Books: The Pigeon Pie
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Pigeon Pie
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"Patience, Deb," said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. "No
more toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard
words, and no wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and
horse, your own. See here, Deb," and he held up a piece of money.
"Silver!" she exclaimed.
"Ay, ay," said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, "and there be
plenty more where that came from."
"It is the price of Master Edmund's blood."
"Don't ye say that now, Deb; 'tis all for you!" he answered, thinking
he was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to
perceive the difference between her real indignation and perpetual
scolding.
"So you still have the face to tell me so!" she burst out, still more
vehemently. "I tell you, I'd rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose,
if they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue
like you. Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for
not a boy in Dorset but will cry shame on you."
"But Deb, Deb," he still pleaded.
"You will have it, then!" And dealing him a hearty box on the ear,
away ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood
gaping and astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the
coins on his hands and knees.
Suddenly a voice exclaimed, "How now, knave, stealing thy mistress's
goods?" and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a
formidable halberd, stood over him.
"Good master corporal," he began, trembling; but the soldier would
not hear him.
"Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine
halberd about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight
of Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart." Here Diggory
judged it prudent to slink away through the back door. "And so,"
continued the Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his
pouch, "and so the gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the
righteous!"
In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to
Walter's bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside
the door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round
with a gesture of rage and despair. "The villains! the rogues! To
be betrayed by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life.
O Edmund, Edmund!"
"It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance," returned
Edmund. "Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given
remarkable proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no
attachment for me; but I should have thought my mother's gentle
kindness must have won the love of all who came near her, both for
herself and all belonging to her."
A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in
silence, then suddenly exclaimed, "The surly rascal! I verily
believe it was all spite at me, for--"
"For--" repeated Edmund.
"For rating him as he deserved," answered Walter. "I wish I had
given it to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,"
added he, hesitating, "perhaps if I had been civiller--"
"I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue," said
Edmund, smiling.
"It is what my mother is always blaming me for," said Walter; "but
really, now, Edmund, doesn't it savour of the crop-ear to be picking
one's words to every rogue in one's way?"
"Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from
France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we
are cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low.
You should see our young King's frank bright courtesy; and as to the
little King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old
poissarde in the streets."
Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if
consoling himself, "He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue,
whom hanging is too good for."
"Don't let us spend our whole night in abusing him," said Edmund; "I
want to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each
other."
"O, Edmund! you don't mean--they shall not--you shall escape. Oh! is
there no way out of this room?" cried Walter, running round it like
one distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would
shake it down.
"Hush! this is of no use, Walter," said his brother. "The window is,
I see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape."
Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.
"For one thing I am thankful to them," continued Edmund; "I thought
they might have shot me down before my mother's door, and so filled
the place with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me
time for preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of
losing me."
"Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!"
"I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince
Rupert's."
Walter squeezed his hands fast together. "And how--how can you?
Don't think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never--"
"Never, I am sure," repeated Edmund.
"But when that base Puritan threatened me just now--perhaps it was
foolish to believe him--I could answer him freely enough; but when I
thought of dying, then--"
"You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have,
Walter," said Edmund; "nor have you led so wandering and weary a
life."
"I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die," said
Walter.
"Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge
we must meet," said Edmund; "but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows
that it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to
death. We may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that
He will grant us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But
it is late, Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may
come to-morrow."
Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both
sorrowful and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily,
following what he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate
prepared for him, and at the same time sensible of shame at having so
far fallen short of all he had hoped to feel and to prove himself in
the time of trial. He had been of very little use to Edmund; his
rash interference had only done harm, and added to his mother's
distress; he had been nothing but a boy throughout, and instead of
being a brave champion, he had been in such an agony of terror at an
empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in the room, he
might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother. Poor Walter!
how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!
The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing,
both occupying Walter's bed. They were both too anxious and excited
to sleep, and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to
Edmund, who was giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his
other friends, should Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his
charge, as now likely to become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea,
warning him earnestly to protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal
to his King, avoiding all compromise with the enemies of the Church.
CHAPTER VII.
Forest Lea that night was a house of sorrow: the mother and two sons
were prisoners in their separate rooms, and the anxieties for the
future were dreadful. Rose longed to see and help her mother,
dreading the effect of such misery, to be borne in loneliness, by the
weak frame, shattered by so many previous sufferings. How was she to
undergo all that might yet be in store for her--imprisonment, ill-
treatment, above all, the loss of her eldest son? For there was
little hope for Edmund. As a friend and follower of Prince Rupert,
he was a marked man; and besides, Algernon Sydney, the commander of
the nearest body of forces, was known to be a good deal under the
influence of the present owner of Woodley, who was likely to be glad
to see the rightful heir removed from his path.
