J. S. Fletcher

Of my Meeting with my Kinsman, Anthony Dacre, at the Wayside Inn—of my Further Adventures, my Disinheritance by Sir Nicholas, and my Doings with the Parliamentarians—and of my Employment on an Important Mission by General Oliver Cromwell.

I.

It was but little beyond noon when I turned out of Francis French’s park into the highroad, and I suddenly bethought myself that if I went immediately to the trysting place I should be as like as not to cool my heels there for some time ere Matthew Richardson joined me. His message had required me to meet him within twenty-four hours, and of the twenty-four there were still some seven or eight to run. “Faith!” says I to myself, “he might have been more explicit—does he expect me to sit by the wayside like a tinker who puts his mare in the hedge-bottom to graze for her supper?” And I went on somewhat out of humour, and that not altogether because of Matthew’s thoughtlessness. To tell truth, Mistress Alison’s last words, though I had laughed at them, had stung me rather sharply and roused a certain anger in me. Now that I was out of her presence I felt her scorn more than while I sat watching her. “So I am to be flouted by every chit of a lass, am I?” says I, with some bitterness. But on the instant my humour changed, and I fell to laughter again at the thought of her looks when I paid her back in her own coin. “What care I?” says I, shaking my bridle reins. “Here’s for whatever comes next,” and so I cantered forward.

At the joining of the roads against Hickleton, I came to a wayside inn of so inviting a sort that I involuntarily pulled up my beast and asked myself whether it were not some time since breakfast. I then discovered that I was prodigiously hungry, and so made no more ado, but rode into the yard and handed over my horse to the hostler, bidding him take good care of it, as it was my sole dependence for a long journey. The fellow looked at it somewhat curiously.

“I could swear, master,” says he, “that this is of old Sir Nicholas Coope’s breeding—we have its marrow in yonder stable at this moment—’tis a mare that Master Dacre of Foxclough rides—I never saw two beasts more alike.”

“Aye?” says I. “Why, truly, thou hast a rare eye, lad—but what is Master Dacre’s mare doing in your stable?”

“Master Dacre’s within,” says he, nodding his head towards the inn.

“Oh!” says I, and stands staring at the door, somewhat nonplussed. I had not expected to meet any of my kinsfolk just then and scarce relished the notion. “Come,” says I to myself, “what signifies Anthony Dacre?—we’re as near strangers as may be,” and I once more bade the man see to my horse, and walked into the house.

They seemed somewhat quiet inside—there were but two or three men drinking in the kitchen, and the landlord leaned idly against the corner of the settle, his hands tucked under the wide apron that covered his capacious paunch. At sight of me he started into activity. My eyes cast about them in search of Anthony—the landlord noted it, and thought I looked for a place worthy of my condition. “If your honour will but step into the parlour,” says he, and flings the door open before me. So I slips in, and there sat Anthony Dacre with a jug of ripe ale before him and some trifle of food such as a wayside inn affords to chance comers. He gave me a glance as I stepped within the room, and I saw that he did not recognise me, which was naught to be surprised at for we had not met those seven years. For a moment, then, I stood staring at him, half doubtful whether to make myself known, or to go on my way without recognising him. Faith! I have since wondered many’s the time indeed, whether much of what followed might not have been prevented if I had turned on my heel and left Anthony to refresh himself in peace.

Now this man Anthony—at that time my senior by some three years, and as proper a looking man as you might desire to set eyes on—was the son of old Stephen Dacre of Foxclough House, that was related to Sir Nicholas Coope by his marriage with Mistress Dorothy, the old knight’s youngest sister. As for old Stephen and his wife they were both dead, and all that they had, which was but little, now lay in Master Anthony’s hands. A poor parcel of land it was, that manor of Foxclough, the soil being stony in one place and marshy in another, and old Stephen had done naught to improve it, but had rather drained its feeble resources in order to keep up his roystering habits, much to the grief and perturbation of Sir Nicholas, who was given to frugality, though hospitable as a gentleman should be. Thus Master Anthony had but little to live and keep up his small state upon, and since he was well minded to do as his father and grandfather had done before him and live as royally as might be, there was naught for him but to curse his fate and sharpen up his wits to his own betterment. And so far as his own wits were concerned he saw no better chance, I suppose, of improving his condition than by courting the society of Sir Nicholas, and seeking to ingratiate himself in the old knight’s favour. Thus it was that when we were lads together Anthony was constantly at the Manor House, and made himself rival to me (though indeed I knew naught of it at the time, being young and unlearned in such matters), in my uncle’s affections. But there was something occurred between them—I never knew what it was—which alienated them, or, rather, which caused Sir Nicholas to look with disfavour upon Anthony, and after that the latter never came to the Manor House that I knew of, nor did my uncle ever speak of him except to say now and then that Anthony was a real Dacre, and would be a scapegrace and roysterer all the days of his life.

