Books: Under the Storm

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Under the Storm

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Near his stand, however, the other lady beckoned her maid to adjust
something in her dress; and Stead could approach Emlyn. She looked
up with her bright, laughing eyes with a certain wistfulness in them.

"Have you made up your mind to cheat the owls?" she asked.

"Emlyn, if you would not speak so lightly, I could show cause--"

"Oh, that's enough," she answered hastily, turning as the other maid
joined her; and Stead caught the shrill, pert voice demanding if that
was her swain with clouted shoes. Emlyn's reply he could not hear,
but he saw the twist of the shoulders.

There are bitter moments in everyone's life, and that was one of the
very bitterest of Steadfast Kenton's.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ASSAULT OF THE CAVERN.

"By all description this should be the place.
Who's here?"
SHAKESPEARE.

Harvest was over, and the autumn evenings were darkening. It was
later than the usual bed time, but Patience had a piece of spinning
which she was anxious to finish for the weaver who took all her yarn,
and Stead was reading Dr. Eales's gift of the Morte d'Arthur, which
had great fascination for him, though he never knew whether to regard
it as truth or fable. He wanted to drive out the memory of what Mrs.
Lightfoot had told him about the Henshaw household, where the
youngest of the lady's brothers had lately arrived from beyond seas,
bringing with him habits of noise and riot, which greatly scandalised
the neighbours.

Suddenly Growler started up with pricked ears, and emitted a sound
like thunder. Patience checked her wheel. There was an unmistakable
sound of steps. Stead sprang up. Growler rushed at the door with a
furious volley of barking. Stead threw it open, catching up a stout
stick as he did so, and the dog dashed out, but was instantly driven
back with an oath and a blow. It was a bright moonlight night, and
Stead beheld three tall men evidently well armed.

"Ho, you fellow there," one called out, "keep back your cur, we don't
want to hurt him nor you."

"Then what are you doing here?" demanded Stead.

"We are come for what you wot of. For the King's service."

"Who sent you?" asked Stead, for the moment somewhat dazed.

One of them laughed and said, "As if you did not know."

There was a sickening perception, but Stead's powers were alert
enough for him to exclaim, "Then you have no warrant."

"My good fellow, don't stickle about such trifles. For the King's
service it is, and that should be enough for all loyal hearts.
Hollo, what's that? Silence your dog, I say," as Growler's voice
resounded through the gulley, "or it will be the worse for you and
him."

Stead took hold of the dog's collar, and amidst his choked grumbles,
said, "I do nought but on true warrant."

"Hark ye, blockhead," said the foremost. "I'm an officer of His
Majesty's, with power to make requisitions for his service."

"Shew it," said Stead, quite convinced that this was sheer robbery.

"You addle-pated, insolent clown, to dispute terms with gentlemen in
His Majesty's service. Stand aside. I've done you only too much
honour by parleying with you. Out of the way. We don't want to take
a stick of your own trumpery, I say."

"Sir, it is Church plate."

"Ha, ha! Church plate is His Most Sacred Majesty's plate. Don't ye
know that, you ass? Here! we'll throw you back something for
yourself if you will show us the cave and save us trouble, for we
know which it is by the token of the red stone and twisted ash. Ho!
take-- What's become of the clown? He has run off. Discreet
fellow!"

For Stead had disappeared in the black darkness behind the hut. He
remembered Jephthah's discomfiture by the owl, and it struck him that
from within the cavern it would be quite possible to keep the robbers
at bay, if they tried without knowing the way to climb up among the
bushes. He was not afraid for his brother and sister, as the
marauders evidently did not want anything but the plate. Indeed, his
whole soul was so concentrated on the defence of his charge that he
had no room for anything else.

Knowing the place perfectly, Stead had time to swing himself, armed
with a stout bludgeon, up into the hermit's cave, and even to drag
after him Growler, a very efficient ally. The contrasts of moonlight
were all in his favour, the lights almost as bright as in sunshine,
the shadows so very dark. He could see through the overhanging ivy
and travellers' joy the men peering about with their dark lantern,
looking into the caves where the pigs were, among the trees, and he
held Growler's mouth together lest the grim murmurs that were rolling
in the beast's throat should serve as a guide.

Then he heard them shout to Patience to come and guide them since her
coward of a brother had made off, and he heard her answer, "Not I,
'tis no business of mine."

"We'll see about that. D'ye know how folks are made to speak, my
lass?"

