WHAT HAPPENED ON THE BEDFORD ROAD
I could scarce believe after I passed through Barnet that it was indeed I, Roland Rashcliffe, who bestrode Black Ben. All the long weary months which had passed since last I had ridden along that road seemed like a painful dream. Then the summer was in the full glory of its loveliness. The trees were clothed in their green garments, flowers bloomed everywhere, while the heavens resounded with the song of the birds. The sky was, I remember, of perfect blue, while the lambs sported in the fields as we rode along; and even although I was a prisoner, the woman I loved was by my side, and we were excited at the thought that we were journeying to the presence of the king. Besides, I was then strong and vigorous; my nerves felt like steel, and my heart beat high with hope. Now all was different. A year and nine months had passed away, and we were in March. Not a sign of spring appeared, although I saw the farmers sowing oats and barley. Showers of sleet and snow were swept across the country by cold, biting east winds. The song of the birds was nowhere to be heard. The cold hand of winter still gripped the earth, and the cattle stood shivering by the hedge as if longing for the shelter of their houses.
Then, moreover, the country was rejoicing at the coming of the king. Men were glad because they had escaped the strict morality of the Puritan reign, and expressed the hope of happier times under an indulgent king. But that, too, had changed. Those who had built their hopes for a happier time under Charles had been disappointed, Cromwell had left the country strong and great. Under Charles II it was becoming weak and despised. Louis XIV of France regarded Charles as a kind of vassal, while Holland looked upon us with contempt. Heavy taxes were levied to pay for the king's extravagances, and even his best friends looked upon him as a weak, pleasure-loving, sensual man. He longed to be regarded as an absolute monarch, yet would he not take the trouble to rule the nation righteously. Men saw everywhere that the resources of the land were being drained for no good purpose.
The glad, happy times for which people had hoped, had degenerated into wild, lawless orgies. Virtue among women was not believed in; in men the idea of it was scorned. The Church had become the tool of those in authority, and was made to condone the most frightful abuses. Those who longed for a pure morality and the advancement of true religion, were sneered at as Puritans, and were denied preferment. Nonconformists were persecuted everywhere. Every prison in the country was full of them, and the only charge brought against them was that they sought to pray and preach in another fashion than that ordained by law. The expressed determination of the Episcopal clergy was to stamp out dissent by the iron heel of force. Dissenters were hunted from place to place and persecuted on every hand, and those who in any way sympathized with them were boycotted and persecuted.
All this made my work the harder, for I reflected that Constance was a Nonconformist, and her father had been hanged as a regicide. Moreover, I had no plan of action. I determined to find Constance's hiding-place, and yet I must do so without giving any one else a clue to where she was. Even when I had found her, I knew not how I could help her. My body had been enfeebled by long months of imprisonment, and although at starting out I was buoyed up by the hope of seeing Constance again, I quickly realized that I could not reach Bedford that day, as I had hoped.
Still, I was neither dismayed nor cast down. I knew my strength would soon come back to me, for every breath I drew was the breath of liberty and hope. I bestrode Black Ben, surely the best horse ever a man rode. At my side hung a good blade, my pistols were ready to hand, and I possessed enough money for my needs. I had also obtained new clothes according to the fashion of the times. I again presented a brave appearance.
I was told that footpads beset the road to the north, but no man molested me.
Towards evening on the second day of my journey I drew near to Bedford, when I set myself to thinking seriously what I should do. I knew that in less than an hour I should see the river coil its way through the town, seeing I was but five miles away. I could not ride fast, for my day's journey had wearied me, and so allowed Black Ben to amble along at will. I was just entering a lonely part of the road, when I saw a man of venerable appearance standing in the road.
He held up his hand at my approach, at the which I stopped.
"You have not seen a woman leading two little children, have you?" he said.
I shook my head.
"Have you seen a little girl about ten, accompanied by a boy of twelve?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
He sighed deeply, whereupon I asked him if he were in trouble.
"Ay, I am in deep trouble," he said, "for I fear evil hath happened to my wife and dear ones. When we parted this morning, I said I would try and get work among the farmers, so as to earn enough to buy them bread, while they said they would make known our condition to some friends who are still faithful. We also arranged to meet here at five o'clock. Is it not about that time, young master?"
"It is past that hour," I replied.
"Then I fear evil hath happened to them," he said, and I saw the tears well up into his eyes.
"But surely this is strange," I said; "you do not look like a man who should be seeking work of the farmers. You look rather to be a man of learning and of quality."
"I am an unworthy preacher of the Word; but I have been driven from my vicarage, and now nought but starvation stares me in the face."
"What parish were you in?" I asked.
"I was the incumbent of St. Martin's," he replied. "I would not conform, so I was e'en driven out."
"Why would you not conform?" I asked.
"E'en because I felt it would be a sin so to do. I had received my ordination from God, and I could not profess to belief in the Prayer-book, which was full of Popish errors. But God's will be done. I was of the Presbyterian persuasion, and I fear that, like the Episcopalians, I desired uniformity. But that is all over now. I see that the Independents and the Quakers are men of God even as we are, and our persecutions have linked us together."
