Hayslope Grange: A Tale of the Civil War

THE STRANGER AT THE SMITHY.

The blacksmith nodded. "But we be all King Charles's men here," he said.

"Marry, that may be, so all who are here," said the traveller. "But one Harry Drury cometh from Hayslope, and he fought right bravely with the Parliament men at Marston Moor, and now lieth sorely wounded and grievously sick."

BESSIE'S DISTRESS.

Maud did not wait to hear anything more that the messenger had to tell; whether the Royalists had gained the victory or had to mourn defeat she did not know, and hardly cared. This one fact was enough for her; Harry was wounded—wounded and ill—perhaps dying among strangers. It might be he was prisoner even, and then an ignominious traitor's death awaited him. All the darkest possibilities of his fate rushed to her mind as she walked down the lane to the cottage.

Here her grief was shared by Dame Coppins, who hardly knew what to say to comfort her under such a trial, and could only point her to Him who, having "borne our griefs and carried our sorrows," can sympathise and comfort under the sorest trials.

On reaching the Grange, Maud found that the news had travelled thither before her—news of humiliation, that had put Captain Stanhope quite out of temper.

"By my faith, I cannot believe it!" he was saying, as Maud entered the keeping-room. "Prince Rupert defeated by that son of a brewer and his handful of sorry prentice lads? Master Drury, what think you is likely to happen, forsooth?"

"This varlet messenger, may be, is mistelling the news," said Master Drury, hoping it might be so, for he had thought the rebel troops well nigh crushed out.

Maud wondered whether he had heard the news concerning Harry, and looked across at Mistress Mabel, but that stern, impassive face told nothing, and Mary's, in its proud resolve, no more; and she dared not utter the forbidden name before so many, and so went in search of the children, to ascertain from them what news had come.

She saw in a moment that they had heard both items, for Bessie was sitting in a corner of the garden crying bitterly, while Bertram was marching up and down, telling her what he would do to rescue Harry when he was a man.

BESSIE'S GRIEF FOR HARRY.

She sat down beside the little girl and tried to comfort her, but Bessie would not be comforted. "It's very kind of you, Maud," she sobbed, "but you are not Harry's sister—not a Drury, like Mary and I. If Mary would only be a little sorry for him, I shouldn't cry so much, but now he's only got me and Bertram to be sorry."

"Oh, Bessie, think you not that I am sorry, too?" said Maud.

"Yes, you are sorry, Maud, I know," said the little girl, hardly knowing how to express herself; "but you know you are not his sister, and so he won't expect you to cry for him."

"Marry, will he not," said Maud, scarce able to keep from laughing. "And will he expect you to cry for him a great deal?" asked Maud, as the tears broke out afresh.

"Mary won't," sobbed Bessie; and she seemed bent upon doing her sister's share for her.

Maud could not help shedding a few tears in company, and Bessie threw her arms round her neck and kissed her for them. At length Maud said, "If Harry does not expect me to cry for him, there is something else he will expect me to do, and that is to comfort his little sister;" and she took the little girl in her arms, and laid the hot tear-stained cheek against hers, and whispered gentle loving words, that soothed the troubled heart. It was just what Harry would have done—just what he would have her do, she knew, and she did it as though he were near and watching her.

For the next few days Captain Stanhope was in a restless state of impatience to ascertain whether the news brought to the village was correct, but they were not the days of newspapers, and an army might be within a few miles of Hayslope itself, and the inhabitants none the wiser; so it was not strange that he could hear nothing of the movements of an army away in Yorkshire.

But all suspense was at an end in a day or two. A messenger arrived bearing despatches for Captain Stanhope, and in them mention was made of the disastrous battle of Marston Moor. These despatches were commands for the Captain to collect all the men he had been able to get in his recruiting tour, and join the main body of the army in the west of England.

So Mary's marriage, which was to have taken place in a few weeks, had to be postponed until the autumn, or rather winter, for there could be no certainty of his returning to Hayslope until then. There was always a truce of a few months during winter. Wars could not be carried on regardless of weather, as they are now, and thus it was that they often lasted years.

After the departure of the Captain, life seemed to pass more slowly and monotonously than ever at Hayslope Grange. Out of the direct main road, strangers rarely came that way, and so little was known of how events were tending in the mortal strife going on so near them.

The trial of Archbishop Laud was still being carried on by the London Parliament; Oxford was supporting the King in the combat with his subjects, the north having yielded to Fairfax, the Parliamentary general. This was all the news that came to Hayslope through all the remaining days of July and the sultry weeks of August. No word came from Harry Drury, not a syllable that Maud was hungering to hear with a hunger that paled her cheek and was wasting her strength.

The harvest—what there was—had to be gathered in by women for the most part; and when Maud looked at these going out to their unwonted toil, a baby in one hand and a reaping-hook in the other, and thought of the burden of sorrow they had to carry as well, she reproached herself for weakly yielding to her grief; and yet it was hard to combat sometimes.

