“Anthony Dacre told me that you spoke disrespectfully of me and of Alison when he met you at the wayside inn as you was on your way to the wars. I should joy to know that in this, as in that other matter, A. D. was a liar—as I firmly believe him to be, being much inclined that way.
“How hast thou managed for money? Alas—I wish I knew whether these words will ever come under thy notice.
“I rest thy affectionate kinsman,
“Nicholas Coope, Knt.”
Post-Scriptum.—“The messenger, being still at his meat, I open this to tell thee, Dick, that we had yesterday a litter of fourteen young pigs from the old sow, and that thy bay mare gave us a fine foal about a sen’night ago. The land is looking very well hereabouts, and so far we have had none of our stock or produce carried off by your rascally Parliamentarians, though we have twice contributed liberally to the needs of passing regiments of the king’s forces, which, to be sure, was our bounden duty. My gout is a deal better—I am in hopes to harness myself and go to the wars yet.
“If all that A. D. says of thee is true, I am minded to cut thee off altogether. So no more at this present from thy uncle.”
I laid this letter aside with many diverse feelings. It showed to me plainly that that precious rascal Anthony had drawn me out as we sat at the wayside inn, and had forthwith blabbed all I had said to Sir Nicholas, embellishing his news, doubtless, with a deal of his own invention and ornament. “If ever there comes a chance, Master Anthony,” says I, “I’ll pay you for your kindness.” And yet, going by the letter, was there aught untrue in what Anthony had evidently told them at the Manor House? It was true that I had left Sir Nicholas under a false impression; it was true that I had joined the Parliamentarians; it was true that I had spoken of Mistress Alison French in a way that was aught but respectful. “Lord!” says I to myself, “What a position am I placed in by my own folly.” And yet I was conscious of naught wrong in my conduct. I had left Sir Nicholas as I did in order to spare his feelings (and to save him from locking me up, as he surely would have done had he known my true thoughts), I had joined the Parliamentarians because I honestly agreed with them; and if I had said aught sharp about my cousin, why, it was because she had spoke sharply to me. “The mischief was,” thinks I, “to say aught at all to Anthony—I should have kept my thoughts to myself.”
Now, I cared naught about Anthony and his lies, or about Alison’s disdain of me, but I had an honest affection for the old knight, and felt that I must endeavour to set myself right with him, and therefore I went about the camp, seeking Stephen Morrel, under the hope that he was presently to travel North again with despatches. And finding that he was, I sat down and wrote a long letter to my uncle, wherein I set out all my conduct, excusing myself in naught, but putting my own case boldly and in a manful way, and claiming the right to think for myself in these vexed matters. Also I assured him of my unfailing love and respect for himself, and begged him to allow me—these troublous times over—to pay him my duty in person. All this I wrote and more, and two days later committed the packet to the care of Morrel, who was riding North with despatches from Essex to Fairfax. But as ill-luck would have it my letter was never delivered, for Morrel was taken prisoner by the Royalists ere he had well got out of Oxfordshire and was shot, and so Sir Nicholas was left in ignorance of me and my motives for a long time. Howbeit there came at last a chance for me to put myself right with him, and it was the seizing of it that led me to the most important adventure of my life.
Upon the twenty-seventh day of October, 1644, was fought the second battle of Newbury. Essex was ill, and the army was commanded by Manchester, who had with him Cromwell as general of the cavalry. Which of us it was that had the advantage I cannot say—the king retired upon Oxford, but there was no pursuit of him. Some said there was a difference of opinion between Manchester and Cromwell, and as to that I know naught either. What I do know is that on the following morning I was fetched to Cromwell’s tent, where I found him sealing a despatch, and conversing with Ireton. He looked me up and down, with that keen glance of his, which seemed to read a man’s thoughts on the instant.
“You are a Yorkshireman?” says he.