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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Pigeon Pie
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6 *END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1905 A. R. Mowbray & Co. edition.
THE PIGEON PIE
by Charlotte M. Yonge
CHAPTER I.
Early in the September of the year 1651 the afternoon sun was shining
pleasantly into the dining-hall of Forest Lea House. The sunshine
came through a large bay-window, glazed in diamonds, and with long
branches of a vine trailing across it, but in parts the glass had
been broken and had never been mended. The walls were wainscoted
with dark oak, as well as the floor, which shone bright with rubbing,
and stag's antlers projected from them, on which hung a sword in its
sheath, one or two odd gauntlets, an old-fashioned helmet, a gun,
some bows and arrows, and two of the broad shady hats then in use,
one with a drooping black feather, the other plainer and a good deal
the worse for wear, both of a small size, as if belonging to a young
boy.
An oaken screen crossed the hall, close to the front door, and there
was a large open fireplace, a settle on each side under the great
yawning chimney, where however at present no fire was burning.
Before it was a long dining-table covered towards the upper end with
a delicately white cloth, on which stood, however, a few trenchers,
plain drinking-horns, and a large old-fashioned black-jack, that is
to say, a pitcher formed of leather. An armchair was at the head of
the table, and heavy oaken benches along the side.
A little boy of six years old sat astride on the end of one of the
benches, round which he had thrown a bridle of plaited rushes, and,
with a switch in his other hand, was springing himself up and down,
calling out, "Come, Eleanor, come, Lucy; come and ride on a pillion
behind me to Worcester, to see King Charles and brother Edmund."
"I'll come, I am coming!" cried Eleanor, a little girl about a year
older, her hair put tightly away under a plain round cap, and she was
soon perched sideways behind her brother.
"Oh, fie, Mistress Eleanor; why, you would not ride to the wars?"
This was said by a woman of about four or five-and-twenty, tall, thin
and spare, with a high colour, sharp black eyes, and a waist which
the long stiff stays, laced in front, had pinched in till it was not
much bigger than a wasp's, while her quilted green petticoat,
standing out full below it, showed a very trim pair of ankles encased
in scarlet stockings, and a pair of bony red arms came forth from the
full short sleeves of a sort of white jacket, gathered in at the
waist. She was clattering backwards and forwards, removing the
dinner things, and talking to the children as she did so in a sharp
shrill tone: "Such a racket as you make, to be sure, and how you can
have the heart to do so I can't guess, not I, considering what may be
doing this very moment."
"Oh, but Walter says they will all come back again, brother Edmund,
and Diggory, and all," said little Eleanor, "and then we shall be
merry."
"Yes," said Lucy, who, though two years older, wore the same prim
round cap and long frock as her little sister, "then we shall have
Edmund here again. You can't remember him at all, Eleanor and
Charlie, for we have not seen him these six years!"
"No," said Deborah, the maid. "Ah! these be weary wars, what won't
let a gentleman live at home in peace, nor his poor servants, who
have no call to them."
"For shame, Deb!" cried Lucy; "are not you the King's own subject?"
But Deborah maundered on, "It is all very well for gentlefolks, but
now it had all got quiet again, 'tis mortal hard it should be stirred
up afresh, and a poor soul marched off, he don't know where, to fight
with he don't know who, for he don't know what."
"He ought to know what!" exclaimed Lucy, growing very angry. "I tell
you, Deb, I only wish I was a man! I would take the great two-
handled sword, and fight in the very front rank for our Church and
our King! You would soon see what a brave cavalier's daughter--son I
mean," said Lucy, getting into a puzzle, "could do."
The more eager Lucy grew, the more unhappy Deborah was, and putting
her apron to her eyes, she said in a dismal voice, "Ah! 'tis little
poor Diggory wots of kings and cavaliers!"
What Lucy's indignation would have led her to say next can never be
known, for at this moment in bounced a tall slim boy of thirteen, his
long curling locks streaming tangled behind him. "Hollo!" he
shouted, "what is the matter now? Dainty Deborah in the dumps?
Cheer up, my lass! I'll warrant that doughty Diggory is discreet
enough to encounter no more bullets than he can reasonably avoid!"
This made Deborah throw down her apron and reply, with a toss of the
head, "None of your nonsense, Master Walter, unless you would have me
speak to my lady. Cry for Diggory, indeed!"
"She was really crying for him, Walter," interposed Lucy.
