A Lost Leader: A Tale of Restoration Days

CHAPTER IV.

THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVÈS.

"And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main."
                                            C. KINGSLEY, The Last Buccàneer.

For a while Richard Harrison found safety in his old county, not indeed in his father's comfortable town-house, nor in the widowed Mrs. Harrison's county home, but lurking among the potters' huts on the Staffordshire moors, and only venturing to visit his friends under cover of night.

The colour which his unlucky presence among the congregation at Coleman Street on the day of General Harrisons execution, had given to his enemy's accusations, had made his position perilous in the extreme, for General Monck, and his other secret friends, considered that he had wilfully disregarded their warnings, and were not inclined to exert their influence in his behalf. During those miserable months of hiding he had but one sad satisfaction—that of knowing that Prince Rupert had kept his promise and the mangled remains of Thomas Harrison were restored to his widow, and laid in decency in Newcastle churchyard. The dead was safe from further outrage, but the living were still at the mercy of private malice and public panic, and Richard found that to linger any longer near his old home would be but to draw suspicion on his friends, and even involve them in the fate that threatened himself.

His best chance of escape was to reach some seaport, but it took all the efforts of his father and his relatives to rouse him to decide on trying to make for one. Sick at heart, hopeless for the future of the country, all that had made life worth living—ambition, work, love, and even religion, seemed lost. He was practically alone in the world. Those of General Harrison's friends who had not shared the Regicide's doom, were scattered to the four winds, and even if Richard had known of their places of refuge, he had nothing to unite him to them, but the bond of a common sorrow. His own comrades either believed in the accusations that his enemy circulated with such industry against him, or were too busy and too selfish to trouble themselves about a man who was under a cloud. There was no one left alive who had the power to rouse Richard from the torpor that possessed him; the numb misery that had fallen on him when he saw General Harrison die had never again lifted from his heart and brain.

Till that day he had never realized how completely the warmth and enthusiasm of General Harrison's character had dominated his own life. While their opinions diverged completely, their feelings were in harmony, or rather the glowing faith and single-hearted idealism of the elder man had illuminated the being of the younger. Now a glory had departed from the earth. Richard's youthful wisdom had often grown impatient of his uncle's wild fancies, or smiled with affectionate mockery on his Utopian dreams; but unconsciously the young man had always measured his own thoughts and actions by the unworldly standard of General Harrison's ideal. He, with all who lived near Harrison, had seemed to catch a reflected gleam of the radiance that shone on his path; now, a light was gone. Where Richard had seen that noble figure treading the path before him, a sudden gulf yawned, the leader had vanished, the path was lost, and the blank fog was around him. The warm clasp was gone, only the memory of the dead hand would be with him to the end.

Richard's life had been one of activity. Whether fighting or administrating or farming, his simple and practical nature had found its natural outlet in work. Speculations on religion or forms of government had little attraction for him; there was always some work to be done, and that he found more congenial than meditation. Now, his occupations were gone, his career wrecked, the only subject for his thoughts was how to preserve his own wretched life, a matter which soon grew to him one of complete indifference. His relations painted to him in glowing colours the future that still opened to him in the New England plantations where their friend Parson Perrient was sure to offer him a warm welcome, and to satisfy their wishes, he made his way eastward, hoping to find a ship bound for Holland at King's Lynn, and so to take passage for the New World from Rotterdam. But the new life in the West that had once seemed so attractive, the day dreams that had woven themselves about the log cabin in a forest clearing, faded almost before he began to desire them. He was too heart-sick to hope, too weary to devise new ambitions, or even to recall the old ones that had kept him company from his youth.

In the dusk of a winter evening, Richard Harrison's tired feet turned to the door of a shabby little inn on the outskirts of Northampton. He had grown skilful in picking resting-places where he was likely to meet none but creatures as wretched as himself, wanderers and beggars too much taken up with their own misery to waste curiosity on the history of others. Wet and weary, the fire was grateful to him, though the room it lit up was as dirty and mean as could well be. But the rickety settle at least kept the wind from the tired traveller, and the bulging rafters supported a roof that kept the rain out. Richard crouched over the hearth, drying his wet clothes and awaiting without much expectation of satisfaction the supper the slatternly hostess promised, when a heavy step without, and a violent rattle of the door-latch, told that another wayfarer was coming to share his wretched lair. A tall burly fellow swaggered into the room, and flung into the elbow chair with a weight that made it creak.

"Que tiempo maldito!" he growled, shaking the wet from his hat brim. "Hullo, good mother, food and drink as quick as may be, most especially drink, and none of your small beer for me," he shouted, jingling a few coppers in his hand with the air of an alderman ordering turtle and venison.

"Pray Heaven my neighbour speedily drink himself drunk," thought Dick, withdrawing himself further into the chimney-corner.

The stranger shivered, coughed, grumbled out a few more oaths in bad Spanish, and hitching his chair nearer to the fire he lifted the tankard the woman of the house brought to him, and nodded over at Richard.

"Here's to thy health, friend, and our better acquaintance!"

Richard answered civilly, and pulling his hat over his eyes leaned back as one disposed to sleep; but the new-comer seemed to have no fancy for solitary potations.

"Take a pull at my ale, friend," he hallooed, pushing the steaming mixture under Dick's nose. "It's rare stingo, 'schrecklich gut' as the Dutchmen say, though it be a slut that brewed it. Folks in this country want something to warm their gizzards!"

The hostess who brought Dick's bowl of onion broth at this moment destroyed his chance of feigning sleep, and he had to resign himself to endure his companion's conversation which flowed on, garnished with oaths and cant phrases in three or four different languages, without any interruption, till by an unguarded movement Richard exposed his face to the light of the fire, and the stranger stared a moment, and then sprang up exclaiming, "Body o' me if it be not Measter Dick himself!"

Richard scanned the other's features with surprise and annoyance.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he answered, stiffly.

"Whoy, Measter Dick, you ain't forgot me! But 'tis little wonder; time flies, time flies, and I bean't so slim as I was once. But you'll mind my name, Hodge Astbury from Penkull, that rode at the tail of your nag all the way from Hurst Castle to London, and many a day after."

"Can it be Astbury!" cried Richard, with a warmer feeling of pleasure than he could have imagined possible at finding a link with his old past in the drunken ruffian who claimed his acquaintance.

"Ay!" cried the other, seizing his hand. "Hodge Astbury I am, and right pleased to set eyes on you again, sir. But alack, alack, times is changed, and I hear tell they've hanged the Major?"

Dick nodded.

"Ay, dear, dear," meditated Astbury, in a maudlin tone of regret. "The Major, he was a fine soldier, and no mistake. I'd rather than a cup of strong waters ride behind him when fighting was toward, and see the pleasure he took in it! Seemeth, whatever the Major did, us was bound to do, whether 'twas fighting or praying; 'twas somehow catching, like as 'twas the plague. You may believe me, sir, I got afeared of keeping along o' him; he'd have turned me into a saint before I could wink. When he looked at you—why General Cromwell himself was put to it to say him nay! Aye, dear, dear, 'tis a pity."

