Master Rayburn, the old scholar, angler, and, in a small way, naturalist, had no pretensions to being either physician or surgeon; but there was neither within a day’s journey, and in the course of a long career, he had found out that in ordinary cases nature herself is the great curer of ills. He had noticed how animals, if suffering from injuries, would keep the place clean with their tongues, and curl up and rest till the wounds healed; that if they suffered from over-eating they would starve themselves till they grew better; that at certain times of the year they would, if carnivorous creatures, eat grass, or, if herbivorous, find a place where the rock-salt which lay amongst the gypsum was laid bare, and lick it; and that even the birds looked out for lime at egg-laying time to form shell, and swallowed plenty of tiny stones to help their digestion.
He was his own doctor when he was unwell, which, with his healthy, abstemious, open-air life, was not often; and by degrees the people for miles round found out that he made decoctions of herbs—camomile and dandelion, foxglove, rue, and agrimony, which had virtues of their own. He it was who cured Dan Rugg of that affection which made the joints of his toes and fingers grow stiff, by making him sit for an hour a day, holding hands and feet in the warm water which gushed out of one part of the cliff to run into the river, and coated sticks and stones with a hard stony shell, not unlike the fur found in an old tin kettle.
He knew that if a man broke a leg, arm, or rib, and the bones were laid carefully in their places, and bandaged so that they could not move, nature would make bony matter ooze from the broken ends and gradually harden, forming a knob, perhaps, at the joining, but making the place grow up stronger than ever; and it took no great amount of gumption to grasp the fact that what was good for a cut finger was equally good for arm, head, leg, or thigh; that is to say, to wash the bleeding wound clean, lay the cut edges together, and sew and bandage them so that they kept in place. With a healthy person, nature did all the rest, and Master Rayburn laughed good-humouredly to himself as he found that he got all the credit.
“Nature doesn’t mind,” he used to say to one or other of the lads. “There’s no vanity there, my boys; but I’m not half so clever as they think.”
But let that be as it may, Master Rayburn mended Dummy Rugg when he fell from top to bottom of the steep slope leading down into the lead-mine, getting thereby very much broken, the worst injury being a crack in his skull. He “cobbled up,” as he called it, a number of other injuries which happened to the men by pieces of rock falling upon them, slips of the steel picks, chops from axes, and cuts from scythes and reaping-hooks, the misfortunes of the men who toiled in the woods and fields.
If a regular physician or surgeon had come there, the people would have laughed at him, so great was their faith in Master Rayburn, who did his best for the people, and never asked for payment. In fact, his patients never thought of offering it to him in money, but they were not ungrateful, all the same. Indeed, he used to protest against the numbers of presents he was always receiving, the women bringing him pats of butter, little mugs of cream, and the best of their apples and potatoes; and their husbands never killed a pig without taking something to Master Rayburn for the kind actions which he had performed.
It fell out then, as quite a matter of course, that he went on treating Ralph Darley for the little hole in his arm, beneath the shoulder joint, and that he also dressed and bandaged Mark Eden’s thigh, so that the injuries went on healing rapidly.
It was known, too, at the Cliff Castle and the Black Tor that he was treating both, but the Edens never mentioned the Darleys, nor the Darleys the Edens, the amateur surgeon saying nothing at either place; and the wounds got better day by day.
“I wish I could heal the old sore as easily,” the old man said to himself; “but that wants a bigger doctor than I.”
Master Rayburn believed in the old saw, that a still tongue maketh a wise head, and he waited.
But in the meantime Ralph had told his father everything about his encounter, and waited afterwards to hear what his father said. In due time he did say something, but it was not to the effect that Mark Eden had behaved very gallantly in helping his son, and vice versa, that his son had shown a fine spirit in forgetting family enmity, and fighting against a common enemy. He only frowned, and said, “Humph!”
He said something more, though upon another occasion, when, in obedience to Master Rayburn’s orders, Ralph was keeping quiet at home, and sitting in his father’s room, reading, and thinking about Mark Eden, determining, too, that he would ask Master Rayburn how the lad was the next time he came, for though family pride and old teachings had kept him quiet, he had hoped that his doctor would volunteer the information which had not come.
Sir Morton was poring over an old tome which dealt with alchemy and the transmutation of metals, in which the learned writer gravely gave his opinion about baser metals being turned into gold, all of which Sir Morton Darley thought would be very satisfactory, as he could not succeed in finding a profitable lead-mine on his estate, and had not been any more successful than his forefathers in taking possession of that belonging to the Edens.
He had just come to the way of thinking that he would begin to buy ordinary lead and turn it into gold, when Ralph said suddenly:
“I say, father, why do we want to be at enmity with the Edens?”
Sir Morton looked up at his son, and then down at his book, as if expecting to find an answer to the question there. Then he coughed to clear his voice, cleared it, and coughed again, which was perfectly unnecessary. But still the answer did not come. Finally, he replied:
“Well, you see, my boy, we always have been at enmity with them.”
“Yes, I know, ever since my great, great, ever so great, grandfather’s time.”
“Exactly Ralph. That’s it, my boy.”
“But what was the beginning of it?”
“The beginning of it—er—the—er—commencement of it—er—the family feud. Well—er—it was something in the way of oppression, as I have told you before. A great injury inflicted by the Edens upon the Darleys. But it will not do your arm any good to be fidgeting about that. I want it to heal. That can be healed; but our family feud never can.”
“Why not, father?”
