CHAPTER XIV.
An hour passed, and Charlie, Fred, and Ping Wang were still in the wooden collars. Charlie and Fred closed their eyes; but, as they did not succeed in getting any sleep, after ten minutes' endeavour they gave up the attempt, and had a short conversation in low tones.
Ping Wang was lamenting that he had persuaded the Pages to come to China, when they heard a shout of 'Foreigners!' and turning their eyes in the direction from which it came they saw a European approaching. He wore a beehive hat, but the remainder of his attire was European.
'He is coming towards us!' Fred exclaimed, joyfully.
'But he won't be able to set us free,' Charlie answered.
'He is a missionary,' Ping Wang declared, 'and you may be sure that he will do all that he possibly can to help us out of our trouble. Come closer!' he shouted, in Chinese. 'We want to speak to you.'
'I say,' Charlie exclaimed, 'it's Barton, the old "International!"'
'So it is,' Fred said, delightedly, feeling certain that a resourceful football-player, such as Barton had proved himself to be times innumerable, would devise some means for freeing them.
'Well,' said Barton, smiling, 'you're collared.' And Charlie and Fred laughed. 'How did you get in this fix?' Barton continued, seriously; and Ping Wang related in a few words how they had been arrested. 'This is very unfortunate,' Barton declared. 'Early this morning one of our converts saw three men make off with my colleague's horse. I reported the theft to the Chinese officials, and urged that steps should be taken to detect the thieves. I suppose that to save the trouble of making inquiries they arrested you. I received information about an hour ago that the thieves had been caught, and I came out to see if I knew the men. Now I must hurry away, and see if I can get you set at liberty. It will be difficult, I fear; but you may rely on my doing my best.'
"The men unlocked the collars."
Barton hurried away, leaving the prisoners in much better spirits. Nearly two hours passed before he returned, and they had begun to fear that his efforts on their behalf had not been successful.
'Barton's smiling,' Charlie whispered, as the missionary drew near. 'We are going to be released. I should like to give old Barton a cheer. It wouldn't be the first I have given him by many a score.'
'Don't talk,' Ping Wang said; and in a few minutes the men who had arrested them had unlocked the collars, and set them free.
'Come with me,' Barton said, as they rose from their cramped position on the ground.
'Can you speak Chinese?' he asked the Pages, when they had walked a few yards; and, on their replying that they only knew a few words, added, 'Then we will speak English. You need not fear that it will arouse suspicion, for several of our native Christians have learnt English. By-the-bye, I am sorry to have kept you waiting; the officials knew very well that they had arrested the wrong men; but when I told them that such was the case, they flatly contradicted me. However, after we had a long conversation, they told me that they would set you free, but would not arrest anybody else. I agreed to that at once, and they seemed quite as pleased as I was at the result of my interview.'
'We are very grateful to you——' Charlie began, but Barton stopped him.
'My dear fellow, you have nothing to thank me for. In fact, I am the innocent cause of the hardship you have undergone; for if I had not complained of our horse having been stolen, you would not have been arrested. But, I hope,' he continued, 'you have not suffered from the wooden collars?'
'Our necks have. Mine is horribly stiff.'
'We can remedy that with embrocation. When we reach our house—we shall soon be there—you had better have a bath at once.'
The Pages and Ping Wang were very pleased when they reached the mission station, and were able to indulge in the luxury of a warm bath. Having bathed, rubbed their necks with embrocation, and well shaken their clothes, they strolled out on to the verandah, where Barton was waiting for them. He led the way along the verandah, which ran the length of the building, and turned into a large, airy, plainly furnished dining-room. At the head of the table sat the senior missionary—a man of about fifty years of age—and facing him was his wife. An elderly lady and a young man were the other missionaries, and there were also at the table the four children of the senior missionary.
After dinner they all went out on the verandah, and there Charlie, by request, told his new friends why he and Fred were in Su-ching disguised as Chinamen.
