CHAPTER XXI.
The winter set in very severe, and the falls of snow were very heavy and frequent. It was fortunate that Humphrey had been so provident in making so large a quantity of hay, or the stock would have been starved. The flock of goats, in a great part, subsisted themselves on the bark of trees and moss; at night they had some hay given to them, and they did very well. It was hardly possible for Edward to come over to see his brother and sisters, for the snow was so deep as to render such a long journey too fatiguing for a horse. Twice or thrice after the snow fell, he contrived to get over; but after that they knew it was impossible, and they did not expect him. Humphrey and Pablo had little to do except attending to the stock, and cutting firewood to keep up their supply, for they now burned it very fast. The snow lay several feet high round the cottage, being driven against it by the wind. They had kept a passage clear to the yard, and had kept the yard as clear of snow as possible: they could do no more. A sharp frost and clear weather succeeded to the snow-storms, and there appeared no chance of the snow melting away. The nights were dark and long, and their oil for their lamp was getting low. Humphrey was anxious to go to Lymington, as they required many things but it was impossible to go any where except on foot, and walking was, from the depth of the snow, a most fatiguing exercise. There was one thing, however, that Humphrey had not forgotten, which was, that he had told Edward that he would try and capture some of the forest ponies; and during the whole of the time since the heavy fall of snow had taken place he had been making his arrangements. The depth of the snow prevented the animals from obtaining any grass, and they were almost starved, as they could find nothing to subsist upon except the twigs and branches of trees which they could reach. Humphrey went out with Pablo, and found the herd, which was about five miles from the cottage, and near to Clara's cottage. He and Pablo brought with them as much hay as they could carry, and strewed it about, so as to draw the ponies nearer to them, and then Humphrey looked for a place which would answer his purpose. About three miles from the cottage, he found what he thought would suit him; there was a sort of avenue between the two thickets, about a hundred yards wide; and the wind blowing through this avenue, during the snow-storm, had drifted the snow at one end of it, and right across it raised a large mound several feet high. By strewing small bundles of hay, he drew the herd of ponies into this avenue; and in the avenue he left them a good quantity to feed upon every night for several nights, till at last the herd of ponies went there every morning.
"Now, Pablo, we must make a trial," said Humphrey. "You must get your lassoes ready, in case they should be required. We must go to the avenue before daylight, with the two dogs, tie one upon one side of the avenue and the other on the other, that they may bark and prevent the ponies from attempting to escape through the thicket. Then we must get the ponies between us and the drift of snow which lies across the avenue, and try if we can not draw them into the drift. If so, they will plunge in so deep that some of them will not be able to get out before we have thrown the ropes round their necks."
"I see," said Pablo; "very good—soon catch them."
Before daylight they went with the dogs and a large bundle of hay, which they strewed nearer to the mound of drift-snow. They then tied the dogs up on each side, ordering them to lie down and be quiet. They then walked through the thicket so as not to be perceived, until they considered that they were far enough from the drift-snow. About daylight, the herd came to pick up the hay as usual, and after they had passed them Humphrey and Pablo followed in the thicket, not wishing to show themselves till the last moment. While the ponies were busy with the hay, they suddenly ran out into the avenue and separated, so as to prevent the ponies from attempting to gallop past them. Shouting as loud they could, as they ran up to the ponies, and calling to the dogs, who immediately set up barking on each side, the ponies, alarmed at the noise and the appearance of Humphrey and Pablo, naturally set off in the only direction which appeared to them to be clear, and galloped away over the mound of drift-snow, with their tails streaming, snorting and plunging in the snow as they hurried along; but as soon as they arrived at the mound of drift-snow, they plunged first up to their bellies, and afterward, as they attempted to force their way where the snow was deeper, many of them stuck fast altogether, and attempted to clear themselves in vain. Humphrey and Pablo, who had followed them as fast as they could run, now came up with them and threw the lasso over the neck of one, and ropes with slip-nooses over two more, which were floundering in the snow there together. The remainder of the herd, after great exertions, got clear of the snow by turning round and galloping back through the avenue. The three ponies captured made a furious struggle, but by drawing the ropes tight round their necks they were choked, and soon unable to move. They then tied their fore-legs, and loosed the ropes round their necks, that they might recover their breath.
"Got them now, Massa Humphrey," said Pablo.
"Yes; but our work is not yet over, Pablo; we must get them home; how shall we manage that?"
"Suppose they no eat to-day and to-morrow, get very tame."
"I believe that will be the best way; they can not get loose again, do all they can."
"No, sir; but get one home to-day. This very fine pony; suppose we try him."
Pablo then put the halter on, and tied the end short to the fore-leg of the pony, so that it could not walk without keeping its head close to the ground—if it raised its head, it was obliged to lift up its leg. Then he put the lasso round its neck, to choke it if it was too unruly, and having done that, he cast loose the ropes which had tied its fore-legs together.
"Now, Massa Humphrey, we get him home somehow. First I go loose the dogs; he 'fraid of the dogs, and run t'other way."
The pony, which was an iron-gray and very handsome, plunged furiously and kicked behind, but it could not do so without falling down, which it did several times before Pablo returned with the dogs. Humphrey held one part of the lasso on one side, and Pablo on the other, keeping the pony between them; and with the dogs barking at it behind, they contrived, with a great deal of exertion and trouble, to get the pony to the cottage. The poor animal, driven in this way on three legs, and every now and then choked with the lasso, was covered with foam before they arrived. Billy was turned out of his stable to make room for the new-comer, who was fastened securely to the manger and then left without food, that he might become tame. It was too late then, and they were too tired themselves to go for the other two ponies; so they were left lying on the snow all night, and the next morning they found they were much tamer than the first; and during the day, following the same plan, they were both brought to the stable and secured alongside of the other. One was a bay pony with black legs, and the other a brown one. The bay pony was a mare, and the other two horses. Alice and Edith were delighted with the new ponies, and Humphrey was not a little pleased that he had succeeded in capturing them, after what had passed between Edward and him. After two days' fasting, the poor animals were so tame that they ate out of Pablo's hand, and submitted to be stroked and caressed; and before they were a fortnight in the stable, Alice and Edith could go up to them without danger. They were soon broken in; for the yard being full of muck, Pablo took them into it and mounted them. They plunged and kicked at first, and tried all they could to get rid of him, but they sunk so deep into the muck that they were soon tired out; and after a month, they were all three tolerably quiet to ride.
The snow was so deep all over the country that there was little
communication with the metropolis. The intendant's letters spoke of
King Charles raising another army in Holland, and that his adherents in
England were preparing to join him as soon at he marched southward.
