"Do, do!" cried Rumbold, wincing again. "The old story. Always with your sort. And faith may go to the wall. Well, if we do what forsooth?" he added, not without curiosity.
"Nay, if it please you better," answered Lawrence good-humouredly, "for it is all one;—if we don't do harm, and work no evil against any man:"—
"Upon him who doeth evil, evil must be done," said Rumbold in deep melancholy tones.
"That," returned Lawrence, recoiling a pace and gazing in perplexity at his companion, "that was not the teaching, Master Rumbold, of Him who died for all men. I doubt 'tis the same as if one should say, Evil must be done that good may come."
"Ay," muttered Rumbold, folding his arms upon his breast and setting his lips firmly, "it must."
"Why? Fie, now, fie!" laughed Lawrence, fixing his eyes with something of uneasy curiosity in their clear, dark depths, on Rumbold's face. "That, they say, is the Jesuits' watchword. Who would have thought to hear it from the lips of godly Master Rumbold?"
"You mock me," returned Rumbold; "I am the worst of sinners."
"Nay, nay, but I trust not," said Lee, getting really uncomfortable.
"You mock me, I say," reiterated Rumbold.
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Lee. "It is rather that you mock me; for by my faith I do not understand you to-night, Master Rumbold."
The whisper of a conspirator.
"Listen," hoarsely said Rumbold, turning suddenly on Lee, and gripping him by the elbow; "you shall understand. I will explain, but not here," he went on, dropping his voice to a whisper, and casting a far-seeing, cautious glance round. "Not here: there may be eavesdroppers. Hark! what's that?"
"Only the beasts munching their supper in the stables," said Lee. "They will tell no tales."
"The very air must not hear," said Rumbold.
"Why, if it is so particular as all that, then," rejoined Lawrence, still half jestingly, but growing less and less light about his heart, "come this way." And pushing open a wicket, he conducted his companion along a rather miry slip of by-road towards the apple orchard, which stretched behind and around the ruined gatehouse, whose jagged outlines were beginning to stand out grim and gaunt in the sickly rays of the moon. Wading through the long grass so thickly carpeting the ground up to the tower, that its base was completely hidden, Lee conducted Rumbold to the top of a small flight of broken stone steps, so lost in an overgrowth of ivy trails and brambles as to be invisible to stranger eyes; but Lee, with a thrust of his hand, parted the leafy screen, and signed to Rumbold to follow him down the steps, which led to a low, iron-clamped and heavily padlocked door deeply sunken in the wall of the tower's foundations.
A secret vault.
"'Tis a well-screened spot, is it not?" said Lee, answering Rumbold's inquiring glances.
"Well secured," said the cautious Rumbold, who had not much opinion of mere unaided twigs as safeguards, and seemed more disposed to admire the huge iron padlock adorning its latch. "What do you store here?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"The place—except for a few bones, which may have been man's or sheep's for aught I know, or ever gave a thought to—is full of emptiness."
"Yet you keep it as sealed as if it shut in untold riches."
"As for the matter of that, it does, too, in a roundabout sort of way," said Lawrence smiling and colouring a little. "Or it may do so; for 'tis said—though I will not answer for the truth of it, that if you follow your nose far enough, the way it leads, you will find yourself in the vaults under your own gatehouse. Our houses—yours and mine—Master Rumbold, were built in queer times; when a man could not call his life his own. And when he dared not show his face above ground, slipped away as he could under it."
In darkness.
"And a fig then for his pursuers," said Rumbold, as he stepped into the vault, whose darkness was only lightened by the moon-rays feebly struggling in through the grating of a loophole high up in its walls. "A fig for them, hey?"
"As you say," said Lawrence, faintly echoing the low laugh of his companion, which reverberated far away, in mocking unearthly discords, as though challenging the pair to explore the place's long-forgotten intricacies. "I doubt they must have been as successful as if they sought needles in a bottle of hay."
"Shut the door!" said Rumbold.
Lawrence obeyed, and what further Richard Rumbold had to say was heard by no eavesdroppers save the slug and reptile creatures who had long made the place their own.
A change for the worse.
Some hours later the door opened again, and one of the two men reappeared. Peering first cautiously right and left, he locked the door behind him and stole hurriedly up the steps. The figure of this man is assuredly that of Lawrence Lee, but strangely unlike his light bright step is that stumbling, swaying gait; and can that ashen white face, those eyes startled and staring, as if they had met some fearful thing, indeed be his? And where is Rumbold?
CHAPTER VI.
SOMETHING IN THE WATER.
One thing only was quite certain, that the maltster was to be seen next morning at the usual hour among his men. As for Lawrence Lee, whatever Rumbold had confided to him remained a secret as far as the nature of it was concerned. To hide, however, from Ruth that something was amiss with him was a more difficult task, and he had failed in it.
During these last weeks, moreover, the Rye House had grown into a very prison of dulness. Rumbold, always a sombre and taciturn man, had come to be like a stone statue moving about the place, never speaking but when absolutely compelled.
The recollection of all this, and of the events of the past day, crowd bewilderingly now upon Ruth's mind, as she sits, with her chin resting upon her hand, gazing out into the night, from which the young May moon is slowly fading. Only a few stars cheer the surrounding darkness, excepting yonder where the yellow lamp-light streams through the close-drawn curtains of the guest-parlour window of the King's Arms.
A cure for care.
Many a summer evening, when Mistress Sheppard's guests tarried as late as this, Ruth could remember catching the echoes of merry laughter and snatches of songs from that window; but though the night was warm as a July one, not a sound was to be heard save the low hooting of the owls and the gurgling of the water in the moat.
She stretched her head from the window, to listen for the familiar sound of her father's heavy footfall up the wicket-path.
How late he stayed!
And Lawrence? had he gone home yet in his boat? Surely. And yet—ah! well. What was it all to her? Why vex her head about it? Why not go to sleep and forget her fancies? Fancy! were those dark cloaked figures fancy forsooth? Like some evil dreams, indeed, they haunted her mind. And that flash of cruel steel blue light? No fancy that. But what concern could it be of Ruth's? Why, a turn of her wheel would dispel it all. There is no remedy like a little bit of diligent work for troublesome thoughts, or even sad ones. How provoking that the stupid thing had not a shred of flax in it! There it stood in its corner, a beautiful wheel of ebony inlaid with ivory, her father's gift last birthday, but like a fair body without a soul, destitute of the flax. How she could have worked away by the light of the stars which were so brilliant that lamp-light would be an utter superfluity—if only the flax had been to hand!
Out in the moonlight.