The senior missionary strongly advised the Pages and Ping Wang to give up their journey, declaring that if they persisted they would probably meet with worse punishment than the wooden collar.
'But the jewels belong to me,' Ping Wang declared.
'I do not doubt it, but nevertheless, Chin Choo would regard you as a common thief. Why not ask him to return the idol to you?'
'That would make him think it was more valuable than he had supposed. Moreover, he has threatened to kill me if ever he has the opportunity.'
'Then why give him an opportunity?'
'I do not mean to. We will wait at Kwang-ngan until we get a chance of regaining the idol without being found out.'
A little later Ping Wang's cousin arrived at the missionary's house, and was able to give the travellers some valuable information. He had paid a visit to Kwang-ngan during the previous week, and had seen Chin Choo on several occasions. One evening as he passed Chin Choo's house, he saw—the gate being open—the idol which the mandarin had stolen from Ping Wang's father, standing in the front room nearest the road.
To discover the room in which Chin Choo kept his stolen idol, Ping Wang had considered the most difficult part of their undertaking, and now that the information had been obtained without any exertion on their part, he felt surer than ever that the jewels would soon be in their possession.
'Our friends are tired,' the senior missionary said to his colleagues, about two hours after dinner, 'so we will have the evening service at once.'
The gong was sounded, and soon the native English-speaking servants filed into the big room in which the Europeans were assembled. It was long since the Pages had worshipped among their own people, and as they listened to the prayers, and joined in the evening hymn, they felt that this was one of the most peaceful half hours they had ever experienced; and before rising from their knees, they thanked God, silently but earnestly, for having brought them safely through so many dangers. Then, bidding good-night to their kind hosts, they retired to the large three-bedded room which had been placed at their disposal.
It was their intention to resume their journey early the following morning; but a few hours after they had turned in, Charlie and Fred were awakened by hearing Ping Wang groaning.
Jumping out of bed they lighted the lamp and looked anxiously at their friend.
'What's the matter, old boy?' Charlie asked, but Ping Wang evidently did not hear.
'He's unconscious,' Fred said. 'Call Barton, for he knows more about fever than I do.'
Fred soon saw that he had acted wisely in sending for Barton, as the missionary thoroughly understood what it was necessary to do in such cases.
For an hour or so there was, however, no improvement in the patient's condition, and Barton decided to sit up with him.
'No,' Fred said, 'let me sit up. I'm a medical student, and it's my right to look after the patient.'
'Medical students have plenty of pluck, I know,' Barton replied, with a smile, 'but they cannot defy nature with impunity. You are completely fagged out, and if you don't turn in at once I shall have two patients to-morrow instead of one.'
Charlie and Fred were soon sound asleep, and it was not until nine o'clock in the morning that Fred awoke. He relieved Barton at once, and the missionary went away to get a brief rest.
About an hour after Barton had gone out, Ping Wang awoke, and, to the delight of his two friends, spoke rationally. They forbade him, however, to talk, and told him that the quieter he kept, the quicker would be his recovery. He was an excellent patient, and the result of his obedience was that, in three days, he was able to leave his bed. But his illness left him very weak, and Barton and Fred agreed that it would be dangerous for him to attempt to proceed to Kwang-ngan until a fortnight had elapsed. This prolonged delay was, of course, a disappointment to the three travellers, but they enjoyed their stay immensely. When Ping Wang became strong enough to leave the verandah, Barton took him and the Pages to see his Chinese school. It was a most novel sight; but what pleased the Pages most was to find that Barton was as popular with his Chinese pupils as he had been, a few years previously, with thousands of English schoolboys.
THE HIDDEN ROOM.
'Dreaming again, Millicent, and your hands folded in your lap! Your father would have to go without shirts if it were left to you!'
Millicent Basset started up from the pleasant rose-covered wall where she had been sitting, and her fair face flushed at her aunt's sharp words.
