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Title: Under the Storm

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge

Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6006]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on October 15, 2002]

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Charlotte M Yonge was prepared by Sandra Laythorpe laythorpe@btinternet.com.
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UNDER THE STORM

or

STEADFAST'S CHARGE

by

CHARLOTTE M YONGE

Author of "The Heir of Redclyffe," &c.




CONTENTS.

Chapter     I.--The Trust

   "       II.--The Stragglers

   "      III.--Kirk Rapine

   "       IV.--The Good Cause

   "        V.--Desolation

   "       VI.--Left to Themselves

   "      VII.--The Hermit's Gulley

   "     VIII.--Stead in Possession

   "       IX.--Wintry Times

   "        X.--A Terrible Harvest Day

   "       XI.--The Fortunes of War

   "      XII.--Farewell to the Cavaliers

   "     XIII.--Godly Venn's Troop

   "      XIV.--The Question

   "       XV.--A Table of Love in the Wilderness

   "      XVI.--A Fair Offer

   "     XVII.--The Groom in Grey

   "    XVIII.--Jeph's Good Fortune

   "      XIX.--Patience

   "       XX.--Emlyn's Service

   "      XXI.--The Assault of the Cavern

   "     XXII.--Emlyn's Troth

   "    XXIII.--Fulfilment





UNDER THE STORM:

OR

STEADFAST'S CHARGE.




CHAPTER I.

THE TRUST.



"I brought them here as to a sanctuary."
                                   SOUTHEY.


Most of us have heard of the sad times in the middle of the
seventeenth century, when Englishmen were at war with one another and
quiet villages became battlefields.

We hear a great deal about King and Parliament, great lords and able
generals, Cavaliers and Roundheads, but this story is to help us to
think how it must have gone in those times with quiet folk in
cottages and farmhouses.

There had been peace in England for a great many years, ever since
the end of the wars of the Roses.  So the towns did not want
fortifications to keep out the enemy, and their houses spread out
beyond the old walls; and the country houses had windows and doors
large and wide open, with no thought of keeping out foes, and farms
and cottages were freely spread about everywhere, with their fields
round them.

The farms were very small, mostly held by men who did all the work
themselves with the help of their families.

Such a farm belonged to John Kenton of Elmwood.  It lay at the head
of a long green lane, where the bushes overhead almost touched one
another in the summer, and the mud and mire were very deep in winter;
but that mattered the less as nothing on wheels went up or down it
but the hay or harvest carts, creaking under their load, and drawn by
the old mare, with a cow to help her.

Beyond lay a few small fields, and then a bit of open ground
scattered with gorse and thorn bushes, and much broken by ups and
downs.  There, one afternoon on a big stone was seated Steadfast
Kenton, a boy of fourteen, sturdy, perhaps loutish, with an honest
ruddy face under his leathern cap, a coarse smock frock and stout
gaiters.  He was watching the fifteen sheep and lambs, the old goose
and gander and their nine children, the three cows, eight pigs, and
the old donkey which got their living there.

From the top of the hill, beyond the cleft of the river Avon, he
could see the smoke and the church towers of the town of Bristol, and
beyond it, the slime of the water of the Bristol Channel; and nearer,
on one side, the spire of Elmwood Church looked up, and, on the
other, the woods round Elmwood House, and these ran out as it were,
lengthening and narrowing into a wooded cleft or gulley, Hermit's
Gulley, which broke the side of the hill just below where Steadfast
stood, and had a little clear stream running along the bottom.

Steadfast's little herd knew the time of day as well as if they all
had watches in their pockets, and they never failed to go down and
have a drink at the brook before going back to the farmyard.

They did not need to be driven, but gathered into the rude steep path
that they and their kind had worn in the side of the ravine.
Steadfast followed, looking about him to judge how soon the nuts
would be ripe, while his little rough stiff-haired dog Toby poked
about in search of rabbits or hedgehogs, or the like sport.

Steadfast liked that pathway home beside the stream, as boys do love
running water.  Good stones could be got there, water rats might be
chased, there were strawberries on the banks which he gathered and
threaded on stalks of grass for his sisters, Patience and Jerusha.
They used to come with him and have pleasant games, but it was a long
time since Patience had been able to come out, for in the winter, a
grievous trouble had come on the family.  The good mother had died,
leaving a little baby of six weeks old, and Patience, who was only
thirteen, had to attend to everything at home, and take care of poor
little sickly Benoni with no one to help her but her little seven
years old sister.

The children's lives had been much less bright since that sad day;
and Steadfast seldom had much time for play.  He knew he must get
home as fast as he could to help Patience in milking the cows,
feeding the pigs and poultry, and getting the supper, or some of the
other things that his elder brother Jephthah called wench-work and
would not do.

He could not, however, help looking up at the hole in the side of the
steep cliff, where one might climb up to such a delightful cave, in
which he and Patience had so often played on hot days.  It had been
their secret, and a kind of palace to them.  They had sat there as
king and queen, had paved it with stones from the brook, and had had
many plans for the sports they would have there this summer, little
thinking that Patience would have been turned into a grave, busy
little housewife, instead of a merry, playful child.

Toby looked up too, and began to bark.  There was a rustling in the
bushes below the cave, and Steadfast, at first in dismay to see his
secret delight invaded, beheld between the mountain ash boughs and
ivy, to his great surprise, a square cap and black cassock tucked up,
and then a bit of brown leathern coat, which he knew full well.  It
was the Vicar, Master Holworth, and his father John Kenton was
Churchwarden, so it was no wonder to see him and the Parson together,
but what could bring them here--into Steadfast's cave? and with a
dark lantern too!  They seemed as surprised, perhaps as vexed as he
was, at the sight of him, but his father said, "'Tis my lad,
Steadfast, I'll answer for him."

"And so will I," returned the clergyman.  "Is anyone with you, my
boy?"

"No, your reverence, no one save the beasts."

"Then come up here," said his father.  "Someone has been playing
here, I see."

"Patience and I, father, last summer."

"No one else?"

"No, no one.  We put those stones and those sticks when we made a
fire there last year, and no one has meddled with them since."

"Thou and Patience," said Mr. Holworth thoughtfully.  "Not Jephthah
nor the little maid?"

"No, sir," replied Steadfast, "we would not let them know, because we
wanted a place to ourselves."

For in truth the quiet ways and little arrangements of these two had
often been much disturbed by the rough elder brother who teased and
laughed at them, and by the troublesome little sister, who put her
fingers into everything.

The Vicar and the Churchwarden looked at one another, and John Kenton
muttered, "True as steel."

"Your father answers for you, my boy," said the Vicar.  "So we will
e'en let you know what we are about.  I was told this morn by a sure
hand that the Parliament men, who now hold Bristol Castle, are coming
to deal with the village churches even as they have dealt with the
minster and with St. Mary's, Redcliffe."

"A murrain on them!" muttered Kenton.

"I wot that in their ignorance they do it," gently quoted the Vicar.
"But we would fain save from their hands the holy Chalice and paten
which came down to our Church from the ancient times--and which
bearing on them, as they do, the figure of the Crucifixion of our
blessed Lord, would assuredly provoke the zeal of the destroyers.
Therefore have we placed them in this casket, and your father devised
hiding them within this cave, which he thought was unknown to any
save himself--"

"Yea," said John, "my poor brother Will and I were wont to play there
when we herded the cattle on the hill.  It was climbing yon ash tree
that stands out above that he got the fall that was the death of him
at last.  I've never gone nigh the place with mine own good will
since that day--nor knew the children had done so--but methought
'twas a lonesome place and on mine own land, where we might safest
store the holy things till better times come round."

"And so I hope they will," said Mr. Holworth.

"I hear good news of the King's cause in the north."

Then they began to consult where to place the precious casket.  They
had brought tinder and matches, and Steadfast, who knew the secrets
of the cave even better than his father, showed them a little hollow,
far back, which would just hold the chest, and being closed in front
with a big stone, fast wedged in, was never likely to be discovered
readily.

***the hiding of the casket***

"This has been a hiding place already."

"Methinks this has once been a chapel," said the clergyman presently,
pointing to some rude carvings--one something like a cross, and a
large stone that might have served as an altar.

"Belike," said Kenton, "there's an old stone pile, a mere hovel, down
below, where my grandfather said he remembered an old monk, a hermit,
or some such gear--a Papist--as lived in hiding.  He did no hurt, and
was a man from these parts, so none meddled with him, or gave notice
to the Queen's officers, and our folk at the farm sold his baskets at
the town, and brought him a barley loaf twice a week till he died,
all alone in his hut.  Very like he said his mass here."

John wondered to find that the minister thought this made the place
more suitable.  The whole cavern was so low that the two men could
hardly stand upright in it, though it ran about twelve yards back.
There were white limestone drops like icicles hanging above from the
roof; and bats, disturbed by the light, came flying about the heads
of their visitors, while streamers of ivy and old man's beard hung
over the mouth, and were displaced by the heads of the men.

"None is like to find the spot," said John Kenton, as he tried to
replace the tangled branches that had been pushed aside.

"God grant us happier days for bringing it forth," said the
clergyman.

All three bared their heads, and Mr. Holworth uttered a few words of
prayer and blessing; then let John help him down the steep scramble
and descent, and looked up to see whether any sign of the cave could
be detected from the edge of the brook.  Kenton shook his head
reassuringly.

"Ah!" said Mr. Holworth, "it minds me that none ever found again the
holy Ark of the Covenant that King Josiah and the Prophet Jeremiah
hid in a cavern within Mount Pisgah!  and our sins be many that have
provoked this judgment!  Mayhap the boy will be the only one of us
who will see these blessed vessels restored to their Altar once more!
He may have been sent hither to that very end.  Now, look you,
Steadfast Kenton--Steadfast thou hast ever been, so far as I have
known thee, in nature as well as in name.  Give me thy word that thou
wilt never give up the secret of yonder cavern to any save a lawfully
ordained minister of the church."

"No doubt poor old Clerk North will be in distress about the loss,"
said Kenton.

"True, but he had best not be told.  His mind is fast going, and he
cannot safely be trusted with such a mighty secret."

"Patience knows the cavern," murmured Steadfast to his father.

"Best have no womenfolk, nor young maids in such a matter," said the
Vicar.

"My wench takes after her good mother," said John, "and I ever found
my secrets were safer in her breast than in mine own.  Not that I
would have her told without need.  But she might take little Rusha
there, or make the place known to others an she be not warned."

"Steadfast must do as he sees occasion, with your counsel, Master
Kenton," said the Vicar.  "It is a great trust we place in you, my
son, to be as it were in charge of the vessels of the sanctuary, and
I would have thy hand and word."

"And," said his father, "though he be slower in speech than some,
your reverence may trust him."

Steadfast gave his brown red hand, and with head bare said, "I
promise, after the minister and before God, never to give up that
which lies within the cave to any man, save a lawfully ordained
minister of the Church."




CHAPTER II.

THE STRAGGLERS.



"Trust me, I am exceedingly weary."
                            SHAKESPEARE.


John Kenton, though a Churchwarden, was, as has been said, a very
small farmer, and the homestead was no more than a substantial
cottage, built of the greystone of the country, with the upper story
projecting a little, and reached by an outside stair of stone.  The
farm yard, with the cowsheds, barn, and hay stack were close in
front, with only a narrow strip of garden between, for there was not
much heed paid to flowers, and few kitchen vegetables were grown in
those days, only a few potherbs round the door, and a sweet-brier
bush by the window.

The cows had made their way home of their own accord, and Patience
was milking one of them already, while little Rusha held the baby,
which was swaddled up as tightly as a mummy, with only his arms free.
He stretched them out with a cry of gladness as he saw his father,
and Kenton took the little creature tenderly in his arms and held him
up, while Steadfast hurried off to fetch the milking stool and begin
upon the other cow.

"Is Jeph come home?" asked the father, and Rusha answered "No, daddy,
though he went ever so long ago, and said he would bring me a cake."

Upon this Master Kenton handed little Benoni back to Rusha, not
without some sounds of fretfulness from the baby, but the pigs had to
be shut up and fed, and the other evening work of the farmyard done;
and it was not till all this was over, and Patience had disposed of
the milk in the cool cellars, that the father could take him again.

Meantime Steadfast had brought up a bucket of water from the spring,
and after washing his own hands and face, set out the table with a
very clean, though coarse cloth, five brown bowls, three horn spoons
and two wooden ones, one drinking horn, a couple of red earthen cups
and two small hooped ones of wood, a brown pitcher of small ale, a
big barley loaf, and a red crock, lined with yellow glazing, into
which Patience presently proceeded to pour from a cauldron, where it
had been simmering over the fire, a mess of broth thickened with
meal.  This does not sound like good living, but the Kentons were
fairly well-to-do smock-frock farmers, and though in some houses
there might be greater plenty, there was not much more comfort
beneath the ranks of the gentry in the country.

As for seats, the father's big wooden chair stood by the fire, and
there was a long settle, but only stools were used at the table, two
being the same that had served the milkers.  Just as Rusha, at her
father's sign, had uttered a short Grace, there stood in the doorway
a tall, stout, well-made lad of seventeen, with a high-crowned wide-
brimmed felt hat, a dark jerkin with sleeves, that, like his breeches
and gaiters, were of leather, and a belt across his shoulder with a
knife stuck in it.

"Ha!  Jeph," said Kenton, "always in time for meat, whatever else you
miss."

"I could not help it, father," said Jephthah, "the red coats were at
their exercise!"

"And thou couldst not get away from the gape-seed, eh!  Come, sit
down, boy, and have at thy supper."

"I wish I was one of them," said Jeph as he sat down.

"And thou'dst soon wish thyself back again!" returned his father.

"How much did you get for the fowls and eggs?" demanded Patience.

Jephthah replied by producing a leathern bag, while Rusha cried out
for her cake, and from another pocket came, wrapped in his
handkerchief, two or three saffron buns which were greeted with such
joy that his father had not the heart to say much about wasting
pence, though it appeared that the baker woman had given them as part
of her bargain for a couple of dozen of eggs, which Patience declared
ought to have brought two pence instead of only three halfpence.

Jephthah, however, had far too much news to tell to heed her
disappointment as she counted the money.  He declared that the price
of eggs and butter would go up gallantly, for more soldiers were
daily expected to defend Bristol, and he had further to tell of one
of the captains preaching in the Minster, and the market people
flocking in to hear him.  Jeph had been outside, for there was no
room within, but he had scrambled upon an old tombstone with a couple
of other lads, and through the broken window had seen the gentleman
holding forth in his hat and feather, buff coat and crimson scarf,
and heard him call on all around to be strong and hew down all their
enemies, even dragging the false and treacherous woman and her idols
out to the horse gate and there smiting them even to the death.

"Who was the false woman?" asked Steadfast.

"I wot not!  There was something about Aholah, or some such name, but
just then a mischievous little jackanapes pulled me down by the leg,
and I had to thrash him for it, and by the time I had done, Dick, the
butcher's lad, had got my place and I heard no more."

Whether the Captain meant Aholah or Athaliah, or alluded to Queen
Henrietta Maria, or to the English Church, Jeph's auditors never
knew.  The baby began to cry, and Patience to feed him with the milk
and water that had been warmed at the fire; his father and the boys
went out to finish the work for the night, little Rusha running after
them.

Presently, she gave a cry and darted up to her father "The soldiers!
the soldiers!" and in fact three men with steel caps, buff coats, and
musquets slung by broad belts were coming into the yard.

Kenton took up his little girl in his arms and went forward to meet
them, but he soon saw they did not look dangerous, they were dragging
along as if very tired and footsore and as if their weapons were a
heavy weight.

"It's the goodman," said the foremost, a red-faced, good-natured
looking fellow more like a hostler than a soldier, "have you seen
Captain Lundy's men pass this way?"

"Not I!" said Kenton, "we lie out of the high road, you see."

"But I saw them, a couple of hours agone, marching into Bristol,"
said Jephthah coming forward.

"There now," said the man, "we did but stop at the sign of the 'Crab'
the drinking of a pottle, and to bathe Jack's foot near there, and we
have never been able to catch them up again!  How far off be
Bristol?"

"A matter of four mile across the ferry.  You may see it from the
hill above."

He looked stout enough though he gave a heavy sigh of weariness, and
the other two, who were mere youths, not much older than Jeph, seemed
quite spent, and heard of the additional four miles with dismay.

"Heart alive, lads," said their comrade, "ye'll soon be in good
quarters, and mayhap the goodman here will give you a drink to carry
ye on a bit further for the Cause."

"You are welcome to a draught for civility's sake," said Kenton,
making a sign to his sons, who ran off to the house, "but I'm a plain
man, and know nought about the Cause."

"Well, Master," said the straggler, as he leant his back against the
barn, and his two companions sat down on the ground in the shelter,
"I have heard a lot about the Cause, but all I know is that my Lord
of Essex sent to call out five-and-twenty men from our parish, and
the squire, he was in a proper rage with being rated to pay ship
money, so--as I had fallen out with my master, mine host of the
'Griffin,' more fool I--I went with the young gentleman, and a proper
ass I was to do so."

"Father said 'twas rank popery railing in the Communion table, when
it was so handy to sit on or to put one's hat on," added one of the
youths looking up.  "So he was willing for me to go, and I thought
I'd like to see the world, but I'd fain be at home again."

"So would not I," muttered the other lad.

"No," said the ex-tapster humorously, "for thou knowst the stocks be
gaping for thee, Dick."

By this time Jeph and Stead had returned with a jug of small beer, a
horn cup, and three hunches of the barley loaf.  The men ate and
drank, and then the tapster returning hearty thanks, called the
others on, observing that if they did not make the best speed, they
might miss their billet, and have to sleep in the streets, if not
become acquainted with the lash.

On then unwillingly they dragged, as if one foot would hardly come
after the other.

"Poor lads!" said Kenton, as he looked after them, "methinks that's
enough to take the taste for soldiering out of thy mouth, son Jeph."

"A set of poor-spirited rogues," returned Jeph contemptuously, as he
nevertheless sauntered on so as to watch them down the lane.

"Be they on the right side or the wrong, father?" asked Steadfast, as
he picked up the pitcher and the horn.

"They be dead against our parson, lad," returned Kenton, "and he says
they be against the Church and the King, though they do take the
King's name, it don't look like the right side to be knocking out
church windows, eh?"

"Nay!" said Steadfast, "but there's them as says the windows be
popish idols."

"Never you mind 'em, lad, ye don't bow down to the glass, nor worship
it.  Thy blessed mother would have put it to you better than I can,
and she knew the Bible from end to end, but says she 'God would have
His worship for glory and for beauty in the old times, why not now?'"

John Kenton had an immense reverence for his late wife.  She had been
far more educated than he, having been born and bred up in the
household of one of those gentlemen who held it as their duty to
provide for the religious instruction of their servants.

She had been serving-woman to the lady, who in widowhood went to
reside at Bristol, and there during her marketings, honest John
Kenton had won her by his sterling qualities.

Puritanism did not mean nonconformity in her days, and in fact
everyone who was earnest and scrupulous was apt to be termed a
Puritan.  Goodwife Kenton was one of those pious and simple souls who
drink in whatever is good in their surroundings; and though the
chaplain who had taught her in her youth would have differed in
controversy with Mr. Holworth, she never discovered their diversity,
nor saw more than that Elmwood Church had more decoration than the
Castle Chapel.  Whatever was done by authority she thought was right,
and she found good reason for it in the Bible and Prayer-book her
good lady had given her.  She had named her children after the
prevailing custom of Puritans because she had heard the chaplain
object to what he considered unhallowed heathenish names, but she had
been heartily glad that they should be taught and catechised by the
good vicar.  Happily for her, in her country home, she did not live
to see the strife brought into her own life.

She had taught her children as much as she could.  Her husband was
willing, but his old mother disapproved of learning in that station
of life, and aided and abetted her eldest grandson in his resistance,
so that though she had died when he was only eleven or twelve years
old, Jephthah could do no more than just make out the meaning of a
printed sentence, whereas Steadfast and Patience could both read
easily, and did read whatever came in their way, though that was only
a broadside ballad now and then besides their mother's Bible and
Prayer-book, and one or two little black books.

The three eldest had been confirmed, when the Bishop of Bath and
Wells had been in the neighbourhood.  That was only a fortnight after
their mother died, and even Jeph was sad and subdued.

Since that sad day when the good mother had blessed them for the last
time, there had been little time for anything.  Patience had to be
the busy little housewife, and what she would have done without
Steadfast she could not tell.  Jeph would never put a hand to what he
called maids' work, but Stead would sweep, or beat the butter, or
draw the water, or chop wood, or hold the baby, and was always ready
to help her, even though it hindered him from ever going out to fish,
or play at base ball, or any of the other sports the village boys
loved.

His quiet, thoughtful ways had earned his father's trust, though he
was much slower of speech and less ready than his elder brother, and
looked heavy both in countenance and figure beside Jeph, who was
tall, slim, and full of activity and animation.  He had often made
his mother uneasy by wild talk about going to sea, and by consorting
with the sailors at Bristol, which was their nearest town, though on
the other side of the Avon, and in a different county.

It was there that the Elmwood people did their marketing, often
leaving their donkeys hobbled on their own side of the river, being
ferried over and carrying the goods themselves the latter part of the
way.




CHAPTER III.

KIRK RAPINE.



"When impious men held sway and wasted Church and shrine."
                                             LORD SELBORNE.


Patience, in her tight little white cap, sat spinning by the door,
rocking the cradle with her foot, while Rusha sometimes built what
she called houses with stones, sometimes trotted to look down the
lane to see whether father and the lads were coming home from market.

Presently she brought word, "Stead is coming.  He is leading
Whitefoot, but I don't see father and Jeph."

Patience jumped up to put her wheel out of the way, and soon she saw
that it was only Steadfast leading the old mare with the large crooks
or panniers on either side.  She ran to meet him, and saw he looked
rather pale and dazed.

"What is it, Stead?  Where's daddy?"

"Gone up to Elmwood!  They told us in town that some of the soldiers
and the folk of that sort were gone out to rabble cur church and our
parson, and father is Churchwarden, you know.  So he said he must go
to see what was doing.  And he bade me take Whitefoot home and give
you the money," said Steadfast, producing a bag which Patience took
to keep for her father.

She watched very anxiously, and so did Stead, while relieving
Whitefoot of her panniers and giving her a rub down before turning
her out to get her supper.

It was not long however before Kenton and Jeph both appeared, the one
looking sad, the other sulky.  "Too late," Jeph muttered, "and father
won't let me go to see the sport."

"Sport, d'ye call it?" said Kenton.  "Aye, Stead, you may well gape
at what we have seen--our good parson with his feet tied to his
stirrups on a sorry nag, being hauled off to town like a common
thief!"

"Oh!" broke from the children, and Patience ventured to ask, "But
what for, father?"

"They best know who did it," said the Churchwarden.  "Something they
said of a scandalous minister, as though his had not ever been a
godly life and preaching.  These be strange times, children, and for
the life of me, I know not what it all means.  How now, Jeph, what
art idling there for?  There's the waggon to be loaded for to-morrow
with the faggots I promised Mistress Lightfoot."

Jeph moved away, murmuring something about fetching up the cows, to
which his father replied, "That was Steadfast's work, and it was not
time yet."

In fact Jeph was very curious to know what was going on in the
village.  If there was any kind of uproar, why should not he have his
part in it?  It was just like father to hinder him, and he had a
great mind to neglect the faggots and go off to the village.  He was
rather surprised, and a good deal vexed to see his father walking
along on the way to the pasture with Steadfast.

It was for the sake of saying "Aye, boy, best not go near the sorry
sight!  They would not let good Master Holworth speak with me; but I
saw he meant to warn me to keep aloof lest Tim Green or the like
should remember as how I'm Churchwarden."

"Did they ask after those things?" inquired Steadfast in a lowered
voice.

"I can't say.  But on your life, lad, not a word of them!"

After work was done for the evening, Jeph and Stead were too eager to
know what had happened to stay at home.  They ran across the bit of
moorland to the village street and the grey church, whose odd-shaped
steeple stood up among the trees.  Already they could see that the
great west window was broken, all the glass which bore the picture of
the Last Judgment, and the Archangel Michael weighing souls in the
balance was gone!

"Yes," said Tom Oates, leaping over two or three tombstones to get to
them.  "'Twas rare sport, Jeph Kenton.  Why were you not there too?"

"At Bristol with father," replied Jeph.

"Worse luck for you.  The red coat shot the big angel right in the
eye, and shivered him through, and we did the rest with stones.  I
sent one that knocked the wing of him right off.  You should have
seen me, Stead!  And old Clerk North was running about crying all the
time like a baby.  He'll never whack us over the head again!"

"What was the good?" said Steadfast.

"You never saw better sport," said the boys.

And indeed, since, when once begun, destruction and mischief are apt
to be only too delightful to boys, they had thoroughly and
thoughtlessly delighted in knocking down the things they had been
taught to respect.  A figure of a knight in a ruff kneeling on a tomb
had had its head knocked off, and one of the lads heaved the bits up
to throw at the last fragment of glass in the window.

"What do you do that for?" asked Stead.

"'Tis worshipping of idols," said a somewhat graver lad.  "'Break
down their idols,' the man in the black gown said, 'and burn their
graven images in the fire.'"

"But we never worshipped them," said Stead.

"Pious preacher said so," returned the youth, "and mighty angered was
he with the rails."  (Jeph and Will were sparring with two fragments
of them.)  "'Down with them,' he cried out, so as it would have done
your heart good to hear him."

"And the parson is gone!  There will be no hearing the catechism on
Sundays!" cried Ralph Wilkes, making a leap over the broken font.

"Good luck for you, Ralph," cried the others.  "You, that never could
tell how many commandments there be."

"Put on your hat, Stead," called out another lad.  "We've done with
all that now, and the parson is gone to prison for it."

"No, no," shouted Tom Oates, "'twas for making away with the
Communion things."

"I heard the red coat say they had a warrant against scandalous
ministers," declared Ralph Wilkes.

"I heard the man with the pen and ink-horn ask for the popish
vessels, as he called them, and not a word would the parson say,"
said Oates.

"I'd take my oath he has hid them somewheres," replied Jack Beard, an
ill-looking lad.

"What a windfall they would be for him as found them!" observed
Wilkes.

"I'd like to look over the parsonage house," said Jeph.

"No use.  Old dame housekeeper has locked herself in, as savage as a
bear with a sore head."

"Besides, they did turn over all the parson's things and made a
bonfire of all his popish books.  The little ones be dancing their
rounds about it still!"

Stead had heard quite enough to make him very uneasy, and wish to get
home with his tidings to his father.  There was a girl standing by
with a baby in her arms, and she asked:

"What will they do to our minister?"

"Put him in Little Ease for a scandalous minister," was the ready
answer.  "But he _is_ a good man.  He gave us all broth when father
had the fever!"

"And who will give granny and me our Sunday dinner?" said a little
boy.

"But there'll be no more catechising.  Hurrah!" cried Oates,
"hurrah!"

"'Tis rank superstition, said the red coat, Hurrah!" and up went
their caps.  "Halloa, Stead Kenton, not a word to say?"

"He likes being catechised, standing as he does like a stuck pig, and
answering never a word," cried Jack.

"I do," said Steadfast, "and why not?"

"Parson's darling!  Parson's darling!" shouted the boys.  "A
malignant!  Off with him."  They had begun to hustle him, when Jeph
threw himself between and cried:

"Hit Steadfast, and you must hit me first."

"A match, a match!" they cried, "Jeph and Jack."

Stead had no fears about Jeph conquering, but while the others stood
round to watch the boxing, he slipped away, with his heart perplexed
and sad.  He had loved his minister, and he never guessed how much he
cared for his church till he saw it lying desolate, and these rude
lads rejoicing in the havoc; while the words rang in his ears, "And
now they break down all the carved work thereof with axes and with
hammers."




CHAPTER IV.

THE GOOD CAUSE.



"And their Psalter mourneth with them
 O'er the carvings and the grace,
 Which axe and hammer ruin
 In the fair and holy place."
                Bp. CLEVELAND COXE.


When next John Kenton went into Bristol to market he tried to
discover what had become of Mr. Holworth, but could only make out
something about his being sent up to London with others of his sort
to answer for being Baal worshippers!  Which, as he observed, he
could not understand.

There seemed likely to be no service at the church on Sunday, but
John thought himself bound to walk thither with his sons to see what
was going on, and they heard such a noise that they looked at each
other in amazement.  It was not preaching, but shouting, laughing,
screaming, stamping, and running.  The rude village children were
playing at hide-and-seek, and Jenny Oates was hidden in the pulpit.
But at Master Kenton's loud "How now, youngsters" they all were
frightened, some ran out headlong, some sneaked out at the little
north door, and the place was quiet, but in sad confusion and
desolation, the altar-table overthrown, the glass of the windows
lying in fragments on the pavement, the benches kicked over.

Kenton, with his boys' help, put what he could straight again, and
then somewhat to their surprise knelt down with bowed head, and said
a prayer, for they saw his lips moving.  Then he locked up the church
doors, for the keys had been left in them, and slowly and sadly went
away.

"Thy mother would be sad to see this work," he said to Steadfast, as
he stopped by her grave.  "They say 'tis done for religion's sake,
but I know not what to make of it."

The old Parish Clerk, North, had had a stroke the night after the
plunder of the church, and lay a-dying and insensible.  His wife gave
his keys to Master Kenton, and on the following Sunday there was a
hue-and-cry for them, and Oates the father, the cobbler, a meddling
fellow, came down with a whole rabble of boys after him to the farm
to demand them.  "A preacher had come out from Bristol," he said, "a
captain in the army, and he was calling for the keys to get into the
church and give them a godly discourse.  It would be the worse for
Master Kenton if he did not give them up."

John had just sat down in the porch in his clean Sunday smock with
the baby on his knee, and Rusha clinging about him waiting till Stead
had cleaned himself up, and was ready to read to them from the
mother's books.

When he understood Gates' message he slowly said, "I be in charge of
the keys for this here parish."

"Come, come, Master Kenton, this wont do, give 'un up or you'll be
made to.  Times are changed, and we don't want no parsons nor
churchwardens now, nor no such popery!"

"I'm accountable to the vestry for the church," gravely said Kenton.
"I will come and see what is doing, and open the church if so be as
the parish require it."

"Don't you see!  The parish does--"

"I don't call you the parish, Master Gates, nor them boys neither,"
said Kenton, getting up however, and placing the little one in the
cradle, as he called out to Patience to keep back the dinner till his
return.  The two boys and Rusha followed him to see what would
happen.

Long before they reached the churchyard they heard the sound of a
powerful voice, and presently they could see all the men and women of
the parish as it seemed, gathered about the lych gate, where, on the
large stone on which coffins were wont to be rested, stood a tall
thin man, in a heavy broad-brimmed hat, large bands, crimson scarf,
and buff coat, who was in fiery and eager words calling on all those
around to awaken from the sleep of sloth and sin, break their bonds
and fight for freedom and truth.  He waved his long sword as he spoke
and dared the armies of Satan to come on, and it was hard to tell
which he really meant, the forces of sin, or the armies of men whom
he believed to be fighting on the wrong side.

Someone told him that the keys of the church were brought, but he
heeded not the interruption, except to thunder forth "What care I for
your steeple house!  The Church of God is in the souls of the
faithful.  Is it not written 'The kingdom of heaven is within you?'
What, can ye not worship save between four walls?"  And then he went
on with the utmost fervour and vehemence, calling on all around to
set themselves free from the chains that held them and to strive even
to the death.

He meant all he said.  He really believed he was teaching the only
way of righteousness, and so his words had a force that went home to
people's hearts as earnestness always does, and Jephthah, with tears
in his eyes, began begging and praying his father to let him go and
fight for the good Cause.

"Aye, aye," said Kenton, "against the world, the flesh, and the
devil, and welcome, my son."

"Then I'll go and enlist under Captain Venn," cried Jeph.

"Not so fast, my lad.  What I gave you leave for was to fight with
the devil."

"You said the good Cause!"

"And can you tell me which be the good Cause?"

"Why, this here, of course.  Did not you hear the Captain's good
words, and see his long sword, and didn't they give five marks for
Croppie's bull calf?"

"Fine words butter no parsnips," slowly responded Kenton.

"But," put in Steadfast, "butter is risen twopence the pound."

"Very like," said Kenton, "but how can that be the good Cause that
strips the Churches and claps godly ministers into jail?"

Jephthah thought he had an answer, but fathers in those times did not
permit themselves to be argued with.

Prices began going up still higher, for the Cavaliers were reported
to be on their way to besiege Bristol, and the garrison wanted all
the provisions they could lay in, and paid well for them.  When
Kenton and his boys went down to market, they found the old walls
being strengthened with earth and stones, and sentries watching at
the gates, but as they brought in provisions, and were by this time
well known, no difficulty was made about admitting them.

One day, however, as they were returning, they saw a cloud of dust in
the distance, and heard the sounds of drums and fifes playing a
joyous tune.  Kenton drew the old mare behind the bank of a high
hedge, and the boys watched eagerly through the hawthorns.

Presently they saw the Royal Standard of England, though indeed that
did not prove much, for both sides used it alike, but there were many
lesser banners and pennons of lords and knights, waving on the
breeze, and as the Kentons peeped down into the lane below they saw
plumed hats, and shining corslets, and silken scarves, and handsome
horses, whose jingling accoutrements chimed in with the tramp of
their hoofs, and the notes of the music in front, while cheerful
voices and laughter could be heard all around.

"Oh, father! these be gallant fellows," exclaimed Jephthah.  "Will
you let me go with these?"

Kenton laughed a little to himself.  "Which is the good Cause, eh,
son Jeph?"

He was, however, not at all easy about the state of things.  "There
is like to be fighting," he said to Steadfast, as they were busy
together getting hay into the stable, "and that makes trouble even
for quiet folks that only want to be let alone.  Now, look you here,"
and he pulled out a canvas bag from the corner of the bin.  "This has
got pretty tolerably weighty of late, and I doubt me if this be the
safest place for it."

Stead opened his eyes.  The family all knew that the stable was used
as the deposit for money, though none of the young folks had been
allowed to know exactly where it was kept.  There were no banks in
those days, and careful people had no choice but either to hoard and
hide, or to lend their money to someone in business.

The farmer poured out a heap of the money, all silver and copper, but
he did not dare to wait to count it lest he should be interrupted.
He tied up one handful, chiefly of pence, in the same bag, and put
the rest into a bit of old sacking, saying, "You can get to the brook
side, to the place you wot of, better than I can, Stead.  Take you
this with you and put it along with the other things, and then you
will have something to fall back on in case of need.  We'll put the
rest back where it was before, for it may come handy."

So Steadfast, much gratified, as well he might be, at the confidence
bestowed on him by his father, took the bag with him under his smock
when he went out with the cows, and bestowed it in a cranny not far
from that in which that more precious trust resided.




CHAPTER V.

DESOLATION.



"They shot him dead at the Nine Stonerig,
 Beside the headless Cross;
 And they left him lying in his blood,
 Upon the moor and moss."
                                 SURTEES.


More and more soldiers might be seen coming down the roads towards
the town, not by any means always looking as gay as that first troop.
Some of the feathers were as draggled as the old cock's tail after a
thunderstorm, some reduced even to the quill, the coats looked
threadbare, the scarves stained and frayed, the horses lean and bony.

There was no getting into the town now, and the growling thunder of a
cannon might now and then be heard.  Jeph would have liked to spend
all his time on the hill-side where he could see the tents round the
town, and watch bodies of troops come out, looking as small as toy
soldiers, and see the clouds of smoke, sometimes the flashes, a
moment or two before the report.

He longed to go down and see the camp, taking a load of butter and
eggs, but the neighbours told his father that these troops were bad
paymasters, and that there were idle fellows lurking about who might
take his wares without so much as asking the price.

However, Jeph grew suddenly eager to herd the cattle, because thus he
had the best chance of watching the long lines of soldiers drawn out
from the camp, and seeing the smoke of the guns, whose sound made
poor Patience stay and tremble at home, and hardly like to have her
father out of her sight.

There was worse coming.  Jeph had been warned to keep his cattle well
out of sight from any of the roads, but when he could see the troops
moving about he could not recollect anything else, and one afternoon
Croppie strayed into the lane where the grass grew thick and rank,
and the others followed her.  Jeph had turned her back and was close
to the farmstead when he heard shouts and the clattering of
trappings.  Half-a-dozen lean, hungry-looking troopers were clanking
down the lane, and one called out, "Ha! good luck!  Just what we
want!  Beef and forage.  Turn about, young bumpkin, I say.  Drive
your cattle into camp.  For the King's service."

"They are father's," sturdily replied Jeph, and called aloud for
"Father."

He was answered with a rude shout of derision, and poor Croppie was
pricked with the sword's point to turn her away.  Jeph was wild with
passion, and struck back the sword with his stick so unexpectedly
that it flew out of the trooper's hand.  Of course, more than one
stout man instantly seized the boy, amid howls of rage; and one heavy
blow had fallen on him, when Kenton dashed forward, thrusting himself
between his son, and the uplifted arm, and had begun to speak, when,
with the words "You will, you rebel dog?" a pistol shot was fired.