Unluckily it all lay locked away, a splendid store, in the big oak linen press, atop of the keeping-room staircase; and just the least bit in the world of extra courage was indispensable for traversing those silent passages at this hour. And yet after all, a very little bit, for Ruth was no coward. The chief difficulty was to avoid disturbing Maudlin. It would be such a shame to do that. The old woman lay so comfortable—leagues away in the land of dreams. Ruth could see that, as she peeped at her through the half-open door. So soundly sleeping that she gathered courage, and stepped tiptoe across the floor, out into the corridors beyond, till she could see the sacks away at its furthermost end in the storeroom, all huddled together like hunchbacks under the dim starlight, or—like those cloaked men who had got out of the barge! and then Ruth shivered. But that was little to be wondered at, for the air of the store-room struck icy cold as she stole on—on into the corridor where the linen press stood.
Close beside it a small lattice afforded a glimpse of the river just beyond the bridge. There lay the barge! Still moored up alongside the bank; a huge black blot upon the silvery water.
And the "Queen Ruth?" Nay—as if it was likely to be there now. Why, her pretty little cat Tab had as much to do with the big elephant who lumbered by in the show yesterday, as the merry, graceful, little "Queen Ruth" could have with yonder ugly boat? And yet, and yet—ah! what a consolation it is to make sure of anything! to crush out one's absurd fancies—dead, past all coming to life again! And how temptingly easy in this case! Quite as easy anyhow, as to be standing there, dreaming and talking about it. Only just to steal down by the stairs and through the keeping-room, where the still smouldering fire cast a few dull gleams, and so out by the narrow path to the wicket. Then but a step—but softly, creep low for thy life, Ruth—in the high wall's shadow, and drag the cloak, snatched in haste from a peg, close and well about thy face and shoulders. And what if Rumbold should be returning now? But there is never a sound save the flapping of the bats' wings, that beat in her face, and bring her heart into her mouth.
Ruth goes exploring.
She was so near now to the gilded patch of light upon the black road before the inn parlour window, that had the pane been open, she must beyond all question have caught the voices of those within. But though just for one instant she paused, pressing her hand upon her beating heart to listen, not so much as an echo reached her; and she hurried on, towards the parapet of the bridge, where it wound down lower and lower to the little landing-stage—and leaned over.
Still tied to the stake lay the "Queen Ruth." The swift stream from the bridge gently swaying her bows, and her gay cowslip posies and ribbon knots fluttering in the breeze now fast springing up.
Ruth's heart sank. Past all doubt then, here was Lawrence hanging about, when he should have been back at Nether Hall an age ago. This, surely, was no night to be loitering with—with a parcel of coal-heavers; and Ruth shuddered. Pray Heaven their calling was such an honest one.
There she stood gazing with puzzled bent brows upon the barge, lying motionless and black as a funeral bier on the sluggish water, gleaming leaden gray in the sickly starlight.
footsteps on the bridge.
Slowly and sadly Ruth prepared to retrace her steps. Doubts and uncertainty would, after all, she thought, have been preferable to this sight, which did but strengthen her suspicions of she knew not what. Supposing—Hark! A shuffling of footsteps, and the sound of voices. It must be the inn party dispersing, and exchanging their good-nights. And Ruth turns to fly back to the wicket.
Too late. The tramp of feet was close upon her, heavy and measured, but it was approaching from the other side of the bridge; and Ruth dropped upon her knees, cowering down under cover of her cloak beneath the sheltering wall of the parapet, till she looked all one with a heap of dry rubbish of leaves and old straw swept up close beside her. In another instant these tramps will have passed on. For tramps doubtless they are, bound for Newmarket. Respectable travellers would of course, at this late hour, have put up for the night at Hoddesdon. What even if they should be footpads! and poor Ruth thinks longingly now of her comfortable little bedchamber. What guineas, if she owned them, would she give to find herself safe back in it! Hush! Hush! Already the span of the near bridge is resounding hollowly with their tread! Suddenly the sound ceases. The party has clearly come to a halt, and close upon her hiding-place; for though they speak in subdued and almost stealthy tones, every syllable is audible to her.
The conspirators.
"There it is," said one voice.
"Ay," muttered another. "Roight enough. Let's be gettin' for'ard."
"Wait!" peremptorily commanded a third voice in soldier-like tones. "Don't let us make any mistake."
"Oons!" impatiently grunted the second speaker; "I tell you, colonel, 'tis the spot, if I knows it, and I were born here. Yonder stands the Rye House 'telle'e, and yonder to to'ther side o' the road—"
"Road!" interrupted the military voice rather contemptuously, "you call it a road? Why 'tis scarce broad enough for a couple of broad-shouldered loons like you to walk abreast. Road forsooth!"
"King's highway, then," laughed the first speaker, whose accent was refined but disagreeably sarcastic.
A low chorus of laughter greeted this remark.
"That he'll be lying low enough upon," went on the first speaker, "before Oak Apple Day. And is yonder gabled house the King's Arms, friend?"
"Ay it be, my Lord Howard."
Something in the water.
"Forward then. Come, Walcot, if you've done mooning. What ails you, man? Staring at the water as if you saw your own double in it!"
"Do you see that?" hurriedly returned the soldier.
"See what?" and then ensued a sound of shuffling and scraping, as if the whole party was crowding to the side of the bridge.
"Why yes, for sure we does," said the native of the place, and whom Ruth recognized by his voice to be a workman in the malt-yard named Barber. "I doubt if each on us had but one eye apiece, like the measter's, we could see the moon a shoinin' on the stream."
Ruth breathed again.
"But there is no moon. 'Tis gone."
"Starlight, then."
"That is too faint to cast any such reflections," objected Colonel Walcot. "And see how it flashes: there! close up against the steps, as bright and sharp as forked lightning."
"Or a silver serpent," put in another voice.
"Or an eel," laughed Lord Howard; "come, colonel, let's push on."
"Nay, nay, bide a minute," cried another voice, which Ruth knew to belong to the foreman of the malting-yard. "The colonel's grace is right. There is summat lyin' in the stream. And 'tis nayther fire nor fish, and if I might be speakin' out my moind afore your lordship's worship, I should say as 'tis for all the world like a swoord, or one o' they skewer sort o' murdrous wepn's—"
"A rapier do you mean?" said Howard.
"Noa, noa, my lord, not just that, but a new sort o' blood-spillin' invenshun that—"
"Save us!" shiveringly ejaculated the other maltster. "What if so be that 'tis a shadder, or some evil sperrit warnin' us of the wickedness of our ways, afore it be too late."
"Coward! white-livered loon!" savagely hissed Lord Howard. "What have we to do with shadows, who fear neither man nor—"
"Oh, oh! Hush, hush, my lord," interrupted a cringing unmelodious voice, "ye speak unadvisedly."
"So do you, Master Ferguson," wrathfully cried my lord, "as you'll find when we string up your lean crow's neck for you to Master Sheppard's sign yonder, if you don't keep your cant till we ask for it. Come, quick march."
Then with stealthy, but quick and measured tramp, the whole party passed on.
Cramped in every joint, for she had scarcely dared to draw breath, much less to stir, Ruth ventured now to raise one corner of her cloak, and peer after this strange company.
