J. S. Fletcher

Of my Surprising Deliverance from Death, my last Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and of certain Notable Passages ’twixt Mistress Alison and Myself.

I.

The place in which they installed me to wait for my end was a little cottage some fifty yards away from the farmhouse, where Fairfax had set up his quarters, and stood in an angle of the fields that lie ’twixt Skinner Lane and the hamlet of Tanshelf. It afforded but the most indifferent accommodation, there being naught in the way of furniture but a chair or two, a pallet bed in one corner and a deal table, but in my then condition these things were more than sufficient for my wants, and I made no complaint of them. Nay, when Merciful Wiggleskirk offered me some apology for the poor quarters he had brought me to I checked him, and pointed out that to a man who has but some sixteen hours to live a cottage is as fine as a palace.

“Why, sure,” says he, “death is the greatest leveller—but is there naught that we can do for your honour? Your honour,” he says, giving me a sly look, “is such a generous rewarder——”

“Friend,” says I, “I verily believe that I have not even a penny-piece upon me. As for reward then——”

“I meant you to understand,” says he, “that I had already received my reward, and was minded to do still more to deserve what you have already bestowed upon me. So if there is aught that you lack——”

“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says.

“You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the time,” says he, returning to my side. “A lame man can make little shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.”

“Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!” says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it, “I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.”

“Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little, hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my temper with him.

“Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my pain, or put my foot down!”

But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk as well as ever.”

“Thank you for naught,” says I, mightily inclined to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!—why, man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like to see—I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.”

“Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!” says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for good in a few hours?”

“Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I always carry about my person—a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath worked the marvellousest cures.”

“With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand straight in the morning.”

He brought out the little box that contained his ointment and began to rub my leg with it. “I have some acquaintance with the healing art,” says he. “I was boy to a doctor at one time, and made experiments on my own account. Besides, my merciful nature obliges me to exercise my office upon all that are in distress.”

“Thou art a queer fellow,” says I. “But, come, tell me of what happened at the Manor House this morning. I am anxious to know how it fared with the serving-folk.”

“Oh,” says he, “at daybreak they hung out a flag and submitted themselves, and we had free entrance to the house, and were sore concerned, I promise you, to find naught there but servants. Captain Stott was for dealing sternly with them at first, but, what, they had but obeyed orders, and so he let them go their own ways, and set himself to track you and madam.”

“But we heard cannon discharged,” says I.

“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house, Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was. Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs to see to if you intend—but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with a curious smile, “that you will not need earthly residence much longer.”

“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.

“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.

“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave. “Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was ever sadder fortune?”

But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.

“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”

“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff—it has certainly given me relief.”

“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,” says he, proudly. “Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade, master, I shall set up as an empiric——”

“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart hath abated marvellously.”

“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So now you can fall to your writing, master.”

It was now past noon, and ere long there was brought to us food and drink, which we consumed together with as much satisfaction as we could get out of each other’s company. True, the thought of my condition did sometimes come upon me as I ate, and made my food to stick in my throat, but as there was no use in repining at my fate, I strove to be free of regret, and to behave myself like a man. And the food and drink putting some heart into me, I presently turned to the table, and began to write, in which occupation I found great comfort and relief.

Now, I verily believe that troubled as I was at my own fate (for I was troubled though I strove hard not to be) I was more concerned on account of Alison. After all that I had done to prevent it, she had in the end fallen into the hands of Anthony Dacre. I had no cause to be especially anxious for her safety when I first heard Anthony’s designs against her, for she and I, on the rare occasions of our meeting, had never been able to get on together, and she had treated me with a certain haughty contempt that I secretly resented. But I had never been able to endure the thought of her being in Anthony’s power, and after I had lived under the same roof with her, and seen much of her I felt that I would stay at naught to save her from him. And there was more than that, for, somehow, I had come to love her with a rare passion, even when she flouted and teased me. This made life exceeding bitter for me in what I believed to be its last hours. There I was, a prisoner in more ways than one, unable to move hand or foot to succour her whose image was constantly before me, while she, for aught I knew to the contrary, was in the hands of a man whom I knew from his own confession to be a black-hearted villain, and incapable of mercy or consideration where his own vile inclination was concerned.

There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of those women that are accustomed—faith, there are precious few of them that I have seen during fifty years of life!—to think and act for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It was not that I had any jealous feeling—though she had teased me about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport—but that I had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done aught—aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it—to keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged as I was what could I do?—and so I hoped for the best, and sat me down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the packet delivered.

Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands—though not after the fashion that I had intended—and she has since taken the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However, what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening in writing—with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit—and that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied.

It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade him good-night.

But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself.

II.

A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE TRANSACTION BETWEEN ALISON FRENCH AND ANTHONY DACRE, NOW SET DOWN AFTER A PLAIN FASHION BY THE FORMER.—A. F.

When Colonel Sands so rudely bade me begone from the camp, and I saw my cousin Richard led away by the troopers to what I felt assured must end in his death, I was so sore distrest that for some moments my wits forsook me and I knew not what to say or do. It was, I think, at that moment that I first discovered my love for my cousin, and that, perhaps, had as much to do with my confession as aught else. They gave him no time to speak with me ere they led him away, but he turned himself about at the door of the house into which they were conducting him, and gave me a swift glance, and when I met his eyes I knew that I loved him with all my heart, which had never till then been stirred by the thought of any man. Then he was gone, and I felt that all was over, and that for the rest of my life I should carry with me the pain of that moment which was yet mingled with the joy that comes to a woman who suddenly discovers that she is loved and that she loves in return.

It was Anthony Dacre that woke me out of my reverie. He drew near and addressed me by name. I know not what sort of countenance I turned upon him, but he stood back and looked afraid. But on the instant I grew calm. There was naught but danger of the worst sort to the man I loved and to myself (and I was now the dearer to myself because he loved me) in that moment. “This is no time,” thought I, “for rashness or for ill-temper. I must keep my wits, and see if I cannot devise something to save Dick from his fate.” And therewith a thought flashed across my mind. My wit against all of them—my woman’s wit against Anthony Dacre’s subtlety and Fairfax’s decree. I had always prided myself on my strong-mindedness and my common-sense—of what avail were either if they could not help the man I loved when his need was of the greatest? Could not?—nay, but they should! I would be strong and wise: it should not be for lack of endeavour if I did not outwit them all.

I turned to Anthony Dacre with a gracious manner.

“And so you are to form my escort, cousin?” I said, speaking to him with a civility which belied the loathing and contempt I kept for him in my heart.

