III.
We had no sooner returned to the house than I sent Walter to John and Humphrey Stirk, bidding them come to me in the hall, where I went with Gregory to meet them. They reported that all had been quiet during the evening, save that the lad Peter incautiously carrying a light past one of the upper windows had been shot at and hit in the shoulder, though not dangerously.
“He will quickly mend of that,” says I. “We have something more serious than flesh wounds to think of. Now, John and Humphrey, listen to me. We are in sore need,” I says, looking on them earnestly, “and must use desperate remedies. In the morning the house is to be assaulted with cannon—nay, for aught I know the cannon may be on its way now. There is naught for us but to escape before the old place comes tumbling about our ears. What say you?” says I, looking from one to the other.
John shook his head. “I fear ’tis impossible, Master Richard,” says Humphrey. “We have observed that they are keeping a strict patrol round the house, and besides, ’tis a light night—we should be seen ere we could cross the garden.”
“That’s certain,” says I, “but what if we tell you of another way, lads?”—and I forthwith recounted to them the recent doings of Gregory and myself, and informed them of my intentions with regard to placing Mistress Alison in safety. “What do you think?” I says, when I had told them all. “Is it a good plan?”
“Naught could be better,” says John.
“And now for the rest of you,” says I, “I have no mind that any of you should fall into the hands of the enemy, and therefore I propose that you should all make your escape in the same way. You, John, and you, Humphrey, will have no difficulty in reaching home, and faith, since there’s none can prove you have been here, why, there’s none can injure you for it,” I says. “But what about thee, Gregory, and the rest?”
“Why, Master Dick,” says he, “I ha’ thought of all that while you have talked, and it seems to me that the best plan is to let John and Humphrey here, and yourself and Mistress French, make your escapes during the night, leaving the rest of us in the house. In the early morning, Master Dick, ere they begin to torment us with their cannon, we will put out a flag and submit to them—gog’s wounds, they will do naught against us serving-men and women!—and ’twill save the old house,” he says, “that would otherwise be blown to pieces with their artillery.”
“A good plan,” says John Stirk.
“But,” says I, “I don’t like the notion of leaving any of you in the house, Gregory.”
“I am sure ’tis the best way out o’ present difficulties, Master Richard,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “then so be it. If I only live and have power,” I says, looking at all three in turn. “I will see that your devotion is richly rewarded. But now, lads, there is another matter to settle. Upstairs lies my uncle’s body—we cannot leave it to be stared at by the enemy. What shall we do with it?”
We stood looking at each other. “It should be carried to Badsworth churchyard,” says Gregory, “but that’s impossible, Master Richard. If we could lay him somewhere until all this trouble is at an end——?”
“And so we will,” says I, a sudden thought coming to me. “We will lay him in his own house until such times as we can inter him with his fathers. Gregory, do you and Jasper take up the pavement here in the hall and prepare a grave while I see Mistress Alison, and have him made ready,” and therewith I requested John and Humphrey to come with me, and went upstairs to my uncle’s chamber.
Faith, it was no easy task that lay before me in making Alison acquainted with my plans, but I was resolved that she should obey me in everything—it meant ruin to all of us if she refused compliance. So I tapped at the chamber door and asked her to come forth and speak with me and to bring Barbara with her, these two having kept close watch over Sir Nicholas’s body ever since they had put it into his grave-clothes. I led them into a neighbouring room, where I had already bestowed John and Humphrey, and entered upon the matter at once.
“Cousin,” says I, “I wish to tell you and Barbara what I have decided upon. Events are now come to a desperate pass, and it is necessary that you and I, together with John and Humphrey, should escape the house ere daybreak. Therefore,” I says, “be pleased, cousin, to hearken attentively to what I have to say, and be sure that in everything I have taken most careful thought for your own safety.”
“I must decide matters for myself in spite of all that,” says she.
