"No, Master Gilbert, but he asked me where you were, and I thought it best to be definite."
"Where is this mysterious stranger's letter?"
Gilbert Crosby looked at the writing on the outside, which told him nothing. The contents mystified him, and he had no knowledge of the man who signed it.
"Sir," he read, "I have waited for you, having broken my journey to the West against these rebels on purpose to see you. This I have done, at some hazard to myself, at the bidding of one who honours me with commands. Since I cannot see you I must needs write, a dangerous proceeding, but your servant seems honest. Know then, sir, that you have enemies, men who will seek to find occasion to accuse you of disloyalty, and they may well find an easy opportunity now that Monmouth has landed. You are likely to be accused of helping his venture, and will know how best to secure yourself against such an accusation. For myself I know nothing of your aims, but the person who commands me believes you incapable of a base action, and would do you a service. This manor of yours is too near the West to be a safe place for you with an enemy so bent on your overthrow, and I am commanded to suggest that, for the present, you go to London and give no occasion for suspicion. The trust I have in my employer in this matter compels me to urge you to take heed of this letter, and moreover to offer you my help if at any time I can be of service to you.—Yours most obediently, Sydney Fellowes."
"The danger I can understand," Crosby murmured, having read the letter a second time; "the meaning of this gentleman's warning is beyond my comprehension. I have no knowledge of him, and who can the person be who commands him?"
"May I inquire if the communication is serious, Master Gilbert?" Golding asked presently.
"No, no, a kindly message from a man who would do me a service," Crosby answered. "If I am inquired for, Golding, at any time, or by anyone, show no hesitation, but bring them to me at once; we have nothing to hide at Lenfield," and then, when the old man had gone, he added, "at present, at any rate."
During the following days Crosby did not move abroad, did not leave the grounds of the manor except to walk into the village and gather any news he might. It was meagre enough, and was always to the effect that Monmouth was hard pressed. It was sadly told, too, for in the village the sympathy was with the Duke.
Doubtless through the length and breadth of the land there was sympathy, but it had little power to help. It did not bring arms to the rebel camp; it did not bring the men Monmouth had expected to fly to his standard. He knew, no one better, that with such an army as he possessed there could be no real success. His one hope was that, by holding out and perchance by driving back the enemy in some skirmish which might get magnified into an important engagement, the men he so longed for—the great body of the Whigs—would be persuaded to flock to him. He did not let go this hope even after Crosby's visit to Bridgwater. The one thing he could not afford was to be inactive, so he marched to Glastonbury, then to Wells, then to Shepton Mallet, harassed the whole way by a handful of troops under Churchill, drenched by continuous and heavy rain. Then he turned to seize Bristol, but, checked at Keynsham, he turned towards Wiltshire. Bath shut its gates against him, and at Philip Norton Feversham was close upon his heels. For one wild moment he contemplated an advance on London, but fell back on Wells, and from there returned to Bridgwater. Ten days of constant marching had wearied an army ill-prepared for such toil, and nothing had been accomplished.
This was the news that filtered through to Lenfield, and Crosby waited for the great disaster which he knew must come.