The Colonel turned his horse’s head, and Roger rode forward on his nag to Langton Hall. The squire received him in the kindest way possible.
“As I cannot take one of my sons, I am glad of your company, Roger, though it may delay your arrival at Bristol for some days,” he observed.
“I thought that the journey could be performed in three days,” said Roger.
“So it can under ordinary circumstances,” answered Mr Battiscombe, “but there may be interruptions, and we may have to tarry at the houses of friends; but I will talk to you more about that matter when we are on the road.”
Roger was always treated as a friend by the family at Langton Hall, who thought of him more as the son of Mr Willoughby, who agreed with them in politics and religion, than as the nephew of the Cavalier Colonel Tregellen, with whom they differed on many points.
At an early hour the following morning the whole family were astir to see the travellers start. Mr Battiscombe took with him a couple of stout serving-men, well mounted on strong horses. Farewells were uttered, and they set out. Leaving Axminster and Chard to the west, they proceeded northward along green lanes, the hedges on either side rich with flowers of varied tints. For some distance they met with few persons, for the labourers were out in the fields, and no travellers were journeying along those by-roads. The first day’s journey was but a short one, as Mr Battiscombe was unwilling to run the risk of knocking up his horses. As there was no inn on the road, they stopped at the house of a friend of his, holding the same religious and political opinions. As Roger took but little interest in the subjects they discussed over the decanters of beer which were placed on the table at supper, he was not sorry to be ordered off to bed.
“If we do not make more progress than we have done to-day, it will be a long time before we get to Bristol,” he thought. “Had I been by myself, I could have made my nag go twice as far. However, we shall see how much we can accomplish to-morrow.”
As on the previous day, they started at early dawn, that, as Mr Battiscombe said, “they might run no risk of having to travel by night.” They stopped at noon at a farm-house, with the owner of which Mr Battiscombe was well acquainted. The family were sitting down to dinner, and the travellers were warmly invited to enter and partake of the abundant though somewhat rough fare placed on the board. At one end of the table sat the sturdy farmer with his buxom wife and his sons and daughters; at the other were the farm-servants, with wooden bowls and platters before them, their knives the only implements they possessed to help themselves to food.
“We are about to make holiday this afternoon Mr Battiscombe,” said the farmer. “The great Duke of Monmouth, with a party of friends, has ridden down from London to pay us west country folks a visit, and is on his way to stop at White Lackington House, where Mr George Speke awaits to welcome him. The country people from all quarters are turning out to do him honour, and we wish to show the affection we all feel for the champion of the Protestant faith.”
“I had some intimation of this a few days ago, and so timed my journey to Bristol that I might be able to pay my respects to our brave Duke,” said Mr Battiscombe.