“Let me tell you what I have decided upon first, cousin,” says I. “There will be time enough to discuss personal likes and dislikes when we have got over our present difficulty.” And with that I set to and told them all that we had decided upon. John and Humphrey standing by me and nodding their heads in approval. But while old Barbara showed us that she also approved our plans, my cousin’s face plainly informed us that she had no liking for them. However, she heard me to the end, and faith, I spoke as long and as persuasively as I could, for I could see that she intended telling me her mind after the old fashion.
“And so that is all you have to say, Master Richard?” says she, when I had made an end. “’Tis a pretty story to have been put in such a long-winded fashion. Methinks I can make it shorter. ’Tis your notion,” says she, looking at me keenly, “to bury Sir Nicholas Coope like a dog, under the floor, without rite or ceremony, and then to skulk out of the house which he would have defended as long as one stone had remained upon another. Am I right?” she cries. “Am I right, sir?”
“Pray you, mistress,” says old Barbara. “Be guided by Master Dick—a man knows more o’ these things——”
“Answer me, sir!” says she, disregarding Barbara. “Have I caught your meaning?”
“Faith!” says I, somewhat nettled at her obstinacy. “I never knew man or woman who was less apt at apprehending anything. Prithee, cousin, since you think so badly of my schemes, will you be good enough to give us some plan of your own? Something,” I says, with a wave of my hand, “that will savour of more wisdom than aught my poor brains can invent. I am but a man and think after a slow fashion. You women, I am told, have a better ingenuity——”
She gave me a look that stayed me from saying aught further.
“I have naught to say,” says she, very quiet and dignified, “save that I shall do what I believe to be in accordance with my uncle’s wish and desires.”
“Why, cousin,” says I, sore inclined to lose what little temper I had left, “do you mean to say that I am not of the same mind?” My temper went as a bit of thistledown is swept away before the wind. “By God!” says I, “I am fulfilling my uncle’s last command, and that was to protect you, cousin, at all cost. And now we’ll talk no more,” I says, cooling as quick as I had grown hot, “I’m for action rather than words. Come, lads,” I says, starting for the door, “we have no time to lose.”
But ere I could lay hands on the sneck she was at my side, and her fingers held me tight by the arm. I looked into her eyes and saw them as full of entreaty as a moment before they had been bright with resentment.
“You will not bury him—where you said?” she cries. For a moment I stood irresolute, staring at her. “We waste time,” whispers John Stirk at my elbow. “I must carry out my plans, cousin,” I answers, roughly.
She drew away her fingers from my arm. “Cruel—cruel!” she says, and falls a-weeping on Barbara’s shoulder.
“The devil!” says I, under my breath. “Cousin!” I says, approaching her, “what can we do else? Would you leave my uncle’s body to be stared at by the fellows outside, and maybe suffer indignity at their hands? Lord!” I says, well nigh beyond myself, “why wont you listen to reason?”
But she put out her hand and waved me off. “Do what you please,” she says. Old Barbara gives me a look. “Come,” says I, and went out, followed by John and Humphrey. I wiped my forehead when I got outside—faith, it was warmer work debating with Alison than fighting a company of troopers!
Gregory and Jasper had made swift work with the grave, which they had dug under the very spot in the hall where my uncle’s chair used to stand. There was a rich, soft loam under the pavement, and they had dug into it some four feet and lined the hole with boards since there was no time to make a coffin. “All’s ready, Master Richard,” says old Gregory, and the five of us went softly upstairs. At the door of the chamber, where I had left Alison, I paused and knocked ere I went in. She was still weeping on Barbara’s shoulder, and the old woman talked to her as if she had been a child.
“Cousin,” says I, “we are ready, and there is no time to lose. If you wish to see him——”
She turned her head and looked at me with a frightened enquiry in her eyes. “Give me your hand,” I says, and took it in my own. “Come,” says I, and led her out of the room and to the door of Sir Nicholas’s chamber. The men stood aside and bent their heads. I opened the door and let her in, and then shut it and waited. It was some minutes ere she came out, and then she was calm enough and faced us all with great composure. “Stand thee with her, Dick,” whispers old Gregory, and he motioned the rest of them to follow him into the room. And so I stood at Alison’s side, and neither of us spoke. But when the four men came out carrying my uncle’s body, closely wrapped in his grave-clothes, she gave a little shudder and put out her hand and I took it in mine and held it there, and so we followed them down the wide staircase and into the hall, and as we came in sight of the staring hole in the floor where his chair used to stand I felt her fingers close tighter on my own.