"Mistress Lucy!" exclaimed Deborah, angrily, "the life I lead among
you is enough--"
"Not enough to teach you good temper," said Walter. "Do you want a
little more?"
"I wish someone was here to teach you good manners," answered the
tormented Deborah. "As if it was not enough for one poor girl to
have the work of ten servants on her hands, here must you be mock,
mock, jeer, jeer, worrit, worrit, all day long! I had rather be a
mark for all the musketeers in the Parliamentary army."
This Deborah always said when she was out of temper, and it therefore
made Walter and Lucy laugh the more; but in the midst of their
merriment in came a girl of sixteen or seventeen, tall and graceful.
Her head was bare, her hair fastened in a knot behind, and in little
curls round her face; she had an open bodice of green silk, and a
white dress under it, very plain and neat; her step was quick and
active, but her large dark eyes had a grave thoughtful look, as if
she was one who would naturally have loved to sit still and think,
better than to bustle about and be busy. Eleanor ran up to her at
once, complaining that Walter was teasing Deborah shamefully. She
was going to speak, but Deborah cut her short.
"No Mistress Rose, I will not have even you excuse him, I'll go and
tell my lady how a poor faithful wench is served;" and away she
flounced, followed by Rose.
"Will she tell mamma?" asked little Charlie.
"Oh no, Rose will pacify her," said Lucy.
"I am sure I wish she would tell," said Eleanor, a much graver little
person than Lucy; "Walter is too bad."
"It is only to save Diggory the trouble of taking a crabstick to her
when he returns from the wars," said Walter. "Heigh ho!" and he
threw himself on the bench, and drummed on the table. "I wish I was
there! I wonder what is doing at Worcester this minute!"
"When will brother Edmund come?" asked Charlie for about the
hundredth time.
"When the battle is fought, and the battle is won, and King Charles
enjoys his own again! Hurrah!" shouted Walter, jumping up, and
beginning to sing -
"For forty years our royal throne
Has been his father's and his own."
Lucy joined in with -
"Nor is there anyone but he
With right can there a sharer be."
"How can you make such a noise?" said Eleanor, stopping her ears, by
which she provoked Walter to go on roaring into them, while he pulled
down her hand -
"For who better may
The right sceptre sway
Than he whose right it is to reign;
Then look for no peace,
For the war will never cease
Till the King enjoys his own again."
As he came to the last line, Rose returning exclaimed, "Oh, hush,
Lucy. Pray don't, Walter!"
"Ha! Rose turned Roundhead?" cried Walter. "You don't deserve to
hear the good news from Worcester."
"O, what?" cried the girls, eagerly.
"When it comes," said Walter, delighted to have taken in Rose
herself; but Rose, going up to him gently, implored him to be quiet,
and listen to her.
"All this noisy rejoicing grieves our mother," said she. "If you
could but have seen her yesterday evening, when she heard your loyal
songs. She sighed, and said, 'Poor fellow, how high his hopes are!'
and then she talked of our father and that evening before the fight
at Naseby."
Walter looked grave and said, "I remember! My father lifted me on
the table to drink King Charles's health, and Prince Rupert--I
remember his scarlet mantle and white plume--patted my head, and
called me his little cavalier."
"We sat apart with mother," said Rose, "and heard the loud cheers and
songs till we were half frightened at the noise."
"I can't recollect all that," said Lucy.
"At least you ought not to forget how our dear father came in with
Edmund, and kissed us, and bade mother keep up a good heart. Don't
you remember that, Lucy?"
"I do," said Walter; "it was the last time we ever saw him."
And Walter sat on the table, resting one foot on the bench, while the
other dangled down, and leaning his elbow on his knee and his head on
his hand; Rose sat on the bench close by him, with Charlie on her
lap, and the two little girls pressing close against her, all earnest
to hear from her the story of the great fight of Naseby, where they
had all been in a farmhouse about a mile from the field of battle.
"I don't forget how the cannon roared all day," said Lucy.
"Ah! that dismal day!" said Rose. "Then by came our troopers, blood-
stained and disorderly, riding so fast that scarcely one waited to
tell my mother that the day was lost and she had better fly. But not
a step did she stir from the gate, where she stood with you, Charlie,
in her arms; she only asked of each as he passed if he had seen my
father or Edmund, and ever her cheek grew whiter and whiter. At last
came a Parliament officer on horseback--it was Mr. Enderby, who had
been a college mate of my father's, and he told us that my dear
father was wounded, and had sent him to fetch her."
