray you. You have taken the affairs of this house into your own hands, and since I am only a woman you compel me to do what I should not do if I were a man. Pray you insult me not as well as injure me.”

“Oh,” says I, “if you will so mischievously pervert things, mistress, why——”

But we had come to the little casement overlooking the courtyard. In the darkness we could but barely see the men on horseback below us. Three of them remained a little distance away and held the horse of the fourth, the crown of whose hat we perceived outside the porch beneath us. He was knocking at the door, this time very loudly. “Stand back,” says I to John, and drew back myself into the middle of the room. “Now, cousin,” I says, “open the casement, and ask who is there, and demand his business.”

“You must put words into my mouth, then, sir,” says she, fumbling at the latch.

“You have wit enough of your own, cousin,” I answers her. “Use it with your accustomed sharpness, I pray.”

And to that she made no answer, but I could fancy that her eyes flashed in the darkness, and that she bit her lips for pure vexation. However she opened the window and leant out. “Who are you that knock honest folk up at this hour?” she cries. “And what is your business that you bring a troop of men into the courtyard?”

“Ah!” says Anthony Dacre from below. “Cousin, ’tis I—I am glad to find you here—I had feared you might have returned home. Prithee, come down and unbar the door, cousin—I have important news for you.”

“I can hear it quite well here,” says she.

“Why,” says he, “I can’t stand here and bawl it at the top o’ my voice, cousin.”

“My ears are very quick,” she answers. “I daresay I shall hear it if you whisper it.”

“But ’tis of the last importance,” he says, “and besides, I have friends with me.”

“So I perceive,” she says, coolly. “And neither you nor they are coming within the house. So you better tell me your business at once, Master Dacre.”

I heard him smother an oath. “Ah!” says he. “So you are still as vixenish as ever, fair cousin? But we are coming into the house, and so you had best be civil to us while we are without, lest——”

“Spare your threats,” she says scornfully. “I care no more for them than for your civility. And so, if you will not tell me your business I shall shut the window.”

“Oh,” says he. “Pretty treatment indeed! Then let me tell you, mistress, that here are with me certain troopers from Fairfax’s regiment who carry a warrant for Sir Nicholas’s arrest. What do you think to that, eh? Gadzooks, I came here to see that the old knight suffered no hurt or inconvenience, and that yourself was protected, and you treat me like a thief! Come, cousin, ’tis a sad business, but war is a strange matter. You had best open the door at once—these troopers are not used to be kept waiting.”

“Then let them go whence they came,” she says. “They will wait here long enough if they don’t.”

“Then you will not open?” he says, uneasily, and as if he could not believe his ears.

“I said so once,” she answers.

“Why, then,” says he. “I am sorry for you, cousin. I can do naught to help you if you continue in your obstinacy. These troopers will break in upon you, and——”

“Oh,” she says, “a truce to your talk, Master Dacre. Let me say a word to you,” she says. “Now listen; if you and your precious companions dare to lay a finger on door or window of this house we will shoot you for the vermin that you are—and so now we understand each other, Master Anthony Dacre,” says she, and slams the casement in his face.

“Bravo, cousin!” says I. “Bravo! There was no need to give orders—your own——”

“Oh,” says she, “spare your breath, sir. I spoke for myself, not for you.”

“Ah!” says I. “Was it indeed so? Then perhaps, mistress, you will be good enough to show me where those arms are with which you are going to exterminate the vermin in the courtyard? For I doubt not, in spite of all your brave words, that they will attack the house, and in that case we had best be prepared to make good your promise.”

And by that time, being returned to the great kitchen, I called everybody together, men and women, and held a council of war. And first of all we looked to the arms. In the hall there was a sufficiency of muskets and fowling-pieces, ranged in racks, together with numerous pistols, most of which were in bad need of cleaning. It turned out that Jasper and one of the lads had lately cast a quantity of bullets, and that three small kegs of gunpowder had been brought in but the week previous. We were therefore fairly ammunitioned, and I immediately armed every man amongst us with a gun, a powder horn, and twenty bullets, bidding each to shoot so straight, if need arose, that not a shot should be wasted. And this done, I proceeded to take a rapid survey of our position, and to consider how we might best turn it to account.

Now, my uncle’s house was one of those ancient buildings which stand on three sides of a square, and the courtyard was enclosed on all but one side—the north—where it was separated by a high wall and wide gateway from the road. There was a great advantage to us in this, for the only door which opened from the courtyard to the house was that at which Alison had parleyed with Anthony Dacre, and as it stood exactly in the centre of the inner side, it could be commanded from the windows of the other sides of the square. It was a strong door of stout oak, liberally studded with great nails, and secured by as many bolts and chains as there are Sundays in a year, and we now further strengthened it by dragging a great table into the porch and driving it between the door and the wall. This done, there was naught but to post two of my small army in such positions as would command a view of the door from without. Fortunately for us, there were on the ground floor, looking into the courtyard, but two windows, and both of these I instantly secured in such a fashion that nothing but a battering-ram could have broken through them. On the next floor there were more windows, and at two of these, one on each side the courtyard, I stationed Gregory and Jasper, with orders to fire on anyone approaching the door that stood full in their view. These two were favourably placed, for they could keep the wall of the house between themselves and the enemy, and at the same time point their pieces through a broken pane of the windows.