Strange guests for the "King's Arms."
One by one she saw their black figures disappear from the flood of yellow light upon the road, within the deep porch of the inn.
Dizzy and bewildered with what she had just witnessed, she staggered to her feet, clinging for support as she did so to the parapet. Her eyes, as she passed her hand across them to clear the mists that blinded them, caught a dim confused gleam of the object which had attracted the attention of the party. Within barely a dozen paces of where she stood, it lay; half way between the barge and the landing stage, forking and zig-zagging just under the sluggish movement of the water.
The flash of the missing weapon.
A sharp-pointed cruel-looking blade of some description; but though Ruth, thanks to Master Lockit's instructions, could tell you a dagger from a sword, and a rapier from either, a vast deal better than some folks could, she was not able to give a name to this three-edged knife, with its short dagger-shaped hilt of wood that stuck up slantwise high and dry out of the water, among the white rush stamens. One like that she had never seen. No great marvel, however, if she had not, for the pattern was of quite recent French devising, and hardly likely so soon to have found its way into a peaceful little Hertfordshire hamlet, in the ordinary course of events; but Ruth, as she bent over the water's edge with eyes fixed on the thing, felt sure that something extraordinary was going on about and around her. Something too fearful to guess at. Never a doubt that this sword or spear, or whatever might be its hateful name, was the thing which the man Rumsey had let slip from his bundle on leaving the barge. That like one viper of its poisonous brood, the thing was but one of more of its kind, was equally clear. But come what might, thought Ruth, its own special and individual chances of fulfilling the fearful end it was fashioned for, should not be left it; and stealing down by the parapet, and along by the water's edge till she reached the spot, she knelt and stretched forward her hand, grown cold as death, but steady and straight to its purpose; and seizing the hilt of the weapon, dragged it, dripping with the diamond bright drops from the water, under her cloak. Ruth strangely armed. Then casting one keen glance round, and upwards towards the inn, she sped along the bank, never stopping till she reached the postern.
CHAPTER VII.
MISTRESS SHEPPARD DOES NOT CARE FOR HER GUESTS.
Mistress Sheppard was almost as perfect a specimen of a landlady, as her establishment was a model of an inn; for who has not heard of that famous King's Arms, within whose snug shelter Master Isaak Walton loved to rest and sup, with a friendly gossip after his day's angling in the waters of the "Silver Lea," which almost washed the ancient hostelry's walls?
The landlady of the inn.
Decidedly, even to her very little tempers, Mistress Sheppard was a model of her class. When the world wagged to her liking, her plump peony cheeks so dimpled over with smiling good-humour, and her voice, albeit always a trifle shrill, was so kindly, that you experienced some difficulty in bringing yourself to believe, what nevertheless was true, that the face could look thunderously black, and the voice set your teeth on edge with its vinegar sharpness.
In justice, however, it ought to be added that sunshine prevailed in Mistress Sheppard's nature, and the storms threatened only when she had what she called her "reasons" for them. If Sheppard called them "prejudices, unaccountable prejudices," he only did so when she was safe out of earshot.
To his great vexation and discomfiture, the clouds hang very heavy on his wife's brow to-night. It is clear she does not like these guests who have sought the inn's hospitality; and when the party arriving by road, passes through into the parlour, she sits contemplating its door, which is close shut by the one who last enters, in grim meditative silence.
"I don't know whose looks I care for least among 'em," she muttered, as at last she slowly turned to fill the tankards of ale they had ordered. "Eyes on a more hang-dog crew I never set. With the brims o' their hats as hollow as cabbage leaves, as if they was ashamed o' their own ugly faces; as well they may be, and downright afeard to be seein' what mine was like. Why, I give you my word, there wasn't one o' the lot looked my way, to give me so much as a civil good e'en, as they passed. That's manners for you!"
"Hush!" whispered Sheppard, imploringly, and casting nervous glances towards the guest-parlour, as Mistress Sheppard's tones ran up the gamut, till they ended in a shrill treble. "Hush! There's a dear woman. Walls have ears."
"And so much the better if they have; for then they'll be knowin' a piece o' my mind."
"Ah, hush! hush! If the gentlemen should overhear—"
"Gentlemen, quotha! gentlemen!—"
"Ay; there's a live lord among 'em."
"Live lord is there! Then, beshrew me, if it's at court he learnt his manners. Our dame-school brats know 'em better. Why his sacred majesty—"
"Ah, hush! hush!" agonizedly entreated Sheppard.
Lord Howard has his character.
"What should I hush for? His own sacred majesty, I say, always bids me a 'God save you, Mistress Sheppard!' from his coach-door when his coach pulls up here to change horses; and once—well I remember it—his own royal fingers chucked me under the chin. No, I don't say you was by and saw him do't; but he did. Well, well, what's your fine lord's name? Bless the man; can't you speak out? mumblin' as if you hadn't got a tooth in your head! Howard o' what?"
"Escrick. Lord Howard of Escrick."
"M'ph!" murmured Mistress Sheppard, cogitatively tapping her plump finger tips on the table. "'Tis a good name, and a proud, is Howard. But your whitest flock's got its black sheep, they say. And now I think on't, 'twas but t'other day—though I don't at this minute recollect the hows and the wheres—somebody that was in here, was tellin' of me that there wasn't a daring profligate among all the quality like this same Howard of Escrick, an' not a shred o' principle or honesty in him."
"An' what's all that to us?" said Sheppard, with a feeble attempt at bravado, as he marshalled the tankards on his tray. "The best thing you can do, is to give me the bottle o' Canary he's ordered; an' be quick about it. There's a good woman. Anyhow you've no call to complain of his honesty; for hasn't he paid his reckonin' a'ready? See if he hasn't." And Sheppard triumphantly threw down a gold piece. "Now what do you take him for?"
"A knave!" said Mistress Sheppard, pocketing the gold, however, "or else a fool; for he lacks credit, or wit, or both one and t'other who settles for his goods afore he's got 'em. There—there; be off with thee. Take em' what they want, and tell 'em the sooner they're all off these premises the better I shall like 'em. Bless the man! What's come to thee, now? Thy hands are shakin' like froze syllabub. Spillin' the ale all over the tray. Here—give it me; I'll carry it in."
Master Sheppard in a hurry.
Sheppard, however, was too quick for her. Ordinarily the less he bestirred himself, and the more his bustling active-minded wife did for him, even to the length of waiting personally on their guests, the better pleased he was; but now he absolutely pounced upon the tray, and carried it off at double quick trot, leaving Mistress Sheppard to stand looking after him in open-mouthed amazement, as he disappeared, closing the door of the guest-parlour carefully behind him.
"Hark! what was that?" Her ears, she thought, must have deceived her, rarely as they were given to it. Or did the lock of the door click and the bolts scrape in their grooves as if stealthily moved?