Whether intentionally or not, the man had slipped back into his Staffordshire accent and dropped the strongest of his oaths, and Dick could not prevent a feeling of bitter amusement at seeing that this drunken ne'er-do-well, whom his uncle had persuaded to enlist in the hopes of drilling him into a decent life, had yielded to the influence of General Harrison's character just as he himself had done. But Astbury had broken loose from the charm; he himself had remained obedient till death dissolved the spell. Which of them had been the wiser—which was the better off? The fellow maundered on, taking a drink at his replenished tankard now and then.

"And seems as if times be not over good with you, Master Dick, if you'll excuse my making so bold."

"No," answered Richard, with some reserve; "I have not been altogether fortunate of late. But what has befallen you since we met last?" he continued, anxious to turn the conversation. "I think you were bound for Ireland, were you not?"

"Ay, ay, I've seen a siege or two, and a fight or two, and many a queer thing besides. Why, if I had the wit to put it all into rhyme, what I've seen would make a score of ballads! I've been across seas to Amerikey since last I clapped eyes on you, Maester Dick."

Richard hesitated to ask in what fashion Astbury had made his voyage, seeing that the usual way to dispose of thieves and vagabonds was to ship them off to the American plantations; but Astbury loved the sound of his own voice, and stretching out his legs towards the fire, took up his tale in the fashion of the professional story-teller. His history ran somewhat as follows, though it sounds bald enough without the expletives with which he garnished it, growing somewhat less shy of his Major's nephew as he went on.

"I went across seas first time along o' Lord General Cromwell to Ireland, and he gave us our bellyful of fighting, and no mistake; but it ain't fighting that I complain of, having been always held a valiant man of my inches;" and he puffed out his broad chest and looked a very crusader. "And you'll bear me out, sir, I wasn't one to call out at knocks. But here's what I complains of—'twas nothing but knocks over there. If so be you laid hands if it were but on a hen, if you 'scaped the gallows your back paid for your chicken, and as for kissing an Irish wench, they'd have hanged a colonel for doing of it! And they great woods! Now I've seen woods as is worth the seeing, chock full of monkeys and grapes and parrots and such like, but they Irish woods! Caramba! I'd sooner be hanged than set eyes on them again! So as I was saying, 'twas hard knocks and short commons and long sermons, and agues to boot; so when we come to Cork, I just turned my back on old Noll and padded the hoof to Kinsale, and there I shipped under Prince Rupert."

"I hope that suited you better," said Richard.

"Ay, there was a good deal to be said for Prince Rupert," answered Astbury, judicially—"a good deal. He were a proper man—a very proper man, and valiant. But, caramba, we had no luck! Luck don't run in his family, folks say. We overhauled a many good ships, and many a pretty bout of fighting we had; and when we went ashore, well, there wasn't any of old Noll's provost marshals after us. But for all the ships we took, we didn't seem to get no richer; so being a prudent man, I thought the time had come to shift for myself, and I slipped off one fine morning without troubling nobody. And there I found my luck! Those islands in the Caribee Sea are a very paradise, and no mistake! And all around there and down the Mosquito Coast the Indians are very good folk, and civil. And plenty to eat there—turtle and wild pigs, and pineapples and bananas, and more fruits than I can count; and drink too—wines very curious and hearty, made both of grapes and pineapples. And if we got tired of swinging in a hammock, and eating of fruit and smoking tobacco, why there was a many jolly fellows ready to whip into a little sloop we had handy, and off to—to—to spoil the papishers. There is a many papishers in those seas, sir—black idolaters all on 'em."

"Spaniards?" asked Dick, idly, amused by the ne'er-do-well's yarn.

"I reckon they were mostly Spaniards, or Portugees, or some such sort of outlandish cattle; but soon we got so as it wasn't only ships we made prize of. Why, I could talk all night if I was to start in telling you of all the brave sport we had! One time, I mind, we landed, there was a town, Santa Ysabel they called it, as it might be here"—arranging a tankard at the corner of the table—"with a good high road leading up to it from the sea, as it might be my tobacco pipe"—laying it down with care; "and if you'll believe me, sir, we took and run races, as it might be along my tobacco pipe, and as soon as them Spaniards was 'ware of our coming, they took and ran out by 'tother gate, and left the town empty! There was seven churches all chock full of gold and silver idols and candle-sticks, and such like: 'twas just who'd fill his pockets fastest!"

"But how is it you left such a prosperous life?" interrupted Dick, who had some recollection of Astbury's powers of imagination.

"Ay, indeed! There it was that luck was against me. Shipwrecked we was, me and four others, on a little sandy key, where there was nought to eat or drink, and the rest, they died, and a Bristol ship come along and took me off, and I wish I was back again!"

Half idly, Richard asked more questions and grew interested in the man's tales, for the fellow's varied experiences had given him a sort of shrewd cunning, which in a higher walk of life might have been almost worthy the name of diplomacy, and he knew how to fit his tale to his audience. It was obvious that he was nothing better than a pirate, but he managed to gloss over the barbarities of the life so well, and to dwell on its picturesque and adventurous side so successfully, that Dick began insensibly to soften in his judgment of the wanderer. As the night wore on, Astbury's description of a buccanneer's life grew more and more glowing; he exercised a good deal of rude art in his pictures of the career that awaited a gentleman of spirit among the keys of the Carribean Sea, and at last he burst out—

"Now, Measter Dick, I don't ask no questions, but seems to me pretty plain your luck's not of the best. Why don't you shout Westward Ho! and come along o' me? I know many a roaring blade that would be proud to ship under such a captain as you'd make!" Then leaning forward, he continued in a solemn whisper, "What though I seem no better than a beggar—cavado, cleaned out, as the Spaniards say—if I could but get a loan of as much as would carry me across sea, I'd be a rich man again. I have a nice little pot buried in a safe place on a certain key; I've got a map here"—and he thumped his broad chest—"here, sewed in the lining of my coat, and the place marked with a cross; and I tell you, sir, there's enough gold in that pot to fit out the snuggest little pinnace any man need want to see. Now, don't say nay in a hurry, sir, but turn it over abit. Why, I mind how the Major—General I should say—would be for ever talking of commonwealth. Why, you could make a commonwealth to any pattern you please on that Mosquito Coast, and learn all the Indians to be saints!" He chuckled. "Why, you might be a regular king among them, sir, like Solomon in his glory, sitting there in golden jewels among apes and peacocks, leastways currasows, and as many queens as you please." Harrison frowned. "Ask your pardon, sir; my tongue runs away with me sometimes, and thinking of Solomon made me say it, and 'tis all in the Bible, sir, now isn't it? But to go back to what I was a saying, you know well, sir, as no one would follow a chap like me as captain, but if we could get a real gentleman, and one used to command to lead us—why, hang me, sir, if we wouldn't be masters of St. Jago de Cuba before many months were out!"

It was all impossible, preposterous; yet the wild tales of the pirate began to exercise a curious fascination over Dick.

"What good do you gain by stopping here?" urged Astbury. "What did the Major gain by all his fighting and praying? Nothing but the gallows! Now, for me! I've been near the gallows a good few times, but I bean't hanged yet, and I've had a merry life of it; and I've got that pot of gold I told you of. Strike hands and join me, sir! What have you got to look for here, if you'd excuse me, but to hang like Major Harrison?"

