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Title: True Stories of Girl Heroines
Author: Everett-Green, Evelyn, 1856-1932
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "True Stories of Girl Heroines" ***
TRUE STORIES OF GIRL HEROINES
[Illustration: The brave young wife rode forth at the head of her whole
garrison.
_Page 109. Frontispiece._]
TRUE STORIES OF GIRL HEROINES
BY
E. EVERETT-GREEN
AUTHOR OF "GOLDEN GWENDOLYN," "THE SILVER AXE," "OLIVIA'S EXPERIMENT,"
ETC.
WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY
E. F. SHERIE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
LONDON
HUTCHINSON & CO.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INEZ ARROYA 1
CATHARINE THE ROSE 17
ELSJE VAN HOUWENING 35
GRIZEL COCHRANE 55
EVA VON GROSS 73
EMMA FITZ-OSBORN 93
ELIZABETH STUART 111
CHARLOTTE HONEYMAN 131
MARY BRIDGES 149
THERESA DUROC 167
JANE LANE 185
HELEN KOTTENNER 205
MAID LILLYARD 223
MARGARET WILSON 241
AGOSTINA OF ZARAGOZA 259
AGNES BEAUMONT 277
HANNAH HEWLING 297
MONA DRUMMOND 317
JESSY VARCOE 337
URSULA PENDRILL 355
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The brave young wife rode forth at the head of her whole
garrison _Frontispiece_
The first great stone leapt from her hand and went
bounding and crashing upon the head of the foremost
Moor _ To face p._ 8
The Commandant pulled her down beside him before it
was too late " " 30
"Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?" " " 48
With a beating heart Grizel tore open this bundle and
looked at its contents " " 66
He stopped short on seeing the Countess " " 125
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop " " 145
Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's peril. " " 183
"Well, now, I did hear as young Charles Stuart himself
was taken," answered the smith " " 193
The men plunged down into the vault " " 218
She set herself in their ranks, and went charging down
the hill " " 237
A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet " " 270
Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon
his face " " 283
The Judge plucked his robe out of her detaining hand. " " 310
"Dare to come one step nearer, and I fire" " " 335
"The first man that touches him I'll kill!" cried Jessy " " 351
True Stories of Girl Heroines
INEZ ARROYA
"Mistress! my mistress! the Moriscos are upon us!"
Inez sprang to her feet, the rich southern blood receding for a moment
from her cheek, as those words fell upon her ears--words of such fearful
significance to the Christian inhabitants of the Moorish territory along
the Sierra Nevada.
"Juana, what mean you? Speak, girl! What have you heard? What have you
seen?"
Juana's face had been white when she came bursting in upon her young
mistress; she held her hand to her side; her breath came and went in
great gasps; yet already she was recovering the power of speech, and she
seized Inez by the arm.
"Mistress, they are below already; they are robbing the house. Can you
not hear them? When they have taken the wine and the oil they will come
hither and murder us!"
Inez held her breath to listen. Yes, there were sounds from
below--sounds of voices--loud, threatening voices, and the laughter of
men assured of victory.
Juana, the maid, spoke in a fierce whisper. Fear was receding. The high
courage which comes to weak women in the hour of extremest need
possessed the hearts alike of mistress and maid.
"The master went forth not an hour ago. Five minutes since little Aluch
ran up to tell me that, as the master was taking the air, there suddenly
appeared a band of rebel Moriscos from Orgiba, who set upon him, and
chased him, and would have killed him, but he took refuge in his
father's house; and he will hide him, and get him safe away. But all
Istan will join the rebels, and already they are crying that every
Christian shall be slain!"
"Every Christian!" cried Inez, with a flash in her dark eyes. "And how
many Christians are there in Istan? Two weak women, Juana, you and I,
and my uncle, whom they have already set upon and chased to the
mountains. Pray Heaven and our Lady that he may reach them safely, and
send us help from Marbella, else there will be but short work with the
Christian population of Istan."
There was scorn in the girl's voice, scorn in the flashing eyes. Istan
was a Moorish village, where one Christian priest had been placed to
work amongst the Moslems, and seek to convert them to the true faith.
Success in this missionary work had been small; but the good man had
hitherto lived in peace with his alien flock. The wise and kindly
traditions of Ferdinand and Isabella, and Hermando de Talavera, had for
long kept under the natural hatred of Moor towards Christian in Southern
Spain. But a monarch had arisen who hated the word toleration. To keep
faith with the Moslem was to break it with the Almighty. The edict of
1567 was now a year or more old, and its pernicious effects were already
made abundantly evident in fierce Moorish risings here, there, and
everywhere.
Inez had heard stories as to the fate of Christian prisoners who had
fallen into the hands of the Moors. Before she followed Juana she had
caught up a shining dagger which hung against the wall; and she thrust
it into her girdle as she ran down the broken steps of the tower.
"At least, they shall not take us alive!" she breathed to herself; and
Juana seemed to hear, for she flashed back a glance at her young
mistress, and for a moment showed the gleam of a long stiletto which she
carried in the bosom of her tunic.
The priest of Istan dwelt in a strange house. It was, properly speaking,
no house at all, but a Moorish fortalice, dismantled and ruinous, which
he had partially repaired soon after his arrival there, and which, since
the arrival of his orphan niece to live with him, he had desired to make
more habitable still.
The place was, in fact, a sort of tower. The lowest floor was their
storehouse for supplies of wheat, oil, and so forth; and from this level
came up the sound of rough voices, as the Moors leisurely removed the
spoil before proceeding upwards. There was only one door from the
fortalice into the world without, and this it was impossible to reach,
for the Moors were swarming in the lowest part, effectually preventing
their egress. They knew perfectly that the two girls were as helplessly
caught as a rat in a trap; they did not even hasten the work in which
they were engaged. Inez, standing at the top of the long flight of stone
steps which led downwards to the basement, heard what they were saying
one to another, and into her olive cheek there crept a deep glow of red,
whilst her lips set themselves, her teeth clenched, and her black eyes
gleamed with a light like that of fire.
"Our Lady and the blessed saints protect us!" whispered Juana, with a
furtive glance into the beautiful face of her young mistress; and Inez
looked back at her without a quiver as she replied:
"The Christian's God helps those who help themselves, Juana. We are not
here to wring our hands and look for a miracle to save us. We fight for
our lives, and Christ and our Lady will help us. See, we are not quite
defenceless, Heaven be thanked for that! Collect those stones, quickly,
quietly. Keep out of sight. Do not let them observe us. Get together a
number, then you shall see!"
It was as Inez had said. The repairs of the fortalice, which had been
already commenced, had put the means of defence into their hands. Large
quantities of great stones had been collected at first in the basement,
but only the previous week had been laboriously carried up the steep,
narrow stairs which led upwards to the dwelling rooms; and these large
stones the two brave girls were now quietly collecting in a great heap
at the top of the flight.
They were in deep shadow, and below the brown-skinned men, in their
picturesque Arab dress, were far too busy examining their spoil, and
making away with it, to heed the slight sounds from above. They talked
together as they worked; they told of the attack they had made upon
Orgiba, and of that fearful massacre of Christian men, women, and
children at Uxixar. Inez held her breath to listen to the confirmation
of certain vague rumours which had reached them before this, but had
scarcely been believed. Peaceful Istan, with its terraced gardens
overhanging the lovely gorge of the Verde, had seemed so far removed
from the storm and strife; and its people were peaceable and kindly
disposed, even though they were Moriscos. But these men were rebels and
freebooters, with the fierce lust of blood upon them, their hands red
from the butchery of innocent, helpless women and children; men who
laughed aloud at tales of hideous deeds done in cold blood; men mad with
hatred to the conquering race, knowing themselves doomed to final
defeat, yet resolved to revenge themselves in every possible way upon
those of the hated faith ere their own turn came.
Upon such a band of men did Inez look down, with the fire of courageous
despair in her eyes. What could they do? what hope was there for them?
two slight girls against a score of trained warriors.
The Moriscos of Istan would probably not join in the attack upon them;
but they would not interfere with what their brethren of the faith might
do. Help from without there would be none, unless the priest himself
could find means of escape, and could get to Marbella and bring it. Inez
knew that he would strain every nerve in this effort. But what chance
had they of holding out for perhaps six hours or more? Could it be done?
Oh, could it be done? She looked at the heap of stones. She looked at
the flitting forms below in the gloom. And then she held her breath once
again, listening to stories of how in other places Christians had taken
refuge in towers and churches, whilst their Moorish foes piled faggots
soaked in pitch, and such-like inflammable material against and around
the walls, and reduced the building to one mass of flames.
If they kept the men from laying immediate hands upon them, would that
fiery doom be theirs?
"Better that than to fall into their hands," said Inez, between her shut
teeth; and Juana, looking at her mistress, with a world of faithful love
in her eyes, exclaimed softly:
"Our Lady will surely send us help, mistress. You are too beautiful to
die such a death!"
Inez put her hands upon the shoulders of the faithful girl, and said in
a low voice:
"You would come with me from Granada, Juana, where you would have been
safe; and there were those who warned us that we might not long be safe
out here. But my duty seemed to my uncle; and you--you would not leave
me. And what if I have brought you hither to your death?"
"We must all die once," answered Juana, her eyes full of love and
courage; "and I would sooner die with you, mistress, than live without
you. If I had stayed behind, and had heard this story of you, I should
have killed myself, or died for grief and shame that I was not with
you."
Then Inez put her arms about the faithful girl's neck, and kissed her
thrice upon the lips.
"We will do battle for our lives, Juana; and then, if needs be, we will
die together," she said.
Suddenly there was a cry from below. Some one had looked up, and had
seen the two girlish figures clinging together. Perhaps the very action
had been misunderstood, and instantly there was a rush towards the
steep, broken, narrow steps of some dozen swarthy Moors.
Instantly the girls were at their post at the head of the flight. Inez,
quiet and composed, gave the word.
"Welcome to the Moriscos!" she cried, in a clear and ringing voice, as
the first great stone leapt from her hand and went bounding and crashing
upon the head of the foremost Moor.
"Welcome to the Moriscos!" echoed Juana, dislodging another, which
sprang from stair to stair, and then, bounding sideways, went crashing
upon the bent back of a man in the basement beneath, who fell like a log
from the blow, his spine fractured.
Crash, crash, crash! Down hurtled the huge stones, flinging the
unprepared Moriscos from the steep stairs, where they fell in a confused
mass, one upon the top of the other, pinned down by the great boulders
which came rolling down upon them from above, cursing, raging, crushed
and maimed, utterly taken aback by such a reception; and now only eager
and anxious to get out of a place that seemed to rain nether mill-stones
upon them.
[Illustration: The first great stone leapt from her hand and went
bounding and crashing: upon the head of the foremost Moor.
_Page 8._]
Three of their number lay stretched dead upon the ground. A number more
were badly hurt; and all were flying from the stairs, which threatened
to become a veritable death-trap for all who tried to mount.
There was a rush for the outer door. The wounded were dragged away
groaning by their comrades; those who were sound carried the dead. They
turned and shook threatening fists at the two girls standing behind
their heap of stones at the top of the stairs; they promised them that
they were coming back. They breathed out threats which might well make
the stoutest hearts quail. But Inez stood up tall and straight, with a
great stone poised in her hand; and the strength and accuracy with which
those formidable weapons had been launched against them before, caused
the men to jostle each other through the doorway in their haste to
escape from possible hurt from the same source.
Scarcely had the last man disappeared before Juana was down the stairs
like a flash, had slammed-to the heavy oaken door, and had drawn the
great iron bolts and the heavy iron bar across it.
"The master left it open when he went out this morning," she said to
Inez, "and I never thought to shut it. Why should I? That is how they
got in so easily; but they will not get in again so fast!"
This was true enough; for the door had been made to withstand attack,
as, indeed, had the tower itself, and though it had fallen into a
ruinous state inside, it was built in a very solid fashion, the walls
being exceedingly thick, and light being admitted mainly by loopholes.
The top, also, was protected by a low battlement, from which a view of
the surrounding country could be obtained. This battlement had fallen a
good deal into disrepair, like the tower itself, and material for
repairing it had been brought in; so that not only had the girls the
remainder of the stones they had already used with such effect, but
there was a large quantity of such material that had been laboriously
carried up to the very top only three days earlier; and some of these
stones were very large and heavy, as they had been designed to form the
coping of the battlement.
"See there!" cried Inez, as the two girls ran up the stairs to the top,
to watch the retreat of the temporarily baffled foe. "Juana, how long,
think you, would such artillery last us? We could slay a score of our
foes, as the woman in the tower slew Abimelech the king. Did not mine
uncle tell us that tale the other night? and how little we thought----"
Juana's eyes were shining. The thrill of victory was upon her. The peril
was not over. Nay, they might have worse to encounter than they had
done already. But at least they had driven forth the foe from the
tower. Their citadel was their own. They had weapons of defence under
their hands. If help would only come at last, they could hold out for
awhile.
"See, see!" cried Inez, as she leaned over the wall to watch the baffled
Moriscos wending their way downwards, sometimes turning to shake
threatening fists at the tower and its defenders. "There is little Aluch
hiding below in the orange grove, and making signals to us. Run, Juana,
to that loophole below, and he will tell you what he has come to say!"
Juana disappeared down the stairs, and returned quickly with a face in
which anxiety and satisfaction were strangely blended.
"The master has got safely off to the mountains. He will be at Marbella
very soon, and then they will start out to help us; but Aluch said he
heard the Moriscos vowing vengeance upon us as they went away. They will
quickly be back; and he thinks if they cannot batter in the door and
take us alive, that they will burn the tower down over our heads."
"They will if they can," said Inez, looking out over the fair, wild
valley, with the expression of one who knows she may be looking almost
her last upon a familiar scene; "but we have a welcome ready for them!"
They leaned over the battlements, those two brave-hearted girls, and
they watched the little village at their feet, almost wishing that the
Moriscos would show themselves; for suspense was harder to bear than
action.
"Let us say our prayers," said Inez, suddenly kneeling in the hot
sunshine upon the hard stone floor; and Juana instantly knelt beside her
and took her rosary in her hands.
When they rose from their knees a few minutes later, suspense was at an
end. The attack was approaching.
"They have weapons now!" cried Juana. "Mistress, have a care. Those bows
and arrows are deadly weapons in the hands of a good marksman. And
look--they are bringing faggots; and that mule has a barrel of tar upon
his back! And see that great ram of wood! They will seek to batter down
the door with that. If they do----"
Yes, if they did that, the girls' position would be desperate indeed.
Before, the men had only been armed with daggers and scimitars, which
were useless save at close quarters. Now they had the deadly bow and
arrow, and if they once obtained entrance, it would be useless for the
girls to repeat the defensive manoeuvre of the earlier hours. They
would be shot down instantly, and fall an easy prey. Inez realised that
in a moment, as she watched the approach of the Moors; and scarcely had
her head appeared above the battlement, before a shower of arrows fell
clattering about them.
"This side!" she said to Juana, between shut teeth. "They will try the
door first; we will be ready for them!"
The girls dared not show themselves openly; but the battlements were
built with a view to defence, and they were able to look cautiously over
without being seen. The Moors were approaching the door; they were
almost directly underneath.
"Now!" cried Inez, setting her hand to a huge stone. Juana put all her
strength into the task, the great coping stone was hoisted between them,
and pushed bodily over.
A fearful yell and a thundering crash told that it had done its work
well; a storm of furious execration went up, and in the midst of it down
came another stone which dashed out the brains of a fellow in the crowd
below.
Juana peered over and then drew back, a fierce triumph on her girlish
face; for she had seen that there were two enemies the less.
"We have plenty of stones, the saints be praised!" she exclaimed. "They
are closing in again, Mistress. Let us give them another!"
The Moors were always careless of life in battle; and again and again
they advanced to fix their battering ram; whilst again and again the
huge stones came thundering down, and, besides these large ones, were
many smaller, which the girls aimed with such precision and coolness,
that not only could the assailants not fix their ram against the door to
batter it down, but the men approaching the walls with faggots and
combustibles were picked off one by one, and dropped wounded or crushed
beneath the hail of stones from above.
Inez looked over once again, drawing herself up to her full height, and
straining her eyes towards Marbella in the hope of seeing the
long-looked-for relief.
"Have a care, Mistress, have a care!" cried Juana anxiously, and sprang
forward; but she was just too late. The arrow had buried itself in the
shoulder of Inez; she gave a start and an exclamation of pain; but,
taking hold of it firmly, she instantly plucked it out.
"Pray heaven it be not poisoned!" cried Juana, as she stanched the flow
of blood with quick, skilful fingers. And Inez smiled bravely through
her pain.
"Hark! They are at the door again; we must show them that the garrison
is not disabled yet. That stone there, Juana; now both together! down it
goes! Hark! what a yell that was. I am revenged for my sore shoulder!"
But the brave resistance of the girls seemed rather to stimulate than to
baffle the assailants. The air was rent with frightful threats and
curses; and Inez, looking rather white, though there was no fear in her
heart, said quietly:
"There is no hope of mercy, Juana. If we are not relieved; if help comes
not, we must sell our lives as dearly as we can; and plunge our daggers
into our own hearts sooner than fall alive into their hands."
"We will, Mistress," said Juana firmly. "But surely our Lady will send
us aid ere that!"
"Look! look! look!" cried Inez suddenly. "The banner of the cross! Oh,
Juana, do my eyes deceive me? Is it a vision that I see?"
And indeed for a moment both the girls thought that it must be; for the
light fell sparkling upon mailed headpieces and flashing swords; and a
banner with the cross flaunting in the golden light of the southern
afternoon was borne aloft, and waved as though in signal that help
indeed was at hand.
"What can it be? Whence come they?" cried Inez, with breathless
agitation. "That is not the road from Marbella! Our Lady herself must
have sent them to our aid! Pray heaven it be not a vision!"
"See, see!" cried Juana in ungovernable excitement, running to the
battlement and showing herself fearlessly. "The Moriscos--they run! They
fly Mistress, we are saved! We are saved! It is our brave Spanish
soldiers come to our rescue!"
Inez looked over in turn, and though the mists seemed to rise before her
eyes in the revulsion of her feeling, she could see the flying figures
of the Moriscos dashing down helter-skelter into the deep ravine below,
to escape the Christian swords, and she saw the lifted headpiece of the
officer in charge of the band, as he looked up and marked the two girls
leaning over the low rampart.
The next minute Juana had dashed down and opened the door, while little
Aluch, flushed with triumph, was telling Inez how this band had come in
pursuit of the rebels of Orgiba; how he had met them and told them of
the predicament of the Christian maidens, and had brought them by the
nearest route to the rescue.
So Istan was saved--saved from Spanish vengeance through little Aluch's
act, as the Christian population of three souls was saved by the heroism
of the two brave girls. Inez rode into Marbella that evening beside the
officer of the band, to find her uncle there, beseeching help, which the
citizens could not believe was wanted in such a peaceful spot, till the
young officer rode into the great square, still holding Inez by the
hand, and told the tale of how she and Juana had held the tower against
the rebel Moriscos.
CATHARINE THE ROSE
He held her hands and looked steadfastly into her eyes.
"You would not hold me back, Kate?"
The eyes which looked bravely at him were full of tears; but the girl
shook the drops from her long lashes as she threw back her head, and
spoke with unfaltering lips.
"I would hold no man back from his duty; least of all the man I love."
In a moment his arm was about her. The troth plight, spoken amid the
clang of arms and the rattle of musketry, was but three days old; and
the strange sweetness of it had penetrated the life of the English
Captain in a fashion which he had no skill to analyse. But in these
stern days there was little scope for the sweetness of spoken love; and
even the minutes snatched from the pressing needs of garrison life were
few and far between.
But Hart had volunteered the second time for a service of extra peril,
and he had come to speak a farewell to his love--a farewell which both
knew might be final.
"I went and returned in safety last time, sweetheart," he said, "and
wherefore not again? I shall have your prayers to Heaven on my side this
time."
"You had them before," said Kate, lifting her head from his shoulder and
looking straight into his eyes; and he kissed away the last of the
raindrops from her lashes.
"Help we must have if Sluys is to be saved," he said. "I swim forth
to-night, under cover of the darkness, with letters for England's Queen.
The devil take that pestilent peace-party, who would beguile her into
dallying with Spain and her tyrant King and treacherous Princes!" broke
out the young Captain suddenly, in a gust of hot anger. "Can she not see
that her only safety lies in joining heart and soul with the Netherlands
in their struggle for life and liberty? Let Philip of Spain once get
these lands beneath his iron heel, and then England will have cause to
tremble for her very existence!"
"But the Queen has sent us help already," said Kate; "surely she will do
more, when she knows our dire extremity!"
"Eight hundred men," answered the young officer, with a tone of scorn,
"eight hundred English soldiers with eight hundred Dutch, to hold a
place like Sluys! How is it possible the thing should be done? It has
come to this, that if help comes not, Sluys must fall. Alexander Farnese
and his Spanish host will score another triumph for tyranny and the
Inquisition!"
A shudder ran through the girlish frame at the sound of that word, more
hateful and terrible to the party of freedom than any other which could
be spoken. Then her eyes flashed with a spark as of fire, and, flinging
back her head, she cried:
"And what would the men do if they came, Harold? What work would you set
them first to do?"
"There is work and to spare, both in attack and defence," answered Hart,
with something of grimness in his tone. "We are in dire need of at least
four redoubts between the citadel and the ramparts. The burghers have
banded themselves together to build us one. We are sending every man
that can be spared from garrison duty and the actual fighting to throw
up the second; but how the others are to be constructed with our present
force it is impossible to see. Help we must have at all cost, and I
trust these dispatches which you have been so carefully sewing in my
clothing, will bring it to us, ere it be too late."
He could not linger. The shadows of the coming evening were beginning to
fall, although the summer day lingered long. He put his hands upon the
shoulders of the girl, and looked into her face with a long wistful
gaze. His own face was very thin and brown, and though he was still
quite young, there were a few grey hairs to be seen about his temples.
Hard living, hard fighting, days and nights of anxious toil had left
their impress upon him, as upon many another compatriot at that season
of bitter struggle. And the bitterness was greater rather than less for
the knowledge that if England's Queen and her counsellors would but show
a little more firmness of purpose and readiness of dispatch, many of the
horrors of this protracted struggle might even now be saved to the
courageous and devoted Dutch.
Even upon the fair young face of Catharine Rose, the perils in which she
had been reared had traced their lines. That look of firm determination,
of high-souled courage, of resolute devotion to duty, be the cost what
it might, could not have been so clearly written there had she not lived
her young life amidst scenes and tales of stress and storm.
Men and women, youths and maidens, had to face from week to week, and
even from day to day, the possibility of having to yield up life and
liberty, home and friends, for their fidelity to their country and their
faith. Catharine's father had died a martyr at the stake. Her brother
had been slain in the memorable defence of Antwerp, two years since; and
the loss of her only son had broken the mother's heart, so that she
faded away and died a few months later.
But these troubles and losses had broken neither the heart nor the
spirit of Catharine. She had the mixed blood in her veins of an English
father and a Dutch mother; the courage and devotion of two warlike
nations seemed to combine in her youthful frame.
Her quarrel with Fate was that she had been born a woman, and not a man.
Her longing was to gird on sword and buckler, and go forth to fight the
hated Spaniard--the tool of the bloody tyrant whose very name was not
heard without curses both loud and deep.
"Oh, if I were but a man!" had for long been the cry of her heart; and
if in the sweetness of feeling herself beloved by one of the heroes of
Sluys she no longer breathed this aspiration, it was not because her
heart was less filled with an ardent longing to do and to dare.
"Farewell, sweetheart," spoke the Captain, looking deep into her eyes,
and knowing, as she too knew, that perhaps he was looking his last. But
the consciousness of ever-present peril was one of the elements of daily
life in the beleaguered city; and although this mission upon which Hart
set forth was one of more than ordinary peril, a soldier never went
forth upon his daily duty with any certainty of seeing home or friend
again.
"Farewell; God be with you, and bring you safely back to us," she
answered steadfastly; and their lips met once before he dropped her
hands, and hurried away without trusting himself to look behind again.
Catharine looked after him from the window as he walked rapidly away in
the gathering twilight. Her accustomed ears scarcely heeded the sullen
booming of the great guns, or the dropping shots of muskets from the
ramparts. The life of the town went on with a curious quietude in the
midst of warlike strife; notwithstanding the fact that it became daily
more and more evident that without substantial succour in men, and
munitions, and food, Sluys could not hold out against such overmastering
odds.
Suddenly the girl turned from the window, and, with fleet steps, crossed
the room, descended a dim stairway, and entered the chamber beneath,
where, by the light of a solitary lamp, a girl, a few years her senior,
was setting out a frugal meal with the aid of a youthful servant-maid.
"Has he gone, Kate?" she asked, as she saw that Catharine was alone; "I
had hoped he would have had something to eat ere he sallied forth into
the night. The rations of the soldiers are meagre enough now, and he has
a hard task before him. God in His mercy give him safe transit through
those sullen waters, and blind the eyes of sentries and soldiers!"
"He could not stay," answered Kate, "and he said he had eaten well.
May," she broke out suddenly, clasping her hands together, the colour
coming and going in her cheeks, "May, I have a plan, and you must help
me. I have learned what the sons and daughters of the city can do for
Sluys. I am going to toil for her, and you will help me!"
"What mean you, Kate? What have you heard? What can be done for the city
by weak women like ourselves?"
"I am not a weak woman!" answered Kate, throwing back her head in her
favourite gesture, "I am a strong woman, and so are you, May, and so are
dozens, ay, and scores of the daughters and the wives of the burghers.
Listen, May. You know of the need for redoubts, and how your husband is
toiling almost day and night to construct one on yonder side of the
citadel. But they need more; Harold himself told me so. They need more
than soldiers or burghers can build. I am going to organise a band of
women and girls. You and I, May Hart, will be the leaders. I have not
watched the building of forts and defences for nothing all these weeks.
You and I with the women of the city, will build them a redoubt, and it
shall be the work of the girls of Sluys!"
The young wife fired instantly at the suggestion. All over the city it
was known of the dire want of men to construct these defensive works.
Boys and men of the burgher class had gone forth willingly in defence
of their town, and were working night and day at the unaccustomed toil.
But Sluys was to see another sight ere long: a great band of women, many
of them mere girls, and even little children, armed with the needful
tools led by Mary Hart and Catharine Rose, going forth morning by
morning from their homes, delving, building, toiling through the long
hot summer's day, in rivalry of the brothers and fathers on the
corresponding side of the citadel; the new redoubt rising bit by bit
before their strenuous efforts, the work as accurate and solid as that
of the men, though every detail was the work of women and girls.
"Impossible!" had been the first cry of the burghers when they heard of
the proposed scheme. Proud though they were of the spirit that inspired
their women-kind, they shook their heads at the thought of their ever
being able to carry out such a plan. But Catharine was a power amongst
the girls of Sluys. She came of a race who had laid down their lives for
the country of their adoption. Her mother had been a townswoman; and the
girl had been born and bred amongst them. "Catharine the Rose" she had
been called in affectionate parlance, a play upon her patronymic, and a
compliment to her brilliant colouring which even the privations and
anxieties of the siege had not dimmed.
Mary Hart was also a girl of Sluys, lately wedded to Roger Hart, the
elder brother of the gallant English Captain, who had been sent with the
small band of troops into the city a short time previously, and had
already so distinguished himself by personal courage, that any specially
perilous errand was readily entrusted to him.
Roger was not a soldier by profession. The Harts' father had settled in
the Netherlands during a time of Tudor intolerance and persecution in
England, little foreseeing how soon the land of their adoption would
become the arena of a struggle to the death against a tyranny of which
England in her worst and darkest hour had never dreamed. He had,
however, thriven and prospered in the country he had chosen as his home,
and had not been driven away by the troubles which speedily befell it.
His sons, like Catharine Rose, combined in their veins the blood of
England's sons and that of the Netherlands; and it was with the Harts
that the girl had found a home, when her mother's death had left her
alone in the world. Perhaps it was not strange when Harold Hart came to
Sluys and spent his few spare hours at his brother's house, that he and
the girl he had played with in childhood should draw together as they
had done, animated by a common love, a common hatred, and a common
steadfast resolve to do and dare all in the cause which was nearest
their heart.
But how would the amazons of Sluys face the fire from the guns of the
enemy when their earthworks grew to the height that would make them
increasingly a target for the Spanish guns?
"Leave it to us now," said some of the burghers, who came as a
deputation to the spot where the women and girls were at work. "Commence
the fort if you will, brave maidens, but leave this part to men. It is
too stern work for delicate girls when the storm of lead whistles about
those who work."
It was to Catharine the Rose they spoke, and she turned upon them with a
flash in her eyes, as she made answer:
"Think you that we have not counted the cost? Think you that we are
afraid? Have we not seen? do we not know? Are we of different nature
from yourselves? I answer for the maidens of Sluys. That which we have
begun we will carry through. Have not you men your work cut out? Are you
not toiling--ay, and dying--daily for our defence and that of our homes?
Do you think we are afraid to toil, and, if need be, to die in the same
cause? It was like you to offer thus to relieve us in the time of
chiefest peril; but I give you the answer of the girls of Sluys--go to
Captain May for the answer of the wives!"
Captain Catharine and Captain May were the titles by which the two
leaders were known to their own squads; but the men called them
"Catharine the Rose" and "May in the Heart"--a sort of graceful parody
upon their names.
Mary Hart had the same answer to give on behalf of the wives of the
burghers. And, indeed, it was abundantly evident that the men had their
hands full with what they themselves had undertaken, and that unless the
brave work were carried out by those who had commenced it, it must
perforce be abandoned; whilst more and more needful for the safety of
the city did these redoubts become.
The temper of the besiegers was known to be sorely tried, and scant was
the chance that even if they heeded the sex of the workers upon the
growing redoubt, they would on that account permit it to grow without
opposition. Again and again in the history of those bloody wars women
had fought side by side with men in the defence of their homes and
liberties, and the Spanish soldier had as ruthlessly cut down the one as
the other.
"Girls, are you afraid?" asked Kate, as she led forth her band upon the
morrow. "You have heard the balls hissing overhead these many days; but
to-day, perchance, we shall feel the sting of the hot bullet, or the
splinter of some shell tearing its way into our flesh. Are you afraid to
face such experience?"
"We are not afraid; where you lead us, we will go!" was the almost
universal rejoinder, spoken with a quiet gravity and resolve which
attested its sincerity. These girls were not undertaking the task in
ignorance of its perils. They had seen enough of wounds and death. They
knew what they were facing; but there were only a few waverers who, on
Kate's invitation, went back; and even they could not tear themselves
away from the scene of their labours; they came to look on beneath the
shelter of the rampart, to give help should help be needed; and before
long the stern excitement of the hour possessed them also, and scarce
one but was soon working with the rest, only shrinking and perhaps
uttering a little cry as some bullet might whizz close to her ear.
Under fire!--a rain of bullets falling round!--a comrade beside you
sometimes falling silent and helpless, or with a cry and a struggle. It
is so easy to speak of such things, but how many of us realise what they
mean to those who have passed through such experience?
Catharine in the foremost post of danger worked on directing and
encouraging. She had insisted that her squad of girls should take the
side most exposed to the enemy's fire, leaving the less perilous place
for the married women. There had been a generous rivalry for this
position of peril and honour; but Catharine's word and determination had
prevailed.
"You who have husbands and perhaps children to think of, and to miss you
if you are taken, must give this post to us," she said; and she thought
of the man she loved, of whom no tidings had yet come; who had ventured
his life so many times; and in her heart she prayed that if he were
taken, she might join him on the other side of the narrow stream of
death, the stream which seemed so small and narrow when so many were
crossing it day by day.
So the work progressed rapidly, though many a brave young life paid
forfeit, and the tears would well up sometimes in Kate's eyes, as she
saw a comrade carried off dead, or bent over a dying girl, to hear her
last brave message for home and friends; or, when in the silence of the
night, she thought upon these things, and cried in her heart, "How long,
O Lord, how long?"
But there was never a quiver of fear in her face or in her heart as she
stood to her post day by day; and the walls grew, and the Commandant of
the garrison came and gave warm praise and thanks, and timely cautions
and instructions to the heroic girls who toiled through the hot summer
days without one selfish thought of fear.
Once, as he stood beside the leader of these brave young amazons, a
shell came screaming through the air, and he shouted a word of command.
"Down on your faces!" he cried, and himself set the example, to show
them what to do. The shell was from a new battery, and it had been
directed with a view to stopping the work on this very redoubt. The
girls dropped their tools and fell flat, but Catharine was a thought too
late. She had been so interested in the work of that battery that she
forgot for a moment the peril in which she stood. Luckily the Commandant
pulled her down beside him before it was too late; but a portion of the
explosive struck her, tearing a ghastly wound from wrist to elbow. The
stones and rubble seemed to fly up around them; a fragment dashed itself
against Catharine's head; a blood-red mist seemed to swirl before her
eyes, and blank darkness swallowed her up.
When she opened her eyes next it was to find herself at home, lying upon
the wide couch beneath her favourite window which looked down the
street. The light showed that the evening was advancing; May was in the
room setting the table for supper, and--but was not that part and parcel
of the dream which still seemed to enwrap her faculties?--Harold, her
bronzed-faced soldier, was seated beside her, his eyes hungrily bent
upon her face.
She smiled, half afraid to move lest the dream should vanish, and the
next moment he had her fingers close in his grasp.
"Kate, my Kate!" he cried; and she smiled back, and sat up.
[Illustration: The Commandant pulled her down beside him before it was
too late.
_Page 30._]
"Harold! you have done it again! and have come back safe."
"Yes, I have come back, and to find--what? That my Kate has set an
example to the women of the Netherlands, that----"
But she put her hand upon his mouth and stopped him.
"It was not I more than others; and there are some who have laid down
their lives for the cause. You must not praise me; why should not women
do their duty to the cause of freedom as well as men? You do not praise
your men for standing to their guns."
"But we will praise you!" cried Harold hotly. "Know you not that all the
city is ringing with the news that the women's redoubt is all but
finished, and that in spite of the deadly fire from the new battery? And
Kate, to-night the soldiers will get the guns mounted, and to-morrow
Fort Venus will give her answer back. Oh, my Kate, will you be able to
come and see?"
"Fort Venus?" she queried, with a smile in her eyes.
"That is what the Commandant has christened it, and the soldiers
received the name with ringing cheers. The names of Catharine the Rose
and May in the Heart are in all men's mouths. Surely, surely you must be
there to see!"
And she was; for the wound, although severe, was not crippling, and the
dauntless spirit of the girl carried her through the triumph and
gladness of the next day, as it had carried her through the previous
perils and hardships.
A spectator would have thought that Sluys was _en fête_ that day instead
of a sorely pressed beleaguered city, wanting food, help, everything.
Citizens and soldiers marched in squadrons to the new fort, which had
been the scene of arduous toil all the night, and from whose loopholes
the mouths of guns could now be seen protruding.
And foremost in that procession, cheered to the echo by burghers and
soldiers alike marched the brave women and girls, who had done such work
for their country and their city, headed by Mary Hart and Kate Rose.
Then, at a given signal, "Fort Venus" opened her mouth and roared forth
her message of defiance and resolve.
"Hear the voice of the women of the Netherlands!" cried Arnold de
Groenevelt, the grave Commandant, as the guns belched forth fire and
smoke, and the welkin rang with the shouts of the citizens and soldiers.
And so true was the aim of the gunners, that the new battery was
speedily silenced; and cheer after cheer went up as the destruction
wrought became more and more visible; and the youths of the city bore
aloft upon their shoulders through the streets to their homes,
Catharine the Rose and May in the Heart, crying aloud as they took their
triumphal way: "Hear the voice of Fort Venus! Hear the voice of the
women of the Netherlands! Death to the tyrant! Life and immortality to
the liberties of the people, and freedom of faith. The voice of the
girls is the voice of the nation."
ELSJE VAN HOUWENING
For two years she had lived within the walls of a grim fortress; a
prison had been her home. Thirteen massive doors, secured by iron bolts
and bars and huge locks, stood between her and the outer world; and yet
this maiden of nineteen summers was no prisoner; she was here in this
gloomy place of her own freewill.
And for what cause was she here? Was it to guard and tend one who was
very near and dear to her,--a father, a mother, a brother? No; it was
none of her own kindred who were thus shut up, but her master, Hugo de
Groot, or Grotius, as he is more generally known to history.
With the causes for the unjust captivity of this great and learned man,
we need not deal here. They belong to the page of history, where they
can be read in full. Suffice it to say, that Grotius was condemned by
the States-General of the Netherlands to a life-long captivity in the
great fortress of Loevenstein, under the spiteful tyranny of its
governor, Lieutenant Deventer, who had an especial grudge against him,
and seemed resolved to make his captivity as bitter as it was possible
to do.
The one grace allowed to the unhappy prisoner was that his wife and
family might share his captivity; might live within the fortress in the
quarters allotted to him, although not suffering all the rigours of
imprisonment. And with Madame de Groot and her family of children had
come Elsje van Houwening, their young maid-servant, who had stoutly
refused to leave them in their hour of trial and trouble, and had
already spent two years of her young life within the walls of the
prison.
The tie that binds master and servant together was stronger in those
days than it is now. The race of devoted servants seems well-nigh
extinct in these degenerate days; our mothers and grandmothers had
experience of a fidelity which is seldom met with now. But even in their
times an instance of such courage and devotion must needs be rare. Yet
to Elsje it seemed perfectly natural to cleave to the family that had
befriended her in a lonely childhood, and she loved her master and
mistress and their children with a love which only grew stronger and
stronger during the long, monotonous days of this captivity. Small
wonder was it that Madame de Groot should sit for hours over their
scanty fire, her children asleep, her husband poring over the books
which came to him from time to time in a great chest from friends in
Gorcum, talking with Elsje as though to a friend, talking over the
difficulties of keeping house upon the pittance allowed them from the
Government after the sequestration of their family property; the
mournful future that seemed to stretch indefinitely before them, and now
and again of that ever recurrent dream of hapless prisoners--the chances
of escape!
And yet what was the possibility of this? How could it be even dreamed
of that a closely guarded prisoner should pass through those thirteen
iron-bound doors which lay between him and liberty? And if the sad-eyed
wife or eager maid looked down from their windows, what did they see,
save the rushing, tumultuous flow of a deep turbid river?
Nature and art had combined, as it seemed, to make this fortress
impregnable alike from without and within. It stood in the very narrow
and acute angle, where the strong and turbid Waal joins its rushing
waters with those of the Meuse; and on the land side immensely strong
walls with a double moat guarded it from attack, and held in helpless
captivity all those upon whom the great doors had closed.
True Madame de Groot with her children, or Elsje with her market basket,
were permitted to sally forth at will by day, or, at least, under
modified restrictions; to cross by the boat to Gorcum, which lay exactly
opposite on the farther bank of the Waal. They made their purchases
here, and saw their friends from time to time; but how did this help
the prisoner? Madame de Groot was very stout and somewhat short, whilst
Grotius himself was tall and slight, possessed of singular personal
beauty, and an air and bearing that would be most difficult to disguise.
The idea of dressing him up in their clothes, and smuggling him out in
that fashion, had been talked of a hundred times, but only in a sort of
despair. Hugo himself had shaken his head over the plan. It was doomed
to ignominious failure, as he saw from the first. No one was permitted
to leave the prison save in broad daylight, and all had to pass
innumerable guards and sentries on the way. If the prisoner were to be
detected seeking to escape in such fashion, it would only lead to a more
rigorous and harsh captivity, and, probably, to his entire separation
from his family.
The wife had sorrowfully agreed that it was too great a risk to run;
yet, nevertheless, she and Elsje were ceaselessly racking their brains
to think out some plan whereby the prisoner might escape the dreadful
doom of life-long captivity.
It was evening. Madame de Groot was bending over the stove, cooking her
husband's frugal supper. Elsje went in search of the children, to put
such of them to bed as were not already there.
Her favourite out of all the little ones was Cornelia, a lovely little
girl of nine years, wonderfully like her father, and perfectly devoted
to him. She and her brother Hugo were often to be found in the room in
which he studied and wrote from morning to night, only varying his
sedentary pursuits by the spinning of a huge top that had been made for
him by friends in Gorcum, that he might not suffer too greatly from lack
of accustomed exercise.
Elsje stole softly into the room, so as not to disturb her master, and
glanced round the bare place again and again. Where could the children
be? She had looked everywhere else in their limited quarters; there was
no other room except this one that had not been searched through and
through. She would not disturb her master by a question, and continued
softly moving and looking about, till the sound of a suppressed child's
laugh, close beside her, made her almost jump; for there was nothing to
be seen, save--ah! yes; she saw it all now--there was the great empty
chest that had brought the last load of books from Gorcum. She raised
the lid, and a simultaneous shriek of laughter arose from two pairs of
rosy child-lips. There were little Cornelia and Hugo, curled up like
dormice in the chest, peeping at Elsje, with eyes brimming with
laughter.
She carried them off, laughing herself, and asking them how they managed
to breathe with the heavy lid closed fast down.
"Oh, there is a long crack just under the top of the lid, it doesn't
show from outside; but we could see light, and your shadow came right
over us, and then Hugo laughed, and you heard. We sat there a long time
this afternoon and told ghost stories. It was such fun!"
Elsje put the children to bed, and went thither shortly herself, but all
the night long she was dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. She saw the chest
with the two children inside; and then she saw it again, and instead of
two small figures there was one large one--a tall man's figure crushed
together in the chest, and when he turned his face towards her it was
the face of her master!
The girl was up and about with the dawn; and her mistress coming to help
her, she told her in whispers of the incident of the previous night and
of her dream, and the two women stood staring at each other, with white
faces and glowing eyes, as the idea slowly formulated itself and took
shape.
"It might be done! It might be done!" whispered Madame de Groot at last;
"if he could get in, it might perchance be done. Oh! if heaven should
open us such a way as that!"
That day passed like a dream to all. They waited till dark; till all the
children were sound asleep, and no one from without would trouble them
again, before they even dared to make the experiment. Grotius was a tall
man, as has been said, though he was slender in his proportions. At
another time he would have pronounced it impossible that he should so
fold himself up as to get inside that chest, and let the lid be fastened
down upon him. But when a man sees life-long captivity before him on the
one side, and the hope of escape and freedom on the other, he can
sometimes achieve the impossible. And, at last, after many efforts, the
thing was done; the lid was closed, and the man found that he could
breathe and endure the pressure even for a considerable period.
Day by day, or, rather, night by night, he made these trials till his
limbs in some sort grew accustomed to the strange constriction, and he
was able to bear the cramped posture for a more prolonged time. Madame
de Groot, upon her next journey into Gorcum, spoke jestingly with a
friend as to how her husband would be received were he to turn-up some
day, and Madame Daatselaer answered, in the same jesting spirit, that he
would have a warm and hearty welcome; for the Daatselaers were old and
tried friends, though only of the rank of merchants. They owned a large
warehouse of great repute, and their dwelling-house was at the rear of
the shop, where ribbons and other merchandise were vended to all comers.
It was through the immediate agency of these friends that the books lent
to Grotius by Professor Erpenius were consigned to him in his prison.
The Professor sent them to the Daatselaers, who dispatched the chest by
the boat which plied between Gorcum and the fortress opposite. It was
returned in the same manner to them when the books were done with, for
transmission back to the Professor. Therefore, if Grotius could conceal
himself in the chest for the journey over the water, he would be
consigned to the safe-keeping of friends, who might be trusted to do
everything in their power to facilitate his escape to Antwerp, and so to
France, where he would be safe from the malice of his enemies.
Days flew by, and the plan seemed more and more feasible, albeit fraught
with no small danger of discovery. Madame de Groot's anxiety was almost
greater than that of her husband, and perhaps it was her visible
agitation, occasionally manifesting itself in spite of her great courage
and self-control, which led the prisoner to speak as follows to Elsje,
when he and she were alone one day, his wife having gone once more to
Gorcum, prepared to drop a faint hint to Madame Daatselaer, without,
however, really arousing her suspicions of what was in the wind; for all
knew how much the success of such a scheme depended upon the maintenance
of absolute secrecy.
"My good girl, is it true what thy mistress says of thee, that this
whole plan is one of thine own making?"
"Not of my making, master, but rather as a thing revealed to me in a
dream. I seemed to see the chest, and when it was opened there was my
master within. I told the dream to my mistress, and the rest seemed to
follow of itself."
"And if the plan be carried out when next that chest is returned, who
will accompany it across the water?"
Elsje paused in thought. Sometimes she had gone with it on former
occasions, sometimes her mistress. There had been no peril in the
transit then. It had mattered nothing who went; but now things would be
quite different. She looked her master questioningly in the face. He
returned her glance.
"I have been thinking much on that point," he said; "it will be a
memorable journey for those concerned. There be moments when I misdoubt
me if my wife hath the needful firmness. It is not courage that she
lacks, nor firmness of purpose; but can she pass the many barriers, the
many posts of peril, the many prying eyes within and without, and so
command her face that her anxiety be not seen? The sorrows and anxieties
of these last years have told upon her. And if she betray too great
solicitude for this chest of books, why in a moment we may be undone!"
Elsje stood looking very thoughtful. She saw at once the danger of
self-betrayal; the danger that would be far more quickly noted in the
prisoner's wife than in his servant. Her gaze was lifted to her
master's face.
"Shall I be the one to go?" she asked.
"Wouldst thou not be afraid, my child?"
"What punishment could they give to me were the plot to be discovered?"
she asked.
"Legally none," answered Grotius, whose training in the law gave him
full knowledge on all such subjects; "but, my girl, I myself am guilty
of no crime--yet see what has befallen me. I cannot tell what might be
thy fate were this thing discovered during the perilous transit."
For a moment Elsje stood motionless, thinking deeply. Then she lifted
her head, and her eyes shone brightly.
"No matter for that," she said, "whatever comes of it I will be the one
to go. If they must punish another innocent person, let the victim be me
rather than my dear mistress!"
Grotius took her hand, and the tears stood in his eyes. Elsje rattled on
as though to hinder him from speaking the words that for the moment
stuck in his throat.
"It will be better so every way," she said, "for see--the men must come
in hither to get the chest, and so it must seem that you, master, are
sick and in bed, else would they look to see you here at work. We must
draw the curtains close; but leave your clothes visible by the bedside,
and my mistress must seem to be attending upon you. So it will be best
every way for me to go with the box; and the soldiers all know me, and
we have our quips and jests together. I will talk to them all the while,
as my mistress could scarce do without rousing suspicion, so they will
not note if the weight of the chest be something greater than usual."
"Thou art a brave girl; thou hast a great heart and a ready wit," said
the prisoner with emotion in his voice, "may God reward thee for thy
devotion to a family in distress; for we may never be able to do so."
"I want no reward," answered Elsje stoutly, "save to know that I have
helped those I love, and who once befriended me."
The next day was Sunday, and a wild March gale was raging round the
castle, lashing the waves of the river into foam. The rain dashed
against the windows as they sat with their books of devotion, as usual,
through the earlier hours of the day. Grotius had read and offered
prayer as was his wont, when suddenly little Cornelia turned her face
towards the barred window, and her eyes seemed full of a strange light.
"To-morrow, Papa must be off to Gorcum, whatever the weather may be,"
she said; and then, slipping off her chair, took the little ones away
with her for the usual midday repast.
Husband and wife looked at each other aghast. The strangeness of the
coincidence seemed to them most remarkable.
"Let us take it for a direction from heaven," said Grotius. "Out of the
mouth of babes and sucklings--the child knew nothing, yet something was
revealed to her spirit."
