Digby Heathcote: The Early Days of a Country Gentleman's Son and Heir

by William Henry Giles Kingston

All Digby’s spirit was raised. He struck out right and left with his whip, and endeavoured to force his pony out from among them. In vain were his efforts. He, however, struck the ruffian who held the reins so severe a blow across the eyes that the man let them go, and he might have escaped, had not, at the same moment, two other fellows seized him by the collar of his jacket, and he was dragged to the ground. The pony, finding his head free, sprang forward, and before either of the men could catch him, had galloped far beyond their reach, though one of the most active ran on in the hope of catching it. Digby in the scuffle, while bravely trying to escape, let go his whip, which fell to the ground unperceived by his captors. Few other words were spoken. They dragged him rapidly along the road they had come, which led past Dame Marlow’s cottage. One of them threatened to blow out his brains if he made the slightest noise, and suspecting that they might put their threat into execution, he refrained from crying out. Still, as he went along, he was considering all the time how he could effect his escape. He counted eight or ten men in the party who had got hold of him. When they arrived at Mile-End gravel-pits, they turned off and took the path to Dame Marlow’s cottage. They seemed to be expected there. When they entered, the old woman was leaning over the fire, stirring a large caldron boiling on it. As the bright light fell on her thin, sharp features, and her long, bony arm, almost bare, was stretched out grasping the ladle, with her red cloak thrown over one shoulder, her long, straggling hair, and her fantastic dress, she looked, indeed, like one of the witches Digby had read of, and he could not help feeling that the outrage of which he was the victim, was a just retribution for the trick he had once played here—a retribution probably brought about by her machinations.

“We’ve caught the young bird sooner than we expected, Dame,” said one of the men. “But, we’ve more work on hand to-night. We’ll leave him with you and Dick Owlett till we come back. Take care that he doesn’t fly off.”

Master Dick Owlett, who had hitherto kept in the background, now made his appearance. He had grown so much stouter and bigger since Digby saw him last at Osberton, that dressed as he was, in a rough seaman’s costume, he could scarcely have recognised him.

Digby knew that he had been sent off to sea, but he learned, from his conversation with the old woman, that he had deserted and found his way back to his old haunts.

One of the men placed a bench near the fire. “Sit down there, youngster,” he said. “Mind you don’t stir till we come back. Dick, keep an eye on him.”

Dick Owlett scowled at Digby, and drawing a pistol from his coat-pocket, sat himself down at the other end of the bench, eyeing him as a bull-terrier does his master’s bundle he has been placed to watch. The rest of the men then hurried out, leaving only old Marlow, who lay groaning on a bed at the further end of the cottage, the Dame, and Owlett watching Digby.

When the men were gone, the Dame came and placed herself before Digby, eyeing him with a very sinister glance. “So, young Squire,” she hissed out, “the old Squire will learn that the poor can love their children as much as the rich. He sent my boy across the sea with the help of the law, and never will he come back to gladden his old grandmother’s eyes; and now I’m going to send his son far away, and may be he’ll never come back to brighten Bloxholme Hall with his smiles and his laughter. Revenge is sweet, and there are many to-night who find it so, and there are some who will find it bitter, too.”

Digby heard these words, but scarcely comprehended their full meaning, or was aware of the very terrible misfortune threatening him. He sat still for some time, while the old woman’s words were ringing in his ears. “I don’t much fear her threats, and I ought to be ashamed of myself in allowing the old woman, and that young rascal, not so many years older than I am, to keep me a prisoner,” he thought. “I’ll break away from them.” He sprung up to rush to the door, but before he had moved further, the click of the pistol-lock struck his ear.

“I’ll fire,” exclaimed Owlett, with a dreadful oath. “I’m not going to be informed against, and sent off to prison for this night’s work.”

“Young Squire, he’ll kill thee,” cried the old woman, placing her long, skinny hands on his shoulder, and forcing him down to his seat with a strength he could not resist.