Strange, that this ignorant man should once and again put his finger on the vulnerable spot in Dick's armour.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, "the wise man dieth as the fool dieth, and what hath a man for his labours but vexation of spirit. This also is vanity!"

Astbury caught the muttered words. "Very well said, sir, and sounds like Scripture! But I tell you gold's solid, that's no vanity; and if I could but get back to where I buried it——"

Dick was not listening. Something in his own bosom was arguing Astbury's cause, better than that vagrant could do it himself. Homeless, friendless in England, might there not yet be a career for him in the West? Not in cold, pious Rhode Island, but under brighter skies that offered fiercer pleasures. Good Parson Perrient had painted Providence plantation as a sort of paradise, where the liberty and toleration dreamt of by a few in England were the law for all; but was that refuge open to him? The good parson might be dead; his daughter wedded to some sturdy settler, who would have no fancy for such a compromising guest as one bearing the hated name of Harrison! To fly to New England would be but to begin his old life over again, and as Astbury truly said, What had it brought him? What had he gained? What had England gained by all they had done and dared? "If our cause was, as we thought, of God, why did He not own us? What were General Harrison's dreams of a pure republic, but vanity? Who can say if his dreams of heaven were any truer?"

A wild desire flashed across the young man to break once and for all with the puzzles and struggles of the past, and throw in his life with the ruffian who sat opposite to him. He knew his own powers, he could lead, he was cool and prompt; he might be a stupid enough fellow in many ways, but he was a born soldier. Astbury would get together enough of men to follow him; only too many good soldiers were then laying by their useless swords. Why should he not sail in the wake of Drake and Raleigh, and make himself a name? Ay, and found new commonwealths in the land of sunset?

"I must think it over, Astbury," he said, rousing himself. "Sleep brings council, they say; and we have sat our fire out."

"And starving cold it is, too," grumbled Astbury. "Best come to warm countries, Maester Dick!" and so flung himself on the wretched pallet in the corner of the room, and was snoring before many minutes were over. Dick wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched himself on the settle, but sleep was far from him. Many a man of good birth and education he had known driven to take the road and become a highwayman, and think himself none the worse gentleman for it. Pah! that revolted him—that was little better than common thievery. But to sail the South seas! to harry the Spaniard! to free the oppressed Indians! A sort of fever seemed to possess him, and rouse him from the apathy that had fallen on him. He tried to call up his cooler judgment, but in vain; pictures of sunny seas and waving palm groves, of gallant fights and sacked towns danced before him, and his broken slumbers only wove the fancies into dreams. The morning found him still undecided.

"I will go a mile or two along with you, Astbury," he said, "before I give my word. Which way are you bound?"

"Well," he answered, "the best seaport for our purpose would be either Bristol or London."

"No, no," answered Richard. "I may not venture on the back road so as to come to Bristol, and London were worse still. Is there no seaport this side of England would do as well?"

"Well, sir, if 'twas a matter of working my passage, I'd be bound to go where there would be ships trading the right way; but if I was with a gentleman as would oblige me with a loan, 'tis easy to take ship from Harwich, or find one lying in Yarmouth Roads that would carry us part way, and then we could take passage from some French or Spanish port. What do you say, sir, to Yarmouth?"

Richard assented, and they trudged on silently for some time. The morning air cooled Dick's fevered pulse, and the exercise shook off the sort of dream that had taken hold of him. His sober reason began to awaken, and then, almost with the distinctness of a living voice, the words flashed back on him: "It is to secure the just liberties of the people of God that thou art pledged to live or die for it."

What had possessed him? Was he running mad? Was he to draw that sword that had fought for justice and liberty as the comrade of murderers and pirates? Had he sunk so low that he was willing to choose the company of a drunken ruffian; he who had been the comrade of Thomas Harrison? The dead hand still held his. The Fifth Monarchy might be a dream, the hope of a Republic an idle fancy, but he had not been trained to fight for theories alone. Justice, law, liberty were solid facts; those were the watchwords General Harrison had taught him; for those he had lived, to those he would be true, whether good or evil fortune awaited him, whether there were, indeed, a heavenly reward for the victor, or but the abyss of forgetfulness at the end of the strife. He stopped short.

"I have come to my resolution, Astbury," he said. "I cannot go with you."

And, even as he spoke, he realized what a very fool he had been to let this fellow gull him with his talk of a pot of gold! The gleam of disappointed greed that shone in Astbury's eyes told what he might have guessed already, that it was no old affection or fidelity that had drawn the man to him, but merely the hope of making money. And that hope the fellow was not likely to relinquish in a hurry.

But in vain did Astbury implore and wheedle, swear and protest Dick was firm, till at last the rascal began to realize that his prize was slipping from him, and changed his tone and grumbling out—

"It wasn't like a gentleman to go back on his word after as good as promising a poor fellow his passage-money."

"Nay, I made no promise," returned Richard; "and I am a poor man myself. But, for the sake of old times, I will give thee twenty shillings to help thee on thy road to Bristol."

Astbury clutched the money, and then an evil grin came over his face.

"Fair and easy, Master Dick! Twenty shillings in hand is all very well, but you give me to expect more, and I do expect more."

"Then you will get no more, my man," returned Dick, sharply; "so good day to you. There lies your way, and here lies mine."

He was turning as he said, when Astbury, with an oath, sprang forward, flourishing his cudgel; but he had forgotten that the young officer was no novice at sword-play, and a turn of Dick's wrist sent the ruffian's stick flying over the hedge. Astbury, nothing disconcerted, rushed in and closed with him, and so heavy was the onslaught of the burly fellow that it staggered Richard, and he was put to it to hold his own. But, after a few blows had been exchanged, Dick's rising temper supplied the strength that had been lessened by hardship, while Astbury, unwieldy and out of condition, soon lost his breath, and, hitting out wildly, gave Dick an opening for a good straight left-hander, that sent his opponent crashing on the ground. Once down, he seemed in no hurry to get up, and Dick, having satisfied himself that the fellow was more frightened than hurt, left him sprawling in the mud with his twenty shillings scattered round him, and, as Bunyan would have put it, "went joyfully on his way, and was troubled no more by him at that time."

CHAPTER V.

HIDDEN WORTH.

"Here all things in their place remain,
    As all were ordered ages since,
Come, care and pleasure, hope and pain,
    And bring the fated fairy prince."
                                                    TENNYSON, The Day Dream.

Through the winter weather Richard Harrison wandered eastward.

The dull listlessness from which his encounter with Astbury aroused him for a moment, closed on him again as soon as he was once more alone; the glimpse of his old ideals that had revisited him had faded, and only left him with a dogged determination to do nothing unworthy of them, but with no pride or pleasure in his resolve. And as he grew more weary, more desperate of escape from his pursuers, he soon ceased to think at all; political dreams, sorrow for the dead, hopes of finding new friends and ambitions in a new world, all were forgotten, the spirit within him was dulled by suffering; only the poor body cried incessantly for rest, for food, for warmth, and most often craved in vain.

