I.
The place in which they installed me to wait for my end was a little cottage some fifty yards away from the farmhouse, where Fairfax had set up his quarters, and stood in an angle of the fields that lie ’twixt Skinner Lane and the hamlet of Tanshelf. It afforded but the most indifferent accommodation, there being naught in the way of furniture but a chair or two, a pallet bed in one corner and a deal table, but in my then condition these things were more than sufficient for my wants, and I made no complaint of them. Nay, when Merciful Wiggleskirk offered me some apology for the poor quarters he had brought me to I checked him, and pointed out that to a man who has but some sixteen hours to live a cottage is as fine as a palace.
“Why, sure,” says he, “death is the greatest leveller—but is there naught that we can do for your honour? Your honour,” he says, giving me a sly look, “is such a generous rewarder——”
“Friend,” says I, “I verily believe that I have not even a penny-piece upon me. As for reward then——”
“I meant you to understand,” says he, “that I had already received my reward, and was minded to do still more to deserve what you have already bestowed upon me. So if there is aught that you lack——”
“Faith,” says I, “thou art a good fellow. Why, now I come to think on’t, I should be pleased to have pen, ink, and paper, so that I may spend an hour or two in writing some necessary matters. ’Twill help me to kill the time of waiting,” I says.
“You shall have what you wish, Master Coope,” says he, and he went forth to his fellow at the door and despatched him for the things I needed. “I shall be on guard with you alone for the rest of the time,” says he, returning to my side. “A lame man can make little shift to escape, and we need all our men in the works. There is to be a great assault made upon the Castle to-night.”
“Ah!” says I, “under other circumstances I could like to ha’ joined in it; but to tell the truth, good fellow, my foot gives me so much pain as to put the thoughts of everything out o’ my mind. Faith!” says I, with a grim laughter filling me at the very humour of it, “I believe I’m more concerned about the pain o’ this plaguey foot than that I am to be shot i’ the morning.”
“Why, master,” says he, looking out of the window, “let’s hope you’ll shortly find some relief, for here’s Sir Thomas’s chirurgeon coming to see you,” and he opened the door to admit a little, hatchet-jawed fellow, that eyed me curiously, and demanded to see my hurt. He took my leg in his lap, and prodded my swollen ankle here and there with so much abstracted curiosity that I lost my temper with him.
“Master surgeon,” says I, “you torture me, and I have no mind to be tortured by anybody. For God’s sake,” I says, “either relieve my pain, or put my foot down!”
But he looked at me out of his leaden eyes and gave me such a nip over the ankle bone as made me roar with agony. “Yea,” says he, “I thought the hurt lay there. However, in three days you shall walk as well as ever.”
“Thank you for naught,” says I, mightily inclined to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him to pieces. “Three days!—why, man, in three days I shall ha’ seen things that you are never like to see—I am to be shot at daybreak i’ the morning.”
“Are you so?” says he, with a stare. “Pooh! I waste my valuable time,” he says, and walks out of the cottage without another word. And thereat, in spite of the pain and vexation, I burst out a-laughing, and bade Merciful Wiggleskirk shut the door on the leech’s back. “Faith, I think he was in the right on’t, after all!” says I. “What’s the good of mending a man that’s to be broken for good in a few hours?”
“Why, I don’t know about that, master,” says Merciful. “I conceive that a man hath a right to be eased of his pain ere his end, so that he may make a good quittance. And if you’ve no objection,” he says, “I’ll try my own healing art upon you with an ointment that I always carry about my person—a very balm of Gilead it is, and hath worked the marvellousest cures.”
“With all my heart, lad,” says I, “thou canst do aught thou’rt minded to, short o’ cutting my leg off. I must make shift to stand straight in the morning.”
He brought out the little box that contained his ointment and began to rub my leg with it. “I have some acquaintance with the healing art,” says he. “I was boy to a doctor at one time, and made experiments on my own account. Besides, my merciful nature obliges me to exercise my office upon all that are in distress.”