Then Stead recollected with horror that he had left her to her fate.
Would he be obliged to come down to her help? At that moment,
however, there was a call from the fellow who bore the lantern.
"Here's the red stone. That must be the ash. Now then!"

"You first, Nick." Then came a crackling and rustling of boughs, a
head appeared, and at that moment Stead loosed Growler and would have
dealt a blow with his stick, but that the assault of the dog had
sufficed to send the assailant, roaring and cursing, headlong down
the crag.

Furious threats came up to him and his dog, but he heard them in
silence, though Growler's replies were vociferous. Stead gathered
that the fall had in some degree hurt the man for he made an
exclamation of pain, and the others bade him stay there and keep back
the wench.

"We'll have you down though we smoke you out like a wasps' nest, you
disloyal adder, you," was one of the threats.

"Or serve him like the Spaniard at Porto Santo," said another.

Presently after numerous threats and warnings that they had firearms
and were determined to use them, two of the men began climbing much
more cautiously, holding by the trees, so as not to be suddenly
overthrown. However the furious attack of such a dog as Growler,
springing from utter darkness was a formidable matter, and the man
against whom he had launched himself could not but fall in his turn,
but the dog went after him, and the companion, being on his guard,
was not overthrown. Stead aimed a blow at the fellow with all his
might, but the slouching hat warded off the full force of the
bludgeon. Then Stead sprang at him and grappled with him. There was
the report of a pistol, and both rolled headlong among the bushes,
but at that moment a fresh shout was heard--a cry of "Villains,
traitors, robbers--what be at?" and a rush of feet, while in the
moonlight appeared Peter Pierce with his fowling piece, another man,
Ben, and four or five dogs.

The robbers never waited to see how small the reinforcement was, and
it made noise enough for the whole hue-and-cry of the parish. Off
they dashed, through the wood, the new comers after them.

But all Patience knew was that Steadfast was lying senseless at the
bottom of the cliff, with poor Growler moaning by him, and licking
his face, and that her hands were wet with what must be blood.

It was too dark to see anything, but she could hardly bear to leave
him, as she hurried back to the hut for the lantern. All this had
taken but few minutes, so that she had only to catch it up from the
table where Stead's book still lay.

By the time she came back, he had opened his eyes, and his hand was
on Growler's head.

"Are they gone?" he asked faintly.

"Yes, and Peter after them. Oh! Stead, you are badly hurt."

"They have not got it?"

"Oh no, no, you saved it."

"Thank God. Is Ben safe?"

"Yes, after them with Peter. I sent him out while you were talking
to call Peter."

"Good--" and his eyes closed again. "Good Growler, poor Growl--" he
added, fondling the big head, as the dog moaned. "See to him, Pat."

"I must see to you first. Oh! Stead, is it very bad?"

"I'll try to get in, if you'll help me."

He raised himself, but this effort brought a rush of blood to the
lips, which greatly terrified Patience. To her great relief,
however, Nanny Pierce having satisfied herself that all was quiet
round the hut, here called out to ask where Patience was. She was
profuse in "Lack-a-daisy!" "Dear heart!" and "Poor soul!" and was
quite sure Stead was as good as a dead man; but she had strong arms,
and so had Patience, and when they had done what they could to stanch
the wound in his side, which however, was not bleeding much
externally, they carried him in between them to Patience's bed which
had been Emlyn's, and therefore was the least uncomfortable. Poor
Growler crept after, bleeding a good deal, and Steadfast would not
rest till his faithful comrade was looked to. There was a dagger cut
in his chest, which Nanny, used to dog doctoring, bound up, after
which the creature came close to his master, and fell asleep under
his hand.

It was a very faint hand. Movement or speech alike brought blood to
the mouth, and Stead's ruddy checks were becoming deadly white. He
struggled to say, "You and Ben guard it! Say a prayer, Pat," and
then the two women really thought that in the gush that followed all
was over, and Nanny marvelled at the stunned calm in which Patience
went over the Lord's Prayer, and such Psalms as she could remember.

Steps came, and Nanny shrieked. Then she saw it was her husband and
the other two men.

"Made off to the town," said Peter, gruffly.

"How now--hurt?"

'O, Peter, they have made an end of the poor lad. Died like a lamb,
even now."

"No, no," said Peter, as he came close to the bed with his more
experienced eye; "he ain't dead. 'Tis but a swoon. Hast any strong
waters, Pat? No, I'll be bound. Ho, you now, Bill, run and knock
them up at the Elmwood Arms, and bring down a gill."