She had been compelled to rebel against Mistress Mabel's command to sit more closely to her spinning and sewing. Not that she disliked preparing Mary's house linen, but because she could not endure the scrutiny of those hard cold eyes, and to get away from them she did as Harry had done many a time before—mounted Cavalier, and cantered away miles over the fields, and then back to the village, to visit her friends there.

The months of September and October passed slowly enough, but about the middle of November Roger and a few of the other men came back to the village for the winter. It could not be said that they were not welcome, and yet provisions were now so dear, owing to the scanty harvest and heavy taxes, that every extra mouth to fill was felt as a heavy burden by their distressed families; and then, being winter time, there was scarcely any work they could do in the fields and gardens.

Maud had hoped that she should hear something of Harry when the men came back, and how much her returning health and strength had depended upon this she did not know until the hope was taken away and the faint sickening languor again stole over her frame. It might have grown upon her more than it did, but the wants of the poor people in the village, and the demands of Mistress Mabel, that she should assist in the preparations for Mary's wedding, left her very little time to spend in sitting alone and thinking of Harry.

Mary was to be married at Christmas, and go with Captain Stanhope to Oxford. The two seemed mutually pleased with each other, and quite satisfied with their bargain, but Maud could not tell whether they loved each other. She hoped they did, but Mary never gave her an opportunity of speaking upon this subject, and indeed the preparations for the coming event seemed to occupy her mind so fully that she had no thought for anything else.

This wedding afforded the villagers the most satisfaction, perhaps, for Master Drury was to give them an ox to be roasted on the green, and the prospect of a good dinner was very pleasant to them under the present circumstances. Captain Stanhope gave them a barrel of ale in which to drink his bride's health, but Mary seemed to think no one wanted anything but herself.

She packed up all the books and little trifles lying about that had belonged to Harry, and when Maud ventured to remonstrate with her about this, saying that Bertram would want them by-and-by if Harry did not return, she retorted, "Harry Drury never will return to this house, Maud, and Bertram will be expelled too if you continue to encourage him in thinking Harry right in what he has done."

Maud looked surprised. "What can you mean?" she exclaimed.

"Marry, nothing but what is true. You are teaching Bertram to think Harry right in rebelling against the King, and his father, too," retorted Mary.

"I do not think Harry is wrong in following the guidance of his conscience," said Maud, slowly; "but I have not sought to teach Bertram that Harry's way is right for him. I have only told him to keep the fear of God before his eyes, and follow the teaching of His Holy Spirit, as I believe Harry has done."

"And so you think it is this that has made Harry a traitor," said Mary, with rising anger.

"I don't think Harry is a traitor," said Maud, calmly. "It is the King who has——"

"By my troth I will not listen to such dreadful words," interrupted Mary, and she went out of the room; but she evidently did not alter her opinion, for she confiscated to her own use every article that had formerly belonged to her brother.

After the wedding festivities were over, and Mistress Mary Stanhope had departed with her husband to Oxford, the house seemed more dull than ever, and Mistress Mabel more severe and exacting.

About the middle of January came news that thrilled every one with horror, and put Master Drury into a fever of mingled anger and sorrow. A man had stopped at the blacksmith's shed on his way from London, and brought the news that Archbishop Laud had been beheaded on Tower Hill the day before he left.

Mistress Mabel was speechless with indignation for a few minutes, and her first act was to take the bright cherry-coloured bow off Bessie's hair.

The little girl looked up in surprise, and saw her aunt taking the ruffles from her own neck and wrists. "This is not the time for such bravery as this," said the lady, looking angrily at the ribbons and ruffles. Bessie wondered what they had to do with it, while Mistress Mabel stood upright, watching her brother as he walked up and down the room, murmuring, "They have slain the Archbishop—murdered the Lord's anointed."

"For which all good Christians ought to fast and mourn," put in Mistress Mabel; "and I hope, brother, that you will see to it that your household is not lacking in this matter," she added.

"Nay, nay, I leave all such to you," said Master Drury; "order whatever is seemly at this time. I know not what has come to this evil-minded generation," he added.

"An evil generation they are, as you say," quoth Mistress Mabel. "Where will their iniquity end? They will put forth their hand against the King next, I trow."

Bertram and Bessie shivered at the bare idea of such a thing, and Maud, who felt she must say something in defence of the Parliament, said, "Nay, nay, Mistress Mabel, they will not put forth their hand against the King's majesty."

"But they will, I trow, if they have the power," said the lady. "And that God may rescue this nation from their hands, it behoves us to appear before Him in decent raiment of mourning at this time."

"Are we all to go into mourning?" asked Bessie, in some surprise.

"Would you be wearing ribbons and ruffles, and such light vanities at this time?" angrily demanded the lady.

Bessie looked down, feeling very much ashamed of herself, but hardly knowing how she had offended, until Bertram asked, "Will everybody wear mourning for the Archbishop, aunt?"

