CHAPTER II.
Sixteen years had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter, the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king, and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village, and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed? Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence, and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden. She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twig recalled her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name whispered—
"Cecily!"
She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the next words reassured her.
"'Tis I—Hugh—make no sound!"
"Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it—we have heard all"; and the girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it was seized and held.
"Yes, they are after me—hunting me down as though I were some red deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have come, bringing peril to my mother and you."
"No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help you—you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which would not be instantly discovered."
"The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one must know I am near the place. Hark!"—and far away in the distance could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel.
"Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do—what can we do?"
For answer the young man pushed his way through the branches, and, standing beside his cousin, said:
"What is this you are wearing, child?"
"My cloak."
"The very thing! Give it to me"; and as he took it off her shoulders, "Now go and see that there is no one in front of the house. It will be in shadow at present, till the moon is higher, and, thank God, there will not be much of that this night, for she is yet but young; if none be about, then raise your kerchief to your face and continue your walk."
"And you?" asked Cecily, as she turned back down the path.
"Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the horses rising the hill."
Cecily made her way along the front of the Abbey, and then, turning, retraced her steps with her handkerchief held to her face. She did her best to assume the manner of a person taking a careless evening stroll, but at the same time her eyes were on the alert, and she could just discern the figure of her cousin creeping along close to the wall of the Abbey, until her steps carried her beyond, and she dare not turn her head for fear the simple movement might be seen by someone and attract attention. In a few minutes she had reached the evergreens again, and here she once more turned, and again passed in front of the Abbey; but, though she scanned the building as well as she was able through the gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.
Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What had become of him? There was no door near through which he could have entered the house, and the cessation of the slight scrunching of the gravel beneath his feet had told her that he had not proceeded further. But she had small space for conjecture, for there were galloping steads on the drive leading to the house, and the next moment she found herself surrounded by a number of the dreaded Ironsides.
"Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that maiden, and bring her within the house; she may possess the information we desire. Sergeant Piety, follow me with six men. The rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go out or come in, and search the bushes and thickets."
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" inquired Cecily, assuming an indignant and surprised air, in answer to the commands given by the leader of the party.
"I wot ye know full well already, maiden; but if it be otherwise, ye shortly shall know. Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to your duties."
Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was led back into the house, and here the leader took up his position in front of the huge fireplace and kicked the logs on the hearth into a blaze, as he indicated the spot where his prisoner was to stand. After warming his hands a moment or two in silence, he turned about and said:
"One of you remain here with the maid and me; the rest search the house, and mind ye find him, for he is here. We have certain knowledge of the fact. Leave no hole or corner unvisited, but bring him before me alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what gentle means may do in this direction"—nodding towards the girl.
The troopers separated, some making their way to the kitchen and chambers on the ground floor, while others mounted the stairs to the upper rooms and attics.
Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in face of the peril. In after times when she came to think it all over she wondered at herself, but she recalled the fact that at the moment she was well-nigh certain her cousin was not on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the Abbey, and she had felt that if there were a safe hiding-place to be found his intimate knowledge of his own home would stand him in good stead in the emergency.
"Well, maiden, where is this traitor? You had best speak at once, and save time and trouble, for I doubt not you are well informed of his movements."
"We have no traitors among the dwellers at Combe Abbey, sir, and if there be any here now they are no welcome guests, I promise you," replied the girl calmly, looking the officer straight in the face.
"I would have you keep a civil tongue in your head, as becomes a modest maid," replied her interrogator. "Tell me at once, where is this pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?"
"I know of no 'pestilent rogue' of that name, though that same name is the property of my cousin and the owner of this house."
"And he is here at this moment."
"Is he? Then why detain and question me, since you are so well informed? Permit me to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who is but poorly, and who will be disturbed by this unwonted turmoil, for Combe Abbey is a peace-loving house." And Cecily made as though she would cross the hall and mount the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid his hand on her arm and detained her as the officer continued:
"Stay where you are, wench; this giddy talking will avail you nothing."