Jeph saw his father fall, but felt the grasp upon himself relax, and
heard a voice shouting, "How now, my men, what's this?"

"He resisted the King's requisition, your Grace," said one of the
troopers, as a handsome lad galloped up.

"King's requisition!  Your own robbery.  What have you done to the
poor man, you Schelm?  See here, Rupert," he added, as another young
man rode hastily up.

"Rascals!  How often am I to tell you that this is not to be made a
place for your plunder and slaughter," thundered the new comer,
rising in his stirrups, and striking at the troopers with the flat of
his sword, so that they fell back with growls about "soldiers must
live," and "curs of peasants."

The younger brother had leapt from his horse, and was trying to help
Jephthah raise poor Kenton's head, but it fell back helplessly, deaf
to the screams of "Father, father," with which Patience and Rusha had
darted out, as a cloud of smoke began to rise from the straw yard.
Poor children, they screamed again at what was before them.  Rusha
ran wildly away at sight of the soldiers, but Patience, with the baby
in her arms, came up.  She did not see her father at first, and only
cried aloud to the gentlemen.

"O sir, don't let them do it.  If they take our cows, the babe will
die.  He has no mother!"

"They shall not, the villains!  Brother, can nothing be done?" cried
the youth, with a face of grief and horror.  And then there was a
great confusion.

The two young officers were vehemently angry at sight of the fire,
and shouted fierce orders to the guard of soldiers who had
accompanied them to endeavour to extinguish it, themselves doing
their best, and making the men release Steadfast, whom they had
seized upon as he was trying to trample out the flame, kindled by a
match from one of the soldiers who had scattered themselves about the
yard during the struggle with Jephthah.

But either the fire was too strong, or the men did not exert
themselves; it was soon plain that the house could not be saved, and
the elder remounted, saying in German, "'Tis of no use, Maurice, we
must not linger here."

"And can nothing be done?" again asked Prince Maurice.  "This is as
bad as in Germany itself."

"You are new to the trade, Maurice.  You will see many such sights, I
fear, ere we have done; though I hoped the English nature was more
kindly."

Then using the word of command, sending his aides-de-camp, and with
much shouting and calling, Prince Rupert got the troop together
again, very sulky at being baulked of their plunder.  They were all
made to go out of the farm yard, and ride away before him, and then
the two princes halted where the poor children, scarce knowing that
their home was burning behind them, were gathered round their father,
Patience stroking his face, Steadfast chafing his hands, Jephthah
standing with folded arms, and a terrible look of grief and wrath on
his face.

"Is there no hope?" asked Prince Maurice, sorrowfully.

"He is dead.  That's all," muttered Jeph between his clenched teeth.

"Mark," said Prince Rupert, "this mischance is by no command of the
King or mine.  The fellow shall be brought to justice if you can
swear to him."

"I would have hindered it, if I could," said the other prince, in
much slower, and more imperfect English.  "It grieves me much.  My
purse has little, but here it is."

He dropped it on the ground while setting spurs to his horse to
follow his brother.

And thus the poor children were left at first in a sort of numb
dismay after the shock, not even feeling that a heavy shower had
begun to fall, till the baby, whom Patience had laid on the grass,
set up a shriek.

Then she snatched him up, and burst into a bitter cry herself--
wailing "father was dead, and he would die," in broken words.
Steadfast then laid a hand on her, and said "He won't die, Patience,
I see Croppie there, I'll get some milk.  Take him."

There were only smoking walls, but the fire was burning down under
the rain, and had not touched the stable, the wind being the other
way.  "Take him there," the boy said.

"But father--we can't leave him."

Without more words Jephthah and Steadfast took the still form between
them and bore it into the stable, the baby screaming with hunger all
the time, so that Jephthah hotly said--

"Stop that!  I can't bear it."

Steadfast then said he would milk the cow if Jeph would run to the
next cottage and get help.  People would come when they knew the
soldiers were gone.

There was nothing but Steadfast's leathern cap to hold the milk, and
he felt as if his fingers had no strength to draw it; but when he had
brought his sister enough to quiet little Ben, she recollected Rusha,
and besought him to find her. She could hardly sit still and feed the
little one while she heard his voice shouting in vain for the child,
and all the time she was starting with the fancy that she saw her
father move, or heard a rustling in the straw where her brothers had
laid him.

And when little Ben was satisfied, she was almost rent asunder
between her unwillingness to leave unwatched all that was left of her
father, still with that vain hopeless hope that he might revive, all
could not have been over in such a moment, and her terrible anxiety
about her little sister.  Could she have run back into the burning
house?  Or could those dreadful soldiers have killed her too?

Steadfast presently came back, having found some of the startled
cattle and driven them in, but no Rusha.  Patience was sure she could
find her, and giving the baby to Steadfast ran out in the rain and
smouldering smoke calling her; all in vain.  Then she heard voices
and feet, and in a fresh fright was about to turn again, when she
knew Jephthah's call.  He had the child in his arms.  He had been
coming back from the village with some neighbours, when they saw the
poor little thing, crouched like a hare in her form under a bush.  No
sooner did she hear them, than like a hare, she started up to run
away; but stumbling over the root of a tree, she fell and lay, too
much frightened even to scream till her brother picked her up.

Kind motherly arms were about the poor girls.  Old Goody Grace, who
had been with them through their mother's illness, had hobbled up on
hearing the terrible news.  She looked like a witch, with a tall hat,
short cloak, and nose and chin nearly meeting, but all Elmwood loved
and trusted her, and the feeling of utter terror and helplessness
almost vanished when she kissed and grieved over the orphans, and
took the direction of things.  She straightened and composed poor
John Kenton's limbs, and gave what comfort she could by assuring the
children that the passage must have been well nigh without pain.
"And if ever there was a good man fit to be taken suddenly, it was
he," she added.  "He be in a happier place than this has been to him
since your good mother was took."

Several of the men had accompanied her, and after some consultation,
it was decided that the burial had better take place that very night,
even though there was no time to make a coffin.

"Many an honest man will be in that same case," said Harry Blane, the
smith, "if they come to blows down there."

"And He to Whom he is gone will not ask whether he lies in a coffin,
or has the prayers said over him," added Goody, "though 'tis pity on
him too, for he always was a man for churches and parsons and
prayers."

"Vain husks, said the pious captain," put in Oates.

"Well," said Harry Blane, "those could hardly be vain husks that made
John Kenton what he was.  Would that the good old times were back
again; when a sackless man could not be shot down at his own door for
nothing at all."

Reverently and carefully John Kenton's body was borne to the
churchyard, where he was laid in the grave beside his much loved
wife.  No knell was rung: Elmwood, lying far away over the hill side
in the narrow wooded valley with the river between it and the camp,
had not yet been visited by any of the Royalist army, but a midnight
toll might have attracted the attention of some of the lawless
stragglers.  Nor did anyone feel capable of uttering a prayer aloud,
and thus the only sound at that strange sad funeral was the low boom
of a midnight gun fired in the beleaguered city.

Then Patience with Rusha and the baby were taken home by kind old
Goody Grace, while the smith called the two lads into his house.




CHAPTER VI.

LEFT TO THEMSELVES.



"One look he cast upon the bier,
 Dashed from his eye the gathering tear,
 Then, like the high bred colt when freed
 First he essays his fire and speed,
 He vanished---"
                           SCOTT.


Steadfast was worn and wearied out with grief and slept heavily,
knowing at first that his brother was tossing about a good deal, but
soon losing all perception, and not waking till on that summer
morning the sun had made some progress in the sky.

Then he came to the sad recollection of the last dreadful day, and
knew that he was lying on Master Blane's kitchen floor.  He picked
himself up, and at the same moment heard Jephthah calling him from
the outside.

"Stead," he said, "I am going!"

"Going!" said poor Stead, half asleep.

"Yes.  I shall never rest till I have had a shot at those barbarous
German princes and the rest of the villains.  My father's blood cries
to me from the ground for vengeance."

"Would father have said like that?" said the boy, bewildered, but
conscious of something defective, though these were Bible words.

"That's not the point!  Captain Venn called every man to take the
sword and hew down the wicked, and slay the ungodly and the
murderers.  I will!" cried Jeph, "none shall withhold me."

He had caught more phrases from these fiery preachers than he himself
knew, and they broke forth in this time of excitement.

"But, Jeph, what is to become of us?  The girls, and the little one!
You are the only one of us who can do a man's work."

"I could not keep you together!" said Jeph.  "Our house burnt by
those accursed sons of Belial, all broken up, and only a lubber like
you to help!  No, Goody Grace or some one will take in the girls for
what's left of the stock, and you can soon find a place--a strong
fellow like you; Master Blane might take you and make a smith of you,
if you be not too slow and clumsy."

"But Jeph--"

"Withhold me not.  Is it not written--"

"I wish you would not say is it not written," broke in Stead, "I know
it is, but you don't say it right."

"Because you are yet in darkness," said Jeph, contemptuously.  "Hold
your tongue.  I must be off at once.  Market folk can get into the
town by the low lane out there, away from the camp of the spoilers,
early in the morning, and I must hasten to enlist under Captain Venn.
No, don't call the wenches, they would but strive to daunt my spirit
in the holy work of vengeance on the bloodthirsty, and I can't abide
tears and whining.  See here, I found this in the corn bin.  I'm poor
father's heir.  You won't want money, and I shall; so I shall take
it, but I'll come back and make all your fortunes when I am a captain
or a colonel.  I wonder this is not more.  We got a heap of late.
Maybe father hid it somewhere else, but 'tis no use seeking now.  If
you light upon it you are welcome to do what you will with it.  Fare
thee well, Steadfast.  Do the best you can for the wenches, but a
call is laid on me!  I have vowed to avenge the blood that was shed."

He strode off into the steep woodland path that clothed the hill
side, and Steadfast looked after him, and felt more utterly deserted
than before.  Then he looked up to the sky, and tried to remember
what was the promise to the fatherless children.  That made him
wonder whether the Bible and Prayer-book had been burnt, and then his
morning's duty of providing milk for the little ones' breakfast
pressed upon him.  He took up a pail of Mrs. Blane's which he thought
he might borrow and went off in search of the cows.  So, murmuring
the Lord's Prayer as he walked, and making the resolution not to be
dragged away from his trust in the cavern, nor to forsake his little
sister--he heard the lowing of the cows as he went over the hill, and
found them standing at the gate of the fold yard, waiting to be eased
of their milk.  Poor creatures, they seemed so glad to welcome him
that it was the first thing that brought tears to his eyes, and they
came with such a rush that he had much ado to keep them from dropping
into the pail as he leant his head against Croppie's ruddy side.

There was a little smouldering smoke; but the rain had checked the
fire, and though the roof of the house was gone and it looked
frightfully dreary and wretched, the walls were still standing and
the pigs were grunting about the place.  However, Steadfast did not
stop to see what was left within, as he knew Ben would be crying for
food, but he carried his foaming pail back to Goody Grace's as fast
as he could, after turning out the cows on the common, not even
stopping to count the sheep that were straggling about.

His sisters were watching anxiously from the door of Goody Grace's
hovel, and eagerly cried out "Where's Jeph?"

Then he had to tell them that Jeph was gone for a soldier, to have
his revenge for his father's death.

"Jeph gone too!" said poor Patience, looking pale.  "Oh, what shall
we ever do?"

"He did not think of that, I'll warrant, the selfish fellow," said
Goody Grace.  "That's the way with lads, nought but themselves."

"It was because of what they did to poor father," replied Stead.

"And if he, or the folks he is gone to, call that the Christian
religion, 'tis more than I do!" rejoined the old woman.  "I wish I
had met him, I'd have given him a bit of my mind about going off to
his revenge, as he calls it, without ever a thought what was to
become of his own flesh and blood here."

"He did say I might go to service (not that I shall), and that some
one would take you in for the cattle's sake."

"O don't do that, Stead," cried Patience, "don't let us part!"   He
had only just time to answer, "No such thing," for people were coming
about them by this time, one after another emerging from the cottages
that stood around the village green.  The women were all hotly angry
with Jeph for going off and leaving his young brothers and sisters to
shift for themselves.

"He was ever an idle fellow," said one, "always running after the
soldiers and only wanting an excuse."

"Best thing he could do for himself or them," growled old Green.

"Eh!  What, Gaffer Green!  To go off without a word or saying by your
leave to his poor little sister before his good father be cold in his
grave," exclaimed a whole clamour of voices.

"Belike he knew what a clack of women's tongues there would be, and
would fain be out of it," replied the old man shrewdly.

It was a clamour that oppressed poor Patience and made her feel sick
with sorrow and noise.  Everybody meant to be very kind and pitiful,
but there was a great deal too much of it, and they felt quite
bewildered by the offers made them.  Farmer Mill's wife, of Elmwood
Cross, two miles off, was reported by her sister to want a stout girl
to help her, but there was no chance of her taking Rusha or the baby
as well as Patience.  Goody Grace could not undertake the care of Ben
unless she could have Patience, because she was so often called away
from home, nor could she support them without the cows.  Smith Blane
might have taken Stead, but his wife would not hear of being troubled
with Rusha.  And Dame Oates might endure Rusha for the sake of a
useful girl like Patience, but certainly not the baby.  It was an
utter Babel and confusion, and in the midst of it all, Patience crept
up to her brother who stood all the time like a stock, and said "Oh!
Stead, I cannot give up Ben to anyone.  Cannot we all keep together?"

"Hush, Patty!  That's what I mean to do, if you will stand by me," he
whispered, "wait till all the clack is over."

And there he waited with Patience by his side while the parish seemed
to be endlessly striving over them.  If one woman seemed about to
make a proposal, half-a-dozen more fell on her and vowed that the
poor orphans would be starved and overworked; till she turned on the
foremost with "And hadn't your poor prentice lad to go before the
justices to shew the weals on his back?"  "Aye, Joan Stubbs, and what
are you speaking up for but to get the poor children's sheep?  Hey,
you now, Stead Kenton--Lack-a-day, where be they?"

For while the dispute was at its loudest and hottest, Stead had taken
Rusha by the hand, made a sign to Patience, and the four deserted
children had quietly gone away together into the copsewood that led
to the little glen where the brook ran, and where was the cave that
Steadfast looked on as his special charge.  Rusha, frightened by the
loud voices and angry gestures, had begun to cry, and beg she might
not be given to anyone, but stay with her Patty and Stead.

"And so you shall, my pretty," said Steadfast, sitting down on the
stump of a tree, and taking her on his knee, while Toby nuzzled up to
them.

"Then you think we can go on keeping ourselves, and not letting them
part us," said Patience, earnestly.  If I have done the house work
all this time, and we have the fields, and all the beasts.  We have
only lost the house, and I could never bear to live there again," she
added, with a shudder.

"No," said Steadfast, "it is too near the road while these savage
fellows are about.  Besides--" and there he checked himself and
added, "I'll tell you, Patty.  Do you remember the old stone cot down
there in the wood?"

"Where the old hermit lived in the blind Popish times?"

"Aye.  We'll live there.  No soldiers will ever find us out there,
Patty."

"Oh! oh! that is good," said Patience.  "We shall like that, shan't
we, Rusha?"

"And," added Steadfast, "there is an old cowshed against the rock
down there, where we could harbour the beasts, for 'tis them that the
soldiers are most after."

"Let us go down to it at once," cried the girl, joyfully.

But Steadfast thought it would be wiser to go first to the ruins of
their home; before, as he said, anyone else did so, to see what could
be saved therefrom.

Patience shrank from the spectacle, and Rusha hung upon her, saying
the soldiers would be there, and beginning to cry.  At that moment,
however, Tom Gates' voice came near shouting for "Stead! Stead
Kenton!"

"Come on, Stead.  You'll be prentice-lad to Dick Stiggins the tailor,
if so be you bring Whitefoot and the geese for your fee; and Goodman
Bold will have the big wench; and Goody Grace will make shift with
the little ones, provided she has the kine!"

"We don't mean to be beholden to none of them," said Steadfast,
sturdily, with his hands in his pockets.  "We mean to keep what
belongs to us, and work for ourselves."

"And God will help us," Patience added softly.

"Ho, ho!" cried Tom, and proud of having found them, he ran before
them back to the village green, and roared out, "Here they be!  And
they say as how they don't want none of you, but will keep
themselves.  Ha! ha!"

Anyone who saw those four young orphans would not have thought their
trying to keep themselves a laughing matter; and the village folk,
who had been just before so unwilling to undertake them, now began
scolding and blaming them for their folly and ingratitude.

Nothing indeed makes people so angry as when a kindness which has
cost them a great effort turns out not to be wanted.

"Look for nothing from us," cried Dame Bold.  "I'd have made a good
housewife of you, you ungrateful hussy, and now you may thank
yourself, if you come to begging, I shall have nothing for you."

"Beggary and rags," repeated the tailor.  "Aye, aye; 'tis all very
fine strolling about after the sheep with your hands in your pockets
in summer weather, but you'll sing another song in winter time, and
be sorry you did not know when you had a good offer."

"The babe will die as sure as 'tis born," added Jean Oates.

"If they be not all slain by the mad Prince's troopers up in that
place by the roadside," said another.

Blacksmith Blane and Goody Grace were in the meantime asking the
children what they meant to do, and Stead told them in a few words.
Goody Grace shook her head over little Ben, but Blane declared that
after all it might be the best thing they could do to keep their land
and beasts together.  Ten to one that foolish lad Jephthah would come
back with his tail between his legs, and though it would serve him
right, what would they do if all were broken up?  Then he slapped
Stead on the back, called him a sensible, steady lad, and promised
always to be his friend.

Moreover he gave up his morning's work to come with the children to
their homestead, and see what could be saved.  It was a real
kindness, not only because his protection made Patience much less
afraid to go near the place, and his strong arm would be a great help
to them, but because he was parish constable and had authority to
drive away the rough lads whom they found already hanging about the
ruins, and who had frightened Patience's poor cat up into the ash
tree.

The boys and two curs were dancing round the tree, and one boy was
stripping off his smock to climb up and throw poor pussy down among
them when Master Blane's angry shout and flourished staff put them
all to flight, and Patience and Rusha began to coax the cat to come
down to them.

Hunting her had had one good effect, it had occupied the boys and
prevented them from carrying anything off.  The stable was safe. What
had been burnt was the hay rick, whence the flames had climbed to the
house.  The roof had fallen in, and the walls and chimney stood up
blackened and dismal, but there was a good deal of stone about the
house, the roof was of shingle, and the heavy fall, together with the
pouring rain, had done much to choke the fire, so that when Blane
began to throw aside the charred bits of beams and of the upper
floor, more proved to be unburnt, or at least only singed, than could
have been expected.

The great black iron pot still hung in the chimney with the very meal
and kail broth that Patience had been boiling in it, and Rusha's
little stool stood by the hearth.  Then the great chest, or ark as
Patience called it, where all the Sunday clothes were kept, had been
crushed in and the upper things singed, but all below was safe.  The
beds and bedding were gone; but then the best bed had been only a box
in the wall with an open side, and the others only chaff or straw
stuffed into a sack.

Patience's crocks, trenchers, and cups were gone too, all except one
horn mug; but two knives and some spoons were extracted from the
ashes.  Furniture was much more scanty everywhere than now.  There
was not much to lose, and of that they had lost less than they had
feared.

"And see here, Stead," said Patience joyfully holding up a lesser box
kept within the other.

It contained her mother's Bible and Prayer-book.  The covers were
turned up, a little warped by the heat, and some of the corners of
the leaves were browned, but otherwise they were unhurt.

"I was in hopes 'twas the money box," said Blane.

"Jeph has got the bag," said Patience.

"More shame for him," growled their friend.  Steadfast did not think
it necessary to say that was not all the hoard.

Another thing about which Patience was very anxious was the meal
chest.  With much difficulty they reached it.  It had been broken in
by the fall of the roof, and some of the contents were scattered, but
enough was gathered up in a pail fetched from the stable to last for
some little time.  There were some eggs likewise in the nests, and
altogether Goodman Blane allowed that, if the young Kentons could
take care of themselves, and keep things together, they had decided
for the best; if they could, that was to say.  And he helped them to
carry their heavier things to the glen.  He wanted to see if it were
fit for their habitation, but Steadfast was almost sorry to show
anyone the way, in spite of his trust and gratitude to the
blacksmith.

However, of course, it was not possible to keep this strange hiding-
place a secret, so he led the way by the path the cattle had trodden
out through the brushwood to the open space where they drank, and
where stood the hermit's hut, a dreary looking den built of big
stones, and with rough slates covering it.  There was a kind of hole
for the doorway, and another for the smoke to get out at.  Blane
whistled with dismay at the sight of it, and told Stead he could not
take the children to such a place.

"We will get it better," said Stead.

"That we will," returned Patience, who felt anything better than
being separated from her brother.

"It is weather-tight," added Stead, "and when it is cleaned out you
will see!"

"And the soldiers will never find it," added Patience.

"There is something in that," said Blane.  "But at any rate, though
it be summer, you can never sleep there to-night."

"The girls cannot," said Stead, "but I shall, to look after things."

These were long days, and by the evening many of the remnants of
household stuff had been brought, the cows and Whitefoot had been
tied up in their dilapidated shed, with all the hay Stead could
gather together to make them feel at home.  There was a hollow under
the rock where he hoped to keep the pigs, but neither they nor the
sheep could be brought in at present.  They must take their chance,
the sheep on the moor, the pigs grubbing about the ruins of the
farmyard.  The soldiers must be too busy for marauding, to judge by
the constant firing that had gone on all day, the sharp rattle of the
musquets, and now and then the grave roll of a cannon.

Stead had been too busy to attend, but half the village had been
watching from the height, which accounted perhaps for the move from
the farm having been so uninterrupted after the first.

It was not yet dark, when, tired out by his day's hard work, Stead
sat himself down at the opening of his hut with Toby by his side.
The evening gold of the sky could hardly be seen through the hazel
and mountain-ash bushes that clothed the steep opposite bank of the
glen and gave him a feeling of security.  The brook rippled along
below, plainly to be heard since all other sounds had ceased except
the purring of a night-jar and the cows chewing their cud.  There was
a little green glade of short grass sloping down to the stream from
the hut where the rabbits were at play, but on each side the trees
and brushwood were thick, with only a small path through, much
overgrown, and behind the rock rose like a wall, overhung with ivy
and traveller's joy.  Only one who knew the place could have found
the shed among the thicket where the cows were fastened, far less the
cavern half-way up the side of the rock where lay the treasures for
which Steadfast was a watchman.  He thought for a moment of seeing if
all were safe, but then decided, like a wise boy, that to disturb the
creepers, and wear a path to the place, was the worst thing he could
do if he wished for concealment.  He had had his supper at the
village, and had no more to do, and after the long day of going to
and fro, even Toby was too much tired to worry the rabbits, though he
had had no heavy weights to carry.  Perhaps, indeed, the poor dog had
no spirits to interfere with their sports, as they sat upright,
jumped over one another, and flashed their little white tails.  He
missed his old master, and knew perfectly well that his young master
was in trouble and distress, as he crept close up to the boy's
breast, and looked up in his face.  Stead's hand patted the rough,
wiry hair, and there was a sort of comfort in the creature's love.
But how hard it was to believe that only yesterday he had a father
and a home, and that now his elder brother was gone, and he had the
great charge on him of being the mainstay of the three younger ones,
as well as of protecting that treasure in the cavern which his father
had so solemnly entrusted to him.

The boy knelt down to say his prayers, and as he did so, all alone in
the darkening wood, the words "Father of the fatherless, Helper of
the helpless," came to his aid.




CHAPTER VII.

THE HERMIT'S GULLEY.



"O Bessie Bell and Mary Grey,
 They were twa bonnie lasses--
 They digged a bower on yonder brae,
 And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes."     BALLAD.


Steadfast slept soundly on the straw with Toby curled up by his side
till the morning light was finding its way in through all the chinks
of his rude little hovel.

When he had gathered his recollections he knew how much there was to
be done.  He sprang to his feet, showing himself still his good
mother's own boy by kneeling down to his short prayer, then taking
off the clothes in which he had slept, and giving himself a good bath
in the pool under the bush of wax-berried guelder rose, and as good a
wash as he could without soap.

Then he milked the cows, for happily his own buckets had been at the
stable and thus were safe.  He had just released Croppie and seen her
begin her breakfast on the grass, when Patience in her little red
hood came tripping through the glen with a broom over her shoulder,
and without the other children.  Goody Grace had undertaken to keep
them for the day, whilst Patience worked with her brother, and had
further lent her the broom till she could make another, for all the
country brooms of that time were home-made with the heather and the
birch.  She had likewise brought a barley cake, on which and on the
milk the pair made their breakfast, Goody providing for the little
ones.

"We must use it up," said Patience, "for we have got no churn."

"And we could not get into the town to sell the butter if we had,"
returned her brother.  "We had better take it up to some one in the
village who might give us something for it, bread or cheese maybe."

"I would like to make my own butter," sighed Patience, whose mother's
cleanly habits had made her famous for it.

"So you shall some day, Patty," said her brother, "but there's no
getting into Bristol to buy one or to sell butter now.  Hark! they
are beginning again," as the growl of a heavy piece of cannon shook
the ground.

"I wonder where our Jeph is," said the little girl sadly.  "How could
he like to go among all those cruel fighting men?  You won't go,
Stead?"

"No, indeed, I have got something else to do."

The children were hard at work all the time.  They cleared out the
inside of their hovel, which had a floor of what was called lime ash,
trodden hard, and not much cracked.  Probably other hermits in
earlier times had made the place habitable before the expelled monk
whom the Kentons' great-grandfather recollected; for the cell, though
rude, was wonderfully strong, and the stone walls were very stout and
thick, after the fashion of the middle ages.  There was a large flat
stone to serve as a hearth, and an opening at the top for smoke with
a couple of big slaty stones bent towards one another over it as a
break to the force of the rain.  The children might have been worse
off though there was no window, and no door to close the opening.
That mattered the less in the summer weather, and before winter came,
Stead thought he could close it with a mat made of the bulrushes that
stood up in the brook, lifting their tall, black heads.

Straw must serve for their beds till they could get some sacking to
stuff it into, and as some of the sheep would have to be killed and
salted for the winter, the skins would serve for warmth.  Patience
arranged the bundles of straw with a neat bit of plaiting round them,
at one corner of the room for herself and Rusha, at the opposite one
for Stead.  For the present they must sleep in their clothes.

Life was always so rough, and, to present notions, comfortless, that
all this was not nearly so terrible to the farmer's daughter of two
centuries ago as it would be to a girl of the present day.  Indeed,
save for the grief for the good father, the sense of which now and
then rushed on them like a horrible, too true dream, Steadfast and
Patience would almost have enjoyed the setting up for themselves and
all their contrivances.  Some losses, however, besides that of the
churn were very great in their eyes.  Patience's spinning wheel
especially, and the tools, scythe, hook, and spade, all of which had
been so much damaged, that Smith Blane had shaken his head over them
as past mending.

Perhaps, however, Stead might borrow and get these made for him.  As
to the wheel, that must, like the churn, wait till the siege was
over.

"But will not those dreadful men burn the town down and not leave one
stone on another, if Jeph and the rest of them don't keep them out?"
asked Patience.

"No," said Stead.  "That is not the way in these days--at least not
always.  So poor father said last time we went into Bristol, when he
had been talking to the butter-merchant's man.  He said the townsfolk
would know the reason why, if the soldiers were for holding out long
enough to get them into trouble."

"Then perhaps there will not be much fighting and they will not hurt
Jeph," said Patience, to whom Jeph was the whole war.

"There's no firing to-day.  Maybe they are making it up," said
Steadfast.

"I never heeded," said Patience, "we have been so busy!  But Stead,
how shall we get the things?  We have no money.  Shall we sell a
sheep or a pig?"

Stead looked very knowing, and she exclaimed "Have you any, Stead?
***I thought Jeph took it all away."

Then Stead told her how his father had entrusted him with the bulk of
the savings, in case of need, and had made it over to the use of the
younger ones.

"It was well you did not know, Patty," he added.  "You told no lie,
and Jeph might have taken it all."

"O! he would not have been so cruel," cried Patience.  "He would not
want Rusha and Ben to have nothing."

Stead did not feel sure, and when Patience asked him where the hoard
was, he shook his head, looked wise, and would not tell her.  And
then he warned her, with all his might and main against giving a hint
to anyone that they had any such fund in reserve.  She was a little
vexed and hurt at first, but presently she promised.

"Indeed Stead, I won't say one word about it, and you don't think I
would ever touch it without telling you."

"No, Patty, you wouldn't, but don't you see, if you know nothing, you
can't tell if people ask you."

In truth, Stead was less anxious about the money than about the other
treasure, and when presently Patience proposed that the cave where
they used to play should serve for the poultry, so as to save them
from the foxes and polecats, he looked very grave and said "No, no,
Patty, don't you ever tell anyone of that hole, nor let Rusha see
it."

"Oh! I know then !" cried Patience, with a little laugh, "I know
what's there then."

"There's more than that, sister," and therewith Stead told in her ear
of the precious deposit.

She looked very grave, and said "Why then it is just like church!  O
no, Stead, I'll never tell till good Mr. Holworth comes back.  Could
not we say our prayers there on Sundays?"

Stead liked the thought but shook his head.

"We must not wear a path up to the place," he said, "nor show the
little ones the way."

"I shall say mine as near as I can," said Patience.  "And I shall ask
God to help us keep it safe."

Then the children became absorbed in seeking for a place where their
fowls could find safe shelter from the enemies that lurked in the
wood, and ended by an attempt of Stead's to put up some perches
across the beam above the cow-shed.

Things were forward enough for Rusha and Ben to be fetched down to
their new home that night; when Patience went to fetch them, she
heard that the cessation of firing had really been because the troops
within the town were going to surrender to the King's soldiers
outside.

"Then there will be no more fighting," she anxiously asked of Master
Blane.

"No man can tell," he answered.

"And will Jeph come back?"

But that he could tell as little, and indeed someone else spoke to
him, and he paid the child no more attention.

Rusha had had a merry day among the children of her own age in the
village; she fretted at coming away, and was frightened at turning
into so lonely a path through the hazel stems, trotting after
Patience because she was afraid to turn back alone, but making a low,
peevish moan all the time.

***Stead stirring the porridge.

Patience hoped she would be comforted when they came out on their
little glade, and she saw Stead stirring the milk porridge over the
fire he had lighted by the house.  For he had found the flint and
steel belonging to the matchlock of his father's old gun, and there
was plenty of dry leaves and half-burnt wood to serve as tinder.  The
fire for cooking would be outside, whenever warmth and weather
served, to prevent indoor smoke.  And to Patience's eyes it really
looked pleasant and comfortable, with Toby sitting wisely by his
young master's side, and the cat comfortably perched at the door, and
Whitefoot tied to a tree, and the cows in their new abode.  But
Jerusha was tired and cross, she said it was an ugly place, and she
was afraid of the foxes and the polecats, she wanted to go home, she
wanted to go back to Goody Grace.

Stead grew angry, and threatened that she should have no supper, and
that made her cry the louder, and shake her frock at him; but
Patience, who knew better how to deal with her, let her finish her
cry, and come creeping back, promising to be good, and glad to eat
the supper, which was wholesome enough, though very smoky: however,
the children were used to smoke, and did not mind it.

They said their prayers together while the sun was touching the tops
of the trees, crept into their hut, curled themselves up upon their
straw and went to sleep, while Toby lay watchful at the door, and the
cat prowled about in quest of a rabbit or some other evening wanderer
for her supper.

The next day Patience spent in trying to get things into somewhat
better order, and Steadfast in trying to gather together his live
stock, which he had been forced to leave to take care of themselves.
Horse, donkey, and cows were all safe round their hut; but he could
find only three of the young pigs and the old sow at the farmyard,
and it plainly was not safe to leave them there, though how to pen
them up in their new quarters he did not know.

The sheep were out on the moor, and only one of them seemed to be
missing.  The goat and the geese had likewise taken care of
themselves and seemed glad to see him.  He drove them down to their
new home, and fed them there with some of the injured meal.  "But
what can we do with the pigs?  There's no place they can't get out of
but this," said Stead, looking doubtfully.

"Do you think I would have pigs in here?  No, I am not come to that!"

It ended in Stead's going to consult Master Blane, who advised that
the younger pigs should be either sold, or killed and salted, and
nothing left but the sow, who was a cunning old animal, and could
pretty well take care of herself, besides that she was so tough and
lean that one must be very hungry indeed to be greatly tempted by her
bristles,

But how sell the pigs or buy the salt in such days as these?  There
was, indeed, no firing.

There was a belief that treaties were going on, but leisure only left
the besiegers more free to go wandering about in search of plunder;
and Stead found all trouble saved him as to disposing of his pigs.
They were quite gone next time he looked for them, and the poor old
sow had been lamed by a shot; but did not seem seriously hurt, and
when with some difficulty she had been persuaded to be driven into
the glen, she seemed likely to be willing to stay there in the corner
of the cattle shed.

The children were glad enough to be in their glen, with all its
bareness and discomfort, when they heard that a troop of horse had
visited Elmwood, and made a requisition there for hay and straw.
They had used no violence, but the farmers were compelled to take it
into the camp in their own waggons, getting nothing in payment but
orders on the treasury, which might as well be waste paper.  And,
indeed, they were told by the soldiers that they might be thankful to
get off with their carts and horses.




CHAPTER VIII.

STEAD IN POSSESSION.



"At night returning, every labour sped,
 He sits him down, the monarch of a shed."
                                     GOLDSMITH.


Another day made it certain that the garrison of Bristol had
surrendered to the besiegers.   A few shots were heard, but they were
only fired in rejoicing by the Royalists, and while Steadfast was
studying his barley field, already silvered over by its long beards,
and wondering how soon it would be ripe, and how he should get it cut
and stacked, his name was shouted out, and he saw Tom Oates and all
the rest of the boys scampering down the lane.

"Come along, Stead Kenton, come on and see, the Parliament soldiers
come out and go by."

Poor Steadfast had not much heart for watching soldiers, but it
struck him that he might see or hear something of Jephthah, so he
came with the other boys to the bank, where from behind a hedge they
could look down at the ranks of soldiers as they marched along, five
abreast, the road was not wide enough to hold more.  They had been
allowed to keep their weapons, so the officers had their swords, and
the men carried their musquets.  Most of them looked dull and
dispirited, and the officers had very gloomy, displeased faces.  In
fact, they were very angry with their commander, Colonel Fiennes, for
having surrendered so easily, and he was afterwards brought to a
court-martial for having done so.

Stead did not understand this, he thought only of looking under each
steel cap or tall, slouching hat for Jephthah.  Several times a
youthful, slender figure raised his hopes, and disappointed him, and
he began to wonder whether Jeph could have after all stayed behind in
the town, or if he could have been hurt and was ill there.

By-and-by came a standard, bearing a Bible lying on a sword, and
behind it rode a grave looking officer, with long hair, and a red
scarf, whom the lads recognised as the same who had preached at
Elmwood.  His men were in better order than some of the others, and
as Steadfast eagerly watched them, he was sure that he knew the turn
of Jeph's head, in spite of his being in an entirely new suit of
clothes, and with a musquet over his shoulder.

Stead shook the ash stem he was leaning against, the men looked up,
he saw the well-known face, and called out "Jeph! Jeph!"  But some of
the others laughed, Jeph frowned and shook his head, and marched on.
Stead was disappointed, but at any rate he could carry back the
assurance to Patience that Jeph was alive and well, though he seemed
to have lost all care for his brothers and sisters.  Yet, perhaps, as
a soldier he could not help it, and it might not be safe to straggle
from the ranks.

There was no more fighting for the present in the neighbourhood.  The
princes and their army departed, only leaving a garrison to keep the
city, and it was soon known in the village that the town was in its
usual state, and that it was safe to go in to market as in former
times.  Stead accordingly carried in a basket of eggs, which was all
he could yet sell.  He was ferried across the river, and made his way
in.  It was strange to find the streets looking exactly as usual, and
the citizens' wives coming out with their baskets just as if nothing
had happened.

There was the good-natured face of Mistress Lightfoot, who kept a
baker's shop at the sign of the Wheatsheaf, and was their regular
customer.

"Ha, little Kenton, be'st thou there?  I'm right glad to see thee.
They said the mad fellows had burnt the farm and made an end of all
of you, but I find 'em civil enow, and I'm happy to see 'twas all
leasing-making."

"It is true, mistress," said Stead, "that they burnt our house and
shot poor father."