He looked at me with a great surprise, wondering perhaps what had brought this change over me.

“I have made some arrangements for you,” he said. “I shall conduct you to your father’s house with great pleasure. Will it please you to set out at once?”

“Why,” said I, affecting to treat the matter lightly, “I am ill-provided with riding-gear. Would it not suit your convenience to stay our progress at the Manor House so that I can fit myself out in proper fashion?”

“Anything that you desire, cousin,” said he.

“Then we will set out at once,” I said, and gave him my hand in order that he might assist me to the horse which stood near. “But I fear,” I said, when I had disposed myself as well as I could, “that we shall find the old house a heap of ruins, and my gear may not easily be come at.”

“It is certainly somewhat damaged,” said he, “and believe me, cousin, it was much against my will. But I am but a gentleman volunteer, after all, and things have gone beyond my power. I wish,” he said, as we rode away, followed by his two men, “that you had thought better of me, cousin, at the beginning of this sad matter. It would have saved much bloodshed and trouble.”

Now there was naught that I so much desired at that moment as to turn in my saddle and look Anthony Dacre straight in the face and tell him my true thoughts. It would have given me the greatest relief—but there was so much at stake that I must needs lie to him and to myself if I would win the game I was playing.

“Cousin,” I answered, as gracious in voice as if it gave me pleasure to be in his company, “I, too, am sorry that there have been misunderstandings. But when one is misinformed——”

“Ah!” he said eagerly. “So your mind was poisoned against me, cousin? Let me now swear to you that in all this I have sought nothing but your own comfort and safety. When Fairfax determined to attack Sir Nicholas I entreated that the matter might be placed in my hands so that no insult should be offered to yourself. Alas!—I know not what it was that prejudiced you against me in this. Suffer me to believe that you are satisfied with my explanation, cousin.”

“I am sorry that I did not know your true character earlier, cousin,” I answered.

“I am overjoyed to think that we are reconciled,” said he, “it has hurt me much to feel that I lay under your displeasure.”

“I have observed to others,” I said, still humouring him, “that you are a devoted cavalier, Master Anthony,” and I gave him a smile that fetched the colour to his face, “and so I expect you to attend me to my father’s house, and there you shall be duly rewarded—maybe with——”

“Ah!” said he, coming nearer to me. “With what, cousin?”

“Why,” said I, with another smile, “with what so devoted a knight has the right to expect,” and with that I whipped up my horse and rode forward as if in some confusion. He laughed and came after me, and so we pressed on to Hardwick agreeing very well indeed.

Now when we turned into the courtyard of the old house the sight of the ruin caused by the cannon was like to make me weep, but I restrained myself and suffered Anthony Dacre to lead me within. The kitchen and hall were least damaged of the lower apartments, and in the former we found old Barbara and Jasper who were pottering about in sore lamentation, and seemed vastly surprised to see us. I addressed Barbara in my grandest manner giving her at the same time a glance that she understood plainly enough.

“Barbara,” I said, “Master Dacre is escorting me to my father’s house, but before we go forward we will refresh ourselves if you can make shift to give us food and drink. You will not refuse to dine with me, Anthony,” I said, turning to him with a smile that was meant to subdue him.

Now it is marvellous—and never so much so, I think, as to us women ourselves—that a woman’s beauty and manner hath power to change a man from his purpose more rapidly than any other form of persuasion. As I looked at Anthony Dacre I knew that I could do with him as I pleased. He mumbled something in the way of a compliment that I scarcely heard, though I affected to do so, and smiled back my thanks to him for it. He was won over—but oh, the anxiety that I still felt lest my plans should miscarry!

While Barbara prepared food and drink for us, I went over the house under pretence of making myself ready for our further progress. It was a sad sight that my eyes beheld. The upper storey of the house had been well-nigh shattered to pieces, and the room in which my uncle died was a heap of stones and dust. But my own chamber was undisturbed, and thither I presently repaired and made such alterations in my apparel as were sorely needed. Nay, when I looked at myself in the mirror I marvelled that I had been able to make any impression on Anthony Dacre, for my adventures of that day and the previous night had made me anything but attractive. Now it was necessary (beauty being the greatest weapon which we women can arm ourselves and aid our natural cunning with) that I should make myself as attractive as possible, and so I gave some considerable attention to my toilet, and at last went downstairs to find Anthony Dacre, and proceed with the development of my plans.

I found him in the small parlour that adjoined the hall, where Barbara had contrived a hasty meal for us. He looked at me with some astonishment as I entered, and I noticed as I returned his glance that he, too, had taken some pains to smarten himself up. I walked to the head of the table, and motioned him to take a seat at my right hand. But he came forward and took my hand as if to lead me to my chair, and no sooner did his fingers touch mine than he broke out into the most extravagant profession of love for me, swearing by all that is holy that he adored me in the most devoted fashion, and beseeching me to have some pity on his condition. All this I was compelled to endure and even to affect to receive with complaisance, though inwardly I was filled with two thoughts—the first, that I could cheerfully have stabbed him where he stood; the second, that he was playing into my hands. I heard him to the end, and then I disengaged my hand from his and drew away from him.

“Cousin,” I said, “this is not the time or place for us to discuss these matters. It is possible,” I said, looking at him, “that I have been mistaken in you, as you say, and if so, I am indeed sorry, and will strive to make amends. But I think it will be best if you accompany me to my father’s house, and there prosecute your suit—if indeed, you really feel for me what you say—after the fashion usual amongst people of our degree. You must speak to my father first,” says I, with a coquettish glance at him that made him ready to obey me on the instant.

“But yourself?” said he. “What answer will you make to me if I fulfil your wishes in this?”

“Why,” I said, looking, I daresay, very modest and conscious, “I think that if you really obey me, I may perhaps be found more complaisant than you have fancied, cousin.”

“My angel!” he cried, and would have embraced me had I not anticipated some such proceeding on his part and escaped him.

“Come,” I said, smiling, “let us have some food, cousin—we have a long ride before us, and for myself I have had little to eat since last night.”

He took his seat near me, and I occupied myself in paying him much attention, and seeing to his comfort. As for me, it well-nigh choked me to eat a crumb of bread; but, lest he should observe that I was anxious or pre-occupied, I forced myself to make a hearty meal. Barbara had furnished the table with a flask of my uncle’s old Tokay, and more than once I filled Anthony’s glass with my own hands. What a comedy it all was, and yet what a tragedy seemed to be playing itself out in my heart at the time!

