Books: The Pigeon Pie
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Pigeon Pie
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"What do you mean?" demanded Walter, swelling with passion.
"Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of
the righteous are escaped."
"You are not wrong there, sir," said Walter.
"I tell thee," said the captain, sternly, "thy joy shall be turned to
mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou
and thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless--"
Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, "You know
you have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use
such threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!"
"Ha!" said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady's
manner of replying. "Is it thus the malignants breed up their
daughters, in insolence as well as deceit?"
The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and
striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, "Take that,
for giving the lie to a gentleman."
"How now?" cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the
hood fell back. "'Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search
the house instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second
time."
He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw
himself into his mother's arms, exclaiming, "O mother dear, I bore it
as long as I could."
"My dear rash boy!" said she. "But is he safe? No, do not say
where. Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!" and
so indeed her face proved.
"All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she--but
I'll say no more, for fear. He left love--duty--Rose left all sorts
of greetings, that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them
lumbering about the house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are
welcome--"
"Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will
gain," whispered his mother. "Oh this is joy indeed!"
"Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word," interposed Lucy;
but there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the
captain returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a
soldier, who was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was
completed.
After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain
through the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went
off to scour the neighbouring country, and examine every village on
the coast.
Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime
locked into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered
not to let Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and
Walter were warned that they were to be carried the next morning to
Chichester, to answer for having aided and abetted the escape of the
notorious traitor, Edmund Woodley.
It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady
Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust
that the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be
safe with Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels
should search the villages before Edmund had time to escape.
CHAPTER IX.
Cautiously stealing down stairs, Rose first, to spy where the rebels
might be, the brother and sister reached the kitchen, where Rose
provided Edmund with a grey cloak, once belonging to a former
serving-man, and after a short search in an old press, brought out
various equipments, saddle, belt, and skirt, with which her mother
had once been wont to ride pillion-fashion. These they carried to
the outhouse where Edmund's horse had been hidden; and when all was
set in order by the light of the lantern, Rose thought that her
brother looked more like a groom and less like a cavalier than she
had once dared to hope. They mounted, and on they rode, across the
downs, through narrow lanes, past farm houses, dreading that each
yelping dog might rouse his master to report which way they were
gone. It was not till day had dawned, and the eastern sky was red
with the approaching sun, that they came down the narrow lane that
led to the little town of Bosham, a low flat place, sloping very
gradually to the water. Here Rose left her brother, advising him to
keep close under the hedge, while she softly opened a little gate,
and entered a garden, long and narrow, with carefully cultivated
flowers and vegetables. At the end was a low cottage; and going up
to the door, Rose knocked gently. The door was presently cautiously
opened by a girl a few years older, very plainly dressed, as if busy
in household work. She started with surprise, then held out her
hand, which Rose pressed affectionately, as she said, "Dear Anne,
will you tell your father that I should be very glad to speak to
him?"
"I will call him," said Anne; "he is just rising. What is--But I
will not delay."
"Oh no, do not, thank you, I cannot tell you now." Rose was left by
Anne Bathurst standing in a small cleanly-sanded kitchen, with a few
wooden chairs neatly ranged, some trenchers and pewter dishes against
the wall, and nothing like decoration except a beau-pot, as Anne
would have called it, filled with flowers. Here the good doctor and
his daughter lived, and tried to eke out a scanty maintenance by
teaching a little school.
After what was really a very short interval, but which seemed to Rose
a very long one, Dr. Bathurst, a thin, spare, middle-aged man, with a
small black velvet cap over his grey hair, came down the creaking
rough wooden stairs. "My dear child," he asked, "in what can I help
you? Your mother is well, I trust."
"Oh yes, sir!" said Rose; and with reliance and hope, as if she had
been speaking to a father, she explained their distress and
perplexity, then stood in silence while the good doctor, a slow
thinker, considered.
"First, to hide him," he said; "he may not be here, for this--the old
parson's house--will be the very first spot they will search. But we
will try. You rode, you say, Mistress Rose; where is your horse?"