"I think, Edward," said the intendant, "that the king's affairs do now wear a more promising aspect; but there is plenty of time yet. I know your anxiety to serve your king, and I can not blame it. I shall not prevent your going, although, of course, I must not appear to be cognizant of your having so done. When the winter breaks up I shall send you to London. You will then be better able to judge of what is going on, and your absence will not create any suspicion; but you must be guided by me."
"I certainly will, sir," replied Edward. "I should, indeed, like to strike one blow for the king, come what will."
"All depends upon whether they manage affairs well in Scotland; but there is so much jealousy and pride, and, I fear, treachery also, that it is hard to say how matters may end."
It was soon after this conversation that a messenger arrived from
London with letters, announcing that King Charles had been crowned in
Scotland, with great solemnity and magnificence.
"The plot thickens," said the intendant; "and by this letter from my correspondent, Ashley Cooper, I find that the king's army is well appointed, and that David Lesley is lieutenant-general; Middleton commands the horse, and Wemyss the artillery. That Wemyss is certainly a good officer, but was not true to the late king: may he behave better to the present! Now, Edward, I shall send you to London, and I will give you letters to those who will advise you how to proceed. You may take the black horse; he will bear you well. You will of course write to me, for Sampson will go with you, and you can send him back when you consider that you do not require or wish for his presence: there is no time to be lost, for, depend upon it, Cromwell, who is still at Edinburgh, will take the field as soon as he can. Are you ready to start to-morrow morning?"
"Yes, sir, quite ready."
"I fear that you can not go over to the cottage to bid farewell to your sisters; but, perhaps, it is better that you should not."
"I think so too, sir," replied Edward; "now that the snow has nearly disappeared, I did think of going over, having been so long absent, but I must send Oswald over instead."
"Well, then, leave me to write my letters, and do you prepare your saddle-bags. Patience and Clara will assist you. Tell Sampson to come to me."
Edward went to Patience and Clara, and told them that he was to set off for London on the following morning, and was about to make his preparations.
"How long do you remain, Edward?" inquired Patience.
"I can not tell; Sampson goes with me, and I must, of course, be guided by your father. Do you know where the saddle-bags are, Patience?"
"Yes; Phoebe shall bring them to your room."
"And you and Clara must come and give me your assistance."
"Certainly we will, if you require it; but I did not know that your wardrobe was so extensive."
"You know that it is any thing but extensive, Patience; but that is the reason why your assistance is more required. A small wardrobe ought at least to be in good order; and what I would require is, that you would look over the linen, and where it requires a little repair, you will bestow upon it your charity."
"That we will do, Clara;" replied Patience; "so get your needles and thread, and let us send him to London with whole linen. We will come when we are ready, sir."
"I don't like his going to London at all," said Clara, "we shall be so lonely when he is gone."
Edward had left the room, and having obtained the saddlebags from Phoebe had gone up to his chamber. The first thing that he laid hold of was his father's sword; he took it down, and having wiped it carefully, he kissed it, saying, "God grant that I may do credit to it, and prove as worthy to wield it as was my brave father!" He had uttered these words aloud; and again taking the sword, and laying it down on the bed, turned round, and perceived that Patience had, unknown to him, entered the room, and was standing close to him. Edward was not conscious that he had spoken aloud, and therefore merely said, "I was not aware of your presence, Patience. Your foot is so light."
"Whose sword is that, Edward?"
"It is mine; I bought it at Lymington."
"But what makes you have such an affection for that sword?"
"Affection for it?"
"Yes; as I came into the room you kissed it as fervently as—"
"As a lover would his mistress, I presume you would say," replied
Edward.
"Nay, I meant not to use such vain words. I was about to say, as a devout Catholic would a relic. I ask you again, Why so? A sword is but a sword. You are about to leave this on a mission of my father's. You are not a soldier, about to engage in strife and war; if you were, why kiss your sword?"
"I will tell you. I do love this sword. I purchased it, as I told you, at Lymington, and they told me that it belonged to Colonel Beverley. It is for his sake that I love it. You know what obligations our family were under to him."
"This sword was then wielded by Colonel Beverley, the celebrated Cavalier, was it?" said Patience, taking it off the bed, and examining it.
"Yes, it was; and here, you see, are his initials upon the hilt."
"And why do you take it to London with you? Surely it is not the weapon which should be worn by a secretary, Edward; it is too large and cumbrous, and out of character."
"Recollect, that till these last few months I have been a forester, Patience, and not a secretary. Indeed, I feel that I am more fit for active life than the situation which your father's kindness has bestowed upon me. I was brought up, as you have heard, to follow to the wars, had my patron lived."
Patience made no reply. Clara now joined them, and they commenced the task of examining the linen; and Edward left the room, as he wished to speak with Oswald. They did not meet again till dinner time. Edward's sudden departure had spread a gloom over them all—even the intendant was silent and thoughtful. In the evening he gave Edward the letters which he had written, and a considerable sum of money, telling him where he was to apply if he required more for his expenses. The intendant cautioned him on his behavior in many points, and also relative to his dress and carriage during his stay in the metropolis.
"If you should leave London, there will be no occasion—nay, it would be dangerous to write to me. I shall take it for granted that you will retain Sampson till your departure, and when he returns here I shall presume that you have gone north. I will not detain you longer, Edward: may Heaven bless and protect you!"
So saying, the intendant went away to his own room.
"Kind and generous man!" thought Edward; "how much did I mistake you when we first met!"
Taking up the letters and bag of money, which still remained on the table, Edward went to his room, and having placed the letters and money in the saddle-bag, he commended himself to the Divine Protector, and retired to rest.
Before daylight, the sound of Sampson's heavy traveling-boots below roused up Edward, and he was soon dressed. Taking his saddle-bags on his arm, he walked softly down stairs, that he might not disturb any of the family; but when he was passing the sitting-room, he perceived that there was a light in it, and, on looking in, that Patience was up and dressed. Edward looked surprised, and was about to speak, when Patience said—
"I rose early, Edward, because, when I took leave of you last night, I forgot a little parcel that I wanted to give you before you went. It will not take much room, and may beguile a weary hour. It is a little book of meditations. Will you accept it, and promise me to read it when you have time?"
"I certainly will, my dear Patience—if I may venture on the expression—read it, and think of you."
"Nay, you must read it, and think of what it contains," replied
Patience.
"I will, then. I shall not need the book to remind me of Patience
Heatherstone, I assure you."
"And now, Edward, I do not pretend to surmise the reason of your departure, nor would it be becoming in me to attempt to discover what my father thinks proper to be silent upon; but I must beg you to promise one thing."
"Name it, dear Patience," replied Edward; "my heart is so full at the thought of leaving you, that I feel I can refuse you nothing."
"It is this: I have a presentiment, I know not why, that you are about to encounter danger. If so, be prudent—be prudent for the sake of your dear sisters—be prudent for the sake of all your friends, who would regret you—promise me that."