“Why not? Oh, because it is contrary to nature, boy. What a question, when you are suffering now from the way in which the deadly hatred of the Edens comes out! Are you not wounded by a scion of the vile house?”
“Yes, father; but then young Eden is suffering too in the same way, and I think he got the worst of it.”
“I’m glad of it, Ralph. I think you behaved very bravely.”
“What; in fighting the robbers?”
“I did not mean that. I meant in defending yourself,” said Sir Morton austerely. “There, that will do: I want to go on studying this book.”
But Ralph was fidgety from the state of his wound, and went on again.
“Couldn’t the old trouble be settled by law?”
“Pooh, boy! As I have told you before, the law does not reach here among these mountainous wilds. I am the law here. I could settle the matter; but that man Eden would never agree to what I said.”
“And I suppose, father, that you would never agree to what he considered was the proper law.”
“Certainly not, Ralph,” said Sir Morton impatiently. “But why are you going on like this?”
“Because I was thinking again how easy it would be if you and Sir Edward Eden were to join and attack that Captain Purlrose and his men. You would be able to drive the gang out of the neighbourhood.”
“I shall be able to drive this fellow out of the district, my boy, without the help of the Edens, who ought to be driven out too, for they are very little better than Captain Purlrose and his men. Stop, sir; what are you going to do?”
“Go out, father. It’s so dull sitting here.”
“You had better stay in: the sun is hot, and you have been rather feverish. I want you to grow quite well.”
“So do I, father,” said the lad, smiling.
“Then do what Master Rayburn advised you. Keep perfectly quiet.”
“But it is such weary work doing nothing, father. I’m sure I should get better if I were out in the fresh air. Ah, there is Minnie;” for just then his sister came to the open window, and looked in.
“Why don’t you come out and sit in the shade here, Ralph?” she said. “Come and read with me.”
Ralph glanced at his father, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded, as much as to say, “Well, be off;” and the lad went out into the castle-yard, and then on to the little terrace where the new basin and fountain were looking bright and attractive, though still wanting in the fish Ralph was to have procured.
Brother and sister sat down in a shady nook, and watched the glint of the river through the trees far below, looked over the lovely prospect of hill and dale; and finally Minnie’s eyes rested upon the shoulder of the great shaley hill at whose foot the encounter with the disbanded soldiers had taken place.
“When is father going to lead the men to drive out those dreadful people?” said the girl at last.
“I don’t know: soon, I hope. When I’m better.”
“Well, you are better, Ralph.”
“That’s what I told father. Only a bit sore. I’m sick of being coddled up.”
“That’s because you are a boy. You are never happy unless you are in the open-air.”
“You would not be, if you were a boy,” said Ralph sharply.
“Well, I don’t know that I am, even as a girl. It’s dreadful. You know, father has given orders that I am not to go outside the walls. No walks, no rides; and my poor pony looked so reproachfully at me. Wants to go out as badly as I do. Don’t you think it’s being too particular?”
“Well, no, Min,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “While those men are about, I don’t think you ought to go out alone.”
“Now, Ralph,” said the girl, pouting, “you’re as bad as father. I declare you are not a bit like a nice, brave, merry boy now. You used to be; but ever since you’ve been at that great school you have been growing more and more serious, till you are getting to be quite an old man.”
“And quite grey,” said Ralph drily.
“It only wants that,” said the girl, with a merry laugh. “I declare that old Master Rayburn has more fun in him than you.”
“Wouldn’t say so if you had been wounded, and had him to pull the bandages about.”
“What nonsense! he said I was to come and see him as soon as ever I could.”
“And you can’t go and see him. He wouldn’t advise you to go out while those ruffians are yonder.”
“No,” replied the girl, smiling frankly. “He said I must wait till the wasps’ nest had been burned out, and I suppose he meant the cave where those men are. Oh, I wish I were a man, and could go and fight the wretches. They’ve been robbing and frightening people in all directions. They even went last night and frightened old Mistress Garth, Nick’s mother, and took away her bag of meal.”
“They did that!” cried Ralph angrily. “How do you know?”
“Nick told me, and he says he means to kill the captain first time they meet.”
“Nick says so?”
“Yes; but I suppose it’s only boasting. I don’t think he’s very brave, is he?”
“Don’t know,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “But it’s quite time something was done.”
“And it was so funny, Ralph,” continued the girl; “he actually said to me that he didn’t care a bit for his mother, for she has the worst temper of any one he knows, and is always scolding when he goes to see her; but he won’t have any one interfere with her, and he’ll kill that captain for stealing the meal-bag as sure as he’s alive.”
“Well, it shows he’s a good son,” said Ralph quietly. “But you see that it is not safe for you to go out.”
“Yes,” said Minnie with a sigh; “but it seems very silly. The other day one was obliged to stop in because of the Edens; now it’s because of those men.”
“I suppose it’s as bad for the Edens as it is for us,” replied Ralph, who became now very thoughtful; and when, soon afterwards, Minnie looked up to see why he did not speak, she found that his head was resting against the stone, beside a crenelle, and that he was fast asleep.
“Poor boy!” she said softly, “he is weak yet, and soon worn-out. It was very brave of him to fight as he did—with Mark Eden, I mean—against the men who attacked them, and for both to be wounded. I wonder what Mark Eden is like. Ralph has met him three times, he says, but he only growls if I begin to ask him questions. What a pity it is, when we might all be so friendly and nice. How stupid it does seem of people to quarrel!”