"Eh, you don't say so, my poor lad?" and she hurried her kind
questions, tears coming into her eyes, as she thought of the orphans
deserted by their brother.  She was very anxious to have Patience
butter-making again and promised to come with Stead to give her
assistance in choosing both a churn and a spinning wheel if he would
come in the next day, for he had not ventured on bringing any money
with him.  She bought all his eggs for her lodger, good Doctor Eales,
who could hardly taste anything and had been obliged to live cooped
up in an inner chamber for fear of the Parliament soldiers, who were
misbehaved to Church ministers though civil enough to women; while
these new comers were just the other way, hat in hand to a clergyman,
but apt to be saucy to the lasses.  But she hoped the Doctor would
cheer up again, now that the Cathedral was set in order, so far as
might be, and prayers were said there as in old times.  In fact the
bells were ringing for morning prayer, and Stead was so glad to hear
them that he thought he might venture in and join in the brief daily
service.  There were many others who had done so, for these anxious
days had quickened the devotion of many hearts, and people had felt
what it was to be robbed of their churches and forbidden the use of
their prayer-books.  Moreover, some had sons or brothers or husbands
fighting on the one side or the other, and were glad to pray for
them, so that Stead found himself in the midst of quite a
congregation, though the choir had been too much dispersed and broken
up for the musical service, and indeed the organ had been torn to
pieces by the Puritan soldiers, who fancied it was Popish.

But Stead found himself caring for the Psalms and Prayers in a manner
he had never done before, and which came of the sorrow he had felt
and the troubles that pressed upon him.  He fancied all would come
right now, and that soon Mr. Holworth would be back, and he should be
able to give up his charge; and he went home, quite cheered up.

When he came into the gulley he heard voices through the bushes, and
pressing forward anxiously he saw Blane and Oates before the hovel
door, Patience standing there crying, with the baby in her arms, and
Rusha holding her apron, and an elderly man whom Stead knew as old
Lady Elmwood's steward talking to the other men, who seemed to be
persuading him to something.

As soon as Stead appeared, the other children ran up to him, and
Rusha hid herself behind him, while Patience said "O Stead, Stead, he
has come to turn us all out!  Don't let him!"

"Nay, nay, little wench, not so fast," said the steward, not
unkindly.  "I am but come to look after my Lady's interests, seeing
that we heard your poor father was dead, God have mercy on his soul
(touching his hat reverently), and his son gone off to the wars, and
nothing but a pack of children left."

"But 'tis all poor father's," muttered Stead, almost dumbfounded.

"It is held under the manor of Elmwood," explained the steward, "on
the tenure of the delivery of the prime beast on the land on the
demise of lord or tenant, and three days' service in hay and harvest
time."

What this meant Steadfast and Patience knew as little as did Rusha or
Ben, but Goodman Blane explained.

"The land here is all held under my Lady and Sir George, Stead--mine
just the same--no rent paid, but if there's a death--landlord or
tenant--one has to give the best beast as a fee, besides the work in
harvest."

"And the question is," proceeded the steward, "who and what is there
to look to.  The eldest son is but a lad, if he were here, and this
one is a mere child, and the house is burnt down, and here they be,
crouching in a hovel, and how is it to be with the land.  I'm bound
to look after the land.  I'm bound to look after my Lady's interest
and Sir George's."

"Be they ready to build up the place if you had another tenant?"
asked Blane, signing to Stead to hold his peace.

"Well--hum--ha!  It might not come handy just now, seeing that Sir
George is off with the King, and all the money and plate with him and
most of the able-bodied servants, but I'm the more bound to look
after his interests."

That seemed to be Master Brown's one sentence.  But Blane took him
up, "Look you here, Master Brown, I, that have been friend and gossip
this many years with poor John Kenton--rest his soul--can tell you
that your lady is like to be better served with this here Steadfast,
boy though he be, than if you had the other stripling with his head
full of drums and marches, guns and preachments, and what not, and
who never had a good day's work in him without his father's eye over
him.  This little fellow has done half his share and his own to boot
long ago.  Now they are content to dwell down here, out of the way of
the soldiering, and don't ask her ladyship to be at any cost for
repairing the farm up there, but will do the best they can for
themselves.  So, I say, Master Brown, it will be a real good work of
charity, without hurt to my Lady and Sir George to let them be, poor
things, to fight it out as they can."

"Well, well, there's somewhat in what you say Goodman Blane, but I'm
bound to look after my Lady's interests and Sir George's."

"I would come and work like a good one at my Lady's hay and harvest,"
said Stead, "and I shall get stronger and bigger every year."

"But the beast," said the steward, "my Lady's interests must come
first, you see."

"O don't let him take Croppie," cried Patience.  "O sir, not the
cows, or baby will die, and we can't make the butter."

"You see, Master Brown," explained Blane, "it is butter as is their
chief stand-by.  Poor Dame Kenton, as was took last spring, was the
best dairywoman in the parish, and this little maid takes after her.
Their kine are their main prop, but there's the mare, there's not
much good that she can do them."

"Let us look!" said the steward.  "A sorry jade enow!  But I don't
know but she will serve our turn better than the cow.  There was a
requisition, as they have the impudence to call it, from the
Parliament lot that took off all our horses, except old grey Dobbin
and the colt, and this beast may come in handy to draw the wood.  So
I'll take her, and you may think yourself well off, and thank my Lady
I'm so easy with you.  'Be not hard on the orphans,' she said.
'Heaven forbid, my Lady,' says I, 'but I must look after your
interests.'"

The children hung round old Whitefoot, making much of her for the
last time, and Patience and Rusha both cried sadly when she was led
away; and it was hard to believe Master Blane, who told them it was
best for Whitefoot as well as for themselves, since they would find
it a hard matter to get food even for the more necessary animals in
the winter, and the poor beast would soon be skin and bone; while for
themselves the donkey could carry all they wanted to market; and it
might be more important than they understood to be thus regularly
accepted as tenants by the manor, so that no one could turn them out.

And Stead, remembering the cavern, knew that he ought to be thankful,
while the two men went away, Brown observing, "One can scarce turn
'em out, poor things, but such a mere lubber as that boy is can do no
good!  If the elder one had thought fit to stay and mind his own
business now!"

"A good riddance, I say," returned Blane.  "Stead's a good-hearted
lad, though clownish, and I'll do what I can for him."




CHAPTER IX.

WINTRY TIMES.



"Thrice welcome may such seasons be,
 But welcome too the common way,
 The lowly duties of the day."


There was of course much to do.  Steadfast visited his hoard and took
from thence enough to purchase churn, spinning wheel, and the few
tools that he most needed; but it was not soon that Patience could
sit down to spin.  That must be for the winter, and their only chance
of light was in making candles.

Rusha could gather the green rushes, though she could not peel them
without breaking them; and Patience had to take them out of her hands
and herself strip the white pith so that only one ribbon of green was
left to support it.

The sheep, excepting a few old ewes, were always sold or killed
before the winter, and by Blane's advice, Stead kept only three.  The
butcher Oates took some of the others, and helped Stead to dispose of
four more in the market.  Two were killed at different intervals for
home use, but only a very small part was eaten fresh, as a wonderful
Sunday treat, the rest was either disposed of among the neighbours,
who took it in exchange for food of other kinds; or else was salted
and dried for the winter's fare, laid up in bran in two great crocks
which Stead had been forced to purchase, and which with planks from
the half-burnt house laid over them served by turns as tables or
seats.  The fat was melted up in Patience's great kettle, and the
rushes dipped in it over and over again till they had such a coating
of grease as would enable them to be burnt in the old horn lantern
which had fortunately been in the stable and escaped the fire.

Kind neighbours helped Stead to cut and stack his hay, and his little
field of barley.  All the grass he could cut on the banks he also
saved for the animals' winter food, and a few turnips, but these were
rare and uncommon articles only used by the most advanced farmers,
and his father had only lately begun to grow them, nor had potatoes
become known except in the gardens of the curious.

The vexation was that all the manor was called to give their three
days' labour to Lady Elmwood's crops just as all their own were cut,
and as, of course, Master Brown had chosen the finest weather, every
one went in fear and trembling for their own, and Oates and others
grumbled so bitterly at having to work without wage, that Blane asked
if they called their own houses and land nothing.

There was fresh grumbling too that the food sent out to the labourers
in the field was not as it used to be, good beef and mutton, but only
bread and very hard cheese, and bowls of hasty pudding, with thin,
sour small beer to wash it down.  Oates growled and vowed he would
never come again to be so scurvily used; and perhaps no one guessed
that my lady was far more impoverished than her tenants, and had a
hard matter to supply even such fare as this.

Happily the weather lasted good long enough to save the Kentons'
little crop, though there was a sad remembrance of the old times,
when the church bell gave the signal at sunrise for all the
harvesters to come to church for the brief service, and then to start
fair in their gleaning.  The bell did still ring, but there were no
prayers.  The vicar had never come back, and it was reported that he
had been sent to the plantations in America.  There was no service on
Sunday nearer than Bristol.  It was the churchwardens' business to
find a minister, and of these, poor Kenton was dead, and the other,
Master Cliffe, was not likely to do anything that might put the
parish to expense.

Goodman Blane, and some of the other more seriously minded folk used
to walk into Bristol to church when the weather was tolerably fine.
If it were wet, the little stream used to flood the lower valley so
that it was not possible to get across.  Steadfast was generally one
of the party.  Patience could not go, as it was too far for Rusha to
walk, or for the baby to be carried.

Once, seeing how much she wished to go again to church, Stead
undertook to mind the children, the cattle, and the dinner in her
place; but what work he found it!  When he tried to slice the onions
for the broth, little Ben toddled off, and had to be caught lest he
should tumble into the river.  Then Rusha got hold of the knife, cut
her hand, and rolled it up in her Sunday frock, and Steadfast,
thinking he had got a small bit of rag, tied it up in Patience's
round cap, but that he did not know till afterwards, only that baby
had got out again, and after some search was found asleep cuddled up
close to the old sow.  And so it went on, till poor Steadfast felt as
if he had never spent so long a day.  As to reading his Bible and
Prayer-book, it was quite impossible, and he never had so much
respect for Patience before as when he found what she did every day
without seeming to think anything of it.

She did not get home till after dark, but the Blanes had taken her to
rest at the friends with whom they spent the time between services,
and they had given her a good meal.

"Somehow," said Patience, "everybody seems kinder than they used to
be before the fighting began--and the parsons said the prayers as if
they had more heart in them."

Patience was quite right.  These times of danger were making everyone
draw nearer together, and look up more heartily to Him in Whom was
there true help.

But winter was coming on and bringing bad times for the poor children
in their narrow valley, so close to the water.  It was not a very
cold season, but it was almost worse, for it was very wet.  The
little brook swelled, turned muddy yellow, and came rushing and
tumbling along, far outside its banks, so that Patience wondered
whether there could be any danger of its coming up to their hut and
perhaps drowning them.

"I think there is no fear," said Steadfast.  "You see this house has
been here from old times and never got washed away."

"It wouldn't wash away very easily," said Patience, "I wish we were
in one of the holes up there."

"If it looks like danger we might get up," said Steadfast, and to
please her he cleared a path to a freshly discovered cave a little
lower down the stream, but so high up on the rocky sides of the
ravine as to be safe from the water.

Once Patience, left at home watching the rushing of the stream,
became so frightened that she actually took the children up there,
and set Rusha to hold the baby while she dragged up some sheepskins
and some food.

Steadfast coming home asked what she was about and laughed at her,
showing her, by the marks on the trees, that the flood was already
going down.  Such alarms came seldom, but the constant damp was
worse.  Happily it was always possible to keep up a fire, wood and
turf peat was plentiful and could be had for the cutting and
carrying, and though the smoke made their eyes tingle, perhaps it
hindered the damp from hurting them, when all the walls wept, in
spite of the reed mats which they had woven and hung over them.  And
then it was so dark, Patience's rushes did not give light enough to
see to do anything by them even when they did not get blown out, and
when the sun had set there was nothing for it, but as soon as the few
cattle had been foddered in their shed and cave, to draw the mat and
sheepskins that made a curtain by way of door, fasten it down with a
stone, share with dog and cat the supper of broth, or milk, or
porridge which Patience had cooked, and then lie down on the beds of
dried leaves stuffed into sacking, drawing over them the blankets and
cloaks that had happily been saved in the chest, and nestling on
either side of the fire, which, if well managed, would smoulder on
for hours.  There the two elder ones would teach Rusha her catechism
and tell old stories, and croon over old rhymes till both the little
ones were asleep, and then would hold counsel on their affairs,
settle how to husband their small stock of money, consider how soon
it would be expedient to finish their store of salted mutton and pork
to keep them from being spoilt by damp, and wonder when their hens
would begin to lay.

It could hardly be a merry Christmas for the poor children, though
they did stick holly in every chink where it would go, but there were
not many berries that year, and as Rusha said, "there were only
thorns."

Steadfast walked to Bristol through slush and mire and rain, not even
Smith Blane went with him, deeming the weather too bad, and thinking,
perhaps, rather over much of the goose at home.

Bristol people were keeping Christmas with all their might, making
the more noise and revelry because the Parliament had forbidden the
feast to be observed at all.  It was easy to tell who was for the
King and who for the Parliament, for there were bushes of holly,
mistletoe, and ivy, at all the Royalist doors and windows, and from
many came the savoury steam of roast beef or goose, while the other
houses were shut up as close as possible and looked sad and grim.

All the bells of all the churches were ringing, and everybody seemed
to be trooping into them.  As Steadfast was borne along by the
throng, there was a pause, and a boy of his own age with a large hat
and long feather, beneath which could be seen curls of jet-black
hair, walked at the head of a party of gentlemen.  Everyone in the
crowd uncovered and there was a vehement outcry of "God save the
King!  God save the Prince of Wales!"   Everyone thronged after him,
and Steadfast had a hard struggle to squeeze into the Cathedral, and
then had to stand all the time with his back against a pillar, for
there was not even room to kneel down at first.

There was no organ, but the choir men and boys had rallied there, and
led the Psalms which went up very loudly and heartily.  Then the Dean
went up into the pulpit and preached about peace and goodwill to men,
and how all ought to do all in their power to bring those blessed
gifts back again.  A good many people dropped off during the sermon,
and more after it, but Steadfast remained.  He had never been able to
come to the Communion feast since the evil times had begun, and he
had thought much about it on his lonely walk, and knew that it was
the way to be helped through the hard life he was living.

When all was over he felt very peaceful, but so hungry and tired with
standing and kneeling so long after his walk, that he was glad to
lean against the wall and take out the piece of bread that Patience
had put in his wallet.

Presently a step came near, and from under a round velvet skull-cap a
kind old face looked at him which he knew to be that of the Dean.

"Is that all your Christmas meal, my good boy?" he asked.

"I shall have something for supper, thank your reverence," replied
Steadfast, taking off his leathern cap.

"Well, mayhap you could away with something more," said the Dean.
"Come with me."

And as Steadfast obeyed, he asked farther, "What is your name, my
child?  I know your face in church, but not in town."

"No, sir, I do not live here.  I am Steadfast Kenton, and I am from
Elmwood, but we have no prayers nor sermon there since they took the
parson away."

"Ah! good Master Holworth!  Alas! my child, I fear you will scarce
see him back again till the King be in London once more, which Heaven
grant.  And, meantime, Sir George Elmwood being patron, none can be
intruded into his room.  It is a sore case, and I fear me the case of
many a parish besides."

Steadfast was so much moved by the good Dean's kindness as to begin
to consider whether it would be betraying the trust to consult him
about that strange treasure in the cave, but the lad was never quick
of thought, and before he could decide one of the canons joined the
Dean, and presently going up the steps to the great hall of the
Deanery, Steadfast saw long tables spread with snowy napkins,
trenchers laid all round, and benches on which a numerous throng were
seating themselves, mostly old people and little children, looking
very poor and ragged.  Steadfast held himself to be a yeoman in a
small way, and somewhat above a Christmas feast with the poor, but
the Dean's kindness was enough to make him put away his pride, and
then there was such a delicious steam coming up from the buttery
hatch as was enough to melt away all nonsense of that sort from a
hungry lad.

Grand joints of beef came up in clouds of vapour, and plum puddings
smoked in their rear, to be eaten with them, after the fashion of
these days, when of summer vegetables there were few, and of winter
vegetables none.  The choirmen and boys, indeed all the Cathedral
clergy who were unmarried, were dining there too, but the Dean and
his wife waited on the table where the poorest were.  Horns of ale
were served to everyone, and then came big mince pies.  Steadfast
felt a great longing to take his home to his sisters, but he was
ashamed to do it, even though he saw that it was permissible, they
were such beggarly-looking folks who set the example.

However, the Dean's wife came up to him with a pleasant smile and
asked if he had no appetite or if he were thinking of someone at
home, and when he answered, she kindly undertook to lend him a
basket, for which he might call after evensong, and in the basket
were also afterwards found some slices of the beef and a fine large
cake.

Then the young Prince and his suite came in, and he stood at the end
of the hall, smiling and looking amused as everyone's cup was filled
with wine--such wine as the Roundhead captains had left, and the Dean
at the head of the table gave out the health of his most sacred
Majesty King Charles, might God bless him, and confound all his
enemies!  The Prince bared his black shining locks and drank, and
there was a deep Amen, and then a hurrah enough to rend the old
vaulted ceiling; and equally enthusiastically was the Prince's health
afterwards drunk.

Stead heard the servants saying that such a meal had been a costly
matter, but that the good Dean would have it so in order that one
more true merry Christmas should be remembered in Bristol.




CHAPTER X.

A TERRIBLE HARVEST DAY.



"There is a reaper, whose name is death."
                                     LONGFELLOW.


Spring came at last, cold indeed but dry, and it brought calves, and
kids, and lambs, and little pigs, besides eggs and milk.  The
creatures prospered for two reasons no doubt.  One was that Stead and
Patience always prayed for a blessing on them, and the other was that
they were almost as tender and careful over the dumb things as they
were over little Ben, who could now run about and talk.  All that
year nothing particular happened to the children.  Patience's good
butter and fresh eggs had come to be known in Bristol, and besides,
Stead and Rusha used to find plovers' eggs on the common, for which
the merchants' ladies would pay them, or later for wild strawberries
and for whortleberries.  Stead could also make rush baskets and mats,
and they were very glad of such earnings, some of which they spent on
clothes, and on making their hut more comfortable, while some was
stored up in case of need in the winter.

For another year things went on much in the same manner, Bristol was
still kept by the King's troops; but when Steadfast went into the
place there was less cheerfulness among the loyal folk, and the
Puritans began to talk of victories of their cause, while in the
Cathedral the canon's voice trembled and grew choked in the prayer
for the King, and the sermons were generally about being true and
faithful to King and church whatever might betide.  The Prince of
Wales had long since moved away, indeed there were reports that the
plague was in some of the low, crowded streets near the water, and
Patience begged her brother to take care of himself.

There had been no Christmas feast at the Deanery, it was understood
that the Dean thought it better not to bring so many people together.

Then as harvest time was coming on more soldiers came into the place.
They looked much shabbier than the troops of a year ago, their coats
were worn and soiled, and their feathers almost stumps, but they made
up for their poverty by swagger and noise, and Steadfast was thankful
that it was unlikely that any of them should find the way to his
little valley with what they called requisitions for the King's
service, but which meant what he knew too well.  Some of the
villagers formed into bands, and agreed to meet at the sound of a
cowhorn, to drive anyone off on either side, who came to plunder, and
they even had a flag with the motto--


     "If you take our cattle
      We will give you battle."


And they really did drive off some stragglers.  Stead, however,
accepted the offer from Tom Gates of a young dog, considerably larger
and stronger than poor old Toby, yellow and somewhat brindled, and
known as Growler.  He looked very terrible, but was very civil to
those whom he knew, and very soon became devoted to all the family,
especially to little Ben.  However, most of the garrison and the
poorer folk of the town were taken up with mending the weak places in
the walls, and digging ditches with the earth of which they made
steep banks, and there were sentries at the gates, who were not
always civil.  Whatever the country people brought into the town was
eagerly bought up, and was paid for, not often in the coin of the
realm, but by tokens made of tin or some such metal with odd stamps
upon them, and though they could be used as money they would not go
nearly so far as the sums they were held to represent--at least in
anyone's hands but those of the officers.

There were reports that the Parliament army was about to besiege the
town, and Prince Rupert was coming to defend it.  Steadfast was very
anxious, and would not let his sisters stir out of the valley,
keeping the cattle there as much as possible.

One day, when he had been sent for to help to gather in Lady
Elmwood's harvest, in the afternoon the reaping and binding were
suddenly interrupted by the distant rattle of musketry, such as had
been heard two years ago, in the time of the first siege but it was
in quite another direction from the town.  Everyone left off work,
and made what speed they could to the top of the sloping field,
whence they could see what was going on.

"There they be!" shouted Tom Gates.  "I saw 'em first!  Hurrah!  They
be at Luck's mill."

"Hush! you good-for-nothing," shrieked Bess Hart, throwing her apron
over her head.  "When we shall all be killed and murdered."

"Not just yet, dame," said Master Brown.  "They be a long way off,
and they have enow to do with one another.  I wonder if Sir George be
there.  He writ to my lady that he hoped to see her ere long."

"And my Roger," called out a woman.  "He went with Sir George."

"And our Jack," was the cry of another; while Steadfast thought of
Jephthah, but knew he must be on the opposite side.  From the top of
the field, they could see a wide sweep of country dipping down less
than two miles from them where there was a bridge over a small river,
a mill, and one or two houses near.  On the nearer side of the river
could be seen the flash of steel caps, and a close, dark body of men,
on the further side was another force, mostly of horsemen, with what
seemed like waggons and baggage horses in the rear.  They had what by
its colours seemed to be the English banner, the others had several
undistinguishable standards.  Puffs of smoke broke from the windows
of the mill.

"Aye!" said Goodman Blane.  "I would not be in Miller Luck's shoes
just now.  I wonder where he is, poor rogue.  Which side have got his
mill, think you, Master Brown?"

"The round-headed rascals for certain," said Master Brown, "and the
bridge too, trying to hinder the King's men from crossing bag and
baggage to relieve the town."

"See, there's a party drawing together.  Is it to force the bridge?"

"Aye, aye, and there's another troop galloping up stream.  Be they
running off, the cowards?"

"Not they.  Depend on it some of our folks have told them of Colham
ford.  Heaven be with them, brave lads."

"Most like Sir George is there, I don't see 'em."

"No, of course not, stupid, they'll be taking Colham Lane.  See, see,
there's a lot of 'em drawn up to force the bridge.  Good luck be with
them."

More puffs of smoke from the mill, larger ones from the bank, and a
rattle and roll came up to the watchers.  There was a moment's shock
and pause in the assault, then a rush forward, and the distant sound
of a cheer, which those on the hill could not help repeating.  But
from the red coats on and behind the bridge, proceeded a perfect
cloud of smoke, which hid everything, and when it began to clear away
on the wind, there seemed to be a hand-to-hand struggle going on upon
the bridge, smaller puffs, as though pistols were being used, and
forms falling over the parapet, at which sight the men held their
breath, and the women shrieked and cried "God have mercy on their
poor souls."  And then the dark-coated troops seemed to be driven
back.

"That was a feint, only a feint," cried Master Brown.  "See there!"

For the plumed troop of horsemen had indeed crossed, and came
galloping down the bank with such a jingling and clattering, and
thundering of hoofs as came up to the harvest men above, and Master
Brown led the cheer as they charged upon the compact mass of red
coats behind the bridge, and broke and rode them down by the
vehemence of the shock.

"Hurrah!" cried Blane.  "Surely they will turn now and take the
fellows on the bridge in the rear.  No.  Ha! they are hunting them
down on to their baggage!  Well done, brave fellows, hip! hip!--"

But the hurrah died on his lips as a deep low hum--a Psalm tune sung
by hundreds of manly voices--ascended to his ears, to the
accompaniment of the heavy thud of horsehoofs, and from the London
Road, between the bridge and the Royalist horsemen, there emerged a
compact body of troopers, in steel caps and corslets.  Forming in
ranks of three abreast, they charged over the bridge, and speedily
cleared off the Royalists who were struggling to obtain a footing
there.

There was small speech on the hill side, as the encounter was
watched, and the Ironsides forming on the other side, charged the
already broken troops before they had time to rally, and there was
nothing to be seen but an utter dispersion and scattering of men,
looking from that distance like ants when their nest has been broken
into.

It was only a skirmish, not to be heard of in history, but opening
the way for the besiegers to the walls of Bristol, and preventing any
of the supplies from reaching the garrison, or any of the intended
reinforcements, except some of the eager Cavaliers, who galloped on
thither, when they found it impossible to return and guard the bridge
for their companions.

The struggle was over around the bridge in less than two hours, but
no more of Lady Elmwood's harvest was gathered in that evening.  The
people watched as if they could not tear themselves from the
contemplation of the successful bands gathering together in their
solid masses, and marching onwards in the direction of Bristol,
leaving, however, a strong guard at the bridge, over which piled
waggons and beasts of burthen continued to pass, captured no doubt
and prevented from relieving the city.  It began to draw towards
evening, and Master Brown was beginning to observe that he must go
and report to my lady, poor soul; and as to the corn, well, they had
lost a day gaping at the fight, and they must come up again to-
morrow, he only hoped they were not carting it for the round-headed
rogues; when at that moment there was a sudden cry, first of terror,
then of recognition, "Roger, Hodge Fitter! how didst come here?"

For a weary, worn-out trooper, with stained buff coat, and heavy
boots, stood panting among them.  "I thought 'twas our folks," he
said.  "Be mother here?"

"Hodge!  My Hodge!  Be'st hurt, my lad?" cried the mother, bursting
through the midst and throwing herself on him, while his father
contented himself with a sort of grunt.  "All right, Hodge.  How
com'st here?"

"And where's my Jack?" exclaimed Goody Bent.

"And where's our Harry?" was another cry from Widow Lakin.

While Stead longed to ask, but could not be heard in the clamour,
whether his brother had been there.

Hodge could tell little--seen less than the lookers on above.  He had
been among those who had charged through the enemy, and ridden
towards Bristol, but his horse had been struck by a stray shot, and
killed under him.  He had avoided the pursuers by scrambling through
a hedge, and then had thought it best to make his way through the
fields to his own home, until, seeing the party on the hill, he had
joined them, expecting to find his parents among them.

Sir George he knew to be on before him, and probably almost at
Bristol by this time.  Poor Jack had been left weeks ago on the field
of Naseby, though there had been no opportunity of letting his family
know.  "Ill news travels fast enough!"  And as to Harry, he had been
shot down by a trooper near about the bridge, but mayhap might be
alive for all that.

"And my brother, Jeph Kenton," Steadfast managed to say.  "Was he
there?"

"Jeph Kenton!  Why, he's a canting Roundhead.  The only Elmwood man
as is!  More shame for him."

"But was he there?" demanded Stead.

"There!  Well, Captain Venn's horse were there, and he was in them!
I have seen him more than once on outpost duty, prating away as if he
had a beard on his chin.  I'd a good mind to put a bullet through him
to stop his impudence, for a disgrace to the place."

"Then he was in the fight?" reiterated Steadfast.

"Aye, was he.  And got his deserts, I'll be bound, for we went smack
smooth through Venn's horse, like a knife through a mouldy cheese,
and left 'em lying to the right and left.  If the other fellows had
but stuck by us as well, we'd have made a clean sweep of the canting
dogs."

Hodge's eloquence was checked by the not unwelcome offer of a drink
of cider.

"Seems quiet enough down there," said Nanny Lakin, peering wistfully
over the valley where the shadows of evening were spreading.  "Mayhap
if I went down I might find out how it is with my poor lad."

"Nay, I'll go, mother," said a big, loutish youth, hitherto silent;
"mayn't be so well for womenfolk down there."

"What's that to me, Joe, when my poor Harry may be lying a bleeding
his dear life out down there?"

"There's no fear," said Hodge.  "To give them their due, the
Roundheads be always civil to country folk and women--leastways
unless they take 'em for Irish--and thinking that, they did make
bloody work with the poor ladies at Naseby.  But the dame there will
be safe enough," he added, as she was already on the move down hill.
"Has no one a keg of cider to give her?  I know what 'tis to lie
parching under a wound."

Someone produced one, and as her son shouted "Have with you, mother,"
Steadfast hastily asked Tom Oates to let Patience know that he was
gone to see after Jephthah, and joined Ned Lakin and his mother.

Jeph had indeed left his brothers and sisters in a strange, wild way,
almost cruel in its thoughtlessness; but to Stead it had never seemed
more than that elder brotherly masterfulness that he took as a matter
of course, and there was no resting in the thought of his lying
wounded and helpless on the field--nay, the assurance that Hodge
shouted out that the rebel dogs took care of their own fell on
unhearing or unheeding ears, as Steadfast and Ned Lakin dragged the
widow through a gap in the hedge over another field, and then made
their way down a deep stony lane between high hedges.

It was getting dark, in spite of the harvest moon, by the time they
came out on the open space below, and began to see that saddest of
all sights, a battlefield at night.

A soldier used to war would perhaps have scorned to call this a
battle, but it was dreadful enough to these three when they heard the
sobbing panting, and saw the struggling of a poor horse not quite
dead, and his rider a little way from him, a fine stout young man,
cold and stiff, as Nanny turned up his face to see if it was her
Harry's.

A little farther on lay another figure on his back, but as Nanny
stooped over it, a lantern was flashed on her and a gruff voice
called out, "Villains, ungodly churls, be you robbing the dead?" and
a tall man stood darkly before them, pistol in hand.

"No, sir; no, sir," sobbed out Nanny.  "I am only a poor widow woman,
come down to see whether my poor lad be dead or alive and wanting his
mother."

"What was his regiment?" demanded the soldier in a kinder voice.

"Oh, sir, your honour, don't be hard on him--he couldn't help it--he
went with Sir George Elmwood."

"That makes no odds, woman, when a man's down," said the soldier.
"Unless 'tis with the Fifth Monarchy sort, and I don't hold with
them.  I have an uncle and a cousin or two among the malignants, as
good fellows as ever lived--no Amalekites and Canaanites--let Smite-
them Derry say what he will.  Elmwood! let's see--that was the troop
that forded higher up, and came on Fisher's corps.  This way, dame.
If your son be down, you'll find him here; that is, unless he be
carried into the mill or one of the houses.  Most of the wounded lie
there for the night, but the poor lads that are killed must be buried
to-morrow.  Take care, dame," as poor Nanny cried out in horror at
having stumbled over a dead man's legs.  He held his lantern so that
she could see the face while she groaned out, "Poor soul."  And thus
they worked their sad way up to the buildings about the water mill.
There was a shed through the chinks of which light could be seen, and
at the door of which a soldier exclaimed--

"Have ye more wounded, Sam?  There's no room for a dog in here.  They
lie as thick as herrings in a barrel."

"Nay, 'tis a poor country woman come to look for her son.  What's his
name?  Is there a malignant here of the name of Harry Lakin?"

The question was repeated, and a cry of gladness, "Mother! mother!"
ended in a shriek of pain in the distance within.

"Aye, get you in, mother, get you in.  A woman here will be all the
better, be she who she may."

The permission was not listened to.  Nanny had already sprung into
the midst of the mass of suffering towards the bloody straw where her
son was lying.

Steadfast, who had of course looked most anxiously at each of the
still forms on the way, now ventured to say:--

"So please you, sir, would you ask after one Jephthah Kenton?  On
your own side, sir, in Captain Venn's troop?  I am his brother."

"Oh, ho! you are of the right sort, eh?" said the soldier.  "Jephthah
Kenton.  D'ye know aught of him, Joe?"

"I heard him answer to the roll call before Venn's troop went off to
quarters," replied the other man.  "He is safe and sound, my lad, and
Venn's own orderly."

Steadfast's heart bounded up.  He longed still to know whether poor
Harry Lakin was in very bad case, but it was impossible to get in to
discover, and he was pushed out of the way by a party carrying in
another wounded man, whose moans and cries were fearful to listen to.
He thought it would be wisest to make the best of his way home to
Patience, and set her likewise at rest, for who could tell what she
might not have heard.

The moon was shining brightly enough to make his way plain, but the
scene around was all the sadder and more ghastly in that pallid
light, which showed out the dark forms of man and horse, and what was
worse the white faces turned up, and those dark pools in which once
or twice he had slipped as he saw or fancied he saw movements that
made him shudder, while a poor dog on the other side of the stream
howled piteously from time to time.

Presently, as he came near a hawthorn bush which cast a strangely
shaped shadow, he heard a sobbing--not like the panting moan of a
wounded man, but the worn out crying of a tired child.  He thought
some village little one must have wandered there, and been hemmed in
by the fight, and he called out--

"Is anyone there?"

The sobbing ceased for a moment and he called again, "Who is it?  I
won't hurt you," for something white seemed to be squeezing closer
into the bush.

"Who are you for?" piped out a weak little voice.

"I'm no soldier," said Steadfast.  "Come out, I'll take you home by-
and-by."

"I have no home!" was the answer.  "I want father."

Steadfast was now under the tree, and could see that it was a little
girl who was sheltering there of about the same size as Rusha.  He
tried to take her hand, but she backed against the tree, and he
repeated "Come along, I wouldn't hurt you for the world.  Who is your
father?  Where shall we find him?"

"My father is Serjeant Gaythorn of Sir Harry Blythedale's troopers,"
said the child, somewhat proudly, then starting again, "You are not a
rebel, are you?"

"No, I am a country lad," said Steadfast; "I want to help you.  Come,
you can't stay here."

For the little hand she had yielded to him was cold and damp with the
September dews.  His touch seemed to give her confidence, and when he
asked, "Can't I take you to your mother?" she answered--

"Mother's dead!  The rascal Roundheads shot her over at Naseby."

"Poor child! poor child!" said Steadfast.  "And you came on with your
father."

"Yes, he took me on his horse over the water, and told me to wait by
the bush till he came or sent for me, but he has not come, and the
firing is over and it is dark, and I'm so hungry."

Steadfast thought the child had better come home with him, but she
declared that father would come back for her.  He felt convinced that
her father, if alive, must be in Bristol, and that he could hardly
come through the enemy's outposts, and he explained to her this view.
To his surprise she understood in a moment, having evidently much
more experience of military matters than he had, and when he further
told her that Hodge was at Elmwood, and would no doubt rejoin his
regiment at Bristol the next day, she seemed satisfied, and with the
prospect of supper before her, trotted along, holding Steadfast's
hand and munching a crust which he had found in his pouch, the
remains of the interrupted meal, but though at first it seemed to
revive her a good deal, the poor little thing was evidently tired
out, and she soon began to drag, and fret, and moan.  The three miles
was a long way for her, and tired as he was, Steadfast had to take
her on his back, and when at last he reached home, and would have set
her down before his astonished sisters, she was fast asleep with her
head on his shoulder.




CHAPTER XI.

THE FORTUNES OF WAR.



"Hear and improve, he pertly cries,
 I come to make a nation wise."
                               GAY


Very early in the morning, before indeed anyone except Patience was
stirring, Steadfast set forth in search of Roger Fitter to consult
him about the poor child who was fast asleep beside Jerusha; and
propose to him to take her into Bristol to find her father.

Hodge, who had celebrated his return by a hearty supper with his
friends, was still asleep, and his mother was very unwilling to call
him, or to think of his going back to the wars.  However, he rolled
down the cottage stair at last, and the first thing he did was to
observe--

"Well, mother, how be you?  I felt like a boy again, waking up in the
old chamber.  Where's my back and breast-piece?  Have you a cup of
ale, while I rub it up?"

"Now, Hodge, you be not going to put on that iron thing again, when
you be come back safe and sound from those bloody wars?" entreated
his mother.

"Ho, ho! mother, would you have me desert?  No, no!  I must to my
colours again, or Sir George and my lady might make it too hot to
hold you here.   Hollo, young one, Stead Kenton, eh?  Didst find thy
brother?  No, I'll be bound.  The Roundhead rascals have all the
luck."

"I found something else," said Steadfast, and he proceeded to tell
about the child while Dame Fitter stood by with many a pitying "Dear
heart!" and "Good lack!"

Hodge knew Serjeant Gaythorn, and knew that the poor man's wife had
been shot dead in the flight from Naseby; but he demurred at the
notion of encumbering himself with the child when he went into the
town.  He suspected that he should have much ado to get in himself,
and if he could not find her father, what could he do with her?

Moreover, he much doubted whether the serjeant was alive.  He had
been among those on whom the sharpest attack had fallen, and not many
of them had got off alive.

"What like was he?" said Steadfast.  "We looked at a many of the poor
corpses that lay there.  They'll never be out of my eyes again at
night!"

"A battlefield or two would cure that," grimly smiled Hodge.
"Gaythorn--he was a man to know again--had big black moustaches, and
had lost an eye, had a scar like a weal from a whip all down here
from a sword-cut at Long Marston."

"Then I saw him," said Stead, in a low voice.  "Did he wear a green
scarf?"

"Aye, aye.  Belonged to the Rangers, but they are pretty nigh all
gone now."

"Under the rail of the miller's croft," added Stead.

"Just so.  That was where I saw them make a stand and go down like
skittles."

"Poor little maid.  What shall I tell her?"

"Well, you can never be sure," said Hodge.  "There was a man now I
thought as dead as a door nail at Newbury that charged by my side
only yesterday.  You'd best tell the maid that if I find her father
I'll send him after her; and if not, when the place is quiet, you
might look at the mill and see if he is lying wounded there."

