I.
About eight o’clock on that, the second night of our investments, I sat eating my supper in the parlour, all my men being at their posts, and everything appearing of a satisfying nature. I had carefully watched the stable door during the evening, and had observed that when the darkness was fairly settled down there came out a man leading a horse which he mounted at the fold-gate. I made no doubt that this was Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that he was riding for Pomfret on a double mission. Although I recognised him for one of them that make a trade of canting hypocrisy I had reason to believe that he would deliver the despatch to Fairfax. That, then, was one errand; the other, I took to be the seeking of reinforcement for Anthony Dacre and his party. But in good sooth, it troubled me not at all that there was a prospect of our being attacked in greater force, for I had all along seen that if the enemy chose to invest us seriously we must ultimately give way to him. It had been my hope that Anthony would fail to find further help from Fairfax, or that he would think it dangerous to his own plans to seek it. Indeed, I was not without hope that the morning might find us with naught but Anthony and his own rascals to deal with, for it seemed to me more than likely that if Fairfax made enquiry in the matter of Merciful Wiggleskirk, he would withdraw him and the other trooper from Anthony’s service. But whether he did or not was all one to me, for however things turned I was in a corner, and saw no way of getting out of it.
As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s chamber-door—I heard her say something to Barbara about his dying,” he says, staring at me.
“Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs. I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I, and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see him?”
“He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think—nay, I am sure—that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer than it has been for some days—it frightens me to see how calm he is.”
“Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin, for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his chamber since he has asked for me.”
She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the hearth, but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on seeing thee, Master Dick.”
I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to do or say. “Your pain, now—I trust ’tis abated since——”
“Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head on the pillow.
“Yes, sir,” says I.
“Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.”
“I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I, “if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these matters.”
“No trouble,” says he, “no trouble, nephew—in these times we must lay aside personal——”
But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and pitiful—faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman that had treated me to more than one sharp speech—“you will do yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest——”
“Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench. Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to ourselves awhile—you women are for ever in the way when there is business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber, nephew, and come back to thy seat.”
I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers. “If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,” says he. “’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are about. And how goes the siege, Dick—shall we withstand the enemy?”
“Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that everything is in proper order.”
“Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much—she praised thy generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came about. What led to it, nephew?—these women, they have no talent for telling a straight tale.”
“Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”—but I began and told him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me.
“Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it—though, indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I says, looking straight back at him.
“Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and, besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with me—there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing, nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look.
“Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to proclaim myself.”
“Swounds!” says he, with a spark of the old fire in him, “and so I would, egad! Well, well, ’tis too late now to kick sleeping dogs, and I’m pleased with thee, Dick, for thy recent conduct. The lass Alison seems mighty taken with thee.”
“I was afraid,” says I, “that Mistress Alison looked on me as a renegade, and could ill abide my presence.”
“Pish!” says he, “’tis a woman’s way. I’ll not deny,” he says, “that she has had no liking for thee, because the wench is all for His Majesty, and we love not to have a renegade in the family, nephew Dick. But thy conduct of the last day or two,” he says, “has changed her thoughts of thee, an I mistake not. There is a cordial by thee, lad; give me a drink—I grow somewhat faint.”
“Dear sir,” says I, “I am sure that it is not good for you to talk. Let me go away, and do you compose yourself to sleep.”
“Faith!” says he, making a wry face as he drank the cordial, “I shall have sleep enough enow, nephew. Let me talk while I can. What thinkest thou of thy cousin, Dick?” he says, giving me a sharp glance.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I think she is the handsomest woman I ever saw.”
“Ha!” says he. “Thou thinkest so, eh? I have left her all I have,” he says, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Every acre and every penny,” says he.
“I am unfeignedly glad to hear it, sir,” says I, “for I am sure she deserves it.”
“It would ha’ been thine,” he says, “if thou hadst behaved thyself.”
“One must pay for misbehaviour, sir,” says I.
“I am not sure,” says he, plucking at the bedclothes, “that I should not alter matters if there were a chance.”
“Pray you, sir,” says I, “don’t think of such a thing. I am very well provided for,” I says. And so I was, seeing that I was pretty sure to be either shot or hanged within the next few days.
“Well, well,” says he. “But things will turn out well. I wish thee to marry Alison, nephew Dick.”
“Sir!” says I.
“Swounds!” says he. “Thou art not already married?”
“No, dear sir,” says I.
“Then there is no need for astonishment,” says he. “And, egad, she is as proper a wench——”
“Sir,” says I. “She is the handsomest woman that ever I saw, but I fear she is beyond me. And besides,” I says, “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Pish!” says he. “Thou art but a lad, and therefore knowest naught of women. There is but one way of wooing, and that is to be masterful. Let ’em see that you’re master,” he says, with a chuckle that came very feeble, “and they’re won.”
“Faith!” thinks I. “If that’s so I must ha’ won my fair cousin already, for I have been masterful enough with her, in all conscience! I will bear your advice in mind, sir,” I says aloud.
“I would like to see it,” he says, as if to himself. “But my days are numbered, nephew. Howbeit, if I die before this trouble comes to an end, I trust to thee to see thy cousin in safety.”
“Sir,” says I. “I will defend her to the best of my power. Trust me for that,” I says, laying my hand on his own, which was very cold and white.
“Well,” says he, “that’s a comforting thought to me, Dick, for the lass has served my old age with much diligence and kindliness, though, egad,” he says, “she has the devil’s own temper, an you stroke her the wrong way. But there’s a thing that I want to say to thee, Dick—bend down to me—ye may both be in need of money ere long, for things wear a troubled complexion. Hark ye, lad, there is gold and jewels hidden away under the hearthstone of the room where my dry herbs are kept. Use them as you think fit,” he says, “there may be occasion to carry them about your person—there’s more families than one homeless at this time, and nobody knows what may happen.”
“Have no fear, sir,” says I.
“Swounds!” says he. “What’s the good o’t? A dying man hath neither fears nor hopes, nephew. And faith, I think I have maybe talked too much; call in the women, Dick,—Alison is the rarest nurse.”
So I hastened to the door for my cousin and Barbara, and bade them enter. Sir Nicholas turned his head to me again. “See to thy defences, lad,” says he. “Egad, I wish I could be with thee!” But there his face turned very white, and the women ran to him, so I softly closed the door and went off to see to my men.