CHAPTER VIII
After pacing up and down Rose’s room till he was tired, Walter sat down to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest he should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with his arms crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell sound asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and calls of “Rose! Rose!” were heard outside the locked door.
He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the door.
He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother, all gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and Charles clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means understood this; and Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he would not like it. “How you crowd?” he exclaimed.
“Mistress Rose,” began Deborah, coming half way up stairs—Lucy let go his hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he could not move. “Don’t be troublesome, children,” said he, trying to shake them off; “can’t you come near one without pulling off one’s hands?”
“Mistress!” continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and did not immediately attend, she exclaimed, “Oh, she won’t even look at me! I thought she had forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you!” said he, starting. “Stuff and nonsense; what’s all this about? You were a fool, that’s all.”
Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor, and held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry: “Mistress Rose, shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young gentlemen, poor souls?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “No, wait a bit. Only to my mother, I mean, just at present.”
“And the soldiers,” continued Deborah—“they’re roaring for breakfast; what shall I give them?”
“A halter,” he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and answered, “What you can—bread, beef, beer—”
“Bread! beef! beer!” almost shrieked Deborah, “when she knows the colonel man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two Christmases, and bread, there’s barely enough for my lady and the children, till we bake.”
“Well, whatever there is, then,” said Walter, anxious to get rid of her.
“I could fry some bacon,” pursued Deborah, “only I don’t know whether to cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the garden. Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out of the frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way.”
The tinker was too much for poor Walter’s patience, and flinging away from her, he exclaimed, “Mercy on me, woman, you’ll plague the life out of me!”
Poor Deborah stood aghast. “Mistress Rose! what is it? you look wildly, I declare, and your hood is all I don’t know how. Shall I set it right?”
“Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine!” cried Walter.
“Alack! alack!” lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down stairs, Charlie running after her. “Mistress Rose is gone clean demented with trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this poor house yet.”
“There!” said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; “I have held my tongue this time. O Walter, you don’t do it a bit like Rose!”
“Where is Rose!” said Eleanor. “How did you get out?”
“Well!” said Walter, “it is hard that, whatever we do, women and babies are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found me out, but mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to guess what I am telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose is gone with him—’tis safest not to say where.”
“But is not she coming back?” asked Eleanor.
“Oh yes, very soon—to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till she comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I never was properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!”
“Oh don’t stride along so, or they will find you out,” exclaimed Eleanor.
“And don’t mince and amble, that is worse!” added Lucy. “Oh you will make me laugh in spite of everything.”
“Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my—her room, and see nobody!” said Walter; “you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don’t let Deb drive me distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives.”
“But only tell me, how did you get out?” said Lucy.
“Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing,” said Walter, shutting the door in her face.
“Now, don’t be curious, dear Lucy,” said Eleanor, taking her hand. “We shall know in time.”
“I will not, I am not,” said Lucy, magnanimously. “We will not say one single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything. Come down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose’s work, for we must be very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that Edmund is safe.”
Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained undisturbed for some time, while Deborah’s unassisted genius was exerted to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption was from Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call “Walter,” and then hastily turning it into “Rose!” He opened, and she said, with tears in her eyes, “O Walter, Walter, the wicked men are really going to take dear mother away to prison. She is come down with her cloak and hood on, and is asking for you—Rose I mean—to wish good-bye. Will you come?”
“Yes,” said Walter; “and Edmund—”
“They were just sending up to call him,” said Eleanor; “they will find it out in—”
Eleanor’s speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next room. “Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!” with many confused exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor stood frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine caper, clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in an exulting whisper, “Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long enough for him!” then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the hall. His mother, dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a glance of hope and joy lighting on her pale features, but her swollen eyelids telling of a night of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and Charles were by her side, the front door open, and the horses were being led up and down before it. Walter and Eleanor hurried up to her, but before they had time to speak, the rebel captain dashed into the room, exclaiming, “Thou treacherous woman, thou shalt abye this! Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the coast. Smite them rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling of the blood-thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I say!”
