J. S. Fletcher

Of my Second Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and its Results—and of my Serious Quandary as to which of two Duties must first be performed.

I.

I was by this time on the threshold, as it were, of my destination, for only a short seven miles lay ’twixt me and Fairfax’s headquarters, but seven miles to a weary man is no light thing to venture on, and the packet which lay in my doublet was of a strict importance. However, fate being plainly against me, I ceased to fight with it, and resolved to rest for awhile, leaning against a beech tree that was damp and black with the November mists, debating in my mind as to the advisability of doing this or that.

“Faith!” says I to myself at last. “With my knowledge of the country it shall go hard if I don’t reach Pomfret to-night, and on a good horse, too. And so let’s see for such means as the neighbourhood affords.”

As luck would have it the barking of a dog across the fields reminded me of a farmhouse that stood there. ’Twas a lonely place, lying a long way back from the road, and so well hidden by great trees that you might have passed it, going north or south, and never caught a glimpse of its gables. I had forgotten it quite till the dog barked. “Egad!” says I, hearing him. “Here’s the very thing for me. Reuben Trippett’s bay mare will carry me across this seven miles in a trice, and I’ll take her without as much as a ‘by your leave,’ if only the stable-door be open.” And without pausing to reflect upon such questions as to whether Reuben still lived there, and if the bay mare (which he had lent me more than once in by-gone days) was still his property. I climbed the hedge at the next convenient opening, and made my way across the dank meadows towards the farmhouse.

By this time the night was closing in, very dull and misty, and as there was no light in Reuben Trippett’s window by which to guide my steps, I had some little difficulty in finding my way. There were three fields to cross, and in the middle one I called to mind a wide stretch of marshy land in which as a lad I had gathered many a handful of rare butter-bums. “Keep me out o’ that!” says I to myself, but the words were scarce out of my mouth when into it I flops, to my sore discomfort, and the sad besmirching of my breeches. But having met with it—and floundered out on t’other side after some difficulty—I knew where I was, and so went forward until at last I saw the farmhouse chimneys make a faint outline against the grey sky. There was a glint of light through a crack in the kitchen shutters. “Softly does it,” says I, and I crept along the wall till the sneck of the fold gate lay in my hand. “Why, this,” I says, chuckling to myself, “is the rarest adventure”—and so I was across the rotting straw in the fold and at the stable-door quicker than a star can shoot. “These cobble-stones,” thinks I, “must be covered up, or they’ll hear the mare’s feet on ’em”—and I ran across to the tumbril in the middle of the fold and brought back an armful of straw and spread it carefully over the stones. “And pray God,” I says, “that old Reuben hears naught, for his blunderbuss will spread pepper-corns over a good twenty yards!”

The stable door was unlocked—there was naught for me to do but lift the sneck and enter. Once inside I stood listening. On the instant I knew that there were no horses there. The place was cold, damp, evil-smelling, and silent as a dead-house. Now a stable in which horses have their habitation is warm as one’s own bed at getting-up time, and so I knew from its very coldness that neither the bay mare nor any other mare or horse stood ready to hand. And I was outside again in a moment and standing on the straw that I had laid down so carefully just before, with my brains busily wondering what had come to Reuben Trippett, whose stables and byres had always been full of cattle.

As I stood stroking my chin, I minded me of the chink in the kitchen window. “I’ll peep within,” says I, “whatever comes of it,” for I was in the mood for adventures that night. And so, crossing the fold with cautious steps I approached the window very gingerly, and put my eye to the crack through which the light streamed. And seeing that within which interested me more than a little, I kept it there and took a longer and steadier look.

There was naught in that kitchen (which I remembered as being well stocked with house stuff of all sorts) in the way of plenishing but a rickety table, a mouldering settle, and a crazy chair. The lath and plaster hung from the ceiling and walls in strips—’twas plain to me that old Reuben was either gathered to his fathers and sleeping quiet in Badsworth churchyard, or gone elsewhere. Nevertheless, there was human life in the place, and it was the form under which it came that surprised me. Three men sat on the settle, and a fourth leaned against the jamb of the black, empty fire-place, the fifth sat on the broken chair with his back to the window through which I peered. One of the three on the settle I recognised for Jack Bargery, as villainous a rogue as all Osgoldcross, either Upper or Lower, could show, the men on each side of him and the fellow leaning against the jamb I had no knowledge of. But the figure in the chair, and mark you, I saw nought of it but the back, which made a black mass against the light of the candle burning on the table, seemed somewhat familiar to me and set some memories itching in my brain. And then a sudden turn of the man’s head brought it all back to me, and I knew him at once for my precious kinsman, Anthony Dacre.