Of the safety of the door which gave access from the courtyard to the house I had little fear; but there were three other doors which caused me some uneasiness. To the front of the house, looking towards Barnsdale and the south, there was a great door which opened into my uncle’s flower-garden; on the right hand, opening out of the room in which he kept his dried herbs, was a smaller one through which he often passed to walk along a sheltered path; on the left-hand, opening out of the scullery, there was a door into the stable-yard. Now Anthony Dacre knew all these doors as well as I did, and would obviously select the weakest for his point of attack. The first thing to do, then, was to strengthen each of them. To this we at once set to work, bringing down great bedsteads, heavy chests, and whatever loose wood we could find in the house, and piling it up in such a fashion that if pressure were brought to bear on it from without, it would but drive our barricades tighter against the stout walls within. But this done, a great difficulty presented itself to my mind—all these doors being flush with the several walls in which they were built how could I place my men where they might command them? I had found that easy in the case of the courtyard door, because two sides of the house overlooked it, but it was impossible as regarded the other three doors, and all I could do was to post men at the corner windows of the second floor with orders to fire on the enemy if they appeared to be approaching the doors with mischievous intent.

Now, as to the windows—I suppose that when they built these old houses (my uncle had often boasted to me that his was erected in the days of I forget which Henry) they had always in their minds the fear of a siege, and so the windows on the ground floor were as few as could well be, and each was supplied with exceeding strong bolts and bars that closed over stout shutters of oak. I saw to it that each was further barricaded and strengthened by the piling up against it of the heaviest furniture in each room—and when that was done there appeared to be no more that we could do towards making the old house stronger than it was. So now I took a survey of my arrangements, and found that they worked after this fashion: Gregory and Jasper were posted at upper windows on each side of the courtyard, commanding the porch-door; John and Humphrey Stirk were at windows looking out into the front garden; the two oldest lads, Peter and Benjamin, were stationed at a window which overlooked the stable-yard; and the third lad, Walter, being very young, I ordered to run from one post to the other, supplying them with ammunition, or bringing them food or drink, as need required. The window overlooking the door which opened into the west garden I reserved to myself, feeling that an occasional surveillance of it would suffice. To Barbara and one of her maids I gave charge of the commissariat arrangements, and bade her stint none of my little army, having previously satisfied myself that there was provender in the house sufficient to last us six weeks. As for my fair cousin I requested her to attend upon Sir Nicholas, and to employ the other maid’s time in the like direction.

And now, all these matters being attended to—and it had taken some little time, I promise you!—and the enemy being still debating matters amongst themselves in the courtyard—I had taken occasional observations of them through the window above the porch—I suddenly turned dead tired and sat me down on the settle in the kitchen, feeling curiously faint and hungry. I had sent an ample ration and a mug of ale to each of my men, but I myself had tasted neither bite nor sup for I know not how many hours. “Alack, Barbara, old lass!” says I, thinking there was nobody but herself and myself in the kitchen, “times are altered since I was last here! If my poor uncle had been on his legs instead of in his bed, I should ha’ been invited to eat and drink—faith, I ha’ touched naught since——”

But at the word Mistress Alison steps out o’ the gloom, and in the glare of the firelight I saw her cheek aflame with the rarest crimson. “I crave your pardon, cousin!” says she—’egad, ’twas the first time she had so styled me since I entered the house—“I have forgotten my duty because of all this trouble. Barbara, see that Master Coope is served—nay,” she says, “I will see to it myself,” and she bustles about, and brings me meat and drink, and sets it with her own fair hands on the table before me. “Cousin,” says I, looking hard at her, “I thank you. I am sorry,” I says, and then stops, not knowing what more, nor what I had meant, to say. “But I thank you,” I says. “Indeed, I am both hungry and thirsty.”

“I am sorry, too,” she says—but she did not look at me, her eyes being fixed on the fire—“I should have invited you to eat.” She stood there, lingering, and still she would not look at me. “I fear,” she says at last, and faith, there was a still brighter crimson in her cheeks, “I fear I have been somewhat hasty—and—and—I thank you for—for what you are doing for Sir Nicholas, cousin Richard,”—and suddenly she turned, and gave me one shamefaced sort o’ look, and fled up the stairs.

Heigh-ho! I believe it was then that I fell in love with thee, my sweet! Lord! what a colour, and what eyes she had!

II.

Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful, and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that the courtyard was empty, and that all was so still and peaceful, save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to reassure us in that.

“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have drawn off altogether at this present moment.”

“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables, though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide that matter for myself.”

“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of the enemy?”