"Every honest Christian soul will nathless wish to do so," replied Mistress Mabel, with a severe look at Bessie.

The little girl felt the reproof, and when she went upstairs she put away all her bright ribbons and the gay dresses that had been worn at her sister's wedding. "I don't mind wearing the black hood and wimple, Maud," she said; "but then I thought people wore mourning because they felt sorry, and I can't feel so sorry about the Archbishop as I did about Harry going away."

"Of course not, dear, because——"

"But aunt seems to think we ought," interrupted the little girl; "and father never looked so sorry about Harry as he did to-day about the Archbishop."

"Your father may not let us see how sorry he is about Harry," said Maud, "but I am sure he is often thinking of him."

Maud spoke of this as though she were sure it was so, as in truth she was. She had noticed a great alteration in her guardian lately. His hair was rapidly changing from brown to silver white, his tall erect form was bowed as with the weight of an added twenty years; and she thought with a keen pang that if Harry did not soon come he would never see his father again. And then arose the question, where was Harry?—for no news had come but that one voice from the battle-field, telling them he was sick and wounded.

THE WOUNDED MESSENGER.

There was little fear that no fasts would be kept the month that the Archbishop was executed. So many were compelled to fast for want of food throughout England, that all the land might be said to mourn, although they did not put on the outward semblance of it, as Mistress Mabel did.

Just as the men were thinking of leaving their homes again in the early spring, came a faint rumour that peace might be established, and many a heart beat high with hope that the commissioners who were to meet at Uxbridge, and negotiate a reconciliation between the King and his people, might be able to conclude terms of adjustment satisfactory to both parties. Maud felt sure that peace would be established at last when she heard the news, and Bertram asked her in a whisper if Harry would come home then; but to this question she could only shake her head and look up at the clouds racing across the stormy February sky, and think that Harry had probably gone to the Father's home where ambition and injustice could never mar the peace of the one great family.

She had come to this conclusion, because she thought if he were living he would surely have tried to see or communicate with his father before this, in spite of what had happened.

The meeting at Uxbridge took place just as the first spring blossoms began to whisper that the earth was not the cold, lifeless thing it looked; that God had not forgotten the seeds in the time of their darkness, but that out of this He had made them spring forth, and through this He had made them strong. Thus thinking as she walked through the fields, Maud sometimes wondered whether these dark times was England's winter, out of which righteousness and truth would spring, and be more strong for the struggle they had endured. Of course to her this meant that the people would return to the King, and be more firm in their allegiance than ever, and she hoped that the first promise of such a result had already taken place.

But alas, for her, and the hopes of thousands like her, who had to endure silently, and witness misery they could not alleviate! the commission broke up without anything being done, and men were hurried from their homes to take up the sword, leaving the plough to be guided by women's hands. Roger and the rest of his companions again left Hayslope, and Maud went in and out and tried to comfort the women for their loss.

Master Drury seemed to feel the failure of the Uxbridge commission most keenly, although he did not say much about it; yet even Mistress Mabel could not fail to notice the whitening hair and the failing strength of her brother, and spoke to Maud about it too. She had noted the change long since, and now she felt sure that secret grief for Harry was preying upon her guardian's heart, and bowing him down with premature old age, and yet she dare not mention the name it would have been a relief for both to utter and to hear spoken.

So the spring passed into summer without any outward change at Hayslope Grange, except a short visit from Mistress Mary Stanhope. At the end of June came tidings of a battle that had been fought a fortnight before at Naseby, in Northamptonshire, where the King's army had been completely defeated, leaving on the field five thousand prisoners, an immense quantity of war material; and what was worse than all for the Royalists, the King's private cabinet of papers and letters was captured. This news came from Captain Stanhope, who had himself barely escaped being taken prisoner by Cromwell's Ironsides, and had got back to Oxford without even his sword.

This news seemed to affect Master Drury most deeply, and one day he suddenly announced to Mistress Mabel that he should join the royal troops and fight for King Charles. The lady looked as if she had not heard aright, and said something about herb tea and going to bed; but Master Drury silenced her by taking down his sword from where it hung against the wall, and ordering one of the servants to fetch his jack-boots.

MASTER DRURY TAKES DOWN HIS SWORD.

"Marry, but you are not going to the King now," said Mistress Mabel, in affright.

"I am going to Oxford," calmly spoke Master Drury; and during the remainder of the day he was occupied in making preparations for his departure.

When Mistress Mabel found her brother was bent upon leaving them, and fully determined to join the army, she suddenly professed to be in great fear of the Parliament gaining all England, and begged her brother to remain and protect them—have the moat filled at once, and barricades placed round the house, for fear of an attack from Cromwell's army; for Cromwell's name began to be the more prominent now, although Fairfax was the commander-in-chief.

But Master Drury shook his head. "Cromwell will never come into Essex," he said. "You forget King Charles has the Divine right to this land and its people. He will be the more firmly seated on his throne by-and-by for these troubles," he added.