“Ho-ho!” thinks I to myself. “Here’s a pretty meeting by candle-light. What may these five sweet gentlemen be about?” I says. And because my curiosity was aroused I straight forgot everything, Cromwell’s despatch and all, in a rare desire to hear what the fellows were talking of. But ’twas no good straining my ear, for there was a thick pane of dullish glass ’twixt me and them, and I could make naught out, though I heard a mumbling sound, and saw their jaws move now and then. And just because ’twas Anthony Dacre that seemed to be doing all the talking, the others only putting in an occasional yea or nay, my curiosity warmed to boiling point and must needs be satisfied. So for the second time that night I began to cast about for means.

Now, in the old times, I knew every inch of the land round about my uncle’s estate, and the farmsteads were as familiar to me as the pump in our own stable-yard. I remembered, as I stood with my eye to the crack in the shutter, that in the rear of Reuben Trippett’s kitchen there was a lattice at which the maids used to hand in the milk-pails from the byre. ’Twas a matter of thin strips of lath, and in the daytime was left swinging as the wind liked, but in the night a shutter came down over it, and was secured by a bolt. If the shutter, by any good or ill luck,—I cared not which it might properly be called,—had been left up when the house was deserted, I should be able from the byre to hear every word spoken in the kitchen as well as if I had been inside. So, remembering this, I stole round the corner of the house to the byre, all agog to hear what mischief Master Dacre, that scamp Bargery, and t’other three were compassing. That it was mischief I never doubted for a moment; there was not an honest pair of eyes amongst the four that I had seen, and I remembered Anthony’s for more years than I could then call to mind.

The byre, like the stable, was cold and empty. I warrant me there had been no cows in it for a twelve-month. I had grown somewhat heated by my adventures in the bog, and the chill stuck to my bones and made me shiver. One glance at the far end of the mistal, however, helped me to forget cold and everything. They had forgotten to put down the shutter when they left the old house, and the lattice window made dim bars of shadow against the swimming light of the candle. There was naught left to me but to steal gently along the slimy walls of the byre (ugh! I can feel the damp of them now, and snuff their fetid odour, which then came thick and heavy to my nostrils) until I came to the lattice. And since I dared not venture to stick my head before it, lest the fellows within should catch sight of me, I got as near to the window frame as I dared, and listened with more attention than I had ever given, I think, to aught before.

Anthony Dacre was speaking when I put my ear as close to the latch as I dared, but he had evidently come to the tail of his sentence, and I could make little sense of it.

“Fair or foul,” says he, to wind up; “fair or foul.”

“And more foul than fair, I warrant me,” thinks I. “A deal more o’ the foul than the fair, Master Anthony, if I know aught o’ thee.” And I composed myself to hear somewhat more.

I heard a shuffling of feet on the kitchen floor, as if each man nudged his neighbour’s knee.

“Come,” says Anthony; “is there ne’er a tongue amongst the lot o’ you?”

The man Bargery spoke—I knew his voice, too.

“Why,” says he, “’tis like this: what use is speaking till we know Master Dacre’s plans? Or are we as soldiers that march under sealed orders?”

“Ah!” says another; “well put.”

“Why,” says Anthony, “I see no objection to telling you all that’s in my mind—why not? The main object’s in your knowledge already; ’tis the details that you’re curious about, eh?”

“There might be cutting of throats, and such like,” said another. “’Tis best we should know. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.”

“Listen, then,” says Anthony. “Faith, I think you’ll say ’tis as pretty a bit o’ contrivance as was ever devised. Sir Nicholas, as you know, has made himself something beyond obnoxious to the Parliamentarians, and I saw a rare chance in that. So this morning I goes to Fairfax in his camp, and professes my devotion to the Parliament, and then spins him a long yarn about Sir Nicholas Coope and his efforts to keep the king’s flag flying over his old barn of a house. And, ’sdeath, lads! I played my cards so well that I got a warrant from him to apprehend my worthy relative, and take him before Fairfax. Here ’tis—there’s Fairfax’s own seal and fist.”