"I do promise you, most faithfully, Patience, that I will ever have my sisters and you in my thoughts, and will not be rash under any circumstances."
"Thank you, Edward; may God bless you and preserve you!"
Edward first kissed Patience's hand, that was held in his own; but, perceiving the tears starting in her eyes, he kissed them off, without any remonstrance on her part, and then left the room. In a few moments more he was mounted on a fine, powerful black horse, and, followed by Sampson, on his road to London.
We will pass over the journey, which was accomplished without any event worthy of remark. Edward had, from the commencement, called Sampson to his side, that he might answer the questions he had to make upon all that he saw, and which, the reader must be aware, was quite new to one whose peregrinations had been confined to the New Forest and the town adjacent. Sampson was a very powerful man, of a cool and silent character, by no means deficient in intelligence, and trustworthy withal. He had long been a follower of the intendant, and had served in the army. He was very devout, and generally, when not addressed, was singing hymns in a low voice.
On the evening of the second day, they were close to the metropolis, and Sampson pointed out to Edward St. Paul's Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, and other objects worthy of note.
"And where are we to lodge, Sampson?" inquired Edward.
"The best hotel that I know of for man and beast is the 'Swan with Three Necks,' in Holborn. It is not over-frequented by roisterers, and you will there be quiet, and, if your affairs demand it, unobserved."
"That will suit me, Sampson: I wish to observe and not be observed, during my stay in London."
Before dark they had arrived at the hotel, and the horses were in the stable. Edward had procured an apartment to his satisfaction, and, feeling fatigued with his two days' traveling, had gone to bed.
The following morning he examined the letters which had been given to him by the intendant, and inquired of Sampson if he could direct him on his way. Sampson knew London well; and Edward set out to Spring Gardens, to deliver a letter, which the intendant informed him was confidential, to a person of the name of Langton. Edward knocked and was ushered in, Sampson taking a seat in the hall, while Edward was shown into a handsomely-furnished library, where he found himself in the presence of a tall, spare man, dressed after the fashion of the Roundheads of the time. He presented the letter. Mr. Langton bowed, and requested Edward to sit down; and, after Edward had taken a chair, he then seated himself and opened the letter.
"You are right welcome, Master Armitage," said Mr. Langton; "I find that, young as you appear to be, you are in the whole confidence of our mutual friend, Master Heatherstone. He hints at your being probably obliged to take a journey to the north, and that you will be glad to take charge of any letters which I may have to send in that direction. I will have them ready for you; and, in case of need, they will be such as will give a coloring to your proceeding, provided you may not choose to reveal your true object. How wears our good friend Heatherstone and his daughter?"
"Quite well, sir."
"And he told me in one of his former letters that he had the daughter of our poor friend Ratcliffe with him. Is it not so?"
"It is, Master Langton; and a gentle, pretty child as you would wish to see."
"When did you arrive in London?"
"Yesterday evening, sir."
"And do you purpose any stay?"
"That I can not answer, sir; I must be guided by your advice. I have naught to do here, unless it be to deliver some three or four letters, given me by Mr. Heatherstone."
"It is my opinion, Master Armitage, that the less you are seen in this city the better; there are hundreds employed to find out new-comers, and to discover, from their people, or by other means, for what purpose they may have come; for you must be aware, Master Armitage, that the times are dangerous, and people's minds are various. In attempting to free ourselves from what we considered despotism, we have created for ourselves a worse despotism, and one that is less endurable. It is to be hoped that what has passed will make not only kings but subjects wiser than they have been. Now, what do you propose—to leave this instantly?"
"Certainly, if you think it advisable."
"My advice, then, is to leave London immediately. I will give you letters to some friends of mine in Lancashire and Yorkshire; in either county you can remain unnoticed, and make what preparations you think necessary. But do nothing in haste—consult well, and be guided by them, who will, if it is considered advisable and prudent, join with you in your project. I need say no more. Call upon me to-morrow morning, an hour before noon, and I will have letters ready for you."
Edward rose to depart, and thanked Mr. Langton for his kindness.
"Farewell, Master Armitage," said Langton; "to-morrow, at the eleventh hour!"
Edward then quitted the house, and delivered the other letters of credence; the only one of importance at the moment was the one of credit; the others were to various members of the Parliament, desiring them to know Master Armitage as a confidential friend of the intendant, and, in case of need, to exert their good offices in his behalf. The letter of credit was upon a Hamburgh merchant, who asked Edward if he required money. Edward replied that he did not at present, but that he had business to do for his employer in the north, and might require some when there, if it was possible to obtain it so far from London.
"When do you set out, and to what town do you go?"
"That I can not well tell until to-morrow."
"Call before you leave this, and I will find some means of providing for you as you wish."
Edward then returned to the hotel. Before he went to bed, he told Sampson that he found that he had to leave London on Mr. Heatherstone's affairs, and might be absent some time; he concluded by observing that he did not consider it necessary to take him with him, as he could dispense with his services, and Mr. Heatherstone would be glad to have him back.
"As you wish, sir," replied Sampson. "When am I to go back?"
"You may leave to-morrow as soon as you please. I have no letter to send. You may tell them that I am well, and will write as soon as I have any thing positive to communicate."
Edward then made Sampson a present, and wished him a pleasant journey.
At the hour appointed on the following day, Edward repaired to Mr.
Langton, who received him very cordially.
"I am all ready for you, Master Armitage; there is a letter to two Catholic ladies in Lancashire, who will take great care of you; and here is one to a friend of mine in Yorkshire. The ladies live about four miles from the town of Bolton, and my Yorkshire friend in the city of York. You may trust to any of them. And now, farewell; and, if possible, leave London before nightfall—the sooner the better. Where is your servant?"
"He has returned to Master Heatherstone this morning."
"You have done right. Lose no time to leave London; and don't be in a hurry in your future plans. You understand me. If any one accosts you on the road, put no trust in any professions. You, of course, are going down to your relations in the north. Have you pistols?"
"Yes, sir; I have a pair which did belong to the unfortunate Mr.
Ratcliffe."
"Then they are good ones, I'll answer for it; no man was more particular about his weapons, or knew how to use them better. Farewell, Master Armitage, and may success attend you!"
Mr. Langton held out his hand to Edward, who respectfully took his leave.
CHAPTER XXII.
Edward was certain that Mr. Langton would not have advised him to leave London if he had not considered that it was dangerous to remain. He therefore first called upon the Hamburgh merchant, who, upon his explanation, gave him a letter of credit to a friend who resided in the city of York; and then returned to the hotel, packed up his saddle-bags, paid his reckoning, and, mounting his horse, set off on the northern road. As it was late in the afternoon before he was clear of the metropolis, he did not proceed farther than Barnet, where he pulled up at the inn. As soon as he had seen his horse attended to, Edward, with his saddle-bags on his arm, went into the room in the inn where all the travelers congregated. Having procured a bed, and given his saddle-bags into the charge of the hostess, he sat down by the fire, which, although it was warm weather, was nevertheless kept alight.
