CHAPTER VI.
IN the afternoon Lady Woodley was so much better as to be able to comedownstairs, and all the party sat round the fire in the twilight. Walterwas just come in from his fishing, bringing a basket of fine trout;Eleanor and Charles were admiring their beautiful red spots, Lucywondering what made him so late, while he cast a significant look at hiseldest sister, showing her that he had been making a visit to Edmund.
At that moment a loud authoritative knocking was heard at the door;Walter shouted to Diggory to open it, and was answered by Deborah’sshrill scream from the kitchen, “He’s not here, sir; I’ve not seen himsince you threw your boots at him, sir.”
Another thundering knock brought Deborah to open the door; and what wasthe dismay of the mother and children as there entered six tall men,their buff coats, steeple-crowned hats, plain collars, and thickcalf-skin boots, marking them as Parliamentary soldiers. With a shriekof terror the little ones clung round their mother, while he who, by hisorange scarf, was evidently the commanding officer, standing in themiddle of the hall, with his hat on, announced, in a Puritanical tone,“We are here by order of his Excellency, General Cromwell, to search forand apprehend the body of the desperate malignant Edmund Woodley, lastseen in arms against the Most High Court of Parliament. Likewise toarrest the person of Dame Mary Woodley, widow, suspected of harbouringand concealing traitors:” and he advanced to lay his hand upon her.Walter, in an impulse of passion, rushed forward, and aimed a blow at himwith the butt-end of the fishing-rod; but it was the work of a moment toseize the boy and tie his hands, while his mother earnestly implored thesoldier to have pity on him, and excuse his thoughtless haste to protecther.
The officer sat down in the arm-chair, and without replying to LadyWoodley, ordered a soldier to bring the boy before him, and spokethus:—“Hear me, son of an ungodly seed. So merciful are the lessons ofthe light that thou contemnest, that I will even yet overlook and forgivethe violence wherewith thou didst threaten my life, so thou wilt turnagain, and confess where thou hast hidden the bloody-minded traitor.”
“This house harbours no traitor,” answered Walter, undauntedly.
“If thou art too hardened to confess,” continued the officer, frowning,and speaking slowly and sternly, as he kept his eyes steadily fixed onWalter, “if thou wilt not reveal his hiding-place, I lead thee hence toabide the penalty of attempted murder.”
“I am quite ready,” answered Walter, returning frown for frown, and notbetraying how his heart throbbed.
The officer signed to the soldier, who roughly dragged him aside by thecord that tied his hands, cutting them severely, though he disdained toshow any sign of pain.
“Young maiden,” continued the rebel, turning to Rose, “what sayest thou?Wilt thou see thy brother led away to death, when the breath of thy mouthmight save him?”
Poor Rose turned as pale as death, but her answer was steady: “I will saynothing.”
“Little ones, then,” said the officer, fiercely, “speak, or you shalltaste the rod. Do you know where your brother is?”
“No—no,” sobbed Lucy; and her mother added, “They know nothing, sir.”
“It is loss of time to stand parleying with women and children,” said theofficer, rising. “Here,” to one of his men, “keep the door. Let nonequit the chamber, and mark the children’s talk. The rest with me. Whereis the fellow that brought the tidings?”
Diggory, who had slunk out of sight, was pushed forward by two of thesoldiers, and at the same time there was a loud scream from Deborah.“Oh! Diggory, is it you? Oh! my Lady, my Lady, forgive me! I meant noharm! Oh! who would have thought it?” And in an agony of distress, shethrew her apron over her face, and, sinking on the bench, rocked herselfto and fro, sobbing violently.
In the meantime, the officer and his men, all but the sentinel, had leftthe room to search for the fugitive, leaving Lady Woodley sittingexhausted and terrified in her chair, the little ones clinging aroundher, Walter standing opposite, with his hands bound; Rose stood by him,her arm round his neck, proud of his firmness, but in dreadful terror forhim, and in such suspense for Edmund, that her whole being seemedabsorbed in agonised prayer. Deborah’s sobs, and the children’sfrightened weeping, were all the sounds that could be heard; Rose wasobliged to attempt to soothe them, but her first kind word to Deborahproduced a fresh burst of violent weeping, and then a loud lamentation:“Oh! the rogue—the rogue. If I could have dreamt it!”
“What has she done?” exclaimed Walter, impatiently. “Come, stop yourcrying. What have you done, Deb?”
“I thought—Oh! if I had known what was in the villain!” continuedDeborah, “I’d sooner have bit out my tongue than have said one word tohim about the pigeon pie.”
“Pigeon pie!” repeated Rose.