So one February evening found him struggling across the moorlands that fringe the coast of Norfolk between Hunstanton and Lynn. Thickets of russet fern and gorse stretched from the dark firwoods to the grey strand and the grey waters of the Northern Sea. The rooks croaked drearily to each other as they winged their way inland, and the gulls circled wailing over the heath before taking their flight to roost on some lonely sand-bank, and no other sound broke the monotonous plunge of the cold waves.

But across the heath a clump of trees rising against the pale sky seemed to shelter a group of buildings, where possibly some charitable hand might bestow broken meat on a beggar, or at least a corner in a rick-yard might afford a shelter from the bitter frost that was numbing his limbs. It was long since he had ventured into a town where he might be questioned and recognized—the hunted man had only dared ask food or lodging at solitary farms or lonely hamlets; and as he pushed forward, the gables and twisted chimneys of a mansion house, with garden walls and dove-cote, gave him hopes of help. He hurried on as fast as his weary limbs could carry him, with a terror of the icy darkness that was closing in like the shadow of death descending upon him, and almost at a run he reached his goal, and stood on the balustraded stone arch that crossed the ice-encumbered moat of the old house. Then, as he raised his eyes to the building, a groan of despair broke from him; it was but the mockery of shelter he could find there. The gates before him creaked on their rusty hinges, the gryffons that had ramped so proudly on the gate-posts, had fallen from their high estate, and lay grovelling among the dead flags that fringed the moat. Dead weeds bristled white with frost between the paving-stones of the once stately courtyard, and the great house beyond loomed dark and deserted in the twilight, with windows boarded up, or gaping black and empty through their shattered casements.

The strength that had carried him so far, failed as his hopes dropped. He stumbled, clutched with a last effort at the gate, and lay a huddled heap on the threshold of the empty courtyard. All was silent. The dry flags rustled, the ice cracked in the moat below, the wanderer lay quiet at last.

A very homely sound broke the ghostly stillness. The click of pattens on the paving-stones, and a carol hummed in the clear tones of a girl's voice, as her tall lithe figure came round the corner of the apparently deserted house. A greater contrast to the melancholy scene could not be imagined than her young face glowing with life and health, the ruddy coils of chestnut hair, and the bright hazel eyes that roved far and wide over the empty landscape, as she caught the swinging gates, and began to tie them in place with a piece of cord.

"Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the motionless figure below her. "John! John! Old John! Come here! Here is one sick or hurt! pray heaven he be not dead," she concluded in a lower voice, as she stooped over the insensible man, and listened for sound of breath. "Sir! sir! rouse yourself," and she shook the helpless man gently by the shoulder. "Poor creature, this is no beggar, I warrant. He has the face of a gentleman, and his clothes were fine enough not so long ago. John, I say!" she called again. "'Tis just to vex me the old fool feigns himself to be deaf. Sir, I pray you rouse; can you make shift to stand, for here is shelter close by, if you can but walk a step or two. 'Tis more than like he is one of those poor gentleman in trouble with this new government, he has the very air of a hunted man. I cannot leave him here to freeze," she muttered. "Well, if John is too deaf or too cross to help, I must e'en manage the business myself." And without more ado she lifted the helpless man by the shoulders, and propped him up against the gate-post, and fell to rubbing his hands. He opened his eyes, and gazed dully at her. "Can you stand, and let me help you into the house?" she repeated.

"Yes, yes," he muttered thickly, and made an effort to rise.

"That's well begun," she said brightly. "Now another try, and I warrant you will find you can get the length of the court."

With the help of her strong young arm he stumbled to his feet, and let her lead him round the house. The back of the old mansion had a very different aspect to the front; a bucket of water stood by the well, brightly scoured milk-pans leant against the porch, and through the open door the glow of the fire streamed out into the twilight. The girl glanced over towards the cowsheds, and then, with an impatient shake of her head, and a murmur of "Lazy old John," she carefully guided her bewildered guest into a great kitchen, and deposited him in the corner of a settle by the fire. A minute afterwards she stood over him with a bowl of steaming broth in her hand. The warmth of the comfortable fire had already begun to thaw his frozen wits, and he made shift to stammer a word of thanks as he fumbled with the spoon.

"There, I will hold the bowl," she said; "you must say nothing till this broth is finished." And she watched, well pleased how the colour came back to his face, and the starved glitter in his eyes softened into gratitude as he met her glance.

"Madam," he said, when at length he laid down the spoon and straightened himself, "I do truly hold you have saved my life this night; and, indeed, not only have you delivered this poor body from danger, but the new spirit your kindness hath infused into me will go far to carry me to my journey's end. For all, I do tender my thankful acknowledgement."

And the bow with which he concluded his little speech confirmed his hostess in her assurance that she had to do with a man of position and breeding. But the effect of his courtesy was sadly marred by a sudden false step, as he rose to take leave.

"Nay, sir," she cried anxiously, "you must indeed not be in such haste; you are still faint," and she caught his arm as he clutched at the table and recovered himself.

"Indeed, kind mistress, little ails me but weariness. I have travelled far and not fared over-sumptuously; but now I am near my journey's end, and I must not linger on the way."

"Indeed, sir," she cried, "you will not lose time by resting a little longer in the warmth here. 'Twould be poor speed to faint again in the woods!"

"Ay," he answered, "and 'tis not very like I should there meet with a second good Samaritan to succour me; but I trust I shall go forward bravely now; 'tis but the warm room hath made me somewhat qualmish."

But the young lady was clearly accustomed to have her own way, and quietly ignored his answer, as she continued—

"You can rest here undisturbed if you fear not ghosts, for no one lives in the house. I do but come here by day to attend to the dairy, so"—she concluded with a somewhat meaning tone—"you can shelter here, to-night, without any one asking whence you come, or whither you go."

Richard looked at her. How came it that this girl had guessed his secret at once when most people passed him, taking him but for a sturdy beggar? What made her suspect him of being a fugitive? Was her offer of shelter but careless good nature, or a heroic endeavour to save a hunted man? At any rate he had not fallen so low as to draw suspicion on a woman, and a young woman to boot, although she was plainly no nervous, fanciful, fine lady, but a bright, resolute, country girl, with good health and high spirits gleaming from every flash of her bright eyes, and every turn of her auburn head.

"Madam," he answered at length, "'twere a poor return for your kindness, did I not tell you that there are many who are no friends to me, and 'tis best I should depart, as I have come, lest I bring trouble on your hospitable house."

The girl turned on him quick with a little stamp, of her neat foot on the sanded floor.

"Sir, I know not, nor do I greatly care, who you may be, or what may be your reasons for keeping private; but 'tis very plain you are in trouble, and 'tis not the fashion of the house of Perrient to let folk go unsuccoured from our door."

Richard sprang to his feet. "Perrient! for heaven's sake, madam, of what Perrients do you come?"

She looked at him with surprise. "I am Audrey Perrient of Hunstanton," she answered with a shade of coldness.

"Mistress Perrient! Mistress Audrey Perrient! Can it be possible you are here in the flesh, or has God sent a blessed spirit in your shape to succour my misery!"