Before his departure he spoke to Maud, bidding her come to him at Oxford if anything happened needing his presence at home. She could ride well now, he said, and Cavalier could bring her the whole journey.

Maud looked almost as surprised to hear this as Mistress Mabel had done when her brother first announced his intention of joining the army, for she had never been to Oxford in her life, and travelling was not very safe even for a man now Prince Rupert's wild troopers were about. But she felt thankful for the permission to do this, though at the same time she hoped that she should not need it.

Harvest-time was drawing near again now, and Mistress Mabel was more busy than ever among the maids, and Maud spent all her time between the two children and the village. Sometimes Bessie and Bertram went with her on her visits of charity, and one or other occasionally read to Dame Coppins from Harry's old Bible, or listened while the old woman told them some story of his kindness to her. One day as they were returning from a visit to the cottage, they were startled to see a crowd of women gathered round the blacksmith's shed, and Bertram, in his usual impetuous fashion, ran forward to see what was the matter. Maud was mounted on Cavalier, and Bessie on her brother's pony, while Bertram, being on foot, managed to edge himself to the front of the little crowd, and presently came running back, crying, "Maud, Maud, the man is dying! somebody has been beating him." Several of the women were coming towards her by this time, and she sprang from her horse and stepped forward to meet them.

"Prithee, what is the matter?" she asked, seeing their anxious faces. "Is the poor man much hurt?"

"By my faith, I think he's dying; but he says he _must+ get to Oxford first, to deliver up some papers he is bearing to the King," said one of the women.

"And what saith the blacksmith to his going on his journey?" asked Maud.

"That he will not live an hour with the wound he has received in his side. Nought but keeping him quite still, as well as careful dressing, will stanch the bleeding, Martin says, and he knows of such matters."

"Then he must not suffer the poor man to depart," said Maud, in the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed, as she stepped up to the blacksmith. She spoke loud enough for the stranger to hear, as she had intended; but he feebly shook his head, while Martin completed the temporary bandaging of his wound.

"Marry, stranger, you had better tarry here awhile, for your life will pay for this journey if you do not," said the blacksmith.

"Nay, nay, I must away to Oxford. I have been sore hindered already, and lives more valuable than mine depend upon the speedy delivery of these papers;" and as he spoke he attempted to rise, but fell back into the blacksmith's arms with a faint groan.

"He must not undertake this journey," said Maud; and she ordered him to be carried into a cottage near, saying she would come and speak to him about the papers as soon as he had somewhat revived. Meanwhile she ordered Martin to look to Cavalier, while the women attended to the stranger; and then she sent Bertram home with Bessie, and a message to Mistress Mabel not to be alarmed if she did not come back to the Grange that night.

By that time the traveller had recovered from the fainting fit, and Maud went into the cottage. "I am Mistress Maud Harcourt, and Master Drury of the Grange is my guardian," she said. "He is at Oxford just now, but if you will entrust your despatches to me, I will take them to him there, and he will place them in the hands of those to whom they are directed."

The stranger looked at the young lady's glowing resolute face, and laid his hands upon the papers "I could trust you," he said, "but will you swear that these shall not pass out of your hands, save to those directed to receive them?"

"I swear," said Maud, solemnly.

"It seemeth I must perforce stay here," sighed the man. "Prince Rupert's troops have chased me miles out of my way, or I should have reached Oxford ere this; and if it were not for the faintness that comes over me when I move, I would even now continue my journey."

"I will explain all that," said Maud, "but time presses. Now give me the papers, for my horse is in readiness, and I would fain depart ere messengers come from Mistress Mabel to hinder me."

It was a large packet, sealed with the seal of the Parliament, that the stranger delivered into her hands, and which she contrived to conceal within her dress. Then the stranger gave her directions for her journey, for he it seemed was well acquainted with the road; and carefully noting these in her mind, and looking at her purse to see she had money with her, she took her departure, the villagers scarcely comprehending that she was going to Oxford until she was out of sight.

Then it was suggested that one of the lads could have gone instead, and a message came from Mistress Mabel, ordering Maud to return to the Grange at once; but she was some miles on her way by this time, for Cavalier was fresh, and inclined for a sharp canter, and Maud kept him at full speed, for the pressure of those papers was a constant reminder that life or death hung upon their speedy delivery.

Whether it was the life of friend or foe she did not think. Whoever it was, he was dear to some heart doubtless—dear as Harry was to her, and that thought was enough to keep down all fatigue, and make her urge Cavalier forward whenever he seemed inclined to lag. It never occurred to her that if Prince Rupert's troops had driven the messenger so far out of the usual route, it would be impossible for her to escape them, neither did she think, even if she knew, the distance she had to travel. Hour after hour she urged her good horse forward, and as it was fine dry weather, the usual muddy, unkept roads were comparatively easy to travel, and she had accomplished a good portion of the journey before the evening closed in.