When at last he would eat and drink no more, I approached the subject that lay closest to my thoughts. “Now,” thought I, “Heaven send me strength and wit to carry out my project!” And I think my prayer must have been answered quickly, for I spoke with calmness, though every nerve in my body seemed to me to quiver with anxiety and apprehension.

“Cousin,” I said, “what will they do with Richard Coope?”

He looked at me narrowly. I could see that the mere question raised his jealousy and distrust on the instant.

“They will shoot him,” he answered, keeping his eyes on mine.

“I supposed they would,” said I, affecting a rare carelessness. “Poor Dick! But ’tis I suppose, the fortune of war, eh, cousin?”

“’Tis the treatment always meted out to deserters and traitors,” he said.

“Well,” said I, “’tis a pity that a kinsman of ours should die a shameful death, is it not, cousin?”

“It is not to the credit of the family,” he answered. “But an offender against the cause must be punished.”

“Why,” I said, “I think Dick offended under some misapprehension, and ’tis rather a pity that he should die for that when you and I, cousin, have been so fortunate as to clear away our own misunderstanding. Could we do nothing to save him from so violent a death?”

“No,” he said, “naught. By this time it is probably over.”

It was only by the strongest effort that I was able to preserve my composure when he said that. I affected to take no particular heed of it.

“I wish we could have saved him,” I said presently. “I fear my father will visit his displeasure upon both of us for our neglect to say a word in Dick’s favour. He thinks so much of family ties, cousin. But I trust he may not, for I do not wish you to meet with a frown from him when you conduct me home, under the—the circumstances that you spoke of a little time ago,” said I, giving him a sly glance.

“I would do aught to please you, cousin,” he exclaimed. “But in this matter of Dick Coope, what can I do, even if he be still alive, which I question? I have no influence with Fairfax.”

“You must surely have some,” I replied. “One who has rendered such service.”

“Why, I may have some slight claim upon him,” he said. “But come, cousin, what signifies Dick Coope—let us talk of ourselves.”

“Dear Anthony,” said I, “we shall have so much time for that afterwards, and i’ faith I am concerned about Dick—though indeed I have no cause to trouble myself about him, seeing that he and I could never abide one another’s presence—for the reason that my father and our relations will be sore vexed at his death. And I am so anxious that naught should occur to vex my father at this time,” I added, looking significantly at him, “that if it were in my power I would do something to save Dick, and get him out of the country. Is there aught that we could do in that way, cousin?”

“I won’t say that something might not be done,” said he. “I might contrive his escape if he still lives.”

“I would give something if that were done,” said I. “Why, that’s noble and generous in you, cousin! Come, I think the more of you for that. But is the thing possible?”

“There are three things that would make it so,” said he, looking narrowly at me.

“And what are they, cousin?” I enquired.

“Why,” said he, “first, if he’s still alive; second, if there’s money in the house to secure his release; and third, if you will reward me for my efforts on his behalf.”

“I reward you?” said I, affecting a great surprise. “How can I reward you, cousin?”

“By bestowing yourself upon me without delay, fair cousin!” he cried, throwing himself at my feet and seizing my hand.

“Why,” said I, affecting a pretty confusion, “I thought that I had already given you some promise of the sort—but ‘without delay’ sounds so formidable—will not a year hence suit you, cousin?” I said.

“A year hence? ’Tis an age—a century!” he exclaimed, possessing himself of both my hands. “It must be at once—I cannot endure my passion to remain unsatisfied, fair coz; indeed, I love thee so much.”

“I could do much for a man that gratified my whim,” said I.

“And by heaven,” said he, “I will gratify it if I’m in time! Promise me, cousin, that you’ll marry me to-night, and I’ll save Dick Coope—that is,” he said, with a sudden caution, “if he’s yet alive, and if you can find me money for the enterprise.”

“But to-night?” said I, much confused. “Oh, cousin—why, was ever aught so sudden? Let us say a month hence, or a fortnight.”

“No,” he said, “to-night—this very night. I will bring a clergyman with me.”

“I am so taken aback,” I said. “Let us say a week hence, cousin.”

“No,” he said. “A week? ’Tis a lifetime—you must make me the happiest of men to-night if I do this for you. Come, yes or no, coz?”

“Why,” said I, looking away from him, “you deserve to be rewarded for your enterprise, Master Anthony, so I will say yes. But—nay,” I said, as he made as if to embrace me, “let us defer all that until we have some leisure—bethink you what there is to do. We must bestir ourselves if you really mean to win me for your own ere to-morrow morning. What is our bargain, cousin? That you are to rescue Dick Coope and bring him here, and that I am then to reward you with my hand?”

“And your heart,” said he, still pressing me with his attentions.

“Why, of course,” said I, and laughed. “Come, cousin, let us sit down and make our arrangements,” and I contrived to keep the table between us. “Now, first,” I said, giving him the bag of gold which Dick had handed to me when we were caught by the troopers, “there is money for your needs in this matter. Now let us settle all other things. First, you are to set out forthwith for Pomfret and busy yourself about Dick’s escape. You will, I suppose, bribe those that have him in charge?”

“Leave that to me,” he answered, with a chuckle. “I know a trick or two of that sort.”

“I am sure of it,” said I. “Then you are to bring him here so that he can be furnished with money for his journey out of the country.”

“Must he come here?” said he. “If I manage his escape——”

“Why, to tell you the truth, cousin,” said I, “I want to see him for a good reason. Sir Nicholas on his death-bed confided to Dick a secret as to the hiding of some considerable treasure, and I want to have it out of him. He cannot refuse to tell me after what we have done for him,” I said.

“He shall be brought here,” he answered.

“And when will you return with him?” I said.

“Why,” said he, musingly, “I have a plan, and if it goes as I think it will, it will be within an hour after midnight.”

“Then I will expect you, cousin,” said I. I paused a moment, and then looked at him in a shy fashion. “And you will bring a clergyman with you?” I said, striving, and I hope with some success, to counterfeit a becoming modesty.

“Assuredly I will!” he cried.

“Then go, dear Anthony,” I said. “But stay, there are two other matters—I do not like the notion,” I said, looking about me with an air of distaste, “of spending my wedding night in this house—could not we ride to your own house at Foxclough immediately after the ceremony? I should find that much to be preferred, cousin.”

“Why,” said he, “’tis a ten mile ride—and the old place is but poorly furnished—but since you wish it, cousin, I will despatch one of my men with strict orders to have it prepared for our reception during the night.”

“And your other man?” said I, “will you leave him here to protect me?—old Jasper is but a poor guard, and there is no one but Barbara and myself in the house.”

“Agreed,” said he. “And now I must hasten—egad, the time will go but slow till I return with the parson, fair coz!”

