The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene Creator: Herbert Strang Illustrator: W. Rainey Release date: December 5, 2013 [eBook #44362] Language: English Credits: Produced by Al Haines *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER: A TALE OF THE DAYS OF MARLBOROUGH AND EUGENE *** Produced by Al Haines. [Illustration: Cover art] [Illustration: The Fight in the Castle Yard] The Adventures of Harry Rochester A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene BY HERBERT STRANG AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" "KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR" Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 27 AND 29 WEST 230 STREET 1905 "Honour hath three things in it: the vantage-ground to do good; the approach to kings and principal persons; and the raising of a man’s own fortunes." —_Bacon_. _My dear Tom,_ _You received my former books so kindly that I feel assured you will not object to have this volume inscribed with your name. I am not the less convinced of this because you know well the country in which my opening scenes are laid, and I had the pleasure last year of playing cricket with you within a few miles of the village here disguised as Winton St. Mary._ _I hope you will bear with me for one minute while I explain that in writing this book I had three aims. First, to tell a good story: that of course. Secondly, to give some account of the operations that resulted in one of the most brilliant victories ever gained by our British arms. Thirdly, to throw some light—fitful, it may be, but as clear as the circumstances of my story admitted—on life and manners two hundred years ago. History, as you have no doubt already learnt, is not merely campaigning; and I shall be well pleased if these pages enlarge your knowledge, in ever so slight a degree, of an interesting period in our country’s annals. And if you, or any other Christ’s Hospital boy, should convict me of borrowing a week from the life of a great personage, or of antedating by a little a development in our national pastime—well, I shall feel complimented by such evidence of careful reading, and not be in the least abashed._ _I take the opportunity of this open letter to acknowledge my indebtedness to the monumental "Mémoires militaires rélatifs à la succession d’Espagne" issued by the French General Staff; to Mr. Austin Dobson for a detail which only his perfect knowledge of the 18th century could so readily have supplied; and to Lord Wolseley’s brilliant life of Marlborough, which every student of military history must hope so competent a hand will continue and complete._ _Yours very sincerely,_ _HERBERT STRANG._ _Michaelmas Day, 1905._ *Contents* _Chapter_ I The Queen’s Purse-Bearer _Chapter_ II Sherebiah Shouts _Chapter_ III Master and Man _Chapter_ IV Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another _Chapter_ V A Message from the Squire _Chapter_ VI My Lord Marlborough makes a Note _Chapter_ VII Snared _Chapter_ VIII Flotsam _Chapter_ IX Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit _Chapter_ X Bluff _Chapter_ XI The Battle of Lindendaal _Chapter_ XII Harry is Discharged _Chapter_ XIII Concerning Sherebiah _Chapter_ XIV Harry Rides for a Life _Chapter_ XV The Water of Affliction _Chapter_ XVI Knaves All Three _Chapter_ XVII In the Dusk _Chapter_ XVIII A Little Plot _Chapter_ XXI Marlborough’s March to the Danube _Chapter_ XX The Castle of Rauhstein _Chapter_ XXI Across the Fosse _Chapter_ XXII The Fight in the Keep _Chapter_ XXIII Blenheim _Chapter_ XXIV The Wages of Sin _Chapter_ XXV A Bundle of Letters _Chapter_ XXVI The New Squire _Chapter_ XXVII Visitors at Winton Hall *List of Illustrations* _Plate_ I The Fight in the Castle Yard . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ _Plate_ II Harry makes a Diversion _Plate_ III My Lord Marlborough _Plate_ IV At the Last Gasp _Plate_ V "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!" _Plate_ VI The Stroke of Eight _Plate_ VII "Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby _Plate_ VIII Mein Wirth is Surprised *Map And Plan* Map of the Low Countries in 1703 Plan of the Battle of Blenheim *CHAPTER I* *The Queen’s Purse-Bearer* Winton St. Mary—Cricket: Old Style—Last Man In—Bowled—The Gaffer Explains—More Explanations—Parson Rochester—"The Boy"—Cambridge in the Field—Village Batsmen—Old Everlasting makes One—The Squire—An Invitation—Lord Godolphin is Interested—An Uphill Game—Young Pa’son—The Winning Hit "Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again! Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle—and I’ve too many—is filled with dust; and my wig—plague on it, Frank, my wig’s a doormat. Look at it—whew!" My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, and shook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse of one of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excuse for his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of glorious weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other English highways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumn rains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. The Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked, with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, every day of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, now nearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had he been a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had he been of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; but being near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in his private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perils of footpads and highwaymen. It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begun to acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey to London that day. "Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider on the off-side. "Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenue yonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and the village here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord." "Look ’ee, Frank, we’ll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles. My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but she must e’en be content to wait. Time was——eh, my boy?—but now, egad, I’ll not kill myself for her or any woman." "’Twould be a calamity—for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin with a grin. "So it would, i’ faith. Never fear, Frank, I’ll not make way for you for ten years to come. But what’s afoot yonder? A fair, eh?" The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sight of the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind the church, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned, broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and bounded in the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord’s exclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met his eyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were ranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from the humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some county magnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a crowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betoken incidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldness and reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keen sportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a sword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss to him; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes lit up with an anticipation vastly different from his air of weary discontent. "Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual with him; "whatever it is, ’twill cheer us up. John," he added to the postilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening you find in the ring. Odsbodikins, ’tis a game at cricket; we’ll make an afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law’s anger, come what may." The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drove with many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehicles until they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a dray heaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to the crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiously towards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, for beyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed to the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front of the church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched—very primitive compared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumps were two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing had been done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby, with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong. There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there any uniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings and pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in their shirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth. "Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, and something in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game was at a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was to receive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall, loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easy confidence. "Egad, sir, ’tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "I knew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who’s the bowler? I don’t know him." The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair, not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left hand. "Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!" he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by the rope, "how stands the score?" The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied: "’Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a’ready twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can’t get un out." "Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the ball—underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground, pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual—the village smith. He, bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision and disappointment. "Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner, running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two notches in the scoring stick. Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler’s over was a check upon their enjoyment. Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had. "Egad, ’twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a most teasing twist; capital, capital!" "I’ll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?" "Not I, i’ faith. ’Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I’ll drink a glass of cider here and wait your return." There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lord a brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquor touched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was at least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave it back he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one hand upon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough three-legged stool, which he placed between my lord’s calash and the rope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun; his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still a brightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespoke health and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hat and wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked placidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear, for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to get refreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then Lord Godolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage and went towards the veteran. "Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?" The old man looked up. "Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med think me too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall be eighty-one, and I ha’n’t a wamblen tooth in my head—not one, old as I be. A man’s as old as he feels, says my boy—one o’ the wise sayens he has: I ha’n’t felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive year neither." "By George! I wish I could say the same. What’s the match, gaffer?" "Well, they do say ’tis for a wager; ’tis all ’I’ll lay ye this’ and ’I’ll lay ye that’ in these days. I don’t know the rights on’t, but ’tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire’s.—Do ’ee know Squire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire’s son be hot wi’ his tongue, and at this same supper—I tell ’ee as I yeard it—he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he’d bring eleven young gen’lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our village players at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so ’tis said. Master Godfrey he ups and says ’Done wi’ ’ee’, and so ’tis come about. The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on ’em; our folks, as your honour med see, be just or’nary folks in the main: there’s Long Robin the tanner and Lumpy the smith—he that turned topsy-turvy a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlasten they calls un, ’cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay, a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi’ a tough skin of his own. And there be Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk; and the only gentry among ’em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa’son’s son, and he don’t count for gentry wi’ some. Do ’ee know pa’son? a good man, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa’son Rochester, and stands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do—a right good man is pa’son, ay sure. And his son Harry—well, to tell ’ee the truth, I’m main fond of the lad; main fond; ’tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken too, and he thinks a deal o’ me, he do, and I thinks a deal o’ he. Why, ’twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t’ last man from Cambridge college.—There, my old tongue runs on; I don’t offend your honour?" "Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson’s son, eh? Bred for a parson too, I suppose?" "He’s over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He said to me only yesterday: ’Gaffer,’ says he, ’what’ll ’ee do ’ithout me when I go up to Oxford?’ He be gwine come October, a’ believe. ’Twas at Oxford college they made his feyther a pa’son, so belike the lad’ll put on the petticoats too, though sure he’s fit for summat better. But he’ll make a good pa’son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless ’ee, Pa’son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a’n’t afeard o’ Squire. I be afeard o’ Squire, I be, though ’ee med not think it. Ah! he’s a hard man, is Squire. A’ fell out with pa’son first ’cause he wouldn’t be his chaplain—goo up t’ hall an’ say grace and eat the mutton and turmuts, an’ come away wi’out pudden. Wi’out pudden!—I wouldn’t goo wi’out pudden for no man; that’s why I first took a fancy for pa’son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of this common land, as ha’ belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi’out mind; and pa’son stood up to ’n, and told ’n flat to his face ’twas agen the law, an’ he had the law on ’m, he did; an’ the wise judges up in Lun’on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor’ bless ’ee, Squire be as obstinate as a pig; he don’t care nowt for judges; he ups and ’peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an’ Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an’ there ’tis; ’twill take a time for her poor woman’s mind to understand the rights o’ the matter; her don’t know pa’son so well as we." "Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word for him," said my lord jestingly. The old man stared. "And who med ’ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said slowly. "I? Oh—well, I have care of the Queen’s purse." "There now, and I’ve been talken to ’ee just as if ’ee were a knight or squire, when I med ha’ known ’ee by your cut for one of the mighty o’ the earth. But ’ee’ll forgive a old man—ay, gone eighty year. I was born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a wamblen loon, so I’ve yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum’ell was the right sart o’ king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his regiment, and we was as fine a set o’ men as ever trod neat’s leather, true, we was. I rode wi’ un to Marston Moor in ’44, nigh zixty year back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o’ life when Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten the French, so ’tis said; ’twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be sure; ay, that ’tis." Here my lord’s attention was attracted towards a group of villagers approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled affectionately. "’Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in ’59, your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful." The boy of forty-three was singing lustily: "’Twas on a jolly summer’s morn, the twenty-first of May, Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away. For some delights in hay-makin’, and some they fancies mowin’, But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein’. For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut; And ’tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut." "Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and ’tis my belief ’twill lead un into bad company in the days o’ his youth. He _will_ sing ’Sir Simon the King’ and ’Bobbing Joan’, and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha’ yeard Noll’s men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.—Boy, doff your hat to the Queen’s purse-bearer.—Ay, ’twas psa’ms an’ hymns an’ speritual songs in my time, as the Book says." "Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin. "Feyther been taken away my good name? ’Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther o’ mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o’ my name I ha’n’t took to bad courses. But there, he’s a old ancient man, nigh ready for churchyard—bean’t ’ee, dad?" "Not till I make a man on ’ee, boy." "May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin, coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd. My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day, in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man. "I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert. "My lard, i’ fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah’s father, with a startled look. "My lard,—an’ I ha’n’t even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your cap to my lard! And the Book says, ’They shall stand afore princes’, and I’m a-sitten!" The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff, but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down. "Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I am pleased to have met one of Noll’s veterans so hale and hearty, and I hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine." He put his arm fondly through Frank’s, and returned to his carriage. The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men were already taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred was higher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerly discussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothing of the other side’s bowling powers, but as they compared notes on the various merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in the mouth. The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were Old Everlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled by Gilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of the four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was called. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very red hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat in a nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of the crowd. "Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan’t be afeard, man." "Gi’t lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for the barber’s attentions. Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the other end. The ball came towards him—a slow, tempting lob that was too easy to let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to the bowler’s hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced little barber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!—a bad beginning for Winton St. Mary. Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning up his sleeves—a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick as most men’s thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle the bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use that was to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil. Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his left hand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not to be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for the ball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicular blow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. The Cambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, and Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ball of the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completely round as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it high over long-stop’s head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovered until he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of the over thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed upon the spectators with his usual smug smile. Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him; if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out every time with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover his balance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls that fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bow leg’s, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail was promptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven. After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that the villagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball, and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather the ball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of his own—one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took down every week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit a ball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to his cronies that another week’s greasing would have prevented the accident. Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himself came in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom he was very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the match and the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. He snicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intense enthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring his first notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all the runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra from an overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the best batsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind. There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waited in glum silence for the next man to appear. "Look ’ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squire a-comen down-along by covert fence?" "True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes ’ee’ve got, for a old ancient soul! ’Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and the Cap’n wi’ un." Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered at the three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in semi-military garb—a feathered hat, long red coat marked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, and spurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent and blood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt. The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity of foppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned a full auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoat purple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk was tucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockings were of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles. In Mr. Piers Berkeley’s mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttons of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane. The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall and thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows that ill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as he moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. His dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man must have resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second’s time. "Who’s this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "The rascals there avoid him as he had the plague." "On my life I don’t know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow with him might stand for Bobadil himself." "Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve’s play." "And the young sprig wants a kicking." "Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "’tis old Squire, and young Squire, and—— No, I won’t say ’t; a wise head keeps a still tongue; I won’t say ’t, leastways when a fowl o’ the air med carry it where ’twould do me and feyther o’ mine no manner o’ good." The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way for the new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his two companions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few vehement words in a low tone that no one else could hear. Captain Ralph Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across the common towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance for a moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came to within a few feet of Lord Godolphin’s carriage. "Your lordship’s servant," he said with a profound bow, copied with elaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voice that set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground, and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship." "I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.——" "Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to offer your lordship a cover at my table—poor country fare, I fear, but such as it is, freely at your lordship’s disposal." "’Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not permit us to accept of your hospitality.—Ah! I perceive the next batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you’re as keen a sportsman as I am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game." Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment’s irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two, gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away sucking it. The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than forty-five. "Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin. "I’ll take you, sir, though ’tis a risk. Who’s our next man?" "’Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake," said my lord. "What’s the lad’s name, gaffer?" "’Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o’ baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa’son we calls un mostly." "A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as he bowls?" "Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a deal o’ growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But there, my lord, he as can’t do what he would must do what he can, as you med say." "Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, ’tis a pretty lad. Gi’ un a cheer, souls." "Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire’s comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say." "True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o’ Squire, though you med n’t think it. Well!" But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new batsman’s honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the bowler. The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip in the village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patient wariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with a respectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style. He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after another excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The first ball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps alone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman’s face, saw his lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly gleam—and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler’s head, passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on the point of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a "Mind old Squire, feyther o’ mine." "Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I could do a bit o’ cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine." Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily to Harry’s bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope among the crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut to his credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and Harry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till the fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus to the wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators by driving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score had risen to sixty-three. "’Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harry has’n clear an’ steady. Ay sure, a’ would ha’ made a good captain for Noll Crum’ell; if so be he’s a pa’son, all the use he can make o’ his eye, ’twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an’ me, my lard." But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. Old Everlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a new bowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops were placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll, rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to the tent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit of this was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ball missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called his partner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second run he was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This he hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partner was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptly run out after one run had been scored. Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five—thirty-five behind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable in the crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and there was general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsman was a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about the village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence. "A fight bean’t lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits, souls." Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was never seen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy to do just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how to obey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground he remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hitting when it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose by ones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of the spectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Every hit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa’son" added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal and opposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game. Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in one another’s way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly and confidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a full pitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler’s head, and brought the total to a hundred and two. The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away. Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the tent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous victory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was with difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of his stick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation: "A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!" "By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is a lad of mettle, gaffer; he’ll be a sportsman an he lives long enough. Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the Lord Treasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we’ll drive on." He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off. Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash. "Ah, ’tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen’s purse, my lads, mighty fine! There be a power o’ these same shinen bright ones in the Queen’s purse; eh, lads?" A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group around old Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin’s carriage had broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging, and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull was left to himself. *CHAPTER II* *Sherebiah Shouts* An Angling Story—Old Izaak—Landed—Breakfast—Marlborough’s Smile—The Story of a Potticary—Dosed—On the Horizon—Highwaymen—A Man of Peace—Behind the Scenes—Nos Duo—Promises—Black John Simmons—Sherebiah is Troubled "’Tis here or hereabouts, baten years ha’n’t tooken my memory. True, feyther o’ mine calls me boy, and so I be to a old aged man like him; but when a man’s comen on forty-four, and ha’ seen summat o’ the world—well, "’Man’s life is but vain, for ’tis subject to pain An’ sorrow, an’ short as a bubble; ’Tis a hodge-podge o’ business, an’ money, an’ care, An’ care, an’ money, an’ trouble.’ Ay, ’tis so, ’tis so!" Sherebiah sighed, but the sigh ill became his round, jolly face; it was merely to chime with the words of the song. He was walking, about six o’clock on the morning after the cricket-match, along the bank of a little hill-stream, rod in hand, yet not expecting to halt for a while, for he took no pains to moderate his voice. He was not alone. His companion was the youth who had won the match for Winton St. Mary on the previous day—Harry Rochester, the parson’s son. Each carried a rod—the huge clumsy rod of those days, nearly seventeen feet in length; each was laden with wallet, landing-net, and other apparatus; and in fact they had already had an hour’s sport with ground-bait, having risen from their beds soon after three on this ideal angler’s morning. A haze lay over the ground, and a light rain was falling. Sherebiah was several yards ahead, scanning the banks. His voice sank a little as he repeated the lines: "’Tis a hodge-podge o’ business, an’ money, an’ care, An’ care, an’ money, an’ trouble." "Cheer up!" said Harry, behind him. "I like the second verse best, Sherry: "’But we’ll take no care when the weather proves fair, Nor will we vex now though it rain— He was interrupted by the sudden halt of Sherebiah. The man had swung round; his lips were shot out in the motion of shooing, a warning finger was held up. Harry’s voice died away, and he hastened to his companion’s side. "Yonder’s the spot," said Sherebiah in a whisper, pointing to a large pool, shaded with willows, some thirty yards ahead. "Mum’s the word! They be sharp-eared, they trouts. ’Tis there I took ten lusty nibblers, ten year agoo come Michaelmas. Faith, ’twas all I could do to carry ’em; ay, and I shouldn’ ha’ got ’em home but for Tom Dorrell, t’ carrier from Salisbury, who came trundlen along in his wagon. He be dead an’ gone, poor soul, as must we all." "And what did you do with them?" asked Harry with a smile. Sherebiah was famous for his angling stories, and they had perhaps as much foundation as most. No one in the country-side knew the ways of the trout as he did; but he was equally at home in trolling for jack or pike, roving for perch, and sniggling for eels. None could match his knowledge of the flies in their several seasons: the hour of the day at which each is most killing; the merits of the silver twist hackle and the lady-fly, whether for dapping or whipping; when to use the black gnat, when the blue; under what conditions of the evening sky the shyest trout will rise to a red spinner. And who could tie a fly like Sherebiah Minshull? Many a time Harry had examined his rich store of materials—as varied as the contents of a witch’s cauldron: feathers of every bird that flies, manifold silks and wires and hooks, wax and needles, hog’s down and squirrel’s fur. Many a time had he watched him dress a fly and thread a bait, and admired his dexterous whipping of the streams. "What did I do wi’ ’em?" Sherebiah had sat down with legs far apart, and was carefully selecting a fly from his case. He spoke always in a whisper. "Well, ’tis ten year since, and my memory bean’t what it was; but now I mind on’t, I gi’ one to Tom carrier for his lift, and a couple to miller up by Odbury, and one to Susan Poorgrass at Sir Godfrey’s—I was a-courten then; her wouldn’t ha’ me, thank the Lord!—and a couple to Ned Greenhay, Sir Godfrey’s keeper as was, for a brace o’ leverets; and to please feyther o’ mine I took three up to the Hall. Zooks! and small thanks I got, for old Squire hisself come to the door, and gi’ me a douse, he did; said if I didn’t find summat better to do than go traipsen the country-side, poachen or wuss, he’d commit me for a rogue and vagabond. An’ th’ old curmudgeon kept the fish; ay, he did so!—Ah! ha’ got it; ’tis a fly that cost me more time in the maken than a dozen others; a beauty, to be sure; eh, Master Harry?" He proceeded to put it on his hook. It was an artificial oak-fly, blue, green, brown, and orange so cunningly mingled that no trout could fail to be deceived. "We’ll now see some sport," continued Sherebiah, still in a whisper, as he prepared to cast. "I can’t abide bait-fishen; sport, i’ faith! ’tis mere bludgeon-play. True, it fills the pot, but there’s no pleasure in ’t. ’Tis no pastime for a true bob." "Why, Sherry, ’twas only yestere’en I was reading in a most excellent book of angling by Master Izaak Walton, and he, it seems, held little to the fly. His discourse is in the main of bait." "Why, there ’tis. I met Master Walton once, a-fishen in the Itchen above Winchester—a quaint man, with a good breast for a song, for all he was ripe for the grave. Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of fourscore and upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi’ a store o’ memories. We fell into talk; a’ told me how a’ once rid to Lunnon wi’ a rich jewel o’ King Charles’s in his doublet; ay, he was a royal man, wi’ a jolly red face, but no harm in un, not a whit; and learned, too—but no angler. No, faith, no angler, for a’ talked o’ fishen down stream, a’ did, when ne’er a child but knows fish lie wi’ their heads up stream. Ye cotch fish as ’ee do Frenchmen, from behind! Now, hook’s ready. Mum, Master Harry, while I cast." He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it with keen eyes and pursed lips. Meanwhile Harry had chosen an orle fly, and made his cast a little lower down. The anglers were silent for some minutes. "What’s that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as a distant sound of wood-chopping reached his ears. "Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply. "There, I beg pardon, Master Harry, but you’ve scared away a samlet just as he opened his jaws. That? ’Tis Simon forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey’s timber. Now, a still tongue——" He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a yard or two. The surface of the water was disturbed, and Harry caught a glimpse of a gleaming side. There was a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah hastened his steps as the fish went away with a rush. "He’s a-showen fight," whispered Sherry. "Whoa! he’s sounded, Master Harry; a big un. Pray the tackle may hold! Ah! he’s clear, and off again! Whoa! whoa! Nay, my pretty, ’ee may fight, but I’ll land ’ee." For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler got in his line slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist him. The fish was carefully drawn in; Harry stooped with his net at the critical moment, and with a sudden heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into Sherebiah’s creel. "That’s the way on’t, Master Harry," said Sherebiah contentedly. "Had no luck yourself, eh? What be ’ee a-fishen wi’?" "An orle." "Ah, ’tis an hour or two too early in the day for that, mebbe. Still, these waters of Sir Godfrey bean’t often fished since young Master Godfrey went to Cambridge college, and the trout mayn’t be over squeamish. Stick to ’t!" An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied. Sherebiah’s fly proved irresistible, either from its cunning make or the wary skill with which he whipped the stream. Four fat trout had joined the first in his basket; two had rewarded Harry’s persistence; then he laid down his rod and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his companion. Sherebiah landed his sixth. The haze having now disappeared, and the sun growing hot, he wound up his line and said: "Rain afore seven, fine afore ’leven. I be mortal peckish, Master Harry; what may ’ee have in your basket, now?" "Powdered beef, I think, Sherry; and Polly put in a cate or two and some radishes, and a bottle of cider; plain fare, you see." "Well, hunger’s the best saace, I b’lieve. We poor folks don’t need to perk up our appetites. I warrant, now, that mighty lord we saw yesterday would turn up his nose at powdered beef. Fine kickshawses a’ had at Sir Godfrey’s, no doubt. To think o’ such a mighty lord, the Queen’s purse-bearer an’ all, bein’ kept in a little small village by rust or dry-rot, just like a ordinary man! Old Squire would ha’ liked to gi’ him a bed, I reckon; but Sir Godfrey were aforehand, an’ there he lies till this mornen: axle was to be mended by six, if Lumpy had to work all night to finish the job. Med I axe ’ee a question, Master Harry? Do ’ee think that shinen piece a’ flung to feyther were his own, or out o’ Queen’s purse?" Harry laughed. "Lord Godolphin doesn’t go about the country with the Queen’s purse slung at his waist, Sherry. What he meant was that he was Lord Treasurer, the Queen’s chief minister, the man who rules the country, you know." "Well, now, if I didn’t think it’d be folly to carry the Queen’s purse loose about the country! Then ’tis Lord Godolphin says we’re to fight the French?" "Yes, he and my lord Marlborough between them." "Ah! there ’tis. My lord Marlborough bean’t free with his money like t’other lord. _He_ wouldn’t ha’ given old feyther o’ mine nothen. Why, I was at Salisbury in ’88 when my lord—Lord Churchill he was then, to be sure—was there to meet King Willum, and I held his horse for ’n, and he gi’ me—what do ’ee think he gi’ me, Master Harry?" "Well?" "Nowt but a smile! What med ’ee think o’ that for a lord? ’Thank ’ee, my man,’ says he, and puts his foot in the stirrup and shows his teeth at me, and rides off! Lord! Now t’other one, the Lord Godolphin, he is a lord, to be sure, a fine free-handed gentleman, though he ha’n’t got such fine teeth. I like a lord to be a lord, I do." "My lord Marlborough is indeed rather close-fisted, they say." "Ay, but I ha’ knowed a wuss. Did ever I tell ’ee of Jacob Spinney the potticary? I was a growen lad, and feyther o’ mine wanted to put me to a trade. So he bound me prentice to Jacob Spinney, that kept a potticary’s shop by Bargate at S’thampton. Zooks! Jacob was a deceiver, like his namesake in the Book. A’ promised feyther he’d gi’ me good vittles and plenty on ’em, bein’ a growen lad; but sakes, I never got no meat save at third boilen; ’twas like eatin’ leather. A’ said I was growen too fast, a’ did, and he’d keep me down. Pudden—I never put my lips to pudden for two year, not once. I took down shutters at zix i’ the mornen, and put ’em up at eight o’ nights; betwixt and between I was pounden away at drugs, and carryen parcels, and scrubben floors and nussen mistress’ babby: ay, what med ’ee think o’ that? If so happened I broke a bottle, or overslept five minutes—oons! there was master a-strappen me to a hook in the wall he kept o’ purpose, and layen a birch over my shoulders and keepen me on bread and water or turmuts not fit for a ox. I dwindled crossways to a shadder, Master Harry, I did so, and every week th’ old villain made me write a letter to feyther, sayen as how I was fat and flourishen like a green bay tree. Do what a’ would, however, I growed and growed, at fourteen a long slip of a feller all arms and legs. Two mortal year I put up wi’ un; then I got tired. One day, mistress was out, and I was rollen pills in the little back shop, when master come in. He was in a terrible passion, goodness alone knows what about. He pitched into me for wasten his drugs and eatin’ up all his profits, and hit me with his cane, and sent me spinnen agen the table, and knocked off his best chiney mortar, and there ’twas on the floor, smashed to atomies. Bein’ his own doen, it made his temper wuss, it did, and he caught me by the hair and said he’d skin me. I’ fecks, I were always a man o’ peace, even as a boy, but I’d had long sufferen enough, and now my peaceful blood was up. I wriggled myself free—and there he was, flat on the floor, and me a-sitten on him. He hollered and cussed, for all he was a Puritan; and, haven respect unto my neighbours, I stuffed a handkercher into his mouth. There I sits, a-thinken what to do wi’ un. ’Twas in for a penny in for a pound wi’ me then; I’d have to run, ’dentures or no ’dentures, and it seemed fair to have my pen’orth afore I went. There was that hook I knowed so well, and that strap hangen still and loose: ’I’ll gi’ un a taste o’ the birch he be so uncommon fond on,’ thinks I. So I hoists un up, and soon has un strapped ready; but looken at un I thinks to myself: ’You be a poor wamblen mortal arter all, skinny for all the pudden you eat. I’ll ha’ mercy on your poor weak flesh.’ Besides, I had another notion. So I casts un loose and sits un on a chair and straps un to chair-back, hands to sides. "You med have heard of Jacob Spinney’s famous mixture for pimples? Well, ’twas knowed all over Hants and Wilts. ’Twas a rare sight o’ market days to see the farmers’ wives a-troopen into the shop for bottles o’ the mixture. But th’ odd thing was, Spinney hisself was owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un take a dose o’ his own firm cure. ’I pity ’ee,’ says I to un, as he sat strapped to the chair; ’poor feller, wi’ all those pimples. Shall have a dose, poor soul.’ Many’s the bottle I’d made up: ’twas brimstone and powder o’ crab and gentian root in syrup. Well, I mixed a dose all fresh afore his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and slipped the handkercher out o’ his mouth and the dose in. The ungrateful feller spets it out and begins to holler again; so in goes the handkercher, and says I: ’Ye don’t know what’s for your own good. Bean’t it tasty enough? Ah, Master Spinney, often and often ’ee’ve physicked me; what’s good for me without pudden will be better for ’ee with; you shall have a dose.’ So I made un a dose o’ senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in he had his teeth clinched tight. But I hadn’t nussed the babby for nothen. I ups with finger and thumb and pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath, and in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller, he did. "Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish days. I bean’t so fond o’ pudden now. Not but what they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a world o’ good, for his next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen into his master’s business when he was laid in churchyard. _I_ got no good on ’em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try another line o’ life, and ha’ been a rollen-stone ever since. Ay well, ’tis all one to a man o’ peace." During his narrative the breakfast had been finished. "Well, Sherry, when I’m out of sorts I’ll come to you," said Harry, rising. "Now, while you pack up, I’ll go a stroll up the hillside; there’ll be a good view now the day is clearing, and maybe I’ll get a glimpse of Salisbury spire." He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle ascent, which gradually became steeper until it terminated somewhat suddenly in a stretch of level ground. Fifty yards from the edge rose a long grassy mound, a well-known landmark in the neighbourhood. It was, in fact, a barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages—the burial place, perhaps, of British warriors who had fought and fallen in defence of their country against the Roman invader. Harry had always felt a romantic interest in these memorials of the past, and more than once had stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer night, while his imagination called up visions of far-off forgotten things. He sat down now with his back to the mound, and allowed his eyes to rove over the prospect. Tradition said that three counties were visible from this elevated spot, and on a clear morning like this it seemed likely enough that report said true. Far to the left, peeping over the bare contour of Harnham Hill, rose the graceful spire of Salisbury Cathedral, at least fifteen miles away as the crow flies. His eye followed the winding course of the little stream below him, losing it here and there behind some copse or knoll, tracing it again to its junction with a larger stream, till this in its turn was lost to view amid the distant elm-bordered meadows. Nearer at hand he saw the old Roman road, grass-grown and silent now, bounding the park of Sir Godfrey Fanshawe, crossing the stream by an ancient bridge, and running into the London road at some invisible point to the right. It was a very pleasing prospect, brilliant beneath the cloudless sky, and freshened by the early morning showers. As he looked along the forsaken highway, once trodden perhaps by the legions of Constantine the Great, his glance was momentarily arrested by a small moving speck in the distance. "Some wagon from one of Sir Godfrey’s home farms," he thought. It was approaching him, for it passed out of sight into a clump of trees, then reappeared, and was again hidden by an intercepting ridge. The road was downhill; in fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps, the wagon would pass beneath him, at a point nearly three-quarters of a mile away, where the highway skirted a belt of trees perched on the side of a steep declivity. Between him and the road lay a ditch which, as he knew, was apt in winter-time to overflow on to the meadows and the lower parts of the track, making a sticky swamp of the chalky soil. But it was dry now, and the floodings were only indicated by the more vivid green of the grass and the tall reeds that filled the hollow on this side. On the other side a strong stone wall edged the road, marking the boundary of Sir Godfrey’s park; it was overhung with elms, from which at this moment Harry saw a congregation of rooks soar away. Thus idly scanning the roadway, all at once his eye lit upon the figure of a horseman half concealed by the belt of reeds in the hollow. He was motionless; his back was towards Harry, his horse’s head pointing towards the road, from which he was completely screened by the reeds and the willows. "What is he doing there?" thought Harry. He rose, and walked towards the edge of the descent. Narrowly scanning the brake, he now descried two other horsemen within a few yards of the first, but so well concealed that but for his quickened curiosity he would probably never have discovered them. For all he knew, there might be others. "What is their game?" His suspicion was aroused; the vehicle he had seen approaching was perhaps not a wagon; it might be a chaise belonging to Sir Godfrey; it might be—— "Why, ’tis without a doubt Lord Godolphin himself on his way to London, and coming by the shortest cut." There was no need for further speculation; in those days the inference was sure: a carriage in the distance, a party of horsemen lurking in a copse by the roadside—— "’Tis highway robbery—ah! the Queen’s purse!" Harry unconsciously smiled at the thought. His first impulse was to warn the approaching travellers. But the carriage was at present out of sight; he could not make signals, and before he could reach the stretch of road between the ambuscade and their prey, the travellers would certainly be past, while he himself might be seen by the waiting horsemen, and headed off as he crossed a tract of open country. Moving downwards all the time, he in a flash saw all that it was possible to do. The stream passed under the roadway some twenty yards beyond the spot where the horsemen were lying in wait; the banks were reedy, and might screen an approach to the copse beyond the wall. There was a bare chance, and Harry took it. He raced downhill towards Sherebiah, who was sitting on the bank still, placidly smoking his pipe; landscape had no charm for him. "Sherry," said Harry in jerks, "Lord Godolphin or someone is driving down the road; highwaymen hiding in the reeds; in five or six minutes—come, come, we have no time to lose." "Then we’ll go home along," said Sherry, putting his pipe in his pocket as he rose. "Nonsense! we can’t slink away and leave them to be robbed." Harry took Sherry by the arm to drag him along. "What be the good? Fishen-rods bean’t no match for pistols, and bein’ a man o’ peace——" "Come, I can’t wait. I’ll go alone, then." He released the man’s arm and stepped into the stream. Sherebiah hesitated for a moment; then, seeing that Harry was in earnest, he dropped his tackle and strode forward, saying: "Zooks, not if I knows it! I’m a man o’ peace, sure enough, but fairplay’s a jewel. Have at the villains!" He followed Harry into the water. Side by side they raced on, dodging the weeds, scrambling over occasional rocks, slipping on the chalky bottom, making at top speed for the bridge. As they approached this they went more slowly, to avoid being heard. Fortunately, at the point where the road crossed the stream there was a line of rocks, over which the water plunged with a rustle and clatter, drowning the sound of their footsteps. They had to stoop low to avoid the moss-grown masonry of the arch; as they emerged on the farther side they heard a muffled exclamation from one of the horsemen, and climbing the steep face of the tree-covered slope towards the wall they heard a shot, then another, mingled with shouts and the dull thuds of horses’ hoofs on the turf-covered road. On the way Harry had explained his plan in panting whispers. Running along now under cover of the wall, they came opposite to the scene of the ambush. "Now, Sherry, do your best," said Harry, as he prepared to mount the wall. Instantly a new clamour was added to the uproar in the road. "This way!" "Shoot ’em!" "Lash the noddy peaks!" "Pinch their thropples!" "Quoit ’em down!" "Haick! haick!" By this time Harry was on the wall, by favour of Sherebiah’s strong arm. A slug whizzed past his head and sank with a thud into the trunk of a tree just behind; next moment the horse-pistol from which it had been discharged followed the shot, the butt grazing Harry’s brow. There was no time to take in the details of the scene. Harry made a spring for the masked horseman who had fired at him, two yards from the wall; but the fellow, alarmed by the various shouts and the sudden appearance of Sherebiah at Harry’s side, dug the spurs into his steed’s flanks and galloped off down the road, over the bridge, and out of sight. One of his companions lay motionless on the road; the others had ridden away at the first alarm from the wall. Harry mopped his brow and looked about him. Lord Godolphin stood upright in the carriage, his lips grimly set, a smoking pistol in his hand. His son was on foot with drawn sword; a postilion was crawling out of the ditch all bemired, pale and trembling. "Odzooks!" cried my lord, "a welcome diversion!" [Illustration: Harry makes a Diversion] He was perfectly cool and collected, though his hat was off and his wig awry. "A thousand thanks, my men. Whew! ’twas in the nick of time. Where are the rest of you?" "There are no more, my lord," said Harry, lifting his cap. "No more! But the shouts, then?—I heard a dozen shouting, at least. Are the rest on the other side of the wall?" "All on this side, my lord," said Harry with a smile. "Here is the mob." He indicated Sherebiah, who touched his cap and bobbed to his lordship. Godolphin stared, then chuckled and guffawed. "Egad! ’tis a rare flam. Frank, this fellow here did it all, shouted for a dozen; by George, ’twas a mighty neat trick! And, by George, I know your face; I saw you yesterday, I believe! What’s your name, man?" "Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull, my lord," said Sherry, "by the water o’ baptism, your honour, for I was born while old Rowley were in furren parts. If a’d been born two year arter, my lord, I med ha’ been chrisomed wi’ less piety." "I remember you, and the old gaffer your father—a fine old fellow. Well, my man, your name suits me better; ’tis for us to stand up and bless, eh, Frank? And here’s a guinea for you." Sherebiah put his hands behind him and looked down at the coin in my lord’s hand. "Nay, nay, my lord," he said slowly. "True, I did the shouten, or most on’t, but ’twas Master Harry his notion. Pa’son’s son, you see, my lord; know’d all the holy story o’ Gideon; says to me, ’Sherry,’ says he, ’shout high and low, bass and tribble, give it tongue,’ says he; and I gi’d it tongue, so I did." Both gentlemen laughed heartily. "I recognize you now," said my lord, turning to Harry, who looked somewhat embarrassed. "Surely you are the hero of yesterday’s cricket match? You swing a straight bat, my lad, and, stap me! you’ve a quick wit if you devised this late surprise. How came you on the scene?" "We’d been fishing yonder, my lord, and I chanced to spy your carriage and the villains waiting here, almost at the same time. It was clear what they were about, and as there was no time to warn you we came along the stream, and—Sherry shouted." His smile as he said the last words met an answering smile on Lord Godolphin’s face. "A mighty clever trick indeed—eh, Frank? We’re beholden to you. ’Twas a mere chance that I sent my mounted escort on ahead by the highway to arrange a change of horses, never thinking to be waylaid at this time o’ day." "Ay, ’twas the Queen’s purse, my lord," struck in Sherebiah. "To know Queen’s purse-bearer were a-comen along old road like a common mortal, ’twere too much for poor weak flesh and blood." "The ignorant bumpkins mistook your meaning," said Frank. "So it appears. But come, you’re the parson’s son, I believe. I forget your name?" "Harry Rochester, my lord." "Going to be a parson yourself, eh?" "I am going up to Oxford in October, my lord; my father wishes me to take orders." "Ah! And your own wish, eh?" Harry hesitated. "Come, out with it, my lad." "I had thought, my lord, I should like to carry the Queen’s colours; but ’tis a vain thought; my father’s living is small, and——" "And commissions in the Queen’s army sell high. ’Tis so, indeed. Well, I heard something of your father last night at Sir Godfrey’s; you can’t do better than follow his example. And hark ’ee, if ever you want a friend, when you’ve taken your degrees, you know, come and see me; I owe you a good turn, my lad; and maybe I’ll have a country vicarage at my disposal." "Thank you, my lord!" "And now we must get on. Dickory, you coward, help these two friends of ours to remove that tree. The villains laid their ambush well; you see they felled this larch at an awkward part of the road." "And I thowt ’twas Simon forester a-choppen," said Sherebiah, as he walked towards the tree. "What shall we do with this ruffian on the road?" said Frank Godolphin. "He appears to be stone dead. ’Twas a good shot, sir." "Leave the villain. You’ll lay an information before Sir Godfrey or another of your magistrates, young master parson. Did you recognize any of the gang?" "No, my lord. I only saw the masked man. Perhaps Sherry was more fortunate." "Not me neither," said Sherebiah hastily. He had gone to the fallen man, looked in his face, and turned him over. "’Twas all too quick and sudden, and my eyes was nigh dazed wi’ shouten." "Well, well, Sir Godfrey’s is near at hand; go and inform him, and he will scour the country. We must push on." The tree was removed; the bedraggled and crestfallen postilions resumed their saddles, and with a parting salutation my lord drove off. Harry stood looking thoughtfully after the departing carriage. "Master Harry," said Sherebiah, coming up to him, "this be a bad business. The man bean’t dead." "He’s saved for the hangman, then." "Ay, and who med ’ee think he be?" "You do know him, then! What does this mean, Sherry?" "Well, I be a man o’ peace, and there’s mischief to come o’ this day’s piece o’ work, sure as I’m Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. ’Tis black John Simmons, Cap’n Aglionby’s man." "A scoundrel his master may well be rid of." "Ay, if the man were dead! But he be alive; the lord didn’t shoot’n at all; ’a fell off his horse and bashed his nob; an’ he’s got a tongue, Master Harry." "Well, what then? If he rounds on his fellows, so much the better. What are you afraid of, Sherry?" "I bean’t afeard, not I; but the Cap’n——" He paused, and Harry looked at him enquiringly. Sherebiah turned away. "Ah! little sticks kindle fires, little sticks kindle fires, they do." *CHAPTER III* *Master and Man* A Midnight Summons—A Warm Reception—Righteous Indignation—Aglionby Retorts—The Berkeley Arms—A Village Sensation—The Constable’s Story—Aspersions—Unimpeachable References—Waylaid—Squaring Accounts—The Captain Rides Away The clock of St. Mary’s church had just chimed the first quarter after midnight, and the deep note of the lowest bell was dying away over the tree-tops, when the sound was intercepted by the distant clink and clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the hard road, approaching from the direction of Salisbury. The horse’s pace was slow, and there was something in the fall of the hoofs that betokened a jaded steed. It was a clear calm night; the air carried every sound distinctly; and nothing broke the stillness save the footfalls of the horse, an occasional murmur from the birds in the trees, and the whirr of wings as a solitary owl, disturbed by the nocturnal rider, left its search for food and rustled back to its nook in the tower. The horseman came presently to the church, wheeled round to the right, and urged his flagging beast along the road leading to the manor house. Arriving at the park, he flung himself from the saddle, hitched the bridle over his left arm, and turned the handle of the massive iron gate. But there was no yielding to his push: the gate was locked. The man shook and rattled the handle impatiently, to assure himself that he was not mistaken, then turned aside with an inarticulate rumble of anger, and went to the lodge, a low ivy-grown cottage abutting on the road. He tapped on the small latticed window with the butt of his riding-whip; there was no reply. The horse by his side hung its head and breathed heavily; it was jaded to the point of exhaustion. Again he rapped on the glass, growling between his teeth; and when his summons still met with no response he dealt so smart a blow that one of the thick square panes fell in with a crash. A moment later a voice was heard from within. "Away wi’ ’ee! Who be you, a-breaken an honest man’s rest at this fearsome time o’ night?" A night-capped head appeared at the hole, just visible in the faint illumination of the clear summer sky. "Open the gate, Dick," said the rider impatiently. "Ods my life, will you keep me waiting here, will you?" "Be it you, Cap’n?" "Zounds, man, must I tell you my name? Ha’ ye never seen me before! Stir your old stumps, or by the lord Harry——" "Squire give orders t’ gate were to be locked and kep’ locked; not a man to come in, not a soul. They’s my orders, ay sure, Cap’n." "Orders! orders!" cried the other in a burst of passion. "Adslidikins, if you’re not at the gate with the key inside of two minutes I’ll put a slug through your jolt head, you mumper, you miching rogue you!" And indeed Captain Aglionby displayed a monstrous blunderbuss, and pointed it full in the face of the scared lodge-keeper. For an instant the man hesitated; then, muttering to himself, he disappeared from the window, and soon afterwards emerged from the side door within the palings, his night-gown showing beneath a heavy driving coat. He came towards the gate with the key—a bent old man, tottering and mumbling. "I shall lose my place; Squire give orders, a’ did, not a soul to come in; to drag a aged man from his nat’ral sleep an’ lose him his place an’ all; well, I was forced; no man can zay as I warn’t forced; mumper as I be, I vallies my little bit o’ life, and——" "Hold your tongue, you old flap-eared dotard, and make haste, or I’ll pink your soul. Don’t you see the jade’s dead-beat; ’tis time I stabled her." The man turned the key and slowly opened the gate. With a grunt the captain led his horse through, and, without so much as a glance at the lodge-keeper, proceeded up the quarter-mile drive leading to the house. "Old Nick’s not abed," he said to himself as he cast his eye over the house front. A light shone from a window in the turret over the porch. "The old nightbird! Lock me out! Oons!" He threw the bridle over an iron post at the side of the entrance, and walked round a projecting wing of the building till he came to a small door in the wall. He turned the iron ring, pushed, rattled; the door was fast shut. Cursing under his breath, he was proceeding towards the servants’ quarters when he heard the creak of a key turning, and, wheeling round, came to the postern just as it was opened by Squire Berkeley himself, his tall, lean, bent figure enwrapped from neck to heel in a black cassock-like garment, a skull-cap of black velvet covering his head. He held a lighted candle; his piercing eyes flashed in the darkness. "Hey, Squire!" cried the captain in a tone of forced good-humour, "I had much ado to rouse old Dick. ’Tis late to be sure; but if you’ll give me the key of the stables I’ll settle Jenny for the night and get to bed." He made as if to enter, but Mr. Berkeley spread himself across the narrow doorway. "Who are you, sirrah," he said, "to break into my park against my express orders?" There was contempt in his cold incisive tones, and anger with difficulty curbed. "Why now——" Aglionby began. "Who are you, I say? And what am I, that my orders are defied, and my house made a common inn, a toping house for you and your toss-pot ruffians? Go—go, I say!" The captain was for a moment staggered; the old man’s manner left no room for doubt that he was in earnest. But Aglionby was too old a campaigner to cry off so easily. In a tone half-conciliatory, half-aggrieved he said— "Fair and softly, Squire! this is but scurvy treatment of a tired man. Look you, I’ve been in the saddle this livelong day; the mare’s well-nigh foundered; and for myself—gads so, I could eat an ox and drink a hogshead. To-morrow, in a few hours, I’ll bid ye good-bye—for a time, if ye want a change; but to-night—no, Squire, ’tis not hospitable of you, ’tis not indeed." "You dally with me!" cried the squire, the hand that held the candle shaking with passion. "You set no foot within this door—now, nor ever again. Begone, while there is time." "While there is time! Look ye, Master Berkeley, I will not brook insults from you. Yesterday you must put an affront on me in the presence of my lord Godolphin, shoving me out of the way as I were a leper, and at the very moment, stap me! when I might ha’ paid court to his lordship, and got the chance o’ my life. Adsbud, I was not good enough to approach my lord, to accost him, have speech with him——" "An omission you have since repaired," interjected the old man with a meaning look. The captain started, and there was a perceptible interval before he resumed, in a tone still more blusterous— "Ods my life, what mean you now? You took care I should not meet my lord in your company; and, i’ faith, he showed he wanted none of that neither." "Hold your peace and begone!" cried the squire in a fury. "You think I know nothing of your villainies? How many times have I harboured you—ay, saved you perchance from the gallows! How many times have you eat my food, rid my horses, browbeat my servants, roistered it in my house, till I could bear with you no longer, and then betaken yourself to your evil practices abroad, consorted with villains, run your neck well-nigh into the hangman’s noose, and then come back with contrite face and vows of amendment, to fawn and bluster and bully again? Out upon you! Your rapscallion of a servant is even now laid by the heels, and to-morrow will have to answer to the charge of waylaying the Lord Treasurer. He’s a white-livered oaf, and his tongue will wag, and you’ll companion him before Fanshawe, and you’ll swing on the same gibbet." At the mention of his man’s plight the captain’s face had fallen; but when Mr. Berkeley’s tirade was ended he broke into a laugh. "Ha! ha! Squire, now I come to understand you. ’Tis your own skin you have a care for! Ha! ha! I might have known it. I am to be haled before Sir Godfrey, am I? and to hold my tongue, am I? and to be mum about certain little affairs in the life of Master Nicolas Berkeley—that paragon of virtue, that pampered, patched old interloper, am I? By the lord Harry, if I stand in manacles before Sir Godfrey, you shall bear me company, you painted pasteboard of a saint!" Berkeley’s pale face blanched with fury. For a moment he was incapable of speech. Then he stepped forward a pace; the hand holding the candle shook so, that the grease sputtered upon his gown. His voice came in vehement passionate whispers: "You threaten me! Do your worst—I defy you!—Back to your wallow, bully!—begone!" He suddenly withdrew within the doorway, slammed the door, and bolted it. "Whew!" whistled the captain, left standing outside. "’Tis the worst passion ever I saw him in. Defies me! Well, Master Nicolas, would I could afford to take you at your word! A plague on Simmons! I thought he was dead. He’ll split, sure enough, and there’s an end of Ralph Aglionby. Jenny, my dear, you’re a sorry jade, but you’ll have to bear my carcase till we’re out of harm’s way. We have five or six hours before the world’s astir. Do your best, my girl, and we’ll cheat ’em yet." Captain Aglionby led his tired steed down the drive to the gate, roused Dick the lodge-keeper with scant ceremony, and in a few minutes was riding slowly towards the village. As he came into the principal street, he was surprised to notice that the only inn was lit up, a most unusual circumstance at that time of night. The door stood open, and there were lights in several of the rooms on the ground floor. A feeling of apprehension seized upon him; he could not but connect these lively signs with the events of the morning, and especially with the capture of his man. Could the fellow have blabbed already? He was just making up his mind to spur the mare past the inn, over the bridge, on to the London road, when two persons came to the door and caught sight of him. One was Mistress Joplady, the buxom hostess; the other William Nokes, the village constable. It was too late to evade them: indeed he heard the hostess exclaim, "Well, I never! ’tis the Cap’n hisself, sure." Resolving like a wise man to make the best of it, he rode up to the door, dismounted, and, swaggering, with his usual air of assurance said: "Egad, mistress, I’m glad to find you afoot. My mare’s dead-beat, has carried me nigh forty miles this day; send Tom ostler to stable her, like a good soul; and give me a bite and a bed. I didn’t care about disturbing the squire at this time o’ night." The captain was no favourite with good Mistress Joplady, but she received him now with something more than her usual urbanity. "Come away in, Cap’n Aglionby," she said. "Sure your name was in our very mouths. Strange things be doing—ay, strange things in Winton Simmary; bean’t it so, William Nokes? Take the cap’n into the parlour, William; a few souls be there, Cap’n, not fit company for the likes o’ you, to be sure, but they’ll tell ’ee summat as’ll stir your blood, they will so. Tom’ll see to Jenny, so be easy." Captain Aglionby followed the constable into the parlour, where a group of the village worthies were assembled. They were neither smoking nor drinking, a sure sign that they had something momentous to talk about. A silence fell upon the company as the captain clanked into the room, and one or two of the more active-minded of them threw a quick glance at each other, which the new-comer did not fail to note. "A fine night, men," said the captain jovially. "Ay, ’tis so." "And a late hour to find the Berkeley Arms open." "Ay, ’tis latish, sure enough." "Any news from the army in Flanders? A post from London, eh?" "Nay, not ’zackly that." "Odzooks! speak up, men," cried the captain impatiently. "Why are they all mumble-chopped to-night, mistress?" he asked, turning to the hostess, who had followed him with bread and cheese and beer. "Ah, they be pondering strange things," returned Mrs. Joplady. "Tell the cap’n all the long story, William Nokes." The constable, fingering the hat in his hand, looked for sympathy into the stolid faces of his fellows, cleared his throat, and began: "Cap’n, your sarvant. Eight o’clock this mornin’, or mebbe nine—’twixt eight and nine, if the truth was told—comes Long Tom from the Grange, Sir Godfrey’s man, as ye med know, Cap’n. Says he to me, ’Constable,’ says he, ’Sir Godfrey commands ’ee as a justice o’ the peace to bring your staff and irons and other engines,’ says he, ’up along to Grange, wi’out remorse or delay, and arrest a prisoner in the Queen’s name.’ You may think what a turn it gi’ me, souls, so early in the mornin’. ’Be he voilent?’ says I. ’Can I arrest the villain all alone by myself?’ ’Ay sure,’ says he; ’there’s no knowin’ what a tough job ’twould be an he were sound and hearty, but he’s dazed, so he be, wi’ a crack in the nob, and won’t give no trouble to no mortal constable, not a bit,’ says he. ’A crack in the nob,’ says he; didn’t he, souls?" A murmur of assent came from the group. "So I ups and goos wi’ Long Tom hotfoot to the Grange, and Tom he tells me by the way the longs and shorts on’t. Seems ’twas Sherry Minshull as cracked his nob, leastways he picked un up, he and young master pa’son betwixt ’em, an’ hoisted him on a cart o’ Farmer Leake’s, an’ so carried un to Grange and laid un afore Sir Godfrey. ’Twas highway robbery, Cap’n, a-took in the very act, a-stoppen the carriage o’ the high lard as come this way yesterday, or day afore, as ’ee med say, seein’ ’tis mornin’ now by the rights on’t. And Sir Godfrey commits un, he do, dazed as he were wi’ the crack in the nob, and hands un over to the law, and says, ’Constable,’ says he, ’keep the knave fast in the lock-up, an’ hold un till I gets word from my Lard Godolphin in Lun’on.’ They be his words, Cap’n." "Well, well, cut your story short, man. Adsheart, ye’ve more words than matter." "Ay, but wait to th’ end, wait to th’ end," put in a voice. "The end of a rope ’twill be, and not for one neither," added another. The constable looked a little uncomfortable. "So I had un fast in the lock-up, Cap’n," he went on, "and ’twas the talk o’ the village all day long. Squire himself heard on’t, and down he come, so he do, and bein’ hisself a justice o’ the peace he goos into the lock-up and zees the man, and axes un questions, not for my ears, me bein’ a constable; nay, I stood guard at the door; and when Squire coom out he says to me, ’Constable,’ says he, ’keep a good guard on un; he deserves hangen, ay, and his mates too.’ Never seed I Squire so mad-like; ’twas ’cos it was a lard, maybe, and on his own ground, as ’ee med say." "Ay, and nearer nor that," said a voice. The captain put down the tankard from which he was quaffing, and glared round the faces. They were blank as the wall behind them. "And now what’ll he say?" pursued the constable. "He were mad afore, ay sure; now he’ll ramp and roar worse nor the lion beast at Salisbury Fair. Ye med not believe it, Cap’n, but ’tis true for all that; the godless villain ha’ dared Squire an’ Sir Godfrey an’ me an’ all; ha’ broke his bonds an’ stole away, like a thief i’ the night, as the Book says." "What!" cried the captain, leaning forward and thumping the table. "Escaped, has he?" "A’ has so, like a eel off the hook." "Ha! ha! Stap me! eels are slippery things. But ’tis a rub for you, master constable. You’ll lose your place, i’ faith, you will." "Why now, it be no sin o’ mine. I left un snug in lock-up, I did, door double-locked and bar up, an’ went to take my forty winks like a honest poor man; an’ no sooner my back turned than out skips the pris’ner, like Simon Peter in the story. There be witchcraft in’t, an’ that ’ee ought to know, Cap’n, seein’ as the villain be your own sarvant." "Eh, fellow?" "Sakes alive, I thowt as ’ee knowed that all the time! Sure ’twas John Simmons, your honour’s own body-slave, so to speak. An’ I was main glad to see ’ee, Cap’n, ’cause now ’ee know un for what he is, ’ee’ll help me to cotch un, in the Queen’s name." "Knows where he be, I’ll be bound," said one of the group in a low tone. The captain sprang from his chair, ran round the table, and, before the speaker could defend himself, he caught him by the throat and hurled him to the floor. "Zounds, loon!" he cried in a passion, "what do you mean? Will you affront me, eh? will you mouth your cursed insults to my very face? Odzooks, I’ll slit your weazand, hound, and any man of you that dares a hint o’ the sort, so ’ware all!" The men looked abashed and uncomfortable; the hostess was pale with apprehension, and the constable edged away from the irate captain. His burst of passion over, he turned to Mrs. Joplady and spoke in quieter tones. "I brook no insolence, mistress. I don’t answer for my servant’s deeds behind my back. I’ve been away all day, as poor Jenny will bear me witness; was I to know my fool of a servant would play highwayman in my absence? ’Tis a useful fellow, civil, too, beyond most; I picked him up in London; he was in truth commended to me by no less than his grace the Duke of Ormond, who tapped me on the shoulder in the Piazza at Covent Garden, and said, ’Aglionby, my bawcock, you want a servant; I know the very man for you!’ Could I suspect a man after that? How he got mixed up in this business beats me. And as for helping master constable to repair his carelessness—adsbud, ’tis not likely. The man in truth is no longer servant of mine. I am on my way to serve the Queen in Flanders, and this very day arranged with my friend Sir Rupert Verney to take the fellow off my hands. You may hang him, for me!" "There now, Sam," said the hostess, turning to the man who had been felled, and was now at the door glowering; "your tongue runs away wi’ ’ee. Beg the cap’n’s pardon, and don’t go for to make a ninny o’ yourself." "Never mind, my good woman," said Aglionby loftily. "The yokel knows no better. Now, I’m tired out; give me a bed, good soul, for I must away at sunrise—and egad, ’tis past one o’clock! Good-night to ’ee, men; and I hope Sir Godfrey will forgive you, constable." He went from the room, and soon afterwards the hostess bade the villagers get to their beds, and closed the inn for the short remnant of the night. Before seven o’clock next morning the captain was on horseback. The ground was wet; it had been drizzling for several hours, but a misty sun was now struggling up the sky, and Tom ostler foretold a fine day. The captain rode off, answering with a bold stare the suspicious and lowering glances of the few villagers who were on the spot. He was in high spirits; the anxieties of the past night were gone; and as he rode he hummed a careless tune. He had ridden but little more than a mile when, from an intersecting lane, a man stepped out and gripped the horse’s reins. "Get off that there horse!" he said bluntly. "Gads so, Sherry, you gave me quite a turn," said the captain with unusual mildness. "Don’t hinder me, man; I’m off to Flanders, and, i’ faith, that’s where you ought to be yourself, if all was known. Come, what’s the meaning o’t?" "Get off that there horse!" repeated Sherebiah. "I’m a man o’ peace, I be, and I settles all scores prompt." There was a look of determination in his eyes, and in his right hand he grasped a knobby cudgel. "Right! but we’ve no accounts to settle.—What!" he cried, as he saw Sherebiah’s cudgel raised, "you play the bully, eh? Gadzooks, I’ll ferk ye if——" He was drawing his sword, but the cudgel fell with a resounding whack upon his knuckles, and with a cry of pain he scrambled to the ground and stood, a picture of sullen rage, before his intercepter. "I’ll thank ’ee for your pistols," said Sherebiah, removing them from the holsters as he spoke. "Nay, don’t finger your sword; I be a man o’ peace, and you know my play with the quarterstaff. Jenny, old girl, crop your fill by the roadside while I have a reckonen wi’ Cap’n Aglionby." He laid a curious stress upon the title. "Now, Ralph, you be comen wi’ me into wood yonder. ’Tis there we’ll settle our score." Seizing the captain with his left hand, he led him down the lane, through a gap in the hedge, into a thin copse of larches, until he came to a narrow glade. Aglionby assumed an air of jocular resignation; but that he was ill at ease was proved by the restless glances he gave Sherebiah out of the corner of his eye. "Off wi’ your coat!" said Sherebiah, having reached the centre of the glade. "Off wi’t! I be gwine to pound ’ee; you can defend yourself, but you’m gwine to be pounded whether or no." "Confound you, man, what have I done to you? Why the——" "Off wi’t, off wi’t! Least said soonest mended. Great barkers be no biters, so it do seem; doff your coat, Cap’n Aglionby!" "Well, if you will!" cried the captain, with a burst of passion. "I’ll comb your noddle, I’ll trounce you, for an insolent canting runagate booby!" He flung his coat on the wet grass; Sherebiah laid down the cudgel and followed his example. "Come on, Cap’n Aglionby!" he said. "’Tis not, as ’ee med say, a job to my liken, trouncen a big grown man like you; but ’t ha’ got to be done, for your good and my own peace o’ mind. So the sooner ’tis over the better." To a casual onlooker the two would have seemed very unequally matched. The captain stood at least a head taller than his opponent, and was broad in proportion. But he was puffy and bloated; Sherebiah, on the other hand, though thick-set, was hard and agile. As if anxious to finish an uncongenial task with the least delay, he forced matters from the start. The captain had no lack of bull-dog courage, and he still possessed the remnant of great physical strength. To an ordinary opponent he would have proved even yet no mean antagonist; and when, after a few sharp exchanges, Sherebiah’s punishing strokes roused him to fury, he rained upon the smaller man a storm of blows any one of which, had it got home, might have felled an ox. But Sherebiah parried with easy skill, and continued to use his fists with mathematical precision. Once or twice he allowed the captain, now panting and puffing, to regain his wind, and when the burly warrior showed a disposition to lengthen the interval he brought him back to the business in hand with a cheery summons. "Now, Cap’n Aglionby," he would say, "let’s to ’t again. Come, man, ’twill soon be over!" At last, beside himself with rage, the captain attempted to close with and throw his opponent. He could scarcely have made a more unfortunate move. For a few moments the two men swung and swayed; then Aglionby described a semicircle over Sherebiah’s shoulder, and fell with a resounding thud to the ground. Neither combatant was aware that for some time a spectator had been silently watching them. Harry Rochester, coming whistling through the trees, had halted in surprise, at the edge of the glade, as his eyes took in the scene. "There now, ’tis over and done," said Sherebiah, stooping to pick up his coat. "That score’s wiped off. Stand on your feet, man! And I’ll trouble ’ee for your sword." The captain staggered to his feet. He was in no condition to refuse the victor’s demand. Sherebiah took the weapon and broke it across his knee. From his own pocket he then took the captain’s pistols. He carefully drew their charges, and handed them back. "Now, hie ’ee to Flanders," he said. "You’ve done more fighten this mornin’ than you’ll ever do there. You’ll find Jenny on the road." The captain glared at him, and seemed about to reply. But he thought better of it, and with a vindictive glare walked slowly away. "What’s it all about, Sherry?" said Harry, stepping forward when Aglionby had disappeared. "Ah, that be ’ee, sir? ’Twas only a little small matter o’ difference ’twixt Cap’n Aglionby and me. We’re quits now." "You’ll have to get Mistress Joplady to give you a raw steak for your eye." "Ay sure, Cap’n did get in a hit or two," replied Sherebiah placidly. "I didn’t know you were such a fighter." Sherebiah gave him a quick look out of his uninjured eye. "Nay, I bean’t a fighter, not me," he said. "I’m a man o’ peace; I be so." *CHAPTER IV* *Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another* The Gaffer Chops Logic—In Print—The London Coach—Simple Annals—A Village Hampden—Bereft—An Offer of Service—A Hearty Send-off—Outside Passengers—Introductions—Contractor to the Forces—Followed—The Man on the Road—Sherebiah Muses It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November, a little more than four months after Captain Aglionby’s unhappy departure from Winton St. Mary. There was again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress Joplady’s ample face was red with exertion, and her voice, when she gave directions to her servants, was raised to an acrimonious pitch far from usual with her. The whole village appeared to be gathered either within or without the inn. Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back to the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff. Lumpy, Soapy Dick, Long Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the miller, stood in a group about the door, talking to the ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over four brimming pails of water ranged along the wall. Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the crude heraldic design that had marked the inn’s connection with the lord of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went into the inn to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing. The half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him timorously: "Gaffer, I’m afeard my poor yead won’t stand the wonder on’t, but it med do me good to know why John painter ha’ covered that noble pictur wi’ the colour o’ sut." "Why, boy, black’s for sorrow, as ’ee med know wi’out tellen an ’ee weren’t so simple, and ’tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so ’tis." "Why be it more black to-day than ’tis a-Sunday?" asked the youth. "’Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean’t it? and new pa’son didn’t holler it in church for a holy day." "Boy, your poor yead won’t stand high things, ’tis true, but ’ee know young pa’son be off to Lun’on town to-day, an’ that’s why all the souls be here, to see the last on un." Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor brains to find some connection between it and the departure of "young pa’son". "’Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive the poor lad, when you know the sign bean’t painted out for no such thing." "Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean’t it all one? I axe ’ee that, souls. Young pa’son be a-gwine to Lun’on ’cause his poor feyther’s dead an’ gone; Pa’son Rochester be dead an’ gone ’cause o’ the fight; an I weren’t afeard on un, I’d say the fight were all along o’ Squire; and Mis’ess Joplady ha’ changed the ancient sign of th’ inn ’cause her can’t abear to think on’t. Bean’t that gospel truth, souls all?" The group looked impressed with the old man’s logic. Mistress Joplady, coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences. "’Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear. "I never liked Squire; nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa’son died I couldn’t abear him. One thing I’m thankful for from the bottom o’ my heart, and that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can snap my vingers at Squire, and I do." She suited the action to the word. "Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but ’twill be so no longer. When paint’s dry, up goos the yead o’ Queen Annie, bless her! a poor soul as ha’ lost all her childer, like myself, and the Queen’s Head it’ll be for ever more." "Ay, things be main different in village now, sure," said Lumpy. "To think what mighty changes come in a little time! Zeems only a few days sin’ young pa’son won that noble match—you mind, souls, the day the lord’s carriage broke under the weight of the Queen’s purse—ay, the day afore he were stopped in old road. I never understood the rights o’ that bit o’ work. Gaffer, hav ’ee got that printed paper ye read, where the Lun’on talk be given like the words of a book?" Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet, rather dirty, worn at the edges, and falling apart at the folds. He opened it out with great care, and spread it on his knees. "That’s he," said Lumpy. "Gaffer, you be a scholard; read it out loud to us again." "Ay, an’ don’t need spectacles neither," said Minshull proudly; "well, listen, souls." Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though he were reading it for the first instead of the hundredth time, and moving his forefinger along the line, the old man began to read the account of the attempted robbery of Lord Godolphin which the _Daily Courant_ presented to the London public a week after the event. The names of the principal persons concerned appeared with a dash between the initial and final letters, and Godolphin’s was read by Minshull as "Lard G line n". After briefly relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added: "’Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a Captain A——y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N——s B——y. The gallant Captain’s Commission (as it is credibly reported) is not under the seal of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately Deceas’d of Noble Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy. ’Tis vouch’d by some ’twas none other than the Great Cham." "Ay, that’s print," said Soapy Dick at the conclusion of the reading. "The ’Cap’n A line y’ was Cap’n Aglionby sure enough, an’ some did zay as how ’twas he let the pris’ner out o’ lock-up, and so brought shame to Will’m Nokes." "Ay, an’ some did say as how the Cap’n hisself made one o’ the cut-purse rogues as waylaid the lard," said Honest John. "Old wives’ tales," said Minshull. "My boy Sherry be wise for his years, an’ he says Cap’n couldn’t ha’ let prisoner out, ’cause a’ were miles away at the time. And as for Cap’n bein’ on the road—why, when Sir Godfrey coom in all the might o’ the law to ’stablish the truth, Squire up and said as how Cap’n was abed and asleep on that early mornen when the deed was done." "Ay true, Squire said so; but did a’ take his dyin’ oath like a common man? Tell me that, souls." At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and the villagers were thrilled into excitement by the distant tootle of a horn. "Here be coach at last," cried the ostler. "Ten minutes behind time, and no sign of young Master Rochester. Giles coachman won’t wait, not he." But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road, two figures were seen hastening along from the direction of the rectory. One was a tall youthful form clad in black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes. His steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked into a black waistcoat. Black were his plain drugget coat and breeches, black also his woollen stockings. Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments save his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much exposed, in the fashion of the time. Harry Rochester’s face was pale, its expression sad. His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah Minshull, clad in the sober brown of ordinary country wear, and trudging along steadily under the weight of a fair-sized valise. Winter or summer, his appearance never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy, his blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as always, was that of placid self-content, well becoming "a man of peace". The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had by this time been enlarged by the accession of the greater part of the village population, women and children, workers and loafers, mingled in one interested throng. As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to the passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd at Winton St. Mary before, though he had driven the coach, good weather and bad, for fifteen years come Christmas. It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury Fair. "And seein’ as how I’ve been laid up wi’ a bad leg for two months," he added, "I’m behind the times, I be; news travels slow to them as don’t drive coaches, and, i’ feck, I know no more than the dead what this mortal big crowd do mean, i’ feck I don’t." But many voices were ready to tell him when, having pulled up his four steaming horses at the inn door, he descended with grave deliberation from his perch, saluted Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road, and entered her house "to warm his nattlens", as he said, with a tankard of her home-brewed. Young pa’son was a-gwine to Lun’on town! It seemed a slight cause for such an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous event in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his village. Small things bulk large in the imagination of rustic folk; a journey to London came within the experience of few of them; and the departure of young pa’son, following so closely upon two such notable events as the cricket match and the attack on the Lord High Treasurer, had already furnished unfailing material for gossip, and would be the theme of comment and speculation for a year to come. It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman, for the first and only time in his career, delayed his departure for some minutes after the horses had been watered, in order to listen to the story. A few days after Lord Godolphin’s flying visit, Squire Berkeley had fenced in a piece of land which time out of mind had been regarded as part of the village common. Old Gaffer Minshull, whose memory went back fifty years, was called up to tell how in the year ’53, just before Christmas, the then parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot to celebrate the making of Noll Crum’ell Lord Protector; he remembered it well, for it lasted five hours, and old Jenny Bates fainted on the ground and took to her bed from that day. "Ay, ’twas a holy spot, an’ Squire med ha’ feared to touch un, as the old ancient folk feared to lay hands on the Lord’s holy ark; but, bless ’ee, Squire bean’t afeard o’ nothen, nay, not o’ the still small voice pa’son do zay be inside on us all." When the ground was fenced in the good parson was disposed to carry the matter to law. But though he had already won one case (a matter of right of way) in the courts, the only result was that the squire had carried it to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse. The angry villagers therefore determined to take the law into their own hands. Without consulting the rector, they assembled one evening towards the end of October, and hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to make short work of the new fencing. But the squire had got wind of their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they believed: he soon appeared on the scene at the head of a gang of his own men. There was a fight; heads were broken, and the squire’s party were getting badly mauled when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the combatants. "Ay, poor pa’son, I zee un now, I do," said Gaffer Minshull feelingly, "goen headlong into the rout wi’ all his petticoats flyen! A fine upstanden man was pa’son, as ought to ha’ been a man o’ war. A’ stood in the eye of Squire, an’ Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal o’ hot an’ scorchen words, a’ did. But pa’son took no heed to’n, not he: he spoke up fair an’ softly to Squire’s men, and wi’ that way o’ his a’ made ’em feel all fashly like; a’ had a won’erful way wi’ ’n, had pa’son; an’ they made off wi’ their broken heads, they did; an’ Squire was left a-frothen an’ cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman or Turk. Ah, poor pa’son! Such a fine sperit as he had, his frame were not built for ’t; wi’ my own aged eyes I seed un go blue at the lips, and a’ put his hand on his bosom, a’ did, an’ seemed as if all the breath was blowed out of his mortal body; and a’ went home-along a stricken soul, and two days arter his weak heart busted, an’ young pa’son had no feyther—ay, poor soul, no feyther, an’ my boy Sherebiah be nigh varty-vour, and here I be. ’Tis strange ways Them above has wi’ poor weak mortals—strange ways, ay sure!" Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector’s death to pay off old scores. The legal actions which Mr. Rochester had taken, on behalf of his flock, collapsed for want of further funds; he had already seriously impoverished himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire came down on the dead man’s estate for the law costs, Harry found that, after all debts were paid, he was possessed of some twenty guineas in all wherewith to start life. His project of going to Oxford was necessarily abandoned. He was at a loss to find a career. Educated by his father with a view to entering the Church, he was fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and had in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great stock of English poetry; but his knowledge was not marketable. He was too young for a tutor’s place, and had no influence to back him; friendless and homeless, he was at his wits’ end. Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin’s promise. It had been frank and apparently sincere. My lord, it was true, had spoken of a country benefice when Harry’s Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected that the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear greater with the lapse of time, while his need was actual and urgent. Why not take the Lord Treasurer at his word, journey to London, and put his case before the man who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him if he would? He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather expecting that the sturdy veteran would pour cold water on his idea. To his surprise the old man urged him to carry it out, and overbore the objections which every high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must have had to soliciting favours from the great. His eagerness was partially explained to Harry when the old fellow added a suggestion of his own. He was seriously concerned about his boy Sherebiah. In spite of strict injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against the squire’s fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was, had been attracted to the scene as a moth to a candle. At first he had watched events from a distance, among other interested spectators; but when he saw the fight at its beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior training of the squire’s men, many of whom were old soldiers, he could contain himself no longer. At the head of the waverers he dashed into the affray, and set such an example of valour that it would have gone hardly with the enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector. From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man. Whatever reasons the father had for fearing Mr. Berkeley were strengthened when it became evident that the squire had marked and would resent the son’s action. Sherebiah had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly returned to it, from no one knew where, a few years before. His father was anxious that he should go away for a time, at least until the squire’s anger had cooled. He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching departure of Harry. "Let un goo wi’ ’ee," he said. "’Tis a knowen boy, handy, with a head full o’ wise things he’s larned in the world. He’d be proud to sarve ’ee, ay, that he would." "But, gaffer, I can’t afford a servant. Twenty guineas are all I have, and I know not what may happen. If Lord Godolphin fails me, my money will soon be gone, and then there’ll be two poor fellows instead of one." "Never fear. I bean’t afeard for ’ee. And what does the Book say? Why, ’twas the holy King David as said it hisself: ’Once I were young,’ says he, ’and now I be old; but never ha’ I knowed the righteous forsaken, nor his seed a-beggen bread neither.’ That’s what he said, and he knowed a thing or two, so he did." "Perhaps he didn’t know everything, gaffer. Well, you’re set on it, I see. Sherry would certainly be better out of the squire’s way; so he can come with me, and as soon as I find something to do he had better look for employment, and London ought to be a good place for that." Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the two passengers who had booked places in the Salisbury coach for London were Harry Rochester and Sherebiah Minshull. The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour of the inn, and Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed when he saw by the big clock in the corner that his departure was overdue. He drained his tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling loudly to the passengers to take their places. Harry shook hands all round; every man had something to say to him that was intended to be pleasant and encouraging, but was in many cases the reverse. His heart was full as he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had lived and whose kindly feeling for him was so evident. When, last of all, Mistress Joplady flung her arms round his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump in his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his place on the roof of the coach. "All right, Bill?" shouted the coachman over his shoulder. "Ay." "Let goo, ostler." And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and with a clatter and rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a volley of cheers, lurched forward on the way to London. The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to be pleasant. The stage-coaches of those days were large and clumsy structures, with hard springs. The inside passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room they could among the packages and bundles. On this morning, there was only one other passenger on the roof of the coach, a stout broad-faced man dressed in brown clothes much like Sherebiah’s. He had retained his seat during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching a thick sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little twinkling eyes that seemed a size too small for the other features. When his sausage was finished, he filled a huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence. For some time after the coach started, no word was spoken by the three passengers. Harry was wrapt in his thoughts, brooding over the past, dreaming about the future. Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance every now and then at the broad figure separated from him by a large travelling trunk. He seemed to find some amusement in these occasional peeps at his neighbour, who by and by returned his glance. "Mizzly mornen," said Sherebiah, with a nod. "Zo," grunted the other. His eyes were resting on Sherebiah’s pipe. "Tobacco be a great comfort," said the latter, noting the look. "Master Harry there, he bean’t come to ’t yet; true, ’tis not for babes an’ sucklens; but I took to ’bacca when Susan wouldn’t take me, and ’tis better nor any wife." "Where you get dat pipe?" asked the stranger, in a slow pleasant voice with a foreign accent. "This pipe! Why, over in Amesbury; see, ’tis marked wi’ the gauntlet, sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an’ there’s no better in the land. Why med ’ee axe such a feelen question, now?" "Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it—de gauntlet, you zay." "Oh! I say, master, what part o’ the land med ’ee hail from? Your tongue makes me think ’ee med be a Dutchman, though I wouldn’t say so to your face." The man looked at his interrogator without replying. He stuffed the tobacco down into his pipe with a fat forefinger which exactly fitted the bowl. "You know Amsterdam, my vrient?" he said. "Ha’ been there, mynheer; so ’tis Amsterdam you hail from! Well, I ha’ been in wuss places. Ay, ha’ seed summat o’ the world, I have, and I knowed ’ee by your cut for a Dutchman." There was silence again for a space. Both the men sat smoking, heedless of all things around them. They finished their pipes at the same moment, and, moved by a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the other. "Virginia," said Sherebiah laconically. "Ah! Barbados," returned the other. "My name, Jan Grootz." "And it becomes ’ee," said Sherebiah. "Now mine bean’t so good a match; ’tis over long for one o’ my inches, and over proud for a man so meek: Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa’son there." Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself mentioned. He looked for the first time at his fellow-passenger, who at that moment lifted his podgy right hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a little distance from the road. "Ay sure, minds ’ee of home; your country’s full of mills, to be sure. Mebbe you be a miller, now?" The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from his mouth before he answered. "A sailor," he said; "but I have mills." "A skipper," rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume. "’Tis not for me to say, but to mortal eye you be more like a varmer.—’Tis a skipper from Holland," he added, including Harry in the conversation, "that has a mill or two to his name and smokes ’bacca out o’ Barbados." "Jan Grootz," said the Dutchman. Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked on the slowness of their progress over the rough road. On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered the remark that, having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad when the journey was ended. By degrees he became still more communicative; and when the coach pulled up at Basingstoke for the mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that the Dutchman had been to Bristol to inspect a vessel of which he was part-owner, and which had come most fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a French privateer, then badly damaged by a storm. It was to the storm that she owed her escape from the Frenchman, and to her captain’s seamanship her escape from the storm. Grootz was particularly gratified at her safe arrival, for she represented a large amount not only to him personally, but to others who could ill afford to lose on a venture upon which he had persuaded them to embark. When the journey was resumed, the conversation became still more friendly. Harry liked the look of the Dutchman. His broad face with its wide nose and little eyes was not handsome, but its expression inspired confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to be emphatic, were a little amusing. He asked no questions, but Harry by and by found himself explaining his own position and relating the events that had led to it, and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin. At this up came the forefinger. "Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister: ver’ well: you know de good Book: ver’ well: ’Put not your drust in princes;’ de words are drue. I tell you dis; besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I supply food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch armies; and I have met princes; yes—I, Jan Grootz. I tell you dis; wid a good honest merchant of London or of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he stand; his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes and oder princes—ah! man tread a quicksand. Dey promise, but do dey pay? You are good boy, I dink; mind you, I do not say I know, for outside do not always speak drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at core. I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over hay wid young captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in Namur campaign; he look good, he speak good, I am well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242 thalers 3 groschen beside. Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and de law, drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself, and oder people dey respect you. You owe noding; nobody owe you; you are a man." Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah, sitting just behind Harry, had taken no part in the conversation, but appeared to find something curiously interesting in the road behind, for after once or twice looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether, and sat with his back to the horses. Just as the Dutchman finished his speech—the longest to which he had yet given utterance, and one that his slow delivery lengthened beyond its natural extent—Sherebiah turned round, tapped Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said: "Summat’s i’ the wind." "What do you mean, Sherry?" "Wind yourself about and look down the road behind." "Well, I see nothing—stay, there’s a horseman just topping the hill, a good mile behind us: what of that?" "Why, ’tis like this. He always is a mile behind: that’s where ’tis. I seed him afore we come to Basingstoke; but he didn’t come to the inn to eat his vittles, not he. I seed him again when we was a mile this side o’ Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we eat and drank? We stop, he falls behind; when we trot, he trots; ’tis as if he were a bob at th’ end of a line, never nearer never vurther." "You think we are being followed?" "That’s what I do think, sure enough." "A highwayman?" "Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for ’tis not dark enough, and he’s always in sight." "Perhaps he thinks he can’t be seen." "Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof? But I seed him, I did, two hours an’ more agoo." "Why should he follow the coach, I wonder? He may belong to someone inside." "Mebbe, mebbe not; ’tis curious anyways." "Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your curiosity troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before we reach the next post-house and try to get a nearer look at him as he passes? You can catch up the coach while they change horses." "Ay, I will, sure. We be nigh the river now; over the bridge and we come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place for highwaymen. We change at the Bull and Gate, then run straight into Lun’on: oh, I know the road." It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach reached the inn where the last change of the journey was made. Ten minutes before, Sherebiah nimbly slipped down, crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for the pursuer to appear. Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs; the sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish. Scrambling back into the road, he was just in time to see the horseman strike off at full speed along a by-road to his left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to London by a course only a mile or two longer than the main highway. The man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on the road, and could only have taken the detour in a desire to arrive in London ahead of the coach. Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating figure. He frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to overtake the coach. The driver was mounting the box as he came up. "Well, what do you make of it?" asked Harry. "He be gone off by a side road," replied Sherebiah. "So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?" "Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi’ his back towards me, an’ ’tis growen duskish, an’ nowt but a owl could see clear." But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a sober look which did not escape the clear little eyes of Jan Grootz, who silently extended his pouch to him. Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then removing the pipe from his mouth and staring contemplatively at the bowl. *CHAPTER V* *A Message from the Squire* The Old White Hart—A Letter for the Captain—Visions—Aglionby gives Instructions—The Watch—Half-Truths—Ways and Means—Hard Thinking Sherebiah sat very silent for the rest of the journey. The coach jolted on rapidly towards the great city: passed the market-gardens of Hammersmith, the open fields of Kensington, along Piccadilly, where the first street-lamps shed a dim oily light, through Holborn, at last pulling up at the Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street. It was past nine o’clock, dull and murky, and few people were about. But a small crowd was gathered at the door of the inn to meet the coach, and Sherebiah, as he shouldered the luggage and moved towards the door, shot a keen but unobtrusive glance at the faces of the men. His movements were somewhat too slow for Harry, who, eager to ease his limbs after a whole day’s stiffness and discomfort, entered the hostelry first. All at once Sherebiah quickened his step, hastened into the lobby, set the luggage down at the foot of the stairs, and then, making a mumbled excuse to Harry, slipped out behind one of the inn servants, and looked narrowly at the diminishing crowd. He was just in time to see a man, whom he had already noticed on the outskirts of the group, saunter away in the direction of London Bridge. Appearances are deceptive, and Sherebiah was not sure that he was right, but he thought the man bore a resemblance to the rider whom he had seen following the coach, and of whom he had caught one nearer glimpse as he turned into the by-road. He followed the man, stepping as quietly as his heavy shoes allowed, accommodating his pace to that of the man in front, and taking advantage of the shadow afforded by the penthouse fronts of the closed shops. The man quickened his steps as he approached the bridge. Sherebiah pursued him at a discreet distance over the narrow roadway, beneath the rickety four-story houses that towered above the bridge over almost its entire length, through Traitor’s Gate, and on into Southwark. The man went along one narrow street, and at last passed under a low archway. Walking even more stealthily, Sherebiah still followed, and found himself in the spacious yard of the Old White Hart Inn. This famous three-storied hostelry was built about three sides of a square. Along two sides of the upper story ran a balustraded gallery, with wooden pillars supporting the sloping roof. All was quiet. Sherebiah, keeping in the shadow of the arch, peeped round and saw the man he followed standing at the door waiting for an answer to his summons at the bell, which hung on the outer wall under a gabled cover. After a little time the door opened and the porter appeared. "Be Cap’n Aglionby within?" said the man. "Ay, and abed and asleep. What do you want wi’ him?" "I want to see un." "A pretty time o’ night! House was shut up an hour ago—no business doin’ these hard times. Why didn’t you come sooner?" "A good reason, ’cause I be only just come to Lun’on. I has a message for Cap’n Aglionby." "Well, needs must, I s’pose," grumbled the servant. "I’ll go up and wake the captain, and be cursed horrible for my pains. Who shall I say wants him?" "Tell un a friend from the country." The porter went into the inn, and soon reappeared in the gallery at the top of the house, where he tapped at the door of one of the bedrooms opening from it. He tapped once, twice, thrice, and received no answer; then to his fourth knock came a response the tone of which, though not the words, could be heard in the yard below. A colloquy ensued, of which only the share of the inn servant was distinctly audible to Sherebiah. "A man from the country, Cap’n, to see you." Mumble from within. "So I told him, but here he bides." More mumbling. "Didn’t tell me his name; a man from the country was all he said, and I knows no more." The answering mumble was of higher and impatient mood. Then the man came slowly downstairs, grumbling under his breath all the way. "You’re to go up," he said to the stranger. "’Tis number thirty-two. And fine tantrums he be in, waked out of sleep; as if I ain’t waked out of sleep or kept from it day and night, and all year long." The man entered the inn after the servant, and began to ascend. Sherebiah meanwhile, looking around, had espied another stairway at the opposite angle of the courtyard. Darting across on tiptoe, he mounted quickly, quietly, and reached the gallery above in time to see the messenger disappear into the captain’s room. He hurried along, and, relying on the porter’s complaint of the paucity of business, he opened the door of the adjacent room and slipped in, leaving the door ajar. Through the thin partition he heard the murmur of voices in the next room, but could not catch a word distinctly. In a few moments, however, there was a crash as of a chair being overthrown, followed by a torrent of execrations from the captain. Then the door of the next room opened, and Aglionby came out on to the gallery accompanied by his visitor. "Hang you and the squire too!" said the angry warrior. "The tinder’s wet, and I can’t light my candle. Give me the letter and I’ll read it by the light of the lantern yonder, and catch my death o’ cold withal." Shrinking back into the darkness of his room, Sherebiah caught sight of Captain Aglionby as he passed the half-open door on his way to the single lantern that feebly lit up the gallery. He had pulled on his breeches and stockings, but for the rest was in night attire. The lantern swung from a hook at the corner of the gallery, three rooms beyond that into which Sherebiah had ventured. Standing beneath it, the captain broke the seal of the letter given him by the visitor, and read rapidly under his breath. The reading finished, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and chuckled. "Stap me, he begs and prays me now!" he exclaimed. "See, Jock, tell me what ye know of this. Ye ha’n’t read the letter, ha’ ye? By the Lord Harry, I’ll slit—" "Nay, nay, Cap’n," interrupted the man; "I know nought o’ the letter. I’ll tell ’ee how it all come about. I was openen the gate for Squire, when—" "Speak lower, man; your brazen throat’ll wake the house." "I was openen the gate for Squire," resumed the fellow in a lower tone, which was, however, still audible to Sherebiah’s straining ears, "when who should come by but young master popinjay dressed all in his black. He never bobbed to Squire, not he; never so much as cast eyes on un; but when Squire saw the young swaggerer he stopped still as a stone, and looked after un dazed like. Then he put his arm on the gate, a’ did, and leant heavy on it, thinken mortal hard; ’twas a matter o’ five minutes afore he lifted his head again, and never seed I a stranger look on any man’s face than I seed then on Squire’s. A’ jumped when his eyes fell on me; ’What be staren at, fool?’ says he, in one of his rages. ’Shall I run for doctor?’ says I; ’you do look mortal bad.’ ’Nay,’ says he, ’’tis nothen; a little faintness; ’twill pass.’ I touched my cap, as becomes me, and Squire went into park and shut gate behind un. But a’ hadn’t walked more nor three steps when a’ stops, swings about, and ’Jock!’ says he, ’order post-horses for Hungerford road to-morrer. And come up to hall inside of an hour; I shall ha’ a job for ’ee.’ "Well, I went up to hall after I’d ordered horses, and Squire give me this letter. ’You’ll ride to Lun’on to-morrer, and take this letter to Cap’n Aglionby at White Hart, South’ark. And you’ll tell the cap’n where young Master Rochester be stayen.’ ’How’ll I know that, Squire?’ says I. ’Pon that he burst into one of his terr’ble rages again. ’How, fool!’ says he; ’why, keep the coach in sight, and see that ’ee make no mistake.’ So here I be, Cap’n, and young Master Rochester he’s at Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street." "Thank ’ee, Jock; I know the house. And is the young springald alone?" "Not he; has Sherry Minshull with un, a-carryen his belongens." "Zounds and thunder! did Sherry see you?" "No, i’ feck; I kept too far from coach to be seen for sarten, and at Angel and Crown Sherry was too heavy laden to spy me." "Well for you, well for you! Jock, you’ll come and take up your quarters here; there’s plenty of room. I’ll tell ’em to gi’ ye a bed." "What about the horse, Cap’n? I left un at Angel and Crown." "Let him bide till morning; then you can bring him here too." "But Squire, Cap’n,—won’t he expect us back, me and horse?" "Not he; ’tis here written; I’m to keep you if there’s any work for you, and odzooks! I’ll ha’ some work for you, never fear. Jock, if your story has made you as dry as it has made me you’re main thirsty; go down and bring up beer for two, and a lighted candle. I’ll ring and wake that rascal by the time you get to the foot of the stairs." The man went down by the way he had come, and the captain returned to his room. As soon as the coast was clear, Sherebiah slipped out into the gallery, carrying his shoes to avoid noise, ran down the outer staircase, stood for a few moments at the foot to make sure that all was safe, then darted across the yard and out at the gate. The street was quite deserted, and Sherebiah, secure from molestation, walked slowly along towards London Bridge, deep in thought. His friend Harry had been followed to London at the orders of the squire; what was the meaning of that? Surely Mr. Berkeley did not intend to wreak vengeance on the son for the baffled opposition of the father? What had Captain Aglionby to do with the matter? Rumour the omniscient had informed the village that the captain’s departure had been occasioned by a violent quarrel with the squire; yet it was plain that the squire knew the captain’s whereabouts and was enlisting his aid in some project. Sherebiah wished that he could get a sight of Mr. Berkeley’s letter; he was puzzled to account for the old man’s shock as Harry passed the gate; but try as he might to piece these strange circumstances together, all his cogitation suggested no clue. So absorbed was he, so mechanical his movements, that he started convulsively when, just as he had passed through Traitor’s Gate, a man stepped suddenly before him from a narrow entry and bade him stop in the Queen’s name. Looking up, he saw that his way was barred by a corpulent constable in cocked hat and laced coat, with a staff two feet longer than himself, and half a dozen ancient and decrepit watchmen with lanterns and staves. "Stand!" cried the constable. "Give an account of yourself." Sherebiah took his measure. "Not so, neither, master constable. Out o’ my way; ’tis a late hour, and I ought to be abed." He made to move on, but the constable stood full in his path, and the watchmen grouped themselves behind their superior. "You may be a villain for aught I know," said the constable, "or even a vagrom or thief. Why abroad at this hour o’ night?" "I’m as sober as a judge," replied Sherebiah, "and neither thief nor vagrom. Stand aside, master constable." "Well, ’tis dry and thirsty work watching o’ nights, and there be seven of us, and a shilling don’t go far in these war times; we’ll take a shilling to let ye pass; eh, men?" The watchmen mumbled assent. Sherebiah laughed. "A shilling? ’Tis a free country, master constable, and a sober countryman don’t carry shillings to buy what’s his. And seems to me, so it does, as ye’ve had drink enough a’ready; out o’ my way, I say!" "Arrest him, men!" cried the constable, angry at being disappointed of his expected tip. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when with sudden energy Sherebiah threw himself against him, at the same time placing a leg behind his knee. As the constable fell, Sherebiah dashed at the watchmen, toppled two of them over, their fall being accompanied by the crash of their lanterns, scattered the rest, and ran rapidly across the bridge. This unexpected onset from one whom they had taken for a simple and timid country bumpkin was too much for the watch. They made no attempt to pursue the fugitive, but returned surly and crestfallen to their lair. "Where on earth have you been, Sherry?" asked Harry, as his man re-entered the inn. "Payen a visit to a cousin o’ mine, Master Harry. And I was nigh put in lock-up, I was. Was stopped by the watch, but I toppled un over, I did. I’m a man o’ peace." "If you are let alone," said Harry, laughing. "I feared some harm had happened to you. Our Dutch friend tells me London is an ill place at night for a stranger." "Ay, and by day too, Master Harry," rejoined Sherebiah earnestly. "If I med make so bold, I’d say, get ’ee to-morrow a good cane,—none of your little small amber-tipt fancies as fine gentlemen swing in their dainty fingers, but a stout length of oak or birch, fit to crack a pate." "I have a sword, Sherry, and can use it, thanks to you." "Ay, but ’tis not always easy to draw a sword in time in a street brawl, and there be light-fingered gentry as can coax a sword from the scabbard and the wearer none the wiser till it be too late. Be it your poor feyther’s sword you ha’ brought, sir?" "Yes, the silver-hilted one; I showed it you once, Sherry." "Well, ’tis right for a gentleman to wear a sword, though I marvel, I do, at a holy man o’ peace like pa’son haven such a deadly piece o’ furniture." "Ay, and I’ve often wondered how a man of peace like yourself is able to handle a sword so well. You made a swordsman of me, Sherry; how did you become one yourself?" "Ah, sir, ’tis a many things a man o’ peace has to know in the way o’ dressens. I believe in peace with a cudgel in your hand. Them as wants peace be most like to get it an they be ready for war." "You remind me of what Master Butler says: ’There’s but the twinkling of a star Betwixt the man of peace and war’. But the hour is late, Sherry, and I must be up betimes in the morning, for my visit to Lord Godolphin." "You bean’t gwine to see the high lard to-morrer, sir? Better larn to find your way about this tangle o’ busy streets first. ’Tis as easy as sucken eggs to lose your way." "I have made up my mind to go to-morrow. You see, I must lose no time. I have only twenty guineas, as you know, and by to-morrow two of those will be gone. And I sha’n’t rest till I have tried my luck. Good-night, Sherry! Wake me at seven." Left to himself, Sherebiah ordered a pint of small beer, and sat for an hour longer, ruminating, with knit brows and compressed lips. More than once he got up and walked round the deal table, stopping to take a pull at the tankard, heaving a sigh, then going on again. He was disquieted. The sudden discovery that the squire’s animosity was pursuing Harry no less perplexed than disturbed him. Harry and Mr. Berkeley had never met at close quarters; there had been no intercourse between hall and parsonage. A personal cause of offence was, as it seemed to Sherebiah, out of the question; yet it was strange that the squire’s hatred of the father should extend to the son. At length, muttering "No one can tell what’s what with the likes o’ old Squire," Sherebiah brought his big fist down on to the table with a bang that made the pewter jump and rattle, and fetched the drawer from his place in the bar. "What d’ye lack?" said the man. "Nothen, sonny, nothen. ’Tis a way o’ mine to hit out when I be a-thinken, a bold way for a man o’ peace, true. Bacon at half arter seven, drawer,—and we be country eaters, mind ’ee. Good-night!" *CHAPTER VI* *My Lord Marlborough makes a Note* London Streets—A Chair!—A Great Man’s Portals—An Effort of Memory—Patronage—Marlborough—A Step in the Peerage—A Memorandum—A Friend in London—A Dinner at Locket’s—Mr. Colley Cibber—Great Expectations—A Thick Stick—Prevarication Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his door next morning. His projected visit to Lord Godolphin gave him some concern. He had no tremors of shyness at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but, ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to time his visit, and could hope for no counsel on that point from Sherebiah. He was too much excited to do justice to the crisp rashers which were placed before him at the breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite. Sherebiah had taken upon himself to wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor, did not think it unbecoming to throw in a word here and there. He gave Grootz his views on the price of oats and the policy of King Louis of France with equal assurance. "Know ye where de lord live?" asked the Dutchman suddenly. Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand to his fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his confidence. Before he could reply, Grootz went on: "He live over against the Queen’s Wood Yard, by Thames-side, leading to Scotland Yard. My vrient John Evelyn built de house. I have been dere." "Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "Then can you tell me the best time to visit him?" "Ja! De best time, it is ten o’clock, before he go to de palace. He rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him myself in his dressing-gown before his zervant have curled his wig, and I wait my turn two hours. And when you zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out, mark you." The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his meal, and wagging his fat finger as he concluded. "And how shall I go? Shall I walk?" "I’ feck, no," said Sherebiah from behind. "The night have been rainy, and the streets be mushed wi’ mud; you’d be spattered from head to heel, Master Harry. Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy ’ee a pair o’ gloves there for seemliness, and then get your shoes brushed by one o’ the blackguards at the corner. Then you can take a chair; ’tis a shilling a mile, and easier goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk on the pavement, and you won’t get jolted nor splashed so bad." "Ja, and I tell you dis," added the Dutchman. "Short poles, and short men; zo, dey take not zo much room, and if dey upzet you, why, you do not fall zo much." "Ay, and don’t let ’em chouse ’ee out o’ more than their due," said Sherebiah. "I know they men. If they think a man be up from country, they look at un and then at the shilling, up and down, and miscall un wi’ such brazen tongues that he’ll pay anything to save his ears. A shilling a mile, Master Harry, no more." "Zo! De counsel is good. But I give you a better: go not at all. Lords! I tell you dis before: an honest merchant is worth two, dree, no man zay how many lords; and de Book zay, ’Put not your drust in princes’. Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan Grootz; zo!" He squeezed Harry’s hand in his own great fist, and then, having demolished his mountain of food, filled his pipe and set forth for the Custom House on Thames bank. Two hours later, Harry left the inn under Sherebiah’s guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the streets of London. Filled though his mind was with the approaching interview, which might mean so much to him, he was yet able to take an interest in the strange scenes that opened before his inexperienced eyes: the brilliant shops, each with its sign of painted copper, pewter, or wood hanging from iron branches; the taverns and coffee-houses, already crowded with people eager to hear and discuss the news, and perhaps to get a peep at the morning’s _Courant_; the court and porticoes of the Royal Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the crowds of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients. He went up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange, and bought a pair of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at one of the booths; then strolled along, admiring the rich and dazzling display of silks and jewellery which a few hours later would attract all the fine ladies in town. Descending to the street again, he passed up Cheapside and through St. Paul’s Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill and through Ludgate, where he beheld impaled on stakes a row of hideous heads of traitors, one of which, Sherebiah told him with indignation, was that of Noll Crum’ell. Then skirting the Fleet Ditch, once navigable, but now a noisome slimy sewer, he came into Fleet Street, through Temple Bar to the Strand, and at length arrived at Charing Cross, where he was nearly overturned by a hasty chair-man, whose "By your leave!" was not yet familiar to his ears. At Charing Cross stood a number of boys with boxes before them on the pavement, and cries of "Clean your shoes!" "London fucus!" "Best Spanish blacking!" came in eager competing tones. Sherebiah selected one whose stand was in front of a barber’s shop. "Here’s the blackguard for ’ee, Master Harry," he said. "He’ll shine your shoes while barber shaves my stubble. A penny; no more." When the shoes were polished and the stubble mown, Sherebiah called up a couple of chairmen who were sitting on their poles near by. "Do ’ee know my Lord Godolphin’s noble house?" he asked. "Ay; servant, sir." "Well then, carry my young master to that very house, and see ’ee don’t jolt ’n, or drop ’n, or let ’n get splashed. ’Tis under a mile, Master Harry," he whispered at parting. Harry would rather have walked. The men took what care they could, but the press of people was so great that they had to dodge at every few steps, and their fare gripped the seat to prevent himself from being knocked against first one side, then the other, of the conveyance. At the corner of Whitehall, as they turned into Scotland Yard, a passing dray splashed up a shower of liquid mud, and Harry felt a moist dab upon his nose. Fortunately the spot was soon removed with his handkerchief; and when, after crossing by the Charcoal House and through the Wood Yard, the chairmen at length set him down at the door of Godolphin’s house, he would have felt no anxiety about his personal appearance, if he had been sufficiently self-conscious to think about it. He had put on his best coat, silk stockings, and buckle shoes; at his side he wore the sword about which he had spoken to Sherebiah. He sprang alertly up the steps, and looked about him with a keen quick gaze that bespoke a definite purpose. The great entrance-hall was thronged. Servants, officers, government officials, men about town, stood in groups or moved here and there in pursuit of their several objects of business or pleasure. No one appeared to remark the presence of the new-comer, who walked quietly through the throng towards the broad staircase. At the foot a gorgeously-dressed flunkey was standing, to whom one or two gentlemen had already applied for information. As Harry was about to address him, his attention was attracted by a woolly-pated wide-grinning black boy, who at that moment ran down the stairs. He carried a silver tray, on which a cup and jug of fine porcelain jingled as he ran. "Done, Sambo?" asked the tall flunkey at the stair-foot. "Yussir!" replied the boy with a white grin. "My lord jolly dis mornin; oh yes; drink him chocolate without one cuss. Gwine to begin work now; oh yes." "Can I see the Lord Godolphin?" asked Harry, stepping up to the servant as Sambo disappeared. The man gave Harry a stare, but answered respectfully: "My lord’s levee is over, sir. The nigger brings down the tray when the last visitor has gone." "I have come specially to see my lord, and——" "Have you an appointment, sir?" "I think if you will take my name to my lord he will see me." Harry spoke quietly; he was determined not to be turned from his purpose by mere formality or red tape. The man eyeing him saw nothing but self-possession and confidence in his air. "My lord is now engaged with his correspondence," he said. "He does not brook interruption." "My name is Harry Rochester; I will answer for it that you will do no wrong in acquainting his lordship." After a moment’s hesitation the man beckoned to a fellow-servant, and gave him Harry’s message. He went upstairs, and returning in a few minutes said: "What is your business with my lord, sir? His lordship does not remember your name." There was the suggestion of a sneer in the man’s voice. With hardly a perceptible pause Harry replied: "Tell his lordship I am from Winton St. Mary, at his invitation." A faint smile curled the lips of the two flunkeys. The second again mounted the stairs. When he descended, his face wore its usual expression of deference and respect. "Be so good as to wait upon his lordship," he said, and led the way. In a few minutes Harry found himself, hat in hand, making his bow to Lord Godolphin in a large wainscoted apartment. Four large candles burnt upon the mantel-piece, daylight being kept out by the heavy curtains on either side of the narrow window. A huge log fire filled the chimney-place; beyond it stood a broad table littered with papers, which at that moment a young man was sorting by the light of a shaded candle. Lord Godolphin was in dressing-gown and slippers. "Well, sir?" he said. "My name is Rochester, my lord." "I am aware of that. I do not recall it. Well?" My lord’s tone was cold and uninviting. "Your lordship will permit me to mention a little incident on the Roman road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s park, when——" "Stay, I remember now. You are the lad they called the young parson, eh? I have a poor head for names. When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary I supposed you might be a messenger from the gentleman who entertained us there." Now that Harry was actually face to face with the Lord Treasurer, he felt some diffidence in opening the subject of his visit. My lord, in spite of his deshabille, seemed far less approachable than he had been on the old Roman road. Then he was the country sportsman; now he was the chief minister of the Queen. "Your shouting friend with the scriptural name—how is he?" he asked in a somewhat more cordial tone. "He is well, my lord; he is with me in London." "And your father: has he won his case against the squire? I heard something of him at Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s, I think." "My father is dead, my lord." "Indeed! Pray accept my condolences. And now, tell me what brings you here." "Your lordship may remember, after the scene with the highwaymen——" "Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man; what then?" "It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume on it; but you were so good as to say that if, at some future time, I should find myself in need of assistance, I was to come to your lordship." "Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe. But you,"—he smiled—"why, I really may not venture to set you up in a cure of souls. You have to take your degrees yet." "That is impossible, my lord. My father impoverished himself in his feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs were settled I found myself possessed of but a poor twenty guineas. I have given up all thought of going to Oxford; I must seek a livelihood." "H’m!" Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though estimating his chances of making his way in the world. "You wear a sword," he said. "Rochester—you are no connection of the earl’s?—no, of course not, he is a Wilmot. Where do you spring from?" "My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard that he died young, but my father seldom spoke of these matters; we have no relatives." "H’m! I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch for martial life. All boys have, I suppose. Young Lord Churchill was cut to the heart a few months ago because my lady Marlborough would not permit him to follow his father to Flanders. Well, to be frank with you, I see no way of helping you. With twenty guineas you can no more buy a commission than you can enter yourself at a college. To enlist as a common soldier would be a last resource to one of your breeding. There are too many young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court to go round among them. Yet I would fain do something for you." He began to saunter up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him, stopping for a moment to listen as the sound of cheers came from the street. Suddenly the door was opened, and the voice of the servant was heard announcing a visitor. "My lord Marlborough." Harry looked with eager curiosity as the great soldier entered the room. He saw a tall, singularly handsome man, with short curved upper lip, firm chin, long almond-shaped eyes, and a calm benignity of expression. John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough, was at this time fifty-two years of age. As captain-general of the English forces, in the summer of this year, 1702, he had opened in concert with the Dutch a campaign in Flanders against Louis the Fourteenth of France,—a new campaign in the great war of the Spanish Succession which the policy of William the Third had bequeathed to his sister-in-law. Venloo and other towns had been captured by the confederate armies, Liège had been reduced, and the forces having gone into winter quarters, Marlborough had returned to England to support the Occasional Conformity Bill. He was a close personal friend of Godolphin, and allied to him by the marriage of Francis Godolphin to his daughter Henrietta. "Welcome, my dear lord!" said Godolphin, starting forward to meet the earl. "I did not know you had arrived." "I am but just come from waiting on the Queen," said Marlborough. "I arrived late last night." "You are welcome indeed. All men’s mouths are full of your praises." "Ay," returned Marlborough with a smile; "your Londoners have lusty throats. And I have a piece of news for you." He dropped his voice: the secretary had vanished through a further door: Harry stood in a quandary, the noblemen both seeming to ignore his presence. "The Queen has been pleased to express her wish to make me a duke." Godolphin laid his hand on his friend’s arm, and said cordially: "I congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart. Why, this very morning I have a letter from Churchill at Cambridge; there are shrewd wits there; he says ’tis whispered you are to be raised in the peerage, and the boy, young dog, begs me to tell him what his own title will be then." "Ah! ’tis over soon to talk of it. I must acquaint my lady first, and methinks she will object." "Stap me, Jack! ’tis few women would hesitate to exchange countess for duchess.—God bless me, I’d forgotten the boy! My lord, this is the hero of the little adventure at Winton St. Mary I writ you of. ’Twas he that inspired the stout fellow to shout, and scared the highwaymen out of their five wits." [Illustration: My Lord Marlborough] Marlborough looked towards Harry, who flushed and bowed. An idea seemed to strike Godolphin. Linking his arm with the earl’s, he led him slowly to the other end of the room, and stood there talking earnestly to him in tones too low for Harry to catch a word. Once or twice both glanced at the tall youthful figure standing in some natural embarrassment near the door. Once Marlborough shook his head and frowned, upon which Godolphin took him by a button of his laced coat and spoke more earnestly than before. At length Marlborough smiled, laid a hand on Godolphin’s shoulder, and spoke a few words in his ear. Then he turned about, and coming slowly towards Harry, said, in his clear bell-like tones: "My lord Godolphin tells me you have lost your father and are all but penniless. ’Tis an unfortunate situation for a lad of your years. You would serve the Queen?" "Ay, my lord." "You have a quick wit, my lord says. I may make some use of you. Write your name on a piece of paper, and the name of your lodging." Godolphin motioned him to the table, where he found paper and a pencil. He wrote his name and the name of his inn, and handed the paper to Marlborough, who said, as he folded it and placed it in his pocket: "I will send for you, Master Rochester, if I can serve you." "My lord, I am much beholden to you—" began Harry. Marlborough interrupted him. "’Tis my lord Godolphin you should thank for his good word." "’Faith, my lord," said Godolphin, "’tis due to Master Rochester that the Queen is served by her present Lord Treasurer. I am glad, my lad, that my friend Lord Marlborough chanced to come upon us here, and I hope you will have reason to be glad also. Now, you will excuse us; we have matters of state to speak of; I wish you well." Harry murmured his thanks and bowed himself out. His nerves were a-tingle with his unexpected good fortune. To have seen and spoken with the greatest man in the kingdom was itself an unforeseen privilege; and the prospect of assistance from such a powerful and august personage filled him with elation. The earl had shown no great cordiality, it was true; but Harry was inclined to draw good augury from the few words he had uttered. They were probably more sincere than a warm volubility would have been. He left the house with a sparkling eye and a springy gait, and looked eagerly around to see if Sherebiah were near at hand to hear his news. But Sherebiah was nowhere to be seen. Having no particular business, now that his great errand was accomplished, Harry walked through Whitehall into St. James’s Park, in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of Queen Anne herself. The guard had just been changed at St. James’s Palace, and a stream of people met him as he strolled along the Mall. He was interested in watching them—the fine ladies with their hoops and patches, the beaux with their many-coloured coats, canes dangling at their buttons, toothpicks between their teeth, and snuff-boxes in frequent use. So absorbed was he that he was startled when all at once a hand struck him a hearty blow on the shoulder, and a voice exclaimed: "Hey, Harry, what make you, ogling the ladies?" He turned and saw his friend Godfrey Fanshawe, the captain of the cricket team to whose victory he had so much contributed. The two young fellows shook hands heartily. "What brings you to London?" continued Fanshawe. "I’ve come in search of fortune, like Dick Whittington. You heard of my father’s death?" "Ay, but nothing since. They seldom write letters at home." Harry then explained the course of events which had brought him to London, concluding with his recent interview with Marlborough and Godolphin. "Egad, man!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "you’re in luck’s way indeed. Would that I stood so well with the two greatest men in England. My lord Marlborough will gazette you an ensign of foot or a cornet of horse; and my cornetcy, I may tell you, cost my father a pretty penny. What luck, Harry, if we make the next campaign together! The earl will surely go back to Flanders when the winter is over." "I should like nothing better." "Where are you staying?" "At the Angel and Crown, in Threadneedle Street." "You must leave that and come westward. Are you alone?" "Sherry Minshull is with me at present; but he’ll get work for himself as soon as I am settled." "Sherry’s a handy fellow; egad, I know no better! He’ll tie a fly with any man, and is as good with sword or quarterstaff as he is with his fists. Well now, ’tis drawing towards dinner-time; come and dine with me; the people of fashion here dine at four, but I stick to country habits. We’ll go to Locket’s at Charing Cross; you’re my guest to-day. And we’ll go to the play this evening; the first time, I warrant you, you’ve seen a play. Come! I stand well with the people at Locket’s, and the sharp air this morning has given me an appetite." It was but five minutes’ walk to Locket’s tavern. Entering, Fanshawe bowed with elaborate courtesy to the fair dame in charge, and called for the card. "There’s boiled beef and carrots, I see, and a goose, and look, a calf’s head. I adore calf’s head. What say you? Yes? Boy, bring calf’s head for two, and quickly." With calf’s head and cabbage and a wedge of Cheshire cheese, the two young fellows appeased their unjaded appetites. Fanshawe sat for some time finishing his bottle of wine, Harry contenting himself with small beer. Then, as there still remained a few hours to while away before theatre time, Fanshawe proposed a row on the river. Harry eagerly assented; they sallied forth, took boat at Westminster stairs and rowed up to Chelsea, returning to Westminster in time for the performance of Mr. Colley Cibber’s new play, "She would and she would not", by Her Majesty’s Servants at Drury Lane. Harry was delighted with his first visit to the theatre. He was tickled at the unabashed impertinence of Trappanti the discarded servant, played by Mr. Penkethman, one of the best comedians in London, as Fanshawe informed him; and fell in love with Hypolita the heroine, a part which suited Mrs. Mountford to perfection. But he was perhaps most interested in Mr. Colley Cibber himself, who played the part of Don Manuel the irascible father. His pleasure was complete when, after the performance, Fanshawe took him to the Bull’s Head tavern, and showed him Mr. Cibber with his paint washed off, surrounded by a circle of actors, soldiers, lords, and even clergymen. He had never seen an author before. Mr. Cibber had no presence to boast of, with his thick legs, lean face, and sandy hair; but the liveliness of his conversation gave him a sort of pre-eminence among his coterie, and made a considerable impression on a youth ready to admire and wonder at anything. Fanshawe appeared quite at home among the company. He was indeed a frequent visitor at the Bull’s Head after the play, where all were welcome on condition of providing their quota towards the general hilarity. Fanshawe was the lucky possessor of a fine baritone voice, and his spirited singing of west-country songs had won him instant popularity. On this night, in response to the usual call, he began— "Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare, All along, down along, out along lee; For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair, Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old uncle Tom Cobleigh, and all"; and by the time he reached the end of the third of the eight stanzas, the whole company were ready to join him in trolling the chorus, "Old uncle Tom Cobleigh and all". It was late when Harry reached the Angel and Crown. Sherebiah was marching up and down before the tavern, blowing great clouds from his pipe. "Hey now, Master Harry," he said, with an expression of mingled wrath and relief; "’tis a mighty scurvy trick you have played me, i’ feck ’tis so. Here we are, your second day in London, and you must go off along by your lone self on who knows what errand o’ foolery. Ay, ’tis strong words for me, and a man o’ peace and all, but not too strong, seee’n as I knows the wicked ways o’ the town and you be unfledged. Zooks, sir, I’ve been in a terrible way, thinken all manner of awsome an’ gashly things, as how you med ha’ been trepanned, or slit by the Scourers, or trampled by some high lard’s horses, or rifled and beat by footpads, or ’ticed into a dicing den by sweetners always on the look-out for a country gudgeon, or——" "Hold, Sherry, you forget yourself," said Harry, who was, however, not displeased to find the honest fellow so solicitous about him. "In truth, I forgot all about you. I can take care of myself, I think. I dined with Mr. Godfrey Fanshawe, whom I chanced to meet, and we went to the play afterwards, and I never laughed so much in my life. Mrs. Mountford’s a beauty, Sherry, and Mr. Cibber—when he doesn’t squeak—has the pleasantest voice ever I heard—nay, not that, after all; ’tis not so pleasant as my lord Marlborough’s. What d’ye think, Sherry? I met the earl himself at Lord Godolphin’s, and he has my name on a scrap of paper, and to-morrow or next day I shall hold the queen’s commission, and then off with the troops to Flanders, and I shall make my fortune, man, and then——" "Huh!" put in a voice from the doorway. "Haastige spoed is zelden goed." Harry’s excitement was dashed by the slow drawl of Mynheer Grootz, whose little eyes were twinkling as he puffed at his big pipe. "Ay, a true word," said Sherebiah. "’More haste, less speed,’ as the Dutch words mean put into rightful language. ’Counten chickens afore they be hatched,’ as ye med say." Though he was a little nettled, Harry had too much good sense not to see that his elation had carried him too far. He could laugh at himself—an excellent virtue in man or boy. "I am an ass, Mr. Grootz," he said; "but really I did not expect such good luck. My lord Godolphin was very kind, and so was the earl, and as he used but few words I do think he meant what he said. I am sorry my absence made you uneasy, Sherry; but I don’t understand why you should imagine all manner of harm." "An ye knew——" began Sherebiah; but he paused, hemmed, and changed his sentence. "All’s well as ends well, Master Harry; I axe your pardon for my free words; and here be a fine stout piece of ash I bought in Fleet Street for your hand. Feel un; ’twill crack a pate as quick as speaken, and I’ll be more easy in mind knowen you have such a good staff in company." "Thanks, Sherry!" said Harry with a laugh, weighing in his hand the stick with which the man presented him. "But I’m a man of peace, you know, eh?