Winifred

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DISGUISE.

THE next day Winifred went up to the Hall, as usual, promising Jack to bring him something good, and not to remain away longer than she could help. As she entered the court-yard, she saw several horses standing before the door, and it was with no little satisfaction that she learned from one of the servants the news that Sir Edward was going up to London that very day, along with Colonel Kirke, who had been sent for by the king.

She was conscious of a great lightening of her heart as she skipped along the passages to Mrs. Alwright's room, and then watched from the window the two gentlemen mount their horses and ride away, followed by their servants and baggage-horses.

Presently Mrs. Alwright entered, considerably heated and flurried.

"You dear child, are you here already?" she exclaimed, kissing Winifred on both cheeks, and then dropping into her chair. "Dear heart, I am run off my feet! I don't think I have sat down to-day, and I was up all night, getting things ready for Sir Edward's journey; and glad I am that they are gone! Only to think that Sir Edward and that colonel should actually have been in Dame Sprat's cottage while you were there, and they never suspected anything either. I promise you my lady turned as white as a sheet when they spoke of it at supper. I could see her face in the great Venice glass as I stood behind her chair. My heart went thump, thump—it seemed as if every one in the room might have heard it. I was afraid my dear lady would betray herself by fainting or some such thing, but I need not have been alarmed.

"She just drank a glass of water, and then said, as quietly as possible, 'The dame must be growing very old and infirm. By your permission, Sir Edward, I would gladly make her more comfortable by sending her a load of fuel and other provisions before winter. I knew her well when I was a young girl at home.'

"Then Sir Edward hesitated and said something about her husband's having been a sturdy rebel, and herself a Puritan. Upon which Colonel Kirke spoke up and said, with his great, coarse laugh, that a good many folks were rebels in Cromwell's time who were king's men now. Which touched Sir Edward, as I suppose he meant it should, my dear. Then he went on to say that he would take it kind of my lady if she would befriend Dame Sprat, seeing the good woman had been kind to him in former days. So then Sir Edward could do no less after that than to tell my lady to do what she pleased. And when my lady said she would ride over some day to the cottage, and see what the old woman most needed, he said that would be a good plan, if the ride were not too long or too rough for her; which I believe it was for nothing else but to please Colonel Kirke, my dear. No, I won't say that either, for Sir Edward is a kind man to the poor—I will say that for him!"

"I think he is," said Winifred.

"But now tell me all about it, for I am dying to know," said Mrs. Alwright, "and I will sit here and rest a bit."

Winifred related the story, interrupted by many exclamations of wonder, pity, and admiration from Mrs. Alwright.

"Dear, dear! Well, I do declare! I never heard the like! It is like a story out of a play or a romance—not that you should ever touch plays and romances, my dear, for they are all a pack of wickedness and abominations—at least all that are written now-a-days. Well, I am truly thankful that it has all turned out so well, and that Colonel Kirke is going away. The king's messenger came last night just as they were rising from supper, and Colonel Kirke was not very well pleased, I could see that plainly. I fancy he has some game afoot that he did not care to leave, but what, I do not know nor want to know. He is a bad, impudent man, if he were twice the king's officer, and his servants are as bad as their master, enough to turn any decent house upside down.

"Well, so Sir Edward said he would ride with him for company, since he must go next week at any rate. And we have been all in a bustle, my lady and I, getting him ready and making biscuits and gingerbread for the road. Fortunately his clothes are all in order; whereby, my dear, you may see the great importance of never letting things fall behindhand, as I am often telling you, and your mother the same, no doubt. And here I am, keeping you all this time!" cried Alwright, as if she had just thought of it. "And my lady said you were to come to her directly you came in! So run up-stairs, as quickly as you can! You will find my lady in her closet, where you went before."

Winifred stopped only to lay aside her cloak and smooth her hair, and to prefer her humble request to Mrs. Alwright for something good for poor Jack.

"Dear me! Yes, to be sure, poor lad! He shall have some of the nice biscuits I made last night, and a pot of my gooseberry jam. You may tell your mother I do not think a little more generous diet would do him any harm after this. Go along to my lady, sweetheart, and I will have your work ready against you come back. I am going to teach you the lace stitch this morning."

Winifred found Lady Peckham in her closet, as Alwright had said. The great red velvet Bible lay open before her, and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping. Winifred paused at the door and made her courtesy, but my lady beckoned her to come nearer, and kissed her forehead.

"So you came near having a surprise yesterday, sweetheart! Where was my brother all the time?"

"In the shed, my lady, under the stack. The dog smelt him and scratched at the door, but the dame said it was the cat he was after, and begged the gentlemen not to let her be hurt, so they thought nothing of it. But indeed, my lady, I was horribly frightened, though I tried not to show it, lest they should suspect something. I could not help crying after they were gone and the danger was past."

"I do not wonder!" said Lady Peckham, shuddering. "It was a severe trial, and the thought of it makes me tremble even now. How shall I ever repay you, Winifred, for all you have done for me and mine?"

"I need no repayment, my lady," replied Winifred. "I have done no more than my duty, and you have ever been a most kind friend to me, both in noticing me yourself, and in allowing Mrs. Alwright to teach me so many things."

"You are an apt scholar, and you have had a higher Teacher than either myself or Alwright," said Lady Peckham. "You might well say that He would give you strength at your need. Without it you could never have come safely through such an ordeal as that of yesterday; And now tell me about my brother. How does he?"

"Well, my lady, and in good spirits, but I think he is very venturesome. The dame was ill with rheumatism yesterday, and nothing would do but Master Arthur must go out and catch a fish for her, and then cook it himself, and tidy up the cottage. He was sweeping when I went in, and if I had not been there to give him warning, Sir Edward and Colonel Kirke would have come right in upon him. I tried to persuade him not to do the like again, but he treated the whole affair more like a jest than anything else."

"I dare say. That was always his way, but he feels deeply, for all that. Did he send me no message?"

Winifred repeated it faithfully.