Edward had made no alteration in the dress which he had worn since he had been received in the house of Mr. Heatherstone. It was plain, although of good materials. He wore a high-crowned hat, and, altogether, would, from his attire, have been taken for one of the Roundhead party. His sword and shoulder-belt were indeed of more gay appearance than those usually worn by the Roundheads; but this was the only difference.
When Edward first entered the room, there were three persons in it, whose appearance was not very prepossessing. They were dressed in what had once been gay attire, but which now exhibited tarnished lace, stains of wine, arid dust from traveling. They eyed him as he entered with his saddle-bags, and one of them said—
"That's a fine horse you were riding, sir. Has he much speed?"
"He has," replied Edward, as he turned away and went into the bar to speak with the hostess, and give his property into her care.
"Going north, sir?" inquired the same person when Edward returned.
"Not exactly," replied Edward, walking to the window to avoid further conversation.
"The Roundhead is on the stilts," observed another of the party.
"Yes," replied the first; "it is easy to see that he has not been accustomed to be addressed by gentlemen; for half a pin I would slit his ears!"
Edward did not choose to reply; he folded his arms and looked at the man with contempt.
The hostess, who had overheard the conversation, now called for her husband, and desired him to go into the room and prevent any further insults to the young gentleman who had just come in. The host, who knew the parties, entered the room, and said—
"Now you'll clear out of this as fast as you can; be off with you, and go to the stables, or I'll send for somebody whom you will not like."
The three men rose and swaggered, but obeyed the host's orders, and left the room.
"I am sorry, young master, that these roisterers should have affronted you, as my wife tells me that they have. I did not know that they were in the house. We can not well refuse to take in their horses; but we know well who they are, and, if you are traveling far, you had better ride in company."
"Thank you for your caution, my good host," replied Edward; "I thought that they were highwaymen, or something of that sort."
"You have made a good guess, sir; but nothing has yet been proved against them, or they would not be here. In these times we have strange customers, and hardly know who we take in. You have a good sword there, sir, I have no doubt; but I trust that you have other arms."
"I have," replied Ed ward, opening his doublet, and showing his pistols.
"That's right, sir. Will you take any thing before you go to bed?"
"Indeed I will, for I am hungry; any thing will do, with a pint of wine."
As soon as he had supped, Edward asked the hostess for his saddle-bags, and went up to his bed.
Early the next morning he rose and went to the stable to see his horse fed. The three men were in the stables, but they did not say any thing to him. Edward returned to the inn, called for breakfast, and as soon as he had finished, took out his pistols to renew the priming. While so occupied, he happened to look up, and perceived one of the men with his face against the window, watching him. "Well, now you see what you have to expect, if you try your trade with me," thought Edward. "I am very glad that you have been spying." Having replaced his pistols, Edward paid his reckoning, and went to the stable, desiring the hostler to saddle his horse and fix on his saddle-bags. As soon as this was done, he mounted and rode off. Before he was well clear of the town, the highwaymen cantered past him on three well-bred active horses. "I presume we shall meet again," thought Edward, who for some time cantered at a gentle pace, and then, as his horse was very fresh, he put him to a faster pace, intending to do a long day's work. He had ridden about fifteen miles, when he came to a heath, and, as he continued at a fast trot, he perceived the three highwaymen about a quarter of a mile in advance of him; they were descending a hill which was between them, and he soon lost sight of them again. Edward now pulled up his horse to let him recover his wind, and walked him gently up the hill. He had nearly gained the summit when he heard the report of firearms, and soon afterward a man on horseback, in full speed, galloped over the hill toward him. He had a pistol in his hand, and his head turned back. The reason for this was soon evident, as immediately after him appeared the three highwaymen in pursuit. One fired his pistol at the man who fled, and missed him. The man then fired in return, and with true aim, as one of the highwaymen fell. All this was so sudden, that Edward had hardly time to draw his pistol and put spurs to his horse, before the parties were upon him, and were passing him. Edward leveled at the second highwayman as he passed him, and the man fell. The third highwayman, perceiving this, turned his horse to the side of the road, cleared a ditch, and galloped away across the heath. The man who had been attacked had pulled up his horse when Edward came to his assistance, and now rode up to him, saying,
"I have to thank you, sir, for your timely aid; for these rascals were too many for me."
"You are not hurt, I trust, sir?" replied Edward. "No, not the least; the fellow singed my curls though, as you may perceive. They attacked me about half a mile from here. I was proceeding north when I heard the clatter of hoofs behind me; I looked round and saw at once what they were, and I sprung my horse out of the road to a thicket close to it, that they might not surround me. One of the three rode forward to stop my passage, and the other two rode round to the back of the thicket to get behind me. I then saw that I had separated them, and could gain a start upon them by riding back again, which I did, as fast as I could, and they immediately gave chase. The result you saw. Between us we have broken up the gang; for both these fellows seem dead, or nearly so."
"What shall we do with them?"
"Leave them where they are," replied the stranger. "I am in a hurry to get on. I have important business at the city of York, and can not waste my time in depositions, and such nonsense. It is only two scoundrels less in the world, and there's an end of the matter."
As Edward was equally anxious to proceed, he agreed with the stranger, that it was best to do as he proposed.
"I am also going north," replied Edward, "and am anxious to get there as soon as I can."
"With your permission we will ride together," said the stranger. "I shall be the gainer, as I shall feel that I have one with me who is to be trusted to in case of any further attacks during our journey."
There was such a gentlemanlike, frank, and courteous air about the stranger, that Edward immediately assented to his proposal, of their riding in company for mutual protection. He was a powerful, well-made man, of apparently about one or two-and-twenty, remarkably handsome in person, dressed richly, but not gaudily, in the Cavalier fashion, and wore a hat with a feather. As they proceeded, they entered into conversation on indifferent matters for some time, neither party attempting by any question to discover who his companion might be. Edward had more than once, when the conversation flagged for a minute, considered what reply he should give in case his companion should ask him the cause of his journey, and at last had made up his mind what to say.
A little before noon they pulled up to bait their horses at a small village; the stranger observing that he avoided St. Alban's, and all other large towns, as he did not wish to satisfy the curiosity of people, or to have his motions watched; and therefore, if Edward had no objection, he knew the country so well, that he could save time by allowing him to direct their path. Edward was, as may be supposed, very agreeable to this, and, during their whole journey, they never entered a town, except they rode through it after dark; and put up at humble inns on the roadside, where, if not quite so well attended to, at all events they were free from observation.
