Mistress Spitfire A Plain Account of Certain Episodes in the History of Richard Coope, Gent., and of His Cousin, Mistress Alison French, at the Time of the Revolution, 1642-1644

Chapter III I. It was but little beyond noon when I turned out of Francis French’s park into the highroad, and I suddenly bethought myself that if I went immediately to the trysting place I should be as like as not to cool my heels there for some time ere Matthew Richardson joined me. His message had required me to meet him within twenty-four hours, and of the twenty-four there were still some seven or eight to run. “Faith!” says I to myself, “he might have been more explicit—does he expect me to sit by the wayside like a tinker who puts his mare in the hedge-bottom to graze for her supper?” And I went on somewhat out of humour, and that not altogether because of Matthew’s thoughtlessness. To tell truth, Mistress Alison’s last words, though I had laughed at them, had stung me rather sharply and roused a certain anger in me. Now that I was out of her presence I felt her scorn more than while I sat watching her. “So I am to be flouted by every chit of a lass, am I?” says I, with some bitterness. But on the instant my humour changed, and I fell to laughter again at the thought of her looks when I paid her back in her own coin. “What care I?” says I, shaking my bridle reins. “Here’s for whatever comes next,” and so I cantered forward. At the joining of the roads against Hickleton, I came to a wayside inn of so inviting a sort that I involuntarily pulled up my beast and asked myself whether it were not some time since breakfast. I then discovered that I was prodigiously hungry, and so made no more ado, but rode into the yard and handed over my horse to the hostler, bidding him take good care of it, as it was my sole dependence for a long journey. The fellow looked at it somewhat curiously. “I could swear, master,” says he, “that this is of old Sir Nicholas Coope’s breeding—we have its marrow in yonder stable at this moment—’tis a mare that Master Dacre of Foxclough rides—I never saw two beasts more alike.” “Aye?” says I. “Why, truly, thou hast a rare eye, lad—but what is Master Dacre’s mare doing in your stable?” “Master Dacre’s within,” says he, nodding his head towards the inn. “Oh!” says I, and stands staring at the door, somewhat nonplussed. I had not expected to meet any of my kinsfolk just then and scarce relished the notion. “Come,” says I to myself, “what signifies Anthony Dacre?—we’re as near strangers as may be,” and I once more bade the man see to my horse, and walked into the house. They seemed somewhat quiet inside—there were but two or three men drinking in the kitchen, and the landlord leaned idly against the corner of the settle, his hands tucked under the wide apron that covered his capacious paunch. At sight of me he started into activity. My eyes cast about them in search of Anthony—the landlord noted it, and thought I looked for a place worthy of my condition. “If your honour will but step into the parlour,” says he, and flings the door open before me. So I slips in, and there sat Anthony Dacre with a jug of ripe ale before him and some trifle of food such as a wayside inn affords to chance comers. He gave me a glance as I stepped within the room, and I saw that he did not recognise me, which was naught to be surprised at for we had not met those seven years. For a moment, then, I stood staring at him, half doubtful whether to make myself known, or to go on my way without recognising him. Faith! I have since wondered many’s the time indeed, whether much of what followed might not have been prevented if I had turned on my heel and left Anthony to refresh himself in peace. Now this man Anthony—at that time my senior by some three years, and as proper a looking man as you might desire to set eyes on—was the son of old Stephen Dacre of Foxclough House, that was related to Sir Nicholas Coope by his marriage with Mistress Dorothy, the old knight’s youngest sister. As for old Stephen and his wife they were both dead, and all that they had, which was but little, now lay in Master Anthony’s hands. A poor parcel of land it was, that manor of Foxclough, the soil being stony in one place and marshy in another, and old Stephen had done naught to improve it, but had rather drained its feeble resources in order to keep up his roystering habits, much to the grief and perturbation of Sir Nicholas, who was given to frugality, though hospitable as a gentleman should be. Thus Master Anthony had but little to live and keep up his small state upon, and since he was well minded to do as his father and grandfather had done before him and live as royally as might be, there was naught for him but to curse his fate and sharpen up his wits to his own betterment. And so far as his own wits were concerned he saw no better chance, I suppose, of improving his condition than by courting the society of Sir Nicholas, and seeking to ingratiate himself in the old knight’s favour. Thus it was that when we were lads together Anthony was constantly at the Manor House, and made himself rival to me (though indeed I knew naught of it at the time, being young and unlearned in such matters), in my uncle’s affections. But there was something occurred between them—I never knew what it was—which alienated