Mistress Sheppard stepped tiptoe across to the door, and noiselessly grasping its handle, she turned it and pushed at it, but to no purpose. "I like not that," she said to herself, when after a second attempt she turned away, and resuming her post among her bottles and cups, sat with knitted brows and eyes keenly riveted on the sturdy old wainscoted walls opposite as if she would fain have penetrated to the scene they hid. "I like it not," and then she set her arms akimbo, and gave a prolonged inquiring sniff. "And never a suspicion of tobacco neither," and deeper and deeper gathered the frowns. "That bodes no good neither; for men must be ill at ease with themselves indeed, before they forget to make chimneys o' their mouths. And not a sound," and she held her breath and listened intently. "Not a sound!"
Not one, truly, that could reach her; for that score or so of men, seated about the large table placed across the room's upper end, all spoke in half-whispering undertones, and ceased abruptly as Sheppard entered with his tray.
Locked and bolted.
"Bolt the door!" commanded the man seated at the head of the table.
"I crave pardon, Master Rumbold," began Sheppard, looking with a sickly smile from the speaker to the door, and back again to the speaker; "but my—my wife—"
"Exactly," interrupted Rumbold. "We don't need Mistress Sheppard's assistance in this business. It's bad enough already."
"Bolt the door! Dost hear, fellow?" said a handsome and richly-attired, but dissipated-looking man, with dark eyes and black-brown locks, who was seated next the maltster. "Bolt the door, and don't be all night about it."
One out of a baker's dozen.
"Ah, good lack! good lack!" feebly ejaculated Sheppard, no longer hesitating, and putting up the bolts as fast as his shaking fingers would let him. "Something gone wrong? Did you say something was gone wrong?" and he gazed in abject terror round the circle of gloomy faces, looming amid the shadows cast by the one oil-lamp hanging from the huge beam overhead, and which was all the light the room boasted. "What will become of us all now? I knew how 'twould be—I always said it would—"
"Thanks to you," said the dark-eyed man, with a malicious smile.
"Me!"
"Ay. My Lord Howard's right there," growled a stout thick-set man, somewhat far advanced in middle age, who sat near the fireplace, occupied in rubbing his shins with a tender hand. "It's all your infernal slippery banks we've to thank for it. Why the mischief can't you keep your garden banks in decent order?"
"Are you quite sure you don't mistake after all?" inquired Rumbold's neighbour of the last speaker, glancing down as he spoke at the sheaf of three-sided short blades spread out fan-wise upon the table. "There are twelve here."
"Ay, but 'twas a baker's dozen, my lord," said another voice. "Thirteen, so he says—"
"And I suppose I'm not a liar, Master Goodenough," cried the stout soldier, glowering sullenly at the individual who had hazarded the last observation. "Nor a cowardly idiot neither, like some folks here." Then he set to rubbing again at his damaged limb.
"Oh! the gracious powers forbid!" laughed Lord Howard, lifting his white jewelled hand, "we're all brave and honourable men here, surely. And vastly too clever to split like a bundle of twigs about nothing at all."
"Nothing!"
"Ay, less than nothing; for by my faith, Master Rumsey, I should be inclined to count this loss a fine omen. Thirteen's an unlucky number, so old wives say. And twelve of the things is enough in all conscience."
"And too many to my thinking," approvingly nodded Goodenough.
Playing with edge tools.
"Even if forced to extremes," continued Howard, "why, one of these sharp little Frenchmen here," and he began handling one of the blades as he spoke, and laid it lightly across his finger, "would do all the business in a twinkling. What say you, Master Rumbold?"
"That," answered Rumbold, breaking silence at last, "is not the point."
"No, by my faith! 'Tis but the edge," cried Lord Howard, with a grimace of sudden pain, and hastily throwing down the weapon, "the foul fiend's own grindstone must have sharpened the confounded blade!" And dragging his gossamer-laced handkerchief from his pocket, he wound it round his hand.
"Has it drawn blood, my lord?" timorously asked Goodenough, turning pale, and craning his neck forward.
A warning.
"Ay, has it, Master Sheriff," replied Howard, holding up his hand, and displaying its crimson-dyed cambric swathing, "and this helps but little to staunch it. Thanks, Master Lee," he went on, as Lawrence Lee, approaching from an obscure corner, took the wounded hand in his, and bound his own stout white linen handkerchief deftly about it; "I had better not have been quite so quick to meddle with it. Have a care what you are doing," he added, as Lee turned to replace the blade beside the rest. "Take warning by my fate."
CHAPTER VIII.
MOONRAKERS.
"I say," doggedly began Rumbold, and taking no more notice of Lord Howard's mishap than if it had not occurred, "that this must be found, and before morning, else it will betray us."
"Oh! we're betrayed! We're betrayed!" shrieked Sheppard, at the top of his small voice.
"Silence, idiot!" said Rumbold, turning on him sternly; "and it is quite clear," he continued, "that it must be lying somewhere between this house and the river, since Colonel Rumsey is certain that when he stepped out of the boat he had it safe in the canvas bundle."
"I'll swear to that," said Rumsey.
"Now the garden has been thoroughly searched"—"Every inch of it," chorused half-a-dozen voices.
"And that being the case," said the tall soldier, advancing from the hearth, where he had been standing gazing meditatively into the dying embers, "perhaps you will find it worth your while to heed now what I told you on the bridge. You may search in the garden till you're all blind. I tell you the thing fell into the water. Come, gentlemen," he went on, turning to those of the party who had accompanied him, "I am not after all, you see, such a moonraker as you would have made me out, when I told you I saw something shining in the water as we came by."
"Truly you did say so, Colonel," humbly admitted those he addressed.
"Verily we should not have contemned his assurance," ejaculated the snuffling tones of Master Ferguson, as he clasped his clawlike fingers, and turned upwards the ferret eyes gleaming beneath a wig almost concealing his mean little forehead; "for of a surety the hand of Providence is with those who put their faith—"
"In the water. Just beyond a little two-oared boat moored to a landing-stage at the bridge foot."
A searching party.
"Verily, I think we may place our confidence and credence—" once more began the snuffling tones; but they were interrupted by Lawrence Lee. "Never mind that now, Master Ferguson," he said. "The best thing to be done is to go to work and rescue this tell-tale knife before any prying eyes have been beforehand with us."
"Ay, well said!" cried Lord Howard. "Have with you, then, Master Lee. Come, friend," he went on, addressing Sheppard, "down with your bolts again."
But Sheppard hesitated, casting appealing glances round. "Why, what ails the fellow now?" demanded Howard; "first he hesitates at putting them up, and now he won't take them down!"
"Mistress Sheppard—my—my wife!" stammered the unfortunate man. "She—that is, so please your lordship's worship's grace, she's such a wide-awake—"
"What the mischief! Isn't she a-bed yet?" laughed Howard. "Come, come, landlord, I'm afraid you rule your house sadly amiss."