Lady Peckham wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Poor heart, I see he thinks I do not care for him! He little knows the weight which has rested upon my heart all these years that he has been in exile, and yet I think he might trust my love. But now, Winifred, I wish to consult you upon another matter. Sir Edward has given me leave to ride over and see Dame Sprat, and I wish to go while my brother is there. It does not seem to me that I can bear to let him go abroad again without once seeing him, but I do not see how to bring it about. I do not know the way, and it would never do to take one of our men. Can you think of anything?"

Winifred considered with a passing thought how strange it was that such a simple child as she should be called to assist and advise such great people as Lady Peckham and Mr. Carew!

"You do not always take a man with you when you ride about to visit the poor folks, my lady. You might come to our house as if to see Jack, and I could guide you through our lane and across the heath to the dame's cottage. I as often go that way as the other. It is a somewhat rough ride, but your pony is sure-footed, and I dare say you will not mind for once, in a way."

"No, indeed! I think the plan a good one, and can see no objection to it. Now, as to the disguise for my brother. I think we must call Alwright to our council for that matter."

Mrs. Alwright was called and consulted. "Why, my lady, as to that, the disguise is all ready made to our hand, as a body may say. There are the clothes of the chaplain who died last year at the Hall. He had neither kith nor kin that I could hear of, poor man, so I put all his things away in lavender and camphor, thinking that they would do a turn for some poor scholar,—which shows the great advantage of saving things, since one always does find a use for them, sooner or later," added Alwright, improving the occasion for Winifred's benefit, as usual.

"True!" said Lady Peckham. "Poor Mr. Mills must have been about Arthur's size, I should say."

"Just about the same, my lady, and there are his doublet and cassock, his wig, spectacles, and all, even to a thick horseman's cloak which he wore when he came here, and the saddle-bags which held his worldly goods, and room to spare too, poor soul!"

"Nothing could be more to our purpose," said Lady Peckham. "Arthur could always support any character which it pleased him to assume, and no one will take him for anything but a clergyman on his travels. But how shall we get the clothes conveyed to him when all is done?"

"Nothing could be easier, my lady," replied Alwright, evidently pleased with her own cleverness as a conspirator. "I can do them up in a small bundle, and you can take it on your horse as if it were something for the dame herself. You have often done the like for poor folks, so no one will think it strange."

"Very good!" said Lady Peckham. "There is one difficulty removed, but I see another and a greater one in the way of Arthur's escape. Money I have in plenty, but how and where to find a horse? Sir Edward has taken with him all the beasts except the old coach-horses and my pony, and besides Arthur could not possibly take a horse from here without exciting suspicion. What say you, Winifred? Can you propose anything?"

"I think, if you please, my lady, we had better consult my grandfather about that matter. He breeds a great many horses and knows all about them. I think he will find a way to help us out."

"Well, be it so," said Lady Peckham. "To-morrow is Sunday, and we will all go to church as usual, and try to gather strength for the work to come. On Monday, Winifred, I will come to your house, and you shall be my guide across the heath to the dame's cottage. Meantime consult your good grandfather about the horse, that all may be arranged as speedily as may be. I shall not know an easy moment till my brother is beyond seas and in safety."

CHAPTER IX.

SUNDAY.

WINIFRED'S first thought on waking was, "Oh, how glad I am that this is Sunday, and I 'cannot' do anything except go to church and wait upon Jack!"

Never had the day of rest, always pleasant to her, been more welcome than after this week of excitement and fatigue. She slipped out of bed without waking her mother, and went to the window. How wonderfully calm and quiet everything seemed! The plow-horses, turned out in the field near the house, seemed to know that no work would be required of them this day, and stood with their heads together looking over the gate. The cows were collected in their lane, waiting to be milked and turned out. The cider-press, which had been groaning and creaking for several days, was quiet under its little roof of thatch; the very poultry seemed to make less noise than usual, and a pretty robin was singing his autumn song on the top of the porch.

Winifred drew a long breath, and again repeated to herself, "Oh, how glad I am that this is Sunday!"

After breakfast and the finishing up of the morning's work, arose the question who was to go to church, and who was to stay at home with Jack. Priscilla volunteered to stay, and was not at all pleased when Jack declared, peevishly, that he didn't want her—he wanted Winnie.

"Priscy will just keep scolding at me all the time, and she can't read either. She has to spell all the words. I want Winnie to read to me in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and about David, and Goliath, and Samson."

"Master Jack is very fond of hearing about all sorts of brave doings," said Priscilla. "He takes his bravery out in that way, I think. As for Miss Winnie's new book, 'tis no fit book to read on Sunday, in my opinion. 'Tis more like a fairy tale."

"O no, Priscy! It is just as good a Sunday book as 'The Whole Duty of Man,'" said Winifred. "I will explain it all to you, some day."

Priscy was still privately of opinion that a book which was so interesting could not possibly be fit for Sunday, but she did not like to contradict Winifred, whom she looked upon as a kind of saint. So she contented herself with declaring that there were no such books when she was young—which was undoubtedly true—and that my Lady Colville (with whom she had once lived, and who was her great authority upon all occasions) had severely reproved my Lady Alice and had kept her upon bread and water for two days because she found her reading in the "Arcadia" on Sunday evening.

"The 'Arcadia' is a story-book, I know," said Winifred. "I read out of it to Mrs. Alwright, and it is all about shepherds, and shepherdesses, and knights. That is not at all like the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' Priscy."

Priscy could not see the difference, but said she supposed Mrs. Winifred knew best.

"Of course she does," said Jack; "and you will stay with me, won't you, Winnie?"

Winifred had particularly wished to go to church. She always enjoyed the services very much, and she felt as though she specially needed their soothing and strengthening influence, after the worry and excitement of the week past, but she saw that Jack had set his heart upon her reading to him, and she knew that if he and Priscy were left together, they would do nothing but quarrel all the morning.

"Well, never mind, Jack, I will stay with you this morning, and go to church in the afternoon," said she. "It is very dull to lie in bed and do nothing. I found that out when I had the fever."