She halted at a little village where the people were in a terribly frightened condition on account of the doings of Prince Rupert in the neighbourhood. Some of his followers had fired a farm-house the night before, after carrying off all that they wanted; and the numbers of people—quiet dwellers in lonely houses—or travellers, whom his troopers had wantonly killed, were very numerous, it seemed, and there was great surprise that Maud should have undertaken such a journey.

Maud felt surprised herself, now that something of the excitement was over; she felt stiff and tired, too, with her long ride; and now these tales about Prince Rupert made her shudder with fear as she knelt down in the little strange bedroom to thank God for His mercy, and ask it too for Harry if he was still in this world. She prayed too that she might be kept through the remainder of her journey—that Prince Rupert might be kept from her road, and nothing be allowed to hinder her from reaching Oxford in time to save the lives of these unknown prisoners.

Then she laid down, and in total forgetfulness of Prince Rupert and his brutal troopers went to sleep, not waking until the morning, when she recommenced her journey in renewed hope, and with a calm trust in God's protecting care.

"ON, CAVALIER, ON!"

To Maud's great joy, the stately towers and ancient buildings of Oxford at length rose before her. As she rode into the principal street of the city she was met by a crowd of people who were talking loudly and eagerly, so that Maud had but little difficulty in making out the words. "Down with all parliament men! Shoot the traitors, and all the rebel army!" and many other speeches, convinced Maud something unusual had taken place, or was about to take place.

Her cheeks grew pale with anxious fear as the bridle of her horse was at length seized, and she was forced back against a wall; and then for the first time she noticed that a body of soldiers were drawing near, and beyond them marched a number of downcast-looking men, evidently prisoners. Could it be that they were already on their way to execution?—that the delivery of her papers would be too late to save them? This thought almost maddened her, and turning her horse's head, she said, "On, Cavalier, on!" and at the same moment drew out her packet, and held it high above her head.

"ON CAVALIER, ON!"

The effect of her words seemed magical—not upon her horse, but upon the soldiers by whom she was now surrounded. The officer in command bowed as she uttered the ringing words, "On, Cavalier, on!" and instead of turning her back to the wall, called upon his men to halt, while Maud passed through their midst, holding high the official-looking document which she thought had gained her this privilege, but which in reality the officer had hardly noticed.

Quite unconsciously, Maud had used their password in addressing her horse, and to this she owed it that she was allowed to pass through the ranks, the officer believing she came with orders from the King to those in charge of the prisoners. She heeded not the looks of the soldiers; indeed, she scarcely saw them, but rode straight on to where an officer stood waiting to demand her business, and why the cavalcade had been stopped.

Maud handed him her packet. "It concerneth the prisoners," she said, panting with excitement.

The officer took it from her hand, and rode back to another officer after glancing at the address, and Maud, then face to face with the pale, weary-looking prisoners, glanced at them for the first time. One was looking at her and her horse most earnestly, but she did not recognise him; and when the officer came back she rode on, wondering whether she had been in time to save them after all. The papers had been sent to the residence of the general in command, and they were still halting, to know the result of his reading them; and Maud was detained, lest she should be wanted too. They had not to wait long. In a few minutes a soldier rode up with a note from the general. The prisoners were to be taken back to their prison and the messenger released; and Maud was allowed to go on her way, while the whole cavalcade turned back, to the great disappointment of the Oxford crowd, who would fain have testified their loyalty to the King by making a holiday over the execution of these rebels.

Maud had no other care than to get out of the way of the crowd and the detachments of soldiers; but as soon as a by-street was gained, and she was left in comparative quiet, weariness and exhaustion almost overcame her, and for the first time she noticed that Cavalier had fallen lame with his exertions. To get back to Hayslope Grange, as she had at first intended, was therefore impossible, and she resolved to ask the hospitality of Mistress Stanhope for a few days. She hoped Master Drury was there, but of this she could not feel sure; but whether or no he was there, she must go, and she made instant inquiry of a bystander for Captain Stanhope's house. After some little difficulty she found it, and to her joy heard that Master Drury was there. He seemed much astonished to see Maud, and Mistress Stanhope was in no little alarm at her travel-stained appearance.

"Has the rebel army appeared before Hayslope?" he asked, anxiously.

"No," answered Maud, faintly smiling. "Nothing had happened to Hayslope when I left."

"Then wherefore hast thou come here?" asked Master Drury. "Has anything happened to Mistress Mabel or the children?"

"Nay, they are all well," said Maud. "I came as a messenger, to bring certain letters from London to the King."

"Marry, now be truthful, Mistress Maud," said Mary, "and tell us thou art come to see the gay city of Oxford."

"Nay, nay; I came not for that," said Maud. "I have ridden hard to reach here in time, so hard that Cavalier hath fallen lame with his journey, and needs rest more than I do."

"Then I will order Cavalier's rest and refreshment while Mary looketh to your wants," said Master Drury; and he went out at once, leaving the two ladies alone. Mistress Stanhope was proud to play the hostess to her old companion, and as soon as she had changed her dress, and had some refreshment, she insisted upon showing her new and fashionable house, in spite of Maud's evident weariness. At length she was allowed to take up a book and sit down in peace, for some other visitors had called, and Mary was obliged to go to them.