"I—I don't rule it, my lord. 'Tis Miss—Mistress Sheppard who—who—"
"He speaks true enough there, my lord," said Rumbold grimly.
"Yes, yes," gasped the poor man in tones of relief; "Master Rumbold—he'll answer for me I speak nothing but the truth. Mistress Sheppard—she's always the last in the place to go to bed. She likes—that's what she says, my lord—likes to see all safe first. And sure as a gun, she's posted outside there in the passage. And—and if the whole—whole gang of us goes swarming out by the door here, like bees out of a hive, she'll be following us to see what we're after—and—and—"
"Quite true," nodded Rumbold; "and by midday the whole parish will be twittering the tale."
The wrong way out.
"Oh, these women!" groaned Howard; "they must always be meddling. Well, what's to be done, then? Shall we go hunting in couples, or one at a time?"
"'Tis not to be risked," said Sheppard, shaking his head. "You see, my lord—saving your lordship's presence and yours, gentlemen"—he added, blinking his small eyes uneasily round on the circle of his guests, who had risen to their feet, impatient to begin the search, "Mistress Sheppard doesn't seem to have taken much of a fancy, so to speak, to a man-jack of the lot of you. Don't like the looks o' you, she says. And I'd sooner be a mouse within sight of our cat Tiger than havin' Mistress Shep—Sheppard—"
"Smell a rat," rather ruefully laughed Howard. "Well, what's the remedy?"
"This," said Lee, who, having left the group collected near the door, now stood beside a broad lattice, looking from a recess near the hearth into the garden, and commanding a view of the bridge. "It gives upon the bowling-green, and then down by the slope to the water. Out with you!" and unhasping the lattice pane as he spoke, he pushed it open. "Only, for your lives, step softly, softly!" and he placed his finger warningly on his lips.
What has become of it?
"This way," whispered Walcot, when, in less than three minutes' time, the whole party, including the limping Rumsey, stood out upon the velvet smooth turf On they crept, in single file, till they stood upon the edge of the shelf of tall bracken, where, stooping down, they dispersed along the bank close down by the water's brink. "'Twas just hereabouts," said Walcot in a loud whisper. "There! there! Stop a bit. No. Now I think on't, 'twas of course farther along—close by the barge."
"Here! I have it!" cried one in a voice of smothered but gleeful triumph. "Alack! it was but the battered handle of an old tin pot;" and in dire vexation he dashed it down again.
For a good half-hour the search was continued, until, wet through with their wadings and dabblings, some showed signs of giving in. Others swore they would not budge till they had found the missing thing.
"Then I take it we may as well part company at once," yawned Lord Howard, "for it's washed away into mid-stream long before now, depend on it. Come, Master Lee, what say you? I'll dare swear you know something of the water's soundings hereabouts."
"I think 'tis likely enough, my lord," answered Lawrence, catching Lord Howard's attack of yawning.
"Then let it lie, and be hanged to it!" and the nobleman sauntered back up the slope.
One or two of the party now proposed to return to the inn and proceed with the business which had brought them together; but Rumbold shook his head. "It is too late," he said: "three nights hence we will meet again."
An inhospitable landlord.
"Oh! but not here," piteously entreated Sheppard. "Not here, Master Rumbold; don't say it's to be here. I never should hear the last of it; I shouldn't indeed!"
"Peace with thy craven tongue!" said the maltster with one of his grim smiles. "No, boys," he added, turning to the rest; "not here: yonder at my own house, where last we met, in the Warder's Room."
And with a gesture of farewell he left them, while Lee betook himself home in his boat.
The rest, not without bestowing a good many muttered left-hand compliments on the fumble-footed Rumsey, separated in much the same order as they had come,—some by the barge, which soon lost itself among the mists of the river, others making their way on foot by the Rye to Hoddesdon and the neighbourhood.
It was, however, with difficulty that Colonel Walcot's companions could drag him from the bridge.
All dark.
"Come along, Colonel," urged one; "you see you were wrong after all. There's not a thread of a gleam anywhere. Eh! see, 'tis all as dark as pitch."
"Ay," sighed Walcot, slowly moving on at last, "dark, dark enough."
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE MALT-YARD.
The postern was still on the latch when Ruth reached it. Alas! she had anticipated no less. That it was locked, was no longer one of her fears. She would have sooner her father had detected her midnight flitting now, and come upon her face to face. Anything sooner than that he should have been one of that terribly strange company. All, however, was still around and within. Not even the watch-dog uttered a sound, for he knew her step, and fawned at her feet as she passed; and safe and unseen by other eye than his she reached the end of the corridor, casting a glance as she stole across the floor at Maudlin, who to all appearance had not stirred.
Safe at last in the shelter of her own room, Ruth sank breathless and spent into a chair and, overcome by the fatigue and excitement of the long day's pleasures and pains, she fell into what must have been a sort of long fainting unconsciousness, or else it was real honest sleep that stole upon her unawares.
All she ever knew of it was, that when she opened her eyes again the sunbeams were flooding her room, and the gatehouse clock chiming. Six it must have been, since outside in the malting-yard she could hear the stir and voices of the men getting to their work. Pressing her chilled fingers upon her aching eyelids, she gazed round, striving to collect her dazed senses; and the events of the past night, as they came back to her mind, seemed like some bad dream. She sat up and threw back the heavy cloak still covering her shoulders with an impatient hand, as if she would have thrust the ugly fancies away with it; but a sudden clash and clatter at her feet recalled her thoroughly to herself, and she started up in dismay.
Ruth's waking resolutions.
It was caused by the falling of the steel blade which her sudden movement had displaced from the folds of her cloak; there, glittering dazzlingly bright in the sunshine, it lay upon the floor.
Spell-bound, Ruth gazed at it, much in the way that people are forced, in spite of themselves, to stare at some poisonous brilliant-eyed reptile crossing their path. Yet this was not altogether Ruth's case. If anyone could have looked into her face then they would have seen in it no vacant, helpless stare, but a dawning, deep thoughtfulness, whose perplexity yielded gradually to an expression of strong determination, as though she had come to a decision on some knotty point she had been discussing with herself.
Only the clock, however, striking seven roused her from her abstraction. So late! and approaching the window she opened its panes and let in the pure morning air. Then she proceeded to make a fresh toilette. With a little sigh yesterday's gay tiffany was laid aside, poor, crumpled, bedraggled stuff that it all looked now, and she put on a gown of gray camlet, from beneath whose skirts, just reaching to her ankles, peeped forth a pair of little feet, in a pair of stout plain black leathern tagged shoes; just the very things for rough country roads and boggy lanes. The neat-fitting bodice was finished by a kerchief of spotless lawn gathered close about her neck, and though fashionable ladies would no doubt have vowed it an odiously grand-mothery sort of thing, it was none so unbecoming. Indeed as Ruth proceeded to fasten that black silk caped hood beneath her little round chin, it was quite a matter of nice taste, whether Queen Ruth, rosy as her regal robes and crown, and bright as her gay dancing glances could make her, or this demure, pale little Ruth, clad in sober gray, and with great wistful eyes, somewhat heavily shadowed, indeed, with purple lines, were the prettier.