"Yes, and very much Master Jack put himself out for you then, did he not?" said Priscilla. "He would not so much as go down to the spring in the evening when you wanted some cool water, because he was afraid of the bogle. Suppose Miss Winifred should say she was afraid to stay alone in the house with you for fear of robbers, what then, Master Jack?"

Jack, having no better answer at hand, began to cry.

"Hush, hush, Priscy!" said Winifred, gravely. "I am sure that is not proper talk for Sunday. Did not you promise me that you would not tease Jack any more, while he was sick?"

"Well, he is enough to aggravate anybody. But I won't say any more, only next time I hope he will remember and do as he would be done by, that's all!" And Priscilla flounced out of the room, and went to "clean herself," as she said, for church.

"Don't say any more, Jack!" said Winifred. "You will make your head ache. You need not think so much of what Priscy says. You know she would do anything in the world for you."

"What do I care about her doing for me, when she plagues me all the time!" sobbed Jack. "She is always saying the hatefulest things she can think of, and then when I am mad, she begins to tell what she has done for me. I would rather people would never do anything for me, than that they should be always twitting me with it afterwards!"

"I have felt a good deal so myself," said Winifred. "It is very hard to be grateful for favors when they are thrown in one's face. Somehow one feels as if one had paid for them all that they were worth. But don't let us think anything more about it, lest we should spoil our Sunday. How far have you got in the book?"

"Just to where he came to the lions. But, Winnie," said Jack, with some little trepidation in his voice, "you are not afraid to stay all alone with me while they go to church, are you? You don't really think there is any danger?"

"Of course not!" said Winifred. "What is there to fear?"

"Oh, nothing—only—I wish Roger or grandfather would stay at home with us!"

"Roger has gone home to see his sick mother, and I am sure you would not want grandfather to stay at home. Just think, how long it is since he has been able to go to church before! What harm can possibly happen to us?"

Jack didn't know, only it was very disagreeable to be left alone with nobody but a little girl to take care of him. "Suppose the robbers should come, or suppose there should be a thunder-storm, or such an apparition as Dame Rogers saw when she was all alone in the house!"

"Or suppose one of the lions should come out of the book and bite you, which is quite as likely," said Winifred, laughing. "You are always talking about going to sea with my father, Jack. What sort of sailor will you make if you are afraid of storms at home, with a good roof over your head? Or what would you do if the ship was attacked by the Barbary pirates, as the Princess of Orange was once? Dear Jack, do try and not be so afraid of everything!"

"I don't see how I can help it," said Jack; "and I am not afraid of everything, either. If I had been, I should not have gone up the tree after the magpie. But I don't like to be alone here, and I think grandfather might stay at home."

"I would not say anything about it; they will only laugh at you," said Winifred. "I will read to you, and then they will be at home again before you can think."

The dread of being laughed at by his grandfather prevailed for the time over Jack's other fears, and he saw the family set out for church without making any more objections. But when they were gone, his terror revived. He insisted on Winifred's fastening all the doors and windows, and calling in the great house-dog to guard them; and she had no sooner done so, and settled herself down to read, than he concluded, after all, it would be safer to have Trusty in the yard, as he could give them notice by barking if any danger approached. Then he interrupted her once more to ask her if she did not hear a noise in the outer kitchen.

"I hear the kittens chasing one another and the cat mewing to them. I suppose Priscy shut them in to look out for the mice. Now, Jack, do listen!" And Winnie read on:

"Now, before he had gone far, he entered into a very narrow passage, which was about a furlong off the porter's lodge, and, looking very narrowly before him as he went, he spied two lions in the way. 'Now,' thought he—"

"Winnie, do listen!" said Jack. "I am sure I hear some one on the porch!"

"I dare say it is only Trusty," said Winifred. "I will look out of the window and see."

"No, don't!" whispered Jack. "What if it should be a robber, and he should see you? Don't stir, and then he will not know that there is anybody in the house! There, do you hear that?"

And Jack seized hold of Winifred's hand, and hid his face in the bed-clothes, as a man's foot was distinctly heard upon the stones outside.

"Dear Jack, don't be so scared!" said Winifred. "I don't think there is any danger. I dare say it is only some traveller wishing to inquire his way, or perhaps one of the neighbors has been taken ill. Let me peep out of the window and see."

But Jack would not allow her to move. He had fully persuaded himself that the stranger was captain of a band of robbers, and that his grandfather would come home in time to find him and his sister robbed and murdered, or perhaps carried off and sold as slaves.

"It is some one whom Trusty knows," said Winifred, after listening a little. "Just hear how the old dog whines and barks, exactly as he does when father comes home. O Jack! Suppose it should be father himself! It might be, you know. He might have set out from Plymouth the day before yesterday, and been delayed on the road. Do, Jack, let me look out and see!"

No, Jack would not let her stir. He knew that it was not his father, though it might very likely be his father's ghost, come to tell them that he had been murdered on the way home. More likely, however, it was a gypsy, who it was well blown knew how to tame any dog, however fierce. He grew so agitated that Winifred was afraid he might injure his broken arm in his struggles, and though she felt almost certain that the stranger was her father, she did not again try to move till the family came home. It did seem a very long time to her as well as to Jack before they were heard approaching. Then Winifred heard her mother's voice in a tone of joyful surprise, and then another which she knew right well.

"It 'is' father, as I told you!" said she, as she hastened to unbar the door. "What will he think of us for not letting him in?"

"Why, Winifred, what has come over you all at once?" said her grandfather. "Why did you not look out and see who was there? Here has been your father sitting in the porch this hour and more, thinking, to be sure, as all the doors and windows are fastened, there would be nobody at home. That is but a poor welcome to give your father, child!"

"Never mind," said the sailor, as he took Winifred in his arms. "We don't expect little girls to be very brave, and the many frightful things which have happened of late are enough to make cowards of older and stronger people than Winifred. But, sweetheart, you used not to be afraid of anything!"

