“As I tell you, I was a whole week in and about Egremont, baptizing and administering the sacraments, and saying mass between midnight and dawn. I grew a beard, and no one knew me. I did not, however, spend every night with the Catholic villagers, for fear it might arouse suspicion. Sometimes I lay at taverns, paying for my supper by my fiddling; and when I stayed with the farmer lads, I was up with the dawn and in the fields, working for my dinner; and at the noontime I would play while the rustics danced,—it did me good to see their simple joyousness, and oftentimes I felt like jumping up and shaking a leg, and fiddling too. And in truth, Bess,” here Dicky blushed, “I actually did it once or twice, from pure joy at finding myself at Egremont once more, with the honest people there, and the sun shining so merrily. I pitied poor Roger when I should have to tell him how sweet the whole place looked. The oak avenue is gone, but I never saw such sward anywhere as at Egremont, nor such delicious air. And such excellent eggs and milk; better, I am sure, than can commonly be found.”
A ghost of a smile appeared upon poor Bess’s face, pale and drenched with tears.
“All went well for a whole week, and on the very next day Hodge, the shoemaker in the village, was to take a load of turnips to Exeter, and I was to meet him on the road, and he was to give me a lift. But then I got a message from some poor people in the next parish, and I had to go to them. I went in the day, and in the night the people assembled at the house of a Catholic farmer, and I baptized several children, and heard confessions and said mass at midnight. All was over, and the people were departing quietly before daybreak, when some of the King’s people passing by suspected something, and entered the house. I barely had time to flee, carrying my fiddle, as that was necessary to my disguise; but they captured my cassock and some other things. It was a dark night, fortunately, and as I escaped through a back lane, although the whole pack were after me, I managed to give them the slip. I thought the safest thing to do was to return to Egremont, that being likely the last place they would look for me,—Sir Hugo being very active in hunting down Catholics.”
“Was that villain there?” cried Bess. “May God punish him!”
“You shall hear. I walked and ran the rest of the night, and just as the sun was rising I found myself in the Egremont woods. Oh, how sweet they were! There was so much dew on the grass that it looked like rime, and so many primroses; but I will not say another word about Egremont. Although my beard disguised me well, I thought it best not to stop in our village, but went on further, several miles, to another one. I got my breakfast at the inn, and then asked for work in the fields, which was given me. At noon, when we had dinner,—the poor men and women dividing theirs with me,—I tuned up my fiddle to play to them, when I saw, riding along the highroad, not a stone’s throw from me, Hugo Stein. I thought he was in Germany,—I had heard so,—but it seems he returned unexpectedly only the day before. I was so disconcerted at the sudden sight of him that instead of playing ‘Green Sleeves,’ as I was about to, I found myself playing ‘Les Folies en Espagne,’ which is much played on the continent, but not known here. Sir Hugo stopped his horse, looked at me very hard, then leaping his horse over the hedge he rode at me, saying,—
“‘You are a popish priest in disguise. I know you, Richard Egremont!’
“I laughed, and went on with my fiddling, although at that very moment I knew that I was to die on the gibbet. He then seized me by the collar, saying,—
“‘Come with me. I shall hand you over to the magistrates.’
“I knew all was over then, and putting my fiddle under my arm, I walked along by his side as he again took the road toward Egremont. And to show you, Bess, how hard it is to forgive one’s enemies, and the enemies of those one loves, I could not but think, ‘Oh, had I but a good horse, and sword or pistol in my hand, would I not make you payment for the wrongs you have heaped on us, miserable bastard that you are!’ And in truth, Bess, although I hope I shall have grace given me to-morrow morning to forgive Sir Hugo, I have it not yet.”
“I should think not!” replied Bess, with much simplicity.