Читать книгу Barbara Winslow, Rebel - Ellis Beth - Страница 4

CHAPTER III

The Durford Manor House, which for many generations had been the home of the Winslows, was a low, rambling structure of grey stone, full of strange nooks and corners and curious hiding places. Part of the house dated back to the fifteenth century, and had sheltered fugitives from Bosworth field. It had witnessed many strange scenes during the years of the Civil War; many a Royalist had found refuge there, and it had been twice besieged. Here, in the great oak-panelled hall, Lady Elizabeth Winslow, grandmother of the present Sir Rupert, had entertained the Parliamentarian officers to supper while her husband was held prisoner in the neighbouring room, and after disarming their suspicions by her wit and gaiety, had eluded their vigilance and slipped out of her window when her guests had retired for the night, and ridden through the darkness to Taunton. Here she roused the townsfolk, and herself riding at their head had surprised the small force conducting her husband to Gloucester and rescued him just when all hope of escape seemed dead. Here Mistress Penelope Winslow, the proud beauty of the House, whose portrait, a stiff, lifeless shadow of the beauty which had set fire to all the hearts in the countryside, still hung above the stairs, had refused her twenty suitors and finally given her hand to a nameless Scotch soldier and ridden away with him to the wilds of his Highland home. Here Richard Winslow, that renowned soldier, had been brought after the battle of Worcester, the very remnant of a man, spared by the clemency of Parliament to drag out a weary existence in the house of his fathers, and dream what his life might have been had not a fatal shot left him at once blind, deaf and paralysed. Here Stephen Winslow, after impoverishing his house and risking his life for his sovereign, had eaten his heart out through long years of baffled ambition and bitter disappointment, learning the gratitude of kings.

The Winslows had ever been loyal to the Stuarts, giving all and asking little in return, and, though she would not for the world confess it, it had been a sore trouble to Mistress Barbara that her twin brother Rupert, the last representative of his line, should have chosen to cast in his lot with the usurper Monmouth and rebel against his lawful sovereign.

She had acquiesced, as she acquiesced in all he proposed, but her heart boded no good of the matter, and when the fatal battle of Sedgemoor had sent Monmouth to captivity and the block, and had made of her own brother a fugitive from home, in hiding she knew not where, she experienced anxiety and misery indeed, so far as her sunny hopeful nature would allow, but no surprise.

More than two weary months had passed since that fatal morning, but no news of the wanderer had reached the Manor House. From time to time her more humble neighbours crept back in secret to the village they had left so hopefully that bright morning in June when they went out to join one whom they believed to be the Heaven-sent defender of their faith and freedom. But they came back, alas! only to creep away again to some dreary hiding-place in moor or wood, for the village was watched by the soldiers and home could no longer offer safe refuge to the weary, despairing men. From time to time came rumours of the escape or capture of this or that follower of the Duke and terrible stories of punishment meted out by brutal judges; still no news of young Sir Rupert Winslow came to allay the anxiety of his sister or soften the hopeless misery of his young cousin Cicely, to whom he had been betrothed but three short weeks before his departure. But no suspense, however terrible, can last forever, and at length, early in September, the longed-for news arrived.

Mistress Barbara and her cousin were at breakfast in the sunny parlour of the Manor House, and the former had just sought to win a smile from the sad face of her companion by relating her adventure with Corporal Crutch in the village on the previous afternoon. When she ended her story Cicely looked up fearfully and shook her head.

"Indeed, Barbara, thou art too rash. Thou hast but made an enemy of the man, and God wot we have enemies enough already."

"Nay, prithee do not chide me," answered her cousin coaxingly; "the fellow can do us no harm. And indeed, Cicely, I must be merry sometimes, or I verily believe I should die."

"Merry!" exclaimed Cicely somewhat bitterly. "Ay, perchance thou canst be merry, Rupert is but thy brother; yet to me——"

"He is thy betrothed. Then truly by all showing I should be more distressed than thou. New lovers may be gotten by the score, but by no power could I win me another brother. Nay, dear, I did but jest, I meant not to vex thee," she added contritely, seeing her cousin's lip quiver unsteadily; "thou knowest my tongue runs ever faster than my brain, plague on it."

"Thou hast not vexed me, Barbara, only—— I would I had the secret of thy courage."

"Nay, thou hast courage enough, only somewhat too much thought. Were I to sit and dream all day of what evils might befall Rupert I should be as sad-eyed as thou art. But indeed no news is good news. The world is a good place, and I see not why one may not hope for happy days until sad ones befall us, eh!"

They were interrupted by the entrance of the waiting-maid. "I were loath to trouble ye, Mistress Barbara," she began, "but 'tis a zertain tiresome vellow, Simon the pedlar, who asks to show you his wares. To my thinking he hath nought worth a glance, and I had zent un about his bizness speedily; but a be a mozt stubborn fellow and will not depart until a zee ye. A zays a hath zomething of great value but a be a vellow will say aught to gain a hearing, I know un well."

Barbara's face brightened suddenly and she sprang eagerly from her seat.

"'Tis well, Phoebe, take the fellow in; I will come on the instant."

"Why, Barbara!" exclaimed Cicely in astonishment; "what would you with the man? Would'st plenish thy store of linsey or tapes that thou art so ready to see him?"

"An I dream not, Cis, he will have wares more precious than those."

"What!" cried Cicely with awakened interest. "Is it possible the fellow hath stuffs from London with him? I would willingly buy, an it be so."

Barbara laughed and pinched her cousin's chin. "Thou little vanity! Thou worshipper of gauds and ribbons!" she cried with much solemnity; "I verily believe thou would'st sell thy soul for two dozen yards of Genoa velvet. But come; we will see what he has to show us."

On entering the large wainscotted hall the girls found the pedlar standing in the embrasure of one of the windows, his pack tying unopened at his feet. He was an aged, wizened-looking creature upon whose face greed and cunning had laid their stamp.

Cicely eagerly eyeing the pack addressed herself to him with a slight air of hauteur.

"Well, fellow, where are your wares? Have you aught of rarity or value to show us?"

"Ay, that have I, mistress," he answered in a high-pitched grating voice, with an air of impertinent familiarity. "I have that here which will bring light to the dullest eye, a blush to the palest cheek, and joy to the saddest heart. 'Tis not over rare neither, yet 'tis ever held to be of the greatest value."

