From Hawick we marched to Langholme, a little market-town belonging to the Duchess of Buccleugh; and there we made another very great mistake. For here the Earl of Wintoun strongly advised that we should make ourselves masters of Dumfries, and to that end, indeed, a detachment of cavalry was sent forward in the night to Ecclefechan. And no doubt the advice was just and the plan easy of accomplishment. Dumfries, he urged, was unfortified either by walls or trainbands; it stood upon a navigable river whereby we might have succours from France; it opened a passage to Glasgow; and the possession of so wealthy a town would give us great credit with the country gentlemen thereabouts, and so be the means of enlarging the command. All these arguments he advanced, as Lord Derwentwater, who was present at the council, informed me, with singular moderation of tone, but finding that they made no sort of headway with the English party:
“It is sheer folly and madness,” he burst out. “You are so eager to reap your doubtful crops in Lancashire, that you will not stoop to the corn that lies cut at your feet. I tell you, there are many stands of arms stored in the Tolbooth and a great quantity of gunpowder in the Tron Steeple, which you can have for the mere taking. But you will not, no, you will not. Good God, sirs, your King’s at stake, and if you understand not that, your lives;” and so he bounced out of the room.
The truth is we of the English party were so buoyed up by the expresses we received from Lancashire that nothing would content us but we must march hot-foot into England. And though, of course, I had no part or share in the decision of our course, I was none the less glad that our side prevailed, nay, more glad than the rest, since I had an added motive. For so long as we remained in Scotland there would be no disturbance of administration in England. Examinations would be conducted, assizes would be held, and for all I knew, Mr. Herbert might be condemned and hanged while we were yet marching and countermarching upon the borders. The thought of that possibility was like a sword above my head; I raged against my ignorance of the place of Mr. Herbert’s detention. Had I but known it, I think that in this hesitation of our leaders I would have foregone those chances of escape which the rebellion promised, and ridden off at night to deliver myself to the authorities. For it was no longer of my dishonour, if I failed to bring the matter to a happy event, at least for Anthony Herbert and his wife, that I thought. But the prospect of failure struck at something deeper within me. It seemed in truth to reach out sullying hands towards Dorothy. I held it in some queer way as a debt to her, due in payment for my knowledge of her, that I should fulfil this duty to its last letter. So whenever these councils were in the holding, I would pace up and down before the General’s quarters, as a man will before the house in which his mistress lies sick; and when the counsellors came forth, you may be sure I was at Lord Derwentwater’s elbow on the instant, and the first to hear the decision agreed upon.
From Langholme, then, we crossed into England. It is no part of my story to describe our march to Preston, and I need only make mention of one incident during its continuance which had an intimate effect upon my own particular fortunes.
This incident occurred when we were some ten miles out of Penrith. The whole army was drawn up upon a hill and lying upon its arms to rest the men. I was standing by the side of young Mr. Chorley, with my eyes towards Appleby, when Mr. Richard Stokoe, who acted as quartermaster to Lord Derwentwater’s troop, suddenly cried out behind me —
“Lord save us! Who is this old put of a fellow?”
“He mounts the white cockade,” said young Mr. Chorley, turning and shading his eyes with his hand.
“And moves a living arsenal,” said the other with a laugh.
“Yet hardly so dangerous as his companion, I should think.”
“Very like. We’ll set her in front of the troops, and so march to London with never a shot fired. But, Clavering!” he cried of a sudden. “What ails the man?”
But Clavering was galloping down the hillside by this time, and did not draw rein to answer him. For the old put of a fellow and his companion were no other than Mr. Curwen and his daughter. A living arsenal was in truth no bad description of the old gentleman; for he carried a couple of old muskets slung across his shoulders, a pair of big pistols were stuck in his belt, another pair protruded from the holsters, a long straight sword slapped and rattled against his leg, while a woodman’s axe was slung across his body.
