The Pigeon Pie

by Charlotte M. Yonge

  CHAPTER IV.

  IN a very strong fit of restlessness did little Mistress Lucy Woodley goto bed in Rose’s room that night. She was quite comforted on Edmund’saccount, for she had discernment enough to see that her mother and sisterdid not believe Diggory’s dreadful narration; and she had been sounsettled and excited by Mr. Sylvester Enderby’s notice, and by the wayin which she had allowed her high spirits to get the better of herdiscretion, as well as by the sudden change from terror to joy, that whenfirst she went to Rose’s room she could not attend to her prayers, andnext she could not go to sleep.

  Perhaps the being in a different apartment from usual, and the missingher accustomed sleeping companion, Eleanor, had something to do with it,for little Eleanor had a gravity and steadiness about her that was veryapt to compose and quiet her in her idlest moods. To-night she lay broadawake, tumbling about on the very hard mattress, stuffed with chaff,wondering how Rose could bear to sleep on it, trying to guess how therecould be room for both when her sister came to bed, and nevertheless in agreat fidget for her to come. She listened to the howling and moaning ofthe wind, the creaking of the doors, and the rattling of the boards withwhich Rose had stopped up the broken panes of her lattice; she rolledfrom side to side, fancied odd shapes in the dark, and grew so restlessand anxious for Rose’s coming that she was just ready to jump out of bedand go in the passage to call her when Rose came into the room.

  “O Rose, what a time you have been!”

  It was no satisfaction to Rose to find the curious little chatter-box sowide awake at this very inconvenient time, but she did not lose herpatience, and answered that she had been first with Charlie, and thenwith their mother.

  “And now I hope you are coming to bed. I can’t go to sleep without you.”

  “Oh, but indeed you must, Lucy dear, for I shall not be ready this longtime. Look, here is a great rent in Walter’s coat, which I must mend, orhe won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow.”

  “What shall we have for dinner to-morrow, Rose? What made you eat somuch supper to-night?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Lucy, I am not going to talk to you, or you will lieawake all night, and that will be very bad for you. I shall put mycandle out of your sight, and say some Psalms, but I cannot talk.”

  So Rose began, and, wakeful as Lucy was, she found the low sweet toneslulled her a little. But she did not like this; she had a perverseintention of staying awake till Rose got into bed, so instead ofattending to the holy words, she pinched herself, and pulled herself, andkept her eyes staring open, gazing at the flickering shadows cast by thedim home-made rush candle.

  She went to sleep for a moment, then started into wakefulness again; Rosehad ceased to repeat her Psalms aloud, but was still at her needlework;another doze, another waking. There was some hope of Rose now, for shewas kneeling down to say her prayers. Lucy thought they lasted verylong, and at her next waking she was just in time to hear the latch ofthe door closing, and find herself left in darkness. Rose was not inbed, did not answer when she called. Oh, she must be gone to takeWalter’s coat back to his room. But surely she might have done that inone moment; and how long she was staying! Lucy could bear it no longer,or rather she did not try to bear it, for she was an impetuous,self-willed child, without much control over herself. She jumped out ofbed, and stole to the door. A light was just disappearing on theceiling, as if someone was carrying a candle down stairs; what could itmean? Lucy scampered, pit-pat, with her bare feet along the passage, andcame to the top of the stairs in time to peep over and discover Rosesilently opening the door of the hall, a large dark cloak hung over herarm, and her head and neck covered by her black silk hood and a thickwoollen kerchief, as if she was going out.

  Lucy’s curiosity knew no bounds. She would not call, for fear she shouldbe sent back to bed, but she was determined to see what her sister couldpossibly be about. Down the cold stone steps pattered she, and luckily,as she thought, Rose, probably to avoid noise, had only shut to the door,so that the little inquisitive maiden had a chink to peep through, andbeheld Rose at a certain oaken corner-cupboard, whence she took out anapkin, and in it she folded what Lucy recognised as the very samethree-cornered segment of pie-crust, containing the pigeon that she hadlast night been accused of devouring. She placed it in a basket, andthen proceeded to take a lantern from the cupboard, put in her rushlight,and, thus prepared, advanced to the garden-door, softly opened it, anddisappeared.

  Lucy, in an extremity of amazement, came forward. The wind howled inmoaning gusts, and the rain dashed against the windows; Lucy was chillyand frightened. The fire was not out, and gave a dim light, and shecrept towards the window, but a sudden terror came over her; she dashedback, looked again, heard another gust of wind, fell into another panic,rushed back to the stairs, and never stopped till she had tumbled intobed, her teeth chattering, shivering from head to foot with fright andcold, rolled herself up tight in the bed-clothes, and, after sufferingexcessively from terror and chill, fell sound asleep without seeing hersister return.