Winifred did not say it was Jack who had prevented her from opening the door. She thought the truth would come out quite soon enough, and so it did, not by any good will of Jack's, however. He was in no hurry to let his father know that he was afraid, and laughed as heartily as anybody at the idea of Winifred's barring the door to keep out her own father.

"Of course you know 'I' could not get out of bed to open it!" said he. "So there we were listening and wondering who it could possibly be. You would not have stayed in the porch if I had been able to get about."

Unluckily for poor Jack, this speech was overheard by Priscilla, who had just come in behind the others. She pounced upon him directly.

"Yes, if you had been about, no doubt it would have been just right. I dare say it was you who held Miss Winifred fast, and would not let her stir. And thought your father was all the thieves and robbers that ever were in Bridgewater jail. Now wasn't it so, Miss Winifred?"

"Never mind, Priscy," replied Winifred, making her a sign to stop. "My father is in now, and what does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal!" said her father. "Now, Winifred, tell me the truth. Was it yourself or Jack who was afraid to open the door?"

"It was Jack, father," said Winifred, in a low tone, and casting a reproachful glance at Priscilla.

"And you, Jack, threw the blame upon your sister! Oh, my lad, for shame! It is bad enough to be a coward, but it is far worse to try to shift the blame of your own cowardice upon another person's shoulders. I see you have been young master at home too long. To sea you go, my lad, as soon as ever your arm is well. The ship is to be laid up for repairs, and by the time she is finished, you will be quite recovered."

Jack did not know whether to be glad or sorry at this decision. He was pleased with the thought of leaving home, where he often fancied that every one was very unjust and unkind to him; and he liked the notion of being a sailor, and seeing foreign countries. But, on the other hand, he had a great dread of the dangers of the sea, and he stood not a little in awe of his father. However, he comforted himself with reflecting that a great many things might happen in the course of six months, and he might never go after all. While, in the mean time, he might have the pleasure of talking about his prospects to all the boys in the village. So he finally concluded to make the best of matters, especially as they could not be helped. It was observable that Jack's recovery went on much more rapidly after his father's return. The next day but one he was up and dressed, and going about with his arm in a sling; and he even offered to carry Dame Sprat's milk to her, an offer which was dryly refused by his mother, with the remark that she had no milk to spare, to be thrown away the first time Jack saw his own shadow on the ground.

CHAPTER X.

THE ESCAPE.

WINIFRED had talked over with her grandfather on Saturday night the question of procuring a horse for Arthur Carew. And Master Evans, after some consideration, had decided that he could spare the black mare, which was a steady, strong beast, and more suitable in appearance for a clergyman than any of the colts. He told Winifred that it would be best for Arthur, after putting on his disguise, to come himself for the mare. There would be nothing remarkable in his doing so, as many people came to the Stonehill farm to buy horses, and it would be a safer course than letting any of the men either at the Hall or the farm have a guess at the secret.

"You are sure it will be quite safe for him, grandfather?" said Winifred.

"Yes, I think so. Nobody about here has seen Master Arthur Carew for many years, and so far as I can hear, no one has mentioned his name in connection with the Duke of Monmouth. Indeed, there was a rumor some time ago that he had died in foreign parts."

"He went by a different name, I know," said Winifred. "He called himself Fullerton."

"I am glad he had at least that much sense," said Master Evans. "It was a most mad undertaking for all concerned."

"Master Arthur only came along because of his affection for the duke," replied Winifred, feeling somehow that she did not like to hear Arthur blamed.

"That may be some excuse, but it does not justify him. We have no right to let our friends drag us into doing what we know to be foolish and wrong. However, there is no help for it now. I think we have hit upon the best way of managing the matter: Mr. Arthur can come as if from the Hall, and if any one sees him, he will be taken for some poor scholar whom my lady has been helping on his way. You had better tell my lady all this yourself. I should say, the sooner the matter was managed the better."

As her grandfather advised, Winifred disclosed the plan to Lady Peckham, who arrived on her pony the next day, followed by a serving-man bearing a good-sized bundle, and dismounted to see Jack. Jack was very sensible of the honor, and also of the cakes my lady brought him, and listened with all due respect and submission to the lecture she read him upon doing as he was bid and keeping the fifth commandment.

"And now, Winifred, if you are ready to guide me to the cottage, I think we will dismiss Thomas," said her ladyship, rising. "I want him to ride into Bridgewater and do some errands there. Mrs. Alwright will give you your commissions, Thomas, and it is full time you were on your way."

Thomas was well enough pleased to be excused from attending his lady to the cottage of Dame Sprat, whom, like many other people, he looked upon as a kind of white witch, or at least as knowing more than any Christian ought to know. He made his reverence, therefore, and departed on his errand, and Lady Peckham prepared to mount her horse once more.

"Whose voice is that?" she exclaimed, starting, as a man's voice was heard without. "It is surely not your grandfather's!"

Jack saw the start and the change of color, and treasured them up as some sort of excuse for his own terrors of the day before—terrors of which he was more and more ashamed the more he thought of them. He little guessed what cause for alarm the poor lady had, since, of course, no one had dared to let him into the secret.

"It is only my father, madam," said Winifred. "He came home yesterday, and understanding that your ladyship was to be here to-day, he desired to pay his duty to you."

Lady Peckham was a true lady, both by nature and education, as well as by name, and though she was all the time impatient to be gone, she listened graciously while Gilbert Evans, in few but sensible words, expressed his gratitude for her kindness to his daughter. He ended by requesting her ladyship's acceptance of a valuable and curious piece of China vase which he had brought from the East. Lady Peckham was really pleased with the present, which was of a kind highly valued at that time, and she was also pleased with the feeling which had evidently prompted it. So there was great satisfaction upon all sides, and it was arranged that Gilbert should himself carry the vase to the Hall next day.

I will not attempt to describe the meeting between the brother and sister, nor that between the lady and the old woman whom her father had so deeply injured, and who had had such a rare opportunity of returning good for evil. It is enough to say that the dame welcomed her guest with true Christian politeness, and that Arthur greeted his sister with the warmest affection—that Winifred kept watch at the door while the interview lasted, and that it was settled that Arthur should come up to the Hall early the next morning, that he might go from thence to Master Evans' house.