A morning visit.
Small doubt of Master Rumbold's opinion on the matter did there seem to be, when ready equipped, even to a large basket upon her arm, she stood before him with the black jack of ale, that always made his breakfast. "Now thou look'st thyself, Ruth," he said, his brooding brow lightening as he gazed at her. "Why dost thou sigh, child?" he went on, taking the jack and putting it to his lips.
"Did I sigh, father?" and all unconsciously poor Ruth sighed again, for never in her life had it seemed to her that she had felt less herself.
"Ay, didst thou. Well, well. Thou'rt thy father's own daughter now: kiss me then," he went on, setting down the empty jack and wiping his lips. "And where art thou bound for so early?" he added.
"Nether Hall, father."
"Nether Hall! why, 'tis but a round o' the clock that thou wert there," he said, opening his one eye more in surprise than displeasure.
"Madam Lee," began Ruth rather hesitatingly, and blushing, though she scarcely knew why, for it was but pure and simple truth she was speaking, "Madam Lee promised me a sitting of the white bantam hen's eggs yesterday, if—if," and she glanced down at her basket, "I liked to go and fetch them."
"And are the white bantam's eggs as big as the giant bird's in the fairy tale, that you must be taking a basket for them half as big as yourself?"
"Nay, father. But Madam Lee promised me also some choice green goose—goose—"
The maltster in better humour.
"'Tis Madam Lee is the goose to be spoiling thee so," smiled Rumbold good-humouredly. "She always is promising thee some fine thing or another. Well, well, go thy ways then, Ruth, for the green gooseberries, and a pleasant walk, and if by hap thou shouldst chance across Lawrence Lee,—and 'tis possible that, eh?"
"Yes, father."
A proposed message.
"Tell him to—but yet,—no. Tell him naught; 'twill keep. I shall be seeing him shortly." And then Rumbold turned in at a door of the corn chambers.
CHAPTER X.
THE MEETING ON THE FOOT-BRIDGE.
Taking a short cut round by the moat, and crossing the stile above the King's Arms, Ruth soon gained the river towing-path.
As the sights and sounds of the new day greeted her, she felt a little cheered. One must have been wretched indeed not to have found an agreeable distraction in the blithe bird chorus overhead, and the buzzing of the insects in the young grass studded with the early summer flowers, whose brilliant hues mirrored themselves in the clear water rippling up into tiny bays to her very feet.
What a bright merry world it was! How hard to think that it had in it any such thing as sorrow, or sin, or cruelty, or—and ere the shadow of the sad word could flit across her thoughts, a butterfly fell at her feet, and fluttering its poor bruised wings for a moment, lay motionless on the flinty path.
It was quite dead; and Ruth bent down, and gently placing it on a fresh young dock-leaf, laid it beneath a whitethorn bush, well hidden from all tread of hob-nailed shoes and ruthless plough-boy fingers; and leaving the soft west wind sweeping low through the sedge, to sigh it a dirge, she pursued her way, till a turn of the path brought her within sound of rushing water, and in a few minutes she reached a rough foot-bridge composed of one plank with a hand-rail of hazel-bough, which was thrown across a little rivulet, thickly screened at its furthermost end by a copse of elder and hazel bushes. Into this cool retreat a posse of old mother sheep had penetrated with their lambs, and lay in soft white heaps down to the water's very brink, not in the least put about at the apparition of Ruth, as she came to a standstill in the middle of the bridge to watch the pranks of the lambs with a half amused, half absent smile.
So absorbed was she, that the touch of a hand laid ever so gently on her shoulder caused her to start with surprise.
"Lawrence!" she exclaimed, for he it was.
"Ay, Lawrence!" he answered; "and good-morrow to you, Ruth! Were you coming to the Hall?"
She nodded.
Lawrence Lee prevaricates.
"To be sure then," he went on, "some good angel brought me by the copse, instead of going round by the weir, for in that case I should have missed you."
"And where were you going?" asked she.
"Waltham," he replied, after a momentary hesitation.
"But this is not the way to Waltham."
"Nay, is it not?" he said, with well-assumed carelessness; "all the same, I am right glad I came it, since I have met you upon it, Ruth dear."
"That is fine talking," pouted Ruth; "but you're not telling me the truth, Lawrence. You weren't going to Waltham."
Sharp words.
"Wasn't I?" returned the young man, flushing a little. "Well, look here, my dear, people who ask no questions, hear no lies. I doubt I may go where I list, without Mistress Ruth Rumbold's leave," and then he made a pretence of being about to stalk on; but the attempt was a sorry failure, breaking down instantly as he saw the tears brimming up into the eyes so persistently fixed on the silly lambs. "Ruth," he whispered, as in a moment he was beside her again; and taking her chin in his hands, he turned her face up to his, "come, let's kiss and be friends. Eh, shall we? You know I'd not vex you for—for—a king's ransom. Indeed I did not mean to vex you, only—there, it was so plaguy inquisitive of you, don't you know, to—there, never mind; what have you got in this basket?" concluded he, turning the conversation, like the wise diplomatist he thought himself.
"Now who's inquisitive, I wonder?" cried Ruth, folding her arms tight down upon the lid of the basket, and breaking into a saucy smile, which, however, faded in an instant. "Lawrence, where were you going? Tell me, dear."
"If you'll tell me what you've got in that basket, perhaps I may," laughed he. "Come, is it a bargain, Mistress Pry?"
"Yes, Mr. Pry."
"To Hoddesdon, then. There, I hope you're happier for the information."
"Not happier; no, Lawrence," she answered very slowly. "Wait a bit now," she went on, as he laid aggressive hands on the basket. "To Hoddesdon! What for?"
"Oh, come now, that's not in the bond. Why, nothing; nothing, little woman, that you know anything about."
"But I want to know," insisted she, still valiantly protecting the basket's most vulnerable points; "that's just it, I want to know."
"Then want must be your master," he said angrily. "Little girls must not know everything," he added, mending his rude speech, and seizing basket, and Ruth, and all in his arms.
"I'm not a little girl any longer," she cried, struggling to free herself, and digging her pink nails ever so hard into his bronzed wrists, till he decided to loosen his hold.
"No, you're a little wild kitten, with the sharpest claws in the world; that's what you are," he said; "but it won't do, I'm master."
A bitter secret.
"'Tis no good you're going to Hoddesdon for," she said bluntly, looking up into his laughing eyes, "or you'd tell me when I ask you, without all this silly nonsense. You never kept a secret from me before, Lawrence."
"Perhaps I never had one to keep."