She laughed with a puzzled scrutiny of his face. "Sir, how do you know my name? I am indeed a living woman, though this be a haunted house! It is sure no miracle to find me here at Inglethorpe, where my Aunt Isham lived for forty years past."

Richard still stared at her like a man in a trance. "Verily, God leadeth the blind by a way they know not," he said at length. "We all believed you in America. I can but admire the chance, or rather miracle, that hath directed my steps hither. Madam, my name is well known to your honoured father. I am Richard Harrison."

The girl's bright cheek paled. "Master Harrison!" she gasped; "the nephew of Major-General Harrison?"

"Ay, madam," he answered, "the nephew, and well nigh the son of that martyr now in glory."

There was silence for a minute, and then the girl recovered herself and the colour came back to her face.

"But, good sir," she cried, "why are you in hiding? How can you be in danger? I know General Harrison was very forward against King Charles, and sat among the judges who sentenced him; but you—you must have been a mere boy when—when the king died. 'Twas no concern of yours? Sure this new king is not a Herod that he should make war on men for what they did as babes in their cradles! You were but a child in those days!"

"Nay, madam, I was fifteen years old on the memorable day that the people of England did justice upon a king, even before the eyes of all nations. I was already a soldier, and had the honour of wearing a sword, when my uncle's regiment kept guard round the scaffold at Whitehall. Though in years I was but a lad, I do indeed believe I felt in my heart the terror of the presence of God, that was with his servants that day; and were that great deed to do again, I would with my heart's best blood set thereto my seal that it was just and right."

Prompt and decided came his words. The soldier had no questionings concerning the justice of the cause in which he had fought.

Audrey interrupted him hastily. "Oh, silence, sir! Why say such dangerous words?"

"Because, madam, dangerous words befit a dangerous man," he answered more gently. "And"—smiling sadly at his own excitement—"and there are many that will tell you I am a dangerous man."

"No, no; I am sure you are no evil doer, and, I am sure you can if you list, keep silence from such wild words."

"Ay, madam, 'tis easier to keep silence than to testify; and I would not willingly vex you, but I desire that you should know me in my true colours.

"I am not like to mistake the colours of Master Harrison—or Captain Harrison, is it not?" answered the girl; "and whatever differences did latterly divide us in mind, though not in love, from General Harrison, you must needs know we were all for the Parliament here—my grandfather, my father, and I; that is how I came to guess you for one in hiding from the king's men; but for your own sake I would have you careful, lest even walls should have ears."

"It is but too true," he answered. "I am no fit company for quiet folks and dainty maidens; but," he added rising, "it hath been a cordial to see the face of a friend, and the memory of it will abide long with me." And as he spoke, the sudden life that had flashed into his eyes, seemed to flicker and go out like a candle, the soldier was changed back into a dull and spiritless wayfarer.

Her face changed as quickly, the pained and alarmed look vanished.

"No, no," she cried merrily, stepping before the door. "No, no, Captain Harrison; you have betrayed yourself, and now you are my prisoner. You do not depart hence till you have my leave! Sit down!" she added peremptorily. "I am going to prepare supper, and you are in my way; and afterwards you must confess to me whither you are bound, and what are your plans for escape, if escape you must."

The charming masterfulness of her manner, the toss of her proud little head, might have quickened duller pulses than those of Richard Harrison. It was so sweet to him to be commanded, to meet this glowing life and kindliness after the weeks of dull solitude that had almost bereaved him of his wits. For a little while he might delay; let him have just a few moments more in the warmth and brightness; let him keep one fair memory to take out with him into the cold darkness.

He met her challenge with a flash of his old spirit. "Mercy, fair jailor!" he cried. "What torment have you in store for me should I refuse to plead?"

She seized a great ladle, and flourished it gaily. "I am a magician," she laughed, "and this is my wand. I make no doubt when my prisoner tastes my Norfolk dumplings even his hard heart will be softened, and he will make fair confession. And I have here besides a noble collar of brawn that would turn even a heathen to a better mind! But, indeed, sir," she added, changing her banter to a winning tone of apology. "I would not pry into your confidence, but whatever service I can render to General Harrison's nephew, that I am bound to give."

"Nay, madam," he answered, "I have no secret that I should keep from your kindness. There were some who were no friends to me in General Harrison's lifetime, and who would gladly have seen me share his fall. I need not particularize concerning their malice, as by God's help I have escaped it for the time. But should they lay hands on me, I run some chance of sharing the lot of poor Venner and the other Fifth Monarchy men they hanged last month."

"But are you indeed a Fifth Monarchy man?" cried Audrey, turning hurriedly from the great pot she was skimming and tasting.

"No, no, on my honour I am not!" he answered earnestly. "Perchance were I a better man, I were a greater fanatic! My dear uncle was often very round with me, accounting me no better than a luke-warm Laodicean where the Fifth Monarchy was in question. But truly, madam, I have in great part to thank your honoured grandfather that I was not carried away by the wild beliefs of one whom I did in all other matters desire to honour and obey. The last time I saw Sir Gyles Perrient we had much speech concerning my uncle's plans. Sir Gyles feared much General Harrison might be set on some rash action, and by throwing things into confusion, would leave the way open for the Cavaliers to join with the vile levelling party to root out all good in the land."

"When was that time?" cried Audrey, disregarding the young man's deep interest in his political story; "when did you see my grandfather?"

"When I was on my way to London in May two years ago," he answered flushing unaccountably.

"That was when my father was lecturing at Ipswich," she answered, "and I was with him, and we were there still when the tidings came of the fit that carried off my grandfather suddenly; so you saw him later than I," she concluded wistfully. "Can you mind any of the things he spoke of?"

"We spoke much of public matters," he answered evasively, flushing yet deeper. "Sir Gyles did earnestly desire to heal the breach betwixt my dear uncle and the Lord Protector, for he knew Oliver was ready to join hands with my uncle if he would but sit still and talk no more of a Fifth Monarchy rising. I believe 'twas all of Sir Gyles Perrient's good counsel that General Harrison took no more heed of the fanatics' desire he should be their leader."

"Ah, and is that also why you were too lukewarm a Laodicean to go out in Venner's rising last month?"

"Indeed, Sir Gyles' words were wise enough to turn a very fool from his folly; but I was not in London when Venner broke out, but in hiding in Staffordshire. Nevertheless, mine enemies found it an easy thing to bring witnesses to swear I was seen in Venner's company, and pressed hard on my hiding-place; so seeing I was not wealthy enough or easy enough to bribe their witnesses to refrain from lies, I e'en fled, and have the hue and cry after me for a dangerous plotter. One of my name can scarce hope for much mercy in the very loyal city of London this day!"

"But you have done wonders to reach so far as this. And whither now are you bound?"

"I thought perchance I might make my way to King's Lynn: there is a minister there, Mr. Marsham, who was a good friend of mine uncle: and I know hath often helped many in distress to escape to Holland. I thought he might help me to a ship to some Dutch port, and thence I can go forward to New England when the way seems open."