"Why what mean you? What should this be?"

"A letter, mistress! a love-letter I doubt not."

"A letter! From whom?"

"From one of whom your ladyship hath long wished to hear, and hath well-nigh heard from no more," he answered with a brutal laugh.

Cicely's eyes flashed, her whole body trembled with eagerness.

"Ah! give it me, give it me, my good man; why hast thou delayed so foolishly?"

"Softly, softly mistress," answered the fellow coolly. "Here is the letter sure enow," drawing a small white packet from his valise—"And 'tis from Sir Rupert." Here he showed the direction. "But first give me my price."

"Oh yes, thou shalt be paid, never fear," cried Cicely with increasing impatience. "Now give me the packet."

"Not so fast, mistress," he answered curtly; "I yield not up this packet before I see my reward."

"Oh! you foolish fellow! name your price then."

"Five hundred crowns," he answered coolly.

"Five hundred crowns," cried Cicely in horror; "why, man, thou art mad, I have not such a sum."

"Mad or no, that is my price."

"But I could not pay thee such a sum; you are a very extortioner, you wicked fellow."

"Listen to me, mistress," interrupted the pedlar roughly; "and be not so glib with thy tongue; hard words win no favours. I know nought of politics, and Sir Rupert may hang twenty times for all I care. All I know is that this letter is worth my price, and if ye will not pay it there be others not a mile away who will be right willing to buy the information it contains."

"Ah, sure you could not be so cruel," began Cicely piteously, but Barbara intervened.

"Peace, Cicely, let me deal with the fellow. Now, my man," she continued, turning on him sharply, "we will give thee twenty crowns for that letter and not a penny more, dost hear me?"

"Oh, ay, mistress, I hear thee," drawled the pedlar jeeringly. "Well, 'tis but a small matter after all, 'tis but one more job for Tom Boilman. I doubt not your ladyship hath heard the sentence of these rebels," he continued turning to Cicely; "'Tis hanging, drawing and quartering for them all. Oh, I warrant me they'll spare no toil to give Sir Rupert a worthy death. He'll have music in plenty for his last dance, and in case he find the hanging wearisome they'll cut him down and cut him up before he chokes." He laughed brutally at his joke and added coolly, "Maybe he'll live long enough to feel the boiling pitch, they say some of them have done so, and Sir Rupert is hardy enow."

Cicely covered her face with her hands and sank shuddering to the ground.

"Oh! Barbara, Barbara, what can we do?" she sobbed, while the pedlar laughed once more.

"Plague take the man," muttered Barbara in desperation; "what could Rupert be doing to trust in such a rogue! Well, something must be done, but what?"

She looked round for inspiration and her glance rested on a long rapier which lay on the central table. She turned again to the pedlar and her eyes gleamed with excitement and triumph.

"He is but a poor creature," she muttered, "and by his face he should be but a coward. I can but try it."

"Well, mistress," continued the fellow harshly, "am I to offer the letter for sale down at the Winslow Arms yonder?"

"No, my man," answered Barbara calmly, "for an ye will not deliver it fairly I purpose to take it myself." So saying she stepped aside, picked up the rapier and raised the point full at the breast of the pedlar.

The cunning smile died from the man's face and he looked doubtfully from the shining blade to the resolute face of the girl.

Barbara watched him with a cheerful smile. "I fear me, fellow, you have made a sad mistake," she remarked coolly, "an you deemed you could act the bully undisturbed. We be two women, 'tis true, but not defenceless, as you will soon learn an you try to resist, for I can wield a rapier as well as any man; Cicely, reach me hither yonder pistol; 'tis loaded? Yes. Now my man, the letter, if you please."

This turn of events was totally unexpected by the pedlar. He half-doubted the girl's threat, but few such men as he would care to risk a rush against a loaded pistol and a rapier wielded by a resolute hand. He made an attempt to snatch the rapier but the girl easily fenced his attempt, and the rapidity of her disengagement showed him that her boast of skill had been no idle threat. Barbara stood betwixt him and the door, the window was closed, he could see no way of escape.

After a moment or two of hesitation during which Barbara watched him breathlessly, he decided on a prudent course; placed the letter on the window-seat and answered sulkily:

"There is the packet then, give me the twenty crowns and let me go."

"Not so, friend," answered Barbara sweetly. "The Winslow Arms is still conveniently near, and I have not so low an estimate of your cunning as to doubt your knowledge of the contents of yonder letter. We must keep you here a little space. Oblige me by mounting those stairs."

The hawker made a step forward, only to find the point of the rapier against his breast, and seeing resistance to be useless he turned with a muttered curse and commenced to climb the wide staircase. Barbara followed him, the sword in her right hand, the pistol in her left, for being thoroughly skilled in the use of the rapier she felt more confidence in that weapon than in the pistol, which latter aroused in her as in many of her sex feelings rather of doubt and suspicion than of confidence, in fact she carried it but to give an air of greater resolution to her action.

"What a grace it is to be firm of countenance," she chuckled to herself as she slowly followed her victim. "The poor fool! and he did but know how my heart trembles, for in truth, if he resists, I could not hurt him. If I did pink him with my rapier 'tis very like I should but faint at sight of his blood, but he is too great a coward to attempt it. What a tale this will be for Rupert."

Now when either man or woman is embarked upon any hazardous undertaking 'tis but scant wisdom to indulge in triumphant rejoicing before the success of the enterprise be thoroughly assured. Had Barbara borne this in mind and given less rein to her hopeful imagination she had doubtless been better prepared for what followed. For as they approached the top of the stairway and she was hugging herself over the success of her bravado, the pedlar suddenly stumbled forward upon his face, slipped down two steps, striking his boots against the girl's ankles, and before she rightly realised what was happening had twisted himself backwards under the guard of her rapier, knocked up her arm and flinging her roughly aside he started down the stairs.

Barbara clutched at the balustrade to save herself from falling headlong, and in so doing dropped the pistol. The suddenness of the attack had completely shattered her nerve, she could do nothing save cling to the oak railing and gaze helplessly after the retreating figure of the pedlar.

As for Simon, he paused neither for his pack nor his letter, but made all speed to reach the open door of the hall, and he would assuredly have escaped unopposed but for the sudden intervention of an unexpected enemy.