them, or, rather, which caused Sir Nicholas to look with disfavour upon Anthony, and after that the latter never came to the Manor House that I knew of, nor did my uncle ever speak of him except to say now and then that Anthony was a real Dacre, and would be a scapegrace and roysterer all the days of his life. Until I met Anthony at the inn I had not heard of him for some two years. It was said that he had gone to the wars, and that Foxclough—which was a half-ruined barn of a house when old Stephen died—was closed. Then it was thought that he was dead, or had gone across seas in search of treasure. Certainly, it had never mattered a straw to me whether he was dead or alive, here or there. I knew naught of his secret desires for Sir Nicholas’s land and money, and it would have made no difference to me if I had known of them. But since he was a kinsman, and we had been lads together—at which time, I, as the younger, had somewhat admired him—I made up my mind to speak to him now that we had met accidentally. “You have forgotten me, Master Anthony,” says I, standing before him at the table while the landlord lingered at the door waiting for my commands. He paused in the act of lifting his cup to his lips, and stared at me. “Why—” says he, “I am somewhat—is it Dick Coope?” he says, half-recognising me. “Lord! I did not know thee, Dick.” He stretched out his hand across the table. “Sit down, lad,” says he. “We will drink a cup together—let me recommend this ale to thee. But perchance thou wouldst like a flask of——” “Ale for me,” says I, “It’s all I am like to get for awhile, and maybe more than I shall get.” “Oh!” says he, and looks at me curiously. “Aye? Well, every man knows his situation best, Dick. Let me see, ’tis some time since we set eyes on each other, I think.” “Some seven or eight years, I should think,” says I, sitting down before him at the table. “Aye, it must be all that,” says he. “And how goes the old knight, my worshipful uncle—od’s zounds, he and I had a sore difference the last time we met, Dick. But you’ll know all there is to know of that, no doubt.” “Nay,” says I, “I don’t—Sir Nicholas can be as close as any man when he likes.” “I should ha’ thought he’d have had no secrets from thee,” says he. “Art a lucky man, Dick, to be heir to so snug a little property, and I lay the old knight has a nice warm sum put away in some old stocking. As for me,” he says, spreading out his hands, “here I sit, as needy a poor devil as any scare-crow in a road-side field.” Now I know not what it was that moved me to it, but there was something in me that morning which prompted me to say all that I thought, whether it were wise to say it or not. It may be that my parting with Sir Nicholas, and that last stinging epithet bestowed upon me by Mistress Alison, had disposed me to seek consolation from the first person I met; certain it is, that sitting there with Anthony Dacre, who was well-nigh a stranger to me, I had no more sense than to tell him all that was in my mind. “Aye,” says he again, “as needy as any scare-crow, Dick, and maybe needier, seeing that he wants naught, and I want all.” “Why?” says I, “I don’t know that you’re alone there, Anthony. Your estate——” “A patch of stones and bog,” grumbles he. “It will feed something,” says I. “A score miserable cattle,” says he. “Why,” says I, “but that’s something. Now here I am with naught.” He looked across the table at me in a sudden surprise, and if I had kept my wits about me, I should have noticed his quick curious glance. “Hast never quarrelled with Sir Nicholas!” says he. “Gadzooks, I thought thou wert—well, well,” he says, laughing, “then I am not the only one of his relations to disagree with the old knight, it seems. But what has parted you, Dick?—I understood you were a sort of young Sir Nicholas already.” “’Tis a political difference,” says I, like the fool that I was. “Hah!” says he. “I can well believe it in these times. And for which side art thou, Dick?—hark thee,” he says, bending across the table to me, “I’m not afraid to tell thee, lad, that my sympathies are all with the Parliament. ’Sdeath, I have been considering this last week or so whether I won’t join with them—’tis a gentlemanly occupation, that of arms.” “’Tis what I am about to adopt,” says I. “I trust on the right side,” says he. “I am for the Parliament,” says I, stoutly. “Aye, and Sir Nicholas is a staunch King and Church man,” he says. “Well, well—so you differed on that point, eh?” “Something like it,” says I. “He would have had me go into garrison at Pomfret Castle under Sir Jarvis Cutler.” “A man must never give up his principles,” says he. “You stood by yours, of course, Dick?” “As you see,” says I, feeling somewhat important, and being foolishly willing to parade it. “I fear the old knight will disinherit thee, Dick,” says he, regarding me closely. “Even as he did me some seven years ago because I dared to contradict him on some trifling matter. ’Tis a touchy old cock, and can ill bide opposition from any man.” “Faith,” says I, “Can he bide it from a woman? He is like to have it in plenty if I know aught,” I says, the memory of my little scene with Mistress Alison still fresh in my mind. “Oh!” says he. “Is he so? And how may that be, Dick?” “He has sent for Alison French,” says I, draining my cup. “Our cousin Alison, eh?” says he, still