—at present. Now let’s to bed." As they went from the room Harry remarked, "By the way, Sherry, how is it that you know Dutch?" "Me know Dutch? Why, sir, what makes ye think I know that outlandish tongue?" "Why, didn’t you tell me just now the meaning of what Mynheer Grootz said to me?" "Ay, so I did, now. It must ha’ been as a dog knows his master’s speech, or just as I knowed the meanen o’ the holy things your good feyther was used to speak in the high pulpit, for egad, word by word I knowed no more than the dead what a’ said, not I." The explanation struck Harry as rather lame, but he merely said, with a laugh: "Well, you’ll make a very faithful watch-dog, Sherry. Good-night! I shall sleep well;—if I don’t dream too much of battle and glory." *CHAPTER VII* *Snared* Hope Deferred—Motes in the Sunbeam—Mynheer makes an Offer—Sherebiah on Guard—New Quarters—Tumblers—Solvitur Ambulando—Doubling—Sick at Heart—Too Late—A Debit Balance—Gloom—Cold Streets—Three Sailors—Muffled Several days passed—days of unfailing happiness for Harry. Though he spent hours in roaming the town, there was always something fresh to see, something novel to capture his interest. He saw the state entrance of the new Venetian ambassador. He visited the Tower, the Abbey, and St. Paul’s, saw Winstanley’s water-works in Piccadilly near Hyde Park, and witnessed a football match at Covent Garden. He accompanied Fanshawe several times to the theatre, and somewhat offended that sparkish young gentleman by constantly refusing to join him in card-parties and night escapades in the streets. He saw a back-sword match at the Bear Garden in Hockley in the Hole, and a billiard match at the Greyhound Coffee-house near Monmouth Street. Apart from these public sights, he found endless diversion in the ordinary street scenes: the markets, the itinerant vendors, the acrobats, or posture-masters as they were then called, who performed their dancing and tumbling in squares remote from the traffic. It amused Harry that Sherebiah never tired of these mountebank tricks, but would stand and watch them with unflagging interest by the hour, applauding every neatly executed feat, and criticising with unsparing severity every instance of clumsiness or bungling. Soldiers, on the other hand, apparently did not interest Sherebiah. Harry liked to watch them drilling on the Horse Guards’ parade or in Hyde Park; but on these occasions Sherebiah always strolled away, waiting with impatience until his young master had satisfied his curiosity. "They won’t kill you, Sherry," said Harry once, laughing as the man sheered off. "Their muskets are not loaded." "True. But ’tis no pleasure to me to see such men o’ war. Feyther o’ mine were a trooper; he be always talken on it; I be a man o’ peace, I be." Every day when he came down to breakfast, and when he returned in the evening, Harry eagerly looked for a message from Lord Marlborough. But the days passed; a week flew by; and still no message came. After the second day he made no reference to the matter; Sherebiah and Grootz considerately forbore to allude to it. But they watched him with shrewd eyes, and saw, through all the curiosity and pleasure he took in his new life, a growing sense of disappointment and anxiety. He had built high hopes upon the interview at Godolphin’s; as boys will, he had allowed his fancy to outstrip his judgment, and had added a good deal of embroidery to the simple facts. Already in imagination he saw himself carrying the Queen’s colours, performing heroic deeds in the field, winning golden opinions from the general, coming home laden with honour and substantial rewards, perhaps to gain, as the acme of bliss, an approving smile from the Queen herself. And he would wake from these day-dreams to the sober reality—-that the desired message from Marlborough had not come, and meanwhile time was fleeting by, and every day saw his little stock of money diminished. He had resisted Fanshawe’s recommendation to change his lodging. Charges were higher, Sherebiah informed him, in the more fashionable parts, and he knew that he could not afford to run risks. At first he had not been parsimonious; he was not extravagant by nature, but he had not hesitated to buy a trifle that pleased him, to give largesse to the ballad-singers and street musicians, to pay his eighteenpence for a seat in the pit at Drury Lane or Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But he gave all this up, and thought twice about spending a penny. He bought only the strictest necessaries, and for his amusement depended on the sights of the streets, the parks, and the river, and such entertainment as could be had at the coffee-houses, where for a penny he could obtain a dish of coffee, read the _Daily Courant_ with its manuscript supplement, or Dawks’s _News Letter_, and hear all the news of the day discussed with more heat than information by arm-chair politicians. One day the _Courant_ announced that the Queen had been pleased to confer the dignity of a dukedom upon the Earl of Marlborough, and that the House of Commons would be asked to grant him an annual pension to match his new rank. Harry remembered what he had heard pass between Marlborough and Godolphin, and when the coffee-house gossips supplemented the official intimation with the rumour that the Countess Sarah had been violently opposed to her husband’s elevation in the peerage, he understood the meaning of the peculiar tone in which Marlborough had spoken of acquainting her ladyship. The new duchess was the theme of much conversation and many jests in these free-spoken assemblies. Marlborough was a very great general; everybody was agreed on that; but it was doubted whether he was master in his own house; some said he was henpecked; one plain blunt fellow declared in Harry’s hearing that the duke was as much afraid of his missis as any Thames bargee. Harry was not interested in Marlborough’s domestic affairs, but his heart sank when he reflected on his own insignificance beside the great man whom the Queen was delighting to honour. After all, how could he expect a man of such eminence, immersed in state affairs, with all the responsibility for conducting a great campaign, to remember a country youth whom he had seen once, and who had made, perhaps, as deep an impression on him as a fly might make on a lion. That night Harry was eating his supper, somewhat moodily, when Mynheer Grootz, sitting opposite, made him a sudden proposition. "I tell you dis," he said. "I go back to my country zoon. I have business wid de armies; I sell hay for de horses, meal for de men. You are quick, I see dat; you speak French, enough for my purpose; I give you good wages if you come and help me in my business." Harry flushed. The Dutchman dipped a hunk of bread into his soup and filled his mouth with it, looking down at the bare deal board the while. "I thank you, Mynheer," said Harry with some constraint. "I have another purpose, as you know." Up came the fat forefinger, moist with gravy. "I speak plain to you. You have pride; I alzo. But I have mills, and ships, and vields; dey are mine; I am rich—ja, rich; I, Jan Grootz. My fader, he was a poor weaver in Dort; he work hard and die poor; I work hard, and grow rich. I have what for to be proud. You are a gentleman; dat is zo; it is good to be a gentleman; it is not good to be poor. And more, it is not good to zee money go every day, every day, and wait for some prince to fill de empty purse. You have pride; for what? For white hands, and by and by an empty stomach. My hands, dey are not white, naturlik; but my stomach is full, and I stand up before any prince; Jan Grootz; zo!" He spread his broad hands before Harry, as though he were proud even of their horny skin. The action brought a smile to the lad’s gloomy face and dulled the edge of his irritation. "I won’t debate the matter with you," he said. "I’m not afraid of work, I hope, and maybe my white hands may be red enough before long. I won’t despair of my lord Marlborough yet; and I know your intention is friendly, Mynheer." The Dutchman grunted, and applied himself again to his meal. Great as were Harry’s anxieties, Sherebiah’s were perhaps even greater. He also was disappointed by the forgetfulness or neglect of Marlborough, and concerned at the constant drain upon his young master’s purse; but he had further causes of trouble of which Harry was unaware. Ever since their arrival in London Sherebiah had been possessed by a dread of impending ill. He had always in mind the interview between Captain Aglionby and the squire’s man at the White Hart tavern, and day by day expected it to bear fruit to Harry’s harm; but for reasons of his own he hesitated to tell him the plain truth. He stuck like a leech to Harry when he went walking, and many times when the lad would rather have been alone with his dismal thoughts he found Sherebiah at his heel, like the watch-dog to which he had compared him. He did not know that even when he succeeded in eluding his too solicitous henchman, it was only in appearance; for Sherebiah, armed with a stout ash cudgel, was seldom many yards behind. Many a night after Harry had gone disconsolate to his bed, the man wended his way to Southwark in the hope of making a further discovery; but he never saw the captain or anyone whom he knew to be connected with him, and when at last he found an opportunity of making a discreet enquiry at the hostelry, he was more alarmed than pleased to find that Captain Aglionby had departed some time before, and that nothing had since been heard of him. One morning, when they had been for about a month in London, when Parliament had been prorogued, and a new year had opened, Sherebiah surprised Harry by suggesting that they should remove to an inn near Leicester fields. "Why, you were against it when Mr. Fanshawe proposed it. How is it that you have changed your mind, Sherry?" "Well, sir, ’tis this way, if I med be so bold. Your money be gwine fast, and ’twould never do to begin a more humble way o’ liven here. Nay, what I say is, if you must pare and scrape, go where you bean’t so well known, and then nobody’ll think the worse on ’ee for’t." "Hang me, who talked of paring and scraping, Sherry?" cried Harry impatiently. "I axe your pardon, sir," said Sherebiah earnestly, "but I were not born yesterday. Here are we, four weeks in Lun’on, and you know yourself how many golden guineas you brought wi’ ’ee, and how many be left. Sure I bean’t a great eater myself, but even my little small morsel ha’ got to be paid for. Master Harry, ’twill be best for ’ee to do as I say. Ay, an’ if I knowed ’ee wouldn’t up and rate me, I’d say another thing, I would so." "Well—what’s that?" "Why, I’d say, hand over your purse to me. Nay, sir, don’t be angry; ye’re not wasteful, no; but if we go to another house, I can save ’ee many a penny here and penny there in ways you wouldn’t so much as dream on. I know Lun’on folk, you see; ay, I know ’em well." In the upshot, Sherebiah had his way on both points. The reason for his change of front was that on the previous afternoon he had seen the squire’s man Jock hanging about the inn, and had found out subsequently that Captain Aglionby had returned to his old quarters at the White Hart. It was just as well, he thought, to take one step further from danger by changing their lodging. When this was done, and Sherebiah kept the purse, Harry was amazed to find how much further his money went. It would not have surprised him if the weekly bill had been reduced by a small amount; but when he discovered that, though he fared quite as well, the expenses were not half what they had been, he began to think that Sherebiah possessed some talisman against the cupidity of London innkeepers. He found, too, that he was left much more to himself, and wondered why, with the change of lodging, Sherebiah’s watchfulness appeared to have diminished. He was walking with Godfrey Fanshawe one cold January afternoon by Pye Corner, when he was attracted by a crowd of people gazing at a street show that, to judge by their laughter and applause, was exceedingly entertaining. Elbowing their way through the stragglers on the outskirts, the two young fellows arrived at a position whence they could see what was going on. A group of posture-masters were performing, and at the moment of Harry’s arrival, a short thickset man, dressed in fantastic costume, and with painted face, was dancing on his knees with his toes in his hands, keeping time to the music of a flute and a violin. The tune was a merry one, and the movements of the acrobat irresistibly funny, so that every member of the crowd roared with laughter. "Adzooks!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "the fellow’s face is the funniest part of the performance. Look’ee, Harry, ’tis as sober as a judge’s on assize; one would think ’twere a hanging matter." Harry had been so tickled by this odd mode of dancing that he had not noticed the performer’s features. He glanced at them now, started with a sudden gasp, and cried: "By the Lord Harry, ’tis——" "’Tis what?" said Fanshawe, looking at him in surprise. "Oh, nothing!" "Come, I scent a mystery. Unravel, sir!" "’Tis nothing. See, Fanshawe, the dance is over. Let us go on." Without waiting for his companion, he pushed his way back through the crowd. "Faith, I don’t understand you of late, Rochester," said Fanshawe in a half-vexed tone, when he overtook him. "You’re moody, full of whimsies, all starts and surprises. Would to Heaven that the duke would bethink him of that paper you gave him! You need settling in life. Why don’t you go to him, or to Lord Godolphin again? ’Tis few suitors but would show more perseverance." "Not I. ’Twas against the grain to beg even one favour. I’d rather earn my bread by scraping a fiddle, or dancing on my knees like—like the poor fellow there." "Well, let me tell you, you’ll rue your independence. Adsbud, who would get on in this world if he didn’t pay court to the great! Your starveling poet writes a flattering dedication to a lord—for pay! Your snivelling parson toadies to the lord of the manor—for a meal! I except your father, Harry; he was a rare one. ’Tis the way o’ the world; we must all do it, or pay the penalty." "Be the penalty what it will, I’ll pay it rather than play lick-spittle to any man." Fanshawe shrugged. "By the way," he said, "Mr. Berkeley is in town—to pay his court to someone, I swear. ’Tis said he is buying a commission for that cub his son; pray Heaven it be not in my regiment! That’s the way o’ the world again. Here’s Piers Berkeley, the young popinjay, all grins and frippery, like to carry the Queen’s colours in a fine regiment because his father has a long purse, and you, a deal more fit for it, kicking your heels for want of a rich father or a richer patron. I fear ’tis all up with your chances now; but I wish you luck. I go to Flanders in a week; home to-morrow to say good-bye; who knows when we may meet again!" The two friends bade each other a cordial farewell; then Harry returned sadly to his lodging. Some two hours later Sherebiah came back. "What do ’ee think, Master Harry?" he said. "I ha’ seed old Squire." "I knew he was in town," replied Harry. "And what do you think I’ve seen, Sherry?" Detecting a something strange in his tone, Sherebiah gave him a hard look. "I never was no good at guessen," he said. "Mebbe the German giant at Hercules’ Pillars, or the liven fairy in Bridges Street." "No, ’twas no giant and no fairy, but a short man—about your height, Sherry—with a round face—just as round as yours—and a solemn look—like yours at whiles; and what think you he was doing? He was dancing on his knees, with a crowd of numskulls round him grinning at his capers, and——" "There now, ’twas sure to be found out, I knowed it. ’Twas me—I don’t deny it, ’cos bean’t no good." "Now I know why you wanted to keep the purse, you old dissembler. You eke out my little store with the pence your antics fetch. Sherry, I love thee; I do indeed. But how did you learn those fantastic tricks with your knees?" "Oh, I ha’ done a bit o’ tumblen in my time; ay sure." "You seem to have done a bit of everything. But when? and why? You must tell me all about it." "Some day mebbe. Ha’ led a motley life for a man o’ peace; so ’tis. ’Twould make old feyther o’ mine drop all his old bones in a heap if so be as he knowed all my lines o’ life. The time’ll come to tell ’ee, sir, but ’tis not yet, no." That was the end of Sherebiah’s acrobatic performances. From that day he stuck to Harry more closely than ever; and the weekly bills increased. They had been in town now for nearly two months, and by dint of the greatest economy Sherebiah thought that the money might last for a fortnight longer. Then the wolf would be at the door. Harry had not told his man of Jan Grootz’s offer, though he surmised, from a word Sherebiah let fall, that he knew of it. Hoping against hope, he waited and longed for some sign from the duke. Every day Sherebiah went to the Angel and Crown to see if a letter had come, and every day he came back disappointed. He had not given the host his new address, for reasons of his own; and when on one of his visits he learnt that a man had enquired for the present whereabouts of Mr. Harry Rochester, he hugged himself on his prudence. He would not have been so well pleased if he had known that on the very next day, when he returned from the Angel and Crown by a roundabout way to his inn in Leicester Fields, he was shadowed by a man who had waited for several hours for the opportunity. And he would undoubtedly have counselled a second change of abode if he had known that the spy, after assuring himself that Harry Rochester was a guest of the inn, had gone hotfoot to Captain Aglionby. Another week went by. On Saturday night Sherebiah counted up the contents of his purse, and found that by the end of the next week he would have spent the uttermost farthing. "I give it back to ’ee, sir," he said. "Come Monday morn, I go to find work." "Not so fast, Sherry. We share alike; when you go to find work, I go too. The duke may send for me even at the eleventh hour." "A plague on the duke! I wish I may never hear of dukes again to th’ end o’ my mortal days. A duke’s a bubble, and that’s the truth on’t. Better be an honest man, as Mynheer Grootz says." "’Tis mere forgetfulness, I am sure, Sherry. He has mislaid the paper, I suspect, and his mind being filled with weightier matters, has forgotten that even so insignificant a person as myself exists." "’Tis my belief he never did a kindness to man, woman, or child in all his born days. Why, all the chairmen and hackney coachmen know un; ay, and madam his duchess too. My lady will haggle with an oyster-wench over a ha’penny, and the only thing my lord gives away for nowt is his smile. Hang dukes and duchesses, say I!" "Well, Sherry, I can’t gainsay you, because I don’t know. We’ll give him three days’ grace, and then——" He sighed. The world looked black to him. He knew no trade, had practised no art, had no means to enter a profession. He turned over in his mind the possible openings. He could not apprentice himself to a merchant or handicraftsman, for that needed money. He might perhaps get a clerkship in a goldsmith’s or a warehouse; Sir Godfrey Fanshawe, no doubt, would vouch for his respectability! He almost envied the footmen of gentlemen of quality, who wore a livery, earned six pounds a year, and a crown a week extra for gloves and powder. He writhed on his sleepless bed that night as he contrasted his present circumstances with his former prospects and his recent imaginings. A clergyman,—an officer of the Queen’s, forsooth! he was a pauper, a beggar, with nothing but his health and his wits. Then he rated himself for his despondency. "Fancy snivelling," he said to himself, "because a duke hasn’t the grace or the time to remember a promise! What would my father think of me? Here have I wasted precious time waiting on a duke’s pleasure when I might have been turning the weeks to some profit. And I was too proud to accept the Dutchman’s friendly offer. Egad, I’ll go to him on Monday and beg him to give me employment; sink my pride for good and all." So possessed was he by his determination that Sunday passed all too slowly. On Monday morning he walked early to the Angel and Crown and asked for Mynheer Grootz. The landlord replied that Mynheer Grootz had left the inn on Friday, removing all his baggage. He was about to sail for Holland, and, as the wind favoured, it was probable that his ship had already left the Thames. This news was a terrible damper. Harry had built confidently on the anticipated interview. Mingled with his gratitude for the coming favour, he even felt a pleasant glow at his condescension in accepting service so much beneath him. And now this new house of cards was toppled down! He turned gloomily away, and wandered aimlessly through the streets, disposed, under the first sting of the disappointment, to believe that fate had indeed a spite against him. He was glad he had said nothing to Sherebiah of his intention, being in no mood to endure condolences, in word or look. "What a useless loon I am!" he said to himself bitterly. "Sherry can earn his living by tumbling in the streets, and maybe in dozens of other ways; I can do nothing. Even Piers Berkeley has a commission in the army—that puppy!" But Harry was never long in the dumps. He was only a boy, and the misfortunes that had befallen him so suddenly were sufficient excuse for his passing fits of moodiness; but his was naturally a sanguine temper, and by the time he reached the inn his brow had cleared and he was able to eat his dinner with good appetite. "The last but one, Sherry," he said with a smile. "After to-morrow the purse will be all but dry, and then I shall have to earn my bread. What do you say? Will you teach me to stand on my head, to begin with?" "Zooks, sir, dont’ee put it so terrible low. Look’ee, now, I ha’ some score o’ guineas behind my belt; ye’re welcome to the loan on ’em till your ship do come home." "You’re a good fellow, Sherry, but I couldn’t think of it. Do you want to make me still more ashamed of myself?" "Well then, sir, why not go to my lord Marlborough’s noble house and walk up and down outside till the duke comes out, and stand full in his path and catch his eye—or mebbe his missis’; her med be taken wi’ ’ee and command her good man to remember ’ee, for by all accounts she——" "Hold your tongue, sirrah!" cried Harry with a touch of anger. "Hang about a great man’s door, like Lazarus waiting for the offal! No indeed. Nay. To-morrow we shall be adrift; pray God a fair breeze will carry us into port. Sherry, you had better go and tell the landlord we shall leave him to-morrow. Ask for the reckoning; we will pay the score and begin the morning at least free men." In half an hour Sherebiah returned with the bill. Harry pulled a long face as he glanced at it. He untied the purse-strings and laid his money out on the table. "’Tis worse than I thought," he said ruefully. "In some unconscionable fashion the bill mounts higher this week; I am ten shillings short without vails to the servants." "Ah, I know Lun’on folk, I do. But don’t let that trouble ’ee, sir; ten shillens won’t make a great hole in my store." "But I won’t have your money. Nay, Sherry, call it a whim of mine; ’tis our last day; the charges are mine; to-morrow we must start afresh. I have some trinkets in my box; their worth I know not; but you can take one or two to a goldsmith’s and place them with him until the luck turns. You will do that better than I." He left the room and came back with a miniature set in gold and a brooch of antique make. Sherebiah looked at them with a deliberative air. "Baubles like these sell for next to nowt," he said. "’Tis not all gold that glitters. But I’ll take ’em, sir, and cheapen ’em as best I may. Be I to pledge ’em in my name or yours?" "It doesn’t matter—whichever you like. I’ll sit by the fire and read while you are gone." "Ay, ’tis a raw and nippen afternoon, and there be true comfort in a log fire." He flung his cloak over his shoulders and was gone. Harry went to his room and brought down a volume of his father’s containing Mr. John Milton’s poem of "Samson Agonistes". In the dark afternoon he read for some time by the light of the fire, finding a certain melancholy pleasure in fitting Samson’s woeful laments to his own case. "So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat", he murmured, and then closed the book over his finger and gazed into the ruddy cavern of the fire till his eyes ached. Sherebiah seemed a long time gone; a feeling of restlessness stole upon Harry. He let the book fall from his hand, rose, and paced about the room, stopping once or twice at the narrow window to look out into the street. The air was misty, the pavement sticky with mud; every passing horse stepped under a blanket of vapour; the wayfarers were muffled about their necks and walked as though bent under a load. Harry fidgeted, wondering why Sherebiah was so long. His reading had not cheered him; his musing did but increase his gloom. At last, unable to endure inaction longer, he put on his cloak and hat, took up the cudgel without which, in deference to Sherebiah’s advice, he seldom went abroad, and sallied forth into the street, to walk off his fit of the dumps, if that might be. By the flickering light above the door he saw three sailors lurching up the street. He passed them, giving them but a casual glance, turned into the Strand, and spent some time looking listlessly into the lighted shops. At the door of a coffee-house he noticed a group gathered about a newspaper pasted on the wall. A manuscript supplement had just been affixed to it. When he could get near enough to see the writing, he felt a momentary interest in the announcement he read. "The Duke of Marlborough has rid post to Cambridge, call’d thither by the desperate state of the Marquis of Blandford. It is now ’stablish’d beyond doubt that the young Lord is suffering from the Small-Pox." Even the great duke had his troubles. Lord Blandford was, as Harry knew, Marlborough’s only son; he was the Lord Churchill who had written to Godolphin with boyish curiosity to know what his title would be when his father became a duke. Harry passed on, more than ever convinced that the great man, beset by cares public and domestic, could have no time to think of the small concerns of a country parson’s son. He turned into the Savoy and came by and by to the Temple Gardens, forlorn and desolate in the chill February evening. Not far behind him three sailors were sauntering in the same direction, on their way perhaps to rejoin their vessel in the Thames. The damp cold air struck Harry to the bone; he shivered and drew his cloak closer around him, and was on the point of turning to retrace his steps when there suddenly stood before him a woman, thin-clad, bare-headed, with a whining child in her arms. "Spare a penny, kind sir, to buy bread. My lips have not touched food the livelong day, and my little boy is fair starved. Oh, sir, have pity on a poor lone woman; spare a penny, kind sir." Harry stopped and looked at the thin haggard cheeks, the dark-rimmed eyes, the hair hanging in loose damp wisps over the brow. The child’s feeble moans stabbed him like a knife; its poor pinched wizened face was a speaking tale of woe. Loosening his cloak, the woman all the while continuing her monotonous complaint, he untied his purse. It contained a guinea and one crown piece. At that moment the three sailors passed him, talking loudly, and laughing coarsely as they jostled the woman in their path. "The poor creature’s need is greater than mine," he thought. "Sherry will bring back some money. Here you are," he said, handing her the guinea. "And for God’s sake take your little one out of the damp and cold! Good-night!" Harry moved on, impressed by the spectacle of a misery deeper than his own, and pursued by the voluble thanks of the poor woman. He had forgotten his purpose to turn back; and was only recalled to it by the sight of the three sailors rolling on ahead. They were walking arm in arm, and from their gait Harry concluded that the middle one of the three was intoxicated, and needed the support of his comrades. One of them glanced back over his shoulder just as Harry was turning. The next moment there was a heavy thud; the drunken sailor was on the ground, the others bending over him. A hoarse cry for help caused Harry to hasten to the group. "What is amiss?" he asked. "Be you a surgeon, mate?" replied the man, a thickset and powerful salt. "Bill be taken wi’ a fit, sure enough. A’s foaming at the mouth." "No, I’m not a surgeon. I thought he was drunk." "Not him. Belay there; let the gentleman see." Harry went to the man’s head and leant over, peering into his face. Instantly the fallen sailor flung his arms round Harry’s legs and pulled them violently towards him. Unable to recover himself Harry fell backward, and before he could cry out a cloak was flung over his head and a brawny hand had him by the throat. Through the folds of cloth he heard the men with many oaths congratulate themselves on the ease with which they had accomplished their job. For a few moments he struggled violently, until he felt that resistance was hopeless. Then the cloak was tied about his neck, and he felt himself carried by two of the three, one having him by the head, the other by the heels. They walked swiftly along, and, not troubling to keep step, jolted him unpleasantly. There was a singing in his ears; he gasped for breath; and soon his physical discomfort and his fears were alike annihilated. He had lost consciousness. *CHAPTER VIII* *Flotsam* Under the Leads—A Thames-side Attic—A Man of Law—A Matter of Form—A Question of Identity—A Fine Mesh—A Dash for Freedom—Help in Need—For the Plantations—Visitors on Board—Ned Bates—In the Foc’sle—Sailor’s Knots—An Old Coat—Odds and Ends—A Soft Answer—Overboard—A Dead Heat—A Sea Lawyer—Grootz Protests—A Stern Chase—Sherry’s Story—To the Low Countries When Harry recovered his senses he found himself tied hand and foot, and with a cloth gag between his teeth. It was pitch dark; he could hear nothing save a faint scratching near at hand; mice were evidently at their nocturnal work. He lay still perforce; he found it impossible even to wriggle over on to his side. Here was indeed a culmination of his misfortunes. He tried to think, but the sudden attack and his subsequent unconsciousness had left his brain in a whirl. Gradually the sequence of events came back to him: his walk through the streets towards Blackfriars, the beggar woman, the three sailors, the pretended fit. What was the meaning of it? Had he been marked by the press-gang, and trepanned to serve Her Majesty on the high seas? Had he been kidnapped, to be robbed or held to ransom? Hardly the former, for a knock on the head would have served the kidnappers’ ends. Hardly the latter, for no one could have taken the pains to waylay for such a purpose a penniless youth with no friends. Suddenly he remembered the vague uneasiness shown at times by Sherebiah; his earnest warnings; the cudgel which after all had proved useless. Sherebiah, it seemed, had had more definite reasons for alarm than he had avowed; why then had the silly fellow not spoken his mind freely? Who was the enemy? What motive could any person in the wide world have for kidnapping one who was even yet a boy and had, so far as he knew, done no harm to a living soul? The more he thought, the more he was puzzled. He was in pain. The cords cut into his flesh; his throat was parched; he could not swallow. How long was this torture to continue? Where was he? Where were his capturers? He longed for a light, so that he might at least see the prison in which he was confined, and so diminish even by one his terrible uncertainties. But no light came, no voice or footfall sounded gratefully upon his ear; and presently a lethargy stole upon his mind and all things were again in oblivion. He was roused by a light flashed in his eyes. Dazed and still only half conscious, he saw an unknown face bending towards him, and a hand holding a candle. The man grunted as though with relief to find the captive still alive; then, setting the candle upon the floor, he removed the gag. Harry tried to speak, but no word issued from his lips. The man went from the room, leaving the candle still burning. By its light Harry saw that he was in a narrow attic, with rough beams supporting a slanting roof, and whitewashed walls. There was a sky-light above him; he could hear the first patters of a shower of hail. Presently the man returned bearing a can and a hunk of bread. Lifting Harry, he held the can to his lips. The prisoner drank the beer greedily. "Where am I?" he asked, recovering his voice. "Hold your jaw!" was the surly answer. "You are where you are." "Why am I brought here? What is to be done with me?" "Hold your jaw, I say! Ye’ll get nothing out of me. Keep a still tongue; for if ye raise your voice someone I know will find means to quiet ye." "But I insist on knowing," cried Harry in indignation. "Why was I dogged and attacked in the streets, and brought captive to——" "Stow it! Least said soonest mended. Behave wi’ sense and ye’ll be treated according; otherways—well, I won’t answer for’t." "Loose my arms then." "Well, I’ll do that for ’ee, and legs too; don’t think ye can run away, ’cos ye can’t. Here’s your supper; dry, but ’tis drier where there’s none. I’ll leave ye to’t." Untying the cords, the man gave the bread into Harry’s hand, took up the candle, and went out, locking the door behind him. Harry could not eat; his limbs were cramped with his long immobility; when he stood his knees hardly supported him. But it was pleasant to be able to use arms and legs once more, and after a time his aching pains abated. He groped round the room, shook the door, and found it fast. He could just touch the sky-light with his outstretched hand, and he felt that the glass was loose; but he could not remove it unless he stood higher, and groping failed to find any chair or stool. Escape was impossible; he could but wait for the morning. He lay awake the greater part of the night, but was sound asleep when the same man re-entered with his meagre breakfast. The morning brought no comfort. A gray dawn struggled through the grimy sky-light, revealing the nakedness of the room. Cobwebs festooned the beams; the boards of the floor were dirty and mouldered; the walls in places were green with damp. Harry took silently the food offered him; he was not encouraged by the previous night’s experience to question his taciturn jailer. The morning passed slowly, irksomely; when the man returned with another meal at noon, Harry ventured to address him. "How long am I to remain caged here?" "I can’t tell ’ee, ’cos I don’t know." "You’re not one of the sailors who trapped me?" "Lord, no. I wouldn’t be a dirty swab for nothing ’cept to ’scape the gallows." "Who employs you in this turnkey business?" "That’s my business." "Don’t be surly. I’ve done nothing to you." "Well, that’s true. You ha’n’t done nothing to me. That’s true enough." "Will you do something for me, then? You’re a good fellow, I’m sure." "Nay, nay, you don’t come over me, young master. Soft speeches ain’t no good for a tough un like me. When I goes out I locks ye in, and if ye holler till ye bust, ’tis no good, not at all." "I didn’t mean that. ’Tis dull as death lying on these rotten boards with nothing to do; bring me the morning’s paper and I’ll thank you." "Well, that’s harmless enough, to be sure. Gi’ me twopence and I’ll buy ye a _Courant_." "’Tis only a penny." "True; t’other penny’s for me." Harry smiled and felt for his purse. It was gone. "Plucked clean, eh?" chuckled the man. "Trust your Wapping swab for that. All the same you shall have the paper." He returned with the morning’s _Courant_, already well thumbed. Harry ran his eye over the meagre half-sheet; there was nothing that interested him except the announcement of Lord Blandford’s death at Cambridge. "The duke has lost his heir," he thought. "He was a little older than myself. Perhaps it is my turn next." The day wore on. In the afternoon the door opened and a stranger entered along with the custodian. By his cut Harry guessed him to be a lawyer’s clerk. His movements were soft and insinuating; his face was wreathed into an artificial smile. "Good-morning, sir!" he said softly, bowing. "I have waited upon you to complete a little matter of business; a mere formality. The document is quite ready; I have here inkhorn and quill; I have only to ask you to write your name at the foot." He unrolled the paper he carried, and signed to his companion to bring the writing materials. "Ah! there is no table, I see. You can hardly write on the floor, sir; James, fetch a table from below.—Your furniture is scanty, sir," he continued as the man went out; "in truth, there is nothing to recommend your situation but its loftiness. You are near the sky, sir, and very fortunately so, for ’tis murky and damp in the street.