Until I met Anthony at the inn I had not heard of him for some two years. It was said that he had gone to the wars, and that Foxclough—which was a half-ruined barn of a house when old Stephen died—was closed. Then it was thought that he was dead, or had gone across seas in search of treasure. Certainly, it had never mattered a straw to me whether he was dead or alive, here or there. I knew naught of his secret desires for Sir Nicholas’s land and money, and it would have made no difference to me if I had known of them. But since he was a kinsman, and we had been lads together—at which time, I, as the younger, had somewhat admired him—I made up my mind to speak to him now that we had met accidentally.

“You have forgotten me, Master Anthony,” says I, standing before him at the table while the landlord lingered at the door waiting for my commands.

He paused in the act of lifting his cup to his lips, and stared at me.

“Why—” says he, “I am somewhat—is it Dick Coope?” he says, half-recognising me. “Lord! I did not know thee, Dick.”

He stretched out his hand across the table. “Sit down, lad,” says he. “We will drink a cup together—let me recommend this ale to thee. But perchance thou wouldst like a flask of——”

“Ale for me,” says I, “It’s all I am like to get for awhile, and maybe more than I shall get.”

“Oh!” says he, and looks at me curiously. “Aye? Well, every man knows his situation best, Dick. Let me see, ’tis some time since we set eyes on each other, I think.”

“Some seven or eight years, I should think,” says I, sitting down before him at the table.

“Aye, it must be all that,” says he. “And how goes the old knight, my worshipful uncle—od’s zounds, he and I had a sore difference the last time we met, Dick. But you’ll know all there is to know of that, no doubt.”

“Nay,” says I, “I don’t—Sir Nicholas can be as close as any man when he likes.”

“I should ha’ thought he’d have had no secrets from thee,” says he. “Art a lucky man, Dick, to be heir to so snug a little property, and I lay the old knight has a nice warm sum put away in some old stocking. As for me,” he says, spreading out his hands, “here I sit, as needy a poor devil as any scare-crow in a road-side field.”

Now I know not what it was that moved me to it, but there was something in me that morning which prompted me to say all that I thought, whether it were wise to say it or not. It may be that my parting with Sir Nicholas, and that last stinging epithet bestowed upon me by Mistress Alison, had disposed me to seek consolation from the first person I met; certain it is, that sitting there with Anthony Dacre, who was well-nigh a stranger to me, I had no more sense than to tell him all that was in my mind.

“Aye,” says he again, “as needy as any scare-crow, Dick, and maybe needier, seeing that he wants naught, and I want all.”

“Why?” says I, “I don’t know that you’re alone there, Anthony. Your estate——”

“A patch of stones and bog,” grumbles he.

“It will feed something,” says I.

“A score miserable cattle,” says he.

“Why,” says I, “but that’s something. Now here I am with naught.”

He looked across the table at me in a sudden surprise, and if I had kept my wits about me, I should have noticed his quick curious glance.

“Hast never quarrelled with Sir Nicholas!” says he. “Gadzooks, I thought thou wert—well, well,” he says, laughing, “then I am not the only one of his relations to disagree with the old knight, it seems. But what has parted you, Dick?—I understood you were a sort of young Sir Nicholas already.”

“’Tis a political difference,” says I, like the fool that I was.

“Hah!” says he. “I can well believe it in these times. And for which side art thou, Dick?—hark thee,” he says, bending across the table to me, “I’m not afraid to tell thee, lad, that my sympathies are all with the Parliament. ’Sdeath, I have been considering this last week or so whether I won’t join with them—’tis a gentlemanly occupation, that of arms.”

“’Tis what I am about to adopt,” says I.

“I trust on the right side,” says he.

“I am for the Parliament,” says I, stoutly.

“Aye, and Sir Nicholas is a staunch King and Church man,” he says. “Well, well—so you differed on that point, eh?”

