The memory of that night will never leave me. Even now the feelings which possessed me then come back. Everything seemed unreal. The dark trees on either side of the way looked like tall spectres, the women who had been with me since the previous night seemed mere phantoms of the mind. The clank of the horses' hoofs grated on my excited nerves until I felt like crying out.
Neither of us spoke. I was too much wrought upon. Perhaps they were. What had seemed reasonable enough in the day appeared like madness now. In spite of what I had seen and heard I could not believe that the maid Nancy would expose herself to so much danger in order to rescue me.
Darker and darker became the road, for huge evergreens, laurels, and rhododendrons grew between the oaks. Moreover, I saw that we were descending into a valley. The night winds swept among the trees, making sweet music, but to me it was like the dirge of death. A bat darting to and fro struck my face with its wing, and an owl hooted dismally.
"How much further?" I asked, more because I wanted to hear the sound of human voices than from desire to ask questions.
But no reply was given, and but for the love in my heart, I felt, strong man as I was, like giving way to fear.
Presently I saw a faint twinkling light, and afterwards the dark outline of a huge building appeared. A few minutes later we had come up close to an ivy-covered house.
My companions dismounted and motioned me to do the same. Then out of the shadows came a man and took the horses. I heard a bell clang through a seemingly empty building, and then the door by which we stood opened.
"Come in."
I obeyed, feeling more than ever that my experiences could not be real.
"This way, please."
I followed my companion without a word along a wide corridor, after which I descended some steps, until I imagined I must be below the level of the earth. Then she opened the door of a compartment, and we entered together.
It was a low-ceiled room, but looked comfortable and well-appointed. A lamp burned brightly on the table, and a cheerful wood fire burned in the chimney place. Before the fire a huge armchair was placed.
"Will you sit here and rest? I will return presently."
Mechanically I obeyed, and a moment later I was left alone. The room, the house—everything was as silent as death. I walked around the apartment, and stamped my feet to assure myself that I was not dreaming. I held my hands before the wood fire, and lifted the logs from place to place so that I might convince myself that I had not entered an enchanted region, such as I had read about in my boyhood. Then I examined the room more closely. I could nowhere discover a window. What did it mean? Had I been removed from one prison to another? Had I been mistaken as to the identity of my deliverer? Why had she kept her face hidden? It must have been her. Who else would have undergone so much?
I sat down in the chair, and stretched my legs wearily. Twenty-four hours before I had sat straining my ears in the Witch's Tower of Launceston Castle, and now I was immured in a far more lonely spot. I had asked no questions because I believed that the woman I loved rode by my side. Had I done right?
A distant rumbling noise reached me. Where was I? To whom did this house belong? By what right had I been brought here?
I heard a knock at the door, and a second later an old man entered.
"If you will follow me, sir, you shall have change of raiment, and water to wash with."
Like one in a dream I followed him, and to my astonishment I found in an adjoining compartment not only clothes but arms. A sword hung by the wall, a pair of pistols lay on a table. The clothes were well made and of good quality as befitted a gentleman.
"Here is all you will want, I think, sir. When you have washed and dressed will you be pleased to go back to the other room?"
A few minutes later I had removed the muddy-stained garments which I had worn in Launceston Castle, and had clothed myself in those which lay in the room. They looked quite new, as though they had just come from the hands of a tailor. They fitted me well, too; and I must confess to a feeling of pleasure as I beheld myself.
When I returned to the room into which I had at first entered, I found that the table had been spread for food, but no one was in it. Again I sat down and tried to think, but my mind seemed a blank—I was dazed with the experiences of the last twenty-four hours.
Presently my heart beat fast, for I heard light tripping footsteps outside the room door. This was followed by gentle knocking.
"Come in."
The door opened, and to my joy Mistress Nancy Molesworth entered. She met me with a smile, but there was, I thought, something distant and repellant about it.
"Food will be immediately brought, Master Trevanion," she said. "I am sure you must need it."
"I need something more," I replied.
"And that?" was the response. "Anything in my power to give, you shall have."
"The removal of mystery," I replied. "I have spent the whole of this day like one in a dream. I seem to be enveloped in shadows."
"I have much to tell you by and by," she answered.
"And much to ask, too, I trust," I cried. "You have saved me from I know not what; for I know it is you to whom I owe everything. You will let me serve you, for verily you need service."
"We will talk of many things at the proper time," she replied, "but food is being brought."
Both of us stood silent while the old serving-man brought food; then when he had gone she turned to leave me.
"Mistress Molesworth," I said, "you will not condemn me to eat my food alone. May I be honoured with your company at supper?"
She hesitated a second. "Thank you," she said, "you will desire quiet after so much excitement. I will return to you to-morrow."
I sat down with a sad heart, and ate the food with but a poor appetite. During my meal I heard only one sound. It was that of a clock striking the hour of midnight.
After supper I went into the bedroom I have mentioned, and fell into a deep sleep, from which I did not wake till late next day. When I got up I hoped to see Mistress Nancy at once, and so was mightily disappointed when the old serving-man brought me a message from her telling me that she would not be able to visit me till night.
"I can think of nothing to say to you till I have thanked you again and again for a service which I thought no woman could render."
"It is of that which I do not wish to speak."
"But I must. I did not believe a woman could possess such rare courage and foresight. I did not believe a woman could plan so well, execute so bravely. Especially do I wonder when I realize my own unworthiness. I thank you from the depths of my soul."
Mistress Nancy had visited my compartment as she had promised, and at my request she sat on a low seat by the fire, while I stood leaning on the back of the huge chair which I have mentioned. She wore the same garments as when we had travelled together for the first time. Her face was pale, but very beautiful; her dark eyes shone with a look of resolution; her dark curling locks glistened in the lamp-light.
"I did not mean you to know who your deliverer was. But it does not matter." She spoke indifferently, I thought.
"It does matter!" I cried vehemently. "I should be base indeed if I do not remember such service with gratitude until my dying day."
"I did what no woman could help doing." This she said slowly.
"I do not understand."
"Yet there should be no difficulty in doing so. You rescued me, you thought of me, acted for me."