The book Maud had taken up was quite a new one, just published, and written by Master John Milton, a schoolmaster of London. It was a volume of poems, and Maud was soon absorbed in reading "Penseroso." Mary suddenly entering the room some time afterwards quite startled her, and the book slipped from her hand on to the floor. But Mary did not stay, she had only come for something to show her visitor; and as Maud picked up the book, she went out again, and did not see how pale Maud had suddenly grown, as she sat and stared at the inner cover of the book.

There was nothing very remarkable there,—only, "Mistress Stanhope, from an old friend. Oxford, 1645." But Maud knew that Harry's hand had traced those letters, and she wondered how it was he was at Oxford, and whether he was there now. When Mary came back Maud was still staring at her name in the book.

"Marry, what are you looking at?" asked the young matron, glancing over her shoulder.

"Harry wrote this?" gasped Maud.

"I suppose he did," coolly spoke Mary; "but he had the grace to conceal the fact that I was his sister."

Maud had noticed that he wrote "friend" instead of "brother."

"Why should he do this?" she said.

"Prithee, Maud, will you never see how he has disgraced our name?" said Mary, impatiently. "Nay, nay, you have not seen my father's misery since he hath been here, and how closely he hath kept himself shut up, lest any should hear his name."

"But why should he do this?" asked Maud.

"Why?" uttered Mary, "when all men are talking of the traitor rebel, Harry Drury, who was this day to be executed."

Her voice faltered as she said the last words, although she tried to appear unmoved as she added, "But the execution is postponed, I hear."

"Only postponed!" gasped Maud, who sat with widely staring eyes.

"The letters were to save their lives, I heard."

"What letters?" asked Mary.

"Those I brought from Hayslope, where the parliament messenger lies sorely wounded," said Maud.

Mary did not wait to hear more, but went to meet her husband, who was coming up the stairs. The gaily dressed officer bowed to Maud as he entered a few minutes afterwards, but she could see he looked annoyed.

"Good-morrow, lady messenger," he said. "You did but reach Oxford in time, and if you had been an hour later 'twere better for his Majesty, I trow."

"Prithee, tell me why?" said Maud.

"There would have been six stout-hearted rebels the less to fight against King Charles," said Captain Stanhope.

"Are the prisoners released?" asked Maud, with an exclamation of joy.

"Nay, nay, not yet; but we cannot afford to execute them, for the rebel army hath five thousand of our loyal troopers, and they propose to exchange some of these for the handful we have here in our prison, and Harry Drury is specially named as one of them—Harry Drury and Gilbert Clayton, whom Prince Rupert's men captured some time since."

To describe Maud's feelings when she heard how near Harry had been to an ignominious death would be impossible. For a time she could only bow her head in her hands, and weep out her thanksgiving to God for His great mercy; but by degrees the hope that she should soon see him gradually stole over her, until she recollected that Harry would scarcely venture to call upon them, even though he had seen her in the town; for she doubted not but that the prisoner who had looked at her so closely was Harry, although she had failed to recognise him.

When Master Drury came in soon afterwards, it was evident he had heard the news, although Harry's name was not mentioned.

"Maud," he said, drawing his chair close to hers as soon as they were left alone, "you heard that the King's cabinet had been captured at the battle of Naseby?"

Maud bowed. "Hath it been retaken?" she asked.

Master Drury shook his head. "Prithee, I would it had never existed," he said, "or that I knew not aught of it."

"Have you seen the King's letters?" asked Maud.

"All the world will see them shortly," sighed the gentleman. "The rebels have published some of his papers, calling it 'The King's Cabinet Opened.'"

"Then all the world will know what a just and gentle monarch he is," said Maud.

"Alas! they will see that what these rebels say of him is true; that he hath tried to sell his people to a foreign foe," groaned Master Drury. "All his doings with the Irish rebels, and his negotiations with foreign princes to bring troops over here, are given in these papers."

Maud started to her feet, flushed with indignation. "It is not true," she said. "It would be unkingly—beneath the majesty of our royal Charles. It is a fabrication of the Parliament rebels."

"I would fain think so if I could," sighed Master Drury; "but, Maud, I have heard from those who knew all the King's matters that these letters are true copies of what were in the cabinet."

Maud dropped into her seat as though she had been shot. "The King is false and untrue, then," she gasped, "and Harry is right after all."

"Hush, prithee, hush!" said Master Drury. "You know not what you say, Maud;" but he did not speak as though he were angry that Harry's name had been uttered.

"Marry, but I cannot hold my peace when true and noble men are risking their lives to fight for this false king," said Maud.

"I will not fight," quietly spoke Master Drury. "I will go back with you to Hayslope."

"Prithee, but you will see Harry before you leave Oxford?" said Maud, a faint colour stealing into her cheek as she spoke.