He had already reached the threshold, and in another minute would have been free, when Cicely, with a sudden thought born of the very nearness of the danger, sprang to her feet and gave a shrill whistle. There was a low, fierce growl, a quick rush of feet.

"Down with him, Butcher, at him! at him!" cried Cicely, and the next moment the pedlar was pulled to the ground and struggling wildly with the enormous wolfhound which had answered his mistress's eager summons and now stood over Simon shaking and worrying him as if he had been a rat.

If the man's life were to be saved there was clearly no time to be lost, and the two girls hurried to the spot to interpose between the dog and his victim.

It was no easy task, for the dog was savage with fury, but at length Cicely succeeded in dragging him away, while Barbara fell on her knees beside the man anxiously inquiring of his injuries.

"Oh! I can trust thou art not greatly hurt," she gasped; "tho' in truth 'twere but thy deserts. Canst not speak, fellow? Nay, prithee what ails thee? Alack! I fear me Butcher has hurt thee sorely, and yet truly I would it were more. Indeed the dog should be chained, tho' I am right thankful he was free."

So she continued, torn between a woman's compassion for his overthrow and a deep sense of relief at their escape.

Meanwhile Cicely having somewhat pacified the indignant Butcher returned to the pedlar's side. She could not repress a smile as she listened to her cousin's contradictory outburst. She had no pity to spare for the man who had so threatened the life of her lover.

"Tut, Barbara! 'tis my belief the fellow is but little injured save in the loss of his garments," for the pedlar's coat was in rags. "Come," she continued, turning sharply to the man, "be thankful the dog has dealt so gently with you, 'twould not be so the next time an ye attempt to escape again. Up with you, fellow."

With many groans and heartfelt curses Simon struggled to his feet. As Cicely had suspected he was rather terrified than hurt, but the dog had shaken out of him what little courage he possessed. He turned without further attempt at resistance, and slowly mounted the stairs, followed once more by Barbara, who, having well-nigh paid dearly for her experience, did not relax her wariness until she had safely secured him in one of the upper chambers whence there was no possibility of escape.

This done she hurried down into the hall, where Cicely sat engrossed already in her letter, and burst into a merry laugh.

"Well done, Cis, well done," she cried, flinging herself down beside her cousin. "I vow thou art a very virago, but for thee he would have escaped. Alack! 'tis small use to have the wrist, eye, and skill of a man when one has but a woman's nerve. But what news, coz; what says the letter?"

"He is safe, he has reached the coast, and to-morrow will take sail in a vessel bound for Holland. He—— But I will tell thee the rest anon," answered Cicely somewhat hurriedly, and then passed into the garden still reading her letter.

"Plague take these lovers!" exclaimed Barbara, looking after her whimsically, "they are not too generous with their news. But now, how to rid me of yon same discontented gentle upstairs." She paused and bit her lip thoughtfully. "Ah! well, there is time for that; he is safe enough now, and belike a plan will suggest itself later."

Then she stretched her arms as though a great load were lifted from her shoulders, and laughed again softly.

"'Tis selfish to be happy when there be so many still in sorrow," she murmured. "But with Rupert safe again I cannot feel a care. All! 'tis a good world, a good world, and therefore," she cried, springing to her feet with a laugh, "I will go out and rejoice in it."

CHAPTER IV

The old-fashioned garden was the glory of the Manor House. Generations of flower-lovers had tended it year by year, and every nook and corner bore testimony to the loving care of its owners. As Barbara tripped along the trim box-edged paths between banks of hollyhocks and proud-faced dahlias and sweet clusters of late roses, she looked, in her soft blue gown, with her happy face and shining eyes like the very spirit of Hope just escaped from the box of Pandora, and meet to face and vanquish all the evils of the world. But when she emerged upon the lawn and came in sight of the grey stone sun-dial she stopped short, for on the steps of the dial sat Sorrow herself in the person of Cicely, her head leaning forlornly against the stone pillar, her eyes streaming with tears, her hands clasped and her breast convulsed with bitter sobs.

The laughter died out of Barbara's face, and was replaced by a look of the utmost astonishment and desperation.

"Now may I be forgiven, Cicely, an thou beest not the most ungrateful girl in Christendom," she exclaimed reproachfully. "Shame on you to sit there weeping like a very fountain, when thou shouldest be glad and thankful at Rupert's escape."

"Ah, indeed, Barbara! I am thankful, but——"

"Nay, then Heaven preserve me from such a melancholy display of thankfulness," responded Barbara drily. Then seating herself beside her sobbing cousin she continued coaxingly, "Come, tell me what ails thee, Cicely. Thou sayest Rupert has reached the coast in safety and to-morrow will take ship for Holland where he will wait until we can make his peace with the King. Is it not so? I confess I see no great cause for tears in news such as this."

"Ah, Barbara, 'tis different with thee, Rupert is only thy brother."

"Well, and were he ten thousand times thy sweetheart, I still cannot see why thou shouldest weep at his escape."

"Thou dost not listen, Barbara," answered Cicely somewhat petulantly. "I thank Heaven for his safety, but, oh, Barbara! I cannot let him go without seeing him once more, just once; and he says likewise he will not go without seeing me. Bethink you, we may not meet for years, and so he being but ten miles distant, he purposes to ride over to-night and bid farewell; and so I must weep, Barbara, for if he comes he will assuredly be taken, and if he comes not I shall assuredly die."

Barbara sprang to her feet with a gesture of despair.

"Now a plague on you both for a pair of mad lovers. He cannot come here, 'tis madness. Thou knowest, Cicely, the house and roads are watched night and day by these scarlet-coated, scarlet-faced troopers, and they say yonder dark-visaged captain of theirs is a very dragon of vigilance. 'Tis clear they deem such a visit likely, seeing how closely they watch our movements; 'twere fair courting capture if Rupert came."

"I know the risk well enow. But, oh, Barbara, I cannot live another day without seeing him. Ah, to feel he is so near, so near, and I may not see him, feel his hand, hear his voice. Oh! I cannot endure it," and leaning her head once more against the cold stone pillar of the dial, she burst into a passion of sobs.

Barbara regarded her with an expression of helpless bewilderment.

"'Tis passing strange," she murmured. "Come, Cis, I am Rupert's self in face and figure. I will kiss and cozen thee and call thee pretty names to thy heart's content; why may not that suffice thee?"