Rose perceived all this, and her heart failed her, but she had no
time to pause on the thought. The children must be soothed and put
to bed, and a hard matter it was to comfort poor little Lucy, perhaps
the most of all to be pitied. She relieved herself by pouring out
the whole confession to Rose, crying bitterly, while Eleanor hurried
on distressing questions whether they would take mamma away, and what
they would do to Edmund. Now it came back to Lucy, "O if I had but
minded what mamma said about keeping my tongue in order; but now it
is too late!"
Rose, after doing her best to comfort them, and listening as near to
her mother's door as she dared, to hear if she were weeping, went to
her own room. It adjoined Walter's, though the doors did not open
into the same passage; and she shut that which closed in the long
gallery, where her room and that of her sisters were, so that the
Roundhead sentry might not be able to look down it.
As soon as she was in her own room, she threw herself on her knees,
and prayed fervently for help and support in their dire distress. In
the stillness, as she knelt, she heard an interchange of voices,
which she knew must be those of her brothers in the next room. She
went nearer to that side, and heard them more distinctly. She was
even able to distinguish when Edmund spoke, and when Walter broke
forth in impatient exclamations. A sudden thought struck her. She
might be able to join in the conversation. There had once been a
door between the two rooms, but it had long since been stopped up,
and the recess of the doorway was occupied by a great oaken cupboard,
in which were preserved all the old stores of rich farthingales of
brocade, and velvet mantles, which had been heirlooms from one Dame
of Mowbray to another, till poverty had caused them to be cut up and
adapted into garments for the little Woodleys.
Rose looked anxiously at the carved doors of the old wardrobe. Had
she the key? She felt in her pouch. Yes, she had not given it back
to her mother since taking out the sheets for Mr. Enderby. She
unlocked the folding doors, and, pushing aside some of the piles of
old garments, saw a narrow line of light between the boards, and
heard the tones almost as clearly as if she was in the same room.
Eager to tell Edmund how near she was, she stretched herself out,
almost crept between the shelves, leant her head against the board on
the opposite side, and was about to speak, when she found that it
yielded in some degree to her touch. A gleam of hope darted across
her, she drew back, fetched her light, tried with her hand, and found
that the back of the cupboard was in fact a door, secured on her side
by a wooden bolt, which there was no difficulty in undoing. Another
push, and the door yielded below, but only so as to show that there
must be another fastening above. Rose clambered up the shelves, and
sought. Here it was! It was one of the secret communications that
were by no means uncommon in old halls in those times of insecurity.
Edmund might yet be saved! Trembling with the excess of her delight
in her new-found hope, she forced out the second bolt, and pushed
again. The door gave way, the light widened upon her, and she saw
into the room! Edmund was lying on the bed, Walter sitting at his
feet.
Both started as what had seemed to be part of the wainscoted wall
opened, but Edmund prevented Walter's exclamation by a sign to be
silent, and the next moment Rose's face was seen squeezing between
the shelves.
"Edmund! Can you get through here?" she exclaimed in a low eager
whisper.
Edmund was immediately by her side, kissing the flushed anxious
forehead: "My gallant Rose!" he said.
"Oh, thank heaven! thank heaven! now you may be safe!" continued
Rose, still in the same whisper. "I never knew this was a door till
this moment. Heaven sent the discovery on purpose for your safety!
Hush, Walter! Oh remember the soldier outside!" as Walter was about
to break out into tumultuous tokens of gladness. "But can you get
through, Edmund? Or perhaps we might move out some of the shelves."
"That is easily done," said Edmund; "but I know not. Even if I
should escape, it would be only to fall into the hands of some fresh
troop of enemies, and I cannot go and leave my mother to their
mercy."
"You could do nothing to save her," said Rose, "and all that they may
do to her would scarcely hurt her if she thought you were safe. O
Edmund! think of her joy in finding you were escaped! the misery of
her anxiety now!"
"Yet to leave her thus! You had not told me half the change in her!
I know not how to go!" said Edmund.
"You must, you must!" said Rose and Walter, both at once. And Rose
added, "Your death would kill her, I do believe!"
