A RIDE TO THE NORTH.
The farther they travelled northwards the more people did they meet, and it soon became plain that these were many of them fugitives flying from impending ruin. The tales they told were of course conflicting, and in their fright and anxiety to escape and save their families, often confused. But Gilbert was able to make out that the Scots army, which had marched over the Border to the help of the Parliament, had been shut up in Sunderland by the Royalists under the Earl of Newcastle; but the Parliamentary forces under Fairfax coming to their relief, the Earl had retired to York, and the English and Scotch together had now laid siege to that city.
As they drew near to Yorkshire, evidence of the commotion became still more apparent. The roads were strewed with beds and bedding, and various articles of household furniture, which the fugitives had attempted to take with them, but afterwards had thrown away; for the rumour had gone abroad that Prince Rupert was coming, and enough had been heard of his atrocities in Cheshire and Lancashire to make the people dread his approach as they would the plague. At length, as they neared the besieged city, they heard that Lord Kimbolton's army was in the neighbourhood, and Gilbert was not long in discovering the encampment and seeking out Lieutenant Cromwell.
He warmly welcomed his young kinsman, and at once accepted his services and that of his companion. Harry Drury was not unused to arms. He had been taught fencing as a part of his education, and would use the singlestick, arquebus, and crossbow, while the fashion of every gentleman wearing a sword had rendered it necessary that this weapon should be handled skilfully. The necessary drill was therefore soon learned by Harry, and he was admitted to serve in the same corps as his friend.
Every addition to the army was welcome now, and the work of drilling the recruits went on all day, and often far into the night too. The life of a soldier here in Cromwell's camp was very different from the gay scene of revel he had sometimes heard the Royalist troopers describe. There was no rioting or drunkenness, no shouting or brawling, for these were sober-minded earnest men, who felt they had a real work to do, and sacrificed much in the doing of it. None had been forced to come here; but they had left home, and wife, and little ones, of their own accord, to fight their country's battles and set all England free. No wonder that they were earnest when they thought of the dear ones far away. They were not like the paid soldiers of the regular army; they could not afford to trifle and lose their time in play when they might be at work preparing for the battle; and so when not at drill, the cleaning of armour and furbishing of arms went on ceaselessly, and the clatter of this and the ring of the blacksmith's tools were broken only by the singing of some pious hymn or the voice of one reading to his comrade from the Word of Life. The day was begun and closed with prayer, and but for the tramp of the sentry, when once the word of command had been given that all work should cease, all the camp was as quiet and still, as a sleeping village.
Harry joyfully took his share of the labour going forward; he was willing to do anything, or bear any fatigue, to prepare himself to take part in the expected action when Prince Rupert should show himself. July was drawing near now, and they had almost reached the united armies besieging York, and it was expected that when Prince Rupert came into the field a battle would be fought. Scouts were sent out in all directions to give timely notice of his approach, but they were able to reach the forces of Fairfax before he came. But, however, only just in time. On the second of July, Prince Rupert came upon them by way of Marston Moor, but Kimbolton and his lieutenants were prepared for his coming.
A desperate battle was fought, and for some time it seemed that the Royalists must be victorious, for Prince Rupert fought with the most desperate bravery, driving several generals from the field, and thus disconcerting all their plans. He tried to do the same with Cromwell's cavalry, but they kept together like an iron phalanx, and all Rupert's dashing charges and feigned retreats failed to throw them into disorder. They were rightly named the Ironsides, for they kept the field and turned the tide of battle in favour of the Parliamentarians, and when once the Royalists saw that the day was lost their rout was complete. They retired from the field, leaving all their artillery, military stores, and baggage to the enemy.
The battle of Marston Moor decided the Royalist cause in the north. That was lost to Charles for ever, and there might well be hymns of rejoicing and solemn thanksgiving for the victory, for the cause of the Parliament had looked desperate enough only a short time before.
But in these rejoicings neither Gilbert nor Harry could take part. Gilbert had again been seriously wounded, and Harry, fighting by his side, had shared the same fate. The news was carried to Cromwell just as he was giving the last instructions to the messenger who was to bear the despatches to London giving information of the victory. "Clayton and young Drury of Hayslope wounded!" he repeated. "I will come and see them soon;" and then he went on giving instructions how Prince Rupert's retreating troops should be avoided, by the messenger taking an easterly course through Essex, instead of following the more direct road to London at the risk of being robbed. Cromwell was as clever a man of business as he was a soldier, and although the nominal head of the army was Lord Kimbolton, it was well known that the actual direction of affairs rested with his lieutenant, and all the men looked up to him as their leader. Cromwell's Ironsides, as his troops were now called, were everywhere spoken of as having gained the battle of Marston Moor, and he was daily rising into greater prominence, and was more frequently consulted as to the general direction of affairs.