"Sir, methinks those that preach would do well to set an example," said Cecily, with a slight curl of disdain on her lip.
"Ah, in what way mean you?"
"Those that prate of civil tongues should be possessed of the same."
"Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy slut!"
"After that I listen to no more of your instructions, sir. I will not have you as my master"; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference to the officer, who, losing his temper, said loudly—
"A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh Travers?"
"I know not."
"But he is here."
"So you tell me."
"You have seen him."
"So you say."
"I will have him!"
"That is as may be. Can I tell you ought else?"
"I can tell you that it will be the worse for all here if he be not given up at once. The Lord Protector has his eye upon this house."
"Then I wonder he has not seen the owner, since you say he is here."
"Faugh! 'Tis folly to bandy words with a woman! Ah, here is something!"—as a trooper was seen coming down the stairs leading Lady Travers.
At the sight Cecily broke away from her captor, and, running to meet her aunt, offered her arm as a support.
"What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?" asked the old lady.
"It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman has brought us news of Cousin Hugh, since he asserts that he is here."
"Hugh—here? Where? Why was I not informed?"
"Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready with her tongue, and by verbal quips has been endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin's presence here."
"Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I have not seen my son for this many a long day. Would God I had! But that he was with the army at Worcester we know full well, since he sent us word of the fact but a few days since."
"You hear, sir?"
"Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and I will——"
"As you will, sir. The word of a lady counts nought with a soldier nowadays, it seems."
The officer gave a glance at the young girl as if about to frame a retort, but it may be the presence of Lady Travers deterred him, for with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to the troopers and bade one of them follow him upstairs, while the other remained as a guard over the ladies. This latter man—the one who had brought Lady Travers from her room—appeared to possess some shade of good feeling, for as soon as his officer had disappeared he withdrew to the other side of the hall, leaving the ladies practically alone in front of the fire, where they could converse undisturbed.
Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear as unconcerned as possible, informed her aunt, in a tone that could easily reach the sentry's ears, how her evening stroll had been so rudely interrupted by the soldiers, and how she had been made a prisoner and detained in the hall while the house was being searched. Lady Travers, being totally unconscious of the near presence of her son, had nothing to conceal, and therefore, all unknowingly by what she said, ably seconded Cecily's efforts. It was in this way the ladies conversed for some time, until the captain descended the stairs after what, from his manner, had evidently been an unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied him with questions as to her son's fate. These he answered grudgingly, as though doubting their genuineness.
Meanwhile the servants had been driven into the hall like a frightened flock of sheep, and were each interrogated in turn; but their answers threw no light on the subject, and the officer's expression at the conclusion of the examination was more puzzled than at the commencement. He sent for Lieutenant Champneys, and on his arrival he could report no better success than had attended his captain. Not a soul had been seen outside the building, save the grooms in the stable-yard; the gardens, the park and the plantations had been searched without a trace being found. There were no suspicious circumstances; no one seemed to wish to conceal anything; no obstacles had been placed in the way, and yet, from certain information possessed by the officer, he knew that Hugh Travers, if he had not actually been in the house or grounds, had been very close to them. He was baffled. He had anticipated an easy capture, but instead of that the chances of one seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh Travers was not the only fugitive on whose head was set a price; there were others suspected of being in the neighbourhood, and it would be folly to sacrifice all for the sake of this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was piqued by Cecily's taunts, and loth to own himself defeated. At any rate, he would make one more effort. He himself would go round the outside of the Abbey, and Cecily should accompany him. The moon had risen by this time, and there was more light than when he had arrived. He might possibly to able to discover something, or the girl might betray herself in some way, though he was by no means so certain now as he had felt at first that she had anything to betray.
Cecily offered no objection to his request for her company, and, having sent one of the maids for a wrap, they set out together. At first little was said by either of them, but then it occurred to the girl that the sound of her voice might act as a warning of danger to her cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at hand, and she commenced to talk loudly and rapidly about anything that came into her mind.