"But now?"
"Hang it! you'd try a saint's temper," growled he, wrinkling his brows into a most unsanctified frown, and letting her go with such a sudden abruptness that she stumbled a little, and in the effort to maintain her footing on the narrow plank the basket slipped from her arm, and would have fallen into the water had not Lee caught it, with a dexterous turn of his wrist.
"See now, Ruth," he said, as he restored it to her, his eye grown radiant again in his pride at his clever legerdemain, "if you're not at my mercy after all. Might I not have been revenged for your refusal, and helped myself to a peep into this mighty particular basket, if I wasn't honour bright from top to toe?"
The mysterious basket.
"But you are, Lawrence, aren't you?" challenged she, with a strange earnestness, that sent his eyes, which were gazing into hers, back to the basket; "and evil be to him who evil thinks," she went on. "And—"
"Oh, plague take it!" he interrupted impatiently; "what are you driving at? Now for the basket. Come."
"You really care to see inside it?"
"Not a straw, my dear child," he said loftily. "'Tis full of emptiness, I daresay. That's just what delights you girls more than anything; teasing and tantalizing a fellow all about nothing."
"Ay, but there is something in it. Something I was bringing to the Hall on purpose to show you, and—and to ask your opinion about. And yet—and yet—" she went on wistfully, "I hope you won't be able to—to give me one."
"Why, my dear girl," rejoined he with a superior smile, "how mighty mysterious we are, to be sure!"
"'Tis a fearful-looking thing, let me tell you," she said, gingerly raising one corner of her basket lid.
"Some queer fish, is it?—out of the river?" he asked eagerly, for he was a mighty fisherman.
"Out of the river," nodded she.
"A pike of some sort perhaps."
"Yes, I should say, of some sort."
"You dear, splendid, diamond of a girl," ecstatically cried Lawrence, "as I live 'tis a pike! can't I see it gleaming?" and he clutched at the concealing hay—"a big silver pike!"
"No, a steel one," she said, as the weapon lay exposed in all its nakedness, and steadily she lifted her eyes to his face.
Found out.
It had grown ashen white, and he staggered back for support against the bridge rail. "Ruth!" he gasped, as the handful of hay dropped from his powerless fingers and floated away on the swirl of the stream, "what is the meaning of this?"
"That you must tell me, Lawrence."
"Where did you find it?" he went on.
"In the river. The river Lea. Close by the water steps in Mistress Sheppard's garden. And when? Last night, while you were in the King's Arms, talking to those men. The men," she went on in steady tones, though he was biting his lip, and his pale face flushed painfully, "who were there; instead of going straight home, as you ought to have done—"
"Ought!" angrily interrupted he; "and who made you spy over me?"
"I wasn't spying. I was only—taking a peep, just a little peep at—at the boat."
"Boat?"
"The Queen Ruth," Lawrence dear.
"And since you set such store by honour bright and 'oughts,' and all that sort of thing all at once, what business had you to be abroad all in the dark when your father had bidden you go indoors?"
She coloured a little. "I did go in," she answered after a moment's silence. "Only—only—"
"Only you came out again, that's all," he said with a low mocking laugh. "Ruth, Ruth! what possessed you to do such a thing?"
Changed indeed.
"I was ill at ease, Lawrence," she said, colouring deeper still. "I feared—nay, I do not know what I feared. But I could not stay in the house. Its air stifled me. I could not breathe. I thought—I fancied—nay, something has seemed so amiss with everything—with father and you, Lawrence, with you for these long, long weeks past. I have fancied—"
"Psha! Fancies indeed!" he cried with an impatient twitch of his lips, and turning from her, he stood and gazed with lack-lustre eyes into the water.
"And you're not a bit like the old Lawrence. And all day yesterday you—never mind. Lawrence, what do those dreadful men want here?"
The bayonet.
He turned his face and gazed broodingly into hers, following the direction of her eyes as they fell again on the contents of the basket. "Bringing their horrid—what is the thing called?"
"A bayonet," he answered curtly.
"Their horrid bayonets here; and dropping them all over the place?"
"Well," he said with a faint smile, "they didn't do that purposely, be sure. 'Twas an accident. A stupid, infernal—"
"Oh, Lawrence! Fie, now! For shame, sir!" and Ruth's little hand shut up his lips.
"An awkward little mistake, then," he went on, "of that clod-hopping—never mind names, Ruth."
"Rumsey," said Ruth; "I heard father call him so—Colonel Rumsey."
CHAPTER XI.
"HE DIED FOR HIS KING."
"Hush!" whispered Lawrence, gripping her fast by the arm, and looking hurriedly round. "And—well, what more did you hear? Tell me the truth now."
"Lawrence," she said, timorously following his glance, "I want to tell it you. But 'twas all such a confusion. Just a word here and there; yet, oh, Lawrence! such fearful ones; of their own evil ways, and of—of killing—of killing! Oh! shake your head if you like; but they did, I tell you. And then some one said something about—think, Lawrence—about the king."
"Ay?"
"And of laying him low upon his own highway. Think of it;" and Ruth shivered in the bright sunshine.
"They were full, it seems, of their merry jests, these roystering gentlemen," said Lee.
"Nay, I like not such jests; and I'd not have you joining in them, nor my father neither," she said.
"Oh! but he's their arch-jester," cynically laughed Lawrence. "We're a merry company, we boys, my dear."
But there was little enough of mirth in the young man's face, as he stood there gazing across the level meadows, and up at the sailing clouds, and in fact everywhere excepting into the clear, earnest eyes of his companion as she came near and laid her hand gently on his arm. "Lawrence, you bid me speak truth just now," she said, "and to my best I did; for I would scorn to tell a lie, and least of all to you. But it is not so you are serving me, sir, your old, old friend Ruth. You are hiding something from me. Oh! but you are. Something that troubles you; and that is not kind of you."
Sad jesting.
"Least said, soonest mended," he said, but in softened tones, and gently withdrawing his arm from her grasp. "There are things done in this world not good for such as you are to be told about, Ruth dear. Tell me," he added, pointing to the basket, "does your father know anything of all this?"
"No; I lacked the courage to anger him when he looked so kindly on me this morning; and besides, I—well, I thought first I would speak with you about it, Lawrence."
"That is well," answered Lee; "and for thy life, Ruth, do not tell him. Do you understand—eh? It would be betraying such—such terrible tales of these eavesdroppings of yours, letting such naughty cats out of bags. Eh? wouldn't it, now? Do not tell a single soul; do you hear, child?" and he gripped her by the arm till his fingers left their marks on it. "Promise. 'Tis of course but a mere trifle," he went on with ill-feigned unconcern. "Not worth our wasting our breath upon. But still, if I were in your place I'd tell nobody. Not a soul, dear heart! Eh?"
"That is as it may be," demurely answered she.
"But I command!" he cried sternly. "I forbid you to do it, do you hear? I'll have no conditions."