But he did not forget his young kinsman lying sick and wounded. Provision had been made for this beforehand. Medicaments—hospital stores we should call them—had been secured, and now Cromwell went round to see those who had been carried from that awful battle-field where four thousand lay dead. Many an arm was raised when he was seen approaching, and many a feeble voice attempted to cheer; but Gilbert lay quiet and unconscious, while Harry was talking in the delirium of fever, moaning out the one name, "Maud, Maud!" or imploring his father's forgiveness.
Cromwell made particular inquiries into the case of each, and directed the doctors to let the two friends be as near to each other as possible when they were sensible, and this was the most he could do for them at present. The doctors could give no opinion as to their recovery yet, for they were both severely wounded; but Harry's case seemed the most dangerous, from the fever running so high.
CHAPTER V.
MAUD HARCOURT.
Mistress Mabel, with all her sternness, had some difficulty in parrying the children's questions about Harry, when they assembled in the keeping room the morning of his departure. Mary, too, felt anxious about her brother; but she dared not question her aunt as the children did; and from her answers to them little could be gathered beyond this, that Harry had disgraced himself through making unworthy friendships, and the children at once jumped to the conclusion that it was Gilbert Clayton to whom their aunt referred. Mary, however, indignantly repelled this insinuation. She had had several conversations with Clayton, and had learned to esteem him very highly, so that how Harry could have disgraced himself while with him, or what the wild words he had uttered the previous evening fully meant, she could not tell.
At dinner time Maud came down looking very pale but quite calm, until Master Drury, noticing that Harry's chair had been placed at the table as usual, ordered it to be carried away without mentioning his name, and said, "That seat will not be wanted again." Then Maud trembled with agitation, and Bertram asked quickly, "Where has brother Harry gone?"
"My boy, you have no brother," said Master Drury, coldly.
"Oh, Harry's dead!" screamed Bessie, pushing aside her pewter plate, and laying her head on the table in a burst of uncontrollable anguish.
Maud, however, knew that he was not dead, but without noticing Bessie's distress or Mary's look of mute agony, she rose from her seat, and walking round to the side of Master Drury, she said, "You will tell me where Harry has gone."
It was a demand rather than a question, and Mistress Mabel, as well as her brother, opened her eyes wide with astonishment on hearing it. "He has disgraced himself and all who bear his name," said the lady, quickly.
"Prithee, Maud, go and sit down," said Master Drury, tenderly.
But Maud shook her head. "You will tell me where Harry is, first," she said, still in the same quiet tone of command.
"I know not, unless he be travelling towards London with his false friend, who has turned his head with his stories of the traitor Parliament. He hath done this much; he confessed it to me this morning ere they departed," added Master Drury.
He thought this would satisfy Maud, and all questioning would be at an end now, but the young lady asked, "What did you mean, Master Drury, by saying Bertram had no brother now?"
Mistress Mabel looked horrified at the impertinence of the question, but Maud stood still and waited for an answer.
Calming his emotion with a violent effort, he turned to Maud and said, "By my faith, you should be thankful this day that you are not a Drury, to be disgraced by this traitor caitiff, who was my son. This must be the last time he is ever spoken of in this house, for I have renounced him—cast him off for ever; and you children must do the same," he said, turning towards Bertram and Bessie.
The little girl had dried her tears, and both sat with white frightened faces gazing at Maud and their father.
Maud staggered back to her seat and bowed her face in her hands, and the dinner went on in silence among those who cared to eat. Maud and Mary sat with their plates before them, but left the table without tasting anything, and as soon as they could escape went up to their own room.
Here Maud's firmness quite forsook her, and laying her head on Mary's shoulder, she burst into tears, moaning, "Oh, Mary, what shall I do? I cast him off as well."
Mary could not understand her. "I think you ought to be very glad you are not a Drury, to share in his disgrace," she said, with a sigh.
Maud lifted her face, her eyes flashing with indignation. "Glad!" she said; "nay, nay, I wish I were a Drury, that I might go and seek him now. Think of it, Mary; all have cast him off."