In spite of her tears Cicely could not repress a smile at this strange offer of a substitute.

"'Tis very clear, Barbara, thou hast never loved."

"Truly no," was the frank rejoinder. "I know nought of the matter; it passeth my understanding altogether and indeed methinks it is but nonsense. Rupert is very well where he is and you shall see him in a year or two at most. What more can you wish tho' you were a thousand times in love. Come, Cis, dry thine eyes, and we will send to forbid him to come."

But Cicely only wept the more persistently.

"Ah! Barbara, thou hast no heart, I must see him once again, indeed I must. I must let him hold me in his arms, and feel him near me. Barbara, you do not understand, but I shall die if I may not see him. Sure thou couldst help me an thou wouldst. My heart will break else. Oh, Barbara! try to understand."

Barbara gave a sigh of sheer desperation, then yielded to her cousin's plea.

"'Tis stark madness, Cis," she cried; "but thou shalt have thy way. Only look cheerily and Rupert shall come. But now how to devise it." She clasped her chin in her hands and bent her brows in thought. "What said he in the letter?"

"Thou mayest read it, an thou wilt not laugh."

Barbara took the note and turned away to pace up and down the lawn lest her cousin should see the involuntary twitching of her lips as she read the tender epistle; it was so strange to her to think of Rupert writing thus—Rupert, who to her seemed the personification of boyish gaiety.

As she raised her head from perusing the note her attention was momentarily arrested by a rustling sound from within one of the large laurel bushes bordering the lawn and a strange shimmer behind the leaves. She stared at the bush a moment in surprise and then passed on towards the foot of the garden still deep in thought. Here she paused long, gazing into the stream which there flowed by the garden, her face wrinkled with anxiety and bewilderment as she puzzled her brain over the situation, her eyes darkened with a shadow, of fear.

Suddenly with a flash the inspiration came. Her bent brows relaxed, her eyes glanced mischievously, she gave a gasp at the very magnificence of the idea, and breaking into the gayest laughter she fairly danced back to her cousin, clapping her hands with delight.

"Cicely, Cicely," she cried, "never let it be said again that Barbara is a brainless madcap. I have conceived the properest plot, a very prince of plots. Thou shalt see thy Romeo to-night, my poor lovelorn Juliet, and I——faith! I will have the maddest prank that ever woman played." And flinging herself on to the grass, she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.

Cicely stared at her in undisguised astonishment.

"Barbara," she remarked solemnly, "I verily believe thou art mad."

"Thou wouldest say so indeed an thou knewest my plan."

"Come then, tell me."

"Not I," laughed Barbara. "Be thou content with thy beloved Romeo, and leave me my jest to myself."

"But, Barbara, I am afraid. What if the plan should fail!"

"Talk not to me of failure, Cis. There is a risk, I do not deny it; but," she continued, laughing, "if danger befall can we not fight our way out? Butcher is a mighty ally; I am well nigh as handy as Rupert with the rapier, and thou mightest perchance discharge a pistol or so, if it were possible to do so and cover thine ears at the same moment."

"In Heaven's name, Barbara, what have you in your mind?" cried Cicely in dismay.

"Fear nothing, coz; leave all to me. Listen, Peter the smith can always be trusted; he or little Jacky Marlow would carry our message to Rupert. If he start at twilight he should be here before ten. We can hide him——"

"Whist, Barbara!" interrupted Cicely softly, "didst not hear a rustle in yonder bush? Can anyone be in hiding there?"

"Tut, tut! thou trembler! Thou wouldest see a spy in every pansy face. 'Twas but a rat or a rabbit. Get thee in and send for Peter; I will write my note to Rupert."

"I know not why I trust you, Barbara," said Cicely doubtfully, "for thou art ever a madcap. But I must see him."

"Well so thou shalt, so thou shalt; now leave me alone to think."

Left alone by the sun-dial Barbara resumed her favourite attitude for thought, one foot tucked beneath her, her head bent, her chin resting upon her clasped hands.

She thought deeply. Twice or thrice she raised her head and laughed aloud suddenly, as though catching some new and entertaining idea. Once indeed her face grew grave and her eyes fearful, and she shuddered as she weighed the dangers before her, but presently with a laugh she banished the thought. Was she not a Winslow? and whenever was Winslow yet who let fear turn him from the path he chose to tread?

At length she drew paper and pencil from her reticule, and wrote a short note. Then gathering up her flowers she rose and walked towards the house.

As she passed the clump of laurel she paused and plucked a few sprigs, glancing sharply through the leaves the while; then with a laugh and a shake of the head she passed on.

But having passed, there lay behind her in the centre of the path two roses and the little white note which had slipped from her fingers to the ground.

No sooner had Barbara vanished from sight than the branches of the laurel were parted and a purple face peered cautiously out. The face was followed by the stout figure of Corporal Crutch, who crawled from behind the bush, pounced upon the paper, and with a low chuckle of delight disappeared with his prize, leaving the garden once again deserted.

CHAPTER V.

Corporal Crutch, having obtained possession of the coveted note, and seeing nothing more to be gained by remaining at his uncomfortable post, withdrew softly from the garden. Stealing into the adjoining coppice, he seated himself beneath the shady trees, mopped his brow and proceeded to decipher the letter, pausing occasionally to chuckle slyly and congratulate himself upon the unexpected success of his espionage.

The letter was written in a bold round hand, and ran as follows:

DEAR RUPERT.—Thou art indeed the very apostle of rashness, but seeing thou art resolved to venture here to bid Cicely farewell, 'twere waste of words to attempt to dissuade thee. Yet prithee think no shame to be cautious, for the risk is great; we are much suspected and the house and lanes are closely watched. But to-day I will convey a message to this worthy captain, as from a trusted informant, that it is thine intention to meet me at the Lady Farm. These troopers swallow any bait; 'twill go hard an they ride not thither on a wild goose chase. As for you, an you come with caution over the hill and down the stream (the boat is moored among the willows at the old place) you will surely escape them. Once in the garden thou art safe enough; they dare not show their faces there and they love not the copse at night, deeming it damp,—as assuredly it is,—and haunted,—as doubtless it may be. We will be on the watch for thee, and the old hiding place is ready, an it should be needed. Farewell, thou rash and lovelorn fool. Thy sister,

BARBARA.