curious. “Aye, he had always a tender spot in his heart for the lass.” “Will he preserve it?” says I. “She has the sharpest tongue that e’er I heard.” He looked at me with interest. “I ha’nt seen her this two year,” says he. “She bade fair to be a fine woman.” “Fine enough,” says I. “But preserve me from her tongue—’tis keen as a newly-whetted sword.” “You seem to bear some lively recollection on’t,” says he, looking at me with amusement. “Well, well—I seem to have come home to some strange news. But thou art not off, man—sit out another jug of ale with me.” “I must be gone,” says I. “I am riding south.” “And I am for my old ruin of a house,” he answers. “I have not set eyes on’t this two year, Dick. I must see to it, I doubt—and then for the wars.” “Belike we shall meet there,” says I, and shakes him by the hand and goes out to my horse. As I rode away from the inn I saw him come to the door and gaze after me. He threw me a wave of his hand as I turned the corner. II. Still in a sore discontent with myself and my recent doings, I jogged forward through Hickleton and Sprotborough to Warmsworth, and coming to the trysting-place about four o’clock of the afternoon, sat me down by the roadside and waited until such time as my friend Matthew Richardson should make his appearance. As for my horse, I tied him up to the mile post and bade him crop the grass within reach to his heart’s content “Yes,” says I, “eat while thou canst, poor beast—God only knows what cheer we shall have in the days that are coming!” By which you may perceive that I had no great joy at the prospect before me. Now this may seem strange, and yet ’twas not strange, for, as I have told you before, I had never much inclination for such an active life as a soldier must needs live, and still less for the privations that fighting men are necessarily put to. But having put my hand to the plough—by which I mean, having sworn to embrace, and if need be, to fight for the popular cause—I was bound in honour not to look back. And surely my sympathies were all in favour of the cause I had espoused—it was but a natural sluggishness that made me hanker after peaceful pursuits at a time when most men were furbishing up their old weapons with uncommon zeal. About five o’clock came Matthew Richardson, mounted on a good horse, and full of enthusiasm and fervour. He greeted me with warmth, but was somewhat taken aback on perceiving that I was not armed. “Why, what?” says he, staring at me. “Is it thus you ride to war, friend Richard? Where be thy accoutrements, thy armour, thy greaves, thy sword and spear——” “You forget,” says I, “that I am escaped from a house where every weapon is sacred to the cause of the King’s Majesty. ’Tis a marvel that I have come hither at all.” “Ah!” says he, “I forgot, ’tis true, that your uncle is a staunch Royalist. Well, but we must arm thee, Richard, at the first opportunity. I have friends in Derbyshire,” he says, musingly, “that will fit thee out, I think. So now to horse and let us onward.” “Whither away first?” says I. “To Northampton, lad. ’Tis there that Essex is gathering the army in which lies all the hope of England. A brave array it is,” he says, “judging by all that I hear.” “I have heard naught of it,” says I, as we jogged along. “Until last night I did not even know that war had broken out.” “You are welcome to such news as I have,” says he, and for the next hour he entertained me with information about the doings of the Parliamentarians. The Earl of Essex, it seemed, had been named general-in-chief and had appointed various officers to serve under him, amongst whom were Kimbolton, Stamford, Holles, Hampden, Cholmley, and Wharton. Lord Bedford was general of the cavalry, and had under his command some five thousand men, captained by lords and commoners, of whom Cromwell was one and Ireton another. “Three and twenty thousand men, horse and foot, there are,” says Matthew. “Truly, the oppressor hath need to quail and quake before them!” “’Tis certainly a goodly array to hear of,” says I. “Yes,” says he, with enthusiasm, “and ’tis representative of the will of the people, Dick. Shouldst hear all that I have heard of the sacrifices that have been made! High and low, rich and poor—faith, lad! I had not thought that the popular cause had so many friends. But yesterday comes Geoffery Scales—thou knowest Geoff?—he will meet us at Mansfield on our way—and tells me that when he was in London t’other week, there was the wildest enthusiasm for the Parliament. Why, there has been plate of gold and silver sent in for melting, and women of fashion have given their gew-gaws, and the poorer sort their rings and little ornaments—praise be to God!” he says, with a sudden fervour. “It rejoiceth my soul exceedingly to perceive so vigorous a feeling in favour of liberty.” “Why,” says I, “but is there not an equal feeling on t’other side, Matthew? It seems to me,” says I, “that for every ounce of enthusiasm on our side the Royalists can show another, and maybe more, on theirs.” “Thou art come out of a Royalist hot-bed,” he says, not over well pleased. “I trust they have not shaken thy faith at all, Richard?” “Marry, no,” I says. “I daresay ’tis strong as thine, lad, though I do not show it in just thy fashion. Thou art a dreamer, a visionary, a man of fine and airy spirit, friend Matthew, and