Fate seemed to be determined that the young people of the rival families should become intimate, in spite of all the stringent rules laid down by the heads; for Ralph was out one day, making a round, when it occurred to him that he would call upon Master Rayburn, to let him see how well the wound was healing up, and to say a few words of thanks to the old man for his kindness and attention.
He found the object of his visit seated in a kind of grotto, shaded by a great sycamore, with his doublet off, hat on the floor, and beautifully white sleeves rolled up, busily at work, tying up some peculiar little combinations of wool, hair, and feathers, to the back of a hook; and as the lad approached, he held up the curious object by the piece of horsehair to which it was tied.
“Well, patient,” he said, “what do you think of that?”
“Nothing at all,” cried the lad. “No fish would ever take that. What do you call it?”
“A bumble-bee, and the fish will take it, Mr Cleversides; but not if they see a big lubberly boy staring at them with his arm in a sling, or an old grey-headed man, either, Ralph. There, don’t frown. It’s very nice to be a big lubberly boy; much better than being a worn-out old man, with not much longer to live. Ah, you laugh at my bumble-bee, and it certainly is not like one, but the best I can do, and I find it a great bait for a chevin, if used with guile. Take these two, Ralph, boy, and early some sunny morning go down behind the trees, where they overhang the stream, and don’t show so much as your nose, let alone your shadow, for it would send them flying. Then gently throw your fly.”
(Note: a chevin is a chub.)
“How can you,” said Ralph quickly, “with the boughs overhanging the water?”
“Good, lad! what I expected you to say; but there is where the guile comes in. I don’t want you to throw your fly into the water, but to let it drop on the leaves just above it, a few inches or a foot, and then shake the line tenderly, till the bee softly rolls off, and drops naturally from a leaf, hardly making a splash. Then you’ll find that there will be a dimple on the water, the smacking of two lips, and the chevin will have taken the bait. Then it is your fault if it is not laid in your creel.”
“Thank you, Master Rayburn; I’ll try. I haven’t had a fish since I was wounded.”
“No: it would have been bad work if you had gone whipping about, and irritating the two little holes in your arm. Well, how is it?”
“Oh, quite well now,” said the lad, as he carefully hooked the bees in his cap, and twisted the hair to which they were attached under the band; “and I’ve come to say how thankful I am for all you have done for me, and—”
“That’s enough, my dear boy,” cried the old man warmly; “look the rest. And now about those wild men of the mountains; have you heard how they are going on?”
“A little; not much.”
“Ah, you don’t know, or you would not talk about a little. Why, Ralph, boy, the country round is full of complaints of their doings. About a dozen great idle scoundrels are living up at Ergles in that cave, laying the people for miles round under contribution; picking the fat of the land, and committing outrage after outrage. Only during the past week, I’ve had to bind up two broken heads, and strap up a broken shoulder, where the poor fellows had made a brave fight for it—one man against seven or eight.”
“You don’t mean that!” cried Ralph flushing.
“But I do, boy. They are growing worse and worse, and making themselves a scourge to the country.”
“I did not know it was so bad.”
“No, I suppose not, sir; and here are you people living safely in your castles, with plenty of stout men about you, ready to arm and defend you behind your walls and gates. But if the scoundrels came and robbed you, perhaps you would do something. Don’t you think you ought to begin?”
“Yes, that I do,” cried Ralph quickly. “My father has been talking about it for some time.”
“Yes; and so has Sir Edward Eden been talking about it for some time; but neither of them does anything, and the wasps’ nest thrives; all the best things in the country are carried up there—the wasps robbing the bees; and I, though I am a man of peace, say that it is the duty of you gentlemen to burn that wasps’ nest out before anything worse is done, for the ruffians grow more bold and daring every day, feeling, I suppose, that they can do these things with impunity.”
“Father shall do something at once,” cried the lad.
“That’s right,” cried the old man, patting his late patient on the shoulder. “I don’t want blood shed, and I hardly think any of your people would come to much harm, for, like most scoundrels of their kind, I believe the enemy would prove miserable cowards.”
“They have proved to be so,” cried Ralph warmly. “Father must act now.”
“I’ll tell you what he ought to do, boy,” said the old man, grasping his visitor by the arm. “Of course he need not make friends, but he ought to go or send to the Black Tor, and ask Sir Edward to head so many men, your father doing the same; and then they could march together, and rout out the scoundrels.”
“Yes, it would be easy enough then,” said Ralph sadly; “but I know my father too well: he would not do that.”
“No,” said the old man, “he would not do that.”
The tone in which this was said roused the lad’s indignation.
“Well,” he said hotly, “do you think this Sir Edward Eden would come and ask my father to join him?”
“No, boy, I do not,” replied the old man, “for I said something of this kind to Mark Eden only yesterday, when I was fishing up that way, and he spoke just in the same way as you do.”
“You saw him yesterday?” said Ralph eagerly. “How is he?”
“What’s that to do with you?” said the old man rather roughly. “You don’t want to know how your enemy is. But all the same, his leg is nearly well. He limps a little: that is all. Going?”
“Yes,” said Ralph hurriedly; “I must be off now. I am going on about a mile, and coming back this way. Perhaps I shall see you then.”
“Going about a mile? Not going to see old Mother Garth?”
“Yes: to take her a present from my sister. Nick told her about his mother being robbed.”
“And your sister wants to make it up to her. Poor old woman! she is in great trouble, but she will not hear of leaving her cottage up there on the moor; and she says that next time the men come to rob her, they’ll find she has two pots of boiling water ready for them.”