"Ods zooks! here's a prize!" chuckled the corporal, tossing the paper in the air and catching it again in the very ecstacy of delight. "Ha, Ha! my pretty mistress, thou'lt sing a different tune ere I've done with thee to-night. Now what to do? What were best? The captain (curse him) is away to Spaxton wi' three o' the men, to search the Squire's papers; he'll not be back till nightfall. The better fortune that; I'll see to this business myself, and 'twill go hard an I have not this same 'rash and lovelorn fool' in my safe keeping ere day dawns. Now how to work it?" he mused. "It were easier had they but said where the fellow lies. Should I set one to follow her messenger, and so discover his hiding-place? Yet that were difficult, perchance dangerous; 'tis very like we would but be led astray; these peasants are cursedly untrustworthy, and monstrous shrewd. Or post men up the stream, and take him on the road? That, too, were risky. Perchance 'twere wiser to watch him into the house, and there trap him. Yes, by Jupiter!" he muttered excitedly, "trap him and trap them all. Two traitors are better than one, and if she be not judged traitor for thus harbouring rebels, may I dance to Kirke's music myself. Why, 'tis no less than Mistress Lisle lost her head for last week. Yes, it must be so. Ah! the pretty fool, wi' her prince of plots. She may plot, ay, and counter-plot, but she'll not out-plot Jonathan Crutch, I warrant me. But soft, who comes here?"

It was Peter Drew, the smith, from the village, who strode through the coppice on his way to the Manor House. He greeted the Corporal with a scowl.

"Good-day, fellow," began that worthy. "What do you up here?"

"My lawful business, which is more than you can say," growled the smith, and passed on towards the house.

"Hum! So yonder is her messenger," mused the corporal. "Well, let him pass, he'll lime our bird for us."

Then he arose, and cautiously resuming his post of observation within the laurel bush he tossed the note back into the garden. Scarcely had he done so when Barbara came down the garden, searching eagerly for the missing paper. Presently she espied it where it lay on the lawn, and picking it up she placed it carefully in her pocket and returned to the house, while the corporal chuckled again over his success.

Ten minutes later Peter Drew came into sight round a corner of the building. He led a sturdy pony by the bridle, and his right arm was firmly linked in the arm of the unfortunate hawker, who was helpless in the grip of the powerful smith, and with rage in his heart was forced to walk along apparently on terms of the greatest friendship with his companion. For behind them marched the wolfhound, and the hawker knew that at the least attempt to escape he would be given over at once to the mercy of this relentless foe. They turned in the direction of the smithy and soon disappeared from sight. Then all was quiet once more and the corporal, again extricating himself from the sheltering laurel, set off for the village to collect his men and make his dispositions for the evening.

He proceeded with the utmost caution. Two of his men he posted on the main road to Cannington, where a path turned off over the hill to the river, and two more some distance up the stream, that they might watch and follow Sir Rupert should he by chance elect not to visit the Manor House itself. These he instructed not to interfere with Sir Rupert, unless he showed signs of scenting a trap, but to allow him to reach his house unmolested. The remainder he ordered to conceal themselves in the plantation near the house, and after dusk at a signal from him quietly to surround the building. He enjoined on all the greatest caution in concealing themselves, and bade them take good note of all who entered or left the mansion, but not to prevent any or show themselves until he gave the signal.

This done he returned to the Winslow Arms and proceeded to fortify his spirits and strengthen his wits by a hearty meal, thanking his stars the while that Captain Protheroe's absence gave him the opportunity to direct the operations in his own way.

"If the matter were but left to the captain, there would be but little fear for Sir Rupert; he hath neither wit nor stomach for such a job. Like as not he would have left the women alone, to harbour what rebels they choose. I marvel how he hath already risen so high in favour, save that the general is always easy tempered. If the business had been in my hands alone, the fellow had been laid by the heels long since."

So mused the worthy corporal, as he devoured his dinner and complacently reviewed his crafty proceedings of the morning.

His meal and his meditations were alike presently cut short by the entrance of the host, who announced that a man stood without clamouring for instant permission to speak with the captain, or if that might not be, with the corporal of the troop.

"'Tis a most persistent fellow. He saith he hath information of great moment for your honour, but I'll not vouch for the truth of it; he is a pedlar by trade, and such have ever glib tongues," continued the host with some scorn.

The corporal started on hearing the man's message; but remembering that a part of Mistress Barbara's plan was to send a messenger to the captain he smiled cunningly and ordered that the pedlar be instantly admitted.

"'Tis some traitorous rogue she hath employed, I doubt not," he muttered, "and a daring fellow withal to venture thus into the net. 'Twere well that such an one be speedily laid by the heels."

Then the door opened and in hurried Simon, the Pedlar.

Breathless and eager, and glancing nervously over his shoulder the while, he ignored the curt greeting of the corporal and broke at once roughly into his story.

"'Tis concerning Sir Rupert Winslow," he began. "I have certain information to sell. I know where he lies hid and likewise whither he purposes to ride this very night. An it be not so, you may hang me for a lying rogue. Give me my price and I will deliver him over to you within three hours. But first I must see my reward."

Had the hawker's mind been in a less agitated condition, had he been less nervous of pursuit and interruption he had assuredly gone about his business in a more cautious manner; but so fearful was he lest even at the eleventh hour he might be prevented from driving his bargain that he failed entirely to note the effect of his words upon the corporal.

As for that self-complacent mortal, ever since the unceremonious entrance of the pedlar whom he instantly recognized as the smith's companion of that morning, his indignation had increased, until at the final rough demand for money, it overflowed in a furious burst of anger. Even had he believed the man honest, it is doubtful whether he would have listened long to one so utterly wanting in all the obsequious attentions which he considered due to his dignity, but convinced as he was that the fellow was no more than an impudent impostor, his rage knew no bounds.

Springing from his chair, and banging furiously with his fist upon the table he roared at the astonished pedlar, pouring forth upon him such a torrent of abuse and threats that Simon was terrified. In vain did the unfortunate pedlar attempt to remonstrate, in vain did he plead that his tale might be put to the proof, the corporal would hear no more, and before he could grasp the reason of this unexpected anger he found himself marched away between two troopers and securely locked into an upper chamber of the inn, where he was left to meditate in solitude upon his second unsuccessful attempt at bargain driving, and to curse the ill fate that had led him so to over-reach himself.