“Something like it,” says I. “He would have had me go into garrison at Pomfret Castle under Sir Jarvis Cutler.”

“A man must never give up his principles,” says he. “You stood by yours, of course, Dick?”

“As you see,” says I, feeling somewhat important, and being foolishly willing to parade it.

“I fear the old knight will disinherit thee, Dick,” says he, regarding me closely. “Even as he did me some seven years ago because I dared to contradict him on some trifling matter. ’Tis a touchy old cock, and can ill bide opposition from any man.”

“Faith,” says I, “Can he bide it from a woman? He is like to have it in plenty if I know aught,” I says, the memory of my little scene with Mistress Alison still fresh in my mind.

“Oh!” says he. “Is he so? And how may that be, Dick?”

“He has sent for Alison French,” says I, draining my cup.

“Our cousin Alison, eh?” says he, still curious. “Aye, he had always a tender spot in his heart for the lass.”

“Will he preserve it?” says I. “She has the sharpest tongue that e’er I heard.”

He looked at me with interest. “I ha’nt seen her this two year,” says he. “She bade fair to be a fine woman.”

“Fine enough,” says I. “But preserve me from her tongue—’tis keen as a newly-whetted sword.”

“You seem to bear some lively recollection on’t,” says he, looking at me with amusement. “Well, well—I seem to have come home to some strange news. But thou art not off, man—sit out another jug of ale with me.”

“I must be gone,” says I. “I am riding south.”

“And I am for my old ruin of a house,” he answers. “I have not set eyes on’t this two year, Dick. I must see to it, I doubt—and then for the wars.”

“Belike we shall meet there,” says I, and shakes him by the hand and goes out to my horse. As I rode away from the inn I saw him come to the door and gaze after me. He threw me a wave of his hand as I turned the corner.

II.

Still in a sore discontent with myself and my recent doings, I jogged forward through Hickleton and Sprotborough to Warmsworth, and coming to the trysting-place about four o’clock of the afternoon, sat me down by the roadside and waited until such time as my friend Matthew Richardson should make his appearance. As for my horse, I tied him up to the mile post and bade him crop the grass within reach to his heart’s content “Yes,” says I, “eat while thou canst, poor beast—God only knows what cheer we shall have in the days that are coming!” By which you may perceive that I had no great joy at the prospect before me. Now this may seem strange, and yet ’twas not strange, for, as I have told you before, I had never much inclination for such an active life as a soldier must needs live, and still less for the privations that fighting men are necessarily put to. But having put my hand to the plough—by which I mean, having sworn to embrace, and if need be, to fight for the popular cause—I was bound in honour not to look back. And surely my sympathies were all in favour of the cause I had espoused—it was but a natural sluggishness that made me hanker after peaceful pursuits at a time when most men were furbishing up their old weapons with uncommon zeal.

About five o’clock came Matthew Richardson, mounted on a good horse, and full of enthusiasm and fervour. He greeted me with warmth, but was somewhat taken aback on perceiving that I was not armed.

“Why, what?” says he, staring at me. “Is it thus you ride to war, friend Richard? Where be thy accoutrements, thy armour, thy greaves, thy sword and spear——”

“You forget,” says I, “that I am escaped from a house where every weapon is sacred to the cause of the King’s Majesty. ’Tis a marvel that I have come hither at all.”

“Ah!” says he, “I forgot, ’tis true, that your uncle is a staunch Royalist. Well, but we must arm thee, Richard, at the first opportunity. I have friends in Derbyshire,” he says, musingly, “that will fit thee out, I think. So now to horse and let us onward.”

“Whither away first?” says I.

“To Northampton, lad. ’Tis there that Essex is gathering the army in which lies all the hope of England. A brave array it is,” he says, “judging by all that I hear.”

“I have heard naught of it,” says I, as we jogged along. “Until last night I did not even know that war had broken out.”

“You are welcome to such news as I have,” says he, and for the next hour he entertained me with information about the doings of the Parliamentarians. The Earl of Essex, it seemed, had been named general-in-chief and had appointed various officers to serve under him, amongst whom were Kimbolton, Stamford, Holles, Hampden, Cholmley, and Wharton. Lord Bedford was general of the cavalry, and had under his command some five thousand men, captained by lords and commoners, of whom Cromwell was one and Ireton another. “Three and twenty thousand men, horse and foot, there are,” says Matthew. “Truly, the oppressor hath need to quail and quake before them!”