—Thank you, James! Now, sir, everything is in order; you will, if you please, sign your name where I place my finger, there." Harry took the pen offered him, and dipped it in the inkhorn. He gave no sign of his amazement. "Yes," he said, "with pleasure—when I have read the paper." "Surely, sir, at this stage it is unnecessary. Why delay? I assure you that the document is perfectly in order, and the phraseology of us men of law is—well, sir, you understand that a scrivener is paid so much a folio, and he has no temptation to be unduly brief: he! he!" "Still, if you do not object I will read the paper. It is merely a form, as you say." "Very well, sir," said the man with a patient shrug. He lifted his hand from the paper, and Harry bent over the table to read it. The writing was clerkly and precise; the sentences were long and involved, with no support from punctuation; but, unfamiliar as he was with legal diction, Harry had no difficulty in making out the gist of the document so obligingly placed before him. His heart was thumping uncomfortably, for all his cool exterior; and he deliberately read down the close lines slowly in order to gain time to collect his thoughts. The request to sign the paper had been surprising enough, but his bewilderment was increased tenfold when he found what it was that he was asked to sign. Stripped of its verbiage, the document stated that whereas Christopher Butler, gentleman, lately residing in Jermyn Street over against the Garter Coffee-house, had been acquitted of all his debts by the good offices of John Feggans, merchant of the City of London, the said Christopher Butler hereby entered into an indenture to serve the said John Feggans in his Plantations in the island of Barbados for a period of five years. There were qualifications and provisos and penalties which Harry passed over; then, having read the principal articles again, he looked up and said: "Why should I sign this?" "Sir!" said the attorney in surprise. "Why should I sign this? What have I to do with Christopher Butler or John Feggans?" The lawyer looked round at the other man as though asking whether he had heard aright. "I am at a loss to give you better reasons than you know already. Who should sign it if not you?" "I am afraid I must trouble you to explain. See, I find that Christopher Butler, having incurred debts to a large amount, has assigned these debts to John Feggans, who has paid them, and that Christopher Butler indentures himself a slave to John Feggans, to win his release by working in the Plantations. I ask you, what have I to do with all this?" "Christopher Butler asks that?" "Who? What did you say?" "Christopher Butler—yourself." Harry laughed, so great was his sense of relief. It was all a mistake, then; he had been seized by mistake for some poor wretched fellow who had lost all his money and been forced to adopt this, the last resource of impecunious spendthrifts. "Pardon me," he said. "There has been a mistake. My name is not Christopher Butler." He smiled in the attorney’s face. The little man looked staggered. "Not Christopher Butler?" "Certainly not. My name is——" Harry stopped. Some instinct of caution warned him not to disclose his real name at present. "My name is neither Butler nor Christopher," he added. "Now, pray let me go." "Sir, I have my instructions. I must make enquiries. This is unlooked for, most perplexing. Pray excuse me for one moment." He hurried from the room, leaving the door open. The surly custodian, who had followed the colloquy with evident interest, showed that he was not a bad fellow at bottom. "I’m right glad, that I am," he said. "’Twas my own thought you was too young to be such a wild dog, or else you was a most desperate wild one." Harry did not reply. Through the open door he heard loud voices proceeding from a room below. He could not catch the words, but there was something in the tone of the loudest voice that sounded familiar. He had no opportunity of forming a conclusion on the matter, for the speaker’s tone was instantly moderated, as though in response to a warning. Immediately afterwards the attorney returned, accompanied by a low-browed fellow in a lackey’s livery. The lawyer’s smile was as bland as ever as he came into the room. "’Tis not unusual for a man to change his mind, Mr. Butler, but in this case I fear ’t will be a little awkward. I am instructed that you are the Christopher Butler named in this indenture, and have to insist on your affixing your signature to it." "Nonsense!" said Harry impatiently. "I tell you my name is not Butler, and I refuse to sign the paper. ’Tis a preposterous error. I never was in debt in my life; I know nothing of Feggans; indeed, know hardly a soul in London; why, I never was in London till a month or two ago." "My dear sir, my dear sir," said the lawyer, as though expostulating with a hardened liar. Turning to the lackey, he asked: "You see this young gentleman?" "Ay, ay, I do so." Harry started. The accent was pure Wiltshire, and fell on his ears like a message from home. He scanned the man’s features, but did not recognize him. "What is his name?" went on the lawyer. "Butler; ay, ’tis Butler, sure enough." "Where did you see him last?" "In the Fleet prison, to be sure, ay, and on the common side, too." "You are sure of this?" "Ay, faith, sure enough. I seed the gentleman often at maister’s; many’s the time I called a hackney for’n in the darkest hour o’ night, thinken as them as goo fast won’t goo long." "And you were present with your master when this little matter of business was arranged?" "I was so, ay." The lawyer looked with his eternal smile at Harry. "Now, sir," he said, "you will no longer delay to put your hand to this document." Harry had been thinking rapidly. He gave up the hypothesis of error; the lawyer’s visit was clearly part of a deliberate plot; it mattered little whether he was privy to it, or was innocently carrying out his instructions. No doubt there was a _Christopher Butler_ who had thus sold himself to pay his debts, but somebody had determined to substitute Harry for the real man. He had noticed that the name Christopher Butler was written in pencil every time it occurred in the document, all else being in ink; and it suddenly flashed upon him that the object had been to entrap him into signing his real name, which would then be substituted for the name pencilled in. He gave the lawyer a long look, put his hands behind his back, and said: "It is waste of time. I refuse." Again the lawyer smiled and shrugged. "’Tis immaterial, sir. This is but a duplicate; the original was signed three days ago in the Fleet. I have now to——" "Liar!" shouted Harry, springing forward, his face aflame. The door stood open; only the lackey was in a direct line between the prisoner and freedom. Before the man’s slow rustic mind had accommodated itself to the situation, he was sent reeling against the wall by a straight blow between the eyes. Harry was already out of the room, at the top of the staircase, when the little attorney seized him from behind and shouted for help. The taciturn jailer stood looking on. There were cries from below and a stampede of feet, and before Harry, with the lawyer clinging to him, had descended more than four steps he was met by the three sailors. Swearing hearty oaths they threw themselves upon him, and in five minutes he was back in the attic securely trussed up. Even his surly jailer, bringing him food, looked at him with a touch of sympathy. Harry’s haggard eyes met his with a mute appeal for help. "Odsbud!" exclaimed the man, "’tis hard on a mere stripling. If your name bean’t Christopher Butler, what be it?" "My name is Harry Rochester. ’Tis a vile plot. You believe me?" "Ay, I believe ye. Tain’t in reason that a boy should ha’ got ocean deep in debt." "Will you help me? You see what a snare is about me. Will you go to the Star and Garter in Leicester fields and ask for Sherebiah Minshull? Tell him where I am, and what they are going to do with me." "But what’d be the good, mister?" "He would find a way to help me. You would know that if you knew him." "And how much might ye be willing to pay, now?" "I haven’t a penny, as you know, but he had some money. Lose no time; pray go now, at once." "Well, the truth on’t is I’m paid by t’other party." "Who is it? What is the name of the man who has hired you?" "Faith, I don’t know, but he have a fine long purse, and ’tis a fine swashing gentleman. Howsomever, I’ll go to the Star and Garter as you say, and see your man—what be his name? Minshull; good; I’ll go soon, and—Coming, sir, coming," he added in answer to a hail from below. "I’ll go afore ’tis dark, ’struth, I will." He left the room, and Harry felt a momentary glow of hope. It was dulled immediately. The three sailors re-entered. Without ado they again bound his arms, which had been loosed to allow of his lifting his food, and carried him downstairs. Daylight was fading. At the door Harry looked eagerly around for some person whom a cry might bring to his rescue. Alas! the house was in a blind alley, and no one but his captors was in sight. He did raise his voice and give one resounding call. A gag was instantly slipped into his mouth, and he was hurried to the open end of the alley, where a hackney coach stood waiting. Into this he was thrown; two of the sailors got in with him, the third mounted to a place beside the driver, and the vehicle rumbled and jolted over the rough cobbles. Some twenty minutes later it pulled up at the Tower Wharf, where Harry had vainly sought for Jan Grootz a few days before. It was now night, and as he was lifted out and borne towards the wharf side, Harry saw by the light of naphtha torches a busy scene. Sailors, lightermen, stevedores were moving hither and thither; the ground was strewn with bales and packages; the last portions of a cargo were being transferred to the hold of a barque that lay alongside. No one paid attention to the not unusual spectacle of a young fellow going unwillingly to a vessel bound for the Plantations. Harry’s captors, joking, chewing, spitting, shoved him with no tender hands on to the gangway. At the other end of it stood a dark-featured, beetle-browed old seaman, the captain of the vessel, bawling orders to this and that member of his crew. "Ha!" he cried, as he saw the new-comer hauled along in the sailors’ arms; "this be the springald? Zooks! ye are none too soon: tide turns in half an hour." "Here we be, sir, true; and this be Christopher Butler, mark you, for the Plantations." "Papers?" roared the captain, spitting into the river. "All taut, sir," replied the man, producing the document that Harry had refused to sign; it bore a signature now. "Obstropolous, eh?" "Changed his mind, sir, it seems, since signing on; ha’ give us some trouble." "Oons! We’ll cure that. All aboard! Stow the cockerel in the foc’sle; strap un to a plank; we’ll have no ’tarnal tricks." As Harry was lugged forward he noticed two figures standing beneath a lamp swinging to one of the yards. He started, and involuntarily increased his weight upon his bearers. One of the two came forward a step towards the captain and, tapping a snuff-box, said: "Whom have we here, captain?" "A young puppy as ha’ run through a duke’s fortune and goes as redemptioner where I’ve carried many a man before him." "Indeed! So young! ’Tis sad, the wastefulness of young men in this age." He took a pinch of snuff and stepped back again. Harry had scanned his features and heard what he said. His heart almost stopped beating with surprise, for the speaker was Mr. Berkeley, the squire, and his companion was Captain Aglionby. "Did they not recognize me?" he thought. Surely if he could appeal to the squire he might even yet, at the last moment, be saved. He struggled with his captors, but they tightened their hold upon him and wrenched his limbs with brutal callousness. He was carried to the sailors’ quarters in the foc’sle. His bonds were loosed for a moment; then he was laid on a plank and lashed to it. There was a sudden commotion. The captain roared an order to his men, then went to the side to meet a custom-house officer who had just come aboard with two men. An observer would have noticed that Mr. Berkeley hastily turned his back and retreated into the shadow. "Thought you’d forgot us, sir," said the captain. "No, no. But we won’t keep you long; you want to catch the tide." The rummaging crew began a perfunctory inspection of the vessel. When they were out of sight Mr. Berkeley came forward and spoke in a low tone to the captain. "Right, sir," he replied, and sent a man forward with orders to place Harry in a bunk in the darkest part of the foc’sle and cover him up. Consequently, when the custom-house officer reached the sailors’ quarters, where several of the crew were lolling about, Harry lay hidden, half-stifled beneath a tarpaulin. "What’s this?" asked the officer. "That!" cried the ship’s mate with an oath. "That’s Ned Bates, come aboard mad drunk after a spree. ’Tis the same every voyage, and the medicine’s a dose of rope’s end to-morrow." The officer laughed and passed on. The inspection was soon completed; the officer accepted a pinch of the captain’s snuff and left the vessel with his crew, watched by Mr. Berkeley and Captain Aglionby from the corner of a shed on the wharf. In a few minutes the ropes were cast off, and with creakings and heavings the ship moved into the current and began to float down on the ebb-tide towards the sea. The tarpaulin was pulled off Harry by a man who took the opportunity to curse him. The gag was removed from his mouth; then he was left to himself. He thought he had reached the lowest depths of misery. Something he had learnt of the awful fate in store for him in the Plantations. Many such poor wretches as himself had sailed across the seas in the hope of redeeming themselves from debt by years of unremitting toil. On their arrival they had become, body and soul, the property of their masters. Treated as no better than convicts, they were put to the most degrading labour, and their employers contrived to keep them, even as labourers, so deeply in debt for clothes and the common necessaries of life that the day of redemption never dawned for them, and they lived and died in abject slavery. This was to be his fate! What a declension from the bright destiny that seemed to be before him but a few months ago! The foc’sle was dark and noisome. The smell of bilge water and the reek of the lamp affixed to the side nauseated Harry. Physically and mentally, he was desperately wretched. And through all his misery he was overcome by sheer puzzlement. Hitherto he had surmised that, being young and strong, he had been marked as an easy prey by the professional kidnappers who prowled the streets of London, trepanning unfortunate young men likely to fetch a good price with shipmasters or unscrupulous colonial merchants. But the unexpected sight of Mr. Berkeley in Captain Aglionby’s company on deck had startled him into a new theory. Many things recurred to his mind. He remembered the bitter feud that had subsisted between his father and the squire; the disappearance of Captain Aglionby after a quarrel, as village gossip said, with Mr. Berkeley; the horseman riding after the coach; the strange warnings he had received from Sherebiah. He could not but feel that these incidents were in some way connected; he began to be convinced that his present situation was due ultimately to the enmity of the squire—the gaunt, sinister old man who was indirectly responsible for his father’s death. But though this was his conclusion, he was none the less puzzled. Why should the malignity of the squire pursue the son, now that the father was removed? What harm had _he_ ever done, or could he ever do, to the lord of the manor? Was the squire so unrelenting, was his malice so remorseless, that he must bring black ruin upon a boy in vengeance for his baulked will? It seemed inconceivable. Yet what other motive could he have? The more he thought of it, the more puzzled Harry became. The vessel was slowly threading its way down the river among the many vessels, large and small, that lay at their moorings. At times it stopped altogether, and from the deck resounded shouts and oaths at the obstacles that checked its course. By and by some of the sailors came forward for a spell of sleep, and Harry, kept wide awake by his hunger and discomfort, saw them tumble into their bunks and soon heard their snores. It would take several hours to reach the open sea. Was there a chance that, before the vessel left the Thames, he might even yet escape? To make the attempt was mere instinct with a high-spirited boy. The odds seemed all against him. To begin with, he was bound hand and foot to a plank, so that it was impossible even to bend his body. Suppose he rid himself of his bonds, there would be many of the crew on deck while the vessel threaded the crowded water-way, and he would be seen if he sprang overboard; and how could he free himself from the ropes? The idea had not come to him for the first time. When he was being trussed up he had remembered an old trick taught him by Sherebiah, acquired during his mountebank days, when he had mystified rustic spectators by escaping from ropes tied by the most expert hands in the village. He had so stiffened his muscles that he could wriggle out of any ordinary knot. But the situation was rendered more difficult by the plank. He could not lift himself, nor turn on his side. Lying on his back, he tried to ease the pressure of the ropes by the muscular movements he had practised with Sherebiah in sport. But he found, not to his surprise, that sailors were more skilful than anyone who had previously experimented with him. The tension was so great that he had the barest margin to work upon. Force was useless; it would only have the effect of cutting into his flesh and causing his hands and wrists to swell. But his whole mind was now bent upon one desperate venture, and, while the men snored around him, he began to strain on the ropes. For some time all his straining was of no avail. At last he felt the rope about his wrists give a little. Taking advantage of the slackened tension, he contrived, after what seemed an hour to him, to turn his joined wrists outwards, and in a few more minutes they were free. They ached intolerably; he felt as if all power was gone from them,—as if he could never grip anything firmly again. He waited until the numbing pain was abated, then set to work to free his elbows. These had been separately tied, and after many unsuccessful efforts he almost despaired. At length, however, he managed to shift his elbows down over the edges of the plank, which he was then able to use as fulcrums. Pressing as hard as possible, he forced the ropes slightly slack, then jerked himself sideways and almost on to his face. In doing so he more than once interrupted the snores of the man beneath him, and once desisted in alarm as the fellow growled out an oath. At last his elbows were free, and he lay panting with exertion and hope. But now that the upper part of his body was unbound, he found himself confronted by an unexpected difficulty. The board to which he was strapped extended down to his heels, and the knot being tied at the far end, he was unable to reach it. A man is never so agile with his ankles as with his wrists, and the plank had effectually prevented Harry from making use of Sherebiah’s trick in regard to his feet. It was impossible to reach the knots with his hands, for the roof of the foc’sle was so low that he could not rise to an upright posture in the bunk. He worked away at the upper part of the rope, but it was so taut that he could not ease it appreciably. He found himself making even more noise than before, and dreaded lest one of the crew should awaken too soon. Breathless with his exertions, he lay still to think. Was he to be baffled after all? Some hours must have passed since the vessel left her moorings, and though her progress had been interrupted and was always slow, yet she was drawing nearer and nearer to the mouth of the river, bringing him nearer and nearer to his doom. A dull dazed hopelessness was gaining possession of him. He lay with wide-open eyes, staring at nothing; then caught himself following the slight pendulous motion of a seaman’s coat that hung from a nail in one of the beams. To and fro it swung, with a regularity that became at last desperately annoying. But all at once that rough stained garment became to him the most interesting and important thing in the world. It seemed to shed a bright ray of hope. Never a seaman but had a knife; fervently did Harry pray that the owner of this coat had not emptied its pockets. Stealthily he bent over. The right-hand pocket was easily within reach. He put his hand in, and drew out one after another a pipe, a pouch, a flint, a steel, a tinder-box, a string of beads, a corner of mouldy biscuit, a horn snuff-box, a tattered letter, a plug of black tobacco, a broken comb, a red handkerchief, and a nutmeg; but no knife. He could only just touch the left-hand pocket; he could not put his hand in. He pulled at the coat, and held it with one hand, bringing the pocket within reach; then he plunged the other hand into its depths. He touched a metal case; it clicked against something, and he held his breath, hoping the sound had not been heard. No one spoke or moved. He felt further; his heart gave a great leap for joy, for he could not mistake the touch of the rugged handle of a clasp-knife. Eagerly he drew it out; to cut the rope was the work of an instant; he was free. But he was not yet out of danger. His limbs were loosed, but he was still imprisoned in an outward-bound ship. There was only one way of reaching safety: to gain the deck, spring overboard, and swim to land. He knew nothing about ships; he could row and swim, but till he came to London he had seen no vessel larger than a rowing boat. He guessed that while the barque was still in the Thames only a small portion of the crew would be on duty; but he did not know at what part of the ship they would be, nor where he would run least danger of detection. It was still dark; he might easily stumble as he moved about amid unfamiliar surroundings, and there was the risk that, even if he reached the bulwarks safely and sprang over, he might never succeed in reaching land alive. He did not know the width of the stream; he had been so long without food and had expended so much energy during the last few hours that he was in no condition to endure long fatigue. It would perhaps be better to rest for a little, and seize a moment as day was breaking, when there would be light enough to guide his steps. His body was still tingling from the strain of the ropes, but with the passing minutes his physical ease increased, and he was able to think more and more calmly. He heard the clang of a bell. Immediately afterwards a sailor came into the foc’sle, woke the man below Harry, and, when he had tumbled grumbling out of his berth, lay down in his place. It was a change of watch. "Where are we, Bill?" asked the man who had been roused. "Opening up Gravesend," was the reply; "and a dirty night. Raining hard, a following wind; we’ll make a good run out." The man was asleep as soon as he had finished the sentence, and Harry was reassured by his snores. Gravesend, he supposed, was a river-side village; if he could make his dive there he might find helping hands on shore. He wondered what the time was; the bells that he heard at intervals conveyed no information to him. He raised himself on his elbow and glanced round. It seemed to him that, in the opening to his left, the darkness was thinning; and the vessel was heaving to. The time had come for his venture. He sat up as high as his confined quarters allowed and surveyed his position. There were five men within the narrow space, all asleep, snoring in various keys. From above came now and then the sound of a voice and the tramp of feet; nothing else was to be heard. Slipping his leg over the side of the bunk, Harry paused for a moment, then slid to the floor. His knee knocked the edge of the bunk below; the seaman turned over with a grunt and asked sleepily, "Be it time already?" It was better to answer than to remain silent, thought Harry. Making his voice as gruff as possible, he said quickly: "No; keep still, you lubber." "Lubber yourself; I’ll split your——" His threat ended with a snore. Harry waited a moment to assure himself that all was quiet again; then, divesting himself of his long coat, which he knew would be a serious encumbrance in the water, he groped cautiously towards the opening, now showing as a gray patch in the gloom. Rain and sleet beat in upon him as he halted for a moment and threw a quick glance around before emerging on to the deck. In the waist of the vessel on the port side two men were hauling up casks, probably belated provisions, from a river craft lashed alongside; three or four seamen were high up in the rigging, and the mate was bellowing to them hoarse commands in what to Harry’s landsman’s ears was a foreign tongue. Harry felt that it was now or never; but, even as he prepared to spring, there was a heavy footfall above, and a man dropped from the foc’sle deck and alighted a couple of yards away. He swung on his heel to enter the foc’sle, and the two stood face to face. Harry recognized the broad coarse features of the sailor to whose feigned fit his easy capture was due. The man’s first impression was evidently that Harry was one of the crew; he quickly saw his mistake, but before his thought could translate itself into action Harry, who had the advantage of being strung up for just such a meeting, sprang upon him as a bolt from a bow. Reeling under a deftly planted blow the man slipped and fell heavily to the deck. Harry was past him in an instant, gained the side of the vessel, and, vaulting lightly on to the bulwark, had dived into the river before the astonished seaman could recover his breath to shout an alarm. In a few seconds Harry rose to the surface, shook the water from his face, and struck out for the shore. Behind him he heard the angry shouts of the sailors, and afterwards the click of oars working in the row-locks. A boat was evidently in pursuit. No doubt the craft alongside had been cast loose, for there could not have been time to lower a boat. Could he reach land in time? His dive had been so hasty that he had not had time to look around and select his course. But now, through the pelting rain, he gazed ahead to find the nearest way to safety. Judging by the noise of the oars, the boat was rapidly overhauling him, for although he had left his coat behind, he made but slow progress in his water-logged clothes. His view of the shore was intercepted by a few small one-masted vessels lying at anchor, and by a large brig moored about a hundred yards off the clump of trees that formed the western boundary of Gravesend. If he could gain the other side of the brig he thought he might dodge his pursuers. But he doubted whether his strength and speed could be sustained so long. The seamen were pulling with a will; the master himself was in the boat urging them on with oaths and execrations. Harry swam on gamely, changing his stroke in the effort to husband his strength. But he had only had a couple of minutes’ start, and looking over his shoulder he saw that with the best will in the world he must soon be overtaken. Only twenty yards separated him from the boat; he had just come opposite the poop of the stationary brig; he wondered whether a shout would bring anyone to his assistance, when a small skiff appeared from round the stern of the vessel, only a few feet distant from him. It had just put off from the brig and was swinging round towards the shore. Harry gave a hail; the men in the boat rested on their oars; collecting his remaining strength in a few desperate strokes he got alongside, and clutched the gunwale just as he felt himself at his last gasp. At the same moment the pursuing boat came up, and the man at the tiller had some ado to avoid a collision. [Illustration: At the Last Gasp] "Back water!" roared the master. The way on the boat was checked; it came to a stop a few yards beyond the skiff and nearer the shore. Meanwhile Harry had been dragged on board the skiff, and lay drenched, shivering, gasping across the thwarts. "Cotched, the villain!" cried the ship’s master exultantly. "Pull alongside, men." A few strokes brought the two boats together. "I’ll thank ye to hand un over," said the master. "Zooks! he shall pay for this." He received no reply, but instead a voice which Harry, half dead as he was from cold and fatigue, recognized with a leaping heart, ordered the crew of the skiff to pull back to the brig. "Hi!" roared the master, as the boats parted, "are ye deaf or what? Hand over that there runaway; ’tis a deserter. Pull after ’em, men." The boat started in pursuit, the master shouting with increasing anger. The skiff came below the brig’s stern, where a rope ladder was hanging over the side. "Gi’ un up, d’ye hear? Gi’ un up, or ’twill be the worse for ye." "Gif him up! Ja, ja; certainly, but not now, mine vrient; not now, and not to you. Dat is not my way. We do not dings zo in Holland." "What in thunder are ye gibbering about?" roared the master—"you dirty swab of a Dutchman, you! I tell you he is a deserter. Hand un over, or I’ll have the law of ye." "De law! Zo, mine vrient. We will talk over dis matter as good vrients." Grootz sat down, while the men on the brig prepared to haul Harry, now limp with utter exhaustion, on deck. "I, Jan Grootz, find dis young man in de river; ver well. He float in de river; well again; he is what de law call flotsam—dat is zo. Now, mine vrient,"—here Grootz’s fat forefinger began to waggle—"flotsam, say de law, belong to de sovereign, dat is, to de lady Queen Anne. What is for me to do in such a case—for me, Jan Grootz? I render to Cæsar—who is de Queen—dat which is Cæsar’s—dat which belong to de gracious majesty Queen Anne. Derefore I gif up dis young man to de Queen’s officer at Gravesend—perhaps, when he is dry. Zo!" While this speech was being delivered in the Dutchman’s slow drawl, with a placid persuasiveness suited to a discussion between friends who did not see quite eye to eye, the master had been growing purple with rage. He was about to explode into invective when he saw that Harry was being swung up. "Give way, men!" he shouted. "Run her alongside." He held himself in readiness to board the skiff as soon as he came within leaping distance. But Grootz, with an activity little to be expected in so burly a frame, seized an oar that had been shipped by one of his men now lending a hand in hoisting Harry on board, and, springing to his feet, with a shrewd thrust sent the master spinning over the side of his boat into the river. He came up nearly a dozen yards away; his crew pulled towards him, and when he was at last hauled into the boat he was fifty yards down the river. He had evidently shipped a good deal of water, for Grootz’s blow must have knocked the breath out of his body; the purple hue of his cheeks had given place to a mottled sickliness. He gasped and puffed and swore; but Harry was by this time safe on board the brig; to take him by main force was clearly impossible; and the discomfited master had no alternative but to regain his own vessel. Harry was carried to the cabin, his wet clothes were taken off, he was wrapped in blankets and forced to swallow a good bumper of cordial before the Dutchman would allow him to speak. "Zo!" exclaimed Grootz when he was comfortable. "You saved my life, sir," said Harry warmly. "I was nearly done." "Zo!" "They were taking me to the Plantations. I never heard from Lord Marlborough. They trapped me. All my money was gone. I went to the Angel and Crown to find you, to ask you to give me work; you had sailed." "Zo! talk no more. Flotsam! Gunst! I tell you dis, my vrient; put not your drust in princes: every man learn dis zoon or late: better zoon. Zo!" The honest Dutchman left Harry to sleep while he resumed his interrupted journey to the shore. But he had barely reached the deck when he heard himself hailed by a stentorian voice from a wherry sweeping by under full sail and the rapid ply of oars. "Ahoy there! Ha’ ye seed a ship named the _Merry Maid_ a-sailen down-along this way?" "Ja, ja!" cried Grootz, chuckling; "what for you ask?" But the man gave him no answer; only called to the two men rowing the wherry to pull more lustily. "Hi!" shouted the Dutchman in his turn; and though his voice was usually low he could roar at need. "Hi! you be too late!" The man did not turn his head. "Hi! she is two mile ahead!" Sherebiah gave no sign. He was rapidly passing out of earshot. "Hi!" shouted Grootz still more loudly. "Sherebiah, stop! Mynheer Harry is here!" Sherebiah jumped up so violently that, heavy as the wherry was, he almost upset it. "Master Harry?" he roared. "Ja! I tell you." The wherry slewed round and headed toward the brig. Grootz lit his pipe and watched, his little eyes twinkling with amusement. Sherebiah looked positively aggrieved when he came aboard. "Oons! ’tis sinful to tear a poor mortal man’s heart out, ’tis so. Here be I, a-chasen a villanous creature, the _Merry Maid_ by name, thinken as Master Harry were a forsaken prisoner aboard on her, and ’tis all much ado about nothen, and he a-laughen in his sleeve along o’ your cargo! I wouldn’ ha’ thowt it, not I. Where be the deceiven trickster?" "Asleep," said Grootz, with a puff of smoke. "Flotsam!" He chuckled and guffawed; it was a joke that would last his lifetime. "What your meanen may be I don’t know, Mynheer; but ’tis me as ought to be sleepen. No sleep ha’ I had, not a wink, since Master Harry played this trick on me; ay, ’twas sinful. And I’ll punch Ralph Aglionby’s costard, I will so, first chance I gets." "Tell me about it," said Grootz. Sherebiah related how, on returning to his inn with the money for which he had pledged Harry’s trinkets, he was surprised to find his young master absent. As time passed on, and he did not make his appearance, Sherebiah became thoroughly alarmed. About seven o’clock in the evening he hurried off to Southwark, and enquired of the porter at the White Hart whether Captain Aglionby was within. The captain had left a week before, said the porter, in company with a tall, bent, shabby old gentleman. Sherebiah’s worst fears were realized. For weeks he had expected the stroke, and now it had fallen suddenly, and at a time when he was not at hand to parry it. He hastened at once to the house in which, as he had made it his business to know, Mr. Berkeley was staying. Neither the squire nor Captain Aglionby was at home. Sherebiah thereupon took his station at a convenient spot near the house whence he could see without being seen, and some time after midnight was rewarded. The two men he sought returned together. Allowing a little time to elapse, he went to the house and asked to see Captain Aglionby, giving the servant a vague message which he believed would bring the captain to the door. Instead of him, however, Mr. Berkeley himself appeared. To Sherebiah’s question as to what had become of Harry, the squire replied coldly that he knew nothing about him, and shut the door in his questioner’s face. "Ay, I were a fool to ask un," admitted Sherebiah ruefully. "I had ought to ha’ thowt o’ poor old feyther o’ mine." Sherebiah was determined to have his question answered somehow. He was early at his post next morning, keeping a careful eye upon the door of the house. He saw the squire and Captain Aglionby issue forth together and visit a lawyer up four flights of stairs in a house near Holborn Bars. He followed all three to a house in a blind alley farther east, never suspecting that Harry was there confined. He shadowed them when they left, saw them enter a coffee-house, followed them when they came out, and then lost sight of them. Returning to his own inn to enquire whether anything had been heard of Harry, he found that a man had called an hour before and left a message for him, asking him to call without delay at an address in Smithfield. Hastening there at once, he learnt from Harry’s late jailer how he had been kidnapped and shipped off to the Plantations. At full speed he rushed to the wharf, only to learn that the _Merry Maid_, William Shovel master, had just taken the tide and was now on her way to the sea. "You med ha’ knocked me down wi’ a feather. I sat me down on a box under a gashly torch, and thinks I, ’Rafe Aglionby be too much for ’ee this time, Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless.’ I stood up, I did; time an’ tide waits for no man; ’twas a sudden thought; I seed a sailen wherry alongside wharf, and two big swabs hangen round. I showed ’em a crown a-piece, and said there’s more to foller, and mebbe summat out o’ the Queen’s purse too; and here I be, all my poor mortal flesh a-wamblen like a aspen. ’Tis tooken a year off my life, ay, ’tis so." Jan Grootz smiled. "Mine good vrient," he said, "I tell you dis. You will come ashore with me; we will go to your inn and fetch your goods. It will delay us, but only one day. Den my ship sails; Amsterdam; you will come?" "Sakes! What about Master Harry, then?" "He alzo." "Oons! Be that th’ order o’ the day? Well, ’tis a long lane has no turnen. Will there be time for me to go and ha’ a few words wi’ Rafe Aglionby?" "No." "Well, I’ll save ’em up. A rod bean’t none the wuss for bein’ salted. Ay, and I were not always a man o’ peace!" *CHAPTER IX* *Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit* Scenes in Holland—Feeding an Army—A Tulip Bulb—On the Road—The Captain’s Man—A Break-Down—Double Dutch—The Captain Again—A Diversion—An Entry—An Exit—Hospitality—Confidences—Rejected Addresses—Palmam qui Meruit—Persuaded—Adèle "Hundred barrels pork, tousand quarters flour, five hunderdweight sausages, twenty gallon schnapps, for de garrison of Breda. Ver well, Monsieur de Tilly, de order shall be done." Mynheer Jan Grootz put down the paper from which he had been translating, and pushed a pair of horn spectacles up his brow. "Mynheer Harry," he continued, "you will see to dis. Such an order yesterday could not have been met—no. But wid Peter Kolp’s man coming from Helmund it is to-day anoder ding. In Helmund, wid Peter Kolp, dere is pork, flour—plenty; yes, my poor vrient Kolp dink dere is too much; he alzo would supply de army. ’Grootz,’ he say, ’ask too high prices. As for me, Kolp, I am a cheap man. But Grootz, he is a sad rascal.’ But I tell you dis: dey say my poor vrient Kolp forget his measures and weights, he dink fourteen ounces weigh one pound, and sometimes, dey say, he dink ten barrel bad pork make twelve good; so my poor vrient is not now permitted to contract no more; and he sell me his stores. Truly, he is a cheap man! Zo!" There was a chuckle of satisfaction in the concluding word. "You will start early in de morning, Mynheer Harry," he resumed, "wid ten carts; Helmund is twenty mile beyond Tilburg, and Tilburg fifteen beyond Breda. You will get de stores from Kolp at Helmund and return wid dem to Breda and hand dem over to the commissary dere. Take wid you your man Sherebiah, and Piet Brinker to show you de road; he will pick drivers for de carts. We hear noding of forayers lately; zo I hope you have a safe journey, And, Mynheer Harry, never forget dat poor Kolp cannot count, and do not know good pork from bad, and mistake chalk for flour. You will examine dese little matters wid much care; zo?" The merchant replaced his glasses on his nose and proceeded to dictate an invoice to one of his clerks. He sat at a desk in a low-pitched room next to the roof of a gabled house near the Gevangen Poort in Bergen-op-Zoom. The lower floors were devoted to the living apartments; the warehouse and offices were at the top, goods being raised and lowered by means of a crane-like apparatus that projected from the wall like a yard-arm. It was not Mynheer Grootz’s home; that was at the Hague; but Bergen-op-Zoom at the head of the eastern arm of the Scheldt was for the present his business head-quarters, conveniently situated in regard to the scattered armies whose wants he had to supply. [Illustration: Map of Part of the LOW COUNTRIES in 1703.] It was early in the month of June. For more than three months Harry Rochester had been engaged with the worthy Dutchman, who was kept busy morning, noon, and night in provisioning the allied forces now entering upon a new campaign. He found his employment very much to his taste, and his employer the best of friends. Grootz never alluded to the time when his offer of employment had been slighted, and Harry often smiled as he remembered the pride with which, in the days of his high expectations, he had refused to cast in his lot with a mere merchant. The novelty of the scenes amid which he found himself on his arrival in Holland had banished his ambitions for the time. The flat country, with its dunes and dykes, its endless canals and innumerable windmills; its quaint towns, in which chimneys and steeples and masts seemed so curiously jumbled; the stolid, hospitable people—the men with their big pipes and snuff-boxes, the women with their characteristic head-dress, the girls with the riband of maidenhood at their right brow; the strange customs—the _spionnen_ at the windows, an arrangement of mirrors by which from the upper rooms all that passed in the street below could be seen within; the placard at the door when a child was born; the incessant scrubbing that went on indoors and out; the _trekschuiten_ and _pakschuiten_ that conveyed goods and passengers along the canals, drawn sometimes by horses, more often by a stout mynheer and his vrouw; the storks nesting among the chimney-pots; the stiff formal gardens with their beds of tulips—everything interested him; his low spirits vanished into thin air, and he enjoyed life with a zest he had never known before. His duties had taken him into many parts of the country. In March he was at the Hague when the Duke of Marlborough returned to resume command of the forces, and he did not even feel a pang when, a humble member of the crowd, he saw the great soldier whose forgetfulness or insincerity had so woefully disappointed him. He knew the potteries of Delft, and the cheese-factories of Gouda; he had heard the great organ of Haarlem, and the sweet carillons of Antwerp, and practised skating for the first time on a frozen arm of the Y. Finding it difficult to get on without a knowledge of Dutch, the only language understood by his teamsters and the country people, he had thrown himself energetically into the study of the language; and he had, besides, picked up a smattering of everyday German phrases from one of his men, a German Swiss. After his natural British diffidence in adventuring on a foreign tongue had worn off, he delighted to air his new accomplishment with the comely juffrouws whom he met in the course of his journeys. He dropped into the routine of the business so rapidly that Mynheer Grootz once told him he was a born merchant—a compliment which, to his own surprise, did not give the least shock to his dignity. His intelligence and energy completely won the old Dutchman’s confidence, and more than once he had been entrusted with the delivery of supplies to the army in the field. It was not always possible for the military authorities to furnish convoys for these consignments, and they were therefore usually accompanied by well-armed men to guard against the danger of surprise by robbers and freebooters. Many small bands of outlaws were abroad in Holland and Germany, taking advantage of the disturbed state of the country to prey upon the inhabitants, under the pretence of making requisitions for one or other of the contending forces. These marauders terrorized the remoter districts. Hitherto Harry had been fortunate in avoiding any danger of this character. Grootz was as phlegmatic and silent as ever, but he showed in his quiet way that he was pleased with the lad’s unvarying diligence and success. Harry woke early. The sun was bright but the air cool, and he felt full of vigour, eager to set off on this the longest expedition he had yet taken. Mynheer Grootz was a bachelor, and his breakfast-table was served by a buxom old housekeeper who, after a brief season of jealousy, had capitulated to Harry’s cheerfulness and courtesy. At breakfast the merchant in his slow, ponderous manner repeated his customary warnings to Harry to guard against surprise, and to be punctilious about getting a formal receipt for his supplies from the commissary of the force to which they were to be delivered. "Here is de paper," he said, handing it to Harry. "Make him sign it; he may be a count or marquis or someding of de sort, and I trust none of dem." Harry laughed. "Put not your trust in princes" seemed to be the prime motto of his host’s business career. "Very well, Mynheer," he said. "And here is a packet I wish you to deliver. Not for de army, dis; no; it is for a vrient of mine dat live a few miles dis side of Helmund. I promised her a tulip bulb; dis is it." He handed to Harry a small packet, on which the address was written. "The Comtesse de Vaudrey," he read aloud. "That is a French name?" "Ja! De lady is French, a widow, of a family dat had to leave France because of the persecutions. She is French, but a vrient alzo. If you need help, she will give it." "I hope she is not a very great lady. I have met no lady here higher in rank than a burgomaster’s vrouw, and I thought she rather looked down on me." "The comtesse is mine vrient," repeated Grootz in a tone that implied there was no more to be said. A few minutes afterwards they left the breakfast-room. At the outer door ten empty wagons were already waiting with their drivers, and as Harry prepared to mount to his place on the foremost, Sherebiah came up with the remains of his breakfast in his hand. Grootz repeated his warnings; Harry smiled and waved his good-bye to Gretel the housekeeper, who stood at the door with her hands folded in front of her ample person, and the line of carts moved off. The Harry Rochester in charge of the convoy was a different being from the pale thin youth who had left England four months before. His work had had the effect of hardening his muscles and developing his physique; and constant exposure to the air and sun had browned his cheeks and brightened his eye. But Sherebiah presented a still greater contrast. From the moment of landing on Dutch soil he had ceased to shave, with the result that his lips and cheeks and chin were now covered with a thick growth of stiff brown hair. Harry did not like the change, but when he asked the reason of this departure from old habit Sherebiah merely said that he had concluded shaving to be a waste of time. The reply was hardly satisfactory, but Sherebiah was never communicative unless he wished to be so, and Harry let the matter drop. The roads were heavy, and the horses were of the large-limbed variety that spell endurance rather than pace. Empty as the wagons were, only twenty miles were made that day, and Harry decided to stay for the night at the Crown Inn at Breda. The town was garrisoned by four battalions of infantry, four regiments of cavalry, and a regiment of dragoons, and it was for these that the supplies were required. Harry sought out the commissary, and promising to deliver the goods within two days, went for a stroll through the town, leaving Sherebiah to bespeak supper at the inn. He roamed through the winding streets, one of which ended with a windmill; admired the warm-toned old house-fronts; William the Third’s chateau, encircled by the river Merk; and the fine Hervormde Kerk, with its lofty octagon tower and bulbous spire. On returning to the inn he was met by Sherebiah in some excitement. "What med ’ee think, sir? Who’d ’ee believe I ha’ seed?" "Well?" "John Simmons, sir, large as life." "Captain Aglionby’s man—the man who got a crack on the head on the Roman road?" "The very same." "I have often wondered how he managed to escape from old Nokes the constable. ’Twas whispered that the captain himself had a hand in it. I suppose he came to this country for safety." "Ay, not for riches, so ’twould seem," replied Sherebiah rather hurriedly. "A’ was down at heel, more like a ragged vagrom than the smart soul as drank his pint at the Berkeley Arms. Mother Joplady couldn’ abide un." "Did he see you?" "Not him. Nor I don’t want to see un, the mumpen cockney.