I heard a murmuring growl from the four men, and the shuffle of their feet as they drew near to the table to inspect the paper.

“But——” says Bargery.

“When I’ve finished,” says Anthony Dacre. “Now, here’s my plan: we shall go, the five of us, and apprehend Sir Nicholas, and thus get admission to the house, the door o’ which my pretty mistress keeps so persistently shut in my face. If the old knight calls up his fellows, we must give them as many tastes of cold steel as will suffice for their supper. I have little fear of trouble in that quarter, however.”

“There are four stout men i’ the house,” says Bargery, “and as many arms as would set up a troop.”

“What are four men to five, with Fairfax’s warrant behind them? And thy four men—zounds, there is but old Gregory, and ancient Jasper, and two lads that cannot tell the difference ’twixt a musket and Sir Nicholas’s cane! Besides, we go in peace—leave it to me to make fair professions. I look not for any fighting—nevertheless, ’tis as well to be prepared. But hark ye, lads, I have a second paper from Fairfax that I set more store by than the first. Look at that for a piece o’ rare generalship.”

I heard the shuffle of their feet again as the men approached the table, and a murmuring as if none of the four could read over well. “’Tis such a crabbed fist,” says Bargery at last, and they shuffled back to the hearth and the settle.

“But plain enough for all I want,” says Anthony. “’Tis a safe conduct, lads, granted at the request of Master Anthony Dacre to Mistress Alison French, so that she may pass through any opposition of the Parliamentary troops to her father’s house. Now ye see my plan, eh? We shall go to the old knight and arrest him, but I shall be so full of concern and care for my cousin that I shall tell ’em great tales of my procuring this favour for her lest she should experience discomfort.”

“But,” says Bargery, “they tell me that she sets great store by the old man, and she’ll therefore let it count heavy against you that you come to hale him out o’ the house.”

“And I thought o’ that, too,” says Anthony. “And so I arranged that two of Fairfax’s troopers should accompany us to the house. We shall, therefore, be seven to four if it comes to fighting. Now, hark ye, lads, this is the whole manner of it. At nine o’clock to-night we meet the troopers at the corner of Hardwick village. They, Bargery there, and myself, go to the Manor House, and seek admission—t’other three o’ you wait me in the lane that leads past Hundhill. We gain admission, and I, very sorrowful, crave private audience of Sir Nicholas. I tell him how it grieves me that he and I should think differently on these matters of state, but that I am at least an honest man. Then I go on to say that I have learnt in the camp that Fairfax has issued a warrant against him, and that being personally much concerned because of it, I am come with the troopers myself to see that no indignity is offered him. Eh, you follow my notions?”

“Excellent!” says Bargery. “I see the reason on’t.”

“Then I brings out my safe conduct for Mistress Alison,” continues Anthony, “and offers her myself and three o’ my own men as escort along the road. Once the old knight is off to Fairfax’s camp, she will set out with me and you three that have waited for us, towards Doncaster. And as for the rest,” he says, with a laugh, “why, I need say naught of it. And now, lads, we’ll make arrangements for our meeting.”

Then there was a silence, and I wondered what they were doing, and whether I had best not slip away ere they came out of the house. But I think the four men must have been staring at each other, each wanting to say something that was on his mind. For presently one of them, a fellow with as hoarse a voice as ever I heard, growls out, “And our pay, Master Dacre; ye han’t said e’er a word o’ that.” At that I pricked up my ears. “Ha, ha!” says I. “Now there’s a chance for honest men.” But as luck would have it there was no falling out amongst these rogues, for Anthony promised to satisfy their demands, and presently they talked of parting. Thereat I stole away from the hatch and into the fields. The night had come on as black as a dog’s throat, and I found it hard work to make my way back to the road, but, faith! I had so much to think of that I never once stayed to consider the whereabouts of the marshy ground. And it was most likely, because I never remembered it, that I missed it and went sailing along in the darkness, comfortable enough—for I never thought of the discomfort—until I found myself in the hedge which separated me from the road. That I had not perceived, but I forgave it, for all that it had run various thorns into tender parts o’ my body. And so I climbed over it—having hurried alongside it till I found a post and rails—and stood on the road, once more wondering what to do next.