The brother and sister had so many things to say to each other, that it was not till Dame Sprat herself warned the lady of the danger of such a long visit that they could make up their minds to separate. On farther consideration, it was decided that Arthur should not risk being recognized by any of the servants at the Hall, but that he should come at once to the farm and thence depart without farther leave-taking.

The next morning Winifred was at work in the garden, gathering various kinds of herbs and seeds. It was a task in which she took great delight, finding much pleasure in observing the forms and markings of the leaves, and the different ways in which the seeds were provided for. She was so busy that she did not look up till she heard her father's voice close beside her.

"Where is your grandfather, daughter? Here is a gentleman who desires to see him about buying a horse."

Winifred looked up with a start. She could hardly believe her eyes. Could this middle-aged clergyman in spectacles, with his full periwig, flapped hat, and somewhat worn black suit—could this be Arthur Carew?

"Is this your daughter, my friend?" said the stranger, in formal, measured tones. "Truly, a fine child, and one my Lady Peckham tells me, of great promise. I think I have seen you with my lady at the Hall, have I not, my little maid?" he asked, while the least bit of a roguish twinkle showed itself in his eyes. "But I dare say you do not remember me."

Winifred could only courtesy and say that she remembered the gentleman very well.

"Will it please you to walk into the house, and wait for my father, sir?" said Gilbert Evans. "He is in the house field, but I will soon call him."

"With your good leave I will repose here," replied the stranger, seating himself on the bench under the great pear-tree. "This soft autumn air is grateful to my senses, and I am somewhat weary with my walk. And so you did know me, Winifred, after all?" he added, as soon as Gilbert Evans was out of hearing.

"I don't think I should have done so, if I had not known you were coming," answered Winifred, surveying him from head to foot. "No, I am sure I should not. The wig seems to alter the shape of your face entirely."

"So much the better! Now, Winifred, that we are alone, I wish to say a few serious words to you. You have saved my life and the credit of my family. Whether we shall ever meet again, God only knows, but I shall never forget you, and you must always remember me. Will you promise to do so?"

Winifred tried to keep back her tears, as she said she should never forget Mr. Arthur as long as she lived.

"I am but a wanderer—a hunted exile, without home or country," resumed Arthur, "and you are hardly more than a child even now. But if ever I return, I shall come to find you. I must not even write to you, since it would not be safe for either, but I shall think of you, and meantime I want you to wear this."

He took from his breast a beautiful little locket and chain, decorated with a crest and figures in black and green enamel.

"This locket contains my mother's and sister's hair, and in all my wanderings I have never parted with it. Put it round your neck under your kerchief—so. Now, have you nothing to give me in exchange—no little silver penny or sixpence?"

"I have only this," said Winifred, taking from her pocket the broad, thin Moorish gold coin which Colonel Kirke had given her.

"That will do, nicely. Now farewell, my own Winifred! Be as much as may be with my sister, and learn all you can of her and of good Alwright. Give them my last love. Pray for me, sweetheart! You and the good dame, between you, taught me that the Christian religion is a reality. There, I hear your good grandfather coming."

Winifred stood feeling like one in a dream, while Roger led out the black mare from the stable. The stranger looked her over, and seemed to talk about the price, while the saddle was put on her and the stirrups adjusted. At last all was settled, the stranger mounted, bowed politely to her grandfather, put something into old Roger's hand, and rode away, turning at the last point where he could see Winifred and raising his hat.

Then she drew a long breath and went back to her work, wondering how it was that all the interest seemed to have gone out of it, and that she could think of nothing but the last glimpse of Arthur Carew.

"The master have sold the black mare, Miss Winifred, and the saddle and bridle he bought of the Widow Oldmixon!" said Roger, presently, coming through the garden. "The gentleman as bought them paid all in gold and gave me a crown-piece to boot. He was a bookish-looking sort of man like a parson, but he seemed a goodish judge of a horse too, and he rode away more like a dragoon than a scholar, to my mind."

There was an uneasy feeling in Winifred's heart that night. She was not sure that she had done right in exchanging tokens with Mr. Carew in that way, and for the first time in all her life she felt a certain disinclination to open her mind to her mother. But the life-long habit of openness prevailed, and at bed-time, the usual hour for confidences, she showed the locket to her mother and told her all about it.

Dame Magdalen was not a little disturbed. "Beshrew the man and his courtier's compliments!" said she to herself. "I wish he had gone anywhere else for a horse!"

But as she looked at Winifred's steadfast, modest gray eyes, she could not think any harm had yet been done. "I am heartily glad he is out of the way!" was her second comment.

But she only said: "There was no harm in it. Mr. Carew naturally wished to give you a token, and I suppose he had nothing else which he thought would please a young maid. As to the exchanging of tokens, that is but one of his court fashions. I dare say he will spend your gold piece at the first tavern."

"Then I may keep the locket, mother?" said Winifred, somehow feeling that her heart was not particularly lightened by this view of the case.

"Yes, if you please, child, so you do not show it. It is too valuable an ornament for one in your station."

There was no danger of her showing it, Winifred thought. Neither would she bring herself to believe that Mr. Carew would spend her gold piece at the first tavern. She had slept alone in the little room over the porch since her father's arrival, and that night, for almost the first time in her life, she cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BEGINNING OF CHANGES.

THE next three or four months were months of sad suspense to all the friends of Arthur Carew. To Winifred they were the longest she had ever spent. All the excitement and adventure of her life had been crowded into ten days, and now that they were over, it seemed hard to return to the little common duties of every-day life—to have nothing more important on her mind, when she awoke in the morning, than feeding the chickens or carrying her daily portion to Dame Sprat. Even her lessons with Mrs. Alwright had lost part of their charm, now that there were no messages to carry back and forth between my lady and Mr. Arthur—now that she was no longer a counsellor and in some sort a heroine, but had sunk into plain little Winifred Evans again.

