Chapter Twenty Two.
Pots and pans.
Mrs Collenwood unlocked the little wicket, and let herself and Pandora out into the public road. Then she relocked the gate, and after a moment’s thought, feeling in the darkness, she hung the key on a bush close to the gate, where it could not be seen from the road. Both ladies carried lanterns, for the omission of this custom would have raised more suspicion than its observance, had they been met by any one, and there were no public street lamps in those days. They were bound first for the little hostelry, called the Nun’s Head, in the village of Lamberhurst, where Mrs Collenwood had desired her servant to await her; the landlady of which was known to those in the secret to be one of “the brethren,” and was therefore sure to befriend and not betray them, if she guessed the truth. Slowly and painfully they made their way by a circuitous route, to avoid passing through Goudhurst, and Pandora, who was not much accustomed to walking, began to be very tired before half the way was traversed. They had just reached the road again, and were making their way slowly through the ruts and puddles—for English roads at that date were in a state which happily we can do little more than imagine—when they heard the sound of hoofs a little way behind them. Mrs Collenwood laid her hand on Pandora’s arm.
“Hide the lantern under thy cloak,” she whispered; “and we will creep into this field and ’bide quat under the hedge, till the party shall have passed by.”
The advice was put into practice. The hoofs drew near, accompanied by a jingling sound which seemed to come from pottery. It was now near one o’clock. The ladies kept as still as mice. They were not reassured when the sound came to a stand-still, just before the gate of the field where they were hidden, and a man’s voice, strange to them, said—
“It was just here I lost the sight of the lanterns. They cannot be far off.”
Mrs Collenwood felt Pandora’s hand clasp her wrist tight in the darkness.
“Bide a moment, Tom, and I will search in the field,” said another voice.
Mrs Collenwood gave all up for lost.
“Mistress Pandora, are you there?” said the voice which had last spoken.
“Aunt Frances, ’tis Mr Hall!” cried Pandora joyfully.
“Ah! I am right glad I have found you,” said Roger, as he came up to them. “I have been searching you this hour, being confident, from what I heard, that you would attempt to get away to-night. I pray you to allow of my company.”
“In good sooth, Mr Hall, we be right thankful of your good company,” answered Mrs Collenwood. “’Tis ill work for two weak women such as we be.”
“Truly, my mistress, methinks you must both have lion-like hearts, so much as to think of essaying your escape after this fashion. You will be the safer for my presence. I have here an ass laden with pots and pans, and driven by a good man and true, a Gospeller to boot—one of your own men from the cloth-works, that is ready to guard his master’s daughter at the hazard of his life if need be. If you be willing, good my mistress, to sell tins and pitchers in this present need—”
“Use me as you judge best, Master Hall,” said Mrs Collenwood heartily. “I am willing to sell tins, or scour them, or anything, the better to elude suspicion.”
“Well said. Then my counsel is that we turn right about, and pass straight through Goudhurst, so soon as the dawn shall break. The boldest way is at times the safest.”
“But is not that to lose time?”
“To lose time is likewise sometimes to gun it,” said Roger, with a smile. “There is one danger, my mistresses, whereof you have not thought. To all that see you as you are, your garb speaks you gentlewomen, and gentlewomen be not wont to be about, in especial unattended, at this hour of the night. If it please you to accept of my poor provision, I have here, bound on the ass, two women’s cloaks and hoods of the common sort, such as shall better comport with the selling of pots than silken raiment; and if I may be suffered to roll up the cloaks you bear in like manner, you can shift you back to them when meet is so to do.”
“Verily, ’tis passing strange that had never come to my mind!” replied Mrs Collenwood. “Mr Hall, we owe you more thanks than we may lightly speak.”
They changed their cloaks, rolling up those they took off, and tying them securely on the donkey, covered by a piece of canvas, with which Roger was provided. The hoods were changed in like manner. The donkey was driven into the field in charge of Tom Hartley, who pulled his forelock to his ladies; and the trio sat down to await daylight.
“And if it like you, my mistresses,” added Roger, “if it should please Mistress Collenwood to speak to me by the name of Hodge, and Mistress Pandora by that of father or uncle, methinks we should do well.”
“Nay, Mr Hall; but I will call you brother,” said Pandora, smiling; “for that is what you truly are, both in the Gospel and in descent from Adam.”
In perfect quiet they passed the five hours which elapsed ere the sun rose. As soon as ever the light began to break, Roger led forth the donkey; Tom trudging behind with a stick, and the ladies walked alongside.
Rather to their surprise, Roger took his stand openly in the market place of Goudhurst, where he drove a brisk trade with his pots and pans; Mrs Collenwood taking up the business as if she had been to the manner born, and much to Pandora’s admiration.