"He has disgraced us all," said Mary. "I have heard my father say it was his proudest boast that the Drurys had ever been true to the king and state, and never taken part with any riotous mob, and now Harry has dragged our family honour to the very dust. Everybody will know it soon, and every village wench will pity me because I am the sister of a traitor. I shall never hold up my head again," and Mary burst into tears at the picture of humiliation she had drawn.
"HE HAS DISGRACED US ALL!"
Maud was quite incapable of understanding this self-pity, and seating herself at the little table by the window, she indulged her own self-reproachful thoughts on her conduct of the morning. She had no idea then that his father had treated him so harshly, or she would have been more tender, and her heart was sad as she thought of his words, that he must be true to his conscience.
But her musing was broken in upon by Mary saying, "It is so wicked, so wilful, to rebel against the King."
"But suppose he had to do this, or rebel against his conscience," said Maud, giving some expression to her own thoughts.
Mary started. "What can you mean? prithee, it cannot be right for us to rebel against the King?"
"Certainly not for us," said Maud. "But we are not to make ourselves a conscience to other people; and if Harry sees that serving the King would be wrong——"
"But it cannot be wrong," interrupted Mary. "God's Word says, 'Fear God, honour the king.'"
"Yes, fearing God comes first," said Maud, but speaking more to herself than to Mary; "and it seems to me that it is out of this fear Harry has been led to adopt these new views. I can't see how they are right; but then I suppose living here in this quiet village, and having everything we want, we do not understand things as men do who go out into the world and learn what Acts of Parliament mean."
"Maud, you are half a traitor yourself," interrupted Mary, indignantly.
"Nay, nay, Mary! I am not that," said Maud. "I love the King, from what I have heard of his gentle courteous bearing and his loving care of his children; but even Master Drury denies not that he has oft-times broken his solemn promise, and 'tis said that his subsidies and exactions have well nigh ruined the nation."
"Maud, Maud! said I not that you were a traitor; and by my troth you must be, to speak thus of the King."
"Nay, I am no traitor. I would that I could speak to King Charles myself, and tell him how sorely grieved many of his subjects are at his want of truth and honest dealing," replied Maud, warmly.
"But the King cannot do evil," said Mary, in a tone of expostulation.
Maud put her hand to her forehead in some perplexity. "I know not what to think, sometimes," she said. "I like not to think it possible that the King can do wrong; but what am I to think when he breaks the Divine laws of truth and uprightness. He is not above these, if he is above those of the land, that he can make and unmake at his will."
"We have no business to think about such things at all," said Mary, impatiently.
"Marry, you may be right," answered Maud; "for women-folk have but little wit to the understanding of such weighty matters; but for men it is different, and that is why so many are carried away to the defending this rebellious Parliament, I trow."
"But they should not be carried away, now that they know how evil are its doings, and how it has laid violent hands on the Archbishop; and herein is Harry's sin the greater."
"Oh, say not so, Mary. Harry is right, I trow, although you and I see not how that may be," said Maud.
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Bessie's tearful face appeared. Mistress Mabel had found it impossible to settle down to her usual spinning to-day, and telling the children she must look after the maids, to see they did not get gossiping about the family affairs, she had dismissed them.
"Oh, Maud, I have no brother Harry now," sobbed the little girl, throwing herself into her arms.
"But Harry is not dead," said Maud, smoothing back the tumbled hair from her hot forehead. "He has only gone away from home, and you can love him still."
"That's what Bertram says," sobbed the child; "but it isn't just the same; he was my brother before—my very own, and now"—and she burst into another passionate flood of tears.
"Prithee, now hush," said Maud. "Harry loves you all the same, I am sure, and you can love him; so that it need make no difference to you, Bessie."
"But it does make a difference," passionately exclaimed Bessie. "You said it did a little while ago."
Maud had forgotten the circumstance to which the girl referred, until she went on—"You said Harry was not your real brother, and now I am not his real sister. Has Harry got another name?" she suddenly asked.
Maud smiled, but Mary shook her head sorrowfully. "No, his name is Drury still," she said, "and he has disgraced it, Bessie—disgraced the good old name that you and I bear."
Bessie looked at Maud. "Are you glad your name is not Drury?" she said.
Maud shook her head. "I wish it was," she said, "and then I could make you understand better that I do not think Harry has disgraced it."
"Then it can be, can't it?" said Bessie, drying her tears.
"What, dear?"
"Drury. You can change your name, can't you?"