“Hasten!” said I, “you must fulfil your bargain if you would gain your prize. Nay,” I said, seeing that he was minded to embrace me, “lose no time, cousin—I shall be impatient for your return,” and I gave him a smile as he went out of the door that was intended to encourage him. I watched him across the kitchen and saw that he spoke to the two men; then he rode out of the courtyard and I returned to the parlour, calling Barbara to attend me there. And we had no sooner entered and closed the door than I swooned, the excitement of the scene I had just gone through proving too much for me to bear any longer.

“This will not do,” I said when Barbara had brought me round, and I sat up feeling somewhat recovered. “There is still much that I must undertake.” I began to plot and plan afresh, telling old Barbara sufficient of what was going on to explain my anxiety to her. Truly I was by that time in a sad condition, for there was first the fear lest Dick should already be beyond my help, and second, the thought that my plans should miscarry ere they could be worked out as I wished. “’Tis a desperate game,” I said to myself, “Heaven help me to play it to the end and give me success!” And therewith I began to consider my next movement.

Now so far as matters had turned out I had nothing to regret, and last of all, the seeming deception which I had practised on Anthony Dacre. It may seem to you who read this narrative that I had played upon him in the vilest and most heartless fashion by promising to marry him. But there was no deception in it, save on his side, for all the time that he spoke with me of marriage he was in reality meditating my ruin. I knew what he did not know that I knew—namely, that he was already married. I had come to know it by the most curious chance. Soon after Sir Nicholas Coope fell ill and took to his bed, there came to see him old Master Drumbleforth, a neighbouring clergyman, who chanced to inform him that he had married Anthony Dacre to one of his parishioners some few years previously, and that the woman still lived, though sore neglected by her husband. And I think it was because of knowing this that I felt it neither heartless nor deceitful to treat Anthony as I did. My own happiness and the life of the man I loved were at stake—what true woman would have let squeamish notions about nice points of honour stand in her way at such a time?

I now proceeded to carry out my further plans, all of which I had duly considered since my first notion of saving Dick entered my head. Towards the close of the afternoon I rode over to Master Drumbleforth’s vicarage and confessed to him all that I had done and all that I had it in my mind to do, and begged him to come to the Manor House that night in order to help me to carry out my last intentions. He promised to do so and gave me his blessing and sympathy, comforted by which I returned home. My next proceeding was to get rid of the man whom Anthony Dacre had left with us. I made up a parcel of my clothing, and giving it to him, bade him follow his fellow-servant to Foxclough and bide there until Anthony and I came in the night. He went without question, and when he was fairly departed, I mounted my horse again and rode off to Thorpe, where I saw John and Humphrey Stirk. I arranged that they should come to the Manor House early that night and remain there until Anthony Dacre returned. This done, my arrangements were all complete. I had carried out everything that my woman’s wit could devise, and there was naught left but to return home and wait with a fierce impatience for the outcome of my endeavours.

This is a true history of what I, Alison French, did on that distressing day. God send that no other woman be ever placed in such trying circumstances as those which I have here faithfully described. As for the end of them all, it will be much better spoken of by Richard, who has a turn for the writing of books, than by me, who have none.

This is the end of Mistress Alison’s account of her Transaction with Anthony Dacre.

III.

I do not think that I had slept above half-an-hour when I was awoke by Merciful Wiggleskirk, who laid his hand on my shoulder and at the same moment bade me make no noise. There was a very dim moonlight flooding the cottage when I opened my eyes, and at first I took it for the dawn and thought that my last hour was come.

“So they are ready, eh, lad,” says I, sitting up. “Faith, the night’s been short, but thank God, I have slept soundly.”

“Hush, master,” says he. “The night’s not half over. We have work to do yet. Hearken to me—are you minded to escape if I show you the way?”

“What’s all this?” I says, staring at him in the dim light. “Say plainly what’s on your mind.”

“Why, then,” says he, “your cousin, Mistress French, has devised some plan of rescuing you, and it falls to me to carry out this part of it. Are you willing?”

“Willing!” I says. “Come, let us hasten.”

“First,” says he, “let me doctor your foot. We have still a quarter of an hour. I waked you in advance of the time so that I might be able to minister to your hurt. It may be that you’ll have to use that foot whether it pain you or no.”

“I’ll make shift,” says I, all impatient now that I knew Alison had not forgotten me. I was anxious to proceed to our next movement, but Wiggleskirk made me sit down while he rubbed his balm of Gilead into my leg. He busied himself in this fashion for some minutes, and then proceeded to bandage my ankle and foot with linen swathes. “There,” says he at last. “Now stand up, master, and see if you cannot use your foot a little.”

Now, whether it was the healing powers of Merciful’s ointment, or my own excitement at the thought of regaining my freedom that worked such wonders in me, I don’t know, but whatever it was I found on putting my foot to the ground that I could walk with some little difficulty. There was still much stiffness and discomfort in my foot, but the pain had abated in marvellous fashion.

“Thou art a very miracle-monger,” says I. “Come, what do we turn to next?”

“Have patience,” says he. “There’s much at stake.” He opened the door of the cottage and looked forth. The moon was then dipping into a bank of cloud. “Now,” says he, “I think we may venture,” and he beckoned me to follow him. We left the cottage, and turning the corner crept along behind the hedgerow. For fifty yards I contrived to amble along, but then the pain returned, and I was forced to call a halt. “Pain or no pain,” says Merciful, “we must onward,” and he drew my arm within his and supported me. Soon we came to a little grove of trees. “Here are two men with four horses,” he whispers in my ear. “Ask no question of them—all you have to do is to mount and ride. I shall be at your side, and we are going to your cousin.”

We were now close to the horses, and one of the men, coming forward, assisted Merciful to lift me into the saddle. “All clear,” says Merciful, and we set out across the fields, the three men closely surrounding me. One of the strange men led the way, and I observed that he was careful to keep clear of the town. For some time I was not sure as to the direction we were following, but after skirting the fields that lie between Tanshelf and Mill Hill we eventually came out on the Barnsdale road, and ere long I saw the top of the old manor rising up in the moonlight.