Steadfast thought the advice good, and it saved him from what he had
no heart to do, though he could scarcely doubt that one of those
ghastly faces had been the serjeant's.

When he approached his home he was surprised to hear, through the
copsewood, the sound of chattering, and when he came in sight of the
front of the hut, he beheld Patience making butter with the long
handled churn, little Ben toddling about on the grass, and two little
girls laughing and playing with all the poultry round them.

One, of course, was stout, ruddy, grey-eyed Rusha, in her tight round
cap, and stout brown petticoat with the homespun apron over it; the
other was like a fairy by her side; slight and tiny, dressed in
something of mixed threads of white and crimson that shone in the
sun, with a velvet bodice, a green ribbon over it, and a gem over the
shoulder that flashed in the sun, a tiny scarlet hood from which such
a quantity of dark locks streamed as to give something the effect of
a goldfinch's crown, and the face was a brilliant little brown one,
with glowing cheeks, pretty little white teeth, and splendid dark
eyes.

Patience could have told that this bright array was so soiled,
rumpled, ragged, and begrimed, that she hardly liked to touch it, but
to Steadfast, who had only seen the child in the moonlight, she was a
wonderful vision in the morning sunshine, and his heart was struck
with a great pity at her clear, merry tones of laughter.

As he appeared in the open space, Toby running before him, the little
girl looked up and rushed to him crying out--

"It's you.  Be you the country fellow who took me home?  Where's
father?"

Stead was so sorry for her that he took her up in his arms and said--

"Hodge Fitter is gone into town to look for him, my pretty.  You must
wait here till he comes for you," and he would have kissed her, but
she turned her head away, pouted, and said, "I didn't give you leave
to do that, you lubber lad."

Steadfast was much diverted.  He was now a tall sturdy youth of
sixteen, in a short smock frock, long leathern gaiters, and a round
straw hat of Patience's manufacture, and he felt too clumsy for the
dainty little being, whom he hastened to set on her small feet--in
once smart but very dilapidated shoes.  His sisters were somewhat
shocked at her impertinence and Rusha breathed out "Oh--!"

"I am to wait here for Serjeant Gaythorn," observed the little damsel
somewhat consequentially.  "Well! it is a strange little makeshift of
a place, but 'tis the fortune of war, and I have been in worse."

"It is beautiful!" said Rusha, "now we have got a glass window--and a
real door--and beds--" all which recent stages in improvement she
enumerated with a gasp of triumph and admiration between each.

"So you think," said little Mistress Gaythorn.  "But I have lived in
a castle."

She was quite ready to tell her history.  Her name was Emlyn, and the
early part of the eight years of her life had been spent at Sir Harry
Blythedale's castle, where her father had been butler and her mother
my lady's woman.  Sir Harry had gone away to the wars, and in his
absence my lady had held out the castle (perhaps it was only a
fortified house) against General Waller, hoping and hoping in vain
for Lord Goring to come to her relief.

"That was worst of all," said Emlyn, "we had to hide in the cellars
when they fired at us--and broke all the windows, and a shot killed
my poor dear little kitten because she wouldn't stay down with me.
And we couldn't get any water, except by going out at night; young
Master George was wounded at the well.  And they only gave us a tiny
bit of dry bread and salt meat every day, and it made little Ralph
sick and he died.  And at last there was only enough for two days
more--and a great breach--that's a hole," she added condescendingly,
--"big enough to drive my lady's coach-and-six through in the court
wall.  So then my lady sent out Master Steward with one of the best
napkins on the end of a stick--that was a flag of truce, you know--
and all the rascal Roundheads had to come in, and we had to go out,
with only just what we could carry.  My lady went in her coach with
Master George, because he was hurt, and the young ladies, and some of
the maids went home; but the most of us kept with my lady, to guard
her to go to his Honour and the King at Oxford.  Father rode big
Severn, and mother was on a pillion behind him, with baby in her
arms, and I sat on a cushion in front."

After that, it seemed that my lady had found a refuge among her
kindred, but that the butler had been enrolled in his master's troop
of horse, and there being no separate means of support for his wife
and children, they had followed the camp, a life that Emlyn had
evidently enjoyed, although the baby died of the exposure.  She had
been a great pet and favourite with everybody, and no doubt well-
cared for even after the sad day when her mother had perished in the
slaughter at Naseby.  Patience wondered what was to become of the
poor child, if her father never appeared to claim her; but it was no
time to bring this forward, for Steadfast, as soon as he had
swallowed his porridge, had to go off to finish his day's labour for
the lady of the manor, warning his sisters that they had better keep
as close as they could in the wood, and not let the cattle stray out
of their valley.

He had not gone far, however, before he met a party of his fellow
labourers running home.  Their trouble had been saved them.  The
Roundhead soldiers had taken possession of waggons, horses, corn and
all, as the property of a malignant, and were carrying them off to
their camp before the town.

Getting up on a hedge, Stead could see these strange harvestmen
loading the waggons and driving them off.  He also heard that Sir
George had come late in the evening, and taken old Lady Elmwood and
several of the servants into Bristol for greater safety.  Then came
the heavy boom of a great gun in the distance.

"The Parliament men are having their turn now--as the King's men had
before," said Gates.

And all who had some leisure--or made it--went off to the church
tower to get a better view of the white tents being set up outside
the city walls, and the compact bodies of troops moving about as if
impelled by machinery, while others more scattered bustled like
insects about the camp.

Steadfast, however, went home, very anxious about his own three cows,
and seven sheep with their lambs, as well as his small patches of
corn, which, when green, had already only escaped being made forage
of by the Royalist garrison, because he was a tenant of the loyal
Elmwoods.  These fields were exposed, though the narrow wooded ravine
might protect the small homestead and the cattle.

He found his new guest very happy cracking nuts, and expounding to
Rusha what kinds of firearms made the various sounds they heard.
Patience had made an attempt to get her to exchange her soiled finery
for a sober dress of Rusha's; but "What shall I do, Stead?" said the
grave elder sister, "I cannot get her to listen to me, she says she
is no prick-eared Puritan, but truly she is not fit to be seen."
Stead whistled.  "Besides that she might bring herself and all of us
into danger with those gewgaws."

"That's true," said Stead.  "Look you here, little maid--none can say
whether some of the rebel folk may find their way here, and they
don't like butterflies of your sort, you know.  If you look a sober
little brown bee like Rusha here, they will take no notice, but who
knows what they might do it they found you in your bravery."

"Bravery," thought Patience, "filthy old rags, me seems," but she had
the prudence not to speak, and Emlyn nodded her head, saying, "I'll
do it for you, but not for her."

And when all was done, and she was transformed into a little russet-
robed, white-capped being, nothing would serve her, but to collect
all the brightest cranesbill flowers she could find, and stick them
in her own bodice and Rusha's.

Patience could not at all understand the instinct for bright colours,
but even little Ben shouted "Pretty, pretty."

Perhaps it was well that the delicate pink blossoms were soon faded
and crushed, and that twilight veiled their colours, for just as the
cattle were being foddered for the night, there was a gay step on the
narrow path, and with a start of terror, Patience beheld a tall
soldier, in tall hat, buff coat, and high boots before her; while
Growler made a horrible noise, but Toby danced in a rapture of
delight.

"Ha! little Patience, is't thou?"

"Jephthah," she cried, though the voice as well as the form were
greatly changed in these two years between boyhood and manhood.

"Aye, Jephthah 'tis," he said, taking her hand, and letting her kiss
him.  "My spirit was moved to come and see how it was with you all,
and to shew how Heaven had prospered me, so I asked leave of absence
after roll-call, and could better be spared, as that faithful man,
Hold-the-Faith Jenkins, will exhort the men this night.  I came up by
Elmwood to learn tidings of you.  Ha, Stead!  Thou art grown, my lad.
May you be as much grown in grace."

"You are grown, too," said Patience, almost timidly.  "What a man you
are, Jeph!  Here, Rusha, you mind Jeph, and here is little Benoni."

"You have reared that child, then," said Jeph, as the boy clung to
his sister's skirts, "and you have kept things together, Stead, as I
hardly deemed you would do, when I had the call to the higher
service."  It was an odd sort of call, but there was no need to go
into that matter, and Stead answered gravely, "Yes, I thank God.  He
has been very good to us, and we have fared well.  Come in, Jeph, and
see, and have something to eat!  I am glad you are come home at
last."

Jephthah graciously consented to enter the low hut.  He had to bend
his tall figure and take off his steeple-crowned hat before he could
enter at the low doorway, and then they saw his closely cropped head.

Patience tarried a moment to ask Rusha what had become of Emlyn.

"She is hiding in the cow shed," was the answer.  "She ran off as
soon as she saw Jeph coming, and said he was a crop-eared villain."

This was not bad news, and they all entered the hut, where the fire
was made up, and one of Patience's rush candles placed on the table
with a kind of screen of plaited rushes to protect it from the worst
of the draught.  Jeph had grown quite into a man in the eyes of his
brothers and sisters.  He looked plump and well fed, and his clothes
were good and fresh, and his armour bright, a contrast to Steadfast's
smock, stained with weather and soil, and his rough leathern
leggings, although Patience did her best, and his shirt was
scrupulously clean every Sunday morning.

The soldier was evidently highly satisfied.  "So, children, you have
done better than I could have hoped.  This hovel is weather-tight and
quite fit to harbour you.  You have done well to keep together, and
it is well said that he who leaves all in the hands of a good
Providence shall have his reward."

Jeph's words were even more sacred than these, and considerably
overawed Patience, who, as he sat before her there in his buff coat
and belt, laying down the law in pious language, was almost persuaded
to believe that their present comfort and prosperity (such as it was)
was owing to the faith which he said had led to his desertion of his
family, though she had always thought it mere impatience of home work
fired by revenge for his father's death.

No doubt he believed in this reward himself, in his relief at finding
his brothers and sisters all together and not starving, and
considered their condition a special blessing due to his own zeal,
instead of to Steadfast's patient exertion.

He was much more disposed to talk of himself and the mercies he had
received, but which the tone of his voice showed him to consider as
truly his deserts.  Captain Venn had, it seemed, always favoured him
from the time of his enlistment and nothing but his youth prevented
him from being a corporal.  He had been in the two great battles of
Marston Moor and Naseby, and come off unhurt from each, and moreover
grace had been given him to interpret the Scriptures in a manner
highly savoury and inspiriting to the soldiery.

Here Patience, in utter amaze, could not help crying out "Thou, Jeph!
Thou couldst not read without spelling, and never would."

He waved his hand.  "My sister, what has carnal learning to do with
grace?"  And taking a little black Bible from within his breastplate,
he seemed about to give them a specimen, when Emlyn's impatience and
hunger no doubt getting the better of her prudence, she crept into
the room, and presently was seen standing by Steadfast's knee,
holding out her hand for some of the bread and cheese on the table.

"And who is this little wench?" demanded Jeph, somewhat displeased
that his brother manifested a certain inattention to his exhortation
by signing to Patience to supply her wants.  Stead made unusual haste
to reply to prevent her from speaking.

"She is biding with us till she can join her father, or knows how it
is with him."

"Humph!  She hath not the look of one of the daughters of our
people."

"Nay," said Steadfast.  "I went down last night to the mill, Jeph, to
see whether perchance you might be hurt and wanting help, and after I
had heard that all was well with you, I lighted on this poor little
maid crouching under a bush, and brought her home with me for pity's
sake till I could find her friends."

"The child of a Midianitish woman!" exclaimed Jeph, "one of the Irish
idolaters of whom it is written, 'Thou shalt smite them, and spare
neither man, nor woman, infant, nor suckling.'"  "But I am not
Irish," broke out Emlyn, "I am from Worcestershire.  My father is
Serjeant Gaythorn, butler to Sir Harry Blythedale.  Don't let him
kill me," she cried in an access of terror, throwing herself on
Steadfast's breast.

"No, no.  He would not harm thee, on mine hearth.  Fear not, little
one, he _shall_ not."

"Nay," said Jephthah, who, to do him justice, had respected the
rights of hospitality enough not to touch his weapon even when he
thought her Irish, "we harm not women and babes save when they are
even as the Amalekites.  Let my brother go, child.  I touch thee not,
though thou be of an ungodly seed; and I counsel thee, Steadfast,
touch not the accursed thing, but rid thyself thereof, ere thou be
defiled."

"I shall go so soon as father comes," exclaimed Emlyn.  "I am sure I
do not want to stay in this mean, smoky hovel a bit longer than I can
help."

"Such are the thanks of the ungodly people," said Jeph, gravely
rising.  "I must be on my way back.  We are digging trenches about
this great city, assuredly believing that it shall be delivered into
our hands."

"Stay, Jeph," said Patience.  "Our corn!  Will your folk come and
cart it away as they have done my lady's?"

"The spoil of the wicked is delivered over to the righteous," said
Jeph.  "But seeing that the land is mine, a faithful servant of the
good cause, they may not meddle therewith."

"How are they to know that?" said Steadfast, not stopping to dispute
what rather startled him, since though Jeph was the eldest son, the
land had been made over to himself.  To save the crop was the point.

"Look you here," said Jeph, "walk down with me to my good Captain's
quarters, and he will give you a protection which you may shew to any
man who dares to touch aught that is ours, be it corn or swine, ox or
ass."

It was a long walk, but Steadfast was only too glad to take it for
the sake of such security, and besides, there was a real pleasure in
being with Jeph, little as he seemed like the same idle, easy-going
brother, except perhaps in those little touches of selfishness and
boastfulness, which, though Stead did not realise them, did recall
the original Jeph.

All through the moonlight walk Jeph expounded his singular mercies,
which apparently meant his achievements in killing Cavaliers, and the
commendations given to him.  One of these mercies was the retention
of the home and land, though he kindly explained that his brothers
and sisters were welcome to get their livelihood there whilst he was
serving with the army, but some day he should come home "as one that
divideth the spoil," and build up the old house, unless, indeed, and
he glanced towards the sloping woods of Elmwood Manor, "the house and
fields of the malignants should be delivered to the faithful."

"My lady's house," said Steadfast under his breath.

"Wherefore not?  Is it not written 'Goodly houses that ye builded
not.'  Thou must hear worthy Corporal Hold-the-Faith expound the
matter, my brother."

They crossed the ferry and reached the outposts at last, and Stead
was much startled when the barrel of a musquet gleamed in the
moonlight, and a gruff voice said "Stand."

"The jawbone of an ass," promptly answered Jephthah.

"Pass, jawbone of an ass," responded the sentry, "and all's well.
But who have you here, comrade!"

Jeph explained, and they passed up the narrow lane, meeting at the
end of it another sentinel, with whom the like watchword was
exchanged, and then they came out on a large village green,
completely changed from its usual aspect by rows of tents, on which
the moonlight shone, while Jeph seemed to know his way through them
as well as if he were in the valley of Elmwood.  Most of the men
seemed to be asleep, for snores issued from sundry tents.  In others
there were low murmurings, perhaps of conversation, perhaps of
prayer, for once Stead heard the hum of an "Amen."  One or two men
were about, and Jeph enquired of one if the Captain were still up,
and heard that he was engaged in exercise with the godly Colonel
Benbow.

Their quarters were in one of the best houses of the little village,
where light gleamed from the window, and an orderly stood within the
door, to whom Jeph spoke, and who replied that they were just in
time.  In fact two officers in broad hats and cloaks were just coming
out, and Stead admired Jeph's military salute to them ere he entered
the farmhouse kitchen, where two more gentlemen sat at the table with
a rough plan of the town laid before them.

"Back again, Kenton," said his captain in a friendly tone.  "Hast
heard aught of thy brethren?"

"Yes, sir, I have found them well and in good heart, and have brought
one with me."

"A helper in the good cause?  Heaven be gracious to thee, my son.
Thou art but young, yet strength is vouchsafed to the feeble hands."

"Please, sir," said Steadfast, who was twisting his hat about, "I've
got to mind the others, and work for them."

"Yea, sir," put in Jeph, "there be three younger at home whom he
cannot yet leave.  I brought him, sir, to crave from you a protection
for the corn and cattle that are in a sort mine own, being my
father's eldest son.  They are all the poor children have to live
on."

"Thou shalt have it," said the captain, drawing his writing materials
nearer to him.  "There, my lad.  It may be thou dost serve thy Maker
as well by the plough as by the sword."

Steadfast pulled his forelock, thanked the captain, was reminded of
the word for the night, and safely reached home again.




CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL TO THE CAVALIERS.



"If no more our banners shew
 Battles won and banners taken,
 Still in death, defeat, and woe,
 Ours be loyalty unshaken."
                            SCOTT


The next day the whole family turned out to gather in the corn.
Rusha was making attempts at reaping, while Emlyn played with little
Ben, who toddled about, shouting and chasing her in and out among the
shocks.  Now and again they paused at the low, thunderous growl of
the great guns in the distance, in strange contrast to their peaceful
work, and once a foraging party of troopers rode up to the gate of
the little field, but Steadfast met them there, and showed the
officer Captain Venn's paper.

"So you belong to Kenton of Venn's Valiants?  It is well.  A blessing
on your work!" said the stern dark-faced officer, and on he went,
happily not seeing Emlyn make an ugly face and clench her little fist
behind him.

"How can you, Stead?" she cried.  "I'd rather be cursed than blessed
by such as he!"

Stead shook his head slowly.  "A blessing is better than a curse any
way," said he, but his mind was a good deal confused between the
piety and good conduct of these Roundheads, in contrast with their
utter contempt of the Church, and rude dealing with all he had been
taught to hold sacred.

His harvest was, however, the matter in hand, and the little patch of
corn was cut and bound between him and his sisters, without further
interruption.  The sounds of guns had ceased early in the day, and a
neighbour who had ventured down to the camp to offer some apples for
sale leant over the gate to wonder at the safety of the crop, "though
to be sure the soldiers were very civil, if they would let alone
preaching at you;" adding that there was like to be no more fighting,
for one of the gentlemen inside had ridden out with a white flag, and
it was said the Prince was talking of giving in.

"Give in!" cried Emlyn setting her teeth.  "Never.  The Prince will
soon make an end of the rebels, and then I shall ride-a-cock horse
with our regiment again!  I shall laugh to see the canting rogues
run!"

But the first thing Steadfast heard the next day was that the royal
standard had come down from the Cathedral tower.  He had gone up to
Elmwood to get some provisions, and Tom Oates, who spent most of his
time in gazing from the steeple, assured him that if he would come
up, he would see for himself that the flags were changed.  Indeed
some of the foot soldiers who had been quartered in the village to
guard the roads had brought the certain tidings that the city had
surrendered and that the malignants, as they called the Royalists,
were to march out that afternoon, by the same road as that by which
the parliamentary army had gone out two years before.

This would be the only chance for Emlyn to rejoin her father or to
learn his fate.  The little thing was wild with excitement at the
news.  Disdainfully she tore off what she called Rusha's Puritan
rags, though as that offended maiden answered "her own were _real_
rags in spite of all the pains Patience had taken with them.  Nothing
would make them tidy," and Rusha pointed to a hopeless stain and to
the frayed edges past mending.

"I hate tidiness.  Only Puritan rebels are tidy!"

"We are not Puritans!" cried Rusha.

Emlyn laughed.  "Hark at your names," she said.  "And what's that
great rebel rogue of a brother of yours?"

"Oh! he is Jeph!  He ran away to the wars!  But Stead isn't a
Puritan," cried Rusha, growing more earnest.  "He always goes to
church--real church down in Bristol.   And poor father was
churchmartin, and knew all the parson's secrets."

"Hush, Rusha," said Patience, not much liking this disclosure,
however Jerusha might have come by the knowledge, "you and Emlyn
don't want to quarrel when she is just going to say good-bye!"

This touched the little girls.  Rusha had been much enlivened by the
little fairy who had seen so much of the world, and had much more
playfulness than the hard-worked little woodland maid; and Emlyn, who
in spite of her airs, knew that she had been kindly treated, was
drawn towards a companion of her own age, was very fond of little
Ben, and still more so of Steadfast.

Ben cried, "Em not go;" and Rusha held her hand and begged her not to
forget.

"O no, I won't forget you," said Emlyn, "and when we come back with
the King and Prince, and drive the Roundhead ragamuffins out of
Bristol, then I'll bring Stead a protection for Croppie and Daisy and
all, a silver bodkin for you, and a Flanders lace collar for
Patience, and a gold chain for Stead, and --But oh! wasn't that a
trumpet?  Stead!  Stead!  We must go, or we shall miss them."  Then
as she hugged and kissed them, "I'll tell Sir Harry and my lady how
good you have been to me, and get my lady to make you a tirewoman,
Rusha.  And dear, dear little Ben shall be a king's guard all in
gold."

Ben had her last smothering kiss, and Rusha began to cry and sob as
the gay little figure, capering by Stead's side, disappeared between
the stems of the trees making an attempt, which Steadfast instantly
quenched, at singing,

               "The king shall enjoy his own again."

Patience did not feel disposed to cry.  She liked the child, and was
grieved to think what an uncertain lot was before the merry little
being, but her presence had made Rusha and Ben more troublesome than
they had ever been in their lives before, and there was also the
anxiety lest her unguarded tongue should offend Jeph and his friends.

Emlyn skipped along by Steadfast's side, making him magnificent
promises.  They paused by the ruins of the farm where Stead still
kept up as much of the orchard and garden as he could with so little
time and so far from home, and Emlyn filled her skirt with rosy-
cheeked apples, saying in a pretty gentle manner, "they were such a
treat to our poor rogues on a dusty march," and Stead aided her by
carrying as many as he could.

However, an occasional bugle note, clouds of dust on the road far
below in the valley, and a low, dull tramp warned them to come
forward, and station themselves in the hedge above the deep lane
where Steadfast had once watched for his brother.  Only a few of the
more adventurous village lads were before them now, and when Stead
explained that the little wench wanted to watch for her father, they
were kind in helping him to perch her in the hollow of a broken old
pollard, where she could see, and not be seen.  For the poor camp
maiden knew the need of caution.  She drew Steadfast close to her,
and bade him not show himself till she told him, for some of the
wilder sort would blaze away their pistols at anything, especially
when they had had any good ale, or were out of sorts.

Poor fellows, there was no doubt of their being out of sorts, as they
tramped along, half hidden in dust, even the officers, who rode
before them, with ragged plumes and slouched hats.  The silken
banners, which they had been allowed to carry out, because of their
prompt surrender, hung limp and soiled, almost like tokens of a
defeat, and if any one of those spectators behind the hawthorns had
been conversant with Roman history, it would have seemed to them like
the passing under the yoke, so dejected, nay, ashamed was the
demeanour of the gentlemen.  Emlyn whispered name after name as they
went by, but even she was hushed and overawed by the spectacle, as
four abreast these sad remnants of the royal army marched along the
lane, one or two trying to whistle, a few more talking in under
tones, but all soon dying away, as if they were too much out of heart
to keep anything up.

She scarcely stirred while the infantry, who were by far the most
numerous, were going by, only naming corps or officer to Stead, then
there came an interval, and the tread of horses and clank of their
trappings could be heard.  Then she almost forgot her precautions in
her eagerness to crane forward.  "They are coming!" she said.  "All
there are of them will be a guard for the Prince."

Stead felt a strange thrill of pain as he remembered the terrible
scene when he had last beheld that tall, slight young figure, and
dark face, now far sterner and sadder than in those early days, as
Rupert went to meet the bitterest hour of his life.

Several gentlemen rode with him, whom Emlyn named as his staff, and
then came more troopers, not alike in dress, being, in fact, remnants
of shattered regiments.  She was trembling all over with eagerness,
standing up, and so leaning forward, that she might have tumbled into
the lane, had not Steadfast held her.

At last came a scream.  "There's Sir Harry!  There's Dick!  There's
Staines!  Oh!  Dick, Dick, where's father?"

There was a halt, and bronzed faces looked up.

"Ha!  Who's there?"

"I!  I!  Emlyn.  Oh!  Dick, is father coming?"

"Hollo, little one!  Art thou safe after all?"

"I am, I am.  Father! father!  Come!  Where is he?"

"It is poor Gaythorn's little wench," explained one of the soldiers,
as Sir Harry, a grey-haired man, looking worn and weary, turned back,
while Steadfast helped the child out on the bank with some
difficulty, for her extreme haste had nearly brought her down, and
she stood curtseying, holding out her arms, and quivering with hope
that began to be fear.

"Poor child!" were the old gentleman's first words.  "And where were
you?"

"Please your honour, father left me in the thorn brake," said Emlyn,
"and said he would come for me, but he did not; it got dark, and this
country lad found me, and took me home.  Is father coming, your
honour?"

"Ah! my poor little maid, your father will never come again," said
Sir Harry, sadly.  "He went down by the mill stream.  I saw him fall.
What is to be done for her?" he added, turning to a younger
gentleman, who rode by him, as the child stood as it were stunned for
a moment.  "This is the worst of it all.  Heaven knows we freely
sacrifice ourselves in the cause of Church and King, but it is hard
to sacrifice others.  Here are these faithful servants, their home
broken up with ours, their children dying, and themselves killed--
she, by the brutes after Naseby, he, in this last skirmish.  'Tis
enough to break a man's heart.  And what is to become of this poor
little maid?"

"Oh!  I'll go with your honour," cried Emlyn, stretching out her
arms.  "I can ride behind Dick, and I'll give no one any trouble.
Oh! take me, sir."

"It cannot be done, my poor child," said Sir Harry.  "We have no
women with us now, and we have to make our way to Newark by forced
marches to His Majesty.  I have no choice but to bestow you somewhere
till better times come.  Hark you, my good lad, she says you found
her, and have been good to her.  Would your mother take charge of
her?  I'll leave what I can with you, and when matters are quiet, my
wife, or the child's kindred, will send after her.  Will your father
and mother keep her for the present?"

"I have none," said Steadfast.  "My father was killed in his own yard
by some soldiers who wanted to drive our cows.  Mother had died
before, but my sister and I made a shift to take care of the little
ones in a poor place of our own."

"And can you take the child in?  You seem a good lad."

"We will do our best for her, sir."

"What's your name?" and "Where do you live?" followed.  And as
Steadfast replied the old Cavalier took out his tablets and noted
them, adding, "Then you and your sister will be good to her till we
can send after her."

"We will treat her like our little sister, sir."

"And here's something for her keep for the present, little enough I
am afraid, but we poor Cavaliers have not much left.  The King's men
were well to do when I heard last of them, and they will make it up
by-and-by.  Or if not, my boy, can you do this for the love of God?"

"Yes, sir," said Steadfast, looking up with his honest eyes, and
touching his forelock at the holy Name.

"Here, then," and Sir Harry held out two gold pieces, to which his
companion added one, and two or three of the troopers, saying
something about poor Gaythorn's little maid, added some small silver
coins.  There was something in Steadfast's mind that would have
preferred declining all payment, but he was a little afraid of
Patience's dismay at having another mouth to provide for all the
winter, and he thought too that Jeph's anger at the adoption of the
Canaanitish child might be averted if it were a matter of business
and payment, so he accepted the sum, thanked Sir Harry and the rest,
and renewed his promise to do the best in his power for the little
maiden.  He rather wondered that no questions were asked as to which
side he held; but Sir Harry had no time to inquire, and could only
hope that the honest, open face, respectful manner, clean dress, and
the kindness which had rescued the child on the battlefield were
tokens that he might be trusted to take care of the poor little
orphan.  Besides, many of the country people were too ignorant to
understand the difference between the sides, but only took part with
their squire, or if they loved their clergyman, clung to him.  So the
knight would not ask any questions, and only further called out "Fare
thee well, then, poor little maid, we will send after thee when we
can," and then giving a sharp, quick order, all the little party
galloped off to overtake the rest.

Emlyn had been bred up in too much awe of Sir Harry to make
objections, but as her friends rode off she gave a sharp shriek,
screamed out one name after another, and finally threw herself down
on the road bank in a wild passion of grief, anger, and despair, and
when Steadfast would have lifted her up and comforted her, she kicked
and fought him away.  Presently he tried her again, begging her to
come home.

"I won't!  I won't go to your vile, tumble-down, roundhead, crop-
eared hole!" she sobbed out.

"But, Sir Harry--"

"I won't! I say."

He was at his wits' end, but after all, the sound of other steps
coming up startled her into composing herself and sitting up.

"Hollo, Stead Kenton!  Got this little puppet on your hands?" said
young Gates.  "Hollo, mistress, you squeal like a whole litter of
pigs."

"I am to take charge of her till her friends can send for her," said
Stead, with protecting dignity.

"And that will be a long day!  Ho, little wench, where didst get that
sweet voice?"

"Hush, Tom! the child has only just heard that her father is dead."

This silenced the other lads, and Emlyn's desire to get away from
them accomplished what Steadfast wished, she put her hand into his
and let him lead her away, and as there were sounds of another troop
of cavalry coming up the lane, the boys did not attempt to follow
her.  She made no more resistance, though she broke into fresh fits
of moaning and crying all the way home, such as went to Steadfast's
heart, though he could not find a word to comfort her.

Patience was scarcely delighted when Rusha darted in, crying out that
Emlyn had come back again, but perhaps she was not surprised.  She
took the poor worn-out little thing in her arms, and rocked her,
saying kind, tender little words, while Steadfast looked on,
wondering at what girls could do, but not speaking till, finding that
Emlyn was fast asleep, Patience laid her down on the bed without
waking her, and then had time to listen to Stead's account of the
interview with Sir Harry Blythedale.

"I could not help it, Patience," he said, "we couldn't leave the poor
fatherless child out on the hedge-side."

"No," said Patience, "we can't but have her, as the gentleman said,
for the love of God.  He has taken care of us, so we ought to take
care of the fatherless--like ourselves."

"That's right, Patience," said Steadfast, much relieved in his mind,
"and see here!"

"I wonder you took that, Stead, and the poor gentlemen so ill off
themselves."

"Well, Patience, I thought if you would not have her, Goody Grace
might for the pay, but then who knows when any more may come?"

"Aye," said Patience, "we must keep her, though she will be a
handful.  Anyway, all this must be laid out for her, and the first
chance I have, some shall be in decent clothes.  I can't a-bear to
see her in those dirty gewgaws."




CHAPTER XIII.

GODLY VENN'S TROOP.



"Ye abbeys and ye arches,
 Ye old cathedrals dear,
 The hearts that love you tremble,
 And your enemies have cheer."
                     BP. CLEVELAND COXE.


"What would Jeph say?" was the thought of both Steadfast and Patience,
as Emlyn ran about with Rusha and Ben, making herself tolerably happy
and enlivening them all a good deal.  After one fight she found that
she must obey Patience, though she made no secret that she liked the
sober young mistress of the hut much less than the others, and could
even sometimes get Steadfast to think her hardly used, but he seldom
showed that feeling, for he had plenty of sense, and could not bear
to vex his sister; besides, he saw there would be no peace if her
authority was not supported.  It was a relief that there was no visit
from Jeph for some little time, though the fighting was all over, and
people were going in and out of Bristol as before.

Stead took the donkey with the panniers full of apples and nuts on
market day, and a pile of fowls and ducks on its back, while he
carried a basket of eggs on his arm, and in his head certain
instructions from Patience about the grogram and linen he was to
purchase for Emlyn, in the hope of making her respectable before
Jeph's eyes should rest upon her.  Stead's old customers were glad to
see him again, especially Mrs. Lightfoot, who had Dr. Eales once
again in her back rooms, keeping out of sight, while the good Dean
was actually in prison for using the Prayer-book.  Three soldiers
were quartered upon her at the Wheatsheaf, and though, on the whole,
they were more civil and much less riotous than some of her Cavalier
lodgers had been, she was always in dread of their taking offence at
the doctor and hauling him off to gaol.

Steadfast confided to her Patience's commission, which she undertook
to execute herself.  It included a spinning-wheel, for Patience was
determined to teach Emlyn to spin, an art of which no respectable
woman from the Queen downwards was ignorant in those days.  As to
finding his brother, the best way would be to ask the soldiers who
were smoking in the kitchen where he was likely to be.

They said that the faithful and valiant Jephthah Kenton of Venn's
horse would be found somewhere about the great steeple house,
profanely called the Cathedral, for there the troops were quartered;
and thither accordingly Stead betook himself, starting as he saw
horses gearing or being groomed on the sward in the close which had
always been kept in such perfect order.  Having looked in vain
outside for his brother, he advanced into the building, but he had
only just had a view of horses stamping between the pillars, the
floor littered down with straw, a fire burning in one of the niches,
and soldiers lying about, smoking or eating, in all manner of easy,
lounging attitudes, when suddenly there was a shout of "Prelatist,
Idolater, Baal-worshipper, Papist," and to his horror he found it was
all directed towards himself.  They were pointing to his head, and
two of them had caught him by the shoulders, when another voice rose
"Ha!  Let him alone.  I say, Bill! Faithful!  It's my brother.  He
knows no better!" Then dashing up, Jeph rammed the great hat down
over Stead's brow, eyes and all, and called out, "Whoever touches my
brother must have at me first."

"There," said one of the others, "the old Adam need not be so fierce
in thee, brother Jephthah!  No one wants to hurt the lad, young
prelatist though he be, so he will make amends by burning their
superstitious books on the fire, even as Jehu burnt the worshippers
of Baal."

Steadfast felt somewhat as Christians of old may have felt when
called on to throw incense on the altar of Jupiter, as a handful of
pages torn from a Prayer-book was thrust into his hands.  Words did
not come readily to him, but he shook his head and stood still,
perhaps stolid in resistance.

"Come," said Jeph, laying hold of his shoulder to drag him along.

"I cannot; 'tis Scripture," said Stead, as in his distress his eye
fell on the leaves in his hand, and he read aloud to prove it--

"Thy Word is a lantern unto my feet, and a light unto my path."

There was one moment's pause.  Perhaps the men had absolutely
forgotten how much of their cherished Bible was integral in the hated
Prayer-book; at any rate they were enough taken aback to enable Jeph
to pull his brother out at the door, not without a fraternal cuff or
two, as he exclaimed:

"Thou foolish fellow! ever running into danger for very dullness."

"What have I done, Jeph?" asked poor Stead, still bewildered.

"Done!  Why, doffed thy hat, after the superstitious and idolatrous
custom of our fathers."

"How can it be idolatrous?  'Twas God's house," said Stead.

"Aye, there thou art in the gall of bitterness.  Know'st thou not
that no house is more holy than another?" and Jeph would have gone on
for some time longer, but that he heard sounds which made him suspect
that someone had condemned the version of the Psalms as prelatical
and profane, and that his comrades might yet burst forth to visit
their wrath upon his young brother, whom he therefore proceeded to
lead out of sight as fast as possible into the Dean's garden, where
he had the entree as being orderly to Captain Venn, who, with other
officers, abode in the Deanery.

There, controversy being dropped for the moment, Stead was able to
tell his brother of his expedition, and how he had been obliged to
keep the child, for very pity's sake, even if her late father's
master had not begged him to do so, and given an earnest of the
payment.

Jeph laughed a little scornfully at the notion of a wild Cavalier
ever paying, but he was not barbarous, and allowed that there was no
choice in the matter, as she could not be turned out to starve.  When
he heard that Stead had come with market produce he was displeased at
it not having been brought up for the table of his officers, assuring
Stead that they were not to be confounded with the roistering,
penniless malignants, who robbed instead of paying.  Stead said he
always supplied Mistress Lightfoot, but this was laughed to scorn.
"The rulers of the army of saints had a right to be served first,
above all before one who was believed to harbour the idolater, even
the priest of the groves."

Jeph directed that the next supply should come to the Deanery, as one
who had the right of ownership, and Stead submitted, only with the
secret resolve that Dr. Eales should not want his few eggs nor his
pat of fresh butter.

Jeph was not unkind to Stead, and took him to dine with the other
attendants of the officers in the very stone hall where he had eaten
that Christmas dinner some twenty months before.  There was a very
long grace pronounced extempore, and the guests were stout, resolute,
grave-looking men, who kept on their steeple-crowned hats all the
time and conversed in low, deep voices, chiefly, as far as Stead
could gather, on military matters, but they seemed to appreciate good
beef and ale quite as much as any Cavalier trooper could have done.
One of them noticing Stead asked whether he had come to take service
with the saints and enjoy their dominion, but Jeph answered for him
that his call lay at home among those of his own household, until his
heart should be whole with the cause.

On the whole Stead was proud to see Jeph holding his own, though the
youngest among these determined-looking men.  These two years had
made a man of the rough, idle, pleasure-loving boy, and a man after
the Ironsides' fashion, grave, self-contained, and self-depending.
Stead had been more like the elder than the younger brother in old
times, but he felt Jeph immeasurably his elder in the new, unfamiliar
atmosphere; and yet the boy had a strong sense that all was not
right; that these were interlopers in the kind old Dean's house; that
the talk about Baal was mere absurdity; and the profanation of the
Cathedral would have been utterly shocking to his good father.  His
mind, however, worked slowly, and he would have had nothing to say
even if he could have ventured to speak; but he was very anxious to
get away; and when Jeph would have kept him to hear the serjeant
expound a chapter of Revelation, he pleaded the necessity of getting
home in time to milk the cows, and made his escape.