“Which way, sir?” demanded the corporal.
“The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport. Or here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles? Ah, there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy mother by telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy wiles, and will visit them on thee and on thy father’s house, unless thou dost somewhat to merit forgiveness.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Walter, swelling with passion.
“Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of the righteous are escaped.”
“You are not wrong there, sir,” said Walter.
“I tell thee,” said the captain, sternly, “thy joy shall be turned to mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou and thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless—”
Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, “You know you have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use such threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!”
“Ha!” said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady’s manner of replying. “Is it thus the malignants breed up their daughters, in insolence as well as deceit?”
The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, “Take that, for giving the lie to a gentleman.”
“How now?” cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the hood fell back. “’Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search the house instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second time.”
He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw himself into his mother’s arms, exclaiming, “O mother dear, I bore it as long as I could.”
“My dear rash boy!” said she. “But is he safe? No, do not say where. Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!” and so indeed her face proved.
“All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she—but I’ll say no more, for fear. He left love—duty—Rose left all sorts of greetings, that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them lumbering about the house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are welcome—”
“Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will gain,” whispered his mother. “Oh this is joy indeed!”
“Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word,” interposed Lucy; but there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the captain returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a soldier, who was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was completed.
After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain through the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went off to scour the neighbouring country, and examine every village on the coast.
Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime locked into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered not to let Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and Walter were warned that they were to be carried the next morning to Chichester, to answer for having aided and abetted the escape of the notorious traitor, Edmund Woodley.
It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust that the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be safe with Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels should search the villages before Edmund had time to escape.
CHAPTER IX
Cautiously stealing down stairs, Rose first, to spy where the rebels might be, the brother and sister reached the kitchen, where Rose provided Edmund with a grey cloak, once belonging to a former serving-man, and after a short search in an old press, brought out various equipments, saddle, belt, and skirt, with which her mother had once been wont to ride pillion-fashion. These they carried to the outhouse where Edmund’s horse had been hidden; and when all was set in order by the light of the lantern, Rose thought that her brother looked more like a groom and less like a cavalier than she had once dared to hope. They mounted, and on they rode, across the downs, through narrow lanes, past farm houses, dreading that each yelping dog might rouse his master to report which way they were gone. It was not till day had dawned, and the eastern sky was red with the approaching sun, that they came down the narrow lane that led to the little town of Bosham, a low flat place, sloping very gradually to the water. Here Rose left her brother, advising him to keep close under the hedge, while she softly opened a little gate, and entered a garden, long and narrow, with carefully cultivated flowers and vegetables. At the end was a low cottage; and going up to the door, Rose knocked gently. The door was presently cautiously opened by a girl a few years older, very plainly dressed, as if busy in household work. She started with surprise, then held out her hand, which Rose pressed affectionately, as she said, “Dear Anne, will you tell your father that I should be very glad to speak to him?”
“I will call him,” said Anne; “he is just rising. What is— But I will not delay.”
“Oh no, do not, thank you, I cannot tell you now.” Rose was left by Anne Bathurst standing in a small cleanly-sanded kitchen, with a few wooden chairs neatly ranged, some trenchers and pewter dishes against the wall, and nothing like decoration except a beau-pot, as Anne would have called it, filled with flowers. Here the good doctor and his daughter lived, and tried to eke out a scanty maintenance by teaching a little school.
After what was really a very short interval, but which seemed to Rose a very long one, Dr. Bathurst, a thin, spare, middle-aged man, with a small black velvet cap over his grey hair, came down the creaking rough wooden stairs. “My dear child,” he asked, “in what can I help you? Your mother is well, I trust.”
“Oh yes, sir!” said Rose; and with reliance and hope, as if she had been speaking to a father, she explained their distress and perplexity, then stood in silence while the good doctor, a slow thinker, considered.