“Surely we cannot be going there!” I thought. But when we came to the corner of the village street our leader turned his horse, and in a few minutes they were assisting me to dismount in the courtyard. “Well, this,” thinks I, “is the strangest adventure,” but I said naught. The men tied their horses to the rings at the mounting-stone, and Merciful Wiggleskirk gave me his arm. And then all four of us were at the porch, and the door of the great kitchen opened, and there stood Alison, holding a lamp above her head, just as she had stood when I and the Stirks came to warn her of her danger but a few nights before. I stared at her as she looked at us and was amazed. Her eyes were bright, there was the rarest colour in her cheeks, she had never looked so handsome, I swear, but there was something in her face that I had never seen there before. It was excitement, apprehension, fear—I know not what; but when her eyes fell on me it vanished. She gave me one swift look, and then turned into the kitchen. The two strangers followed her close, with me and Wiggleskirk in attendance, and as we came into the light the foremost of them threw aside the cloak that had so effectively concealed him from me. It was Anthony Dacre!

I looked from him to her. She stood, proud and haughty by the hearth, and gave no more heed to me than if I had been a stone. Anthony Dacre spoke, setting his eyes on her boldly.

“There, madam,” says he, with a bow that began at her and finished at me, “you see how well I have executed your commands. Here stands Master Richard Coope, alive and unhurt Have I done well, fair cousin?”

“You have done excellent well, sir,” says she.

“Then there is naught left, madam,” says he, “but to claim my reward.”

“And that,” says she, “you shall have without delay. But first I must transact that business with Master Coope that I told you of. Master Richard, will it please you to step with me into the hall for a moment?”

But I looked at her and then at him.

“Hold!” says I. “What is the meaning of all this, and what is that reward you speak of, Master Dacre?”

He gave me a triumphant look.

“In return for saving your life,” says he, “Mistress French confers upon me her hand and heart. Here,” he says, motioning towards the man at his side, “is the clergyman who will presently marry us.”

“Is this true?” says I, and looked at Alison.

“And what right has Master Richard Coope to ask such a question?” says she, in her haughtiest manner. But she had contrived to get ’twixt me and Anthony, and she gave me a look which signified so much that I saw through all this mystery in an instant. “By heaven!” thinks I, “she has tricked him after all!” And I followed up her clue. “Nay,” says I, sulkily, “it’s naught to me, mistress. But what’s this business that you speak of?”

“Step with me into the hall,” says she. She turned to Anthony, and gave him the sweetest look. “We shall need but a few minutes, cousin,” she says.

I hobbled into the hall. She followed me close, and shut the door. I turned to her, and as our eyes met she threw her arms about my neck, and held me to her. “Oh, Dick!” she cries. “My dear, my dear, if you knew what I have gone through. But you are safe,” she says, starting away, “and there is so much to do. Come——”

“Alison,” I said, holding her hand. “What is all this—what does it mean?”

“Dick,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes, “do you love me?”

“As my life—and more!” says I.

“And will you marry me—now?” she says.

“Now?” I says. “But I will do aught that you wish,” I says, sore mystified.

“Come, come!” she says, and drags me to the door of the little parlour. “There are good friends here,” she says, and leads me within.

There was old Drumbleforth, the parson, there, with John and Humphrey Stirk. Alison led me up to the clergyman. “Stand by the door, John and Humphrey,” says she. “Now, Master Drumbleforth, will you wed me to my cousin?”

“You are both of a mind, children?” says the old man, looking from one to the other. “But I see you are,” he says, and opened his book.

So we were married, and as the parson said his last word I took my wife in my arms and kissed her for the first time.

By that time I was well nigh amazed with the succession of conflicting emotions that I had experienced during the day and night. I could not believe that things were real. I stood staring at Alison and old Parson Drumbleforth. She smiled at me, and then seemed to recollect herself.

“John,” says she, “do you and Humphrey see to your arms, and give my husband those that you have prepared for him. There may be need for them, but I think not. Now——” she left the parlour, and crossed the hall. She flung open the door. “I am ready for you, Master Anthony,” she cried. “Will you step this way with your friend?”

She came back and stood at my side, putting out her hand to touch mine. And then came Anthony Dacre, followed by the other man, and they stopped on the threshold and stared at us.

Faith! I am not sure that I did not pity Anthony as he stood there. He looked at Alison and at me, and from us to old Parson Drumbleforth, and at sight of him his face turned from red to black, and from black to white. He looked back to Alison. “Tricked!” he says. She looked steadily at him: his eyes dropped: he turned to the door. But Merciful Wiggleskirk had followed them in, and had now closed the door behind them, and stood against it with a pistol in his hand.

Anthony Dacre turned to sudden rage. “Let me go,” he says.

“When Master Drumbleforth has answered some questions,” says Alison. She turned to the old man. “This afternoon,” she says, “Anthony Dacre asked me to marry him. Have you aught to say to that, sir?”

“Child,” says old Drumbleforth, “He is married already—I married him myself in my parish church of Darrington.”

“He has brought a clergyman with him to perform the ceremony,” says she, still watching Anthony. “Step forward, friend—let us look at you.”

The man drew nearer, with evident unwillingness. He removed his cloak from his face. “He paid me to do it,” growls he, motioning towards Anthony.

“Preserve us!” says Merciful Wiggleskirk. “’Tis Tobias Tomkins of our troop—he is no more a parson than I am, and not half so much so.”

“I had meant to ask Master Drumbleforth if he recognised him for a clergyman of the rural deanery,” says Alison. “But there’s no need. I have no more to say. And yet——” she paused and looked at Anthony once again. “I have played with fairer weapons than yours,” she says.

IV.

And now there was naught left but for Alison and myself to make good our escape. We had been favoured in the most marvellous fashion up to that time, but we were not yet out of danger, and it was necessary that we should lose no time in removing ourselves from a neighbourhood wherein there was so much to imperil us. So I desired Alison, Master Drumbleforth, and Merciful Wiggleskirk to accompany me to another apartment where we might discuss matters in privacy. Anthony Dacre and Tobias Tomkins I left in charge of John and Humphrey Stirk, bidding the latter have no mercy on them if they made any attempt to escape.

“And now,” says I, when the four of us were safely bestowed in another room, “what’s to be done next? ’Tis clear that we must quit this presently and put as many miles as possible between us and our enemies ere daybreak. The question,” I says, looking from one to the other, “is——where shall we go?”

“If I may speak,” says Merciful Wiggleskirk, “I say let us go to the Low Countries. I say us because I am going with you, master and mistress. Don’t say me nay—faith, you’ll find me useful enough ere we’ve come through our troubles,” he says.

“’Tis a long journey,” says I, doubtfully, looking at Alison.

“Long or short, ’tis a safe place that we shall find at the end on’t,” says Merciful. “And ’tis not so long either if we can but light on a ship at Hull.”

“I am of Master Wiggleskirk’s opinion,” says Master Drumbleforth.

“What say you, Alison?” says I.