'Indeed, Aunt Deborah, I am very sorry; but the news from Newbury has driven all other thoughts from my mind. I was wishing I could have been with Antony and Father, instead of being left at home doing nothing while they are fighting.'
'There is no call for you to do nothing,' replied Aunt Deborah dryly, 'while work lies ready to your hand. Take your seam indoors to your chamber, and stir not from it till supper-time. I am going to the village to see the smith's son; I hear he was sore hurt in the fight.'
Millicent rose with a sigh, and carried her work to her room as she was bidden. She turned her back resolutely to the window, and set to work to make up for lost time. A quaint picture she made in the low oak-panelled room, in her grey dress and white kerchief—for her father, Sir James Basset, was a staunch Roundhead, and so was Dame Deborah, his sister, who had ruled his household since the death of his wife.
These were stirring times. The civil war between the Roundheads and Charles I. was at its height, and two days before, the sound of guns had been distinctly heard at Wootton Basset, for a battle had been fought at Newbury, and night had fallen before either side could claim the victory. Sir James Basset and his son had both been fighting, but had escaped unhurt, and had gone on with the Parliamentary army to London, finding means, however, to send a message home about their safety.
Aunt Deborah, with the calmness of a strong nature, after assembling the family to return thanks for the good news, went quietly on with her usual duties, expecting every one else to do the same; but to Millicent this seemed impossible. How could she be expected to sit and stitch wristbands, when, only six miles away, the sun, shining so quietly in at the window, was looking down on the battlefield? 'Oh, if I had only been a man,' she cried, 'to ride forth instead of being left here!'
Hardly had the words crossed her lips before one of the panels in a dark corner of the room flew back, revealing to her startled eyes a tall youth, whose long curls and the dainty lace ruffles on his torn and stained shirt proved him to be one of those young Cavaliers whom Millicent had often wished to know, but who to Aunt Deborah represented all that was lawless and wicked. She started to her feet in terror. At that moment the presence of her aunt, or even of one of the babies, as she called her nine-year-old twin sisters, would have been a comfort; but the stranger's voice reassured her.
'Am I speaking to Mistress Millicent Basset?' he asked with a low bow, which brought the colour to Millicent's face, for few people spoke to her as if she were grown up.
'Yes, I am Millicent Basset, at your service,' she answered. Then, plucking up her courage, she added, 'How did you come here, and what right have you to take the panel out of the wall?'
A smile passed across the young soldier's face. 'Bravely asked,' he said, 'and easily answered had I time; but I must show you something first. Do you recognise that?' and, stepping forward, he laid something on the table beside her.
At that moment hurrying feet and shrill voices were heard in the passage. It was the twins. Happily in their eagerness they paused for a moment, disputing which should open the door. Then a strange thing happened. Millicent had turned from the stranger for a moment as the children fumbled at the lock; and when she turned her head again he had vanished, and the panelled wall looked exactly as it had always done. All that remained to prove that she had not been dreaming was the little packet he had placed on the table.
Millicent quickly placed her sewing on the packet and swept it into her lap before she listened to what the excited little girls had to say.
'See, sister,' cried Alison, holding out her apron to show six little fluffy chickens, 'what my speckled hen has hatched, all unknown to any one. We do not know where to put them. Will you come out and choose a place for them?'
'Nay, children, that I cannot do, for I promised Aunt Deborah to stay here and sew; but I can show you a place from the window. The old dog-kennel yonder would be a good house for the hen and her brood, and you can watch for Aunt Deborah and let her see them when she returns. Run away now, like good little maidens; the chicks will soon grow cold without their mother, and I have this long seam to stitch before supper.'
The children ran off well pleased, and Millicent was left alone, feeling safe from interruption, for she knew she would be warned of Aunt Deborah's approach by their excited voices. When the door closed behind them, she went softly to it and drew the bolt. Then she took up the mysterious little parcel, and was greatly surprised to find it was a little Testament which belonged to her brother Antony, which he always carried in his pocket. To make sure she opened it, and there on the fly-leaf was his name, 'Antony, from Millicent,' and beneath was written as if in haste: 'I send this by the hand of Ralph de Foulkes; help him as he helped me.'