Ralph laughed, and went off, crossed the river at the shallows, and climbed the ascent to where the old woman lived in her rough stone cot, in its patch of garden; and as soon as he had given his present, with an addition from his own purse, and the fierce old lady had secured it in her pocket, she turned upon him angrily, upbraiding him and his for allowing such outrages to be committed.
“But there,” she cried, when quite out of breath, “it’s of no use to speak: there are no men now, and no boys. When I was young, they’d have routed out those wretches and hung them before they knew where they were. But only let them come here again, and they shall know what boiling water is.”
“They’ll be well punished before long,” said Ralph, as soon as he could get in a word.
“I don’t believe it,” cried the old woman. “Don’t tell me! I want to know what my boy, Nick, is about for not making his master do something. It’s shameful. But I see how it is: I shall have to go and do it myself.”
Ralph was not sorry to get away from the ungracious old dame, who stood at her door, shouting messages to his father about his duty and her intentions, till the lad was out of sight, when he could not help seeing the comic side of the matter, and wondered, laughingly, what his father would say to her if she kept her word, and came up to the castle to ask him why he and her son, Nick, did not go and punish those wicked men for coming and stealing her bag of meal.
“I should like to be there,” said Ralph, half-aloud, as he tramped on: and then his thoughts took a serious turn again, and he began to ponder upon the possibilities of his father and their men attacking Captain Purlrose, and the chances of success.
“It ought to be done,” thought Ralph, as he began to climb the path leading to the shelf upon which Master Rayburn’s cottage was built, half-a-mile farther on, “so as to take them by surprise when part of the men are away. It can hardly be called cowardly with men like them. Then we could hide in the cavern, and wait till the rest came back, and take them prisoners too. What’s that?”
He listened, and made out the sound of a horse galloping, wondering the while who it could be. Then his interest increased, for the track was narrow and stony, and ran along like a shelf beside the cliff, with a steep descent to the river—altogether about as dangerous a place for a canter as any one could choose. But he recalled immediately how sure-footed the ponies of the district were, and thought no more of it for a few moments. Then his face flushed as he remembered how Mark Eden had galloped after him. Would it be he, and if so, now they were going to meet again, would it be upon inimical terms, and with drawn swords?
His heart began to beat faster, and the next minute it was beating faster still, for he caught sight, at a curve of the track, of the pony and its burden, not Mark Eden, but a lady; and then his heart seemed to stand still in his horror at seeing that she had lost control of the spirited little animal, which was tearing along as hard as he could go.
The next minute it was nearly abreast of Ralph, who, without thinking of the consequences of such an act, leaped at the rein, caught it, and was dragged along some twenty yards, before, snorting and trembling, the little animal, which he knew as Mark Eden’s, stopped short, and began to rear.
“Quick!” shouted the lad. “I can’t hold him: try and slip off.”
His words were heard by the frightened rider, but there was little need to tell her to slip off, for the pony reared again, nearly upright, the rider glided from the saddle over the animal’s haunches, and fell amongst the bushes by the track, while Ralph was dragged onward again.
It all occurred in a few moments, the pony stopped, reared again, made another bound, dropped off the track, and, as Ralph loosed his hold, rolled over and over down the steep slope right into the river with a tremendous splash, which cooled it on the instant; and it regained its feet, scrambled actively ashore, gave itself a shake, and then began to graze, as if nothing was the matter.
“Mark Eden’s sister,” thought Ralph, as he hurriedly climbed back to the track, where, looking wild and scared, Mary Eden had just regained her feet, and was standing trembling.
“Are you hurt?” he cried aloud.
“Yes, dreadfully. No: I don’t think so. Only scratched,” she replied, half-crying. “I couldn’t stop him. He hasn’t been out lately. He ran away with me. What shall I do?” she sobbed now. “Mark will be so angry. Is his pony much hurt?”
“Oh, never mind the pony,” cried Ralph, taking her hand. “Here, let me help you to Master Rayburn’s.”
“But I do mind about the pony,” cried the girl angrily. “It doesn’t matter about me. Do you think he has broken his knees, or his legs?”
“It does not seem like it,” said Ralph, smiling. “Look, he is browsing on the thick grass down there.”
“Is—is my face much scratched?”
“Hardly at all,” said Ralph.
“Then thank you so for stopping him; I was so frightened. Ah, look! there’s Master Rayburn.”
She clapped her hands with delight, as she caught sight of the old man, hatless, and with his white hair flying, running down the path. Then turning, back to Ralph, she said, naïvely:
“Please, who are you? Oh, I know now. I haven’t seen you for two years, and—”
She shrank away from him in a peculiarly cold and distant manner, and at that moment Master Rayburn panted up.
“Much hurt, my dear?” he cried excitedly, as he caught the girl in his arms.
“No, no, I think not,” she said, beginning to sob anew.
“Thank God! thank God!” cried the old man fervently.—“Hah! My heart was in my mouth. Why can’t people be content to walk? Come back home with me, my child. Here, Ralph Darley, how was it? Did you stop the brute?”
“I tried to,” said the lad quietly, “but I couldn’t hold him long.”
“Long enough to save her, my lad,” cried the old man, looking from one to the other in a peculiar way.—“How strange—how strange!” he muttered.
Then aloud, in an abrupt way:
“There, never mind the pony. You be off home, sir. I’ll take care of this lady.”
Ralph coloured a little, and glanced at the girl, and as she met his eyes, she drew herself up stiffly.