"Mention not that again," I replied bitterly, "I am sorely ashamed."
"I do not mean the—the first part of the journey, but afterwards. I have heard of your trial before Lord Falmouth, heard of what Otho Killigrew said. You refused to tell all the truth because you feared to hurt me. You did not wish that man to know anything concerning me."
I wondered who her informant might be, but I did not speak.
"When I knew you were taken to Launceston, and feeling sure that Otho would show no mercy if you were brought to trial, I did my best. I could do no other—I—I—would have done the same for any one."
She spoke coldly; her tones were hard and unfeeling. My heart grew chill; the hope that arose in me, in spite of myself, was dispelled.
"Thank you," I said, as steadily as I could. "But why—why did you wish me to remain in ignorance—as to who you were?"
"Because I thought it was better so. No one who saw me in Launceston would recognize me now."
"What disguise did you wear? What means did you use to—to effect my escape; that is, beyond those I know of?"
"I would rather not tell you."
I was silent again, for her manner made me feel that she still scorned me. I looked towards her; she was gazing steadily into the fire.
"Where am I now?" I asked, after a painful silence.
"At Restormel."
"Ah!"
"Does the fact surprise you?"
"Everything surprises me. Nothing surprises me. I am somewhat dazed. Restormel, that is your father's house, your own home?"
"My father's house—yes. My own home—I know not."
"What do you mean?" and at that moment I remembered the suspicions which were aroused in my mind by Otho Killigrew's questions.
Again she refrained from replying, her eyes still fixed on the glowing embers.
"Let me tell you something," I cried. "My thoughts may be groundless, but it may be well for you to know them."
Then I related to her the conversation I had had with the Catholic priest at Padstow. At that time I had not regarded it of importance, as it simply referred to a complaint about the unfairness of the marriage laws, where Catholics were concerned. After this I told her of Otho Killigrew's visit, of what he had said, and of the bargain we had made.
"On consideration I thought it best to promise him this," I concluded. "He aroused certain suspicions in my mind, and I thought I could still serve you if I were free. It may be I acted wrongly, but I thought it was worth the risk."
During the recital she uttered no sound. She seemed to be much changed since that night when we had parted at Treviscoe.
"And I—I have relieved you of the necessity of telling him anything, I suppose?" she said icily.
"Yes," I replied, feeling that she mistrusted me again. I longed to ask her what had happened since the night I had left her with Peter Trevisa, but I dared not; her manner froze the words on my lips.
"You do not know why Trevisa asked you to take me to his house?" she said presently.
"I only know what he told me. I knew that was not all the truth. He thought he had some hold upon you."
"And you had no idea what it was?"
"Not then."
"And now?"
"Nothing but what was aroused in my mind by what I have just told you."
"Master Roger Trevanion," she said, rising from her seat and facing me, "you tried to persuade me not to go to that man's house."
"I did."
"And I persisted in going. I did so for two reasons."
"And they?"
"One was that you should be able to claim the price of your hire."
"Do not taunt me with that."
"The other was that I determined to find out the reason he had in wishing to get me there. I had not been able to understand all the Killigrews had hinted from time to time. I thought that Trevisa's motives might have a connection with what they had said."
"And you were not afraid?"
"Women are not all so cowardly as you think. I might have acted differently had his son been with him, but when I found him alone I determined to stay until I had discovered what was in his mind."
"And you discovered it?"
"Yes."
I could not help admiring her as she stood there before me so brave, so far-seeing, so resolute. She was barely twenty-one. She had revealed to me all the weaknesses, all the tenderness of a woman; yet now, after having accomplished what few men would think of attempting, she was calmer than I. As I have said, she was taller and more largely formed than most women, and the hand that rested on a table by her side was as firm as a man's. No one could in any way associate her with littleness or poverty of nature. Everything told of purity, of nobleness, of beauty of life. Remembering my bargain with Trevisa, I dared not look at her; but I was glad I had refused to take the price of my work.
I waited for her to continue, for I felt I had no right to ask her questions.
"You told me," she went on, "that Peter Trevisa was a cunning, evil-minded man. You were right. Like all such men, he judged the motives of others by his own. What he would do under certain circumstances, he would expect others to do."
"Yes, that is so."
"He thought, acting on this principle, that if he could get me into his house, I should be glad to fall in with his plans."
"He told me that his son Peter had seen you at Endellion," I said; "that he fell in love with you, that it was the intention of Colman Killigrew to marry you to his son whom you hated, that I should be rendering you a service by taking you to him."
"Do not speak of his son's love," she said; "the thought of it is not pleasant. It is true he told me the same story. I did not sleep in the house that night. Directly after your lawyer had gone I told him I desired to speak with him. He fawned and professed to be delighted. Presently his real reasons for trying to get me into the house came out. He tried to keep them back until his son came home, but in this he failed."
"And what were his reasons?" I asked eagerly in spite of myself.
"The first was this: He said he could prove that my father's marriage was illegal, and—and thus I had no true claim to the Restormel lands. You suspected this?"
I nodded.
"He told me, moreover, that he alone possessed the knowledge whereby it could be proved that I was not the rightful heir. If he did not disclose what he knew, no one would doubt my rights; or even if they doubted, they could have no case against me; if he told what he knew, I should be penniless."
"I see," I cried; "I see. Then he named the price of his silence."
"Yes."
"Of course that was that you should marry his son. I see. It was cunningly planned. He thinks his son Peter is a sort of Apollo, and he imagined that you would desire to effectually stop him from speaking by becoming his daughter. It would then be to his advantage to be silent."
"That was a part of his plan, but not all. He has found out that I possess knowledge of great importance."
"Knowledge of great importance?"
"Yes. It concerns the coming of Charles Stuart."
"You have seen the Pretender!" I cried.
"I have seen Charles Stuart. He visited the convent in which I was educated. He came once when Colman Killigrew was present. He sought to enlist my sympathies. I do not know why; but both he and Colman Killigrew discussed plans in my presence."
"And young Peter Trevisa found out this. How?"
"I do not know."