“’Tis certainly a goodly array to hear of,” says I.

“Yes,” says he, with enthusiasm, “and ’tis representative of the will of the people, Dick. Shouldst hear all that I have heard of the sacrifices that have been made! High and low, rich and poor—faith, lad! I had not thought that the popular cause had so many friends. But yesterday comes Geoffery Scales—thou knowest Geoff?—he will meet us at Mansfield on our way—and tells me that when he was in London t’other week, there was the wildest enthusiasm for the Parliament. Why, there has been plate of gold and silver sent in for melting, and women of fashion have given their gew-gaws, and the poorer sort their rings and little ornaments—praise be to God!” he says, with a sudden fervour. “It rejoiceth my soul exceedingly to perceive so vigorous a feeling in favour of liberty.”

“Why,” says I, “but is there not an equal feeling on t’other side, Matthew? It seems to me,” says I, “that for every ounce of enthusiasm on our side the Royalists can show another, and maybe more, on theirs.”

“Thou art come out of a Royalist hot-bed,” he says, not over well pleased. “I trust they have not shaken thy faith at all, Richard?”

“Marry, no,” I says. “I daresay ’tis strong as thine, lad, though I do not show it in just thy fashion. Thou art a dreamer, a visionary, a man of fine and airy spirit, friend Matthew, and thou dost see far into the future, whereas I am slow as an ox at thought, and mighty sluggish into the bargain. Howbeit, I will strike as many blows as you like for the good cause.”

“Yes,” says he, his eyes kindling, “and what a cause it is! Thou callest me a visionary, Dick—why man, ’tis true I have seen the rarest things in my dreams of what this nation may be, once freed from the ancient oppression.”

“Aye, and what shall she be, Matthew?” says I. “That is, if our side wins?”

“If our side wins?” he says angrily, turning hastily upon me. “If our side wins! Why, man, we are bound to win—wherever yet in the world’s history was there a popular cause that was not successful in the end? But to thy question—why, Dick, we shall set aside the tyrant and all his unholy crew, and after that we shall govern the nation in justice and righteousness and there will be abiding peace in the land.”

“The Lord grant it!” says I, with a sigh. “Faith!—’tis precisely what I desire. Let us press on, Matthew, and hasten its coming.”

So we went forward, joined by one or other of our fellows at various places along the road. Some of them were enthusiasts like Matthew Richardson, who believed that they had a heaven-sent mission to bring about the millennium by resort to arms, others were like myself, in full sympathy with the wrongs of the nation, who had come to the sorrowful conclusion that naught but war would settle matters, and had therefore resolved to join the Parliamentary forces. Five-and-twenty of us there were altogether, all students of the ancient University of Oxford, who rode into Northampton under Matthew Richardson’s command to take service under Essex, every man bringing his own horse and his own gear, and each resolved to do his best for the cause.

Now if this were a chronicle of my doings with the Parliamentarian army I could here set down the history of many things which happened to me during my service under its flag, for in good sooth those were stirring times and I saw much of what went on. But this is a plain account of the most notable passage in my own life and in that of Alison French, my cousin, and all that I have so far writ is as it were a prolegomena to the important business of my story. But since you may know where I was, and what I was occupied with during the period which elapsed ’twixt my leaving the Manor House in 1642 and returning to it in 1644, let me tell you that I was engaged in fighting the battles of the people in no paltry fashion. Faith! when any man talks to me of the glories of war I laugh in my sleeve at him for a fool that knows naught of his subject. I was in Ireton’s troop during those two years, and know as much of bloody heads, empty bellies, and sleeping out o’ doors, as the best of them. The marvel is, looking back upon it from the standpoint of a greybeard, that I endured so much privation and discomfort, who had all my life been accustomed to gentle living and soft quarters. But we were young, and young folks, especially if they have any enthusiasm for a cause, or dogged belief in its righteousness, will endure a deal. Now I had little enthusiasm, but much dogged belief, and when I had finally assumed the steel helmet and mastered the long sword of a trooper, there was in me a grim determination to fight for the true cause that made me regardless of either a raw wound or a couch of damp straw.

III.