“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there was four came together, and then three more followed after them. And they’ve turned out our horses,” says he, pointing to some dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”

The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof, and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it. Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter. “A’ can hit——”

But I was hurrying along the corridor towards the post at which I had stationed John and Humphrey. I passed near my uncle’s chamber on the way, and from a little distance saw Mistress Alison with her hand on the latch of the door. She bore a bowl of some sick man’s slop or other, and had no eyes for me, so I went on to find the two brothers leaning against the wall by the garden window, and gazing in silence into the gloom outside. “All’s well here,” says John, as I came up. “We heard footsteps on the path once, but ’tis a good hour ago, and they must ha’ withdrawn for awhile.”

“They are in the stables,” says I, “foddering their beasts on Sir Nicholas’s corn, no doubt. And since all’s quiet at present,” I says, “come you with me, John—I lay Humphrey will guard your post for a moment,” and I led him back to where Peter and Benjamin stood staring at the light in the stable. “You are a good marksman, they tell me,” I says. “Can you hit that lanthorn, do you think?”

“Aye,” he says, fingering his musket, “but not so well from here as from below. There’s a little window in the scullery, Master Richard, that I ha’ sometimes made use of to talk with the maids. I could hit it from that.”

“Come on,” I says, and we went downstairs. “We will give these rascals a lesson,” says I, as we turned into the scullery. “Now, John, mark the candle, and out she goes.”

He opened the little window—’twas no more than a pane of dull glass a foot square—and pushed out the barrel of his musket. On the instant the explosion followed, and the light in the stable disappeared. We heard the crash of the lanthorn as it was driven against the wall, and the sudden stamping and kicking of frightened horses.

“’Tis as dark as the grave,” says John, closing the window carefully. “Let ’em feel their way to the corn-bins,” he says, and we turned to go to our several posts again.

However, before we were at the head of the great staircase there came new developments, which rather startled me and gave a different turn to affairs. The silence of the night—which had seemed twice as deep since John Stirk discharged his piece—was suddenly broken by what appeared to be a regular fusilade, and at the same moment a loud crashing of glass and splintering of woodwork gave us notice that at last we were under fire. Close upon their noise followed a shrill scream from the corridor where we had left Peter and Benjamin.

“Somebody’s hit!” says I, and we ran along the passages. Ere we had taken many steps our feet grated on broken glass or kicked against fragments of woodwork. At the corner of the corridor leading to Sir Nicholas’s room stood Mistress Alison, holding a lamp above her head and gazing towards us with anxious looks, “No lights!” roars I. “Go back, cousin—you give them a chance to see us,” and I hurried Peter and Benjamin along the passage into an inner chamber, where we might strike a light without danger. “I’m hit somewhere,” says Peter. “I can feel the blood running.” But it was only a deep scratch that he had got in his cheek, from which the blood ran pretty freely into his neckcloth. “Off you go to Barbara for a clout,” says I, and went back with John and Benjamin to the corridor. The night air was blowing in raw and cold, for all the window was shot away. “It’s a lucky thing we wasn’t in front on’t, Master Richard,” says Benjamin. “They must ha’ fired all their pieces at it.”

There was no great harm done by this first brush, though I was somewhat regretful when I saw the wreck that I had not allowed our enemies to burn their candle unmolested. However, they made no attempt to relight the lanthorn, and as we could see naught of them in the stable-yard, I made Benjamin fetch a great mattress from the nearest sleeping chamber, and with this we blocked up the open casement as well as we could. But we had no sooner got it into place than new matters called for my attention. A door opened suddenly and we heard a scuffle of voices, first Mistress Alison’s, then Sir Nicholas’s, thin, piping, but exceeding angry. “Here’s more to do!” says I, and set off for my uncle’s room, followed by John Stirk. “This,” says I to myself, “will be harder work than fighting,” but I went boldly within the chamber. The old knight, startled, doubtless, by the firing, had got himself out of bed and now sat on the side, furious because my cousin endeavoured to persuade him to return to his pillows.

“What the murrain!” says he. “’Od’s wounds, wench, am I a child to be—’od’s death,” he says, suddenly catching sight o’ me, “nephew Dick, as I live! So we are in the hands of the rebels, Alison? Faith, I never thought to see a nephew o’ mine assault me in my own house!”

“Sir,” says I, “I am here to defend you, and I present you with my very humble duty.”

But something seemed to twitch his poor old face as I spoke, and he fell back on his bed. “Oh,” says my cousin, “leave us, sir, leave us, and send Barbara to me quick!” And so John and I bundled out of the chamber, sore bewildered.

III.