"Ah! there is one difficulty," said Rose, "Edmund is holding him now;
but where shall we leave him?"
"Let us come first to see the young gentleman," said Dr. Bathurst;
and they walked together to the lane where Edmund was waiting, the
doctor explaining by the way that he placed his chief dependence on
Harry Fletcher, a fisherman, thoroughly brave, trustworthy, and
loyal, who had at one time been a sailor, and had seen, and been
spoken to by King Charles himself. He lived in a little lonely hut
about half a mile distant; he was unmarried, and would have been
quite alone, but that he had taken a young nephew, whose father had
been killed on the Royalist side, to live with him, and to be brought
up to his fishing business.
Edmund and Rose both agreed that there could be no better hope of
escape than in trusting to this good man; and as no time was to be
lost, they parted for the present, Rose returning to the cottage to
spend the day with Anne Bathurst, and the clergyman walking with the
young cavalier to the place where the fisherman lived. They led the
horse with them for some distance, then tied him to a gate, a little
out of sight, and went on to the hut, which stood, built of the
shingle of the beach, just beyond the highest reach of the tide, with
the boat beside it, and the nets spread out to dry.
Before there was time to knock, the door was opened by Harry Fletcher
himself, his open sunburnt face showing honesty and good faith in
every feature. He put his hand respectfully to his woollen cap, and
said, with a sort of smile, as he looked at Edmund, "I see what work
you have for me, your reverence."
"You are right, Harry," said Dr. Bathurst; "this is one of the
gentlemen that fought for his Majesty at Worcester, and if we cannot
get him safe out of the country, with heaven's blessing, he is as
good as a dead man."
"Come in, sir," said Fletcher, "you had best not be seen. There's no
one here but little Dick, and I'll answer for him."
They came in, and Dr. Bathurst explained Edmund's circumstances. The
honest fellow looked a little perplexed, but after a moment said,
"Well, I'll do what in me lies, sir; but 'tis a long way across."
"I should tell you, my good man," said Edmund, "that I have nothing
to repay you with for all the trouble and danger to which you may be
exposing yourself on my behalf. Nothing but my horse, which would
only be bringing suspicion on you."
"As to that, your honour," replied Harry, "I'd never think of waiting
for pay in a matter of life and death. I am glad if I can help off a
gentleman that has been on the King's side."
So the plan was arranged. Edmund was to be disguised in the
fisherman's clothes, spend the day at his hut, and at night, if the
weather served, Fletcher would row him out to sea, assisted by the
little boy, in hopes of falling in with a French vessel; or, if not,
they must pull across to Havre or Dieppe. The doctor promised to
bring Rose at ten o'clock to meet him on the beach and bid him
farewell. As to the horse, Fletcher sent the little boy to turn it
out on the neighbouring down, and hide the saddle.
All this arranged, Dr. Bathurst returned to his school; and Rose,
dressed in Anne's plainest clothes, rested on her bed as long as her
anxiety would allow her, then came down and helped in her household
work. It was well that Rose was thus employed, for in the afternoon
they had a great fright. Two soldiers came knocking violently at the
door, exhibiting an order to search for the escaped prisoner. Rose
recognised two of the party who had been at Forest Lea; but happily
they had not seen enough of her to know her in the coarse blue stuff
petticoat that she now wore. One of them asked who she was, and Anne
readily replied, "Oh, a friend who is helping me;" after which they
paid her no further attention.
Her anxiety for Edmund was of course at its height during this
search, and it was not till the evening that she could gain any
intelligence. Edmund's danger had indeed been great. Harry Fletcher
saw the rebels coming in time to prepare. He advised his guest not
to remain in the house, as if he wished to avoid observation, but to
come out, as if afraid of nothing. His cavalier dress had been
carefully destroyed or concealed; he wore the fisherman's rough
clothes, and had even sacrificed his long dark hair, covering his
head with one of Harry's red woollen caps. He was altogether so
different in appearance from what he had been yesterday, that he
ventured forward, and leant whistling against the side of the boat,
while Harry parleyed with the soldiers. Perhaps they suspected Harry
a little, for they insisted on searching his hut, and as they were
coming out, one of them began to tell him of the penalties that
fishermen would incur by favouring the escape of the Royalists.