From the time that I said farewell to Anthony Dacre at the door of the wayside inn until June of the following year I never heard aught of my relatives, though they, as it appeared—thanks to Master Anthony—heard no little of me. I was here and there with the army under Essex all that autumn and winter of 1642-43, and truth to tell, we had no very brave times of it. There was discontent and despondency, and also there was disease and desertion, and there was the affair at Kingston Bridge where we let the king escape us in the most childish fashion, and these matters did us little good, as you may believe. The king was negotiating, and quibbling, and lying, at Oxford, and nobody was sorry when spring came and put an end to all the talk and writing. Essex reunited his army, and there was not a man of us that did not look forward to the resumption of hostilities. It was Hampden’s notion that we should immediately invest Oxford, which was at that time ill calculated to withstand a siege, but Essex thought differently, and made for Reading, which he reduced after a ten days’ siege. About the middle of June we approached Oxford and fixed our headquarters at Thame, within ten miles of the city, and it was while we lay there that I received news of my relations at the Manor House.

There came into my tent one afternoon a tall fellow that first stared about him with an air of great curiosity, and then enquired if he spoke to Master Richard Coope.

“You do, master,” says I.

“My name is Stephen Morrel,” says he.

“I never heard on’t before,” I says. “Have you business with me, Master Morrel?”

He lugged a packet out of his breast and held it towards me so that I could see the handwriting.

“Do you recognise that fist, Master Coope?” says he.

“Why!” says I. “’Tis my uncle’s.” There was no mistaking the crabbed up and down strokes. “Sit you down, Master Morrel,” I says, “Faith! I had no idea that you carried news to me.”

“Why,” says he, “I know naught about the news, Master Coope. But suffer me,” he says, seating himself, “to give you some account of the manner in which this packet came into my hands.”

“With the greatest joy in the world,” says I. “But don’t be long in your story, for I am mighty impatient to read my uncle’s letter.”

“I will waste no words,” says he, settling himself in a fashion that made me think he intended at least an hour’s discourse. “It was after this fashion,” he says. “You must know, Master Coope, that I set out from the North some three weeks ago, bearing despatches from Sir Thomas Fairfax to the Earl of Essex. ’Tis a mighty desperate thing, let me tell you, this carrying of despatches through a lonely country where you may as like as not be stopped by stray parties of the enemy, or fall across some town or village that is mad for the King’s Majesty. What do you think, Master Coope, on that point?”

“Sir,” says I, “I am so exceeding loth to interrupt you that I shall not trouble you with my thoughts. This packet, now—?”

“Aye, to be sure,” says he, “Well, Master Coope, I progressed safely through divers difficulties—though, indeed, I had one adventure twixt Northallerton and York that has elements of danger in’t—until I had passed the town of Pomfret by some two miles, when my horse had the ill-fortune to fall and cut its right knee very severely. As you may believe, this put me in a sad position, for my orders were imperative. Now as I stood there, wondering what to do, there came along the road an old gentleman of exceeding fine presence, and with him the handsomest young gentlewoman that I have seen this many a day. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am in sore trouble, and crave your assistance. My horse has cut its knee somewhat severely—if your stable is at hand suffer me to lead him there that I may wash and bandage his wound.’ ‘Of a surety!’ says he, very prompt and polite. But he suddenly looked at me from head to foot. ‘What art thou?’ he says, with rank suspicion in his eyes. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am an officer in the Parliamentarian forces.’ ‘A rebel!’ says he. ‘A renegade! Get thee gone, traitor—expect no help from me—shouldst hang from yonder oak!’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I entreat you to forget that I am your foe, and beg you only to remember that I am a gentleman, a Christian, and in need.’”

“Faith!” says I, “you touched him in a sore place there.”

“So I perceived,” says he, “for he immediately straightened himself up and looked at me very fierce. ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Bring thy horse after us—I have forgotten thy first description of thyself, young man.’ So I walked after him, the young gentlewoman having gone on before, and presently he turns aside into an ancient courtyard that lay within the gates of an old manor-house. ‘There,’ says he, ‘take thy beast into the stable and doctor him—God forbid that I should not do thee mercy, even if thou art an enemy.’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am no enemy to you, but your very much obliged servant.’ ‘Tut, tut,’ says he, and goes into his house. So I made for the stable with my horse and there put his wound to rights, and felt thankful that I had fared so well. But my story is wearisome to you, Master Coope?”

“Sir,” says I, “since you introduced my worshipful uncle into it, it has possessed the keenest interest for me.”