In truth a great change had passed over Winifred. She had passed that place "where the brooks and rivers meet." She had from a simple child become a woman, with all a woman's cares and feelings, living the best part of her life in another. And she could no more go back to what she was before the memorable night when she walked over the fields with Arthur Carew, than she could return to the days when she played contentedly for hours with a doll and a few bits of broken earthenware.

Winifred had now to learn what all women must learn, sooner or later, that it often requires as much courage, though of a somewhat different kind, to live one's common every-day life, as it does to risk that life in some great danger or adventure. She sometimes found it hard not to be pettish and impatient with Jack when he boasted of what he would do when he was a sailor, and she sometimes found herself looking with disgust upon the little cares and the common every-day work which occupied her from morning till night, without seeming, after all, to bring anything to pass.

But Winifred was too truly a Christian, and too strongly confirmed in the habit of honest self-examination, to allow this frame of mind to become a habit. She soon perceived that she was growing fretful and discontented, and even moody and impatient of the society of those about her. And she set herself resolutely to remedy the evil, by earnest prayer, and by a steady, straightforward analysis of her own feelings and conduct.

"God has placed me where I am," she argued with herself. "He hath called me to this state of life, and the work I am obliged to do every day—feeding the fowls, sweeping and scouring, waiting upon my grandfather and Jack, and helping Priscilla in the dairy—all this is as much His work, as saving Mr. Carew's life or helping my lady. And if I let myself be unfaithful and discontented in these little matters, just because they do not seem to come to anything, what right have I to expect strength when any great temptation comes to try me? And if I sit thinking of all that has happened, and of Mr. Arthur Carew, when I ought to be saying my prayers—and I know I have done so a good many times—I have no right to expect my devotions will seem as pleasant to me as they have done before.

"I might take pattern of my lady about that. Of course the suspense about Mr. Arthur must be much worse for her than for me, yet she seems to go about everything just as usual—visiting the poor sick folks, the school, and the old women at the almshouses, reading and working, though I dare say all these things are often as tiresome to her as my spinning and knitting are to me. I will not be so silly any more!" was the conclusion of her meditation.

"God has been very good to me in giving me such kind friends as my lady and Mrs. Alwright, and such a home as this at the farm, and I will not be ungrateful. I will make the most of my lessons as long as I am allowed to have them. I will do my very best with my spinning, and see if I cannot draw as fine and even a thread as my mother. I found out long ago that the way to make work interesting was to do one's very best with it. God has always been good to me, and what a comfort it is to think that He can never be anything else than good—that whatever changes come, He will be always the same."

Winifred was likely to have need of all the comfort she could find in such thoughts, for many sad changes were before her.

One morning, as she entered Mrs. Alwright's room, she found that discreet spinster surrounded by a wonderful litter of linen and other garments, busily engaged in mending some very precious lace of her lady's.

"News, Winifred!" said Mrs. Alwright.

"Good news or bad?" asked Winifred.

"Both good and bad! Good news of Mr. Arthur, and bad news for you and me, my dear!"

"Mr. Arthur!" asked Winifred, her heart beating so fast as almost to choke her. "Is he safe?"

"Yes, my dear. After many troubles and perils, he escaped in a ship from Biddeford, and got safe and well through France into Holland. He says he wrote a letter, and sent it on shore just as they were about to sail, but we never received it. My lady says you are to come up to her by-and-by, and she will tell you all about the matter herself."

"That is good news, indeed!" said Winifred. "But I wonder why my lady never received his first letter?"

"No doubt it was intrusted to some careless person who lost it," replied Mrs. Alwright. "There is no end to the evils brought about by carelessness, as you will do well to remember."

"And what is the bad news, Mrs. Alwright? I hope nothing has happened to Sir Edward."

"Why, yes, something has happened, though not anything which can be called a misfortune, exactly. His majesty has been pleased to give Sir Edward some office about the court. And we—that is my lady and I, and the butler and the coachman, and Betty Cook—are all going up to London to live."

Winifred's heart sank fathoms deep. My lady and Mrs. Alwright going away from the Hall! No more lessons in embroidery, no more reading out of the "Chronicle" and the "Arcadia," no more pleasant hours spent in gathering sweet herbs and flowers in the garden, or helping in the still-room and store-room! No more hours spent with my lady in reading and talking about the Bible and the history books—and above all, no further chance of hearing from Arthur Carew!

Winifred felt as though all the sunshine of her life had gone out in a moment. She remembered how dissatisfied she had been the past winter—how weary of everything, even of her precious lessons, and she felt as though God had punished her for her discontent by taking away the blessing for which she had been ungrateful. She bit her lip, and busied herself with the fastening of her basket, but all was of no use. The tears would come, and with a sudden impulse, she dropped upon her knees by the side of her good old friend, and laying her head in her lap, she sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Aye, poor dear! I knew just how you would take it!" said Mrs. Alwright, wiping her own eyes and smoothing Winifred's hair, entirely regardless for once of the detriment to her own clean starched lawn apron. "Such a quiet and pleasant time as we have had this winter since Sir Edward went away! So much as you have improved, and just as you have learned to do cut-work and satin-stitch so nicely, and all the darning stitches as well as I could myself. I meant to begin with you in carpet-work and tapestry the very next week, and give you the wool and silk to work a cushion for a birthday present. I got them from Bristol only last night. But you shall have them just the same, and I will give you a lesson every day that we stay at the Hall. It shall go hard, but I will find the time somehow or other. I will give you my small frame, too, and you are so clever, I make no doubt you will be able to go on by yourself. So cheer up, my dear, for no doubt it will be all for the best in the end, and don't let us waste our precious time in crying, for that would be very foolish, now that we have so little left."

Winifred felt the truth of this last remark. She dried her eyes, and prepared to make the most of the few pleasant hours she was likely to enjoy. Mrs. Alwright brought out her frame and prepared her canvas, and Winifred for a time almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of seeing a pretty pink rose-bud growing up, as it were, under her fingers.