Later in the day Elsje came breathless with the news that the Commandant
of the fortress was just leaving it for a few days' absence. He had
received his captaincy, and was to go to Heusden to receive his company.
All things seemed pointing in one direction; and early on Monday
morning, Madame de Groot asked leave of Madame Deventer to send back the
chest of books to Gorcum.
"My husband is not well; he is wearing himself out with so much study.
If the books are sent away I can persuade him to remain in bed and take
some needful repose. I got him to pack them up last night; but if they
stay in his sight, he will assuredly remember something more he wants to
study, and nothing I can say will then persuade him to keep in bed."
Madame Deventer was a kind-hearted woman, and sorry for the prisoner's
wife. She gave ready consent to the request, and said she would send
some soldiers shortly to take the chest away.
The crucial moment had come. Grotius, dressed in the thinnest linen
under-garments--for there was not space for much clothing--took his
place in the chest. A book, padded with a cloth, served as a sort of
pillow, a few books and papers were placed in such interstices as were
left by the curves of his body; and his wife took a solemn farewell of
him before she shut down the lid and snapped the key in the lock, giving
it in deep silence to Elsje.
Outside the storm still raged and howled, but the tumult of their souls
seemed greater; yet Elsje stood with a careless smile on her face as the
soldiers entered the room, and Madame de Groot bent over the fire,
stirring something in a saucepan, and telling her husband that she would
soon have his soup ready, and she hoped he would enjoy it more than his
breakfast. The curtains of the alcove bed were drawn, and the ordinary
clothes of the prisoner lay upon a chair near it.
"My word, but it is a heavy boxful this time!" exclaimed the men, as
they laid hold of the chest.
"To be sure," cried Elsje; "what would you have? They are Arminian
books, and those are mighty solid, I can tell you. You had best have a
care how you treat them when you get to the water. Arminian books have
sunk many a good bark ere now, before it has got into harbour!"
The men laughed at the innuendo of the girl's words. It was in truth
their adherence to the Arminian side of the great Arminian and
Calvinist controversy which had shipwrecked the lives of Grotius and so
many others. Elsje chattered gaily to them as they dragged and lifted
the heavy chest down the stairs and through the thirteen ponderous
doors. She kept them laughing by her droll remarks, and the little
anecdotes she retailed for them whenever a halt was called. At last it
stood without the last of the doors, and the soldiers paused and wiped
their brows.
"Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?"
Elsje's heart thumped against her ribs. This was the crucial moment. At
first when the box had gone in and out its contents had been carefully
examined; but as nothing save the books had ever been found there the
practice had been given up latterly. But there was never any actual
certainty.
Elsje dangled the key from her girdle, and swung it carelessly round and
round.
"It always used to be done," she said, "but methinks my lord Commandant
love not the smell of Arminian books; perchance it smacks too much of
brimstone to please him! For of late he has not troubled. But I care
not, only pray you make haste. I have marketing to do in Gorcum, and
what if all the best things are sold ere I get there, and my poor master
lying sick?"
[Illustration: "Is the chest to be examined before it goes on board?"
_Page 48._]
"Ask the will of madame," said somebody; and the messenger went and
returned, whilst Elsje stood almost sick with apprehension, though she
never ceased laughing and talking the while.
"Madame says it may pass," came the answer back, "since her lord
troubles not now, she will not delay the transit."
"Perhaps she fears lest some little Arminian imp should spring out upon
her!" quoth Elsje merrily; and away they went with their load towards
the boat.
It was indeed a rough passage that lay before them; and the girl's heart
was in her mouth many times ere she got her precious chest safe on
board, and securely lashed to keep it from slipping overboard. They
laughed at her solicitude; but she always had a ready retort; and a
young officer of the garrison, crossing at the same time, was so taken
by her rosy face and bright eyes that he sat himself down upon the chest
and drummed upon it with his feet, as he chatted with the little servant
girl.
"Why do you wave your kerchief?" he asked, as the boat began her rough
voyage across the tumbling waters.
"To tell yon children at that window that I am safe afloat. They feared
the boat might not go in such a storm. And, fair sir, be pleased to
leave kicking of that box, and come away to this better seat; for there
is some precious porcelain inside, and if it be broken, I shall get the
blame, for I packed it."
But Elsje's signal was for the straining eyes of her mistress far more
than for those of the children. All was well thus far, and the worst of
the peril was over; but--but there was still the landing on the other
side.
"Take my box first," she pleaded, as they approached the wharf.
"That lumbersome thing?--that can wait till the last," answered the
skipper, rather surlily; "'tis as heavy as if it held a man."
"I have heard tell how a criminal was once carried from prison in a
box," remarked a soldier's wife laughingly, "and, methinks, if one has
so escaped another might. Let us peep inside, maiden!"
Elsje laughed, bending to tie her shoe-string.
"What, and let the Professor's books be all scattered this way and that,
and perhaps fall into the water! He would never send my master another
chest; and, methinks, without books he would die."
"I'll get a gimlet and bore a hole in the Arminian!" laughed the
soldier, whose wife had first spoken.
"Ay do!" cried Elsje; "get a gimlet long enough to reach the top of the
castle. I will stand by and watch you as you bore!"
"Out of the way there!" cried the skipper and his son, as the boat swung
towards the wharf; and in a moment all was bustle and confusion. The
soldier helped his wife ashore, the young officer made a bow to Elsje
and sprung over the side; there was hurry and bustle, and a welcome
confusion; and the girl stood beside her precious chest, and at last, by
the promise of an exorbitant fee, got the skipper and his son to
transport the chest at once to the Daatselaers' house, on a barrow.
She walked a little ahead in her excitement; but was recalled by a surly
question from the old man.
"Do you hear that, girl--do you hear what my son says? You have got
something alive in that box!"
"Ah, to be sure, to be sure," she cried, laughing, "it is the Arminian
books; they are often like that, because they say the devil helped to
write them. Why, when I was a little girl I knew an old woman who lived
all by herself in a wood; and she had a big book, and they said the
devil had given it to her; and if she wanted a ride, she just got
astride of it and it flew with her wherever she wanted to go! That's
what my mistress says about some of these big books. There's magic in
them, and she wants to be rid of them."
The men looked awed; but superstition was rife in those days, and their
one aim now was to be rid of the uncanny load. It was wheeled, and then
lifted into the back room of the house, and Elsje paid and dismissed the
bearers with perfect calmness.
The next minute she had glided into the shop where Madame Daatselaer was
serving customers, and whispered something in her ear.
Leaving everything, but with a face as white as paper, the worthy woman
hastened after Elsje, who rapped on the lid, but got no reply; for a
moment her fortitude gave way, and she cried aloud in her anguish:
"My master!--my poor master--he is dead--stifled!"
"Ah!" cried Madame Daatselaer in bewildered dismay, "better a live
husband in a prison than a dead one at liberty; my poor friend, my poor
friend!"
But a sharp rap on the trunk from the inside reassured them.
"I am not dead," gasped Grotius, "but I was not sure of your voices.
Open and let me have some air!"
Elsje unlocked the chest, whilst her friend locked the door of the room,
and Grotius raised himself slowly as from a coffin.
"Praised be God for this deliverance!" he cried, as Elsje brought a
cloak in which to wrap him, for he was cramped and numbed by cold, and
the constraint of his posture. "God be praised for His mercy; and how
can I thank you enough, good friend, for receiving me thus into your
house!"
"If only it bring not my husband to prison in your place," cried Madame
Daatselaer, whose face was deadly pale.
"Nay, nay, sooner than that I will return to my prison in yon chest as I
came forth!" answered Grotius.
But Madame Daatselaer rallied her courage and spoke quickly.
"Nay, nay, that shall never be since thou art here. But thou art no
common person, and all the world talks of thee, and will soon be talking
of thy escape. But before that we will have you safe from pursuit. My
husband will see to that. And now I must hide you in the attics till
dark, when we can make farther plans."
Elsje's work was done. Her master took her hands in his, and kissed her
on the brow.
"Farewell, my brave maiden. May God reward you and keep you always safe
from harm. There will be many heartfelt prayers offered that no ill
shall befall you through your devotion to me and mine. And now go--tell
the story to my dear wife; and so soon as I be safe in France she and
the children shall join me, and in our home there will always be a place
for thee; if thou dost not find another and a better home for thyself."
Elsje's tears fell as she said farewell to her master; but her heart was
full of joy as she returned to the castle with the story for her
mistress. And soon they knew that Grotius had effected his escape to
France, and that all peril was at an end.
The Commandant, it is true, raged at the women when he found how his
prisoner had escaped him; but nothing was done to them, and they were
shortly released.
They joined their lord and master in his new home, and from thence one
day, not so long after, Elsje van Houwening was married to a faithful
servant of the family, who had also shared their captivity in the
fortress of Loevenstein; and had been so well taught by his master the
rudiments of law and of Latin, that he rose in time to be a thriving
advocate.
But of nothing was he ever so proud as of the bravery and address of his
wife in her girlhood, when she had been the instrument by which the
celebrated escape of Grotius had been effected from the grim fortress of
Loevenstein.
GRIZEL COCHRANE
Father and daughter stood facing each other in the gloomy prison of the
Tolbooth: the girl's face was tense with emotion, and the man's eyes
seemed to devour her with their gaze; for Sir John Cochrane believed
that he was looking his last upon his favourite child.
He was not a man of great parts, nor one who can be regarded as in any
sort a hero. He was more rash than brave, and his ill-judged support of
the claims of the luckless Duke of Monmouth had brought him to his
present doleful position--that of a prisoner in the hands of a deeply
offended and implacable monarch, expecting each day to hear that his
death-warrant had arrived from London.
Sir John had been one of the leaders of the insurrection in Scotland,
which had been even more of a fiasco than the one conducted by Lord Grey
in the West of England, where a temporary success at the outset had
cheered and encouraged the adherents of the champion of Protestantism.
King James II., savage of temper and bitterly angry with all those
concerned in this rebellion, had sent the terrible Jeffreys to the
Western Assizes, which henceforth were to be known as the Bloody
Assizes; and here, in Edinburgh, lay another illustrious victim,
awaiting the king's warrant, which would doom him to the scaffold.
Whatever might have been his faults and errors in his public life, Sir
John was a tender and loving husband and father. His wife, a delicate
invalid, shattered by grief and anxiety, was unable to leave her room;
but Grizel had come. Grizel had paid visits before this to her captive
father, and each one was more sorrowful than the last, since the end
must now be drawing very near.
"Methinks, my child," said the father hoarsely, "that this will be our
last meeting on earth. They told me to-day that the death-warrant would,
in all likelihood, be here in three days' time from this."
A quiver passed over Grizel's face; yet her voice was calm.
"Can our grandfather do nothing?" she asked.
Now Sir John's father was Lord Dundonald, a man of wealth and influence,
and the question was a natural one to put.
"He is doing his utmost," answered Sir John, "I have had tidings of
that. He has got the King's Confessor on his side, and they hope to gain
the ear of His Majesty. But I fear me it will be all too late. If the
warrant could be delayed, pardon might perchance reach in time; but as
things now stand I fear to cherish hope. Let the will of God be done, my
child. We must believe that He knows best."
A sudden light had flashed into Grizel's eyes, it illumined her whole
face.
"Thou dost speak truth, my father," she said. "God, indeed, does know
best; and let His will be done. But is it His will that one should
perish whom even an earthly sovereign has pardoned, and who has never
offended against Him?"
Sir John looked at her with a questioning gaze.
"God's ways, my daughter, are not as our ways, and His thoughts are past
finding out. Let us brace our spirits for what may lie before us, and
resign ourselves to that which He shall send. Kiss me once again, and
bid me good-bye. It will not be for ever. This life is but a span, and
we shall meet on the shores of eternity."
She flung her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
"Farewell, sweet father, farewell," she cried, with a little catch in
her voice. "Farewell, but not good-bye. Something within me tells me
that we shall meet again--in this life."
He looked into her strangely shining eyes, noted the resolute expression
of her beautiful mouth, and asked almost anxiously:
"What dost thou mean, my child? What hast thou in that busy head of
thine? Thou must run no risk for me; for thou art the stay and prop at
home. Thou must be son, daughter, and husband--all to thy poor
mother--when I am taken."
Steps were heard approaching. Grizel drew herself away, and looked once
more into her father's face:
"Son and daughter--that will I be in all sooth, dear sir; but
husband!--nay that will not be needed, methinks----"
"Grizel, what dost thou mean? What----"
The key was turning in the lock. She put her hands upon her father's
shoulders and kissed him once again.
"Fear nothing," she said, "I am a Cochrane." And with those words on her
lips she turned and left him, following her grim guide, the gaoler, till
she stood outside in the street once more.
The same expression of high courage and resolve was on her face, as she
pursued her way through the darkening streets, followed by the
man-servant who had been awaiting her. But she did not go straight home.
She turned aside up a narrow thoroughfare, and entered a house in it,
with the familiarity of one who is known there intimately; and her
servant had to wait long before his youthful mistress reappeared.
She went home, and went straight to her mother, who was weeping and
praying in her upper chamber; there, kneeling beside the bed, Grizel
told of the interview with her father, and then said in a low, earnest
tone:
"Mother mine, give me thy blessing, for I must needs start forth this
very night to save my father."
"Thou, child? What canst thou do?"
"Mother, I have a plan. I will not tell it thee, for it were better none
should know. But pray for me whilst I am gone, that God will bless and
watch over me. Methinks it was He who put the thought into my heart, and
that He will speed me on my way and give me success in the carrying out
of it."
"Thou wilt not run into danger, my child?" said the mother, who had come
to lean upon Grizel, since her husband's captivity, almost as she would
have done upon a son.
"I will not seek danger; I will avoid it where possible. But thou
would'st not have me flinch, mother, when my father's life is at stake?"
"And thou must go to-night? But not alone?"
"I will take old Donald with me! And we must have the two best horses in
the stable. But fear not, mother mine! In three or four days I will be
back; and I trow that I shall have such news to tell, as will make thy
heart sing aloud for joy."
That night, just before the gates of the city were shut, the guard saw
two men riding forth together, the elder of whom he recognised as the
old servant of the Cochranes. The younger of the pair, who looked like
a youth, had his hat drawn somewhat close over his face. Donald gave the
man a ready "Good-night," and paused a moment or two to gossip with him
over the latest news from England.
"They say the next mail-bags will bring poor Sir John's death-warrant,"
remarked the soldier; "they must be in sore grief yonder, doubtless."
"How long does a letter take passing betwixt London and Edinburgh?"
asked Donald.
"A matter of eight days each way," answered the man; and, after a few
more words, Donald rode on, and joined his companion speedily.
"Eight days?" spoke a soft voice, not much like a youth's, as Donald
told the news; "then, should anything go wrong with the warrant, it
would be full sixteen days ere another could be got from London. Sure
that would give the time--the time so sorely needed. Sixteen days!" and
the words ended in a deep-drawn breath.
The old servant looked with loving eyes at the youth--who, of course,
was none other than Grizel habited in the attire of a lad--a plain and
inconspicuous riding suit, which she had borrowed from the brother of a
dear friend, and which a little skill had altered to fit her slim figure
well. Her floating locks aroused no suspicion as to her sex, in days
when huge wigs adorned (or disfigured) the heads of men, and where
those who could not afford these costly luxuries, and yet desired to
keep in the fashion, let their own hair grow, and kept it curled and
powdered. There was nothing specially womanish in the aspect of Grizel's
abundant, curly hair flowing over her shoulders. She looked exactly like
a smooth-faced boy, and bore herself with a bold and boyish air so soon
as they were beyond the radius of the locality where her face
might be known. By the time that the pair rode into the city of
Berwick-upon-Tweed Grizel had come to feel so well at home in her part
that she feared neither to converse with those about her, nor to show
herself abroad in the unfamiliar habiliments of the other sex.
"Donald," she said, that night before they sought their beds, "we are in
time. The mail has not yet passed through. To-morrow, bide thou here,
whilst I ride to Belford, where I hear the messenger with the mails
always pauses for a few hours' sleep. If he come hither with his
mail-bags undisturbed, use thou thy wits, and seek to accomplish that in
which I shall then have failed; but if he should bring news that he has
been robbed, then set spurs to thy horse, and meet me at the house that
I did point out to you as we rode into the town; and bring without fail
the bag containing mine own attire and saddle: for then I must no longer
travel as I do now."
Donald was loth to let his young mistress ride forth unattended; but
Grizel would not have it otherwise. She believed that she would
accomplish the thing better alone; and by leaving Donald in the place
through which the messenger must pass, she felt that she gave herself
another chance, should her first scheme miscarry.
The landlady of the little wayside inn at Belford smiled upon the
bright-faced youth who reined up at her door and asked for a meal for
himself and his horse.
"Step softly, if you will, fair sir," she said, pausing as she opened
the door of the one room the inn boasted for the accommodation of
travellers, "for the bearer of His Majesty's mail-bags stops here each
time he passes, and has a spell of sleep ere he rides on to Berwick. He
is sleeping soundly now, and I would not willingly have him disturbed.
'Tis a weary ride from London."
Grizel's heart beat thick and fast as she stepped softly within the
room, golden possibilities presenting themselves to her imagination of
getting at the bags and destroying certain of its contents, whilst the
messenger slept the sleep of exhausted nature close beside her. But alas
for her hopes! when she saw the sleeper, stretched snoring upon the
alcove bed let into the wall, she noted that he had placed his bags for
his pillow, and that each bag was securely sealed. This being so, she
could neither possess herself of them without too great risk, nor undo
and purloin papers without instant detection.
Food was brought to her, and she forced herself to eat, for she knew
well that she might need all her strength and powers of endurance that
day. And whilst she dined, and the man slumbered, her quick wits were
working at full speed.
Outside, the voices of the landlady and the ostler told her that she
would not be disturbed by a visitor just now. The pistols of the
messenger lay upon the table almost within reach of her hand. With a
quick, stealthy gesture she drew them towards her, and quickly removed
the charges; putting the weapons back accurately in their place when she
had done.
Then, rising from the table, she went out, paid her reckoning, mounted
her horse, and rode leisurely away.
"Your guest sleeps sound," had been her parting remark to the woman.
"Ay, that he do, poor fellow, and I'm grateful that you've not wakened
him, sir; but I must go and do so soon, since he must be on the road
again in half an hour's time."
"Then I shall not have long to wait to know my fate," said Grizel,
between her shut teeth, as she set her horse at a gentle trot. "If he
looks to his pistols when he gets up and loads again, the chances are
that I shall have an ounce or two of cold lead in my brain ere an hour
be past. If not, well then I may have my father's death-warrant safe in
mine own hands in that time! Is that hope not enough for me gladly to
take all the chance of what may else betide!"
The light sprang into Grizel's eyes--the light of a deep devotion. She
looked round at the fair world of nature with the unconsciously wistful
gravity of one who knows he may be looking his last; of one who feels
possible death within measurable distance. Yet there was not a sign of
flinching in that fair face. The soldier spirit, and the spirit of
devoted love were burning upon the altar of her heart. There was no room
for thoughts of self there.
The beat of horse-hoofs behind her told that the moment had come. The
man with the mail-bags strapped to his saddle was advancing rapidly
towards her. Grizel reined back her horse into the shadow of the trees,
and drew out a pistol from her belt. Her heart beat fast and furiously.
Next moment the man had ridden up.
"Stand and deliver!" shouted Grizel, in the most masculine voice she was
capable of assuming; then as the man reined up and regarded the slight,
boyish-looking youth with glances of inquiry and surprise, she added in
a quieter tone: "Sir, I desire to obtain possession of certain papers in
those bags of yours; wherefore deliver them up peaceably to me, and
your life will be safe. Otherwise----" and here Grizel rode full up to
the messenger with her pistol pointed at his head.
In a moment the fellow had whipped out his own weapon; and was holding
it close against her cheek.
"Lay so much as a finger on His Majesty's mails, and I blow out your
brains," he cried; "I am not one to shed blood needlessly, and thou art
a mere boy; but not a finger shalt thou lay upon my bags."
"Nevertheless, it is those bags I mean to have," said Grizel, and put
out a hand to take them.
Click! went the trigger, there was a flash in the pan--nothing more.
Grizel's heart leapt up within her. He was at her mercy now. She would
gain her end! With an exclamation of astonished dismay the man pulled
out the second pistol. Grizel watched him with a smile. The weapon
played him the same trick. He flung it from him with an oath, and threw
himself off his horse to grapple with his slim antagonist,
notwithstanding that the lad held a pistol in his hand.
Now was quick-witted Grizel's opportunity. She seized the reins of the
horse, dashed spurs into her own, and set off at full gallop with the
mail-bags, ere the astonished man well knew what had happened. She had
travelled a quarter of a mile before she paused to look over her
shoulder, and saw the breathless messenger tearing along, panting and
blowing. Grizel calmly dismounted, and tied the horses to a tree hard
by. Then, pistol in hand, she advanced, and signalled the man to stop,
which he did.
"Good friend," she said, "I do not desire to kill thee, so come no
nigher. Nor do I want any but a few of the papers in yon bags.
Wherefore, go back, I pray you, to the inn for one brief hour; and then,
when you return, you shall find your horse and your bags all safe in
this spot; and you may take the news to Berwick as fast as you will!"
A strange bewilderment had taken possession of the man, or else there
was something very compelling in the presence and pistol of Grizel, for
he turned back slowly and walked away, whilst the girl went back to her
precious bags.
These were soon opened and the mere private letters tossed aside. Here
was a likely looking bundle of great parchments with the seals upon
them, which told that they had come from high places. With a beating
heart Grizel tore open this bundle and looked at its contents. Her head
seemed to swim and her cheek grew white as her eyes read the fatal words
that doomed her father to death. There were other parchments, too, with
lighter sentences of fine or imprisonment for others--some of them
friends--who had taken part in the recent insurrection. All these she
took with her, carefully hiding them upon her person; tied up the bags,
replaced them upon the tethered horse, and, mounting her own, set spurs
to him, and never drew rein till she was safe within the walls of
Berwick, and within the friendly shelter of a kinsman's house.
[Illustration: With a beating heart Grizel tore open this bundle and
looked at its contents.
_Page 66._]
Here, with bated breath, she told her tale, and showed the priceless
papers. Here Donald found her, bringing tidings that the whole town was
ringing with the news of how His Majesty's mails had been robbed by a
daring young highwayman. Here, by a blazing fire, Grizel destroyed, one
by one, the fatal documents that else would have desolated so many
homes; and whilst soldiers were going forth to scour the country round
for the youth who had done that daring deed, and who was regarded as a
member of some regular gang, Grizel, in her own attire, was quietly
riding away towards Edinburgh from her kinsman's house, with the old
serving-man in attendance at her side.
It was dusk one evening when Grizel found her way to her mother's room,
and, kneeling down beside the bed, broke quite unexpectedly into
convulsive weeping. Nature was taking her revenge at last; but Lady
Cochrane sat up, and, folding her arms about her daughter, cried in a
strangled voice:
"The will of God be done, my child. No one can achieve the impossible!"
Grizel could not speak; she tried many times, but always broke down,
and suddenly there were sounds in the house of confusion and excitement,
the door was burst open, and two of the younger girls broke in.
"Mother, mother, all Edinburgh is ringing with the news! A young highway
robber has stopped the messenger who was bringing our father's
death-warrant, and it has been stolen, and other expected papers too.
And there can be nothing done to him till the news has gone to London,
and the messenger has returned with a new warrant. And that will mean
time!--time!--time! And if our grandfather's letter be true: why time is
all we need!"
The mother's face had turned from red to white, and from white to red.
Grizel's was hidden in the bed-clothes. Her sisters thought her overcome
by the news they had brought.
"Ask me nothing, mother, yet," gasped Grizel, when they were alone
together, "I will tell all when my father is pardoned!"
Great was the stir and excitement that prevailed when the story of the
robbery became known. Lady Cochrane herself was so far uplifted by hope
as to be able to leave her bed, and drive to the Tolbooth to visit her
husband; and thus it came about that she had the joy of being with him
when the Earl of Dundonald, who had travelled with the greatest possible
speed from London, in terror and almost despair of being in time, was
ushered into his son's prison, and fell upon his neck crying:
"Ah, John, John, thou hast been a sad fool, my boy; but the King's
Majesty has been pleased to grant thee a pardon, thou art a free man
from this hour!"
Then husband and wife fell into each other's arms and wept aloud, whilst
the old Earl, after storming up and down, and rating his son for his
folly, broke down and wept too; and who so proud and happy as Lady
Cochrane as she led her husband home at last, and set him in his own
accustomed chair before the fireside!
That night Lord Dundonald had to tell all his tale of how the pardon had
been procured; bought practically for many thousand pounds, through the
influence of a priest. But little cared the family for aught save the
one great fact, they had their loved one home again. His life was safe.
He was theirs indeed!
But Sir John missed Grizel from the group. She had slipped away whilst
her grandfather's tale was drawing to a close. Why did she not return?
It was old Donald who entered the room after a while and said: "May it
please you, master, the young man who stopped the messenger, and robbed
the King's mails, craves leave of speech with you, if you will give him
a brief audience."
Sir John uttered an eager exclamation of astonishment and pleasure. His
wife caught her breath, and her hands began to tremble.
"Let him come in! Oh, bring him here!" was the general cry, and Lord
Dundonald added: "Doubtless he comes for his reward, and right willingly
will I give it him; for had it not been for that daring deed of his, my
labour and my gold would alike have been thrown away. I could never have
arrived in time. Thy head would have fallen, John, or ever I had reached
Edinburgh. It was with more of despair than of hope that I rode those
weary miles. Though something within me always bid me not give up."
It was a large room in which they sat, and the farther end was in deep
shadow. All turned with breathless expectancy as Donald come in,
bringing with him a slenderly made youth, who wore his hat so deeply
drawn over his face that nothing of the features could be seen. Perhaps
it was from a lack of knowledge of good manners on his part that he did
not remove it upon entering; or perhaps he was too shy to lift his eyes,
and observe the presence of ladies. Shyness does occasionally go hand in
hand with considerable personal courage.
"This is the youth who robbed the King's mails," said old Donald, in a
voice not quite his own.
"My deliverer!" exclaimed Sir John, rising, "and so young and slight,
and of such tender years too! How can I ever thank you enough! Pray
you, dear sir, come somewhat forward, and let us see the face of one to
whom we all owe this great and unspeakable happiness."
Slowly the stranger advanced, at first with drooping head; then suddenly
he flung away his downcast air, put up his hand, and snatched off his
hat!
There was a cry from all present! The mother clasped her hands together
and whispered:
"I knew it! I knew it!"
The Earl stared as though he could not believe the sight of his eyes.
The sisters shrieked and broke into incoherent questioning; but Sir John
opened his arms uttering no word, and Grizel went straight into them,
and hid her face on his breast.
EVA VON GROSS
She lay face downwards upon her pallet bed, in the dim, narrow cell that
she had been striving to regard as a home of sanctity and peace. She had
torn from her head the stiff, white covering that it had worn for hard
upon a year now, and which now seemed ready to stifle her. The long
heavy robe of the nun which she wore fell about her in a mass of gloomy
drapery. Everything was gloomy here. The narrow walls seemed to hem her
in; the loophole window to admit an insufficiency both of air and light.
It was all like the narrow, narrow, pent-up life of the cloister to
which she had been doomed, and which had by this time become as a very
dungeon to her.
"How can I bear it? How can I bear it?" she moaned; "I am so young, so
very young. I have not taken the full vows yet. Oh, why would they not
let me forth? Why may I not be free? I cannot bear the thought of the
long, long years that lie before me--fifty--sixty, perhaps; who can say?
The Reverend Mother is over seventy; and one sister lived to be nigh
upon ninety. Oh, how did she bear it? How did she bear it?"
The young head sank down upon the hard pillow; a moaning came from the
lips that should have been smiling and happy with the dawn of tender
womanhood. But on that fair young face there was a look as of fixed
despair.
Clasped in her hand was a letter, which seemed the immediate cause of
her grief, as in a sense it was; for it was the stern reply sent to her
by her parents in response to her passionate appeal to be taken away
from the convent, and permitted to live the life of happy girlhood in
her father's house, where, as she strove to point out, her place had
been set.
"It is some subtle device of the enemy that is tempting thee away from
the higher life," her father had written; "thy choice was made. It would
be sacrilege that would imperil thy soul's salvation to seek to retrace
thy steps."
"I did not choose! I did not choose!" cried Eva, as if in passionate
remonstrance with the unseen father; "I was weak from sickness; thou and
the priest did persuade me. It all sounded so peaceful, so beautiful, so
holy. But I have tried it; and it is not peace, it is not joy. The
Church is composed of all holy men and women, and we who are baptised
into it become its members, knit into its life. I ask no more. Are these
nuns better than other women? No--I say NO! I have watched. I have
listened. I have felt. It is not a holy life; it is no holier than what
we see led by the saints in the world outside cloister walls. There are
saintly nuns, I deny it not; as there are saintly wives and mothers, and
saintly maidens and virgins without the cloister wall. It is not the
dress, the vow, the life, that makes the saint. It is something far, far
higher. And the Spirit divides His gifts as He will. He is not bound by
gates and bars and high imprisoning walls!"
Again the passionate sobs broke forth; and there was a sound as of anger
and fierce resolve in that weeping, rather than of mere helpless
despair. Eva suddenly sat up, a bright light shining in her eyes, her
mouth taking an expression of almost grim determination.
"They cannot force me to ratify my vows at the close of my novitiate!
What would happen if I refused? What are the tales that are whispered
within these walls of nuns who have been found unfaithful--as they are
pleased to term it?"
The girl was silent. There was a tense look upon her face. She was
pondering deeply. In her dark eyes there showed from time to time a
gleam as of fire. It was plain that within the spirit of this novice of
the convent there dwelt a daring and a courage that is not vouchsafed to
all.
And whence had come to Eva and to some other of her sister nuns this
sudden disgust of convent life?--this sudden conviction that it was not
in accordance with the dictates of nature, nor with the scheme of
salvation as set down in Holy Writ? How came that convent-bred girl to
have glimmerings of a higher calling as a member of the Church, than as
just a so-called cloister bride, brought, as it was then believed, in
some way nearer perfection by having abandoned the place in the world in
which she had been set.
That question is easily answered. Not very long before there had broken
from the bonds of monastic life a young monk, Martin Luther by name, who
had since then been taking the world by storm, preaching and teaching
doctrines of liberty and enlightenment which had made the ears of his
listeners tingle. This bold young teacher was related to some friends of
two sisters, nuns in the Convent at Nimptsch, where Eva was undergoing
her training, and in some way or other many of his writings had been
introduced and circulated within the convent walls, with the effect that
nine of its inmates, including the young Eva, had become so keenly
dissatisfied with the life of seclusion to which they were vowed, that
they were making every effort in their power to gain permission to
rejoin their own families, and to be taken home by their parents.
But however much men's minds might be working with a sense of impending
change--a suspicion that the things in which they had hitherto put
their trust were about to fail them, and crumble into dust;--in spite of
all the upheaval that was beginning in the Church and in the world,
men's minds were not yet prepared for the revolt of nuns from their
cloistered homes. The breaking of the solemn vows they had taken still
seemed a thing impossible to condone or to permit. Not one of the
fathers appealed to had consented to the earnest petition addressed to
him. Not one had admitted the arguments by which the cloistered captives
had sought to win upon the hearts of those in authority over them. Eva's
heart had sunk within her these past days, as the stern replies came
back; but she had ever buoyed herself up with the hope that in her case
mercy would be shown. She was so young. Her full vows had not been
taken. She had pleaded so earnestly. It seemed impossible that her
father should not be moved to compassion. And yet his answer was now in
her hands, and it was a stern, uncompromising refusal to consider her
petition for a moment.
"It was just a temptation of the devil," he concluded.
A step was heard in the corridor without, and Eva quickly resumed her
discarded headgear. Order and discipline were strong elements in her
present life. What would the Reverend Mother or one of the senior
sisters think, if they found her in such dishevelment? But the door had
barely opened before she uttered a little cry of joyous relief.
"Oh, Katharine! is it indeed thou?"
It was one of the marks of those who longed to renounce the convent
rule, that they had discarded, amongst themselves, their convent names.
Katharine von Bora[A] was known as Sister Therese, as Eva was known as
Sister Angela to their sister--nuns; but with the longing after home
ties had come the longing after home titles. It gave Eva a thrill of joy
each time she heard her once familiar name pass the lips of those about
her.
[Footnote A: Afterwards the wife of Martin Luther.]
"My little one, I saw by thy face in the chapel just now, that thou art
in trouble. Is it that thou hast had thine answer too?"
Eva held out the crumpled sheet, and the elder nun's eyes quickly ran
over the written words. She sighed as she read.
"It is no more than I feared; although so much less than I hoped. The
walls and bars of the convent are strong indeed."
"Katharine--ah, sweet Katharine!--do not tell me that thou hast yielded
up hope! I would dare so much! I would do so much! If a monk has
escaped--like that brave Martin Luther--and nought is done to him, why
may not we?"
The elder woman looked searchingly into the eager, quivering face, and
caught the light of courage and purpose in the soft, dark eyes. Her own
kindled beneath the glance.
"Little one, art thou brave enough, and discreet enough to be entrusted
with a secret?" asked Katharine, "or wouldst thou rather remain in
ignorance until the final moment? There is safety sometimes in
ignorance; and thou art little more than a child."
The colour was coming and going in Eva's face; the look of purpose in
her eyes deepened each moment.
"Tell me," she whispered, her eyes beginning to shine, "is it that there
is hope for us? Can it be that help can reach us, even within these
grim, strong walls?"
Katharine glanced round her to be certain that the door of the cell was
fast shut. She even moved to it, and looked down the bare corridor, as
if to assure herself that there was no spy within hearing. Who could
tell, in such a community as that, whether it would not seem the bounden
duty of any passing nun to play the eavesdropper, should she harbour for
a moment a suspicion that all was not well with her fellow sisters? Who
could tell whether or not the Reverend Mother had got wind of the
discontent of some of her nuns? Probably she knew somewhat about it,
since the appeal of certain of their number to their friends had been
made. Might she not have set traps and devices in order to discover
whether or not the answers they had received would be sufficient to
quiet their discontent, and induce them to settle contentedly in their
cloistered home? Would she not be intensely alert to discover if any
other phase of revolt were passing in the minds of the imprisoned nuns?
"Thou art brave enough to know the truth and not to betray it?"
"I will die sooner!" cried Eva. "Ah, sweet Katharine, tell me! Is there
indeed some hope for us?"
"I trust so. I believe so. We have done what we can. We have made appeal
to Martin Luther himself!"
Eva's hands were clasped closely together. Her breath came and went in
an ecstasy of excitement and hopeful expectation. The elder woman spoke
on in a carefully lowered voice.
"It hath been done through Margaret and Katharine von Zeschau. Thou
knowest that their relatives are friends of this Luther's, and that
although their parents are still beneath the thrall of the old beliefs,
others of their house are beginning to break through the toils. They
have the letter, and will place it safely in the hands for whom it is
meant. Word came through a safe channel to-day, that we might be assured
of this; Martin Luther will never turn a deaf ear to such an appeal. He
will rest not until he has answered us, and won for us our liberty!"
A look of ecstasy transfigured Eva's face. She threw her arms about
Katharine's neck; her voice quivered as she cried:
"Oh, Katharine!--to be free--to be free! To drink in the pure air of
heaven! To see one's life opening before one amid the sweet surroundings
of home! To have brothers, sisters, a father and mother once more!
But----" and here she paused, and a look of anxiety crossed her face.
"But what if our parents refuse to receive us when we are free?"
Katharine's calm face expressed full comprehension. She drew Eva towards
her, and they sat close together on the narrow pallet bed. The elder nun
supported the quivering frame of her girl companion, as she sought to
make her understand the situation.
"There are many things to think of, little one," she said; "and thou
must not embark upon such an enterprise not knowing all its risks. First
there is the peril to ourselves should this thing get wind before we are
safe without the walls."
Eva shivered a little, and clung more closely to Katharine.
"What would they do to us?" she asked in a whisper.
"Nay, I know not. There are many frightful tales of the punishment
inflicted upon nuns who have been 'unfaithful to their vows,'" answered
Katharine steadily; "thou dost know the bricked-up niche in the crypt
beneath the chapel, where they say such an one was walled-up to perish
by hunger and thirst."
"Katharine," said Eva suddenly, "is it right to be unfaithful to our
vows? We are not doing that which is abhorrent?"
"I think not--and truly believe not," answered Katharine, her eyes
glowing and dilating; "and I have spent many a night in prayer and
fasting, asking to be led and guided. These vows were forced upon us ere
we understood their meaning. They wrapped up the real truth in such a
way that we were much deceived. There is a terrible side to convent life
which is never breathed beyond the walls. There is a wide-spreading
corruption going on that shows to me the system is not Heavenly. God
will understand that, in the spirit, our vows to be His for ever will be
kept, as far as poor frail flesh can keep them, albeit the letter be
broken. I fear not to cast myself upon His mercy in this thing. I know
that were I to remain here they could not be kept as truly as they shall
and can be without!"
Eva felt a shiver run through Katharine's frame. She only partly
understood; but she knew enough to cause her to spring to her feet and
cry, although in the instinctively hushed tones that soon become natural
to the convent-bred girl:
"Then take me, take me too! I will do anything, I will dare anything, to
escape from these terrible walls! I would even face that terrible fate;
for is it not a living death to be for ever here without the prospect of
release?"
After that the days seemed to go by strangely in the convent. It was
Lent; the celebration of the Lord's Passion was drawing very near. The
nuns were engrossed in their appointed hours and religious exercises;
they grew thin and pale from vigil and fasting; but there was another
reason why some of them looked white and careworn. The looked-for answer
to their appeal had not reached them yet. Could it be that the thing was
too hard for this bold advocate of liberty to attempt?
Good Friday had come. The long exhausting services had been gone through
with rigorous exactitude; and the Reverend Mother had now retired to her
own room, the nuns being bidden each to her cell, to spend the interval
in meditation. Eva felt a light touch upon her arm as she was leaving
the chapel. Katharine's voice in her ear spoke in the softest whisper:
"Come to my room."
A sudden hope flooded Eva's heart. She dared not lift up her eyes lest
they should betray her. She continued her soft walk with drooping head
and hushed footfall; but there was a clangour in her temples of the
young blood coursing there, and she was asking herself a thousand eager
questions as she slipped like a ghost past her own door, and to the
apartment of Katharine von Bora, where, to her amazement, there were
gathered together the whole party of those nuns who desired escape, a
look of strained expectancy upon all faces.
When Eva entered, Katharine closed and locked the door, and flung the
key through the open window into the courtyard below. There was
something in her aspect so resolute and tense, that Eva's heart leapt up
within her, and she cried:
"Katharine--tell me--ah, tell me!"
"They have promised to come for us to-night," answered the other
Katharine. "We are to wait here for the signal. When it comes we are to
drop noiselessly into the court below, and they will have means to
convey us over the wall and away! It seemed a good day; all the world
resting and exhausted after the day's exercises. Suspicion dulled, we
trust. We may hear the signal at any moment now. Pray heaven it comes
speedily!"
They were all trembling with excitement and a nervous terror that was
inevitable in their reduced condition. Katharine von Bora looked round
upon the ring of white faces, and said:
"If we have been betrayed;--if the thing is known--and who can be
certain that it is not? Spies abound within cloister walls, as women
have found to their cost ere now;--if it be known we shall be captured,
and our punishment will not be light. If any is afraid, there is yet
time to turn back. Let none who is faint-hearted seek the perils of
flight!"
Her eyes dwelt chiefly upon the tender flower-like face of Eva. Her love
for the youthful novice was deep and tender. She longed for her to
escape from the terrible bondage of the convent; but what if they should
be discovered and brought back? She could bear the thought for herself;
but for Eva----
But there was no fear in Eva's face as she read the thought in the eyes
of her friend. The pulsations of her heart seemed to become quiet and
regular; her gaze was steady and fearless. She was the youngest and
tenderest of all that band; but there was no tremor in her tones as she
said:
"Heaven will help us, I am sure of it. Have we not been asking it? But
even if not, let me go with you. Far better is death itself, than a
living death within these pitiless walls."
"The signal! the signal!" cried a strangled voice from the window; and
Magdalene von Staupitz, who had been leaning out with straining ears,
held up her hand to enforce instant silence.
They all heard it then; the rumble of wheels, and the careless whistling
by the driver of a familiar tune, agreed upon as the signal of
approaching help.
The room in which they were assembled was quite dark, save for the dying
twilight of the April evening. The bars of the casement had been
carefully filed through before, and could be removed noiselessly now
with a single wrench. The courtyard was not far below; and the sisters
helped each other to drop silently down into it, having selected this
particular window on the north side of the convent, as being most remote
from danger of observation.
Eva was the last to descend; she was so light and bird-like in her
movements, that having helped to lower the others, she found no trouble
in hanging by her hands from the sill, and dropping lightly into the
arms of her sister nuns, as she fancied. To her astonishment, and for a
moment to her terror, she found herself confronted by a goodly youth of
fine proportions, but, of course, a perfect stranger to her, who set her
gently on her feet with the reassuring words:
"Your pardon, sweet maid; but time presses, and your companions are
being hurried over the wall to the waggon. They tell me you are the
last. So let us lose not another moment."
He took her hand and led her across the courtyard, the beating of her
heart sounding in her ears like the clangour of an alarm-bell in the
tower overhead. Suppose this was a trap? Were they walking blindfold to
their destruction? For a moment her feet faltered; but a strong hand
upheld her, and a voice spoke in her ear with masculine reassurance:
"Fear not, sweet lady. Having so far succeeded, we will not give you up
without such a struggle as shall set all Germany in a blaze!" He looked
at the fair face beneath the nun's coif, and added with sudden fire and
chivalry: "I would lay down my life to save you from all hurt!"
Eva felt herself quivering and tingling all over. The blood was racing
through her veins as it never seemed to do within those stagnating
cells. The next instant she found herself being helped up a ladder to
the top of the wall, and immediately a pair of strong arms lifted her,
and she was placed beneath the friendly covering of a waggon, where she
felt, rather than saw, that her friends were all packed together.
"Ladies," spoke the voice of the elder man, "we must ask you, for awhile
at least, to consent to somewhat cramped quarters. There are a dozen big
barrels in the waggon. Each is roomy enough to hold a human being. The
only safe way in which we can convey you through the country we have to
traverse is by concealing you in these barrels. I trust you will not
find the captivity a very oppressive one."
Instantly there was willing bustle and confusion, as the nuns joyfully
concealed themselves within the great casks, which were sufficiently
roomy to permit of their squatting down upon the thick layer of straw
considerately provided, whilst the air-holes previously bored gave them
ample breathing space when the tops were fastened down.
Eva was helped into her cask by the youth who had caught her on her
descent from the window, and whom she heard the elder man address
sometimes as "Leonard." He picked up a rug from his own seat upon the
box, and tucked it about her to make her nest softer; and when she
looked up with a grateful smile, and asked:
"Whither are we going, fair sir?" he answered eagerly:
"We take you first to Dr. Martin Luther, who has arranged all this. But
afterwards you will be housed and sheltered by some of the good citizens
of Wittemberg, till it be seen whether or not your parents will receive
you back. But even if not, methinks there will be other happy homes
speedily open to you. My mother is even now hoping to house and shelter
some of you. Wilt thou be willing to trust thyself to my mother's gentle
care?" And as he spoke young Leonard leaned a little nearer, and just
touched Eva's hand with his.
She felt a strange thrill run through her frame. She was half-terrified,
half-delighted. It was like a strange dream, this tent-like waggon, with
its heavy cover, and the gleam of the lantern that lighted up the rows
of casks with their living occupants, and shone upon the flushed and
eager face of the handsome youth, and the grave bearded countenance of
his father. It recalled to her a thousand blissful dreams of childhood,
when she had revelled in the romances and stories of knights errant and
bold heroes. As the light was shut out from her eyes, and she felt the
heavy waggon begin to move on, she realised that the first and worst of
the peril was past. They had escaped! They were outside the convent
walls! They had broken the chain which bound them!
Peril might still menace them for awhile; but at least they had achieved
something. Eva had a feeling, which she was almost afraid to analyse too
closely, that "Leonard" would fight a very grim and determined battle
before he would let her be carried back to the gates of the cloister.
Many were the halts and interruptions of the journey; and many times did
Eva's heart seem almost to stop beating, as a voice would ask close in
their ears, as it seemed:
"What have you here in this waggon?"
"Barrels of herrings," was the reply, made in a grumbling tone from the
driver; "barrels of herrings, and a very slack market for them since
Easter is so nigh. I should have had them before; but there was delay,
and now nobody wants our wares."
Eva had fallen asleep, and her sleep was so sound that she was startled
at last on waking suddenly, to find the sunlight illuminating the bright
world. The head had been taken from her cask, and the tall, handsome
youth was looking eagerly down upon her, saying with a smile and a
blush:
"Mistress Eva, you are safe now. Dr. Martin Luther wishes to welcome you
with the rest. And when you have refreshed yourself, and changed your
attire, my father and I are to have the honour of welcoming you and
Mistress Katharine von Bora under our humble roof, there to await the
result of such representations as will be made by you to your parents."
Eva never forgot that memorable breakfast taken in presence of the great
man, whose name was becoming a household word throughout the length and
breadth of the land.
She remembered less clearly the drive to Torgau with Councillor Koppe
and his son Leonard. It was like a dream to sit in a coach, attired in
the ordinary garb of a citizen maiden, and to be in conversation with a
handsome youth like Leonard, whose devotion never allowed her a moment's
anxiety or a single ungratified wish.
But the motherly kindness of Frau Koppe was worth all the rest to Eva,
when that worthy matron opened her arms and folded her in a loving
embrace. And when it came out at last that her offended parents
declined to receive her home, Eva could meet the disappointment bravely;
for had she not found a second home and second mother in Torgau; and
what was to hinder her speedy marriage with Leonard, when both knew
their own hearts so well?
EMMA FITZ-OSBORN
"The King forbids the marriage!"
Raoul de Gael sprang from his seat beside his betrothed, and stared with
incredulous astonishment into the face of the bearer of this piece of
strange tidings.
The beautiful Emma lifted her head and gazed wonderingly into the dark,
stern face of her brother.
"The King forbids the marriage!" repeated Roger Fitz-Osborn, a dark
flush gathering upon his cheek, as his anger slowly kindled and rose;
"he has sent a special courier across the sea with his Royal mandate,
but no word of reason to explain his tyranny. Are we to be the slaves
and chattels of the man we have made?"
"The King forbids the marriage?" repeated Emma, in her clear, ringing
tones; "and by what right does the King forbid it? Does he not owe to
our father the crown that he wears so proudly upon his head? And are we
to become the slaves of the man in whose cause our father
spent his blood and money, and at last his life itself? Oh,
shame!--shame!--shame!"
A thunder-cloud rested on the brow of the bridegroom-elect; that swarthy
Breton face was capable of expressing the extreme of haughty passion and
resentment. He paced the long apartment to and fro like a wild beast in
its cage. Then he went up to Emma and took her hand in his.
"Dost thou fear the anger of this King, who, but a few short years ago,
was but the Duke of Normandy? whose title to the broad realm of England
would never have been won but for the aid of thy noble father, and of
men like ourselves, who have fought and conquered by his side? Dost thou
fear his Royal displeasure?"
Emma threw back her head, and looked into her lover's eyes. The blood of
a soldier race ran in her veins.