During the remaining hours of that night our enemies gave us no more trouble than the mere observing of their movements. It appeared to me from what I could make out, as I went from one man to another, that they remained in the stable, and were of an uncommon quietness. “Hatching their plans, no doubt,” says I, and was not unthankful that things wore their present complexion. I had no great love of fighting in the dark, and I considered, moreover, that our chances were better in the daytime, when we could use our eyes to some advantage, than in such a night as that when we could scarce see aught at twenty yards’ distance. However, though they made no further motion towards attacking us, I saw to it that a strict watch was kept, and moved from post to post constantly, lest any of my sentinels should forget themselves and fall asleep. So the night passed, and in a somewhat sombre and melancholy fashion, for there was a mournful wind without, and in my uncle’s chamber the old man himself lay grievously sick and in constant need of Mistress Alison’s ministrations.

About six o’clock in the morning, a grey light being then apparent in the eastward heaven above Went Hill, I found John and Humphrey Stirk with their chins resting on their muskets, and their mouths as wide agape as young blackbirds are when the old bird comes home with a worm in her beak. “Ha!” says I. “By your faces, lads, ’tis high time you were relieved. Away with you to the kitchen, and bid Barbara see to food and drink for you while I keep guard. We are ill-mannered, but you shall have an hour’s relief while there’s a chance,” I says, bundling them off, and feeling that it were scurvy behaviour to treat volunteers less considerately. So they thanked me and withdrew, and having been on my legs all night I sat me down near the window and stared at the grey sky outside. “Faith!” says I, yawning, “here’s a pretty state of things that I have come into. Look upon thyself, Dick,” I says, “as a dead man, over whom they have already said ‘Ashes to ashes.’ For thou wilt certainly be shot if thou stayest here, and hanged if thou dost escape. However, there’s no use in repining nor in reflecting. Shot or hanged, what matter a century hence?”

And yet, as I sat there, I could not help but reflect, though I can with great honesty say that I did not repine. I think it must have been my liking for philosophic questionings that made me reflect in the fashion I did, for, in sooth, all my thoughts turned to the curious manner in which one small event or trifling circumstance had led to another, until at last I was landed in a very quagmire of serious result. But there I flew away at another tangent, and began to ask myself whether there is any event or action so trifling or unimportant as not to have any effect on our happiness or misery. Certainly the events of the twenty-four hours then drawing to a close had seemed small in themselves, and were yet productive of results the most serious. If my horse had not fallen dead by the wayside I should not have stayed to think under the trees at Barnsdale, and if I had not stayed there I should not have thought of Reuben Trippett’s farmstead and in due course gone there, and if I had not gone there I should never have heard of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and if I had remained in ignorance of that I should certainly not have been sitting in my uncle’s manor-house that morning waiting for daybreak, and feeling myself already a lost man. “Alas!” I sighs, coming at last to a definite opinion, “’tis most true that no event is so trifling as to be wholly unimportant. There is naught so sure as that one thing leads to another—the mischief is that we never know what that other is going to be.”

I think I had gotten into this state of mind during my patrol of the house during the night. At first my thoughts had perforce been directed to the immediate necessities of the hour; but as things grew quiet, I could not help thinking about my own peculiar predicament. And the more I thought, the more certain was I of the result of my present proceedings. “Thou art a dead man!” says I to myself, shaking my head mournfully. “There is not a shadow of doubt about that. As dead as if old Tobias had turned his first shovelful——”

But at that moment—and it was a truly welcome relief, for I was, indeed, waxing melancholy—the door of my uncle’s chamber opens gently, and out into the corridor steps Mistress Alison. She shut the door behind her with a pretty care, and seeing me in the grey light, came softly in my direction.

“Good morning to you, cousin,” says I, rising from my chair and approaching her. “I trust my uncle is somewhat recovered by this time?”

“He sleeps, sir,” says she, still very formal. “He has had but an ill night, and once I feared he was near to death. But he is now asleep, and I have left Priscilla watching by him for awhile.”

By this time we stood over against the window, and I saw that her face was pale with watching, and that much anxiety was on it. She looked without, and something in the grey skies and dark fields made her shiver and draw the cloak about her shoulders closer together.

“You are weary, cousin,” says I. “Will you not seat yourself in this chair?”

She looked at the chair and at me, but made no offer to take it.

“I was going downstairs,” says she, meditatively, “but——”

“Why,” says I, innocent enough to all outward seeming, “I have dismissed John and Humphrey for a brief rest, and it would not be amiss to have some one here besides myself, so that if there is need, we can give alarm without leaving the post. With the dawn,” says I, “they will no doubt commence operations against us.”

“I will remain in that case,” she answers, and sat her down in the chair that I had just left “We must all do our part to defend the house,” she says, more to herself than to me.

“Aye,” says I.

After that we were for some moments very silent. For my part, I leaned against the wall watching her. After a time she looked at me gravely.

“How long will this continue, think you?” she says. “Will it be for some time, or shall we be relieved speedily?”

“Why,” says I, “I see no prospect of relief, cousin. These fellows will doubtless be reinforced, and they will then make a desperate assault upon us. However,” I says, seeing her grow pale at the thought, “we will hold out as long as we can, and we will do our best to contrive some way of escape for you and Sir Nicholas. Faith!” I says, “I don’t see how it’s to be done, seeing that we are hemmed in; but I’ll talk it over with John and Humphrey—the three of us may contrive something. As for myself,” I says, dolefully, my thoughts going back in their original direction, “I am a dead man already, and so naught that concerns myself matters.”