A momentary blush overspread Maud's pale face, but it quickly faded, and a sadder look than ever came into her eyes as she shook her head and said, "No, dear, I shall never change my name now." Then, seeing that her sadness had brought back the tears to Bessie's eyes, she asked where Bertram had gone.
"To look after Harry's horse," answered Bessie. "Aunt Mabel says it is to be his, now; but Bertram says he will never ride it, for it will be like robbing Harry."
"Suppose we go and look at Cavalier, too," said Maud. "He will miss his master almost as much as you do, Bessie," she added, trying to speak cheerfully.
They went through the painted gallery and out of the side door, as Harry went in the morning, the little girl wondering why they went that way. Bertram had sobbed out the first portion of his grief to his brother's dumb favourite, and now stood stroking its silky chestnut coat; but as Maud entered the paddock the noble creature pricked up its ears and gave a pleased whining of recognition.
"It is not Harry, Cavalier," said Bertram, sadly.
"Prithee, Cavalier is almost as fond of Maud as he is of Harry," said Bessie.
"Oh, Maud, then you have him," said Bertram, with a fresh burst of tears. "He is mine now, Aunt Mabel says; but I shall never be able to ride him, for thinking of Harry; but he'll like to have you on his back, and Harry will like it too, I know."
That Harry would like it Maud knew full well, but the appropriation of his things in this way she did not approve of at all; but Bertram's next words settled the matter.
"Aunt Mabel says Cavalier shall be sold, and a pony bought for me, if I don't like it; and I can't bear to part with Cavalier," sobbed the little boy.
"We won't part with it, Bertie," said Maud. "I will have Cavalier, and ride him every day, and I will buy you a pony instead, and you can ride with me."
Mistress Maud Harcourt possessed the sole right to a large fortune, and so she could do as she pleased in such a small matter as keeping a horse for her individual use. Mistress Mabel grumbled a little when she heard of this arrangement, but it did not alter matters, and in a few days Bertram's pony arrived.
CHAPTER VI.
THE HAYSLOPE WITCH.
There had never been much communication between the villagers of Hayslope and the family living at the Grange. Mistress Mabel believed that the villagers existed solely for the convenience of the family, but never troubled herself to consider their wants or necessities, and brought up her niece Mary upon the same principle. Maud appeared to be of a similar opinion; but sharing Harry's confidence in everything, she knew he went about among his poorer neighbours, and began to take an interest in them herself, although not very actively.
Now, however, she determined to follow Harry's example, and take up his work; and, mounted on Cavalier, she went out the very next day to make inquiries after an old woman whom she knew Harry had often befriended. She inquired at the blacksmith's shed for Dame Coppins, but was surprised by the man coming to the door, and instead of pointing out the way to the cottage, saying, "We'll do it, Mistress Harcourt! We'll have justice on the old witch that's done the mischief!"
"What mischief?" asked Maud, in some surprise, patting Cavalier to make him stand still.
"What mischief should it be but sending away Master Harry Drury to the Parliament wars, as though the king hadn't had enough of the lads from Hayslope?"
"But this poor old woman did not send Harry away," said Maud, quickly.
"Marry, but she bewitched him. I see it with my own eyes," said the man. "If I had but known it then I'd have ducked her in the horse-pond, and broken the spell."
Maud shivered. The belief in witchcraft was universal then, and she began to fear whether Harry had been under Satanic influence. At length she said, "I should like to see this old woman, if she be a witch, and ask her where Master Harry has gone."
"Prithee, be not so venturesome, lest she send thee after him," said the blacksmith, in some consternation.
Maud thought this would not be so much of a calamity, perhaps, until the man added, "Nobody will ever hear aught of Master Harry again, and if thou dost go to the witch, thou wilt disappear too."
The young lady looked undecided when she heard this, but she could hardly restrain Cavalier from turning down a narrow lane close by, which the blacksmith observing, said, "Now, you may be sure mistress, that the old witch has worked her spells; for Cavalier there is under them, and is bidden by her to take thee to be bewitched too."
It seemed that the horse was determined to take her somewhere, whether she would or no, and the next minute was trotting down the lane, Maud scarcely knowing what to make of the proceeding. After trotting about half a mile he paused, and then turned in at a broken-down gateway, and walked up to the window of a cottage, where he stopped and looked round, as if telling Maud to dismount.
"The horse certainly is bewitched," said Maud, half aloud, determined not to move from her seat, and trying to turn Cavalier's head in the opposite direction.