"I fear nothing," she answered, with simple sincerity.
"Spoken like a Fitz-Osborn!" cried her brother, whose pride and
self-esteem had been stung to the quick by the haughty mandate from the
Conqueror, and who had himself favoured the marriage of his beautiful
sister to his brother-in-arms and chiefest friend, and had completed
every arrangement for the ceremony, which was to take place almost
immediately.
Roger Fitz-Osborn was Earl of Hereford by right of sword, as Raoul de
Gael was Earl of Norfolk. Both had distinguished themselves by their
bravery in the war which had made William of Normandy King of England,
and had received these earldoms in recognition of their services.
William the Conqueror was at this time in his own native land, having
left the Primate Lanfranc in temporary charge of England. During this
breathing space the warriors had had time to think of other matters than
the excitement of arms. Raoul had paid a visit to Roger in his new and
stately castle, and the beauty and grace of Emma had so completely won
his heart that they had become affianced in a few weeks' time, and he
was already urging on an immediate marriage.
Such a marriage was entirely to the mind of the brother, and as for
Emma, her heart had been won by the attractions and manly beauty of
Raoul, whose fierce temperament seemed to find its complement in her
lofty courage.
Such a thing as any opposition upon the King's part never once entered
the minds of any of the parties concerned. Nor has it ever been made
clear why the Conqueror raised this objection, and by his haughty
mandate alienated the allegiance of some of his most faithful followers.
Had there been time for the journey to and fro, perhaps the brother
might have crossed the sea and returned with the Royal assent, and the
subsequent tragedy might have been averted; as it was, the mandate only
reached them a few days before the wedding was to be celebrated. They
were already assembled at Norwich Castle, where (in spite of its being
the bridegroom's home) the ceremony was to take place, guests were even
now flocking in to witness the marriage and attend the subsequent feast.
To be forced to give out that the bridal could not take place owing to
the prohibition of the King was a thing abhorrent to the proud spirits
of Roger and Raoul, whilst the equally high spirit and courage of Emma
revolted against the imperious intermeddling of the King, who but a
short while since had been nothing but a noble himself, and whose recent
sudden rise in power was greatly owing to the support of the very
families whose happiness he now sought to mar.
It wanted but a little to arouse in many hearts a sense of revolt and
anger against the absent William. No man can rise so suddenly to such
power without raising up a host of enemies amongst those who begin to
feel the iron hand of monarchy, where once was only the clasp of a
friend. The genius of the Conqueror had won him a kingdom, supported by
the loyal assistance of the Norman and Breton nobles; but he had not
always been careful to conciliate his friends, even though he had not
been backward in bestowing upon them broad lands and new titles.
Sometimes the very wealth and power thus placed within their reach
became, in some sort, a snare to them. Dreams of ambition are ever quick
to rise when angry men get together, and are heated with wine; and
during the days which intervened between the arrival of the King's
message and that fixed for the marriage ceremony, there were fierce and
eager discussions between hot-headed nobles, young and old; and a wave
of rebellious hatred seemed to be sweeping them along as they discussed
the tyranny of the newly made monarch, and spoke together in angry,
threatening tones, or in still more dangerous whispers of the
possibility of bringing about a better state of affairs in the country,
and one more distinctly advantageous to themselves. If William had so
easily conquered the kingdom and established his own power, perchance
that power might again be easily displaced.
The spirit of anger and discontent is easily aroused, and Raoul and
Roger resolved to defy the King; yet, half afraid of the consequences of
their defiance, knowing well the implacable nature of the man with whom
they had to deal, they were eager to win to their way of thinking all
those nobles who were assembling to do honour to bride and bridegroom;
and certainly it seemed as though the spirit of disaffection were not
hard to wake.
"If Waltheof would but join us we might rouse all England against the
Conqueror!" whispered Raoul into the ear of his betrothed upon the
night before their nuptials, as he spoke his fond farewell; and Emma's
eyes glowed, for she knew Earl Waltheof well as a great and warlike man,
whose popularity with his own countrymen would render him an invaluable
ally, supposing that this sudden wave of rebellious impulse were to
break forth into actual insurrection. Girl though she was, she had lived
in an atmosphere of strife, and the sound of battle or the clash of arms
had no terrors for her. Anger was in her heart against the King, and she
cared little if her brother and her future lord chose to take up arms
against him. Sooner than submit to his tyrannous decree, she would fight
with her own hands, and shed the last drop of her blood. For what was
life without Raoul?
Very lovely was the face of the young bride beneath its drooping veil,
as, in the midst of a stately gathering, she plighted her troth to the
man of her choice.
The deed was done. The King's mandate had been defied. A subject was in
open revolt. The realisation of this came home to all those present as
the fatal words were spoken. William was not a man either to forget or
to forgive. The gauntlet had been thrown down--what next?
The wedding guests sat at the long tables in the great banqueting hall.
Bride and bridegroom, together with all the nobles and men of high
degree, sat at the table on the raised daïs, the others of lesser
degree at the tables in the body of the hall. Normans and Bretons were
there, together with a sprinkling of English, Earl Waltheof, who had
married the Conqueror's niece, the afterwards infamous Judith, being one
of them. But his wife was not with him, else perchance even the boldest
had not dared to speak so openly.
It was as if (after the wine cups had gone round many times, and men's
hearts were inflamed by good cheer and by the whispers that had been
circulating with the cups) some sudden impulse came upon them, for a
murmur arose, and the murmur waxed louder and more fierce, and suddenly
a cry seemed to shake the rafters of the hall:
"Down with the Usurper! Who is he that he should reign over us? What is
he better than others? Down with him! Let us divide the realm, and
choose Kings of our own!"
Then came isolated voices crying fierce questions:
"Did he not poison Conon, our brave Count of Brittany?"
"What has he done for us, who shed our blood for him?"
"Has he fulfilled the promise he made?"
"He gave us barren lands for our wounds, and what does he do when we
have made them of some value? Does he not take them from us by force,
to give them to some new favourite?"
"Down with him!--Down with him!--Shall we call such a man our King?"
The deed was done! The die was cast. The banner of revolt was raised.
The assembled company knew that already they had gone too far to draw
back. The King would hear of this thing, and would never forgive. Action
must now follow hard upon words. The Conqueror was absent; much might be
done ere the news of insurrection reached him. Not one of those precious
days must be lost.
With the first light of the new day the bride stood watching the
departure of her brother and her lord. Roger was to travel night and day
with all speed to Hereford and beat up his followers and the hardy Welsh
on his borders, with whom he had maintained friendly relations. Raoul
was to collect forces nearer at hand in his own earldom; but he must
needs go in person, and to his girl-wife he left the care of the grim
castle which had been the scene of yesterday's wedding and feast, and
which was garrisoned with black-browed Bretons, devoted to the service
of their master, and ready to lay down their lives for his beautiful
bride.
Did her heart fail her as she saw the departure of her husband, her
brother, and their noble guests, together with the armed followers which
they had brought? Did she feel fear in the knowledge that she and they
were now accounted rebels, and that any day might bring an armed force
before the walls of Norwich?
No; there was no spark of fear in her heart, though there was for one
moment a glint of tears upon her long lashes as she saw her lord and
master ride away, and knew that peril threatened him and his comrades in
arms, so soon as it should become known that they were in revolt.
She set herself, as a true soldier's daughter and bride, to see to the
defences of the castle. The Breton garrison were true as steel. They had
no love for Norman or English; but they loved their lord, and for his
sake, as well as her own, they loved his sweet young bride; the sight of
her courage and devotion kindled new ardour in their breasts day by day,
and they toiled with all the energy in their power to strengthen the
stone walls, to obtain supplies of food and such munitions of war as
were needed in those days, and to prepare themselves for whatever might
betide.
Rumours were flying hither and thither, rumours of strife and of
disaster. It was said that Roger of Hereford was cut off from returning,
and was penned in behind the broad waters of the Severn; and again there
was a whisper nearer at home that Odo, the warlike Bishop of Bayeux, was
in the vicinity with a force of finely equipped men. On hearing this
Emma's cheek grew pale; not with fear for herself, but lest some hurt
should befall her lord, whom she had as yet scarcely learned to speak of
as "husband."
The watchman upon the tower had blown a warning blast. Something was in
sight; the horn sounded forth again and yet again.
There was hurrying within the walls of the castle, archers hastening to
their loopholes, and men at arms buckling on their helmets and
breastplates, and seizing their good broad-swords in readiness for the
word of command.
Emma, breathless and dishevelled, raced to the tower herself, and, as
she looked, she beheld a scattered band of fugitives, flying, as it
were, towards the castle; and so forlorn and woe-begone was the aspect
they bore that her heart seemed to die within her.
"Bretons, to the rescue of your brethren!" she suddenly cried aloud, and
the cry was taken up and passed from mouth to mouth. Wide swung the
great gates, down sank the drawbridge; the soldiers streamed forth to
meet the flying Bretons and Saxons, who came in crowds for the
protection of those strong walls, bringing with them the gloomy tale of
death and disaster.
Late in the day, conducting a ghastly company of maimed and mutilated
men, who had been bold stalwart soldiers a few days before, rode Raoul
into the courtyard, the blackness of night upon his brow; and Emma
rushed forth to clasp her husband to her heart, scarce knowing yet what
was the meaning of the things she saw and heard.
"It means ruin to our hopes of life and liberty, if we cannot yet change
defeat into victory," said the young Earl, as he let his bride divest
him of his heavy armour, whilst he told the tale of his overthrow at the
hands of Bishop Odo.
"Many died of their wounds; but some few I rescued, and have brought
them hither to thee, my sweet bride. But for myself I may not linger.
Our only hope now lies in getting help from beyond the sea. I must take
ship with all speed to mine own domains in Brittany, and there, when
this tale is told, methinks they will rise to a man in the defence of
their brethren, in answer to my call, in the hope of vengeance and
plunder! I will return with an army at my back, and William, the
so-called Conqueror, shall yet learn to quake at the names of Raoul de
Gael and Roger Fitz-Osborn!"
"And my brother?--what of him?" asked Emma, "will he go with thee? And
wilt thou take me too?"
"Nay, my life, I must leave thee here to hold this fortress for me.
Roger is penned in the west; albeit he will break loose I doubt not ere
long, and march day and night to thine assistance. But our Breton
garrison must needs serve under one they can trust and love. Sweet, my
bride, hast thou the courage for the task? Though thou art so young in
years, thou hast the heart of a soldier. Wilt thou hold the castle here
against proud William's forces, till I or Roger come to thine aid?"
She looked him full in the face.
"Thou dost think that they will follow and lay siege?"
"They are so close behind me, that with the first dawn of the morning I
must be gone, else I shall be too late to escape them!" answered Raoul;
and his eyes rested with anxious questioning upon Emma's face. "Our poor
Bretons are treated with savage ferocity by the English," he added. "If
I lead them forth hence, and they fall into the Bishop's hands--well,
thou hast seen with thine own eyes how their brethren have fared."
The fire flamed in Emma's eyes; she threw back her head with her own
queenly gesture.
"Go, then, my husband, and I will guard thy castle for thee. I will keep
safe those thou dost leave with me. Go! fly over the water, and return
with the friends of the cause. Thou shalt find thy castle here,
safeguarded as though thou thyself wert at the head of thy soldiers. The
pitiless Bishop shall not lay hands on one of our Breton boys!"
So the brave young bride was left for the second time alone in the grim
castle, to hold it for her lord till he should arrive with succour. But
this time she was quickly ringed round with foemen, who, in the King's
name, bade her surrender; and when she fearlessly refused, they laid
close siege to the castle, vowing to serve every Breton they should
henceforward take as those hapless creatures had been served, some of
whom she was tending now with her own hands within the walls of the grim
old keep.
Emma had grown up inured to perils, to hardships, to the sights and
sounds of warfare, and warfare is always cruel. But her soul revolted
against needless cruelties; and the sufferings of the poor maimed
followers of her husband, who had been rescued and brought back by him,
nerved her to every effort to keep from a like fate those who served her
faithfully here, and looked to her to save them from it.
Parted from her husband upon their very wedding day, wife only in name
as yet, the brave daughter of William Fitz-Osborn played the hero's part
during those three long months of siege. Every day she made the circuit
of the fortifications, careless of the flights of arrows that often made
such exposure of her person a perilous matter; she spoke words of
encouragement to the archers and watchmen; she devised ingenious methods
of frustrating the various attempts made by the wily and determined foe
for cutting off supplies, and for forcing an entrance into the castle.
When it was known that a woman was in command, many devices were
practised for intimidating her and her soldiers; but all in vain; and
free promises of pardon for herself if she would but betray her trust
were answered with indignation and scorn.
The hard part of it to the brave young chatelaine was the uncertainty of
what was passing elsewhere. Penned within the four walls of her eastern
fortress, she knew nothing as to the fate of her brother in the west,
nor how the rebellion against the Conqueror was spreading in the ranks
of the disaffected Norman barons and the dispossessed Saxons. It had
seemed to her, upon their wedding feast, as though all the realm was
weary of the rule of "the Norman." Yet if that were so, if the revolt
were ready to break forth all over the kingdom, why did none come to her
aid? Surely her brother and others must know of the peril in which she
stood. Why did not some of them seek to raise the siege? Why did not
Raoul himself return with his Breton reinforcements?
As the long summer days went by, one after another, and weeks dragged on
to months, brave Emma's cheek grew pale, and her eyes took a wistful
yearning gaze, as of one whose heart is sick with hope deferred. But her
vigilance was never for a moment relaxed. Her courage never faltered.
Day by day she was to be seen upon the ramparts, speaking brave words to
the weary soldiers, hurling lightning glances of defiance at the lines
of the besiegers, and gazing with eager, expectant eyes in the direction
of the sea, asking of the birds of the air whether they had seen the
white sails of the coming vessels that should bring relief to her.
At last the voice of rumour reached even this beleaguered castle. First
it was an isolated whisper, then other whispers followed. Bit by bit the
story of woe was pieced together, and a fugitive from the west, who had
been sent with dispatches for the Lady Emma, contrived to gain entrance,
and to tell all the tale.
It was said that the treacherous Judith, wife of Earl Waltheof, had
learned the secret from her husband and had instantly betrayed it. The
rebellion had been quelled almost ere it broke out. In the west the son
of Fitz-Osborn had been taken captive, and was awaiting his doom on the
return of the King. Others had been taken or slain; Norwich alone was
holding out. Raoul had sent word that to return from Brittany was now
impossible. It would be but to fall into the hands of an implacable foe.
His word to his bride was to secure such terms as she could for herself
and her garrison, and to make her way across the sea with all speed to
join her husband there.
With whitening cheek and sinking heart Emma heard and read all this evil
news. Her brother a captive, her husband an exile, their friends
scattered and dispersed. Surrender inevitable! But what was she to
surrender? This very messenger brought horrid tales of mutilation and
cruelties of all sorts inflicted on hapless prisoners by their
bloodthirsty conquerors. Was she to give up to such a fate the brave men
who had learned to look to her and trust in her? For the castle she
cared little. Where her husband was, there was her home. But her
soldiers and servants, were they to be given up? Never! Never! Never!
"I will go forth and die at their head, fighting to the last, sooner
than that!" she cried.
The Bishop had many times sought to open negotiations with the brave
Emma, but hitherto fruitlessly. Now, with her own hand, she penned him a
missive, offering to surrender to him the castle and its munitions of
war, but only on the condition that every living creature within its
walls went forth unharmed, and that they should be permitted to take
ship unmolested for the shores of Brittany.
"Else will I never give up whilst one stone remains upon another. You
shall see how long the daughter of William Fitz-Osborn can bid defiance
to the man whom her father made England's King."
Was it chivalry, was it admiration for the spirit of the brave woman,
or was it the policy of a soldier wearied by a long three months' siege
of a fortress that seemed no nearer falling now than it had done upon
the first day?
Whatever was the motive for the concession, the answer that came back
was courteously, even generously worded. The brave young wife rode forth
at the head of her whole garrison, and the Norman soldiers who had
fought against the rebels in other places raised a shout of admiration
as she appeared. She sat her horse like an Amazon, and returned the
salutation with a dignity worthy of her name and race.
Saluting and being saluted by the Bishop, and lustily cheered by the
soldiers, she passed through the town on her way to the coast, where
vessels were awaiting her, while her men marched boldly behind her,
singing the songs of their native land to which they were about to
return, and chanting aloud the praise of the beautiful Emma to whose
courage and resolution they owed their lives.
She and her band of devoted Bretons were thus permitted to march to the
coast with all the honours of war, and to take ship for her husband's
domains in Brittany without receiving insult or violence of any kind.
How high her heart was beating as she sighted the shore, and knew that
her lord was awaiting her there, in that home which she had never yet
seen! True, she was sad for her brother, and for the cause which had
been lost in England; but after all, was not her husband safe, and
waiting for her to rejoin him? and might not the tide turn some day, and
they return to England in triumph, to help to overthrow the rule of
Norman William, against whom they had sought to incite this rebellion?
These were fond hopes not destined to be realised. The courage and
state-craft of William the Conqueror carried him safely through all the
plots which assailed him during his stormy reign. Raoul de Gael knew
where he was safe, and abandoned his claims upon English soil.
"I did well indeed to entrust my castle to the keeping of my bride!"
cried the proud husband, when he held her in his arms once more; and the
answer that went up from a thousand throats was a shout of admiration
and praise in honour of their lord's fair young wife, the brave Emma
Fitz-Osborn.
ELIZABETH STUART
A princess, yet a captive in the hands of her father's foes; those foes
who were already whispering their fell intention of putting him to
death!
This was the situation of the youthful Elizabeth, the second daughter of
the ill-fated monarch, Charles I. Her mother and her eldest brother were
beyond the seas, having made good their escape from Cromwell and his
Roundheads; but she, with her two brothers, James, Duke of York, and
Henry, Duke of Gloucester, were captives in the power of the Parliament,
and though treated with courtesy and a certain kindliness, they were
permitted no liberty to come and go, or even to write to their friends.
Every action was carefully observed, and their persons were so closely
guarded that there was little hope of evading the many watchful eyes
that were ever bent upon them.
"If I could but reach my brother and our mother!" was the exclamation
ever on the lips of James, when he and his sister were alone together.
It seemed to the high-spirited boy that once free from these encircling
walls and the vigilance of his warders, once across the sea to join the
others of his name and race, he must surely achieve some great thing for
the deliverance of his father; his restless mind was ever pondering this
theme. The thought of making good his escape was never absent from his
mind night nor day.
Perhaps he plotted almost too much for his own success; for a day came
when he was summoned to an interview with certain of the Parliamentary
authorities, and he returned to his sister's apartments with flushed
face and flashing eyes. Elizabeth saw that he had been deeply angered by
what had passed, and she quickly got rid of her attendant, that she and
her brother might speak in peace together. This liberty was the only one
accorded to the Royal captives. Their rooms were guarded; they never
went abroad unwatched and unattended; but within the precincts of the
palace they had some privacy permitted to them, and they could speak
together without being overheard, though never without a fear of
possible eavesdroppers.
"Sister, I have been grossly insulted!" cried James, with flashing eyes;
"they have intercepted my letter to our sister of Orange; they said they
had discovered treasonable matter in it."
"Treasonable matter!" echoed Elizabeth, her breath coming and going.
"They dare to talk of treason!--They!"
"Ay; that was the very word--treasonable matter! They saw, or thought
they saw it, in my desire to quit the country--to escape to Holland----"
"But the letter was in cypher," interrupted Elizabeth. "How could they
read it when they had it?"
A dark frown clouded the brow of James.
"That I did not condescend to inquire; but I heard some talk between
those knaves themselves. I gathered that they had got the letter, and
had then sent for the Earl of Northumberland, and had shown him how we
had evaded his vigilance; had warned him, that if he could not find the
key of the cypher in which it had been written, he should be committed
to the Tower. Did I not tell you the other day that I was certain my
effects had been ransacked? I did not miss the cypher key. I know it so
well that I scarce ever have to look at it now. Doubtless they found and
took it away; but I did not observe it."
"And they were angry with you, James?"
"Angry? Ay, that they were. They dared to threaten me with the Tower,
too, if they found me plotting escape again!"
Elizabeth clasped her hands closely together, her face worked with the
emotion she strove to master. She came and stood beside James, and laid
her soft cheek against his.
"Jamie, Jamie," she cried piteously, "if they were to take you from me,
I think that I should die!"
He put his arm about her, and they stood together, looking out of the
window, thinking and pondering deeply.
"But, sister, you would have to learn to live without me if I were to
escape this thraldom, and win my liberty. Could you bear to let me go
for that?"
A little tremor ran through the girl's slight frame. She was very frail
and delicate, this gentle, young Elizabeth; little fit to bear the
buffets of outrageous fortune, to stand alone in her strange captivity;
cut off from father, mother, friends, and kindred, and beset with so
many cruel anxieties and fears on behalf of those she loved best. Her
greatest solace in these sorrowful days was the companionship of her
brother James, who, being a year or more her senior, and endowed with
robust health, seemed like a tower of strength to the frail girl, hardly
more than a child in years, though misfortune had given a strange
maturity to her mind and disposition. It could not but be a dismal
thought to lose the constant companionship of this brother, to send him
forth into the perils of the great world without, where so many foes
awaited him. She might well have sought to keep him beside her, fearing
the perils of any project of escape; but despite her natural fears and
shrinkings, and the delicacy of her frame, the spirit of kings and
warriors was within her, and that spirit rose to meet the sacrifice
which might be required of her.
"I would bear to let you go for that, Jamie," she answered. "But it
would break my heart were you taken from me to be immured within the
walls of the Tower."
"It may come to that one of these days," said James, "if I be not able
to effect my escape. I cannot show the patience that you are able to
command; and I am not a child like Harry, there, of whose words and acts
no special note is taken. And did not our father bid me use every effort
to regain my liberty, and reach the side of our mother and brother? It
may be that already they are planning how to invade these shores, summon
all loyal hearts to join them, and set my father on the throne once
more! Oh! if such a thing were to happen, I must be there to help."
His eyes kindled, his frame seemed to expand and grow tense; and an
answering thrill ran through that of the young Princess.
"Ah, Jamie, Jamie, if only it might be!" she cried.
"And why not, sister, why not? Other captives have escaped from far
stricter bondage than any we suffer from. What one has done another may
do. Why not?"
"But they were men, and we are so young. We are scarce more than
children, albeit often I feel so old--so old!"
"You are old enough to have the ready wit of a woman!" cried James; yet
even in his stress of feeling and excitement he kept his voice pitched
in a low key. "I have thought and thought and planned, but everything
falls to the ground; or we are betrayed into the hands of our enemies,
and threatened with stricter captivity than this. Elizabeth, put your
wits to work! Can you think of nothing? In bygone days it has been the
women sometimes who have done the thinking, whilst the men have done the
acting. Why should it not be so now?"
The boy's dark, strenuous face looked earnestly into the fair spiritual
one of his sister, and into the cheeks of the young Elizabeth a faint
colour stole.
"Oh, Jamie, I will try: I will try!" she answered. "But even could I
think of some stratagem or plan by which you could gain the freedom of
the world without, who is there outside that would dare to help you away
across the sea, whom we could dare to trust with such a secret?"
"There is Colonel Bamfield," answered James promptly. "He is the man
whom I would trust for that."
"Colonel Bamfield?" echoed Elizabeth doubtfully. "He who turned traitor
to our father's cause when all was lost? Would you trust such an one as
he?"
"He is not a traitor at heart," whispered James eagerly. "He is the
staunchest friend we have. He has but feigned adherence to the
Parliamentary cause that he may the better serve us. I have had speech
with him, sometimes, for a few minutes. I trow he is to be trusted. And
as our enemies know that none is so bitter as a renegade, they think he
is our deadly foe. They do not suspect him as they would suspect others.
He plays his part right cunningly. He rails upon the King and his brood
most lustily; but all the while he is on the watch to serve us. I know,
could I once escape from these walls, that he would make all the rest
easy."
There were footsteps without, and brother and sister started apart, as
the attendants entered the room on some pretext. They were well used to
this sort of thing. They were seldom left long alone together. The
little Duke of Gloucester, who had been playing quietly in a corner
whilst his brother and sister were talking, now came running up, and
begged for a game of hide and seek.
This was one of the favourite sports of the Royal children; but to-night
Elizabeth excused herself on the plea of fatigue, and the two young
Dukes played alone, running hither and thither, and forgetting their
troubles for awhile, in the interest of the game.
Elizabeth sat alone with her face hidden in her hands, thinking,
thinking, thinking, till it seemed as though her brain would scarcely
stand the strain of the mental conflict going on within her. She was
roused from her reverie at last by little Henry, who came and pulled
impatiently at her dress.
"Come and help me to find Jamie," he begged. "He has hidden so well we
can none of us find him. You come and try!"
Elizabeth rose quickly to her feet; she suddenly felt as though some
inspiration had darted into her heart. At the moment she did not pause
to examine it. She felt that when night came, and she was alone in the
darkness, she must take out this thing that had forced itself with
lightning rapidity into her being, and examine it at leisure. Might it
be that already the clue was in her hands?
The Royal children were, at this time, under the care of Algernon Percy,
the Earl of Northumberland, and his Countess, and it was the desire of
both to make the captivity of the Princess and her brothers as little
irksome and trying as possible. At the same time, since they were held
responsible for their safe-keeping by the Parliament, they dared not but
use every precaution; and it was no easy matter for any of the children
to escape the vigilance of their guardians.
A short time before this they had been at Sion House, and when there had
paid several visits to Hampton Court, to see their father who was in
confinement there. Once, not long since, they had spent two nights with
him in that Palace, to their great and mutual happiness.
Now they had been removed to the Palace of St. James's, then on the
outskirts rather than actually in London itself, and surrounded by
pleasant gardens, in which the Royal children took exercise in fine
weather. They were very kindly treated by the Earl and Countess, and all
the servants of the household were instructed to show due and befitting
respect to the children of the King. So, in one sense of the word, their
life was not an unhappy one; but the shadow lying over their father's
fate, and the knowledge of their own inability to go to him or to go
anywhere, save at the will of their captors, made life somewhat bitter
to all, and roused a fierce sense of revolt in the heart of young James.
It was during the children's sports that they were permitted most
liberty; and certainly James had found a clever place of concealment
this evening, for neither brother nor sister nor attendants could find
him; and it was only when Elizabeth called his name aloud from the
different corridors, and the great bell for supper clanged, that the boy
made his appearance, dusty and half covered with cobwebs, and laughingly
told Harry that he had found a fine hiding-place up near the roof, and
would show it him another day.
The spring days were beginning to lengthen out now. A little while ago
it had been dark when they rose from supper, now it was growing lighter
every day. There was that promise of spring in the air that makes glad
the hearts of all young things. But it is hard to be a captive, penned
within walls and gates, when nature itself seems calling aloud upon men
to rejoice and to come forth into the gay free world without.
"If it goes on much longer, Elizabeth, methinks I shall go mad!" spoke
James one day, when he and she were alone together.
Then it was that, with bated breath and beating heart, Elizabeth
whispered into her brother's ear the thoughts and plans which had given
her so many sleepless nights of anxiety.
"Jamie, have you ever noticed when we have passed Benyion's cottage, the
great key that hangs beside the door? That is the key of the outer
garden leading down to the river. I have seen him use it many times as
we have walked in the gardens."
"Yes, I have seen him unlock that gate too. What of it?"
"Jamie, if you had that key some evening at dusk, and if we had hidden
out yonder in our hollow tree some of my clothes, made to fit you, so
that none could suspect you were a boy, could you so arrange that
Colonel Bamfield should be awaiting you at the river side with a wherry
to take you to some vessel bound for Holland? I have still left a little
of the gold that our father entrusted to me. And I am told that
seafaring folk will brave much for gold. Colonel Bamfield could arrange
all that."
"But how, how could I gain that key and use it at such an hour?"
questioned James, in an eager whisper. "How could such a thing be? Are
we not followed and watched everywhere?"
"Yet have you not eluded all watchful eyes times without number in your
games with Harry? Have we not often searched the house for an hour, and
then have had to call you to come to us? If you can elude watchful eyes
in play, why not in earnest some day, whilst they think the play is
going on, and will make no marvel of missing you for an hour or more?
The days are getting long. Let us have our game after supper instead of
before. Let us so play night by night for a week or more, that they will
not dream we have any motive in the change. Let our friend the Colonel,
if he is to be trusted, make his plans. Then, upon a certain night, when
all is in readiness, and the boat is lying waiting for you, we will play
our hide-and-seek with a difference, and whilst brother and servants are
seeking for James within the house, and even the gardens--he will be far
down the river, making for the vessel that is to carry him hence."
"But the key, Elizabeth, the key!" cried James, in great excitement;
"how can I gain possession of that?"
"Listen, Jamie," answered Elizabeth, "I have thought of that. You must
begin to pretend to have exhausted the hiding-places of our portion of
the house, and you must ask to-day that the house steward will let you
conceal yourself in his pantry. Then the next day get leave of the cook
to hide somewhere in the kitchen. Another day be bolder still, and get
into the hay-loft, where the coachman will be proud and merry to hide
you. And then when the day comes that you ask the gardener for the key
of his cottage, to hide you there awhile, neither he nor any other who
hears will think it aught but a merry jest. Then as Harry will every day
be an hour and more in hunting you, that should be time enough for you
to change your attire and slip away through the gate; and if Colonel
Bamfield only do his part, you should be out of reach ere the pursuit
has fairly begun."
James suddenly flung his arms about his sister's neck.
"Oh! Elizabeth, Elizabeth! and you have thought of all that?"
"I think of nothing else whilst we are playing hide-and-seek night by
night."
"And suppose they find out that you were privy to the scheme all the
while, what will they do to you, Elizabeth!"
She looked into his eyes, a brave smile on her pale face.
"Think not of that, Jamie; in sooth I care little what they do to me. If
you only get safe away let them take me to the Tower, or whither they
will. Little Harry is too young to care greatly, so long as we are
together; and I do not think they will take him from me, even though
they do more straitly confine us."
"But you--what would you do in that grim place?" asked James, with
something of a shudder.
"I think all places are alike to me now," answered Elizabeth, with her
strangely spiritual smile, pathetic on the face of one so young; "God
will take care of us there as well as here. Do not fear for me, Jamie.
We must strive to do what our father wished. I shall be happy indeed in
knowing that you are safe and free. For my part, I am content in feeling
myself near to him, and in knowing that if he is a prisoner--so am I."
Who would have thought, to watch the merry games of the Royal children
during the bright spring evenings that followed, what tumultuous
thoughts were surging within them, and what a daring plan had been
hatched in the brain of that delicate young girl, who so patiently
hunted the house, evening by evening, with her little brother, in
search of that clever hider, James.
The servants were by this time devoted to the children, who treated them
with that invariable high-bred courtesy that never failed the hapless
Stuarts, whatever else they might lack or fail in. Coachman, steward,
cook, pantler--all were ready to assist the young Duke to some new
hiding-place, night by night. They enjoyed the game almost as much as
the children themselves. Indeed, they seemed to take a pride in
lengthening out the search, though in the end some whispered hint would
be given to the little brother if his energies showed signs of flagging,
and he would start forth hot upon the scent that would eventually lead
him to the hiding-place, if James did not spring out upon him first.
The Earl and Countess were well used to the shouts and cries of little
Harry as he ran hither and thither through the house. The Earl generally
visited his young charges early in the evening, often just after supper,
and then he left them to their games till about nine o'clock, when he
attended first the younger Prince, and then the elder to their rooms,
and paid them the compliment of superintending in person their toilet
for the night.
At last came the long-awaited Friday, the twenty-first day of April. The
twilight lingered long now, and the game of hide-and-seek was regularly
played after supper, lasting generally till the bedtime of the Duke of
Gloucester.
[Illustration: He stopped short on seeing the Countess.
_Page 125._]
The Countess of Northumberland visited Elizabeth and her brothers this
evening, and sat awhile with the Princess after supper. Little Harry was
playing in a corner of the room; but the Countess looked rather
anxiously into Elizabeth's face, and remarked how white it was.
"But I am not sick, I thank you, Madam," said the girl gently. "Belike
it is but the first of the springtide heat. I pray you not to send the
doctor. He does but give me physic which I know not how to swallow. I
shall be better anon--in a few days, I trust."
At that moment James came running into the room, as though to speak to
his sister. He stopped short on seeing the Countess; but then, coming
forward, joined in the conversation, and chatted merrily enough. None
noted the quick glances that passed between brother and sister, nor the
strange wistfulness that brooded in Elizabeth's eyes.
Suddenly James started up, as though just bethinking him.
"Why, Harry, we must have our game; shall I hide again? Then give me
five minutes' grace, and come after me!" He looked at Elizabeth, and
said, "Wilt thou go with him? Or art thou tired to-night, sister?"
"In sooth, I think she is aweary," said the Countess; and James put his
hands on Elizabeth's shoulders, boy fashion, and snatched a kiss from
her lips.
"Then go to bed, sweetheart, and one of the servants shall attend
Harry," he said; "but he will not be content without his game of play."
The boy was gone, and Elizabeth was thankful that little Harry now
claimed the attention of the Countess; for she felt as though every drop
of blood had ebbed from her face. What would be the next thing that she
heard of her brother?
She could not be persuaded to remain in her room. She roamed all over
the house with Harry, whilst the Countess went back to her husband.
Harry's bedtime came at last; it was dark outside, save for the light of
the moon; the Earl came out, and asked where the boy was, and learned
that he was still seeking his brother.
"Then I must needs help find him too," said the good-natured nobleman,
taking Harry's hand, and as the child seemed somewhat weary of the
search, he looked inquiringly at the servants.
Then one came forward, and whispered that the Duke was hiding in the
gardener's cottage, of which he had begged the key; and thither they all
proceeded, Elizabeth commanding herself to laugh and chat with Harry,
and wonder where next Jamie would hide, and how many more strange
places were still left for him to find.
Harry ran gaily into the cottage, when somebody had forced open the
locked door for him, at a sign from the Earl, whose face had suddenly
clouded over. But ransack as they might, not a trace of the fugitive
could be found.
With a stifled exclamation of dismay the Earl dashed down to the
water-gate, which he found open. Then the truth flashed across him, and
he bit his lips in perplexed confusion.
"Conduct the Princess and the Duke to the house," he said, "we must make
further inquiries into this matter!"
Then Elizabeth knew at least that James had escaped from the Palace,
though she could not know for many days whether he would succeed in
making good his escape to Holland.
She sought the privacy of her own rooms, and, falling upon her knees,
gave thanks to God for His great goodness in watching over them thus
far.
Every day she expected to hear that some severe punishment was to be
inflicted upon her--perhaps even death itself, so little did she
understand the laws of the land--for the part she had taken in her
brother's escape. But strange to say her own complicity in the plot was
never suspected at that time. Her very calmness and courage, which
enabled her first to plan the clever scheme and then to go through her
own part so tranquilly, averted all suspicion from her.
Even the Earl, when all the facts of the case were known, was exonerated
from blame. He had before told the Parliament that he declined absolute
responsibility with regard to the Royal children, unless he made actual
prisoners of them--a thing he was not prepared to do; and although there
was some angry discussion in the House, and several stringent measures
were recommended by certain extreme men, yet in the end humane counsels
prevailed, and the Princess Elizabeth, together with her little brother,
were permitted to remain beneath the kindly care of the Earl and
Countess of Northumberland.
James escaped after a few perils, and got safe over to Holland; but the
hasty kiss he snatched from his brave young sister upon that April
evening was the last he ever gave or took from her.
The girl Elizabeth never recovered the shock of her father's death two
years later, and though she lingered for more than a year, winning the
hearts of all about her by her sweetness of disposition and the
wonderful courage and fortitude she exhibited in the midst of so many
trials and sufferings, she passed peacefully away to a world where pain
and partings are no more, and where the sorrowful and weary are at
rest.
Little Harry was with her to the last, receiving at her hands such few
poor possessions as remained to her. A while later, by an unwonted freak
of generosity on Cromwell's part, the boy was permitted to join his
mother in France.
CHARLOTTE HONEYMAN
"Pirates! Oh, Charlotte, how romantic! How do you know? Are you sure?
Oh, how I should love to see a real live pirate!"
Charlotte smiled a little grimly.
"I'm not quite so sure of that, Adela; I rather think if you were to
encounter him you would wish he were anything but a live pirate--you
would much prefer him dead!"
"What a horrid idea, Charlotte!" and Adela shivered slightly. "But do go
on! Tell me some more! I thought there were no pirates left now.
Smugglers one knows abound; but pirates!"
"I truly hope that there are not many such wretches in the world as the
man Gow seems by all accounts to be," said Charlotte, who, as the
daughter of the High-Sheriff of the island and county of Orkney spoke
with a certain amount of authority. "If half the tales they tell of him
are true, such a monster in human shape has seldom walked the earth. He
and his mate Williams have been a pair; but he found his subordinate one
too many for him, made him a prisoner, and handed him over to some
English man-of-war, under charge of various crimes, and the wretch has
probably been hanged ere this. But Gow yet goes scot-free!"
"And is his vessel in one of our bays?" asked Adela, in a tremor of
excitement.
"If the man's story be true, who came and asked speech of father last
night. He told a wonderful and a terrible tale. Father has gone off
to-day to make some particular inquiries into the business. He seems to
think very gravely of it."
"And where is this terrible pirate vessel now?"
"We do not know exactly. The seaman who came to seek for a magistrate
does not know the coast, and could not describe the place accurately. It
is not very near to our homes, thank heaven! We do not want pirates for
our neighbours!"
"Oh, but pirates only rob at sea, not upon land," exclaimed Adela; "we
need not be afraid. I should love to see what a pirate ship looked like!
Does it carry a black flag? And do the men wear crimson sashes round
their waists, and black crape masks upon their faces?"
Charlotte laughed a little. From her position as the daughter of the
Sheriff she knew a little more of the grim realities of crime than did
the younger and romantic Adela, whose pretty head was stuffed with a
good deal of nonsense. Sheriff Honeyman was very fond of his "little
child," as he still called Charlotte, notwithstanding the fact that she
had blossomed out into maidenhood of late years, and had left her
childhood behind. She was always ready for a clamber along the cliffs
with him, or a ride across the bare country on her sure-footed little
pony. He talked to her with unusual freedom for those days of his own
affairs, and was often amused by her shrewd comments and questions, as
well as by her little airs of worldly wisdom and fragments of meditative
speculation.
He noted in her with approval, too, an intrepid spirit, and a readiness
of resource in moments of emergency, which she had inherited from him.
He was sometimes caught in storms when his daughter was with him, both
on land and on the sea, and he always admired her fearless spirit on
these occasions, as well as her presence of mind and quickness to think
and act.
Charlotte had no sister, and her brothers were all away either at school
or college; but she was not lonely, for she had always plenty to occupy
and amuse her, and for companionship there was ever Adela to be depended
on; for Adela was an only child, and was devoted to Charlotte, who
seemed to her to be like brother and sister in one.
Adela was the daughter of Mr. Fea, a wealthy gentleman (as wealth was
accounted in those days and in those parts) of the island. He owned
considerable tracts of land there, and he and Mr. Honeyman were
intimate friends as well as near neighbours. In his youth he had been a
poor man, but of late years things had greatly prospered with him, and
he was accounted only second to Mr. Honeyman in importance in that
district. As the two girls were walking up and down, and talking eagerly
together over this matter, Mr. Fea himself appeared coming towards them.
Adela at once darted off, all eagerness to tell the news.
"Oh, papa, papa, what do you think! Charlotte says that there is a
pirate vessel sheltering in one of the bays of our islands, and that we
may all be murdered in our beds any day!"
Adela's face was quite glowing and beaming with excitement, and her
father could not forbear a laugh, in which Charlotte joined.
"Well, my dear, that thought seems to give you wonderful pleasure! As
the old proverb says, 'there is no accounting for taste!'" Then, turning
to Charlotte, he asked: "But what is the sober sense of all this, my
dear? What news has come to your father about pirates?"
"It is this, sir," answered Charlotte, turning to him quickly: "a poor
seaman came early this morning and asked speech of my father, and when
he was admitted he told a most terrible tale. Do you remember there
living once in these parts a man of the name of Gow, who afterwards took
to a seafaring life?"
"Gow? To be sure I remember him," answered Mr. Fea at once. "He and I
were once at the same school--a hot-tempered, rather dangerous lad, of
whom nobody spoke well. We were none of us sorry when he shipped himself
off to sea. I have never heard of him since."
"Well, the man who came to speak to papa told him that Gow had been mate
in a vessel called the _George Galley_, where he was a seaman. They had
a very good captain and officers; but Gow got up a mutiny on board, shot
the captain and some of the officers, got the well-disposed sailors shut
up helpless, took possession of the vessel, and changed its name to the
_Revenge_. Since then he has been scouring the seas, making the seamen
who did not join in the mutiny do the work of the vessel under threat of
cruel punishment or death, taking prizes, robbing and sinking small
vessels of many nations in the most reckless way, and now, by stress of
weather and through lack of water, they have put in here, where they
hope the news of their many misdeeds will not be known. They know
themselves to be in sore peril, for they have committed such
depredations on the high seas that their doings have become notorious,
and they are being watched for in many ports and on many oceans. But
here Gow thinks he may be safe for awhile, and, perhaps, even yet he
may elude justice, for he seems one of those men who carry charmed
lives."
"Pooh-pooh, my dear; I don't believe in that sort of charmed life. Those
fellows always come to the gallows at last. But how did this man dare to
come with such a story? Gow will cut his throat if ever it comes to his
ears."
"Yes; but he is not going back to the vessel. He escaped from her to
give notice to the authorities, and papa took him away with him, and has
promised him protection and help, though he will be wanted to give
evidence when Gow is brought to trial, as we hope to bring him. Papa has
gone off to take counsel with some others, and will not be back till
to-morrow; but the man said there was no fear that the _Revenge_ would
leave her moorings in that time. Gow was resolved to come ashore and
enjoy himself, and there were several more sailors who hoped to escape
from the ship, and to find their way to the mainland, there to give
notice of the pirate vessel."
Mr. Fea was keenly interested in this story. He was a law-abiding
citizen, with a horror of bloodshed and violence, and he made up his
mind that he would do everything in his power to assist in the capture
of the pirate ship. It irked him to think that an Orkney man should have
sunk to the level of Gow, and the very fact of having known him in his
early days made him the more anxious to bring him to justice. It was a
horrible thing that such men were still ranging the seas, plundering and
murdering; and that honest seamen were forced to serve in such vessels
on pain of instant death!
"I will see your father as soon as he returns," said Mr. Fea, "and we
will talk together as to the best method of making the capture. A pirate
sloop is not an easy prey to tackle; but we must see what can be done by
strategy or by force."
Adela's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Oh, papa, will there be a battle? Shall we be able to see it? Will
there be danger and fighting, and all that sort of thing?"
"I hope not, my dear; at least, not too much. There is always a little
risk in these affairs; but I hope most sincerely we may get off without
bloodshed. I should think that Gow was already sufficiently notorious,
without wishing to draw down upon himself the further ire of the
representatives of the law. Perhaps if he finds himself overmatched, he
may yield without much of a struggle."
Mr. Fea was not in any way alarmed for his own or his neighbours'
houses, even though there was a pirate schooner lying hidden in one of
the many indentations of their coast. It seemed to him, from Charlotte's
story, that Gow had run in here in the hopes of lying safe and quiet for
a short spell, and that his aim and object would be to avoid stirring up
any sort of inquiry about himself and his vessel. He appeared to desire
to enjoy himself on shore for awhile, and he certainly would not be able
to do that if he incriminated himself by any acts of violence there. So
again telling Charlotte that he would be over the next day to see her
father, and would meantime think of some plan as to what might be done
to entrap the pirate and his crew, and gain possession of the vessel, he
took his daughter with him, as he turned to go to his house, and
Charlotte sped over the few dividing fields, and reached her own home
just as the dusk was beginning to fall.
She and her mother took their supper comfortably together. Mrs. Honeyman
was an elderly lady, of considerable spirit and strength; but she was
very hard of hearing, though a little sensitive about this failing, so
that she was content often not to understand exactly what was passing,
rather than ask for an explanation.
Charlotte did not mention the pirates to her; for she thought if she
shouted out the story, that some servant would be certain to hear, and
take alarm, and there might be a sort of panic in the house. The butler
knew, as Mr. Honeyman had given him a few extra instructions about
locking up the plate at night; but he did not wish his household
needlessly alarmed; the more so as he was not able to be himself at home
till the next day.
After supper, it came into Charlotte's head that, in her father's study
there was generally on this day a considerable amount of gold, ready for
the payment of the weekly wage to labourers and people of the place on
the morrow. It occurred to her that she would do well to take her
father's cash-box up to her own room that night. Ordinarily, there was
so little fear of robbery here, that many people forgot to lock their
doors at night; but perhaps, with a crew from a pirate vessel lurking
somewhere near, it would be better to be on the safe side.
So after supper she went away quietly, took the heavy cash-box out of
the drawer, and carried it up to her room. She had in her keeping, in an
old-fashioned bureau, a good many family heirlooms in the shape of
jewels, some of them of great value; and beside these there were some
precious family documents greatly prized by her parents.
Charlotte could scarcely have told why it was that she took these out of
their hiding-place, folded them carefully up, and strapped them to the
cash-box, which she wrapped in a cloak and placed the bundle in her
wardrobe, where a dark driving-cloak and hood hung from a peg. She was
conscious of feeling a little restless and excited, though hardly
uneasy.
"It is Adela's nonsense about being murdered in our beds, and all that,"
she said to herself; "I will go down and get a book, and not trouble
myself about those stories any more."
Everything was very quiet as Charlotte and her mother sat beside the
cheerful log fire with their books. The house was rather a rambling
building, having only one upper storey of rooms, and covering a good
deal of ground. The sounds from one part of the house did not easily
penetrate to another; and Charlotte had not heard anything to awaken any
uneasiness, when suddenly, hasty steps sounded outside the door, which
opened to admit of Peter, the butler, who had such a white, scared face,
that, instinctively, Charlotte jumped up and placed herself so that her
mother might not see the man's expression of terror.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Honeyman, being engrossed in her book, did not
heed her daughter's movement, and, of course, had not heard the approach
of the servant.
"The pirates! the pirates!" cried Peter, in strangled tones. "My
mistress--my dear young mistress! Fly for your lives! They will murder
every one who tries to thwart them!"
"How many are there?" asked Charlotte breathlessly.
"Ten; nine are to go through the house and take everything. The tenth
guards the door. They say they will not hurt anybody who offers no
resistance; but they will shoot the first one of us who tries to save
his master's property!"
Charlotte's eyes flashed. Her spirit was rising within her; but she was
no reckless fool to adventure herself and others in a futile struggle.
"The men are armed, of course?"
"To the teeth, with knives and pistols and cutlasses."
"Then, Peter, we cannot tackle them ourselves. We must get your mistress
away at once. She must not even know what is happening in the house,
else I am not certain she would not face the whole pirate crew herself,
and defy and resist them. She must not run that risk. Be ready to follow
up what I shall say. I do not like to deceive; but we must stoop to
subterfuge for once."
Then, turning back into the room, she shouted to her mother--but rather
slurring over her words, and making many breaks.
"Mamma--mamma, you are wanted. Something terrible has happened. Mrs.
Fea--you must go there instantly. Please do not lose a moment. It may be
life or death. Peter will take you. Your cloak and over-shoes are yonder
in the lobby. That is the nearest way; and I will follow you quickly and
see what is the matter."