“A dead man?” she says, staring at me. “What do you mean by applying such a term to yourself?”

“Why,” says I, “I mean what I say. You see, cousin, I was sent north with a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax, and——”

“Sir,” she says, suddenly clothing herself with a great dignity; “I should prefer to know naught of your rene——” But there she checked herself. “I think you are loyally serving my uncle,” she says, “and myself,” she adds, after a pause; “and I—I thank you for it, Master Coope; but——”

“But I am still a renegade, eh, cousin?” says I, bitterly. “Why, so I am, I daresay, in your eyes. But, egad! a bit o’ sympathy comes amiss to no man; and if one may not expect it from a relation—but I’ll not intrude my confidence upon you,” I says, and I swung round on my musket, and looked out of the window. I think her eyes must have followed me, for after a moment she spoke, and when I turned she was looking at me with some curiosity and concern.

“If you put it in that way,” she says, meditatively, and she looked at me again. “I should be sorry to appear unkind to—to anyone who had done me a service,” she says slowly.

“Oh, no thanks, cousin!” says I. “I should have done the same for any woman. Faith, you did not think that I came here to save you from insult because you happened to be my mother’s sister’s daughter?”

Now, beshrew me if I did not see her catch her pretty lips together between her teeth as if in a sudden vexation!

“I am aware that I am naught to Master Richard Coope,” she says, cold and icy.

“I should have done it for any woman,” says I. “So no thanks, if you please, mistress.”

And I looked out of the window again. The dawn was come by that time, and the east was covered with a broad belt of dun-coloured light. When I looked round again I could see her face quite plainly under the hood of her cloak.

“But this danger of yours?” she says, looking at me and then away from me. “I think I—perhaps it might be well—will you tell me what it is?” she says, turning her eyes full on mine again.

“Why,” says I, “’tis just this, cousin. I bear a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax—here it is, stitched in my doublet. I should have delivered it last night, and because I have not done so, I shall certainly be hanged if Fairfax or Cromwell get hold of me. ’Tis a most grave dereliction of duty that cannot be pardoned. I shall most certainly die for it. So that you see, between being shot here and hanged before Fairfax’s tent door, I have a pretty choice; and faith!” I says, “it causes me some concern, for I am not tired of life, I assure you.”

“And if you had not heard of our danger, you would have delivered your despatch last night?” she says.

“Why,” I says, “I was horseless; but I should have made shift into camp somehow.”

“And did you reflect?” she says, rising from her chair and standing before me, “upon what the consequences would be if you came here to warn us instead of going forward with your despatch? You knew that it was a question of our safety against your own——?”

But what else she meant to say—and I scarce knew what she was anxious to get at—I had no opportunity of learning, for at that moment there rang out a discharge of musketry from the fold, answered by the shots from the corridor where Peter and Benjamin were stationed. “That’s a beginning,” says I, and ran off, leaving her there without further ceremony.

IV.

I found Peter and Benjamin reloading their pieces near the window which we had barricaded a few hours previously, and immediately called on them for news of what had happened. It appeared that as daylight came they had watched the stable door jealously, and at last had counted six of our assailants emerge from it with their muskets. They had gazed up at the window which they had already shattered, and evidently catching sight of the lads’ faces—for we had left spaces through which we might observe whatever went on without—they had discharged their pieces at it. Peter and Benjamin had discharged theirs in return as their assailants crowded back within the stable door, but they were doubtful as to whether they had hit any of them, though Peter thought he had seen one man clap his hand to his side as he hurried into shelter.

“But they were in and out again like a lot o’ rabbits on a sand burrow,” says Benjamin. “You saw their fronts and backs within a minute.”

“Poor sort of fighting,” says I, and bidding them stand to the post, I went to find John and Humphrey.

It was by that time broad daylight, and I therefore thought it well to go round the house and see how matters stood with us. I found all my men at their posts, some of them a little sleepy with their long vigil, but all keen enough to resent the enemy whenever he thought fit to attack us. I contrived that every man should be relieved in turn, and sent those thus discharged from duty to the kitchen, where Barbara saw to their needs. I satisfied myself that all our defences were in good order, and that there was little chance of the besiegers breaking in upon us at any of the weaker spots in our armour. In fact it seemed to me, after going round the house for the second time, that unless some extraordinary measures were adopted against us, there was no reason why we should not hold our own against a whole troop as long as our provisions lasted.