"But I never knew where Edmund was then," said Eleanor. "No one ever
told me."
"Edmund lifted up my father when he fell," said Walter, "and was
trying to bind his wound; but when Colonel Enderby's troop was close
upon them, my father charged him upon his duty to fly, saying that he
should fall into the hands of an old friend, and it was Edmund's duty
to save himself to fight for the King another time."
"So Edmund followed Prince Rupert?" said Eleanor.
"Yes," said Lucy; "you know my father once saved Prince Rupert's life
in the skirmish where his horse was killed, so for his sake the
Prince made Edmund his page, and has had him with him in all his
voyages and wanderings. But go on about our father, Rose. Did we go
to see him?"
"No; Mr. Enderby said he was too far off, so he left a trooper to
guard us, and my mother only took her little babe with her. Don't
you remember, Walter, how Eleanor screamed after her, as she rode
away on the colonel's horse; and how we could not comfort the little
ones, till they had cried themselves to sleep, poor little things?
And in the morning she came back, and told us our dear father was
dead! O Walter, how can we look back to that day, and rejoice in a
new war? How can you wonder her heart should sink at sounds of joy
which have so often ended in tears?"
Walter twisted about and muttered, but he could not resist his
sister's earnest face and tearful eyes, and said something about not
making so much noise in the house.
"There's my own dear brother," said Rose. "And you won't tease
Deborah?"
"That is too much, Rose. It is all the sport I have, to see the
faces she makes when I plague her about Diggory. Besides, it serves
her right for having such a temper."
"She has not a good temper, poor thing!" said Rose; "but if you would
only think how true and honest she is, how hard she toils, and how
ill she fares, and yet how steadily she holds to us, you would surely
not plague and torment her."
Rose was interrupted by a great outcry, and in rushed Deborah,
screaming out, "Lack-a-day! Mistress Rose! O Master Walter! what
will become of us? The fight is lost, the King fled, and a whole
regiment of red-coats burning and plundering the whole country. Our
throats will be cut, every one of them!"
"You'll have a chance of being a mark for all the musketeers in the
Parliament army," said Walter, who even then could not miss a piece
of mischief.
"Joking now, Master Walter!" cried Deborah, very much shocked. "That
is what I call downright sinful. I hope you'll be made a mark of
yourself, that I do."
The children were running off to tell their mother, when Rose stopped
them, and desired to know how Deborah had heard the tidings. It was
from two little children from the village who had come to bring a
present of some pigeons to my lady. Rose went herself to examine the
children, but she could only learn that a packman had come into the
village and brought the report that the King had been defeated, and
had fled from the field. They knew no more, and Walter pronouncing
it to be all a cock-and-bull story of some rascally prick-eared
pedlar, declared he would go down to the village and enquire into the
rights of it.
These were the saddest times of English history, when the wrong cause
had been permitted for a time to triumph, and the true and rightful
side was persecuted; and among those who endured affliction for the
sake of their Church and their King, none suffered more, or more
patiently, than Lady Woodley, or, as she was called in the old
English fashion, Dame Mary Woodley, of Forest Lea.
When first the war broke out she was living happily in her pleasant
home with her husband and children; but when King Charles raised his
standard at Nottingham, all this comfort and happiness had to be
given up. Sir Walter Woodley joined the royal army, and it soon
became unsafe for his wife and children to remain at home, so that
they were forced to go about with him, and suffer all the hardships
of the sieges and battles. Lady Woodley was never strong, and her
health was very much hurt by all she went through; she was almost
always unwell, and if Rose, though then quite a child, had not shown
care and sense beyond her years for the little ones, it would be hard
to say what would have become of them.
Yet all she endured while dragging about her little babies through
the country, with bad or insufficient food, uncomfortable lodgings,
pain, weariness and anxiety, would have been as nothing but for the
heavy sorrows that came upon her also. First she lost her only
brother, Edmund Mowbray, and in the battle of Naseby her husband was
killed; besides which there were the sorrows of the whole nation in
seeing the King sold, insulted, misused, and finally slain, by his
own subjects. After Sir Walter's death, Lady Woodley went home with
her five younger children to her father's house at Forest Lea; for
her husband's estate, Edmund's own inheritance, had been seized and
sequestrated by the rebels. She was the heiress of Forest Lea since
the loss of her brother, but the old Mr. Mowbray, her father, had
given almost all his wealth for the royal cause, and had been
oppressed by the exactions of the rebels, so that he had nothing to
leave his daughter but the desolate old house and a few bare acres of
land. For the shelter, however, Lady Woodley was very thankful; and
there she lived with her children and a faithful servant, Deborah,
whose family had always served the Mowbrays, and who would not desert
their daughter now.