—Supper’s ready, sir." Next morning Harry proceeded with his convoy along the Eyndhoven road and arrived late at his destination, Helmund. Almost the whole of the following day was occupied in loading his wagons and procuring extra carts to carry the stores collected by Grootz’s client, Peter Kolp. At his first interview with that "poor friend" of Mynheer Grootz, Harry made it clear that, as a matter of form, the provisions would be carefully tested in quality and quantity, with the result that they were found to be excellent and full weight. It was four o’clock before he was ready to start for Breda. He followed a different route on his return journey. Madame de Vaudrey’s house, Lindendaal, lay on the upper road toward Boxtel—a safer road to travel, as a report had come in that the French had made their appearance near Turnhout, to the south, and were coming apparently in the direction of Eyndhoven. Unluckily, the convoy had proceeded only a few miles on its return to Breda when, as it was crossing the Aa river, one of the horses took fright and toppled the cart into the water. Fortunately the stream was sluggish and shallow, but Harry saw that it would take some time to extricate the wagon from the mud and collect what part of its load was worth saving. Leaving Piet Brinker in charge of the work, he decided to push on himself with the remainder of the convoy, deliver the packet he carried for Madame de Vaudrey, and wait for the rescued wagon to overtake him. He knew that, with the hospitality universal in Holland, the countess would not allow him to proceed unrefreshed, and he was in truth not a little glad of the opportunity of seeing the lady whom Grootz had so emphatically called his friend. He therefore drove on. The wagon wheels ploughed deep furrows in the heavy sandy roads, and the big Dutch horses plodded on steadily but slowly. The road wound by and by through avenues of elms, pruned of their branches in the Dutch way, and looking to Harry’s English eyes very starved and ugly. At length he came to a wall on the right that appeared to enclose a park of some considerable size. A peasant was passing, whom he hailed, asking in Dutch whether this was the house of Madame de Vaudrey. The man looked stolidly at him without replying. Sherebiah repeated the question, using a different phrase. The Hollander answered at once that this certainly was Lindendaal, the chateau of the French lady. Harry sprang from his wagon, ordered the drivers to draw up by the side of the road, which was here parallel with a narrow canal, and entered the gate accompanied by Sherebiah. "I’ll tell you one thing that puzzles me, Sherry," he remarked, as they passed up an avenue bounded on both sides by a breast-high balustrade of stone. "You and I have been in this country the same time, and seen each as much as the other of the people, and yet you have beat me altogether in picking up the language, hard as I have worked at it. I don’t understand it." "Ah well, Master Harry," said Sherebiah, "’tis like that sometimes, so ’tis. You be a scholard, with book larnen and all that; I be, true, a poor common mortal, but mebbe my ear be quicker ’n some." "Still, the time is rather short for you to have learnt to speak the language so well as you do. Your knowledge has grown as quickly as your beard." "True now, mebbe so; Samson in the Holy Book growed amazen clever wi’ his locks; but I never thowt afore as how it med be the same in these days." Harry laughed. "It looks very English, doesn’t it?" he said, pointing to the house. It was square, with a veranda painted blue, under which were several windows opening to the ground. In front was an open semicircular space, around which were parterres of brilliant flowers; these were separated from the park and orchard by a prolongation of the balustrades that lined the drive. There were dormer windows in the roof, and at one angle rose a kind of belfry surmounted by a weathercock. "Give me the packet, Sherry; you had better remain at the door while I go in." "Ay, or mebbe I med find my lone way to the kitchen?" "No, no; remain at the door until I have seen Madame de Vaudrey. I can’t have you coquetting with her maids." Harry went to the door, which stood open, the afternoon having been warm. A spare, anxious-looking man-servant came in answer to his ring. "Is Madame de Vaudrey within?" he asked in Dutch. The man’s accent when he replied in the affirmative left no doubt that he was a Frenchman. Harry explained his errand in French, whereupon the man said in the same language that his mistress was for the moment engaged, but that if Monsieur would wait no doubt she would see him shortly. He led Harry through the wide hall, up a handsome oak staircase into a little ante-room, where, begging him to be seated, he shut the door upon the visitor. Harry was immediately aware of voices engaged in conversation on the other side of the folding-doors that formed one wall of the room. At first the sounds came to him as murmurs in different tones, but after a time they became louder, and though he could not distinguish the words it was plain that one at least of the speakers was very angry. At length he heard the fierce clanging of a bell below; a few moments after, the manservant came running into the ante-room and threw open the folding-doors. Harry, looking into what was evidently the drawing-room, saw a group of four. One was clearly the lady of the house, short, stout, dressed in a costume little resembling the Dutch housewife’s usual attire. She was very angry, talking vehemently, and gesticulating with her plump white hand. By her side stood a younger lady, half a head taller, slim and graceful, perfectly still and collected, though her cheeks were flushed. Opposite to the two ladies, their backs to the four windows which lit the other end of the room, were two men, one very tall and lean, with thin lips. The other was but little shorter and a good deal stouter. Harry’s attention had been at first attracted to the ladies; the burlier of the two men was the last of the four to be noticed; and it was with a shock of amazement that he recognized in his figure and blotched red face no other than Captain Aglionby. "Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en!" the elder lady was repeating. "Quittez ma maison, tout de suite; je vous l’ordonne, je l’exige, je le veux absolument; retirez-vous, messieurs, d’ici, et au plus vite!" Aglionby laughed. None of the four had yet caught sight of Harry standing back in the darker ante-room. The lady turned to the manservant and ordered him to eject the unwelcome visitors. The servant hesitated to attempt a task clearly beyond his strength. Aglionby put his hand on his sword, and then laughed again brutally as he recognized that he had nothing to fear. All the time the taller man stood quietly watching the scene, occasionally moistening his lips; and the girl remained in the same tense immobility, her eyes never leaving the face of Aglionby. Harry felt it was time to intervene. "Perhaps I may be allowed—" he began. At the first word the captain swung round as if on a pivot and stared. His puffed crimson face turned a sea-green as he saw advancing towards him, fresh, lithe, confident, the youth whom he fondly imagined by this time leading a slave’s life in a Barbados plantation. The other man did not stir; but the two ladies looked towards the speaker with a sort of startled surprise. Stepping towards the elder, Harry continued: "Perhaps I may be allowed to offer my services. If Madame will be so good as to retire, I will—reason with these gentlemen." Madame de Vaudrey clasped her hands and looked indecisively at the new-comer, as though doubting the propriety of accepting the intervention of a stranger. Harry was on the point of explaining who he was, when the matter was settled in an unexpected way. The girl moved to her mother’s side and took her by the hand. Then, turning to Harry, she said in clear, cold tones: "If Monsieur will rid the house of these two men he will do my mother a great service. Come, Mamma!" And then, without another glance at any of the three, she led Madame de Vaudrey, still half-resisting, from the room. The colour had been gradually returning to Aglionby’s face, and when the ladies had disappeared his purple hue was deeper than ever. But the surprise of Harry’s presence was so great that for the moment the doughty captain was nonplussed; his anger was at boiling-point, but he was clearly at a loss what course to take. His companion stood expectant, a slight smile still on his face—a smile rendered peculiarly disagreeable by a twitching of the mouth that drew one corner perceptibly upwards towards the left ear. The interval of silence seemed longer than it really was. "I am sure, gentlemen," said Harry with great urbanity, "you will see the propriety of at once relieving Madame de Vaudrey of your presence." Then the storm broke. Glaring with rage, unable to stand still, stuttering in his speech, Aglionby roared: "You insolent puppy, you low-born cully, you—how dare you speak to me! What are you doing here? Stap me, I’ll run you through the midriff and rid the world of a bit of vermin!" "I shall be delighted to give you an opportunity—outside," said Harry quietly. "Meanwhile, the door is open, and by making your exit you will please not Madame de Vaudrey only, but me and, it appears, yourself." "Adsbud, I’ll—I’ll——" stuttered Aglionby, half drawing his sword. Harry had his right hand on the hilt of his own weapon, the third man was still watching the scene, when an unlooked-for diversion occurred. Harry was between the two rooms, the two men opposite him with their backs to the drawing-room windows, which were open. It happened that a flight of steps led up from the garden to a balcony beneath these windows. At this critical moment a fourth man came suddenly into the room from the outside. Before any of the three could perceive what was happening, the new-comer, with a long acrobatic spring, simultaneously imprisoned in his arms the necks of Aglionby and his companion, and half-throttling them dragged them past Harry, through the ante-room, into the corridor, and down the staircase. Harry followed, himself somewhat amazed at their helter-skelter progress—bumping down the stairs, struggling vainly in Sherebiah’s vice-like grip, swaying against the balusters first on one side then on the other, the wood-work creaking and groaning under the pressure. Half-way down the men lost their feet altogether, and were incapable of resisting the rush with which their captor hauled them across the vestibule and through the open door, where he pulled up with a sudden jerk and shot them down the flight of shallow steps on to the drive in front. The whole proceeding scarcely occupied more than half a minute, so sudden had been the onset, so helpless were the two men, gasping half-strangled in Sherebiah’s merciless hug. Harry ran down the stairs, expecting to find his man engaged in a battle royal before the house. But when he reached the door he saw Aglionby and the Frenchman already halfway down the drive towards the road. They had not waited, then, to demand satisfaction of him. Smiling at his recollection of their headlong descent, he went upstairs again, and was met by Madame de Vaudrey, who had come from another room at the sound of scuffling. She was very pale. "They are gone, Madame," said Harry at once, to reassure her. "Oh, Monsieur, I thank you, I thank you with good heart! Your help at the precise moment was so precious. I cannot thank you too much." "It was my servant, Madame—a very useful fellow. He did it all himself. I am glad we happened to be at hand. This unforeseen incident has prevented me, Madame, from explaining my presence here. I have called to leave a packet entrusted to me by Mynheer Grootz, a friend of yours, I think." "Oh! it is my tulip bulb. Mynheer Grootz promised to send it me. Yes, he is a friend of mine indeed. But are those men really gone? Will they not overpower your brave servant? They are bad men—oh, they are bad! I fear them." "I saw them going down the drive. And my man knows how to take care of himself," said Harry. "They will not trouble you again at present. And now, Madame, as I have Mynheer Grootz’s packet in the ante-room, if you will allow me to place it in your hands I will take my leave and proceed on my way." "Mon Dieu, non!" cried the lady. "You must allow me to give you some refreshment, and your brave man too—if he is really safe! Jean," she called to the servant, "bring wine and cakes and fruit to the drawing-room. But first see if this gentleman’s servant is safe." "He is, Madame," replied the man at once. "The men from the stables and the garden were coming to the door: Mademoiselle had fetched them: and they were too many for Monsieur de Polignac and the other." "How thankful I am! Bring the brave man up with you. Now, Monsieur—I do not know your name?" "It is Harry Rochester, Madame; I am English." "Indeed! Come into the drawing-room and rest. Jean will bring something to eat and drink immediately." She led the way into the room, gave Harry a comfortable chair, and sat opposite to him, folding her plump hands on her lap, and heaving a sigh of satisfaction and relief. The servant soon reappeared with a tray, and when Madame de Vaudrey had seen Harry supplied with drink and food that pleased him, she dismissed her man, read the letter Mynheer Grootz had enclosed with his gift, and began to talk. "You are English? That is interesting. My dear husband’s mother was English, so that my daughter has a little—a very little, of course—English blood in her. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you came when you did. That is also another debt I owe to Mynheer Grootz. He writes very amiable things of you. I was at my wits’ end, Monsieur Rochestair; I will tell you about it.—Do you like that wine?" "Thank you, it is excellent." "I am so glad! You speak French very well for an Englishman. My daughter wishes to learn English. She takes after her father, not after me. I wonder where she is?" Harry followed her glance to the door; he too had wondered what had become of the tall girl who had shown so much decisiveness of character at an awkward moment. But she did not appear. "Well," continued the amiable hostess, "let me tell you all about it." Mynheer Grootz’s recommendation was clearly a passport to her favour. She leant back in her high chair, and in her clear, well-modulated voice told Harry what he was, it must be confessed, curious to hear. It was three years since her husband, the Comte de Vaudrey, died. He was a student, not a man of affairs; and his fortune suffered through his lack of business-like qualities. The estate, a small one, purchased by his father when as a Huguenot he fled from France at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, was now much encumbered. Monsieur de Vaudrey had bought the best perspective glasses and other expensive scientific instruments, had spent large sums on rare books and specimens, and had so embarrassed himself that he had to apply to the Amsterdam bankers, who advanced him money on a mortgage of the estate. Not long afterwards he died. "It is only a year ago," continued Madame de Vaudrey, "that we learnt that we were to have a neighbour. The estate adjoining our own had been in the market for many years, and we heard that it had at last been purchased by a Monsieur de Polignac, a Frenchman, and a Huguenot like ourselves. We were rejoiced at the news; a neighbour of our own race and faith would be so charming, we thought. And so indeed he was, at first. I thought his visits to his estate too few; he was so often at the Hague; when he came to see us he was so debonair, so gracious, that I liked him well. With my daughter, quite the contrary. It was prejudice, I told her; but from the first she looked on him coldly. Then all at once he became a more frequent visitor, and I saw—yes, a mother’s eyes are keen—that he had pretensions to my daughter’s hand. I did not oppose him; he was rich, noble, a Huguenot; but Adèle—certes, Monsieur Rochestair, no maiden could ever have given less encouragement. The first time he was refused he smiled—he does not look well when he smiles, think you?—and said that he would still hope. But though I thought the match a good one, I would not persuade my daughter: she is all I have, Monsieur, and so young. He went away; then a few days ago I am astonished to see him reappear in company with Captain Aglionby, who is visiting him. Now first I begin really to dislike Monsieur de Polignac." "Did you know Captain Aglionby before, then?" asked Harry in surprise. "Yes; that is why. I know him, and I think no friend of his can be a good man. Captain Aglionby stayed for a month in this house some five years ago. No, he was not a welcome guest; he was brought here to recover from a wound he had received in a skirmish near by; ah, Monsieur, he is an odious man! I hate his loud voice, his turbulence, his rodomontade; imagine, three times, Monsieur, three times he intoxicated himself in my house, and excused himself with the plea that he had done so many times with the Czar of Muscovy. He used to force himself into my husband’s study, meddle with his things, spoil his scientific experiments—my husband was discovering a plan to get gold from sea-water, and we should have been so rich! But the odious captain ruined all. I am sure he did, for the experiments came to nothing." "Why did you put up with it?" "Alas! what could we do? My husband was a man of tranquil soul who had lived so long with his books that he could not deal with men. As for me—you see me, a poor helpless woman! and Adèle was then only eleven! judge then my surprise and alarm when I see Captain Aglionby in company with Monsieur de Polignac. Still more to-day, when Monsieur de Polignac comes once more to urge his suit. Adèle refuses him with scorn. And then—oh, the villain!—he tells me he has bought from the Jews of Amsterdam the mortgage on this estate, and if Adèle will not be his wife, then he turns us out—think of it, Monsieur; turns two defenceless women out. This it is that changes me, a weak woman, into a fury, as you see." Harry forbore to smile at Madame de Vaudrey’s placid impersonation of a fury. "They are a couple of villains indeed," he said. "It was truly fortunate that I came with Sherebiah at the right moment." "Yes, indeed; a thousand thanks! And only think of it: just before you came Captain Aglionby, odious man, had dared to hint that when we were thrust out of our home he would do me the honour to marry me. Truly an honour! No, I never forget my dear husband; no, never! Ah, this is the dear brave man, your servant?" The door had opened, and Sherebiah came in awkwardly, turning his hat between his hands. Madame de Vaudrey rose and, smiling upon him, said: "I give you a thousand thanks. You are a hero; how strong! how bold!" Sherebiah bobbed. "Madame de Vaudrey thanks you," said Harry. "’Tis handsome of the lady, sir, and I’m obleeged, and axes you to put my sarvices into French lingo, sir." He bobbed again. "What about Captain Aglionby?" asked Harry. "Well, sir, I reckon he be madder than a March hare. Nigh to bust hisself, and hot as pepper. Would ha’ slashed me, man o’ peace as I be, if ’tweren’t for half a dozen Dutch coofs wi’ pitchforks and other articles o’ warfare drawn up below, wi’ the young lady at their head. Ay, she be a warrior bold, sure enough: I never seed such a piece of female manliness all my life long. ’Twas with a flashen eye and a pink rose on each pretty cheek her stood and ordered ’em out. Ay, an uncommon upstanden piece o’ womankind her be, to be sure." Harry was glad that Madame de Vaudrey’s ignorance of English could not fathom this plain-spoken tribute to her daughter’s charms. "They are really gone, then?" he said. "Why, yes, both on ’em; the long beetle chap as well. He be a next-door neighbour, it seems, and a mighty unpleasant neighbour he must be.—Thank ’ee kindly, mum," he added, as Madame de Vaudrey offered him a glass of wine, "but if ’ee don’t mind, I’d rather wet my whistle with a mug of beer in the kitchen." The lady smiled when this was interpreted. "You English are like the Hollanders in that," she said. "Certainly. Jean, take the brave man to the kitchen and treat him well." Sherebiah pulled his forelock and departed with alacrity. "We must shortly be going on our way, Madame," said Harry. "I have a convoy of provisions for the garrison at Breda, and my wagoners are even now growing impatient, I doubt not." "But, Monsieur, I cannot hear of it. You cannot reach Breda to-night; and suppose those odious men return? You must be tired. Do me the favour to stay here for the night; and we can find a bed for your man also." "But the wagons?" "Let them go on to the village; it is but half a league away. They can remain at the inn there. Monsieur, I insist; and besides, I have to write a letter of thanks to my friend Mynheer Grootz." Harry had no reason for refusing an invitation so cordial. Madame de Vaudrey beamed when he accepted, and, begging to be excused, went off to make arrangements with her servants. Left to himself, Harry looked round the room. It was richly furnished; the tables, cabinets, and chairs were of French make, in highly polished rose-wood; chairs and sofas were covered with crimson velvet, and two cabinets were filled with beautiful porcelain and Dutch china. The pictures upon the walls were all French, except one—a portrait, evidently by a Dutch hand and of a comparatively recent date. It represented a man’s head, with dark complexion and wistful melancholy eyes. Harry was attracted to it by a slight resemblance to his father; not in the features, which were quite unlike, but in the curious sadness of the expression. His thoughts were carried back to his old home at Winton St. Mary, and the quiet life with his father there; a mist came before his eyes, and he fell into a reverie, standing thus before the picture. So rapt was he in recollection that he did not hear the door open behind him, nor turn to see the entrance of Adèle de Vaudrey. For a moment the girl stood in the doorway, holding the handle. An onlooker would have seen a strange shifting of expression upon her face as she paused in hesitation whether to advance or retire, to speak or to remain silent. It was but for a moment; her lips softened, her long lashes drooped down upon her eyes; and closing the door as noiselessly as she had opened it she slipped away. *CHAPTER X* *Bluff* A Stroll—A Fair Cook—Love and Duty—An Arrival—General van Santen—Raiders—A Dozen all Told—Rallying the Peasants—Desperate Counsels—The Masqueraders—Strategy—A Ruse de Guerre—Stage Effects—Final Touches—In Sight—At the Door—Ransom—A Turn of the Screw—Phantom Forces—Dilemma—Discretion—Courtesies "Ah, my dear Monsieur Rochestair, pardon me for leaving you so long. I have been to prepare your room." "Thank you indeed, Madame!" "You were looking at the portrait? It is my dear husband. Is it not a fine head? Can you imagine, after seeing it, that I could put that odious captain in his place? Not that I should think every man bad unless he resembled my husband. No, that would be unjust. But come and see my garden, Monsieur Rochestair. It is beautiful outside now that the sun is going down." "I shall be delighted. I have noticed how the scent of the flowers comes to us here through the windows." "Yes, I love flowers. Mynheer Grootz knows that." Madame conducted Harry through the grounds. They were laid out with more freedom than was usual in Holland, and reminded him at many a turn of well-tended parks at home. The house was surrounded by its garden; beyond this was an expanse of lawn and thin park bounded by a wall. Beyond this again, Madame de Vaudrey explained, lay the orchard belonging to the far larger estate now owned by Monsieur de Polignac. At a considerable distance from the house on the eastern side Harry remarked a large open stretch of ground, roughly circular in shape, covered with grass that grew wild and was left uncropt, Across the middle of it ran a ditch, now apparently dry, passing under the garden wall and the road, and evidently connected with the canal. Near to the spot where the ditch disappeared beneath the wall stood a large dilapidated building, like the storehouse usually attached to a Dutch mill. "You wonder at our neglect of this part of the grounds," said the lady with a smile. "But that is our skating pond. In winter we open the sluices at the canal end of the ditch; it fills, the water overflows, and thus we flood the field. Then comes the frost, and we have, I think, the finest skating pond in Holland, and quite safe. We used to hold tournaments, people came from miles around; but alas! since this terrible war has recommenced we have almost forgotten those pleasant sports of winter. I do hope it will soon come to an end. I never could understand what men are fighting about. My dear husband used to speak of the balance of power; the French king wishes to rule everybody, he told me; certainly King Louis is a bad man; he has behaved disgracefully to us poor Huguenots; and I dare say you English are quite right in helping the Dutch to punish him. But war is so terrible. My dear husband was trying to invent something that would enable one army to make another army senseless without killing them; I know nothing about it, but the idea was excellent; and if the truth were known I dare say it was that odious Captain Aglionby who spoilt that too." Thus the good lady kept chattering to Harry as she conducted him over her little estate. The evening was drawing rapidly in; a light mist was rising, and Madame shivered a little as she turned back towards the house. A moment afterwards her daughter met her. "Mother," she said, "you should not be out in the damp air. You know it is bad for you." "Yes, my dear," replied Madame de Vaudrey, submitting to be enwrapped in a large woollen shawl which her daughter’s fair hands wound about her head and shoulders. "I have been showing Monsieur Rochestair our little property—alas! soon to be ours no more. I told Monsieur why, Adèle." The girl’s cheeks flushed, but she said nothing. "I did not tell you, Madame," said Harry, "that I happen to know something of Captain Aglionby." "Indeed! nothing but what is perfectly odious, I am sure." "I have reason to believe that he was concerned in an attempt to ship me to our plantations in Barbados. My man tells me——" "Monsieur," interrupted the girl, "my mother is subject to chills. You are staying with us to-night; will you hasten to the house with my mother and tell us the story at supper?" "With pleasure, Mademoiselle." Harry felt a little in awe of this very decisive young lady, with her scornful lip and clear uncompromising tones. She hurried in advance to the house, and was waiting in the panelled dining-room when the others appeared. The table looked very inviting with its spotless napery, shining plate, and vases of flowers, and Harry found the meal much to his taste after the plain fare of Dutch hostelries. Besides such staple viands as Westphalian ham and bag-puddings—one variety of these, filled with raisins and spices, was excellent—there were dainty French dishes—confections of fruit and cream which surprised even Madame la Comtesse. "Ah, you rogue!" she exclaimed; "I see now where you hid yourself this afternoon." "Mademoiselle likes cooking?" Harry ventured to say. "By no means, Monsieur, I dislike it exceedingly." "Oh!" "I knew we had nothing ready, Mamma," added the girl, "and you would not have liked Monsieur to think little of your hospitality." During the meal Harry gave the ladies an account of himself, speaking of his early hopes and ambitions, his disappointments, the vain waiting for a message from Marlborough, the strange animus of the squire, the kidnapping, the interposition of Mynheer Grootz. His hearers were deeply interested; even Mademoiselle, though she said little, and seemed to curl her pretty lip when her mother’s curiosity or indignation showed itself in little vivacious exclamations,—Mademoiselle kept her eyes fixed on Harry as he spoke, though whenever he happened to glance towards her she was looking away and appeared unconcerned. "Ah, there now!" cried the comtesse, when Harry mentioned, without a trace of bitterness, Marlborough’s failure to keep his promise; "that is my lord duke’s character. He is mean, he is selfish, he loves no one but himself." "And the duchess," put in Harry. "But that is his duty. It is his duty to love his wife. I did not say he was a monster." "Did you love papa from duty?" asked Adèle simply. "I never said that, Adèle. Of course it is a woman’s duty to love her husband, but your dear father was so good, so kind, so fond of me that no one could help loving him." "Mynheer Grootz is good and kind, but you don’t love him." Madame de Vaudrey flushed. "You say such odd things, Adèle. I can’t think how it is. I never said such things when I was a girl. Mynheer Grootz is good, and kind; you are right; and if it were my duty——" "Oh, Mamma," cried Adèle, "do forget the word duty! I am sure none of us either loves or hates from duty.—Would Monsieur like some strawberries and cream?" Harry went to bed that night very well pleased with himself, his hostess, and her daughter. He liked the little, simple, talkative countess; he was piqued by Adèle’s reserve, coolness, indifference—he hardly knew what to call it; the something which seemed to indicate that Harry Rochester was a creature far too insignificant for the notice of Mademoiselle Adèle de Vaudrey. "And she is clever, too," he thought. "Faith, how she sent Aglionby to the right-about! Polignac is a scoundrel; what will they do if he turns them out? And how did he come across Aglionby? She will not marry him, at any rate; that’s one comfort." It is very unromantic, but the truth must be told. Thoughts of Adèle did not keep Harry one instant from sleep. His bed was a dark mysterious-looking box, with brown damask curtains drawn closely round it. Withdrawing the curtains, he saw a magnificent quilt of crimson satin, snowy sheets, a lace-trimmed pillow. He scrambled up, barking his legs against the high boards composing the sides, and the moment he laid his head on the pillow forgot Aglionby, Marlborough, Adèle, and duty. When Madame de Vaudrey bade good-night to her daughter she said: "Eh bien, fillette; je l’aime, le bel Anglais. Il est brave, intelligent, modeste, parfaitement aimable, n’est-ce pas?" "Oh, petite maman, que voulez-vous? Est-ce que je _dois_ l’aimer, moi aussi?" And kissing her mother on both cheeks Adèle ran off laughing. Harry was awakened in the morning by the loud singing of the birds. He had left his window wide open, and the scent of flowers and perfume from the fir wood at the extremity of the estate gave him fragrant greeting. He sprang out of bed, and stood at the window inhaling the luscious odours, listening to the song of the birds and the incessant hoarse croak of the frogs, gazing at the grass glistening with dew. "I should like a week’s holiday here," he thought. "Ay me! it is breakfast, and then for Breda!" But he had only just left his room when he heard below a violent clanging of the bell, followed by a strange voice speaking in the hall, and a hasty running to and fro. Hurrying downstairs, he met Adèle de Vaudrey at the foot of the staircase. "Come with me, Monsieur," she said the moment she saw him. "Mamma is not down yet." She preceded him through the hall door, at which he now saw a light calash drawn up, and behind it ten horses, nine of them sat by Dutch dragoons, the tenth being the steed of the soldier who stood at the door, and whose voice it was that Harry had heard. From the horses, clouds of vapour rose into the fresh morning air; the pace had evidently been forced. In the calash were two men: the elder, in the uniform of a Dutch officer of high rank, reclined on the cushions, half-supported by a young aide-de-camp seated at his side. He was deathly pale; his eyes were closed. As Mademoiselle de Vaudrey, followed by Harry, came to the door of the carriage, the aide-de-camp without changing his position addressed her in Dutch. "It is as you see, mejjuffrouw. It is General van Santen; he is desperately wounded. We hoped to reach Breda, but the general swooned a few minutes ago and I dare not drive farther." "Bring him in at once," said Adèle. "The soldiers can lift him. Never mind about explanations now. One of the soldiers must ride on to the village for the meester; it is only half a league. Monsieur," she added, addressing Harry in her quick, decisive tones, "assist; I will warn Mamma." She ran back into the house. The inanimate general was carefully carried into the hall. He was a fine soldierly man, with a strong rugged face of English rather than Dutch cast. Harry remembered that Mynheer Grootz had mentioned General van Santen as a friend of his, and one of the ablest and most trusted of the lieutenants of William of Orange. Madame de Vaudrey had by this time come from above, and stood in pale expectation. The general was laid upon a sofa in the reception-room, and Adèle had already provided a basin of water and a bottle of smelling-salts with which she endeavoured to revive the wounded officer. "What is it?" cried Madame de Vaudrey, who had left these ministrations to the hands of her capable daughter. The aide-de-camp explained that General van Santen had left the Duke of Marlborough’s camp late at night on his way to the Hague. In the faint dawn he had suddenly come upon a French raiding-party which had apparently made a dash from Lierre. It was known that Tserclaes had advanced from the main French army in order to protect Antwerp. The general had dashed through with his men, but not rapidly enough to escape a bullet which had lodged in his groin. With great difficulty he had kept the saddle as far as the next village; but there, exhausted by the effort and by loss of blood, he had been placed in a hastily prepared carriage and driven on in the hope of arriving at Breda in time to warn the garrison. His wound had proved even more serious than was supposed; he had lost consciousness, and his aide-de-camp had deemed it necessary to halt at the first house and ask for assistance. "In what direction are the raiders coming?" asked Harry. "In this direction, Mynheer," replied the aide-de-camp. "And how far away were they when this happened?" "About ten miles." "So they may be here within an hour?" "If they ride on at once, but they will probably stop to plunder." "Can they be checked?" "Alas, Mynheer! there is no force near at hand." "Surely they will raise the country?" "But they are mounted, and the country people cannot cope with them. Even if the news is carried to Helmund there are none but burghers there, and they are useless against cavalry, except behind their own walls." "And how many do the raiders number?" "More than a hundred, as I judge, Mynheer." Madame de Vaudrey stood in agitated silence while this rapid colloquy was in progress. Adèle was still bathing the wounded man’s temples; no one present had sufficient knowledge to attempt more than the roughest of means to bind the wound. In a few minutes the general opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he asked, feebly. "In the house of Madame de Vaudrey," said that lady. "How far from where I was shot?" "Only a few miles," replied the aide-de-camp. "Then someone must ride to Breda for help, and take my despatches. They must be at the Hague to-night." "I will write a note to the commandant," said the aide-de-camp, "and send one of the troopers." "No, no, lieutenant, you must ride yourself. I can’t trust the despatches to a trooper." "But I do not care to leave you, general." "It is my wish. The enemy can only capture me, but they may do unheard-of mischief around. Delay no longer: ride fast." The exertion of talking was too much for him, and he swooned again. Loth as he was to go, the aide-de-camp could not ignore the general’s express instructions. Before leaving he took Harry aside and asked him to consider himself in command of the troopers. "You’re not strong enough to beat off the enemy," he said, "but it will be well for the men to have someone to look to in emergency. Don’t let the general fall into the enemy’s hands if you can help it." Harry hesitated. His first duty was undoubtedly to secure the safety of the convoy, for the sake both of the Breda garrison and Mynheer Grootz. On the other hand, he scouted the idea of deserting the ladies in their predicament. Further, the raiding-party were upon the road behind him; they had clearly swept round Eyndhoven, avoiding Helmund, and in all probability were on the heels of the general. Even if he got his convoy safely away from the village it could only move at a walking pace. In an hour or two it must be overtaken, and he would thus do no good either for himself or the ladies by instant flight. He therefore made up his mind to remain at Lindendaal, and assured the aide-de-camp that he would do his best. But when the lieutenant had ridden off, and Harry reflected on the position of the ladies, he thought it worth while to suggest that they should start at once for Breda in order to be out of harm’s way. Adèle answered at once for her mother. "Impossible, Monsieur! We cannot leave the general; we will not leave the house. Consult your own duty." Her tone was not to be gainsaid. Harry went into the hall, wondering what he could do for the best. He met Sherebiah at the door. "Eh, sir, ’tis a pretty pickle o’ fish." "What are we to do, Sherry?" "As a man o’ peace, I say cut and run." "Can’t we defend the house?" "Wi’ ten Dutch dragoons and a gardener and a maid or two? And two hundred French, so ’tis said!" "But men will come in from the villages round." "Ay, on foot, and with pitchforks and flails. Not much good against swords and carbines." At that moment a man galloped up from a village some eight miles down the road, with news that the French were already sacking and burning. They had first demanded a ransom, and the sum required not being forthcoming within the short time allowed, they had begun their ruthless work. A few moments afterwards one of Harry’s teamsters rode up on a cart-horse. He had heard the news from the aide-de-camp as he passed through the village where the convoy had put up for the night, and come back to ask for orders. Harry caught at the chance of delay. The French, it appeared, first demanded a ransom; could they be put off and time be gained for relief to arrive? The question suggested a plan that might be tried in default of a better. "Ride back, Piet," said Harry, "and bring up the wagons as fast as you can, and as many of the villagers as you can muster—with arms, if they have them." His idea was to barricade the road; every minute’s delay was a minute gained, and as the news spread he believed that the Hollanders had courage and spirit enough to strike a blow in defence of their homes. In point of fact, Piet had hardly departed to fulfil his errand when Dutchmen came up in ones and twos and threes, some on great lumbering farm-horses, others on foot, all hastening towards Breda in the hope of escaping the devouring French behind them. A few had firelocks, some had bills, others staggered along under the burden of household valuables they hoped to save from ruin. Harry set Sherebiah to intercept them all as they came up and to bring them within the grounds, and as their number swelled he reverted to his original idea of defending the house. It was a counsel of desperation. The house had several entrances, each one of which must be manned; it was too large to be held by so small a garrison. The outhouses would afford cover to an attacking force. Including the ten dragoons, there were only at present fourteen well-armed men among the ever-growing crowd; he could not improvise arms, and little effective work was to be expected from an untrained rabble, however courageous, pitted against regular troops. Further, to defend the house from within would inevitably lead to its being fired and blown up, and Madame de Vaudrey would profit not a jot. If the house was to be saved it must be by preventing the enemy from reaching it. What chance was there of effectually barring the road against the raiders? He went out to investigate. As he reached the park gate he was met by two men who had just come on foot from the village. One was a yeoman, the other a soldier belonging to some infantry regiment—a man probably on furlough. Harry was struck by the similarity of their costumes. Their hats were almost alike; their doublets and knee-breeches of similar dark materials; but for the red collar and the bands around the sleeves, there was very little at a distance to distinguish the soldier from the civilian. A sudden notion flashed through Harry’s mind. It was a chance in a thousand; the risks were great; the odds were all against success; but on the other side there was the imminent danger of destruction to the house, ruin to the owners, the capture of the Dutch general, and the subsequent burning of the village. "We’ll try it," he said to himself. "Sherry, send every man up to the house, and let me know the instant our wagons appear." "Ay, I will, sir.