"And what hath become of you since you were driven from your parish?"
"Ah, God knows! We have lived how we could, and it hath been terribly hard. Sometimes for days together we have scarcely had food. Our clothes are worn out too, and sometimes we have been terribly cold. Thank God, the winter cannot last much longer now! Even now I do not think it is quite as cold as it was a week ago;" but the man shivered as he spoke.
"But have you no property at all?" I asked.
"I have but ten pounds a year, and my wife hath nothing at all. All our little savings were soon eaten up, for the children are hearty, thank God! Directly after Bartholomew's Day we were cast forth from our dwelling, and since then we have had nought but trouble. I have no friends but those in my own parish, and Master Gilloch, the new vicar, and Master Graystone, the magistrate, have done their utmost to make it impossible for us to get help. Moreover, times are bad, and those who would help us cannot. I thought while I was in prison that I suffered enough, but I think it hath been worse since I came out."
"Have you been in prison?" I asked.
"Ay," he replied, "in truth I have. For what could I do? Could I be silent when God had commanded me to preach? 'Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel.' I know now what our brother John Bunyan felt, although a year ago I did but little sympathize with him. The Word of God was like fire in his bones, and he could not help declaring it, so he was cast into prison. After I was ejected from my parish I still preached, and I was cast into prison, and kept there for three months; but I still preach, and, thank God! I still comfort those who are distressed. But for the Word of Life I could not bear my troubles, and who am I that I should keep it from others?"
"But what was the occasion of your being imprisoned?" I asked.
"Oh, we had met, a few of us, in a barn, some half a mile from the king's highway. We met to read God's word and for prayer. As we read I was mightily moved upon to expound the meaning of God's word, and while I was in the act of expounding and exhorting, the constables came, and dragged three of us to gaol. One of the magistrates who judged me was Master Gilloch, who is now the minister in my old parish, and, as I say, I was kept three months in the company of the worst men and women I ever met. But God had use for me, for while there I was the means of leading more than one to accept the Gospel."
"And what did your wife and children do while you were in prison?" I asked.
"Oh, a godly farmer gave them a home, until the squire, Master Graystone, a man who had often eaten bread at my table, came and told the farmer that if he did not drive them from his house he should e'en take his farm from him. Nevertheless, the Lord mercifully provided for them. Since I came out of prison I have been able to provide bread for them by selling my books, and by writing a few letters for those who knew not the craft of writing."
"And have you no special friend now?" I asked, for, as may be imagined, Constance was in my mind all the time.
"Ay, but that friend hath to help in secret," he cried.
I wanted to ask more concerning this, but I saw he turned away his head as he spoke, and seemed desirous of being silent.
"Perchance the hearts of the squire and the vicar may grow softer," I said.
"Ay, young master, there seems but little chance of that. Why, only last night a few pious souls were met together for prayer, and as they prayed the constable entered, and they were dragged away to gaol. The trial is to be held to-morrow, but they will get no mercy."
"To-morrow?" I said. "At what time?"
"At such time as it may suit the magistrates, but it is given out for ten o'clock."
"And what will you do to-night?"
"I know not what to do—ah! praise God, here are my wife and children coming!"
I turned and saw a woman, accompanied by four children, coming towards us, and as they saw us they seemed to quicken their footsteps as if for gladness. The man with whom I had been speaking, kissed them all affectionately, and then each looked to the other as if for news.
"I have obtained enough for food to-night," said the man. "We can e'en call at Elizabeth Jory's and get bread, and we can all sleep in the cottage in the wood."
"I am very cold," whimpered one of the children.
"But I can soon light a fire. Do not be afraid, my dear ones. The Lord will provide. But how have you fared, good wife?"
The woman shook her head. "She dares not come till to-morrow night," she said.
"The Lord will provide till then," said the man; but his voice was piteous, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes.
"You have a friend who will help you to-morrow night?" I said eagerly; but to this the woman made no reply, rather she turned away her head like one afraid.
"You said the Lord would provide," I said, as I took some coins from my pouch. "Perchance He hath sent me to help you. Here is something that will meet your needs till your friend cometh."
"Are you one of the Lord's children?" asked the man, as he looked at my somewhat gay attire.
"I trust so," I said, for in truth I knew not what better to say.
"But are you one who hath also suffered for God's work? Forgive my asking, for while your attire is that of a Court gallant, your face is as if set towards the city of God."
"I have suffered imprisonment for not obeying the king," I made answer.
He looked at me steadily. "Surely I have seen you before," he said, "and yet your face is strange to me. Have you by chance ever visited this neighbourhood before?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Long ago, young master? Oh, you need not fear to tell me. If you have suffered because of your disobedience to the king, you should be one of God's children."
"I was in the Chapel of Herne twelve months ago last June," I replied.
"Surely, surely you cannot be he who helped our friend out of——" He stopped and gazed eagerly at me as if afraid to say more.
"My name is Roland Rashcliffe," I said, whereupon he grasped my hand in joy.
"This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes," he said.
"Know you aught of her?" I said, wellnigh overcome with the hope that was in my heart.
"Know aught of her!" he cried. "Why——"
"Husband, husband!" interrupted the woman.