Lucy now gave a cry, for she was, with all her faults, a truth-tellingchild. “Mother! mother! I told Deb about the pigeon pie! Oh, what haveI done? Was it for Edmund? Is Edmund here?”
And to increase the danger and perplexity, the other two childrenexclaimed together, “Is Edmund here?”
“Hush, hush, my dears, be quiet; I cannot answer you now,” whispered LadyWoodley, trying to silence them by caresses, and looking with terror atthe rigid, stern guard, who, instead of remaining at the door where hehad been posted, had come close up to them, and sat himself down at theend of the table, as if to catch every word they uttered.
Eleanor and Charles obeyed their mother’s command that they should besilent; Rose took Lucy on her lap, let her rest her head on her shoulder,and whispered to her that she should hear and tell all another time, butshe must be quiet now, and listen. Deborah kept her apron over her face,and Walter, leaning his shoulder against the wall, stood gazing at themall; and while he was intently watching for every sound that could enablehim to judge whether the search was successful or not, at the same timehis heart was beating and his head swimming at the threat of the rebel.Was he to die? To be taken away from that bright world, from sunshine,youth, and health, from his mother, and all of them, and be laid, a stiffmangled corpse, in some cold, dark, unregarded grave; his pulses, thatbeat so fast, all still and silent—senseless, motionless, like the birdshe had killed? And that was not all: that other world! To enter on whatwould last for ever and ever and ever, on a state which he had neverdwelt on or realised to himself, filled him with a blank, shuddering awe;and next came a worse, a sickening thought: if his feeling for the blissof heaven was almost distaste, could he be fit for it? could he dare tohope for it? It was his Judge Whom he was about to meet, and he had beenimpatient and weary of Bible and Catechism, and Dr. Bathurst’s teaching;he had been inattentive and careless at his prayers; he had beendisobedient and unruly, violent, and unkind! Such a horror and agonycame over the poor boy, so exceeding a dread of death, that he was readyat that moment to struggle to do anything to save himself; but there camethe recollection that the price of his rescue must be the betrayal ofEdmund. He would almost have spoken at that instant; the next hesickened at the thought. Never, never—he could not, would not; betternot live at all than be a traitor! He was too confused and anxious topray, for he had not taught himself to fix his attention in quietmoments. He would not speak before the rebel soldier; but only lookedwith an earnest gaze at his sister, who, as their eyes met, understoodall it conveyed.
His mother, after the first moment’s fright, had reassured herselfsomewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely thatAlgernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him todeath; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him;and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it couldat that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for hereldest son.
A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that theenemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory’s intimateknowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery,and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where
they were welcometo search as long as they chose, then to the barn-yard, all over thehouse from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet wereheard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search,and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer enteredthe hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers,Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his handsunbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up toher, knelt on one knee before her, saying, “Mother, dear mother, yourblessing. Let me see your face again.”
She threw her arms round his neck, “My son! and is it thus we meet?”
“We only meet as we parted,” he answered firmly and cheerfully. “Stillsufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willinghearts.”
“Come, sir,” said the officer, “I must see you safely bestowed for thenight.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” entreated Lady Woodley. “It is six years sinceI saw my son, and this may be our last meeting.” She led him to thelight, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, whichhad in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, “How you arealtered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker hishair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like yourfather?”
“And my little sisters,” said Edmund. “Ha! Lucy, I know your littleround face.”
“Oh,” sobbed Lucy, “is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!”
“What does she mean?” asked Edmund, turning to Rose.
“I saw you take it out at night, Rose,” said poor Lucy. “I told Deb!”
“And poor Deborah,” added Rose, “from the same thoughtlessness repeatedher chatter to Diggory, who has betrayed us.”
“The cowardly villain,” cried Walter, who had come forward to the groupround his brother.
“Hush, Walter,” said Edmund. “But what do I see? Your hands bound? Youa prisoner?”
“Poor Walter was rash enough to attempt resistance,” said his mother.
“So, sir,” said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, “you attach greatimportance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!”
“A blow with the butt-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man,”answered the officer.
“When last I served in England,” continued the cavalier, “Cromwell’sIronsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You canhave no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, againsthim.”
“Why—no, sir; but—however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I donot care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannotpermit him to be at large while you are in the house.”
“Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. Wehave been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting.”
“So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I amwilling to oblige you,” answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour hadcuriously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly andgentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. “Now, madam,to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow.”
“Good-night, mother,” said Edmund. “Sleep well; think this is but adream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house.”
“Good-night, my brave boy,” said Lady Woodley, as she embraced himardently. “A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father’sface you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow.GOD’S blessing be upon you, my boy.”
And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by asoldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter. Edmundnext kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing themgood-night, and assuring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon. Rose whisperedto him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weeppiteously.