On the whole it was a relief that Jeph was too much occupied with his
military duties to make visits to his home.  It might not have been
over easy to keep the peace between him and Emlyn, fiery little
Royalist as she was, and too much used to being petted and
fascinating everyone by her saucy audacity to be likely to be afraid
of him.

If Patience crossed her she would have recourse to Stead, and he
could seldom resist her coaxing, or be entirely disabused of the
notion that his sister expected too much of her.  And perhaps it was
true.  Patience was scarcely likely to understand differences of
character and temperament, and not merely to recollect that Emlyn was
only eighteen months younger than she had been when she had been
forced into the position of the house mother.  So, while Emlyn's
wayward fancies were a great trial, Steadfast's sympathy with them
was a greater one.

Stead continued to see Jeph when taking in the market produce, for
which he was always duly paid.  Jeph also wished the whole family to
come in on Sunday to profit by the preaching of some of the great
Independent lights; but Stead, after trying it once, felt so sure
that Patience would be miserable at anything so unaccustomed, so
thunderous, and, as it seemed to him, so abusive, that he held to it
that the distance was too great, and that the cattle could not be
left.  The soldiery seemed to him to spend their spare time in
defacing the many churches of the city, chiefly in order to do what
they called purifying them from all idols, in which term they
included every sort of carving or picture, or even figures on
monuments.

And in this work of destruction a chest containing church plate had
been come upon, making their work greedy instead of only mischievous.

When all the churches in Bristol had been ransacked, they began to
extend their search to the parish churches in the neighbourhood, and
Stead began to be very anxious, though he hoped and believed that the
cave was a perfectly safe place.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE QUESTION.



"Dogged as does it."--TROLLOPE.


Stead, Stead," cried Rusha, running up to him, as he was slowly
digging over his stubble field to prepare it for the next crop, "the
soldiers are in Elmwood."

"Yes," said Emlyn, coming up at the same time, "they are knocking
about everything in the church and pulling up the floor."

"Patience sent us to get some salt," explained Rusha, "and we saw
them from Dame Redman's door.  She told us we had better be off and
get home as fast as we could."

"But I thought we would come and tell you," added Emlyn, "and then
you could get out the long gun and shoot them as they come into the
valley--that is if you can take aim--but I would load and show you
how, and then they would think it was a whole ambush of honest men."

"Aye, and kill us all--and serve us right," said Stead.  "They don't
want to hurt us if we don't meddle with them.  But there's a good
wench, Rusha, drive up the cows and sheep this way so that I can have
an eye on them, and shew Captain Venn's paper, if any of those
fellows should take a fancy to them."

"They are digging all over old parson's garden," said Rusha, as she
obeyed.

"Was Jeph there?" asked Stead.

"I didn't see him," said the child.

Steadfast was very uneasy.  That turning up the parson's garden
looked as if they might be in search of the silver belonging to the
Church, but after all they were unlikely to connect him with it, and
it was wiser to go on with his regular work, and manifest no interest
in the matter; besides that, every spadeful he heaved up, every chop
he gave the stubble, seemed to be a comfort, while there was a prayer
on his soul all the time that he might be true to his trust.

By-and-by he saw Tom Oates running and beckoning to him, "Stead,
Stead Kenton, you are to come."

"What should I come for?" said Stead, gruffly.

"The soldiers want you."

"What call have they to me?"

"They be come to cleanse the steeple house, they says, and take the
spoil thereof, and they've been routling over the floor and parson's
garden like so many hogs, and are mad because they can't find
nothing, and Thatcher Jerry says, says he, 'Poor John Kenton as was
shot was churchwarden and was very great with Parson.  If anybody
knows where the things is 'tis Steadfast Kenton.'  So the corporal
says, 'Is this so, Jephthah Kenton?' and Jeph, standing up in his big
boots, says, 'Aye, corporal, my father was yet in the darkness of
prelacy, and was what in their blindness they call a Churchwarden,
but as to my brother, that's neither here nor there, he were but a
boy and not like to know more than I did.'  But the corporal said,
'That we will see.  Is the lad here?'  So I ups and said nay, but I'd
seen you digging your croft, and then they bade me fetch you.  So you
must come, willy-nilly, or they may send worse after you."

Stead was a little consoled by hearing that his brother was there.
He suspected that Jeph would have consideration enough for his
sisters and for the property that he considered his own to be
unwilling to show the way to their valley; and he also reflected that
it would be well that whatever might happen to himself should be out
of sight of his sisters.  Therefore he decided on following Oates,
going through on the way the whole question whether to deny all
knowledge, and yet feeling that the things belonging to God should
not be shielded by untruth.  His resolution finally was to be silent,
and let them make what they would out of that, and Stead, though it
was long since he had put it on, had a certain sullen air of
stupidity such as often belongs to such natures as his, and which
Jeph knew full well in him.

They came in sight of the village green where the soldiers were
refreshing themselves at what once had been the Elmwood Arms, for
though not given to excess, total abstinence formed no part of the
discipline of the Puritans; and one of the men started forward, and
seizing hold of Steadfast by the shoulder exclaimed--

"As I live, 'tis the young prelatist who bowed himself down in the
house of Rimmon!  Come on, thou seed of darkness, and answer for
thyself."

If he had only known it, he was making the part of dogged silence and
resistance infinitely easier to Steadfast by the rudeness and abuse,
which, even in a better cause, would have made it natural to him to
act as he was doing now, giving the soldier all the trouble of
dragging him onward and then standing with his hands in his pockets
like an image of obstinacy.

"Speak," said the corporal, "and it shall be the better for thee.
Hast thou any knowledge where the priests of Baal have bestowed the
vessels of their mockery of worship."

Stead moved not a muscle of his face.  He had no acquaintance with
priests of Baal or their vessels, so that he was not in the least
bound to comprehend, and one of them exclaimed "The oaf knows not
your meaning, corporal.  Speak plainer to his Somerset ears.  He
knows not the tongue of the saints."

"Ho, then, thou child of darkness.  Know'st thou where the mass-
mongering silver and gold of this church be hidden from them of whom
it is written 'haste to the spoil.'  Come, speak out.  A  crown if
thou dost speak--the lash if thou wilt not answer, thou dumb dog."

Stead was really not far removed from a dumb dog.  All his faculties
were so entirely wrought up to resistance that he had hardly
distinguished the words.

"Come, come, Stead," said Jeph, "thou art too old for thine old sulky
moods.  Speak up, and tell if thou know'st aught of the Communion Cup
and dish, or it will be the worse for thee.  Yes or no?"

Stead made a move with his shoulder to push away his brother, and
still stood silent.

"There," said Jeph, "it is all Faithful's fault for his rough
handling.  His back is set up.  It was always so from a boy, and
you'll get nought out of him."

"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of
correction shall drive it far from him," quoted the Corporal, taking
up a waggoner's whip which stood by the inn door, and the like of
which had no doubt once been a more familiar weapon to him than the
sword.

"Speak lad--or--" and as no speech came, the lash descended on
Stead's shoulders, not, however, hurting him much save where it
grazed the skin of his face.

"Now?  Not a word?  Take off his leathern coat, Faithful, then shall
he feel the reward of sullenness."

That Jeph did not interfere, while Faithful and another soldier
tugged off his leathern coat, buffeting and kicking him roughly as
they did so, brought additional hardness to Stead.  He had been
flogged in his time before, and not without reason, and had taken a
pride in not giving in, or crying out for pain; and the ancient habit
acquired in a worse cause, came to his help.  He scarcely recollected
the cause of his resistance; all his powers were concentrated in
holding out, and when after another "Now, vile prelatic spawn, is thy
heart still hardened?  Yes or no?" the terrible whip came stinging
and biting down on his shoulders and back, only protected by his
shirt, he was entirely bound up in the determination to endure the
pain without a groan or cry.

But after blows enough had fallen to mark the shirt with streaks of
blood, Jeph could bear it no longer.

"Hold!" he said.  "You will never make him speak that way.  Father
and mother never could.  Strokes do but harden him."

"The sure token of a fool," said the corporal, and prepared for
another lash.

"'Tis plain he knows," said one of the others.  "He would never stand
this if a word would save him."

"Mere malice and obstinacy," said Faithful, "and wilfulness.  He will
not utter a word.  I would beat it out of him, as I was wont with our
old ass."

Another stroke descended, worse than all the others after the brief
interval, but Jeph again spoke, "Look you, I know the lad of old and
you'll get no more that way than if you were flogging the sign-post
there.  Whether he knows where the things are or not, the temper that
is in him will never answer while you beat him, were it to save his
life.  Leave him to me, and I'll be bound to get an answer from him."

"And I am constable, and I must say," said Blacksmith Blane, moving
forwards, with a bar of iron in his hand, and four or five stout men
behind him, "that to come and abuse and flog a hard-working,
fatherless lad, that never did you no harm, nor anyone else, is not
what honest men look for from soldiers that talk so big about
Parliament and rights and what not!"

"'Twas for contumacy," began the corporal.

"Contumacy forsooth, as though 'twas the will of the honest gentlemen
in Parliament that boys should be misused for nothing at all!"

"If the young dog would have spoken," began the corporal, but somehow
he did not like the look of Blane's iron bar, and thought it best to
look up at the sun, and discover that it was time to depart if the
party were to be in time for roll-call.  As it was a private
marauding speculation, it might not be well to have complaints made
to Captain Venn, who never sanctioned plunder nor unnecessary
violence.  Even Jeph had to march off, and Steadfast, who had no mind
to be pitied, nor asked by the neighbours what was the real fact, had
picked up his spade and jerkin, and was out of sight while the
villagers were watching the soldiers away.

The first thing he did was to give thanks in heart that he had been
aided thus far not to betray his trust, and then to feel that
Corporal Dodd's flogging was a far severer matter than the worst
chastisement he had ever received from his father, even when he kept
Jeph's secret about the stolen apples.  Putting on his coat was
impossible, and he was so stiff and sore that he could not hope to
conceal his condition from Patience.

At home all were watching for him.  They ran up in anxiety, for one
of the ever ready messengers of evil had rushed down the glen to tell
Patience that the soldiers were beating Stead shamefully, and Jeph
standing by not saying one word.  Little Ben broke out with "Poor,
poor!" and Rusha burst into tears at sight of the blood, while Emlyn
said "Just what comes of going among the rascal Roundheads," and
Patience looked up at him and said "Was it--?" he nodded, and she
quietly said "I'm glad."  He added, "Jeph's coming soon," and she
knew that the trial was not over.  The brother and sister needed very
few words to understand one another, and they were afraid to say
anything that the younger ones could understand.  Patience washed the
weals with warm water and milk, and wrapped a cloak round him, but
even the next morning, he could not use his arms without fresh
bleeding, and the hindrance to the work was serious.  He could do
nothing but herd the cattle, and he was much inclined to drive them
to the further end of the moorland where Jephthah would hardly find
him, but then he recollected that Patience would be left to bear the
brunt of the attack, so that he would not go far off, never guessing,
poor fellow, that in his dull, almost blundering fashion, he was
doing like the heroes and the martyrs, but only feeling that he must
keep his trust at all costs.  Jeph, however, did not come that day or
the next, so that inwardly, the wound-up feeling had passed into a
weariness of expectation, and outwardly the stripes had healed enough
for Stead to go about his work as usual only a little stiffly.  He
went into Bristol on market day as usual, and then it was, on his way
out that Jeph joined him, saying it was to bid Patience and the
little ones farewell, since the marching orders were for the morrow.
He was unusually kind and good-natured; he had a load of comfits for
Rusha and Ben, and a stout piece of woollen stuff for Patience which
he said was such as he was told godly maidens wore, and which
possibly the terror of his steel cap and corslet had cheapened at the
mercer's; also he had a large packet of tractates for Stead's own
reading, and he enquired whether they possessed a Bible.

Stead wondered whether all this was out of regret at the treatment he
had undergone, or whether it was to put him off his guard, and this
occupied him when Jeph began to preach, as he did uninterruptedly for
the last mile, without any of the sense, if there were any, reaching
the mind of the auditor.

They reached the hut, the gifts were displayed; and when the young
ones, who were all a little afraid of the elder brother, had gone off
to feast upon the sweets, Jeph began with enquiries after Steadfast's
back, and he replied that it was mending fast, while Patience
exclaimed at the cruelty and wickedness of so using him.

"Why wouldn't he speak then?" said Jeph.  "Yea or nay would have
ended it in a moment, but that's Stead's way.  He looks like it now!"
and he did, elbows on knees, and chin on hands.

"Come now, Stead, thou canst speak to me!  Was it all because
Faithful hauled thee about?"

"He did, and he had no call to," said Stead, surlily.

"Well, that's true, but I'm not hauling thee.  Tell me, Stead, I mind
now that thou wast out with father that last day ere the Parson was
taken to receive his deserts.  I don't believe that even thy
churlishness would have stood such blows if thou hadst known naught
of the idolatrous vessels, and couldst have saved thy skin by saying
so!  No answer.  Why, what have these malignants done for thee that
thou shouldst hold by them?  Slain thy father!  Burnt thine house!
No fault of theirs that thou art alive this day!  Canst not speak?"

Jeph's temper giving way at the provocation, he forgot his
conciliatory intentions and seizing Stead by the collar shook him
violently.  Growler almost broke his chain with rage, Patience
screamed and flew to the rescue, just as she had often done when they
were all children together, and Jeph threw his brother from him so
that he fell on the root of a tree, and lay for a moment or two
still, then picked himself up again evidently with pain, though he
answered Patience cheerfully that it was nought.

"Thou art enough to drive a man mad with thy surly silence,"
exclaimed Jeph, whom this tussle had rendered much more like his old
self, "and after all, knowing that even though thou art not one of
the holy ones, thou wilt not tell a lie, it comes to the same thing.
I know thou wottest where these things are, and it is only thy sullen
scruples that hinder thee from speaking.  Nevertheless, I shall leave
no stone unturned till I find them!  For what is written 'Thou shalt
break down their altars.'"

"Jeph," said Stead, firmly.  "You left home because of your grief and
rage at father's death.  Would you have me break the solemn charge he
laid on me?"

"Father was a good man after his light," said Jeph, a little
staggered, "but that light was but darkness, and we to whom the day
itself is vouchsafed are not bound by a charge laid on us in
ignorance.  Any way, he laid no bonds on me, but I must needs leave
thee alone in thy foolishness of bondage!  Come, Patience, wench, and
aid me, I know this rock is honeycombed with caves, like a rabbit
warren, no place so likely."

"I help thee--no indeed'" cried Patience.  "Would I aid thee to do
what would most grieve poor father, that thou once mad'st such a work
about!  I should be afraid of his curse."

Possibly if Jeph had not pledged himself to his comrades to overcome
his brother's resistance, and bring back the treasures, he might have
desisted; but what he did was to call to Rusha to bring him a
lantern, and show him the holes, promising her a tester if she would.
She brought the lantern, but she was a timid, little, unenterprising
thing, and was mortally afraid of the caverns, a fear that Patience
had thought it well not to combat.  Emlyn who had already scrambled
all over the face of the slope, and peeped into all, could have told
him a great deal more about them; but she hated the sight of a rebel,
and sat on the ground making ugly faces and throwing little stones
after him whenever his back was turned.

Stead, afraid to betray by his looks of anxiety, when Jeph came near
the spot, sat all the time with his elbows on his knees, and his
hands over his face, fully trusting to what all had agreed at the
time of the burial of the chest, that there was no sign to indicate
its whereabouts.

He felt rather than saw that Jeph, after tumbling out the straw and
fern that served for fodder in the lower caves, where the sheep and
pigs were sheltered in winter, had scrambled up to the hermit's
chapel, when suddenly there was a shout, but not at all of
exultation, and down among the bushes, lantern and all came the
soldier, tumbling and crashing into the midst of an enormous bramble,
whence Stead pulled him out with the lantern flattened under him, and
his first breathless words were--

"Beelzebub himself!"  Then adding, as he stood upright, "he made full
at me, and I saw his eyes glaring.  I heard him groaning.  It is an
unholy popish place.  No wonder!"

Patience and Rusha were considerably impressed, for it was
astonishing to see how horribly terrified and shaken was the warrior,
who had been in two pitched battles, and Ben screamed, and needed to
be held in Stead's arms to console him.

Jeph had no mind to pursue his researches any further.  He only
tarried long enough to let Patience pick out half-a-dozen thorns from
his cheeks and hands, and to declare that if he had not to march to-
morrow, he should bring that singular Christian man, Captain Venn, to
exorcise the haunt of Apollyon.  Wherewith he bade them all farewell,
with hopes that by the time he saw them again, they would have come
to the knowledge of the truth.

No sooner was he out of sight among the bushes than Emlyn seized on
Rusha, and whirled her round in a dance as well as her more
substantial proportions would permit, while Steadfast let his
countenance expand into the broad grin that he had all this time been
stifling.

"What _do_ you think it was?" asked Patience, still awestruck.

"Why--the old owl--and his own bad conscience.  He might talk big,
but he didn't half like going against poor father.  Thank God!  He
has saved His own, and that's over!"




CHAPTER XV.

A TABLE OF LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS.



"Yet along the Church's sky
 Stars are scattered, pure and high;
 Yet her wasted gardens bear
 Autumn violets, sweet and rare,
 Relics of a Spring-time clear,
 Earnests of a bright New Year."    KEBLE


No more was heard or seen of Jephthah, or of Captain Venn's troop.
The garrison within Bristol was small and unenterprising, and in
point of fact the war was over.  News travelled slowly, but Stead
picked up scraps at Bristol, by which he understood that things
looked very bad for the King.  Moreover, Sir George Elmwood died of
his wounds; poor old Lady Elmwood did not long survive him, and the
estate, which had been left to her for her life, was sequestrated by
the Parliament, and redeemed by the next heir after Sir George, so
that there was an exchange of the Lord of the Manor.  The new squire
was an elderly man, hearty and good-natured, who did not seem at all
disposed to interfere with any one on the estate.  He was a
Presbyterian, and was shocked to find that the church had been unused
for three years.  He had it cleaned from the accumulation of dirt and
rubbish, the broken windows mended with plain glass, and the altar
table put down in the nave, as it had been before Mr. Holworth's
time; and he presented to the living Mr. Woodley, a scholarly-looking
person, who wore a black gown and collar and bands.

The Elmwood folk were pleased to have prayers and sermon again, and
Patience was glad that the children should not grow up like heathens;
but her first church going did not satisfy her entirely.

"It is all strange," she said to Stead, who had stayed with the
cattle.  "He had no book, and it was all out of his own head, not a
bit like old times."

"Of course not," said Emlyn.  "He had got no surplice, and I knew him
for a prick-eared Roundhead!  I should have run off home if you had
not held me, Patience.  I'll never go there again."

"I am sure you made it a misery to me, trying to make Rusha and Ben
as idle and restless as yourself," said Patience.

"They ought not to listen to a mere Roundhead sectary," said Emlyn,
tossing her head.  "I couldn't have borne it if I had not had the
young ladies to look at.  They had got silk hoods and curls and lace
collars, so as it was a shame a mere Puritan should wear."

"O Emlyn, Emlyn, it is all for the outside," said Patience.  "Now, I
did somehow like to hear good words, though they were not like the
old ones."

"Good, indeed! from a trumpery Puritan."

Stead went to church in the afternoon.  He was eighteen now, and that
great struggle and effort had made him more of a man.  He thought
much when he was working alone in the fields, and he had spent his
time on Sundays in reading his Bible and Prayer-book, and comparing
them with Jeph's tracts.  Since Emlyn had come, he had made a corner
of the cowshed fit to sleep in, by stuffing the walls with dry
heather, and the sweet breath of the cows kept it sufficiently warm,
and on the winter evenings, he took a lantern there with one of
Patience's rush lights, learnt a text or two anew, and then repeated
passages to himself and thought over them.  What would seem
intolerably dull to a lad now, was rest to one who had been rendered
older than his age by sorrow and responsibility, and the events that
were passing led people to consider religious questions a great deal.

But Stead was puzzled.  The minister was not like the soldiers whom
he had heard raving about the reign of the saints, and abusing the
church.  He prayed for the King's having a good deliverance from his
troubles, and for the peace of the kingdom, and he gave out that
there was to be a week of fasting, preaching, and preparation for the
Sacrament of the Lord's Supper.

The better sort of people in the village were very much pleased,
nobody except Goody Grace was dissatisfied, and people told her that
was only because she was old and given to grumbling at everything
new.  Blane the Smith tapped Stead on the shoulder, and said, "Hark
ye, my lad.  If it be true that thou wast in old Parson's secrets,
now's the time for thou know'st what."

Stead's mouth was open, and his face blank, chiefly because he did
not know what to do, and was taken by surprise, and Blane took it for
an answer.

"Oh! if you don't know, that's another thing, but then 'twas for
nothing that the troopers flogged you?  Well," he muttered, as Stead
walked off, "that's a queer conditioned lad, to let himself be
flogged, as I wouldn't whip a dog, all out of temper, because he
wouldn't answer a question.  But he's a good lad, and I'll not bring
him into trouble by a word to squire or minister."

The children went off to gather cowslips, and Stead was able to talk
it over with Patience, who at first was eager to be rid of the
dangerous trust, and added, with a sigh, "That she had never taken
the Sacrament since the Easter before poor father was killed, and it
must be nigh upon Whitsuntide now."

"That's true," said Stead, "but nobody makes any count of holy days
now.  It don't seem right, Patience."

"Not like what it used to be," said Patience.  "And yet this minister
is surely a godly man."

"Father and parson didn't say ought about a godly man.  They made me
take my solemn promise that I'd only give the things to a lawfully
ordained minister."

"He is a minister, and he comes by law," argued Patience.  "Do be
satisfied, Stead.  I'm always in fear now that folks guess we have
somewhat in charge; and Emlyn is such a child for prying and
chattering.  And if they should come and beat thee again, or do
worse.  Oh, Stead! surely you might give them up to a good man like
that; Smith Blane says you ought!"

"I doubt me!  I know that sort don't hold with Bishops, and, so far
as I can see, by father's old Prayer-book, a lawful minister must
have a Bishop to lay hands on him," said Stead, who had studied the
subject as far as his means would allow, and had good though slow
brains of his own, matured by responsibility.  "I'll tell you what,
Patience, I'll go and see Dr. Eales about it.  I wot he is a minister
of the old sort, that father would say I might trust to."

Dr. Eales was still living in Mrs. Lightfoot's lodgings, at the sign
of the Wheatsheaf, or more properly starving, for he had only ten
pounds a year paid to him out of the benefice that had been taken
away from him; and though that went farther then than it would do
now, it would not have maintained him, but that his good hostess
charged him as little as she could afford, and he also had a few
pupils among the gentry's sons, but there were too many clergymen in
the same straits for this to be a very profitable undertaking.  There
were no soldiers in Mrs. Lightfoot's house now, and the doctor lived
more at large, but still cautiously, for in the opposite house, named
the "Ark," whose gable end nearly met the Wheatsheaf's, dwelt a rival
baker, a Brownist, whose great object seemed to be to spy upon the
clergyman, and have something to report against him, nor was Mrs.
Lightfoot's own man to be trusted.  Stead lingered about the open
stall where the bread was sold till no customer was at hand, and then
mentioned under his breath to the good dame his desire to speak with
her lodger.

"Certainly," she said, but the Doctor was now with his pupils at
Mistress Rivett's.  He always left them at eleven of the clock, more
shame of Mrs. Rivett not to give the good man his dinner, which she
would never feel.  Steadfast had better watch for him at the gate
which opened on the down, for there he could speak more privately and
securely than at home.

He took the advice, and passed away the time as best he could,
learning on the way that a news letter had been received stating that
the King was with the Scottish army at Newcastle, and that it was
expected that on receiving their arrears of pay, the Scots would
surrender him to the Parliament, a proceeding which the folk in the
market-place approved or disapproved according to their politics.

Mrs. Rivett's house stood a little apart from the town, with a court
and gates opening on the road over the down; and just as eleven
strokes were chiming from the town clock below, a somewhat bent,
silver-haired man, in a square cap and black gown, leaning on a
stick, came out of it.  Stead, after the respectful fashion of his
earlier days, put his knee to the ground, doffed his steeple-crowned
hat and craved a blessing, both he and the Doctor casting a quick
glance round so as to be sure there was no one in sight.

Dr. Eales gave it earnestly, as one to whom it was a rare joy to find
a country youth thus demanding it, and as he looked at the honest
face he said:

"You are mine hostess' good purveyor, methinks, to whom I have often
owed a wholesome meal."

"Steadfast Kenton, so please your reverence.  There is a secret
matter on which I would fain have your counsel, and Mistress
Lightfoot thought I might speak to you here with greater safety."

"She did well.  Speak on, my good boy, if we walk up and down here we
shall be private.  It does my heart good to commune with a faithful
young son of the Church."

Steadfast told his story, at which the good old Canon was much
affected.  His brother Holworth, as he called him, was not in prison
but in the Virginian plantations.  He was still the only true
minister of Elmwood, and Mr. Woodley, though owned by the present so-
called law of the land, was not there rightly by the law of the
Church, and, therefore, Stead was certainly not bound to surrender
the trust to him, but rather the contrary.

The Doctor could have gone into a long disquisition about
Presbyterian Orders, contradicting the arguments many good and devout
people adduced in favour of them, but there was little time, so he
only confirmed with authority Stead's belief that a Bishop's
Ordination was indispensable to a true pastor, "the only door by
which to enter to the charge of the fold."

Then came the other question of attendance on his ministry, and
whether to attend the feast given out for the Sunday week, after the
long-forced abstinence: Patience's, ever since the break-up of the
parish; Steadfast's, since the siege of Bristol.  Dr. Eales
considered, "I cannot bid you go to that in the efficacy of which
neither you nor I believe, my son," he said.  "It would not be with
faith.  Here, indeed, I have ministered privately to a few of the
faithful in their own houses, but the risk is over great for you and
your sister to join us, espied as we are.  How is it with your home?"

"O, sir, would you even come thither?" exclaimed Steadfast, joyfully,
and he described his ravine, which was of course known to the Elmwood
neighbours, but very seldom visited by them, never except in the
middle of the day, and where the thicket and the caverns afforded
every facility for concealment.

Whitsun Day was coming, and Dr. Eales proposed to come over to the
glen and celebrate the Holy Feast in the very early morning before
anyone was astir.  There were a few of his Bristol flock who would be
thankful for the opportunity of meeting more safely than they could
do in the city, since at Easter they had as nearly as possible been
all arrested in a pavilion in Mr. Rivett's garden which they had
thought unsuspected.

There would be one market day first, and on that Stead would come and
explain his preparations, and hear what the Doctor had arranged.  And
so it was.  The time was to be three o'clock, the very dawn of the
long summer day, the time when sleep is deepest.  Dr. Eales and Mrs.
Lightfoot would come out the night before, he not returning after his
lesson to the Rivetts, and she making some excuse about going to see
friends for the Sunday.

The Rivetts, living outside the gates where sentries still kept
guard, could start in the morning, and so could the four others who
were to form part of the congregation.  Goody Grace was the only
person near home whom Patience wished to invite, for she too had
grieved over the great deprivation, and had too much heart for the
Church to be satisfied with Mr. Woodley's ministrations.  Perhaps
even she did not understand the difference, but she could be trusted,
and the young people knew how happy it would make her.

Little can we guess what such an opportunity was to the faithful
children of the Church in those sad days.  Goody Grace folded her
hands and murmured, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in
peace," when Patience told her of the invitation, and Patience,
though she had all her ordinary work to do, went quietly about it, as
if she had some great thought of peace and awe upon her.

"Why, Patience, you seem as if you were making ready for some guest,
the Prince of Wales at least!" said Emlyn, on Saturday night.

Patience smiled a sweet little happy smile and in her heart she said
"And so I am, and for a greater far!" but she did say "Yes, Emlyn,
Dr. Eales is coming to sleep here to-night, and he will pray with us
in the early morning."

It had been agreed that the Celebration should take place first, and
then after a short pause, the Morning Service.  Jerusha was eleven
years old, and a very good girl, and since Confirmation was
impossible, her brother and sister would have asked for her admission
to the Holy Feast without it, but she could not be called up without
the danger of awaking Emlyn; and Patience was so sure that it was not
safe to trust that damsel with the full knowledge of the treasure
that, though Steadfast always thought his sister hard on her, he was
forced to give way.  The children were to be admitted to Matins, for
if any idea oozed out that this latter service had been held, no
great danger was likely to come of it.  Dr. Eales arrived in the
evening, Steadfast meeting him to act as guide, and Patience set
before him of her best.  A fowl, which she had been forced to broil
for want of other means of dressing it; bread baked in a tin with a
fire of leaves and small sticks heaped over it; roasted eggs,
excellent butter and milk.  She apologised for not having dared to
fetch any ale for fear of exciting suspicion, but the doctor set her
quite at ease by his manifest enjoyment of her little feast,
declaring that he had not made so good a meal since Bristol was
taken.

Then he catechised the children.  Little Ben could say the Lord's
Prayer, the Belief, and some of the shorter Commandments, and the
doctor patted his little round white cap, and gave him two Turkey
figs as a reward.

Jerusha, when she got over her desperate fright enough to speak above
a whisper, was quite perfect from her name down to "charity with all
men," but Emlyn stumbled horribly over even the first answers, and
utterly broke down in the Fourth Commandment; but she smiled up in
the doctor's face in her pretty way, and blushed as she said "The
chaplain at Blythedale had taught us so far, your reverence."

"And have you learnt no further?"

"If you were here to teach me, sir, I would soon learn it," said the
little witch, but she did not come over him as she did with most
people.

"You have as good an instructor as I for your needs, in this discreet
maiden," said Dr. Eales, and as something of a pout descended on the
sparkling little face, "when you know all the answers, perchance
Steadfast here may bring you to my lodgings and I will hear you."

"I could learn them myself if I had the book," said Emlyn.

The fact being that the Catechism was taught by Patience from memory
in those winter evenings when all went to bed to save candle light,
but that when Steadfast retired to the cow-house, Emlyn either
insisted on playing with the others or pretended to go to sleep; and
twitted Patience with being a Puritan.  However, the hopes of going
into Bristol might be an incentive, though she indulged in a grumble
to Rusha, and declared that she liked a jolly chaplain, and this old
doctor was not a bit better than a mere Puritan.

Rusha opened her big eyes.  She never did understand Emlyn, and
perhaps that young maiden took delight in shocking her.  They were
ordered off to bed much sooner than they approved on that fair summer
night, when the half-moon was high and the nightingales were singing
all round--not that they cared for that, but there was a sense about
them that something mysterious was going on, and Emlyn was wild with
curiosity and vexation at being kept out of it.

She would have kept watch and crept out; but that Patience came in,
and lay down, so close to the door that it was impossible to get out
without waking her, and besides if Emlyn did but stir, she asked what
was the matter.

"They mean something!" said Emlyn to herself, "and I'll know what it
is.  They have no right to keep me out of the plot; I am not like
stupid little Rusha!  I have been in a siege, and four battles,
besides skirmishes!  I'll watch till they think I'm asleep, if I pull
all the hulls out of my bed!  Then they will begin."

But nothing moved that Emlyn could hear or see.  She woke and slept,
but was quite aware when Patience rose up after a brief doze, and
found the first streaks of dawn in the sky, a cuckoo calling as if
for very life in the nearest tree, and Steadfast quietly sweeping the
dew from the grass in a little open space shut in by rocks, trees,
and bushes, close to the bank of the brook.

A chest which he kept in the cow-shed, and which bore traces of the
fire in the old house, had been brought down to serve as an Altar,
and it was laid over, for want of anything better, with one of poor
Mrs. Kenton's best table-cloths, which Patience had always thought
too good for use.

The next thing was to meet the rest of the scanty congregation at the
entrances of the wood, and guide them to the spot.  This was safely
done, Goody Grace knew the way, and had guided one of the old Elmwood
maid servants whom she had managed to shelter for the night.  Mrs.
Lightfoot was there with Mrs. Rivett, her daughter, elder son, and a
grave-looking man servant, Mr. Henshaw, a Barbados merchant, with his
wife, and a very worn battered shabby personage, but unmistakably a
gentleman of quality, and wounded in the wars, for he was so lame
that the merchant had to help him over the rough paths.

It was a wonderful Whitsun-day morning that none of the little party
could ever forget.  The sunrise could not be seen in that deep,
narrow place, but the sky was of a strange pale shining blue, and the
tender young green of the trees overhead was touched with gold, the
glades of the wood were intensely blue with hyacinths, and with all
sorts of delicate greens twined above in the bushes over them.  A
wild cherry, all silver white, was behind their Altar, the green
floor was marbled with cuckoo flowers and buttercups, and the clear
little stream whose voice murmured by was fringed with kingcups and
forget-me-nots.  The scents were of the most delicious dewy
freshness; and as to the sounds!  Larks sang high up in the sky, wood
pigeons cooed around, nightingales, thrushes, every bird of the wood
seemed to be trying to make music and melody.

And in the midst the grey-haired priest stood close to an ivy-covered
rock, with the white covered Altar, and the bright golden vessels
which he had carefully looked to in the night, and the little
congregation knelt close round him on cloaks and mats, the women
hooded, the old Cavalier's long thin locks, the merchant's dark ones,
and the close cropped heads of the servant and of Steadfast bared to
the morning breeze in its pure, dewy, soft freshness, fit emblem of
the Comforter.  No book was produced, all was repeated from memory.
They durst not raise their voices, but the birds were their choir,
and as they murmured their _Gloria in Excelsis_, the sweet notes rang
out in that unconscious praise.

When the blessing of peace had been given there was a long hush, and
no one rose till after the vessels had been replaced in their casket,
and Stead was climbing up with it again to the hiding place.  Then
there was a move to the front of the hut, where Rusha was just
awakening, and Emlyn feigned to be still asleep.  It was not yet four
o'clock, but the sweet freshness was still around everything.  Young
Mistress Alice Rivett and her brother were enchanted to gather
flowers, and ran after their hosts to see the cows milked, and the
goats, pigs, and poultry fed, sights new to them; but the elder
ladies shivered and were glad to warm themselves at the little fire
Patience hastily lighted, after cleaning the hut as fast as she
could, by rolling up the bedding, and fairly carrying Ben out to
finish his night's rest in the cow-house.

The guests had brought their provisions, and insisted that their
young hosts should eat with them, accepting only the warm milk that
Patience brought in her pail, and they drank from the horn cups of
the family.  Dr. Eales observed to the Cavalier that it was a true
_Agape_ or love-feast like those of the ancient Church, and the
gentleman's melancholy, weather-beaten face relaxed into a smile as
he sighed and hoped that the same endurance as that of the Christians
of old would be granted in this time of persecution.

Emlyn was gratified at being a good deal noticed by the company as so
unlike the others.  She was not shy and frightened like Rusha, who
hung her head and had not a word to say for herself, but chattered
away to the young Rivetts, showing them the kid, the calves, and the
lambs, taking Mistress Alice to the biggest cowslips and earliest
wild roses, and herself making a sweet posy for each of the ladies.
The old Cavalier himself, Colonel Harford, was even amused with the
pretty little maid, who, he told Dr. Eales, resembled Mirth as Master
John Milton had depicted her, ere he took up with General Cromwell
and his crew; and was a becoming figure for this early morn.

On learning the child's history, he turned out to know Sir Harry
Blythedale, but not to have heard of him since they had parted at
Newark, he to guard the king to Oxford, Sir Harry to join Lord
Astley, and he much feared that the old knight had been killed at
Stowe, in the fight between Astley and Brereton.  This would account
for nothing having been heard from him about Emlyn, but Colonel
Harford promised, if any opportunity should offer, to communicate
with Lady Blythedale, whom he believed to be living at Worcester; and
he patted Emlyn on the head, called her a little loyal veteran,
accepted a tiny posy of forget-me-not from her, and after fumbling in
his pocket, gave her a crown piece.  Steadfast and Patience were
afraid it was his last, and much wished she had contrived not to take
it, but she said she should keep it for a remembrance.

After this rest, the beautiful Whitsuntide Matins was said in the
fair forest church, and before six o'clock this strange and blessed
festival had ended, though not the peace and thankfulness in the
hearts of the little flock.

Indeed, instead of a sermon, Dr. Eales's parting words were "And he
went in the strength of that meat forty days and forty nights."




CHAPTER XVI.

A FAIR OFFER.



"We be content" the keepers said,
 "We three and you no less,
 Then why should we of you be afraid,
 As we never did transgress."
                         ROBIN HOOD BALLAD.


Steadfast was busy weeding the little patch of barley that lay near
the ruins of the old farm house with little Ben basking round him.
The great carefulness as to keeping the ground clear had been taught
him by his father, and was one reason why his fields, though so
small, did not often bear a bad crop.  He heard his name called over
the hedge, and looking up saw the Squire, Mr. Elmwood, on horseback.