Now Mrs. Honeyman was the most notable nurse in all the island, and in
all cases of sudden emergency she was always sent for, and delighted to
go and show her kindliness and skill. She was on her feet in a moment
now, and hurried with Charlotte into a little lobby on the other side
of the room, where her walking things for the garden always hung, and
where a side-door led straight out into the garden on that side of the
house nearest to the Feas'. Peter caught up a cap and gave his arm to
his mistress, but bent an imploring glance upon Charlotte.
"Missy, Missy, you must come too. I cannot leave you."
"I will be after you directly. I have but to run up these stairs here to
my own room for something. Don't lose a moment. I shall overtake you.
But I have something I must secure first. Lose not a moment in
acquainting Mr. Fea with what has happened."
Mrs. Honeyman, was by this time unlocking the door, and Peter had no
choice but to follow his mistress. Charlotte, drawing a long breath of
relief in the consciousness that her mother was now safe, darted up the
little stairway to her own room, and already fancied that she heard
strange steps and voices in the house.
Her heart beat to suffocation in the thought that at any moment the
other door might be dashed open, and some ruffian suddenly come in and
snatch away her precious treasure. What a mercy it was that she had
thought of secreting it like this! Here it was under her hand. She was
already wrapped in her cloak; her precious package was in her arms, she
was about to run down the little stairs again, when, to her horror, she
heard rough voices in the parlour below, and the sound of oaths as the
men called one to another in their hasty search.
"'Tisn't here! There's nothing here worth laying hands on. They must
have hid it somewhere. Let's be off upstairs. Here's another staircase.
Let's see where that leads to!"
Charlotte darted back into her room again, and drew the little bolt
across it. But that would only give her a moment's respite, she knew.
One or two heavy blows would bring the door crashing inwards; and what
then? She could not fly out by the other one, down the main staircase,
without encountering the man on guard at the hall-door. The sight of her
precious package would be certain to attract their instant attention,
and they had threatened with death all who strove to resist their
project of robbery.
But if she were to give up the valuables? Then she might well escape.
They had no personal quarrel with her; and nobody had told her to
constitute herself the guard of the family property. For one brief
instant, Charlotte hesitated; then, with a snort of contempt at her own
cowardly thought, she dashed open the window, threw her precious package
down into the garden beneath, and herself vaulted lightly after it.
She had performed this feat occasionally before, in the days of her
tom-boy pranks with her brothers, but she had not often practised such a
leap of late, and the darkness made it more difficult. She was conscious
of a sharp thrill of pain in her foot as she reached the ground, but,
striving not to think of this, she caught up her bundle and fled; a
light instantly flashing from the window of the room she had quitted,
showed her that she had only just made her spring in time.
With a heart that thumped so loud in her ears as to deaden all other
sound, Charlotte sped onwards as fast as the injured foot would allow
over the rough ground that separated her home from that of her friends.
But, in a few moments, she was certain that she was pursued. She heard
angry, threatening voices in the garden behind her. Glancing back she
saw flashing lights, and through the still night air came the sound of
curses, which bespoke very real disappointment. Evidently, the men had
heard of the cash-box to be found in Mr. Honeyman's house, and were
enraged that it was not forthcoming.
"Somebody has taken it and made off!" cried a stentorian voice. "After
him, men!--scatter, and scour the place. He can't have got far! Blow out
his brains if he resists. That money I will have. I don't come all this
way on a fool's errand!"
[Illustration: Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop.
_Page 145._]
Charlotte heard, and instantly was aware of flying footsteps in many
directions, some coming her way. What could she do? Try as she would her
progress was not rapid. The distance to the Feas' house, so short on
ordinary days, now seemed endless. There were no trees to give cover.
That windswept island was bare of any save stunted bushes, and even of
these there were none to serve her purpose. If the moon should shine out
she would instantly be seen. She was not certain that some of those
fierce shouts did not mean that she had been seen already.
Breathless and terrified, but still clutching her treasure tightly,
Charlotte made for a great hole in the bank that she had known from
childhood. Into this friendly, yawning chasm she crept, pushing her
bundle before her, and here she crouched in darkness, covered by the
folds of her sombre cloak, expecting almost moment by moment to feel a
rough hand pulling her forth, or the threat of a bullet through her
brain if she did not instantly give up her treasure.
Footsteps came nearer and nearer. She shrank closer and closer into her
hole. She felt her flesh creep as the ground shook beneath the heavy
tread; it was all she could do to keep from uttering a cry. The horror
of that approaching discovery was so very real to her.
Suddenly, close above her, the steps came to a dead stop. She had been
discovered! She knew she had! Her senses almost forsook her. It was a
moment that she never forgot. Then a voice spoke, a rough, raucous
voice:
"You'd best come back. It's no good staying here. They're coming out
from that other house with lights and servants. They've got wind of
something up, and the sooner we get off with what we've found the
better."
A sudden rebound of feeling made Charlotte almost cry aloud. And as she
strained her ears to hear, the heavy tread of feet shook the ground once
more, now in full retreat. A few minutes later, limping in her gait, her
face as white as death, her dress covered with sand, her hands still
grasping the bundle that held the treasure, Charlotte almost fell into
Mr. Fea's fatherly arms, and told him all her tale.
"I don't know what Mr. Honeyman will say when he hears how near his
little girl went to losing her life for the sake of some valuables," he
said, as he led her into the house; "but one thing I know: he will be
mighty proud of having such a heroine for a daughter."
"If he doesn't think I was only a little goose," panted Charlotte,
beginning to look like herself. "But, oh, I am glad those wretches have
not got the things! And are you sure they have hurt nobody?"
That was the end of Charlotte's personal exploit with the pirates; but
there were many exciting days to follow, for in trying to get their
vessel away quickly, they put out on a stormy night, and were driven
ashore in the bay called Calf Sound, not far from the houses of Mr.
Honeyman and Mr. Fea. There, after much effort and some little
stratagem, the crew was finally captured, and Gow met his richly
deserved fate and perished on the gallows.
MARY BRIDGES
"Eleanor! Sister! There be days when I know not how to bear it. I feel
that I shall do something desperate."
"Nay, hush, Mary! hush! why shouldst thou speak so wildly? We must be
patient! Things will not always be so black!"
"Patience, patience! I am sick to death of the word! We have borne with
these odious men about the house, till sometimes I feel that I can bear
it no longer. And now that our father hath gone, and Robert with him, I
feel that the house is scarce a safe place for our mother or ourselves."
"Come, come, Mary, thou dost go something too far!"
"I trow not. Those bloody, hateful men of Kirke's, what do they care how
they frighten or annoy those who are forced for a time to shelter them?
The maid servants dare never be alone for an instant. They never know
but that one of those half-tipsy fellows will not come lurching in upon
them. And listen, 'twas only just now that I met one of them, smelling
so vilely of beer and spirits that it made me sick to go near him,
wandering up the stairs into our part of the house; and when I bid him
begone to his own quarters, what thinkest thou the wretch did?"
"He did not hurt thee?" quoth Eleanor, with sudden solicitude.
The eyes of the younger girl flashed fire.
"Had he laid a finger upon me, methinks I would have slain him as he
stood!" she cried.
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! hush!" pleaded Eleanor. "It is not good in these
times to speak such rash words."
"A pretty pass things have come to if sisters may not speak freely
together in their own home!" flashed out Mary, whose quick temper was
easily aroused, and whose pent up indignation of weeks was coming upon
her like a flood. "No, the creature did not dare lay hands upon me. I
gave him a look--that was enough; but he vowed with many a vile oath
that he would kiss me ere he did my bidding. If I had shown one mite of
fear, Eleanor, I verily believe that he would have been as good as his
word."
The fair Eleanor shivered with a sense of keen disgust. She had not her
sister's courage and readiness and masterful looks and ways. Suppose she
had met one of these men upon the stairs, and he had spoken thus to
her, would she have been able to escape the hated salute? It turned her
sick to think of it--albeit in those days kisses were given and received
much more commonly than has since become the fashion between men and
women, youths and maidens. Mary read her sister's thoughts, and cried
out:
"Yes, yes, that is how I feel! Suppose it had been thou! Suppose insult
were offered to thee,--or to our mother,--who is there to defend you?
Oh, why was I not born a boy that I could set these surly knaves in
their place? Robert should not have gone and left us, when our father
was called hence too. It is not right or fitting; and with all these
fearful things going on around us. It is enough to make one turn against
the King, when he makes use of such vile instruments!"
"Oh, hush, Mary! hush! have a care! It is not safe to talk in that
reckless fashion. Who knows but that there may be some meddling spy
prowling about? And they say men and women are sent to prison and to
death for such small offences now."
"Ah, yes, it is the cruelty, the horrid cruelty we see perpetrated on
every hand that makes me so desperate. Think of that man Kirke, feasting
and laughing on the balcony overlooking the place where his victims were
being hanged and dismembered! think of it, Eleanor! and calling for
music for them to 'dance to' when their poor bodies twitched and swayed
on the gibbets; eating and drinking and making merry when human lives
were passing from the world in all that agony and shame!"
"Thou shouldst not listen to such stories, Mary, it does no good; and it
does but make life seem unbearable sometimes."
"And then, after Sedgemoor!" cried Mary, without heeding; "I heard
another thing of him there. Did they tell it thee too, Eleanor? There
was a man about to die--without trial--without condemnation--just strung
up as so many were on the trees by the moor's edge, at the bidding of
that man of blood! He was one of many; and the bystanders said that he
was the fleetest runner of any on the country side, and could run with a
galloping horse. Colonel Kirke asked him if that were true; and he said
he had done it. Kirke asked if he would like to do it again to save his
life; and he caught eagerly at the proffered hope. He ran with the
horse, he kept up the whole course, he returned breathless, exhausted,
but full of hope of the promise of life, and what does that monster of
cruelty and injustice do?--just has him swung up with the rest, ere the
poor wretch can find breath to plead for the promised pardon! Oh, it
makes my blood boil--it makes my blood boil! I have been loyal to the
King's cause all this while; but how can we help loathing and despising
a monarch who will use such tools as that?"
"Perhaps he does not know," faltered Eleanor.
"Not know!" echoed Mary, in scorn. "It is because he knows all too well
their temper that he sends them here! Hast heard what men are whispering
now?--that soon there will be an assize in the west to try all those who
have been concerned in this rebellion; and they say that His Majesty
will choose for the judge the most cruel, the most notoriously evil, the
most passionate and ungoverned of all the judges on the bench, and that
his name is Jeffreys. And people say if once he come hither, no man in
Taunton, nor in the west country will ever forget his coming. We shall
have such a deluge of blood as has never run in England before."
"Oh, Mary, what fearful tales thou dost get hold of!"
"They are fearful; but they are true. That is what makes them so
terrible," answered Mary. "Oh, how I hate and detest cruelty and lust of
blood! Art thou not glad, Eleanor, that even Kirke himself could not
cozen or threaten any Taunton man into acting as executioner to those
poor wretches taken on the field of Sedgemoor? They had to send to
Exeter or elsewhere to get a man to do that bloody work. Fancy cutting
the poor wretches down ere they were quite dead, and cutting out their
hearts, and flinging them on the fire, whilst the Colonel made merry at
his window, and the music drowned the curses of the crowd and the cries
of the victims or their friends! Methinks we have gone back to the days
of the Druids and their human sacrifices. Oh, how can the King permit
it? It is enough to drive the whole nation to hate him!"
"And yet we do not want a usurper to rule over us, even if the lawful
King be such an one as His Majesty is now. Thou art not foolish enough
to wish that the Duke of Monmouth had been victorious, Mary?"
"N-no, I suppose not! I love not usurpers; and our father hath always
averred that it is an open question whether the Duke is the son of the
late King Charles. No man seems able to say for certain what is his
parentage, albeit he was treated like a son; and there be those who
swear that the King did marry his mother in secret, and that he is
rightful heir to the crown."
"Mary, Mary, thou dost not believe all those foolish stories that thou
hast heard passing about? Men are always ready to believe that which
they desire to believe. But the Duke of Monmouth, if the late King's son
at all, has no claim upon the crown. Had it been otherwise he would have
been acknowledged as heir; for every man likes his son to reign in his
place. Our father thinks that the Duke is the son of one of the Sydneys;
he says he is so strangely like him; and the King never called him son,
though he was so fond of him, except when he presumed too far."
"Oh, I know, I know," answered Mary restlessly, "I have heard it all
argued a thousand times over. No, I do not want the Duke of Monmouth or
any other pretender; but I long for a King who can show mercy and
kindness and generosity; not a man full of the most bitter and
vindictive spite, who chooses as his tools and instruments those to whom
cruelty is a delight!"
It was no wonder that Mary Bridges' soul was stirred within her at this
time. She was the second daughter of Sir Ralph Bridges, of Bishop's
Hull, near Taunton, and when she was a young girl of some fourteen
summers, the whole district was stirred into violent excitement and
violent emotion by the sharp outbreak of rebellion under the Duke of
Monmouth.
The unpopularity of James II. was on the increase in those places where
the Protestant faith had its strongholds. It was openly asserted that
the King was a professed Romanist now, and that, in time, the whole
constitution of the country would be undermined by him, and that
persecutions of a terrible kind would break out under his rule.
The Duke of Monmouth came as the champion of the Protestant faith; and
hundreds who would not, in calmer moments, have admitted his claim, or
have thought it right for a moment to support one whose birth was so
very doubtful, were carried away by religious enthusiasm, and let
themselves be easily persuaded that this young man was the champion of
the faith; and that, be he who he might, he was a heaven-sent messenger
for the truth.
Far-seeing men, however, and men who knew something of the true
character and the past history of the Duke, were not so easily carried
away by the enthusiasm of the moment. Even had his claim been sounder,
he was not the man to push the enterprise to a successful issue. His
first burst of success, which had raised the hopes of his followers, and
had occasioned a certain alarm and uneasiness in the minds of his
opposers, had quickly been followed by a succession of reverses, and on
the field of Sedgemoor the hopes of the Duke and his adherents met with
a final overthrow.
Sir Ralph Bridges had been one of those who had watched the course of
the rebellion with keen interest, and had thrown his influence upon the
side of law and order. He had upheld the lawful King throughout, and had
done good service in keeping order in his own immediate neighbourhood.
But now that the revolt was at an end, and that the proportions to which
it had swelled had not been very great, it seemed to Sir Ralph and to
others as though clemency and consideration might be meted out to the
victims of the ill-timed movement; and he had been greatly scandalised
and shocked by the fury shown by Colonel Kirke and his men--his "Lambs"
as they had been named in fierce derision--for the heartless brutality
of their conduct.
It was, in fact, this indignation on the part of Sir Ralph which had
caused him to leave his home somewhat suddenly, and before the
withdrawal of the King's soldiers, billeted upon his house, in order
that he might post to town with all possible speed, and join with other
influential persons interested in the matter in seeking to win over the
King, through his ministers and advisers, to a milder and less
vindictive policy in dealing with the many persons now under arrest for
having been concerned in the rebellion. He had gone with some
reluctance; but it was told him by Kirke himself that the soldiers would
very shortly be removed from his house, and he had taken his son with
him as a precautionary measure; for he was a hot-headed youth, rather of
Mary's disposition, and the father was afraid that the lad would get
into trouble if he were not there to look after him; his disgust against
the atrocities of "Kirke's Lambs" being almost as great as was Mary's.
It was from her brother she had learned most of the more ghastly tales
of which her mind was full. Eleanor and her mother shrank from hearing
such terrible things; but Mary seemed consumed by that fearful curiosity
that longs, and yet hates, to know.
The very next day, to the immense relief of Lady Bridges, who, though
ever a dignified and self-contained woman, was one of a nervous
temperament, the order came from Colonel Kirke that the soldiers were to
depart from Bishop's Hull. Great was the satisfaction of the household
and its mistress; but equal was the disgust of the men. They had had a
fat time of plenty in this house where everything they demanded was
accorded by its mistress, who, since the departure of her lord, had
found it easier to give than withhold, although Mary's heart often
burned with anger at hearing the insolent demands of the brutal fellows,
who seemed to her to drink and carouse from morning till night. They had
been away during the time of the battle; but they were soon back again,
more swaggering, more insolent, more insupportable than ever; and, in
the absence of Sir Ralph, there seemed no end to their exactions.
The order which came was that they were to depart upon the morrow; and
it was fervently hoped that they would take themselves off at break of
day; but this was an idea which never seemed to enter their heads. They
called for more wine and beer than ever; sat drinking and dicing in the
buttery hall, as though that was their only occupation in life; and when
asked when they were going to take themselves off, replied only with
curses and foul abuse.
So insolent and intolerable did they become at last, that even Lady
Bridges' wrath was stirred within her. She and her daughters and
household had been dining as usual in the upper hall; and when the noise
from below at last became overpowering, she bid her house-steward go and
send the men away, saying that they should have nothing more from her
larder or brew-house, that their Colonel had recalled them, and they had
no longer any right to be there.
Mary clasped her hands together in delight at hearing this message. The
tables in the hall were now cleared. The servants had dispersed save a
few who were setting the place in order, Lady Bridges and her daughters
were standing upon the daïs where was the upper table, when suddenly
several drunken soldiers came lurching towards them in a state of such
anger and intoxication as made them fearful and repulsive objects.
They were swearing and cursing after the foul fashion of the day; and
though sober enough to see the ladies and make straight towards them,
they were not sober enough to choose their words, and continued to pour
out vile and insulting threats and abuse.
Lady Bridges, trembling in every limb, sank down in her chair, giving
hasty and terrified glances round her to see if help were near, and yet
mortally afraid of doing anything that could be construed by spiteful
misrepresentation into a charge of treason. The King's soldiers were the
King's servants. And who knew what power they might not have?
Eleanor cowered behind her mother as the soldiers lurched up the hall,
making gross demands of their hostess, and speaking in violent and
insulting language to all three ladies. The frightened servants crowded
together in the background waited for their lady's orders ere
interfering; and she, fearing to speak the word, only sat there rigid
and trembling, whilst ever nearer and nearer came the threatening
soldiers with their evil faces and foul words.
Mary's eyes were blazing. Her whole frame was shaken with a passion of
fury. If they dared to come up the steps and lay hands upon her
mother,--dared to touch one of them,--she drew in her breath, she
clenched her hands till the nails dug into the palms. Her eyes were upon
the foremost man. They had begun to sparkle strangely. Just as he
staggered up the first step she darted forward, stooped quickly, and
drew from its sheath the shining sword he carried. Then, backing a few
steps in front of her mother and sister, she cried in a voice shaken
with passion:
"Dare to come one step nearer, dare to lay hands upon any of us, and
thou shalt see what a maid of Taunton will do!"
What happened in those next few seconds it were hard to say. The girl
stood rigidly before her mother and sister with the keen blade in her
slim hands, pointing it immovable at the drunken soldier still advancing
in menacing fashion. He did not believe in the girl's threat, or in the
strength of those little white hands. He laughed to see her pointing the
sword at him, and words even grosser than anything that had passed
before were hurled at her as he came on with drunken violence and
brutality. Was it the impetus of that lurch forward, or did Mary herself
lunge her weapon at him? Those who looked on could never rightly
determine. Mary herself never could answer the question. But the sword
pointed straight at the man's heart was so firmly held by those girlish
hands, that, as he precipitated himself upon her to break down her
guard, the shining blade ran clean through his body, and he fell pierced
to the heart, a dead corpse at Mary's feet.
Eleanor shrieked, and covered her face with her hands. Lady Bridges fell
back white, and gasping:
"Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? Unhappy child! God be merciful to thee
and to us!"
Mary stood very straight and upright. There was no colour in her face;
yet there was no faltering in her eyes. Soldiers and servants alike
stood still and motionless, too much startled and awed by what had
occurred to move or speak; all eyes being fixed upon the motionless
figure of Mary.
"Take that thing away!" she said at last, pointing with a fierce
repulsion to the dead soldier at her feet. "Take him and begone every
one of you! Is it for girls to teach you the lesson how to be men and
not brutes?"
In absolute silence, and with something like fear in their faces, the
other soldiers, thoroughly sobered, came and carried off the corpse of
their companion, and withdrew from the house. Only one significant word
was spoken by the chief of the band ere he finally withdrew.
"Colonel Kirke will have to hear of this, mistress," he said, addressing
Mary with more of respect in his glance than there had ever been before.
She was standing in precisely the same spot and in the same attitude,
and she merely bent her head very slightly as she heard the words.
"Tell him everything!" she exclaimed suddenly, as the man turned to go.
"Do you think I am afraid?"
He gave her a look of admiration, bowed, and retired. It was then and
only then that her mother and sister broke into lamentation and tears;
and Lady Bridges, holding her to her breast, sobbed in the bitterness of
a mother's anguish.
"Oh, Mary! Mary! What hast thou done? And what can they do to thee? Oh,
that man of iron! that cruel, cruel Kirke! And is it before him thou
must go?"
Mary kissed her mother, and freed herself gently from her embrace; her
nerves were still strung tensely up. She felt no qualm of fear.
"Mother," she said, "there was no one else to defend you and Eleanor.
None else would have dared to lift a hand against a soldier of the
King's. Was I to stand by and see and hear such things? God in heaven
alone knows whether it was my act or his that did him to death. But even
if I did strike him to the heart, is not he a man of blood? And is it
not written that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword?"
"Oh, my child, my child," wept the mother, "God in His mercy grant that
such a fate be not thine own!"
It was two days later when Mary Bridges stood pale and dauntless before
that terrible soldier, Colonel Kirke. Her offence was judged to be a
military one, and she was arraigned before him by court-martial. Lady
Bridges, her self-command and dignity recovered, stood close beside her
daughter; and behind them clustered a number of servants, all ready to
swear upon their Bible oath that Mistress Mary had never lunged at the
soldier by so much as a hair's breadth, but that the man had run upon
the weapon with which she was defending her mother and sister.
But their testimony was not destined to be asked or given. Colonel Kirke
was a man of few words, and of rapid decision. It was seldom that any
case coming before him was granted any space for discussion and
hair-splitting.
His own soldiers told the tale fairly enough, admitting the insult, the
drunken violence of their dead comrade, and the fact that they had no
real right to be in Lady Bridges' house or presence at all. They
described the death in detail; and Mary stood silent listening to all
that passed; but speaking never a word, nor giving one sign of wavering
or of fear.
The Colonel's sombre glance rested again and again upon her face; and,
when the accusation was brought to an end, he asked her to state her
defence.
"I did it," she answered, speaking fearlessly, "I am going to tell you
what your 'Lambs' are like, and you can kill me afterwards in any way
you choose. I am not afraid. Your men are cowards and drunkards. I grant
they can fight; but they are cowards in their cups. They insult women
and girls; they make themselves feared and hated and detested wherever
they go. Men speak of them with execration, and they will go down to
posterity hated and loathed. Mother, don't try and stop me! I will speak
now that I have the chance. Colonel Kirke, have you a mother? Were you
ever asked to stand by and hear her grossly threatened and insulted? If
you had been there, what would you have done? I am not a man, I am only
a weak girl, but I was not going to endure that. I would have killed
every man who had sought to attack her. Whether I killed him by an open
pass at him, or whether he ran upon his own sword, I do not know--I do
not care. I stood there to save my mother and my sister from outrage.
You can condemn me to death for it, if you will. I am not afraid!"
There was deathly silence in the hall for a few seconds after those
words were spoken. Then Colonel Kirke's voice rang out firm and clear:
"Bring me the sword with which this deed was done!"
The sword was brought. The Colonel took it in his hands and looked upon
it. There was the stain of blood upon the shining blade.
Lady Bridges gasped when she saw him turn towards Mary. Was he about to
slay her child before her very eyes?
Straight and tall towered the terrible Colonel before Mary; he then did
a very strange thing--a thing so strange that those who witnessed it
drew their breath in silent amaze. He slightly bent the knee, and placed
the naked sword very gently in Mary's hands.
"Mistress Mary Bridges," he said, in that voice which had caused so many
to tremble, and which had of late given so many fearful orders of
merciless savagery, "this sword is yours. Take it; and take with it the
full acquittal of this court. The act that you have performed is no
crime; it is an honour to the strong young hands that performed it, and
the noble young heart that nerved those hands to the deed. Take this
sword, and keep it; let it be in your family a treasured heirloom. Let
it be handed down to other Mary Bridges yet to come, and with it the
tale of how, in the past, a girl, a daughter, a tender maiden, was found
strong enough to rally to the defence of her mother, whilst craven
hirelings shrank and feared, and coward soldiers looked on and raised no
hand to check the violence of a comrade!"
His fierce eyes swept round the hall, and many shrank before the glance;
then it softened once more, and he looked straight at Lady Bridges.
"Madam, I bid you farewell. Take home your daughter, and be proud of
her. Guard her well; and when the time does come, find her a mate worthy
of herself. Mistress Mary Bridges, I kiss your hand. Fare you well, and
may you be known to posterity when this tale is told, as 'Mary Bridges
of the Sword.'"
THERESA DUROC
The city was ringed about with walls of fire. By night it presented a
terrible aspect to those who could gain a safe vantage ground out of
range of the batteries, and watch for awhile the fearful glare from
them, as the fiery missiles were sent hurtling forth, charged with their
errand of death and destruction. And even if the batteries were silent
there was generally some terrible glow of fire in the sky, for almost
every day a conflagration broke out in some portion of the city, and the
terrified inhabitants never knew from day to day whose turn might not
come next.
Theresa lived with her widowed mother in one of those large houses
common in all great cities, where the poor were herded together at close
quarters, and in days like these had to suffer many privations, as well
as all the nameless terrors which beset men's hearts at such a time.
Some of their neighbours had fled before the encompassing army shut in
the city; but Theresa and her mother remained. For they knew not where
else to go. And if Pierre, away fighting for his country, should be
recalled by the exigencies of war, and the siege should suddenly be
raised by help from without, where would the poor boy find them, if not
in the old home?
"The good God will care for us and protect us, if we trust ourselves to
Him," the Widow Duroc had said; and, whilst others collected their few
possessions and quitted the city, she and her daughter remained in the
almost deserted house.
It was necessary for them to remain, if possible, as it was in the city
that Theresa's work lay. She went daily to one of the shops where fine
starching and ironing was done, and, with the money she earned in this
way, she had kept the little home comfortable for some time. Her mother
was a cripple, and could only do a little needlework when she was able
to procure it. Sometimes Theresa was enabled to bring her home some from
the shop, but for the rest they were dependent upon the earnings of the
girl. If they were to seek to fly the city they had nowhere to go, and
would lose their only means of support. It seemed better to remain and
risk the peril within the walls than fly they knew not where.
And now they were fast shut in, and had grown so well used to the
booming of the guns or the sharp scream of the shell hurtling through
the air, that they spoke and moved in the midst of the tumult as quietly
as they had done before it began. Indeed, sometimes, when for a night,
or for part of a day, the batteries became suddenly silent, the
stillness would seem almost more awful than the roar that had gone
before. It would cause them to awake from sleep with a start, or to stop
suddenly in what they were saying or doing, and always the question
arose in the heart, or to the lips:
"What is it that has happened? Has the city fallen?"
The tall house in which they lived was far more silent and empty now
than it had been before the siege began. The authorities had encouraged
all those who were able, to depart before escape should be impossible.
They foresaw that food was likely to become scarce, and the fewer
useless mouths there were to fill the better for all. But those who had
sons, or husbands, or brothers in the army were suffered to remain, as
were all who could not leave without suffering heavily; and it was known
to Theresa, from what she heard spoken about her, that should famine
threaten, and the city be put upon rations, she and her mother would be
entitled to receive a share, as being among those whose bread-winner was
with the army.
But at first there seemed little fear of this, and Theresa's work went
on as before. The tall house where they lived was not in range of any of
the batteries, and though their hearts were often torn by fear for
others, and by sorrow for their beautiful buildings being so sorely
shattered and ruined, they themselves did not suffer, and they grew
accustomed to the conditions which had seemed at first so strange and
terrible.
But day after day passed by, and the days lengthened into weeks, and
still the hoped-for relief did not come; those within the beleaguered
city only heard whispers from the world without, and knew not what was
passing there.
"If only our Pierre could get a letter to us!" the widow would say,
again and again; "then we should know how it was faring with him and
with the army."
Theresa going daily to her work heard all the flying rumours which
reached the city; but she did not speak of them always to her mother,
for she knew not how much or how little to believe, and she feared
either to buoy her up by false hopes, or to crush her with needless
fears.
Gay Paris is slow to believe in disaster, or to credit that the arms of
France can meet with any severe reverse. Each generation is as full of
hopeful confidence as the one that has gone before, as full of
enthusiasm and patriotic fervour, as little disposed to believe in
misfortune.
"The victorious army will march to our relief!" was the cry that was
always finding expression. "A little more patience--only a little
more!--and these accursed foes will be flying before our brave
_garçons_ of soldiers like chaff before the wind."
And nobody believed this more implicitly than Theresa for a long, long
time. The soldiers would come, and Pierre with them. They would see them
marching in, in all the bravery of their gay trappings. Oh, what a day
that would be! How the bells would ring, and the guns salute, and the
people go mad with joy! She lived through the experience a hundred times
a day as she stood at her ironing-table and worked at her piles of snowy
linen. But the sullen boom of the guns was still the accompaniment of
all her musings. And every week as it passed brought home to her heart
the conviction that things were not going well: that the lines of the
enemy were being drawn ever closer and closer: that there could not be
good news from the outer world, else surely it would be noised abroad
with acclamation.
But soon a trouble was to fall upon her for which she was quite
unprepared. Fires had become sadly common in the city. A glare in the
sky was such an ordinary sight that it scarcely aroused any interest or
speculation, save in the immediate neighbourhood where it occurred.
Soldiers and citizens were always on the alert to put it out wherever a
conflagration occurred, and often the flames were speedily extinguished.
Nevertheless, the number of burnt and uninhabitable houses was becoming
daily larger, and persons were removing their goods and furniture from
those streets where the danger threatened into safer localities; so that
the house where the Durocs lived had already been invaded by various
newcomers, seeking an asylum from the storm of shot and shell.
Theresa, however, knew little or nothing of their new neighbours. She
was busy with her work by day, and her mother did not get about easily
enough to learn much of those who had arrived in this sudden fashion.
They were of the class that, in the English phrase, preferred to "keep
themselves to themselves."
One morning Theresa started forth to her work as usual, and, after
taking the accustomed turnings, found herself in the familiar street.
But once there she stopped short and rubbed her eyes. For what did she
see? The whole side of the street, where her workshop had stood, lay a
mass of smoking ruins; and the people from the opposite houses were
hurrying away, carrying their goods and chattels with them.
The terrible news was passing from mouth to mouth. A new battery had
been opened. A new portion of the city was in peril. People small and
great were hastening away before another fusillade should shatter the
remaining part of the quarter. Theresa stood gazing in great dismay at
what she saw. Where was her occupation now? Where was her kindly
employer whom she had served so long?
Even as she asked herself the question a woman from an adjacent house,
well known to Theresa, came hurrying out, the tears raining down her
face.
"Alas! alas! little one, she is dead--God rest her soul!--buried beneath
the fall of the house in the dead of night! Ah, those accursed Germans!
What have they not to answer for? Our good neighbour Clisson!--so
kindly, so merry, so ready to lend a helping hand. And thou, my poor
child--what wilt thou do? Everything swept away in one night! And who
knows whose turn may come next?"
Theresa was indeed dismayed for herself as well as for others. The
terrible fate of her kind mistress cut her to the heart; but when that
shock had passed by, there came the other thought suggested by the
kindly neighbour. What was to become of her and her mother, now their
only means of support was taken from her?
"Thou wilt have to apply for rations as others do," said her friend,
with a look into the troubled face. "Courage, little one! These black
days cannot last for ever! We shall soon see those _canaille_ of
Prussians flying helter-skelter before our brave _garçons_. The good God
will hear our prayers and will send us succour. It will only be for a
time, and then our beautiful city will be gayer and more beautiful than
ever!"
But Theresa had heard words like these too often to put the old faith
in them. Her heart was heavy as lead within her. She was revolving many
plans by which she might still earn something and support her mother.
But the price of food was rising so fearfully that already she scarcely
knew how to keep the wolf from the door; she knew, too, that her mother
desired, if possible, not to be forced to send for the doled-out rations
from the great Government building; and no one could more desire to be
spared the task of fetching it daily than Theresa herself.
She had heard what that meant from others. The long, long, weary wait in
the daily increasing crowd; the hustling and the jostling before one
could get a place in the _queue_; the bitter cold often to be faced when
the wind blew down upon the crowd; the peril, sometimes, of having the
hardly earned food snatched away in some back street by a hungry
ragamuffin before ever it had reached its destination.
All this Theresa knew that she would have to face if they lost all other
means of support. And, moreover, for her was another great danger: to
reach the quarter of the city where the food was doled out, she would be
forced to cross a wide boulevard that was swept from end to end by the
guns of a battery, and each time that she went she would have to take
her life in her hands, as it were.
"But mother must never know that," she said to herself, as she thought
of these things. "She is fearful enough as it is of having me go about
the streets. She must never know that, else she would not enjoy a
moment's peace. Perhaps the good God will save me from it. Perhaps I
shall get work elsewhere. And if I must go--for mother's sake--I must
pray to Him to keep me safe, as so many are kept who have to go day by
day."
Theresa's search after regular employment was not successful. There was
so little doing in the city now, and, with food at famine prices, all
were saving their money, as far as possible, for the bare necessaries of
life. For a few weeks the girl was able to earn just sufficient to
enable them to keep body and soul together, by jobbing about here and
there, turning her hand to any sort of work so long as she might earn a
trifle by it.
But the day came at last when she could no longer find any one to employ
her. Every one told the same tale--it took all they knew to keep the
wolf from the door. Money was scarce; food was scarcer. Larger crowds
were daily going to the places where the rations were doled out. Theresa
made up her mind as she lay in bed one night, that she must go there,
too, on the morrow.
For several days this conviction had been growing upon her; and her
nights had been restless and broken, partly through anxiety and trouble
of mind, partly because she was really in need of more food, having
pinched herself to supply her mother, professing that she got enough to
eat at the houses where she worked--a profession that was by no means
the literal truth.
"Yes, I will go to-morrow," said Theresa to herself. "It is foolish to
be afraid. Others do it, and so must I; and mother must never, never
know how I dread the thought. I will ask the good God to make me brave."
And having thus made up her mind, Theresa turned over and slept more
soundly and peacefully than she had done for many nights before, rising
with a cheerful courage on the morrow.
"Alas, my child!--but if it must be, it must. I would that I could go,
for thou art over-young to bear so much fatigue."
"Nay, mother; it is right for the young to spare the old, and the strong
the weak. I shall be long gone, I fear. There are so many now to serve;
but be not afraid; it will be no more than a day's work, and I will
bring thee the food in the evening."
So, with a smile on her face and a brave and cheerful aspect, she took
her basket and set off, first to get her order and then the much-needed
food.
There was a deal of jostling and pushing and hustling before Theresa
could present her claim; but when she showed how her brother was
fighting in the army, and her father was dead, it was instantly allowed.
"How many are you?" asked the official, in his quick, peremptory tones,
for everything was hurried through as quickly as possible. Without a
thought, Theresa answered:
"Three."
A ticket was thrust into her hands, and she was passed out to make way
for others, and only when she was in the street once more, hastening
along towards the other great building, did she realise that she should
have said, "Two"; for, though they always thought and spoke of Pierre as
one of them, he was not entitled to the rations within the city.
The girl paused and hesitated; but she saw that it would be impossible
to go back. She looked down at the paper in her hand, and a rather
longing gleam came into her eyes.
"I am so hungry; I could well eat two portions," she said; but almost at
once she shook her head with resolute gesture, and spoke out half aloud:
"But no--that would be wrong; that would be like stealing. I know what
we will do. We will set aside Pierre's portion each day, and we will
give it to some poor hungry creature who may not be able to get to the
depôt. There must surely be many such in the city. I will find out one
such, and she or he shall be fed every day, for the order cannot be
changed now. I think that is what the good God would like me to do.
Perhaps it was His will that I made that mistake, His eye looks down and
sees all."
Full of this thought, Theresa hastened on through the streets and
quickly reached that dangerous spot which she had so feared to pass. But
to-day the great guns were silent; there was no peril to be feared; and,
with a happy smile upon her face, she ran across, thinking within her
heart that it seemed almost as though an angel were watching over her
and making her task easy.
Another piece of good fortune befell her, in that a second place had
been recently opened for the distribution of rations, in order to meet
the increasing demand. Theresa heard of this from a woman hurrying away
with her basket, and, instead of pushing into the larger crowd, she
joined the smaller one, and being served far more quickly than she had
thought possible, hurried home with a very light heart.
"It was not half so bad as I thought and feared," cried Theresa, putting
down her basket, and sinking into a chair. "Oh, yes, to be sure, I am
tired; but then what of that? We have food to eat, and a certainty of
more when that is done. And now, my mother, I must tell thee of my plan.
I think thou wilt be pleased that I should carry it out. The good God
has taken such care for us, that I think He would have us take thought
for others."
So Theresa, rising and opening her basket, carefully divided the food
into three portions, and, notwithstanding the fact that she could well
have consumed the double portion, after her long fasting and wearying
day, she set it smilingly aside, and told her mother how it was
"Pierre's dole," and must not be eaten by them, but given to some one in
greater need.
There is sometimes more heroism in an act of such self-sacrifice than in
one of those deeds at which all the world exclaims; but Theresa had no
thought of being brave as she laid her plan before her mother, nor did
the widow praise her daughter. She took the girl's view that the ration
was not theirs, and must be passed on to somebody else.
"And, indeed, my child, we shall not have far to go, for, in truth, I
have begun to fear that those two old ladies up above us in the attic
must be well-nigh starving by this."
"What old ladies?" asked Theresa eagerly, as she set to work with
keen-set appetite upon her own portion.
"Ah, thou hast not seen them, like enough. I hear that the mistress is
called Madame de Berquin, and that she is of very good family; but she
has been ruined by this cruel siege, her house shattered, supplies cut
off, and she knows not where to turn. She and her old servant sought
refuge here a few weeks back, and I think they had money then, for the
servant went forth daily and came back with a basket. I would see her
pass and give her a good day, and she stopped once or twice just to take
breath and speak a few words, which is how I came to know that little
about them; but I have not seen her these last days, and I cannot well
get up the stairs. So thou shalt go, and take with thee some of this hot
coffee and the food. It may be they are in sore need. My heart has been
sad for them before, but what could I do?"
Theresa almost forgot her own hunger in her eagerness to pay this visit;
and, taking in the can some of the fragrant coffee, steaming hot, she
put the rest of the food in the basket and ran lightly upstairs with her
load.
At the door she knocked; the old servant opened it a little way and
looked suspiciously forth. All at once it seemed to Theresa that it
might not be quite easy to get old Madame de Berquin to accept the food
of which she stood in such sore need.
"What do you want?" asked old Jeanne suspiciously.
"I have brought Madame de Berquin's rations," answered Theresa, with a
sudden inspiration. "You know the city is on rations now, and, as we
live in the same house, I thought I might fetch Madame's with ours. It
is not very much, I fear, but----"
The old woman opened the door wider and beckoned Theresa in. Something
in the white, drawn face of the servant went to the girl's heart! her
aspect, and that of the attic itself, bespoke the direst poverty. Madame
de Berquin lay upon the bed; she looked almost like a corpse to the
girl; her eyes dilated with fear.
"She is not dead, but she would soon have died," said the old woman. "I
was praying it might be soon for both of us. She will not let me fetch
the rations; she will not have her name set down for a dole. How did you
get it from her?" and despite the almost wolfish hunger in her eyes, old
Jeanne seemed disposed to push the food away.
"I did not give your name; I did not know it," answered Theresa simply.
"I just got some with ours. They are in a great hurry at the office.
They do not ask many questions."
"Then may the saints and the good God reward you!" cried the old woman,
with a sob in her voice; "for verily I thought to see my dear mistress
perish of want before my eyes!"
Now, however, with Theresa's assistance, she raised the prostrate
figure, and Madame de Berquin revived as the hot, fragrant coffee passed
her lips. They gave her morsels of bread soaked in it. They fed her
gradually, as an infant is fed, until the light began to come back into
her eyes and the grey pallor of her cheeks to change to something more
lifelike.
"I shall come again to-morrow and bring some more," whispered Theresa,
as she slipped away at last; and the look which the old woman gave her
was reward enough.
But all days were not such good ones for Theresa as this one had been.
Sometimes she was in terrible fear as she went her way, for the bullets
seemed to be whizzing in the air about her, and the sounds of fearful
explosions all round made her doubt whether she should escape with her
life. And the long, long waiting in the biting cold, and the perils she
encountered from daring little gamins or ill-conditioned men, made her
daily journey a growing terror to her. But the thought of the crippled
mother and those two patient old women upstairs, all dependent upon her
for the food which kept life in them, nerved her to conquer her fears
and to persevere, in spite of all the dangers she had to face.
Then came the day when her bravery met with an unexpected reward. She
was waiting to cross that terrible boulevard. She had been waiting long,
and still she dared not face the peril. She heard the bullets biting the
stones, and a shell had exploded in the centre of the road just as she
came up. She began to fear that she was losing her nerve, that she was
growing less brave rather than more, when suddenly she was held riveted
to the spot by the sight of a boy, about seven or eight years old,
dressed as a gentleman's child, who came running along gaily, rather as
though he had escaped from restraint, and dashed into the middle of the
broad roadway. Then suddenly he threw up his hands, gave a quick cry,
and fell forward.
[Illustration: Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's
peril.
_Page_ 183.]
Theresa forgot everything in the sight of the child's peril. Dashing
forward, she caught him up in her arms, dropping basket and can and
everything, and staggered across the road with him, just as a pale-faced
gentleman, in semi-military dress, came rushing up in a terrible state
of anxiety and excitement.
"Etienne, Etienne, what hast thou done?"
The little boy had given forth one lusty yell at the sight of blood on
his tunic, but a hasty survey satisfied the father that it was a scratch
rather than a wound the child had received, and the colour began to come
back to his face.
"My brave girl," he said, turning to Theresa, "how can I thank you for
this great service? Do you know that scarcely had you snatched up the
boy and got him away than the ground where he was lying was torn up by
some fragments of a shell? Had he lain there a few seconds longer he
must have perished!"
"Ah, how glad I am I was there just then," said Theresa simply.
"Were you not frightened, my child? Did you not know the peril of
passing that street?"
"Oh, yes; I know. I am rather frightened, but I have to go by every day
to get food. I must be going now, or I shall lose my turn."
"Nay, nay; come back with me, and my wife shall fill the basket to-day,"
answered the gentleman, with a kindly authority that the girl could not
resist; and, as she walked beside him, Etienne, proud of his adventure
and his little hurt, hanging to his father's hand, Theresa found herself
closely questioned as to herself and her circumstances, and heard a
wondering exclamation pass the gentleman's lips as she spoke the name of
Madame de Berquin.
That day saw the end of Theresa's troubles about food; for, from
thenceforward till the close of the siege, General Varade, whose little
son she had saved, made the care of her and her mother and of Madame de
Berquin his especial task. He knew something of the history and family
of the latter, came to see her, and would have moved her into better
quarters had she wished it; but she had grown so fond of Theresa and her
mother that until better days should come she preferred to remain where
she was.
"It is to thy bravery, my child, that we owe all this," she once
remarked; and Theresa, looking quite astonished, answered:
"Oh, Madame, I was never brave. I was always scolding myself for being
such a coward!"
But others when they heard these words smiled.
JANE LANE
Those were anxious days for the adherents of the Stuarts. The late King
had perished upon the scaffold, and his family were in exile in foreign
lands. The iron rule of Cromwell had England in its grip. But anxious
eyes were fixed upon that gallant attempt of the King's son--King
Charles II., as the loyalists already called him--to win back for
himself the kingdom his father had lost, and overset the military
thraldom beneath which the people now groaned.
It was a time of intense suspense and heartbreaking anxiety. It seemed
impossible that the young King, crowned in Scotland, and on his way to
the south, could overthrow those redoubtable troops commanded by their
redoubtable General, the great Oliver Cromwell himself. And yet hope
which springs eternal in the human breast filled the hearts of the
cavaliers with bright anticipations of coming triumph; anticipations
that were changed to dire fears and forebodings when the news of the
result of the Battle of Worcester became known.
At Bentley Hall, in Staffordshire, the loyal family of the Lanes were
following the fortunes of their Prince with the keenest solicitude; and
yet, as family life goes on its way in spite of wars and rumours of
wars, so it befell that Jane, the beautiful unwedded daughter of the
house, was making preparation for a journey to Abbotsleigh, the home of
her married sister, where she had been rather urgently summoned, as Mrs.
Norton was ill, and desired much the companionship of her favourite
sister.
As Abbotsleigh was in Gloucestershire, and as the journey would involve
the passage through the Parliamentary lines and through the disturbed
portion of the country, a pass had been obtained for Jane and her party
from the Parliamentary General.
Colonel Lane had gone himself to see to this matter, and Jane was
awaiting his return in some anxiety. He had not been with the King's
forces on the field of Worcester, though he was very loyal in his
disposition towards him, and was privately working in the royalists'
cause. But it was possible, as his sister knew, that he might be
suspected, and have some difficulty in gaining what he was seeking to
obtain; and she awaited his return with great impatience and some
nervous trepidation.
The sound of horses' feet in the courtyard below brought a flood of
colour to her cheek. She ran to a window, and sought to peer out into
the autumnal evening's gloom, but though she could see little, she heard
the tones of her brother's voice, and at once she rushed to the room of
her mother to announce to her the welcome tidings that the traveller had
returned.
Soon word reached the ladies upstairs that the Colonel had not come
alone. Lord Wilmot had accompanied him, and would remain a few hours,
till his horse was rested, and the ladies made preparation for meeting
him at supper in an hour's time. Lord Wilmot was only slightly known to
them; but they received him courteously, and learned from him a good
many details of the disastrous fight at Worcester, and the hopelessness
of any farther resistance to the Parliamentary leaders.
"But His Majesty is safe, I trust?" questioned the old lady anxiously.
Lord Wilmot made guarded reply:
"His Majesty is with friends, who are forwarding him to the coast where
he must take ship for France once more."
"Pray heaven he fall not into the hands of his foes!" cried Mrs. Lane
earnestly; and the two men breathed a fervent "Amen."
Jane heard that her pass had been obtained, and that was a relief to
her, since she greatly desired to be with her sister. But she observed
that her brother and their guest were somewhat absorbed and anxious in
manner, and she was not surprised, when they rose from table, that her
brother made her a sign that he had somewhat to say to her.
Their father was at this time not very well, and Mrs. Lane excused
herself to her guest, saying that she must go to her husband. They did
not seek to detain her; but the Colonel beckoned to Jane to follow them
into a small parlour, where they would be safe from prying eyes or
listening ears; and after he had kicked the logs into a cheery blaze, he
suddenly faced round upon her, and said:
"Sister, we are about to trust you with a weighty secret. It concerns
the King!"
"The King! Where is he?"
"He has been flying in disguise, this way and that, from the ardent
pursuit of the Parliamentary soldiers. He has had many narrow escapes. A
worthy miller and his sons have done good service by sheltering him;
before that he was at White Ladies. To-night he is at Mosley with our
good friend Mr. Whitegrave. To-morrow night he must come to Bentley!"
"To Bentley!--here?" cried Jane, clasping her hands.