The neighbours in the village loved, and were sorry for, their lady,
and used to send her little presents; there was a large garden in
which Diggory Stokes, who had also served her father, raised
vegetables for her use; the cow wandered in the deserted park, and so
they contrived to find food; while all the work of the house was done
by Rose and Deborah. Rose was her mother's great comfort, nursing
her, cheering her, taking care of the little ones, teaching them,
working for them, and making light of all her exertions. Everyone in
the village loved Rose Woodley, for everyone had in some way been
helped or cheered by her. Her mother was only sometimes afraid she
worked too hard, and would try her strength too much; but she was
always bright and cheerful, and when the day's work was done no one
was more gay and lively and ready for play with the little ones.
Rose had more trial than anyone knew with Deborah. Deborah was as
faithful as possible, and bore a great deal for the sake of her
mistress, worked hard day and night, had little to eat and no wages,
yet lived on with them rather than forsake her dear lady and the
children. One thing, however, Deborah would not do, and that was to
learn to rule her tongue and her temper. She did not know, nor do
many excellent servants, how much trial and discomfort she gave to
those she loved so earnestly, by her constant bursting out into hasty
words whenever she was vexed--her grumbling about whatever she
disliked, and her ill-judged scolding of the children. Servants in
those days were allowed to speak more freely to their masters and
mistresses than at present, so that Deborah had more opportunity of
making such speeches, and it was Rose's continual work to try to keep
her temper from being fretted, or Lady Woodley from being teased with
her complaints. Rose was very forbearing, and but for this there
would have been little peace in the house.
Walter was thirteen, an age when it is not easy to keep boys in
order, unless they will do so for themselves. Though a brave
generous boy, he was often unruly and inconsiderate, apt not to obey,
and to do what he knew to be unkind or wrong, just for the sake of
present amusement. He was thus his mother's great anxiety, for she
knew that she was not fit either to teach or to restrain him, and she
feared that his present wild disobedient ways might hurt his
character for ever, and lead to dispositions which would in time
swallow up all the good about him, and make him what he would now
tremble to think of.
She used to talk of her anxieties to Doctor Bathurst, the good old
clergyman who had been driven away from his parish, but used to come
in secret to help, teach, and use his ministry for the faithful ones
of his flock. He would tell her that while she did her best for her
son, she must trust the rest to his FATHER above, and she might do so
hopefully, since it had been in His own cause that the boy had been
made fatherless. Then he would speak to Walter, showing him how
wrong and how cruel were his overbearing, disobedient ways. Walter
was grieved, and resolved to improve and become steadier, that he
might be a comfort and blessing to his mother; but in his love of fun
and mischief he was apt to forget himself, and then drove away what
might have been in time repentance and improvement, by fancying he
did no harm. Teasing Deborah served her right, he would tell
himself, she was so ill-tempered and foolish; Diggory was a clod, and
would do nothing without scolding; it was a good joke to tease
Charlie; Eleanor was a vexatious little thing, and he would not be
ordered by her; so he went his own way, and taught the merry
chattering Lucy to be very nearly as bad as himself, neglected his
duties, set a bad example, tormented a faithful servant, and
seriously distressed his mother. Give him some great cause, he
thought, and he would be the first and the best, bring back the King,
protect his mother and sisters, and perform glorious deeds, such as
would make his name be remembered for ever. Then it would be seen
what he was worth; in the meantime he lived a dull life, with nothing
to do, and he must have some fun. It did not signify if he was not
particular about little things, they were women's affairs, and all
very well for Rose, but when some really important matter came, that
would be his time for distinguishing himself.
In the meantime Charles II. had been invited to Scotland, and had
brought with him, as an attendant, Edmund Woodley, the eldest son.
As soon as he was known to have entered England, some of the loyal
gentlemen of the neighbourhood of Forest Lea went to join the King,
and among their followers went Farmer Ewins, who had fought bravely
in the former war under Edmund Mowbray, several other of the men of
the village, and lastly, Diggory Stokes, Lady Woodley's serving man,
who had lately shown symptoms of discontent with his place, and
fancied that as a soldier he might fare better, make his fortune, and
come home prosperously to marry his sweetheart, Deborah.