When I was a hundred yards from the pair I slackened my horse’s speed: when the hundred yards had narrowed to fifty, I stopped altogether. For I remembered my unceremonious departure from Applegarth, and was troubled to think with what mien they would accost me. I need, however, have harboured no fears upon that score. For Mr. Curwen cried out:
“I wagered Dorothy the sun to a guinea-piece that we should find you here.”
“I did not take the wager,” cries Dorothy, as she drew rein; she added demurely, “But only because he could not have paid had he lost.”
They were followed at a little distance by some half a dozen shepherds and labourers mounted on ponies, which, to say the least, had long since passed their climacteric, and armed with any makeshift of a weapon which had happened to come handy. The troop drew up in a line, and Mr. Curwen surveyed them with some pride.
“They lack a banner,” said he, regretfully. “I would have had Dorothy embroider one of silk for Roger Purdy, in the smock there, to carry — straighten your shoulders, Roger! — a white rose opening, on a ground of sky-blue, but — —”
“But Dorothy had some slight sense of humour,” says she, “and so would not.”
“Then,” said I, with a glance of perplexity towards the girl, “you are, indeed, come to join us?” For I could not but wonder that she who had so resolutely removed her father from the excitement of the preceding intrigues, should now second his participation in the greater excitement of the actual conflict.
“Indeed,” he cries, “I am; and Dorothy has come so far to wish us a God-speed, but will return again with Dawson there. What did I tell you, Mr. Clavering? There is a work for the weakest arm. But you are surprised!”
“I am surprised,” I answered, “that Mary Tyson is not here as well.”
“Ah,” said he, “do you know, Mr. Clavering, I fear me I have done some injustice to Mary Tyson. I thought her a poor witless body.” Dorothy made a movement, and he hurriedly interposed, “The best of servants, but,” and he glanced again defiantly at his daughter, “a poor witless body outside the household service. But since the messenger came with the constables to Applegarth, she has shown great good sense, except in the matter of simples. For, indeed, my pockets are packed with them.”
“The constables came to Applegarth!” I exclaimed, bethinking me of Jervas Rookley’s threat. “And when was that?”
Miss Curwen, I noticed, was looking at me with a singular intentness as I uttered the exclamation, and gave a little nod of comprehension as I asked the question. It was as though my asking it assured her of something which she had suspected.
“When?” echoed Mr. Curwen, with a smile. “Why, the morning you left us. You were right in your surmise, and I take it very kindly that you delayed so long as to scribble your gratitude, though that delay was an added danger.”
“Oh, I was right?” said I, though still not very clear as to what it was that I had surmised correctly; and again Miss Curwen nodded.
“Yes!” said he, “but, indeed, it was early for travellers. But we were waiting for you at the breakfast-table when we first heard the sheriff’s horses. I was not sure that you would hear them at the back of the house.”
“But one of the windows looked down the road,” said I, understanding why he had seen no discourtesy in my precipitate departure. I could not in any case give the real reason which had prompted me to that, and since here was one offered to me, why, I thought it best to fall in with it— “the window about which I hunted so long for the owl,” I added, turning to Miss Curwen, For her manner of a minute ago warned me that she put no great faith in h
er father’s explanation of my conduct, and I was desirous to test the point.
“You hunted vainly,” said she, “because the owl flitted one night,” and so left me in doubt.
“That is true,” continued Mr. Curwen to me. “I did not think of the window, and indeed was somewhat puzzled by the quickness of your escape. For I sent Mary Tyson to warn you the while I barricaded the door and held a parley with the sheriff from the window. She came back to tell me you were gone.”
“Would she had come back quicker!” exclaimed Dorothy with a shudder.
“Why?” I cried at the sight of her distress. “Was there — was there — any hurt done? Oh no, not to you. I could never forgive myself.”