"'Tis an excellent plan," answered Audrey, thoughtfully, "and indeed I heard talk of the Little Charity sailing to Rotterdam the end of this week. But your plan may be so far amended that you will do best to stay here in hiding till the day before the ship may sail. I can send in a private message from you to your friend, but Lynn is so distraught with loyalty that it might fare ill with Mr. Marsham were he found harbouring you for many days."

"But how would it fare with Mistress Perrient, were she found harbouring me?" he asked, with a smile. "Methinks it smacks somewhat of cowardice to drag a lady into my peril?"

"Tush, there's no peril!" she answered gaily. "No one comes here save the crows and seagulls, or maybe a ghost. I trust, Captain Harrison, you fear not ghosts?"

"Nay," he answered earnestly. "If any blessed spirit did speak to me, it were indeed a grace and a light shining in darkness; but as they be evil spirits, they can scarce be more dangerous than when I withstood them in the flesh at Worcester fight and Dunbar. Nevertheless, I have no great desire to behold such wonders, for a man cannot tell, till the trial come, if he shall bear himself manfully therein."

"I did but jest," she answered; "but the common folk have much talk of ghosts in this house since it hath been left so desolate, and so they shun it; and if any man saw or heard you here, 'tis more likely they would hold you for some dead Cremer or Inglethorpe than for a mortal man. But here is my broth ready; and, in common courtesy, you must tell me my supper was worth waiting for!"

With housewifely pride, Audrey had dished up her country fare, and smiled to see her guest's enjoyment of it. The great logs roared on the hearth and lit up the shining pewter on the dresser and the one silver tankard that was Audrey's pride. Empty though the great kitchen was, its dainty cleanliness and the splendid solidity of the oak rafters and settle, saved it from any look of squalid poverty. Yet the simple surroundings could not fail to strike the stranger.

"Madam," he said at length, "may I pray you to resolve me the riddle how I find you dwelling in Norfolk? We heard you had departed to the New England plantations near two years ago, with your honoured father."

"My father, indeed, did sail to Rhode Island, but he left me here, with my great-aunt Isham, till he had prepared a home for me there. And then, when I would have followed him, my great-aunt was grown so old and failed, that he deemed it my duty to stay with her to the last. Now she is lately dead, and I am in haste to depart to join my dearest father. Right glad am I you chanced not here a few weeks later, or you might, in good truth, have found but a ghost to welcome you. Indeed, your visit came pat to the minute, for I was just shutting up for the night when you must needs get in the way of the gate," and she laughed saucily. "Had you but come five minutes later, I should have been away at my cowman's cottage, where I dwell now till I am ready to take ship. This house does but serve me for withdrawing-room, when I am weary of old Molly's clack and out of patience with her husband. My poor aunt Isham loved this ruined Inglethorpe too well to leave it till she was carried to the church-yard, but I have no fancy to awake some morning to find I am but another of the Inglethorpe ghosts, and my body buried in the ruins of Inglethorpe Hall. Therefore, I give the preference to the attic in the cottage below there for a state chamber."

"Madam," he answered slowly, "if, indeed, this house is held for uninhabited, and you do purpose leaving the country so soon, methinks it may truly not bring you into danger if I take your generous offer and hide here for to-night. You will scarce be questioned yonder in Providence Plantation concerning the malefactors you harboured in Norfolk, therefore will I thankfully close with your offer."

"That's well," she cried, springing from her seat, and clapping her hands. "I knew no man alive could resist the charm of my dumplings! Now, take patience but a little, and you shall see how well I order things for my visitor!" and she ran gaily out of the room.

A mighty noise above stairs of moving furniture and the patter of light footsteps came to Harrison as he basked by the great fire; and it was not till the evening was growing late that Audrey reappeared, and, dropping a curtsey with a charming air of demureness, prayed leave to marshal his worship to his bedchamber.

He followed her up the stairs to a chamber over the kitchen.

"The real guest-chambers I may not offer you," she sighed, as she poked up the logs that blazed on the rusty andirons; "seeing the rats have made such havoc in them, and 'tis many years since any one slept there. But the rats do not affect this chamber greatly, and the roof is sound; also my aunt's woman slept here and saw no ghosts. And if need comes you should hide—which God forbid—you see this little stair in the corner? It leads up to the great attic that is full of lumber, where you could play hide-and-seek with a regiment; and were you pressed there—see"—and she ran lightly up the stair and pushed open the door into the lumber-room. "Look at those bedsteads and chests and the great loom. They make a very rampart! And if that were forced, the ceiling is all broken at that end, so 'twere easy to scramble up on the rafters and lie hid under the tiles. There, surely no one would follow you; leastways, not our constables from hereabouts. They are too lusty for such mountebank scrambles! And now, sir, your fire burns bright, and I will wish you good night, and God keep you in safety."

CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

"And ever at the loom of birth
    The mighty mother weaves and sings,
She weaves fresh robes for mangled earth,
    She sings fresh hopes for desperate things."
                                                                        C. KINGSLEY.

Long after the light sound of Audrey's step had died away on the garden path, Richard Harrison sat and dreamed. Of late, exhausted by cold and fatigue, he had begun to lose control of his mind: he had sometimes found himself forgetting what dangers threatened him, and in what direction he had decided to turn his steps; and even when he could force himself to think, he had grown too desperate to care what peril might be in wait for him. It might be only the pestilential den men then called a jail; it might be the slave-ship, and the chain-gang in Barbadoes; it might be the gibbet, with the hand of the executioner scrabbling in his entrails. Well, let it be, if it must. His imagination seemed too dull to realize his danger, or work out any coherent scheme of escaping it. It could only brood over one horrible memory, till he felt he could have welcomed the pike thrust of a soldier or the lash of a slave-driver, if only they roused him from the dreams that bordered on insanity. Now, suddenly, he found himself awake. He was his sane self again. A girl's calm voice, a girl's clear eyes seemed to have exorcised the demon that had pursued him. He remembered with a surprise that was full of relief that he had talked to her for long that evening, and his words had been coherent—that he had actually jested! He was not mad! That horrible execution was true; it was no insane dream; but other things were real too. In what strange world had he been living? Had that sullen, desperate wretch been indeed Dick Harrison? He realized that he was alive; he could still enjoy the common comforts of food and fire; he could think; he could plan! His feet were once more treading solid earth; his brain began to spin anew the projects that had delighted him of yore; his heart began to stir with the hopes of old. Across the sea there were still battles to fight, new states to found. Liberty was not an idle word; love might still make life glorious. It seemed as if some healing touch had awakened him from a fevered dream, and recalled him to saner and earlier memories than those that tortured him; and when he stretched his weary limbs on the unwonted luxury of a bed, the old dreams awoke and bore him company all night long.

The sounds of a ballad carolled below, awoke him next morning to the knowledge that his hostess was already at the house, and about her morning tasks. He sprang refreshed from his pallet, and smiled as he recognized the voice.