CHAPTER II.
Walter ran down to the village at full speed. He first bent his
steps towards the "Half-Moon," the little public-house, where news
was sure to be met with. As he came towards it, however, he heard
the loud sound of a man's voice going steadily on as if with some
discourse. "Some preachment," said he to himself: "they've got a
thorough-going Roundhead, I can hear his twang through his nose!
Shall I go in or not?"
While he was asking himself this question, an old peasant in a round
frock came towards him.
"Hollo, Will!" shouted Walter, "what prick-eared rogue have you got
there?"
"Hush, hush, Master Walter!" said the old man, taking off his hat
very respectfully. "Best take care what you say, there be plenty of
red-coats about. There's one of them now preaching away in
marvellous pied words. It is downright shocking to hear the Bible
hollaed out after that sort, so I came away. Don't you go nigh him,
sir, 'specially with your hat set on in that--"
"Never mind my hat," said Walter, impatiently, "it is no business of
yours, and I'll wear it as I please in spite of old Noll and all his
crew."
For his forefathers' sake, and for the love of his mother and sister,
the good village people bore with Walter's haughtiness and
discourtesy far more than was good for him, and the old man did not
show how much he was hurt by his rough reception of his good advice.
Walter was not reminded that he ought to rise up before the hoary
head, and reverence the old man, and went on hastily, "But tell me,
Will, what do you hear of the battle?"
"The battle, sir! why, they say it is lost. That's what the fellow
there is preaching about."
"And where was it? Did you hear? Don't you know?"
"Don't be so hasty, don't ye, sir!" said the old slow-spoken man,
growing confused. "Where was it? At some town--some town, they
said, but I don't know rightly the name of it."
"And the King? Who was it? Not Cromwell? Had Lord Derby joined?"
cried Walter, hurrying on his questions so as to puzzle and confuse
the old man more and more, till at last he grew angry at getting no
explanation, and vowed it was no use to talk to such an old fool. At
that moment a sound as of feet and horses came along the road. "'Tis
the soldiers!" said Walter.
"Ay, sir, best get out of sight."
Walter thought so too, and, springing over a hedge, ran off into a
neighbouring wood, resolving to take a turn, and come back by the
longer way to the house, so as to avoid the road. He walked across
the wood, looking up at the ripening nuts, and now and then springing
up to reach one, telling himself all the time that it was untrue, and
that the King could not, and should not be defeated. The wood grew
less thick after a time, and ended in low brushwood, upon an open
common. Just as Walter was coming to this place, he saw an unusual
sight: a man and a horse crossing the down. Slowly and wearily they
came, the horse drooping its head and stumbling in its pace, as
though worn out with fatigue, but he saw that it was a war-horse, and
the saddle and other equipments were such as he well remembered in
the royal army long ago. The rider wore buff coat, cuirass,
gauntlets guarded with steel, sword, and pistols, and Walter's first
impulse was to avoid him; but on giving a second glance, he changed
his mind, for though there was neither scarf, plume, nor any badge of
party, the long locks, the set of the hat, and the general air of the
soldier were not those of a rebel. He must be a cavalier, but, alas!
far unlike the triumphant cavaliers whom Walter had hoped to receive,
for he was covered with dust and blood, as if he had fought and
ridden hard. Walter sprung forward to meet him, and saw that he was
a young man, with dark eyes and hair, looking very pale and
exhausted, and both he and his horse seemed hardly able to stir a
step further.
"Young sir," said the stranger, "what place is this? Am I near
Forest Lea?"
A flash of joy crossed Walter. "Edmund! are you Edmund?" he
exclaimed, colouring deeply, and looking up in his face with one
quick glance, then casting down his eyes.
"And you are little Walter," returned the cavalier, instantly
dismounting, and flinging his arm around his brother; "why, what a
fine fellow you are grown! How are my mother and all?"
"Well, quite well!" cried Walter, in a transport of joy. "Oh! how
happy she will be! Come, make haste home!"
"Alas! I dare not as yet. I must not enter the house till
nightfall, or I should bring danger on you all. Are there any
troopers near?"
"Yes, the village is full of the rascals. But what has happened? It
is not true that--" He could not bear to say the rest.
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