"'See what my speckled hen has hatched.'"
"'I got these easily from the cellar.'"
THE HIDDEN ROOM.
Millicent sprang to her feet. For the last six months she had added this name to her prayers, for its unknown owner had saved the life of her brother at the battle of Hopton Heath, when his side had been routed, and he—his horse killed under him, and a terrible sword-cut in his arm—had hidden in a little copse, hardly expecting to escape being caught and hung as a rebel.
'He was a slight young fellow, like a girl, with a laughing face and yellow locks hanging on his shoulders. His name was Foulkes, but more than that I had no time to ask or he to answer; had it not been for him I had scarce hoped to see you again, sister,' Antony had said in answer to her eager questions as to what the young man was like; and she had treasured up the description in her heart. And now here he was at her side, for no sooner was she seated than the panel flew back and he stepped into the room.
She held out the little book. 'You are Ralph de Foulkes,' she said, 'and Antony sent you; but I do not know how you have got behind the woodwork, or how you dare come to this house—you, a Royalist! If Aunt Deborah knew!'
Again a smile crossed the young man's face. 'Nay,' he answered, 'but Aunt Deborah must not know. I trust to you, Mistress Millicent; your brother said you would help us.'
'Us!' repeated Millicent in surprise; 'is there then another?—where is he?'
'You know not the secrets of your own house,' answered De Foulkes, and, stepping back, he showed her that a few steps led from the secret door to a small, narrow room, lit only by a grating far up in the wall. It was barely furnished and evidently meant for a hiding-place, as a door at the further end pointed to another way of escape.
She followed her guide down the steps, and when her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw an elderly man, wrapped in torn and stained garments, lying asleep on a low bed in the corner.
''Tis my father,' whispered Ralph; 'he was wounded in the thigh by a ball at Newbury; but I got him on his horse and set off in the darkness, hoping to reach Oxford somehow. But we had gone but eight miles when he fainted and fell from his horse. Some one was riding up behind, and careless whether it were friend or foe so long as I found help, I cried out. It was your brother, and he, in gratitude for some slight service which I did him months ago, held the horse while I lifted my father up, and then guided us to the entrance to that passage,' pointing to the door in the corner; ''tis in an old tower a mile hence, and so we brought him here.'
'Antony brought him! Antony here, and did not tell me?' cried Millicent hastily.
'He had no time; in truth he laid himself open to suspicion by loitering so long. But see! my father wakes,' and he hurried forward as the old man raised himself on his arm and gazed round.
'Water,' he muttered; 'water, Ralph! I feel weak,' and he fell back again unconscious.
'He has had no food since he left the field, and my water-flagon is long since empty,' explained Ralph. 'I thought that mayhap you could get us some food in the night when the household is quiet, for I too am well-nigh famished.'
'Famished!' cried Millicent impetuously; 'I should think so. I shall go and get some food this very moment.'
'But stay!' said her companion hastily; 'we are safe so far, but a little want of caution would ruin all; rather wait than be discovered.'
'Antony said you could trust me,' she said proudly, and she vanished through the panel, shutting it carefully behind her, leaving Ralph wondering if he had done rightly in trusting his secret to this impulsive young girl. There was something in her face, however, which gave him confidence.
It seemed a long time before he heard a little tap on the wood, and, drawing back the door, he found her standing with her arms full. In one hand she held a glass of milk, while under her arm was a flagon, and in her apron was a large loaf of bread, with some cups and a knife.
'I got these easily from the cellar,' she said, 'but I could not bring any meat, for old Joan was in the buttery; I must get that at night.'
To Ralph, faint with hunger, what she had brought was food fit for a king, and he began to feed his father while Millicent slipped away to her room again.