"And call Goody Grace," entreated Patience, "she will know best what
to do."

On the whole, Peter's military experience was more hopeful, if not
more helpful than Goody Grace's. He was the only person who
persisted in declaring that such wounds were not always mortal,
though he agreed in owning that the inward bleeding was the worst
sign. Stead did not attempt to speak again, but lay there deadly
white and with a stricken look on his face, which Patience could not
bear to see, and she ascribed to the conviction that the wretched
little Emlyn must have betrayed his secret.

The hut was over-full of volunteers of assistance and enquiry the
next day, including the squire and Master Woodley; but nobody seemed
to guess at the real object of the robbers' attack, everybody
thinking they had come for the savings which Stead was known to be
making towards rebuilding the farmhouse.

Mr. Elmwood was very indignant and took Pierce, and Blane the
constable, into Bristol to see whether the felons could be captured
and brought to justice, but they proved to have gone down to the
wharf, and to have got on board a vessel which had dropped down the
river in the early morning. They were also more than suspected of
being no other than buccaneers who plied their trade of piracy in the
West Indies. The younger Ayliffe had gone with them, and was by no
means above suspicion.

Mr. Elmwood also brought out a barber surgeon to see young Kenton, a
thing which his sister would not have dared to propose. But there
was not much to be done, the doctor decided that the bullet was where
the attempt at extraction would be fatal, and that the only hope of
even partial recovery was in perfect stillness and silence--and this
Patience could promise to ensure as far as in her lay. Instructions
on dressing the wound were given to her, and she was to send in to
the barber's shop if ointment or other appliances were needed. This
was all that she was to expect, and more indeed than she had thought
feasible; for folks of their condition were sick and got well, lived
or died without the aid of practitioners above the skill of Goody
Grace. However, he gave her very little hope, though he would not
pronounce that her brother was dying. A few days would decide, and
quiet was the only chance.

Scarcely however were the visitors gone, and Stead left to what rest
pain would allow him after being handled by the surgeon, when a sound
of sobbing was heard outside. "Oh! oh! I'm afraid to go in! Ben!
Oh! tell me, is he not dead? I'm the most miserable maid in the
world if he is."

"He's alive, small thanks to you," responded Ben, who had somehow
arrived at a knowledge of the facts, while Rusha, who was milking,
buried her head in Daisy's side, and would not even look at her.
Patience felt in utter despair, and longed to misunderstand Stead's
signs to her to open the door. She tried to impress the need of
quiet, but Emlyn darted in, her hood pushed back, her hair flying,
her dress disordered, looking half wild, and dropping on the floor,
she crouched there with clasped hands, crying "Oh! oh! he looks like
death. He'll die and I'm the most--"

"If you make all that noise and tumult he will," said Patience, who
could bear no more. "Are you come here to finish what you have done?
Do go away."

"Oh! but I must tell you! They said it was for the King, and that he
had the right. Yes they did, and they swore that they would hurt no
one."

Stead looked to a certain extent pleased, but Patience broke out, "As
if you did not know he would rather die than give up his trust."

"I thought he would never know--"

"Robber!" said Patience. "Go! You have done harm enough already."

"But I must tell you," persisted Emlyn. "I used to see Dick Glass
among Lord Goring's troopers, and he is from our parts, and he has
been with Prince Rupert. There was a plot, I know there is, and both
the Master Ayliffes are in it, and we were to go and raise
Worcestershire, only they wanted money, and Dick was to--to wed me--
and set us across the river this morning, when they had got the
treasure. 'Twas for the King. And now they are all gone, Master
Philip and all, and master says they are flibustiers, and pirates,
and robbers; and Mrs. Lightfoot's boy came and said Stead Kenton was
shot dead at his house door, and then I was neither to have nor to
hold, but I ran off here like one distraught, for I never loved
anyone like you Stead."

"Pretty love!" said Patience. "Oh! if you think you love him, go and
let him be at peace."

"I do! I do!" cried the girl, quite unmanageable. "Only it made me
mad that he should heed an old chest and a musty parson more than me,
and so I took up with Dick, and he over persuaded me with his smooth
tongue that we would raise folk for the King."

Stead held out his hand.

"Oh! Stead, Stead, you are always kinder than Patience! You forgive
me, dear old Stead, do not you? And I'll tend you day and night, and
you shall not die, and I'll wed you, if you have nought but the shirt
to your back."