“Brown pitchers, my mistress? The best have we, be sure. Twopence the dozen, these; but we have cheaper if your honour wish them.”
Another time it was, “What lack you, sweet sir? Chafing-dishes, shaving-basins, bowls, goblets, salts? All good and sound—none of your trumpery rubbish!”
And Roger and Tom both lifted up sonorous voices in the cry of—
“Pots and pans! Pots and pa–ans! Chargers, dishes, plates, cups, bowls, por–ring–ers! Come buy, come buy, come buy!”
The articles were good—Roger had seen to that—and they went off quickly. Ladies, country housewives, farmers, substantial yeomen, with their wives and daughters, came up to buy, until the donkey’s load was considerably diminished. At length a priest appeared as a customer. Pandora’s heart leaped into her mouth; and Mrs Collenwood, as she produced yellow basins for his inspection, was not entirely without her misgivings. But the reverend gentleman’s attention seemed concentrated on the yellow basins, of which he bought half-a-dozen for a penny, and desired them to be delivered at the Vicarage. Roger bowed extra low as he assured the priest that the basins should be there, without fail, in an hour, and having now reduced his goods to a load of much smaller dimensions, he intimated that they “might as well be moving forward.” The goods having been duly delivered, Roger took the road to Lamberhurst, and they arrived without further misadventure at the Nun’s Head, where Mrs Collenwood’s servant, Zachary, was on the look-out for them.
To Mrs Collenwood’s amusement, Zachary did not recognise her until she addressed him by name; a satisfactory proof that her disguise was sufficient for the purpose. They breakfasted at the Nun’s Head, on Canterbury brawn (for which that city was famous) and a chicken pie, and resumed their own attire, but carrying the cloaks of Roger’s providing with them, as a resource if necessity should arise.
“Aunt Frances,” said Pandora, as they sat at breakfast, “I never thought you could have made so good a tradeswoman. Pray you, how knew you what to say to the folks?”
“Why, child!” answered Mrs Collenwood, laughing, “dost reckon I have never bought a brown pitcher nor a yellow basin, that I should not know what price to ask?”
“Oh, I signified not that so much, Aunt; but—all the talk, and the fashion wherein you addressed you to the work.”
“My mother—your grandmother, Dorrie—was used to say to me, ‘Whatever thou hast ado with, Frank, put thine heart and thy wits therein.’ ’Tis a good rule, and will stand a woman in stead for better things than selling pots.”
Zachary had made full provision for his mistress’s journey. The horses were ready, and the baggage-mules also. He rode himself before Mrs Collenwood, and an old trustworthy man-servant was to sit in front of Pandora. All was ready for proceeding at half-an-hour’s notice, and Mrs Collenwood determined to go on at once.
When it came to the leave-taking, she drew a gold ring from her finger, and gave it to Tom Hartley, with a promise that his master should hear through Roger Hall, so soon as the latter deemed it safe, of the very essential service which he had rendered her. Then she turned to Roger himself.
“But to you, Mr Hall,” she said, “how can I give thanks, or in what words clothe them? Verily, I am bankrupt therein, and can only thank you to say I know not how.”
“Dear mistress,” answered Roger, “have you forgot that ’tis I owe thanks to you, that you seek to magnify my simple act into so great deserving? They that of their kindness cheer my little suffering Christie’s lonely life, deserve all the good that I can render them. My little maid prayed me to say unto you both that she sent you her right loving commendations, and that she would pray for your safe journey every day the whilst it should last, and for your safety and good weal afterward. She should miss you both sorely, quoth she; but she would pray God to bless you, and would strive to her utmost to abide by all your good and kindly counsel given unto her.”
“Dear little Christie!” said Pandora affectionately. “I pray you, Master Hall, tell her I shall never forget her, and I trust God may grant us to meet again in peace.”
“I cast no doubt of that, Mistress Pandora,” was the grave answer, “though ’twill be, very like, in a better land than this.”
“And I do hope,” added she, “that Mistress Benden may ere long be set free.”
Roger shook his head.
“I have given up that hope,” he said; “yea, well-nigh all hopes, for this lower world.”
“There is alway hope where God is,” said Mrs Collenwood.
“Truth, my mistress,” he replied; “but God is in Heaven, and hope is safest there.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning when the travellers set out from the Nun’s Head. Roger Hall stood in the doorway, looking after them, until the last glimpse could no longer be perceived. Then, with a sigh, he turned to Tom Hartley, who stood beside him.
“Come, Tom!” he said, “let us, thou and I, go home and do God’s will.”
“Ay, master, and let God do His will with us,” was the cheery answer.
Then the two men and the donkey set out for Cranbrook.