That night, when every one was asleep, Millicent went up and down the house without her shoes, flitting about like a ghost from place to place, taking things here and there which she did not think would be missed. Some blankets from the great chest in the gallery, a pair of sheets, an old shirt of Antony's, some soft rags, a good supply of provisions—anything, in short, that she thought would be of use to the two occupants of the hidden room, for she knew that she must not visit them too often, in case her secret was discovered. When she had collected them in a heap behind the panel, she tapped lightly on the wood and Ralph came. The tears came into his eyes when he saw the comforts which she had gathered together.
'May Heaven reward you,' he said, 'for I cannot.'
'Nay,' answered Millicent, ''tis but little to thank me for, as you will find if you have an appetite like Antony; for there were only one round of beef and two pasties in the buttery, and I dare not take too much for fear Martha the cook should notice in the morning; and I must not come again till to-morrow night, but then I will bring a few eggs—they will nourish your father.'
And with a sigh of relief Millicent saw him disappear with the things; and she went to sleep thinking that after all it would not be so difficult to provide the strangers with food until the old knight was able to travel, and no one would ever find out.
Alas! her troubles were just beginning, for next evening, while she was waiting in her room until it was safe to carry food to the fugitives, a small stone came sharply against the window, and, looking out, she saw a dark figure standing in the shadow of the great yew-tree.
'Who is there?' she cried softly.
''Tis I, Mistress,' said the figure, moving close up to the window. It was Mark Field, Antony's own man and foster-brother.
'What brings you here, Mark? Has aught befallen Antony?' she asked in haste.
'Nay, the young master is well and safe in London, Mistress Millicent, but he bade me carry this note to you and to deliver it into none other hands but yours. It is of importance, for he bade me ride like the wind and spare not my steed, and I was to tell no man I was here, or wait for an answer, but just give it to thee, get a fresh nag from the stable and hasten back to London, so that no man might mark my absence; so good-night, Mistress,' and the honest fellow handed up the paper to Millicent and vanished in the darkness.
She opened it and read: 'Dearest,—Rumours have got abroad that Sir Denvil de Foulkes and his son are harbouring near Basset Court. Our father knows nought of the matter, and is anxious that troopers be sent to watch the district. They will live at the Court and doubtless search the house. Set your wits to work, for my honour is at stake. I would fain have those two escape. The younger had better depart; his appearance with the King's force would remove suspicion. For the other you must do your best.—Antony.'
Millicent sat still for a long time. The danger was great, but her courage rose to meet it. If she could prevent it, no harm would come to the helpless old man in the secret room; neither would the disgrace of having harboured an enemy fall on her father. No one, so far as she knew, knew aught of the hidden room. If the soldiers could be kept from discovering that, all might be well. There seemed only one way to prevent them doing so. If she were ill and in bed while they were in the house, they would not search her room too narrowly.
But her conscience told her that she must really be ill, not pretend; and she gave a shiver as she thought of a mixture of mustard-and-water which Aunt Deborah had administered to Marjorie once when she mistook laburnum-pods for peas. She remembered how ill the child was afterwards, and she thought if she could make herself as ill as that, there would be no deceit in saying she could not get up.
Having come to this decision she rose, and tapping on the panel, she was soon talking over the situation with Ralph and his father, whose wound was healing, although he was not yet able to walk. When he heard the contents of the letter he was anxious to give himself up, rather than bring disgrace and danger on the house which had sheltered him; but this Millicent would not hear of.
Ralph at once began his preparations for his departure, as he felt that Antony's advice was good, and that if once he were known to have joined the King at Oxford the search for his father might be given up. Oxford was only some thirty miles distant, and if he started at once he would not be far from it at daybreak.
Millicent's heart felt heavy when, after bidding her a courteous adieu and embracing his father, he vanished along the dark passage which led to the opening in the woods. She wondered if she would ever meet him again. She a Puritan, he a Cavalier—their lots seemed to lie so far apart.