"Is your knowledge of such importance that it might be valuable to such as Hugh Boscawen?"
"Yes."
I longed to ask further questions, but refrained from doing so.
"Peter Trevisa believed that if I told him what I knew his son would be able to make use of it. The father is very ambitious for his son. He imagines that if he were to communicate important knowledge to the King it would mean preferment—perhaps knighthood."
"I see his plot."
"I refused to marry his son."
"Yes."
"I told him that even were his statements as to my father's marriage true, I would rather be penniless—than be bought."
I do not think she meant it, but her words hurt me like a knife-thrust.
"After that he changed his ground of attack," she went on quietly; "he said that if I would tell him what I knew of Charles Stuart's plans, his secret should die with him. He represented this as my duty. He said I might be saving the country, as well as giving his son Peter the greatest chance of his life. After this he went on to say that it was a shame for me to be robbed of my rightful heritage because of an unjust law."
"And after that?" I broke in eagerly.
"He said he would not have my answer that night; he would wait until young Peter came home."
"And you, of course, refrained from giving him an answer?"
"No. I told him that he could act as he pleased. Did I feel it a duty to inform the authorities concerning what I knew, I should do so without threat."
"And what did he say?"
"He denied all knowledge of threat. He called it an arrangement. He used honeyed terms; he was full of flattery. He professed to be delighted at my refusal to comply with his wishes, even while he used many means to lead me to alter my mind. He called himself all sorts of names for speaking to me in such a brutal way. He was only an old fool, he said, and had not stated the case properly; but when young Peter came back everything would assume a different aspect."
I could easily imagine the scheming old wretch while she told me of this interview. I could see his shifty, cunning eyes gleaming. I could hear him using all sorts of honeyed terms in order to gain his ends.
"And the conclusion of it all?" I asked at length.
"I left the house that night."
"How?"
"By means of Amelia. She found out the position of the stables. She saddled the horses, and we left Treviscoe without any one knowing about it."
"And you came here?"
"Yes."
"But you are in danger. Peter Trevisa is as cunning as the devil. Both father and son are like ferrets; they can crawl into any hole. They see in the dark. In order to get here, you must have taken some one into your confidence. That some one may betray your trust."
She walked slowly across the room, and then came back to her former position.
"That night—when I left Endellion," she replied, "I took certain things away with me. Little relics left me by my father. I had heard that the house was left in charge of two old servants—one a kind of bailiff, who was commissioned by Colman Killigrew to act as steward until I should come of age."
"I see, yes."
"He has lived here all these years, with his wife. My guardian has visited Restormel only occasionally, but old Adam Coad has been a faithful old man. My father left a letter for me when he died, with orders that I should read it as soon as I was old enough. In it he mentioned this man as a faithful, loving servant. I wrote to Adam twice while I was in France; but I received no reply from him."
She ceased speaking, and I saw her lips tremble. Perhaps she remembered that she was a fatherless girl, and that her path was beset with snares.
"I accidentally heard while at Endellion that he was alive and that he managed the estate under my guardian's supervision."
"You brought your father's letter with you?" I suggested.
"Yes."
"But there is a lodge. We passed through the gates to-night."
"Fortune favoured me. That morning, after I had escaped from Treviscoe, just as I came up to the lodge gates, I saw two men talking to each other. I heard the one call the other Adam Coad."
"I see; and Adam received you?"
"After I had proved to him who I was—yes."
"And—and you trust him?"
"He is all my father said of him, and more. He has been kindness itself to me; through him I was able to bring you here. You are safe, too. Old Adam, his wife, and a serving-man who has lived with them all these years, are all, I verily believe, ready to die for me."
"Then you are staying here in secret?"
"Yes."
"And you have heard nothing of the Trevisas?"
"I know they have been searching for me."
"But they have disclosed nothing concerning your father's marriage?"
"No; I believe not."
"You found out that I had been taken prisoner through Adam, I suppose?"
"Yes. He looks a quiet, inoffensive old man; but he is very shrewd and not easily deceived. I told him that you had effected my escape from Endellion, and he knew enough of the Killigrews to be sure that they would have many schemes afoot."
"But if they suspect that you are here?"
"They would have a difficulty in finding me. This house has many rooms not easily discovered. This room is not known to the Killigrews. It is underground. The doorway cannot be seen from the outside, and can only be opened by touching a spring."
"I see; and you will stay here until you come of age?"
Again her lips trembled, and she moved nervously across the room.
"I wish I could be of further service to you," I said at length. "I am glad that you trust me enough to—to tell me what—what you have told me. Will you trust me further? Will you tell me all you can about your father's marriage? Believe me, I will rest neither night nor day until I have found out whether there is any truth in Peter Trevisa's statements."
"You will have to stay here—in privacy. You are not safe," was her reply. "That is, you must stay here until you can escape to France."
"You forget," I replied, "you forget Otho Killigrew's promise. If he hath laid such information before Hugh Boscawen as to lead him to give an order for my freedom, all danger is gone."
"You have still escaped from Launceston Castle."
"Yes, but if Hugh Pyper receives Viscount Falmouth's warrant for my freedom, he will say naught of my escape. Look, Mistress Nancy, let me serve you."
I spoke like a schoolboy. I thought nothing of difficulties, I almost forgot the danger through which I had passed. Neither did I realize the importance of the news she had just imparted. The last ten years of my life seemed only a dream; I was a boy of twenty-two instead of a man of thirty-two. The maid had made me long to do impossible things, to undertake impossible missions. It has been said by some great writer that a convent school destroys all foresight, all calculation in a young girl's life. That continuous solitude, save for the companionship of her fellow-scholars, and seclusion from the life of the world, lead her to conjure up in her imagination all the romantic scenes which young girls love, even although she has never heard of such things. That on leaving the convent she is a prey to first impressions, and longings for love and romance; thus she never troubles about results, never comprehends difficulties and dangers.