“First, to hide him,” he said; “he may not be here, for this—the old parson’s house—will be the very first spot they will search. But we will try. You rode, you say, Mistress Rose; where is your horse?”
“Ah! there is one difficulty,” said Rose, “Edmund is holding him now; but where shall we leave him?”
“Let us come first to see the young gentleman,” said Dr. Bathurst; and they walked together to the lane where Edmund was waiting, the doctor explaining by the way that he placed his chief dependence on Harry Fletcher, a fisherman, thoroughly brave, trustworthy, and loyal, who had at one time been a sailor, and had seen, and been spoken to by King Charles himself. He lived in a little lonely hut about half a mile distant; he was unmarried, and would have been quite alone, but that he had taken a young nephew, whose father had been killed on the Royalist side, to live with him, and to be brought up to his fishing business.
Edmund and Rose both agreed that there could be no better hope of escape than in trusting to this good man; and as no time was to be lost, they parted for the present, Rose returning to the cottage to spend the day with Anne Bathurst, and the clergyman walking with the young cavalier to the place where the fisherman lived. They led the horse with them for some distance, then tied him to a gate, a little out of sight, and went on to the hut, which stood, built of the shingle of the beach, just beyond the highest reach of the tide, with the boat beside it, and the nets spread out to dry.
Before there was time to knock, the door was opened by Harry Fletcher himself, his open sunburnt face showing honesty and good faith in every feature. He put his hand respectfully to his woollen cap, and said, with a sort of smile, as he looked at Edmund, “I see what work you have for me, your reverence.”
“You are right, Harry,” said Dr. Bathurst; “this is one of the gentlemen that fought for his Majesty at Worcester, and if we cannot get him safe out of the country, with heaven’s blessing, he is as good as a dead man.”
“Come in, sir,” said Fletcher, “you had best not be seen. There’s no one here but little Dick, and I’ll answer for him.”
They came in, and Dr. Bathurst explained Edmund’s circumstances. The honest fellow looked a little perplexed, but after a moment said, “Well, I’ll do what in me lies, sir; but ’tis a long way across.”
“I should tell you, my good man,” said Edmund, “that I have nothing to repay you with for all the trouble and danger to which you may be exposing yourself on my behalf. Nothing but my horse, which would only be bringing suspicion on you.”
“As to that, your honour,” replied Harry, “I’d never think of waiting for pay in a matter of life and death. I am glad if I can help off a gentleman that has been on the King’s side.”
So the plan was arranged. Edmund was to be disguised in the fisherman’s clothes, spend the day at his hut, and at night, if the weather served, Fletcher would row him out to sea, assisted by the little boy, in hopes of falling in with a French vessel; or, if not, they must pull across to Havre or Dieppe. The doctor promised to bring Rose at ten o’clock to meet him on the beach and bid him farewell. As to the horse, Fletcher sent the little boy to turn it out on the neighbouring down, and hide the saddle.
All this arranged, Dr. Bathurst returned to his school; and Rose, dressed in Anne’s plainest clothes, rested on her bed as long as her anxiety would allow her, then came down and helped in her household work. It was well that Rose was thus employed, for in the afternoon they had a great fright. Two soldiers came knocking violently at the door, exhibiting an order to search for the escaped prisoner. Rose recognised two of the party who had been at Forest Lea; but happily they had not seen enough of her to know her in the coarse blue stuff petticoat that she now wore. One of them asked who she was, and Anne readily replied, “Oh, a friend who is helping me;” after which they paid her no further attention.