“Well,” he says, “while I was repairing the damage to my beast’s knee, the old gentleman, your uncle, came to me again and looked at me with some curiosity. ‘So thou art in good sooth, a rebel?’ says he, at last. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am what you call a rebel, and you are what I call a rebel.’ ’Tis a mere difference of opinion between us.’ ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Well I grieve for thee, young man. Be advised; go home, and serve the king loyally.’ ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘I serve a greater Power than the king, and am on its business now.’ At that he walks up and down the stable awhile with his head bent and his hands behind his back.”

“A favourite position of his,” says I, my thoughts going back to other times.

“Then he comes back to me and looks me squarely in the face. ‘Art thou by any chance going nigh to the army commanded by the traitor Essex?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘as between Royalist and Parliamentarian, no; as between gentleman and gentleman, yes.’ He takes another turn or two. ‘I have a lad, my nephew, with that army,’ says he. ‘Wilt thou take a message to him?’ ‘Of a surety,’ says I, ‘if I should chance to come across him.’ ‘I have no certain news of his whereabouts,’ says he, ‘but if thou canst find him—his name it is Richard Coope—tell him that—nay,’ he says, ‘why should not I write him letters with my own hand?’ ‘Why not, indeed?’ says I. ‘But canst thou tarry?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I will tarry an hour to please you.’ Now at that he bustled me into the house and had me into his hall, where I found the young gentlewoman I spoke of plying her distaff, and conversing with a man of sinister countenance, yet handsome withal——”

“Anthony Dacre!” says I.

“That indeed was his name. Well, the old gentleman bids the girl see to my wants, and faith! she caused to be set up before me a noble collation, with good wine, but not one word would she exchange with me of conversation, but was as coldly polite as you can imagine. However, the man talked with me somewhat freely, and seemed desirous of hearing something of my business, as to which, you may be sure, I said naught to him. After a time back comes the old knight and gives me this packet, whereupon I took my leave. The sinister-faced man came forth with me. ‘As you are riding towards Doncaster,’ says he, ‘I will set you on your road for a mile or two.’ ‘’Tis agreeable,’ says I, and away we rode at an easy pace. Now within the half-hour we came to a steep bit of road where there were many trees on either side.”

“’Tis Barnsdale,” says I, mighty interested.

“I don’t know the name,” says he, “but I have lively recollections of what took place there. This fellow that was riding at my side suddenly whips out a pistol and presents it at my face. ‘Give me that packet!’ says he. ‘If you value your life, give it to me on the instant!’ Now I then knew what I was dealing with, so I made a rapid movement with my horse and suddenly knocked the pistol out of the fellow’s hand, and had drawn my own ere he could get at his sword. ‘Softly, good sir,’ says I, and lets him see that I meant to shoot him at the least sign of resistance. ‘What is your meaning?’ I says. But he began to scowl and swear, whereupon I relieved him of his weapons and secured them to my own saddle bow. ‘I perceive,’ says I, ‘that this packet bears some news for Master Richard Coope which you have no mind for him to receive.’ ‘Now,’ I says, ‘I don’t know where Master Coope is, or if he be dead or alive, but if the latter I’ll see that this letter reaches him.’ And with that I left him—‘and here,’ he says, handing me the packet, ‘is your worshipful uncle’s epistle, Master Richard—and faith! I think you’ll acknowledge that I had some slight adventures in carrying it safe to you.’”

And with that he went out of the tent ere I could thank him for his kindness.

IV.

“Here’s a pretty puzzle!” says I to myself, staring at my uncle’s letter, and full of wonder as to its contents. “What on earth is that fellow Anthony up to now that he should try to shoot a man who happens to be carrying me a packet from Sir Nicholas? Faith!” says I, cutting the strings, “there seems to be something queer in all this—let’s see what the good old knight has been minded to write to me.”