But Cavalier seemed obstinately bent on looking in at the window, and would not move; and Maud's consternation was complete when the door slowly opened, and an old woman, leaning on a crutched stick, came hobbling out. She was in the presence of the witch herself, and, with a cry of horror, Maud dropped the reins and covered her face with her hands. Finding the witch did not attempt to drag her into the house, now that she had her in her power, Maud ventured to look up in a minute or two, and saw a venerable-looking old woman standing on the threshold, looking very pale and ill, and quite as frightened as she herself did.
DAME COPPINS.
But the old woman was the first to recover herself, and she said, "You have come to tell me about Master Harry Drury? The Lord reward you for your kindness to a poor old woman."
Maud hardly knew what to say. She felt ashamed of her fright now, and yet an idea had entered her head that Cavalier could see Harry in the cottage, and she said, "Nay, but I have come to ask _you+ about Harry."
The poor old woman trembled visibly when she heard this. "Prithee, but I cannot tell you that," she said, speaking as calmly as she could. "I have not seen him these three days," she went on, "and sorely have I missed him, for not a word of the Book can I read now. He's been eyes to me ever since my own boy went away to fight for the King."
"What book did he read to you?" asked Maud.
"Marry, and what should it be but God's word?" said Dame Coppins. "It's been open at the place where he left off these three days, for it is sore hard to believe I sha'n't hear his voice again." Tears choked the old woman here, and Maud, quite forgetting her reputation as a witch, jumped off her horse, saying, "Shall I read a chapter for you, as Harry used?"
"Then it is true he's gone away?" said the old woman.
Maud nodded. The tears were in her eyes now. "We don't know where he has gone," she said.
"Poor lamb, it is a sore trial for you; but it will be worse for me, I trow," and the old woman sighed heavily.
"Why?" asked Maud, entering the cottage, where, on a little table lay a Bible open at the Gospel of St. John. There was nothing remarkable in this book, she knew, for she recognised it as an old one of Harry's, which they had read from together many times, until she gave him a new one on his birthday once, when the old one disappeared.
After she had read part of the sixth chapter, the old woman begged for a few verses more about the "mansions," and Maud read part of the fourteenth.
"I'll keep that in mind when the time comes," murmured the old woman; "and if I never see you again, Mistress Harcourt——"
"But I will come and see you again," interrupted Maud.
The old woman shook her head. "It'll be all over soon; I couldn't bear it again," she said.
"What will be all over?" asked Maud. "You are not ill, are—at least, not very ill—not likely to die yet," she added, hastily.
"If I waited till the Lord called me by disease I'd may be wait a good while yet, for I'm strong when I'm well; but the people hereabout say I am a witch, and but for Master Harry I should have been tried before last night."
"Last night!" uttered Maud. "What did they do to you?" for she had lost all fear of her as a witch now.
The poor old creature looked round fearfully. "They did it," she said, "tried me for a witch. They took me to the horse-pond and ducked me, but there was not enough water to drown me. They'd have done it before if Master Harry had not been my protector, but now he is gone nothing will save me, for they say I've sent him away; as if I should want to lose my best friend," and the old woman burst into tears again.
Maud was indignant. "Prithee, do not be afraid," she said. "I will protect you, they shall not hurt you!"
For a minute the old woman looked up glad and grateful, but then she shook her head sadly. "You can't do it, they are coming again to-night," she said, "and the ill-usage will kill me;" and she pushed up the sleeve of her gown and showed how her arms were cut and bruised.
"You must be protected," said Maud, "it will be murder. I will go to Master Drury at once and tell him about it," and without waiting another minute, Maud mounted Cavalier and cantered up the lane.
At the top, clustered round the blacksmith's shed, were a group of soldiers, who made way for her to pass, but the blacksmith sprang forward and stopped her horse.
"These soldiers have seen Master Harry Drury Mistress Harcourt," he said.
"Then you will not repeat the cowardly attack on Dame Coppins, I trow!" said the young lady, burning with anger still.
The blacksmith drew back somewhat ashamed, and Maud, forgetting all else, turned to the soldiers and said, "Tell me where you met Master Harry Drury."
The man doffed his cap respectfully, for he could see Maud was a lady. "It was near by the gate of London," he said. "Our leader, Captain Stanhope, has now gone to the Grange, bearing tidings of it."