"'Tis a miracle," he muttered; "'tis nothing short of a miracle to find her here. But how comes she to be alone in this ruined house, like an enchanted damosel of a fairy tale? 'Tis a strange plight for such a tenderly-nurtured maid, for old Sir Gyles guarded her as the very apple of his eye! And what state did not he keep, and Hunstanton Hall! And with what a retinue did he ride to visit us at Highgate! Yet here is his grandchild without man or maid to serve her, working with her hands like—was I about to say a farm wench? Fie, fie, like a nymph of Arcadia, rather! I cannot but call to mind the romances my master whipped me so soundly for wasting my lesson-hours over in Newcastle Grammar School! I wonder would she flout me, did she guess how like one of those enchanted princesses I deem her? But, in sad earnest, I must needs ask how this change of fortune is come about; 'tis unmannerly to ask questions, but she cannot look on me as all a stranger, even if she hold no memory of those old days at Highgate. Dare I ask her concerning them? That were a more perilous adventure; I must take more council with myself ere I can hold I am armed to dare it!"

He left his room, but such vehement sounds of sweeping and scrubbing sounded from the kitchen that, when Richard reached the foot of the stair, he held discretion the better part of valour, and strolled out of the door into the bright morning air. The little yard was so sheltered by walls and quaint outbuildings that the sunshine felt as warm as May, and the frost was gone from the cobble-stones. A clink of chains down the cart-track drew his attention, and in a minute more an old man hobbled into the yard carrying a couple of milk pails on a yoke.

"Sarvent, sir," said he, endeavouring to touch his forelock.

Harrison saw his own imprudence in standing about so recklessly, but put a good face on the matter, and answered the old man's greeting.

"Missis, her told us her'd got a visitor," continued the milkman, resting his pails on the top of a low wall, and straightening his shoulders; "her bides down at the cottage along o' we now—'tis too lonesome for a young maid here o' nights."

"Oh, then you are Mistress Perrient's cowman," answered Harrison with relief.

"Ees, sir, I be, and I was her grandfather's afore her. Ees—I minds her father's christening, and our young lady's christening; I minds a many things; but times is changed—changed terrible since then." He shook his old head solemnly.

"I suppose it was at Hunstanton you were in Sir Gyles' household?" asked Harrison, idly.

"Ees, sir; but you understand I was not rightly in his household, so to say; I was allers an outside man, and about the pigs and cows—but lawk! a man can see a lot if a man is only about the pigs and cows—beautiful cows they was too, beautiful! but they be all gone."

Richard made a movement to pass on, but the old man had no mind to miss his chance of a gossip.

"Seems to me as if I had seen 'ee afore, sir. You were a-visiting at Hunstanton, warn't 'ee, in the old squire's time? I reckoned I knowed 'ee—fine young gentleman you was then, but not so lusty as you be growed now. That was a fine house, now, warn't it? And kept as gentlefolks' houses should be."

"Yes, I suppose Sir Gyles was a very rich man."

"That he was—and respected. Why he might 'a been a king an' more than a king the way he was thought on in the country. And our young lady—she was always known by the name o' the Queen o' Hunstanton, even when queens was in no great favour in the country; but there—our parish clerk says, says he, there's a Scripture warrant for it—with Queen Esther and a sight more on 'em. So why not Queen o' Hunstanton!"

"You made an excellent choice of a queen," said Harrison, willing to humour the old man's desire for a talk.

"Ees, that us did; but things was mighty different then. A round dozen serving-men with blue coats there was, not to speak of the butler and the steward, and twenty or more in the stables; and where be 'un all gone—gone like the leaves!" And he spread out his wrinkled hands with a gesture that had a touch of pathos in it.

"Times are indeed changed. I suppose the wars brought troubles everywhere."

"'Twarn't the wars, 'twarn't the wars," broke in the old man, eagerly. "Squire was as big a man when the wars was done as when they begun—only older—older, you understand. And no one 'ud ha' laid a finger on ought belonging to him, not for gold untold; they had that respect for him, and they bore fear on him too. A very plain-speaking gentleman he was when he was pleased. But no—'twarn't the wars. He was a great man, and a rich man to the day of his death. He was took sudden, you understand—in some sort of fit like; and young master—that's Passon Perrient as they calls him, our young missis' father—and missis, they was away at Ipswich, and come back all of a scuffle and finds him dead; and by all I hear, not the value of a penny-piece in the house in money—plenty of silver and pewter you understand, but no money whatsumever. And when all come to be settled, why then Passon Perrient he was on the windy side of the hedge, and he just sold the horses and cows and the old house and went across seas, and our young missis, she come to her aunt, old Madam Isham, and Molly, that's my wife, and I, we come along on her; but 'twas a change—that it was."

"It was well that some of her old servants were so faithful as to stay by her," said Harrison.

"Ees, ees we'd surely stay by her; but 'tis no fitting place here for a young lady; why, there's no company—no coming and going; and the coaches as used to come to the old Squires's; and the quality; and they fare to have clean forgotten our young lady, dang 'em! And Squire's great house turned into an inn! You think o' that! If so be as you goo into Hun'ston, you'll see the name o' it, The Royal Oak, and a great oak tree drawed for a sign over the front door. How's that for impudence!"

"John, John!" called a clear voice from the door, "is that milk coming in to-day? Good morrow, Captain Harrison; methinks you look as though you had rested well."

No change of circumstances seemed to have saddened the bright creature who stood on the doorstep, her pretty head rising like a flower from a wide white collar, her coarse black gown pinned back under a great white apron.

"'Tis many a long week since I have rested so well, madam," answered Harrison, coming forward to greet her. "Methinks you have some spell by which you strew pleasant dreams on the pillows you make ready for your guests."

She laughed. "Well said; you pass compliments as nimbly as a courtier! And, now, if you will but help me empty John's milk-pails into the dairy-pans you shall taste farmhouse bread and butter for your wages."

"But have you no help in this work?" asked Harrison, as he lifted the heavy pails from the doorstep.

"Why, no! I was a fine lady till two years ago, but when fortune changes one is like to change with it. And so you find me a dairywoman!"

"But, pardon me, surely your father cannot know it? He cannot know you are working thus, and enduring the life of a peasant?"

"My dear daddy! He knows more of St. Augustine than of how many cows feed in the five-acre meadow. But he knows very well I have few pennies to jingle in my pocket, for he has fewer yet. But such matters never trouble him; he only desired money to buy books, and give him but a book and he would forget if he had eat his dinner or no."

She chatted away as she tripped from dairy to larder; it was a rare holiday for the lonely girl to find a companion, and a companion of her own age. Two long years of poverty and seclusion had not dulled Audrey's gay spirits, which only waited a chance to bubble forth. Old Madam Isham had sheltered her great niece out of family pride, not out of family affection; and Audrey had left the love and luxury of her grandfather's house to enter a life as dull and as cold as that of a nunnery. Madam Isham considered most of her country neighbours to be either parvenus or white-washed rebels, while she was too proud to show her poverty to the few gentlefolk she considered worthy of her acquaintance.

