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When I came into the hall next morning it was later than my usual hour for appearing before my uncle. I had slept ill during the first part of the night, and kept my bed late in consequence. During the night the weather had changed, and the sun was now shining brightly across the meadows and the garden outside our windows. My uncle, evidently relieved of his pain to some extent, sat at the table, breaking his fast, but there was no sign of Sir Jarvis Cutler.

“Thou art late, Dick,” says my uncle as I made my obeisance to him, “and Sir Jarvis is well on his way to Pomfret if a’ be not there already. In these times, lad, one must stir one’s self and be up and about.”

“I trust that your pain is relieved, sir,” says I, feeling glad that our guest had departed.

“Why,” he answers, stifling a groan, “’tis certainly somewhat abated, nephew, and I have made shift to walk with a stick from my own chamber. In these days”—this time the groan came in spite of his rare fortitude—“a man must not think as much of his own ills and aches as of his Majesty’s necessities. It behoves me, Sir Nicholas Coope, knighted by His Majesty’s father, to do my duty, nephew Dick—even as it behoves thee to do thine.”

“I trust, sir,” says I, “that you will not find me wanting in my duty to you.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, boy,” says he, with a keen look at me, “but I wish thou wouldst show a little more enthusiasm for the good cause. ’Od’s body, mightst ha’ been a crop-eared Anabaptist last night, by thy long face, instead of a Royalist gentleman!”

“Why, sir,” I rejoins, “to my mind there is no occasion for rejoicing at the prospect before us. It seems to me time for weeping and mourning rather than laughing and carousing. I see no pleasure in watching Englishmen slay Englishmen.”

“Thou art a curious dull dog, Dick,” says my uncle, giving me a queer look. “’Sdeath, man—why, when I was thy age it would have rejoiced me to see prospect of a broken head or two. But this is neither here nor there when there’s business to talk of. Touching this matter of the garrisoning of Pomfret for the king, Dick, I have promised Sir Jarvis that thou shalt fill the place which I should have taken myself. Thou shalt not go empty-handed, either, lad—thou shalt have a good horse and good money, and a man—Robin shall attend thee—he has a pretty knowledge of many things that will be useful to thee. As for the law, it must wait. Tis a pity, but we must do the king’s behests first of all.”

Now I was by that time in a tight corner, and felt myself fairly put to it. But into Pomfret Castle I would not go, and so there was naught for it but to say my say.

“With all respect, sir,” says I, “I humbly venture to disagree with you. I have no wish to volunteer under Sir Jarvis Cutler, or any other gentleman. I desire to prosecute my studies, and to further my own advantage, as you have always desired me to do. I have no taste for wars, and least of all for a war of this sort. So I beg you, sir, to permit me to return to my peaceful avocations, and do what I can with them until such time as peace may be mercifully vouchsafed to us again.”

Which was all most damnable hypocrisy, seeing that I was as much filled with desire for war as he himself, and as ardently wishful that my cause might triumph as he was that his might succeed. But ’twas pardonable, I think, for I did it to avoid giving the old man more pain than was necessary. If I had told him in so many words that I was leaving him to join the Parliamentarian army it had killed him, of a surety; to leave him under the impression that I was returning to my studies would only disappoint and grieve him.

He stared at me across the table, and I saw the veins swell in his forehead.

“’Od’s life!” he says. “I believe thou art naught but a tame cock after all. Do I understand thee, nephew, to refuse service to His Majesty, and to prefer thy stinking parchments and musty folios to the sword and pistol?”

“Infinitely, sir,” says I, lying harder than ever.

He got up from the table, gave a deep sigh, and hobbled over to his chair. I ran forward to help him: he pushed me away testily.

“Leave women’s work to women,” he says, giving me a spiteful look. “Lord! that thou hadst been a lass, and Alison French a man!”

“I am not the less a man because I am a man of peace, sir,” I answers, more damnably hypocritical than ever.

“Confound your cool manners!” says he, losing his temper. “’Od’s body, a pretty fellow you have turned out, setting yourself against the king’s interests! Now hark thee, nephew—either go to Sir Jarvis and take service under him as I desire, or else leave here at once and return to thy books and parchments: I’ll have no laggards dangling about my hall in time o’ war.”

“Dear sir,” says I. “I was about to ask your permission to return to Oxford this day. ’Tis still far from term time, but there is a professor there with whom I am anxious to continue my reading.”

“Aye,” he says, as if to himself. “Aye—oh, return at once! I could not abide to see thee playing with books when thou shouldst be practising fence.”

“Then I have your leave, sir?” I asks him, abusing myself inwardly for my deceit, now as it was for his own sake.

“Oh, take it, nephew,” he answers. “Take it, by all means.” He turned himself to the fire and tapped his stick impatiently on the hearth. “I am disappointed in thee, Dick,” he says, presently. “’Slife, what are all the young men coming to? Had it been Alison, now—what art loitering there for?” he screams. “Get thee ready, boy—get thee ready and go—go! We are going to have war and bloodshed—thou wilt faint if the scullery-wench gets her finger pricked!”

So it came about that within the hour my horse stood saddled and bridled in the courtyard and I was ready to depart. I went in to say farewell to my uncle and found him cold and ceremonious.

“I wish thee a safe journey, nephew,” says he. “When it will be possible to ask thee to visit me again is more than I can say, seeing that the times are so troublous. Hold—here is money in this purse—”

“Dear sir,” says I. “I am already furnished through your generosity, and shall want for nought yet awhile.”

He stared at me, and then returned the purse to his drawer, from which he took out a sealed packet.