Patience felt nearly distracted at the notion of Emlyn there day and
night, but at that instant Goody Grace, who had been to her home in
preparation for spending the night in nursing, walked in.

"How now, mistress, what are you about here?"

"She wants to stay and tend him, and I don't know whether she has
come with her mistress's knowledge," sighed Patience.

"Fine tendance!" said the old woman. "My lady wants to kill him
outright. Nay, nay, my young madam, we want none of your airs and
flights here. You can do no good, except by making yourself scarce--
you that can't hold your tongue a moment"

Stead here whispered, "Her mistress, will she forgive her?"

"Oh, yes, no fear but that she will," said Emlyn, who perhaps had
revolved in her mind, since her first impulse, what it would be to
nurse Stead in that hovel, with two such displeased companions as
Goody and Patience. More to pacify Steadfast's uneasy eyes than for
her own sake, Patience gave her a drink of milk and a piece of bread,
and Peter coming just then to ask if he could help Ben with the
cattle, undertook to see her safely on her way, since twilight was
coming on. Sobered and awestruck by the silence and evident
condemnation of all around, she ended by flinging herself on her
knees by the bed, and saying "Stead, Stead, you forgive me, though no
one else does?"

"Poor child--I do--as I hope--"

"The blood again. You've done it now," exclaimed Goody Grace. "Away
with you!"

Peter fairly dragged her out, while the women attended to Stead.

But he let her wait outside till they heard, "Not dead, but not far
from it"

CHAPTER XXII.

EMLYN'S TROTH.

"Woman's love is writ in water,
Woman's faith is traced in sand."
AYTOUN.

Day after day Steadfast Kenton lingered between life and death, and
though the external wound healed, there was little relief to the
deeper injury which could not be reached, and which the damps and
chills of autumn and winter could only aggravate.

He could move little, and speak even less; and suffered much, both
from pain and difficulty of breathing, as he lay against sacks and
pillows on his bed, or sat up in an elbow chair which Mrs. Elmwood
lent him. Everybody was very kind in those days of danger. Mrs.
Elmwood let Rusha come on many an afternoon to help her sister, and
always bringing some posset, or cordial, or dainty of some sort to
tempt the invalid. Goody Grace, Mrs. Blane, Dame Oates, Nanny Pierce
vied with each other in offers of sitting up with him; Andrew, the
young miller, came out of his way to bring a loaf of white bread, and
to fetch the corn to be ground. Peter Pierce, Rusha's lover, and
more old comrades than Patience quite desired, offered their services
in aiding Ben with the cattle and other necessary labours, but as the
first excitement wore off, these volunteers became scantier, and when
nothing was to be heard but "just the same," nothing to be seen but a
weak, wan figure sitting wrapped by the fire, the interest waned, and
the gulley was almost as little frequented as before. Poor Ben's
schooling had, of course, to be given up, and it was well that he was
nearly as old as Stead had been when they were first left to
themselves. Happily his fifteen months of study had not made him
outgrow his filial obedience and devotion to the less instructed
elder brother and sister, who had taken the place of the parents he
had never known. Benoni, child of sorrow, he had been named, and
perhaps his sickly babyhood and the mournful times around had tended
to make him a quiet boy, without the tearing spirits that would have
made him eager to join the village lads in their games. Indeed they
laughed at him for his poverty and scholarship, and called him Jack
Presbyter, Puritan, bookworm, and all the opprobrious names they
could think of, though no one ever less merited sectarian nicknames
than he, as far as doctrine went. For, bred up on Dr. Eales' books,
and obliged to look out on the unsettled state of religious matters,
he was as staunch a churchman as his brother, and fairly understood
the foundations of his faith. Poor boy, the check to his studies
disappointed him, and he spent every leisure moment over his Latin
accidence or in reading. Next to the stories in the Bible, he loved
the Maccabees, because of the likeness to the persecuted state of the
Church; and he knew the Morte d'Arthur almost by heart, and thought
it part of the history of England. Especially he loved the part that
tells of the Holy Grail, the Sacred Cup that was guarded by the
maimed King Pelles, and only revealed to the pure in heart and life.
Stead had fully confided to him the secret of the cave, in case he
should be the one left to deliver up the charge; and, in some strange
way, the boy connected the treasure with the Saint Grail, and his
brother with the maimed king. So he worked very hard, and Patience
was capable of a good deal more than in her earlier days. Stead,
helpless as he was, did not require constant attendance, and knew too
well how much was on his sister's hands to trouble her when he could
possibly help doing so. Thus they rubbed on; though it was a
terrible winter, and they often had to break in on the hoard which
was to have built the house, sometimes for needments for the patient,
sometimes to hire help when there was work beyond the strength of
Patience and Ben, who indeed was too slender to do all that Stead had
done.