thou dost see far into the future, whereas I am slow as an ox at thought, and mighty sluggish into the bargain. Howbeit, I will strike as many blows as you like for the good cause.” “Yes,” says he, his eyes kindling, “and what a cause it is! Thou callest me a visionary, Dick—why man, ’tis true I have seen the rarest things in my dreams of what this nation may be, once freed from the ancient oppression.” “Aye, and what shall she be, Matthew?” says I. “That is, if our side wins?” “If our side wins?” he says angrily, turning hastily upon me. “If our side wins! Why, man, we are bound to win—wherever yet in the world’s history was there a popular cause that was not successful in the end? But to thy question—why, Dick, we shall set aside the tyrant and all his unholy crew, and after that we shall govern the nation in justice and righteousness and there will be abiding peace in the land.” “The Lord grant it!” says I, with a sigh. “Faith!—’tis precisely what I desire. Let us press on, Matthew, and hasten its coming.” So we went forward, joined by one or other of our fellows at various places along the road. Some of them were enthusiasts like Matthew Richardson, who believed that they had a heaven-sent mission to bring about the millennium by resort to arms, others were like myself, in full sympathy with the wrongs of the nation, who had come to the sorrowful conclusion that naught but war would settle matters, and had therefore resolved to join the Parliamentary forces. Five-and-twenty of us there were altogether, all students of the ancient University of Oxford, who rode into Northampton under Matthew Richardson’s command to take service under Essex, every man bringing his own horse and his own gear, and each resolved to do his best for the cause. Now if this were a chronicle of my doings with the Parliamentarian army I could here set down the history of many things which happened to me during my service under its flag, for in good sooth those were stirring times and I saw much of what went on. But this is a plain account of the most notable passage in my own life and in that of Alison French, my cousin, and all that I have so far writ is as it were a prolegomena to the important business of my story. But since you may know where I was, and what I was occupied with during the period which elapsed ’twixt my leaving the Manor House in 1642 and returning to it in 1644, let me tell you that I was engaged in fighting the battles of the people in no paltry fashion. Faith! when any man talks to me of the glories of war I laugh in my sleeve at him for a fool that knows naught of his subject. I was in Ireton’s troop during those two years, and know as much of bloody heads, empty bellies, and sleeping out o’ doors, as the best of them. The marvel is, looking back upon it from the standpoint of a greybeard, that I endured so much privation and discomfort, who had all my life been accustomed to gentle living and soft quarters. But we were young, and young folks, especially if they have any enthusiasm for a cause, or dogged belief in its righteousness, will endure a deal. Now I had little enthusiasm, but much dogged belief, and when I had finally assumed the steel helmet and mastered the long sword of a trooper, there was in me a grim determination to fight for the true cause that made me regardless of either a raw wound or a couch of damp straw. III. From the time that I said farewell to Anthony Dacre at the door of the wayside inn until June of the following year I never heard aught of my relatives, though they, as it appeared—thanks to Master Anthony—heard no little of me. I was here and there with the army under Essex all that autumn and winter of 1642-43, and truth to tell, we had no very brave times of it. There was discontent and despondency, and also there was disease and desertion, and there was the affair at Kingston Bridge where we let the king escape us in the most childish fashion, and these matters did us little good, as you may believe. The king was negotiating, and quibbling, and lying, at Oxford, and nobody was sorry when spring came and put an end to all the talk and writing. Essex reunited his army, and there was not a man of us that did not look forward to the resumption of hostilities. It was Hampden’s notion that we should immediately invest Oxford, which was at that time ill calculated to withstand a siege, but Essex thought differently, and made for Reading, which he reduced after a ten days’ siege. About the middle of June we approached Oxford and fixed our headquarters at Thame, within ten miles of the city, and it was while we lay there that I received news of my relations at the Manor House. There came into my tent one afternoon a tall fellow that first stared about him with an air of great curiosity, and then enquired if he spoke to Master Richard Coope. “You do, master,” says I. “My name is Stephen Morrel,” says he. “I never heard on’t before,” I says. “Have you business with me, Master Morrel?” He lugged a packet out of his breast and held it towards me so that I could see the handwriting. “Do you recognise that fist, Master Coope?” says he. “Why!” says I. “’Tis my uncle’s.” There was no mistaking the crabbed up and down strokes. “Sit you down, Master Morrel,” I says, “Faith! I had no idea that you carried news to me.” “Why,” says he, “I know