“Deborah,” he said, “I must thank you for your long faithful service tomy mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that youwere doing me any harm.”
“Oh, sir,” cried poor Deborah, “Oh don’t speak so kind! I had ratherstand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army thanbe where I am now.”
Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged tohasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for thenight. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor littleCharles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion.
Deborah’s troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, andseeing Walter’s basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once forhim. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceededto her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time.
“Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have beenthe death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! ’Tislittle I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love thevery best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at theroot! I wish—I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in theParliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after havingknown him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer?Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heartless.”
And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her apronover her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards asbefore. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted tobe softened into an insinuating tone. “I say, Deb, don’t take on.”
She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him.“Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?”
“Come, come, don’t be fractious, my pretty one,” said Diggory, in theamiable tones that had once gained her heart.
But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. “Your’n,indeed! I’d rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in theParliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you.O Diggory Stokes,” she added ruefully, “I’d not have believed it of you,if my own father had sworn it.”
“Hush, hush, Deb!” said Diggory, rather sheepishly, “they’ve done hangingthe folk.”
“Don’t be for putting me off with such trash,” she returned, morepassionately; “you’ve murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat,and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you’ve broke mylady’s heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. Andnow you think to make up to me, do you?”
“Wasn’t it all along of you I did it? For your sake?”
“Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?” cried Deb, her voicerising in shrillness with her indignation.
“Patience, Deb,” said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. “No moretoiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and nowages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. Seehere, Deb,” and he held up a piece of money.
“Silver!” she exclaimed.
“Ay, ay,” said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, “and there beplenty more where that came from.”
“It is the price of Master Edmund’s blood.”
“Don’t ye say that now, Deb; ’tis all for you!” he answered, thinking hewas prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive thedifference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding.
“So you still have the face to tell me so!” she burst out, still morevehemently. “I tell you, I’d rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, ifthey had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you.Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy inDorset but will cry shame on you.”
“But Deb, Deb,” he still pleaded.
“You will have it, then!” And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, awayran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping andastounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on hishands and knees.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed, “
How now, knave, stealing thy mistress’sgoods?” and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidablehalberd, stood over him.
“Good master corporal,” he began, trembling; but the soldier would nothear him.
“Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberdabout thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight ofWorcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart.” Here Diggory judgedit prudent to slink away through the back door. “And so,” continued thePuritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, “and so thegains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!”
In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs toWalter’s bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside thedoor. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with agesture of rage and despair. “The villains! the rogues! To be betrayedby such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life. O Edmund,Edmund!”
“It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance,” returned Edmund.“Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkableproofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me;but I should have thought my mother’s gentle kindness must have won thelove of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging toher.”
A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence,then suddenly exclaimed, “The surly rascal! I verily believe it was allspite at me, for—”
“For—” repeated Edmund.
“For rating him as he deserved,” answered Walter. “I wish I had given itto him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,” added he,hesitating, “perhaps if I had been civiller—”
“I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue,” said Edmund,smiling.
“It is what my mother is always blaming me for,” said Walter; “butreally, now, Edmund, doesn’t it savour of the crop-ear to be pickingone’s words to every rogue in one’s way?”
“Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming fromFrance. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we arecavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low. Youshould see our young King’s frank bright courtesy; and as to the littleKing Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old _poissarde_ inthe streets.”
Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as ifconsoling himself, “He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue,whom hanging is too good for.”
“Don’t let us spend our whole night in abusing him,” said Edmund; “I wantto make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other.”
“O, Edmund! you don’t mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is thereno way out of this room?” cried Walter, running round it like onedistracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake itdown.
“Hush! this is of no use, Walter,” said his brother. “The window is, Isee, too high from the ground, and there is no escape.”
Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.
“For one thing I am thankful to them,” continued Edmund; “I thought theymight have shot me down before my mother’s door, and so filled the placewith horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time forpreparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me.”
“Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!”
“I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert’s.”
Walter squeezed his hands fast together. “And how—how can you? Don’tthink me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—”
“Never, I am sure,” repeated Edmund.
“But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolishto believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought ofdying, then—”
“You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter,”said Edmund; “nor have you led so wandering and weary a life.”
“I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die,” said Walter.
“Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge wemust meet,” said Edmund; “but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows thatit is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. Wemay have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grantus His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late,Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow.”
Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowfuland humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following whathe had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and atthe same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all hehad hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had beenof very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm,and added to his mother’s distress; he had been nothing but a boythroughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such anagony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been inthe room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother.Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!
The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, bothoccupying Walter’s bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep,and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who wasgiving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, shouldWalter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely tobecome heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly toprotect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding allcompromise with the enemies of the Church.
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