Maud urged Cavalier into a sharp canter when she left the soldiers, for she wished to be in time to hear the Captain's account of his meeting with Harry, which she was likely to lose for ever if not in time to hear it given to Master Drury. Captain Stanhope and his troopers had been to Hayslope before, and the Captain knowing the importance of his meeting with Harry, would be most likely to speak of it at supper time, when they were all assembled in the dining-hall.
Before supper, however, she wanted to consult Master Drury about protecting Dame Coppins from the village mob, and as soon as Cavalier had been left to Roger she went in search of that gentleman. But he was not in the study or the keeping-room, and thinking he must have gone out with Captain Stanhope, she went into the garden to watch for his return.
Walking noiselessly over the velvet turf, she was close to the quaintly-cut leafy screen that sheltered the arbour from the garden, when she heard voices close by, and some one say, "Then we are to arrest him as a traitor, wherever he may be found?"
"Yes," faintly answered Master Drury's voice.
Maud felt as though she were rooted to the spot. Could it be Harry they were talking of? All uncertainty about this was set aside by Master Drury's next words. "He has disgraced the family name by this, and I would you had taken him prisoner ere he entered London to finish his rebellion."
"That might not be, Master Drury, seeing I knew not wherefore he was journeying there," said Captain Stanhope.
Maud disdained to listen to what was not intended for her ears, and rapidly walked away in a tumult of passion against her guardian for his cruelty to his son.
When she entered the keeping-room Mistress Mabel and Mary looked up from their work of spinning, but she did not heed the command to come and sit down at her wheel with them. Passing up to her own room, she took out some warm wraps, and then went round to the stable in search of Roger, to whom she gave some directions about coming to the village with a basket of provisions a little later in the evening.
She then set out on her walk back to Dame Coppins' cottage, determined to stay there all night, and protect the old woman by her presence. She was likewise anxious to tell her of this fresh danger threatening Harry, for she was the only one to whom she could speak about it, and she knew the old woman would sympathise with her in her sorrow.
The poor old woman could give more than sympathy, she found she could give strength and comfort by her apt quotations from God's Word, for she herself had tasted sorrow and learned their power. Then they fell into a conversation about Harry, which lasted until Roger arrived with the basket, and a message from Master Drury that he and Captain Stanhope were coming to the cottage shortly.
Maud was not in a humour to thank either her guardian or the soldier for anything they might do now, but when they arrived she told them what had taken place the night before; and on the gentlemen promising to ride back to the village and make inquiries into the matter, to prevent its recurrence, she was obliged to promise to return to the Grange, upon Roger being sent down as a guard for Dame Coppins for this night. But she was very ungracious in her bearing towards the young soldier, although it was evident that he greatly wished to please her.
It was Captain Stanhope's business just now to get fresh men to recruit his Majesty's army, and he readily consented to Master Drury's proposition that he should make Hayslope Grange his head-quarters for the present. His men could be lodged in the village, and they could make short expeditions into the surrounding country in search of recruits, and thus business could be combined with pleasure on the part of the Captain, while it would afford the Royalist leaders a proof that Master Drury of the Grange was still a staunch Cavalier, should they hear of the defection of his son; and thus the matter was settled to the satisfaction of all parties—at least, all but Maud, and the arrangement vexed her exceedingly.
CHAPTER VII.
THE REVEL.
May-day had not been kept with its usual festivity at Hayslope this year, and so in this month of June it was proposed to have a junketing on the village green in honour of Captain Stanhope and his soldiers. Maud, and many another as sad-hearted as she, were in no humour for revelry when their dear ones were away at the war, and Bertram was quite indignant that Mary should wish it if Captain Stanhope did, and loudly declared he would not join in the fun. The horns of ale passed freely from hand to hand that day, and the soldiers kept up the excitement among the villagers by occasionally giving them a fanfare from their trumpets, drinking with them, and telling them stories of "glorious war." It had the desired effect. Before the night closed in half-a-dozen lads had enlisted, and among them Master Drury's trusty groom, Roger.
This was rather more than the gentleman had bargained for, and he was very angry when he heard it, but he could not say much to Captain Stanhope, lest the sincerity of his principles should be doubted. But it seemed that Roger was not the only prize the young soldier coveted, for the day following the revel he asked the hand of Mary Drury in marriage. Master Drury knew not what to say to this, for all the household had seen the marked attentions he paid to Maud—attentions which she repelled with cold disdain.