naught about the news, Master Coope. But suffer me,” he says, seating himself, “to give you some account of the manner in which this packet came into my hands.” “With the greatest joy in the world,” says I. “But don’t be long in your story, for I am mighty impatient to read my uncle’s letter.” “I will waste no words,” says he, settling himself in a fashion that made me think he intended at least an hour’s discourse. “It was after this fashion,” he says. “You must know, Master Coope, that I set out from the North some three weeks ago, bearing despatches from Sir Thomas Fairfax to the Earl of Essex. ’Tis a mighty desperate thing, let me tell you, this carrying of despatches through a lonely country where you may as like as not be stopped by stray parties of the enemy, or fall across some town or village that is mad for the King’s Majesty. What do you think, Master Coope, on that point?” “Sir,” says I, “I am so exceeding loth to interrupt you that I shall not trouble you with my thoughts. This packet, now—?” “Aye, to be sure,” says he, “Well, Master Coope, I progressed safely through divers difficulties—though, indeed, I had one adventure twixt Northallerton and York that has elements of danger in’t—until I had passed the town of Pomfret by some two miles, when my horse had the ill-fortune to fall and cut its right knee very severely. As you may believe, this put me in a sad position, for my orders were imperative. Now as I stood there, wondering what to do, there came along the road an old gentleman of exceeding fine presence, and with him the handsomest young gentlewoman that I have seen this many a day. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am in sore trouble, and crave your assistance. My horse has cut its knee somewhat severely—if your stable is at hand suffer me to lead him there that I may wash and bandage his wound.’ ‘Of a surety!’ says he, very prompt and polite. But he suddenly looked at me from head to foot. ‘What art thou?’ he says, with rank suspicion in his eyes. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am an officer in the Parliamentarian forces.’ ‘A rebel!’ says he. ‘A renegade! Get thee gone, traitor—expect no help from me—shouldst hang from yonder oak!’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I entreat you to forget that I am your foe, and beg you only to remember that I am a gentleman, a Christian, and in need.’” “Faith!” says I, “you touched him in a sore place there.” “So I perceived,” says he, “for he immediately straightened himself up and looked at me very fierce. ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Bring thy horse after us—I have forgotten thy first description of thyself, young man.’ So I walked after him, the young gentlewoman having gone on before, and presently he turns aside into an ancient courtyard that lay within the gates of an old manor-house. ‘There,’ says he, ‘take thy beast into the stable and doctor him—God forbid that I should not do thee mercy, even if thou art an enemy.’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am no enemy to you, but your very much obliged servant.’ ‘Tut, tut,’ says he, and goes into his house. So I made for the stable with my horse and there put his wound to rights, and felt thankful that I had fared so well. But my story is wearisome to you, Master Coope?” “Sir,” says I, “since you introduced my worshipful uncle into it, it has possessed the keenest interest for me.” “Well,” he says, “while I was repairing the damage to my beast’s knee, the old gentleman, your uncle, came to me again and looked at me with some curiosity. ‘So thou art in good sooth, a rebel?’ says he, at last. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am what you call a rebel, and you are what I call a rebel.’ ’Tis a mere difference of opinion between us.’ ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Well I grieve for thee, young man. Be advised; go home, and serve the king loyally.’ ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘I serve a greater Power than the king, and am on its business now.’ At that he walks up and down the stable awhile with his head bent and his hands behind his back.” “A favourite position of his,” says I, my thoughts going back to other times. “Then he comes back to me and looks me squarely in the face. ‘Art thou by any chance going nigh to the army commanded by the traitor Essex?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘as between Royalist and Parliamentarian, no; as between gentleman and gentleman, yes.’ He takes another turn or two. ‘I have a lad, my nephew, with that army,’ says he. ‘Wilt thou take a message to him?’ ‘Of a surety,’ says I, ‘if I should chance to come across him.’ ‘I have no certain news of his whereabouts,’ says he, ‘but if thou canst find him—his name it is Richard Coope—tell him that—nay,’ he says, ‘why should not I write him letters with my own hand?’ ‘Why not, indeed?’ says I. ‘But canst thou tarry?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I will tarry an hour to please you.’ Now at that he bustled me into the house and had me into his hall, where I found the young gentlewoman I spoke of plying her distaff, and conversing with a man of sinister countenance, yet handsome withal——” “Anthony Dacre!” says I. “That indeed was his name. Well, the old gentleman bids the girl see to my wants, and faith! she caused to be set up before me a noble collation, with good wine, but not one word would she exchange with me of conversation, but was as coldly polite as you can imagine. However, the man talked with me somewhat freely, and seemed desirous of hearing something of my business, as to which, you may be sure, I said naught to him. After a time back comes the old knight and gives me this packet, whereupon I took my leave. The sinister-faced man came forth with me. ‘As you are riding towards Doncaster,’ says he, ‘I will set you on your road for a mile or two.’ ‘’Tis agreeable,’ says I, and away we rode at an easy pace. Now within the half-hour we came to a steep bit of road where there were many trees on either side.” “’Tis Barnsdale,” says I, mighty interested. “I don’t know the name,” says he, “but I have lively recollections of what took place there. This fellow that was riding at my side suddenly whips out a pistol and presents it at my face. ‘Give me that packet!’ says he. ‘If you value your life, give it to me on the instant!’ Now I then knew what I was dealing with, so I made a rapid movement with my horse and suddenly knocked the pistol out of the fellow’s hand, and had drawn my own ere he could get at his sword. ‘Softly, good sir,’ says I, and lets him see that I meant to shoot him at the least sign of resistance. ‘What is your meaning?’ I says. But he began to scowl and swear, whereupon I relieved him of his weapons and secured them to my own saddle bow. ‘I perceive,’ says I, ‘that this packet bears some news for Master Richard Coope which you have no mind for him to receive.’ ‘Now,’ I says, ‘I don’t know where Master Coope is, or if he be dead or alive, but if the latter I’ll see that this letter reaches him.’ And with that I left him—‘and here,’ he says, handing me the packet, ‘is your worshipful uncle’s epistle, Master Richard—and faith! I think you’ll acknowledge that I had some slight adventures in carrying it safe to you.’” And with that he went out of the tent ere I could thank him for his kindness. IV. “Here’s a pretty puzzle!” says I to myself, staring at my uncle’s letter, and full of wonder as to its contents. “What on earth is that fellow Anthony up to now that he should try to shoot a man who happens to be carrying me a packet from Sir Nicholas? Faith!” says I, cutting the strings, “there seems to be something queer in all this—let’s see what the good old knight has been minded to write to me.” Now Sir Nicholas’s letter ran thus—I transcribe it from the original, which is strictly preserved with my other family papers:— “ Nephew Richard , “As Providence will have it there is put into my power to-day the chance of holding some communication with you, and I hasten to avail myself of the same, and to take my pen in hand to write to you, though indeed I have no certain knowledge as to whether you be alive or dead. However, if you be alive I trust these may reach you, so that haply you may repent of your exceeding naughtiness upon hearing my admonition thereon, and be turned once more to better ways. Thou art my only brother’s only child, and ’tis a sore vexing of the spirit to me that thou shouldst so strangely depart from those paths of virtue in which I strove to make thee walk. But let me address myself to the immediate purpose with which I write to you. It must be done in few words, for the messenger is in sore haste to be gone on his evil errand. God forgive me for lending assistance to an enemy of the king!—’Swounds, I would not have done it, but that he appealed to me as a Christian, and that I thought there might be some chance of communicating through him with thee, Dick. “I understood, nephew, when you left me, that you were there and then returning to your studies at Oxford. This was displeasing to me, for I had wished you to fight for the King’s Majesty, but after all there was naught of absolute evil in your desire or your faintheartedness. And yet two days are not gone by after your departure when in comes my other nephew, Anthony Dacre, whom I had dismissed years ago in your favour, Dick, and tells me that he met thee carousing in some wayside inn, and declaring thy intention of joining thyself to the rebels. ’Sdeath, it was a marvel that I did not there and then run him through with my sword! I never heard tell of such a thing as a Coope fighting against his sovereign—’tis most marvellous. But he assured me in the most solemn fashion that he spake the truth. I trust in God, nephew, that he lied, and yet I fear me he did not, for I have since heard that thou and Lawyer Richardson’s son, and some other of your college friends and acquaintance, have attached yourselves to the enemy, being hot-headed young fools. Still I am loth to believe aught that I hear against thee, Dick, for a Coope should always serve the king whose good pleasure it was to make me a knight. “I know not whether these will ever reach thee, for I have really no knowledge of where thou art, but I now write to inform thee that if thou hast indeed joined the rebels all is over between thee and me. I trust to hear better news, or at any rate that thou wilt repent even at the eleventh hour—I could find it in my heart to forgive thee, nephew, even then—and return to thy proper place, instead of consorting with a pack of scoundrelly crop-eared