But for answer she put her hand in mine. “Anywhere with you, Dick,” says she.

“The Low Countries be it, then,” says I. I looked round me. “Shall we ever see the old house again?” I thought to myself, cursing the fate that drove me and my bride out of its shelter like beggars. But that was no time for such thoughts. “Come,” I says. “Let’s be stirring—what is that you propose, Merciful Wiggleskirk?”

“Why,” says he, “what I propose, master, is simple enough—that we presently mount our horses and set out for Hull, there to find a ship. And since we have a fifty mile ride before us,” he says——

“Let’s waste no time in starting,” says I. “Come, see to the horses while I arrange for the safe custody of our prisoners.”

“Pity that we cannot knock them on the head for vermin,” says Merciful, and bustled out of the room on my errand. Master Drumbleforth followed him to find his own beast. I turned and took Alison into my arms.

“Sweetheart,” says I, “this is but a poor wedding-night for you. I fear we have many troubles and difficulties ahead out of which I would fain keep you.”

“Nay,” says she, laying her hand on my mouth, “no talk of that sort, Dick. We have faced more than one trouble together—I’ve no fear of aught that may come,” says she, smiling at me. “Oh, my dear, I love you so that troubles seem naught when I share them with you.”

“Why, then,” says I, leading her towards the door, “all’s well indeed.” I paused and held her at arm’s length, looking long and steadily into her eyes. “My wife!” I says, and caught her to my heart, only to release her again and look at her smiling face in sheer wonder. For to tell truth, my head was half turned with the strange doings of that day, and I could scarce comprehend that Alison was really and truly my own.

I think we might easily have forgotten our predicament, so wrapped up in each other were we, had not Merciful Wiggleskirk come bustling back again with news that the horses were in readiness. I sent Alison to her chamber for such baggage as it was necessary she should carry with her, and while she was thus employed, I went back to the room where John and Humphrey mounted guard over our prisoners. I bade them follow me without, and locked the door with my own hands.

“Now,” says I, handing the key to John Stirk, “you will keep these fellows in safe custody for three hours, lads, at the end of which time you may release them to go their ways as the devil, their master, prompts.” “By that time,” I says, “I trust we shall be beyond their reach. And so farewell, honest lads both, and pray God we meet again under this roof ere long with happier surroundings.” And I shook their hands, and went out to join Alison, who was busied in saying farewell to Barbara.

There was a faint moonlight as the four of us rode away across the moor towards Darrington. It was then one o’clock in the morning, and the air was of a biting keenness that seemed to penetrate to the very bones. Master Drumbleforth, muffled to his eyes, stooped over his horse’s neck and said naught; Merciful Wiggleskirk rode in front, humming a psalm tune to keep his jaws from chattering; Alison and I rode side by side in the rear, both occupied, I think, with our own thoughts, which were—if I may judge by my own—of that diverse complexion which is made up of sweet and bitter. For first I cursed the fate that drove me and my bride from the house where we should have settled down in peace and comfort, and then I blessed the day that had given me to wife the woman whom I loved with a deep and abiding passion. And somehow the happiness of the last thought drove out the bitterness of the first, and as we swept past the hedgerows and trees in the faint moonlight, I began to feel a sense of elation that made me bold and resolute to encounter whatever further peril lay before us.

At his parsonage house in Darrington village, Master Drumbleforth drew rein and took leave of us, bidding us God-speed, and wishing us a safe deliverance from all our dangers. We called back our thanks to him, and rode swiftly forward through the sleeping village until we came to the Great North Road. At the corner of the inn stables, Merciful drew rein.

“I am half undecided,” says he, “whether to go forward through Womersley and Snaith or to turn along the north road, and cross the river at Ferrybridge. What say you, master?”

“’Tis more likely to be safe by Snaith than by Ferrybridge,” says I. “Fairfax’s troopers are in force along the river-side at Ferrybridge.”

A window in the inn was thrown open above us, and a man looked out as if to enquire our business. Merciful turned his horse. “Do as I do,” says he, in a whisper. “By Ferrybridge, then,” he says in a loud voice, and rode away up the hill. Alison and I followed. We were half a mile outside the village before Merciful spoke again.

“We are not for Ferrybridge after all,” says he. “I liked not the throwing up of that window, for the man who put his head out is in a position to say which way we have gone. Therefore, I came along the north road. We will now turn down this by-lane, and rejoin the Womersley road at Stapleton. Do you see my meaning, master?”

“Clearly,” says I. “Though I don’t see who can follow us.”

“Best give no chance,” he says. “We can’t be too careful. I shall breathe more freely when we’re across the Aire, and in a fair way for Hull.”

We now doubled back upon our old track, and presently came into the Womersley road, about a mile from Darrington village. For half-an-hour we rode through the woods of Stapleton, which overshadowed the road on either side, and shut out what moonlight there was. Then came the long, winding street of Womersley, and the clatter of our horses’ feet against the cottage walls, and then we were into a thickly wooded country again, relieved here and there by wild patches of marsh and moor. In a shifty light (for the moon that night was of an uncertain behaviour) we raced across Balne Common. It was near three o’clock when we drew near to Snaith, and pulled up our horses under the shelter of a wayside coppice to consider our further plans.

“Shall we cross the river at Snaith,” says Merciful, “or shall we go on by the south bank to the ferry over the Ouse at Hooke? There is something to be said for both roads.”

“I know naught of either,” says I, “and must therefore leave the matter to your own decision, lad. I incline to the straightest road, so long as it is fairly clear of interruption.”

“I think we’ll make for Hooke,” says he, after he had meditated awhile. “From Howden to Hull there is a good turnpike road, and we shall make better progress. God send we find no interruption at the ferry!”

So we rode forward again, through Cowick and Rawcliffe, leaving Snaith on the left, and made good progress until we came to Airmyn at four o’clock in the morning. But there, just as I was beginning to feel sure of our deliverance, we received a sudden check that took all the conceit out of me, and left me a prey to more doubts and fears than I had any fancy for.

Airmyn was all alive. There were lights in every house, and as we came along the street we heard sounds of shouting and singing as though the place were filled with roysterers rather than with peaceable villagers. Coming to the open space before the inn we found a crowd of men and horses, and made out from a little distance that the former were Royalist troopers. With a common consent we drew rein, and looked at one another by such light as the candles and lanthorns in the cottage windows afforded us.

“What say you, Merciful?” says I. “Shall we venture through this mob, or is there some by-way that we can try?”