“Yes, sir,” she said, “Master Rayburn will take care of me. Thank you for stopping my pony.”
She bowed now, in the stately way of the period, clung closely to the old man, turning her back upon her rescuer, who unnecessarily bowed, and walked on up the steep path, wondering that the pony had not come down headlong before.
Then he felt disposed to look back, but his angry indignation forbade that, and he hurried on as fast as he could on his way home, passing Master Rayburn’s cottage, and then, a hundred yards farther on, coming suddenly upon a riding-whip, which had evidently been dropped. The lad leaped at it to pick it up, but checked himself, and gave it a kick which sent it off the path down the slope toward the river.
“I’m not going to pick up an Eden’s whip,” he said proudly. “Just like her brother,” he muttered, as he went on faster and faster, to avoid the temptation of running back to pick it up. “They are a proud, evil race,” as father said. “What did I want to interfere for, and stop the pony? It was looked upon as an insult, I suppose. I don’t like the Edens, and I never shall.”
Ralph’s adventures for that day were not ended. A quarter of a mile farther on he heard footsteps in front. Some one was running, and at a turn of the track a lad came into sight, whom he recognised as Dummy Rugg, one of the mine lads. The pair came closer quickly, and Ralph saw that he was recognised, and that the boy was scowling at him, passing him with rather an evil look, but stopping the next minute, and running back after him. As soon as he heard the steps returning, Ralph faced round, his left hand seeking the sheath of his sword, to bring it round in case he should want to draw. But the next minute he saw that the lad had no evil intent.
“Look here,” cried Dummy, “did you see a young lady on a pony?”
“Yes.”
“Was it going fast?”
“As fast as it could go,” said Ralph haughtily.
“Not running away wi’ her?”
“Yes,” said Ralph, rather enjoying the boy’s anxiety, in his ruffled state.
“I knowed it would: I knowed it would!” cried the boy wildly; “and she would have it out. Here! gone right on?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! And you never tried to stop it. Oh, wait till I see you again!”
Ralph did not feel in the humour to stop and explain to one who had threatened him so offensively, and he would have felt less so still if he had known that Dummy Rugg had followed him that night through the dark woods, till he met his father.
“Let him find out for himself,” he muttered. “I have nothing to do with the Edens, and we can none of us ever be friends.”
Dummy Rugg caught the pony, after seeing that his young mistress was unhurt at Master Rayburn’s cottage; and, perfectly calm now, the girl insisted upon remounting, the old man opposing her, until Dummy gave him a curious look or two, and a nod of the head.
“And there is no need whatever for you to go up home with me, Master Rayburn,” she said. “It is all uphill now, and the pony will not run away again.”
“Very well, Mistress Obstinacy,” said the old man, smiling and patting her cheek, before helping her on the pony; “but I feel as if I ought to see you home safely.”
“There is no need, indeed,” cried the girl. “Goodbye, and thank you. I’m afraid I frightened you.”
“You did, my child, terribly. More than you frightened yourself. I was afraid that the little girl who used to ask for rides on my foot would be killed.”
“But it was only a gallop, Master Rayburn,” said the girl, leaning forward to receive the old man’s kiss. “Please, if you see Mark, don’t say anything about it, or he will not lend me his pony again.—Now Dummy, let go the rein.”
“Come on!” growled the lad, leading the frisky little animal, and Master Rayburn chuckled a little, for the boy bent his head, rounded his shoulders, and paid not the slightest heed to the order he had received.
“Do you hear, Dummy? Let go.”
Dummy let go of the rein by passing his arm through, and thrust his hand into his pocket.
“Do you hear me, sir?” cried the girl imperiously. “Let go of that rein directly.”
“Have let go,” grumbled the boy.
“Go away from his head, and walk behind.”
“Run away agen if I do,” said Dummy.
“He will not,” cried the girl angrily. “I shall hold him in more tightly.”
“Haven’t got strength enough.”
“I have, sir. How dare you! Let go.”
“Nay: Master Mark would hit me if I did, and Sir Edward’d half-kill me.”
“What nonsense, sir! Let go directly.”
Dummy shook his big head, and trudged on by the pony.
“Oh!” cried the girl, with the tears of vexation rising in her eyes. “I will not be led, as if I were a little child. Go behind, sir, directly.”
“Nay,” growled Dummy.
“Let go, sir, or I’ll beat you with the whip.—Ah! where is it?”
“Beat away,” said Dummy.
“I really will, sir, if you don’t let go.”
Dummy laughed softly, and Mary Eden could not see his face, but she saw his shoulders shaking; and in her anger she leaned forward and tried to drag the rein from the lad’s arm.
“You’ll have him off the path agen if you don’t mind, Mistress Mary.”
“Where is my whip? I’ve lost my whip,” cried the girl.
“Good job—for me,” said the boy, with a little laugh.
“If you don’t let go of that rein, directly, sir, I’ll make my brother beat you,” cried Mary angrily.
“You won’t tell him he ran away,” said the boy, without turning his head.
“Then my father shall, sirrah!”
“Won’t tell him neither, mistress.”
“Then I’ll tell him you were rude and impertinent to me, sirrah, and he’ll have you horsewhipped for that.”
“Master Mark’s sister couldn’t tell a lie with her pretty little lips,” said the boy quietly, and never once looking round. “Pony’s too fresh, and I won’t see my young mistress get into trouble again—so there!”