It had been remarked by many in the village that Mistress Harcourt had kept aloof as much as possible from the revelry. She had been obliged to come down with the family, but instead of joining in the sport, she went about among those who were on the outskirts of the crowd—the mothers with babies in their arms, widows, whose lives this civil war had made desolate, and sad-eyed maidens widowed already in heart and affection through the intolerance of King Charles. Among these, Maud had already made herself known, and now her rich robes of cherry-colour flowered satin might be seen in close neighbourhood with the blue serge and linsey-woolsey petticoats and linen jackets of her poorer neighbours. The children liked to look at her pretty dress—that of itself was a show to them—but the sad and sorrowful had began to love her for the kindly words and sympathy she gave them.
From these she heard that it was whispered she was likely to become Mistress Stanhope shortly—a rumour that annoyed her exceedingly. Captain Stanhope, it seems, had heard the same. Some one had ventured to remark that the bride-elect did not join the dancers, and he resolved to speak to Maud that very night, and ask her to become his wife, although he had received so little encouragement to hope for a favourable answer.
On his way back to the Grange, therefore, he contrived to join her, and in a few words begged her to favour his suit. Maud hardly knew whether to be angry or sorry, but she contrived to make him understand most clearly that it was useless to press her on that subject, and begged him not to allow any one else to know that he had asked her hand.
She need not have feared this. Captain Stanhope was too proud to let any one know of his rejection, and his chief annoyance arose from the fact that many had already seen and remarked his preference. Musing on this, he saw Mary and Bertram at a little distance, and the idea at once entered his head that this annoyance could be got over by at once proposing to Mary, when it would be thought he was only playing with Maud, while in reality he was attached to Mary. So he contrived to dismiss Bertram from his sister's side, and in a gentle tone begged her to walk in the garden with him; and then when they reached the arbour he made the same proposal as he had made to Maud but a few minutes before.
Mary was surprised, but pleased; not that she loved the young soldier, she had not thought of such a thing. But he was handsome, and could be a pleasant companion; and then she had felt herself so disgraced since Harry had gone away, that she would gladly exchange the name of Drury for Stanhope. She did not tell her lover this, she only said something about thinking he liked Maud best, on which he muttered that Maud was too proud and cold for him, when she shyly said he must speak to her father, when, if he gave his consent, she was willing to ratify it.
Master Drury hardly knew what to say when asked for his permission. In reality he felt the loss of his son more than he chose to own even to himself, and did not care to part with his eldest daughter just now, but he resolved to let Mary decide the matter; and so, telling Captain Stanhope that he should receive his answer in the evening, he sent for Mary.
The young lady blushed as she entered her father's presence, for she guessed what he wished to speak to her about.
"Prithee now, tell me truly Mary of this business with Captain Stanhope. Dost thou wish to leave the old Grange, my child?" he asked.
"I wish to change my name, father," said Mary, with a deep blush.
"And wherefore art thou so anxious about this?"
"Canst thou ask, when it has been so deeply disgraced?" said Mary.
The old man bowed his head. Truly his family pride was bearing bitter fruit, if he were to lose his children through it in this way. He saw that his daughter did not love the man that had sought her hand in marriage, and he did not believe that he loved her; but he was powerless to withhold his consent if Mary wished it, which she evidently did. "It will be better so, my father," she said. "The Stanhopes have ever been true and loyal, I have heard you say, and this marriage may help to wipe the traitor stain from our escutcheon."
"True, my daughter," said the old man, but it was said very sadly, for he knew it was not thus he had chosen her mother, or been accepted by her. But the matter seemed to have been settled by Mary without his interference, and he yielded rather than gave his consent when Captain Stanhope came again in the evening.
After leaving her father Mary went to inform Maud of what had taken place. She had expected some surprise, but not the look of blank astonishment with which her news was received.
"Mary, you cannot mean to do it," she uttered, as soon as she was able to speak.
"By my troth, I know not what you mean, Maud," said Mary, indignantly.
"Prithee, tell me it is not true, dear; that it is all a fable about your marrying Captain Stanhope," said Maud, soothingly.
"Marry, but it is true—true as that your name is Maud Harcourt," replied Mary.
Maud rose from her seat and paced up and down the room, and Mary, looking at her, could only think that she was disappointed. "Tell me, when did this take place?" said Maud, pausing in her walk and looking earnestly in Mary's face.
"Marry, but I know not why you should ask this question," said Mary, indignantly. "Did he propose to you?" she asked, in a tone of bitter sarcasm.