The man ceased speaking for a moment. "Thank you, wife," he said, after a pause; "the road is full of pitfalls, and a promise should be faithfully kept."
"But I desire to be your friend," I cried eagerly. "Here, take this money, and if further help fails you, will you let me know, and I will give you more."
"Young master, I believe the Lord hath touched your heart," he cried, "and surely He hath brought you to us. May God bless you, and make you a blessing! But I am not a beggar, neither have I asked you for aught."
"But be pleased to take this," I cried. "You will give me joy by taking it. I have plenty, and I desire to help you."
I saw that pride and desire struggled in the man's heart, and I verily believe the former would have conquered had not one of the children cried bitterly:
"Father, I am so cold, and so hungry," she said; "let us go to the cottage, and light the fire."
"Thank you, young master," he said as he took the money; "perchance I shall be able to repay you some day."
"You have repaid me already," I replied. "You have made me happy by enabling me to give your children food and fire to-night. Will you tell me where your cottage is, and then, perchance, I can come and see you again."
Again he looked steadily at me, and it was some time before he spoke. "You see that stile there?" he said. "If you follow the footpath into the wood for half a mile you will see my cottage."
"See that the children have good food and a fire to-night," I said with a laugh, for my heart had grown light and joyful with hope.
"Thanks to you, they shall," he cried; and I saw the tears trickling down his wan cheek. "Oh, may the Lord forgive me for ever doubting His word! Did not David say, 'I have been young, and now am old, yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' No, I shall not be forsaken, and the Lord will provide. Ay, and the word of the Lord shall triumph too. The eyes of the wicked may stand out with fatness, yet will I not fret myself because of evildoers. I will trust in the Lord, and do good, and I will dwell in the land and follow after faithfulness. I will delight myself in the Lord, and He will give me the desires of my heart."
"And what may your name be?" I asked.
"Forgive me if I have seemed afraid to trust you," he said, "but it behoveth those who are surrounded by enemies to behave with caution. But I believe that the Lord hath sent you to me. My name, young master, is John Day, who for ten years ministered to his flock in the parish church at St. Martin's."
All my weariness and fatigue had gone as I rode into Bedford. I was afraid of nothing, for I believed that God had led me hither. Again and again I went over in my mind the conversation between Master John Day and myself, and the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that the friend who had helped them was the woman I loved. It accorded with what my father had told me concerning her, and although Master Day had been afraid to tell me aught, he had said enough to confirm my hopes.
I did not think it best to go to The Bull at Bedford, but seeing an inn called General Fairfax, I made my way thither. If an innkeeper was bold enough to keep an inn bearing such a name, I reflected, it might be that I should be safer there than elsewhere. Not that I feared recognition. As Caleb Bullen had said, my appearance had been so changed during my prison life that scarce any one would know me. When I was in Bedford last, I was brown and strong; now I was pale, and looked weak and ill. Moreover, my clothes were so different from what I wore then that they altered my appearance much. Besides, I had but little to fear. No warrant was out against me, neither had I done anything to cause those in authority to take note of me.
The inn, moreover, was of a quieter order than the others, neither were any troublesome questions asked of me.
After supper I found my way into the room where several men sat with their mugs of ale before them, and I found that they were talking about the trial which was to take place on the following morning.
"How many are to be tried?" asked one. "Know you, James Bilsom?"
"Ay, I think there be a score or more."
"They will be all sent to prison, I'll wage."
"There can be no doubt about that. Parson Gilloch is most terrible and bitter against these Dissenters; as for Squire Graystone, he fair hates them. Not that I can see they have done aught wrong. They do but pray and preach as they did before the coming of the king. As for their piety—well, if I lay a-dying I'd rather have one of them to pray with me than I'd have the parson, for all his long white gown."
"But still, the king is king, and law is law."
"Ay, I suppose so. Still, although I was no lover of Old Nol, we were better off in his days. There was less thieving, less drinking, less loose living, and more piety. Of that I am free to confess."
"Say not so too loud, for if Parson Gilloch hears of it he will e'en make you smart. Why, think of what hath befallen the Dissenters."
"Ay, a man can hardly call his soul his own, that he cannot. Are you going to the trial to-morrow?"
"Nay, I cannot sleep after I have been to these trials. I cannot help thinking of the women and children. It is terrible hard for them."
"Ay, it is; how they manage to live I know not."
"Think you there is any truth in the stories about Sir John Leslie's daughter?"
"Nay, I think not. If there were she'd have been found before this."
"I don't know. She's a clever maid. Why, think how she guarded her sister, and got her out of the country. I do hear she's joined Sir Charles in Holland."
"Ay, but she can't be in these parts now. How can she be? Every house is watched; besides, how can she get meat to eat?"
"I don't know; but I tell you, she hath all her wits, and she's more than a match for Parson Gilloch. Peter Blewitt swears it was she that he saw before she tripped him up and blew out his candle."
After this they talked much in this fashion, but they said nought that gave me any clue to the secret of her hiding place, although they gave me much food for reflection.
The next morning I made my way to the Chapel of Herne, in the hopes that I might hear something which might help me in the work I had set myself to do.