Then, with a pleasing sense of duty done and villainy outwitted, the corporal soothed his ruffled feelings with a cooling draught of cider, finished his dinner in peace, and departed once more to take up a position behind his well-tried laurel bush, whence he could survey at once the stream, the lawn, and the entrance to the house itself.

Ten minutes after his departure an anonymous note was left at the Inn for Captain Protheroe. The note lay unheeded on the table, but Barbara's mission had already been unwittingly fulfilled by the very man who sought to betray her.

CHAPTER VI

Time passed slowly for the corporal as he crouched wearily at his post.

The garden remained deserted. Late in the afternoon three maid-servants chattering gaily, he supposed at the prospect of an evening holiday, came out and set off for the village, calling back saucy messages to Phoebe Marlow, who, from the doorway disconsolately watched them depart. Then again all was silent.

The bright promise of the early morning hours was not fulfilled. The evening sky was heavy with clouds and dusk fell early. The corporal had changed his position a hundred times, had yawned and sighed, and even nodded once or twice before the longed-for hour arrived.

But at length, about ten o'clock, a light twinkled in one of the windows of the dark and silent house, and presently the soft swish of a paddle up the stream was audible.

The corporal held his breath and craned forward, looking and listening eagerly. He heard the dull thud of the boat against the bank, a paddle drop, soft footfalls on the lawn, and presently the dark figure of a man loomed into sight, and passed quickly toward the house.

But ere he reached the building, the door was flung wide and a woman appeared on the lintel with outstretched arms, crying loud, "Rupert! At last! At last!"

For an instant the figures stood revealed in the glare of light from the doorway, and the corporal noted a tall, slender youth with bright complexion and dark, curling hair, falling in love-locks to his shoulders, as Barbara had described him, herself in form and feature. Taking the woman into his arms, they passed into the house together, and the door was closed.

For a few moments the corporal waited cautiously, then as all remained quiet, he crept from his hiding-place and, cracking his fingers with delight at the success of his enterprise, gave the signal for his men to surround the house.

In five minutes they were posted to his satisfaction, so carefully that not a cat could escape unobserved, and having ordered them to let any enter who would (for he had as lief catch a dozen rebels as one), but to allow none to leave the building without his express command, he approached the entrance and delivered a thundering blow upon the door.

There was no answer. The echoes died away in the distance and the house remained silent as night.

He raised his arm for a second blow, when a light touch on the shoulder caused him to spring round in astonishment and fear, for his heart was already in his mouth with excitement and self-importance.

Behind him stood Captain Protheroe, regarding him grimly.

"How now, corporal?" demanded the captain sharply, "What is the meaning of this? I came riding down the lane when I find three troopers crouching by the gate yonder, for all the world like conies in their burrow, and I learn, forsooth, that you have surrounded this house and were even about to force an entrance. What warrant have you for this, and why was I not informed sooner of the matter? Must I again teach you, sirrah, that you take too much upon yourself?"

The corporal regarded him sulkily.

"There is a traitor within, captain," he muttered.

"Bah! another of your mare's nests, I make no doubt. What proof have you?"

"Proof enough and to spare," answered the corporal stoutly. "Witness my own eyes and ears," and he rapidly reported all that had passed. The captain's face hardened as he listened and he glanced sharply up at the house.

"Ah! it seems you are on the right track for once. But zounds, fool," he continued angrily, "why, in Heaven's name, didn't you trap him before he entered the house and leave the women-folk in peace? I warrant we'll have a bad business now. Dolt! Well, there is no other way now. Knock again and on with the work. 'Twill be a wretched business," he muttered with a shrug and a wry smile.

The corporal again knocked loudly, and after a considerable interval, footsteps were heard inside, and a voice demanded timidly who was there.

"Open at once, i' the King's name," roared the corporal.

"Marry, then, which king?" answered the voice, "there be so many kings nowadays."

"Open in the name of King James," was the angry answer.

"Now wherefore King James? King Monmouth was far better favoured," answered the voice.

"Zounds, fellow!" interrupted the captain angrily, "wouldest parley all day?" Then dealing a furious blow on the door, he shouted angrily:

"An ye open not instantly, I must break in the door."

"Beshrew me! Here's a gentle visitor!" was the answer, and then the door yielded to their pressure and the captain, followed by the corporal and three troopers, entered the house.

They paused, however, on the threshold, and Captain Protheroe muttered a despairing exclamation, for the hall was empty save for Mistress Barbara, who, dropping them a mocking curtsey, demanded gravely to what cause she owed the honour of such a visit.

Captain Protheroe quickly recovered his composure and bowed politely, mentally observing that never before had he done full justice to the girl's beauty, or fully realised the fascination that may lurk in soft dark curls trailing over a snowy forehead and nestling into the nape of a beautifully formed neck.

"It grieves me to be thus forced to intrude upon your privacy, Mistress Winslow," he began gently, "but I must obey orders. Methinks you need scarcely pretend ignorance as to the reason of my presence."

"Bless the man!" exclaimed Barbara cheerfully, "does he think his business is writ large on his brow? I assure you, sir, I know nothing whatever of the cause of such a visit."

Captain Protheroe raised his eyebrows.

"In that case, madame, I must inform you. I have certain knowledge that a fugitive has taken refuge in this house, and it is my intention not to leave the place until I have found him."

"A most laudable intention, sir, though I fear me it means that you will remain here for the rest of your natural life. But pray tell me, how long has it been the custom for an honourable gentleman to turn man-hunter?"

The captain reddened angrily.

"It is not a task I would gladly choose, madame, as you might know. But I am not here to discuss the virtue of my orders, I am here to search for this rebel."

"Then in Heaven's name go and search for him elsewhere. I assure you he is not here," exclaimed Barbara petulantly.

Captain Protheroe looked at her for a moment questioningly.

"Will you swear to me that such is the truth, madame?" he asked.

Barbara hesitated for a moment. Then she turned away impatiently and walked back into the room.

"Nay, an my word be not enough, I will swear nothing. Yet I assure you the man you seek is not here."

But even as she spoke the words, she stopped with a stifled cry, for in the centre of the floor lay a man's hat, stained and draggled, but serving, with its long plume and jewelled clasp, as an outspoken traitor to its master.

The captain's glance fell on the hat at the same moment, and he turned to Barbara with a questioning smile. But she had recovered herself in an instant. Walking coolly forward, she concealed the treacherous hat beneath her skirt, until with a dexterous movement she swept it out of sight under the table, while at the same time she unconcernedly (though a trifle breathlessly) repeated her former statement that the man they sought was not in the house.

Captain Protheroe, marvelling greatly at a woman's strangely discriminating sense of honour, which will permit her to assert a fact but not to swear to it, smiled at her statement and bowed politely.

"So be it, madame. Then nought remains save for me to order my men to commence the search at once, since you so resolutely refuse to give up the traitor. I am distressed to disturb you, but search I must."

"Marry! sir, then search," cried Barbara, with a sudden suspiciously hysterical laugh. "Perchance he lurks behind this curtain, or cowers beneath the table. Think you he is concealed in yonder snuff-box, or is hid beneath my petticoats? Prithee, search well, for there is no telling where the rogue may lie," and assuming a mock air of importance closely resembling that of the corporal, she commenced a solemn burlesque of the search, hurrying about the room, and carefully examining the most impossible hiding-places, while the captain bit his lip to prevent a smile, and the troopers watched her mimicry of their efforts with embarrassed indignation.

When she had concluded her tour of the room, Barbara turned to the astonished soldiers and remarked with mock solemnity:

"You see, I am correct, he cannot be here."

"We are deeply indebted to you for this entertainment, madame," interrupted the captain with grave politeness. "Now we will commence the search in earnest."

The laughter died from Barbara's face, and a strange hunted look crept into her eyes. She glanced round helplessly, as though seeking means of escape, then casting a pleading glance at the captain, she said in a trembling voice:

"If you still persist in your error, you must e'en do as you list," and with a low sigh she turned away and sank wearily into a chair.

Captain Protheroe gave the necessary orders and the corporal and troopers departed on their errand. Then he turned doubtfully towards the girl.

"I am very sorry for this intrusion, Mistress Barbara," he said gently. "My corporal, who is but a blundering fellow, made these dispositions while I was away, otherwise, be assured, I should have taken the fellow before he entered your house."

"Yes, that would have been far easier for you," she answered calmly.

"For you, madame," he corrected her, smiling. "May I hope I am forgiven for thus doing my duty?"

Barbara directed upon him a beaming smile.

"Why, as to that, sir, 'tis I who must crave forgiveness for my inhospitality. I' faith, seeing he is not here, I know not why I should be so angry at your visit, I should rather pity such a wild-goose chase. Is it not so?"

"If he were not here, Mistress Barbara, we should deserve no pity, our intrusion would be quite unpardonable."

"But I have told you that he is not here," she answered eagerly.

"True. And I have told you that he is."

Her lips trembled at his resolute tone, and she turned away her head. But in a moment she answered brightly:

"'Tis clear, sir, this is a most unprofitable subject for discussion, seeing we shall never agree. Time must show who is in the right. In the meantime we will conclude the matter thus: If he be here, the worse for him; if he be not here—why, the worse for you. What say you now?"

"Madame, your argument is unanswerable."

"Then hence with argument, hither with supper. Come, captain, we'll sign a truce for the nonce. If I mistake not, you have had a long ride and spare rations this evening. You are well come. I was about to sup when you interrupted me, so while your men search the house, you shall bear me company. You refuse? Why, what fear you? The house is surrounded, not a creature can escape," she continued bitterly, "and you need not fear lest the wine be drugged or the meat poisoned, for I, too, intend to partake of them."

"Ah, madame, those are not the dangers I fear." He shook his head, with a smile.

"What, then?"

"Look in your mirror, Mistress Barbara, perchance you will understand."

Barbara gave a sudden, laugh of pleased amusement.

"Nay, sir, I protest I have no desire to bewitch you," she answered with a bright blush.

"Then, madame, why do you look at me?" asked the captain, and his eyes said more.

Again the dimple deepened and again the lips curved into a smile. Captain Protheroe detected himself watching for that dimple with a quite inexplicable and, considering his errand, inexcusable eagerness.

"Methinks the conversation is astray upon a bye-path," she answered demurely; "let us return to the high-road. I am dying of hunger, and 'tis but dreary to sup alone. Will you not join me?"

As Captain Protheroe had tasted no food since early morning, the offer was too tempting to be refused.

"Madame, you overwhelm me with kindness," he answered.

She led him to the upper end of the hall, where a table was already laid with three covers.

"Do you always sup in company with two empty chairs, madame?" he asked quizzically.

Barbara flushed crimson and hesitated.

"I—I expected friends, sir," she stammered. Then recovering, she darted a bright glance at him and continued. "And you see my expectations have been fulfilled, for are you not come?"

"Does not another lady dwell here with you?" he queried indifferently.

"Yes—my cousin, Lady Cicely Winslow. But she—she is out," stammered Barbara again nervously.

"Ah! so she is sharing the fellow's hiding-place," muttered the captain to himself. "A piece of folly only possible in a couple of lovers."

Throughout the meal Barbara laughed and chatted gaily, evidently exerting all her efforts to entertain her guest. She led him on to tell strange stories of his adventures and his travels, to which she listened with that eager interest and open admiration of his doings, so dear to the heart of man; she made him laugh heartily at her quick jests and saucy answers, and ever and anon as she talked she raised her dark lashes, and turned upon him the full depths of her wonderful eyes.

But Captain Protheroe was not altogether unversed in the ways of women, and though he enjoyed to the full the pleasant companionship of her manner, and drank deep of her beauty, he was in no wise mindful to allow her charms to turn his thoughts from the matter in hand.

And as he watched her carefully, he noted how from time to time she would break off abruptly in the middle of a sentence and listen anxiously to some distant sound in the house, while the smile died from her face, and her eyes widened with fear. She twisted her fingers nervously together as she talked, and her laugh was high and shrill.

"She plays her part admirably," he muttered to himself, "but she should not show her eyes."

"'Tis strange how falsely that base churl Rumour reports," he began, when Barbara paused once to listen anxiously to the movements of the searchers overhead. "Now concerning you, madame, methinks he hath totally misspoken."

"Why, what saith Rumour concerning me?" questioned Barbara with interest.

"In the first place," he continued, eyeing her steadily, "he reports that you are fearless both of men, mice, and devils."

"And what then?" she asked, her eyes flashing proudly.