“There is no by-way,” says he, shaking his head. “And they see us by this time, and would think it suspicious did we turn back. Best go forward as if we were travellers in haste to continue our journey. Remember,” he saying, bending over to me, “that you are a country gentleman, travelling with your lady and servant to Hull, and that we are all staunch Royalists.”

“Can we play the parts?” says I.

“I can play a good many parts to save my neck,” says he. “Come, we are observed, master—let’s move forward.”

So we shook our reins and went on. There was a round score of troopers grouped about their horses before the inn, with here and there a stable lad running about, flaring torch in hand, the streaming light from which gave a grotesque appearance to the men and animals. I leaned over and laid hold of Alison’s bridle, and so we approached the crowd, none of whom seemed disposed to make way for us.

“By your leave, gentlemen,” cries Merciful. “My master and mistress are in haste, and would fain ride forward if you will give them room.”

But the men in front made no show of compliance, and one burly fellow laid hands on my bridle reins and on Alison’s, staring impudently into my face.

“Body o’ the Pope!” says he. “What have we here? Whither away so fast, my pretty gentleman, with mistress madam? I’ faith, art come at the right time if thou wishest a score of proper fellows to drink her health.”

“Good friend,” says I, very anxious to keep my temper, “I wish naught but to proceed upon my way with as much speed as possible. We are on business of importance, and have no time for aught that would hinder us.”

“Shalt not pass until we have drunk madam’s good health!” he cried vociferously. He turned, shouting to his fellows, “Hey, lads, see what the morn brings us—a pair o’ runaway lovers, as I am a true man. Come, Master Solemn Face, let’s see the colour of thy money that we may drink——”

But at that moment an officer came out of the inn calling loudly for order.

“Silence, men!” he shouted. “Is this Bedlam that you all talk together like so many madmen? Sure, I command the most unruly troop in His Majesty’s service! What have you there, Sergeant Strong?” he says, pushing his way through the crowd towards the man who held our bridles. A sudden turn of one of the torches threw a glare of light across Alison’s face. The officer doffed his hat on the instant and came closer to us, holding it in his hand.

“Sir,” says I, seizing the advantage, “I am travelling with my wife and servant for Hull, and am anxious to lose no time on the road. If you’ll desire your men to give us room we’ll proceed,” I says, giving him a low bow.

“I crave a thousand pardons if my fellows have offered you a rudeness, sir,” says he, bowing to the ground. “Sergeant Strong, give way—get the troops together and call the roll.” He turned to us again as the big man moved off. “You will pardon my fellows, sir,” he says, looking very admiringly at Alison. “They are somewhat cock-a-whoop because of a trifling victory gained last night. So you are for Hull?” says he, seeming loth to say farewell to us.

“And are in much haste to get there, sir,” I says.

“I and my troops are for Beverley,” says he. “We go the same road as far as South Cave. Let me advise you to accept our escort—the enemy is in force across the river, and madam might find it unpleasant to fall into their hands. If you will accept our protection——”

“Why, sir,” says I, very impatient, “I thank you very heartily. But we are in great haste and must needs ride fast——”

“Your beasts seem spent now,” says he, with a sharp look at the horses. “I think our heavy cattle will match them.”

“Take his offer,” whispers Merciful at my elbow.

“In that case, sir,” says I, “I accept your offer gladly. I daresay we shall be the better of your protection.”

“It shall be willingly bestowed, sir,” says he, still mighty polite. “But since we do not start for an hour (I wait that space in order to join a troop that is riding to meet me at the ferry) I would advise you to give your horses a feed of corn and to refresh yourselves at yonder inn. The benefit will be yours, sir.”

Now, I had not bargained for any delay, being in a great anxiety to push forward, but I reflected that our beasts were weary, and that an hour’s rest would help them to bear the further strain to which we must needs subject them. I therefore dismounted, and having assisted Alison to alight, led her within the inn, leaving our horses to the care of Merciful Wiggleskirk, who lost no time in conducting them to the stables.

The officer, preceding us into the inn, called loudly for the landlord, who bowed the three of us into his best apartment and desired to know our pleasure. As for me and Alison I think we had no stomach for either eating or drinking, but I desired the man to set his best before us, and we made some show of breaking our fast. Meanwhile the officer had introduced himself to us, and seemed highly desirous to make as good an appearance as possible, protesting that as a true servant of His Majesty it was his duty to protect the King’s loyal subjects—all of which, I take it, was in the way of so much tribute to my wife’s beauty, and a sure proof that a woman’s prettiness can achieve more than all the common sense and reason in the world put together.

“I’ faith!” says he. “I am glad to meet you, sir, and am unreservedly obliged to you and your lady for your kindness in giving me your company. ’Tis poor work for a man of quality to ride at the head of his troop with none fitting to hold converse with him. I promise myself,” he says, with yet another bow, “a most profitable ride ’twixt now and our parting.”

“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis very good of you to say so, though I fear we shall prove but poor company.” And indeed I felt but little disposed to hold converse with him or any other, being sore anxious as to our future movements. But Alison, full of her woman’s wit—albeit as anxious as I—came to my aid and talked to him, making herself mighty agreeable—much to his pleasure—until the hour was past and the troop departed, the officer with Alison and myself bringing up the rear.

As we rode along the river side into Hook village the dawn came, grey and misty. There was a bank of white fog over the Ouse, which was there a wide and swift river, mightily swollen at that moment by the recent rains. Down at the ferry the air was cold and thin, and I saw Alison shiver as we sat our horses by the water’s edge. I looked round me at the dull, flat landscape, and the wintry river at our feet, and felt a sense of coming trouble. “I have led thee into perilous doings, sweetheart,” says I, laying my hand on hers. But she looked at me with the rarest smile, and I knew then that because of her love for me she was willing to face whatever might come.

Our friend the officer, while we waited at the ferry for the troop that was to join him, amused himself by drawing up his men in order of battle and putting them through various movements. I think he designed these things in order to draw our attention to his own person and importance, for he was in sooth a perfect coxcomb, and seemed to delight in showing off his airs and graces. So concerned were we with our own thoughts, however, that we perceived little of what went on immediately before us. Alison and I sat apart, conversing now and then. Merciful Wiggleskirk walked his horse up and down the road in a fashion that clearly proved his uneasiness. And presently, after an excursion to the end of the turn he came back to my side, and drawing rein as if naught had happened, leaned over and spoke to me in a low voice.

“Master,” says he, “we are pursued.”

“Pursued?” says I. “What makes you think that?”

“I have just been to the top of the road,” says he, “and caught sight of a troop of horse coming along under the woods a mile off. In another minute or so you’ll hear the sound of their horses’ feet,” he says, nodding his head towards the highway.