I was engaged with John Stirk in further strengthening the defence of the window that opened into the herb-garden, when Peter came to tell me that a man was waving a flag from the stable door. “A flag of truce,” says I, and hurried away to observe this new action. I then saw that the enemy had tied a clout to the shaft of a fork, and were waving it over the half-door of the stable, with an evident desire to provoke our attention. “We’ll play the game fairly,” says I, and hastily improvised a flag, which I bade Peter thrust out of the window while I went to find Mistress Alison. “They desire a parley,” says I, “you must play spokeswoman again, if you please, cousin.”

“I had rather do aught than bandy words with Anthony Dacre,” says she, following me unwillingly. “Put the words into my mouth, if you please, Master Richard.”

However, there was no need for her fears on this occasion, for instead of Anthony Dacre there appeared one of the troopers in answer to our signal. He came across the fold, carrying his flag of truce in his right hand, and looking somewhat quizzically at the barricaded window. “A queer fellow this,” says I, observing him closely. “We should have some sport with him.”

Mistress Alison looked at me with a little flash in her eyes. “Sport!” she says, and seemed as if she would have said more. But the man had by that time come close beneath the window, and stood looking up at it. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with as long a face as ever I saw, and a mouth that seemed to twist itself naturally to the pronouncing of long words.

“Within there!” say he. “Ye that do suffer investment, and are as captives in the beleaguered city—does anybody hear me or not?”

“I hear you, sir,” says Mistress Alison, putting her face to the opening which we had contrived. “What is your wish?”

“Why, mistress,” says he, trying to catch a glimpse of her, “as for wishes they are casual things, and I have long eschewed them. I wish naught save to accomplish my duty——”

“I have no time to stand here chattering,” says Mistress Alison. “Come, your errand!”

“I come as a messenger of peace,” says the fellow. “Know, maiden, that my name it is Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that my nature is no less merciful than my name. I am a man of war, and yet my soul hankers exceedingly after peace——”

“Am I to stand listening to this babbler all day?” says my cousin to the rest of us. “Come, fellow!” she says sharply. “What is it that you want?”

“I desire your surrender, mistress,” says he. “There are some of us”—he cocked his eye in the direction of the stable—“that do carnally desire the sight and smell of blood, which are matters that I cannot abide. Therefore, I come, merciful as my name, to bid you yield yourselves in the interest of peace. Let there be peace between us, I pray you,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the window.

“Is that all you have to say, fellow?” asks my cousin.

“Verily, I have spoken, maiden,” says he.

“Then,” she says, “you can go back and say that there will be much blood—yea, enough to turn your squeamish stomach sick, Master Merciful Wiggleskirk, unless you and your fellow rascals depart on the instant. What! you come like thieves and robbers, and then insult us with your offers of mercy—oh!” she says, “get you within shelter, lest we fire upon you.”

“Peace, peace!” he says. “Peace, mistress. Woe in me that I should——”

“Get your musket in order, Peter,” says she in a loud voice. Whereupon the long-faced man uttered a deep groan and hastened back to the stable, holding his flag above his head. Mistress Alison turned away without a word, and I was following her when John Stirk stopped me.

“Master Dick,” says he, “there’s a thought strikes me that’s worth meditating upon. They’re all in the stable now, and there is but one door through which they can come, and this window commands it. Why should they be allowed to come through that door, Master Dick? Why,” says he, “shouldn’t they have a taste of besiegement?”

“Faith!” says I, “a rare notion, John. Why did it not strike me before? However——”

“Humphrey and me,” says he, “posted at this, window will stop any of them from coming through yonder door.”

“And so you shall,” I says, and gave the necessary orders, transferring Peter and Benjamin from the window where we stood to John and Humphrey’s old post over the garden door. And since we now knew with certainty where all our enemies lay concealed, I withdrew Gregory and Jasper from the courtyard windows and bade them take the rest of which, being oldish men, they were somewhat sore in need. This done, I went back to John and Humphrey, and waited the next move of the game.

Now, after Merciful Wiggleskirk had returned to the stable there was for some time no sign of any action on the part of the enemy, both halves of the door being shut to behind him. But at the end of an hour, the upper half was swung open, and Jack Bargery’s head and shoulders appeared. He was evidently in dispute with those inside, for he appeared to be talking in a loud voice, and shook his head fiercely as he fumbled at the latch of the lower half of the door. “There would be little loss to anybody if a bullet found its billet in his ugly carcase,” says I. “Fire, Humphrey.”

“With good will,” says he, and pulled the trigger.

The fellow at the stable door staggered and clapped his hand to his shoulder. “Three inches too high,” says Humphrey musingly, and began to reload his piece. “First blood to us, anyway,” says John, “and ’twill read them a lesson.” And so it did, for none of them showed so much as a nose-end at the stable door for the next six hours. Instead of being bottled ourselves we had bottled them fairly. And yet, as I knew quite well, we were enjoying but a temporary respite, for naught could be easier when the darkness came on, than for one of them to slip away to Pomfret and bring assistance from Fairfax’s camp. I marvelled more than once that they had not done this the previous night, but I suppose Anthony Dacre had considered that matters would go better for him if he conducted his operations with a small posse instead of a large one, the command of which would doubtless have been in other hands than his.