Mistress Nancy proved this man to be wrong. Of the depths of her nature I knew but little, of her heart's longing I was ignorant; but she was constantly revealing to me a rare power of penetration; she was cool, courageous, and full of forethought. On the other hand, she seemed to know but little of the world's wisdom. The thought of losing her wealth caused her no apparent distress; the supposition that her father's marriage was not legal seemed to bring no painful thoughts to her mind. The bare thought of illegitimacy would bring anguish unspeakable to some; Mistress Nancy seemed to reck nothing of it. In this sense she was a child, ignorant of the ways and thoughts of the world; in others she was capable of independent and daring action.
"Believe me," I continued presently, "to serve you is the dearest thought of my life. I owe it to you," I added as if in explanation.
"It would be wrong for you to rush into danger," she replied calmly. "If you are freed from danger, then I will claim your help again. But I have friends, and I am not afraid."
I looked into her eyes as she spoke, and I saw that no fear was expressed there. She did not seem to realize her position, and yet her words belied her apparent ignorance of the danger by which she was surrounded.
"You say that your knowledge concerning the Pretender is of importance," I said, after a pause.
"Yes."
"Is it right to keep it secret?"
"I do not understand."
"If Charles comes to England, it will mean civil war," I cried; "it will mean that the whole country will be in turmoil. If the Pretender succeeds in his design, a reign of ignorance, bondage, and oppression will curse the country."
"Tell me your reasons for saying this," she replied.
"Are you a Catholic?" I asked.
"I do not know," was her answer. "I suppose so. I was trained in a convent school, but I have been told that my father hated the Catholic religion, and I know that he would hate nothing that was good. I am but an ignorant girl; I think I must have purposely been kept ignorant." This she said plaintively.
"Let me tell you of these Stuarts," I cried. "Let me relate to you what Charles I. and Charles II., as well as James II., have done for England."
I spoke eagerly; I told of the profligacy of the Stuart court, of the wanton extravagance, and of the corruption of the race. I had proceeded but a little way in my story, however, when I heard a quick footstep outside the door, and immediately after an old man stood in the room.
"Is anything the matter, Adam?" cried Mistress Nancy.
"Yes, dear lady," answered he; "Colman Killigrew, his son Otho, and others are nearing the house."
As may be imagined, Adam's message excited me much. What purpose had Colman Killigrew in coming to Restormel so late at night? And Otho, what was the meaning of his being present? Had either of them any suspicion of my whereabouts? For myself I had but little fear, but what of Nancy?
I looked eagerly into her face, but she was perfectly calm and composed. Evidently she knew no fear.
"Can you think of their reasons for coming?" I asked.
"I think I can guess." Then turning to Adam she said: "You will, of course, admit them?"
"I must, my dear young lady," replied the old man, "I must. I should do no good by refusing them, and I should arouse suspicion."
"True."
"Of course it will take some little time"; this he said meaningly.
"Yes, yes. He will think you are in bed. And where will you put them?"
"All right, my dear young lady," he replied mysteriously. "You need not fear," he went on, "they shall never know that you are here."
"No, I can trust you for that, Adam"; then her eyes rested on me.
"Master Roger Trevanion is as safe as you are," he said quickly.
"You are certain?"
"Perfectly."
"That will do. We will stay here until you come."
The old man bowed and left us, and Mistress Nancy gazed steadily into the fire for some time as though she were ignorant of my presence.
"Master Roger Trevanion," she said presently, "I did not know you cared so much for your country. In the past you have seemed indifferent as to what king reigned, Catholic or Protestant."
"Until I knew you I was practically indifferent," I replied humbly. "I cared for little besides my own enjoyment. In a way, I was a loyal Protestant, and would have fought for King George; but it would have been for self-advancement chiefly, and—and because I loved a fight."
"And now?"
"You have made me ashamed of myself in more ways than one," I replied.
"And you do not wish a Stuart to return to the throne?"
"He would curse the country."
Again she was silent for a few seconds, still gazing steadily into the fire.
"Would you play the spy?" she asked presently.
"No," I replied roughly. Then I started, for I heard the clang of a bell resounding through the empty house.
"Not for the sake of King George?"
"I would rather some one else did it," I replied.
"But if no one else would do it, or could do it?"
I was silent.
"And if thereby you could possibly save your country from a great calamity?"
"I am not a mole," I replied. "I cannot burrow in the ground. I like to fight in the open."
At that moment we heard the sound of voices, among which I recognized that of old Colman Killigrew.
"We need not be alarmed," she said. "The Killigrews know nothing of this room." Then she sat gazing into the fire again, while I fell to wondering what was in her mind.
"You said just now that you wanted to serve me?" she said presently.
"Yes, yes," I whispered eagerly.
"Would you play the spy in order to save me from calamity?"
"Do not put it that way," I said bitterly; "but I would do anything that a gentleman could do to serve you. You have made me love what is honourable, you have made me hate that which is mean."
"Would it be mean to discover the plottings of my enemies?" she asked tremulously.
"No, no," I answered eagerly. "Such a work would be worthy of any man. Command me, Mistress Nancy. Tell me of the man who has plotted against you, and I will go to him and tear his secret from him."
"Wait!" was her answer.
At this moment I heard a low rapping at the door.
She wandered slowly around the room for some minutes speaking never a word; then turning to me suddenly she said:
"Follow me if you would serve me."
She touched a spot on the door, and immediately it swung on its hinges. I followed her into the passage, and up a long flight of stairs.
"Whither are we going?" I asked presently.
"To a secret place in the house," was her answer; "you will be safer there."
"But you told me I was safe yonder."
"Will you not trust me?" she said. "You said you would serve me."
I followed her without another word. Had she told me to go to my death, I think I should have obeyed.
Presently she opened the door of an apartment.
"Enter there," she said; "do not make a sound of any sort. Wait in perfect silence until I return."
I entered.
"You can trust me, can't you?" she whispered.
"Yes, yes!" I answered. "I will obey you to the very letter."
"Mind, make no sound. Do not move."
"Very well. Are you not coming with me?"
"No. Walk four paces into the apartment. Make no sound."
I did as she commanded me; then I heard the door close and I was left in perfect darkness.