knaves that would disgrace Tyburn. “I would have thee know that Anthony Dacre—whom I like not—is for ever pressing his attentions upon Mistress Alison, thy cousin, whom I had always meant thee to marry. I cannot tell whether the wench favours him or not. “I beseech thee, nephew, if these should come to thy hand and find thee a rebel, to repent thee of thy naughtiness, and to immediately abjure thy errors and return home. I am sore vexed at thy froward conduct, and shall visit thee sharply for it, but as I am a merciful man and stand in loco parentis , as the saying is, to thee, I shall also reserve for thee my forgiveness on condition that you do henceforward fight on the right side. “Anthony Dacre told me that you spoke disrespectfully of me and of Alison when he met you at the wayside inn as you was on your way to the wars. I should joy to know that in this, as in that other matter, A. D. was a liar—as I firmly believe him to be, being much inclined that way. “How hast thou managed for money? Alas—I wish I knew whether these words will ever come under thy notice. “I rest thy affectionate kinsman, “ Nicholas Coope , Knt.” Post-Scriptum. —“The messenger, being still at his meat, I open this to tell thee, Dick, that we had yesterday a litter of fourteen young pigs from the old sow, and that thy bay mare gave us a fine foal about a sen’night ago. The land is looking very well hereabouts, and so far we have had none of our stock or produce carried off by your rascally Parliamentarians, though we have twice contributed liberally to the needs of passing regiments of the king’s forces, which, to be sure, was our bounden duty. My gout is a deal better—I am in hopes to harness myself and go to the wars yet. “If all that A. D. says of thee is true, I am minded to cut thee off altogether. So no more at this present from thy uncle.” I laid this letter aside with many diverse feelings. It showed to me plainly that that precious rascal Anthony had drawn me out as we sat at the wayside inn, and had forthwith blabbed all I had said to Sir Nicholas, embellishing his news, doubtless, with a deal of his own invention and ornament. “If ever there comes a chance, Master Anthony,” says I, “I’ll pay you for your kindness.” And yet, going by the letter, was there aught untrue in what Anthony had evidently told them at the Manor House? It was true that I had left Sir Nicholas under a false impression; it was true that I had joined the Parliamentarians; it was true that I had spoken of Mistress Alison French in a way that was aught but respectful. “Lord!” says I to myself, “What a position am I placed in by my own folly.” And yet I was conscious of naught wrong in my conduct. I had left Sir Nicholas as I did in order to spare his feelings (and to save him from locking me up, as he surely would have done had he known my true thoughts), I had joined the Parliamentarians because I honestly agreed with them; and if I had said aught sharp about my cousin, why, it was because she had spoke sharply to me. “The mischief was,” thinks I, “to say aught at all to Anthony—I should have kept my thoughts to myself.” Now, I cared naught about Anthony and his lies, or about Alison’s disdain of me, but I had an honest affection for the old knight, and felt that I must endeavour to set myself right with him, and therefore I went about the camp, seeking Stephen Morrel, under the hope that he was presently to travel North again with despatches. And finding that he was, I sat down and wrote a long letter to my uncle, wherein I set out all my conduct, excusing myself in naught, but putting my own case boldly and in a manful way, and claiming the right to think for myself in these vexed matters. Also I assured him of my unfailing love and respect for himself, and begged him to allow me—these troublous times over—to pay him my duty in person. All this I wrote and more, and two days later committed the packet to the care of Morrel, who was riding North with despatches from Essex to Fairfax. But as ill-luck would have it my letter was never delivered, for Morrel was taken prisoner by the Royalists ere he had well got out of Oxfordshire and was shot, and so Sir Nicholas was left in ignorance of me and my motives for a long time. Howbeit there came at last a chance for me to put myself right with him, and it was the seizing of it that led me to the most important adventure of my life. Upon the twenty-seventh day of October, 1644, was fought the second battle of Newbury. Essex was ill, and the army was commanded by Manchester, who had with him Cromwell as general of the cavalry. Which of us it was that had the advantage I cannot say—the king retired upon Oxford, but there was no pursuit of him. Some said there was a difference of opinion between Manchester and Cromwell, and as to that I know naught either. What I do know is that on the following morning I was fetched to Cromwell’s tent, where I found him sealing a despatch, and conversing with Ireton. He looked me up and down, with that keen glance of his, which seemed to read a man’s thoughts on the instant. “You are a Yorkshireman?” says he. “I am, sir,” says I. “I have here a despatch of the strictest importance for Sir Thomas Fairfax, who is now investing the castle at Pomfret,” says he. “I think you are the man to carry it.” “Sir,” says I, “I am at your