Mary Eden flushed with annoyance, and tried to stamp her foot, but only shook the stirrup, and sat still for a few moments, before trying cajolery.
“The pony’s quite quiet now, Dummy,” she said gently. “Let him have his head again—there’s a good boy.”
Dummy shook his own, and Mary bit her red lip, and made it scarlet.
“But I shouldn’t like to be seen led up home like this, Dummy,” she said softly. “It looks as if I can’t ride.”
“Every one knows you can ride beautiful, mistress.”
“But please let go now.”
“Nay: won’t.”
“I’ll give you some money, Dummy.”
“Wouldn’t for two donkey panniers full o’ gold—there!” cried the lad. “Come on.”
This to the pony, and then the boy checked the cob.
“That your whip, mistress?” he said, turning and wagging his head sidewise towards where, half-a-dozen yards down the steep slope, the whip lay, where Ralph had kicked it on to a clump of brambles.
“Yes, yes; get it for me, please,” cried the girl eagerly.
Dummy drew his arm from the pony’s rein, leaped off the shelf path, and lowered himself step by step toward the whip; and the girl, after waiting a few seconds, with her eyes flashing with satisfaction, shook the rein, kicked at her steed’s ribs, and did all she could to urge it forward.
“Go on—go on!” she whispered sharply. Then, as this was of no avail, she began to saw the bit to and fro in its mouth, but only made the animal swing its head from side to side in response to each drag, keeping all four legs planted out firmly like a mule’s, and obstinately refusing to move.
“Oh, you wicked wretch!” cried the girl angrily; “go on—go on!”
At the first efforts she made to force the pony on and leave him behind, Dummy turned sharply, and made a bound to catch at the rein; but as soon as he grasped the stubborn creature’s mood—knowing its nature by heart—he chuckled softly, and went on down to where the whip lay, recovered it as deliberately as he could, and began to climb the slope again.
“It aren’t no good, Miss Mary,” he said; “he won’t go till I get back to his head.”
“Go on—go on, sir!” cried the girl angrily, as she saw her last chance of escape dying away; and then, hardly able to restrain the tears of vexation, for Dummy climbed back on to the track, went to his old place by the pony’s head, and handed her the whip.
Mary snatched it in an instant, and struck the pony a sharp blow, which, instead of making it leap forward, had the opposite effect; for it backed, and but for Dummy seizing the rein once more, its hind-legs would have gone over the edge.
“Look at that, mistress,” said the boy quietly; “see what you nearly did;” and, slipping his arm through once more, he walked on, cheek by jowl with the pony, which seemed on the most friendly terms with him, swinging its nose round and making little playful bites at his stout doublet.
“Now, sir,” cried Mary angrily, “I have my whip, and if you do not leave the pony’s head directly, and come round to the back, I’ll beat you.”
“Nay, not you,” said the boy, without looking round. “Why, if I did, the pony would only turn about and follow me.”
“He would not.”
“There, then, see,” said the boy; and slipping out his arm, he turned and walked back, the pony pivoting round directly. “Told you so,” said Dummy, and he resumed his old place, with his arm through the rein.
“You told him to turn round, sir.”
“Nay, never spoke to him, Miss Mary.—There, it aren’t no good to be cross with me; I shan’t leave you till you’re safe home.”
The girl, flushed with passion, leaned forward, and struck the lad sharply over the shoulders three times.
“There, sir,” she cried; “what do you say to that?”
“Thank ye,” replied the boy coolly. “Frighten away the flies.”
Whish-whish-whish, came the whip through the air.
“Now then,” cried Mary; “what do you say now?”
“Hit harder, mistress,” said the boy, with a chuckle; “that only tickles.”
“Oh!” cried Mary, in a burst of passion. “I did like you, Dummy, but you’re a nasty, ugly old thing;” and she subsided in her saddle, sobbing with vexation, while Dummy rounded his shoulders a little more, and plodded on in silence, with the pony’s shoes tapping the stony path, as it playfully kept on making little bites at different parts of the boy’s clothes.
“’Taren’t no use to be cross with me, mistress,” said the boy at last. “Can’t help it. You don’t know, and I do. S’pose he runs off again, and Master Mark says to me, ‘Why didn’t you lead her home?’ what am I to say?”
Mary sat gazing straight before her, and had to ride ignominiously back to the zigzags leading up to the top of the Black Tor, where she dismounted, and Dummy led the pony to its underground stable.
“I shan’t tell Master Mark,” said the boy to the pony, as he took off bridle and saddle; “and you can’t, Ugly; and she won’t neither, so nobody’ll never know.”
Captain Purlrose and his merry men had found a place just to their liking, where they lived like pigs in a hole of the earth, and as voraciously. He chuckled and crowed as they ate and drank, and waited till their stock of provisions began to grow low, and then started off upon a fresh expedition, to gather tribute, as he called it. He did not expose himself to any risks, but kept his ascendancy over his men by sheer cunning and ability in making his plans, leading them to where they could come quite unexpectedly upon some lonely cottage or farmhouse, ill-use and frighten the occupants nearly to death, adding insult to injury by loading the spoil of provisions, or whatever it pleased them to take, on the farmer’s horses, leading them away, and after unloading them at the cave, setting them adrift.
The captain laughed at all threats, for he felt that no one would dare to follow him to his stronghold; and if an attack were made, he knew that he could easily beat it off. The only two people near who were at all likely to trouble him were his old captain, Sir Morton Darley, and Sir Edward Eden.
“And they’ll talk about it, and and threats, and never come.”