He came up, respectfully taking off his hat and standing with it in
his hand as was then the custom when thus spoken to.  "What is this I
hear, Kenton," said the squire, "that you have been having a
prelatist service on your ground?"

Steadfast was dismayed, but did not speak, till Mr. Elmwood added,
"Is it true?"

"Yes, sir," he answered resolutely.

"Did you know it was against the law to use the Book of Common
Prayer?"

"There was no book, sir."

"But you do not deny it was the same superstitious and Popish
ceremony and festival abolished by law."

"No, sir," Stead allowed, though rather by gesture than word.

"Now, look you here, young Kenton, I ask no questions.  I do not want
to bring anyone into trouble, and you are a hard-working, honest lad
by what they tell me, who have a brother fighting in the good Cause
and have suffered from the lawless malignants yourself.  Was it not
the Prince's troopers that wrought this ruin?" pointing towards the
blackened gable, "and shot down your father?  Aye!  The more shame
you should hold with them!  I wish you no harm I say, nor the blinded
folk who must have abused your simplicity: but I am a justice of the
peace, and I will not have laws broken on my land.  If this thing
should happen again, I shall remember that you have no regular or
lawful tenure of this holding, and put you forth from it."

He waited, but a threat always made silent resistance easy to
Steadfast, and there was no answer.

Mr. Elmwood, however, let that pass, for he was not a hard or a
fanatical man, and he knew that to hold such a service was not such
an easy matter that it was likely to be soon repeated.  He looked
round at the well-mended fences, the clean ground, and the tokens of
intelligent industry around, and the clean homespun shirt sleeves
that spoke of the notable manager at home.  'You are an industrious
fellow, my good lad," he said, "how long have you had this farm to
yourself?"

"Getting on for five years, your honour," said Steadfast.

"And is that your brother?"

"Yes, please your honour," picking Ben up in his arms to prevent the
barley from being pulled up by way of helping him.

"How many of you are there?"

"Five of us, sir, but my eldest brother is in Captain Venn's troop."

"So I heard, and what is this about a child besides?"

"An orphan, sir, I found after the skirmish at the mill stream, who
was left with us till her friends can send after her."

"Well, well.  You seem a worthy youth," said Mr. Elmwood, who was
certainly struck and touched by the silent uncomplaining resolution
of the mere stripling who had borne so heavy a burthen.  "If you were
heartily one of us, I should be glad to make you woodward, instead of
old Tomkins, and build up yonder house for you, but I cannot do it
for one who is hankering after prelacy, and might use the place for I
know not what plots and conspiracies of the malignants."

Again Steadfast took refuge in a little bow of acknowledgment, but
kept his lips shut, till again the squire demanded, "What do you
think of it?  There's a fair offer.  What have you to say for
yourself?"

He had collected himself and answered, "I thank you, sir.  You are
very good.  If you made me woodward, I would serve your honour
faithfully, and have no plots or the like there.  But, your honour, I
was bred up in the Church and I cannot sell myself."

"Why, you foolish, self-conceited boy, what do you know about it?  Is
not what is good enough for better men than you fit to please you?"

To this Stead again made no answer, having said a great deal for him.

"Well," said Mr. Elmwood, angered at last, "if ever I saw a dogged
moon-calf, you are one!  However, I let you go scot free this time,
in regard for your brother's good service, and the long family on
your hands, but mind, I shall put in an active woodward instead of
old Tomkins, who has been past his work these ten years, and if ever
I hear of seditious or prelatical doings in yonder gulley again, off
you go."

He rode off, leaving Steadfast with temper more determined, but mind
not more at ease.  The appointment of a woodward was bad news, for
the copsewood and the game had been left to their fate for the last
few years, and what were the rights of the landlord over them Stead
did not know, so that there might be many causes of trouble,
especially if the said woodward considered him a person to be
specially watched.  Indeed, the existence of such a person would make
a renewal of what Mr. Elmwood called the prelatist assembly
impossible, and with a good deal of sorrow he announced the fact on
the next market day to Mrs. Lightfoot.  He could not see Dr. Eales,
but when next he came in, she gave him a paper on which was simply
marked "Ps. xxxvii, 7."  He looked out the reference and found "Hold
thee still in the Lord and abide patiently upon Him."  Stead hoped
that Patience and the rest would never know what an offer had been
made to him, but Master Brown, who had recommended him, and who did
not at all like the prospect of a strange woodward, came to
expostulate with him for throwing away such a chance for a mere whim,
telling Patience she was a sensible wench and ought to persuade her
brother to see what was for his own good and the good of all, holding
up himself as an example.

"I never missed my church and had the parson's good word all along,
and yet you see I am ready to put up with this good man without
setting myself up to know more than my elders and betters!  Eh!  Hast
not a word to say for thyself?  Then I'll tell the squire, who is a
good and friendly gentleman to all the old servants, that you have
thought better of it, and will thankfully take his kindness, and do
your best."

"I cannot go against father," said Steadfast.

"And what would he have done, good man, but obey them that have the
rule, and let wiser folk think for thee.  But all the young ones are
pig-headed as mules now-a-days, and must think for themselves, one
running off to the Independents, and one to the Quakers and Shakers,
and one to the Fifth Monarchy men, and you, Steadfast Kenton, that I
thought better things of, talking of the Church and offending the
squire with thy prelatic doings, that have been forbidden by Act of
Parliament.  What say you to that, my lad?  Come, out with it," for
Stead had more difficulty in answering Master Brown, who had been a
great authority throughout his life, than even the Squire himself.

"Parson said there was higher law than Parliament."

"Eh!  What, the King?  He is a prisoner, bless him, but they will
never let him go till they have bent him to their will, and what will
you do then?"

"Not the King," muttered Steadfast.

"Eh! what!  If you have come to pretending to know the law of God
better than your elders, you are like the rest of them, and I have
done with you."  And away tramped the steward in great displeasure,
while Patience put her apron over her head and cried bitterly.

She supposed Stead might be right, but what would it not have been to
have the old house built up, and all decent about them as it was in
mother's time, and fit places to sleep in, now that the wenches were
growing bigger?

"But you know, Patty, we are saving for that."

"Aye, and how long will it take?  And now this pestilent woodward
will be always finding fault--killing the fowls and ducks, and
seizing the swine and sheep, and very like slaughtering the dogs and
getting us turned out of house and home; for now you have offended
the squire, he will believe anything against us."

"Come, Patty, you know I could not help it.  This is sorest of all,
you that have always stood by me and father's wish."

"Yes, yes," sobbed Patience.  "I wot you are right, Stead.  I'll hold
to you, though I wish--I wish you would think like other folk."

Yet Patience knew in her secret soul that then he would not be her
own Steadfast, and she persuaded him no more, though the discomforts
and deficiencies of their present home tried her more and more as the
family grew older.  Stead had contrived a lean-to, with timbers from
the old house, and wattled sides stuffed with moss, where he and
little Ben slept in summer time, and they had bought or made some
furniture--a chair and table, some stools, bedding, and kitchen
utensils, and she toiled to keep things clean, but still it was a
mere hovel, with the door opening out into the glade.  Foxes and
polecats prowled, owls hooted, and the big dog outside was a needful
defender, even in summer time, and in winter the cold was piteous,
the wet even worse, and they often lost some of their precious
animals--chickens died of cold, and once three lambs had been carried
away in a sudden freshet.  Yet Patience, when she saw Steadfast
convinced, made up her mind to stand by him, and defended him when
the younger girls murmured.

Rusha was of a quiet, acquiescent, contented nature, and said little,
as Emlyn declared, "She knew nothing better;" but Emlyn was more and
more weary of the gulley, and as nothing was heard of her friends,
and she was completely one of the home, she struggled more with the
dullness and loneliness.  She undertook all errands to the village
for the sake of such change as a chatter with the young folk there
afforded her, or for the chance of seeing the squire's lady or sons
and daughters go by; and she was wild to go on market days to
Bristol.

In spite of Puritan greyness, soldiers, sailors, gentlemen, ladies,
and even fashions, such as they were, could be seen there, and news
picked up, and Emlyn would fain have persuaded Steadfast that she
should be the most perfect market woman, if he would only let her
ride in on the donkey between the panniers, in a broad hat, with
chickens and ducks dangling round, eggs, butter, and fruit or nuts,
and even posies, according to the season, and sit on the steps of the
market-place among the other market women and girls.

Steadfast would have been the last to declare that her laughing dark
eyes, and smiling lips, and arch countenance would not bring many a
customer, but he knew well that his mother would never have sent his
sister to be thus exposed, and he let her pout, or laughed away her
refusal by telling her that he was bound not to let a butler's
daughter demean herself to be stared at by all the common folk, who
would cheapen her wares.

And when she did coax him to take her to Bristol on any errand she
could invent, to sell her yarns, or buy pins, or even a ribbon, he
was inexorable in leaving her under Mrs. Lightfoot's care, and she
had to submit, even though it sometimes involved saying her catechism
to Dr. Eales.  Yet that always ended in the old man's petting her.
It was only from her chatter that the old clergyman ever knew of the
proposal that Stead had rejected for conscience's sake.  It vexed the
lad so much that he really could not bear to think of it, and it
would come over him now and then, was it all for nothing?  Would the
Church ever lift up her head again? or would Mr. Woodley be always in
possession at Elmwood Church, where everyone seemed to be content
with him.  The Kentons went thither.  It was hardly safe to abstain,
for a fine upon absence was still the law of the land, though seldom
enforced; and Dr. Eales who considered Presbyterianism by far the
least unorthodox and most justifiable sect, had advised Stead not to
allow himself or the others altogether to lose the habit of public
worship, but to abstain from Communions which might be an act of
separation from the Church, and which could not be accepted by her
children as genuine.  Such was the advice of most of the divines of
the English Church in this time of eclipse; and though Stead, and
still less Patience, did not altogether follow the reasoning, they
obeyed, while aware that they incurred suspicion from the squire by
not coming to "the table."

The new woodward, Peter Pierce, was not one of the villagers as
usual, but had been a soldier in one of the regiments of the Earl of
Essex, in which Mr. Elmwood's eldest son had served.

Instead of succeeding to old Tomkins's lodge in the great wood, he
had a new one built for him, so as to command the opening of Hermit's
Gulley towards the village, and one of the Bristol roads.  Could this
be for the sake of watching over anything so insignificant as the
Kentons?

The copse on their side of the brook was their own, free to do what
they chose with except cutting down the timber trees, but the further
side was the landlord's, as they had now to remember; and as, when
the brook was at its lowest, their pigs and goats were by no means
likely to recollect; though Steadfast was extremely anxious to give
no occasion for the mistrust and ill-will with which Pierce regarded
him, as a squatter, trespasser, and poacher, almost as a matter of
course, and likewise a prelatist and plotter.

Once he did find a kid on the wrong side, standing on a rock,
browsing a honeysuckle, and was about either to seize it or shoot it,
as it went off in three bounds, when Emlyn darted out, and threw
herself between.  It was her darling kid, it should never trespass
again, she would--she would thank him ever more--if he would spare it
this once.

And Emlyn as usual had touched the soft place in the heart of even a
woodward.  He told her not to cry, and contented himself with
growling a tremendous warning to Steadfast and Patience.

There were several breezes about Growler, who was only too apt to use
his liberty in pursuing rabbits on the wrong side, and whom Peter
more than once condemned; but Emlyn and Ben begged him off, and he
was kept well chained up.  At last, however, he won even the
woodward's favour by the slaughter of a terrible wild cat and her
brood, after all Peter's dogs had returned with bleeding faces from
the combat.

The woodward had another soft place in his heart.  He had a pretty
young wife and a little son.  Nanny Pierce was older in years, but
far more childish than Patience, and the life in this gulley seemed
to her utter solitude and desolation, and if Patience had been ten
times a poacher and a prelatist, she could not have helped making
friends with the only creature of her own kind within a mile.  And
when Patience's experience with Ben and other older babes at rest in
the churchyard, had aided the poor little helpless woman through a
convulsion fit of her baby's before Goody Grace could arrive, Peter
himself owned that "the Kenton wench was good for somewhat," though
he continued to think Steadfast's great carefulness not to
transgress, only a further proof that "he was a deep one"--all the
more because he refused to let anyone but himself have a search for a
vanished polecat in "them holes," which Peter was persuaded contained
some mystery, though Steadfast laid it, and not untruly, on the
health of the young stock he kept penned in the caves, which were
all, he hoped, of which Peter was aware.

All this was harassing, but a greater trouble came in the second
winter.  Good Dr. Eales was failing, and the tidings of the King's
execution were a blow that he never recovered.  Mrs. Lightfoot had
tears in her eyes when Stead asked after him, week by week, and she
could only say that he was feebler, and spent all his days in prayer
--often with tears.

At last came peace.  He lay still and calm, and sent a message that
young Kenton should be brought to him for a last farewell.

And as Stead stood sorrowful and awed by his bed side, he bade the
youth never despair or fall away from his hope of the restoration of
the Church.

"Remember," he said, "she is founded on a rock, and the gates of hell
shall never prevail against her.  She shall stand forth for evermore
as the moon, which wanes but to wax again; and I have good hope that
thou wilt see it, my son.  He that shall endure unto the end, the
same shall be saved."

Then Dr. Eales pointed to a small parcel of books, which he had
caused Mrs. Lightfoot to put together, telling Steadfast that he had
selected them alike for devotion and for edification, and that if he
studied them, he would have no doubt when he might deliver up his
trust to a true priest of the Church.

"And if none should return in my time?" asked Steadfast.

"Have I not told thee never to despair of God's care for His Church?
Yet His time is not as our time, and it may be--that young as thou
art--the days of renewal may not be when thou shalt see them.  Should
it thus be, my son, leave the secret with one whom thou canst
securely trust.  Better the sacred vessels should lie hidden than
that thou shouldst show thy faith wanting by surrendering them to
any, save according to the terms of thy vow.  See, Steadfast, among
these books is a lighter one, a romance of King Arthur, that I loved
well in my boyhood, and which may not only serve thee as fair pastime
in the winter nights, but will mind thee of thine high and holy
charge, for it goeth deeper than the mere outside."

His voice was growing weak.  Mrs. Lightfoot gave him a cordial, and
Stead knelt by his bedside, felt his hand on his head, and heard his
blessing for the last time.  The next market day, when he called at
the good bakester's stall, she told him in floods of tears that the
guest who had brought a blessing on her house, was gone to his rest.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE GROOM IN GREY.



"Heroes and kings, in exile forced to roam,
 Leave swelling phrase and seven-leagued words at home."
                                                  SCOTT.


Another summer and winter had gone by and harvest time had come
again, when Steadfast with little Ben, now seven years old, for
company, took two sacks of corn to be ground at the mill, where the
skirmish had been fought in which Emlyn's father had been killed.

The sacks were laid across a packsaddle on a stout white horse, with
which, by diligent saving, Steadfast had contrived to replace
Whitefoot, Ben was promised a ride home when the sacks should have
been emptied, and trotted along in company with Growler by his
brother's side, talking more in an hour than Stead did in a week, and
looking with great interest to be shown the hawthorn bush where Emlyn
had been found.  For Stead and Ben were alike in feeling the bright,
merry, capricious, laughing, teasing Emlyn the charm and delight of
home.  In trouble, or for real aid, they went to Patience, but who
was like Emlyn for drollery and diversion?  Who ever made Stead laugh
as she could, or who so played with Ben, and never, like Rusha, tried
to be maidenly, discreet, nay, dull?

It was very inconvenient that just as they reached the famous thorn
bush, the white horse began to demonstrate that his shoe was loose.
They were very near the mill, and after disposing of the sacks, the
brothers led the horse on to a forge, about a furlong beyond.  It was
not a place of which Stead was fond, as the smith was known to be
strong for the Covenant, and he could not help wishing that the shoe
had come off nearer to his good friend Smith Blane.

Original-Sin Hopkins, which was the name of the blacksmith, was in
great excitement, as he talked of the crowning mercy vouchsafed at
Worcester, and how the son of the late man, Charles Stewart, had been
utterly defeated, and his people scattered like sheep without a
shepherd.  Three or four neighbours were standing about, listening to
the tidings he had heard from a messenger on the way to Bristol.  One
was leaning on the unglazed window frame, and a couple of old men
basking, even in that September day, in the glow of the fire, while a
few women and children loitered around, thinking it rather fine to
hear Master Original-Sin declaim on the backsliding of the Scots in
upholding the son of the oppressor.

The shoeing of Stead Kenton's horse seemed a trivial matter beneath
the attention of such an orator; but he vouchsafed to bid his lad
drive in a few nails; and just as the task was commenced, there came
to the forge a lady in a camlet riding dress and black silk hood,
walking beside a stout horse, which a groom was leading with great
care, for it had evidently lost a shoe.  And it had a saddle with a
pillion on which they had been riding double, after the usual fashion
of travelling for young and healthy gentlewomen in those days of bad
roads.

The lady, a quiet, self-possessed person, not in her first youth,
came forward, and in the first pause in the blacksmith's declamation,
begged that he would attend to her horse.

He gave a nod as if intending her to wait till Steadfast's work was
done, and went on.  "And has it not been already brought about that
the man of blood hath--"

"So please you," interrupted the lady, "to shoe my horse at once.  I
am on my way to Abbotsleigh, and my cousin, Mr. Norton, knows that my
business brooks no delay."

Mr. Norton, though a Royalist, was still the chief personage in that
neighbourhood, and his name produced sufficient effect on Original-
Sin to make him come forward, look at the hoof, and select a shoe
from those hung on the walls of his forge.  Little Ben looked on,
highly delighted to watch the proceedings, and Steadfast, as he
waited, glanced towards the servant, a well-made young man, in a
trim, sober suit of grey cloth, with a hat a good deal slouched over
a dark swarthy face, that struck Stead as having been seen by him
before.

After all, the lady's horse was the first finished.  Hopkins looked
at all the other three shoes, tapped them with his hammer, and found
them secure, received the money from the lady, but gave very slight
salutations as the pair remounted, and rode away.

Then he twisted up his features and observed, "Here is a
dispensation!  As I am a living soul, this horse shoe was made at
Worcester.  I know the make.  My cousin was apprenticed there."

"Well, outlandish work goes against one's stomach," said one of the
bystanders, "but what of that, man?"

"Seest thou not, Jabez Holt?  Is not the young man there one of them
who trouble Israel, and the lady is striving for his escape.  Mr.
Norton is well known as a malignant at heart, and his man Pope hath
been to and fro these last days as though evil were being concerted.
I would that good Master Hatcham were here."

"Poor lad.  Let him alone.  'Tis hard he should not get off," said
one of the bystanders.

"I tell thee he is one of the brood of Satan, who have endeavoured to
break up the godly peace of the saints, and fill this goodly land
with blood and fire.  Is it not said 'Root them out that they be no
more a people?'"

"Have after them, then," said another of the company.  "We want no
more wars, to be taking our cows and killing our pigs.  After them, I
say!"

"You haven't got no warrant, 'Riginal," said a more cautious old man.
"Best be on the safe side.  Go after constable first, and raise the
hue-and-cry.  You'll easy overtake them.  Breakneck Hill be sore for
horseflesh."

"I'd fain see Master Hatcham," said the smith, scratching his head.

Stead had meantime been listening as he paid his pence.  It flashed
over him now where he had beheld those intensely dark eyes, and the
very peculiar cut of features, though they had then been much more
boyish.  It was when he had seen the Prince of Wales going to the
Cathedral on Christmas Day, in the midst of all his plumed generals,
with their gay scarfs, and rich lace collars.

He had put little Ben on horseback, and turned away into the long,
dirty lane, or rather ditch, that led homeward, before, through his
consternation, there dawned on him what to do.  A gap in the hedge
lay near, through which he dragged the horse into a pasture field, to
the great amazement of Ben, saying "See here, Ben, those folk want to
take yonder groom in grey.  We will go and warn them."

Ben heartily assented.

"I like the groom," he said.  "He jumped me five times off the
horseblock, and he patted Growler and called him a fine fellow, who
didn't deserve his name--worth his salt he was sure.  We won't give
Growler salt, Stead, but don't let that ugly preaching man get the
good groom!"

Steadfast was by this time on the horse behind his little brother,
pressing through the fields, which by ancient custom were all thrown
open from harvest time till Christmas; and coming out into the open
bit of common that the travellers had to pass before arriving at
Breakneck Hill, he was just in time to meet them as they trotted on.
He hardly knew what he said, as he doffed his hat, and exclaimed--

"Madam, you are pursued."

"Pursued!"  Both at once looked back.

"There's time," said Steadfast; "but Smith Hopkins said one of the
shoes was Worcester make, and he is gone to fetch the constable and
raise the hue-and-cry."

"And you are a loyal--I mean an honest lad--come to warn us," said
the groom.

"Yes, sir.  I think, if you will trust me, they can be put off the
track."

"Trusty!  Your face answers for you.  Eh, fair Mistress Jane?"

"Sir, it must be as you will."

"This way then, sir," said Steadfast, who was off his own horse by
this time, and leading it into a rough track through a thicket whence
some timber had been drawn out in the summer.

"They will see where we turned off," whispered the lady.

"No, ma'am, not unless you get off the hard ground.  Besides they
will go on the way to Breakneck Hill.  Hark!  I hear a hallooing.
Not near--no--no fear, madam."

They were by this time actually hidden from the common by the
copsewood, and the distant shouts of the hue-and-cry kept all silent
till they were fairly out beyond it, not far from Stead's own fields.

Happily they had hitherto met no one, but there was danger now of
encountering gleaners, and indeed Stead's white horse could be seen
from a distance, and might attract attention to his companions.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the groom, as they halted under shelter of a
pollard willow.  "I've heard tell that a white horse is the surest
mark for a bullet in a battle, and if that be Breakneck Hill, as you
call it, your beast may bring the sapient smith down on us.  Had we
not best part?"

"Aye," said Steadfast.  "I was thinking what was best.  Whither were
you going?'

He blurted it out, not knowing to whom to address himself, or how to
frame his speech.  The lady hesitated, but her companion named Castle
Carey.

"Then, please your honour," said Stead, impartially addressing both,
"methinks the best course would be, if this--"

"Groom William," suggested that personage.

"Would go down into yonder covert with my little brother here, where
my poor place is, and where my sister can show a safe hiding-place,
in case Master Hopkins suspects me, and follows; but I scarce think
he will.  Then meanwhile, if the lady will trust herself to me--"

"O! there is no danger for me," she said.

"Go on, my Somerset Solomon," said the groom.

"Then would I take the lady on for a short space to a good woman in
Elmwood there.  And on the way this horse shall lose his Worcester
shoe, and I will get Smith Blane, who is an honest fellow, to put on
another; and when the chase is like to be over, I will come back for
him and put you on the cross lane for Castle Carey, which don't join
with the road you came by, till just ere you get into the town."

"There's wit as well as cheese in Somerset.  What say you, my
guardian angel?" said Groom William.

"It sounds well," she reluctantly answered.  "Does Mr. Norton know
you, young man?"

"No, madam," said Stead, with much stumbling.  "But I have seen him
in Bristol.  My Lady Elmwood knew of me, and Sir George Elmwood too,
and the Dean could say I was honest."

"Which the face of you says better than your tongue," said the groom.
"Have with you then, my bold little elf," he added, taking the bridle
of the horse on which Ben was still seated.  "Or one moment more.
You knew me, my lad--are there any others like to do so?"

"I had seen you, sir, at Bristol, and that is why I would not have
you shew yourself in Elmwood.  But my sister has never seen you, and
the only neighbours who ever come in are the woodward and his wife.
He served in my Lord of Essex's army, but he has never seen you.
Moreover, he was to be at the squire's to-day helping to stack his
corn.  Ben, do you tell Patience that _he_"--again taking refuge in a
pronoun--"is a gentleman in danger, and she must see to his safety
for an hour or two till I come back for him."

"A gentleman in danger," repeated Ben, anxious to learn his lesson.

"He and I will take care of that," said the grey-coated groom gaily,
as he turned the horse's head, and waved his hat in courtly fashion
to the lady so that Steadfast saw that his hair was cropped into
black stubble.

"Ah!" said the lady with a sigh, for the loss of a Cavalier's locks
was a dreadful thing.  "You know him then."

"I have seen him at Bristol," said Steadfast, with considerably less
embarrassment, though still in the clownish way he could not shake
off.

"And you know how great is the trust you--nay, we have undertaken.
But, as he says, he has learnt the true fidelity of a leathern
jerkin."

Then Jane Lane told Steadfast of the King's flight from Worcester,
and adventures at Boscobel with the Penderells, and how she had
brought him to Abbotsleigh, in hopes of finding a ship at Bristol,
but that failing, it was too perilous for him to remain there, so
that she was helping him as far as Castle Carey on his way to Trent.

Before they were clear of the wood, Stead asked her to pause.  He
knocked off the tell-tale shoe with the help of a stone, threw it
away into the middle of a bramble, and then after a little
consultation, she decided on herself encountering the smith, not
perhaps having much confidence in the readiness of speech or
invention of her companion.

When they arrived at the forge, where good-humoured, brawny Harry
Blane was no small contrast to his gaunt compeer Original-Sin
Hopkins, she averred that she was travelling from her relations, and
having been obliged to send her servant back for a packet that had
been forgotten, this good youth, who had come to her help when her
horse had cast a shoe, had undertaken to guide her to the smith's,
and to take her again to meet her man, if he did not come for her
himself.  Might she be allowed in the meantime to sit with Master
Blane's good housewife?

Master Blane was only too happy, and Mistress Jane Lane was
accordingly introduced to the pleasant kitchen, with sanded floor,
and big oak table, open hearth, and beaupots in the oriel window
where the spinning-wheel stood, and where the neat and hospitable
Dame Blane made her kindly welcome.

Steadfast, marvelling at her facility of speech, and glad the king's
safety did not depend on his uttering such a story, told Blane that
he must go after his cattle and should look after the groom on the
way.

As he walked through the wood, and drew near the glade, he was
dismayed to hear voices, and to see Peter Pierce leaning against the
wall of the house, but Rusha came running up to him exclaiming, "Oh!
Stead, here is this good stranger that you met, telling us all about
brother Jeph."

"Yes, my kind host," said the grey-coated guest, with a slight nasal
intonation, rising as Stead came near, "I find that you are the very
lad my friend and brother Jephthah Kenton, that singular Christian
man, bade me search out.  'If you go near Bristol, beloved,' quoth
he,' search me out my brothers Steadfast and Benoni, and my sisters,
Patience and Jerusha, and greet them well from me, and bear witness
of me to them.  They dwell, said he, in a lonely hut in the wood
side, and with them a fair little maiden, sprung of the evil and
idolatrous seed of the malignants, but whom their pious nurture may
yet bring to a knowledge of the truth,' and by that token, I knew
that it was the same."  There was an odd little twinkle towards Emlyn
just then.

"And Stead, Jeph is an officer," said Patience, who was busied in
setting before the visitor on a little round table, the best ale,
bread, cheese, and butter that her hut afforded, together with an
onion, which, he declared, was "what his good grandfather, a valiant
man for the godly, had ever loved best."

"An officer!  Aye is he.  A captain of his Ironside troop, very like
to be Colonel ere long."

Stead was absolutely bewildered, and could not find speech, beyond an
awkward "Where?"

"Where was he when I last saw him?  Charging down the main street of
Worcester, where the malignants and Charles Stewart made their last
stand.  Smiting them hip and thigh with the sword of Gedaliah, nay,
my tongue tripped, 'twas Gideon I would say."

"Aye," said the woodward, "Squire had the tidings two days back in a
news letter.  It was a mighty victory of General Cromwell."

"In sooth it was," returned the groom; "and I hear he hath ordered a
solemn thanksgiving therefore."

"But Jephthah," put in Patience, "you are sure he was not hurt?"

"The hand of Heaven protecteth the godly," again through his nose
spoke the guest.  "He was well when I left him; being sent south by
my master to attend my mistress, and so being no more among them that
divide the spoil."

"Where have you served, sir?" demanded the woodward.

"I am last from Scotland," was the answer.  "A godly land!"

"Ah! I know nought of Scotland," said the woodward.  "I was disbanded
when my Lord Essex gave up the command, more's the pity, for he was
for doing things soberly and reasonably, and ever in the name of the
poor King that is gone!  You look too young to have seen fire at
Edgehill or Exeter, sir."

"Did I not?" said the youth.  "Aye, I was with my father, though only
as a boy apart on a hill."

The reminiscences that were exchanged astonished Steadfast beyond
measure, and really made him doubt whether what had previously passed
had not been all a dream.  The language was so like Jephthah's own
too, all except that one word "fair" applied to Emlyn; and Patience,
Rusha, and the Pierces were entirely without a suspicion, that their
guest was other than he seemed.  How much must have been picked out
of little Ben, without the child's knowing it, to make such acting
possible?

And how was the woodward, who was so much delighted with the visitor,
to be shaken off?  Stead stood silent, puzzled, anxious, and
wondering what to do next, a very heavy and awkward host, so that
even Patience wondered what made him so shy.

Suddenly, however, a whistle, and the sharp yap of a dog was heard
across the stream.  Nanny Pierce exclaimed, "There are those rascal
lads after the rabbits again!" and the gamekeeper's instinct awoke.
Pierce shook hands with his fellow soldier, regretted he could not
see more of him, and received his promise that if he came that way
again, he would share a pottle of ale at the lodge; and then tramped
off after his poachers over the stream.

Groom William then kissed the young women (the usual mode of
salutation then), Nanny Pierce and all, thanked Patience, and looked
about for the goodly little malignant, as he called Emlyn, but she
was nowhere to be seen, and Stead hurried him off through the wood.

"Ho! ho! sly rascal," said Charles, as they turned away.  "You're
jealous!  You would keep the game to yourself."

Stead had no answer to make to this banter, the very notion of Emlyn
as aught but the orphan in his charge was new to him.

They were not yet beyond the gulley when from between the hazel
stems, out sprang Emlyn, and kneeling on the ground caught the King's
hand and kissed it.

"Fairy-haunted wood!" cried Charles, and indeed it was done with
great natural grace, and the little figure with the glowing cheeks,
her hood flying back so as to shew her brilliant eyes sparkling with
delight and enthusiasm, was a truly charming vision.  "It is like one
of the masques of the merry days of old."  And as he retained her
hand and returned the salute on her lips, "Queen Mab herself, for who
else saw through thy poor brother sovereign's mean disguise?"

"I had seen your Majesty with the army," replied Emlyn, modestly
blushing a good deal.

"Ah!  The Fates have provided me with a countenance the very worst
for straits like mine.  But that matters the less since it is only my
worthy subjects who see through the grey coat.  I would lay my crown,
if I had it, to one of those crispy ringlets of yours, that Queen Mab
was the poacher who drew off the crop-eared keeper."

"'Tis Robin Goodfellow, please your Majesty, who leads clowns
astray," said Emlyn in the same tone.

"Sometimes a horse I'll be, sometimes a hound," quoted the King.

Stead could only listen in amazement without a word to say for
himself.  Near the confines of the wood, he had to leave Emlyn to
guide the King over a field-path while he fetched Mrs. Jane Lane and
the horse to meet them beyond, as it was wiser for the King not to
shew himself in the village.  Again Charles jested on his supposed
jealousy of leaving the fair Queen Mab alone in such company, and on
his blunt answer, "I only feared the saucy child might be
troublesome, sir."

At which the King laughed the more, and even Emlyn smiled a little.

All was safely accomplished, and when Steadfast had brought Mrs. Lane
to the deep lane, they found the King and Emlyn standing by the
stile, and could hear the laughter of both as they approached.

"He can always thus while away his cares," said Jane Lane in quite a
motherly tone.  "And well it is that he is of so joyous a nature."

Perhaps it was said as a kind of excuse for the levity of one in so
much danger chattering to the little woodland maid so mirthfully, and
like one on an equality.  When they appeared, Charles bestowed a kiss
on Emlyn's lips, and shook hands cordially with Steadfast, lamenting
that he had no reward, nor even a token to leave with them.

Stead made his rustic bow, pinched his hat, and muttered, "It is
enough to--"

"Enough reward to have served your Majesty," said Emlyn, "he would
say."

"Yea, and it is your business to find words for him, pretty one,"
said the King.  "A wholesome partnership--eh?  He finds worth, and
you find wit!  And so we leave the fairy buried in the woodland."

And on the wanderers rode, while Steadfast and Emlyn turned back over
the path through the fields; and she eagerly told that the King had
slept at Blythedale on his way to Worcester, and that though Sir
Harry was dead, his son was living in Holland.  "And if the King gets
there safely, he will tell Master George, and if my uncle is with
him, no doubt he will send for me, or mayhap, come and fetch me."

There was a shock of pain in Steadfast's heart.

"You would be glad?"

"Poor old Stead.  I would scarce be glad to quit you.  I doubt me if
the Hague, as they call it, would show me any one I should care for
as much as for your round shoulders, you good old lubber!  But you
should come too, and the King would give you high preferment, when he
comes to his own again, and then we won't be buried alive in this
Hermit's Gulley."

She danced about in exultation, hardly knowing what wild nonsense she
talked, and Stead was obliged to check her sharply in an attempt to
sing


     "The king shall enjoy his own again."


"But Stead," asked Ben, after long reflection, "how could Groom
William know all about brother Jeph?"

A question Stead would not hear, not wishing to destroy confidence in
His Majesty's veracity.




CHAPTER XVIII.

JEPH'S GOOD FORTUNE.



"Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest fields on earth,
 And gave the type of deathless hope, the little shamrock, birth."
                                                IRISH BALLAD.


The King's visit left traces.  Emlyn had become far more restless and
consciously  impatient of the dullness and seclusion of the Hermit's
Gulley.  Not only did she, as before, avail herself of every pretext
for going into the village, or for making expeditions to Bristol, but
she openly declared the place a mere grave, intolerable to live in,
and she confided to Jerusha that the King had declared that it was a
shame to hide her there--such charms were meant for the world.

The only way of getting into the world that occurred to her was going
into service at Bristol, and she talked of this whenever she
specially hated her spinning, or if Patience ventured to complain of
her gadding about, gossipping with Nanny Pierce or Kitty Blane, or
getting all the young lads in Elmwood round her, to be amused and
teased by her lively rattle.

Patience began to be decidedly of opinion that it would be much
better for all parties that the girl should be under a good mistress.
Both she and Rusha were over sixteen years old; and though it was
much improved, the house was hardly fit for so many inhabitants, and
both Goody Grace and Dame Blane had told Patience that it would be
better, both for the awkward Rusha and the gay Emlyn, if they could
have some household training.

Mistress Elmwood, at the Hall, had noted the family at church, and
observed their perfect cleanliness and orderliness, and it was
intimated that at the Ladyday hiring, she would take Rusha among her
maidens.

Shy Rusha cried a great deal, and wished Emlyn would go instead, but
Mrs. Elmwood would not have hired that flighty damsel on any account,
and Emlyn was sure it would be but mopish work to live under a
starched old Puritan.  Mrs. Lightfoot was therefore applied to, to
find a service for Emlyn Gaythorn, and she presently discovered one
Mistress Sloggett, a haberdasher's wife of wealth and consideration,
who wanted a young maidservant.

Emlyn was presented to her by the bakester, undertook for everything,
and was hired by the twelvemonth, going off in high glee at the
variety and diversion she expected to enjoy at the sign of the "Sheep
and Shears," though clinging with much tenderness to her friends as
they parted.

"Remember, Emlyn, this is the home where you will always be welcome,"
said Stead.

"As if I wanted to _remember_ it," said Emlyn, with her sweet smile.
"As if I did not know where be kind hearts."

The hovel seemed greatly deserted when the two young girls were gone.
Patience sorely missed Rusha, her diligent little helper, and
latterly her companion too; and the lack of Emlyn's merry tongue made
all around seem silent and tedious.  Steadfast especially missed the
girl.  Perhaps it was due to the King's gibes that her absence fully
opened to him the fact that he knew not how to do without her.  After
his usual fashion, he kept the discovery to himself, not even talking
to Patience about it, being very shamefaced at the mere thought,
which gave a delicious warmth to his heart, though it made him
revolve schemes of saving up till he had a sufficient sum, with which
to go to the squire and propose to meet him half-way in rebuilding
the old house; not such an expensive matter as it would be in these
days.  There, in full view of all that passed down Elmwood Lane,
Emlyn could not complain of solitude, he thought!  But there was this
difficulty in the way, that Jephthah had never resigned his claims as
eldest son, and might come home at any time, and take possession of
all the little farm at which Steadfast had worked for seven years.

The war was over, and nothing had been heard of Jeph, except the
king's apocryphal history, since his visit after the taking of
Bristol.  Patience had begun to call him "poor Jeph," and thought he
must have been killed, but Stead had ascertained that the army had
not been disbanded, and believed him still to be employed.