Now Sir Nicholas’s letter ran thus—I transcribe it from the original, which is strictly preserved with my other family papers:—

I laid this letter aside with many diverse feelings. It showed to me plainly that that precious rascal Anthony had drawn me out as we sat at the wayside inn, and had forthwith blabbed all I had said to Sir Nicholas, embellishing his news, doubtless, with a deal of his own invention and ornament. “If ever there comes a chance, Master Anthony,” says I, “I’ll pay you for your kindness.” And yet, going by the letter, was there aught untrue in what Anthony had evidently told them at the Manor House? It was true that I had left Sir Nicholas under a false impression; it was true that I had joined the Parliamentarians; it was true that I had spoken of Mistress Alison French in a way that was aught but respectful. “Lord!” says I to myself, “What a position am I placed in by my own folly.” And yet I was conscious of naught wrong in my conduct. I had left Sir Nicholas as I did in order to spare his feelings (and to save him from locking me up, as he surely would have done had he known my true thoughts), I had joined the Parliamentarians because I honestly agreed with them; and if I had said aught sharp about my cousin, why, it was because she had spoke sharply to me. “The mischief was,” thinks I, “to say aught at all to Anthony—I should have kept my thoughts to myself.”

Now, I cared naught about Anthony and his lies, or about Alison’s disdain of me, but I had an honest affection for the old knight, and felt that I must endeavour to set myself right with him, and therefore I went about the camp, seeking Stephen Morrel, under the hope that he was presently to travel North again with despatches. And finding that he was, I sat down and wrote a long letter to my uncle, wherein I set out all my conduct, excusing myself in naught, but putting my own case boldly and in a manful way, and claiming the right to think for myself in these vexed matters. Also I assured him of my unfailing love and respect for himself, and begged him to allow me—these troublous times over—to pay him my duty in person. All this I wrote and more, and two days later committed the packet to the care of Morrel, who was riding North with despatches from Essex to Fairfax. But as ill-luck would have it my letter was never delivered, for Morrel was taken prisoner by the Royalists ere he had well got out of Oxfordshire and was shot, and so Sir Nicholas was left in ignorance of me and my motives for a long time. Howbeit there came at last a chance for me to put myself right with him, and it was the seizing of it that led me to the most important adventure of my life.

Upon the twenty-seventh day of October, 1644, was fought the second battle of Newbury. Essex was ill, and the army was commanded by Manchester, who had with him Cromwell as general of the cavalry. Which of us it was that had the advantage I cannot say—the king retired upon Oxford, but there was no pursuit of him. Some said there was a difference of opinion between Manchester and Cromwell, and as to that I know naught either. What I do know is that on the following morning I was fetched to Cromwell’s tent, where I found him sealing a despatch, and conversing with Ireton. He looked me up and down, with that keen glance of his, which seemed to read a man’s thoughts on the instant.

“You are a Yorkshireman?” says he.

“I am, sir,” says I.

“I have here a despatch of the strictest importance for Sir Thomas Fairfax, who is now investing the castle at Pomfret,” says he. “I think you are the man to carry it.”

“Sir,” says I, “I am at your orders.”

He sat looking at me, his fingers playing drum-taps on the sealed packet.

“This,” says he, “must not be permitted to fall into the hands of the enemy. ’Twixt Sheffield and Pomfret they are now in full force. I think you, as a native of that part, should circumvent them.”

“I’ll undertake that, too,” says I.

“What do you propose?” says he.

“Not to travel like this,” says I, with a glance at my uniform. “I’ll go as a travelling scholar—I have my old suit at hand.”

“Begone,” says he, and hands over the packet. He kept his thumb and finger on one corner of it, and looked me squarely in the face. “If this should fall into the enemy’s hand,” he says, and pauses. He let the packet go. “You will be on your way in an hour, Master Coope,” says he, and waves me out.

I was out of the camp in half-an-hour after that, and on my way northward. I wore my old suit, and out of one pocket stuck a Livy, and out of the other a Horace. As for the packet for Sir Thomas Fairfax, it was sewed within the lining of my doublet. I had ridden a good ten mile before I remembered that my mission would give me the opportunity of waiting upon Sir Nicholas. That, I think, added some zest to my adventure, for I was honestly anxious to see the good old knight once more.

Now, I made good speed in my journey, and met with little hindrance until the afternoon of the fourth day, when I was brought up by as unfortunate an accident as a man in my position could encounter. My horse, which had left Sheffield that morning, seemingly fresh and fit for the last stage of his journey, suddenly fell dead under me on the roadside ’twixt Hickleton and Barnsdale, leaving me staring at him with as rueful thoughts as ever I had in my life. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and by six I had trudged forward to Barnsdale. There, pausing under the trees, I stood to catch a glimpse of the Manor House in the distance. I laid my hand on the packet hidden in my doublet. “That must be delivered ere nightfall,” says I. But I was dead tired, and by no means certain as to how my resolution was to be carried out.