Maud blushed crimson and turned away, but only for a minute. "Tell me when he asked you this?" she cried. "Prithee, tell me, Mary. I wish not to vex you, but this I would know."
"Marry, you may know, it was last night," said Mary, speaking calmly.
"As he walked from the village?" asked Maud.
"Nay, in the garden, after Bertram had left me," said Mary. "I saw him walking with you from the village," she added.
"Then it must have been after I came indoors," said Maud.
Mary bowed her head. "Even so," she replied. Maud resumed her walk up and down the room, and Mary sat gazing at her until Maud came and threw herself on a cushion at her feet, and, forgetting the bitter words that had been spoken only a minute or two before, she stooped and kissed Mary's hands. This touched the proud girl's heart, and she said, "I hope I have not offended you, Maud."
"Prithee, no," said Maud. "But I want you to tell me, Mary, do you love this Captain Stanhope?" Mary drew back.
"Why do you ask this question?" she said.
"Marry, because I greatly fear he loves not you," said Maud, slowly.
"But tell me does he love you?" said Mary, in a tone of sarcasm.
Maud did not reply to this. She expected the young lady would be angry, but she was determined to do what she believed to be her duty. "Mary, sweetheart, we have been as sisters," she said, "and I would you knew how much I loved you; and by my faith, it is because of this I would bid you be not too hasty in binding yourself to this Captain Stanhope! It is pride, not love, that has made him seek you."
"Marry, then we are even," said Mary, with a bitter laugh. "I thank you, Mistress Maud, for telling me of this," she said, with a mock reverence, "for you have removed the last scruple I had in accepting him." Whether this was true, or whether the gay manner was only put on, Maud could not tell, but it made her very unhappy, and instead of going down to the keeping-room, to be watched by Mistress Mabel, she went to pay her usual visit to Dame Coppins at once, instead of later on in the day.
As she reached the blacksmith's corner she saw a little crowd gathered round, and heard the sound of women crying; and when she drew near she found it was the soldiers leaving with the spoil of the previous day's revel—the six men who had taken service for the King.
She had heard of it before she left home; but the thought that Roger might meet and fight against the young master whom he loved almost overcame her now, and she could hardly restrain her tears when the downcast-looking man ventured to say farewell as she was passing.
"Farewell Roger, and Godspeed to you, and quickly bring this war to a close, and you back to us. You will not forget to be kind to Master Harry if ever he should need it," added Maud; for it might be that as a royalist soldier Roger would have that power some day, she thought; and then she rode on down the lane, while the poor fellows who were going away bade wives and sisters cheer up and take example by Mistress Maud, whose lover would soon have to go to the wars too, for the villagers had quite settled the affair for Captain Stanhope to their own satisfaction.
As Maud went on to the cottage she wondered when the marriage was to take place between Mary and Captain Stanhope. It could not be for some time, she thought—not until this dreadful war was over, and then she sighed as she thought of the misery this was causing.
When she reached the cottage she found the old woman looking very weak and ill, and so feeble she could hardly speak. Maud was alarmed. "What is the matter," she said; "are you ill?"
The poor old creature shook her head—"Not ill," she gasped, "but, oh, so hungry." Maud ran to the cupboard; there was not a bit of anything in the shape of food, but a little pile of halfpence in one corner.
Maud took these into her hand. "Why did you not buy yourself a rye loaf?" she said. Dame Coppins shook her head. "They will not sell anything to me," she said.
It was true enough; the villagers had determined to starve out the witch if they could not drown her, and so every one had refused to supply her with food, until the poor creature was brought to the verge of starvation.
To remedy this, Maud now had either to bring the old woman's food from the Grange, or make her purchases herself in the village, so that a day seldom passed without her being seen near the blacksmith's shed.
One day when she was passing, a stranger rode up whose horse had lost a shoe, and he was obliged to stop to get the damage repaired. The man looked travel-stained and tired, and the blacksmith, with his usual love of gossip, wanted him to drink a horn of ale before he shod the horse.
"Nay, that may not be, friend blacksmith, for I bear tidings of weighty import. There has been a great battle in Yorkshire." Maud, pausing to speak to a child close by, heard these words.
"A battle, sir traveller: can you tell me aught about it?" she asked.
"Marry, and I should be able, seeing I was in it, and fought with Lieutenant Cromwell's Ironsides," said the man. "Is not this Hayslope?" he asked.