  Causeless fears pursue those who are not in the right path, and turn fromwhat alone can give them confidence. A sense of protection supportsthose who walk in innocence, though their way may seem surrounded withperils; and thus, while Lucy trembled in an agony of fright in her warmbed, Rose walked forth with a firm and fearless step through the darkgusty night, heedless of the rain that pattered round her, and the wildwind that snatched at her cloak and gown, and flapped her hood into hereyes.

  She was not afraid of fancied terrors, and real perils and anxieties wereat this moment lost in the bounding of her young heart at the thought ofseeing, touching, speaking to her brother, her dear Edmund. She had beeneleven years old when they last had parted, the morning of the battle ofNaseby, and he was five years older; but they had always been very happyand fond companions and playfellows as long as she could remember, andshe alone had been on anything like an equality with him, or missed himwith a feeling of personal loss, that had been increased by the death ofher elder sister, Mary.

  Quickly, and concealing her light as much as possible, she walked downthe damp ash-strewn paths of the kitchen-garden, and came out into theovergrown and neglected shrubbery, or pleasance, where the long wet-ladenshoots came beating in her face, and now and then seeming to hold herback, and strange rustlings were heard that would have frightened amaiden of a less stout and earnest heart. Her anxiety was lest sheshould be confused by the unwonted aspect of things in the dark, and missthe path; and very, very long did it seem, while her light would onlyshow her leaves glistening with wet. At last she gained a clearer space,the border of a field: something dark rose before her, she knew theoutline of the shed, and entered the lower part. It was meant for acart-shed, with a loft above for hay or straw; but the cart had been lostor broken, and there was only a heap of rubbish in the corner, by whichthe children were wont to climb up to inspect their kittens. Here Rosewas for a moment startled by a glare close to her of what looked like twofiery lamps in the darkness, but the next instant a long, low, growlingsound explained it, and the tabby stripes of the cat quickly dartedacross her lantern’s range of light. She heard a slight rustling above,and ventured to call, in a low whisper, “Edmund.”

  “Is that you, Walter?” and as Rose proceeded to mount the pile ofrubbish, his pale and haggard face looked down at her.

  “What? Rose herself! I did not think you would have come on such anight as this. Can you come up? Shall I help you?”

  “Thank you. Take the lantern first—take care. There. Now the basketand the cloak.” And this done, with Edmund’s hand, Rose scrambled upinto the loft. It was only the height of the roof, and there was notroom, even in the middle, to stand upright; the rain soaked through theold thatch, the floor was of rough boards, and there was but very littleof the hay that had served as a bed for the kittens.

  “O Edmund, this is a wretched place!” exclaimed Rose, as, crouching byhis side, one hand in his, and the other r
ound his neck, she gazedaround.

  “Better than a prison,” he answered. “I only wish I knew that otherswere in as good a one. And you—why, Rose, how you are altered; you aremy young lady now! And how does my dear mother?”

  “Pretty well. I could hardly prevail on her not to come here to-night;but it would have been too much, she is so weak, and takes cold so soon.But, Edmund, how pale you are, how weary! Have you slept? I fear not,on these hard boards—your wound, too.”

  “It hardly deserves such a dignified name as a wound,” said Edmund. “Iam more hungry than aught else; I could have slept but for hunger, andnow”—as he spoke he was opening the basket—“I shall be lodged better, Ifear, than a king, with that famous cloak. What a notable piece ofpasty! Well done, Rose! Are you housewife? Store of candles, too.This is noble!”

  “How hungry you must be! How long is it since you have eaten?”

  “Grey sent his servant into a village to buy some bread and cheese; wedivided it when we parted, and it lasted me until this morning. Sincethen I have fasted.”

  “Dear brother, I wish I could do more for you; but till Mr. Enderby goes,I cannot, for the soldiers are about the kitchen, and our maid, Deborah,talks too much to be trustworthy, though she is thoroughly faithful.”

  “This is excellent fare,” said Edmund, eating with great relish. “Andnow tell me of yourselves. My mother is feeble and unwell, you say?”

  “Never strong, but tolerably well at present.”

  “So Walter said. By the way, Walter is a fine spirited fellow. I shouldlike to have him with me if we take another African voyage.”

  “He would like nothing better, poor fellow. But what strange things youhave seen and done since we met! How little we thought that morning thatit would be six years before we should sit side by side again! AndPrince Rupert is kind to you?”

  “He treats me like a son or brother: never was man kinder,” said Edmund,warmly. “But the children? I must see them before I depart. LittleLucy, is she as bold and pert as she was as a young child?”