Ben did not shine in going to market. He was not big enough to hold
his own against rude lads, and once came home crying with his donkey
beaten and his eggs broken; moreover, he was apt to linger at stalls
of books and broadsheets. As soon as Patience could venture to leave
her brother, she was forced to go to market herself; and there was a
staidness and sobriety about her demeanour that kept all impertinence
at a distance. Poor Patience, she was not at all the laughing rustic
beauty that Emlyn would have been at market. She would never have
been handsome, and though she was only a few years over twenty, she
was beginning to look weather-beaten and careworn, like the market
women about her, mothers of half-a-dozen children.

Now and then she saw Emlyn in all her young, plump beauty, but
looking much quieter, and always coming to her for news of Steadfast.
There were even tears in those bright eyes when she heard how much he
suffered. The girl had evidently been greatly sobered by the results
of her indiscretion, and the treachery into which it had led her.
She probably cared more for Steadfast than for anyone else except
herself, and was shocked and grieved at his condition; and she had
moreover discovered how her credulity had been played upon, and that
she had had a narrow escape of being carried off by a buccaneer.

Her master too had been called to order by the authorities, fined and
threatened for permitting Royalist plots to be hatched in his house.
He had been angered by the younger Ayliffe's riotous doings, and his
wife had been terrified. There had been a general reformation in
which Emlyn had only escaped dismissal through her mistress's favour,
pleading her orphanhood, her repentance, and her troth plight to the
good young man who had been attacked by those dissolute fellows,
though Mrs. Henshaw little knew how accountable was her favourite
maid for the attack.

So good and discreet was Emlyn, so affectionate her messages to
Stead, and so much brightness shone in his face on hearing them;
there was so much pleasure when she sent him an orange and he
returned the snowdrops he had made Rusha gather, that Patience began
to believe that Stead was right--that the shock was all the maiden
needed to steady her--and that all would end as he hoped, when he
should be able to resume his labours, and add to the sadly reduced
hoard.

It was not, however, till the March winds were over that Stead made
any decided step towards recovery, and began to prefer the sun to the
fire, and to move feebly and slowly about the farmyard, visiting the
animals, too few in number, for his skilled attention had been
missed. As summer came on he was able to do a little more, herd them
with Growler's help, and gradually to undertake what required no
exertion of strength or speed, and there he stopped short--all the
sunny months of summer could do no more for him than make him fit to
do such work as an old man of seventy might manage.

He was persuaded, much against his will, to ride the white horse into
Bristol at a foot-pace to consult once more the barber surgeon. That
worthy, who was unusually sagacious for his time and had had
experience in the wars, told him that his recovery was a marvel, but
that with the bullet where it was lodged, he could scarcely hope to
enjoy much more health or comfort than at present. It could not be
reached, but it might shift, when either it would prove fatal or
become less troublesome; and as a friend and honest man, he
counselled the poor youth not to waste his money nor torture himself
by having recourse to remedies or doctors who could do no real good.

Stead thanked the barber, paid his crown, and slowly made his way to
Mrs. Lightfoot's, where he was to rest, dine, and see Emlyn.

Kind Mrs. Lightfoot shed tears when she saw the sturdy, ruddy youth
grown so thin and pale; and as to Emlyn, she actually stood silent
for three minutes.

The two were left together in Mrs. Lightfoot's kitchen, for Patience
was at market, and their hostess had to mind her trade.

Stead presently told Emlyn somewhat of the doctor's opinion, and
then, producing his portion of the tester, and with lips that
trembled in spite of himself, said that he had come to give Emlyn
back her troth plight.

"Oh! Stead, Stead," she cried, bursting into tears. "I thought you
had forgiven me."

"Forgiven you! Yea, truly, poor child, but--"

"But only when you were sick! You cast me off now you are whole."

"I shall never be whole again, Emlyn."

"I don't believe Master Willis. He is nought but a barber," she
exclaimed passionately. "I know there are physicians at the Bath who
would cure you; or there's the little Jew by the wharf; or the wise
man on Durdham Down. But you always are so headstrong; when you have
made up your mind no one can move you, and you don't care whose heart
you break," she sobbed.

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