At length, one market day, Mrs. Lightfoot told him, "There has been
one asking for you, Kenton, Seth Coleman, the loriner's son, that
went soldiering when your brother did.  He landed last week from
Ireland with a wooden leg, and said he, 'Where shall I come to the
speech of one Steadfast Kenton?  I have a greeting from his brother,
the peculiarly favoured,' or some such word, 'Jephthah Kenton, who
told me I should hear tidings of him from Mrs. Bakester Lightfoot, at
the sign of the "Wheatsheaf."'  I told him where you abode, and he
said he knew as much from your brother, but he could not be tramping
out to Elmwood on a wooden leg.  So says I 'I will send Steadfast
Kenton to you next market day.'  You will find him at the sign at the
'Golden Bridle,' by the Wharf Stairs."

Stead had no sooner disposed of his wares than he went in search of
the loriner's shop, really one for horse furniture.  There was a
bench outside, looking out on the wharf and shipping, and on it was
seated the returned soldier, with a little party round him, to whom
he was expounding what sounded more military than religious:

"And so, the fort having been summoned and quarter promised, if so be
no resistance were made, always excepting Popish priests, and-- Eh!
What now?  Be you an old neighbour?  I don't remember your face."

"I have seen you, though.  I am Jephthah Kenton's brother, that you
asked for."

"I mind you were but a stripling in those days, and yet in gross
darkness.  Yea, I have a letter for thee from my comrade, who is come
to high preferment."

"Jeph!"

"Yea, things have prospered with him.  He was a serjeant even before
we sailed for Ireland, and there he did such good service in hunting
out Popish priests and rebels in their lurking places in the bogs and
mountains, that the Lord General hath granted him the land that he
took with his sword and his bow, even a meadow land fat and fertile,
Ballyshea by name, full of the bulls of Bashan, goodly to look at.
And to make all sure, he hath taken to wife the daughter of the
former owner of the land a damsel fair to look upon."

"Jeph!  But sure--the Irish are Papists."

"Not the whole of them.  There are those that hold to Prelacy and
call themselves King's men, following the bloody and blinded Duke of
Ormond.  Of them was this maid's father, whom we slew at the taking
of Clonmel, where I got this wound and left my good right leg.  So is
the race not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but time and
chance happeneth to all.  When I could hobble about once more on
crutches, I found that the call had come to divide and possess the
gate of the enemy, and that the meads of Ballyshea had fallen to
Serjeant Kenton.  Moreover, in the castle hard by, dwelt the widow
and her daughter, who cried to General Lambert for their land, and
what doth he say to Jephthah, but 'Make it sure, Kenton.  Take the
maid to wife, and so none will disturb you in the fair heritage.'
Yea, and mine old comrade would have me sojourn with him till I was
quite restored, so far as a man with one limb short may be.  I tell
you 'tis a castle, man."

"Our Jeph lord of a castle?"

"Aye, even so.  Twice as big as Elmwood Hall, if half were not in
ruins, and the other half the rats run over like peas out of a bag.
While as to the servants, there are dozens of them, mostly barefoot
and in rags, who will run at the least beck from the old mistress or
the young mistress, though they scowl at the master.  But he is
taking order with them, and teaching them who is to be obeyed."

"Then our Jephthah is a great man?"

"You may say that--a bigger man than the squire at Elmwood, or at
Leigh I can tell you.  Only I would give all that bare mountain and
bog, full of wild, Popish, red-haired kernes for twenty yards in a
tidy street at Bristol, with decent godly folk around me.  Murdering
or being murdered, I have marvelled more than once whether the men of
Israel were as sick of it in Canaan as I was at Drogheda, but the cry
ever was, 'Be not slack in the work.'  But I will bring you
Jephthah's letter.  He could not write when he went off, but he could
not be a serjeant without, so we taught him--I and Corporal Faith-
Wins."

Jephthah's handwriting was of a bold description doing honour to his
tutors, but the letter was very brief, though to the purpose--


"Dear Brothers and Sisters,

"This is to do you, to wit, that by the grace of Heaven on my poor
endeavours I am come to high preferment.  A goodly spoil hath fallen
unto me, namely, the castle and lands of Ballyshea, and therewith the
daughter of the owner, deceased, by name Ellen Roche, whom I have
espoused in marriage, and am bringing to the light of truth.  I have
castle, lands, flocks and herds, men-servants and maid-servants in
abundance, and I give thanks to Him who hath rewarded His servant.

"Therefore I wholly resign to you, my brethren, Steadfast and Benoni,
any rights of heirship that may be mine in respect of the farmstead
of Elmwood, and will never, neither I nor my heirs, trouble you about
it further.  Yet if Ben, or my sisters Patience and Jerusha, be
willing to cross over to me in this land of promise they shall be
kindly welcome, and I shall find how to bestow them well in marriage.
Mine old comrade, Seth Coleman, will tell them how to reach the
Castle of Ballyshea, and how to find safe convoy, and tell you more
of the estate wherewith it has pleased Heaven to reward my poor
services.

"And so commending you to His holy keeping, no more from your loving
brother,
                                  "JEPHTHAH KENTON."


The spelling of this was queer, even according to the ways of the
time, but it was not hard to understand, and it might well fill
Steadfast with amazement.

He longed to share the tidings with Emlyn, but he did not feel as if
it would be right to let anyone hear before Patience.  Only as he
went back and called again at Mrs. Lightfoot's for his basket, she
asked whether he had found Seth Coleman, and if his brother had come
to such preferment as was reported.

"Yea," said Steadfast, "he hath a grant of land, and a castle, and a
wife."

"Eh, now!  Lack-a-day!  'Tis alway the most feather-pated that fly
highest."

Cromwell's Ironsides feather-pated!  But that did not trouble
Steadfast, who all the way home, as he rode his donkey, was thinking
of the difference it made in his prospects, and in what he had to
offer Emlyn to be able to feel his tenure so much more secure.

Patience and Ben listened in utter amazement ending in a not
complimentary laugh on the part of the former.  "Our Jeph lord of a
castle?  I'd like to see him."

"Would you?  He has a welcome and a husband ready for you and Rusha
both?"

"D'ye think I would go and leave you for Jeph, if he were lord of ten
castles?"

And Ben, whose recollections of Jeph were very dim, exclaimed, "Lord
of a castle!  I shall have a crow over Nick Blane now!"

Rusha, who was well content with her service at the hall, had no mind
for such a terrible enterprise as a journey "beyond seas" to Ireland,
and mayhap Jeph's prospective husband was a less tempting idea,
because a certain young groom had shown symptoms of making her his
sweetheart.

Steadfast thought often of telling the great secret of his heart to
his faithful sister Patience, but his extreme shyness and modesty,
and the reserve in which he always lived, seemed to make it
impossible to him to broach the subject, and there might be a certain
consciousness that Emlyn, while his own pet, had been very
troublesome to Patience.

Stead was two-and-twenty, a sturdy well-grown fellow, but the hard
work he had been obliged to do as a growing lad, had rounded his
shoulders, and he certainly did not walk like the men who had been
drilled for soldiers.  His face was healthy and sunburnt, with fair
short hair and straightforward grey eyes.  At the first glance people
would say, "What a heavy-looking, clownish young man," but at the
second there was something that made a crying child in the street
turn to him for help in distress, and made the marketing dames secure
that he told the truth about his wares.

Patience was rather startled by seeing him laboriously tying up a
posy of wild rose, honeysuckle, and forget-me-not, and told him the
Bristol folks would not buy those common wild flowers.

"They are for none of them," replied Stead, a little gruffly, and
colouring hotly at being caught.

"Oh!" said Patience, in her simplicity.  "Are they for Emlyn?  I do
not think her mistress will let you see her."

"I shall," said Stead.  "She ought to know of our good fortune."

"He has forgotten that Emlyn is not our sister after all," said
Patience, as she went back to her washing.

"She might as well," said Ben, who could not remember the hut without
Emlyn.

Stead had better luck than Patience foreboded from a household where
the servants were kept very strictly, for there was a good deal of
curiosity in Bristol about the report that a lad from the
neighbourhood had won an Irish heiress and castle, and when Stead
presented himself at the door of the house under the overhanging
gable, and begged to see Emlyn Gaythorn to give her some tidings, the
maid who opened it exclaimed, "Is it anent the castle in Ireland?"

Stead awkwardly said "Aye, mistress."  And as it became evident that
the readiest way of learning the facts would be his admission, he was
let into the house into a sort of wainscotted hall, where he found
the mistress herself superintending three or four young sempstresses
who were making shirts for the gentlemen of the garrison.  Emlyn was
among them, and sprang up looking as if white seams were not half so
congenial as nutting in the gulley, but she looked prettier than
ever, as the little dark curls burst out of the prim white cap, she
sniffed the flowers with ecstasy, and her eyes danced with delight
that did Stead's heart good to see.  He needed it, for to stand there
hat in hand before so many women all staring at him filled him with
utter confusion, so that he could scarcely see, and stumbled along
when Mrs. Sloggett called, "Come here, young man.  Is it true that it
is your brother who has won a castle and a countess in Ireland?"

"Not a countess, ma'am," said Stead, gruff with shyness, "but a
castle."

Mrs. Sloggett put him through a perfect catechism on Jeph and his
fortunes, which he answered at first almost monosyllabically, though
afterwards he could speak a little more freely, when the questions
did not go quite beyond his knowledge.  Finally he succeeded in
asking permission to take Emlyn and show her his brother's letter.
Mrs. Sloggett was gracious to the brother of the lord of a castle,
even in Ireland, and moreover Emlyn was viewed in the light of one of
the Kenton family.

So leave was granted to take Master Kenton (he had never been so
called before) out into the garden of pot-herbs behind the house, and
Emlyn with her dancing step led the way, by a back door down a few
steps into a space where a paved walk led between two beds of
vegetables, bordered with a narrow edge of pinks, daisies, and
gilliflowers, to a seat under the shade of an old apple tree, looking
out, as this was high ground, over the broad river full of shipping.

"Stead!  Stead, good old Stead," she cried, "to come just as I was
half dead with white seam and scolding!  Emlyn here!  Emlyn there!
And she's ready with her fingers too.  She boxed mine ears till they
sang again yesterday."

"The jade," muttered Stead.  "What for?"

"Only for looking out at window," said Emlyn.  "How could I help it,
when there were six outlandish sailors coming up the street leading a
big black bear.  Well, Stead, and are you all going to live with Jeph
in his castle, and will you take me?"

"He asks me not," said Stead, and began to read the letter, to which
Emlyn listened with many little remarks.  "So Patience and Rusha wont
go.  I marvel at them, yet 'tis like sober-sided old Patty!  And
mayhap among the bogs and hills 'tis lonelier than in the gulley.  I
mind a trooper who had served in Ireland telling my father it was so
desolate he would not banish a dog there.  But what did he say about
home, Stead, I thought it was all yours?"

Stead explained, and also the possibility of endeavouring to rebuild
the farmhouse.  If he could go to Mr. Elmwood with thirty pounds he
thought it might be done.  "And then, Emlyn, when that is saved (and
I have five pounds already), will you come and make it your home for
good and all?"

"Stead! oh Stead!  You don't mean it--you-- Why, that's
sweethearting!"

"Well, so it is, Emlyn," said Stead, a certain dignity taking the
place of his shyness now it had come to the point.  "I ask you to be
my little sweetheart now, and my wife when I have enough to make our
old house such as it was when my good mother was alive."

"Stead, Stead, you always were good to me!  Will it take long, think
you?  I would save too, but I have but three crowns the year, and
that sour-faced Rachel takes all the fees'"

"The thing is in the hands of God.  It must depend on the crops, but
with this hope before me, I will work as never man worked before,"
said Stead.

"And I will be mistress there!" cried Emlyn.

"My wife will be mistress wherever I am sweet."

"Ah, ha!" she laughed, "now I have something to look to, I shall heed
little when the dame flouts me and scolds me, and Joan twits me with
her cousin the 'prentice."

They had only just time to go through the ceremony of breaking a
tester between them before a shrill call of "Emlyn" resounded down
the garden.  Mrs. Sloggett thought quite time enough had been wasted
over the young man, and summoned the girl back to her sewing.

Emlyn made a face of disgust, very comical and very joyous, but as
the good dame was actually coming in search of her no more could
pass.

Stead went away overflowing with happiness, and full of plans of
raising the means of bringing back this sunshine of his hearth.
Perhaps it was well that, though slow of thought, Patience still had
wit enough in the long hours of the day to guess that the nosegay
boded something.  She could not daunt or damp Steadfast's joy--nay,
she had affection enough for the pretty little being she had
cherished for seven years to think she shared it--but she knew all
the time that there would be no place in that new farmhouse for her,
and there was a chill over her faithful heart at times.  But what
would that signify, she thought, provided that Stead was happy?




CHAPTER XIX.

PATIENCE.



"I'm the wealthy miller yet."
                        TENNYSON.


Most devoted was the diligence with which Steadfast toiled and saved
with the hope before him.  Since the two young girls were no longer
at home, and Ben had grown into a strong lad, Stead held that many
little indulgences might be dispensed with, one by one, either
because they cost money or prevented it from being acquired.  No
cheese was bought now, and he wanted to sell all the butter and all
the apples that were not defective.

Patience contrived that Ben should never be stinted of his usual
fare; and she would, not allow that he needed no warm coat for the
winter, but she said nothing about the threadbare state of her own
petticoat, and she stirred nothing but the thinnest buttermilk into
her own porridge, and not even that when the little pigs required it.
It was all for Stead.

Patience at twenty was not an uncomely maiden so far as kindly blue
eyes, fresh healthy cheeks, and perfect neatness could make her
agreeable to look at, but there was an air of carefulness, and of
having done a great deal of hard work, which had made her seem out of
the reach of the young men who loitered and talked with the maidens
on the village green, and looked wistfully at the spot where the
maypole had once stood.

Patience was the more amazed by a visit from the Miller Luck and his
son.  The son was a fine looking young man of three or four and
twenty, who had about three years before married a farmer's daughter,
and had lost her at the birth of her second child.  There he stood,
almost as bashful as Stead himself could have been under the
circumstances, while his father paid the astonished Patience the
compliment of declaring that they had put their heads together, and
made up their minds that there was no wench in those parts so like to
be a good mother to the babes, nor so thrifty a housewife as she;
and, that, though there were plenty of maids to be had who could
bring something in their hands, her ways were better than any portion
she could bring.

It really was a splendid offer.  The position of miller's wife was
very prosperous, and the Lucks were highly respected.  The old miller
was good and kindly, Andrew Luck the steadiest of young men, and
though not seen to much advantage as he stood sheepishly moving from
leg to leg, he was a very fine, tall, handsome youth, with a certain
sweetness and wistfulness in his countenance.  Patience had no
scruples about previous love and courtship.  That was not the point
as she answered--

"Thank you, Master Luck, you are very good; but I cannot leave my
brothers."

"Let the big one get a wife of his own then," and, as Patience shook
her head, and glanced at where Ben, shy of strangers, was cutting
rushes, "and if you be tender on the young one, there would be work
for him about the place.  I know you have been a good mother to him,
you'd be the same to our little ones.  Come, Andrew, can't ye say a
word for yourself?"

"Come, Patience, do 'ee come!" pleaded poor Andrew, and the tears
even sprang to his eyes.  "I'd be very good to thee, and I know thou
would'st be to my poor babes."

Patience's heart really warmed to him, and still more to the babes,
but she could only hold out.

"You must find another," she said.

"Come, you need not be coy, my lass," said the old miller.  "You'll
not get a better offer, and Andrew has no time nor heart either for
running about courting.  What he wants is a good wife to cheer him
up, and see to the poor little children."

It was powerful pleading, and Patience felt it.

"Aye, Master Miller," she said, "but you see I'm bound not to leave
Steadfast till he is married.  He could not get on no ways without
me."

"Then why--a plague on it--don't he wed and have done with it?"

"He cannot," said Patience, "till he has made up enough to build up
our old house, but that won't be yet awhile--for years maybe; and he
could not do it without me to help him."

"And what's to become of you when you've let your best years go by a-
toiling for him, and your chance is gone by, and his wife turns you
to the door?" said Master Luck, not very delicately.

"That God will provide," said Patience, reverently.  "Anyway, I must
cleave to Steadfast though 'tis very good of you, Master Luck and
Master Andrew, and I never could have thought of such a thing, and I
am right sorry for the little ones."

"If you would only come and see them!" burst out the poor young
father.  "You never see such a winsome little poppet as Bess.  And
they be so young now, they'd never know you were not their own
mother."

"Don't, don't, Master Andrew!" cried Patience, "I tell you I'd come
if I could, but you can't wait, and they can't wait; and you must
find a good mother at once for them, for I have passed my word to
hold by Stead till he is married, and I must keep to it."

"Very well, my lass," said the miller, grimly.  "There's wenches
better portioned and better favoured than you, and I hope you won't
have to repent of missing a good offer."

Of course he said it as if he hoped she would.  Patience cried
heartily when they were gone.  Ben came up to her and glowered after
them, declaring he wouldn't have his Patty go to be only a step-
mother to troublesome brats; but Stead, when he came to know of it,
looked grave, and said it was very good of Pat; but he wished she
could have kept the young fellow in play till she was ready for him.

Goody Grace, who was looking after the children till the stepmother
could be found, came and expostulated with Patience, telling her she
was foolish to miss such a chance, and that she would find out her
mistake when Stead married and that little flighty, light-headed
wench made the place too hot to hold her.  What would she do then?

"Come and help you nurse the folk, Goody," said Patience, cheerfully.

Her heart would fail her sometimes at the outlook, but she was too
busy to think much about it.  Only the long evenings had been
pleasanter when Stead used to teach Ben to read Dr. Eales's books and
tell her bits such as she could understand than now when he grudged a
candle big enough to be of any use, and was only plaiting rushes and
reckoning up what everything would bring.

Ben was a bright little fellow, and could read as well as his
brother.  He longed for school, for when boys were not obliged to
learn, some of them wished to do so.  There was a free grammar school
about three miles off to which he wanted to go, and Patience, who was
proud of his ability, wished to send him, neither of them thinking
anything of the walk.

Stead, however, could see no use in more learning than he had
himself.  Neither he nor Jeph had been to school.  Why should the
child go?  He could not be spared just as he was getting old enough
to be of some use and save time, which was money.

And when the little fellow showed his disappointment, Stead was even
surly in telling him "they wanted no upstarts."

It was a hard winter, and the frost was followed by a great deal of
wet.  One of the sheep was swept away by the flood; three or four
lambs died; and Stead, for about the first time in his life, caught a
severe feverish cold in looking after the flock, and was laid by for
a day or two, very cross and fretful at everything going wrong
without him.

Poor little Ben was more railed at for those few days than ever he
had been before, and next he broke down and had to be nursed; and
then came Patience's turn.  She was ill enough to frighten her
brothers; and Goody Grace, who came to see to her, finding how thin
her blanket was, and how long it was since she had had any food but
porridge, gave Steadfast a thorough good scolding, told him he would
be the death of a better sister than he deserved, and set before him
how only for his sake Patience might be living on the fat of the land
at the mill.

To all appearance, Stead listened sulkily enough, but by-and-by Goody
found a fowl killed and laid ready for use.  It was an old hen, whose
death set Patience crying in her weakness.  Nevertheless, it was
stewed down into broth which heartened her up considerably, and a
blanket that came home rolled up on the donkey's back warmed her
heart as much as her limbs.

Mrs. Elmwood spared Rusha for a week, and it was funny to see how the
girl wondered at its having been possible to live in such a den.  She
absolutely cried when Ben told her how hard they had been living, and
said she did not think Stead would ever have used Patience so.

"Then why did she make as if she liked it?" said Stead, gruffly.

But for all that Stead was too sound-hearted not to be grieved at
himself, and to see that his love and impatience had led him into
unkindness to those who depended on him; and when Master Woodley
preached against love of money he felt pricked at the heart, though
it had not been the gain in itself that he aimed at.  And when he had
to go to the mill, the sight of the comfortable great kitchen, with
the open hearth, glowing fire, seats on either side, tall settle, and
the flitches of bacon on the rafters, seemed to reproach him
additionally.  The difficulties there had been staved off by the old
miller himself marrying a stout, motherly widow, who had a real
delight in the charge of a baby.

"For," said Master Luck, "Andrew and I could agree on no one for
him."

Moreover, Stead ceased to grunt contemptuously when Patience, with
Goody Grace to back her, declared that Ben was too young and slight
for farm work.

The boy was allowed to trudge his daily three miles to school, and
there his progress was the wonder and delight of his slower-witted
brother and sister.




CHAPTER XX.

EMLYN'S SERVICE.



"Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace,
 And deaf mine ear that would not heed
 The mocking smile upon her face,
 The mocking voice of greed."
                                LEWIS CARROLL.


When Lady-day came round, Steadfast found to his delight and surprise
a little figure dancing out to meet him from Mrs. Lightfoot's.

"There, Master Stead.  Are not you glad to see me, or be you too
dumbfounded to get out a word, like good old Jenny?" stroking the
donkey's cars.  "Posies of primroses!  How sweet they be!  You must
spare me one."

"As many as you will, sweetheart.  They be all for you, whether given
or sold.  And you've got a holiday for Lady-day."

"Have a care!  I got my ears boxed for such a Popish word.  'Tis but
quarter day, you know, being that, hang, draw, and quarter is more to
the present folks' mind than ladies or saints.  I have changed my
service, you must know, as poor Dick used to sing:--

          "Have a new master, be a new man."

"You have not heard from your own folk," cried Stead, this being what
he most dreaded.

"Nay.  But I can away no more with Dame Sloggett, and Cross-patch
Rachel, white seam and salmon, and plain collars.  So I bade her
farewell at the end of the year, and I've got a new mistress."

Stead stood with open mouth.  To change service at the end of a year
was barely creditable in those days, and to do so without
consultation with home was unkind and alarming.

"There now, don't be crooked about it.  I had not time to come out
and tell you and Patience, the old crones kept me so close, stitching
at shirts for a captain that is to sail next week, and I knew you
would be coming in."

"Where is it?" was all Stead uttered.

"What think you of Master Henshaw's, the great merchant, and an
honest well-wisher to King and Church to boot?"

"Master Henshaw, the West Indian merchant?  His is a good, well-
ordered household, and he holds with the old ways."

"Yes.  He was out that Whitsun morning we wot of," said Emlyn.  "I
wist well you would be pleased."

"But I thought his good lady was dead," said Steadfast.

"So she is.  She that came out to the gully, but there's a new
Mistress Henshaw, a sweet young lady, of a loyal house, the Ayliffes
of Calfield.  And I am to be her own woman."

"Own woman," said Mrs. Lightfoot, for they were by this time among
the loaves in her stall.  "Merchants' wives did not use to have women
of their own in my time."

For this was the title of a lady's maid, and rules as to household
appointments were strictly observed before the rebellion.

"Mistress Henshaw is gentlewoman born," returned Emlyn, with a toss
of her head.  "She ought to have all that is becoming her station in
return for being wedded to an old hunks like that!  And 'tis very
well she should have one like _me_ who has seen what becomes good
blood!  So commend me to Patience and Rusha, and tell Ben maybe I
shall have an orange to send him one of these days.  And cheer up,
Stead.  I shall get five crowns and two gowns a year, and many a fee
besides when there is company, so we may build the house the sooner,
and I shall not be mewed up, and shall see the more of thee.  'Tis
all for you.  So never look so gloomy on it, old Sobersides."

And she turned her sweet face to him, and coaxed and charmed him into
being satisfied that all was well, dwelling on the loyalty and
excellence of the master of the house.

He found it true that it was much easier to see Emlyn than before.
Mrs. Henshaw, a pretty young creature, not much older than Emlyn, was
pleased to do her own marketing, and came out attended by Emlyn, and
a little black slave boy carrying a basket.  She generally bought all
that Steadfast had to sell, and then gave smiling thanks when he
offered to help carry home her purchases.  She would join company
with some of her acquaintance, and leave the lovers to walk together,
only accompanied by little Diego, or Diggo as they called him, whose
English was of the most rudimentary description.

Emlyn certainly was very happy in her new quarters.  Neither her lady
nor herself was arrayed with the rigid plainness exacted by
Puritanism, and many disapproving glances were cast upon the fair
young pair, mistress and maid, by the sterner matrons.  Waiting women
could not indulge in much finery, but whatever breast knots and tiny
curls beyond her little tight cap could do, Emlyn did without fear of
rebuke.  Stead tried to believe that the disapproving looks and
words, by which Mrs. Lightfoot intimated that she heard reports
unfavourable to the household were only due to the general distrust
and dislike to the bright and lively Emlyn.  Mrs. Lightfoot was no
Puritan herself, but her gossips were, and he received her
observations with a dull, stony look that vexed her, by intimating
that it was no business of hers.

Still it was borne in upon him that, good man as Mr. Henshaw
certainly was, the household was altered.  It had been poverty and
distress which had led the Ayliffe family to give their young sister
to a man so much her elder, and inferior in position; and perhaps
still more a desire to confirm the Royalist footing in the city of
Bristol.  The lady's brothers were penniless Cavaliers, and one of
them made her house his home, and a centre of Royalist plots and
intelligences, which excited Emlyn very much by the certainty that
something was going on, though what it was, of course, she did not
know; and at any rate there was coming and going, and all sorts of
people were to be seen at the merchant's hospitable table, all manner
of news to be had here, there, and everywhere, with which she
delighted to entertain Steadfast, and show her own importance.

It was not often good news as regarded the Cavalier cause, for
Cromwell was fixing himself in his seat; and every endeavour to hatch
a scheme against him was frustrated, and led to the flight or death
of those concerned in it.  However, so long as Emlyn had something to
tell, it made little difference whether the tidings were good or bad,
whether they concerned Admiral Blake's fleet, or her mistress's
little Italian greyhound.  By-and-by however instead of Mrs. Henshaw,
there came to market Madam Ayliffe, her mother, a staid, elderly
lady, all in black, who might as well, Emlyn said, have been a
Puritan.

She looked gravely at Stead, and said, "Young man, I am told that you
are well approved and trustworthy, and that my daughter suffers you
to walk home with this maiden, you being troth plight to her."

Stead assented.

"I will therefore not forbid it, trusting that if you be, as I hear,
a prudent youth, you may bring her to a more discreet and obedient
behaviour than hath been hers of late."

So saying, Mrs. Ayliffe joined company with the old Cavalier Colonel
and went on her way as Emlyn made that ugly face that Stead knew of
old, clenched her hand and muttered, "Old witch!  She is a Puritan at
heart, after all!  She is turning the house upside down, and my poor
mistress has not spirit to say 'tis her own, with the old woman and
the old hunks both against her!  Why, she threatened to beat me
because, forsooth, the major's man was but giving me the time of day
on the stairs!"

"Was that what she meant?" asked Stead.

"Assuredly it was.  Trying to set you against me, the spiteful old
make-bate, and no one knows how long she will be here, falling on the
poor lads if they do but sing a song in the hall after supper, as if
she were a very Muggletonian herself.  I trow she is no better."

"Did you not tell me how she held out her house against the
Roundheads, and went to prison for sheltering Cavaliers?"

"I only wish they had kept her there.  All old women be Puritans at
heart.  I say Stead, I'll have done with service.  Let us be wed at
once."

Stead could hardly breathe at this proposition.  "But I have only
nine pounds and two crowns and--" he began.

"No matter, there be other ways," she went on.  "Get the house built,
and I'll come, and we will have curds and whey all the summer, and
mistress and all her friends will come out and drink it, and eat
strawberries!"

"But the Squire will never build the place up unless I bring more in
hand."

"You 'but' enough to butt down a wall, you dull-pated old Stead,"
said Emlyn, "you know where to get at more, and so do I."

Stead's grey eyes fixed on her in astonishment and bewilderment.

"Numskull!" she exclaimed, but still in that good humoured voice of
banter that he never had withstood, "you know what I mean, though
maybe you would not have me say it in the street, you that have
secrets."

"How do you know of it?"

"Have not I eyes, though some folk have not?  Could not I look out at
a chink on a fine summer morning, when you thought the children
asleep?  Could not I climb up to your precious cave as well as
yourself; and hear the iron clink under the stone.  Ha, ha! and you
and Patience thought no one knew but yourselves."

"I trust no one else does."

"No, no, I'm no gad-about, whatever you may be pleased to think me.
They say everything comes of use in seven years, and it must be over
that now."

"Ten since 'twas hidden, nigh seven since that Whitsuntide.  There's
never a parson who could come out, is there?  Besides, with Peter
Woodward nigh, 'tis not safe to meet."

"That's what your head is running on.  No, no.  They will never have
it out again that fashion.  The old Prayer-book is banished for ever
and a day!  I heard master and the Captain say that now old Noll has
got his will, he will soon call himself king, and there's no hope of
churches or parsons coming back; and old madam sat and cried.  The
Jack Presbyters and the rest of the sectaries have got it all their
own way."

"Dr. Eales said I had no right to give it to Master Woodley, or any
that was not the right sort."

"So why should you go on keeping it there rotting for nothing, when
it might just hinder us from wearing our very lives out while you are
plodding and saving?"

Stead stood stock still, as her meaning dawned on him, "Child, you
know not what you say," at last he uttered.

"Ah well, you are slow to take things in; but you'll do it at last."

"I am slow to take in this," said Stead.  "Would you have me rob
God?"

"No, only the owls and the bats," said Emlyn.  "If they are the
better for the silver and gold under them!  What good can it do to
let it lie there and rot?"

"Gold rots not!" growled Stead.

"Tarnishes, spoils then!" said Emlyn pettishly.  "Come, what good
is't to any mortal soul there?"

'It is none of mine."

"Not after seven years?  Come, look you now, Stead, 'tis not only
being tired of service and sharp words, and nips and blows, but I
don't like being mocked for having a clown and a lubber for my
sweetheart.  Oh yes! they do, and there's a skipper and two mates,
and a clerk, and a well-to-do locksmith, besides gentlemen's valets
and others, I don't account of, who would all cut off their little
fingers if I'd only once look at them as I am doing at you, you old
block, who don't heed it, and I don't know that I can hold out
against them all," she added, looking down with a sudden shyness;
"specially the mates.  There's Jonah Richards, who has a ship
building that he is to have of his own, and he wants to call it the
'Sprightly Emlyn,' and the other sailed with Prince Rupert, and made
ever so many prizes, and how am I to stand out when you don't value
me the worth of an old silver cup?"

"Come, come, Em, that's only to frighten a man."  But she knew in his
tone that he was frightened.

"Not a bit!  I should be ever so much better off in a tidy little
house where I could see all that came and went than up in your lane
with nought to go by but the market folk.  'Tis not everyone that
would have kept true to a big country lout like you, like that lady
among the salvage men that the King spoke of; and I get nothing by it
but wait, wait, wait, when there's stores of silver ready to your
hand."

"Heaven knows, and you know, Emlyn, 'tis not for want of love."

"Heaven may know, but I don't."

"I gave my solemn word."

"And you have kept it these ten years, and all is changed."  Then
altering her tone, "There now, I know it takes an hour to beat a
notion into that slow brain of yours, and here we be at home, and I
shall have madam after me.  I'll leave you to see the sense of it,
and if I do not hear of something before long, why then I shall know
how much you care for poor little Emlyn."

With which last words she flitted within the gates, leaving Steadfast
still too much stunned to realise all she meant, as he turned
homewards; but all grew on him in time, the idea that Emlyn, his
Emlyn, his orphan of the battlefield, bereaved for the sake of King
and Church, should be striving to make him betray his trust!  "The
silver is Mine and the gold is Mine," rang in his ears, and yet was
it not cruel that when she really loved him best, and sought to
return to him as a refuge from the many temptations to her lively
spirit, he should be forced to leave her in the midst of them--
against her own warning and even entreaty, and not only himself lose
her, but lose her to one of those godless riotous sailors who were
the dread and bane of the neighbourhood?  Was not a human soul worth
as much as a consecrated Chalice?

These were the debates in Steadfast's much tormented soul.  He could
think, though he could not clothe his thoughts in words, and day
after day, night after night he did think, while Patience wondered at
the heavy moodiness that seemed to have come over him.  He would not
open his lips to ask her counsel, being quite certain of what it
would be, and not choosing to hear her censure of Emlyn for what he
managed to excuse by the poor child's ignorance and want of training,
and by her ardent desire to be under his wing and escape from
temptation.

He recollected a thousand pleas that he might have used with her, to
show it was not want of love but a sacred pledge that withheld him,
and market day after market day he went in, priming himself all the
way with arguments that were to confirm her constancy, arm her
against temptation, and assure her of his unalterable love, though he
might not break his vow, nor lay his hand upon sacred things.

But whether Emlyn would not, or could not, meet him, he did not know,
for a week or two went by before he saw her, and then she was
carrying a great fan for her young mistress, who was walking with a
Cavalier, as gay as Cavaliers ever ventured to be, and another young
lady, whose waiting woman had paired with Emlyn.  They were mincing
along, gazing about them, and uttering little contemptuous titters,
and Stead could only too well guess what kind of remarks Emlyn's
companion might make upon him.

Near his stand, however, the other lady beckoned her maid to adjust
something in her dress; and Stead could approach Emlyn.  She looked
up with her bright, laughing eyes with a certain wistfulness in them.

"Have you made up your mind to cheat the owls?" she asked.

"Emlyn, if you would not speak so lightly, I could show cause--"

"Oh, that's enough," she answered hastily, turning as the other maid
joined her; and Stead caught the shrill, pert voice demanding if that
was her swain with clouted shoes.  Emlyn's reply he could not hear,
but he saw the twist of the shoulders.

There are bitter moments in everyone's life, and that was one of the
very bitterest of Steadfast Kenton's.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE ASSAULT OF THE CAVERN.



"By all description this should be the place.
 Who's here?"
                             SHAKESPEARE.


Harvest was over, and the autumn evenings were darkening.  It was
later than the usual bed time, but Patience had a piece of spinning
which she was anxious to finish for the weaver who took all her yarn,
and Stead was reading Dr. Eales's gift of the Morte d'Arthur, which
had great fascination for him, though he never knew whether to regard
it as truth or fable.  He wanted to drive out the memory of what Mrs.
Lightfoot had told him about the Henshaw household, where the
youngest of the lady's brothers had lately arrived from beyond seas,
bringing with him habits of noise and riot, which greatly scandalised
the neighbours.

Suddenly Growler started up with pricked ears, and emitted a sound
like thunder.  Patience checked her wheel.  There was an unmistakable
sound of steps.  Stead sprang up.  Growler rushed at the door with a
furious volley of barking.  Stead threw it open, catching up a stout
stick as he did so, and the dog dashed out, but was instantly driven
back with an oath and a blow.  It was a bright moonlight night, and
Stead beheld three tall men evidently well armed.

"Ho, you fellow there," one called out, "keep back your cur, we don't
want to hurt him nor you."

"Then what are you doing here?" demanded Stead.

"We are come for what you wot of.  For the King's service."

"Who sent you?" asked Stead, for the moment somewhat dazed.

One of them laughed and said, "As if you did not know."

There was a sickening perception, but Stead's powers were alert
enough for him to exclaim, "Then you have no warrant."

"My good fellow, don't stickle about such trifles.  For the King's
service it is, and that should be enough for all loyal hearts.
Hollo, what's that?  Silence your dog, I say," as Growler's voice
resounded through the gulley, "or it will be the worse for you and
him."

Stead took hold of the dog's collar, and amidst his choked grumbles,
said, "I do nought but on true warrant."

"Hark ye, blockhead," said the foremost.  "I'm an officer of His
Majesty's, with power to make requisitions for his service."

"Shew it," said Stead, quite convinced that this was sheer robbery.

"You addle-pated, insolent clown, to dispute terms with gentlemen in
His Majesty's service.  Stand aside.  I've done you only too much
honour by parleying with you.  Out of the way.  We don't want to take
a stick of your own trumpery, I say."

"Sir, it is Church plate."

"Ha, ha!  Church plate is His Most Sacred Majesty's plate.  Don't ye
know that, you ass?  Here! we'll throw you back something for
yourself if you will show us the cave and save us trouble, for we
know which it is by the token of the red stone and twisted ash.  Ho!
take-- What's become of the clown?  He has run off.  Discreet
fellow!"

For Stead had disappeared in the black darkness behind the hut.  He
remembered Jephthah's discomfiture by the owl, and it struck him that
from within the cavern it would be quite possible to keep the robbers
at bay, if they tried without knowing the way to climb up among the
bushes.  He was not afraid for his brother and sister, as the
marauders evidently did not want anything but the plate.  Indeed, his
whole soul was so concentrated on the defence of his charge that he
had no room for anything else.

Knowing the place perfectly, Stead had time to swing himself, armed
with a stout bludgeon, up into the hermit's cave, and even to drag
after him Growler, a very efficient ally.  The contrasts of moonlight
were all in his favour, the lights almost as bright as in sunshine,
the shadows so very dark.  He could see through the overhanging ivy
and travellers' joy the men peering about with their dark lantern,
looking into the caves where the pigs were, among the trees, and he
held Growler's mouth together lest the grim murmurs that were rolling
in the beast's throat should serve as a guide.