The day wore on in quietness, John and Humphrey keeping a sharp watch on the stable door. From the time that Jack Bargery had dropped back with a bullet in his shoulder until late in the afternoon there was no sign of our assailants. But as it grew dark, the top half of the door was thrown open again and the flag once more thrust out. I was on guard at the moment, the brothers being gone to the kitchen for a bite and sup, and I immediately despatched a messenger for Alison while I waved our own flag through the window. It was Merciful Wiggleskirk who once more appeared, and he came across the ford as Alison answered my summons.

“I fear I must trouble you again, cousin,” says I. “’Tis another flag of truce. Will you make inquiry of the messenger as to its meaning?”

She frowned as she put her face to the opening. “Well, fellow?” says she. “You are come again, eh?”

“On a merciful errand, mistress,” he answered. “In truth, we are at war, but should our enmity extend to the very animals? I pray you, mistress, to call a truce while we lead our horses across the ford to drink at the trough. The poor beasts do thirst exceeding sore—yea, even as the hart desireth——”

“No blasphemies, fellow,” says she, and turns to me inquiringly. “What shall I say?” she asks.

“No,” I says. “’Tis but a trick that they may get out of the stable. Once under cover of the house wall they may go where they please untouched. In their present position we have them safe so long as daylight lasts.”

“Yes,” she says, meditatively. “Yes—but—there’s a notion struck me,” she says, looking at me with a queer expression in her eyes. “Your danger, Master Richard—I think I see a way out of it. Would there be any harm if we allowed this man to water his horses, one at a time, on condition that none of his fellows leave the stable?”

“No great harm in that,” I says, not quite seeing what she aimed at, but having some faith in her woman’s wit; “but assure him that if any of the others leave the stable they will be shot.”

She turned to the window. “Listen, fellow,” says she. “You may bring out the horses yourself, one at a time, and water them at the trough, but if one of your companions shows his face we shall shoot him.”

“Agreed, mistress,” says he. “’Tis for the poor animals.”

“And hark ye,” she said, “there is a little window near the trough—place yourself near it when you come with the horses—I have something to say to you.”

I saw the man’s face light up with a greedy look, as if he saw some prospect of gain to himself. “I understand, mistress,” says he, and hurried off to the stable, while Alison turned to me again.

“I don’t comprehend your meaning, cousin,” I says. “What is your notion?”

“That you should bribe this trooper to carry your despatch forward to Fairfax,” says she. “It will but be a day late—and you can explain the cause of delay—and—and—it may be the saving of your own neck, Master Richard,” she says.

I stood very still looking at her. “Hah!” says I, at last. “So you’ve been thinking of that, cousin. Why, that’s kind——”

“Nay,” she says, with a heightened colour, and her eyes that had wandered away coming back to me, “let us have no misunderstandings, pray! I could ill bear the thought,” she says, “that any man should come to his death through rendering me a service. And so if you think it a wise plan——”

“I’ll try it,” says I, and made haste to summon John and Humphrey back to their posts. “If any man leaves the stable door except Wiggleskirk,” I says, “shoot him on the instant,” and with that I ran down to the little window that opened on the fold just against the great horse-trough. As I waited there for Wiggleskirk, I cut the stitches that secured the despatch to my doublet. Then I bethought me that it might be well to write some explanation of my conduct, so I hurried to the kitchen and found pen and ink and hastily wrote a few lines on the back of the paper. “The bearer of these,” I wrote, “delayed by untoward circumstances, sends them forward by the only available opportunity.” “That’s all that’s possible,” says I, and went back to the window.

Wiggleskirk was there, keeping the horse and the pump between him and the stable. When he caught sight of my face, he started. “Hist!” says I, “come closer, but make no sound. Hark ye, lad, art willing to carry something to Fairfax at Pomfret for a handful of gold pieces?”

“To Fairfax?” he says, with some suspicion. “And what may it be, master?”

“A despatch from General Cromwell,” says I, “that should have been delivered last night if I had not been surrounded in this fashion.”

“From Cromwell to Fairfax?” says he, his mouth agape. “Why, that’s very serious matters, master. A handful of gold, did you say? But what shall I tell——”

“There’s naught to tell,” says I. “Here’s the despatch, and there’s the money. Now, will you take it, saying naught to your companions out there, and asking no questions?”

He looked at the packet, and then at the handful of gold that I had laid on the window-sill. “Agreed!” says he. He looked curiously into my face. “As soon as it’s dark,” he says. “Rely on me—though ’faith, I don’t understand——”

“There’s no need that you should,” says I, and shuts the window in his face. I gave a sigh of relief as I drew the bolts to—I had, at any rate, thanks to Alison, done something to rid myself of the despatch and to secure its delivery.

Chapter V Of my Reconciliation with Sir Nicholas, of his Last Wish, and of his Death and Our own Sore Straits.

I.