It was, however, impossible that this reserve could continue long, as they became more and more intimate every day. At last the stranger said,
"Master Armitage, we have traveled together for some time, interchanging thoughts and feelings, but with due reserve as respects ourselves and our own plans. Is this to continue? If so, of course you have but to say so; but if you feel inclined to trust me, I have the same feeling toward you. By your dress I should imagine that you belonged to a party to which I am opposed; but your language and manners do not agree with your attire; and I think a hat and feathers would grace that head better than the steeple-crowned affair which now covers it. It may be that the dress is only assumed as a disguise: you know best. However, as I say, I feel confidence in you, to whatever party you may belong, and I give you credit for your prudence and reserve in these troubled times. I am a little older than you, and may advise you; and I am indebted to you, and can not therefore betray you—at least I trust you believe so."
"I do believe it," replied Edward; "and I will so far answer you, Master Chaloner, that this attire of mine is not the one which I would wear, if I had my choice."
"I believe that," replied Chaloner; "and I can not help thinking you are bound north on the same business as myself, which is, I confess to you honestly, to strike a blow for the king. If you are on the same errand, I have two old relations in Lancashire, who are stanch to the cause; and I am going to their house to remain until I can join the army. If you wish it, you shall come with me, and I will promise you kind treatment and safety while under their roof."
"And the names of these relatives of yours, Master Chaloner?" said
Edward.
"Nay, you shall have them; for when I trust, I trust wholly. Their name is Conynghame."
Edward took his letters from out of his side-pocket, and handed one of them to his fellow-traveler. The address was, "To the worthy Mistress Conynghame, of Portlake, near Bolton, county of Lancashire."
"It is to that address that I am going myself," said Edward, smiling.
"Whether it is the party you refer to, you best know."
Chaloner burst out with a loud laugh.
"This is excellent! Two people meet, both bound on the same business, both going to the same rendezvous, and for three days do not venture to trust each other."
"The times require caution," replied Edward, as he replaced his letter.
"You are right," answered Chaloner, "and you are of my opinion. I know now that you have both prudence and courage. The first quality has been scarcer with us Cavaliers than the last; however, now, all reserve is over, at least on my part."
"And on mine also," replied Edward. Chaloner then talked about the chances of the war. He stated that King Charles's army was in a good state of discipline, and well found in everything; that there were hundreds in England who would join it, as soon as it had advanced far enough into England; and that every thing wore a promising appearance.
"My father fell at the battle of Naseby, at the head of his retainers," said Chaloner, after a pause; "and they have contrived to fine the property, so that it has dwindled from thousands down to hundreds. Indeed, were it not for my good old aunts, who will leave me their estates, and who now supply me liberally, I should be but a poor gentleman."
"Your father fell at Naseby?" said Edward. "Were you there?"
"I was," replied Chaloner.
"My father also fell at Naseby," said Edward.
"Your father did?" replied Chaloner; "I do not recollect the name—Armitage—he was not in command there, was he?" continued Chaloner.
"Yes, he was," replied Edward.
"There was none of that name among the officers that I can recollect, young sir," replied Chaloner, with an air of distrust. "Surely you have been misinformed."
"I have spoken the truth," replied Edward; "and have now said so much that I must, to remove your suspicion say more than perhaps I should have done. My name is not Armitage, although I have been so called for some time. You have set me the example of confidence, and I will follow it. My father was Colonel Beverley, of Prince Rupert's troop."
Chaloner started with astonishment.
"I'm sure that what you say is true," at last said he; "for I was thinking who it was that you reminded me of. You are the very picture of your father. Although a boy at the time, I knew him well, Master Beverley; a more gallant Cavalier never drew sword. Come, we must be sworn friends in life and death, Beverley," continued Chaloner, extending his hand, which was eagerly grasped by Edward, who then confided to Chaloner the history of his life. When he had concluded, Chaloner said,
"We all heard of the firing of Arnwood, and it is at this moment believed that all the children perished. It is one of the tales of woe that our nurses repeat to the children, and many a child has wept at your supposed deaths. But tell me, now, had you not fallen in with me, was it your intention to have joined the army under your assumed name of Armitage?"
"I hardly know what I intended to do. I wanted a friend to advise me."
"And you have found one, Beverley. I owe my life to you, and I will repay the debt as far as is in my power. You must not conceal your name to your sovereign; the very name of Beverley is a passport, but the son of Colonel Beverley will be indeed welcomed. Why, the very name will be considered as a harbinger of good fortune. Your father was the best and truest soldier that ever drew sword; and his memory stands unrivaled for loyalty and devotion. We are near to the end of our journey; yonder is the steeple of Bolton church. The old ladies will be out of their wits when they find that they have a Beverley under their roof."
Edward was much delighted at this tribute paid to his father's memory; and the tears more than once started into his eyes as Chaloner renewed his praise.
Late in the evening they arrived at Portlake, a grand old mansion situated in a park crowded with fine old timber. Chaloner was recognized, as they rode up the avenue, by one of the keepers, who hastened forward to announce his arrival; and the domestics had opened the door for them before they arrived at it. In the hall they were met by the old ladies, who expressed their delight at seeing their nephew, as they had had great fear that something had happened to him.
"And something did very nearly happen to me," replied Chaloner, "had it not been for the timely assistance of my friend here, who, notwithstanding his Puritan attire, I hardly need tell you, is a Cavalier devoted to the good cause, when I state that he is the son of Colonel Beverley, who fell at Naseby with my good father."
"No one can be more welcome, then," replied the old ladies, who extended their hands to Edward. They then went into a sitting-room, and supper was ordered to be sent up immediately.
"Our horses will be well attended to, Edward," said Chaloner; "we need not any longer look after them ourselves. And now, good aunts, have you no letters for me?"
"Yes, there are several; but you had better eat first."
"Not so; let me have the letters; we can read them before supper, and talk them over when at table."
One of the ladies produced the letters, which Chaloner, as he read them, handed over to Edward for his perusal. They were from General Middleton, and some other friends of Chaloner's who were with the army, giving him information as to what was going on, and what their prospects were supposed to be.
"You see that they have marched already," said Chaloner, "and I think the plan is a good one, and it has put General Cromwell in an awkward position. Our army is now between his and London, with three days' march in advance. And we shall now be able to pick up our English adherents, who can join us without risk, as we go along. It has been a bold step, but a good one; and if they only continue as well as they have begun, we shall succeed. The Parliamentary army is not equal to ours in numbers, as it is; and we shall add to ours dayly. The king has sent to the Isle of Man for the Earl of Derby, who is expected to join to-morrow."
"And where is the army at this moment?" inquired Edward.