Then he heard them shout to Patience to come and guide them since her
coward of a brother had made off, and he heard her answer, "Not I,
'tis no business of mine."

"We'll see about that.  D'ye know how folks are made to speak, my
lass?"

Then Stead recollected with horror that he had left her to her fate.
Would he be obliged to come down to her help?  At that moment,
however, there was a call from the fellow who bore the lantern.
"Here's the red stone.  That must be the ash.  Now then!"

"You first, Nick."  Then came a crackling and rustling of boughs, a
head appeared, and at that moment Stead loosed Growler and would have
dealt a blow with his stick, but that the assault of the dog had
sufficed to send the assailant, roaring and cursing, headlong down
the crag.

Furious threats came up to him and his dog, but he heard them in
silence, though Growler's replies were vociferous.  Stead gathered
that the fall had in some degree hurt the man for he made an
exclamation of pain, and the others bade him stay there and keep back
the wench.

"We'll have you down though we smoke you out like a wasps' nest, you
disloyal adder, you," was one of the threats.

"Or serve him like the Spaniard at Porto Santo," said another.

Presently after numerous threats and warnings that they had firearms
and were determined to use them, two of the men began climbing much
more cautiously, holding by the trees, so as not to be suddenly
overthrown.  However the furious attack of such a dog as Growler,
springing from utter darkness was a formidable matter, and the man
against whom he had launched himself could not but fall in his turn,
but the dog went after him, and the companion, being on his guard,
was not overthrown.  Stead aimed a blow at the fellow with all his
might, but the slouching hat warded off the full force of the
bludgeon.  Then Stead sprang at him and grappled with him.  There was
the report of a pistol, and both rolled headlong among the bushes,
but at that moment a fresh shout was heard--a cry of "Villains,
traitors, robbers--what be at?" and a rush of feet, while in the
moonlight appeared Peter Pierce with his fowling piece, another man,
Ben, and four or five dogs.

The robbers never waited to see how small the reinforcement was, and
it made noise enough for the whole hue-and-cry of the parish.  Off
they dashed, through the wood, the new comers after them.

But all Patience knew was that Steadfast was lying senseless at the
bottom of the cliff, with poor Growler moaning by him, and licking
his face, and that her hands were wet with what must be blood.

It was too dark to see anything, but she could hardly bear to leave
him, as she hurried back to the hut for the lantern.  All this had
taken but few minutes, so that she had only to catch it up from the
table where Stead's book still lay.

By the time she came back, he had opened his eyes, and his hand was
on Growler's head.

"Are they gone?" he asked faintly.

"Yes, and Peter after them.  Oh! Stead, you are badly hurt."

"They have not got it?"

"Oh no, no, you saved it."

"Thank God.  Is Ben safe?"

"Yes, after them with Peter.  I sent him out while you were talking
to call Peter."

"Good--" and his eyes closed again.  "Good Growler, poor Growl--" he
added, fondling the big head, as the dog moaned.  "See to him, Pat."

"I must see to you first.  Oh! Stead, is it very bad?"

"I'll try to get in, if you'll help me."

He raised himself, but this effort brought a rush of blood to the
lips, which greatly terrified Patience.  To her great relief,
however, Nanny Pierce having satisfied herself that all was quiet
round the hut, here called out to ask where Patience was.  She was
profuse in "Lack-a-daisy!" "Dear heart!" and "Poor soul!" and was
quite sure Stead was as good as a dead man; but she had strong arms,
and so had Patience, and when they had done what they could to stanch
the wound in his side, which however, was not bleeding much
externally, they carried him in between them to Patience's bed which
had been Emlyn's, and therefore was the least uncomfortable.  Poor
Growler crept after, bleeding a good deal, and Steadfast would not
rest till his faithful comrade was looked to.  There was a dagger cut
in his chest, which Nanny, used to dog doctoring, bound up, after
which the creature came close to his master, and fell asleep under
his hand.

It was a very faint hand.  Movement or speech alike brought blood to
the mouth, and Stead's ruddy checks were becoming deadly white.  He
struggled to say, "You and Ben guard it!  Say a prayer, Pat," and
then the two women really thought that in the gush that followed all
was over, and Nanny marvelled at the stunned calm in which Patience
went over the Lord's Prayer, and such Psalms as she could remember.

Steps came, and Nanny shrieked.  Then she saw it was her husband and
the other two men.

"Made off to the town," said Peter, gruffly.

"How now--hurt?"

'O, Peter, they have made an end of the poor lad.  Died like a lamb,
even now."

"No, no," said Peter, as he came close to the bed with his more
experienced eye; "he ain't dead.  'Tis but a swoon.  Hast any strong
waters, Pat?  No, I'll be bound.  Ho, you now, Bill, run and knock
them up at the Elmwood Arms, and bring down a gill."

"And call Goody Grace," entreated Patience, "she will know best what
to do."

On the whole, Peter's military experience was more hopeful, if not
more helpful than Goody Grace's.  He was the only person who
persisted in declaring that such wounds were not always mortal,
though he agreed in owning that the inward bleeding was the worst
sign.  Stead did not attempt to speak again, but lay there deadly
white and with a stricken look on his face, which Patience could not
bear to see, and she ascribed to the conviction that the wretched
little Emlyn must have betrayed his secret.

The hut was over-full of volunteers of assistance and enquiry the
next day, including the squire and Master Woodley; but nobody seemed
to guess at the real object of the robbers' attack, everybody
thinking they had come for the savings which Stead was known to be
making towards rebuilding the farmhouse.

Mr. Elmwood was very indignant and took Pierce, and Blane the
constable, into Bristol to see whether the felons could be captured
and brought to justice, but they proved to have gone down to the
wharf, and to have got on board a vessel which had dropped down the
river in the early morning.  They were also more than suspected of
being no other than buccaneers who plied their trade of piracy in the
West Indies.  The younger Ayliffe had gone with them, and was by no
means above suspicion.

Mr. Elmwood also brought out a barber surgeon to see young Kenton, a
thing which his sister would not have dared to propose.  But there
was not much to be done, the doctor decided that the bullet was where
the attempt at extraction would be fatal, and that the only hope of
even partial recovery was in perfect stillness and silence--and this
Patience could promise to ensure as far as in her lay.  Instructions
on dressing the wound were given to her, and she was to send in to
the barber's shop if ointment or other appliances were needed.  This
was all that she was to expect, and more indeed than she had thought
feasible; for folks of their condition were sick and got well, lived
or died without the aid of practitioners above the skill of Goody
Grace.  However, he gave her very little hope, though he would not
pronounce that her brother was dying.  A few days would decide, and
quiet was the only chance.

Scarcely however were the visitors gone, and Stead left to what rest
pain would allow him after being handled by the surgeon, when a sound
of sobbing was heard outside.  "Oh! oh! I'm afraid to go in!  Ben!
Oh! tell me, is he not dead?  I'm the most miserable maid in the
world if he is."

"He's alive, small thanks to you," responded Ben, who had somehow
arrived at a knowledge of the facts, while Rusha, who was milking,
buried her head in Daisy's side, and would not even look at her.
Patience felt in utter despair, and longed to misunderstand Stead's
signs to her to open the door.  She tried to impress the need of
quiet, but Emlyn darted in, her hood pushed back, her hair flying,
her dress disordered, looking half wild, and dropping on the floor,
she crouched there with clasped hands, crying "Oh! oh! he looks like
death.  He'll die and I'm the most--"

"If you make all that noise and tumult he will," said Patience, who
could bear no more.  "Are you come here to finish what you have done?
Do go away."

"Oh! but I must tell you!  They said it was for the King, and that he
had the right.  Yes they did, and they swore that they would hurt no
one."

Stead looked to a certain extent pleased, but Patience broke out, "As
if you did not know he would rather die than give up his trust."

"I thought he would never know--"

"Robber!" said Patience.  "Go!  You have done harm enough already."

"But I must tell you," persisted Emlyn.  "I used to see Dick Glass
among Lord Goring's troopers, and he is from our parts, and he has
been with Prince Rupert.  There was a plot, I know there is, and both
the Master Ayliffes are in it, and we were to go and raise
Worcestershire, only they wanted money, and Dick was to--to wed me--
and set us across the river this morning, when they had got the
treasure.  'Twas for the King.  And now they are all gone, Master
Philip and all, and master says they are flibustiers, and pirates,
and robbers; and Mrs. Lightfoot's boy came and said Stead Kenton was
shot dead at his house door, and then I was neither to have nor to
hold, but I ran off here like one distraught, for I never loved
anyone like you Stead."

"Pretty love!" said Patience.  "Oh! if you think you love him, go and
let him be at peace."

"I do!  I do!" cried the girl, quite unmanageable.  "Only it made me
mad that he should heed an old chest and a musty parson more than me,
and so I took up with Dick, and he over persuaded me with his smooth
tongue that we would raise folk for the King."

Stead held out his hand.

"Oh!  Stead, Stead, you are always kinder than Patience!  You forgive
me, dear old Stead, do not you?  And I'll tend you day and night, and
you shall not die, and I'll wed you, if you have nought but the shirt
to your back."

Patience felt nearly distracted at the notion of Emlyn there day and
night, but at that instant Goody Grace, who had been to her home in
preparation for spending the night in nursing, walked in.

"How now, mistress, what are you about here?"

"She wants to stay and tend him, and I don't know whether she has
come with her mistress's knowledge," sighed Patience.

"Fine tendance!" said the old woman.  "My lady wants to kill him
outright.  Nay, nay, my young madam, we want none of your airs and
flights here.  You can do no good, except by making yourself scarce--
you that can't hold your tongue a moment"

Stead here whispered, "Her mistress, will she forgive her?"

"Oh, yes, no fear but that she will," said Emlyn, who perhaps had
revolved in her mind, since her first impulse, what it would be to
nurse Stead in that hovel, with two such displeased companions as
Goody and Patience.  More to pacify Steadfast's uneasy eyes than for
her own sake, Patience gave her a drink of milk and a piece of bread,
and Peter coming just then to ask if he could help Ben with the
cattle, undertook to see her safely on her way, since twilight was
coming on.  Sobered and awestruck by the silence and evident
condemnation of all around, she ended by flinging herself on her
knees by the bed, and saying "Stead, Stead, you forgive me, though no
one else does?"

"Poor child--I do--as I hope--"

"The blood again.  You've done it now," exclaimed Goody Grace.  "Away
with you!"

Peter fairly dragged her out, while the women attended to Stead.

But he let her wait outside till they heard, "Not dead, but not far
from it"




CHAPTER XXII.

EMLYN'S TROTH.



"Woman's love is writ in water,
 Woman's faith is traced in sand."
                                AYTOUN.


Day after day Steadfast Kenton lingered between life and death, and
though the external wound healed, there was little relief to the
deeper injury which could not be reached, and which the damps and
chills of autumn and winter could only aggravate.

He could move little, and speak even less; and suffered much, both
from pain and difficulty of breathing, as he lay against sacks and
pillows on his bed, or sat up in an elbow chair which Mrs. Elmwood
lent him.  Everybody was very kind in those days of danger.   Mrs.
Elmwood let Rusha come on many an afternoon to help her sister, and
always bringing some posset, or cordial, or dainty of some sort to
tempt the invalid.  Goody Grace, Mrs. Blane, Dame Oates, Nanny Pierce
vied with each other in offers of sitting up with him; Andrew, the
young miller, came out of his way to bring a loaf of white bread, and
to fetch the corn to be ground.  Peter Pierce, Rusha's lover, and
more old comrades than Patience quite desired, offered their services
in aiding Ben with the cattle and other necessary labours, but as the
first excitement wore off, these volunteers became scantier, and when
nothing was to be heard but "just the same," nothing to be seen but a
weak, wan figure sitting wrapped by the fire, the interest waned, and
the gulley was almost as little frequented as before.  Poor Ben's
schooling had, of course, to be given up, and it was well that he was
nearly as old as Stead had been when they were first left to
themselves.  Happily his fifteen months of study had not made him
outgrow his filial obedience and devotion to the less instructed
elder brother and sister, who had taken the place of the parents he
had never known.  Benoni, child of sorrow, he had been named, and
perhaps his sickly babyhood and the mournful times around had tended
to make him a quiet boy, without the tearing spirits that would have
made him eager to join the village lads in their games.  Indeed they
laughed at him for his poverty and scholarship, and called him Jack
Presbyter, Puritan, bookworm, and all the opprobrious names they
could think of, though no one ever less merited sectarian nicknames
than he, as far as doctrine went.  For, bred up on Dr. Eales' books,
and obliged to look out on the unsettled state of religious matters,
he was as staunch a churchman as his brother, and fairly understood
the foundations of his faith.  Poor boy, the check to his studies
disappointed him, and he spent every leisure moment over his Latin
accidence or in reading.  Next to the stories in the Bible, he loved
the Maccabees, because of the likeness to the persecuted state of the
Church; and he knew the Morte d'Arthur almost by heart, and thought
it part of the history of England.  Especially he loved the part that
tells of the Holy Grail, the Sacred Cup that was guarded by the
maimed King Pelles, and only revealed to the pure in heart and life.
Stead had fully confided to him the secret of the cave, in case he
should be the one left to deliver up the charge; and, in some strange
way, the boy connected the treasure with the Saint Grail, and his
brother with the maimed king.  So he worked very hard, and Patience
was capable of a good deal more than in her earlier days.  Stead,
helpless as he was, did not require constant attendance, and knew too
well how much was on his sister's hands to trouble her when he could
possibly help doing so.  Thus they rubbed on; though it was a
terrible winter, and they often had to break in on the hoard which
was to have built the house, sometimes for needments for the patient,
sometimes to hire help when there was work beyond the strength of
Patience and Ben, who indeed was too slender to do all that Stead had
done.

Ben did not shine in going to market.  He was not big enough to hold
his own against rude lads, and once came home crying with his donkey
beaten and his eggs broken; moreover, he was apt to linger at stalls
of books and broadsheets.  As soon as Patience could venture to leave
her brother, she was forced to go to market herself; and there was a
staidness and sobriety about her demeanour that kept all impertinence
at a distance.  Poor Patience, she was not at all the laughing rustic
beauty that Emlyn would have been at market.  She would never have
been handsome, and though she was only a few years over twenty, she
was beginning to look weather-beaten and careworn, like the market
women about her, mothers of half-a-dozen children.

Now and then she saw Emlyn in all her young, plump beauty, but
looking much quieter, and always coming to her for news of Steadfast.
There were even tears in those bright eyes when she heard how much he
suffered.  The girl had evidently been greatly sobered by the results
of her indiscretion, and the treachery into which it had led her.
She probably cared more for Steadfast than for anyone else except
herself, and was shocked and grieved at his condition; and she had
moreover discovered how her credulity had been played upon, and that
she had had a narrow escape of being carried off by a buccaneer.

Her master too had been called to order by the authorities, fined and
threatened for permitting Royalist plots to be hatched in his house.
He had been angered by the younger Ayliffe's riotous doings, and his
wife had been terrified.  There had been a general reformation in
which Emlyn had only escaped dismissal through her mistress's favour,
pleading her orphanhood, her repentance, and her troth plight to the
good young man who had been attacked by those dissolute fellows,
though Mrs. Henshaw little knew how accountable was her favourite
maid for the attack.

So good and discreet was Emlyn, so affectionate her messages to
Stead, and so much brightness shone in his face on hearing them;
there was so much pleasure when she sent him an orange and he
returned the snowdrops he had made Rusha gather, that Patience began
to believe that Stead was right--that the shock was all the maiden
needed to steady her--and that all would end as he hoped, when he
should be able to resume his labours, and add to the sadly reduced
hoard.

It was not, however, till the March winds were over that Stead made
any decided step towards recovery, and began to prefer the sun to the
fire, and to move feebly and slowly about the farmyard, visiting the
animals, too few in number, for his skilled attention had been
missed.  As summer came on he was able to do a little more, herd them
with Growler's help, and gradually to undertake what required no
exertion of strength or speed, and there he stopped short--all the
sunny months of summer could do no more for him than make him fit to
do such work as an old man of seventy might manage.

He was persuaded, much against his will, to ride the white horse into
Bristol at a foot-pace to consult once more the barber surgeon.  That
worthy, who was unusually sagacious for his time and had had
experience in the wars, told him that his recovery was a marvel, but
that with the bullet where it was lodged, he could scarcely hope to
enjoy much more health or comfort than at present.  It could not be
reached, but it might shift, when either it would prove fatal or
become less troublesome; and as a friend and honest man, he
counselled the poor youth not to waste his money nor torture himself
by having recourse to remedies or doctors who could do no real good.

Stead thanked the barber, paid his crown, and slowly made his way to
Mrs. Lightfoot's, where he was to rest, dine, and see Emlyn.

Kind Mrs. Lightfoot shed tears when she saw the sturdy, ruddy youth
grown so thin and pale; and as to Emlyn, she actually stood silent
for three minutes.

The two were left together in Mrs. Lightfoot's kitchen, for Patience
was at market, and their hostess had to mind her trade.

Stead presently told Emlyn somewhat of the doctor's opinion, and
then, producing his portion of the tester, and with lips that
trembled in spite of himself, said that he had come to give Emlyn
back her troth plight.

"Oh! Stead, Stead," she cried, bursting into tears.  "I thought you
had forgiven me."

"Forgiven you!  Yea, truly, poor child, but--"

"But only when you were sick!  You cast me off now you are whole."

"I shall never be whole again, Emlyn."

"I don't believe Master Willis.  He is nought but a barber," she
exclaimed passionately.  "I know there are physicians at the Bath who
would cure you; or there's the little Jew by the wharf; or the wise
man on Durdham Down.  But you always are so headstrong; when you have
made up your mind no one can move you, and you don't care whose heart
you break," she sobbed.

"Hearken, little sweet," said Stead.  "'Tis nought but that I wot
that it would be ill for you to be bound to a poor frail man that
will never be able to keep you as you should be kept.  All I had put
by is well nigh gone, and I'm not like to make it up again for many a
year, even if I were as strong as ever."

"And you won't go to the Jew, or the wise man, or the Bath?"

"I have not the money."

"But I will--I will save it for you!" cried Emlyn, who never had
saved in her life.  "Or look here.  Master Henshaw might give you a
place in his office, and then there would be no need to dwell in that
nasty, damp gulley, but we could be in the town.  I'll ask my
mistress to crave it from him."

Stead could not but smile at her eagerness, but he shook his head.

"It would be bootless, sweetheart, I cannot carry weights."

"No, but you can write."

"Very scurvily, and I cannot cypher."

For Stead, like everyone else at Elmwood, kept his accounts by tally
and in his head, and the mysteries of the nine Arabic figures were
perfectly unknown to him.  However, Emlyn stuck to the hope, and he
was so far inspired by it that he ceased to insist on giving up the
pledges of the betrothal, and he lay on the settle in quiet enjoyment
of Emlyn's castle building, as she sat on a stool by his side, his
hand on her shoulder, somewhat as it was wont to lie on Growler's
head.  And in spite of Master Willis's opinion, he rode home to the
gulley a new man, assuring Patience, on the donkey by his side, that
there was more staunchness and kindness in little Emlyn than ever
they had thought for.  Even the ferryman who put them over the river
declared that the doctor must have done Master Kenton a power of
good, and Stead smiled and did not contradict him.

Stead actually consulted Mr. Woodley how to learn cyphering beyond
what Ben had acquired at school; and the minister lent him a
treatise, over which he pored with a board and a burnt stick for many
an hour when he was out on the common with the cattle, or on the
darkening evenings in the hut.  Ben saw his way into those puzzles
with no more difficulty than whetted his appetite, worked out sum
after sum, and explained them to his brother, to the admiration of
both his elders, till frowns of despair and long sighs from Stead
brought Patience to declare he was mazing himself, and insist on
putting out the light.

Stead had more time for his studies than he could wish, for the cold
of winter soon affected the injured lungs; and, moreover, the being
no longer able to move about rapidly caused the damp and cold of the
ravine to produce rheumatism and attendant ills, of which, in his
former healthy, out-of-door life, he had been utterly ignorant, and
he had to spend many an hour breathless, or racked with pain in the
poor little hovel, sometimes trying to give his mind to the abstruse
mysteries of multiplication of money, but generally in vain, and at
others whiling away the time with his books, for though there were
only seven of them, including Bible and Prayer-book, a very little
reading could be the text of so much musing, that these few perfectly
sufficed him.  And then he was the nurse of any orphaned lamb or sick
chicken that Patience was anxious about, and his care certainly saved
many of those small lives.

The spring, when he came forth again, found him on a lower level,
less strong and needing a stick to aid his rheumatic knee.

Not much was heard of Emlyn that spring.  She did not come to market
with her mistress, and Patience was not inclined to go in quest of
her, having a secret feeling that no news might be better for Stead
than anything she was likely to hear; while as to any chance of their
coming together, the Kentons had barely kept themselves through this
winter, and Steadfast's arithmetic was not making such progress as
would give him a place at a merchant's desk.

Patience, however, was considerably startled when, one fine June day,
she saw Mrs. Henshaw's servant point her out to two tall soldierly-
looking men, apparently father and son.

"Good morrow to you, honest woman," said the elder.  "I am told it is
you who have been at charges for many years for my brother's
daughter, Emlyn Gaythorn."

Patience assented.

"You have been right good to her, I hear; and I thank you for that
same, and will bear what we may of the expense," he added, taking out
a heavy bag from his pouch.

He went on to explain that he and his son having gone abroad with his
master had been serving with the Dutch, and had made some prize
money.  Learning on the peace that a small inheritance in
Worcestershire had fallen to the family, they had returned, and found
from Lady Blythedale that the brother's daughter was supposed to be
alive somewhere near Bristol.  She had a right to half, and being
honourable men, they had set out in search of her, bringing letters
from the lady to Mr. Henshaw, whose house was still a centre of
inquiry for persons in the Cavalier interest.  There, of course, they
had discovered Emlyn; and Master Gaythorn proceeded to say that it
had been decided that the estate should not be broken up, but that
his son should at once wed her and unite their claims.

"But, sir," exclaimed Patience, "she is troth plight to my brother."

"So she told me, but likewise that he is a broken man and sickly, and
had offered to restore her pledge."

Patience could not deny it, though she felt hotly indignant.

"She charged me to give it back to you," added the uncle; "and to bid
you tell the young man that we are beholden to you both; but that
since the young folk are to be wedded to-morrow morn, and then to set
forth for Worcestershire, there is no time for leave-takings."

"I do not wonder!" exclaimed Patience, "that she has no face to see
us.  She that has been like a child or a sister to us, to leave us
thus!  O my brother!"

"Come, come, my good woman, best not make a pother."  Poor Patience's
homely garb and hard-worked looks shewed little of the yeoman class
to which she belonged.  "You've done your duty by the maid and here's
the best I have to make it up."

Patience could not bring herself to take the bag, and he dropped it
into her basket "I am sorry for the young man, your brother, but he
knew better than to think to wed her as he is.  And 'tis better for
all there should be no women's tears and foolishness over it."

"Is she willing?" Patience could not but ask.

"Willing?"  Both men laughed.  "Aye, what lass is not willing to take
a fine, strapping husband, and be a landed dame?  She gave the token
back of her own free will, eh, Humfrey; and what did she bid us say?"

"Her loving greetings to-- What were their Puritanical names?" said
the son contemptuously.  "Aye, and that she pitied the poor clown
down there, but knew he would be glad of what was best for her."

"So farewell, good mistress," said Master Gaythorn, and off they
clanked together; and Patience, looking after them, could entirely
believe that the handsome buff coat, fringed belt, high boots, and
jauntily cocked hat would have driven out the thought of Stead in his
best days.  And now that he was bent, crippled, weak, helpless,--"and
all through her, what hope was then," thought Patience, "yet if she
had loved him, or there had been any truth in her, she could have
wedded him now, and he would have been at ease through life!  A
little adder at our hearth!  We are well quit of her, if he will but
think so, but how shall I ever tell him?"

She did not rush in with the tidings but came home slowly, drearily,
so that Stead, who was sitting outside by the door, peeling rushes,
gathered that something was amiss, and soon wormed it out of her,
while her tears dropped fast for him.  Still, as ever, he spoke
little.  He said her uncle was right in sparing tears and farewells,
no doubt reserving to himself the belief that it was against her
will.  And when Patience could not help declaring that the girl might
have made him share her prosperity, he said, "I'm past looking after
her lands.  Her uncle would say so.  'Tis his doing; I am glad of
what is best for my darling as was.  There's an end of it, Patience--
joy and grief.  And I thank God that the child is safely cared for at
last."

He tried to be as usual, but he was very ill that night.

Patience found the money in her basket.  She hated it and put it
aside, and it was only some time after that she was constrained to
use it, only then telling Stead whence it came, when he could endure
to hear that the uncle had done his best to be just.




CHAPTER XXIII.

FULFILMENT.



"My spirit heats her mortal bars,
 As down dark tides the glory glides,
 And mingles with the stars."
                             TENNYSON.


The year 1660 had come, and in the autumn, just as harvest was over,
and the trees on the slopes were taking tints of red, yellow, and
brown, an elderly clergyman, staff in hand, came slowly up the long
lane leading to Elmwood, whence he had been carried, bound to his
horse, seventeen years before.

He had not suffered as much as some of his fellow priests.  After a
term of imprisonment in London, he had been transported to the
plantations, namely, the American settlements, and had fallen in with
friends, who took him to Virginia.  This was chiefly colonized by
people attached to the Church, who made him welcome, and he had
ministered among them till the news arrived of the Restoration of
Charles II, and likewise that the lawful incumbents of benefices, who
had been driven out, were reinstated by Act of Parliament.  Mr.
Holworth's Virginian friends would gladly have kept him with them,
but he felt that his duty was to his original flock, and set out at
once for England, landing at Bristol.  There, however, he waited,
like the courteous man he was, to hold communication with his people,
till he had written to Mr. Elmwood, and made arrangements with him
and Master Woodley.

They were grieved, but they were both men who had a great respect for
law and parliament, so they made no difficulties.  Mr. and Mrs.
Woodley retired to the hall and left the parsonage vacant, after the
minister had preached a farewell sermon in the church which made
everyone cry, for he was a good man and had made himself loved, and
there were very few in the parish who could understand that
difference between the true Church and a body without bishops.  Mr.
Holworth had in the meantime gone to Wells to see his own Bishop
Piers, an old man of eighty-six, and it was from thence that he was
now returning.  He had not chosen to enter his parish till the
intruded minister had resigned the charge, but he had been somewhat
disappointed that none of his old flock, not even any Kentons, who
had so much in charge, had come in to see him.  He now arrived in
this quiet way, thinking that it would not be delicate to the
feelings of the squire and ex-minister to let the people get up any
signs of joy or ring the bells, if they were so inclined.  Indeed, he
was much afraid from what he had been able to learn that it would be
only the rougher sort, who hated Puritan strictness and wanted sport
and revelry, who would give him an eager welcome.

So he first went quietly up to the church, which he found full of
benches and pews, with the Altar table in the middle of the nave, and
the squire's comfortable cushioned seat at the east end.  He knelt on
the step for a long time, then made a brief visit to his own house,
where the garden was in beautiful order, but only a room or two were
furnished with goods he had bought from the Woodleys, and these were
in charge of a servant he had hired at Bristol.

Thence the old man went out into the village, and his first halt was
at the forge, where Blane, who had grown a great deal stouter and
more grizzled, started at sight of his square cap.

"Eh! but 'tis the old minister!  You have come in quietly, sir!  I am
afraid your reverence has but a sorry welcome."

"I do not wonder you are grieved to part with Master Woodley."

"Well, sir, he be a good man and a powerful preacher, though no doubt
your reverence has the best right, and for one, I'm right glad to see
an old face again.  We would have rung the bells if we had known you
were coming."

"That would have been hard on Master Woodley.  I am only glad they
are not melted.  But how is it with all my old friends, Harry?  Poor
Sir George writ me that old clerk North died of grief of the rifling
of the church; and that John Kenton had been killed by some
stragglers.  What became of his children?"

"That eldest lad went off to the Parliament army, and came swaggering
here in his buff coat and boots like my Lord Protector himself, they
say he has got a castle and lands in Ireland.  Men must be scarce,
say I, if they have had to make a gentleman of Jeph Kenton."

"And the rest?"

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that poor lad, Stead, is in poor plight.  You
mind, he was always a still, steady, hard-working lad, and when his
father was killed, and his house burnt, and his brother ran away, the
way he and his sister turned to was just wonderful.  They went to
live in an old hut in the gulley down there, and they have made the
place so tidy as it does your heart good to look at it.  They bred up
the young ones, and the younger girl is well married to one of the
Squire's folks, and everyone respected them.  But, as ill-luck would
have it, some robbers from Bristol seem to have got scent of their
savings.  Some said that the Communion Cup was hid somewhere there."

Mr. Holworth made an anxious sound of interrogation.

"Well, I did see the corporal, when the Parliament soldiers were at
Bristol, flog Stead shamefully to know where it was, and never get a
word out of him, whether or no; and as he was a boy who would never
tell a lie, it stands to reason he knew where they were."

"But how did anyone guess at his knowing?" asked Mr. Holworth.

"His brother might have thought it likely, poor John being thick with
your reverence," said Blane.  "After that I thought, myself, that he
ought to give them up to Master Woodley, if so be he had them; but I
could never get a hint from him.  The talk went that old Dr. Eales,
you mind him, sir, before he died, came out and held a prelatist
service, begging your pardon, sir, and that the things were used.
Stead got into trouble with Squire about it."

"But the robbers, how was that?  You said he was hurt!"

"Sore hurt, sir; and he has never got the better of it, though 'tis
nigh upon four years ago.  There was a slip of a wench he picked up
as a child after the fight by Luck's mill, and bred up; a fair lass
she grew up to look on, but a light-headed one.  She went to service
at Bristol, and poor Stead was troth plight to her, hoped to save and
build up the house again, never knowing, not he, poor rogue, of her
goings on with the sailors and all the roistering lads about her
master's house.  'Tis my belief she put those rascals on the track,
whether she meant it or not.  Stead made what defence he could, stood
up like a man against the odds, three to one, and got a shot in the
side, so that he was like to die then.  Better for him, mayhap, if he
had at once, for it has been nought but a lingering ever since, never
able to do a day's work, though that wench, Patience, and the young
lad, Ben, have fought it out wonderfully.  That I will say."

Mr. Holworth had tears in his eyes, and trembled with emotion.

"The dear lad," he said.  "Where is he?  I must go and see him."

"He bides in the gulley, sir; he has been there ever since the farm-
house was burnt."

Ere long Mr. Holworth was on his way to the gulley.  What had been
only a glade reaching from rock to stream, hidden in copsewood, was
now an open space trodden by cattle, with the actual straw-yard more
in the rear, but with a goat tethered on it and poultry running
about.  It was a sunny afternoon, and in a wooden chair placed so as
to catch the warmth, with feet on a stool, sat, knitting, a figure
that Mr. Holworth at first thought was that of an aged man; but as he
emerged from the wood, and the big dog sprang up and barked, there
was a looking up, an instant silencing of the dog, a rising with
manifest effort, a doffing of the broad-brimmed hat, and the
clergyman beheld what seemed to him his old Churchwarden's face, only
in the deadly pallor of long-continued illness, and with the most
intense, unspeakable look of happiness and welcome afterwards
irradiating it, a look that in after years always came before Mr.
Holworth with the "Nunc dimittis."

Dropping the knitting, and holding by the chair, he stood trembling
and quivering with gladness, while, summoned by the dog's bark,
Patience, pail in hand, appeared on one side, and Ben, tall and
slight, with his flail, on the other.

"My dear lad," was all Mr. Holworth could say, as he took the thin,
blanched hand, put his arm round the shoulders, and reseated Stead,
still speechless with joy.  Patience, curtseying low, came up
anxiously, showing the same honest face as of old, though work and
anxiety had traced their lines on the sun-burnt complexion, and Ben
stood blushing, and showing his keener, more cultivated face, as the
stranger turned to greet them so as to give Steadfast time to recover
himself.

"Oh! sir, but we are glad to see your reverence," cried Patience.
"Will you go in, or sit by Stead?  Ben, fetch a chair."

"And is this fine strapping fellow, the sickly babe that you were
never to rear, Patience?"

"God has been very good to us, sir," said Patience.

"And this is best of all," said Stead, recovering breath and speech.
"I thank Him that I have lived to see this day!  It is all safe,
sir."

"And you, you faithful guardian, you have suffered for it."

If it had not been for Blane's partial revelations, Mr. Holworth
never would have extracted the full story of how for that sacred
trust, Steadfast Kenton had endured threats and pain, and had
foregone ease, prosperity, latterly happiness, and how finally it had
cost him health, nay life itself, for he was as surely dying of the
buccaneer's pistol shot, as though he had been slain on the spot.

Long illness, with all the thought and reflection it had brought, had
so far changed and refined Stead that his awkward bashfulness and
lack of words had passed from him, and when he saw the clergyman
overcome with emotion at the thought of all he had undergone he said,

"Never heed it, your reverence, it has come to be all joy to me to
have had a little to bear for the Master!  'Tis hard on Patience and
Ben, but they are very good to me; and being sick gives time for such
comforts as God sends me.  It is more than all I could have had
here."

"I am sure of that, my dear boy.  I was not grieving that I gave you
the trust, but thinking what a blessed thing it is to have kept it
thus faithfully."

Two Sundays later, the Feast was again meetly spread in Elmwood
Church, the Altar restored to its place, and all as reverently
arranged as it could yet be among the broken carved work.

In some respects it was a mournful service, few there were who after
the lapse of seventeen years even remembered the outlines of the old
forms; and the younger people knew not when to kneel or stand.  There
were few who could read, and even for those who could there were only
four Prayer-books in the church, the clergyman's, the clerk's, the
Kentons', and one discovered by an old Elmwood servant.  The Squire's
family came not; Goody Grace was dead, and though Rusha tried to
instruct her husband and her little girl, she herself was much at a
loss.

To Mr. Holworth it was almost like that rededication of the Temple
when the old men wept at the thought of the glory of the former
house, but there were some on whom his eye rested with joy and peace.
There were Blane and his wife, good and faithful though ignorant;
there were the old miller and his son, who had come all that distance
since there had as yet been no restoration in their church, and the
goings on of Original-Sin Hopkins and his friends had thoroughly
disgusted them, and made the old man yearn towards the church of his
youth, and there was the little group of three, the toil-worn but
sweet-faced sister, calm and restful, though watchful; the tall youth
with thoughtful, earnest, awe-struck face, come for his first
Communion, for which through those many years he had been taught to
pray and long, and between them the wasted form and wan features
lighted up with that wonderful radiance that had come on them with
the sense that the trust was fulfilled, only it was brighter, calmer,
higher, than even at the greeting of the vicar.  Did  Steadfast see
only the burnished gold of the Chalice and paten he had guarded for
seventeen years at the cost of toil, danger, suffering, love, and
life itself?  Did he not see and feel far beyond those outward
visible signs in which others, who had not yet endured to the end,
could only as yet put their trust by faith?

Mr. Holworth, as he stood over him and saw the upturned eye, was sure
it was so.  No doubt indeed Ben thought so too, but poor imaginative
Ben had somehow fancied it would be with his brother as with the King
who guarded that other sacred Cup, and when all was over, was quite
disappointed that Stead needed his strong arm as much as ever, nay
more, for on coming out into the air and sunshine a faintness and
exhaustion came on, and they had to rest him in the porch before he
could move.

"O Stead, I thought it would have healed you," the lad said.

Stead slightly smiled.  "Healed?  I shall soon be healed altogether,
Ben," he said.  He had with great difficulty and very slowly walked
to church, and Mr. Holworth wished him to come and rest at the
Vicarage, but he was very anxious to get home, and after he had taken
a little food, Andrew Luck offered to share with Ben and Rusha's
husband the carrying him back between them on an elbow chair.

This pleased him, and he looked up to Andrew and said, "You are in
the same mind as long ago?"

"I never found anyone else I could lay my mind to, since my poor
Kitty," said Andrew.

"She will come to you--soon," said Stead.  "She'll have a sore heart,
but you will be good to her."

"That I will.  And little Bess and Kate shall come and tell her how
they want her."

Stead smiled and his lips moved in thankfulness.

"And if Ben would come with her," added Andrew, "I'd be a brother to
him."

"Parson wants Ben," said Stead.  "He says he can make a scholar of
him, and maybe a parson, and it will not be so lonesome in the
vicarage."

"And your farm?"

"Rusha and her man take that.  They have saved enough to build the
house.  Yes, all is well.  It is great peace and thankfulness."

Patience returned with the cushions she had borrowed and they brought
Steadfast home, very much exhausted, and not speaking all the way.
Perhaps the unusual motion and exertion had made the bullet change
its place, for he hardly uttered another word, and that night, as he
had said to Ben, he was healed for ever of all his ills.

The funeral sermon that Mr. Holworth preached the next Sunday, was on
the text so dear to all the loyal hearts who remembered the White
King's coronation text--

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."



THE END







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