“No, not to us,” replied Mr. Curwen. “Dorothy takes the matter too much to heart. Had she fired of a purpose she would have been right, or very little to blame. For I am old-fashioned enough to consider a guest sacred as an altar-vessel. But since she fired by mistake — —”
“Miss Curwen fired!” I said.
“And shot the sheriff from behind my shoulder,” continued Mr. Curwen.
“Father!” she entreated, covering her face with her hands.
“Nay, child,” said he, reassuringly. “There was no great harm done. A few weeks with his arm in a sling.”
“But I saw the blood redden through his sleeve!” cried she, drawing her hands down from her face and clasping them together. And as though to rid herself of the topic she jogged her bridle and rode forward.
I turned my horse and followed with Mr. Curwen, the while he gave me more precise account of what had happened.
“The sheriff took an absurd and threatening tone when he found the door barred, which suited me very ill. So I bade Dorothy load my pistols while I parleyed with the man. He threatened me in I know not how many Latin words and in a tone of great injury, whereupon, perceiving that, since he spoke a learned tongue and wore the look of a gentleman, it would be no derogation, I threw down my glove as a gage and challenged him to take it up.”
I shot a glance at Mr. Curwen, but he spoke in a simple, ordinary voice.
“Instead of doing that,” he continued, “he disappointed me greatly by a violent flow of abuse, which was cut short on the instant by Dorothy’s pistol. She was standing behind me, who stood on a chair, and fired beneath my arm. ‘Oh, the poor dear!’ she cried, ‘I have hurt him,’ and plumped down in a faint. It was indeed the luckiest accident in the world, for the constables, seeing their chief wounded, were sufficiently scared to stay no longer than gave them time to pick him up.”
“But all this occurred a month ago!” I exclaimed, “Surely the sheriff’s men returned.”
“In the evening; but they found no one at Applegarth. Dorothy and I with Mary Tyson were on our way to Carlisle. The other servants I sent to their homes. We have good friends at Carlisle, Mr. Clavering,” he said, with one of his prodigiously cunning winks, “very good, safe friends. We said good-bye to them when your army had passed Carlisle, and so returned home.”
“And Miss Curwen?” I asked. “What of her, since you come with us?”
“She will be safe at home now,” said he, “and Mary Tyson is there to bear her company.”
“She will be safe, no doubt,” said I, “so long as we keep the upper hand.”
We were by this time come to the top of the hill, and Dorothy was already talking to Lord Derwentwater.
“So,” says he, coming forward and taking Mr. Curwen by the hand, “here are the four of us proscribed.”
“We will wear our warrants for an order at St. James’s Palace,” cries Dorothy; and at that moment the trumpet sounded.
A brief leave-take between Dorothy and her father, and we were marching down the hill, Mr. Curwen joined to the Gentlemen Volunteers, his six henchmen enrolled in Lord Derwentwater’s troop.
Dorothy remained behind upon the hilltop with the servant who was to convey her home, and though we marched away with our backs towards her, I none the less gathered, as we went, some very distinct impressions of her appearance. Nor can it be said that they were the outcome of my recollections. For when I first saw her riding towards the hill, I was only conscious that it was she riding towards me, and very wonderful it seemed. And afterwards, when I heard her voice, I was only conscious that it was she who was talking, and very wonderful that seemed too. But I did not remark the particulars of her appearance. Now as we were marching away, I gained very distinct impressions, as for instance of: item a little cocked hat like a man’s, only jauntier; item a green riding-coat; item a red waistcoat, etc. The truth is, my head was turned backwards all the time, and we had not advanced more than a couple of hundred yards before my horse was turned in the same direction. For I let myself fall to the rear until I was on the edge of the troops, and then faced about and fairly galloped back to her.
She was looking with great intentness in the direction precisely opposite to that from which I came; and as I halted by her side:
“Oh!” said she, turning in the most perfect surprise, “I did not think that it would be you. I expected it would be my father.”
“I gathered that,” I replied, “from your indifference.”