"Well, then; but I do not see my way even when I have squeezed
between your shelves, my little sister. Every port is beset, and our
hiding places here can no longer serve me."
"Listen," said Rose, "this is what my mother and I had planned
before. The old clergyman of this parish, Dr. Bathurst, lives in a
little house at Bosham, with his daughter, and maintains himself by
teaching the wealthier boys of the town. Now, if you could ride to
him to-night, he would be most glad to serve you, both as a cavalier,
and for my mother's sake. He would find some place of concealment,
and watch for the time when you may attempt to cross the Channel."
Edmund considered, and made her repeat her explanation. "Yes, that
might answer," he said at length; "I take you for my general, sweet
Rose. But how am I to find your good doctor?"
"I think," said Rose, after considering a little while, "that I had
better go with you. I could ride behind you on your horse, if the
rebels have not found him, and I know the town, and Dr. Bathurst's
lodging. I only cannot think what is to be done about Walter."
"Never mind me," said Walter, "they cannot hurt me."
"Not if you will be prudent, and not provoke them," said Edmund.
"Oh, I know!" cried Rose; "wear my gown and hood! these men have only
seen us by candle-light, and will never find you out if you will only
be careful."
"I wear girl's trumpery!" exclaimed Walter, in such indignation that
Edmund smiled, saying, "If Rose's wit went with her gown, you might
be glad of it."
"She is a good girl enough," said Walter, "but as to my putting on
her petticoat trash, that's all nonsense."
"Hear me this once, dear Walter," pleaded Rose. "If there is a
pursuit, and they fancy you and Edmund are gone together, it will
quite mislead them to hear only of a groom riding before a young
lady."
"There is something in that," said Walter, "but a pretty sort of lady
I shall make!"
"Then you consent? Thank you, dear Walter. Now, will you help me
into your room, and I'll put two rolls of clothes to bed, that the
captain may find his prisoners fast asleep to-morrow morning."
Walter could hardly help laughing aloud with delight at the notion of
the disappointment of the rebels. The next thing was to consider of
Edmund's equipment; Rose turned over her ancient hoards in vain,
everything that was not too remarkable had been used for the needs of
the family, and he must go in his present blood-stained buff coat,
hoping to enter Bosham too early in the morning for gossips to be
astir. Then she dressed Walter in her own clothes, not without his
making many faces of disgust, especially when she fastened his long
curled love-locks in a knot behind, tried to train little curls over
the sides of his face, and drew her black silk hood forward so as to
shade it. They were nearly of the same height and complexion, and
Edmund pronounced that Walter made a very pretty girl, so like Rose
that he should hardly have known them apart, which seemed to vex the
boy more than all.
There had been a sort of merriment while this was doing, but when it
was over, and the moment came when the brother and sister must set
off, there was lingering, sorrow, and reluctance. Edmund felt
severely the leaving his mother in the midst of peril, brought upon
her for his sake, and his one brief sight of his home had made him
cling the closer to it, and stirred up in double force the affections
for mother, brothers, and sisters, which, though never extinct, had
been comparatively dormant while he was engaged in stirring scenes
abroad. Now that he had once more seen the gentle loving countenance
of his mother, and felt her tender, tearful caress, known that noble-
minded Rose, and had a glimpse of those pretty little sisters, there
was such a yearning for them through his whole being, that it seemed
to him as if he might as well die as continue to be cast up and down
the world far from them.
Rose felt as if she was abandoning her mother by going from home at
such a time, when perhaps she should find on her return that she had
been carried away to prison. She could not bear to think of being
missed on such a morning that was likely to ensue, but she well knew
that the greatest good she could do would be to effect the rescue of
her brother, and she could not hesitate a moment. She crowded charge
after charge upon Walter, with many a message for her mother, promise
to return as soon as possible, and entreaty for pardon for leaving
her in such a strait; and Edmund added numerous like parting
greetings, with counsel and entreaties that she would ask for Colonel
Enderby's interference, which might probably avail to save her from
further imprisonment and sequestration.
"Good-bye, Walter. In three or four years, if matters are not
righted before that, perhaps, if you can come to me, I may find
employment for you in Prince Rupert's fleet, or the Duke of York's
troop."
"O Edmund, thanks! that would be--"
Walter had not time to finish, for Rose kissed him, left her love and
duty to her mother with him, bade him remember he was a lady, and
then holding Edmund by the hand, both with their shoes off, stole
softly down the stairs in the dark.
CHAPTER VIII.