"They will be but a few miles from us to-night, their march is so rapid; to-morrow we will join, if it pleases."
"Most willingly," replied Edward.
After an hour's more conversation, they were shown into their rooms, and retired for the night.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The next morning, before they had quitted their beds, a messenger arrived with letters from General Middleton, and from him they found that the king's army had encamped on the evening before not six miles from Portlake. As they hastily dressed themselves, Chaloner proposed to Edward that a little alteration in his dress would be necessary; and taking him to a wardrobe in which had been put aside some suits of his own, worn when he was a younger and slighter-made man than he now was, he requested Edward to make use of them. Edward, who was aware that Chaloner was right in his proposal, selected two suits of colors which pleased him most; and dressing in one, and changing his hat for one more befitting his new attire, was transformed into a handsome Cavalier. As soon as they had broken their fast they took leave of the old ladies, and mounting their horses set off for the camp. An hour's ride brought them to the outposts; and communicating with the officer on duty, they were conducted by an orderly to the tent of General Middleton, who received Chaloner with great warmth as an old friend, and was very courteous to Edward as soon as he heard that he was the son of Colonel Beverley.
"I have wanted you, Chaloner," said Middleton; "we are raising a troop of horse; the Duke of Buckingham commands it, but Massey will be the real leader of it; you have influence in this county, and will, I have no doubt, bring us many good hands."
"Where is the Earl of Derby?"
"Joined us this morning; we have marched so quick that we have not had time to pick our adherents up."
"And General Leslie?"
"Is by no means in good spirits: why, I know not. We have too many ministers with the army, that is certain, and they do harm; but we can not help ourselves. His majesty must be visible by this time; if you are ready, I will introduce you; and, when that is done, we will talk matters over."
General Middleton then walked with them to the house in which the king had taken up his quarters for the night; and after a few minutes' waiting in the anteroom, they were admitted into his presence.
"Allow me, your majesty," said General Middleton, after the first salutations, "to present to you Major Chaloner, whose father's name is not unknown to you."
"On the contrary, well known to us," replied the king, "as a loyal and faithful subject whose loss we must deplore. I have no doubt that his son inherits his courage and his fidelity."
The king held out his hand, and Chaloner bent his knee and kissed it.
"And now, your majesty will be surprised that I should present to you one of a house supposed to be extinct—the eldest son of Colonel Beverley."
"Indeed!" replied his majesty; "I heard that all his family perished at the ruthless burning of Arnwood. I hold myself fortunate, as a king, that even one son of so loyal and brave a gentleman as Colonel Beverley has escaped. You are welcome, young sir—most welcome to us; you must be near us; the very name of Beverley will be pleasing to our ears by night or day."
Edward knelt down and kissed his majesty's hand, and the king said—
"What can we do for a Beverley? let us know, that we may show our feelings toward his father's memory."
"All I request is, that your majesty will allow me to be near you in the hour of danger," replied Edward.
"A right Beverley reply," said the king; "and so we shall see to it,
Middleton."
After a few more courteous words from his majesty, they withdrew, but
General Middleton was recalled by the king for a minute or two to
receive his commands. When he rejoined Edward and Chaloner, he said to
Edward—
"I have orders to send in for his majesty's signature your commission as captain of horse, and attached to the king's personal staff; it is a high compliment to the memory of your father, sir, and, I may add, your own personal appearance. Chaloner will see to your uniforms and accouterments; you are well mounted, I believe; you have no time to lose, as we march to-morrow for Warrington, in Cheshire."
"Has any thing been heard of the Parliamentary army?"
"Yes; they are on the march toward London by the Yorkshire road, intending to cut us off if they can. And now, gentlemen, farewell; for I have no idle time, I assure you."
Edward was soon equipped, and now attended upon the king. When they arrived at Warrington, they found a body of horse drawn up to oppose their passage onward. These were charged, and fled with a trifling loss; and as they were known to be commanded by Lambert, one of Cromwell's best generals, there was great exultation in the king's army; but the fact was, that Lambert had acted upon Cromwell's orders, which were to harass and delay the march of the king as much as possible, but not to risk with his small force any thing like an engagement. After this skirmish it was considered advisable to send back the Earl of Derby and many other officers of importance into Lancashire, that they might collect the king's adherents in that quarter and in Cheshire. Accordingly the earl, with about two hundred officers and gentlemen, left the army with that intention. It was then considered that it would be advisable to march the army direct to London; but the men were so fatigued with the rapidity of the march up to the present time, and the weather was so warm, that it was decided in the negative; and as Worcester was a town well affected to the king, and the country abounded with provisions, it was resolved that the army should march there, and wait for English re-enforcements. This was done; the city opened the gates with every mark of satisfaction, and supplied the army with all that it required. The first bad news which reached them was the dispersion and defeat of the whole of the Earl of Derby's party, by a regiment of militia which had surprised them at Wigan during the night, when they were all asleep, and had no idea that any enemy was near to them. Although attacked at such disadvantage, they defended themselves till a large portion of them was killed, and the remainder were taken prisoners, and most of them brutally put to death. The Earl of Derby was made a prisoner, but not put to death with the others.
"This is bad news, Chaloner," said Edward.
"Yes; it is more than bad," replied the latter; "we have lost our best officers, who never should have left the army; and now the consequences of the defeat will be, that we shall not have any people come forward to join us. The winning side is the right side in this world; and there is more evil than that; the Duke of Buckingham has claimed the command of the army, which the king has refused, so that we are beginning to fight among ourselves. General Leslie is evidently dispirited, and thinks bad of the cause. Middleton is the only man who does his duty. Depend upon it, we shall have Cromwell upon us before we are aware of it; and we are in a state of sad confusion: officers quarreling, men disobedient, much talking, and little doing. Here we have been five days, and the works which have been proposed to be thrown up as defenses, not yet begun."
"I can not but admire the patience of the king, with so much to harass and annoy him."
"He must be patient, perforce," replied Chaloner; "he plays for a crown, and it is a high stake; but he can not command the minds of men, although he may the persons. I am no croaker, Beverley, but if we succeed with this army, as at present disorganized, we shall perform a miracle."
"We must hope for the best," replied Edward; "common danger may cement those who would otherwise be asunder; and when they have the army of Cromwell before them, they may be induced to forget their private quarrels and jealousies, and unite in the good cause."
"I wish I could be of your opinion, Beverley," replied Chaloner; "but I have mixed with the world longer than you have, and I think otherwise."
Several more days passed, during which no defenses were thrown up, and the confusion and quarreling in the army continued to increase, until at last news arrived that Cromwell was within half a day's march of them, and that he had collected all the militia on his route, and was now in numbers nearly double to those in the king's army. All was amazement and confusion—nothing had been done—no arrangements had been made—Chaloner told Edward that all was lost if immediate steps were not taken.