“Here’s a pretty coil!” says I. “Egad, Master Anthony, I used to trounce thee in the old days—why did I not give thee such a trouncing that thou hadst never needed more?”

But what was the good of that? The thing was to do—not to stand there thinking. But as thought goes before action—at least with wise men—I gave two minutes to it. And this is what I thought: First, it was plain that my rascally kinsman, Anthony Dacre, whom I there and then prayed God to utterly confound, meditated some serious injury to Mistress Alison French, and was minded to stop at naught, not even the seizure of Sir Nicholas himself by force, in order to compass his evil intentions. Second: There was nobody but myself who, knowing his plans, could warn my uncle and cousin of their danger. Third: I had a packet from Cromwell to Fairfax in my breast, which I was in honour bound to deliver as quickly as I might. Fourth: It seemed but a Christian-like thing to stay at my uncle’s house and tell him and Alison of that villain Anthony’s notions concerning them. Fifth: What was I going to do?—go straight on to Fairfax’s camp, or proceed to the Manor House? Sixth: Why the dickens should I interfere on behalf of Sir Nicholas (who had misunderstood me) or of my cousin Alison (who had—to my face, too!—called me a poltroon). Seventh: I hated Anthony Dacre, and would give much to circumvent him. Eighth: Blood is a deal thicker than water. Ninth: If I made haste I could inform Sir Nicholas, speak a word of warning in my cousin’s ear, and go forward to Pomfret before nine o’clock. And tenth: Soldier of the Parliamentary army as I was, and faithful to the cause of the people, and to the special trust that their leaders had reposed in me, I would see Parliament, people, Cromwell, Fairfax, and everything, damned before Anthony Dacre should have his will of an old man and an innocent girl!

“But God send,” says I to myself, “that there be no need of it!” And I set off along the road at a round pace. The night seemed to grow darker, and there is something in me—and there was a deal more of it in those days—that cannot abear darkness, but I trotted along, being pretty sound in wind and limb, keeping my ears open for any noise, until I came to the cross roads, having Thorpe on one side o’ me and Wentbridge on t’other. And here a notion struck me, for which I thanked God many a time in the days to come. There were two brothers, John and Humphrey Stirk, yeomen, exceeding true and honest fellows, that lived in their farmhouse at Thorpe, and farmed their own bit of land—egad! they were the very men to do a good deed! I had played with ’em many a time when we were lads together, and so had little Alison, and I knew that they would put themselves out of the way to serve either her or me. The thought of them came into my mind as I trotted up to the cross roads, and so I never stopped in my run but turned the corner to the left and went forward to their house. There was a light in the kitchen window—and so I was within, half-breathless, holding a hand of each, and looking from one honest pair of eyes to another.

“God save us!” says Humphrey. “’Tis Master Dick!” “We thought you was at the wars,” says Jack. “And, faith, you look as if you had been!” “Natheless,” says Humphrey, “we’re glad to see you home again—and sit you down, Master Dick,” says he.

But there was no thought of sitting down in my mind. And in a few words I had told them sufficient of what I knew, and had begged their assistance. “Willing enough,” says Humphrey. As for Jack, he says naught, but goes to the wall and takes down his musket. “There’s powder and shot,” says Humphrey, “in the cupboard,” and he lays hands on his own musket, that stood in the corner. “Let’s have enow of both, brother,” he says, and Jack nods his head. “Trust me,” says Jack. “’Tis but poor work to go fowling with a single charge.”

And so within five minutes of seeing their lighted window I was back in the road again, with one on each side of me, and all three of us making our way towards my uncle’s house. “Anthony,” I says to myself, “will have a greeting that he recks not of.” And I laughed at the thought of it. But my laughter died away quick when I reflected upon everything. In good sooth, chance, fate, or Providence, had put me in as tight a corner as a man could wish to be out of.

III.