Harry did not lose countenance, but went on hammering at his boat as
if he cared not at all, till observing that one of the soldiers was
looking hard at Edmund, he called out, "I say, Ned, what's the use of
loitering there, listening to what's no concern of yours? Fetch the
oar out of yon shed. I never lit on such a lazy comrade in my life."
This seemed to turn away all suspicion, the soldiers left them, and
no further mischance occurred. At night, just as the young moon was
setting, the boat was brought out, and Harry, with little Dick and a
comrade whom he engaged could be trusted, prepared their oars. At
the same time, Dr. Bathurst and Rose came silently to meet them along
the shingly beach. Rose hardly knew her brother in his fisherman's
garb. The time was short, and their hearts were too full for many
words, as that little party stood together in the light of the
crescent moon, the sea sounding with a low constant ripple, spread
out in the grey hazy blue distance, and here and there the crests of
the nearer waves swelling up and catching the moonlight.
Edmund and his sister held their hands tightly clasped, loving each
other, if possible, better than ever. He now and then repeated some
loving greeting which she was to bear home; and she tried to restrain
her tears, at the separation she was forced to rejoice in, a parting
which gave no augury of meeting again, the renewal of an exile from
which there was no present hope of return. Harry looked at Dr.
Bathurst to intimate it was time to be gone. The clergyman came
close to the brother and sister, and instead of speaking his own
words, used these:-
"Turn our captivity, O LORD, as the rivers in the south."
"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy."
"He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed,
shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him."
"Amen," answered Edmund and Rose; and they loosened their hold of
each other with hearts less sore. Then Edmund bared his head, and
knelt down, and the good clergyman called down a blessing from heaven
on him; Harry, the faithful man who was going to risk himself for
him, did the same, and received the same blessing. There were no
more words, the boat pushed off, and the splash of the oars resounded
regularly.
Rose's tears came thick, fast, blinding, and she sat down on a block
of wood and wept long and bitterly; then she rose up, and in answer
to Dr. Bathurst's cheering words, she said, "Yes, I do thank GOD with
all my heart!"
That night Rose slept at Dr. Bathurst's, and early in the morning was
rejoiced by the tidings which Harry Fletcher sent little Dick to
carry to the cottage. The voyage had been prosperous, they had
fallen in with a French vessel, and Mr. Edmund Woodley had been
safely received on board.
She was very anxious to return home; and as it was Saturday, and
therefore a holiday at the school, Dr. Bathurst undertook to go with
her and spend the Sunday at Forest Lea. One of the farmers of Bosham
helped them some little way with his harvest cart, but the rest of
the journey had to be performed on foot. It was not till noon that
they came out upon the high road between Chichester and Forest Lea;
and they had not been upon it more than ten minutes, before the sound
of horses' tread was heard, as if coming from Chichester. Looking
round, they saw a gentleman riding fast, followed by a soldier also
on horseback. There was something in his air that Rose recognised,
and as he came nearer she perceived it was Sylvester Enderby. He was
much amazed, when, at the same moment, he perceived it was Mistress
Rose Woodley, and stopping his horse, and taking off his hat, with
great respect both towards her and the clergyman, he hoped all the
family were well in health.
"Yes, yes, I believe so, thank you," replied Rose, looking anxiously
at him.
"I am on my way to Forest Lea," he said. "I bring the order my
father hoped to obtain from General Cromwell."
"The Protection! Oh, thanks! ten thousand thanks!" cried Rose. "Oh!
it may save--But hasten on, pray hasten on, sir. The soldiers are
already at home; I feared she might be already a prisoner at
Chichester. Pray go on and restrain them by your authority. Don't
ask me to explain--you will understand all when you are there."