On the 3d of October, the army of Cromwell appeared in sight. Edward had been on horseback, attending the king, for the best part of the night; the disposition of the troops had been made as well as it could; and it was concluded, as Cromwell's army remained quiet, that no attempt would be made on that day. About noon the king returned to his lodging, to take some refreshment after his fatigue. Edward was with him; but before an hour had passed, the alarm came that the armies were engaged. The king mounted his horse, which was ready saddled at the door; but before he could ride out of the city, he was met and nearly beaten back by the whole body almost of his own cavalry, who came running on with such force that he could not stop them. His majesty called to several of the officers by name, but they paid no attention; and so great was the panic, that both the king and his staff, who attended him, were nearly overthrown, and trampled under foot.
Cromwell had passed a large portion of his troops over the river without the knowledge of the opponents, and when the attack was made in so unexpected a quarter, a panic ensued. Where General Middleton and the Duke Hamilton commanded, a very brave resistance was made; but Middleton being wounded, Duke Hamilton having his leg taken off by a round-shot, and many gentlemen having fallen, the troops, deserted by the remainder of the army, at last gave way, and the rout was general, the foot throwing away their muskets before they were discharged.
His majesty rode back into the town, and found a body of horse, who had been persuaded by Chaloner to make a stand. "Follow me," said his majesty; "we will see what the enemy are about. I do not think they pursue, and if so, we may yet rally from this foolish panic."
His majesty, followed by Edward, Chaloner, and several of his personal staff, then galloped out to reconnoiter; but to his mortification he found that the troops had not followed him, but gone out of the town by the other gate, and that the enemy's cavalry in pursuit were actually in the town. Under such circumstances, by the advice of Chaloner and Edward, his majesty withdrew, and, turning his horse's head, he made all haste to leave Worcester. After several hours' riding, the king found himself in company of about 4000 of the cavalry who had so disgracefully fled; but they were still so panic-struck that he could put no confidence in them, and having advised with those about him, he resolved to quit them. This he did without mentioning his intention to any of his staff, not even Chaloner or Edward—leaving at night with two of his servants, whom he dismissed as soon as it was daylight, considering that his chance of escape would be greater if he were quite alone.
It was not till the next morning that they discovered that the king had left them, and then they determined to separate, and, as the major portion were from Scotland, to make what haste they could back to that country. And now Chaloner and Edward consulted as to their plans.
"It appears to me," said Edward, laughing, "that the danger of this campaign of ours will consist in getting back again to our own homes, for I can most safely assert that I have not as yet struck a blow for the king."
"That is true enough, Beverly. When do you purpose going back to the New Forest? I think, if you will permit me, I will accompany you," said Chaloner. "All the pursuit will be to the northward, to intercept and overtake the retreat into Scotland. I can not therefore go to Lancashire; and, indeed, as they know that I am out, they will be looking for me every where."
"Then come with me," said Edward, "I will find you protection till you can decide what to do. Let us ride on away from this, and we will talk over the matter as we go; but depend upon it, the further south we get the safer we shall be, but still not safe, unless we can change our costume. There will be a strict search for the king to the south, as they will presume that he will try to get safe to France. Hark! what is that? I heard the report of arms. Let us ride up this hill and see what is going on."
They did so, and perceived that there was a skirmish between a party of Cavaliers and some of the Parliamentary cavalry, at about a quarter of a mile distant.
"Come, Chaloner, let us at all events have one blow," said Edward.
"Agreed," replied Chaloner, spurring his horse; and down they went at full speed, and in a minute were in the melee, coming on the rear of the Parliamentary troops.
This sudden attack from behind decided the affair. The Parliamentary troopers, thinking that there were more than two coming upon them, made off after another minute's combat, leaving five or six of their men on the ground.
"Thanks, Chaloner! thanks, Beverley!" said a voice which they immediately recognized. It was that of Grenville, one of the king's pages. "These fellows with me were just about to run, if you had not come to our aid. I will remain with them no longer, but join you if you will permit me. At all events, remain here till they go away—I will send them off."
Grenville then said to the men, "My lads, you must all separate, or there will be no chance of escape. No more than two should ride together. Depend upon it, we shall have more of the troops here directly."
The men, about fifteen in number, who had been in company with Grenville, considered that Chaloner's advice was good, and without ceremony set off, with their horses' heads to the northward, leaving Chaloner, Edward, and Grenville together on the field of the affray. About a dozen men were lying on the ground, either dead or severely wounded: seven of them were of the king's party, and the other five of the Parliamentary troops.
"Now, what I propose," said Edward, "is this: let us do what we can for those who are wounded, and then strip off the dresses and accouterments of those Parliamentary dragoons who are dead, and dress ourselves in them, accouterments and all. We can then pass through the country in safety, as we shall be supposed to be one of the parties looking for the king."
"That is a good idea," replied Chaloner, "and the sooner it is done the better."
"Well," said Edward, wiping his sword, which he still held drawn, and then sheathing it, "I will take the spoils of this fellow nearest to me: he fell by my hand, and I am entitled to them by the laws of war and chivalry; but first, let us dismount and look to the wounded."
They tied their horses to a tree, and having given what assistance they could to the wounded men, they proceeded to strip three of the Parliamentary troopers; and then laying aside their own habiliments, they dressed themselves in the uniform of the enemy, and, mounting their horses, made all haste from the place. Having gained about twelve miles, they pulled up their horses, and rode at a more leisurely pace. It was now eight o'clock in the evening, but still not very dark; they therefore rode on another five miles, till they came to a small village, where they dismounted at an ale-house, and put their horses into the stable.
"We must be insolent and brutal in our manners, or we shall be suspected."
"Very true," said Grenville, giving the hostler a kick, and telling him to bestir himself, if he did not want his ears cropped.
They entered the ale-house, and soon found out they were held in great terror. They ordered every thing of the best to be produced, and threatened to set fire to the house if it was not; they turned the man and his wife out of their bed, and all three went to sleep in it; and, in short, they behaved in such an arbitrary manner, that nobody doubted that they were Cromwell's horse. In the morning they set off again by Chaloner's advice, paying for nothing that they had ordered, although they had all of them plenty of money. They now rode fast, inquiring at the places which they passed through, whether any fugitives had been seen, and, if they came to a town, inquiring, before they entered, whether there were any Parliamentary troops. So well did they manage, that after four days they had gained the skirts of the New Forest, and concealed themselves in a thicket till night-time, when Edward proposed that he should conduct his fellow-travelers to the cottage, where he would leave them till his plans were adjusted.