They were passing the front of the Abbey, and, as the faint moonlight fell upon the grey stone face, making the shadows that lingered in the corners still more deep, Cecily was pointing out the windows of the various rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved above the doorway. "And higher up," she continued, "are two niches, in the one stands the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of the house, for, as its name must have informed you, sir, it was formerly a religious house, and I trust it is worthy of the designation now, though in a slightly different sense; and in the other—— Oh!"—and Cecily swayed, and almost fell, but the next moment caught the arm of her companion and steadied herself.
"Ah, what is it?" exclaimed the officer, looking round suspiciously.
"Forgive me," said Cecily, looking on the ground as if seeking something. "It was very sharp at the moment. A newly broken flint, I suppose. May I take your hand for a minute? It is hard to see where one puts one's foot in this light."
"Certainly, madam," said the officer, rather pleased than otherwise; for, though a Puritan, he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially when no one was by to see him. "I trust you feel better already?"
"I thank you, sir—yes."
"You were saying——"
"Ah, yes—about the niches. In one was placed the figure of Abbot Swincow, and in the other that of a Father Anthony, who was supposed to have aided him in the building and institution of the house. But they have suffered much through time and weather, and now bear but small resemblance to the originals, I trow."
"As a true servant of the Lord Protector it is my duty to destroy such images, as contrary to the tables of the law, and being the work of men's hands, but other business is to the fore at the moment, and the capture of rebels is a more meritorious employment than knocking off the heads of statues."
"Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your time, seeing it is some hundreds of years since they took up their position."
"Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks are not seemly in a woman, nor in a man either, seeing the days are evil. You and I have got on better since you have bridled your tongue."
"As you will, sir; and now, if it be your pleasure, I will lead you to the gardens and stables."
"Ah, trooper! Any news?"—as a figure approached them from out the gloom.
"None, captain—not a living soul—not so much as a rabbit has crossed my path."
"Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your ears and eyes open, and we may yet prevail. Lead on, maiden."
Round the gardens, through the stables, up into the loft and store chambers went the captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the time, but in a lower tone and far more naturally than before the stumble on the gravel in front of the Abbey.
At length the round was completed, and as the officer again entered the hall with Cecily, he said—
"Well, all has been done that can be done. The man I want is not here. He must have passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot wherein to rest. But I'll have him yet."
"That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case, I trust that you will not deem either my aunt or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you all the help in our poor power in your search."
"Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have done all you can to aid the ruler of this realm. You have done your duty."
"I have," thought Cecily, though she merely bowed modestly and kept silence.
"Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the men together; we must away."
"Not before you have supped with us, sir?" said the courteous Lady Travers. "Combe Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were he friend or enemy."
"I thank you, madam—not to-night. There is work to be done, and the soldiers of the Lord think less of their stomachs than their duty." And going to the door, the officer watched the mounting of his men.
It was then that Cecily found the opportunity to whisper to one of the serving-men.
"Count how many there be, Roger, and then away to the village through the orchard and see if the numbers be the same there, and that they have left none behind to spy. Bring me word as soon as may be."
A few minutes later, and with a farewell salute, the officer led his men down the avenue, and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.
It was after supper, and when Lady Travers had retired, that Roger returned.
"The number was the same, mistress, and I followed them a good two miles or more, and none fell out."
"That is well, Roger; then we may have peace again for a time. And now to bed, for we are all upset by this night intrusion."
But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads. "Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words, "Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow below.
"A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that came upwards in reply, almost like an echo.
"It is I—Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father, since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support."
"And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to boot."
The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until at length came the direction—
"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The place is clear of the bloodhounds?"
"Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to Meerdale."
"Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?"
"Of a surety, yes."
"Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at once. He will not see me."
"It shall be done."
"My mother—does she know I am here?"
"No one knows but me."
"Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done, and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart, little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time."
"Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"
And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in the ivy.
More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king. And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple, seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.
[THE END.]
[CHINA MARKS.]
ENGLISH PORCELAIN.