“Why, man,” says I, “’tis the troop of horse that this officer is now waiting for that you have seen. He expects them to join him here every moment.”

“No,” says he, “for these are Roundheads—I can tell the difference ’twixt Roundheads and Cavaliers at three miles. We are pursued, master, as I feared we should be, and if Anthony Dacre has a hand in it we shall have to fight. And the question is,” he says, with a glance at Alison, “what is to be done with madam?”

“Have no fear on that point,” says I. “Fetch the officer to us, Merciful, and let us tell him our fears. If we are pursued we may as well ask our new friends to defend us.”

While he rode off I turned to Alison and told her our fears. “I doubt,” says I, “that Anthony has escaped the Stirks and raised a hue-and-cry after us.”

“We will not be separated, Dick,” says she. “If it comes to the worst give me a pistol and they shall see that I can use it. Only promise to let us keep together,” she says, imploringly.

But ere I could answer, the officer comes riding up with Merciful at his heels. I lost no time in telling him our fears. “Sir,” says I, “you have been so kind to us that I scarce like to trouble you with more of our misfortunes, but we are like to be in a sore plight. The fact is that I and my wife—and ’twas but yesterday that we were married—are closely pursued by a troop of Roundheads from Fairfax’s camp at Pomfret, and my man has just sighted them along the road there. You can even now hear their horses’ feet.”

“Faith,” says he, “I do hear something of that sort, but I think ’tis the troop that I am to meet here.”

“No, master,” says Merciful, “they are Roundheads—I observed their headgear narrowly.”

“Then we are in for another fight!” cries the officer, rubbing his hands. “Have no fear, sir—do you and your lady sit apart, and you shall see as pretty a bit of war-play as you could wish for. Hold—I have it! Do you conduct madam, sir, into yonder house, and let your man stable your beasts at the rear. I promise you we will soon settle these crop-eared rogues, and be ready to escort you onwards within the half-hour. Hah!—now I hear them plainly—suffer me to get my men in order.”

Now, I should dearly have liked to draw my sword, and had a share in the coming fight, but the officer’s advice seemed good, and in a trice all three of us had ridden round to the rear of the house overlooking the ferry, and were off our horses. While Merciful hurried them into the barn, Alison and I made for the house. There was no person to be seen within but an old woman, who scuttled away at the mere sight of us. And that being no time for ceremony we made our way to an upper chamber, whose windows looked out upon the street, and from behind the curtains gazed at the progress of events below. From our point of vantage we could see along the highway by which we had ridden from Snaith. Almost immediately before us it made a sudden turn, where it dipped towards the ferry, and it was in this turn, hidden by a tall farmstead that the Royalist captain had drawn up his men along the roadside. I saw his plan on the instant: it was to let the advancing troop sweep by, and then to hem them in between the high ground and the river bank.

The Roundheads came on at a gallop, evidently unconscious of the fact that the ferry lay close before them. They rode in a close-packed body, some thirty in number, and at their head as they swung round the bend, I saw the evil face of Anthony Dacre, whose eyes were like those of a hound that scents its prey.

With a swing and clatter that woke all the echoes of the neighbouring houses, the troop dashed round the corner of the farmstead and into the presence of the Royalists. Every man of the latter had his sword drawn, and as the Roundheads swung by, pulling on their horses’ reins lest they should go over the river bank, they charged with a crash that made the blood tingle in my veins, and Alison cover her face with her hands. And in good sooth ’twas no pleasant sight that we gazed upon. Three men had gone over the bank and were perishing miserably in the grey stream, calling on their friends for help that could not be given. Here and there, trampled underfoot by the horses, and presently battered into unrecognisable masses of flesh and blood, lay men that had been cut down ere ever they could draw weapon. High above the curses and cries, the shouting of the men and the neighing of the plunging horses, rose the clatter of the swords as Roundhead and Royalist hewed away at each other, and the battle cry of the latter, roared from the leathern lungs of Sergeant Strong, who was here and there like a mad bull, slaying at every stroke.

I suppose it was all over in a few moments, for the Roundheads, riding full tilt into an ambuscade, had never a chance, and were overwhelmed in point of numbers into the bargain. But as the fight ebbed away I seized Alison’s arm. “Look, look!” I cried, and pointed to the road beneath.

There was a sort of small courtyard immediately before us, and within it, swept aside by the struggling mass of men and horses about them, Anthony Dacre and the Royalist officer fought, foot to foot. Both were covered with blood, and both fought fiercely as if for life. But the Royalist was pressing Anthony hard; he retreated yard by yard until the wall lay close behind him; I saw in his face the look that comes to a man’s eyes when he knows that death is at last before him, not to be denied. And at that I threw open the casement to lean out and see the end. At the sound, Anthony Dacre looked up. He saw me, and Alison at my shoulder, and I saw his lips form a curse. And at the same instant the Royalist’s sword passed through his heart, and I caught Alison away lest she should see him fall and die. But at the sound of a bugle I went back to the window, and saw the troop that we had waited for riding up to the ferry to find their comrades hot with the heat of victory over the Roundheads who lay dead or dying in the middle of the highway.

And so it was all over, and we were free of our enemies. Late that night Alison and I, with Merciful Wiggleskirk in attendance, were in the Market Place at Hull, weary and sore bespent, but devoutly thankful. Ere daybreak next morning we were sailing down the Humber, and so at last I had some leisure to look at my wife and assure myself that all the events of the past week were realities rather than dreams. But that they were realities her sweetness did most abundantly prove to me, and in spite of the fact that we were exiles, she and I spent our first years of married life in Holland, in as sweet a contentment as lovers could wish for.

But after many years we came back to England and to the old house. And since it was half-ruined, I set to work to rebuild it, and somewhat altered it in appearance and design. We transferred Sir Nicholas’s body from its first quarters to its proper resting-place. On the spot where we first buried him I now spend many hours, sitting in his chair, and telling my eldest son, Nicholas, of the brave doings that I have had in our old house. And for the sake of him and of his brothers and sisters—for I warrant you we have been blessed with a numerous progeny!—I have written down this chronicle at such times as I have had naught better to do.

When I showed the first pages of this book to my wife, she took some objection.

“Sure,” says she, “I never called you Master Poltroon.”

“Sweetheart,” says I, “you did.”

“But you called me Mistress Spitfire,” says she.

“And that’s what you were,” says I.

“Was I?” says she. “Well, maybe I was—but you were never Master Poltroon.”

Faith! ’tis mighty comforting that she has so good an opinion of me.

THE END.

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR