St george and st michael, p.45
ST. GEORGE AND ST. MICHAEL, page 45
‘With better light I will one day show thee how the thing worketh,’ she said, thanking him. ‘Holding it thus by the ends, thou seest, it will bear to be pressed; but remove thy finger and thumb, and straight upon a touch it shooteth its stings in all directions. And yet another day, when these troubles are over, and honest folk need no longer fight each other, I will give it thee, Richard.’
‘Would that day were here, Dorothy! But what can honest people do, while
St. George and St. Michael are themselves at odds?’
‘Mayhap it but seemeth so, and they but dispute across the Yule-log,’ said Dorothy; ‘and men down here, like the dogs about the fire, take it up, and fall a-worrying each other. But the end will crown all.’
‘Discrown some, I fear,’ said Richard to himself.
As they reached the farm-house, it was growing light. Upstill fetched his dame from her bed in the hayloft, and Richard told her, in formal and authoritative manner, what he required of her.
‘I will search her!’ answered the dame from between her closed teeth.
‘Mistress Vaughan,’ said Richard, ‘if she offer thee evil words, give her the same lesson thou gavest her husband. If all tales be true, she is not beyond the need of it. — Search her well, mistress Upstill, but show her no rudeness, for she hath the power to avenge it in a parlous manner, having gone to school to my lord Herbert of Raglan. Not the less must thou search her well, else will I look upon thee as no better than one of the malignants.’
The woman cast a glance of something very like hate, but mingled with fear, upon Dorothy.
‘I like not the business, captain Heywood,’ she said.
‘Yet the business must be done, mistress Upstill. And hark’ee, for every paper thou findest upon her, I will give thee its weight in gold. I care not what it is. Bring it hither, and the dame’s butter-scales withal.’
‘I warrant thee, captain!’ she returned. ‘ — Come with me, mistress, and show what thou hast about thee. But, good sooth, I would the sun were up!’
She led the way to the rick-yard, and round towards the sunrise. It was the month of August, and several new ricks already stood facing the east, yellow, and beginning to glow like a second dawn. Between the two, mistress Upstill began her search, which she made more thorough than agreeable. Dorothy submitted without complaint.
At last, as she was giving up the quest in despair, her eyes or her fingers discovered a little opening inside the prisoner’s bodice, and there sure enough was a pocket, and in the pocket a slip of paper! She drew it out in triumph.
‘That is nothing,’ said Dorothy: ‘give it me.’ And with flushed face she made a snatch at it.
‘Holy Mary!’ cried dame Upstill, whose protestantism was of doubtful date, and thrust the paper into her own bosom.
‘That paper hath nothing to do with state affairs, I protest,’ expostulated Dorothy. ‘I will give thee ten times its weight in gold for it.’
But mistress Upstill had other passions besides avarice, and was not greatly tempted by the offer. She took Dorothy by the arm, and said,
‘An’ thou come not quickly, I will cry that all the parish shall hear me.’
‘I tell thee, mistress Upstill, on the oath of a Christian woman, it is but a private letter of mine own, and beareth nothing upon affairs. Prithee read a word or two, and satisfy thyself.’
‘Nay, mistress, truly I will pry into no secrets that belong not to me,’ said the searcher, who could read no word of writing or print either. ‘This paper is no longer thine, and mine it never was. It belongeth to the high court of parliament, and goeth straight to captain Heywood — whom I will inform concerning the bribe wherewith thou didst seek to corrupt the conscience of a godly woman.’
Dorothy saw there was no help, and yielded to the grasp of the dame, who led her like a culprit, with burning cheek, back to her judge.
When Richard saw them his heart sank within him.
‘What hast thou found?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I have found that which young mistress here would have had me cover with a bribe of ten times that your honour promised me for it,’ answered the woman. ‘She had it in her bosom, hid in a pocket little bigger than a crown-piece, inside her bodice.’
‘Ha, mistress Dorothy! is this true?’ asked Richard, turning on her a face of distress.
‘It is true,’ answered Dorothy, with downcast eyes — far more ashamed however, of that which had not been discovered, and which might have justified Richard’s look, than of that which he now held in his hand. ‘Prithee,’ she added, ‘do not read it till I am gone.’
‘That may hardly be,’ returned Richard, almost sullenly. ‘Upon this paper it may depend whether thou go at all.’
‘Believe me, Richard, it hath no importance,’ she said, and her blushes deepened. ‘I would thou wouldst believe me.’
But as she said it, her conscience smote her.
Richard returned no answer, neither did he open the paper, but stood with his eyes fixed on the ground.
Dorothy meantime strove to quiet her conscience, saying to herself: ‘It matters not; I must marry him one day — an’ he will now have me. Hath not the woman told him where the silly paper was hid? And when I am married to him, then will I tell him all, and doubtless he will forgive me — Nay, nay, I must tell him first, for he might not then wish to have me. Lord! Lord! what a time of lying it is! Sure for myself I am no better than one of the wicked!’
But now Richard, slowly, reluctantly, with eyes averted, opened the paper, stood for an instant motionless, then suddenly raised it, and looked at it. His face changed at once from midnight to morning, and the sunrise was red. He put the paper to his lips, and thrust it inside his doublet. It was his own letter to her by Marquis! She had not thought to remove it from the place where she had carried it ever since receiving it.
‘And now, master Heywood, I may go where I will?’ said Dorothy, venturing a half-roguish, but wholly shamefaced glance at him.
But Dame Upstill was looking on, and Richard therefore brought as much of the midnight as would obey orders, back over his countenance as he answered:
‘Nay, mistress. An’ we had found aught upon thee of greater consequence it might have made a question. But this hardly accounts for thy mission. Doubtless thou bearest thy message in thy mind.’
‘What! thou wilt not let me go to Wyfern, to my own house, master Heywood?’ said Dorothy in a tone of disappointment, for her heart now at length began to fail her.
‘Not until Raglan is ours,’ answered Richard. ‘Then shalt thou go where thou wilt. And go where thou wilt, there will I follow thee, Dorothy.’
From the last clause of this speech he diverted mistress Upstill’s attention by throwing her a gold noble, an indignity which the woman rightly resented — but stooped for the money!
‘Go tell thy husband that I wait him here,’ he said.
‘Thou shalt follow me nowhither,’ said Dorothy, angrily. ‘Wherefore should not I go to Wyfern and there abide? Thou canst there watch her whom thou trustest not.’
‘Who can tell what manner of person might not creep to Wyfern, to whom there might messages be given, or whom thou mightest send, credenced by secret word or sign?’
‘Whither, then, am I to go?’ asked Dorothy, with dignity.
‘Alas, Dorothy!’ answered Richard, ‘there is no help: I must take thee to Raglan. But comfort thyself — soon shalt thou go where thou wilt.’
Dorothy marvelled at her own resignation the while she rode with Richard back to the castle. Her scheme was a failure, but through no fault, and she could bear anything with composure except blame.
A word from Richard to colonel Morgan was sufficient. A messenger with a flag of truce was sent instantly to the castle, and the firing on both sides ceased. The messenger returned, the gate was opened, and Dorothy re-entered, defeated, but bringing her secrets back with her.
‘Tit for tat,’ said the marquis when she had recounted her adventures. ‘Thou and the roundhead are well matched. There is no avoiding of it, cousin! It is your fate, as clear as if your two horoscopes had run into one. Mind thee, hearts are older than crowns, and love outlives all but leasing.’
‘All but leasing!’ repeated Dorothy to herself, and the BUT was bitter.
CHAPTER LIV.
DOMUS DISSOLVITUR.
Scudamore was now much better, partly from the influence of reviving hopes with regard to Dorothy, for his disposition was such that he deceived himself in the direction of what he counted advantage; not like Heywood, who was ever ready to believe what in matters personal told against him. Tom Fool had just been boasting of his exploit in escaping from Raglan, and expressing his conviction that Dorothy, whom he had valiantly protected, was safe at Wyfern, and Rowland was in consequence dressing as fast as he could to pay her a visit, when Tom caught sight of Richard riding towards the cottage, and jumping up, ran into the chimney corner beyond his mother, who was busy with Scudamore’s breakfast. She looked from the window, and spied the cause of his terror.
‘Silly Tom!’ she said, for she still treated him like a child, notwithstanding her boastful belief in his high position and merits, ‘he will not harm thee. There never was hurt in a Heywood.’
‘Treason, flat treason, witch!’ cried the voice of Scudamore from the closet.
‘Thee of all men, sir Rowland, has no cause to say so,’ returned mistress Rees. ‘But come and break thy fast while he talks to thee, and save the precious time which runneth so fast away.’
‘I might as well be in my grave for any value it hath to me!’ said Rowland, who was for the moment in a bad mood. His hope and his faith were ever ready to fall out, and a twinge in his shoulder was enough to set them jarring.
‘Here comes master Heywood, anyhow,’ said the old woman, as Richard, leaving Lady at the gate, came striding up the walk in his great brown boots; ‘and I pray you, sir Rowland, to let by-gones be by-gones, for my sake if not for your own, lest thou bring the vengeance of general Fairfax upon my poor house.’
‘Fairfax!’ cried Scudamore; ‘is that villain come hither?’
‘Sir Thomas Fairfax arrived two days agone, answered mistress Rees.
‘Alas, it is but too sure a sign that for Raglan the end is near!’
‘Good morrow, mother Rees,’ said Richard, looking in at the door, radiant as an Apollo. The same moment out came Scudamore from the closet, pale as a dying moon.
‘I want my horse, Heywood!’ he cried, deigning no preliminaries.
‘Thy horse is at Redware, Scudamore; I carry him not in my pocket. I saw him yesterday; his flesh hath swallowed a good many of his bones since I looked on him last. What wouldst thou with him?’
‘What is that to thee? Let me have him.’
‘Softly, sir Rowland! It is true I promised thee thy liberty, but liberty doth not necessarily include a horse.’
‘Thou wast never better than a shifting fanatic!’ cried sir Rowland.
‘An’ I served thee as befitted, thou shouldst never see thy horse again,’ returned Richard. ‘Yet I promise thee that so soon as Raglan hath fallen, he shall again be thine. Nay, I care not. Tell me whither thou goest, and — Ha! art thou there?’ he cried, interrupting himself as he caught sight of Tom in the chimney corner; and pausing, he stood silent for a moment. ‘ — Wouldst like to hear, thou rascal,’ he resumed presently, ‘that mistress Dorothy Vaughan got safe to Wyfern this morning?’
‘God be praised!’ said Tom Fool.
‘But thou shalt not hear it. I will tell thee better if less welcome news — that I come from conducting her back to Raglan in safety, and have seen its gates close upon her. Thou shalt have thy horse, sir Rowland, an’ thou can wait for him an hour; but for thy ride to Wyfern, that, thou seest, would not avail thee. Thy cousin rode by here this morning, it is true, but, as I say, she is now within Raglan walls, whence she will not issue again until the soldiers of the parliament enter. It is no treason to tell thee that general Fairfax is about to send his final summons ere he storm the rampart.’
‘Then mayst thou keep the horse, for I will back to Raglan on foot,’ said Scudamore.
‘Nay, that wilt thou not, for nought greatly larger than a mouse can any more pass through the lines. Dost think because I sent back thy cousin Dorothy, lest she should work mischief outside the walls, I will therefore send thee back to work mischief within them?’
‘And thou art the man who professeth to love mistress Dorothy!’ cried
Scudamore with contempt.
‘Hark thee, sir Rowland, and for thy good I will tell thee more. It is but just that as I told thee my doubts, whence thou didst draw hope, I should now tell thee my hopes, whence thou mayst do well to draw a little doubt.’
‘Thou art a mean and treacherous villain!’ cried Scudamore.
‘Thou art to blame in speaking that thou dost not believe, sir Rowland.
But wilt thou have thy horse or no?’
‘No; I will remain where I am until I hear the worst.’
‘Or come home with me, where thou wilt hear it yet sooner. Thou shalt taste a roundhead’s hospitality.’
‘I scorn thee and thy false friendship,’ cried Rowland, and turning again into the closet, he bolted the door.
That same morning a great iron ball struck the marble horse on his proud head, and flung it in fragments over the court. From his neck the water bubbled up bright and clear, like the life-blood of the wounded whiteness.
‘Poor Molly!’ said the marquis, when he looked from his study-window — then smiled at his pity.
Lord Charles entered: a messenger had come from general Fairfax, demanding a surrender in the name of the parliament.
‘If they had but gone on a little longer, Charles, they might have saved us the trouble,’ said his lordship, ‘for there would have been nothing left to surrender. — But I will consider the proposal,’ he added. ‘Pray tell sir Thomas that whatever I do, I look first to have it approved of the king.’
But there was no longer the shadow of a question as to submission. All that was left was but the arrangement of conditions. The marquis was aware that captain Hooper’s trenches were rapidly approaching the rampart; that six great mortars for throwing shells had been got into position; and that resistance would be the merest folly.
Various meetings, therefore, of commissioners appointed on both sides for the settling of the terms of submission took place; and at last, on the fifteenth of August, they were finally arranged, and the surrender fixed for the seventeenth.
The interval was a sad time. All day long tears were flowing, the ladies doing their best to conceal, the servants to display them. Every one was busy gathering together what personal effects might be carried away. It was especially a sad time for lord Glamorgan’s children, for they were old enough not merely to love the place, but to know that they loved it; and the thought that the sacred things of their home were about to pass into other hands, roused in them wrath and indignation as well as grief; for the sense of property is, in the minds of children who have been born and brought up in the midst of family possessions, perhaps stronger than in the minds of their elders.
As the sun was going down on the evening of the sixteenth, Dorothy, who had been helping now one and now another of the ladies all day long, having, indeed, little of her own to demand her attention, Dick and Marquis being almost her sole valuables, came from the keep, and was crossing the fountain court to her old room on its western side. Every one was busy indoors, and the place appeared deserted. There was a stillness in the air that SOUNDED awful. For so many weeks it had been shattered with roar upon roar, and now the guns had ceased to bellow, leaving a sense of vacancy and doubt, an oppression of silence. The hum that came from the lines outside seemed but to enhance the stillness within. But the sunlight lived on sweet and calm, as if all was well. It seemed to promise that wrath and ruin would pass, and leave no lasting desolation behind them. Yet she could not help heaving a great sigh, and the tears came streaming down her cheeks.
‘Tut, tut, cousin! Wipe thine eyes. The dreary old house is not worth such bright tears.’
Dorothy turned, and saw the marquis seated on the edge of the marble basin, under the headless horse, whose blood seemed still to well from his truncated form. She saw also that, although his words were cheerful, his lip quivered. It was some little time before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak.
‘I marvel your lordship is so calm,’ she said.
‘Come hither, Dorothy,’ he returned kindly, ‘and sit thee down by my side. Thou wast right good to my little Molly. Thou hast been a ministering angel to Raglan and its people. I did thee wrong, and thou forgavest me with a whole heart. Thou hast returned me good for evil tenfold, and for all this I love thee; and therefore will I now tell thee what maketh me quiet at heart, for I am as thou seest me, and my heart is as my countenance. I have lived my life, and have now but to die my death. I am thankful to have lived, and I hope to live hereafter. Goodness and mercy went before my birth, and goodness and mercy will follow my death. For the ills of this life, if there was no silence there would be no music. Ignorance is a spur to knowledge. Darkness is a pavilion for the Almighty, a foil to the painter to make his shadows. So are afflictions good for our instruction, and adversities for our amendment. As for the article of death, shall I shun to meet what she who lay in my bosom hath passed through? And look you, fair damsel, thou whose body is sweet, and comely to behold — wherefore should I not rejoice to depart? When I see my house lying in ruins about me, I look down upon this ugly overgrown body of mine, the very foundations whereof crumble from beneath me, and I thank God it is but a tent, and no enduring house even like this house of Raglan, which yet will ere long be a dwelling of owls and foxes. Very soon will Death pull out the tent-pins and let me fly, and therefore am I glad; for, fair damsel Dorothy, although it may be hard for thee, beholding me as I am, to comprehend it, I like to be old and ugly as little as wouldst thou, and my heart, I verily think, is little, older than thine own. One day, please God, I shall yet be clothed upon with a house that is from heaven, nor shall I hobble with gouty feet over the golden pavement — if so be that my sins overpass not mercy. Pray for me, Dorothy, my daughter, for my end is nigh, that I find at length the bosom of father Abraham.’