"Why, I say he is a lying fellow, for I see you are as timid as—as a woman."

"I, sir, timid!" she cried indignantly.

"Aye, madame, you start and tremble at every sound."

"Nay—I assure you—I—I do not so," she stammered, trembling with eagerness. "Why, wherefore should I tremble."

"Nay, I know not, madame. Save as the poet saith—'A guilty conscience——'"

"I thank you for the suggestion, sir," she answered with a faint smile. "I will consult my conscience."

There was a pause, the silence broken only by the distant movements of the searchers.

"Is there a ghost in the room, madame," asked Captain Protheroe suddenly.

Barbara started violently.

"A ghost, sir?" she exclaimed.

"Aye, a ghost. I saw you staring at the wall behind me with so horrified an expression, methought you beheld an apparition at least, peeping over my shoulder."

Barbara dropped her head and bit her lip.

"'Twas but my own thoughts. There is nothing else."

Captain Protheroe wheeled round in his chair, and stared thoughtfully at the full-length portrait of an old Winslow knight in armour which confronted him.

"Now what is there in this same old gentleman (for I trust 'twas not my appearance that had such a horrifying effect upon you), what is there here to terrify you?"

"Nothing, sir, I assure you," repeated Barbara faintly.

"Yet there is certainly a strange look about this portrait," he mused. "There is a glint in his eye that mislikes me. One might almost believe," he continued, turning towards her, "that he hid some secret behind that fixed countenance."

Barbara stared at him a moment with terrified face, then she rose abruptly from the table.

"I—I wish you would leave me, sir," she answered curtly.

"That is a hard saying, madame," he exclaimed in mock astonishment. "Did not yourself bid me to supper?"

"Yes. But I am weary of you and now I bid you go."

He laughed quietly.

"That is easily said, madame, but not so easily answered. I may not——"

He was interrupted by a hurried knock at the outer door.

Barbara gave a slight scream and ran across the hall, but Captain Protheroe was at the door before her.

"Pardon me, madame, I must see to this," he said sternly.

He flung the door wide, standing himself in its shadow, and Peter Drew, the smith, rushed quickly into the hall.

"Ah, Mistress Barbara," he exclaimed breathlessly, not noticing her sign to him to be cautious, "the villain hath escaäped me, and I can't faind no traäce of un anywhere."

"Very much my case, my friend," interrupted the captain, shutting the door quickly, and confronting the astonished smith with a quiet smile. "But what may be the name of this same escaped villain?"

Peter gasped at him stupidly.

"Come, fellow, out with it," cried the captain sharply.

The smith glanced at Barbara and shook his head.

"I don't know," he muttered sulkily.

Captain Protheroe turned to Barbara.

"May I—er—advise you, madame, to order this reluctant henchman of yours to be more speedy in his replies."

"You may tell the captain all you know, Peter," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Methinks 'twill not greatly enlighten him."

"'Tweren't nobbut a certain hawker, your honour. Her ladyship bid me keep un zaäfe till marnin' zo I fastened un oop zafe i' my farge. But when I were awai—er—awai on my biznez thicey marnin' my waife, plague on a meddlezome fingers, zay I, muzt needs oppen door, to zee, forzooth, whai it were zhut, and zo the fellow hath vled."

"Good! Why was this hawker to be thus secured?"

"He had angered me, sir," interrupted Barbara haughtily.

"Ah! summary justice, madame," answered the captain, laughing. "But hardly, methinks, within the measure of the law."

"I care nought for the law."

"So I can well believe. But come, I must know a little more concerning this hawker."

"That you cannot, sir," answered Barbara calmly. "For the simple reason that Peter knows no more, and I, who do know, do not purpose to tell you."

Captain Protheroe hesitated a moment. Then he continued lightly, but eyeing Barbara steadily the while:

"Ah, well! 'Tis of small import. Doubtless it will not be difficult to find the fellow himself and learn all I wish from his own lips."

Barbara's face grew suddenly white.

"Yet another man to search for," she exclaimed lightly, but with a strange hoarseness in her voice. "I' faith, captain, yours is no easy post. It must indeed be a wearisome life to seek and seek for that which like the philosopher's stone, is never to be found."

They were startled by a sudden clamour which arose in a distant part of the building, the clatter of pans and dishes, the angry shouts of the men, and above all the shrill voice of a woman pouring forth a torrent of furious abuse.

"What in the devil's name——" began the captain, striding across the room.

"Oh! 'tis nothing," interrupted Barbara coolly. "Your men have doubtless encountered my waiting-woman, Phoebe. She is somewhat hot and hasty in her humour and—I am sorry for them."

As she spoke the door was flung open and the corporal rushed angrily into the room. He was a miserable sight to behold. His head was saturated with greasy broth which dripped from the ends of his scrubby hair and beard and trickled down his rubicund countenance; he was covered from head to foot with flour and dust, and he held his hand pitiably to his temple where a large bump, the size of an egg, was rapidly rising, to embellish his appearance.

Behind him marched Phoebe, weaponed with a besom, her face blazing with anger, her hair dishevelled, and her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, showing the brawny arms of this amazon.

At sight of this couple, Barbara fell back into a chair, and laughed till her eyes filled with tears.

"My poor Sir Knight of the Whipcord," she gasped. "What hath befallen thee? Ah me, Phoebe, but thou art a very dragon!"

"A very devil," spluttered the corporal.

"Devil in thy teeth, fellow!" cried the enraged waiting-woman. "Mistress Barbara, what think ye? this fellow hath tramped through every hole and corner of the house; he hath rent the hangings, broken the chiny, forced open the closets, and made the place a very desolation. And then—then he was for trapesing into my kitchen, my kitchen that I had but just redd up, with his great muddy boots, to poke his nose into all my places, because, forsooth, he swears I have a man hid among the pots and pans! A man, indeed! The meddlesome fool! I warrant me 'tis no man, but the victuals that he is in search of."

"Patience, good Phoebe, patience," laughed Barbara. "As thou sayest ever, men are but fools and know no better."

"Humph! Mayhap they knew no better, but they know better now, I warrant. Though it repents me that I wasted the whole of a good basin of broth and a bag of flour i' the teaching of it."

Meanwhile Corporal Crutch, having mopped his brow, and beaten off much of his outer covering of flour, made shift to resume his customary air of pompous dignity.