After pacing up and down Rose's room till he was tired, Walter sat
down to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest
he should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with
his arms crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell
sound asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and
calls of "Rose! Rose!" were heard outside the locked door.
He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily
recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the
door.
He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little
things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother,
all gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and
Charles clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means
understood this; and Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he
would not like it. "How you crowd?" he exclaimed.
"Mistress Rose," began Deborah, coming half way up stairs--Lucy let
go his hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he
could not move. "Don't be troublesome, children," said he, trying to
shake them off; "can't you come near one without pulling off one's
hands?"
"Mistress!" continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and
did not immediately attend, she exclaimed, "Oh, she won't even look
at me! I thought she had forgiven me."
"Forgiven you!" said he, starting. "Stuff and nonsense; what's all
this about? You were a fool, that's all."
Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young
lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor,
and held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry:
"Mistress Rose, shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young
gentlemen, poor souls?"
"Yes, of course," he answered. "No, wait a bit. Only to my mother,
I mean, just at present."
"And the soldiers," continued Deborah--"they're roaring for
breakfast; what shall I give them?"
"A halter," he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and
answered, "What you can--bread, beef, beer--"
"Bread! beef! beer!" almost shrieked Deborah, "when she knows the
colonel man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two
Christmases, and bread, there's barely enough for my lady and the
children, till we bake."
"Well, whatever there is, then," said Walter, anxious to get rid of
her.
"I could fry some bacon," pursued Deborah, "only I don't know whether
to cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the
garden. Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out
of the frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way."
The tinker was too much for poor Walter's patience, and flinging away
from her, he exclaimed, "Mercy on me, woman, you'll plague the life
out of me!"
Poor Deborah stood aghast. "Mistress Rose! what is it? you look
wildly, I declare, and your hood is all I don't know how. Shall I
set it right?"
"Mind your own business, and I'll mind mine!" cried Walter.
"Alack! alack!" lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down
stairs, Charlie running after her. "Mistress Rose is gone clean
demented with trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this
poor house yet."
"There!" said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; "I have held my tongue
this time. O Walter, you don't do it a bit like Rose!"
"Where is Rose!" said Eleanor. "How did you get out?"
"Well!" said Walter, "it is hard that, whatever we do, women and
babies are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found
me out, but mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to
guess what I am telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose
is gone with him--'tis safest not to say where."
"But is not she coming back?" asked Eleanor.
"Oh yes, very soon--to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till
she comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I
never was properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!"
"Oh don't stride along so, or they will find you out," exclaimed
Eleanor.
"And don't mince and amble, that is worse!" added Lucy. "Oh you will
make me laugh in spite of everything."
"Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my--her room, and see nobody!" said
Walter; "you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don't let Deb drive me
distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the
rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives."
"But only tell me, how did you get out?" said Lucy.
"Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing," said Walter,
shutting the door in her face.
"Now, don't be curious, dear Lucy," said Eleanor, taking her hand.
"We shall know in time."
"I will not, I am not," said Lucy, magnanimously. "We will not say
one single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything.
Come down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose's work, for we
must be very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that
Edmund is safe."
Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained
undisturbed for some time, while Deborah's unassisted genius was
exerted to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption
was from Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call
"Walter," and then hastily turning it into "Rose!" He opened, and
she said, with tears in her eyes, "O Walter, Walter, the wicked men
are really going to take dear mother away to prison. She is come
down with her cloak and hood on, and is asking for you--Rose I mean--
to wish good-bye. Will you come?"
"Yes," said Walter; "and Edmund--"
"They were just sending up to call him," said Eleanor; "they will
find it out in--"
Eleanor's speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next
room. "Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!" with many
confused exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor
stood frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine
caper, clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in
an exulting whisper, "Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long
enough for him!" then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the
hall. His mother, dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a
glance of hope and joy lighting on her pale features, but her swollen
eyelids telling of a night of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and
Charles were by her side, the front door open, and the horses were
being led up and down before it. Walter and Eleanor hurried up to
her, but before they had time to speak, the rebel captain dashed into
the room, exclaiming, "Thou treacherous woman, thou shalt abye this!
Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the coast. Smite them
rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling of the blood-
thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I say!"
"Which way, sir?" demanded the corporal.
"The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport.
Or here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles?
Ah, there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy
mother by telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy
wiles, and will visit them on thee and on thy father's house, unless
thou dost somewhat to merit forgiveness."
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