About eight o’clock on that, the second night of our investments, I sat eating my supper in the parlour, all my men being at their posts, and everything appearing of a satisfying nature. I had carefully watched the stable door during the evening, and had observed that when the darkness was fairly settled down there came out a man leading a horse which he mounted at the fold-gate. I made no doubt that this was Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that he was riding for Pomfret on a double mission. Although I recognised him for one of them that make a trade of canting hypocrisy I had reason to believe that he would deliver the despatch to Fairfax. That, then, was one errand; the other, I took to be the seeking of reinforcement for Anthony Dacre and his party. But in good sooth, it troubled me not at all that there was a prospect of our being attacked in greater force, for I had all along seen that if the enemy chose to invest us seriously we must ultimately give way to him. It had been my hope that Anthony would fail to find further help from Fairfax, or that he would think it dangerous to his own plans to seek it. Indeed, I was not without hope that the morning might find us with naught but Anthony and his own rascals to deal with, for it seemed to me more than likely that if Fairfax made enquiry in the matter of Merciful Wiggleskirk, he would withdraw him and the other trooper from Anthony’s service. But whether he did or not was all one to me, for however things turned I was in a corner, and saw no way of getting out of it.

As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s chamber-door—I heard her say something to Barbara about his dying,” he says, staring at me.

“Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs. I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I, and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see him?”

“He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think—nay, I am sure—that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer than it has been for some days—it frightens me to see how calm he is.”

“Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin, for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his chamber since he has asked for me.”

She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the hearth, but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on seeing thee, Master Dick.”

I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to do or say. “Your pain, now—I trust ’tis abated since——”

“Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head on the pillow.

“Yes, sir,” says I.

“Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.”

“I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I, “if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these matters.”

“No trouble,” says he, “no trouble, nephew—in these times we must lay aside personal——”

But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and pitiful—faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman that had treated me to more than one sharp speech—“you will do yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest——”

“Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench. Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to ourselves awhile—you women are for ever in the way when there is business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber, nephew, and come back to thy seat.”

I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers. “If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,” says he. “’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are about. And how goes the siege, Dick—shall we withstand the enemy?”

“Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that everything is in proper order.”

“Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much—she praised thy generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came about. What led to it, nephew?—these women, they have no talent for telling a straight tale.”

“Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”—but I began and told him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me.

“Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it—though, indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I says, looking straight back at him.

“Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and, besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with me—there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing, nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look.

“Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to proclaim myself.”

“Swounds!” says he, with a spark of the old fire in him, “and so I would, egad! Well, well, ’tis too late now to kick sleeping dogs, and I’m pleased with thee, Dick, for thy recent conduct. The lass Alison seems mighty taken with thee.”

“I was afraid,” says I, “that Mistress Alison looked on me as a renegade, and could ill abide my presence.”

“Pish!” says he, “’tis a woman’s way. I’ll not deny,” he says, “that she has had no liking for thee, because the wench is all for His Majesty, and we love not to have a renegade in the family, nephew Dick. But thy conduct of the last day or two,” he says, “has changed her thoughts of thee, an I mistake not. There is a cordial by thee, lad; give me a drink—I grow somewhat faint.”

“Dear sir,” says I, “I am sure that it is not good for you to talk. Let me go away, and do you compose yourself to sleep.”

“Faith!” says he, making a wry face as he drank the cordial, “I shall have sleep enough enow, nephew. Let me talk while I can. What thinkest thou of thy cousin, Dick?” he says, giving me a sharp glance.

“Why, sir,” says I, “I think she is the handsomest woman I ever saw.”

“Ha!” says he. “Thou thinkest so, eh? I have left her all I have,” he says, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Every acre and every penny,” says he.

“I am unfeignedly glad to hear it, sir,” says I, “for I am sure she deserves it.”

“It would ha’ been thine,” he says, “if thou hadst behaved thyself.”

“One must pay for misbehaviour, sir,” says I.

“I am not sure,” says he, plucking at the bedclothes, “that I should not alter matters if there were a chance.”

“Pray you, sir,” says I, “don’t think of such a thing. I am very well provided for,” I says. And so I was, seeing that I was pretty sure to be either shot or hanged within the next few days.

“Well, well,” says he. “But things will turn out well. I wish thee to marry Alison, nephew Dick.”

“Sir!” says I.

“Swounds!” says he. “Thou art not already married?”

“No, dear sir,” says I.

“Then there is no need for astonishment,” says he. “And, egad, she is as proper a wench——”

“Sir,” says I. “She is the handsomest woman that ever I saw, but I fear she is beyond me. And besides,” I says, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Pish!” says he. “Thou art but a lad, and therefore knowest naught of women. There is but one way of wooing, and that is to be masterful. Let ’em see that you’re master,” he says, with a chuckle that came very feeble, “and they’re won.”

“Faith!” thinks I. “If that’s so I must ha’ won my fair cousin already, for I have been masterful enough with her, in all conscience! I will bear your advice in mind, sir,” I says aloud.