“Thou art a queer fellow,” says I. “But, come, tell me of what happened at the Manor House this morning. I am anxious to know how it fared with the serving-folk.”
“Oh,” says he, “at daybreak they hung out a flag and submitted themselves, and we had free entrance to the house, and were sore concerned, I promise you, to find naught there but servants. Captain Stott was for dealing sternly with them at first, but, what, they had but obeyed orders, and so he let them go their own ways, and set himself to track you and madam.”
“But we heard cannon discharged,” says I.
“Yea,” says he, rubbing away at my foot, “your ancient house, Master Coope, is certainly not of such fair proportions as it was. Stott fired two discharges into it, and you will have some repairs to see to if you intend—but I forgot,” he says, looking at me with a curious smile, “that you will not need earthly residence much longer.”
“So the old house is dismantled?” says I.
“Why, say somewhat disarranged,” says he.
“May the Lord reward whoever did it!” says I, and fell a prey to bitter thoughts. I had loved that old house, and it gave me sore pain to think of it, a heap of ruins over my uncle’s grave. “Alack!” thinks I, sadly. “What evil days have we fallen upon. My uncle lies dead and buried under his own floor, Alison is in the hands of Anthony Dacre, and here sit I, waiting to be shot. Was ever sadder fortune?”
But there Merciful Wiggleskirk gave up his ministrations, and looked up at me from where he knelt on the floor.
“Now, master,” says he, “how does your hurt feel by this time?”
“Why,” says I, working my ankle about, “I believe it is a deal easier. That ointment o’ thine must be rare stuff—it has certainly given me relief.”
“I could have you fit to stand upright without pain by to-morrow,” says he, proudly. “Ah! this is, as I said, the very balm of Gilead. I concocted the notion on’t myself, and would not sell it for a deal o’ money. When I grow weary of this fighting trade, master, I shall set up as an empiric——”
“It would reward you better,” says I. “And were a fitter employment for a man of your powers. I’m obliged to you,” I says. “The smart hath abated marvellously.”
“I will minister to you again ere long,” says he. “You shall walk out of this cottage straight enough in the morning. But here’s your pens and paper,” he says, seeing the other trooper returning. “So now you can fall to your writing, master.”
It was now past noon, and ere long there was brought to us food and drink, which we consumed together with as much satisfaction as we could get out of each other’s company. True, the thought of my condition did sometimes come upon me as I ate, and made my food to stick in my throat, but as there was no use in repining at my fate, I strove to be free of regret, and to behave myself like a man. And the food and drink putting some heart into me, I presently turned to the table, and began to write, in which occupation I found great comfort and relief.
Now, I verily believe that troubled as I was at my own fate (for I was troubled though I strove hard not to be) I was more concerned on account of Alison. After all that I had done to prevent it, she had in the end fallen into the hands of Anthony Dacre. I had no cause to be especially anxious for her safety when I first heard Anthony’s designs against her, for she and I, on the rare occasions of our meeting, had never been able to get on together, and she had treated me with a certain haughty contempt that I secretly resented. But I had never been able to endure the thought of her being in Anthony’s power, and after I had lived under the same roof with her, and seen much of her I felt that I would stay at naught to save her from him. And there was more than that, for, somehow, I had come to love her with a rare passion, even when she flouted and teased me. This made life exceeding bitter for me in what I believed to be its last hours. There I was, a prisoner in more ways than one, unable to move hand or foot to succour her whose image was constantly before me, while she, for aught I knew to the contrary, was in the hands of a man whom I knew from his own confession to be a black-hearted villain, and incapable of mercy or consideration where his own vile inclination was concerned.
There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of those women that are accustomed—faith, there are precious few of them that I have seen during fifty years of life!—to think and act for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It was not that I had any jealous feeling—though she had teased me about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport—but that I had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done aught—aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it—to keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged as I was what could I do?—and so I hoped for the best, and sat me down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the packet delivered.
Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands—though not after the fashion that I had intended—and she has since taken the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However, what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening in writing—with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit—and that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied.
It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade him good-night.
But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself.