I.
The meadows were half under water: the Carleton Dyke had overflowed its banks, and ere we had well dipped into the low fields, our feet were sinking at every step into the marshy ground, or splashing loudly into some pool that stared at us in the faint light. ’Twas bad going, i’ faith, but neither of us paid much heed to it, our minds being set on gaining the road beyond. But when we came to the Dyke itself, which we were bound to cross, we found ourselves in a pretty position, for it had widened a good six yards, and there was no means of crossing it nearer than the ford, which was too near Hardwick village for my liking or our safety. “There’s only one way,” says I, “I must carry you over, cousin, otherwise you will not get across dryshod.”
“I have not been dryshod since we came into these meadows,” says she, “and methinks you’ll have no easy task in carrying me across there.”
“Why,” says I, “I don’t look for ease in adventures of this sort,” and I stepped into the Dyke and took her from the bank into my arms. “Faith!” says I, “I had no idea that you were so heavy, cousin. ’Tis well that I have but a half-score of yards to carry you.”
“Set me down!” says she, trying to slip out of my grasp. “I had rather be drowned——”
But what else she meant to say was lost to me, for at that moment there rang out a musket shot that had been fired somewhere in the fields over which we had already passed, and ere the sound died away, it was followed by another discharge.
“They cannot have discovered our flight!” says I, and pushed on through the water to set her down on dryer ground. “Now, cousin,” I says, taking her hand, “we must run for it. There’s so little shelter in these meadows that they can see us at fifty yards’ distance, but if we can make the road, we can hide behind the trees under Went Hill, if they follow us. And so run, cousin,” I says, “run, if you’ve no mind to fall into their hands.”
Now there was then but one field ’twixt us and the road, and that not a very wide one, but they had been stubbing trees in it that autumn, and as ill-luck would have it, I ran in my haste upon a root that had been left half-out of the ground, and so twisted my ankle that I fell, groaning with pain. “I believe my leg’s broke,” says I, when I could speak. “Egad, cousin, was ever aught so unlucky! And what shall we do now?”
“First find out where you are hurt,” says she, and kneels down by me in the wet grass. “Try to move your leg,” she says. “’Tis not broke, I think—you must have twisted your foot, cousin.”
“I am stopped,” says I, pulling myself up and trying to walk. “I am not good for twenty yards,” and I took her arm and endeavoured to step out, with no more effect than to make me cry out with the pain. “And hark ye there, cousin! We’re followed.” I heard the sound of voices beyond the Dyke. “We are undone!” says I, cursing our ill-fate to myself. “They will be upon us in a few moments.”
She stood supporting me and looking about her as if she sought for some means of escape. Suddenly she clutched my arm. “If you could contrive to get forward to the top of the field,” she says, “we might hide under the bridge for awhile. Nobody would think of looking for us there.”
“Egad!” says I. “The very notion—naught could serve our need better.” But when I tried to walk I found that I was crippled as surely as old Matthew that goes with two crutches and hobbles at that. If I did but set my foot to the ground I was like to scream with the pain of it, and though I leaned heavily on Alison’s arm, the agony I suffered was so great that the sweat rolled off my forehead, and I turned sick. “Alas!” says she, “If I could but carry you.”
“Why,” groans I, “I wish you could, cousin, but since you can’t, I must make other shift. Let’s see if I can’t crawl on my hands and knees,” I says, getting to the ground with some difficulty. And finding that I made progress in this lowly attitude, we went on to the corner of the field, pausing now and then to listen to the voices in our rear.
Now at that point there runs a narrow stream from the coppice on Went Hill into the Dyke in the valley, and it is carried under the road from Darrington Mill to Wentbridge by a bridge of stone, so deeply sunk into the ground that you might walk over it a thousand times and see naught of it. There is a thick hedgerow at each end of this bridge, and moreover another hedgerow runs along the side of the stream, going up to the coppice on one side and down to the Dyke on the other, so that the entrances are shielded from observation. You may stand there and see naught of the bridge itself, and if you find occasion to wonder how the stream comes under the road, you will tell yourself that ’tis by means of a pipe or culvert, or some such contrivance. But Alison and I knew of this bridge, for we had hidden in it in our boy and girl days, and there was room in it to hide a score of folk, though the quarters were damp enough to give a whole village the rheumatics.
I made shift to crawl through the bushes into the arch of the bridge, carrying with me sundry thorns and prickles, whose smart I regarded no more than a pin-prick, so acute was the pain which I suffered from my foot. The water rose high in the channel, but I managed to clamber to some stones that stood above the stream, and there I sat me down, groaning as loudly as I dared, while Alison stood at my side. And after a time, hearing no sound from without, and judging that our pursuers, if indeed we were pursued, had gone another way, I contrived to get off my foot-gear in order to examine my hurt. Then I found that my ankle was swollen to such a thickness as reminded me of Sir Nicholas’s gouty foot, and the remembrance of that, and how he used to curse it when it tweaked him, put me into a more hopeful humour. “Come,” says I, “there’s naught broken, cousin—’tis but a bad sprain. Let’s be thankful,” I says, “that there’s so much cold water at hand—’tis a good thing for a hurt of this sort.” I put my foot into the stream and found much relief, though the water was icy cold. “If I can but get the stiffness out of it,” says I, “we’ll make good progress yet.”
“It will be morning soon,” she says, glancing out of the bridge. “The sky is already growing light. We shall have little chance of escape in the daytime, shall we?”