"Ay, here to Bentley; and none must know it but you, fair sister, and I;
and if you ask wherefore comes he here?--I answer you that it is that he
may travel as your groom and servant when you ride forth to
Abbotsleigh. To Bristol, by hook or by crook, he must be smuggled; and
how to pass him through the Parliamentary lines is, indeed, a hard nut
to crack. But see this pass--it makes provision for Mistress Jane Lane,
her servants and friends, the latter being named as you see: our cousin
Robert Lascelles, and Mr. Petre with his wife. But as for servants,
there is no special mention as to them. Sister, you must ride pillion
behind your King, and treat him as your servant!"
Jane's colour came and went, as well it might. She lacked not courage
nor discretion; yet the magnitude of this great responsibility, so
suddenly and strangely thrust upon her, seemed for a moment too great to
contemplate.
"Alas, brother!" she cried, "and if by some folly I should betray my
King to his foes!"
"Nay, think not of such a thing," said Lord Wilmot, speaking for the
first time, "yet think of yourself, fair maiden. Should the thing become
known, it may go something hard with you at the hands of the Governor of
this unhappy realm."
The colour had come back to Jane's fair face. She looked fearlessly into
the eyes of the speaker. "That is nought," she said quietly. "Could any
ask a better fate than to lay down life in such a cause? If I may save
the King, what matters all the rest?"
"That is the answer I looked to have from Jane," spoke the brother; and
so the matter was settled.
It was agreed by all that the secret should be kept from the household.
The sick father and old mother should not be burdened with the
responsibility of the knowledge. Colonel Lane and Lord Wilmot were to
ride to Mosley that same night when the late moon had risen, and upon
the following evening they would return to Bentley, bringing in their
train the new groom, William Jackson, who would be told off the
following day to accompany his sister on her ride to Abbotsleigh.
It may be guessed with what feelings Jane watched for the return of the
party upon the next evening, and how keenly she scrutinised the face and
figure of the new servant riding behind her brother. He had a swarthy
skin and very dark eyes, and a rough head of short hair that gave him
something the look of either a Roundhead or a country bumpkin, and in
his actions he seemed to be ungainly and loutish. Jane's eyes glistened
as she realised that here was a Prince--a King as in her heart she
called him--masquerading under the guise of a clown, and her heart beat
high as she realised that she was to have the honour of assisting in the
next stages of his difficult and perilous escape to the coast.
She had no speech with him that night; she heard her brother hand him
over to the head servants with an injunction that he should be well
cared for, as he was to ride with Mistress Jane upon the morrow. It was
only on that morrow, when she descended to the courtyard dressed for the
saddle, that she was brought face to face with her strange attendant.
Her colour came and went with excitement as their eyes met, and for one
instant she saw an answering gleam in his before they dropped, and he
stood in decorous immobility at the horse's head.
It was a strong animal, as was needed to carry double, though Jane's
light weight was no great burden. The mother herself descended to see
her daughter depart, and to give her many last charges concerning her
sick sister.
She gave a glance at the new serving man, in his sober suit of grey, and
when Colonel Lane made him a sign to assist his mistress to mount, there
was something so odd in his manner, an awkwardness partly assumed,
partly the result of the strangeness of the office, that caused the old
lady to laugh merrily, and say to her son in no very modulated tones:
"Faith, but my daughter has a goodly horseman to ride before her! Where
didst pick up the rogue, my son?"
Jane was covered with confusion at hearing such words spoken; but in the
bustle of the departure of the cavalcade, this was not observed, and
when they were safely out at the gate, Charles spoke in a low and
mirthful tone:
"Be not displeased, fair Mistress; such words as those are sweet to the
ears of a fugitive. It is when men bow before me, and seek in secret to
kiss my hand, that my heart sinks within me. For, however loyal and true
they be, I would sooner they held me for the rogue I personate, than for
their hunted King."
The party proceeded gaily on its way for a while. Lord Wilmot rode
beside them and in advance, his hawk on his wrist, his dogs by his side,
looking like a sportsman enjoying his favourite recreation. Mr.
Lascelles generally rode with him, and Mr. Petre and his wife kept close
together with their own servants. Jane and the King, being well mounted,
sometimes drew ahead, though they were careful not to be far from their
party, till at last the horse they were riding began to drag a little.
He got behind the rest of the company, and at last seemed inclined to
limp.
"Methinks he has lost a shoe," quoth Jane; and Charles, springing to the
ground, found that this was indeed the case. By this time the rest of
the party was considerably in advance; and Jane lighted off the horse
and looked anxiously about her.
"We are not far from the village of Bromsgrove," she said, "and there is
a farrier there who will shoe the nag. But I would one of the servants
were here to take him."
"Here is the servant!" answered Charles, smiling, as he laid his hand
on the bridle, "if you will show the way, sweet Mistress, we will soon
have the horse at the forge door."
[Illustration: "Well, now, I did hear as young Charles Stuart himself
was taken," answered the smith.
_Page 193._]
There was nothing else for it, though Jane shook with apprehension as
they entered the village, and their presence before the forge attracted
the usual small crowd of idlers.
But if the lady were anxious, Charles seemed sufficiently at his ease,
as he held up the horse's foot for the smith to examine.
"What's the news?" asked the King of the man, as the task of shoeing was
nearly accomplished.
"Why, I don't know as there has been any since the beating of those
rascally Scots at Worcester," answered the other.
"Have they taken any of the English rogues that joined with the Scots?"
asked Charles, with his habitual _sang froid_.
"Well, now, I did hear as young Charles Stuart himself was taken,"
answered the smith; "anyhow, they're so sharp on the look-out for him,
that they're main sure he can never leave the country without falling
into their hands."
"If they get that rogue into their hands," quoth Charles, "I reckon
they'd best hang him forthwith; for he's been the cause of all the
trouble, bringing the Scots into the country to fight, just as things
were getting settled and comfortable again."
"Faith, and thou art right; and an honest knave to boot!" said the
smith, as he finished his task. And Charles, after paying for the shoe,
led the horse to the tree where his mistress stood waiting, smiling in
her face as he observed the sudden pallor that had overspread it.
"Oh, my dear lord!" whispered Jane softly, as he swung her more deftly
this time to her seat; but Charles only laughed as he mounted in front.
"Nay, Mistress, but if I get not my little jest out of all my troubles,
I should belike go mad. Let us laugh and be merry while we may. Who
knows what the morrow may bring forth?"
A little farther along the road they found the rest of the party
awaiting them in some anxiety. Lord Wilmot had gone on in advance, not
being one of those for whom Jane's pass was made out; but the others
were waiting for them to come up, and were in much anxiety lest they had
been detained by some evil hap.
They had now to ford the River Avon not far from Stratford, and proposed
to stop for the night at the house of Mr. Tombs at Longmaston; but as
they approached the ford they saw a most unwelcome sight. A troop of
Parliamentary horse-soldiers had made a sort of bivouac on the river's
bank, and were lying about by the ford, whilst their horses grazed and
drank.
"We can never pass them!" cried Mr. Petre in great alarm; and forthwith
turned round with his wife and servants, and sought to persuade the
others to follow him, and find another route; but Charles whispered a
word in Jane's ear, making no effort to follow the faint-hearted Petre;
and Mr. Lascelles remained beside them.
"To fly is the greatest folly," spoke the King. "See, the fellows are
eyeing us already. Let us wave farewells to our good Petre, as if he
were riding a part of the way, and had turned back at the ford. But let
us press on. You have your pass, Mistress Jane. If we want the whole
troop after us all hue and cry--why then let us follow friend Petre!"
There was sound sense in Charles's words. As soon as the other members
of the party showed that they were proceeding on their way, the soldiers
ceased their significant handling of the horses' bridles and saddles,
and only watched the oncoming riders with ordinary attention. Jane's
heart was in her mouth as one of the men, whom she took to be an
officer, rode up and examined the pass she held out towards him. But he
looked only at her and the paper; he spared no glance for the stolid
serving man in front, and the party was permitted to ride on unmolested
and unquestioned.
Jane drew a long breath of relief as she dismounted in the courtyard
after this first day's ride. There was still another night to be passed
before they reached Abbotsleigh; and she did not yet know exactly
whether she might have to accompany the party even farther, in her
capacity of mistress to the serving man. But at least a halt of a few
days was to be made at her sister's house; and she felt as though her
responsibilities would then come in part to an end.
Charles seemed in a merry mood when they rode forth upon the morrow. Of
course she never saw him when once they had called a halt for the night.
He went to the servants' quarters, she to be entertained by the ladies
of the house, her friends; and since the fewer who knew the secret the
better it would be, she could not breathe a word of the matter lying so
heavy on her heart.
But the King beguiled the way by low-toned tales for her amusement,
though they seemed rather terrible to her too.
"I was bidden last night to wind up the jack," said Charles, with a
twinkle in his eye; "and never a notion had I how the thing was done! We
princes are taught a vast number of useless accomplishments; but how
often have I wished these last weeks that I had been taught to cook
viands or mend my clothes! I made such a bungle of it that the virago
came at me with a rolling-pin in her hands. Odds fish! but what a rating
I got! 'What countryman art thou, stupid-head, that thou canst not wind
up a jack?' she cried; and I had to answer: 'I am a poor tenant's son
of Colonel Lane of Staffordshire; and we seldom have roast meat; and
when we do we don't make use of a jack. We put it in the oven.' Was that
well answered, Mistress Jane?"
"Ah, my liege, I cannot bear that you should be thus served and rated!
We should all be seeking your comfort on bended knee."
"Well, well, sweet Mistress, the day may come when the King will have
his own again; but, meantime, let us enjoy a laugh over the fortunes of
fallen royalty. Perhaps it comes not amiss for a prince to learn
sometimes that, after all, he is but common clay!"
That night there was no friendly house to shelter Jane and her party, so
they put up at the Crown Inn at Cirencester; and as there was always
peril in such places of recognition, Charles affected to have an ague
upon him, and retired promptly to bed.
Luckily no one in the inn or the town suspected or recognised the person
of the King, and the next day's ride was without adventure. Just as it
was growing dusk the party rode into the hospitable courtyard at
Abbotsleigh, and Jane found herself being helped from her lofty pillion
by her kindly host and relative.
"I would ask your good offices, dear sir," she said, "on behalf of this
honest fellow, a servant of my brother's, who is suffering somewhat from
the ague, that he may be better lodged and served than his comrades. My
brother has a great affection for him, and gave him especially to me for
this journey. I pray you see that he be well tended."
"It shall be done, fair sister," answered Mr. Norton at once; and
summoning Pope, the butler, he put Charles--or William Jackson, as he
was called--into his charge, telling him he was one of Colonel Lane's
tenants and favourite servants, and must be treated with kindness, as he
was suffering from ague.
Jane's time was naturally taken up with interviews with her sister, who
had just given birth to a little child, who had not lived above an hour
or two, so that the young mother was in sore trouble, and greatly
pleased to have her sister's sympathy and companionship. This personal
sorrow kept her thoughts busy with her own affairs, and she scarce spoke
more than a few words about Jane's journey, whilst the grave face and
rather preoccupied manner of her sister seemed explained by other
causes.
It was not till the evening of the next day that Jane came upon the
King, wandering in the shrubberies of the great garden. There was nobody
near, and the place was so secluded that Jane did not hesitate to pause
and speak with him. After all, even if anybody did see them, there was
nothing very wonderful in her having a few words with one of her own
servants.
"I trust, sire, that here, at least, you are subject to no ill words or
hardships?"
"Nay, fair Mistress, I am but too well lodged and served. For that
honest butler, Pope, who, it seems, was servant once to one of the
gentlemen of my household, Jermyn by name, has recognised me, and will
not be denied but to kiss my hand in private, and himself to wait upon
me in my room. I tell him that a serving man has no need to be served,
but he cannot see the sense of that. I truly think he is staunch to the
core, else I would be uneasy; for there is a great price upon this head.
Yet others have withstood the temptation to betray the secret, and
methinks he will too."
"Oh, I would not fear for Pope," answered Jane eagerly, "he is a good
and faithful servant. I am sorry--and yet I am glad that he should know;
for now you will be served with the best that this house has to offer!"
"But we must have a care," laughed Charles, "there was a fellow sat
beside me in the buttery this morning, who was giving such an excellent
account of the recent battle that I took him for one of Cromwell's
soldiers. But when I asked him he said no, he was in the King's
regiment; and I thought at first he spoke of Colonel King, but he meant
me all the while! So then I asked him what kind of man the King was?
Whereat he replied, with a quick look into my face, that he wasn't
anything like me, for all my swarthy skin; that he was half-a-head
taller for one thing, and forthwith gave so accurate a description of
my dress, and horse, and weapons, that I got frightened at the fellow's
keen eyes, and got me away as soon as I could."
It was nervous work hearing tales like this, albeit Charles would laugh
and make light of them. Too obvious a disguise would have provoked more
suspicion than the one he was adopting, with soldiers and spies
everywhere on the look-out for the fugitive Prince, whom so many already
declared to be the King, and upon whose head so great a reward was
placed.
"I marvel that each one who knows the secret doth not betray it, and
make himself rich for life," quoth the young man many times, as he
recounted his hairbreadth escapes. "What have we done that person after
person, man and woman and gentle maiden"--and he bent his head before
Jane with courtly grace--"should risk so much and lose so much in our
poor service?"
"You are our King, sire," answered Jane simply; and that seemed to be
answer enough.
Two days later Lord Wilmot came to her and asked speech. He had been
hovering about them all the while, and lurking in the neighbourhood of
Abbotsleigh watching and planning. Now he came to Jane, and spoke
freely.
"Mistress," he said, "we still want your help for two more stages of
the journey. Your pass will take us safely as far as Trent House in
Gloucestershire, where dwells Colonel Wyndham, whom I have seen; and who
will not only adventure life and estate in the King's service, but will
gladly lose them both to save him from peril. Once at his house, where
there are some excellent hiding-places, we shall be near enough the
coast to make, I trust, some speedy arrangement for the transit abroad.
But there are soldiers quartered in these parts, and we shall want your
aid for the next stages. Will you give it to us, and be ready to start
upon the morrow early?"
"Willingly, most willingly," answered Jane; "but bethink you, my lord,
what can I say to the people here? My sister is very ill. She was taken
last night with a fever, and now lies in a sorrowful state, and
constantly desires my presence. There are her husband and several
relatives to think of. What will they say if I incontinently depart?
Will not such conduct excite the very suspicion we most desire to
avoid?"
Lord Wilmot at once recognised the difficulty of her position, but his
quick wit suggested the remedy.
"Mistress Jane," he said, "supposing that at supper-time a note should
be brought to you purporting to come from your mother, saying that your
father is taken worse, and that she earnestly desires your return,
would that enable you to leave this house upon the morrow without
comment?"
Jane nodded her head. It was a time when men were put to all sorts of
strange expedients and stratagems. She had grown up in the thick of
them; and knew how gladly all her family would join in the plot that had
the King's welfare for its aim and object, though it was thought best to
keep the matter as far as possible secret.
Her sister was not in peril of her life, and had other relatives with
her. A summons from the aged father would weigh above all else; and when
the soft-footed Pope brought her the letter as she sat at supper, and
she read its contents half aloud, her flitting colour and fluttering
breath seemed to bespeak just that amount of natural emotion a daughter
was likely to feel.
"Bid William Jackson be ready to attend me on the morrow at daybreak,"
she said to Pope; and no one sought to stay or hinder.
So the brave young girl rode forth again with Charles in front as her
servant. With calm courage she passed her little party through the lines
of the Parliamentary soldiers whenever it was necessary; with ready and
dexterous wit, she answered all questions put to her; and on the evening
of the second day from leaving Abbotsleigh, she had the joy of seeing
Charles taken into the house of Colonel Wyndham, where it was thought
he would lie safely hid till a vessel could be chartered to take him
over to France.
"Sweet Mistress, how can I thank you for this good service?" asked
Charles, as she saw him on the following morning for a few brief
moments, ere she started forth for home once more--her task so bravely
accomplished.
"My reward is with me now, knowing your Majesty in present safety," she
answered; "the rest I shall receive when I hear of your safe arrival in
France."
"Nevertheless, sweet Mistress Jane," he said, speaking very earnestly,
"if the happy day should come when I return as King to this realm, where
I have so many brave and loyal friends, I will not forget those who have
aided me in this time of storm and stress and threatened peril!
Farewell; but something tells me that we shall meet again."
They did meet again. For the following year Jane was taken by her
brother to Paris, and quite unexpectedly encountered Charles in some
public place. He saw her instantly, and advancing, hat in hand, towards
her, exclaimed:
"Welcome, my life!"
And since Charles II. has often been charged with ingratitude towards
his friends, let it be said of him here that he showed a different
spirit towards the Lanes upon his restoration to power. He settled upon
Jane one thousand pounds for life, and half that amount upon her
brother the Colonel; also to the girl he gave a beautiful gold watch,
and a portrait of himself set round with pearls, which for generations
(until, in fact, they were mysteriously stolen and never heard of again)
were handed down as a precious family heirloom.
HELEN KOTTENNER
"To be a Queen, and a young Queen, and a widowed Queen in these stormy
times, and in these stormy lands! Ah, Helen, Helen, that is indeed no
light thing!"
"Indeed, madam, I know that it is not. I pray Heaven night and day for
your Majesty, that strength and help may be given you!"
"Thanks, thanks, my faithful Helen. Sometimes I feel I have no one about
me I can fully trust but thee. And oh, I have a load of care upon my
head! I need a faithful and devoted servant, and where can I turn to
find such an one?"
"Must that servant be a man, madam?" asked Helen. The sorrowful Queen
turned her gaze upon the speaker, as though she understood the drift of
the question.
"Ah, Helen, if we women were not such poor weak things!" she sighed,
bowed down by the weight of her troubles. But, after all, woman as she
was, the blood of kings ran in the veins of Elizabeth of Hungary, and
after a long lingering sigh she lifted her head, and the light came into
her eyes.
"Women are not always weak," spoke Helen, with a cautious glance in the
direction of the Queen's maidens at their tapestry work away at the
other end of the great hall. But they were laughing and chattering
amongst themselves, as girls will do, whatever be the century or the
surroundings; and then the eyes of the Queen and her lady met, and
Elizabeth paused and hesitated.
Helen Kottenner was the eldest and most trusted of her attendants, and
was devoted to her and to the little four-year-old daughter, the
Princess Elizabeth, called after her mother. Although little more than a
girl in years, Helen's life had been full of strange experiences and
many sorrows; so that she seemed to the young Queen to be a tower of
strength to her in her hour of perplexity and distress.
It was only a short while ago that her husband, King Albert, had died;
and although the crown had been bestowed upon him in right of his Queen
Elizabeth, yet so soon as she was left a widow, with only a little
daughter, the haughty Magyars, or nobles of Hungary, repudiated the idea
of being ruled over by a woman, and were casting about already to find
some husband for her, whom they could make up their minds to recognise
as King, in place of him who was dead.
"Helen," said the Queen, "thou dost know what the nobles are talking of.
Hast thou heard more than they tell me?"
"I have heard, madam, that a powerful party is in favour of sending an
embassy to King Wladislas of Poland, offering him the crown, together
with the hand of their widowed Queen!"
The young widow started to her feet in uncontrollable emotion, and then
as quickly sank back again.
"I have heard it too; but without my consent, without a word to me! They
talk, and talk, and plot, and seek to settle questions, to dispose of
the crown and a Queen's hand; and never so much as a word to her! 'Tis
infamous!--'tis infamous!"
"That would doubtless come later, madam," said Helen gently; "at present
they are scarce united among themselves."
"Then long may they remain so disunited!" cried the Queen, with energy.
"It is time that I want, Helen,--time!--time! When the child that the
good God is sending me is born, all may be different. I have prayed our
Blessed Lady--ah, how I have prayed!--that she will send me a little son
to reign in his father's stead. Verily I believe that she will hear my
prayer. And shall my boy's birthright be given away before that happy
day comes? Oh, the shame and injustice of it! I will not bear such a
thing to be done. But how can it be stopped? Would it be enough were I
to refuse, strenuously refuse, to have aught to say to such a marriage?"
Helen shook her head somewhat doubtfully.
"Madam, I fear, I greatly fear that it might not suffice. The wedding
might, indeed, be postponed till your Majesty's pleasure. But if the
Magyars once make up their mind, they will bring Wladislas hither and
crown him King with St. Stephen's crown; and once so crowned nothing can
change his right to rule, unless he grossly violate his coronation
oath."
"I know it! I know it!" cried the young Queen, in keen distress; "if
once that sacred circlet be placed upon his head, nothing can avail to
change the thing that has been done!"
Queen and lady looked full into each other's eyes. They both knew that
these words were the truth. In all the kingdom there was nothing so
sacred as that sacred crown. Once let it press the brows of any crowned
Prince, and his right was unchangeable and inalienable.
"You see, madam," continued Helen gently, "that the rule of an infant
would be well-nigh as irksome to the proud Magyars as that of a woman.
It may perchance be this very thing that is causing them to hasten to
some decision. An infant Prince might be a hindrance. A party might
gather--probably would gather--in his favour; and the land would be
distracted by faction, and, it may be, become imperilled from outside
adversaries such as Poland, Bohemia, or even the wily and cruel Turk.
Doubtless those who urge that the King of Poland be crowned King of this
realm too, think they are doing a service to their country, and perhaps
saving her from a bloody war."
"But are the rights of my child thus to be given away, ere we can claim
them for him?" cried the Queen indignantly. "Oh, Helen, Helen, dost thou
think this thing will be?"
"Indeed, madam, I fear it. All are not yet agreed; but every day there
come over fresh adherents to the cause. I trow before long they will
dispatch an embassy. But they will send first to know your Majesty's
pleasure!"
"My pleasure!" repeated the young Queen bitterly. "How much do they
think or care for that?"
"Indeed, madam, they are a wild and turbulent crew; and in very truth an
infant King might have a task he would be little able to perform----"
"Helen, Helen, thou art not counselling me to let this thing be without
protest?"
"Nay, madam, I would not dare to give such counsel. But I would remind
you how the thing will look in the eyes of the fierce and restless
Magyars."
The Queen sighed; her heart was full of bitterness and apprehension. A
weaker woman might have given way to what appeared the inevitable; but
Elizabeth was not a weak woman, and a mother will be brave for the
rights of her children, where she might be willing to cede her own.
It was only a few days before the dreaded news was formally made known
to her. Her nobles requested that she would give her hand in marriage to
the King of Poland, and thus unite the two territories, and give them a
King whom they would be ready to serve.
The young Queen's answer was slightly evasive. She promised to consider
the matter carefully; but since she had been so recently made a widow,
she begged that they would not press another husband upon her too
speedily.
With this reply they had to be content; but it did not stop them from
carrying on the negotiations with the neighbouring Prince on their own
account. They began to arrange at once for an embassy; and the Queen
heard words dropped from time to time that told her how much the matter
was looked upon as an accomplished fact.
"Helen," she cried, in deep excitement, when she had one day dismissed
her other ladies and was alone with her faithful friend, "Helen, you
know what they are already talking of now?"
Helen shook her head in sorrowful acquiescence.
"Alas! madam, they are talking already of bringing him here, and of
crowning him with St. Stephen's crown, and then of awaiting your
pleasure to wed him----"
"Ay, ay, the cowards! They think to force the thing on me! They think
that then I must needs do their pleasure! That, being Queen in my own
right, as truly I am, I must needs wed with him they will crown as King
to save my Royal station! Ah, how down-trodden and helpless are we poor
women! Who will come to our aid? They talk of the days of chivalry! But
where is true chivalry to be found?"
She paced up and down the room in her excitement; and then, suddenly
stopping before Helen, she said in low, deliberate, but very cautious
tones:
"Helen, thou hast said that they will crown him with St. Stephen's
crown. But supposing that that crown could not be found--what then?"
Helen started and looked hastily round her. Her eyes dilated like those
of the Queen, into which she was looking. The two young women stood
opposite to one another, breathing hard, and gazing, as if fascinated,
into each other's faces.
"How if the crown could not be found, Helen?" repeated the Queen, with
bated breath.
"Oh, madam, how could such a thing be?"
Deep silence reigned in the room. The Queen gradually recovered her
self-possession, and taking Helen's arm, walked back to the seat she had
quitted; she was trembling a little, but it was not with fear.
"Helen, I have thought and thought of this thing till it has become
strangely clear in my mind. If we could gain possession of this crown,
and hold it in trust, till we can have it placed upon the head of the
son whom our Blessed Lady will send me--oh, then, good Helen, all might
yet be well."
"But, madam, how can the crown be got at? Do not the nobles guard it as
the apple of the eye? Would it not be certain death if any were found
seeking to gain possession of it, even in the Queen's name?"
"Alas, Helen, it would! Whosoever seeks to do this thing takes his life
in his hand in so doing. And yet--and yet--God has watched over more
perilous undertakings even than this, and has brought them to a happy
end."
Helen looked into the Queen's eyes, and asked: "Madam, is it a task that
a woman may perform? Can Helen Kottenner accomplish this thing for her
Queen?"
The tears rushed to Elizabeth's eyes, as she cried:
"Oh, Helen, Helen, I verily believe that thou couldst do this
thing--with one faithful knight to help thee, if only thou didst dare to
adventure the peril thereof!"
Then the Queen rapidly unfolded her plan. The sacred crown was in the
vaults of the castle of Vissegrad, where the nobles had jealously
conveyed both it and the Queen upon her husband's death. The crown, with
other Royal treasures, was locked in a great iron-bound chest in a
vault beneath the castle, closely guarded by one or another of the
leading nobles of the kingdom. To attempt to reach the vault now, when
the castle was full of people, all more or less engaged in guarding the
Queen's person, was a manifest impossibility, although there was an
entrance to the vault from these very chambers, given over to her and
her maidens. But the nobles wished the Queen to change her place of
abode, and to remove her court to Presburg; and the thought had come to
her that if the crown and other Royal jewels were left behind, as seemed
probable, since no talk of moving them had reached her ears, then she
might make excuse to send back Helen, as though for something left
behind, to the comparatively deserted castle, and trust to her woman's
wit and skill and address to find a way of entering the vault, and
possessing herself of the coveted treasure.
For the Queen was possessed of a signet precisely like to the one with
which the chest was sealed; and she had keys which, it was believed,
might open some of the locks; and, if not, they could make provision
against such difficulties as that. If once Helen could gain possession
of the sacred crown, and carry it away from the power of the nobles, no
King could be set upon the throne of Hungary, and they would be forced
to await the Queen's pleasure. But it was a task before which even the
bravest heart might quail. Those were days when human life was held of
little count, and the fierce custodians of castle or vault would make
short work of any intruder found engaged in such a task as the one
proposed to Helen.
"They will kill you if they catch you, Helen," said the Queen, with a
little catch in her voice; but Helen's mind was now made up. The bold
blood of a soldier race ran in her veins. She was not to be turned from
her purpose by the promptings of fear.
It was absolutely necessary, however, that Helen should have at least
one assistant of the other sex, as the task of filing through locks and
bars would be more than her strength was equal to. The Queen had sought
to win one brave young noble to her service; but the first hint she
dropped of the mission desired from him had so alarmed him that he had
departed forthwith from the castle, leaving the Queen somewhat disturbed
in mind, though she felt confident the young knight would not betray
her.
Now, there was in the castle a young noble of Polish descent, who went
by the name of Pan Vilga. He had always shown a great admiration for the
beautiful Helen; and she believed that in him she would find one ready
to do her behests, and to adventure even life itself where her safety
was involved.
Cautiously she broke the matter to him, and was rewarded in the
confidence she had felt. As soon as he understood the perilous nature of
the task to which she had pledged herself, he took her hand, and
carrying it to his lips vowed to her that he would do everything in his
power to assist her in her dangerous mission; and told her that,
although he was a subject of King Wladislas, yet he regarded it as
nothing short of an outrage upon the Queen that her hand and her crown
should be thus bestowed without her consent. If they could in any way
hinder this conspiracy he would be ready to adventure life itself in the
good cause.
"And more than this, sweet lady. I have in my service a foster-brother,
of my own Christian name of Konrad, a fellow who will follow me
anywhere--and will do my bidding, asking no question, and be as silent
as the grave both then and afterwards. Indeed, he has so strange an
impediment in his speech that I think only I can understand his
mutterings. He is, moreover, a fellow of great size and strength, and
was brought up to the trade of a smith, till he followed my fortunes as
servant. Wherefore, the three of us may well contrive the thing
together; and the Queen may trust us to the death!"
All was now arranged for the journey. The Queen with Helen and the bulk
of the nobles, and the greater part of her ladies, removed themselves to
the castle of Komorn, the little Princess accompanying them. But some
few of the maids of honour were left behind to finish certain
arrangements; and Helen was to return for them in the course of a few
days, and bring them with her to the Queen.
When Helen returned to the lonely and now half-deserted castle, she
travelled by sledge, for the snows still lay deep on the roads, and the
Danube was frozen over. Her companions on the journey were an old woman
and the two faithful Konrads, who had been told off to escort the
remaining Queen's maidens to Komorn.
Meantime, the castle had been well-nigh deserted; and though it,
together with the precious chest in the vault, were in charge of a
sturdy seneschal, yet it so befell that on the day of their arrival this
worthy had fallen ill, and, instead of occupying his usual
sleeping-chamber that guarded the entrance to the vault, he had been
taken by his servants to a more commodious chamber some distance away.
"Sure our Blessed Lady is watching over us!" breathed Helen, when this
thing was known; for the great fear had been that when the conspirators
entered the vault through the door from the Queen's apartments, the
noise they must of necessity make would penetrate to the chamber of the
seneschal, and bring him and his soldiers raging into the vault; and
then, as they knew well, there would be no escape. Instant death might
as likely as not be their fate.
The maidens who occupied the now desolate Royal apartments were
overjoyed to see Helen, and to learn that they were to start forth upon
the morrow. Helen arranged that she and the old woman should occupy the
Queen's room that night, whilst the other maidens took the one
adjoining. It seemed long to her impatience ere they had got their
packings done; and their chatter sounded meaningless as it fell upon her
strained and anxious ears. Pan Vilga came in and out to help and hasten
matters, exchanging gay salutations with the merry girls, but striving
always to hasten proceedings, and warning them to retire early, as they
must be off betimes. Ever and anon he would give Helen a quick look of
sympathy, and once he contrived to whisper as he passed:
"Have a care that we have candles enough and to spare!"
At last the girls had made their preparations and were ready to retire.
The old woman had brought many tapers, as Helen had spoken of keeping a
vigil in the adjoining chapel, and praying for the Queen's health and
safety. This accounted to the old crone for the fact that her lady did
not undress; but she had no mind to share the vigil, and was quickly
snoring loudly in her bed in the corner.
With a beating heart Helen peered through the darkness into the chapel
where Pan Vilga and his servant were awaiting her signal; and together
they crept to the door of the vault, which the seneschal had carefully
sealed up. But Helen was possessed of the Queen's signet, and they could
remake or renew the seals in such a fashion as to defy detection; and
soon the men plunged down into the vault, whilst Helen was left to keep
guard above, and, if possible, give warning of any approach from
without.
It was an eerie task that had been assigned to her. From the vault
beneath she soon began to hear the sounds of file and hammer; and her
heart beat fast and furiously as she listened, so that the echoes of the
whole castle seemed to wake at last into awful life. In terror she
raised herself up from her crouching position, and stepped within the
gloomy chapel. What was that noise at the outer door? She thought she
heard the tread of mailed feet and the sound of approaching voices.
Flinging herself upon her knees before the shrine, Helen besought the
protection of all the saints of the calendar; every moment she looked to
see the door flung open to admit a band of soldiers, and was rehearsing
by what strategic device she could keep them from penetrating farther.
But the moments went by and they did not come; and at last she gathered
courage to go forward and open the door herself, and peer forth into the
darkness beyond.
[Illustration: The men plunged down into the vault.
_Page 218._]
All was silent as the grave; and Helen clasped her hands in an ecstasy
of relief.
"It was a spirit!" she said, as she turned back; "surely it is true what
we have read of the care they take of those who seek their aid. There be
more that are with us than they that be against us. Now I will fear no
more!"
And yet Helen had scarce gone back to her prayers, and to vow herself to
a pious pilgrimage should this thing come to a safe issue, ere her
nerves were all set tingling again by some sound from the room of the
Queen's maidens, to the door of which she instantly rushed.
It was only a girl crying out in her sleep; but as Helen crossed to her
side to soothe her, and caution her against waking the others, it seemed
to her that the room was ringing with the sound of the muffled blows
that were being struck in the vault below. So soon as she was assured
that all were slumbering again, she could contain her anxiety no longer,
but stole down into the vault herself, to find out what was passing
there.
The great chest was open; but the little chest inside containing the
sacred crown still defied their efforts to open it. They dared not carry
it away as it stood; it was too heavy and cumbersome, and would
certainly be recognised.
"We must burn the fastening away from the chest," said Konrad; "shut
all the doors fast, Lady Helen, for it will smell. But 'tis the only
thing to be done. And when we have the holy crown, where can we hide
it?"
"I have thought of that," answered Helen, "I have a place for it when we
have it."
Quickly ascending the steps once more, she shut all the doors behind
her, and again made the round of all the apartments, to make sure that
all was still and silent. Then, being satisfied on this score, she
possessed herself of a very large crimson cushion from the chapel,
carefully unripped a seam, and took out a considerable quantity of the
stuffing which she burnt upon her fire in the stove. This, to be sure,
made an unpleasant smell, but Helen was glad of it, for should any of
the girls awake or the guards of the castle come to inquire what was
being burnt she could point to the wool and hair in the stove, and tell
some story of how she was burning up some old oddments of the Queen's.
Then with her velvet cushion in her arms she stole down to the vault
once more.
There lay the sacred crown that Helen had seen once upon the brow of the
late King Albert! Pan Vilga and his servant were carefully removing all
trace of their work, replacing filed chains and bars and broken padlocks
by new ones brought for the purpose, and renewing all the seals with the
Queen's own signet.
As for Helen, she rushed at the crown and fairly clasped it in her arms,
crying out in her heart: "Ah, my Mistress, my dear, dear Mistress--you
are safe for a time from the menaced peril!" Then, whilst the men
completed their task, and set the vault in order, completely
obliterating the traces of their work, Helen carefully placed the crown
within the ample cushion, arranging the stuffing so as to keep it from
injury, and finally sewing up the ripped seam.
What a journey that was upon the next day; when Helen with her precious
cushion in the sledge behind her travelled back to her Royal Mistress at
the castle of Komorn! A thousand times her heart was in her mouth; for
every time the cushion was touched or moved she could scarce refrain
from crying out; once crown and lady, knight and all were in deadly
danger of perishing in the deep and treacherous Danube, which they had
to cross upon the ice. For the spring was at hand, and the frost was
yielding; and the ice cracked so ominously beneath their horses' feet,
that the terrified driver lashed them into a gallop, and they saw a
chasm yawning behind them as they fled.
But there was commotion and joy in the castle of Kormorn when Helen
entered, carrying with her a big cushion that she declined to entrust to
any servant. For a little son had been born that very day to the Queen;
and she had said that when the Lady Helen returned she was to come
instantly to see her.
Cushion in hand, brave Helen entered the Royal presence, and, going up
to the bedside, saw the Queen with the tiny babe beside her. The light
sprang into her eyes at the sight.
"I have brought my little King his crown," she said; and, sinking on her
knees beside the bed, she told the whole tale to the Queen.
* * * * *
When a few weeks later the little King Wladislas was solemnly anointed
and crowned by the Archbishop of Gran, it was Helen who held the babe in
her arms, whilst the sacred crown of St. Stephen was placed upon his
brow.
MAID LILLYARD
"What!" she cried, the indignant blood leaping to her cheek, "hast thou
taken the Red Cross? Why, shame upon thee! Shame upon thee! Thou art not
worthy the name thou dost bear!"
The young fellow stood before her twisting his bonnet between his hands
in somewhat shamefaced fashion. From the likeness between them it was
plain that they were brother and sister: but there was a courage and
loftiness of purpose in the aspect of the girl which bespoke a higher
nature than that of the stalwart lad, who looked half-afraid to face
her.
"Others have done it before. They are all doing it," he argued. "They
say 'tis the only way of safety now that the English King is so mighty
in wrath, and will win by force what he cannot get by friendship. They
say he will come himself, and carry away our young Queen to England, to
wed her to his son; and that all who seek to withstand him will be
slain."
Lillyard's lip curled; her eyes shot forth fire.
"England's Kings have tried ere this to conquer Bonny Scotland. Let
them come again, and see the welcome they will get!"
"It is all very fine for thee to talk!" grumbled the lad; "thou art a
woman. Thou dost sit at home at ease. It is us men who have to go forth
and take all the hard blows. Thou knowest the fate that has befallen
hundreds of us Border men at the hands of the English. Why should we
suffer it? What care I who gets the best of this quarrel? We are
well-nigh as much English as Scotch. What matters it on which side we
fight? Thou needst not glower like that at me. Others say the same. It
is better to take the Red Cross and serve with Sir Ralph Evers or Sir
Brian Latoun, than to be slaughtered like sheep by their trained bands."
The girl was looking away from him over the smiling landscape. The
expression of her face was one her brother could scarcely read aright.
He cowered a little before it; and yet her voice was quiet enough when
she spoke; quiet and almost dreamy.
"It is better to die a soldier's death on the field of battle, than to
turn a traitor to one's home and country, and sell one's sword to an
alien King!"
"Oh, ay, you talk--you talk!" answered Gregory in a tone of offence;
"women can always talk. But if it came to fighting, then they would sing
to a very different tune!"
The girl's eyes flashed; she turned their light full upon her brother,
who moved uneasily beneath the gaze.
"Then let the men don women's attire and take the distaff and spindle in
their hands!" she cried; "and let us women go forth and fight the foe! I
trow we should make the better soldiers, if thou art a specimen of the
lads of the Border!"
"Go to, for a sharp-tongued shrew!" cried Gregory angrily; "I am none
worse than others. Duncan has taken the Red Cross too. Small peace would
there have been at home had I refused it. And have a care how thou dost
talk to him, Lillyard. He will have thee to the cucking-stool for a
scold, an' thou treat him to such words as thou hast treated me!"
Lillyard's hands dropped to her sides, and her eyes dilated. She had not
perhaps a very exalted opinion of her half-brother, Duncan; but at least
she gave him credit for personal courage.
"Duncan has taken the Red Cross!" she repeated at last. "Art sure of
that, Gregory?"
"I saw it pinned upon his arm myself," answered the big lad; "'twas he
who called me up and bid me do the same. He told me how the English were
mustering, and that there would be another great raid; and that he had
no mind to have his house burned about his ears, and all his crops
carried off, with the cattle and horses, and nothing left us save bare
life, even if we escape with that. And I don't see but what he's in the
right," added the youth defiantly, "for all thy black looks, Maid
Lillyard."
"Duncan taken the Red Cross," breathed the girl softly, as she stood
looking out straight before her with that inscrutable look of hers.
"Then this place is no longer a home for me."
"What meanest thou?" cried Gregory angrily. "Thou dost talk like a silly
wench, not like our wise Lillyard. What other home couldst thou find?
And, as I tell thee, we shall be safe here now; for the English are not
to harry the homestead of any of those who have taken the Red Cross."
She did not seem to hear him. She had turned back into the house and was
putting together a few of her private belongings. Her brother watched
her uneasily, shifting from foot to foot.
"Lillyard, be not so rash. Duncan will never forgive. He will never take
thee back if thou dost go now."
"I shall not ask him," responded Lillyard quietly; and then, looking
fixedly at Gregory, she said half sadly: "I would that thou wouldst come
with me, and tear that badge from off thine arm. Better a thousand times
death than dishonour--if that be the choice."
"Women cannot judge of these things," answered Gregory, with masculine
arrogance of sex. Lillyard gave a little smile, and urged him no more.
The sun was setting over Ancram Moor as the girl stepped forth with her
modest possessions in a bundle. She had no wish to encounter the
half-brother, with whom she and Gregory had made a home ever since their
father's death. He had been a more autocratic ruler at home than ever
the father was. Lillyard did not greatly love him; but she had never
before doubted his personal courage or his loyalty to Scotland's cause.
Those were evil days for the dwellers upon the Border; and it cannot be
wondered at, if many in that region sought to trim their sails to the
favouring breeze of the moment. There had been sufficient admixture of
the two races here to lessen somewhat the passionate loyalty to country
that ruled in more distant parts. When the Scotch ravaged the English
borders, the inhabitants sometimes preferred to make terms with them
than to fight, and to bribe them to retire; and when the English forces
invaded Scotland, burning, plundering, and butchering through the
devastated land, it was scarcely to be wondered at that some willingly
temporised. If it were true that the little Queen was to marry the King
of England's son, and unite the two countries in one, what need to
cherish such strong hatred and angry feeling?
But the war was felt to be unjust and unprovoked, and much irritation
was aroused. Henry VIII. of England had shown his intolerant and
impatient temper in a fashion which brought about the defeat of his
cherished plan. He angered the Scots by his demand to have the little
Queen in his own keeping; and, by his persistence and autocratic
conduct, he drove the adverse party into the arms of France, and caused
a rupture in those very negotiations by which he had set such store.
Even then had he shown moderation and patience, he might still have won
a diplomatic victory, when the proposed scheme had so much to recommend
it; but the haughty monarch had never learned the meaning of that word,
and in his ripening years was losing the self-control which in his
younger days he had sometimes exercised over himself. Upon hearing the
news of the negotiations with France, he had declared instant war, and
had sent two bold knights to start a Border raid, whilst his ships
should convey an army to their aid by way of the Frith of Forth.
All the Border country was in a tumult of alarm. Help was promised them
from the Scottish army; but meantime this terrible raid had been made,
in which above a thousand men had been either slain or made prisoners,
nearly two hundred houses and towers destroyed, and such quantities of
sheep and cattle slaughtered or driven away as to render the area of
country completely desolate.
It was therefore perhaps no great wonder that those of the Border folk
who did not feel very keenly with regard to this war, should gladly
avail themselves of the offer made by the English commanders, and
promise to befriend them and to fight on their side if their persons and
goods might be saved from hurt. Those who made this concession were
decorated with a Red Cross, which they undertook to wear in battle, to
distinguish them, and which they were glad enough to have on at other
times, as it was impossible to know at what moment a band of raiders
might not appear, and how soon it might not be needful to display the
badge of friendship.
But to the high spirit of Lillyard this kind of compromise was odious.
As is sometimes the case in families, she seemed to have inherited
everything that was distinctively and vehemently Scotch. The admixture
of English blood seemed not to have touched her. To think of making such
a compromise with the English was to her mind an act of black treachery.
Perhaps her feelings on this point had been unconsciously strengthened
by her attachment to a young Highlander, whose mother had somewhat
recently come to live in this Border country, where a little property
had unexpectedly come to her.
Young Gordon was a Scotchman to the very marrow of his bones, and his
mother was full of the legends and traditions of the Highland home they
had quitted, to which Lillyard would sit and listen by the hour
together. And so close a bond of sympathy had sprung up between the two,
that when Gordon spoke openly of his love, and begged Lillyard to look
upon herself as his promised bride, his mother was almost as eager as
the son for her consent.
It was natural that Lillyard, in her trouble and dismay, should bend her
steps towards that humble homestead, where the widow, Madge Gordon, had
been settled by her son, ere he went forth to join one of those bands of
soldiers that fought sometimes here, sometimes there, as occasion
demanded, and helped to keep in seething life and activity those terrors
and those enthusiasms of patriotism which were the life and soul of the
struggle.
The old woman looked up with a smile as Lillyard entered her cottage;
but she spoke no word, for something in the girl's face restrained her.
"Duncan and Gregory have ta'en the Red Cross," said Lillyard, in a low,
hard tone.
"The deil fly away with all cowards who would sell their country to the
usurper!" breathed the fierce old woman.
"So I have come to thee, mother," added Lillyard simply.
Madge rose and folded her in her arms.
"Thou hast come to thine own home, lassie," she said. "Alan will be braw
and glad when he comes and finds thee here."
A quick flush mantled Lillyard's cheek. Her troth plight to Alan Gordon
was a very recent thing. She could not think of it without a thrill.
Would he come to the Border country in aid of the struggling Scotch,
writhing beneath the savage raids of the English? Surely the leaders of
the many bands of soldiers, regular and irregular, would fly to the aid
of their brethren when they heard what things were being done! Ah, yes,
she would see her Alan before long! And he would not chide her for
seeking a home with his mother!
"I could not stay," said Lillyard, as the two women sat at their frugal
supper together; "it was like a knife in my heart to see that traitor
badge. I could not stay with those who had taken it. And to be told that
were I a man I should do the same!--that it was easy for women who sat
safe at home to talk of courage and devotion!--that were women called
upon to face the foe like men, in battle array, they would be glad to
save their skins by any chance that offered!" And Lillyard threw back
her head and drew a deep breath of anger and scorn, whilst the eyes of
the old woman flashed in the firelight.
"Said he so--the coward callant! Much does he know of the lot of the
woman, left alone and unprotected in her cabin, whilst lawless hordes of
brutal soldiers harry the land, and slay and outrage! Do we not say,
'Would Heaven I had been born a man, that I might go forth to the
battle? Better a thousand times to die sword in hand upon the
battle-field, than to be butchered in cold blood like the dumb brute
beasts!'"
"Ah, yes, ah, yes!" cried Lillyard, "that is what my heart is always
saying! Would that I might go and strike one blow for my country, though
I laid down my life in the doing of it!"
"Other maids have felt like that, and have done the deed!" cried the old
woman, firing up, as she was wont to do when that subject came to the
front. And almost without prompting on the girl's part, she plunged into
the legends and stories of which she had an endless supply on hand,
telling how women and maidens, and even tender children, had done deeds
of heroism and devotion, had fought beside their fathers, their
brothers, their husbands, and had shamed into courage those who were
growing faint-hearted.
Lillyard's eyes glowed brighter and ever more bright as she listened.
She sprang to her feet at last, and paced the darkening cabin to and fro
with hurried steps.
"What one has done, another may do. Oh, mother, mother, why may not I
fight even as those of whom thou hast sung to-night?"
"Daughter, what wouldst thou?" asked Madge, with glistening eyes. She
was excited, and uplifted by the cadence of her own words.
"Let me go forth and fight. They say that a battle must soon be fought,
and that Ancram Moor is like enough to be the place where the hostile
forces will meet. Alan will be there! I feel in all my being that he is
coming--that he is near! He will fight, and why not I beside him? Let me
but don the kilt and trappings of that young Norman whom thou didst
lose, and I will show to those who scoff at woman's courage, what one
girl can achieve! Let Gregory and Duncan fight against their brethren if
they will; I will strike my blow for the honour of our name! Their
treachery and cowardice shall be atoned by the valour of the sister.
Maid Lillyard will uphold the honour of her father's name, which they
have forgotten and smirched!"
The old woman kindled into enthusiasm as the words were spoken. She had
been born and bred amid the clash of arms, the struggles of petty
chieftains one with another, the perils of war from brother or from
foeman. The blood of a wild race was in her veins, and neither time nor
age had cooled it. She understood the mood which had come upon Lillyard,
as few of her own kin or neighbours would have understood it. She rose
to her feet, laid her hands upon the girl's shoulders, and, after gazing
steadfastly into her eyes for several long seconds, led her into the
inner room, and opened a great chest.