  “Little changed,” said Rose, smiling, and telling her brother theadventures at the dinner.

  As cheerfully as might be they talked till Edmund had finished his meal,and then Rose begged him to let her examine and bind up the wound. Itwas a sword-cut on the right shoulder, and, though not very deep, hadbecome stiff and painful from neglect, and had soaked his sleeve deeplywith blood. Rose’s dexterous fingers applied the salve and linen she hadbrought, and she promised that at her next visit she would bring him someclean clothes, which was what he said he most wished for. Then shearranged the large horseman’s cloak, the hay, and his own mantle, so wellas to form, he said, the most luxurious resting place he had seen sincehe left Dunbar; and rolled up in this he lay, his head supported on hishand, talking earnestly with her on the measures next to be taken for hissafety, and on the state of the family. He must be hidden there till thechase was a little slackened, and then escape, by Bosham or some otherport, to the royal fleet, which was hovering on the coast. Money,however—how was he to get a passage without it?

  “The Prince, at parting—heaven knows he has little enough himself—gave metwenty gold crowns, which he said was my share of prize-money for ourcaptures,” said Edmund, “but this is the last of them.”

  “And I don’t know how we can get any,” said Rose. “We never see money.Our tenants, if they pay at all, pay in kind—a side of bacon, or a sackof corn; they are very good, poor people, and love our mother heartily, Ido believe. I wish I knew what was to be done.”

  “Time will show,” said Edmund. “I have been in as bad a case as this erenow, and it is something to be near you all again. So you like thisplace, do you? As well as our own home?”

  Rose shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh no, Edmund; Itry to think it home, and the children feel it so, but it is not likeWoodley. Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the branches thatcame down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?”

  “And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home fromthe justice-meeting. And the meadow where the hounds killed the fox thathad baffled them so long! Do you hear anything of the place now, Rose?”

  “Mr. Enderby told us something,” said Rose, sadly. “You know who has gotit, Edmund?”

  “Who?

  “That Master Priggins, who was once justices’ clerk.”

  “Ha!” cried Edmund. “That pettifogging scrivener in my father’shouse!—in my ancestors’ house! A rogue that ought to have been branded adozen years ago! I could have stood anything but that! Pretty work heis making there, I suppose! Go on, Rose.”

  “O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear.”

  “Neighbour’s fare! as you say,” replied Edmund, with a short dry laugh.“Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave mannaturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries could not goin a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that in my father’splace is enough to drive one mad with rage! Come, what has he beendoing? How has he used the poor people?”

  “He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but Mr.Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.”

  “I wonder what unlucky fate possessed that Enderby to take the wrongside! Well?”

  “He could not tell us much of the place, for he cannot endure MasterPriggins, and Master Sylvester laughs at his Puritanical manner; but hesays—O Edmund—that the fish-ponds are filled up—those dear old fish-pondswhere the water-lilies used to blow, and you once pulled me out of thewater.”

  “Ay, ay! we shall not know it again if ever our turn comes, and we enjoyour own again. But it is of no use to think about such matters.”

  “No; we must be thankful that we have a home at all, and are not like somany, who are actually come to beggary, like poor Mrs. Forde. Youremember her, our old clergyman’s widow. He died on board ship, and shewas sent for by her cousin, who promised her a home; but she had nomoney, and was forced to walk all the way, with her two little boys,getting a lodging at night from any loyal family who would shelter herfor the love of heaven. My mother wept when she saw how sadly she waschanged; we kept her with us a week to rest her, and when she went shehad our last gold carolus, little guessing, poor soul, that it was ourlast. Then, when she was gone, my mother called us all round her, andgave thanks that she could still give us shelter and daily bread.”

  “There is a Judge above!” exclaimed Edmund; “yet sometimes it is hard tobelieve, when we see such a state of things here below!”

  “Dr. Bathurst tells us to think it will all be right in the other world,even if we do have to see the evil prosper here,” said Rose, gravely.“The sufferings will all turn to glory, just as they did with our blessedKing, out of sight.”

  Edmund sat thoughtful. “If our people abroad would but hope and trustand bear as you do here, Rose. But I had best not talk of these things,only your patience makes me feel how deficient in it we are, who have nota tithe to bear of what you have at home. Are you moving to go? Mustyou?”

  “I fear so, dear brother; the light seems to be beginning to dawn, and ifLucy wakes and misses me—Is your shoulder comfortable?”

  “I was never more comfortable in my life. My loving duty to my dearmother. Farewell, you, sweet Rose.”

  “Farewell, dear Edmund. Perhaps Walter may manage to visit you, but donot reckon on it.”