"Ay, but I will," she said, resolutely setting her lips.
"Ruth, child! Ruth!" he said in the agony of his desperation; "you don't know what you're saying. 'Tis playing with fire—with edged tools."
"Ay, indeed," she said, with another glance at the bayonet.
"'Tis a matter of life and death."
"And yet this moment you called it a silly trifle," she said, lifting her eyes reproachfully to his flushed face.
Startling truths.
"Death! Do you want to drive me mad?" he cried through his clenching teeth. "I tell you, girl, if your foolish, gossiping tongue should let slip one syllable of what you saw and overheard last night, it would be a hanging matter for your father and for me."
"Lawrence, Lawrence!" gasped the terrified girl; "why? what for?"
"What for?" echoed he with heaving breast "Do you know what this disobedience of yours has done?—undone, I mean. Shall I tell you?"
"Lawrence! what, what?"
"The good of a whole nation. That is what these gentlemen and your father—"
"And you, Lawrence?" interrupted she.
The shadow of a plot.
"Ay, I suppose so;" and his voice fell slightly. "That is what we were plot—arranging."
"And to be hanged for doing so much good? Oh! no, no. His majesty would never allow that," said Ruth with an incredulous shake of her head. "He is so generous, so kind! Why do you shiver like that? and how dare you shake your head? I say the king is—"
"Hold your peace, child! You don't know what you're talking about. 'Tis just Charles who has to be—to be got rid of."
"Got rid of?" gasped Ruth. "How—what—"
"Nay, we have not got so far yet as that. Maybe he'll have to be shipped across channel, or—yes, put in some safe place."
"Prison?"
"Nay, now, you're such a downright one!" winced Lawrence petulantly. "Well, prison, then, if you like. Words break no bones."
"But deeds cut off heads!" sobbingly burst forth Ruth. "That's how they served our martyred king."
"Psha! Martyred!" sneered Lawrence.
"First they put him in prison, and then they murdered him."
"Well, make your mind easy, child," said Lawrence. "That's not the plan this time anyhow. 'Tis quite a different sort of one."
"Then there is a pian?"
"Something of one; though hang me if I can make head or tail of it!" he said wearily. "They jangle over it so. One's for this way, and one for that."
"And you, Lawrence?"
"I serve but to count with, child. Master Rumbold would have me in it," he said with a shrug.
"And after some poor fashion he has you; but not your heart, I doubt," said Ruth.
"Nay; perhaps I had not it to spare," he said, gazing down with rather a sad smile at her sweet, attent face, which was brightening a little; "and if I consented to be one of their lot, it was but to keep friends with him."
A little royalist.
"'Twould have been more friendly of you to have been his enemy," sighed Ruth. "Had he asked such a thing of me, I would have defied him. Ay, but I would, Lawrence. Mayhap an 'I'll turn no such traitor, Master Rumbold!' from you, Lawrence, would have saved him from this falling back into the old terrible ways. When I think," shudderingly went on Ruth, "that my father—my kind, loving father, who calls me ladybird, and such sweet, merry names—was the same who stood guard by King Charles's block, and looked on while his bleeding head fell, it makes me dream such dreadful dreams that I start up screaming in my sleep. Lawrence, I would you had defied him."
"He would never have spoken to me again, Ruth, if I had," answered the young man; "and he would have forbidden me ever to see you, or speak to you again."
She was silent for a few moments. "And better so," she said at last.
A traitor or patriot?
"You wouldn't mind, Ruth," he said bitterly. "It wouldn't matter a scrap to you if you never saw me again. I know that;" and he turned away.
"It would matter very much," she answered. "I think my life—my outside life—would feel like this little stream here, when the winter comes, and the flowers and the sunshine are all gone—"
"Dear child! Dear Ruth!"
"But," she went on, gently pushing away the hands he was stretching out to her—"but still in my heart there would have been sunshine; because I could have thought of Lawrence Lee as an honourable man, and not as a traitor. What would Madam Lee think of you, Lawrence, if she knew this that I know?"
"Hush!" he murmured, closing his eyes and knitting his brows.
"And your father," she went on; "he was of no such poor flimsy stuff. He died for his king; true to the death."
"He believed in him," said Lawrence. "For my part—well, I speak as I hear, Ruth. His worst enemies never denied Charles the First had his good points; but the best friends of Charles the Second say 'tis difficult to find his; and as for his faults, he's as full of them as—"
"As you are, or any other mortal man. Come, tell me, you silly boy, you, do you think that if these gentlemen—these fine 'friends' of yours, who want to be rid, as you call it, of His Majesty—were ruling England in his place, the country would fare happier? For my part," went on Ruth, when no response from Lawrence appeared to be forthcoming, "I doubt my father would make a rare stern tyrant. And as for you, Lawrence—" but something in this notion suddenly upset all Ruth's sober eloquence, and it rippled away in a peal of merry laughter.
"I see nothing ludicrous in it," said Lawrence grimly.
"No indeed," said Ruth, regaining her gravity, "'tis no laughing matter."
"Come, Ruth, if you have quite done your sermonizing, let us part friends at least."
"That is at an end," she said, settling her disarranged hood, and, drawing the handles of her basket well up to her elbow, she turned her face homewards.
"But you were going to the Hall?" he said.
Parting in sorrow.
"I was," she replied; "but I cannot face Madam Lee and think what you have become. Fare you well, Lawrence!"
"Ah, silly child! what should you know about politics? This comes, now, of meddling in things you don't understand," he said fractiously
"'Tis not I who have meddled with them," she said; "and I would give my gold and garnet brooch they had not come within a hundred miles of Stanstead."
"Psha! Go your foolish, obstinate ways, then, Ruth. Stay, first give me the basket."
"Give it you? Well, well," she went on; "now I think of it, 'tis yours, I suppose. For old Diggory, your gardener, brought it over last week full of early potatoes—a present for father from Madam Lee. So take it, if you'll be troubled with it;" and, first extracting its contents, she handed it to Lee.
He dashed it furiously into the stream, sending the terrified sheep stampeding in all directions.
"This is too much," he said; "'twas the weapon I meant."
"That is not mine to give; and were it mine a million times over, I would not give it you. The deadly hateful thing; unless—" and taking it by its short handle, she laid its point to her heart.
"Mad girl!" he cried in agonizing amazement; "what would you do? Give it me. Do you hear?" and he started forward to seize it.
Ruth's threat.
"Mind, Lawrence," she said, waving him back, "dare to lay a finger on it, and—"
"What—what—?"
"And I will tell all the world—that is to say, I will tell Mistress Sheppard, and that will serve just as well, of everything I heard and saw last night. Say, Lawrence," and she half held the bayonet towards him, "which way is to be?"
Lawrence Lee in check.
Without a word he turned from her, and strode wrathfully, and pale as a ghost, away through the copse.