Next day Alan came; he rode in the three hundred horse under dauntless
young Norman Leslie. Gallant and brave, did this band appear in the eyes
of all beholders; and cheering was the news they brought, that Lord
Buccleuch was on his way with all speed to join them; that other
reinforcements had started from various points, and would all converge
here; and that the astute Earl of Angus was narrowly watching the
English, and was advising the Scotch leaders as to their best course of
action in repelling this threatened attack; whilst that he himself would
be with them before the day of battle.
It was splendid news for the loyal Borderers, and some who had taken the
Red Cross in their hour of fear, were ready to tear it off now that they
believed help was at hand. But others, like Duncan and Gregory, were too
cautious to be easily persuaded. They feared to lose their comfortable
homestead, and to suffer at the hands of the English. Moreover, it was
known that the renegades who had taken the Cross and then flung it away,
were the especial mark of English vengeance and cruelty.
Great was the joy of Alan Gordon to find Lillyard beneath his mother's
roof; and eager was the interest with which he heard her tale. No love
had ever been lost between him and the brothers of the maid he loved;
and little recked he that, since they knew whither she had betaken
herself, they had cast her off utterly.
"'Tis all in a piece with their coward treachery!" he cried. "But what
matter, since thou art mine? and when the battle has been fought and
won, we two will wed, sweet Lillyard, and thou shalt never lack a home."
She looked up into her lover's eyes, and smiled; but there was something
in that smile which he did not fully understand.
Busy and stirring were the days that followed, and full of seething
hopes and fears. The forces on both sides were mustering apace, and it
was known that the threatened battle could not be long delayed. Both
sides were eagerly anxious to come to blows.
The day arrived. No cloud dimmed the brightness of the sky. The two
armies were drawn up in battle array; and Alan had but a moment in which
to dash in and kiss his mother and his betrothed.
"A glorious victory will be ours!" he cried, "something in my heart
tells me so! Thou wilt see somewhat of the fight, even from here,
mother. Lillyard, beloved, one more kiss. We shall meet again with
hearts full of gladness!"
She smiled a strange smile as she kissed him farewell, and watched the
tall figure swinging away over the broken ground. The air seemed full of
the blare of trumpets, the stamping of horses, the clangour of steel
trappings. The girl's eyes kindled. She drew her breath in sharp,
excited gasps.
"Now, mother," she said, wheeling round to where the old woman stood,
her gaze resting so earnestly upon her that it might almost have
scorched her by its fiery intensity.
"Thou hast no fear, daughter?"
"I know not the meaning of the word!" cried Lillyard. "My heart is
yonder. Where my heart is, there would my arm be!"
"Then come, child, come. Thou art of the right stuff; and I will never
hold thee back. Go, and may the God of battles be with thee, and give
thee part in the glory of victory!"
A short time later there emerged from that cottage a goodly youth in the
Gordon kilt, and with all the weapons that a Highland lad carries with
him into the battle. The bonnet was set upon a mass of tawny floating
curls, and the great grey eyes were full of fire and light.
[Illustration: She set herself in their ranks, and went charging down
the hill.
_Page 237._]
Lillyard's great beauty was well known throughout the district. "Fair
Maid Lillyard" had been the sobriquet ever since she had been a child.
There was something almost dazzling in her aspect to-day, as she stood
for a moment in the glory of the golden sunshine, and gazed across
towards where the sounds of clashing swords and the booming of guns told
her that the battle was raging; and then, with her light broadsword in
her hand, she made a forward dash, and was soon in full sight of the
fiercely fought fight.
The apparition of this fair girl, who was instantly recognised for her
beauty and peculiarly lofty bearing, dressed as a soldier, and with a
sword in her hand, evoked a yell of enthusiasm and joy from the whole of
the Scotch ranks. It seemed to the men almost as though some angelic
being had come down to their aid.
"Maid Lillyard! Maid Lillyard!" was the shout that went up; and when she
set herself in their ranks, and went charging down the hill to meet the
advance of the enemy, the fury of that charge was something so
tremendous, that the ranks of the English were split into a score of
scattered bodies, each flying back to the main body for safety, whilst
the victorious Scotch pursued them with shouts almost to their own camp.
Who can remember or describe the fierce joy, the fearful peril, the wild
exaltation of hand-to-hand fighting? Lillyard was in the thick of the
most furious onslaughts, on whatever part of the field they took place.
Attached to no company, under no authority, she seemed like a spirit of
the battle, free, and with a charmed life, as she hurried hither and
thither. All men saw her. A hundred voices testified to the prodigies
of valour she performed; but it was only after she had seen the dead
body of Alan Gordon lifted from beneath a pile of English corpses--men
that he had slain--that that Berserker fury fell upon Lillyard, which
has given her name to posterity, and caused the very name of the battle
of Ancram Moor to be more generally known as the battle of Lillyard's
Edge.
Was it her hand which slew the English leader, Evers, who perished on
that field? Many declared it was so; but whether or no this was the
case, there is no manner of doubt that Lillyard's strong right arm and
dauntless heart carried her through the fierce fight, and that she
inflicted her full share of death and wounds upon her country's foes.
As the tide of battle set in favour of the Scotch arms, numbers of those
who had borne the Red Cross, and had fought in the English ranks, tore
off their badges and went boldly over to the other side, seeing now
greater safety there than in the ranks of the alien conqueror.
Of these time-servers were Duncan and Gregory. The latter had little of
the soldier-nature in him, and had kept, as far as possible, out of the
thick of the fight; but when he saw the Scotch arms victorious all over
the field, he eagerly snatched off his badge, and made a dash for his
countrymen. He was hotly pursued by half a dozen enraged English
soldiers, but being fleet of foot, he might have escaped them had he not
caught his foot in what was nothing more nor less than a heap of slain
and wounded, and come heavily to the ground, yelling aloud in his
terror.
Suddenly he was aware of a great tumult close about him. He raised his
head and looked up. What strange vision was it that his eyes rested
upon?
A young lad, as it seemed to him for a moment, had raised himself
partially from the heap of dead and dying on which he lay. He seemed to
be too terribly wounded to stand; and yet, with his swinging sword, he
was keeping at bay the English soldiers who were in pursuit of Gregory;
and there was something so strange and unearthly in his aspect that the
men cried one to another:
"It is no human thing! It is some demon of the battle! I have heard that
a spirit is abroad in the Scotch camp to-day. Let us leave it and be
gone!"
They turned and fled, and the strange fighter, parting the mass of hair,
partly clotted with blood, that hid its face, looked full into Gregory's
eyes, whilst he shrank away, crying out in fear:
"It is Lillyard!--it is Lillyard!--or her wraith!"
She bent her clear, strange gaze upon him steadfastly.
"Not her wraith--yet, Gregory. Lillyard herself." The voice, though
quite steady, was very weak. "It is not always the woman who fears the
stress of the battle. Where wert thou when the fight was raging so
fiercely?"
She looked him over from head to foot, and half-unconsciously glanced
downwards at herself. The contrast was so marked that a glow of shame
flamed in Gregory's face. He cried eagerly:
"I have pulled off my Red Cross, Lillyard. I will fight now beside thee.
Thou shalt show me how to be brave!"
She gave him a long glance; a faint smile flickered over her face; then
her eyes grew dim, and a ghastly pallor overspread her face.
"I shall fight no more," she said, in labouring gasps. "Lay me beside
Alan. The battle-field was our marriage feast. Let our bridal bed be the
quiet graveyard."
With that she fell prone upon the heap of corpses where he had found
her, whence she had risen, though so mortally wounded, to beat off the
pursuing foes who else would have slain her brother.
She and Alan Gordon were laid side by side, and every honour of war was
paid to them.
MARGARET WILSON
It was ill work living in "the killing time"--as it was significantly
called--for those whose consciences would not let them conform to the
laws laid down by Charles II. and his advisers for the regulation of
public worship in Scotland.
Religious toleration was no longer to be permitted. The Episcopal form
of worship was to be made compulsory, and that amongst persons who hated
and abhorred it, looked upon it as something emanating more or less
directly from the Evil One, and who clung all the more closely to their
own barer forms of worship and narrow purity of doctrine for the very
opposition they had to encounter.
The Solemn League and Covenant had been formed for the protection of the
Presbyterian form of worship, and Covenanters was the name given to
those who continued to meet in the forbidden assemblies; and these were
often held in the open air, in some wild and lonely spot, the men
carrying weapons which were piled conveniently for instant use should an
alarm be issued by the scouts set to watch, the women seated nearest to
the preacher, and their horses picketed only a short distance off, so
that flight should be quick and easy if there were danger of
interruption from soldiers in the King's pay.
In those days it was no uncommon thing for houses and families to be
strangely and pitifully split up and divided into hostile camps; but
perhaps there were few instances so strange as that presented by the
Wilson family, of Wigton.
Wilson was a prosperous farmer, a Presbyterian by tradition, though no
theologian; but when the edicts went forth against the existing forms of
worship, and attendance at the parish church was enjoined, both he and
his wife made no trouble about conforming to the new regulations, though
whether this conformity came from liberality of mind or from fear of
consequences cannot now be determined.
But, to their great astonishment and dismay, their two little girls,
Margaret and Agnes, at that time quite children, could not be induced to
accompany their parents to the church. What they had heard against
Episcopal forms in old days seemed to have sunk so deeply into their
hearts and consciences that there was no way of eradicating it; and
great fear fell upon the parents, for the thing became known somewhat
far and wide, and began to excite comment and question.
"Where are the bairns?" asked the farmer, coming in one day, with a look
of anxiety upon his face.
"Nay, I know not," answered his wife. "They did their tasks, and then
they both slipped away. I have not seen them this two hours. Like enough
they have gone across to see Margaret M'Lauchlan. They are for ever
running in and out of her house, say and do what I will!"
"A pestilent woman! Covenanter to the backbone! She will bring herself
and our bairns to ruin if something be not done! Why do you not keep
them at home with you?"
"Why, husband, how can I be in three or four places at once? I give them
their tasks, but they do them with a will, and are gone ere I have time
to turn round."
"Ay, and are off to some Conventicle, I'll be bound. That woman
M'Lauchlan is in the thick of all the Covenanters' secrets; and it's
from her the bairns learn all those notions that will be their ruin one
of these days. The Bible bids children obey their parents, but not a
word will they hear from us! Or, rather, they listen, but will not
heed."
"Alack!--and so said I to them but the other day! and Margaret turned
upon me and answered: ''Ay, mither, children are bidden to obey their
parents in the Lord; but the Lord bids us not to sully our conscience by
doing what is wrong, or bowing the knee to Baal.' They get taught by
those who are good folks enough, but terrible stubborn, and wae's me,
but I can say nought, and so they get the last word every time;" and the
mother shook her head, for in her secret heart she was in far more
sympathy with her bairns than was the father, who was seriously
disturbed and anxious.
"They shall either learn to obey, or they must be sent away out of reach
of that pestilent woman!" he cried, storming up and down. "If they stay
here they will bring themselves to prison and death, and us into, I know
not what trouble! I'll be bound they are off to some preaching now! I
hear there is to be one somewhere hard by. But this shall be the last.
If they will not promise to attend church with us they must be sent
elsewhere. All the town begins to talk of it. Soon it will come to the
magistrate's ears, and then----"
The mother clasped her hands, and the tears started to her eyes.
"They are but bairns; they are not near sixteen yet--not even Margaret.
What could they do to them?"
"They will make them feel the hand of the law; ay, and us too, as thou
wilt plainly see! They talk about sixteen; but have not babes and
sucklings been slaughtered ere this by the ruthless soldiers?"
The mother wept, and the father stormed; but the hours passed on, and
the girls did not return. It was almost dark ere they entered the house;
and upon the fair face of the elder was a strange wrapt expression,
that her mother had noted there many times of late, and which always
filled her with a sense of awe.
She stood quietly beneath the storm of her father's anger; her deep blue
eyes seeming to see away beyond him. Agnes, a slighter dark-eyed child,
shrank away towards her mother, who could not repulse her; but Margaret
was calm and serene.
"Dear father, thou dost not understand," she said very softly at last,
when the storm had well-nigh spent itself; "perchance some day thine
eyes will be opened to see even as we do. But----"
The sentence was not destined to be finished; a breathless messenger
burst into the house, white-faced and wild-eyed. It was a tall lad, well
known to the Wilsons, and his name was Archie Scott.
"The magistrate is coming--fly!--fly!" he cried. "He is coming to seize
Margaret and Agnes. It has been told him how that they never come to
church; and to-day one brought word that they and others have been seen
at a forbidden gathering. The soldiers and officers are already started
forth to make a raid on all suspected houses. The girls must fly!--must
fly at once! I have come to take them to a place where others are hiding
for the moment. They have been preparing for this. They will not be
taken altogether unawares. But there is not a moment to lose!"
The mother had clasped Agnes in her arms, and her tears were streaming
down. The farmer was storming up and down in a tempest of fear and
anger--anger at the girls, at the law, at the barbarity of punishing
mere children--at everything and everybody. Margaret alone was calm; her
countenance had not changed.
"Let them come," she answered quietly, "men can only hurt our bodies.
None can touch our true selves. Why should we be afraid? Why should we
fly?"
But the mother rose and thrust the trembling Agnes into her sister's
arms.
"Save her! save her!" she sobbed. "It is thine example that hath led her
to this. To thee do I look to save her from the peril which now besets
her. If thou hast no thought or care for thine own life, save that of
thy sister!"
Margaret looked down at the little white tearful, and yet courageous,
face of her sister and companion, and the dreamy look passed from her
eyes, whilst her mouth grew resolute.
"Yes, yes," she cried, in a low voice, "they shall not touch Agnes! She
shall be saved. Lead on Archie, lead on! We will follow you to the
hiding place of which you spoke."
The youth was only too ready to obey; his own agitation was great.
Although not himself of the same way of thinking as the Covenanters, he
had the greatest reverence for their firmness and strong faith, and for
Margaret he entertained feelings which, as yet, were scarcely understood
by him, only it somehow seemed as though were he to lose her, life would
be changed for him.
Margaret was but fourteen years of age at this time, and Archie was not
twenty; but the girl had that within her and in her aspect, which made
it impossible to regard her as a child. When stories were told of the
virgin saints and martyrs of old, it was always Margaret's calm, sweet,
young face that rose up before the eyes of the lad, and her resolution
and courage in face of a threatened and fearful danger intensified this
impression.
As he hurried the girls along towards the place which he knew would be a
safe shelter for them and for others, and enable them to join with a
party of fugitives whose arrangements were all made, he strove to change
the purpose of Margaret, and to seek to win her promise to conform to
the laws of the land.
But she shook her head, and the glow in her eyes made them shine like
stars in the dusk.
"Nay, Archie, thou must not seek to turn me from the straight and narrow
way, even though it be a thorny one to tread! I ask not of thee to
follow it. If thou canst serve God and the King too, with a free heart
and conscience, then thank God for it, and dwell in peace and safety!
For myself I cannot. The Spirit hath shown me a more excellent way, and
I needs must follow at all cost. What are the trials and troubles and
sufferings of this present life when an eternity of glory lies beyond?
'To him that overcometh will I give----'"
She did not finish the sentence; her mind seemed to travel too swiftly
for words. Archie looked at her; and Agnes raised her white,
tear-stained face, and both felt that they were looking upon the face of
an angel.
* * * * *
The King was dead! The news had reached the north; and for a brief
moment the hand of the law was stayed. Persecution of Covenanters was
temporarily abandoned till the mind of the new monarch should be known.
There were those who shrewdly suspected that where Charles had chastised
with whips, James would chastise with scorpions; but for the moment the
country breathed again, and many hunted exiles and wanderers crept back
to their former homes, to visit their friends and see how they fared,
even if they did not mean to remain long.
Archie Scott was returning home from his work one evening, when he met
an acquaintance of his, a man for whom he entertained a feeling of deep
dislike and distrust, one Patrick Stuart, who seemed always remarkably
well informed as to what was in the wind, and to trim his sails
accordingly.
"Have ye seen them?" he asked of Archie, with a look of mystery on his
sly face.
"Seen whom, man?" asked the other impatiently.
"Why, those two girls of the Wilsons, who went into hiding four years
back--just escaping by the skin of their teeth! I saw the pair of them
not an hour since, down there with old Margaret M'Lauchlan! I peeped in
at the window, and saw them plain. A rare, fine girl Margaret has grown
too--such hair--such eyes! But she needn't think that her beauty will
save her, once the bloodhounds get on her track!" and an evil light
sprang into the man's shifty eyes, whilst Archie felt his fingers
tingling to be at his throat!
Patrick passed on, and the other looked after him; his heart was beating
high with excitement and a strange foreboding. He almost followed the
retreating figure, yet he knew not what to say. He had a premonition
that Patrick meant ill in some way, but he had nothing on which to base
his suspicions. And his heart felt suddenly hungry for Margaret. He
turned his back on the vanishing figure, and strode rapidly away towards
the lonely little house on the outskirts of the town where the old woman
lived.
The girl met him with the same calm sweetness of aspect. She had a
sister-like greeting for him; but he could scarcely stammer out the
words of welcome and greeting that he had been rehearsing so eloquently
all the while. There was something in her beauty, her purity of
expression, her deep dreamy eyes and steadfast glance that stirred his
heart to its depths, and yet left him tongue-tied before her.
She asked him if he thought their parents would receive them, and could
do so without peril to themselves. Archie replied that when their flight
four years ago had been discovered, the officers had forbidden the
parents upon pain of death ever to shelter or hold any communication
with their children again, and had, moreover, warned them that they must
instantly lodge information with the authorities, should they ever
discover their whereabouts.
"Poor mother!" said Margaret gently, when she heard these words. "How
she must have suffered! Now I understand why we never had news from her!
She was afraid of learning where we might be. Yet I would fain look upon
her face again!"
"Have a care, Margaret--have a care!" cried Archie entreatingly, "the
laws are yet unrepealed. There is nothing changed, and this breathing
space may not last long."
"I will not run into needless peril," answered Margaret; "yet why should
I so greatly fear? Is not God strong enough to protect His own, if it be
His will?--but if He desire to prove our love by something endured for
Him, shall we shrink back in the hour of temptation?"
When Archie came again the next evening, Margaret was not in the
cottage, and Agnes's face wore a frightened look.
"Archie, I am glad thou hast come! I have been so unhappy. Patrick
Stuart has been here. Tell me, is he one that we may safely trust? He
spoke like one full of sympathy with us and our sufferings and
wanderings; but at the last he pledged Margaret, and bid her drink to
the new King's health. When she would not, there crept an evil and
crafty look into his eyes. I have been so frightened since!"
Archie was frightened too, and asked where Margaret was.
"She has slipped out to take one look at mother and the old home, and,
perchance, to get speech of mother too. Old Margaret was to go and
whisper something to her, and perhaps--perhaps; but they would not let
me go; and something seems to tell me that danger is near. Oh, I wish
Margaret had not gone away! I am never frightened when I am with her;
but alone I am."
Archie was frightened himself. He felt perfectly certain that Patrick
had set a trap for the girls, and that already he might be on his way to
warn the authorities.
"Agnes," he said, "I would you had never come back. I would that you
would fly the place again. Ye are too well known here. Anywhere else
would be safer. I will remain with you till Margaret gets back; I will
tell her my fears. Then I would beg her to lose no time, but to fly this
very night to some place of greater safety."
But, alas!--already it was too late. Soon their straining ears caught
the sound of measured tramping. Agnes gave a faint cry, Archie sprang to
the door, and an oath leapt to his lips.
"They have got Margaret, and the old woman too! God in heaven have
mercy!--they are coming hither for thee, Agnes. Fly!--fly by yonder door
into the coppice behind! I will detain them by any story I can invent.
Fly ere it be too late!"
But the news of her sister's capture seemed suddenly to brace the nerves
of the younger girl. She darted out of the open door and flung herself
upon Margaret's neck--Margaret, who was being led along by the officers,
her hands bound behind her, though upon her beautiful face there was an
expression of almost ecstatic exaltation of spirit.
"Here is the third of them!" cried the men, as Agnes appeared; and,
ignoring Archie's indignant reproaches of cowardice and cruelty, they
bound her hands, and set her beside her sister, and drove them on
towards the Gaol of Wigton, as men drive cattle into market.
"Margaret! Margaret!" cried Archie, in an agony; but she turned and gave
him one of her deep spiritual glances.
"Pray for us, Archie, that our faith fail not; and remember that we are
bidden not to fear those who can hurt the body alone, but only him who
can destroy the soul. Fare you well!"
When next Archie saw again the fair face of Margaret Wilson, it was
when, after a very harsh and cruel captivity, that had left traces upon
her body, though none upon her courageous spirit, she was brought,
together with Agnes and the old woman, M'Lauchlan, before the
magistrates to answer to the charges laid against her and them.
They had refused attendance at church, it was alleged, had attended
forbidden meetings, had been amongst the rebels at the battle of
Bothwell Bridge; and the old woman had harboured fugitive Covenanters.
A faint smile played over Margaret's face as she heard some of the
indictment. She had been twelve years old and Agnes eight at the time of
the battle. They had been staying with relatives in the vicinity at that
date; but to be accounted as rebels!
For the rest she had nothing to say. She received instruction from those
who preached the pure word of God, and had followed the example of the
Lord, who, when threatened in one place, had quitted it for another, and
had addressed His followers in the open air or in secret assemblies, as
His followers of all centuries had been forced at times to do.
But there was no mercy in the faces of the men who sat in judgment, and
in whose hands were such terrible powers. The three women were
pronounced guilty, and were sentenced to death. And this was the doom
allotted to them: "To be tied to stakes fixed within the floodmark in
the water of Blednoch, near Wigton, where the sea flows at high water,
there to be drowned."
Margaret heard these words with a strange smile upon her lips, and a
great light came into her eyes. She stood for a moment as one who has a
vision of some unspeakable glory, vouchsafed to no eyes but her own. In
the dead hush of the court all glances were bent upon her, and suddenly
a storm of sobbing arose from the women present.
Margaret started from her dream, and looked round at the faces, some of
which had been familiar to her from childhood. Her lips moved, as though
she would have spoken; but she was hurried away to the rigors of prison;
whilst the whole town was thrown into a ferment of indignation and
distress, though none dared to raise a protest.
No fear was in Margaret's heart as those bright days of May sped by; and
she upheld the courage of her sister by her own tenderness and strength.
But the poor old woman, alone and broken in spirit, was induced to
promise that if her life were spared, she would abjure the principles of
the Covenant and attend the parish church in future.
When Margaret was told this, and that, if she would join in a similar
promise, her submission together with the strenuous efforts being made
by her father and friends, might avail to save her life, her face took a
grave and almost stern expression.
"Get thee behind me, Satan!" she exclaimed; and, clasping Agnes to her
breast, she cried: "My sister and I will lay down our lives for the
truth; but we will never, never consent to live by and for a lie!"
"Then your blood be upon your own heads!" cried the angry officer, as he
banged the door behind him.
The morning of the appointed day arrived. The sisters were calm and
strong in their resolution. Suddenly the door of their prison opened.
Was it the men come to lead them to the stakes in the stream? Agnes gave
a little cry of joy and amaze as she saw the white, worn face of her
father.
"My child! my child!" he cried, clasping her in his arms. His emotion
was so great that for a moment he could not speak. It was Archie Scott,
with a face as white as death, who came and stood before Margaret.
"Agnes is saved," he said hoarsely; "she is not yet sixteen. She is to
be released and set in her father's charge. And the Privy Council in
Edinburgh, on receiving old Margaret's submission and the memorial sent
by Wigton, promised a postponement of the sentence till the King's mind
could be known. But the magistrates will not listen. They will hear
nothing; they will go on their own way. Thou art to die to-day,
Margaret; and I know not how to bear it!"
She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was full of joy.
"Nay, if Agnes be spared, my prayers have indeed found their answer. For
myself--Archie, Archie, do not look so--I have long thought that to
depart and be with Christ is far better; where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest."
There was joy and peace in the girl's face as she was led forth from her
prison, and old Margaret, too, repenting her former weakness, held her
head high, and spoke with courage and resolution to her friends who had
assembled to see the mournful procession pass by. All Wigton had come
forth to see the martyrs go to their death; and Archie Scott walked near
to Margaret, and kept his eyes fixed upon her face, as though to seek to
learn something of her spirit.
"Thou wilt be a brother to my sweet Agnes and comfort her," said
Margaret to him once. "I trow she will be loyal and true to her faith,
even though she may be forced to some outward compliance. The Lord will
not judge her harshly!"
It seems sad that such noble and courageous souls as those that
animated the martyrs of the Covenant should regard it as a possible
offence against God to attend a service to His honour and glory, and by
consecrated servants set aside for His service. Perhaps as Margaret
Wilson stood in the midst of the waters, bound to her stake, watching
the rise of the flood which must soon overwhelm her--perhaps something
of the wider and grander aspects of the One Church--Holy and
Catholic--with the Lord for her Head was vouchsafed in vision to her
spirit. For, suddenly, as she saw the last struggles of the aged woman
who was tied on somewhat lower ground, and knew that a few minutes more
would see the end of her own young life, she first broke into words of
psalm and holy writ, and then suddenly exclaimed:
"The King! the King! the poor misguided King! May God bless and pardon
him and open his eyes!"
"She recants! she recants!" cried a multitude of voices from the
bank--the voices of those who believed that in this prayer for the
monarch Margaret was making a recantation of faith.
"Bring her out! bring her out!" shouted the crowd, in frenzy; and the
magistrates, not daring to withstand this public clamour, gave orders
for Margaret to be loosed and carried ashore.
"Will you retract your errors, foolish girl, and renounce the Covenant?"
they asked when, astonished, but calm and steadfast as ever, she was
brought to them.
"I will not!" she answered, with quiet steadfastness. "As I have lived
so let me die! I have nothing to recant. I am Christ's--let me go to
Him."
"Throw her into the water, for a pestilent Covenanter" cried the
magistrates; and in another moment the deep swirling waters closed over
the slight heroic frame of Margaret Wilson. Another Christian martyr had
gone fearlessly to her death.
AGOSTINA OF ZARAGOZA
The beautiful young Countess Burita was the first to set the example of
heroism and humanity.
Cowering behind their insufficient walls, and hearing the terrible roar
and crash of artillery about them, seeing the French take up a firm
position on the Torrero, from whence they could shell the devoted city
of Zaragoza at their ease, what wonder that the Spaniards--the women and
children at any rate--shrank in terror from the thought of a protracted
siege, and cried aloud that nothing could save them?
But the old fighting spirit of the past was arousing and awakening in
the souls of the men. The tyrannical temper of Napoleon, and his
aggressive disposition of the Spanish crown to his own brother, had
inflamed the ire of the Spaniards from the nobles to the peasants; and,
though a long period of misgovernment had weakened the country,
destroyed the vigour of the nation, and rendered the soldiers of little
use in the open field, yet it had not killed the old stubborn fighting
spirit within them, and when their passions were aroused, the flames had
still the power to spring forth from the ashes of the past, and there
were moments when all the old chivalry of former ages seemed to awake
within them.
It was this spirit that animated the defenders of Zaragoza when Aragon
revolted against the rule of the French, and they resolved at least to
hold the ancient capital against the foe.
Hopeless the task seemed; for the defences were of the most meagre
description; the only strong part of the wall being the ancient Roman
portion, the high brick houses within having no shelter or means of
defence from the shells and bombs that came screaming and rattling over
them.
But there were heroic spirits within those frail walls, and one of the
first to show an example of high-hearted bravery was the beautiful young
Countess. Whilst her husband gave what aid he could to the military
defenders of the city, she organised her band of women and girls for the
work which was only a little less urgent.
She ordered them to get together from the houses those awnings which
defended the rooms from the fierce heat of the sun, and under her
skilful direction these were sewn into huge bags that were filled with
sand and earth and used with great advantage to stay the effects of shot
and shell continually bursting over them.
The houses actually built upon the walls were pulled down, and all the
beams were employed in strengthening the defences in other parts,
barricading exposed windows, and making covered ways along the streets
where the townsfolk could walk in comparative safety, despite the rain
of bullets dropping round them.
But these things were not done without terrible scenes in the streets,
brave men falling at their posts, horrible explosions tearing up the
ground and scattering destruction all around.
Small wonder was it, if at first the hearts of the women had failed
them, and they had been ready to give way to a sense of despair. But
quickly they rallied their courage, and the spirit of their ancestors
entered into them. Although there were so few soldiers in the town--only
between two and three hundred in the garrison--yet the townsmen offered
their services and banded themselves together for the defence of their
ancient city, and after the first panic had subsided, the women were
eager to render every assistance that lay in their power, some even
offering to serve in the ranks like men, if they could be taken on in
that capacity.
There was, however, one way in which they could serve the men almost as
well as by fighting beside them, and that was in bringing them food and
water when they were mounted on the walls at their perilous posts.
This was rather a fearful task. The shells rushed screaming through the
air from the height above, where the enemy's batteries were placed, and
none knew where the deadly missile might explode. Bullets rained about
the gallant defenders at their guns. It was like walking into the very
mouth of hell, as many a woman shudderingly observed; and yet there were
always volunteers for this perilous task. The noble Countess was the
leader in every difficult enterprise, and she organised a devoted band
who should carry on the work with order and system, avoiding needless
exposure, but gallantly prosecuting the necessary and most perilous
office.
Amongst the most ardent and devoted of this band of women and girls the
Countess noted one very beautiful, strongly built, dark-eyed maiden, who
seemed endowed with strength and courage beyond that of her compatriots.
Wherever the fire was fiercest and hottest, wherever the strife was
direst and most deadly, there this girl was sure to be seen, waiting
with her water-cans to make a dash towards the thirsty, smoke-begrimed
soldiers, when a moment's respite allowed them to step back for the
sorely needed drink. For the fierce heat of June was in the air, and the
sunshine lay blinding upon the hot walls and ramparts, save where it was
blotted out by the smoke wreaths from cannon and musket.
But there was one particular corner upon the old wall where the fight
was often fiercely raging, and where this girl seemed oftenest to
linger, and the Countess, observing her with more and more attention as
the dire siege went forward, took the opportunity one day, when there
was a little lull in the firing, to speak to her and ask her of herself.
"I am called Agostina," answered the girl, "and it is my father who
serves yonder gun. He has the post of the greatest danger. I dare not
tear myself away. Every day I fear to see him fall. Many have fallen at
his side, but the blessed Mother of God and the holy saints have watched
over him, and he has not as yet received so much as a scratch. Alas! if
he should be taken, what will become of the little ones at home?" And
over the girl's handsome, resolute face there swept an expression of
pain and anguish that was sorrowful to see.
The Countess walked beside her to the spot where her father stood beside
his gun, taking this moment of lull to clean it well, for often it
became so hot that he was afraid it would burst. His dark, smoke-grimed
face, handsome like Agostina's in spite of its black veil, brightened at
her approach, and on seeing the lovely, high-born lady, he doffed his
cap with the instinctive grace and courtesy that the humble Spaniard has
never lost.
Agostina handed him the water-can, from which he took a deep, refreshing
draught, sighing with satisfaction as he handed it back to the girl. The
lady regarded the pair, and thought they looked more like husband and
wife than father and daughter. He seemed not old enough for her father,
though there was such a bond of affection and familiarity between them.
"Take it yonder to Ruy Gomez," said the man, pointing towards a
fellow-gunner a little distance off. "He is parched with thirst, and has
one of the hottest places on the wall."
Agostina moved forward towards the man--she knew the names of all the
gunners in this corner of the fortifications--and the Countess remained
and entered into conversation with the father.
"You have a good daughter, my brave fellow. I have watched her these
many days amongst the rest. She seems to know not fear--not for herself;
though she spoke but now as though she lived in daily and hourly fear
for her father's life!"
"Ah, poor child, poor child! It would be a sad thing for her were I to
be taken. You see there are the little ones at home; she is like a
mother to them, and to her it would be like being left a widow were I to
fall."
"You have other children too, then? Yet Agostina is always alone in her
tasks."
"Ah, yes; the others are too little, too tender. You see it was so: I
married almost as a boy, I was little more when Agostina was born, and
my wife died in giving her life. She grew up my comrade and plaything.
I soon ceased to regret she was not a boy. She was as brave, as hardy,
as skilful at games and exercises, as free from fear, as bold to brave
toil and fatigue. Ah, I should weary you, Señora, were I to try and tell
you of Agostina's childhood and youth! We have been more like brother
and sister, comrades, lovers, than father and daughter; and yet, with
all that, no daughter was ever more dutiful and loving and obedient than
my Agostina!"
The man's face had kindled into a great enthusiasm as he talked of his
beautiful daughter; that she was the very apple of his eye none could
doubt who heard him speak. The lady almost marvelled that he had taken
to himself another wife, but in his own simple fashion he explained the
matter.
"It was the year when that great sickness came. I was smitten down with
it, and Agostina nursed me back to health. Indeed, I was never very ill;
my life was not in danger, but she almost broke her heart in fear lest
she might lose me; and when I was well she was taken, and lay for long
at the very gates of death. And I, what could I do? A man is a helpless
creature in such times; and many of the neighbours fled from us. But
there was one who came to us in our troubles, a gentle creature who had
lost father and mother in the sickness. She had always loved Agostina,
and Agostina had loved her. She came and watched beside her day and
night. She brought her back to health and strength. She was quite alone
in the world; she had no one to look to; and so I married her, and
Agostina was like a sister and a daughter in one."
"And is she living yet within the city?"
"Alas, no! She was taken to her rest last year; and at home are the
three little ones, to whom Agostina is more mother than sister. A
neighbour takes care of them now, for Agostina must do her duty with the
brave daughters of the city. You, gentle lady, have taught them this. I
thank the saints and our Blessed Lady that my Agostina has been one to
answer to the call of duty. She has a heart of gold."
"I have seen it," answered the Countess; "a heart of gold and arms of
steel. I have watched her often with wonder and envy. She has the
strength of a strong man in that light frame of hers!"
"Has she not!" answered the proud father, his eyes shining; "and not
only has she strength, but she has skill and dauntless courage. She can
fire this gun as well as I can myself. She has stood at my side many
times helping me to load and fire it. When I have been blinded by smoke
and lack of sleep, she has crept up to me and whispered in the confusion
and din, 'Let me take a turn for you, father, I can do it as well as
you. Sit down a moment and breathe. I will serve the gun.' Ay, and she
has done it, too--my brave little Agostina."
The man's pride in his daughter was almost as touching as her devotion
to him. After that day the Countess watched Agostina with affectionate
interest; and, indeed, others began to note her too; for in the many
fearful casualties that befell the besieged, the explosion of the powder
magazine, the firing of the convent, which had been turned into a
hospital for sick and wounded, Agostina was ever foremost in the work of
rescue, animating by her courage and example even the most
faint-hearted, and performing miraculous feats of strength and courage
and devotion.
In a city and at a time when all were heroines, Agostina began to be
pointed out as the heroine of the siege; but she neither knew nor
heeded. All she thought of was the safety of her father and the saving
of her city. A passionate patriotism burned within her; she could face
any personal peril if only the holy saints would grant them victory over
their foes!
The gate near which her father served his gun was called the Portillo;
and fearful was the fighting that raged round that spot one
never-to-be-forgotten day of this memorable siege. The whole place
seemed to shake and rock with the explosions of shells from the Torrero;
fires were bursting out in many parts of the city. The sand-bags heaped
up in defence of wall and building were igniting and dropping away. And
around this special corner the fire was so fierce and furious that it
seemed as though every living creature must be swept away, leaving the
French a clear passage into the devoted town.
Indeed, so terrible was the bombardment here that the devoted band of
women, ready with water-cans and fresh sand-bags to rush forward to aid
their fathers and brothers, were for once driven back, and forced away
by the smoke and heat and thick rain of bullets. Agostina stood her
ground alone, peering into the smoke with anguished eyes; standing amid
the leaden hail as though she bore a charmed life; wringing her hands
together sometimes, when a cry or a groan seemed to bespeak the fact
that another bullet had done its fatal work.
At last she could stand it no longer. With a cry like that of a wild
creature in fury and distress, she leaped through the smoke and reek to
the very wall itself; and what did her eyes see then? What sight was it
that caused every drop of blood to ebb from her face, whilst the fire
seemed to flash from her eyes and reflect back the sullen glow from the
Torrero?
Every man amongst the besieged had fallen! Heaps of dead and dying lay
at her feet. Her father--where was he? A cry of anguish broke from her
as she stopped to look. From amid the heap at her feet a head was
raised--a head and a hand--a hand holding a match.
"Agostina--fire--the gun."
It was his last word ere his head fell back in death. But the girl had
heard, and every nerve in her body tingled in response to that dying
appeal.
Through the lessening smoke wreaths she saw an appalling sight--she saw
the rapid approach of the French towards the now undefended gate. It
rested with Agostina alone whether or not they should win an entrance
into the city.
With steady hand she adjusted the great gun that she had fired so often
before. With perfect coolness and dexterity she applied her match. There
was a crash, a roar, followed by the shrieks of wounded men, the oaths
of their comrades. The French had believed the guns silenced; they had
believed themselves secure of victory; and now their ranks were torn and
mown by a well-aimed twenty-six-pounder. The officer in charge called a
halt. The city was not as defenceless as they had thought.
Within the walls there was the sound of hurrying feet, as the Commander,
with some troops, came hastening to the rescue. It had been told him
how fearful was the peril here. Word had been brought that all the guns
were silent now, and he knew but too well what that meant. Hastening to
the spot in anxious fear, he had heard the booming roar of a city gun,
had heard the cry of the advancing French; and now he pressed forward to
the spot to find a girl seated upon the gun, which was still smoking,
waving her arms above her head, and crying:
"Death or victory! Death or victory! Father, I accept your dying charge.
I leave not your gun again till Zaragoza be saved! I claim it as my
due!"
The next moment Agostina had sprung to her feet, for she was no longer
alone with the dying and the dead. The Commander himself, Don José
Palafox, a nobleman, who in this emergency had come forward and placed
himself at the head of the troops of the garrison in the besieged city,
was standing beside her, regarding her steadfastly; and, though
perfectly fearless in the moment of danger, Agostina felt abashed before
his fixed gaze, and dropped her eyes.
"Maiden," he asked gently, "whose hand was it fired that last shot,
after the guns had long been silent?"
A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet, and he pointed
his finger at Agostina.
[Illustration: A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet.
_Page 270._]
"It was she who did it, Señor; she is the daughter of one of those who
lie dead beneath your feet. He had fallen. We had all fallen. Help did
not come, but the foe was coming. We could hear the tramp of their
approaching feet. Then Agostina was in our midst. Her father's last
charge was given, 'fire the gun.' She obeyed. She checked the oncoming
tide. She routed the advancing foe. Agostina did that."
But Agostina had not stayed to hear her praises sung; she was on her
knees beside a mangled form. The tears were raining from her eyes. She
was no longer the heroine of the gun. She was a daughter weeping for the
loss of a loved and loving father.
"They loved each other so well--so well," murmured the wounded man, as
his head sank back. "Poor Agostina!"
Don José would have said more to Agostina, but his kind heart told him
that the moment was not yet come; and he merely ordered his men to lift
up the body of the dead gunner, and to give it decent burial in any spot
that Agostina should direct. It was some salve to her great grief that
her father should lie in consecrated ground. So many heaps of slain had
to be buried where they fell. The besieged had not time or strength to
carry them away.
The following day Don José, making his rounds and instituting a more
detailed survey of the wall which had been indeed terribly shaken and
shattered by the firing of yesterday, was surprised to find Agostina
hard at work cleaning the gun which had been her father's up till now,
and to which, as yet, no fresh gunner had been appointed, for, indeed,
the Commander was getting very short of men with skill enough to take
charge of the guns. He stood for a few seconds watching her attentively;
and when after loading the piece with the precision and skill which
showed a thorough understanding of the task in hand, she raised her sad
eyes, she coloured very slightly, and saluted exactly as a soldier would
have done at sight of his commanding officer.
Don José returned the salute, and came up to the girl's side.
"I have been hearing of you, my brave child," he said. "What can I do
for you in return for what you did yesterday for this city?"
"Señor," she replied, "I have but one boon to crave. Give me my father's
place here at this gun. Let me serve it as he served it, so long as the
siege lasts. He has taught me how. You shall not find me remiss. I think
I am not unskilful. Yesterday, in the presence of the dead, I vowed a
vow--I vowed not to leave my post here till the French should retreat
from Zaragoza. Let me but keep that vow. Give me here the right to hold
my father's place, the right to draw his pay, and that portion of food
for the helpless babes at home that every soldier's family may claim. I
ask nothing else!" She spoke very simply; there was no thought in her
heart of playing the hero's part. She asked bread for the children, and
the right to earn it for them. If deep down in her heart the fire of
patriotism was burning fiercely, she never thought of posing as a
heroine sacrificing herself for her country. No, hers was a simple
nature. She loved her father with passionate devotion. She longed to
accomplish the work which had been his. She yearned after the little
helpless children, and felt she must earn for them the necessities of
life. Provisions were beginning to run short. Rations were provided for
the soldiers and their families; but the citizens were face to face with
a scarcity that might become actual famine ere long. The little ones
must not starve; such had been Agostina's leading thought. She would win
for them their daily bread. She had been a mother to them for long; now
she would be a father too.
Don José's face was gravely tender as he replied:
"My child, your petition is granted. No more noble or courageous
custodian of that gun could I find within these walls. I appoint you its
gunner, with double pay. When peace has been restored, and I can tell to
the world the story of the Maid of Zaragoza, it will go hard if the
nation do not provide a pension too for so brave a daughter of her
soil!"
Agostina's cheek glowed; she bent her knee for a moment, and ere Don
José quite knew what she was about to do, she had pressed her lips upon
his hand.
"Our Blessed Lady guard and keep you, Señor," she said. "You have
granted me my heart's desire!"
It was a strange heart's desire, in truth! To stand upon that battered
wall in the teeth of the enemy's guns; to be a target for the shot and
shell of those terrible batteries; to serve that smoking gun, and send
its fierce answers forth into the hostile camp of the invaders. Others
fell about and around Agostina, but no shot touched her. They came to
say that she bore a charmed life; and it, at least, was plain that the
thought of fear could never find a lodging place within her breast.
Then came a desperate day when it seemed indeed as though all were lost.
A new battery was being built over against a convent, whose walls were
weak already, and almost ready to fall. Strengthen them as they might,
the garrison was helpless to effect any real improvement in their
condition. They fell almost at the first shock when the new battery
opened fire, and the French, rushing in through the breaches made, took
possession of one quarter of the city, and sent a haughty summons to Don
José to surrender.
The situation was tragic enough. They were now between two fires, and
only a wide space like a boulevard separated the hostile camps. Don José
had long been expecting succour from his brother, Don Francisco, who had
sent word that he was marching to his relief with three thousand men and
stores of food and ammunition. But there was no sign of his near
approach as yet; and the city was in pitiful plight.
"Surrender! By capitulation alone can Zaragoza be saved."
Such was the haughty message from the French General Lefèbre, brought to
Don José and his exhausted men after the fall of the quarter of the city
called St. Engracia.
The Commander looked around upon the ring of gaunt men about him, and
over at the shattered buildings of the town. What answer was it his duty
to return? Was he justified in sacrificing all these brave lives? What
did the people of Zaragoza think of it themselves? They had at least a
right to be asked. It was they upon whom the brunt of these fearful days
fell.
"What answer shall we return to General Lefèbre?" he asked, looking from
one to the other; and the men themselves seemed scarce to know what
answer to make.
Then a voice from the crowd shouted out the words:
"Let us ask the Maid of Zaragoza!"
Don José's face lighted at the suggestion. He turned in the direction of
the speaker, and cried aloud:
"Go--ask the Maid of the Gun what answer we shall send back. By her word
we will abide!"
A strange thrill of enthusiasm ran through the whole city as the
messenger sped forth to the farther wall to ask of Agostina what the
Commander should answer. Strange as was the choice of such an umpire,
there was something fitting and dramatic about it that fired the
Spaniards, and wrought a strange kind of exultation among them.
Soon a gathering murmur in the distance, which increased to a perfect
roar as the crowd surged onwards, showed that the answer was being
brought back, and that it had stirred to the depths the impulsive and
excitable populace.
"War to the knife! War to the knife!" The words detached themselves at
last from the general clangour, and the soldiers, flashing out their
swords, took up the answer of the Maid of Zaragoza, and the welkin rang
with the shout--"War to the knife!"
A few days after those four words had been sent by Don José to General
Lefèbre, the longed-for help came; and the eyes of Agostina shone and
glowed as she watched from her gun upon the wall the French soldiers in
full retreat blocking the road to Pamplona. The siege of Zaragoza was at
an end; and the Commander came himself and fastened a medal of honour
upon the heroine's breast.
AGNES BEAUMONT
"Thou shalt never listen to the rogue again!"
"But, father----"
"Silence, girl! Have I not said it? Thou shalt never go to hear him
preach again! He is a pestilent knave. He will bring all who hear him to
trouble. Dost hear me, girl? Thou shalt not go!"
"Nay, but, sweet father!"
"Silence!" thundered the angry man. "I have spoken; let that be enough.
Thou shalt have no more of this preaching dinned into thine ears, and
neither will I. Thou shalt never hear Mr. Bunyan again. He has done harm
enough already."
Agnes was absolutely aghast at this sudden outbreak, for which she was
totally unprepared. She and her father had for some while been attending
with great interest and profit the teachings and preachings of the
notable Puritan, John Bunyan, whose wonderful personal experiences
brought home to his hearers a sense of reality which was often lacking
in other teachers.
Farmer Beaumont had, however, of late been strangely silent and morose,
so that his daughter had been rather afraid to speak to him. She had
noted that he had not mentioned the approaching preaching, which she was
most anxious to attend; but she had no idea that any great change had
come over him till he suddenly burst forth in this manner, as they were
sitting together at supper, after his return from the neighbouring town,
where he had spent the previous night.
Of course, Agnes was well aware that by many people this John Bunyan was
regarded as a dangerous man, and that these inveighed against him as a
preacher and teacher of strange new doctrines. Sometimes, she knew, it
was dangerous to attend these meetings. She had heard it whispered
before now that persons were often brought up before the authorities and
fined or otherwise punished for offences of this sort, but it never
occurred to her that her sturdy father would be frightened. She had no
fear for herself. She believed she heard Heaven-sent gospel from this
preacher, and she longed to hear him again.
It was plain to her that somebody had got hold of her father during his
absence from home, and had worked upon the fears that were beginning to
agitate him before. She knew that there was a lawyer there--a man she
especially disliked and distrusted. Once he had been suitor for her
hand; for Farmer Beaumont was reputed to be a warm man, and Agnes was
likely to come into the bulk of his property and savings at his death.
But the girl had repelled his advances with energy; having an intense
dislike to the sly, fox-faced man of the quill, and he now repaid her
dislike in kind, and she believed that on more than one occasion he had
sought to poison her father's mind against her.
She suspected that this was the case now. It was plain that the old man
was in a very angry mood.
After sitting awhile in glowering silence, he broke out again even more
fiercely than before.
"I'll have a promise from thee, girl; thou shalt promise me here and now
that thou wilt never go and hear one of his preachings more. Say the
words and have done with it."
"Oh, father, do not ask me to make such a promise as that!"
"Ay, but I will. I'll have no disobedient daughter in my house. I've had
a talk to Farry about it. Thou first will not have him for a husband at
my bidding; now thou art taking up with this pestilent preacher
Bunyan----"
"But, father, thou didst take me thyself to hear him, and said he was a
godly man. It is Farry's evil tongue that hath wrought this change in
thee. Prithee, pardon my boldness, but I dare not promise what is
against my conscience!"