He seemed to be right, for as report after report of raids being made, here and there in the neighbourhood of the two strongholds reached their owners, Sir Morton Darley would vow vengeance against the marauders, and then go back to his books; and Sir Edward Eden would utter a vow that he would hang Captain Purlrose from the machicolations over the gateway at the Black Tor, and then he would go into his mining accounts, and hear the reports of his foreman, Dan Rugg, about how many pigs there were in the sty—that is to say, pigs of lead in the stone crypt-like place where they were stored.
And so time went on, both knights having to listen to a good many upbraidings from Master Rayburn, who visited and scolded them well for not combining and routing out the gang from their hole.
“I wish you would not worry me, Rayburn,” said Sir Morton one day, in Ralph’s presence. “I don’t want to engage upon an expedition which must end in bloodshed. I want to be at peace, with my books.”
“But don’t you see that bloodshed is going on, and that these ruffians are making the place a desert?”
“Yes,” said Sir Morton, “it is very tiresome. I almost wish I had taken them into my service.”
“And made matters worse, for they would not have rested till you had made war upon the Edens.”
“Yes,” said Sir Morton, “I suppose it would have been so.”
“Why not get the men quietly together some night, father, and if I went round, I’m sure I could collect a dozen who would come and help—men whose places have been robbed.”
“That’s right, Ralph; there are people as much as twenty miles away—twelve men? Five-and-twenty, I’ll be bound.”
“Well, I’ll think about it,” said Sir Morton; and when Master Rayburn walked home that day, Ralph bore him company part of the way, and chatted the matter over with him.
“I’m getting ashamed of your father, Ralph, lad. He has plenty of weapons of war, and he could arm a strong party, and yet he does nothing.”
“I wish he would,” said the lad. “I don’t like the idea of fighting, but I should like to see those rascals taken.”
“But you will not until your father is stirred up by their coming and making an attack upon your place.”
“Oh, they would not dare to do that,” cried Ralph.
“What! why, they are growing more daring day by day; and mark my words, sooner or later they’ll make a dash at the Castle, and plunder the place.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Ralph, as he thought of his sister.
“I wish they would,” cried the old man angrily, “for I am sick of seeing such a state of things in our beautiful vales. No one is safe. It was bad enough before, with the petty contemptible jealousies of your two families, and the fightings between your men. But that was peace compared to what is going on now.”
“Don’t talk like that, Master Rayburn,” said Ralph warmly. “I don’t like you to allude to my father as you do.”
“I must speak the truth, boy,” said the old man. “You feel it now; but some day, when you are a man grown, and your old friend has gone to sleep, and is lying under the flowers and herbs and trees that he loved in life, you will often think of his words, and that he was right.”
Ralph was silent.
“I am not a man of war, my boy, but a man of peace. All the same, though, whenever either your father or young Mark Eden’s arms his men to drive these ruffians out of our land, I am going to gird on my old sword, which is as bright and sharp as ever, to strike a blow for the women and children. Yes, for pretty Minnie Darley, and Mary Eden too. For I love ’em both, boy, and have ever since they were bairns.”
Ralph went back home to Cliff Castle, thinking very deeply about the old man’s words, and wishing—and planning in a vague way—that he and Mark Eden could be friendly enough to act in some way together without the help or knowledge of their fathers, and make an attack upon these men, so as to put an end to a state of things which kept all women-kind prisoners in their homes, and the men in a state of suspense as to when next they should be attacked and plundered of all they had.
It was only natural that Master Rayburn should talk in an almost similar way to Mark Eden and his father, but only for Sir Edward to promise and not perform. And one day the old man actually took Ralph’s idea, and said suddenly to Mark:
“Look here, young fellow, why don’t you take the bit in your teeth, collect your men quietly, get Ralph Darley to do the same, and you boys go together and thrash those ruffians out, kill them, or take them prisoners. Old as I am, I’ll come and help.”
“Yes, why not?” cried Mark eagerly. “No,” he said directly; “the Darleys would not and could not join us even if I were willing; and I’m not.”
Old Master Rayburn’s words went deeper into the breasts of the two lads than they knew. Their natures were in those early days rather like tinder, and in his angry flint and steely way, the old man had struck a spark into each, which lay there latent, waiting to be blown into a hot glow; and who should perform that office but Captain Purlrose himself?
It was in this way. One bright morning, Sir Edward was examining a young partly-broken horse that had been reared in the pastures across the river, and expressed himself delighted with its appearance.
“What do you say to it, Mark?” he cried. “Not strong enough to carry me, but I should think it would suit Mary exactly.”
“Couldn’t be better, father,” said the lad, though he felt a little disappointed, for he half expected that his father would have given it to him.
“Call her, then, and she shall try it. And by the way, Mark, there is that other—that chestnut—which will do for you.”
The lad flushed with pleasure, for he had fully believed that his father intended the handsome, strongly made chestnut for his own use. Mary Eden was fetched, came out, and tried the gentle, slightly-built palfrey, and the chestnut was brought too, proving everything that could be desired.
“There!” said Sir Edward, after their paces had been tried in one of the meadows; “now you are both better mounted than any young people in the Midlands, so go and have a good round together, and get back well before dark. Don’t distress the horses, and go right away, and make a round to the west, so as not to go near Ergles. Not that the scoundrels would dare to attack you.”