As we hurried along the road I made up my mind as to my course of action. I would go to the Manor House and warn my uncle and Alison of their danger, and leave with them John and Humphrey as a bodyguard. That done I would make my way across the fields and through Carleton to Fairfax’s camp before Pomfret. I would tell him of my wayside adventure, and beg his protection for Sir Nicholas and my cousin, and straightway return to East Hardwick. My credentials were from Cromwell himself—I felt assured that Fairfax would grant any request I made to him. One thing, however, was certain—I could not, although it was my strict duty to do so, go forward to Pomfret without giving my relations warning of their danger.

Neither John nor Humphrey were lads of many words, and so there was little talk between us till we came to the Manor House. It stood gaunt and gloomy against the sky, and dark as the night was, I saw the king’s flag still flapping against the staff above the gable. There was a faint light in one or two of the windows that overlooked the garden, but in the courtyard everything was dark. The great door was fast, and the stone lions above it seemed to threaten us as we tried the latch. But there were holes in the wall that had served me for stepping-stones to the top many a time, and within a minute we were on t’other side and making softly for the house door. It was some minutes before any response came to our knock, but at last we heard the shuffle of feet within, and then Jasper’s voice asking who we were. Now we were not minded to shout and bawl so that folk in the street could hear us, if any were about, so I put my lips to the great keyhole and calling Jasper by name, whispered to him my own. I heard him utter some sound of great surprise, but he began to undo the bolts and bars, and presently held the door open a few inches and looked out at us from over his lanthorn. “The Lord ha’ mercy!” says he, “I thought it must be your spirit, Master Richard. And is that John and Humphrey Stirk that’s with you? But we thought you was at the wars and——”

“Let’s in, Jasper,” says I, pushing my way past him with John and Humphrey close at my heels. “And hark ye, Jasper, bolt and bar the door again—is every door and shutter secure for the night?”

“Lor-a-massy, Master Dick, is there aught wrong? Yes, indeed, Master Dick, everything is fast for we’re abiding in parlous times and never know who’s about. But——”

“Go round the house, Jasper,” says I. “Say naught to anybody, but go round and see that all’s fast. Bolt, bar, and chain—we may have to stand a siege this night. And now let’s within—where is Mistress Alison?” But ere he could answer me the door into the great kitchen opened, and Mistress Alison herself stood before us. She carried a lamp in one hand and held it up as she stopped on the threshold to look at us. Faith, I shall never forget her as she was at that moment, looking as proud and impatient as only a woman of her sort can!

“Who——?” she says, staring from Jasper to us, with a haughty interrogation in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. “Ah!” she says, suddenly recognising me. “Mr Richard Coope,” she says, and stares straight into my eyes with a contempt that brought the blood to my face.

“Mistress,” says I, hurriedly, “this is no time for talk nor for quarrels. By chance or providence I have learned that Sir Nicholas and yourself are in great peril, and I have come here to warn you of it, and have brought John and Humphrey to protect you.”

“Indeed,” says she. But she stood there in the doorway making no offer to permit us into the kitchen.

“Let me see my uncle,” says I. “He must be warned of his peril at once.”

“Your uncle is in his bed, sir,” she answers, still keeping her place. “He is ill, and is not to be disturbed by anyone.”

“Then let me see you within, mistress, that I may tell you my news,” says I.

“You can tell it to me here, sir,” she says.

“Then, by God, I won’t!” I raps out, losing my temper under her provocation. “Look you, cousin, I am perilling myself to serve you, and you treat me like a dog! Is it mannerly to keep me and my friends standing here as if we were beggars?”

I saw the colour flash into her cheeks at that, and she stepped back into the kitchen with a motion to us to follow. As we came into the glare of the lights I noticed, though it was no time for thinking of such matters, that her beauty was of the rarest sort and had deepened since I had last set eyes on it. She stood by the fire, one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other still holding the lamp—faith! ’twas the prettiest sight to see her thus with her fine gown and the dainty slippers peeping from beneath it, and her face turned to me with the scorn still lingering in the delicate lines of her mouth.

“Now, sir?” says she.

But I glanced at the lads who waited in one corner. “What we have to say is private,” says I. “Is there no more private room in the house than this?” I says. But she would take no hint, only she nodded her head to the serving-lads and they slunk into the scullery.

“Madam,” says I, “you seem to forget that I am Sir Nicholas’s nephew and a gentleman.”

She turned and looked me from head to foot and from foot to head. “A renegade!” she says, and looks straight into my eyes. “Your news, sir! I have no time to waste in bandying compliments or exchanging opinions.”