"Does my lady like going to London?" she asked, as she presently stopped to thread her needle.

"Why, my dear, it is not always easy to say what my lady likes. You know great folks are not forward in expressing their feelings, and my lady never talks of herself. Of course, if Sir Edward is to live in London, my lady would wish to be with him, like a dutiful wife as she is. And so much the better for him, since, between ourselves, my dear, though I would not say so to every one, she has more sense in her glove than ever dwelt under his hat. I dare say my lady may be pleased at the thought of seeing some of her old friends again, but, upon the whole, I am of opinion that she would rather stay here than go to town. She never was fond of company, even as a girl. She would often beg to be left at home when the rest went out, and after she became a widow, I do believe that with her own good will she would never have left her own room, save to go to church or visit some poor body.

"Sir Edward went to London after his marriage, and was much about the king for some years. So my lady had to go to court with the other great ladies, but never was a bird more glad to escape from the cage than she was when we came down to the Hall. She recovered her spirits wonderfully, so that Sir Edward himself noticed the change, and he was greatly pleased to see her take such an interest in the gardens and in the schools and almshouses which his grandmother set up. It seemed as though she grew ten years younger. No, I cannot think my lady would ever go to London of her own accord."

"And you, Mrs. Alwright, how do you like it?"

"My dear, I hate and detest London and everything belonging to it!" said Mrs. Alwright, with so much energy that Winifred started and broke her thread. "Nasty, dirty place that it is, always knee-deep in dirt, in mud or dust, everything covered with soot and black, so that one can never be sure of a decent cap and kerchief for two minutes together, and no getting them washed as they should be, either! All sorts of wickedness and folly going on, night and day. Never sure when one hires a new maid that she is not a what-shall-call-um, who will rob the house and run away the first chance you give her, and pretty certain that she will be a lazy, dirty baggage, not worth her salt! The streets fall of all sorts of disorder so that no one is safe after dark.

"My lady was once stopped in her coach, coming home from Whitehall, and would have been robbed and murdered too, for aught I know, only for a party of soldiers who came up just in time. Poor starving creatures begging at the corners of the streets—why, if you will believe me, my dear, a poor sailor actually crept into our back-yard for shelter one cold night, and was found dying in the morning. My lady and I tried all we could to revive him, but he was too far gone. He said he had ate nothing for a week, and I could easily believe it by his looks. Brazen, painted baggages riding in their coaches in the park and jostling honest women!"

Mrs. Alwright stopped for sheer want of breath.

"But I suppose there must be some good people in so large a place as London?" said Winifred, doubtfully.

"Yes, to be sure, child, a plenty of them. Even in the court itself, bad as it was. There was Mrs. Godolphin, a saint if ever there was one, and Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, better people could not be; and as for Mrs. Macy, their daughter, she was too good to live. O yes, no doubt there are good people everywhere, but yet there is a terrible deal of wickedness in great cities, such as we know nothing about here. For my part, I could wish there was no such place. I did hope to spend the rest of my days among the green fields, and to live and die in the country, but God's will be done! No doubt He knows best!"

"It is hard to think so always," said Winifred.

"Well, sweetheart, it is a comfort that He does know best, and will go on in His own way, whatever we poor mortals may think of His doings. But now you must go up to my lady, and while you are gone, I will put a few stitches just to help you along, and give you something to look at for a guide."

Winifred found Lady Peckham in her dressing-room, which was all in a litter with mails and boxes. Lady Peckham was seated at her cabinet, looking over and destroying letters and papers. As Winifred looked around the usually pleasant and orderly apartment, as she remembered the delightful hours she had spent there, and thought how soon it would be shut up and deserted, the tears swelled to her eyes again, and she wished, with Mrs. Alwright, that there were no such place as London in the whole world!

"Well, Winifred, I suppose you have heard all the news from Mrs. Alwright?" said Lady Peckham, kindly.

"Yes, my lady."

"I have a message for you from my brother," said Lady Peckham, taking a letter from her pocket. "He says, 'Tell my little Winifred that I think of her, and I hope she remembers me, at least in her prayers.'"

Winifred felt that there was little danger of her forgetting, but she knew that she should break down utterly if she tried to speak, so she courtesied, and remained silent.

"Come hither to me, Winifred," said Lady Peckham.

Winifred obeyed, not by any means sure that she had not incurred a reproof in presuming to shed tears before such a great lady. She was mistaken.

"My poor child! My dear, faithful little friend!" said Lady Peckham, and presently, to her astonishment, Winifred found herself drawn into my lady's arms, and crying on her shoulder as freely as if it had been her own mother.

"You are very dear to me, Winifred," said my lady, presently, in a low voice. "I have always been fond of you, both for your own sake and that of a dear friend whom you much resemble. I have envied your mother the possession of such a daughter, but the events of the last few weeks have made me feel toward you more like an elder sister."

What made the hot blood rush into Winifred's cheeks at these words, so that she was glad to have her face hidden from her friend? Perhaps she could not have told if she had been asked.

"I would gladly take you with me to London, if it were possible," continued Lady Peckham. "I would gladly adopt you as my own, but I should have no right to deprive your parents of such a treasure. God has appointed to each of us His children our place, where we have His special work to do, and if in our impatience or self-indulgence we strive to better His appointment, He will soon show us our mistake. But, Winifred, if anything should happen to make you need a home, you must let me know."

"Will you never come back to the Hall, my lady?"

"I cannot tell, my child. Not for a long time, I fear. Sir Edward has received an appointment, as you have doubtless heard from Alwright, and so long as he is attached to the court we must remain in London. I confess it is not a pleasant prospect to me, but I try to submit and to believe that it will be for the best."

"It is hard to think that God orders everything for the best," Winifred ventured to observe, "but, my lady, I think it would be still harder to live if one did not believe it. It seems the only comfort one has in times like these."

"True, sweetheart! I trust you may never find your faith more severely tried than now. But this is a world of great and sad changes, and you may live to look back upon the present as a very small trial."