—’Tis a pretty ticklish time o’ day for a man o’ peace," he muttered under his breath. Harry ran back to the house. The doctor from the village overtook him on horseback, and they entered together. Mademoiselle de Vaudrey showed some surprise when she saw Harry, but she made no comment. "Mademoiselle," said Harry, "the general is in good hands now. May I ask your assistance?" She gave him a keen glance, rose at once from her knees, and followed him from the room. "Mademoiselle," continued Harry eagerly, "have you any red ribbon, silk, stuff, anything, in the house?" "Perhaps. Why do you ask?" "Will you find all that you can, and with your maids sew red bands round the collars and cuffs of the men?" "To make them look like soldiers—is that what you mean?" "Yes," replied Harry, delighted that she seized his meaning so quickly. "I will do so at once. Send the men to the hall." Harry next called up old Jean, and bade him fetch the gardener. When the man appeared, Harry asked him to gather as many sticks as he could, by preference wood with the bark on, about five feet in length, and stack them at the back door. A few minutes afterwards a message reached him from Sherebiah that the wagons had arrived. He ran upstairs and, regardless of ceremony, called out: "Mademoiselle de Vaudrey!" Adèle came out of a room, holding a strip of red ribbon. "Mademoiselle," said Harry, "I must go to the gate. Will you make every unarmed man look as much like a soldier as possible, and see that each is provided with one of the sticks that the gardener is now collecting?" "Yes. Is there anything else?" "Is it possible to run up a flag on the belfry-tower?" "If you say it is to be done, it shall be done." "I do not want the flag hoisted at present; but if you will prepare to do so——’ "Very well," interrupted the girl. Harry thanked her with a look, and ran downstairs three steps at a time. He called to one of the dragoons to accompany him, and hastened again to the gate, meeting on the way several men whom, in obedience to his instructions, Sherebiah had sent up from the road. "Sherry," he said, "ask this fellow if a cavalry troop on the march is preceded by an advance guard. He won’t understand my Dutch." "I can tell ’ee that," said Sherebiah instantly. "They do so. A patrol goos ahead, mebbe a quarter of a mile." "Oh! Now, mark my plan. Mademoiselle de Vaudrey is making some of the Dutchmen look like soldiers; we’ve no muskets for them, but at a distance I hope sticks may serve as well. I am going to post these make-believe soldiers around the wall of the estate among the trees; it will look as if the orchard and woods are manned. They will remain concealed until a flag appears on the tower; then their sudden appearance will, I trust, make an impression." "Ay, sir, ’tis famous. But if the patrol gets much past the house, ’twill be labour lost, for they will be near enough to see ’tis all my eye." "Yes, that must be avoided. What can be done?" "I tell ’ee, sir. Leave three o’ the wagons on the road, half a mile or so towards the village, where the road bends; I reckon Piet and Hans and me can keep any French patrol a-diddle-daddlen until the flag runs up. Then—do ’ee see, sir?—dragoons slip out of copse and trounce the Frenchmen, Piet and me and Hans draws the wagons across the road: and there be a barricade." "A capital notion! I will leave that to you, then.—Ah! here is a man from the other direction. He may have news of the enemy." A countryman, with his wife and family, had just driven up in a cart. From him Harry learnt that the French were sacking isolated farms on the road, and might be expected within the hour. Harry at once went back to the house, ran up the stairs, and again called for mademoiselle. "May I go up to the roof and see if I can descry the enemy?" he asked. "I will take you." She led the way to the turret stair, and in a few moments Harry stood upon the roof, whence on fine days a clear prospect for many miles could have been obtained. The morning was somewhat overcast, and the haze limited his view. But in one quarter he seemed to see a blackness that could only arise from the smoke of burning houses. Between him and the cloud appeared the gables of a house larger than Madame de Vaudrey’s chateau. "That belongs to Monsieur de Polignac," said Adèle in reply to his question. "The French will come to that first; that will gain a little time for us." At that moment his eye caught the large barn-like building at the extremity of the Vaudrey estate, just beyond the ditch running into the canal. In a flash a new idea set his pulse leaping. Hitherto his only aim had been to delay or daunt the enemy until help could arrive from Breda or some nearer point. But the recollection of what he had seen when going round the estate on the previous evening suggested a daring scheme which made him tingle with excitement. Adèle looked at him in silent curiosity as he stood for a few moments pondering the situation. Then he turned suddenly to her. "Mademoiselle, who opens the sluices of the ditch when you make your skating-pond?" "Jacques the gardener." "Thank you! I will go to him." He turned at once to descend. As he came to the head of the staircase he noticed a mass of coloured stuff lying at the foot of the belfry. "Ah, the flag!" he said. "Thank you, Mademoiselle!" A glance upward assured him that the running-line was in order; then without another word he went down. Finding the gardener, he hurried with him to the park entrance. His wagons were drawn up outside. He ordered three of his teamsters to drive their carts into the thicket beyond the outbuilding down the road. "The enemy will have a rearguard," he said. "As soon as that has well passed, bring your wagons into the road and block it between the wall and the canal. I will send a dozen men and two of the dragoons to remain in hiding with you. Now, Jacques, go to the ditch and open the sluices. How long will it take to flood the field to a depth of seven or eight inches?" "Not more than half an hour, Monsieur." "Very well. Stay; have you a boat anywhere on the estate?" "A punt, Monsieur. I go to market in it on the canal." "Where is it?" "In the old barn yonder, Monsieur." "Bring it out and float it in the ditch half-way across the field. Moor it so that it doesn’t drift." The man hurried away. "’Tis all ready, sir," said Sherebiah, coming up. "The road is blocked towards the bend, and the men be hidden in the wood. Med I ask, sir, if shouten would be any use?" Harry smiled. "We found it useful once, eh, Sherry? Certainly; when you see the flag go up, the more noise you make the better, especially if you can make a din with garden tools, or anything of steel." "Trust me, sir; I ha’n’t served wi’ a travellen show for nothen. I’ll show ’em the way, ay sure." "Mind, not a movement till you see the flag. Now, to your places." He returned once more to the house. Adèle met him at the door. "I have done all you said. Is there anything more that I can do?" "Thank you, Mademoiselle! nothing, I think. I wish to see Madame de Vaudrey now." They went together into the reception-room. The general had recovered consciousness, and lay prone on the couch. The doctor was at the window talking to Madame de Vaudrey, who was clearly in a state of intense agitation. "Oh, Monsieur Rochestair," she said as Harry entered, "have they sent help to us yet?" "No, Madame, I fear there has scarcely been time." "What shall we do? what shall we do? I fear we shall all be ruined." "Pray calm yourself, Madame," said Harry quietly. "Doctor, is it possible to remove the general to another room?" "I do not advise it. He is comfortable; I hope he will sleep." "Meester, let us take him to the dining-room," said Adèle in Dutch. "It would be a pity, and——" "Do you wish it, Monsieur?" she interrupted, turning to Harry. "Yes, Mademoiselle." "Then he shall be removed. Meester, be so good as to have the general removed at once. The men can lift sofa and all." Adèle herself called four men in from the front of the house, and the general was quickly carried across the hall into the dining-room. Harry was left with the two ladies. "Madame," he said, "will you remain here with Mademoiselle? Be seated; take up your needle-work; try to look as though there were nothing to fear." "How can I? how can I? when every moment I fear to see my house in flames." "Mamma," said Adèle, "it is necessary. Monsieur is planning to save us; we must help him. Come, I will fetch your spinning-wheel. Monsieur, we will do our best, I give my promise." "Thank you, Mademoiselle! When the French arrive, an officer will enter; I will bring him in here; show no concern; leave the rest to me." He went out, sent into the woods all the men who were still about the house save two of the dragoons, whom he placed in a cloak-room off the hall. Then he ran up again to the roof. Looking eagerly down the road, he caught sight of four horsemen approaching at a trot. They were about a mile away. Beyond them the road was concealed from view by a clump of trees. He saw at a glance that Jacques had fulfilled his instructions to the letter. Where half an hour before had been a bare field there was now what appeared to be a broad lake, with a solitary punt floating at about the middle of its surface. Scanning the boundaries of the estate he failed to descry a single human figure. He drew a long breath; all his preparations were complete; what would be the outcome? The four riders were drawing nearer, and behind them he now saw the helmets and lances of the main body. They were as yet too far away for him to estimate their number. Taking care to keep out of sight himself, he watched the patrol of four, and saw two of them dismount at the old barn and enter. "They have left Monsieur de Polignac for the present," he said to himself. "I wonder why." After a few minutes the two horsemen emerged from the building, remounted, and rode on with their companions. Then Harry slipped down the stairs, instructed old Jean, who was trembling in the hall, to conduct to the reception-room any soldier who came to the door, and then walked quietly in and rejoined the ladies. "They are coming?" said Adèle. "Yes. They will be here in a minute." Madame de Vaudrey gave a gasp and let her hands fall to her sides. Adèle jumped up, slipped a skein of wool over her mother’s hands, sat on a stool opposite her, and began to wind the wool into a ball. A few seconds later the clatter of hoofs and the clank of sabres came from without. Then a heavy tread was heard in the hall, and a loud voice called for the master of the house. There was a moment’s pause; Jean opened the door, stood on one side, and in a quavering voice announced: "Madame, Monsieur demande——" His voice broke, he could say no more. The ladies looked up, Madame de Vaudrey with pale cheeks and twitching lips, Adèle with unmoved countenance and stony stare. After one glance she placidly resumed her winding; Harry, with his hands in his pockets, strolled over from the window. "Well, my man, what do you want?" he said. The sergeant involuntarily saluted. He looked by no means comfortable. His eyes went from one to another of the silent group. "Monsieur—Mesdames——" he began; then, recovering his self-possession and putting on a swaggering air, he continued: "To resist is vain. The commandant will decide. I have warned you, Mesdames—Monsieur." "It is very good of you," said Harry blandly. "Your boots are marking the carpet; perhaps you will wait outside." The man’s cheeks purpled; without another word he abruptly turned and went out. At the front door he stationed two of his companions, and rode back to meet the advancing troop, the sounds of whose approach were now echoed from the surrounding woods. From the window Harry saw the sergeant make his report to the officer at their head. The commandant smiled and rode on. Two minutes later his spurs rang on the stone steps, and Jean showed him into the room. "Madame, voilà encore un visiteur." In obedience to a hint from Adèle, Madame de Vaudrey rose and made a curtsy. Harry smiled as he saw Adèle’s low mocking obeisance. The officer doffed his cocked hat, laid it with both hands upon his heart, and bowed. "Madame—Mademoiselle—Monsieur," he said. He was a tall, stout, florid man of some forty years, with large nose and bloated cheeks. His costume was very rich, plentifully bedecked with gold lace and decorations, spick and span in all its appointments. "More like a courtier than a soldier," was Harry’s first impression. His few words of salutation had been uttered in a strong German accent. "Madame, Monsieur," he said, "I have the honour to be a colonel of dragoons in the service of his highness the Elector of Cologne, who, as you are doubtless aware, is in alliance with His Majesty of France. I regret exceedingly to have to discommode you; it is a painful duty; but what would you?—war is war. My duty, Madame, Monsieur, is to levy contributions on the enemy’s country. Alas! that I am obliged to treat you, Madame, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, as enemies, but duty is duty. Not for all the world would I render it more disagreeable than necessary to such charming ladies, and to your excellent son, Madame; but I must request you to hand over to me five thousand florins—that, I am sure, you will regard as a most modest estimate of the value of your delightful house. I regret that I can allow only five minutes for the completion of this little transaction; in five minutes, Madame, Monsieur, with five thousand florins I pass on with my men. It pains me to say it, but if the money, or its equivalent—in plate or jewels, Madame, what you please—is not forthcoming within five minutes, I must with the very greatest regret take what I can find and burn the place. The notice is short, it is true; but Madame will understand; we soldiers have no time to spare, and my orders are positive; every house that is not ransomed is to be burned. Ah!" he ejaculated as he caught sight through the window of smoke in the distance, "I fear my men have already set fire to your barn. It is an excess of zeal, but, as the proverb says, the appetite grows with eating; we have had to light many such bonfires of late!" This speech had been delivered with the greatest deference. At its conclusion the colonel lugged out a big timepiece, and held it open in his left hand. "From now five minutes, Madame, Monsieur." Madame de Vaudrey had listened with terror in her eyes. She was beginning to speak, but Adèle called suddenly "Mamma!" in a warning tone, and the lady sank back in her chair, looking at Harry as he advanced a step or two towards the officer. Harry’s throat felt somewhat dry; his heart was thumping unpleasantly; but he was to all appearance perfectly self-possessed as he said: "Mademoiselle, will you see what can be done?" adding in an undertone the two words, "the flag!" Adèle nodded. "Pardon, Monsieur." She curtsied to the officer as she went past him into the hall. "Before discussing the amount of our contribution, Monsieur le Colonel," said Harry, "may I enquire by what right you make this demand?" The officer looked him up and down. "Certainly, you may enquire, Monsieur. I answer: by the right of a hundred sabres, and the practice of war. In my turn, may I beg of you to let this explanation suffice. Time presses. But for the presence of Madame"—he bowed to Madame de Vaudrey—"I should have regarded your question as a mere impertinence, and treated it—and you—accordingly." Madame de Vaudrey looked anxiously from one to the other, and heaved a sigh of relief as Adèle returned and resumed her seat by her mother’s side. "I marvel, Monsieur," said Harry, after a quick exchange of glances with the younger lady, "that a soldier of your rank and experience, acquainted with the practice of war, should, in your unfortunate position, permit himself such language." "Comment! My unfortunate position!" The big man swelled, his red cheeks empurpled. Turning to the ladies he said: "Is the young man mad?" "You shall judge, Monsieur," said Harry quietly. "Do me the favour to place yourself at the window." He had just caught sight of one of the colonel’s dragoons galloping up the drive towards the house. "That is one of your hundred sabres, I presume. He is hastening to inform you that he has met Dutch troops belonging to General van Santen half a mile up the road. In the other direction—this way, Monsieur—you can just see our men barring your retreat. You observed, no doubt, a canal on your left as you rode along; it is twenty feet deep; and if you will condescend to come to the back windows"—the captain followed him as in a daze—"you will see a large Dutch force occupying yonder woods, which, save the lake on our right, are your only line of retreat." The colonel’s astonishment was no greater than Madame de Vaudrey’s. She rose from her chair and moved towards the window, but was checked by Adèle’s restraining hand. The girl’s eyes were shining, a spot of red burned on either cheek. The colonel stared and stared at Harry, who stood with a slight smile upon his lips, at the ladies, at the figures which appeared among the trees beyond the wall—heads and shoulders, with cocked hats and red collars, and at every shoulder a musket. "Comment! comment!" he spluttered; then without another word he hurried from the room, followed by Harry, just in time to meet the dragoon at the outer door. The man saluted. "Mon Colonel," he said in a fluster, "there is a barricade at the bend in the road half a mile beyond us held by Dutch troops. My comrade Gustave was knocked off his horse by——" "Donnerwetter!" cried the colonel, relapsing into his native language. He sprang heavily into his saddle on the charger held in waiting by one of his troopers. "I suppose, Monsieur le Colonel," said Harry carelessly at his elbow, "you are counting the cost of resistance?" The officer was looking anxiously and indecisively about him, clearly at a loss what course to take, but as clearly eager to make a fight of it. "I must warn you, Monsieur," added Harry, "that the least resistance will rob you of all chance of quarter. The whole countryside is roused to fury by the news of your exploits. My general has with him not only his own men but a large force of peasants from the villages. If it comes to a fight, he may not have the power, even if he had the inclination, to protect you from their vengeance. They are barbarous in their methods, these peasants; but then, as you know, Monsieur, they have been provoked." At this moment there was a sharp report. A cornet of the French horse, seeing the barricade of carts suddenly run across the road by the barn, had sent a party of his men back to investigate. One of the troopers as they approached was shot from behind the barricade and fell from his horse. The echo of the shot had hardly died away when there came two reports from the barricade up the road, accompanied by a faint shout. The colonel gathered up the reins; a dragoon came galloping up the drive crying: "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!" [Illustration: "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"] "You see, Monsieur," continued Harry, "you are in a ring fence. It is for you to make your choice, and at once, between surrender and—annihilation." Harry had not misjudged his man. Utterly bewildered, the colonel gazed, like a caged animal, helplessly around him. At the end of the drive his men could be seen rigid and expectant. Behind him, beyond the wall, he saw the figures as he supposed of Dutch troops armed, and with all the advantage of position. The sun, breaking through the clouds, glinted upon steel which, at the distance, he could not be expected to recognize as bill-hooks, pruning-knives, and whatever other implements the premises had afforded. At a little distance down the road he saw, through gaps between the trees that lined the wall, his patrol galloping back to the main body. Trying to collect himself, he at length set off at a slow trot towards the gate. Harry at once signed to the two Dutch soldiers hidden in the cloak-room to come out, and ordered them to stand at attention one on either side of the door. The leader of the French patrol pulled his horse up on its haunches at the road end of the drive. "The road is blocked, mon Colonel," he said, "with a barricade of carts and beams held by a strong force of the enemy. We cannot estimate their numbers; they keep under cover; but one of the men is killed by their fire, and by their shouts there must be at least a hundred." Without a word the colonel rode across to the brink of the canal. The lowness of the water and the height of the bank showed at a glance that any attempt to swim his horses across would be disastrous; they could never scramble up the opposite side. The men might cross and crawl up, but a moment’s reflection showed what the fate of a small body of men would be, retreating on foot through a hostile country. The colonel looked down the road; the blazing barn inspired uncomfortable thoughts. He had seen many such conflagrations of late, and knew well that the peasants would take a full toll of revenge if he fell into their power. Wheeling round, he for the first time caught sight of the two Dutch soldiers standing behind Harry on the steps of the house. This seemed to bring home to him the hopelessness of his position; muttering a curse he walked his horse slowly up the avenue. Harry came forward to meet the scowling officer. "It is the fortune of war, Monsieur. I see you have chosen the wiser course. You surrender to superior numbers. I am authorized by my general to accept your surrender. You will receive honourable treatment; he knows how to appreciate a gallant warrior; but the peasants——" The colonel tried to smile. "I am concerned—I say it frankly—for the safety of my men. With your troops,"—he shrugged—"we might take our chance; but your peasants, your burghers—parbleu! we know them; they are savages, they are tigers. To whom, Monsieur, have I the honour of yielding my sword?" "Immediately, Monsieur, to me; my name is Harry Rochester, an Englishman at present in the—in the Dutch service; ultimately to General van Santen, to whom I shall have the honour to introduce you in a few minutes. Now, Monsieur le Colonel, you will direct your men to ride up the avenue, dismount, stack their arms in front of the house, and fasten their horses to the garden palings behind. Sergeant," he added, turning to one of the sentinel dragoons, "ride at once to the general and acquaint him that Monsieur le Colonel——" "Baron von Schummelpincken." "That the Baron von Schummelpincken has surrendered. Send a dozen men to take charge of the horses. In twenty minutes we shall be in camp." *CHAPTER XI* *The Battle of Lindendaal* A Hitch—A Charge in Flank—Irregular Warfare—Called Off—A Suggestion—Compliments—Thanks—Adieux—Luck—After the Fair—A Triumph To his credit, Colonel the Baron von Schummelpincken did his best to put a good face on the predicament in which he found himself. He rode back to his men to inform them of the arrangement. The moment he had gone, Adèle de Vaudrey came out, her face aglow with excitement. "Monsieur," she said, "General van Santen asks what the uproar, the firing, means; shall I tell him?" "As you please, Mademoiselle." "It is as you please, Monsieur." "The day is not ended yet, Mademoiselle." "I will say nothing, Monsieur." She went into the house. The sergeant had spurred across the meadow behind, through a gate in the wall, into the orchard and wood. In a few minutes he reappeared with his comrades, who came at a trot towards the house. Their pace was leisurely, but a keener observer than the colonel, who at this moment was half-way up the avenue at the head of his troops, might have noticed that the horses’ flanks were heaving violently. The men had in fact galloped at full speed from the horns of the position in obedience to the sergeant’s signals, and only checked the pace in response to a suggestion of Sherebiah, who had made the best of his way after them. Harry ordered the ten dragoons to draw up in line at right angles to the house. "Sherry," he said, as the man came up puffing, "bring me one of the dragoons’ horses." He mounted just as the colonel emerged from the avenue. Sherry stood by his side at the nearer end of the line of dragoons. The colonel, some dozen yards ahead of his men, came to Harry and handed him his sword. Harry politely returned it, a compliment which the officer courteously acknowledged. "Monsieur," said Harry, "we understand the arrangement? Your men will pile arms in front of the house, file off to right and left, tie their horses to the palings, then pass round on foot to the rear of the house." "Certainly, Monsieur." Harry watched eagerly as the troopers came two by two up the drive and did his bidding with the precision of automata. Events had crowded so thickly that he had scarcely had time to think; but now he could hardly sit still on his horse, so intense was his anxiety to get the whole scene over. Everything appeared to be answering to his wishes; his arrangement for the French dragoons to file off in opposite directions was a precaution to divide the force; they began to pass behind the house one by one. About half of the troop had thus piled their arms and fastened their horses; the clock in the belfry-tower struck the first note of noon, and Harry was already congratulating himself that almost by the time the last of the leisurely Dutch chimes was ended his ruse would have been completely successful, when a loud voice was heard from the road. "Mon Colonel! mon Colonel! they are only peasants and burghers. It is a trick, a trick!" There was an instant halt. Harry’s heart was in his mouth; Sherebiah muttered, "Zooks! ’tis hot ’taties now!" The colonel, his face aflame, spurred his horse from the pillar at the end of the avenue, and, drawing his sword, vociferated: "A moi! à moi!" For a moment Harry felt that all was lost. But only for a moment, for in that instant he saw that with his handful of men in line he had the advantage of the troopers debouching two by two from the balustraded drive. Turning to the dragoons at his side he shouted "Charge!" and dashed straight at the enemy. It was in the nick of time. A few seconds later they would have been ready; at this precise moment they were awkwardly placed. Half a dozen men of the nearer file were leading their horses towards the palings; beyond them the armed and mounted men were approaching from the drive, and eight files presented their flank to Harry’s little force of ten. As he charged, the dismounted men scattered like hares before him, and the sixteen armed troopers had barely time to wheel round to meet the onslaught before Harry and his Dutchmen were upon them. All the advantage of impetus and direct attack was with the Dutch. Harry, grasping his sword, came full tilt upon a burly Alsatian. Almost before he had realized it he had passed over the dragoon and his horse, and, parrying a swinging cut from the man behind, had shortened his arm and thrust him through the shoulder. The man dropped his sabre and fell from his horse, which wheeled round and plunged madly through the dismounted men on the farther side. In a trice Harry was through the mellay, and bringing his horse up on its haunches, wrenched it round so that he might take stock of the new situation. He found that the majority of his Dutch troopers had stuck close to him, and with the readiness of old campaigners were already wheeling round to face the discomfited enemy. A dozen men were on the ground, including the portly colonel; several horses were careering wildly through the small open space, impeding the movements of the dismounted men who had made a dash for the piles of arms in front of the porch. The French troopers were still filing up the drive, but the sudden uproar had startled the horses. The riders were too much occupied with their steeds and too closely packed to make effective use of their pistols; the one or two who fired aimed erratically, and no one was hurt. But Harry saw that the only course open to him was to charge again and again until the peasants, summoned by the noise of the fray, could come to his assistance. It was fortunate that the remainder of the enemy’s troop could only debouch two by two from the drive; the stone balustrade on each side of it prevented them from deploying until they entered the open space in front of the house. Two horses that had been rolled over near the entrance to the drive were plunging and kicking, hindering the advance of the leading troopers, who were now being pressed by the men behind. Once more the little band of Dutchmen hurled themselves at the head of the enemy’s force, and with the same result, though Harry was instinctively aware, when he again emerged from the mellay, that his followers were fewer in number. Among them, however, he noticed Sherebiah, who had possessed himself of a sword and pistol from the stand of arms and a horse from the palings, and was comporting himself as though, so far from being a man of peace, he had as much experience of warfare as any trooper present. Two of Madame de Vaudrey’s gardeners also had appropriated weapons, and were holding at bay a group of the disarmed enemy who hovered round, trying to dash in and recover their arms. Harry saw little of this, however. He wheeled his horse once more to repeat the charge. He was followed now by only six men; at least a dozen fresh troopers had debouched from the drive, but, like their comrades, they had not time to form before the dauntless seven were upon them. The odds were heavier now; only two succeeded in getting through; the rest were checked. Then ensued a series of fierce duels, the little group of Dutch being broken up and driven back by the weight of the files pressing through as rapidly as they might into the open space. Harry, engaged with a stout trooper, felt with a sinking heart that the game was up; his arm was wrung with hacking and thrusting; his opponent, fresh to the fight, closed with him, leant over his saddle, and tried to grip him by the throat. At this moment there was a fierce shout, followed by a perfect babel of cries. The trooper fell from his horse, transfixed in the nick of time by Sherebiah’s sword; and when Harry after a few seconds was able once more to take in what was happening, he saw the place thick with burghers and peasants who were falling upon the enemy from both balustrades. Some had leapt on to the coping and were dealing heavy blows at the dragoons and their horses with sticks, hooks, scythes, and all kinds of strange implements; others were jabbing through the interstices of the balustrades; all were shouting, smiting, felling with a fierce vehemence that brooked no resistance. A panic seized upon the enemy; the unarmed men bolted to the stables behind the house and barricaded themselves there; the last files of the dragoons threw down their arms and begged for quarter; and, turning to Sherebiah, Harry bade him cry to the peasants, with the full force of his lungs, to hold their hands. A lull succeeded the turmoil. A crowd of the Dutch were hastening towards the stables to burst open the doors and make short work of the men sheltered there. To them Harry galloped up. "Men," he said, "halt! in the name of General van Santen. The victory is ours. We must await the general’s orders." The mob hesitated, then, with obedience compelled by their young leader’s mien, stood in sullen silence. Harry rode back to the opening of the drive, stationed two of the Dutch dragoons there, and addressed the colonel, who, with a lacerated cheek and contused shoulder, leant against the palings, a picture of chagrin, pain, and baffled rage. "Monsieur, ’twas not well done. Your parole was given. But you are hurt; go to the house—you will find tendance there." At this moment another horseman suddenly appeared on the scene, galloping up from behind the house. Wheeling his horse in some surprise, Harry found himself face to face with Madame de Vaudrey’s neighbour, Monsieur de Polignac. He looked greatly perturbed; his mouth was twitching; the air of cynical detachment he had worn in Madame de Vaudrey’s drawing-room had quite disappeared. "Monsieur, what is this, what is this?" he cried. "As you see, Monsieur—a skirmish," replied Harry. "We have captured a raiding-party—and doubtless saved your house from the flames." "But—but—do you not see your peril? You are not a soldier; these men are not soldiers, the most of them; to wage war is for you quite irregular; if caught by the French—and I hear, Monsieur, rumours of a general advance in this direction—you will all be hanged." "I will take my chance of that," said Harry. "I thank you, nevertheless, for your warning, Monsieur." "Bah! I counsel you to release your prisoners—without arms, it is understood—and send them back to their lines." "That is a matter for General van Santen, Monsieur. Would you care to repeat your advice to him?" Polignac gave him a savage look, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and, setting spurs to his horse, galloped away. The scene of this tempestuous little fight differed greatly from its appearance a short half-hour before. Thirty men, of whom twenty-four were French, lay killed or wounded, with a few horses. The stone balustrades were broken in several places; the flower-beds were trampled; the gravel was ploughed up; shattered muskets, swords, scabbards, pistols, hats, cloaks, strewed the ground. "Carry the dead to the garden," said Harry. "Take the wounded to the outbuildings and attend to them; there is a doctor in the house. A dozen of you take arms from the pile there and guard the prisoners; lock them up in the stables. Sherebiah, I leave you in charge." Then, hot, weary, hatless, his coat showing several rents, Harry followed the wounded colonel into the house. "Monsieur," said Adèle, meeting him, "the general insists on seeing you. He was with difficulty restrained from rising and taking part in the fray. You are weary; a cup of wine will refresh you." Harry gladly quaffed at the cup she presented to him. Then he followed her into the dining-room. The general frowned when he saw him. "I want to see the leader," he exclaimed testily. "This is he, Monsieur," said Ad