“Faith, madam,” says I, “but you’ve no objection to applying epithets. But renegade or no, I am here to serve you and my uncle, and so I’ll tell you all about it,” and I straightway proceeded to give her a faithful account of all that I had overheard in the kitchen at Reuben Trippett’s old farmstead. She heard me without a sign or a word, save that when I mentioned Anthony Dacre’s name her lip curled with a rare scorn (’sdeath, I wish he had been there to see it!) and her white fingers closed tighter over the rail of the chair. But when she had heard me to the end, and I had told her my plans for their protection, she did not soften a whit, but looked at me with the same cold, hard dislike.

“I thank you, sir,” says she, very icily. “It was the act of a gentleman to warn us.” She seemed to melt there somewhat. “And now I will not trouble you to delay your departure longer”—she hardened again—“we are in no need of assistance.”

“Nay,” says I, “but that’s just what you are in need of, mistress! ’Tis foolish to belittle your danger—Anthony Dacre——”

“I have no fear of him,” says she, very contemptuous, in her own high manner. “And as for Fairfax’s troopers, they will not gain admittance to the house. I myself will see to the bolts and bars.”

“But,” says I, “’tis not a matter of bolts and bars that will prevent them. Bethink you, they will force an entrance and seize Sir Nicholas.”

“He is ill in his bed,” says she. “They cannot move him.”

“They will stop at naught,” says I. “Come, cousin, be advised. Let John and Humphrey stay with you, and allow me to return as quickly as I can. ’Tis what my uncle would do.”

“I am able to think for myself, sir,” says she. “And I have come to my own opinion in the matter. And so I thank you for your good offices and decline your further help.”

And there she stood, still looking disdainfully at me, as if I had been some upstart that had dared to address her. “Here’s a pretty coil!” says I, and looks at John and Humphrey. “By your leave, madam,” I says, and pulls my two companions aside. “What shall we do?” I says. “If we leave this spirited lass to have her own way there will be mischief. What do you advise?” And we all three looked at each other.

“Why,” says John at last, “I should pay no manner of heed to her.”

“Nor me,” says Humphrey.

“’Tis a man’s job,” says John.

“Aye,” says Humphrey.

“If I were you, Master Dick,” says John, “I should call in Jasper and Gregory and the lads, tell ’em the trouble, and take counsel for defending the house. As for me and Humphrey,” he says, “here we stay while need be.”

“Well said,” says Humphrey.

But I was half afraid as I turned to Mistress Alison.

“Madam,” says I, very respectful, “I am sorry to do aught against your will, but I have taken counsel with my friends here, and for your own sake and for my uncle’s, I cannot agree to your wishes. And so, mistress, you must be pleased to leave this matter in my hands to settle as I please.”

“What,” she says, “you dare——”

“Madam,” says I. “No daring about it. You will please to regard me as master in this house, my uncle being a-bed, and leave me to do what I think good. John and Humphrey,” I says, “get the men together, and let us set the matter before them,” and as they made for the scullery I turned and gave her a long stare. She flushed crimson from neck to forehead, and looked at me with a sudden rage.

“How dare you!” she says. “How dare you!”

“Cousin,” says I. “I dare aught. I know what you think of me, and for that I neither care nor fret. But when it comes to a contest ’twixt us I am not going to be beaten by a woman. And so I’ll let you see which of us two is the stronger. Faith!” I says, “’tis for your own good. Renegade as I am, I’m perilling my neck to save you.”

She stood looking at me with more wonder than I had ever seen in a woman’s eyes. “I am mistress here,” says she at last.

“Not while I am master,” says I, coolly. “And as I have but a short ten minutes wherein to be master I shall exact the strictest obedience. Dare but to question one of my orders, madam, and I shall have you locked in your chamber.” And with that I gave her a look that was meant to be as hard as one of her own, and marched forward to meet old Gregory, who was coming in with the others. But ere I could speak to him in runs one of the lads to say that four men on horseback were asking admission at the courtyard door. “They’re here!” says John Stirk. And so there I was caged, with Cromwell’s despatch in my doublet that should by that time have been delivered to Fairfax. “Present needs first!” says I, and I settled down to the business of the moment.