“Why,” says I, “I had certainly meant us to be clear of Barnsdale ere day broke. But we must do the best we can. ’Tis the fortune of war—and yet I did not think to escape all that we’ve gone through these four days past, and be brought down by a tree-root. But it’s these small matters,” I says, with the air of a philosopher, “that lead to great results.”
“I am in no humour for speculations,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “you must certainly be suffering much discomfort, cousin, but I don’t see how we can help it. Will you not endeavour to sit down by me here?—’tis a dampish seat, this heap of stones, but I think you will prefer it to standing. And you have a flask of wine there, and some food—we shall neither of us be the worse for a drop of one and a bite of t’other,” I says. She made no answer for a while, but presently she contrived to seat herself at my side, and brought out the wine and food from beneath her cloak.
“You take everything in a very philosophical spirit, Master Richard,” says she, giving me the flask.
“Why, faith, cousin,” says I, “why not? ’Tis my humour to take things that way. There was my uncle, now, would fume and fret himself into a fever if all went not as he wished, but it never did him any good that I could see. Take things as they come, say I.”
“’Tis a poor fashion,” says she, “for it shows that you have no special care for aught.”
“Now methinks ’tis you that wax philosophic,” I says. “And, faith, I don’t follow you. As for caring for aught, why, I have cared for a deal o’ things, but as I never got most of them I came to the conclusion that it was better to want naught.”
“Oh,” says she, “and what, pray, did you care for and want that you didn’t get?”
“Why,” says I, “I wanted to be a country gentleman, with no more anxiety than the rearing of cattle and the making of an occasional ballad or sonnet.”
“Oh, a poet!” says she.
“Why, say a rhymester,” says I. “Heigh-ho! I was all for a quiet life—and here I am in a wet ditch, with a lame leg—plague take it!—and as good a chance of being hanged or shot as any man in England. Nevertheless,” says I, “there’s the present enjoyment of conversing with you, cousin, which is——”
But there, like a woman, she went off at a tangent.
“Master Richard,” says she, “what made you turn rebel?”
“Cousin,” says I, drawing my leg out of the water where I had kept it till it was numbed through. “Why do you ask me such a question?”
“Because,” says she, “you observed just now that you cared for naught, and I don’t understand how a man can join a cause unless he has some care for it.”
“Lord!” says I. “You are too deep for me. I must have meant—nay, faith,” I says, “I don’t think I know what I did mean.”
She laughed merrily at that—I think it was the first time since I came to the Manor. “Why, let me help you to your wits,” says she. “Would you join the rebels to-morrow, if you were able?”
“Aye, indeed!” says I.
“And why?” says she.
“Because my sympathies are with them,” says I. “I am for liberty and against oppression. Being a true Englishman,” I says, “I hate this Star-Chambering and extortioning of honest folk’s money.”
“I wonder how much you know about it,” says she.
“About as much as yourself,” says I.
“God save the King!” says she.
“Faith, he needs it!” says I.
After that we sat in a miserable silence for full half-an-hour. It was then growing light, and the dawn came with a sharp burst of sleet that penetrated the bushes and stung our faces as we sat huddled under the bridge. “A dreary morning, cousin,” I says.
A low booming roar came echoing across the fields. I forgot my hurt and tried to start to my feet. “Cannon!” says I. “They are bombarding the old place after all. And yet surely——”
But she had rushed to the mouth of the bridge and forced her way through the bushes, and there she stood, gazing across the dank fields towards the old house. The roar of the cannon came again. She drew back within the bridge, and dropping at my side burst into a passion of bitter weeping.
“Come, cousin,” says I, laying my hand on her arm, “be comforted——”
She turned her face suddenly upon me, all aflame with anger.
“Comforted?” says she, “Shame upon you, Richard Coope! Oh, cowards that we are, to have skulked from the old place like rats from a sinking ship! Doesn’t it shame you,” she says, “to sit here in a ditch when you ought to be there defending your own?”
“Why, cousin,” says I, “considering that it’s through no choice of my own that I sit in this ditch, it doesn’t; and as to defending my own, why, there’s naught in the old house that’s mine save a book or two. It’s not my property,” I says, nursing and groaning over my lame leg.
“But it’s mine,” says she, drying her tears.
“Then go and defend it,” I says, sulkily. “You were better employed in that than in preaching to me.”
She turned her face and stared at me long and hard.
“You have the rarest faculty for saying insolent things,” says she.
“Faith, it’s a poor one in comparison with yours!” says I, testily enough.
She coloured up to the eyes at that. Egad, she had no liking for such plain talk! But she stared at me again and then at my foot, which was at that moment exceeding painful.
“Can I do aught to relieve you?” she says.
“I wish you could,” says I. “But you can’t, and so there’s an end on’t.”
“Oh,” she says, bridling, “if you don’t wish to talk with me——” and she drew herself away. But after a time she looked round at me again.
“Will they destroy the old house?” she says.
“I don’t know, cousin,” says I. “They seem to have given over firing at it, but these two shots will have knocked some lath and plaster about.”
She looked at my foot which I was dipping in the water again.
“What a misfortune!” she says. “I cannot abide this idleness. It irks me to sit here, doing naught, as if we were rats in a cage.”
But since we were helpless I made no answer to her, and so there we sat, miserable as you please, and without the grey dawn widened into a dull morning.