"It is against thy conscience to obey thy father, girl?" raved the angry
farmer. "A pretty conscience in all sooth. I'll have that promise from
thee to-night, or else I'll drive thee from my doors, and disown thee
for my daughter!"
Agnes was in great distress, for she loved her father, and had always
been an obedient daughter; but the stern tenets of the Puritan divines
had penetrated deeply into her soul; and she was sorely afraid that by
obeying her father she would be trifling with her soul's salvation. Most
sincerely did she desire to do right; but it was so hard for her to know
what was most right.
At last after much deliberation and some silent prayer Agnes brought
herself to say, whilst her father had spent much of his energy in
railing and threats:
"Dear father, I will promise you this, that so long as you live I will
not go to one of these preachings without your consent; and I beg of you
not to ask me more than that."
On hearing these words spoken whilst the tears ran down her cheeks, the
father's rage suddenly abated. He kissed Agnes and told her that she was
a good girl after all; and the storm in the house died down to a calm.
But poor Agnes was very unhappy. It seemed to her as though in obeying
her father she had in some sort violated her conscience and betrayed her
Lord. When she consulted her married sister and brother-in-law on the
subject (all ardent admirers of Mr. Bunyan), she found that they also
took this view of the matter, and her trouble became very great.
It was now her chief aim and object to gain her father's consent to her
attending the approaching meeting, where John Bunyan was to preach and
afterwards to administer the Sacrament. It seemed to her equally
impossible to remain away or to break her word to her father; and her
only hope of real peace of mind lay in winning his consent to her going
there.
During the last two days he had been much kinder to her; but still she
was in great fear lest he was in the same mind with regard to Bunyan and
the preaching. She got her sister to come over to the farm the evening
before, and by talking and a certain amount of coaxing and argument,
they at last won the old man's permission that Agnes should accompany
her relatives to the meeting at Gamlinhay, they promising to get her
taken and returned, as the farmer had no mind to assist her by sparing
one of his own horses to carry her, and the distance was too far for her
to walk.
It was a great joy to Agnes to win this permission; and she was more
sure than ever that it was Lawyer Farry's jeering words and overbearing
arguments that had caused her father so to turn against her and the
preacher; for since he had been at home with her again, he had become
quiet and reasonable.
But she thought it would be wise to be off and away early upon the
morrow, lest he should in any wise change his mind; and so she rose with
the sun, set about her morning tasks with great energy, and had taken
her own breakfast and left everything in readiness for her father before
she slipped into her riding dress, and made her way across the fields to
her brother-in-law's house, without having caught a glimpse of the
farmer. Indeed, she had left the house before he was astir.
Her sister received her kindly, and told her that they had arranged for
her to ride behind Mr. Wilson, the minister of Hitchin, who would call
on his way at the house. But time went on, and there was no sign of him,
and poor Agnes's face grew pale with anxiety. Her brother had only one
horse and would take his wife behind him. Agnes could not burden them;
no horse could carry three riders. Strong as she was, she could not walk
the whole distance in the time, since they had waited now so long. It
seemed for a moment as though after all she must be left behind, when
suddenly her sister, who had been gazing down the road, cried out
eagerly:
"He is coming!--He is coming!--Surely, husband, that is Mr. Wilson on
his nag?"
For a few minutes all thought this; but Agnes suddenly gave a little
cry, and exclaimed:
[Illustration: Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon
his face.
_Page 283._]
"It is not Mr. Wilson--it is Mr. John Bunyan himself!"
"Then he shall carry you, Agnes!" cried her sister, "and you will have
the pleasure of his godly conversation on the road."
The heart of Agnes was full of joy at the bare thought of such an
honour; but when her brother ran out to the gate to make the request,
they heard Mr. Bunyan's voice say quite roughly:
"No; I will not take her."
Sudden tears rushed to the eyes of Agnes; she hid behind her sister that
he might not see her weep, and again she heard the tones of his
voice--the voice she had come to love so well.
"If I do, her father will be grievously angry. I have heard how he has
changed towards me. I will not set a man at variance with his children.
Children are an heritage from the Lord."
At that Agnes ran forward, and told him what had happened, and how her
father had consented that she should go to the preaching. Bunyan looked
down at her with rather a grim smile upon his face.
"Ay, child; but did he say you might ride pillion behind the preacher?"
Agnes made no reply; but her sister pleaded for her, and in the end
Bunyan consented to carry her, though he told her plainly:
"If I were you, maiden, I would go home to my old father, and seek to
soften his heart by childlike obedience and submission, rather than urge
him vehemently to gain mine own way."
They had not proceeded far on the road before they met a man on
horseback riding in an opposite direction. To her dismay and annoyance
Agnes saw that it was Lawyer Farry, and she felt certain he was on his
way to her father's house. She knew well how he would stir up the old
man against the preacher, and it could not be but that her father would
be very angry to hear that she had been seen riding behind Mr. Bunyan to
the preaching. Probably he would think this thing had been arranged
beforehand, and no doubt Farry would do his best to encourage that idea.
Bunyan, however, not knowing the lawyer, paid no heed to the stranger,
though he continued to give Agnes much good advice as to her relations
with her father, advice that the girl promised faithfully to follow.
"For, indeed, I have always loved him dutifully; and till lately he has
been a tender father to me. But he has been embittered against those
things which I hold so needful for my soul's salvation, and I am torn in
twain betwixt my duty to him and to God."
"Ay, ay, my child, thy path may be sometimes a difficult one; but
remember that faith in Christ is enough for salvation, and thou wilt
never imperil thy soul by abstaining from hearing some godly preaching,
albeit such preaching may strengthen and sustain thee. God gave thee thy
father and bade thee reverence and obey him. There is no doubt about
that duty, so look to it in the future."
This gentle counsel set Agnes thinking deeply; and since it came from
Mr. Bunyan himself, she could not but believe it good. Greatly as she
delighted in the preaching and meeting which she had made so great a
point of attending, she was possessed by a longing to be at home again,
to ask her father's pardon if she had thought too little of his wishes,
and to show him in the future a greater patience and affection than had
been possible of late.
At the close of the meeting she was in some perplexity how to get home,
since Mr. Bunyan was not going back that way; but at last she found a
young woman who gave her a mount behind her on her horse, and in this
way she reached her father's house, although it was now late, and her
sister counselled her to come home with her for the night.
But Agnes thought her duty was to go home, as perhaps her father would
be waiting for her. When she saw the house all dark and closed, her
heart sank somewhat; but she would not be daunted. Going up she knocked
at the door and then called aloud under the window of her father's
room, asking him to throw her down the key, which he always took up to
bed with him.
Suddenly a fierce voice came thundering from the lattice:
"Thou shalt never enter my house again. Thou art no daughter of mine.
Where thou hast been all day thou mayest go at night."
"But, father, father, you did give me leave to go," she pleaded.
"Did I give thee leave to ride behind Mr. Bunyan? Go to him, thou
disobedient girl; thou art no child of mine."
And so saying he banged to the lattice very fiercely, and Agnes was left
standing without in the cold and damp.
For a moment she thought she would go to her sister's house, but then
the memory of Bunyan's words came over her, and she resolved not to be
driven away by her father's harshness, but to pass her night in the barn
praying for him, and to seek on the morrow to soften him by her prayers
and to tell him of the advice Mr. Bunyan had given her. She longed to be
reconciled to him, and lead him back to the old paths by her filial
gentleness. And as she made her way to the barn, she said in her heart:
"That is the work of wicked Farry. He has been with father again,
poisoning his mind; but I will pray for him, and perchance on the
morrow he will hear me, and let me come to him once more."
But upon the morrow the old man seemed more implacable than ever. He was
rather startled at finding his daughter in the barn in her riding-dress;
but he would not hear a word from her. He poured out his fury upon her
in such ungoverned language that it was all the poor girl could do to
keep from turning and fleeing from him. Yet, mindful of her resolve to
bear all meekly, she continued to follow him about and plead to be taken
in; till at last the old man in a fit of ungovernable fury ran at her
with the pitch-fork that he had in his hand, and Agnes barely escaped
receiving a serious injury.
"I will go to Prudence's house for a while, father," she said gently
after this. "I trust by the morrow you will have forgiven me if I did
wrong in riding with Mr. Bunyan. Indeed, he was loth to take me; but I
was so anxious to go. Perhaps I was somewhat wrong to urge it so
vehemently; but one day you will forgive, and let me be your daughter
again."
Yet in spite of all the persuasions of the married daughter and
son-in-law, and the dutiful gentleness of Agnes, it was not till the
third day that the old man's fit of passionate fury spent itself, and he
rather sullenly consented that Agnes should come home once more.
When first she began her accustomed duties about the house, he was very
morose, and would scarcely speak to her; but gradually her gentleness
and sweetness seemed to soften him, and upon the day following he
appeared to have forgotten his ill-will, and they spent the evening
peacefully together in cheerful conversation.
But the old man complained of being cold, which, indeed, was scarcely to
be wondered at since the wind had changed and brought with it a fall of
snow. Agnes gave him his supper somewhat earlier than usual, and he went
to bed, she following his example only a little later.
Towards midnight she was awakened by the sound of dismal groaning from
her father's room, and rushing to him discovered that he was in sore
pain, and could scarcely draw his breath.
"I have been struck to the heart!" he gasped, "I am about to die. God be
merciful to me, a sinner, and forgive me the sins I have committed
towards you, my daughter!"
Agnes, in great alarm, flew about, kindling the fire, and making
something hot for her father to drink, hoping thus to soothe his pain
and restore him; but there was a grey, ashen look upon his face which
frightened her terribly; and she was all alone with him in the house.
The terrible spasm lasted about half an hour, and then the old man fell
back in a dying state. Agnes, so soon as she saw herself quite helpless
to assist him, rushed forth to her sister's house, and make known her
terrible plight. They all followed her back in great dismay; but only to
witness the last struggle as the old man passed into eternity.
Agnes was crushed to the earth by this blow; but she was not suffered to
mourn her dead in peace. The next day her brother-in-law came to her
with a very disturbed face, and said that Lawyer Farry desired speech of
her, and when Agnes would have refused to see him, she was told that it
would not be wise to do so, as the matter on which he had come was of
grave moment.
When she saw the lawyer's evil, shifty face, and the gleam of triumphant
malevolence in his eyes she felt her heart sink for a moment; but then
rallying her courage she met his gaze fearlessly, and asked him what his
business was with her.
"I have come to offer you the only hope of escaping the punishment of
your crime. There is one and only one way by which you can save yourself
from the awful doom that awaits you."
"You are speaking in riddles to me, sir," said Agnes; "I pray you say
plainly what you have come to say, and leave me."
His eyes looked more malevolent still as he came a step nearer.
"Girl," he said, in very low and terrible tones, "do you know that the
doom of the parricide is death at the stake?"
Agnes recoiled in horror from the word parricide. The colour forsook her
cheeks; she trembled as she stood. What awful thought had come into that
man's evil mind?
"Yes, guilty woman, you may well tremble and quail, now that your guilty
purpose is known. But listen yet. I am the only person who can bear
testimony against you, and I will save you on one condition: Be my wife,
and I will say nothing. The world will never know that Agnes Beaumont is
a murderess--a parricide!"
Suddenly the girl's righteous wrath blazed up. She saw the man's motive
in making this foul charge, this fearful threat. He knew that her father
had left her a rich woman, that all he died possessed of was to be hers.
To get her and her fortune into his power he was ready to perjure
himself in the most frightful way; she saw the fell purpose in his eyes;
but her spirit did not desert her. She stood for a moment in silent
prayer, and then said:
"I will never marry you. God knows that I am innocent of the awful sin
you lay at my door. I will trust to Him to save me from the malice of my
persecutors."
It was in vain that the man by every argument and threat in his power
sought to shake the steady courage of the girl, and to bend her to his
will. In vain he painted for her the horrors of the fiery death of the
parricide; in vain he sought to show her how impossible it would be to
prove her innocence. She stood looking fearlessly into his evil face,
and when he would have put out a hand to draw her nearer, she slipped
out of his reach, and with a quiet and lofty mien walked to the door,
turning round at the last to say:
"May God forgive you for the cruel deed you are about to do. Into His
hands I entrust my cause."
Later in the day her sister came to her in deep agitation.
"Agnes, Agnes, why wouldest thou not submit to his will? He is such a
crafty, cruel man. He will obtain thine undoing! Oh, sister, sister,
dost know what he is about to swear before the coroner to-morrow?"
"That I poisoned my father--he has said as much," answered Agnes
quietly; "but he can prove nothing that he says."
"Nay, but it is more than that. He has got such a story. He says that
Mr. Bunyan did give thee the poison, and that he saw you twain riding
together, and heard you speaking together of our father as he passed. He
says that when he got here poor father told him that he was sure you
meant him ill, and that you would find a way of getting rid of him,
since you only promised obedience to his wishes so long as he lived. Oh,
the story he has made of it! And then he points out how loth father was
to take you back, and that he turned you away and said you were no
daughter of his, and might go back to those you had come from. He
learned so many things from us, ere ever we knew the hideous thing in
his mind. Now he says his case is complete and that only by marrying him
can you escape that awful death. Oh, Agnes, Agnes, wilt thou not do his
bidding to save thyself from that fate?"
"Take a false vow of love and obedience to a man like that? Oh, sister,
how could I? And what would life be with him afterwards?"
"But they say it will be death at the stake!" wept Prudence.
"And has not the Lord promised 'When thou passest through the fire I
will be with thee'?" asked Agnes calmly. "I dare not be false to Him;
and I know He will not be false to me. Be not afraid; this trial may be
sent for some good purpose. But it cuts me to the heart that he should
bring in Mr. Bunyan's name. That is a needless piece of wickedness and
falsehood."
"It is all false together; but he vows that Mr. Bunyan wished to get
possession of father's money by wedding with you, and that therefore he
gave you the poison and bid you use it upon the first opportunity."
To the two inexperienced women, clinging together in their hour of
affliction, it seemed to them as though the doom of Agnes had already
well nigh gone forth. They knew how clever and unscrupulous Lawyer Farry
was, and how successful he generally proved in carrying through the
schemes to which he gave his mind. Already the neighbourhood was ringing
with the story that Agnes had poisoned her father, and although many
refused to believe in so monstrous a charge, yet it was very well known
how violent the old man's rage had been against his daughter, and that
he had died also immediately after Agnes had been taken back to his
house. This was not evidence, but it raised doubts and suspicions in
many minds.
The coroner and the jury had assembled, having first viewed the corpse,
and Mr. Hatfield, the surgeon, testified emphatically that he regarded
death as due to natural causes. The old man had long been suffering from
some cardiac derangement, and the excitement into which he had recently
thrown himself would be quite enough to account for the fatal seizure.
Agnes Beaumont, he added, had given him free leave to make a post-mortem
examination, but in his opinion the thing was not necessary.
Farry was then bidden to state what he knew and what grounds he had for
asserting that his friend had been poisoned. At first he was very bold
and confident in his manner, but he soon found that it was a very
different matter intimidating young and ignorant women and dealing with
a shrewd man of business. Under cross-examination his tale became
confused, contradictory, absurd; his malice flashed out so unmistakably
as to put all the jury on their guard, and when Agnes's sister stepped
forward and asked to be permitted to say that Mr. Farry had promised to
be silent if Agnes would consent to be his wife, a deep murmur of
indignation ran through the room, and the man knew himself defeated and
disgraced.
When Agnes was called, and came forward with her simple and unvarnished
tale, it only needed a look into her calm, sweet face to know that she
spoke the truth. She freely told of the difference she had had with her
father, and how Mr. Bunyan had warned her not to urge her own desire too
much, but to be dutiful and obedient. And her sister corroborating this
statement, and adding all she had seen of Agnes's gentle submissiveness
on her return, and another person giving testimony that John Bunyan had
a wife living, and that the idea of his wanting Agnes's hand was
nonsense, the whole of Farry's ingenious and malicious tale fell to the
ground, and he stood like one who would never lift up his head again.
"But if there be any doubt," said Agnes, looking at the coroner, "Mr.
Hatfield is here; he will make the needful examination."
"That is a question for the jury to decide," answered the coroner, with
a smile. "Let them retire, and give us their verdict."
A few minutes was all these honest men required before announcing that
death was due to natural causes; and then the coroner turned upon Farry
and with a most scathing reproof dismissed him, warning him that he had
brought himself perilously near a charge of perjury, had Agnes been a
vindictive foe.
Then when the man had slunk out like a beaten hound, he took Agnes's
hands in his, and said:
"You have been a courageous girl, my dear, in withstanding the artifices
of that wicked man. Hardly another maid so young and unprotected but
would have been intimidated into accepting his condition. What made you
so brave to withstand him?"
"I do not think I was brave," answered Agnes; "but I knew I should be
helped."
The old man smiled and patted her head.
"Perhaps that is the best kind of courage after all."
HANNAH HEWLING
The mother was stricken down with the load of her grief; it seemed to
her more than she could bear. Her two sons--her only sons--young men of
such promise, such beauty, such piety--lying in that foul prison of
Newgate, of which many horrid tales were told; lying there waiting a
trial, which all believed could only end in one way. It was well known
how fierce was the wrath of the King against all who had taken any share
in the late rebellion, and neither the youth of the offenders nor their
virtuous lives would be likely to have any effect upon the sentence
which they had brought upon themselves by their recent ill-advised act.
The mother buried her face in her hands and groaned aloud.
Those were sad and anxious days in many homes, particularly in the West
of England, where the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion had broken out, and
had been quickly quenched in fire and bloodshed.
To Mrs. Hewling it seemed a terrible visitation of Providence that her
two promising sons had been in any way mixed up in it.
"If I had only kept them with me here in England, they would have been
safe!" she moaned.
It was not very long since Mrs. Hewling had been left a widow, in
affluent circumstances indeed, but with a large family to bring up. She
had two most promising sons, Benjamin and William, the first twenty-one
and the second close upon nineteen years of age, and Benjamin's
twin-sister Hannah was a beautiful girl of much promise, who, at this
crisis of her mother's life, was acting as her chief support and helper.
There were several little sisters, scarcely more than children; but the
intermediate sons had died in infancy, and the chords of the mother's
heart seemed to twine themselves about Benjamin and William in a fashion
which made their present perilous situation a thing that could hardly be
borne by her.
And the bitterest thought of all was that had she only kept the boys
with her in London after their father's death, instead of letting them
go to Holland, to see something of the world and complete their
education, all this misery might have been spared.
Adverse as the citizens of London were to many of the methods and
opinions of the King, still there was no desire at present to get rid of
him by any violent revolution, or to place the crown upon another head.
A few years later, and the whole nation rose in a bloodless revolt
against the man who had broken his pledges and his coronation vow, and
would have plunged England into a fierce struggle against the trammels
of Popery. But at that time things were not ripe for such a drastic
measure, nor was the Duke of Monmouth such a sovereign as the nation
could accept. But here and there where the Protestant spirit burnt more
fiercely than elsewhere, or over in Holland, where the claim of the Duke
had been more freely allowed, and where he was eagerly recruiting forces
to take with him to England, his cause seemed a righteous cause, and
inspired enthusiasm and devotion. Mrs. Hewling could not altogether
wonder that her two sons, reared in all the most ardent Puritan and
Protestant tenets of the day, should have been fired with a desire to
join the expedition, and to strive to strike a blow for their faith upon
England's shores.
And now, that ill-starred revolt having come to its tragic end, her boys
were amongst those who, having first sought flight, had since then
surrendered themselves to justice. It had been told her by friends that
they were lying in Newgate prison, and would almost immediately be sent
back whence they had come, to stand their trial at the Western Assizes,
over which the fierce and notoriously cruel Judge Jeffreys was to
preside.
So paralysed by horror was the poor mother, whose health had long been
very frail, that she had been unable herself to leave the house and seek
permission to visit her sons. And Hannah had persuaded her not to
attempt a task so much beyond her powers.
"I will go first, mother," she said. "I will go with my good
grandfather, who will gain me admission, and we will take money with us.
Money will do much within Newgate, they say, to ameliorate the condition
of the prisoners. Another day thou shalt go; but let me be the first."
So Hannah had gone under the safe-keeping of her grandfather, Mr.
Kiffin, a citizen well known and greatly respected in the town, and the
mother was awaiting their return in a fever of anxiety.
She was turning over in her bewildered brain a thousand schemes for the
preservation of her boys. But the more she pondered, the more helpless
did she become. True, she had many friends, and several possessed of
wealth and influence in the city; but these were for the most part, from
their strong Protestant and dissenting or Puritan leanings, so obnoxious
to the Court party that intervention by them would do rather harm than
good.
Her own father, Mr. Kiffin, was one of these He would have no fear in
presenting a petition; yet if such a movement on his part were
fore-ordained to failure, it would be better it should not be made.
Others more likely to obtain a hearing would probably be afraid to
intermeddle in such a matter. Those were the days in which it was none
too safe to show sympathy towards the King's enemies, or towards those
who had distinguished themselves by opposition to the Established
Church. The penalty for showing kindness to dissenters was often
extraordinarily severe; and what would it be to take a friendly interest
in youths who had been concerned in treasonable rebellion?
With despair in her heart the mother sat waiting, pondering and weeping;
longing unspeakably for the husband who was no more, and feeling the
desolation of her widowhood as she had never felt it before.
Then the door opened quietly, and a tall figure glided in wrapped from
head to foot in a long, dark cloak.
"Hannah!" cried the mother, "have you seen them?--have you seen my boys?
Oh, give me news of them! My heart is hungry!"
The girl threw back the hood which was drawn over her head, and her face
showed pale in the twilight. It was a very beautiful face, lighted by
the enthusiasm of a great love--a love that conquers fear, and sinks all
thought of self in devotion to the object at heart. It was such a face
as we see sometimes on painted window, or in chiselled marble--a face
full of lofty self-abnegation and simple heroism. The eyes shone like
stars, and the mother, looking at her daughter, held out her arms, and
cried:
"Ah, Hannah, Hannah, if any can save them it will be thou."
Hannah knelt at her mother's feet and spoke quietly and rapidly.
"I have seen them, mother. They were together, with many others. But my
grandfather had them taken out and brought into a separate room, where
we could talk. It was a dreadful place, that first,"--she shivered
slightly as she spoke,--"but they will not go back to it. Grandfather is
staying, and he will arrange all that. I saw them. Oh, mother, you need
not fear for them! They have no fear for themselves. They are ready for
the worst that may befall. Their only fear is lest they were wrong in
taking up arms. When they did it, it seemed a right and holy thing. They
have heard other things since coming to England, and are the less
confident of that. But they have no other fear. If they have done amiss
they are willing to die. They both say that. It is not death that can
affright them. They have made their peace with God."
The mother's tears ran over, although there was something of joy in
hearing such an assurance.
"But we must save them, daughter!--we must save them!"
"We will try," answered Hannah steadily, yet without the brightness of
hope in her eyes. "We will leave no stone unturned. We will accomplish
what can be accomplished. But----"
The last word was little more than a sigh. It was not meant to reach her
mother's ears, yet it did: and Mrs. Hewling exclaimed:
"But what, daughter, but what? What hast thou heard more?"
"I have heard nought that we have not been told before; only, mother
mine, when the grim walls of a prison are about one, and grim gaolers
are talking with that cool certainty of things they have grown familiar
with, the horrible reality seems to come over one like a flood; and the
awful doom comes ever nearer and nearer. The boys have heard much--the
implacable temper of the King; his bloodthirsty mood; his choice of the
Judge who is to arraign them. In Newgate it is whispered that there will
be such a slaughter in the West as has not been heard of in this land. I
felt myself shaking all over at the things I heard there. Oh, I fear for
my brothers, I fear, I fear!"
The mother clasped her in her arms, and they mingled their tears
together. Hannah told in broken words of all that she had gleaned from
her brothers, of what they had dared and done, how they looked, how
they had stood the journey and the prison; and how they were soon to be
sent down to the West Country, to be tried at those places where they
had been seen in arms against the King.
"That is the worst of it!" cried the mother. "Had it been here in London
town our friends and the influence of our party might have had weight.
But over yonder--so far away! Ah, if I could but go there with them!"
"Mother, I will go!" said Hannah, speaking firmly and resolutely. "I
have thought of it all the way home. I have plans of all sorts in my
head. Grandfather will soon be here, and then he will tell you more, and
we will talk it over together. But I must be there. I must go with them.
I must--I must!"
"But, my child, my child, how can I spare thee? They say that the King
is so incensed that even to show pity for the condemned--for the
prisoners--is accounted as a crime. Suppose that hurt were to befall
thee?"
"Mother," she answered gently, "God can protect me, and I think He will.
But be that as it may, I cannot let my brothers go to what may be their
death alone. I must be there to visit them in their prison, to lighten
the rigours of captivity, to provide them with whatever may be permitted
in the way of defence; to cheer and strengthen them (if so it must be)
upon the very scaffold itself. Benjamin is as my second self. I could
not be other than at his side. Oh, my brother--my brother!"
A rush of tears choked her voice; she sobbed upon her mother's breast;
but the outbreak relieved the overcharged heart, and when her
grandfather appeared she was the same calm, resolute maiden she had
shown herself in the public streets, and in the dim retreats of the
dreadful gaol.
Mr. Kiffin had made arrangements for the better lodging and treatment of
his grandsons during their brief detention in Newgate; but he had heard
that almost immediately they were to be sent west to be ready to stand
their trial with others at the coming Assizes; and at the very name of
these the mother's cheek paled.
"Yes, it is a terrible thought--the power that will be placed in the
hands of one man--and he one noted for ferocity of temper and gross
injustice to those who are brought before him. It is known too that the
King has selected him for these very qualities to fill the dreadful
office which will be his. Yet for our poor lads there may be this one
chance: his cruelty is only rivalled by his greed of money; and we may
appeal to his cupidity where we should appeal in vain to his clemency."
"Must we then offer him a bribe?" asked Mrs. Hewling, with a faint
distaste in her tone, as though even with her sons' lives at stake, the
thought of buying justice or mercy with gold had in it something
repulsive to her better nature. Hannah's beautiful eyes were likewise
turned upon her grandfather questioningly. It was an age when all sorts
of things were bought and sold for hard cash, that never should have
been so trafficked for; but in the stern Puritan tenets in which this
family had been reared any sort of illicit bartering was strongly
condemned.
"I did not mean exactly that; but yet we may perhaps move him through
his love of money. You have both heard me speak of my old friend and
fellow-citizen, with whom in past days I lived a long while, working
with him as a brother might," and he named a name that was familiar to
both mother and daughter.
"Well, strange as it may seem, the young barrister, now made a judge,
this violent, bloodthirsty Jeffreys, is my old friend's kinsman, and, in
fact, his next-of-kin. I had forgotten the fact, if indeed I ever knew
it, till I had a letter from him a few days since reminding me of it,
and asking if there was anything that he could do to aid us in our
trouble. I have seen him, and he has promised to use every means in his
power to gain the leniency of the Judge for our two dear lads. It is
unluckily true that they have taken up arms against the King. It cannot
but be proved against them, nor will they seek to deny it. By the law of
the land they have merited death, and may even be condemned to suffer
the full penalty. But as my friend informs me, out of the hundreds who
will undergo sentence, not a few will escape the dread final penalty.
Even the King in all his ferocity will not dare to slay by thousands,
though he may by hundreds. Many will be condemned to death, who will
afterwards be respited and undergo lighter sentences, or be let off with
a heavy fine. In this matter the voice of the Judge will have weight;
and my friend will use every argument to induce him to commute the death
penalty (if passed upon Benjamin or William) into one that a heavy fine
will cover."
Mother and daughter seemed to breathe more freely; and Hannah unfolded
her plan of going herself to Lyme Regis and Taunton, the places to which
her brothers were to be taken--she knew not exactly whither they were to
be sent--that she might minister to them in every possible way, cheer
and strengthen them in their hour of trial, and be there to forward any
suit that might be made on their behalf.
"There will be peril in such a mission, granddaughter," said the old
man. "Many a gentle-hearted woman has suffered grievously for doing less
than thou dost propose to do."
"I shall suffer more by staying away," said Hannah simply. "I must go.
Something within me bids me. I cannot hold back. Thou wilt be here to
care for mother and the little ones. I must be with my brothers."
They did not try to hold her back. Her heart was set upon the sorrowful
journey, and the mother, in her yearning over her boys, was ready to
speed her upon her way. She had money, as much as she could use for
every possible purpose, and letters to friends of their friends in the
West Country, who would show her kindness and help her in her difficult
task. Mr. Kiffin would have accompanied her, but that his daughter
seemed to require him more, and he was something too infirm easily to
endure the long, rough journey. But he sent two of his experienced
servants with Hannah; and the journey was made easy to her in every
possible way, albeit in her present mood she would almost have welcomed
hardship and privation. What might not her brothers be suffering of
both?
She found that they had been conveyed to Taunton, and lodged in the
castle there. The building was densely crowded at this time; for the
dread Judge was on his way, and the friends of the prisoners were in a
terrible state of agitation and fear. Stories were flying from mouth to
mouth of what the inhuman Judge had done and said at Winchester, and
how he had condemned the aged and virtuous Lady Lisle to be burnt to
death for no greater sin than that of harbouring some unhappy wretch,
who had fallen beneath the King's ban. What hope was there for any here?
But through the influence of those who cared for her, Hannah obtained
the grace of an interview with her brothers on the eve of their trial,
and found them calm and resigned. It was keen joy to them to embrace
their sister again, to give their last messages (as they thought they
might be) to all the loved ones at home, and to know how much they were
thought of and prayed for by many far and near. But they had no hope of
mercy. They had heard of the implacable nature of the Judge, and were
aware that their very wealth and importance, in one sense of the word,
would be against them. Obscure persons might be respited, and those
perhaps of noble blood; but not those whose fame came from their
resolute adherence to precepts civil and religious that were abhorred of
King James and his Court.
It was a fearful moment for Hannah when she was passed into that close
and crowded Court upon the momentous day, and saw the red and bloated
face of the Judge and his bloodshot eyes glaring at the prisoners, as a
wolf glares at the victims he is about to spring upon and devour. What
need to talk of that trial?--it was the veriest travesty of justice ever
known. The prisoners were bidden if they desired mercy to plead guilty,
and as soon as they had done so were sentenced to a traitor's doom in
one solid mass. Respite would come later for some, that was partly
understood; but whenever some special plea was put forward for an
individual who had friend or counsel to speak for him, the fury of the
Judge rose to a fearful pitch, and he roared down the voice of the
defender, rolling his eyes and swearing with such hideous vehemence that
soon none dared lift up a voice in his presence, and Hannah was
supported half fainting from the Court, where she had heard both her
brothers condemned to death.
But even then her courage did not desert her, and terrible as was the
aspect of the Judge, and awful as were the things spoken of him, she
resolved to place herself in his way as he came forth, and plead for the
lives of her brothers, as the one last faint hope still remaining to
her.
Alas! she might as well have sought mercy from the flinty rock, or the
sea breaking in merciless fury. The bloated, evil face was turned upon
her in savage fury. The Judge plucked his robe out of her detaining
hand, and flung himself into his coach crying out:
[Illustration: The Judge plucked his robe out of her detaining hand.
_Page 310._]
"Madam, your brothers are a pair of pestilent rogues, who come from a
pestilent nest of dissenters. I would I had the power to send you to the
gallows with them! That is the only place for a cursed brood like
yours!"
And as Hannah, fired by wrath and by her sisterly despair, would not
even then be silenced, but continued her petition with her hands upon
the window frame of his coach, he leaned out upon the other side and
roared to his charioteer to cut at that pestilent woman with his whip;
and the lash drew blood from Hannah's white fingers as she sank half
fainting into the arms of her friends.
And yet that very evening, to her immense astonishment, she received a
courteous summons to the presence of the Judge, and on presenting
herself at his lodging in the castle, with the friend in whose care she
was at that time living, she found Jeffreys in an extraordinarily
different mood. He had, in fact, just made the discovery that the woman
he had treated so brutally was one of the family specially recommended
to him by his relative, who had said that the ultimate benefits he might
expect from him would largely depend on what efforts he made to save the
two Hewling brothers. If the Judge had not been so drunk overnight when
this missive reached him, he might possibly have acted differently in
Court that day; but now he assured Hannah that he would do all in his
power to obtain a respite of the capital sentence for her brothers,
though he implied that this might be an affair of money, and practically
demanded three hundred pounds for his services, which Hannah in her
bewilderment and by the advice of her friend was ready to pay.
But the days dragged on and no message came from the King. The gentle
William, who had been sentenced to die at Lyme Regis almost immediately
after his trial, met his doom upon the scaffold with unflinching
fortitude, and all the grace his sister could obtain was that she might
take possession of the unmutilated body, which was interred in
consecrated ground, two hundred brave young maidens of the place
incurring the possible displeasure of the King by walking in white robes
at his funeral, and singing hymns over his grave.
But Hannah had no time for vain lamentations. The fire of despair was in
her heart. Benjamin yet lived. He was not to die till the last day of
the month. There was yet time to plead for him. She knew not whether
Judge Jeffreys had been true to his promise or no; but at least she, his
sister, would strain every nerve, would know no rest day or night till
she had obtained his pardon, even though she should have to seek it from
the King himself.
In vain her friends warned her of the uselessness and peril of her task;
go she would, and as fast as horse could speed her. And with the last
touching letter from her brother William in her pocket, and the scene
of his death photographed upon her memory, she posted to London, to
achieve what all men told her was impossible.
She scarcely paused to mingle her tears with her mother's. A fever was
in her heart. Her grandfather had influence enough to obtain for her
admission to the palace, and there she was met and kindly spoken to by a
gentleman, whose name she knew not at the time, but who was no other
than Lord Churchill, afterwards the great Duke of Marlborough.
Churchill regarded her with a look of exceeding compassion; Hannah
presented indeed a touching picture in her girl's grief and sisterly
devotion; and her unusual beauty had not been dimmed by all the troubles
through which she had passed. Something of her story was known even at
Whitehall, and known also was the character of the merciless man before
whom her brothers had been tried, and the merciless monarch who had sent
him forth to this work.
"Madam," said Lord Churchill, as the summons came for Hannah to be
received by the King, and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the marble
of the carved mantelpiece upon which he leaned, "my wishes for success
go with you, and my most hearty sorrow for your distress; yet I dare not
speak any word of hope to buoy up your sinking spirits; for this marble
is not harder nor more susceptible of compassion than is the heart of
the King."
Poor Hannah was destined to find it so. She was received with cold
looks; her petition, so carefully worded and drawn up, was scarcely
looked at before the King flung it down, and threw a curt heartless
refusal at her.
She was hurried away by the attendants, who, though commiserating her
grief and innocence, felt that she only ran a needless risk of drawing
down the royal wrath upon herself.
"You are a brave lady," said Lord Churchill, himself bowing her out of
the King's suite of apartments. "My heartiest sympathy goes with you. A
man with so brave a sister will surely go bravely to his death. And
there will come a time when that is all that the best of us can ask to
do."
Churchill spoke the truth; the brave brother of a brave sister met his
death with unshrinking fortitude, cheered to the last by the presence of
Hannah, and by her sisterly love and care.
No thought of personal fatigue or personal peril sufficed to prevent her
returning instantly to Taunton, and the last days of Benjamin's short
life were rendered almost happy to him by his reunion with his twin
sister, and by their constant intercourse.
Money could purchase this boon, though it could not purchase the
prisoner's life.
He suffered upon the scaffold with so many others as little guilty as he
of doing wrong, albeit something rash and ill-advised, and when Hannah
had obtained with trouble and much cost the right to take his body and
bury it, as in the case of William, she had only to return home to tell
her mother the terrible and mournful tale.
"But thy courage sweetened death for them both, my child," said the
mother. "In days to come that will be a thought that will bring to thee
the comfort thou canst not feel yet."
"I never felt brave," Hannah would answer simply, when her friends
praised her. "I only did what I had to do. I could not help myself."
MONA DRUMMOND
"You are a villain!" spoke the hot-tempered Irish maiden, with a glow in
her eyes before which the evil-looking man before her quailed, although
the scowl upon his face was an ugly thing to see. "You are a thief and a
villain, and I will see the Governor myself and tell him what you have
been doing. Oh, it is infamous!--infamous! My poor father!"
The girl put her hands before her eyes for a moment to hide the tears
that rose to them. Mona had the tall, graceful figure, regular noble
features, and great grey eyes of the typical Irish maiden. She was
standing beneath the walls, and within the precincts of, Lifford gaol.
Before her was a man of evil aspect, who wore the dress of a gaoler, and
who swung a great bundle of keys in his hand. He had come forward
confidently enough to meet the girl, smiling and almost cringing; but
when she suddenly blazed forth at him in this impetuous fashion, he
shrank and cowered before her as though he knew himself guilty of some
dire offence.
"You have been taking our money all these years--money so hardly
earned--so sorely spared; you have sworn that you spent it in providing
better food and lodging for my dear father; and all the while you
lied!--you lied! Black-hearted villain that you are! He has never been
the better for it by one loaf of bread--by one flask of wine. You have
stolen every coin. You have defrauded him and lied to us!"
The girl was shaken by the storm of her anger. The man stood before her
tongue-tied and cowed.
He was not ashamed of his villainy; he was too hardened a wretch for
that; but he was afraid lest the thing should become known to the
Governor, who was a just and humane man, and who from time to time had
been known to admit the prisoner's daughter to his presence at her
earnest request.
"I am going to see the Governor about it," concluded the girl, with a
scathing look. "He is a just man and merciful. He will at least know
what to advise us for the future."
Fury and terror filled the man's face; he recoiled a little, and
fingered his heavy keys as though he meditated a savage assault upon the
girl, standing before him in this great solitary courtyard. What if he
silenced her voice for ever? Who would be the wiser? He shot a quick
glance round him, as if to assure himself that there were no eyes upon
him, and Mona at the same moment gave a half-scared, half-defiant gaze
around herself. Some instinct warned her of his fell purpose, and she
knew she was no match for him; but to quail or cower would but bring
down the meditated blow upon her head. She stood with her clear gaze
full upon his eyes, holding them, as men in the wilderness can sometimes
hold a wild beast in thrall by the fixed stare of unwavering will.
She was not many paces from the little door by which she had entered. If
she could gain that, she might be able to turn and fly. She made one
backward step towards it; but even as she moved, she felt rather than
saw that he was in the act of springing; and at that she darted
backwards, tore open the door, and was through it before he could reach
her. But she could not close it behind her to draw the bolt. He was too
quick for that. She almost felt his hands at her throat, when suddenly
she heard him utter a yell of terror; and turning saw him struggling in
the grip of a tall and powerful young man, who must have been coming
towards the door close under the wall, for she had not seen him as she
darted out, and yet he had been there to catch her pursuer as he
followed.
The terror of the man surprised Mona, as did also the fact that he made
no resistance when once he saw into whose hands he had fallen. His arms
dropped to his sides, and his jaw fell; he stood staring at the young
athlete who had him in his grip as though bereft of sense.
"My father shall hear of this, sirrah!" spoke the youth with a final
shake, as he let the wretch go; then he turned to Mona, and doffed his
hat with a courtly air.
"He has not hurt you, fair maid, I trust!"
"Oh no, dear sir, I am not hurt. I thank you from my heart for this
timely aid."
"And what do you in this gloomy place, if I may ask the question? What
errand has brought so fair a flower within the portals of a prison?"
At that question Mona's eyes filled with sudden tears, and she turned
away her head to hide them.
"Alas, dear sir! mine is a sorrowful errand, and I have not been able to
accomplish it; for we have been basely tricked and cozened these many
years by yonder miscreant, who is slinking now away like a whipped
hound. I would fain see the good Governor, and tell my tale of woe to
him. He was kind before, it may be he will find a way to help me now."
"I am his son," answered the young man eagerly. "I will take you to him
speedily; and as we go you shall tell me your sad tale. Believe me, I
will befriend you if I can. Have you some relative immured within the
walls of this grim place?"
"Alas, sir, my father!" she answered with brimming eyes; "and he has
been here so many long, weary years. I was but little more than a child
when they took him away and brought him hither, and now I am within a
year of twenty summers. My poor father!--my poor innocent father!"
"Of what crime does he stand accused?" asked the young man, with ready
interest.
"Of no crime save that of holding the Presbyterian faith," she answered;
"that is all the wrong he has done--believing it and teaching it; for he
is a minister of the Word, and our church at Raphoe was his charge, and
we were happy and he was beloved of all. But you must know how when the
King was restored to his kingdom over the water after the death of the
iron Cromwell, he or his ministers issued edicts in this land, as well
as in England and Scotland, for the re-establishment of the Prelacy; and
those who desire to worship after their own fashion, and not according
to episcopal forms, are sorely beset and persecuted."
"I know, I know," answered her companion quickly and with sympathy. "And
so your father was one of those who suffered for his faith?"
"Yes, there were four of them," answered Mona, her tongue unloosed by
the friendliness of this stranger, "and Bishop Leslie had them all cast
into prison at the same time. They lie in this grim jail; and God alone
knows when they will be suffered to come forth. But we heard that the
prisoners here were harshly treated, and had scarcely the necessaries
of life supplied them. It was after hearing this that I went one day and
craved speech of the Governor. I did first beg him to let me see my dear
father; but that he might not permit. He said, however, that I might
speak with the jailer who had charge of him, and obtain through him such
things as we could make shift to purchase for him to lessen his
privations and sufferings. The man promised faithfully, and every penny
we can spare has been scraped and hoarded and given over to him; and we
believed that father had such comforts as they could get for him; we
believed that till a few days ago; and then--and then----" The girl's
voice grew husky, the bright tears rolled down her cheeks. Her companion
took the words out of her mouth.
"You heard in some roundabout fashion that your money had gone into the
pockets of that wretch, and that your father had in no wise profited
thereby."
"Yes, yes; that was it. One of our friends has obtained his liberty;
they say there is hope that others will follow. We saw him. He came to
us. He has now and then had a brief moment of speech with my dear
father. Nothing has ever reached him from without. He has suffered all
the rigours of his harsh captivity."
"And you did have the bravery to go to yon miscreant who has had the
charge of your father, here in this prison, and who has appropriated
the money, and tell him of his ill-deeds; and this it was that wakened
his evil passions and ferocity? This it was that made him chase you
forth, and seek to do you hurt!"
"I told him I would tell the Governor," panted Mona, with hot, indignant
eyes; "and then I saw that he would fly at me; and so I sought to reach
the door ere he had time. But he would have done me a mischief had it
not been for your good help."
"Then come now to my father and tell him all the tale," cried the young
man, whose name was Derrick Adair, "and we will see if some way cannot
be found for mending matters for your good father. At least that rogue
of a jailer shall receive his due reward--or punishment!"
Colonel Adair, the Governor, who had been kind to Mona before, listened
very readily now to her tale, and was exceedingly displeased at what he
heard as to the action of the warder. Of course he knew well the abuses
that prevailed in all prisons at this epoch, and long afterwards; but
though enable to institute any drastic measures of reform, he was able
to punish individual transgressors when peculation had been proved
against them; and he told Mona that he would see in future that her alms
were rightly bestowed for the relief of the prisoner, adding that he
hoped soon to see him set at liberty.
"I am perplexed to know why the Bishop speaks of releasing the other
three ministers he sent hither--indeed, one was set free a short while
since, as you know. But there is no mention of that grace being extended
to your father; and yet his case was in no way different from that of
others. Can you explain wherefore he is differently treated?"
A hot flush dyed Mona's cheek, and then the flash of anger awoke in her
eyes. She spoke almost as if to herself.
"Oh, infamous, infamous! The coward! Did he indeed speak truth when he
threatened? I did not believe he had such power."
"Of what do you speak, my child?" asked the Governor kindly. "Trust me
and tell me all. You shall not regret your confidence."
"Oh, sir," cried Mona, struggling against her excitement and anger, "it
is the doing of that wicked son of the Bishop. He professes to love me.
He waylays me sometimes in my walks, and talks as he has no right to do.
He is a great man's son. I am a poor minister's daughter. He declares he
wishes to wed me; but I will not listen. He is a bad man. I fear him and
I hate him. And it was but a little while back that he threatened me. He
said that till I would give him the promise he asks, my father should
never be released! I did not think as he spoke that he had power to
contrive such a cruel thing. But here are others going forth, and my
poor father kept still in ward. Oh, why are such cruel things suffered
to be?"
"And what answer did you make him, my child?" asked the Colonel.
"The same that I have ever done, sir; that I have no love for him! Nay,
I hate him and I fear him. I will never trust him; I will never be his
wife. He knows his father would oppose such a marriage; it is always of
elopement that he talks! But I will not hear! He is wicked, cruel! But
my poor father; must he suffer too?"
"Nay; that he shall not. I myself will obtain justice!" cried Derrick,
with sudden energy; and as Mona lifted her beautiful face, and gazed at
him through her tears, he went on gently:
"It may indeed be that I can help thee, sweet maid; for when my visit
here is ended, I return to Dublin, where I am finishing my course of
study at Trinity College, and also acting in the capacity of private
tutor to a great nobleman's son. This nobleman has much influence with
the Government, and through interesting my pupil in your father's story,
I doubt not I can bring this tale to the ears of those in power, and so
effect his release. Therefore, weep no more, fair Mistress Mona; wait in
patience for a few more weeks, and trust me not to forget your case, and
to do all that one man may to right a wrong."
So Mona went home lightened of a sore burden; her heart full of
thanksgiving. And when next the Bishop's son waylaid her, and promised
to obtain her father's freedom if she would but consent to the proposed
elopement with him, she answered him with steady scorn, looking so
beautiful in her simple maidenly dignity and indignation, that the
baffled man stood watching her with a look of mingled longing and anger.
"You obtain his liberty! It is you who are the present cause of his
continued bondage! Why is he not released with the others? Oh, lie not
to me! I know; I know. Wicked men do these things daily, and God does
not smite at once; but the day will come, the day of vengeance, when the
wicked will be overthrown, and the righteous will shine forth like stars
in the firmament of heaven!"
He continued to gaze at her with an expression that would have terrified
many girls; but Mona was not afraid. She felt that she had another
champion now; and she feared no longer the machinations of this bad man.
She had seen Derrick Adair several times during the interval that had
elapsed between her visit to the prison and the present interview with
the Bishop's son. He had come to see her mother, and assure her that the
prisoner had been taken to a more comfortable lodging, and had received
better food and bedding than had been his heretofore. All the money
sent by the careful family was now suffered to reach the prisoner
himself, and his condition was greatly ameliorated thereby.
The dishonest jailer had been sent away, Derrick told them on his second
visit; and he added he would like to make a clean sweep of many others;
but even his father had not power for that.
Mona's heart was now relieved of the heaviest part of its burden. She
was no longer afraid of the Bishop or his son; she was no longer torn in
twain by the feeling that she might be standing between her father and
his liberty, and that perhaps filial duty demanded the sacrifice from
her of wedding a man she feared and hated. But she so distrusted the
Bishop's son that she could never think of his proposal without a
shudder; and now what joy it was to feel that their cause had been taken
up by a stalwart champion, and that justice might be looked for without
such a terrible sacrifice on her part!
Mona was a fearless girl, who had always led a free and hardy life. She
had a very kind heart, and a skilful pair of hands, and wherever there
was sickness in any of the cabins or cottages around, it was the custom
to send for her, and she never failed to answer the summons. Often she
was thus away from her home for a whole day, or for a night or two, and
no anxiety would be aroused by her non-return from a sick-bed. When
possible, she would send a message to this effect if she were detained;
but no real trouble would be caused by her absence at night, should she
have gone forth in response to a summons, and not returned.