She prevailed on him to go on, while she, with Dr. Bathurst, more
slowly proceeded up the chalky road which led to the summit of the
green hill or down, covered with short grass, which commanded a view
of all the country round, and whence they would turn off upon the
down leading to Forest Lea. Just as they came to the top, Rose cast
an anxious glance in the direction of her home, and gave a little
cry. Sylvester Enderby and his attendant could be seen speeding down
the green slope of the hill; but at some distance further on, was a
little troop of horsemen, coming from the direction of Forest Lea,
the sun now and then flashing on a steel cap or on the point of a
pike. Fast rode on Sylvester, nearer and nearer came the troop; Rose
almost fancied she could discern on one of the horses something
muffled in black that could be no other than her mother. How she
longed for wings to fly to meet her and cheer her heart with the
assurance of Edmund's safety! How she longed to be on Sylvester's
horse, as she saw the distance between him and the party fast
diminishing! At length he was close to it, he had mingled with it;
and at the same time Dr. Bathurst and Rose had to mount a slightly
rising ground, which for a time entirely obscured their view. When
at length they had reached the summit of this eminence, the party
were standing still, as if in parley; there was presently a movement,
a parting, Rose clasped her hands in earnestness. The main body
continued their course to Chichester, a few remained stationary. How
many? One, two, three--yes, four, or was it five? and among them the
black figure she had watched so anxiously! "She is safe, she is
safe!" cried Rose. "Oh, GOD has been so very good to us, I wish I
could thank Him enough!"
Leaving the smoother slope to avoid encountering the baffled rebels,
Dr. Bathurst and Rose descended the steep, the good man exerting
himself that her eagerness might not be disappointed. Down they
went, sliding on the slippery green banks, helping themselves with
the doctor's trusty staff, taking a short run at the lowest and
steepest part of each, creeping down the rude steps, or rather foot-
holes, cut out by the shepherd-boys in the more perpendicular
descents, and fairly sliding or running down the shorter ones. They
saw their friends waiting for them; and a lesser figure than the rest
hastened towards them, scaling the steep slopes with a good will,
precipitancy, and wild hurrahs of exultation, that would not let them
doubt it was Walter, before they could see his form distinctly, or
hear his words. Rose ran headlong down the last green slope, and was
saved from falling by fairly rushing into his arms.
"Is he safe? I need not ask!" exclaimed Walter.
"Safe! in a French vessel. And mother?"
"Safe! well! happy! You saw, you heard! Hurrah! The crop-ears are
sent to the right about; the captain has done mother and me the
favour to forgive us, as a Christian, all that has passed, he says.
We are all going home again as fast as we can, young Enderby and all,
to chase out the two rogues that are quartered on us to afflict poor
Deb and the little ones."
By this time Dr. Bathurst had descended, more cautiously, and Walter
went to greet him, and repeat his news. Together they proceeded to
meet the rest; and who can tell the tearful happiness when Rose and
her mother were once more pressed in each other's arms!
"My noble girl! under Providence you have saved him!" whispered Lady
Woodley.
The next evening, in secrecy, with the shutters shut, and the light
screened, the true pastor of Forest Lea gathered the faithful ones of
his flock for a service in the old hall. There knelt many a humble,
loyal, trustful peasant; there was the widowed Dame Ewins, trying to
be comforted, as they told her she ought; there was the lady herself,
at once sorrowful and yet earnestly thankful; there was Sylvester
Enderby, hearing and following the prayers he had been used to in his
early childhood, with a growing feeling that here lay the right and
the truth; there was Deborah, weeping, grieving over her own fault,
and almost heart-broken at the failure of him on whom she had set her
warm affections, yet perhaps in a way made wiser, and taught to trust
no longer to a broken reed, but to look for better things; there were
Walter and Lucy, both humbled and subdued, repenting in earnest of
the misbehaviour each of them had been guilty of. Walter did not
show his contrition much in manner, but it was real, and he proved it
by many a struggle with his self-willed overbearing temper. It was a
real resolution that he took now, and in a spirit of humility, which
made him glad to pray that what was past might be forgiven, and that
he might be helped for the future. That was the first time Walter
had ever kept up his attention through the whole service, but it all
came home to him now.