I waited minute after minute in silence, wondering what she meant by such strange conduct. Under other circumstances I should have tried to get a light, and have examined the room in which she had left me; but I had given my promise, and I would abide by it. Besides, was I not doing this to serve her? I called to mind the rapping I had heard while we had been in the other room; that was doubtless a signal between her and Adam.
How long I stayed there I know not. I was like one stunned by a heavy blow; my mind was bewildered—everything was as confused as a dream. Sometimes I thought I was dreaming.
Presently I heard a sound of approaching footsteps. Several people seemed to be coming straight to the spot where I sat. Had Mistress Nancy been mistaken? That she had in any way betrayed me was not to be considered. I saw no light, but I could hear footsteps and voices plainly. A few seconds later, it seemed to me that people were so near that I had need only to stretch out my hand in order to touch them. All the same this could not have been. No one had entered the apartment, of that I was sure.
"Now then we can get to business."
It was old Colman Killigrew who spoke, and his voice sounded strangely near. He might be standing close to my ear.
"We have need, and that quickly."
I gave a start. The voice was Uncle Anthony's, and he spoke as one having authority. Instinctively I stretched out my hands, but I touched nothing. Why were these men's voices so plain?
"How many swords can you command?" asked Otho Killigrew.
"In twenty-four hours, a thousand," replied Uncle Anthony.
"And Hugh Boscawen hath five thousand," was old Colman Killigrew's rejoinder.
"Yes, but where be they? Here, there, everywhere. He hath gone about this work like a fool. No method—no order. Besides he is ignorant of what we know. To-night is Wednesday. To-morrow night at this time Charles lands at Veryan Bay. We must meet him with a thousand men. Then must we go silently to Tregothnan, and make Boscawen prisoner. When the true king lands, and Boscawen appeareth not, the very men who would have fought against us will be for us. Besides, is not the man John Wesley a papist? True, I have not seen him, but rumour hath it that his followers long for the return of a Catholic king."
"You depend too much on rumour, Father Anthony," said Otho moodily.
"What say you?"
"That I have ceased to trust you," replied Otho boldly. "I cannot forget the part you have played in the flight of Nancy; or in your treatment of Roger Trevanion. It is well to have that matter settled. We trusted you, and you failed us; but for you Mistress Nancy would have been my wife ere this."
"And you would have regretted it to your dying day. Think you I am a fool, Otho Killigrew?"
"Why should I have regretted it?" asked Otho sullenly.
"Time will show, my lad. He who weds a loveless wife must have sufficient reasons for doing so."
"And were not my reasons sufficient?"
"They were built upon thistledown, Otho Killigrew."
"Why did you not tell me this?"
"Because you chose to act without me, or rather to act against me. Have you not known me long enough to be sure I would do nothing without purpose. Bah! you thought you were very wise. You got Trevanion imprisoned, you tried to arouse suspicion concerning me, and then like a fool you visited him at Launceston Castle."
"But that has done no harm. He has escaped."
"True; but before he did so, you proved his innocence to Hugh Boscawen, and obtained a warrant for his liberty. Now we have no hold upon him. He hath gone, whither I know not. His whereabouts is as great a mystery as that of the maid Nancy herself."
"Then you know not where she is?"
"I know nothing. I have been busy doing other work, or I might have set to work to discover. I know Trevanion took her to Peter Trevisa's."
"To Peter Trevisa's! Why?"
"Because—well, Peter Trevisa knows more of Nancy Molesworth, aye, and of this very house and the lands surrounding it, than you do. Peter Trevisa holds everything like that!"
"Ah!" cried Otho Killigrew.
"Enough of this," cried old Colman Killigrew, "all that can wait now. More pressing matters come first."
"I know it, Colman Killigrew," replied Uncle Anthony; "but this son of thine thinks he is very wise in suspecting me and in seeking to thwart my purposes. It is well to prove to him that he is a fool. He should learn to obey before he seeks to command."
"Well, and the other matter; is all ready?"
"It is. That is why I have ordered you here to-night. We must make this our centre. The house is isolated and practically uninhabited but for the man who obeys you implicitly. Here we can speak freely. There is a lonely road leading from the house to the sea; we can come and go without suspicion at least for three days."
"Why three days?" asked Otho.
"I say three days, because I do not know what is in Peter Trevisa's mind."
"What of him? What hath he to do with it?"
"I cannot tell yet; when Charles hath landed, and starts his march through Cornwall and Devonshire, I, the old hermit, may have time to think of other things."
"You are right," replied old Colman. "And now there is work to do. The men must be gathered."
"They are being gathered," replied Uncle Anthony.
"And armed."
"That is being done. If our work is done silently through the next two days all will be well. Our great danger is that Hugh Boscawen shall hear of it. If he does, we are lost."
"You speak strongly," said old Colman Killigrew; "you speak strongly, Father Anthony."
"Because I feel strongly. I tell you much depends, very much depends on the next few days. Oh, I know! Have I not gone around to almost every house in the county? Have I not worn a dozen disguises? Have I not wormed my way into the confidence of the faltering, and given courage to cowards? Here I have been a droll, a story-teller, there a priest hearing confessions and commanding service. To many a man I have gone who longed for the true faith and dared not confess it, and to each I have brought hope and courage. Many and many a night have I sat in my lonely hiding-places thinking, thinking of this time and preparing for it. To-day, through my labours, and I make no boast, there be fifty heads of houses in this county ready not only to do battle themselves, but to lead their dependants, who but for me would have timidly cried, 'Long live King George II.' This I have done quietly, secretly. Pronounced Protestants have scarcely suspected it, and Hugh Boscawen, fool that he is, thinks the whole county is loyal to those German usurpers."
"I know you have worked hard, Father Anthony," replied old Colman Killigrew. "Many and many is the hour that you and I have talked concerning these matters at Endellion; through you we are a strong chain, whereas without you we should have been loops of iron which have no connection."
"And no one knows of the coming of Charles Stuart?" asked Otho Killigrew.