Old, sad, and sour, Audrey found the old lady's maundering lamentations over the good times of King James a sad contrast to her grandfather's discussions of public matters, or her father's learned conversation. Morning prayers in the chilly little church, an occasional airing in the shabby coach, with its moth-eaten cushions and patched harness, were the only varieties in Audrey's life. She became better skilled in the making of pickles and preserves than ever she could have been in the masculine household at Hunstanton, where the old servants would have broken their hearts if their little mistress had ever set her dainty finger to anything rougher than gathering rose-leaves and lavender to scent the best parlour. But the dull external life had no real effect on Audrey's spirits; she bore her great-aunt's peevishness and the monotony of her days with cheerful equanimity, for this all was but a parenthesis; soon she would join the beloved father whom she tended and petted and scolded and revered, and they would begin a new life in a wonderful country, where she should see live savages with painted faces and feather head-dresses, and valiant soldiers and frontiersmen, whose adventures were as romantic as those of Robin Hood, and saintly ministers who had fled from persecution, like the people in Fox's Book of Martyrs; her brilliant fancy painted the Western land with all the hues of the sunset. Full of healthful energy, it was a relief to her to help the solitary maid in her household work; that was the least dull part of her new life; and, in the kitchen, the Queen of Hunstanton could still rule imperiously over the old cowman, and make the dairywoman tremble before her royal displeasure.

But through the long dull hours of sewing in Aunt Isham's dressing-room, her unfailing treasure of consolation was in repeating to herself all the teachings she had received from her grandfather—words that could never be breathed aloud in Madam Isham's house; of liberty, and the rights of the people to representation and civil justice, teachings that were drawn from writings as far asunder as Bishop Taylor's "Liberty of Prophesying," and Mr. Milton's "Areopagitica." The narrow formalism of Madam Isham's creed drove Audrey more and more to dwell on the lessons she had loved, but hardly comprehended, and in her solitude she rediscovered for herself the reasonings which had led Sir Gyles Perrient to stand with Eliot and Pym against the encroachments of the Crown. Sir Gyles' own memories ran back to the time of Elizabeth, and he had taught his grand-daughter to reverence those golden days when a wise Queen and a loyal Parliament worked together for the good of the people. He loved the Church of England as he loved the Queen and the Parliament; and Audrey had wondered and admired as she realized how he had endured to see the downfall of one cherished institution after another, still full of hope in the future of England, and of faith that the Divine Providence would bring good out of evil.

As she told one story after another of her old life, Harrison could restrain himself no longer, and chimed in.

"I wonder," he cried, "if you can remember how, a many years ago, Sir Gyles carried you up to London, and you lay for a week at our house at Highgate? I had never seen his like! He seemed to me the very model of the old courtier of the Queen in the ballad; he was so worshipful an old gentleman, and carried such a train of old servants riding with him. And if he was like the old lord in the ballad, there was a little maid with him who seemed to me to have come straight from one of the fairy tales my nurse used to tell me away in Staffordshire, when I was a child."

"I trust the little maid behaved herself fittingly," laughed Audrey.

"Right royally did she bear herself, and rated me soundly for an overgrown boy with no manners," answered Harrison. "I have endeavoured ever since to lay the schooling to heart."

"Oh, this is past bearing!" cried Audrey, turning on him. "'Tis not fair to make up such tales."

"Indeed, 'tis true," he protested, "and—and I liked the rating."

"I am afraid I was a pert poppet," she confessed; "my dear grandfather spoilt me sadly, but I knew not that I had carried my bad manners up to London town."

"Don't you mind the garden?" he urged. "There were stone figures in it, of men blowing horns, and between them a little stone basin with lilies in it."

"I do remember!" she cried. "And I tumbled in! And who pulled me out? I do protest it was you! and right generous was it of you to risk a wetting for such a peevish brat!"

"You were not peevish; it was all of your grace and favour that you chid me, for you would say no word to any one else in the house at all! And when you had done with chiding I was as proud and happy as a king. I have never forgotten my little playfellow. But now, madam," cried he, rising with a sudden change of tone, "I pray you set me some task to do; I cannot lounge here in idleness and see you serving."

"Good lack," said she, "I know not what labours to set you to; for you must surely not go outside the house lest you should be noted."

"But I thought no one ever came here save the crows and the gulls," he answered.

"Human folk come not often, indeed; but of them one were too many. Also, latterly, there have been more strangers on the road, tramping from Lynn—pedlars, and fiddlers, and such like—and small pity have they on our hen-roosts. And if any such wandered hither and saw you, they might tattle."

"You are right," he answered gravely, "I will put you to no needless risks, yet somewhat I must do to keep——" He broke off suddenly. "Your pistols are in sorry case, Mistress Perrient," he went on in a gayer tone. "I pray you let me clean them."

"'Tis five long years since they were touched," she answered; "not since the day of the blue-coated serving-men you saw come riding out of a ballad. Take them, sir, the pretty toys may serve to while away a dull day."

The laughter faded from Harrison's face as he sat in his chamber oiling the pistols. The smooth touch of the trigger under his finger, and the click of the lock, brought back the memory of many a past fight when hope was high and blood was warm. "Truly we fought our best," he murmured, "and no man counted the cost or grudged his blood to the cause. Was it indeed in vain? What does this people care for liberty, when they are even now holding festival over the forging of their new chains!"

He was roused from his brooding by steps under the window. From the shelter of the curtain Harrison saw a swaggering figure in tawdry finery lurch into the yard where Audrey was scouring her milk-cans by the pump. It was a figure he remembered only too well. What cursed chance had brought that knave Astbury begging at Inglethorpe? And was it chance? The rascal might have dogged him. Richard pressed close to the window and listened.

"Good mistress," began the whining voice, "here is a poor soldier, come home after his blessed majesty, and hath ne'er a groat to carry him up to London to seek the king's grace."

Audrey's first words in answer were inaudible; but then her voice rose higher.

"I tell you I have nought here for you. Go down to the cottage yonder, and perchance the good wife may find you some broken meat."

The fellow persisted in his demands. His actual words were inaudible to the listener behind the curtain, but there was no mistaking the canting professional tone, the whine which presently grew to a bullying roar, when the ruffian found that no one else appeared about the place or came to support the girl. The sound of that threatening voice was too much for Harrison's prudence. Still holding the empty pistol in his hand, he darted downstairs and reached the door just in time to see the ruffian dash forward to seize the terrified girl, as he roared with coarse jocularity—

"As ye'll give me no meat, I'll e'en take the sweet."

Audrey sprang back with a shriek, but with one bound Harrison was out of the door and beside her, and his strong hand sent the ruffian staggering against the wall.

For a moment the bully stopped, uncertain whether to fight or fly, but then, discovering who his assailant was, he shouted—

"Back, cur!" roared Dick, "or I'll shoot you like a dog."

Astbury staggered back, stared a moment, and then with an actual howl of dismay the bold buccaneer turned and fled. He did not fly so fast, however, as to escape a kick from Harrison's boot that sent him blundering half across the yard.

"Be off, rascal," he shouted, "you are not worth powder and shot, but an' you stop before you have put ten miles between yourself and this door, the constable's whip and your back shall be the better acquainted."

The last words seemed to revive such vivid recollections in the pirate's mind, that he picked himself up and vanished down the lane at his best speed, without waiting for further parley, while Harrison lowered his empty pistol and turned to the girl.