She answered nothing, but industriously stroked the mane of her horse.
“Now say ‘owl,’” I added.
She began to laugh, then checked herself and looked at me with the chilliest stare.
“And if I did say ‘owl,’” she asked in a puzzled simplicity, “would it rain?”
I began to wish that I had not spoken.
“Well?” she insisted, “what if I did say ‘owl’?”
“I should say ‘Robin Redbreast,’” I replied weakly.
“And a very delicate piece of wit, to be sure, Mr. Clavering,” says she with her chin in the air. “You have learnt the soldier’s forwardness of tongue. Let me pray you have learnt his — —” And then, thinking, I suppose, from my demeanour that I was sufficiently abashed, she broke off of a sudden. “I would that I were a man,” she cried, “and could swing a sword!”
She looked towards the little army which defiled between the fields, with the sun glinting upon musket and scabbard, and brought her clenched fist down upon the pommel of her saddle.
“Nay,” said I, “you have done better than swing a sword. You have shot a sheriff, though it was by accident.”
She looked at me with a certain timidity.
“You do not blame me for that?”
“Blame you. And why?”
“I do not know. But you might think it — bloodthirsty,” she said, with a quaver in her voice, betwixt a laugh and a cry.
“How could I, when you swooned the instant afterwards?”
“My father told you that!” she exclaimed gratefully; and then: “But he did not tell you the truth of the matter. He said I fired by accident. But I did not; I meant to fire;” and she spoke as though she was assuring me of something incredible. “Now what will you say?” she asked anxiously.
“Why,” said I foolishly, “since it was done to save your guest — —”
“Oh dear, no,” she interrupted coolly, and the anxiety changed to wonder in her eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Clavering, you must not blame yourself that it was on your account I fired.” She spoke with the greatest sympathy. “You have no reason in the world to reproach yourself. It was because of my father. He threw down his glove from the window and challenged the sheriff to mortal combat, with whatever weapons he chose, and the sheriff called him — mad. It was that angered me. I think, in truth, that I was mad. And since the pistol was loaded and pointed at the man, I — I pulled the trigger.” Then she turned to me impulsively, “You will have a care of my father — the greatest care. Oh, promise me that!”
“Of a truth, I will,” I replied fervently.
“Thank you,” said she, and the old friendliness returned to her face. “We could not keep him. From the day that he heard of the rising in Northumberland, he has been in a fever. And he meant to go without our
knowing. You are familiar with his secrecies;” she gave a little pathetical laugh. “He was ever scouring his pistols and guns in the corner when he thought we should not see him. He meant to go. I feared that he would slip from the house one night, like — —” She caught herself up sharply, with half a glance at me. “So it seemed best to encourage him to go openly. Besides,” she added slowly, bending her head a little over her horse’s back — she seemed to be carefully examining the snaffle— “I thought it not unlikely that we should find you here.”
“Ah, you had that thought in your mind?” I cried, feeling my heart pulse within me. “Indeed, it turns my promise to a sacred obligation. What one man can do to keep your father safe, believe it, shall be done by me.” I was looking towards the receding army as I spoke, and a new thought struck me. “You would have let me go,” I exclaimed in reproach, “without a hint of your request, had I not come back to you?”
She coloured for an instant, but instead of answering the question —
“I knew you would come — —” she began, and broke off suddenly. “Yes, why did you come back?” she asked in a voice of indifferent curiosity.
“I had not said good-bye to you. You gave me no chance, and it hurt me to part from you that way.”
“But I thought that was your custom,” she replied, with some touch of resentment underneath the carelessness. “It would not have been the first time. You were careful not to leave a light burning in the stables the last night you quitted Applegarth.”
“I saw that you knew.”
“Yes,” said she, hurriedly. “I heard your foot upon the gravel.”
“But I said good-bye to the candle in your window all that night, until the morning broke from a shoulder of High Stile. I had to go. There were reasons.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 236