Before the thought had passed he was back in the room again. 'The way is blocked,' he said; 'the rains have loosened the soil, and there has been a heavy fall of earth. 'Tis so much the better for you, father; even had the soldiers not discovered the door in the wainscot, they might have found the other entrance in the woods. The question is, how am I to get out?'
'You must get out through my window,' said Millicent; ''tis not far from the ground, and there is the apple-tree.'
Ralph did not speak as he followed her up the steps and through the room to where the casement-window stood half open, but he turned before he swung himself over the sill.
'Hitherto have I dreamt of no fair lady save my mother,' he said; 'she had ever been my guardian angel. Now your face will mingle with hers in my memory, and your name with hers in my prayers. These are troublous times, but if I live I will see you again some time, and meanwhile, as a remembrance, may I have these?' and he touched a bunch of yellow roses which she wore in her belt.
Hardly knowing what she did, she placed them in his hand, and a moment afterwards she was alone. She stood a long time where he left her; then awaking from her reverie, she went to the buttery, where she mixed and drank her nauseous draught. Then she went back to her room, and for the next few hours she felt as ill and miserable as any one could be.
THE RABBIT AND THE HARE.
've been to town,' a Rabbit said,
'O sleepy Mr. Hare,
And if you don't get out of bed
You'll miss the market there.'
'How mean of you!' the other whined;
'You've bought the best, I see,
And in the market I shall find
The worst is left for me.'
The Rabbit mutely turned away
From language so unfair;
He trotted home, and from that day
He shunned the lazy Hare.
'For this,' said he, 'is plain to me,
All lazy folk are prone
To blame their friends, and never see
The fault is theirs alone.'
A MOTOR-CAR OF THE PAST.
Motorists have cause to be thankful they live in a good-natured age. Of course, they are often blamed for accidents, not always deservedly; but had they lived in the early part of the nineteenth century, they would have been much worse off. About that time, several persons constructed steam carriages, meant to run upon ordinary roads; the popular anger, however, was so great that they had to give up running them. Nearly every town and village greeted them with jeers and hostile cries, with occasional presents of brickbats or stones, and it happened more than once that a furious mob attacked a party, and tried to break the machine to pieces.
Mr. Gurney was a notable contriver of such carriages. He had several, of different styles, and probably the most remarkable of his experiments was the making of one with a divided boiler, to relieve the fears which were common then amongst people to whom steam was a novelty, and who fancied that a boiler was in great danger of bursting from the pressure of the steam. Some folk said that Mr. Gurney, who was a doctor, took the idea of his peculiar boiler from the arteries and veins of the human body; at any rate, he had a double arrangement of pipes, taking the form of a horseshoe, and made of welded iron. There were forty pipes, so that if one burst it could only do a trifling amount of harm, and the damage was easily repaired. The principle was that of the 'water-tube' boilers of the present day. Mr. Gurney had also what he called 'separators,' which returned to the boiler any water that was not needed in the pipes. A tank supplied water to the boiler by means of a pump with a flexible hose; coke or charcoal was burnt in the furnace, so that there was very little smoke, and the machinery moved almost noiselessly. It was reckoned to be about twelve horse-power, and travelled at any rate between four and fifteen miles an hour. Inside and outside the vehicle eighteen or twenty persons could be seated; the guide or conductor sat in front, and steered the machine by pilot-wheels fastened to a pole, which went from end to end of the carriage. He had also under his management a lever which would stop the carriage speedily, and another to reverse the action of the wheels. The tank, containing about sixty gallons, and the furnace were placed in what they called the hind boot; the fore boot contained luggage, if any was carried. Another of Mr. Gurney's special contrivances was a propeller fixed at the back of the carriage; it could be made to touch the ground when travelling up a hill, assisting the steam-power. A few experimental trips were made, but the carriage was not brought into general use.
J. R. S. C.