Ten minutes after, brother and sister were riding slowly along the track on the other side of the river, Mary enjoying the change after being shut up for some weeks; and in consequence, the round was extended to a greater distance than the pair had intended. It was getting toward dark, and they were approaching one of the narrow ravines through which the river ran, one which hardly gave room for the horse track as well, when Mary said merrily:
“You must take the blame, Mark, for we shall not be home by dusk.”
“Oh yes, we shall,” he replied. “Once we are through these rocks, we’ll cut right across country, and—who are those people in front?”
“Carriers, with pack horses and donkeys,” said his sister; “and they have heavy loads too.”
Mark looked long and hard at the party, which was partly hidden by the trees, and then agreed with his sister.
“Yes,” he said; “the horses are loaded with sacks of corn seemingly.”
The people with their stores of provender were some distance ahead, and Mark thought no more of them, for, soon after, his attention was taken up by a group of men behind them a few hundred yards, walking, and coming on hurriedly, as if to overtake them.
“Let’s ride on faster, Mary,” he said rather quickly.
“Why? What is the matter?”
“Nothing now; only I don’t quite like the look of the men behind.”
“Not robbers, are they?”
“Oh no, I think not; only we hear so much about Captain Purlrose’s men, it sets one thinking that every man one sees is a marauder. But it would not matter if they were; we could soon leave them behind.”
They rode on, entering the straits, as the place was called from the river contracting, as it did in several other places, and running between two upright walls of rock. The men were some distance behind, and they had ceased to trouble about them, when, to Mark’s consternation, on passing round one of the curves in the track, he found that there in front the narrowest part was blocked by the horses with their loads; and a something in the aspect of the party of men in charge of the laden beasts slightly startled him, for he thought them suspiciously like some of Purlrose’s followers.
The next minute he was awake to the fact that they were in danger, for from behind a block of stone a slight figure, whose hands were bound with cords, and who made Mark stare, suddenly started to his side, shouting:
“Ride for it! ride! You are in a trap.”
There was no time for hesitation. Two men dashed after the prisoner they had made, and in another instant they would have had him, but for Mark’s quick movement. He caught his sister’s rein, touched his horse’s side with the spurs, and the two active animals sprang between the men and their quarry as they were sharply turned.
“Lay hold of my nag’s mane, Darley,” he shouted to the prisoner, who held up his bound hands, and caught at the dense mass of hair, succeeding in holding on, while Mark now drew his sword.
“Oh Mark!” cried his sister, “is there any danger?”
“Not if you sit fast,” he cried.—“Can you keep up if we canter?”
“Try,” said the prisoner excitedly. “If not, go on, and save yourselves.”
The horses broke into a sharp canter, keeping well together, as the men they had seen following them with drawn swords, and joined up across the narrow way, shouted to them to stop.
Mark’s reply to this was a yell of defiance.
“Sit fast, Mary,” he cried. “They must go down before your horse.”
The girl made no answer, but crouched lower in her saddle, as they rode on, Mark in his excitement pressing home his spurs, and causing his horse to make a frantic leap. But there was no collision; the men leaped off to right and left to avoid the charge, and the next moment they were behind.
“Well done!” cried Mark excitedly. “Well done, six! Ah!—Here, canter on, Mary. I’ll soon overtake you.”
He checked and turned his own steed, to dash back, for he had suddenly found that the bound given when he used his spurs was too much for Ralph Darley’s hold on the mane, and he had turned, to see the lad lying in the track with the men about to seize him and drag him away.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Mark charged at the enemy again, and as they fled he chased them, sword in hand, for some little distance before once more turning to rejoin Ralph, who had struggled to his feet, ready to cling once more to the horse’s mane, a task made more easy by Mark cutting through the bonds with his sword.
Mary was waiting a little farther back, and the trio had to go back some distance to reach a fresh track across country, the enemy making no sign of pursuit, but getting on with their plunder.
“They completely deceived me,” Ralph told his companions. “I took them for carriers.”
“Ah! as I did,” said Mark grimly.
“And when it was too late, I saw my mistake, for they seized and bound me, and,” added the lad bitterly, “they have got my sword and belt.”
Ralph walked by his companions almost in silence the rest of the time that they were together, both Mark and his sister appearing troubled by his presence, and it seemed a great relief to all when a path was reached which would enable Ralph to reach Cliff Castle, the others having some distance farther to go to reach an open part passable by their steeds.
“I thank you, Master Mark Eden,” he said quietly; and then, raising his cap to Mary Eden, he leapt over the stones which led to the top of a slope, and soon disappeared from their sight.
“What were you thinking, Mark?” said Mary, breaking the silence at last.
“That this would not be a bad place if we had no enemies. What were you thinking?”
“Plenty of things,” said the girl sadly.
“Well, tell me some.”
“I’m tired, and hungry, and thirsty. It will soon be dark. Father will be angry because we have been so long; and I am getting frightened.”
“What of?” said Mark sharply.
“Of meeting with the robbers again.”
“I should almost like to,” cried Mark fiercely.
“Oh Mark!” cried the girl in dismay.
“Well, if you were not here,” he said, with a laugh.
“It’s getting too bad. Once upon a time there was only the Darleys to mind. Now these people—this Captain Purlrose and his men—seem to belong to the land, and father will not fight them. Oh, if I only were master, what I would do! There, canter, and let’s get home. I want to think.”
Home was reached, and Sir Edward made acquainted with the encounter, at which he frowned, but said very little that night, except once, when he suddenly broke out petulantly:
“It seems, Mark, as if you were always running against this boy of Darley’s. Have the goodness in future to go some other way.”