“You ride south, nephew?” says he, “Be good enough to call at my brother French’s house as you go towards Doncaster, and deliver this letter to your cousin.” He put the packet into my hand. He looked at me narrowly. “By God, Dick!” he says, suddenly, losing his politeness, “I never thought to see the day when a Coope would run away from a bit o’ fighting. Get thee gone—get thee gone, boy!”

So I was perforce obliged to ride away from the Manor House leaving a wrong impression behind me. And yet, of two evils I think I chose the lesser one, for it was better that my uncle should believe me a coward, loving the peaceful occupations of art and letters more than the alarms of war, than that he should know me to be what he would have termed a renegade, a traitor, an enemy to God, king, and country. Nay, if he had known the true facts of the case I doubt if he would have allowed me to leave him at all—he would rather have sent me under strong guard to Pomfret Castle and bade Colonel Lowther deal with me for a rebel.

At the top of the hill over against Thorpe village I turned in my stirrups and looked back at East Hardwick. I saw the roof of the Manor House beyond the trees, and as I watched I caught the flutter of gay colours from the pole at its north gable. Sir Nicholas had caused to be hoisted the royal standard, in defiance, doubtless, of all the disaffected in those parts. It waved against the light breeze, and I looked at it again and at the roof beneath it ere I clapped spurs to my horse and went on towards the Barnsdale woods.

It was then drawing near to eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and though the roads were heavy because of the previous day’s rain, I had time enough and to spare, both in doing my uncle’s errand and in keeping my rendezvous with Matthew Richardson. As for the errand I had little pleasure in undertaking it, for my cousin Alison French and myself had never met in all our lives without falling out. She had the hot quick temper of all the French’s, and was as ready to give as she was to resent a sharp word. That, indeed, was the memory which I had retained of her since our last meeting, which was many years previously, she being then but a chit of a girl and I a boy of some twelve years. As I rode along I recalled one little incident in which both had played a part.

“As if,” quoth she, “I cared for a great lubberly boy like you! Why, there are lads in the village——”

“There are lasses in the village too!” said I, not to be outdone. “And half-a-dozen of them that are prettier than you.”

We were standing in Sir Nicholas’s kitchen-garden at the time, at a spot where Jasper had recently set down a row of raspberry canes. She snatched one of them up and began to belabour me soundly across head and shoulders, caring nothing where the blows fell. I remembered with a whimsical sense of humour that at first I had not known what to do, but that at last I had twisted the cane out of her little hands and broken it across my knee, whereupon she had burst into tears. In truth, she was a curious creature as a child, and I had little relish in the prospect of meeting her again, so I determined that if I came across some trusty servant in Francis French’s park, I would give him the packet and go on my way.

But as chance would have it, I had hardly just turned out of the highroad when whom should I light upon but Mistress Alison herself, going abroad with two great hounds, whom she kept to heel with a stout whip. Although I had seen naught of her for nine years I knew her again at once, for there was no mistaking the flash of her hawk’s eye nor the quick fashion in which she turned it on myself. But she had forgotten me, and at that I felt some natural pique, and resented her forgetfulness.

“Mistress Alison French?” says I, drawing rein at her side, and staring hard at her beauty as I swung my cap to the saddle bow.

“The same, sir,” says she, that quick glance of hers mixed with a little wonder. “But——” and then she recognised me. “Ah,” says she, “’tis Dick Coope! So you know me, Dick, although——”

“Although you have grown so monstrous handsome, cousin,” says I, a little rudely.

“’Tis just because you yourself are a proper-looking man that I did not recognise you,” she said with a frown. “You were as ungainly a boy as ever I saw, Master Richard, and I don’t think your manners are improved even now.”

I said naught, but sat staring at her. She had grown to a divine tallness, her figure was as plump and ripe as a woman’s should be, there was a rich colour in her cheeks, and a fine glossiness in her dark hair that was mighty taking. As for her mouth it was as sweet a morsel as a man could wish to taste, and I could see that if her eyes would melt they would put one in such a way as few women can—they were so full of that swimming roguishness that can become tender and alluring. Howbeit, she kept them hard enough at that time.

“And what brings Master Dick here?” asks she, fingering her whip.

“This packet, fair cousin,” says I, and handed her Sir Nicholas’s letter.

“From my uncle,” she says. “You give me leave to read it, cousin? I can ill bide delay of any sort.”

“’Tis reward enough,” says I teasingly, “to sit by and gaze on so much beauty.”

But at that she frowned heavily, and when she cut the silk and was fairly amongst the crabbed lines within, she frowned still more, and once I saw her white teeth close on the pretty nether lip and crush the blood out of it, whereby I guessed that Sir Nicholas had given her news that was none too sweet. And at last she folds up the sheet with a rustle and whips it into her breast, and looks at me with a glance that had made the great Turk himself shake in his shoes.

“So you prefer books to swords, Master Richard?” says she.

“Did I say so?” says I.

And for very love of sport I laughed mockingly. She drew herself up to her full height—egad! I had never seen aught so taking!—and her pretty mouth curled itself, while the rich colour flushed over her dark cheek.

“Good-day to you, Master Poltroon!” says she.

“Good-day to you, Mistress Spitfire!” says I.

And with mutual consent we turned our backs on one another. But I laughed long and loud as I trotted away to keep my tryst.

Chapter IITable of Contents

Of my Meeting with my Kinsman, Anthony Dacre, at the Wayside Inn—of my Further Adventures, my Disinheritance by Sir Nicholas, and my Doings with the Parliamentarians—and of my Employment on an Important Mission by General Oliver Cromwell.