Edward had already arranged his plans. His great object was to ward off any suspicion of where he had been, and, of course, any idea that the intendant had been a party to his acts; and the fortunate change of his dress enabled him now to do so with success. He had decided to conduct his two friends to the cottage that night, and the next morning to ride over in his Parliamentary costume to the intendant's house, and bring the first news of the success of Cromwell and the defeat at Worcester; by which stratagem it would appear as if he had been with the Parliamentary, and not with the Jacobite, army.
As they had traveled along, they found that the news of Cromwell's success had not yet arrived: in those times there was not the rapidity of communication that we now have, and Edward thought it very probable that he would be the first to communicate the intelligence to the intendant and those who resided near him.
As soon as it was dusk the three travelers left their retreat, and, guided by Edward, soon arrived at the cottage. Their appearance at first created no little consternation, for Humphrey and Pablo happened to be in the yard, when they heard the clattering of the swords and accouterments, and through the gloom observed, as they advanced, that the party were troopers. At first, Humphrey was for running on and barring the door; but, on a second reflection, he felt that he could not do a more imprudent thing if there was danger; and he therefore contented himself with hastily imparting the intelligence to his sisters, and then remaining at the threshold to meet the coming of the parties. The voice of Edward calling him by name dissipated all alarm, and in another minute he was in the arms of his brother and sisters.
"First, let us take our horses to the stables, Humphrey," said Edward, after the first greeting was over, "and then we will come and partake of any thing that Alice can prepare for us, for we have not fared over well for the last three days."
Accompanied by Humphrey and Pablo, they all went to the stables, and turned out the ponies to make room for the horses; and as soon as they were all fed and littered down, they returned to the cottage, and Chaloner and Grenville were introduced. Supper was soon on the table, and they were too hungry to talk while they were eating, so that but little information was gleaned from them that night. However, Humphrey ascertained that all was lost, and that they had escaped from the field previous to Alice and Edith leaving the room to prepare beds for the new-comers. When the beds were ready, Chaloner and Grenville retired, and then Edward remained half an hour with Humphrey, to communicate to him what had passed. Of course he could not enter into detail; but told him that he would get information from their new guests after he had left, which he must do early in the morning.
"And now, Humphrey, my advice is this. My two friends can not remain in this cottage, for many reasons; but we have the key of Clara's cottage, and they can take up their lodging there, and we can supply them with all they want, until they find means of going abroad, which is their intention. I must be off to the intendant's to-morrow, and the day after I will come over to you. In the mean time, our guests can remain here, while you and Pablo prepare the cottage for them; and when I return every thing shall be settled, and we will conduct them to it. I do not think there is much danger of their being discovered while they remain there, certainly not so much as if they were here; for we must expect parties of troops in every direction now, as they were when the king's father made his escape from Hampton Court. And now to bed, my good brother; and call me early, for I much fear that I shall not wake up if you do not."
The brothers then parted for the night.
The next morning, long before their guests were awake, Edward had been called by Humphrey, and found Pablo at the door with his horse. Edward, who had put on his Parliamentary accouterments, bade a hasty farewell to them, and set off across the forest to the house of the intendant, where he arrived before they had left their bedrooms. The first person he encountered was, very fortunately, Oswald, who was at his cottage door. Edward beckoned to him, being then about one hundred yards off; but Oswald did not recognize him at first, and advanced toward him in a very leisurely manner, to ascertain what the trooper might wish to inquire. But Edward called him Oswald, and that was sufficient. In a few words Edward told him how all was lost, and how he had escaped by changing clothes with one of the enemy.
"I am now come to bring the news to the intendant, Oswald. You understand me, of course?"
"Of course I do, Master Edward, and will take care that it is well known that you have been fighting by the side of Cromwell all this time. I should recommend you to show yourself in this dress for the remainder of the day, and then every one will be satisfied. Shall I go to the intendant's before you?"
"No, no, Oswald; the intendant does not require me to be introduced to him, of course. I must now gallop up to his house and announce myself. Farewell for the present—I shall see you during the day."
Edward put spurs to his horse, and arrived at the intendant's at full speed, making no small clattering in the yard below as he went in, much to the surprise of Sampson, who came out to ascertain what was the cause, and who was not a little surprised at perceiving Edward, who threw himself off the horse, and desiring Sampson to take it to the stable, entered the kitchen, and disturbed Phoebe, who was preparing breakfast. Without speaking to her, Edward passed on to the intendant's room, and knocked.
"Who is there?" said the intendant.
"Edward Armitage," was the reply; and the door was opened. The intendant started back at the sight of Edward in the trooper's costume.
"My dear Edward, I am glad to see you in any dress, but this requires explanation. Sit down and tell me all."
"All is soon told, sir," replied Edward, taking off his iron skull-cap, and allowing his hair to fall down on his shoulders.
He then, in a few words, stated what had happened, and by what means he had escaped, and the reason why he had kept on the trooper's accouterments, and made his appearance in them.
"You have done very prudently," replied the intendant, "and you have probably saved me; at all events, you have warded off all suspicion, and those who are spies upon me will now have nothing to report, except to my favor. Your absence has been commented upon, and made known at high quarters, and suspicion has arisen in consequence. Your return as one of the Parliamentary forces will now put an end to all ill-natured remarks. My dear Edward, you have done me a service. As my secretary, and having been known to have been a follower of the Beverleys, your absence was considered strange, and it was intimated at high quarters that you had gone to join the king's forces, and that with my knowledge and consent. This I have from Langton; and it has in consequence injured me not a little: but now your appearance will make all right again. Now we will first to prayers, and then to breakfast; and after that we will have a more detailed account of what has taken place since your departure. Patience and Clara will not be sorry to recover their companion; but how they will like you in that dress I can not pretend to say. However, I thank God that you have returned safe to us; and I shall be most happy to see you once more attend in the more peaceful garb of a secretary."
"I will, with your permission, sir, not quit this costume for one day, as it may be as well that I should be seen in it."
"You are right, Edward: for this day retain it; to-morrow you will resume your usual costume. Go down to the parlor; you will find Patience and Clara anxiously waiting for you, I have no doubt. I will join you there in ten minutes."
Edward left the room, and went down stairs. It hardly need be said how joyfully he was received by Patience and Clara. The former, however, expressed her joy in tears—the latter, in wild mirth.
We will pass over the explanations and the narrative of what had occurred, which was given by Edward to Mr. Heatherstone in his own room. The intendant said, as he concluded.
"Edward, you must now perceive that, for the present, nothing more can be done; if it pleases the Lord, the time will come when the monarch will be reseated on his throne; at present, we must bow to the powers that be; and I tell you frankly, it is my opinion that Cromwell aims at sovereignty and will obtain it. Perhaps it may be better that we should suffer the infliction for a time, as for a time only can it be upheld, and it may be the cause of the king being more schooled and more fitted to reign than, by what you have told me in the course of your narrative, he at present appears to be."