Winifred could not imagine any state of things in which the present trial should seem small to her. She was soon to find out her mistake.

"And now, Winifred, I wish you to ask a favor for me of your good mother," continued Lady Peckham. "I wish you would ask her to allow you to remain at the Hall until we go to London. You can help Mrs. Alwright a great deal, and I shall be glad of your society."

Winifred looked up in surprise. The news seemed too good to be true. Should she really remain a whole week at the Hall—perhaps longer—and see my lady every day?

"Oh, my lady, you are too good!" she said, gratefully.

Lady Peckham smiled rather sadly. "I am good to myself, then, my dear. I am not at all sure that I am conferring any favor upon you. But you may tell your mother that I shall be careful not to spoil her little maiden."

Dame Magdalen looked rather doubtfully at her husband when Winifred preferred Lady Peckham's request, after her return home.

"I should be loth to refuse my lady anything, sweetheart, so kind as she has been to you! But to let you stay so long at the Hall—I am doubtful."

"My lady said she would be sure not to spoil me, mother," said Winifred.

"She will not 'mean' to spoil you, I know very well. My lady means nothing but what is kind and good, but, my maid, how will it be when you return home again? Will not the plain, homely ways and life at the farm, and the every-day work and duties of your station, become wearisome to you? My lady has been very kind in noticing and making in some sort a companion of you, but you must never forget that you are a plain yeoman's daughter."

"I will try not to be discontented, mother," said. Winifred, meekly. "I know what my place is, and I am thankful that I have so good and pleasant a home as this, but, mother—" and Winifred's voice faltered—"perhaps I shall never see my dear lady again!"

"Let her go, dame, I pray you!" said Gilbert Evans, stroking his daughter's head. "We all owe much to my lady for her care of the child, and she will learn nothing but good at the Hall, though there are few great families of which I would say as much. I do not wonder the poor lady feels the need of companionship. Go now, and bring me my pipe and box. The child must go out into the world some day!" he added, as Winifred left the room. "We cannot always keep her to ourselves, and she is learning what will help her to earn her bread if ever she should be thrown on herself."

"Winifred has learned a great deal," said Magdalen. "Her white seam and cut-work are wonderful, and she can do the twill and diaper darning stitches better than I could in my best days, but yet I sometimes fear for the effect of all these lessons. Whom is the girl to marry?"

"Perhaps she may have the luck to catch a sailor lad, as her mother did before her," said Gilbert, laughing, and patting his wife's still fair cheek. "Dost remember how thy fine relations turned up their noses at poor Gilbert Evans, when he came a-courting Magdalen Coffin, whom he fished out of the Catwater when the pleasure-boat was overset?

"'What does that sailor fellow want with Madge?' said thy cousin. 'Give him a crown and a draught of strong water, and send him on his way!'"

"Ah, Gilbert, it is not every orphan and dependent maid who has the luck of poor Madge Coffin!" said Magdalen, smiling. "Winifred's lot is likely to be the opposite of mine. My proud cousin brought me up to be a household drudge—a serving-maid in all but the name. But even let the child do as she will! She is a good girl, and has worked hard this winter."

So it was settled, and Winifred went up to the Hall to stay for the two weeks that should elapse before Lady Peckham went to London. Busy weeks they were, and full of pleasant employment, whether she worked at her embroidery, ran up and down-stairs for Mrs. Alwright and helped her in the still-room and kitchen, where she learned to make biscuits, and almond paste, and maukpane and saffron cakes, and all the other delicacies for which that lady was famous, or whether she sat or walked with my lady in the rapidly lengthening twilight, telling of the things they both loved, or read to her as she worked in her own chamber.

Many were the cabinet drawers and boxes she helped to rummage, filled with all the accumulations of generations of ladies famous for needlework and all such accomplishments, and many were the precious presents she received,—bits of wonderful brocades and ribbons for her silk patchwork (then a great fashion, as it was a few years since), of ivory and tortoise-shell tatting-shuttles and netting-boxes, of pin-cushions and needle-books, of embroidery patterns and silks, each and all accompanied by the exhortation, "Take care of it, child! It will come in use some day."

But at last all came to an end. The day of final departure arrived. Winifred bade her friends farewell, and stood at the hall door till the clumsy coach with its six horses and outriders (not for show, but use) drove down the long avenue and disappeared. Then, feeling as though a part of her life had gone away with it, she dried her eyes, and turned back into the house to finish up some last things which had been left to her care.

Later in the day, Winifred walked homeward, followed by the herd-boy bearing her bundles, but carrying herself, as too precious to intrust to another, her chief treasures—Hall's "Chronicle," some books of devotion my lady had given her, and the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney—"the only romance," said Mrs. Alwright, "fit for a young maiden to read."

At the turn of the avenue, she stopped and looked back. There stood the old Hall, in all its quaint beauty, under the light of the spring sunshine, but all the windows were closed, and Winifred thought it already looked desolate and forlorn. She gazed a long time, till her eyes grew too full to see any longer.

"Well," said she, as at last she turned away, "I have at least one comfort! No one can ever take from me the remembrance of the pleasant times I have had and the things I have learned of my lady!"

CHAPTER XII.

BRISTOL.

"HERE is that child, poring over her book again, wasting her precious time and eyesight! I declare she is enough to try a saint! After all I have done for her! I have a great mind to burn up all her books except the Bible, that I have."

Winifred looked up wearily as these words were spoken. She had grown tall and pale since we last saw her in the avenue at Holford Hall, and the expression of her face wears more of sadness, but there are the same clear-cut features, the same large, steadfast gray eyes and marked eyebrows which first attracted Lady Peckham's attention to the child in the Blue-school at Holford. But the window where she now sits and strains her sight to catch the last daylight looks not into the farm closes, but into such a narrow lane that the opposite neighbors could almost shake hands across it. For Master Simon Evans lives near the water-side for the convenience of his business. And even the dog-carts used in the wider streets of Bristol cannot pass each other in Fish Lane.