Her anxiety for Edmund was of course at its height during this search, and it was not till the evening that she could gain any intelligence. Edmund’s danger had indeed been great. Harry Fletcher saw the rebels coming in time to prepare. He advised his guest not to remain in the house, as if he wished to avoid observation, but to come out, as if afraid of nothing. His cavalier dress had been carefully destroyed or concealed; he wore the fisherman’s rough clothes, and had even sacrificed his long dark hair, covering his head with one of Harry’s red woollen caps. He was altogether so different in appearance from what he had been yesterday, that he ventured forward, and leant whistling against the side of the boat, while Harry parleyed with the soldiers. Perhaps they suspected Harry a little, for they insisted on searching his hut, and as they were coming out, one of them began to tell him of the penalties that fishermen would incur by favouring the escape of the Royalists. Harry did not lose countenance, but went on hammering at his boat as if he cared not at all, till observing that one of the soldiers was looking hard at Edmund, he called out, “I say, Ned, what’s the use of loitering there, listening to what’s no concern of yours? Fetch the oar out of yon shed. I never lit on such a lazy comrade in my life.”
This seemed to turn away all suspicion, the soldiers left them, and no further mischance occurred. At night, just as the young moon was setting, the boat was brought out, and Harry, with little Dick and a comrade whom he engaged could be trusted, prepared their oars. At the same time, Dr. Bathurst and Rose came silently to meet them along the shingly beach. Rose hardly knew her brother in his fisherman’s garb. The time was short, and their hearts were too full for many words, as that little party stood together in the light of the crescent moon, the sea sounding with a low constant ripple, spread out in the grey hazy blue distance, and here and there the crests of the nearer waves swelling up and catching the moonlight.
Edmund and his sister held their hands tightly clasped, loving each other, if possible, better than ever. He now and then repeated some loving greeting which she was to bear home; and she tried to restrain her tears, at the separation she was forced to rejoice in, a parting which gave no augury of meeting again, the renewal of an exile from which there was no present hope of return. Harry looked at Dr. Bathurst to intimate it was time to be gone. The clergyman came close to the brother and sister, and instead of speaking his own words, used these:—
“Turn our captivity, O Lord, as the rivers in the south.”
“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”
“He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him.”
“Amen,” answered Edmund and Rose; and they loosened their hold of each other with hearts less sore. Then Edmund bared his head, and knelt down, and the good clergyman called down a blessing from heaven on him; Harry, the faithful man who was going to risk himself for him, did the same, and received the same blessing. There were no more words, the boat pushed off, and the splash of the oars resounded regularly.
Rose’s tears came thick, fast, blinding, and she sat down on a block of wood and wept long and bitterly; then she rose up, and in answer to Dr. Bathurst’s cheering words, she said, “Yes, I do thank God with all my heart!”
That night Rose slept at Dr. Bathurst’s, and early in the morning was rejoiced by the tidings which Harry Fletcher sent little Dick to carry to the cottage. The voyage had been prosperous, they had fallen in with a French vessel, and Mr. Edmund Woodley had been safely received on board.
She was very anxious to return home; and as it was Saturday, and therefore a holiday at the school, Dr. Bathurst undertook to go with her and spend the Sunday at Forest Lea. One of the farmers of Bosham helped them some little way with his harvest cart, but the rest of the journey had to be performed on foot. It was not till noon that they came out upon the high road between Chichester and Forest Lea; and they had not been upon it more than ten minutes, before the sound of horses’ tread was heard, as if coming from Chichester. Looking round, they saw a gentleman riding fast, followed by a soldier also on horseback. There was something in his air that Rose recognised, and as he came nearer she perceived it was Sylvester Enderby. He was much amazed, when, at the same moment, he perceived it was Mistress Rose Woodley, and stopping his horse, and taking off his hat, with great respect both towards her and the clergyman, he hoped all the family were well in health.
“Yes, yes, I believe so, thank you,” replied Rose, looking anxiously at him.
“I am on my way to Forest Lea,” he said. “I bring the order my father hoped to obtain from General Cromwell.”
“The Protection! Oh, thanks! ten thousand thanks!” cried Rose. “Oh! it may save—But hasten on, pray hasten on, sir. The soldiers are already at home; I feared she might be already a prisoner at Chichester. Pray go on and restrain them by your authority. Don’t ask me to explain—you will understand all when you are there.”
