THE BODLEY HEAD
The MS. in a RED BOX
CHAPTER I
On the tenth of May in the year sixteen hundred and twenty-seven, I rode from Temple Belwood to Crowle, as blithe and merry as any young fellow in the world. For one thing, the day was the finest of an early season, the air sweet with spring odours and glad with pleasant sounds. The laburnums and lilacs and hawthorn and the foreign chestnuts (in blossom for the first time at Temple Belwood that year) were full of bloom. The hen-pheasants were whistling to their new-hatched broods; the fresh-shorn sheep were answering the bleating of their lambs; trees and bushes rang with the melody of small birds, and from the holms and islets of marsh and mere came a din of quacking, clanging, and chattering water-fowl, which distance mingled and softened into music. But what a pother I make! It was a fine spring day in Axholme. The great reason for gladness was that I had received good news—news of hard won victory from my father, then in London. For years the Isle had been threatened with invasion by one Cornelius Vermuijden, a Dutchman, who had induced the King to grant him authority to drain the meres, embank and stop the rivers of the Isle, and transform the country at his pleasure, regardless of the rights of the Isle Commoners covenanted in the Deed of Earl Mowbray. When the Dutchman had completed his precious scheme, one third of the land reclaimed was to become the property of the King, another to be Vermuijden's, and the remaining third to be divided among the Commoners of the Isle, that is, the land-owners. This, without the consent of the land-owners, be it understood, and in nowise considering the ruin certain to befall hundreds of poorer folk, who lived by fishing, fowling, reed-cutting, egg-gathering, and the like crafts of marshmen.
When the first rumour of the plan came to Axholme, it was theme for laughter. What man in his senses could believe that his Majesty would empower a foreigner to lord it over two hundred and fifty square miles of English soil, diverting rivers, cutting canals, turning pools and lakes into boggy ground, and of necessity (so said shrewd men, who had knowledge of such matters, and as indeed proved to be the case), turning fruitful fields into marsh and swamp? But consternation quickly followed jesting, for the incredible thing was true. His Majesty had great need of money, and the Dutchman held command of inexhaustible treasure, so the Isle was to be given over to his will. Then gentle and simple alike turned to my father, Thomas Vavasour. They knew his courage and capacity and his public mind. Into his hands they committed their cause, and he became "their Solicitor," as they loved to call him, though he was no lawyer by profession, nor ever received aught for his services. He had been in London on this business for some weeks, and now wrote to me that he had obtained a judgment of the Court of Exchequer, confirming the rights of the Isle Commoners, and finally quashing the scheme of invasion. My father had worsted the Dutchman—and his Majesty himself—and saved the Isle! The news would set the bells ringing in every steeple in Axholme; there would be bonfires on every hill and mound, and feasting and merrymaking in every manor house and farm and cottage. I had been ready to caper and shout when I read the letter, but I suddenly bethought me that the announcement should be made by "the Solicitor" himself, and that if it so pleased him, my coming of age that day week would be a fitting occasion. It was hard to keep the tidings to myself, but it appeared right to me that my father, who had gained it, should publish his victory. In his letter he said nothing to guide me. I determined to take counsel of the Vicar of Crowle, my uncle by marriage with my mother's sister. But when I reached Crowle, it became doubtful whether I should impart the great news even to Mr. Graves, who had a high sense of his importance as the parson of a parish, and might be unable to resist the temptation to be the first to announce the good news. The next day would be Sunday, I remembered. To think of this awhile longer, I turned my horse into a track, which wound up a little hill that over-topped the town. As soon as I gained the crown of the hill, a tumult of angry shouts and the noise of barking dogs came to my ears, and I rode down the track toward the spot from which the sounds arose. A thick growth of trees hindered my view until I came to an open glade, where a number of men and lads, perhaps two score, were gathered round an old oak. They seemed to be threatening some one. As I drew nearer, I saw a young and beautiful woman, seated on a root of the old tree, her back against the trunk, and one arm partly folded in her cloak, round the neck of a fawn, huddled closely to her. The cloak had been torn in two or three places, and through the rents showed the whiteness of her arm stained with blood. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes were bright and dauntless.
The fellows parted right and left as I rode up, and some of them seemed half ashamed of themselves before I spoke.
"What devilry is this?" I shouted. "You vile cowards! To set your dogs on a woman!"
A stout fellow, whose face bore many scars of old wounds, nicknamed Stride-a-mile from his skill in stilt-walking, answered me boldly enough—
"The devilry is none of ours. The foreign woman has bewitched the fawn, and won't give it up. How could we hinder the dogs snapping at her?"