There was no more light in the hall than came from the two lanthorns brought there by Gregory and Jasper, and the grave-clothes looked ghastly white as we laid the good old knight in the only resting-place we could give him. As we stood looking down into his grave a thought came to me, and I stepped across the hall and took down from its shelf the great prayer-book which he was wont to use. And coming back, I knelt down by the grave with Alison at my side and the others about us, and read certain passages out of the service for the burial of the dead, and when we had all said the Lord’s Prayer, and Gregory had twice repeated “Amen,” we got up from our knees, and I led my cousin out of the hall, signing to the men to do what they had to do with all speed.
Outside the hall I released Alison’s hand. “Now, cousin,” says I, “you must prepare for your journey. I hope to see you in safety to your father’s house ere daybreak, but there may be obstacles that I have not reckoned for, and we must be prepared.”
“So we are to desert the house?” she says, looking at me.
“Let’s have no more of that, cousin,” says I. “We must leave the house within half-an-hour. Cloak yourself warmly, and cause Barbara to prepare you a flask of wine and some food in a parcel. In twenty minutes from now,” I says, “You will meet me in the kitchen.”
I watched her go slowly up the staircase ere I hurried back into the hall, where the four men were hastily filling up my uncle’s grave. When they had finished I sent them all to the kitchen, bidding them refresh themselves, and then shutting myself into the hall, I proceeded to take up the hearthstone, according to Sir Nicholas’s directions, and to secure the treasure which he had spoken of. In a strong box I found three hundred guineas in gold, together with a casket of jewels, to which I immediately added those which we had discovered in the passage. When I had replaced the hearthstone I called Gregory to me, and put in his hands fifty guineas to be divided amongst the servants for their present necessities. But John and Humphrey Stirk, whom I approached on the same subject, would take naught, having done what they had out of pure neighbourly feeling.
And now all was ready for our flight, and I arranged the last details with Gregory and the Stirks. Alison and I were to start at once and make what speed we could towards her father’s house; John and Humphrey were to follow soon afterwards and return to their farm at Thorpe (’gad, who could ha’ thought that it was but three days since I ran in upon them to crave their help!), and at daybreak Gregory was to surrender the house, craving leave for the servants to go their ways unmolested. This settled there was naught for us but to say farewell to each other, and for Alison and myself to descend into the cellar with Gregory, who was in readiness to light us to the passage.
Now I had said naught to my cousin of the passage itself, but had merely told her that I had found a sure means of escape. She trembled somewhat as we crossed the slimy floor of the great cellar and came to the entrance to the passage. “We are to pass through this?” says she, looking at me. “’Tis our only means, cousin,” says I, and turned to take the light from Gregory. I shook his hand—faith, it was the last time, for I never saw him again!—and bade her follow me. Then we turned into the passage, and I heard Gregory’s voice, calling down God-speed on us, die away as we advanced.
Within a few minutes the bones of the dead man’s skeleton gleamed white in the light of the lanthorn. “Cousin,” says I, “take my hand, and shut your eyes for a while. There is in the path what I have no mind for you to see.” And so we passed by, and ere long I put out the light for the patch of grey sky showed at the mouth of the tunnel. “Would it had been a darker night!” says I, as I went first and looked about me. But all was still and quiet, and so I helped her out of the passage, and together we stole across the land. As we hurried along behind the tall hedgerows an owl hooted from Matthew Wood’s barn. “An omen!” thinks I, but said naught to her save to encourage her to press forward. Thus we dipped into the meadows, wet and marshy with the November fogs and mists, and made with what speed we could for the foot of Went Hill, that loomed before us through the night.
| Chapter VII | Of our Adventures under the Bridge and the Privations we there Endured, and of my Interview with Fairfax and its Sad Results. |