Master Drury was deeply moved. It was evident he was longing to see his son, but he said in a faint voice, "Nay, nay, I dare not see him. Mary Stanhope has spread the report that I have cast him off as a traitor rebel, and my loyalty to the King would be suspected if I were to see him now;" and he heaved a deep sigh as he spoke.

"But it is true that you think the King false?" said Maud. "Harry did the same, and avowed it."

Master Drury winced at the implied reproach. "Nay, nay, I cannot go so far as that," he said; "if I were I should be a rebel."

"Then you must be false to yourself to _seem+ true to the King," said Maud, boldly; "and that is why there are so many true and honest men among the rebels, and why they are so strong. It is not their hatred of oppression only, nor their wish to save England's liberties, as they say; but they cannot do otherwise if they would be true to themselves—true to God, who has said, 'Fear God,' first, and then 'Honour the king.'"

Maud was speaking for Harry, and that gave her courage, or she would never dared to have said so much to her guardian. But it was all in vain. Family honour demanded the sacrifice of principle—at least, so thought Master Drury—and he would not allow Maud to seek an interview with Harry, or claim acquaintance with the all but executed traitor.

MYSTERIES.

As soon as Maud had sufficiently rested she returned to Hayslope with Master Drury, who, now that he had made up his mind to do so, was all impatient to return home. His visit to Oxford had been a very painful one, for his faith in the King had been completely broken, and yet he had been forced to hear of his son's condemnation to an ignominious death, for principles he began dimly to see were right.

The last lingering remnants of loyalty forbade his seeking to see that son, as much as the fear of offending his son-in-law, and yet he longed to fold Harry in his arms and look in his face once more.

When the travellers reached Hayslope they found the villagers in a wildly excited state. Many of their relatives who had been fighting at Naseby were held prisoners by the Parliament, and of course could not return home this winter; and lads too young to serve as soldiers, and the women, with Martin the blacksmith at their head, were wildly clamouring for the destruction of the Parliament and all the rebels. The poor wounded messenger had most mysteriously disappeared, Maud heard, but on questioning some of them more closely, it seemed that he had more than once been threatened by Martin, if he would not swear to serve the King, while he stoutly refused, and at last he left the village with his wound only half healed.

Poor old Dame Coppins was of course accused of having some hand in this business. Without the help of witchcraft the man could not have escaped, the women said, and for once Maud felt thankful to the unknown witch, whoever she might be, who had done this service. She believed in witchcraft almost as fully as the ignorant villagers, but she did not believe Dame Coppins was a witch simply because she did not choose to tell all the village her business—where she had come from, and what had induced her to take the lonely cottage outside Hayslope,—and this was the only reason they had for supposing her a witch.

Maud had tried to reason them out of this, had told them she was a poor widow who had seen a great deal of trouble, and preferred a solitary life; that she loved the Bible and feared God as much as any of them; but it was all of no avail. That any one could exist without gossip was to them impossible to understand, and they shook their heads sadly, and thought Maud bewitched herself when she talked about Dame Coppins.

So the cottage in the lane was as lonely as ever, in spite of the patronage extended to the widow by Maud and the two children at the Grange.

For a day or two after her return Maud was not able to go to the cottage, for Master Drury had scarcely reached home when he was taken seriously ill, and Mistress Mabel's herbs and decoctions failed to relieve his sickness for some time. Bertram and Bessie, however, went each day, and brought back the report that the widow had seemed very joyful when she heard that Maud had returned, and that her errand had been so successful as to gain the prisoners their freedom.

Maud smiled when she heard this. "Marry, but their freedom is not gained yet," she said, with something of a sigh.

"Dame Coppins says they are free, and on their way to London," said Bessie.

Maud opened her eyes. Was the old woman a witch after all? Bertram's next words quite confirmed her in this wild notion. "Maud," he said in a whisper, "do you know that Harry was one of the prisoners."

"Who told you so?" asked Maud, quickly, for it had been agreed that this intelligence should not reach the children, or even Mistress Mabel.

"Dame Coppins told me," replied Bertram; "she said he would have been shot if you had not gone to Oxford with those papers," he added.

Maud actually shuddered with horror as the boy said this. "Bertram, you must not go to Dame Coppins again," she said, quickly.

"Why not?" asked Bertram, in surprise.

"Prithee, I scarce can tell you, but—but you will keep it quite a secret, Bertram, even from Bessie," said Maud—"this dreadful thing I am going to tell you."

Bertram nodded. "Isn't she a good old woman?" he asked.

"Bertie, she's a witch," whispered Maud, in a tone of horror.

Bertram started back pale with fright. "I don't believe it, Maud," he said: "she couldn't talk about God taking care of Harry, and pray for Him to do it, if she was a wicked old witch. I do believe God took you safe to Oxford in time because she prayed so much about it, and that He's kept Harry safe in all the battles, that he might come home to us again in answer to Dame Coppins's prayers."