She prevailed on him to go on, while she, with Dr. Bathurst, more slowly proceeded up the chalky road which led to the summit of the green hill or down, covered with short grass, which commanded a view of all the country round, and whence they would turn off upon the down leading to Forest Lea. Just as they came to the top, Rose cast an anxious glance in the direction of her home, and gave a little cry. Sylvester Enderby and his attendant could be seen speeding down the green slope of the hill; but at some distance further on, was a little troop of horsemen, coming from the direction of Forest Lea, the sun now and then flashing on a steel cap or on the point of a pike. Fast rode on Sylvester, nearer and nearer came the troop; Rose almost fancied she could discern on one of the horses something muffled in black that could be no other than her mother. How she longed for wings to fly to meet her and cheer her heart with the assurance of Edmund’s safety! How she longed to be on Sylvester’s horse, as she saw the distance between him and the party fast diminishing! At length he was close to it, he had mingled with it; and at the same time Dr. Bathurst and Rose had to mount a slightly rising ground, which for a time entirely obscured their view. When at length they had reached the summit of this eminence, the party were standing still, as if in parley; there was presently a movement, a parting, Rose clasped her hands in earnestness. The main body continued their course to Chichester, a few remained stationary. How many? One, two, three—yes, four, or was it five? and among them the black figure she had watched so anxiously! “She is safe, she is safe!” cried Rose. “Oh, God has been so very good to us, I wish I could thank Him enough!”
Leaving the smoother slope to avoid encountering the baffled rebels, Dr. Bathurst and Rose descended the steep, the good man exerting himself that her eagerness might not be disappointed. Down they went, sliding on the slippery green banks, helping themselves with the doctor’s trusty staff, taking a short run at the lowest and steepest part of each, creeping down the rude steps, or rather foot-holes, cut out by the shepherd-boys in the more perpendicular descents, and fairly sliding or running down the shorter ones. They saw their friends waiting for them; and a lesser figure than the rest hastened towards them, scaling the steep slopes with a good will, precipitancy, and wild hurrahs of exultation, that would not let them doubt it was Walter, before they could see his form distinctly, or hear his words. Rose ran headlong down the last green slope, and was saved from falling by fairly rushing into his arms.
“Is he safe? I need not ask!” exclaimed Walter.
“Safe! in a French vessel. And mother?”
“Safe! well! happy! You saw, you heard! Hurrah! The crop-ears are sent to the right about; the captain has done mother and me the favour to forgive us, as a Christian, all that has passed, he says. We are all going home again as fast as we can, young Enderby and all, to chase out the two rogues that are quartered on us to afflict poor Deb and the little ones.”
By this time Dr. Bathurst had descended, more cautiously, and Walter went to greet him, and repeat his news. Together they proceeded to meet the rest; and who can tell the tearful happiness when Rose and her mother were once more pressed in each other’s arms!
“My noble girl! under Providence you have saved him!” whispered Lady Woodley.
The next evening, in secrecy, with the shutters shut, and the light screened, the true pastor of Forest Lea gathered the faithful ones of his flock for a service in the old hall. There knelt many a humble, loyal, trustful peasant; there was the widowed Dame Ewins, trying to be comforted, as they told her she ought; there was the lady herself, at once sorrowful and yet earnestly thankful; there was Sylvester Enderby, hearing and following the prayers he had been used to in his early childhood, with a growing feeling that here lay the right and the truth; there was Deborah, weeping, grieving over her own fault, and almost heart-broken at the failure of him on whom she had set her warm affections, yet perhaps in a way made wiser, and taught to trust no longer to a broken reed, but to look for better things; there were Walter and Lucy, both humbled and subdued, repenting in earnest of the misbehaviour each of them had been guilty of. Walter did not show his contrition much in manner, but it was real, and he proved it by many a struggle with his self-willed overbearing temper. It was a real resolution that he took now, and in a spirit of humility, which made him glad to pray that what was past might be forgiven, and that he might be helped for the future. That was the first time Walter had ever kept up his attention through the whole service, but it all came home to him now.