"Not yet; it is not well. We must be silent; silent as death. Still if we are wise there will be no need to fear. There be many thousands who are true to our cause. Let Charles come, let the people see him at the head of a few hundred men, and they will flock to his standard as sheep flock together at the sound of the barking of the shepherd's dog. All the same, this Hugh Boscawen, this Viscount Falmouth must not know, for, fool though he may be, he hath much power."
All this I heard, scarce thinking of what it meant. All was so sudden, so mysterious. But when Uncle Anthony finished speaking, the purport of it all flashed upon me like light. I saw, or fancied I saw, Mistress Nancy's purpose in conducting me to this room. She wished me to know the plans of these men; she knew, too, of the cunningly contrived arrangements whereby the sound was conveyed from one room to the other. All the same, I liked not the thought that she had made me an eavesdropper, although, doubtless the two rooms had been constructed by the Molesworths for some such purpose as this, and they were honourable men.
I dared make no sound, for by so doing I had put myself in extreme danger, and I could not get out. So I sat there while they unfolded their plans, the gist of which I have here written down. Truly my bargain with Peter Trevisa had led me a pretty dance, and yet, but for the motive thereof, I did not wish matters otherwise.
Presently they prepared to depart, for the which I was truly glad, for my limbs were becoming cramped. I dared not move, for I reflected that sound would be conveyed to them as clearly as to me, and by and by, when I heard their retreating footsteps, I started up with great relief and stretched my long limbs with much comfort.
After a long time, for so it seemed to me, I heard a scratching at the door.
"Come," said a voice which I had learned to know, although it spoke but in a whisper.
I hurried towards the door, and saw in the dim light the face of my love. After that, and without speaking a word, I followed her into the room where my meals had been brought. When the door was closed, I looked into her eyes eagerly.
"Well?" she said questioningly.
"You led me there for a purpose," I said.
I thought I saw laughter in her face.
"Adam is a wise old man, and knows the house inch by inch; knows its history, its secret places."
"And he led them there with an object?" I persisted.
"You refused to play the spy, Master Trevanion," she whispered with a low laugh, "and yet——" and there she broke off without finishing the sentence.
"Mistress Nancy," I cried, "you are sure you are safe here?"
"Have you not had proof?"
"Then I must away!"
"Away?"
"Yes. I have heard strange things. I tell you I must leave the house this very hour."
"But why?"
"Can you not guess?" Then I knew that although she had not heard a word, she was aware of the subject of their conversation. Her face I thought grew paler, and her hands trembled slightly.
"They do not know where I am," I went on, "neither have they any clew to your whereabouts. They do not guess you are here, but I must away. Can I have a horse?"
"No, no, it is impossible. There are many men about the house. They are watching everywhere."
"Then I must away on foot."
"Is it urgent?"
"Let me tell you all I heard," I cried; "for their every word came as plainly to me as if I sat in their midst. The Pretender is to land at Veryan Bay to-morrow midnight."
"So soon?"
"Ah," I cried, "that was the secret which Peter Trevisa wished you to impart? You had heard that he intended landing in Cornwall?"
She did not speak, but her silence told me of many things.
"I go to Tregothnan," I cried. "I go this very hour. Adam Coad must let me out. Surely he knows of the secret ways."
She hesitated a second; then she said: "No, Adam must know nothing of this. I will conduct you. But you are sure it is right to tell Lord Falmouth."
"It is more than right," I cried; "I shall perchance save the country from civil war."
She looked at me as if in great doubt.
"But if the Catholic faith is the true one," she cried, "and if Charles Stuart is the lawful heir to the throne—then——" and her lips trembled piteously as if she were in sore straits.
"I am no great hand at theology," I said; "but I know that Popery is lies, oppression, cruelty, ruin! We have had enough of it in England. If the Pretender lands and Hugh Boscawen is taken prisoner, it will mean brother fighting against brother, perhaps father fighting against son. The whole country will be in tears. We shall have the rack, the thumbscrew, the faggot back again. As for the Stuarts, they have proved themselves to be a race of scoundrels."
I spoke warmly, for now that I was brought face to face with facts, I saw everything in a new light. The earnestness of my race rose up within me, and even then I felt ashamed of the useless life I had lived.
"Are you such a Protestant, then?" she asked.
"All my race have been for two hundred years," I cried; "and the reign of a Stuart will mean a deathblow for all who try to uphold liberty and truth."
"But you will be in great danger."
"I must go nevertheless. Guide me, Mistress Nancy, and that quickly."
I pulled on my boots as I spoke, and buttoned my coat closely around me.
"Yes, yes," she replied, eagerly. "But you will need arms. Wait; I will fetch you sword and pistols."
In a few seconds she had returned. "This is a sword which my father wore," she said, her voice trembling.
My heart leapt wildly. She could not scorn me, if with her own hands she had brought her father's sword.
"I will use it for no unworthy cause, Mistress Nancy," I cried. "I will strike no blow for anything which your father would condemn."
"Come, come," she said. "Adam showed me the way only a few days ago. Come! But you will be careful?"
Again my heart seemed to burn within me. It may seem but little to the reader, indeed the matter was trivial, yet I rejoiced beyond measure to think that she was anxious for my welfare.
I accompanied her along an underground passage, then we climbed some stone steps, and presently I stood by a low doorway. Taking a key from her pocket she unlocked the door, which opened into a dark shrubbery.
"You see that path?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"It leads to the woods. I can tell you no more. But be careful; there are watchers all around, for the Killigrews are not yet gone. God be with you!"
"Good-bye, Mistress Nancy."
"No, only good-morning."
"And you will be careful, Mistress Nancy. Do not let them see you. If I did not think you were safe I know not if I could go—even now. But when I may, I will come back, I will serve you with my whole heart."
"I am safe, go—but be careful. Good-morning. When you return come to this door and give three knocks."
I rushed up the path she had pointed out, and heard the door close behind me as I went. I had not gone far, however, before I saw a dark form moving among the trees.
"Who goes there?" said a voice.
I made no reply, but rushed on.
"Stop or I fire."
At this I made a sudden halt.
There was no help for it. I had to wait till the man came up.
"All is well!" I said, in a low voice.
"But who are you?—why——!"