Bertram spoke quickly, almost passionately, but Maud only shook her head sadly. "I thought she was a good woman," she said, "but how could she know what happened at Oxford if she was not a witch? Nobody here knows that Harry was in prison—not even Mistress Mabel or the servants, so that no one could tell her about it."

But Bertram was still unwilling to believe in Dame Coppins's wickedness, until Maud said pettishly, "I do believe she has bewitched you, Bertie, and you must not go to see her again."

"But I will go," said Bertram, beginning to lose his temper.

"Then I shall ask Mistress Mabel to forbid you going beyond the moat," said Maud.

This threat, which Bertram knew she would put into execution, made him give the required promise not to go and see Dame Coppins until Maud had discovered who had told her about Harry; which Maud feeling sure was a dark mystery, that no one would ever be able to penetrate, made up her mind not to try, now that she had extorted this promise from Bertram.

Some thoughts of the poor old woman's anxiety troubled her after she left Bertram, and she wondered what effect their neglect might have upon the mind of the villagers; but on this she resolved to keep eyes and ears alike open whenever she went amongst them, so that she might protect her from violence should any be attempted or contemplated.

But it seemed that the people had forgotten the witch in their rage against the "Parliament rebels," and Maud could not discover whether the old woman was being supplied with food or not; and very soon the fear that she would be starved to death began to take possession of her mind. To satisfy herself upon this point she resolved to walk down the lane late one afternoon, when she would not be expected. Before she had reached the cottage, however, she saw a litter borne between two men carried into the garden, and then from this was lifted what looked like a huge roll of cloth, and taken into the house, while Dame Coppins came and looked all round to make sure no one was in the lane. She did not see Maud, for she had concealed herself behind a tree, but the young lady had a good view of the old woman's face, and saw that there was little fear of her dying of starvation yet. As soon as she could she slipped out of her hiding-place and walked quickly up the lane. She was afraid of going near the cottage now, and she wondered what fresh wickedness Dame Coppins had been at. No wonder the people were afraid of her when such mysterious doings as that were going on.

Maud thought she had more than sufficient evidence to prove that Dame Coppins was a witch now, and began seriously to consider whether she ought not to inform against her; and she might have done this, only Master Drury was taken ill again. Maud began to think this must be the witch's work, when all Mistress Mabel's remedies failed, but she dared not say so, for fear the servants should tell the villagers, and they should attempt to drown her again; and so she suggested that a physician should be sent for to see her guardian. Mistress Mabel looked scornful at first, but finally relented, and a boy was despatched to the town, and returned with the grave-looking doctor, in plumed hat, scarlet cloak, and immense ruffles at his wrists. He looked grand enough to do anything if grandeur would do it, but he shook his head when he heard all Master Drury's ailments. Beyond this he would not commit himself, and so very little information was gained from his visit, and they could only wait in hope that his medicine would soon effect some improvement on the patient.

Meanwhile news had arrived that Prince Rupert had been compelled to surrender Bristol and several other places in the west, and that another battle disastrous to Charles had been fought at Rowton Moor. The King had been completely defeated, and compelled to retire to Oxford for the winter, and Captain Stanhope and his wife were coming to Hayslope. This was the news brought by one or two of the men who came back to the village to tell of the death or imprisonment of others who had gone forth with them that sweet spring day a few months before. So the winter came in gloomy enough, and men grew fiercer each day about the strife that was raging in the land. In Hayslope all the rage was against the London Parliament, and many vowed that if one of Cromwell's troopers showed himself there he should be killed, whoever he might be. This threat did not disturb Maud much, even if she heard it, for she did not think it was likely any of the Parliament men would come there, and she could only feel glad that the messenger had gone away before the arrival of these half-frenzied men. She still visited occasionally among the villagers, and contributed to their wants as far as she could; but a good deal of her time was occupied with Master Drury now, and Dame Coppins was almost forgotten, apparently.

She was therefore greatly surprised one day to receive a message from a village lad, saying she was wanted down the lane. She had no doubt who wanted her, but she did not intend going; she would not give Dame Coppins the opportunity of bewitching her any more; and so merely saying, "Prithee, I will think about it," she walked home as fast as she could.

That evening, about six o'clock, just as they were about to assemble for supper, one of the maids came to her and whispered that she was wanted; a man, who refused to say who he was or where he came from, demanded to see her.

Maud shivered: such mysterious messages were disagreeable, and she was just about to say she would not go, when Mistress Mabel appearing in the passage settled the matter; for had she heard her refuse, there would have been an instant inquiry, and the lady would not have rested until she found out all about the supposed witch and Maud's charities in the village.

So to prevent this she threw a cloak over her head, and followed the maid, without speaking, to where a muffled figure stood outside the door. She had only stepped off the threshold, when a gust of wind blew the door close, and at the same moment her wrist was seized, and she was dragged away from the house; and before she could even scream, or give any alarm, she was lifted on to a horse, and the man sprang up before her, and galloped away into the village.