Each of that little congregation had their own sorrow of heart, their
own prayer and thanksgiving, to pour out in secret; but all could
join in one thank-offering for the safety of the heir of that house;
all joined in one prayer for the rescue of their hunted King, and for
the restoration of their oppressed and afflicted Church.
* * *
Nine years had passed away, and Forest Lea still stood among the
stumps of its cut-down trees; but one fair long day in early June
there was much that was changed in its aspect. The park was
carefully mown and swept; the shrubs were trained back; the broken
windows were repaired; and within the hall the appearance of
everything was still more strikingly cheerful, as the setting sun
looked smilingly in at the western window. Green boughs filled the
hearth, and were suspended round the walls; fresh branches of young
oak leaves, tasselled with the pale green catkins; the helmets and
gauntlets hanging on the wall were each adorned with a spray, and
polished to the brightest; the chairs and benches were ranged round
the long table, covered with a spotless cloth, and bearing in the
middle a large bowl filled with oak boughs, roses, lilac, honey-
suckle, and all the pride of the garden.
At the head of the table sat, less pale, and her face beaming with
deep, quiet, heartfelt joy, Lady Woodley herself; and near her were
Dr. Bathurst and his happy daughter, who in a few days more were to
resume their abode in his own parsonage. Opposite to her was a dark
soldierly sun-burnt man, on whose countenance toil, weather, and
privation had set their traces, but whose every tone and smile told
of the ecstasy of being once more at home.
Merry faces were at each side of the table; Walter, grown up into a
tall noble-looking youth of two-and-twenty, particularly courteous
and gracious in demeanour, and most affectionate to his mother;
Charles, a gentle sedate boy of fifteen, so much given to books and
gravity, that his sisters called him their little scholar; Rose, with
the same sweet thoughtful face, active step, and helpful hand, that
she had always possessed, but very pale, and more pensive and grave
than became a time of rejoicing, as if the cares and toils of her
youth had taken away her light heart, and had given her a soft
subdued melancholy that was always the same. She was cheerful when
others were cast down and overwhelmed; but when they were gay, she,
though not sorrowful, seemed almost grave, in spite of her sweet
smiles and ready sympathy. Yet Rose was very happy, no less happy
than Eleanor, with her fair, lovely, laughing face, or -
"But where is Lucy?" Edmund asked, as he saw her chair vacant.
"Lucy?" said Rose; "she will come in a moment. She is going to bring
in the dish you especially ordered, and which Deborah wonders at."
"Good, faithful Deborah!" said Edmund. "Did she never find a second
love?"
"Oh no, never," said Eleanor. "She says she has seen enough of men
in her time."
"She is grown sharper than ever," said Walter, "now she is Mistress
Housekeeper Deborah; I shall pity the poor maidens under her."
"She will always be kind in the main," rejoined Rose.
"And did you ever hear what became of that precious sweetheart of
hers?" asked Edmund.
"Hanged for sheep stealing," replied Walter, "according to the report
of Sylvester Enderby. But hush, for enter--"
There entered Lucy, smiling and blushing, her dark hair decorated
with the spray of oak, and her hands supporting a great pewter dish,
in which stood a noble pie, of pale-brown, well-baked crust,
garnished with many a pair of little claws, showing what were the
contents. She set it down in the middle of the table, just opposite
to Walter. The grace was said, the supper began, and great was the
merriment when Walter, raising a whole pigeon on his fork, begged to
know if Rose had appetite enough for it, and if she still possessed
the spirit of a wolf. "And," said he, as they finished, "now Rose
will never gainsay me more when I sing -
"For forty years our Royal throne
Has been his father's and his own,
Nor is there anyone but he
With right can there a sharer be.
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.
"Then far upon the distant hill
My hope has cast her anchor still,
Until I saw the peaceful dove
Bring home the branch I dearly love.
And there did I wait
Till the waters abate
That did surround my swimming brain;
For rejoice could never I
Till I heard the joyful cry
That the King enjoys his own again!"
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