Before he could speak again or raise his musket. I struck him heavily. He fell like a log of wood, senseless, inert. I lifted my hand to strike again; but it is hard striking an unconscious man, and I refrained. Besides I felt sure it would be some time before he would regain his wits again, meanwhile I should be perhaps a mile on my way.
I therefore left him lying there, while I sped through the woods like a deer. Who he was I knew not, but I suspected that he was some follower of the Killigrews, who watched while his masters discussed their plans within the house.
I had but a vague idea of the right direction, for the trees were dark and high, and I was not much acquainted with this part of the country. Nevertheless, being country-bred, and having often to travel by night, I did not fear going far wrong. In half an hour I reached a lane, and then I took my bearings.
Listening, I heard the splash of the waves on the sea-coast near. This I knew lay southwest, so I was able to choose my direction without difficulty. Tregothnan lay a good many miles southward; I heeded not the distances, however, my one purpose was to reach Hugh Boscawen's house without mishap. Once out in the open country the night was not dark, and I felt no weariness. My fear was that Otho Killigrew should overtake me. I was sure that the man I had struck down would relate his adventure, and that Otho Killigrew, in spite of what Uncle Anthony had said, was as clever as the devil himself. Moreover, as I rushed on, I could not help believing that the man had recognized me. Possibly he had come from Endellion, and had seen me there. This lent wings to my feet, for should Otho and his satellites follow me on horseback, I should be in a sore predicament. Presently my fear became a terror. If the man had recognized me, and had revealed the fact to the Killigrews and Uncle Anthony, would they not connect my presence with Mistress Nancy? For a moment my heart ceased to beat, but presently comfort came. My love, in spite of her youth, was no simpering, helpless chit of a maid. She would know how to hold her own; with old Adam as her friend she could outwit all the Killigrews. Then another thought came to me which assured me much. I was confident that Uncle Anthony was the maid's friend. I called to mind a dozen things which had happened during the time I was with him on Roche Rock. I remembered the way he spoke when he was left wounded and helpless in the old chapel in the parish of St. Mawgan. Their purposes might be one with regard to the Catholic faith and the coming of Charles Stuart, but I felt sure that the mysterious old man loved Mistress Nancy, and that he loved not Otho Killigrew.
This made me feel kindly towards him, and although I had it from his own lips that he had been spending his life in preparation for the coming of the Pretender, I thought of many plans whereby I might be able to help him, if I reached Hugh Boscawen.
While these thoughts passed through my mind, I rushed on with unabated speed. The morning had only just begun to dawn, and no one had molested me. I therefore began to have hopes that I should fulfil my mission without mishap. Just as I caught the first glimpse of the rising sun, however, they were rudely dispelled.
I had at this moment just reached the brow of a hill, and saw the entrance gates to one of the roads which led to Hugh Boscawen's house. They were not much more than a mile distant, and I fancied that, once inside them, my dangers would be over. By this time, as may be imagined, I was sore spent, for I had run a great part of the way. I therefore contented myself with walking down the hill towards the gates, but had not gone far when I heard the sound of galloping horses. Turning, I saw two men riding towards me. They were Otho Killigrew and another man.
I started to run, holding my sheathed sword in my left hand, but I saw that such a course would be useless. They were evidently well mounted, and I was spent and weary. Each side of me great hedges towered up, covered with hazel bushes. If I tried to escape into the fields by climbing over one of them, they would shoot me like a dog.
"Stop!" cried Otho.
For answer I cocked one of the pistols Mistress Nancy had given me. At least I would fight to the very last. Otho saw my action, and a second later two pistol-bullets whizzed by me, one tearing the sleeve of my coat. Evidently both of them had fired. Perhaps the movements of the horses had caused them to miss their aim. My hands trembled because of my long journey, otherwise I was fairly calm. I fired at Otho. Seeing my action, he spurred his horse furiously, and my bullet just escaped him—instead it struck the horse of the man who accompanied him. This made the animal rear and plunge mightily, and a second later the fellow lay sprawling on the ground. The horse, however, after some capering, galloped madly away.
"Come," I thought, "this is good work," and lifting my other pistol I shot at Otho's steed, rather than at its rider. I thought the bullet struck the animal, but Otho was a better horseman than his companion. He kept his seat firmly.
I had now no weapon save my sword, for there was no time to re-load, so I started running again, taking as many turns as a hare in the road, so as to give Otho as little chance as possible to take aim. Another bullet whizzed by, and still I was unharmed. I wondered how much ammunition he had, and in spite of my danger I hoped that I should come well out of the business. For if it became a question of swords, I had no fear. Otho was no swordsman, while his companion, as far as I could judge, was only a common serving-man, who would have but little knowledge of fencing.
I heard another pistol shot, and at that very moment I felt something strike my side and burn me, as though a red-hot knife had been placed on my flesh.
In spite of my struggles to stand upright, I stumbled and fell. In falling I struck my head against a stone which stunned me somewhat.
"Ah!" I heard Otho say, "that is well. Come, Juliff, we shall soon settle this business."
In spite of my fall I kept my eyes open, and saw Otho dismount. He seemed in great good humour, for he laughed aloud, while his companion limped slowly after him. He drew his sword as he came near me, and never did I see such a look of devilish gloating as rested on his face at that moment. The man seemed utterly changed. He was no longer the slow-speaking, almost religious-looking man I had known. His eyes burned red, and he laughed in such a way that for the moment I forgot the burning pain at my side.
"It is my turn now, Roger Trevanion," he said, and his voice fairly trembled with passion. "And he who laughs last laughs best. You have beaten me many times. Oh yes, I'll give you your due. You've beaten me many times. You are a man with brains, that I will admit, but so is Otho Killigrew. You got away from Endellion and took Nancy with you, that's once; you mastered me at the inn up by St. Mawgan, that's twice; you got away from Launceston Castle after you knew I should gain your freedom, and that's three times. And now my turn hath come!"
These last words came slowly, and seemed to pass through his set teeth; this I noticed, although I was still somewhat dazed by my fall.