One afternoon she received a message to ask her to come to a sick woman
at some distance; and as she kissed her mother she told her not to be
anxious if she did not come home till morning, as if she were detained
late, it would be better to stay the night.
When, however, she arrived at the house, to her great surprise it was
all shut up and empty. Could it be possible that the woman had died
suddenly? she asked herself, and shook the door of the cabin. It yielded
to her hand, and she went in; but there was no sick person on the bed;
the place was neatly swept up and set in order, just as though the
inmate had gone away for a visit.
A sudden odd sense of uneasiness came over Mona--a feeling of having
been tricked. But who could have plotted to deceive her? The little boy
who brought the message certainly delivered it in all good faith, and
she had never questioned him as to who had bidden him bring it. But now
there was but one thing to do; to get home as fast as possible, before
it grew quite dark.
She turned to leave the cottage, when a shadow fell upon her from the
open doorway, and with a shudder of horror she saw standing there the
broad, squat figure of the wicked jailer, whose dismissal from the
prison had been brought about through her instrumentality.
He gazed at her whitening face with an evil leer, and then made a
wild-beast spring at her.
"My turn now, you hussy! My turn now! So you thought to ruin an honest
man, and set at defiance a powerful one! But we will tame you between
us, you little tiger cat! We will have our revenge!"
Even as he spoke the man with practised hands secured the girls slim
wrists and clasped a pair of manacles upon them. He then bound them
behind her back, and, after thrusting a gag into her mouth, he led her
out of the house to a short distance, where in a ruined shed a horse was
tied up. Lifting her upon its broad back, and springing up behind her
himself, he set the creature at a steady gallop, and Mona felt herself
being carried farther and farther away from home and friends, in the
cruel grip of this evil man, who was plainly acting as the tool of the
Bishops son.
It was a terrible thought, but Mona knew her only chance lay in keeping
her courage and self-control. Whether anything could save her from her
fate she did not know. But she closed her eyes in prayer, and entrusted
her case to the God of all the earth, and having partially quieted
herself by this, she opened her eyes and scanned the country through
which they were passing with the keenest and most eager glances.
There was little to encourage her; all was bare and bleak and deserted.
The man was evidently taking an unfrequented route. He desired no doubt
to avoid encounters upon the road, although in the darkness no one was
likely to note that he carried a prisoner before him, and Mona could
give no sign and speak no word.
The light faded, the moon rose, and still they travelled on and on. Mona
began to lose knowledge of the country through which she was passing.
She fancied that they were on the main road for Dublin; but she could
not be absolutely sure. It was like enough that she would be taken to a
great city, where all trace of her would easily be lost. Sometimes as
the long strange hours wore by, her heart almost fainted within her; but
then again she told herself that to lose courage and hope would be to
lose all. If she could but put her captor off his guard, perhaps things
might yet go well. Some chance of escape might offer itself.
They could not travel all night without a halt. Man and beast must be
fed. But as Mona saw in the distance a few twinkling lights, she
pretended to be more heavily asleep than before (and for some time she
had feigned drowsiness and broken slumber), and let herself rest heavily
against the rider behind, who evidently had no great relish for the
burden he did not dare to drop.
At last they reached the inn, and the man wrapped the girl up from head
to foot in his great riding-cloak, taking care that her face should not
be seen. Mona heard him mutter to himself:
"She is in a swoon; so much the better for me. I can take my ease after
this weary ride; and if she comes to herself, she can neither speak nor
use her hands. She must needs lie as I have placed her. I will just tie
her feet to make all safe."
Then, lifting her in his arms, he cried to the host:
"I have got a sick daughter here I am taking to be cared for by my good
mother. I will not bring her inside lest the distemper be catching. I
will lay her comfortably on the straw in this barn, and let her rest
there for an hour. She is in a sleep all the while. She will want
nothing till I come out again."
So Mona was laid down on the straw in the empty barn, and the hint the
man had dropped was quite enough to keep all other persons away from
her. Under pretext of wrapping her up warmly her captor tied her feet
together securely, and there she lay gagged and bound and helpless in
the silence and the darkness. Yet she was hardly alone before she had
struggled up into a sitting posture, and had flung off the heavy folds
of the cloak.
Then very cautiously and carefully, and with some pain, she made the
experiment she had been longing to do all the while--to try and twist
her slim hand out of the manacle that encircled her wrist.
Mona, though a tall girl, was possessed of very delicate feet and hands,
and her bones were small and flexible.
Had less been at stake she would have given up the task in despair; for
the pain was severe, and she was altogether uncertain of success in the
end, and feared that her hand was becoming swollen in the effort. But in
spite of the pain, she persevered, and at last she drew forth her right
hand free, and would have cried aloud but for the gag in her mouth.
To release the other hand when its fellow was free was an easier matter,
and then she quickly unfastened the gag and drew a breath of deep relief
as she flung it from her. It was hard still to be delayed by the knots
that bound her feet; but they gave way at last to her strenuous efforts,
and Mona stood up free and fetterless in the darkness of the barn.
"Thank God--thank God!" she cried in her heart; yet she knew her perils
were not over yet. She must creep away from the inn and hide herself;
but her persecutor would soon discover her flight and would pursue her.
She dared not take the horse, as she feared to be seen if she approached
the stable. All she ventured to do was to slip out of the barn through a
broken portion of the wall, and looking well about her, and taking her
direction from the friendly moon, she sped like a shadow along the road
she had recently so painfully traversed.
She did not dare to leave it unless forced to do so. The treacherous
bog-land lay about her, and she knew nothing of the safe tracks across,
that were familiar in her own locality. The moon that gave her light
would serve also to illumine her own figure for her pursuer when he
should discover her escape. Swiftly as the girl raced onwards in the
moonlight, she felt ever as though that strong horse and his wicked
rider must soon be at her heels.
"Then will I plunge into the bog and hide me or perish there!" cried
Mona, clenching her teeth; "but never, never, never shall he lay his
hands upon me again. I fear not death--at least but little. I fear only
to fall into the hands of wicked men!"
Suddenly upon the far horizon of her vision there loomed up a little
black speck, and Mona's heart gave a throb of joy. It was surely some
traveller approaching from the opposite direction! Upon his mercy she
would cast herself, whoever he might be! No son of Erin would refuse to
champion her in such an hour as this, and no traveller along these
lonely roads ever went unarmed.
Yet even as her quick eyes beheld this traveller approaching in the one
direction, her quick ears caught the sound of horse's hoofs galloping
furiously behind her from the other.
Gathering all her energies together for a last effort, the girl sped
forward like an arrow from a bow, her light figure clearly standing out
in the bright moonlight. It seemed to her as though the traveller saw
something of the pursuit; for instantly his horse sprang forward at a
grand gallop. The fugitive fled onwards gasping, exhausted; and then in
a moment she found herself upheld by a strong arm; she leaned almost
helplessly against her preserver, and a familiar, agitated voice
exclaimed in her ear:
"Mona!--Mona!--Sweetheart, what ails thee?"
"The jailer--the Bishop's son--they tricked me--they caught me!" panted
the girl; "he carried me off; but I have escaped. He is coming after me
now. Ah, do not let him have me! Kill me first; but never let me fall
alive into his hands!"
"You give yourself to me, sweet Mona? Then I will hold thee against all
the world!"
Derrick held her with his left arm, and levelled his pistol with his
right.
[Illustration: "Dare to come one step nearer, and I fire."
_Page 335._]
"Dare to come one step nearer, and I fire. You know, fellow, whether or
not I shall miss my mark!"
The two men stood looking at each other in deep silence for a few
seconds, deadly rage and baffled hate on one face, on the other stern
wrath and dauntless determination. At last the hireling with an oath
turned his horse, and galloped back the way he had come. Revenge was
sweet, and so was gold; but he cared not to purchase either at the price
of life or limb.
"Thou art safe, sweetheart!" said Derrick, bending his head and touching
her cheek with his lips. "Heaven be thanked that I was so hindered in my
start for Dublin this day, that I had perforce to wait for moon-rise to
sally forth. And now I will take thee home, dear love; and we will tell
thy tale to my father, who will see thee safe guarded in the future."
Derrick Adair quickly procured the release of Mona's father, and married
the daughter in the following year. Later on, after the rather tragic
death of Bishop Leslie (caused doubtless by the conduct of his son, who
was forced to fly the country after some notorious ill deed), the vacant
office was bestowed upon Derrick, now a rising light in the Church, and
he became Bishop of Raphoe, and his wife ruled in the old castle which
was the home of its prelates.
Once a wretched-looking beggarman crawled to the gate as she was
passing forth, and fell exhausted at her feet, asking alms.
She gazed at his face awhile, and he into hers; they knew each other,
and the wretched man cowered against the stones, while the lady hastened
indoors, to set servants or dogs upon him as the wretched man believed;
for he was none other than the ex-jailer who had sought to do her so
much ill. But quickly she returned with food and wine, and a handful of
silver. She set the basket before him, and poured the money into his
hands--stretched forth in supplication; and she gently made answer to
his faltering words of prayer:
"Have no fear, my poor fellow. May God forgive you as I do. Eat and
drink, and refresh yourself ere you go upon your way."
"And you will not punish me? You will not take your revenge!"
She looked gravely and sorrowfully at him as she answered:
"I think that God has punished you; that is His office, not ours; and
for the rest--that is my revenge."
JESSY VARCOE
"There goes the witch's darter! Yonder goes the witch's maid! Heave a
stone at the likes of her, lads! 'Tidden fitty as such spawn should
live!"
Poor Jessy had grown up with taunts like these in her ears, till she had
come to be too well used to them to pay much heed. Sometimes a stone
would strike her; but she could throw as well as any lad along the
coast, and she had proved as much upon the persons of her persecutors
many a time and oft. On the whole the children and the lads and girls of
Morwinstow had come to think it best to leave Jessy alone, especially
since it had been whispered that she was learning the black art from her
old grandmother, the Black Witch of the neighbourhood, and could
overlook an enemy, or curse him and his goods and smite his crops with
blasting and mildew.
So Jessy's life was perforce a lonely one. No kith or kin had she ever
known save her old grandmother who lived in the hut upon the rolling
downs land, not far from the margin of the cliffs. The old woman went
out by night to gather herbs and simples, and these she brewed over the
fire by day, muttering her strange incantations the while.
Although she was known as a Black Witch in her own neighbourhood, there
were many persons who bought her wares, and found them excellent for
sprains, rheumatics, and the like. But nobody visited in a friendly way
at the lonely hut save certain wild and fierce-looking men, who always
came at night, and were generally laden with packs of merchandise, which
they hid away in some secret hiding-place beneath the floor of the
cottage.
This much Jessy knew from peeping through the crevices in the floor of
the upper room where she slept. She was never permitted to be present
when these men came. She was sent to bed up the rickety ladder; and the
ladder was invariably removed, so that she could not get down if she
would, the bolt in the trapdoor by which she reached her attic being
always drawn by the grandmother.
As the child grew to girlhood, she began to understand very well the
nature of these visits from seafaring men. They brought smuggled goods
to be concealed beneath the witch's hut, well knowing that nobody would
willingly run the risk of being cursed or overlooked by the old woman.
Moreover, Jessy had reason to believe that the cottage masked an
entrance into a very large cave, which was probably a valuable
hiding-place; for she always noted the extreme civility with which the
rough men treated her grandmother, and how anxious they seemed to please
her in the bargains that they made.
Nor was Jessy in any way disturbed by the knowledge of what was going
on. Smuggling was a regular trade all along the coast, and she regarded
it as a matter of course.
As the old grandmother grew more and more infirm, Jessy was of necessity
taken more into her confidence, and soon found that her suspicions were
quite correct. The old woman received the contraband goods from the
smugglers, and hid them in the recesses of the great cave--the secrets
of which were known only to herself; and though very occasionally the
revenue officers came to the cottage and insisted upon examining the
place most carefully, they never discovered the secret hiding-place. For
the small cave was only the ante-chamber to a very much larger one
behind, and the entrance to the latter was so cleverly masked that it
was long before even Jessy could learn the trick of the sliding shale of
rock, though she had been shown it many times by her grandmother.
Exciting scenes were often witnessed along the coast in those days; and
bloody scenes were enacted between the smugglers and the "gaugers" or
revenue officers, in which lives were often lost. One gauger, more
resolute than some of his predecessors, after having killed many
desperate smugglers himself, was dragged bodily into a boat that he was
pursuing, whilst his head was chopped off on the gunwale and flung into
the sea.
The _Black Prince_ was a trim little vessel that did a great deal of
illicit traffic all along the coast at that time, and was well known to
every man, woman, and child in Morwinstow. Whorwell was the name of her
captain. A daring fellow he was, and one of the most popular smugglers
in those parts, free with his money, free with his contraband spirits,
making friends with villagers, parson, and sexton alike, and even
bribing old Tom Hockday, this latter functionary, to let him deposit his
kegs and bales in the church till he could find a convenient opportunity
of getting them away to old mother Varcoe's, or some other convenient
hiding-place. The farmers would lend him their stout little horses to
lade up with his goods from over the water; and the horses would be so
shaved and soaped that they were slippery as eels, and being accustomed
to follow some well-trained animals, would gallop away to the
hiding-place, safe from any hostile clutches!
In scenes such as these Jessy had been reared, and although she herself
was something of an outcast in the scattered community where she dwelt,
her sympathies, such as they were, were for a time all with the
smugglers, whom she regarded as friends; till something came to change
the face of affairs for her.
It seemed to begin from one Sunday morning, when Jessy, for a wonder,
went to the church, in spite of her natural timidity at facing the jeers
of the boys and girls, and the suspicious looks of their parents. She
often hung about the little windswept church whilst Sunday service was
going on, feeling in her heart a vague yearning after intercourse with
her own kind, and a longing for some knowledge of the mysteries of
religion; but she seldom ventured inside the porch, and might not have
done so to-day had it not been that there was a little lad, with curly
hair and blue eyes, whose face she did not know, whom she encountered
when not far from the building, and who began to talk with her in an
unsuspicious and friendly fashion that went straight to her heart.
Before they had got to the church she had gathered that the boy was the
son of one of the revenue officers lately come into the neighbourhood,
and that he often went out in the cutters that pursued the smuggling
boats, or hunted the coast for them. The fearless little fellow had had
some adventures already, which he retailed to Jessy with great gusto;
and remarked that he did not think the people of Morwinstow liked him or
his father.
To this Jessy answered that they did not like her either, and this
seemed a bond drawing the pair together; so that when they reached the
church they passed in together, and sat side by side in a shadowy corner
behind a big pillar.
But the service had not proceeded very far before there was a whisper
and then a buzz at the porch door, and one by one folks slipped from
their seats and stole out, till at last only Jessy, and Tim (as the boy
told her he was called), and the parson, and clerk were left; and the
parson shut up his book and whipped off his surplice, saying:
"Sure there is something amiss; and I must needs go and see!"
The churchyard overlooked the sea, and there sure enough was the _Black
Prince_ close under the land, and a revenue cutter in full chase, and so
near that all held their breath to watch; and Tim seized hold of Jessy's
hands, and cried:
"They'll get her!--they'll get her! Oh, why was not I there with them
to-day?"
"Hush!" cried Jessy in sudden fear, "don't let the lads hear you talk
so. They'd wring your neck, some of them, as soon as look at you! But
look!--look! Whorwell is making for the Gull Rock! They'll never dare
follow him there! There's not a man 'ud venture near that, save Whorwell
himself; and they say the devil has given him a special chart, so as he
can find his way through the rocks and shoals. There!--see, the cutter
is sheering off. She daren't follow into that surf. The _Black Prince_
will get off this time!" And Jessy's eyes lighted, for her sympathies
were with the smugglers; and the congregation assembled on the cliff
above gave vent to a lusty cheer.
"And now, my friends," said the parson mildly, "let us return and
proceed with divine service."
He drove the flock back into the building, got into his surplice again,
and went on exactly as though there had been no interruption: "Here
beginneth the second lesson."
But though the hardy seaman Whorwell escaped the revenue cutter and got
safe away, he did not live long after that, but was washed overboard on
a dark night in a heavy storm; and his nephew and mate, one John Moffat,
became commander in his stead.
Now Moffat was as daring a smuggler as Whorwell had been; but a man of a
very different temper, fierce, morose, cruel, and of an implacable
savageness towards any who had offended him. He had vowed vengeance
against all King's officers with whom he should come into conflict. He
had tasted once of prison discipline, and had had a narrow shave of the
gallows. Since then his violent temper had become increasingly savage;
and Rogers, the new officer, the father of Tim, found that he had a foe
to deal with as daring as, and even more unscrupulous than, Whorwell had
been.
Moreover, Jessy herself found cause to rue the day when Moffat had been
left in command of the _Black Prince_. Her grandmother was now so
infirm, that Jessy was obliged to receive the smugglers on their visits,
and to show them to the hiding-places where the contraband goods were
hidden. Before long Moffat began to make love to her in his fierce
masterful way; whilst Jessy, who feared the fellow and dreaded his
visits, shrank from him more and more each time she saw him.
She had grown to be a very beautiful girl, in a strange, wild fashion.
Her hair was a tawny, golden colour, and it grew very abundantly, waving
down below her waist when the wind caught it and loosened it from the
heavy coils in which it was twisted up. Her eyes seemed to match it in
colour, as did the thick brows and heavy lashes which veiled the fierce
light that sometimes leapt into her glance when she was aroused to anger
or hate.
The village folk, who liked either dark hair or flaxen locks, had no
admiration for Jessy's tawny tresses. But little Tim Rogers told her
that she was beautiful, and looked like a queen. The girl and little boy
had become fast friends, drawn together by their own isolation and by
kindred tastes.
Tim loved the sea and the rocks and the deep clefts and chasms of the
coast; and Jessy knew every crevice and cranny as well as the sea-gulls
themselves. They spent hours together, unseen by others, exploring
strange spots, telling tales and legends, and growing in friendship
every day.
As Jessy heard her boy-friend's stories of the hardships of the lives of
the King's excise officers, and had the other side of the question
unfolded to her--the need for taxes to be levied, to keep up England's
power and greatness, to preserve her coasts from foreign invaders, to
enable her to be a power amongst other nations with greater
territories--she began to understand that the smugglers were really
defrauding the King of his rightful dues; and whatever might be said in
favour of the landing of an occasional keg of spirits or bale of silk
without paying duty, the regular nefarious traffic of such a vessel as
the _Black Prince_ could not be regarded as anything but a wrong done
against the King and the nation.
It was the easier for Jessy to assimilate this new teaching because of
her hatred towards Moffat, which was growing with every visit he paid.
Her grandmother was now almost in her dotage, and was no real protection
to the girl; and she sometimes almost feared that Moffat would carry her
off to his vessel by force, so wild were his outbreaks of so-called
love-making, and his gusts of rage when she repelled him, and would have
none of his courtship.
Jessy's one weapon of defence was in the superstition of the man and his
subordinates. They believed that the girl had inherited, or had acquired
from her grandmother, some occult powers, and that she had the power to
do them some injury by her fiery glance, or by word or spell. This
knowledge had come accidentally to Jessy, from something she had
overheard the men saying one to the other; but she had found that it was
true, and that they really had some superstitious fear of her when she
flung herself away from Moffat, and stood regarding them with her fiery
glances of fear and desperation. Afterwards Jessy made some study of her
part, and got her grandmother to teach her some spells and some curses;
and although still in no small fear of Moffat's evident intention of
making her his wife, she felt not quite so unprotected as before.
Soon, however, she was to find, as other women have found before her,
that the surest way to turn a man's love to hate is to flout him, and
refuse his courtship. When Jessy, driven one day to bay, flatly refused
to marry Moffat, and added that she hated him worse than she hated any
one but the devil himself, and didn't see as there was much to choose
between them!--then the man's passion flamed forth, and the girl might
have been killed, had not the old woman, suddenly aroused and alarmed,
begun to curse so lustily that the seamen were filled with terror, and
dragged their leader off with them, he shouting out all sorts of threats
against Jessy, and vowing to be revenged upon her before he had done.
It seemed as though disappointed love had filled the man's heart with
passions fiercer than their wont. It was but a few days later that Tim
told the girl how his father had heard that the _Black Prince_ was
coming in soon with a contraband cargo, and that he was going to keep a
very sharp look out for her.
"I wish your father would kill Moffat, and have done with him," cried
Jessy, with sudden vehemence.
"Why, then, Jessy, you must be on our side?" cried Tim joyfully. "I
never quite liked to ask you before; because, of course, all the folk
you know are with the smugglers----"
"But they don't care for me, and I don't care for them--not a snap!"
cried Jessy; "and as for Moffat, I'll never be quite happy so long as
he's above ground. But my granny she cursed him properly the other day.
Maybe that'll bring him bad luck and you good!"
"Then is it true as your grandmother is a witch, Jessy?"
"I dunno; that's what folk say. She don't do nobody no harm as I can
see; nor good neither, save with her herb potions, and them I make as
well as she. But she's got a few queer books, and things she calls
charms. She tells me about them sometimes, and she teaches me spells and
curses and things; but I'd be half afraid to use them. Suppose they came
true; how would one feel?"
"If it were a curse against Moffat and his crew, and it came true, I
don't think I should feel very bad," answered Tim. "They're a wild, bad
lot, my father and his men say. The sooner they are got rid of, the
better for some of us!"
"Yes, indeed!" answered Jessy with a sigh; "but they are bad ones to
tackle, and no mistake."
It was a few days after this, and Jessy was alone in the cave just as
the sunset light was beginning to turn the water red. A load lay upon
her heart; she knew not why. She felt as though something terrible were
going to happen, but she could not guess what it could be.
Suddenly from over the water there came the sounds of voices,--angry,
passionate, triumphant voices,--voices that she knew.
She ran out of her shelter; and then what did she see? The well-known
sails and masts of the _Black Prince_ almost close in shore, not being
pursued by, but in hot pursuit of the revenue cutter, that had been
watching for her, and had suddenly darted out to seize the prey.
Now it was a most unusual thing in those days for a smuggling vessel to
turn aggressor. They were always built for speed, with a view of
getting clear away from the King's boats and officers. The _Black
Prince_ had always escaped by speed or seamanship hitherto; but to-day
it seemed as though the fierce demon of hatred that possessed Moffat had
dominated every other feeling.
It was he, not the revenue cutter, that was in pursuit; and even as
Jessy gained the cave's mouth she saw the terrible work of butchery
begin.
Moffat was the first to spring into the cutter and slash with furious
rage at the man Rogers, whose head was laid open by a ghastly blow.
Other daring smugglers had followed, and the water was dyed red with
something beside the sunset glow.
To her horror Jessy saw that Tim was in the boat.
"Swim for your life!" she cried; "you can do nothing there. Jessy is
here. Jessy will help you!"
The boy heard; the men did not. They were otherwise engrossed. The boy,
powerless to help either father or friends, obeyed the call that had
reached him, and as he dropped silently over the gunwale of the boat and
struck out, Jessy plunged into the sea from her rock, and swam bravely
out to meet him, uncertain whether or no he might have received some
wound.
And it was well she did; for, though unwounded, the boy had had a severe
blow upon the arm, and was only able to swim a short distance without
feeling the numbness and powerlessness come again upon him. But Jessy
was beside him; she could swim like a fish, and even weighted by her
clothes, could give her shoulder to Tim, to support his useless arm,
whilst she made her way with swift, strong strokes towards one of the
darkest and narrowest crevices between the frowning cliffs, where she
thought she and he might be safe from pursuit.
No direct rays of light came into this narrow cave, and there was a
ledge of rock upon which she hoisted Tim, and where she scambled herself
when he was safe, both gasping and exhausted; but, as they hoped, safe.
"Jessy, you have saved me! How brave you are!" cried Tim. But Jessy
suddenly laid a hand upon his mouth.
"Hist! be quiet!" she whispered; "they are coming after us! I hear their
voices--and the plash of oars!"
It was too true. Moffat's wicked eyes had seen the golden head of Jessy;
and he had missed the boy from the bottom of the boat, where he had been
knocked over.
"They are in here!" cried a cruel voice; "I saw them go myself. We have
them here like rats in a trap."
"Tim, have you a knife?" asked Jessy between shut teeth.
[Illustration: "The first man that touches him I'll kill!" cried Jessy.
_Page 351._]
The boy was trembling; but he did not give way. He pulled a little dirk
from his belt.
"Yes; but I must defend you, Jessy; not you me. You have risked your
life already. You must not do more. It is me they want--not you."
But the injured arm had no power to strike a blow. Jessy tenderly took
the dirk from between the numbed fingers.
"Say your prayers, Tim, if you can remember any," said Jessy, between
long breaths, "for we shan't easily get out of this alive."
"There they are--see them? The witch-wench and the boy? Ah, ha, my fine
maid, you'll sing a more civil tune to-day I warrant. Give us over the
boy, and maybe we'll let you off easy!"
"The first man that touches him I'll kill!" cried Jessy.
"Curse her for a witch," cried one of the men, recoiling before the
fierce aspect of the girl; but Moffat was filled with the lust of blood
and of fury, and with a yell of menace, he pushed up the boat against
the narrow shelf on which the pair were cowering.
"Hand over the boy."
A yell of pain interrupted him. Jessy, seeing better than she could be
seen, had seized the moment and driven her dagger clean through the arm
of the man who was seeking to clutch at the shelf.
Just for a few minutes the girl held her ground against the six furious
men below, who, losing all sense of humanity at last, lifted their
cutlasses and struck her blow upon blow; some of which missed their aim,
for Jessy was nimble as a wild cat, but some of which fell upon her
flesh, and at last brought her blinded with blood to her knees.
A stifled gasp close at hand told her of another deed of cruel
cowardice. She turned to see Moffat wiping his cutlass, and little Tim
lying stark and dead at her very feet.
At that sight a strange phrensy fell upon Jessy. Forgetting her wounds
and her weakness, inspired as it seemed by some spirit other than her
own, she rose to her feet, her eyes blazing in her head, and, with a
loud and sonorous voice, she spoke the words of a terrible curse. She
cursed the vessel whose crew had done this deed of infamy and shame; she
cursed the men who had been the instruments of a bad man's rage; above
all, she cursed the master himself, turning her gaze upon Moffat with
such fearful effect, that he slipped back into the boat, and his men
pulled away in the direst terror they had ever experienced.
Next morning Jessy Varcoe was found by some fishermen, seated on a ledge
of rock just above high watermark, with the corpse of little Tim, whose
life she had sought to save at risk of her own, folded in her arms.
She begged them not to wake him; she called him her baby, her darling.
When they laid him to rest in the churchyard, she would spend long days
sitting beside the mound, gazing over the sea for the sails of the
_Black Prince_.
But from that day forward the _Black Prince_ was never seen or heard of
again. Perhaps the crew, fearing to return to a place where they had
done such evil work, changed its name and rig, and took up life
elsewhere. Perhaps she foundered in a gale, or fell a prey to some
enemy's ship. But no news of her ever reached Morwinstow again.
Somehow the story of Jessy's curse got abroad, and her reputation as a
witch was made for ever; but she hardly knew it herself. From that day
she never fully regained her faculties; and at last poor Jessy's life
was ended through a fall down the cliffs from the heights above, near to
the grave of the little boy, and from whence she had kept a ceaseless
watch for the return of the _Black Prince_; terrified alike at the
thought of its return with the dreaded Moffat, or of its destruction in
response to her curse.
The children will look fearfully down this chasm, and whisper that Jessy
leapt down it to expiate the curse; but whether or not this was so, will
hardly now be known, for her mind was never the same from the dreadful
day when she risked her life to save that of the boy, and saw him slain
at her feet.
URSULA PENDRILL
The Captain's face was so grave, that instinctively the passengers
exchanged anxious glances. He had given out that he had something to say
to them, and they had assembled in the large saloon in full force.
When he came amongst them the look on his face was different from
anything they had seen before. The cheery expression was replaced by one
of clouded anxiety; and the infection of it spread quickly amongst the
group in the saloon.
It was not a very large number of passengers that this steamer carried.
This was before the day of pleasure trips to and from India. Those who
went to that land or returned from it, only did so when necessity
compelled them. The voyage was not the speedy matter it has now become,
and there were far more hindrances and hardships than since the days of
the Suez Canal. Still there was a fair gathering to hear what the
Captain wanted of them, and it was plain that the matter in his mind was
a grave one.
"Oh, Captain, is there danger?" asked a lady, cowering upon one of the
fixed seats, and holding a little boy clasped in her arms.
The keen blue eyes of the Captain turned upon her for a moment, and
glanced away to the circle of strained eyes fixed upon him; he seemed to
understand what it was that all these people were thinking, and hastened
to reassure them.
"Danger? Nonsense! What put that into your head? The ship is right
enough--nothing wrong there. It is quite a different matter from
anything you are thinking of."
There was a distinct look of relief in the faces turned towards him, and
yet the expression of care upon the Captain's did not sensibly lighten.
"I have in the first place one unwelcome piece of information to give
you," he said, "although I do not think that any of you need apprehend
personal danger or inconvenience. Perhaps some of you remember the
delicate-looking lady who was brought on board by her husband at Bombay,
and whom you have none of you seen since?"
"Young Mrs. Varden?" queried a passenger who had just known the name of
the lady before starting. "I asked the stewardess about her once, and
heard that she was prostrated by sea-sickness. Some people never get
over it all the voyage."
"Exactly; and that is what, until a couple of days back, we believed
about her. She was always ill and ailing, quite unfit to sit up or leave
her berth; but though the doctor saw her every day, he suspected nothing
till a couple of days back,--when the stewardess, who was taking care of
her, and luckily looked after nobody else, the ship not being very full,
was taken with a sudden attack like convulsions, and died within two
hours. That aroused his suspicions. He made a careful examination of
Mrs. Varden's condition, and his suspicions were strongly aroused. On
the following morning there would have been no room for doubt in any
case. The small-pox erruption was out all over her. To-day she is almost
black with it."
There was a shudder of horror through the assembled passengers. The
thought that the ship was infected by that terrible disease was fearful
indeed. The Captain spoke on doing his best to reassure them.
"Fortunately the lady has been kept very carefully isolated. She was so
delicate when her husband brought her on board, that everything was done
to ensure perfect quiet for her. She has occupied one of a little nest
of cabins, all the rest of which were empty. The husband bespoke the
sole attendance of one of the two stewardesses, and as my ship's doctor
is a cautious man, and was rather anxious about Mrs. Varden's condition,
he has used every precaution himself; though he suspected as little as
the patient or her husband, that she carried in her the seeds of so
dire a disease. I can assure you with good conscience that I do not
believe any of you have run any greater risk of contracting the disease,
than you might do by walking the street of any Oriental city."
Passengers on shipboard come to trust their captains in a way which is
creditable to that calling. Captain Donaldson's words carried weight,
and a sigh as of relief passed through the group gathered to hear him.
But one gentleman put the question that was rising in each mind.
"And what is to be done now?"
The grave, anxious look returned to the Captain's face. His eyes
instinctively scanned those turned towards him.
"There is only one thing I can possibly do, compatible with my duty to
my ship and its company and passengers," he said; "Mrs. Varden must be
put ashore at dawn to-morrow morning."
"Where?--How? Is it possible to do it?"
Quite a little hubbub of questions arose; and the Captain made shift to
answer them all.
"It will have to be done," he said; "I know the place where it must be
done. We shall touch in, and send a boat ashore. I have had to leave a
sick sailor there before this. There is an old leper-house standing near
to the margin of the sea. For a long time now it has been used in the
fashion in which I purpose to use it. Fever-stricken sailors are left
behind, and there are certain conditions they have to observe before
they can be picked up again if they recover. But when a sailor is so
left, some messmate remains with him to care for him, and submits to the
loneliness and danger and discomfort, out of compassion for a comrade's
need. The thing is not so difficult when it is one of one's own men who
is the victim of disease."
He paused, and glances were exchanged by the bystanders; and one tall,
rather rough-looking Irishman, who had come from Australia, and whose
loud voice and hearty ways had made him something of a power on board,
exclaimed eagerly:
"But look here, Captain, there is somebody there to look after the sick
surely! You don't mean they are just dumped down in an empty
leper-house, and left to live or die as they can? There is somebody
there to look after them, and give them food and medicine and all that?
Why, one wouldn't treat a dog so--to throw him ashore and leave him to
his fate!"
"It is like this," answered the Captain gravely: "There is no trouble
about food and water and a supply of such simple drugs as may be ordered
beforehand. I can make certain arrangements as to that; and the food and
fresh water and so forth will all be duly left each day at the
leper-house by an Arab, who will be told off for the service. But as for
getting help in nursing, that is simply impossible. I know what I am
saying. Money would not purchase it; and it would be such service, even
if attainable, as I think an English lady would sooner die than receive.
No; this brings me to the question which I have to put to her
fellow-passengers. Is there any lady on board willing to face the awful
peril of taking the malignant disease, the awful loneliness of the
leper-house upon the sandy shore, with only Arabs near, the awful doom
of dying alone there, or of seeing her companion and patient die, and of
being in that case quite alone during the necessary period of quarantine
which must elapse before she can be taken off in another ship? Whatever
man can do for making these conditions bearable, I will do. But none
know better than I do the terrible nature of such a task as the one I
ask from one of you. Nay, I do not dare to ask it! I feel that it is
more than flesh and blood can stand; but yet the thought of putting
ashore, alone and unconscious, that poor young wife, just to die,
without the presence of a human creature near her--that seems an equal
impossibility. Ladies, I do not ask an answer yet. I would not take an
offer were it given. It must not be an act of impulsive generosity,
should one of your number be able to face the terrible thought of such a
sacrifice. It must only be undertaken after much careful and deliberate
thought."
The Captain with that turned on his heel and went his way, leaving the
passengers gazing mutely one at the other with pale faces and anxious
eye. Just before he reached the companion, he turned round to say:
"Before putting the case to you, ladies, I have individually interviewed
every woman in the steerage company, to see if it would be possible to
procure the services of one of them as nurse. But all of them have
husbands and children. I have failed entirely there, and I may not spare
my one stewardess, even would she go, which I greatly doubt, knowing the
fate of her companion only a few hours ago."
Amongst the passengers who had listened to this pitiful and terrible
tale was one young girl, travelling from India quite alone. Her name was
Ursula Pendrill. She had stood rather apart during the Captain's speech,
and now, slipping away from the excited hubbub of talk that arose on all
sides, she fled to her cabin almost as though some grisly phantom were
at her heels, and, sinking down upon her knees on the floor, buried her
head in her hands and rocked herself to and fro in a sort of agony.
"Must I do it? Must I do it? O my God help me to see my way!" were the
words that fell brokenly from her lips. "How can I? How can any one? But
oh that poor, poor creature--that awful death for her; for death it must
be without any to care for her! O God help me!--help me! There is
nobody else--only me--to do it. All the rest have children, friends,
husbands, brothers. I am quite alone. O God help me! Help me!"
The broken words were merged in sobs, as the tears gushed forth,
bringing a measure of ease to the overcharged heart. Ursula sat crouched
up on the floor of her little cabin, with her face buried in her hands,
and her loosened hair falling around her, but the sense of storm and
strife was merging in one of a strange and settled peace. Down in the
depths of her spiritual being it seemed to her as though a hand had been
laid upon her, and as though a voice had spoken in her ear:
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me."
Ursula Pendrill was a girl of good family who had been left a year or
two ago an orphan, and with very narrow means. She was, however, a girl
of high spirit and brave heart, and instead of asking a home with any of
her kinsfolk, she preferred to supplement her small resources by working
in various ways herself.
The field of woman's work in those days was much narrower than it has
since become; but Ursula knew a lady who had been a nurse under Miss
Nightingale in the Crimean War, and had since then given much of her
time to the service of the sick. She was then in charge of a hospital,
and welcomed Ursula on a long visit, where she learned considerable
skill in nursing, and made herself acquainted with the right treatment
of most ailments.
After that she had often nursed private patients in their own houses,
and had travelled a good deal with invalids going to Madeira and other
places in search of health. So that she was no timid, helpless girl, but
a rather experienced and resourceful woman, who would not easily be
frightened or nonplussed in ordinary cases of sickness, or in the
ordinary circumstances of travel. But there was nothing ordinary in the
charge which she felt had been laid upon her to-day!
Yet no one expected this thing of her. Probably she would be the last
person the Captain would think of for such a service. Ursula was young,
and she looked younger than her years. She had not talked about herself
to her fellow-passengers. She had not told how she had been taken to
India by a delicate lady to look after her and her fragile children. She
had not supposed that anybody would be interested in her private
affairs. She was surmised to be one of those growing-up girls sent home
from the perils of the hot season to their friends in England. Nobody
would expect a young thing like herself to volunteer for such a deadly
and terrible service.
But the more Ursula thought of it, the more resolved she was to make
this sacrifice. It seemed to her that she had received a message from on
high; that she had been shown it was for her to take up the cross and
carry it, and that if she did so in fearless faith and obedience, she
would receive help and blessing and strength for the task.
At dusk she left her cabin and went on deck, and asked where she could
find the Captain. The officer she addressed looked at her keenly for a
moment, and then pointed to where the Captain was standing alone, save
for the presence of the big Irish-Australian with whom he was often in
company.
Ursula slowly approached, and the two men stopped talking and looked at
her. The Captain stepped forward.
"Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Pendrill?"
"Just for a minute, please," answered Ursula, with a beating heart, but
with outward self-possession. "I came to say that I will go ashore
to-morrow with Mrs. Varden, and take care of her."
"You, child?" ejaculated the Captain incredulously.
"I am not a child," answered Ursula steadily, "I am older than I look,
and I know a great deal about nursing. Once I lived in a hospital for a
year. I have often taken care of sick people since. I understand about
fevers, though I was only once with a small-pox case, and that only for
a little while, as she was taken away when the symptoms declared
themselves. But I have been vaccinated quite recently. I have never
taken anything from a patient yet. I am not afraid. I will go with poor
Mrs. Varden--if there is nobody more suitable and more efficient."
The Captain paced once or twice up and down the space between the rails,
and came back to where Ursula was standing.
"There is nobody else at all. I have had the husbands one after the
other--or the relations and friends. Nobody can bear to face the awful
task--or be spared to do it----"
"Yes, I understand. Other people have ties--so many to cling to them--to
miss them, so many depending on them. If it were so with me perhaps I
could not offer. But it is not. I have no very near relations. I have no
parents or brothers and sisters. If anything happened there would be a
few to be sorry; but nobody would feel life to be shadowed. I am the
sort of person who can do this thing."
"You are the sort of person from whom the world's saints and heroines
are made!" cried Captain Donaldson, with a most unwonted outbreak of
emotion. "My dear young lady, I do not know how to accept the sacrifice,
nor yet how to decline it. God will bless and reward you, I truly
believe; for He only can reward such a deed as the one you are about to
do."
"I do not want any reward," answered Ursula simply; "I only want to do
what is right. Suppose it were somebody very dear to me, it would be no
sacrifice; and Mrs. Varden is very near and dear to somebody--to her
poor young husband. I saw him as he went off the vessel."
"Poor fellow--yes. I fear----" but the Captain pulled up short, and kept
the fear to himself. Ursula moved away towards her own cabin.
"I have a few preparations to make; but I shall be ready to-morrow when
you send for me. I think I shall not come up any more till then."
She disappeared in the gathering gloom, and the Captain stood looking
after her, till a hand was laid upon his arm, and the deep voice of his
Australian passenger said in his ear:
"Is that girl going ashore with Mrs. Varden?"
"Yes; she has volunteered, she has all the qualifications for the task;
but I don't know now how to let her,--that lonely leper-house,--that
awful fear before her eyes. Mrs. Varden will not live the week out. But
I dare not keep her on board. My duty to my passengers and to the
company prevents it. But those two frail young creatures--set down
alone----"
"Look here, Captain, you may make your mind easy there. They won't be
alone. I shall get off there too. I shall see them through!"
"You, Mr. Kelly? Why, man, what do you mean? There is no accommodation
in the Arab settlement--nothing but the squalid place, and the
leper-house beyond. You cannot be in there----"
"No; I shall pitch my tent just beyond, but within sight and sound.
Jehoshaphat, man! Do you think I have never roughed it in a tent before
this? Do you think I can't speak the primitive language, common to all
races, enough to get those dirty Arabs to do all I want of them? Do you
think British gold will ever fail to work the will of its master in any
quarter of the globe? You go and make all your palaver with the heathen
Chinee, or blackguard Arab, or whatever he may be. I'll pitch my tent,
and I'll be there as long as any British woman is, and I'll see the
thing through. As a nurse I'm no good, even if a rough fellow could
volunteer for the task where a lady is in the case. But I'll be hanged,
Captain, if Brian Kelly will stand by and see that brave young girl and
that poor dying wife left alone in a place like that without a
countryman near them. I've nobody specially waiting me in the old
country. They've done without me all these years; they can do without me
a few weeks longer. I'll see this bit of business through. If those poor
creatures die there, I'll stop and give them such Christian burial as is
possible; if they live through it, I'll be there to bring them home--one
or both. Confound it all, Captain, d'ye think I'd ever know another
night's sleep in my bed if I looked on at a bit of heroic devotion like
that--and walked on with me hands in me pockets!"
The Captain put out his horny hand and wrung that of his Irish
passenger. He had liked Kelly from the first; now he felt a new and
warmer feeling towards him.
"Heaven bless you!" he said rather hoarsely; "you've rolled a ton's
burden from my heart to-day."
Before sunrise next morning, but while the sky was beginning to lighten
in that wonderful way one sees in desert countries, a tap came at
Ursula's cabin door. She was quite ready: dressed in her cool, linen
garb, with her white apron concealed by the folds of the long cloak. The
things she wanted to take with her were ready in a modest valise. The
rest were to go on to England under the care of the Captain.
Her face was quite calm and serene as she came up on deck; a few
gentlemen passengers were about to see her off and wish her well. The
Captain made his way towards her and took her hand.
"Mrs. Varden has been carried to the boat already. We are ready for you.
Mr. Brian Kelly is going ashore too. He is, in fact, there already with
my steward, bargaining about a tent in which he means to live for a time
within hail of the leper-house. So you will have a friend at hand in
case of need. He, like you, is one of the lonely ones of the earth, who
can do these things. I am very thankful not to leave you quite alone
with your patient! There yonder you see your future home--or prison. You
will be quite safe there,--you would have been safe even without
Kelly,--but I am thankful he remains too. I shall leave word at the
nearest station what has happened. You will have friends looking after
you, in a sense, whom you will never see. But Mr. Kelly will be at your
beck and call. Now we must be going."
It was all like a dream to Ursula: the confused sound of voices, the
earnest pressure of farewell hand-clasps, the words of praise and
blessing lavished upon her; then the sight of the swathed white figure
in the bottom of the boat that looked almost like a corpse in its
graveclothes, the vivid golden glow over sea and land, the stretches of
yellow sand, the white domes of the Arab settlement, and the square
stone walls of the place to which she was bound.
She only seemed to awaken to the realities of life when the Captain held
her hands in a last farewell, and just stooped and touched her forehead
with his lips.
"I have a little girl at home--about your age!" he said huskily, as if
in explanation. "Pray God she may be as brave a girl as you--though may
she never be so sorely tried!"
Then he was gone,--they were all gone,--and Ursula was left alone in
this strange, silent place, with that sad sight before her eyes--poor
Mrs. Varden, stricken down with that most terrible malady, and in its
most malignant and deadly form.
The patient was quite unconscious, and lay upon the narrow bed which
Ursula found already neatly made up, muttering in the delirium that knew
no lucid intervals. She was not violent--had never been violent, the
doctor told her--and there was little enough to be done for her. But the
thirst was constant, and Ursula seldom left her side for long. Although
there was something so terrible in the poor young wife's disfigured
face, yet it seemed to Ursula that she was the one link between her and
the unknown. She did not shrink from her. She was as tender as though it
had been her mother or sister. She shrank from no task that would bring
relief or ease. She knew what to do and she did it unflinchingly.
And then as the day went by and the shadows of evening began to steal
over her, she went to the door, to look at the sea and the sands, and
see whether it was a dream what the Captain had said of that big Mr.
Kelly staying behind too.
No, it was no dream: there was the stalwart figure pacing to and fro;
there was the tent, picturesque and cheerful, with its fire close beside
it, and a couple of turbaned Arabs cooking something over the red glow.
"Miss Pendrill, I have been hoping you would come out for a mouthful of
fresh air. And how goes your patient?"
"Very, very ill; but always in a stupor. I can leave her for a few
minutes sometimes----"
"Ah, good; then we will have supper together out here on the sand; it
will eat better to you than in there, and----"
"Oh, but, Mr. Kelly, I am infectious----"
"Stuff and nonsense!--as though I cared for that! We are in the same
boat as to that, for I helped to carry her ashore. But we needn't be
more doleful than circumstances make us. I am peckish, if you are not.
Do let us have supper here together!"
That was the first of many such meals, taken just in those moments when
Ursula could leave her patient, and run out into the fresh air. It
seemed as though those Arabs must be cooking all day long, for there was
always some appetising dish ready; and oh, the blessed relief of those
odd minutes spent with one who could give word for word, and whose eyes
shone with friendly sympathy and kindly concern! Ursula said in her
heart every day as it went by, that but for this she must have died or
gone mad.
The Captain had been right in his prognostication. Mrs. Varden sank
gradually, and by the end of the week passed away in her sleep; and it
was Ursula and Mr. Kelly who bore her to her narrow grave upon those
spreading sands; and it was he who filled up the grave that he had dug,
and, bringing out a well-worn Prayer-book from his pocket, read over
that lonely resting-place those words of hope and promise that have been
the consolation of Christian mourners for all time.
Ursula did not take the fell disease. She was unnerved and unstrung for
a time; but the quiet days went by one by one, and the consciousness of
that watchful presence without kept her from any of those fears and
tremors which must otherwise have made this period of waiting an agony
to her.
They met every day. They took their meals together, and walked up and
down beside the margin of the sea in company. They had to wait till the
time of quarantine had gone by; but at last there came the blessed day
when a steamer stopped and dropped its boat to fetch them; and the two
exiles from humanity looked one at the other, and then at the great
vessel awaiting them, and they knew that their time of trial was over.
The passengers on that vessel were disposed to make much of them, and
laud the girl's heroism to the skies; but she shrank from praise, and
kept herself quietly aloof from the little world of the ship, till at
last the day came when they steamed slowly into the beautiful harbour
at Southampton, and dropped anchor there.
Ursula's few possessions were quickly gathered together; she stepped
alone into the bustle of the great world, where welcomes were being
bandied about on every side, and every passenger seemed to have some
loving friend or relative to greet him.
Not quite every one. A tall figure pushed its way towards Ursula. A
strong hand possessed itself of her bag.
"I'll put you into your train," said Mr. Kelly; and she gave a little
sigh of relief.
He stood at the window holding her little fingers in his big hand. He
looked straight into her eyes.
"I'm glad you've got some people to go to--even if they are only
cousins. I hope they'll appreciate what they have got. I'm off to
Ireland. I must see the Ould Counthry first of all. But I shall be back
in England before very long. When I come back, may I come and see you?"
She looked him full in the eyes. Her colour rose.
"I have never tried to thank you all this time----" she began.
His big voice cut her short.
"The train is just off. I want my answer. May I come and see you
by-and-by?"
There was a dew on her eyelashes, and her lips quivered; but the smile
won the day as it beamed out over her face. The soft voice was quite
steady, except for a little glad catch in it, as she answered:
"Yes."
THE END.
_Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "True Stories of Girl Heroines" ***
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