"You are in my power, Master Roger Trevanion," and he held his sword close to me, "and now before I make you swallow six inches of steel, I will tell you something else: Mistress Nancy Molesworth is in my power too. And this I will add: Otho Killigrew's intentions are no longer honourable, for reasons that you can guess as well as I."
There was such a fiendish tone in his voice, and his words gave me such a shock, that my strength came back to me as if by a miracle. Before he could hinder me I had at one bound leapt to my feet and drawn my sword. The pistol shot no longer hurt me one whit; my right arm felt no weakness.
"They do laugh best who laugh last," I cried; whereupon I attacked him violently, and as he was no swordsman he fell back from me.
"Juliff, Juliff," he cried, but Juliff was so crippled by his fall that he was no longer able to help his master. Then a strange light came into his eyes, and his guard became weaker and weaker, until I wondered what it meant, for all the Killigrews were fighters in one way or another.
I do not say that Otho Killigrew was not a brave man. In the ordinary meaning of the word, he knew no fear, and could meet death as bravely as another. But directly he knew that my wound was not mortal, and that I had retained my mastery of the sword, he became a schemer and a plotter again. In short, the Otho Killigrew who thought I was powerless and the Otho Killigrew whose sword clashed against mine were two different men. Keeping one eye on me, he gave a glance at Juliff who had dragged himself to the hedge side. Evidently the man had broken some limb in his fall from the horse, for one arm hung limp, and he groaned loudly.
For my own part I had no mercy in my heart, and I had made up my mind to kill him. That I was able to do this I had no manner of doubt. As I have said he was no swordsman, and although my side ached sorely, the sinews of my right arm seemed like steel bands. But for those words he had spoken about Nancy, I should have contented myself with disabling him by a flesh wound, but remembering what he had said, I felt I could be satisfied with nothing less than his death. I think he saw this as he looked into my eyes; for his face became pale and ashen; and he gasped like a man whose throat is nearly choked.
"He who laughs last laughs best," I repeated grimly, and then he was certain that he would get no mercy from me.
He was not like his brother Benet. That giant would never dream of yielding, his one thought would be to fight to the very last—but Otho, as I said, had again become cool and calculating. Doubtless he remembered how much depended on him, and thought how the cause he loved needed him. Anyhow he took to his heels, and ran rapidly in the direction of Restormel.
"Coward!" I shouted, as he left me standing in the road. "Coward! Otho Killigrew," I repeated again, as soon as I had gained my breath, but he took no heed of my taunt, and indeed I was sorry afterward that I uttered it.
I was master of the situation, however, and taking no thought of Juliff who lay groaning by the hedge side, I caught Otho Killigrew's horse, which had not been hurt by my pistol-shot, and jumped into the saddle. My side pained me sorely as I did this, and now that my danger was over I felt somewhat faint and dizzy. Indeed, I doubt much if I should have been able to have walked to Tregothnan, for the house was several miles beyond the lodge gates.
No difficulty presented itself with the gate-keeper. He had just risen as I came up, and when I told him that I had important business with his lord, he made no ado in allowing me to enter. When I neared Tregothnan my heart beat fast, for I remembered the circumstances under which I was last there. The old man at the door gave a start, too, as he saw me, and I felt sure I was recognized; but seeing the eager look on my face, he bade me enter, and told me he would inform his lordship of my presence.
Evidently Hugh Boscawen was an early riser, for in a few seconds he entered the room where I stood.
"I have heard strange news concerning you, Master Roger Trevanion," he said as he entered.
"But not so strange as I have to tell you, my lord," was my reply.
He gave a start at my words. "What ails you, man?" he asked, "you are wounded, your clothes are bloody."
"Of that presently, my lord," I said hastily. "Know you that the Pretender lands at Veryan Bay to-night, and that the lovers of the Stuarts have a thousand men armed to receive him?"
He started back like a man who had received a prick with a sword. "What mean you?" he cried.
I repeated my words, and gave him further particulars.
"You are sure of this?"
I assured him that I was.
"I would that Sir John Grenville were here," he said to himself, "this is sore sudden."
"There is need of immediate action, my lord," was my reply, "and the country looks up to you."
My words seemed to arouse his mind to activity.
"Ah," he cried, "now they will know that I was right. Men laughed at me for saying the Pretender would ever think of landing in Cornwall, and jeered at me for gathering together our brave Cornishmen. But how came you to know this, Trevanion?"
He seemed to have forgotten that I had lately been brought before him as a traitor, forgot that Otho Killigrew had been my accuser.
"I will tell you all I can, my lord," I replied. "I escaped from the Witch's Tower, at Launceston Castle. I knew I was innocent, and I felt that there were those outside who needed me."
"Yes, Killigrew came to me. He proved your innocence. I signed a warrant for your liberty. But you escaped—that I know. But it is no matter; go on."
"I was led to Restormel."
"What, the old Castle up by Lostwithiel?"
"No, to the seat of the late Master Molesworth."
"Ah, yes, I remember. Well?"
"Colman Killigrew of Endellion is the guardian of Master Molesworth's daughter; hence he is practically master there."
"Yes, I have heard as much."
"While I was in the house, Colman Killigrew and his son Otho, with others, came. It is regarded as a good centre for dealing with the Pretender's cause. I overheard their conversation."
"Which you have told me?"
"Partly. What I did not tell you is that they fear you greatly. They know you have gathered an army from various parts of the country. Their idea is, that after the Pretender lands to-night they will come here and take you prisoner. They believe that, when this is done, the very men you have armed to fight for the king will fight for Charles."
"Ah!" he cried; "but King George will know of my wisdom now! And you, Trevanion, you escaped, and came here to tell me. Hath no one any suspicions?"
"They have more than suspicions, my lord. On leaving Restormel a few hours ago, a man stopped me. I silenced him for the time, but he must have given information; anyhow, I was followed. Doubtless messengers were sent out to scour the country-side, but two only overtook me."
"Two?"
"Aye, Otho Killigrew and a serving-man. They were on horseback and I on foot."
"Were you armed?"
"I had a couple of pistols and a sword." Then I told him of all that had happened.