orders.” He sat looking at me, his fingers playing drum-taps on the sealed packet. “This,” says he, “must not be permitted to fall into the hands of the enemy. ’Twixt Sheffield and Pomfret they are now in full force. I think you, as a native of that part, should circumvent them.” “I’ll undertake that, too,” says I. “What do you propose?” says he. “Not to travel like this,” says I, with a glance at my uniform. “I’ll go as a travelling scholar—I have my old suit at hand.” “Begone,” says he, and hands over the packet. He kept his thumb and finger on one corner of it, and looked me squarely in the face. “If this should fall into the enemy’s hand,” he says, and pauses. He let the packet go. “You will be on your way in an hour, Master Coope,” says he, and waves me out. I was out of the camp in half-an-hour after that, and on my way northward. I wore my old suit, and out of one pocket stuck a Livy, and out of the other a Horace. As for the packet for Sir Thomas Fairfax, it was sewed within the lining of my doublet. I had ridden a good ten mile before I remembered that my mission would give me the opportunity of waiting upon Sir Nicholas. That, I think, added some zest to my adventure, for I was honestly anxious to see the good old knight once more. Now, I made good speed in my journey, and met with little hindrance until the afternoon of the fourth day, when I was brought up by as unfortunate an accident as a man in my position could encounter. My horse, which had left Sheffield that morning, seemingly fresh and fit for the last stage of his journey, suddenly fell dead under me on the roadside ’twixt Hickleton and Barnsdale, leaving me staring at him with as rueful thoughts as ever I had in my life. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and by six I had trudged forward to Barnsdale. There, pausing under the trees, I stood to catch a glimpse of the Manor House in the distance. I laid my hand on the packet hidden in my doublet. “That must be delivered ere nightfall,” says I. But I was dead tired, and by no means certain as to how my resolution was to be carried out. Chapter III Of my Second Meeting with Anthony Dacre, and its Results—and of my Serious Quandary as to which of two Duties must first be performed. I. I was by this time on the threshold, as it were, of my destination, for only a short seven miles lay ’twixt me and Fairfax’s headquarters, but seven miles to a weary man is no light thing to venture on, and the packet which lay in my doublet was of a strict importance. However, fate being plainly against me, I ceased to fight with it, and resolved to rest for awhile, leaning against a beech tree that was damp and black with the November mists, debating in my mind as to the advisability of doing this or that. “Faith!” says I to myself at last. “With my knowledge of the country it shall go hard if I don’t reach Pomfret to-night, and on a good horse, too. And so let’s see for such means as the neighbourhood affords.” As luck would have it the barking of a dog across the fields reminded me of a farmhouse that stood there. ’Twas a lonely place, lying a long way back from the road, and so well hidden by great trees that you might have passed it, going north or south, and never caught a glimpse of its gables. I had forgotten it quite till the dog barked. “Egad!” says I, hearing him. “Here’s the very thing for me. Reuben Trippett’s bay mare will carry me across this seven miles in a trice, and I’ll take her without as much as a ‘by your leave,’ if only the stable-door be open.” And without pausing to reflect upon such questions as to whether Reuben still lived there, and if the bay mare (which he had lent me more than once in by-gone days) was still his property. I climbed the hedge at the next convenient opening, and made my way across the dank meadows towards the farmhouse. By this time the night was closing in, very dull and misty, and as there was no light in Reuben Trippett’s window by which to guide my steps, I had some little difficulty in finding my way. There were three fields to cross, and in the middle one I called to mind a wide stretch of marshy land in which as a lad I had gathered many a handful of rare butter-bums. “Keep me out o’ that!” says I to myself, but the words were scarce out of my mouth when into it I flops, to my sore discomfort, and the sad besmirching of my breeches. But having met with it—and floundered out on t’other side after some difficulty—I knew where I was, and so went forward until at last I saw the farmhouse chimneys make a faint outline against the grey sky. There was a glint of light through a crack in the kitchen shutters. “Softly does it,” says I, and I crept along the wall till the sneck of the fold gate lay in my hand. “Why, this,” I says, chuckling to myself, “is the rarest adventure”—and so I was across the rotting straw in the fold and at the stable-door quicker than a star can shoot. “These cobble-stones,” thinks I, “must be covered up, or they’ll hear the mare’s feet on ’em”—and I ran across to the tumbril in the middle of the fold and brought back an armful of straw and spread it carefully over the stones. “And pray God,” I says, “that old Reuben hears naught, for his blunderbuss will spread pepper-corns over a good twenty yards!” The stable door was unlocked—there was naught for me to do but lift the sneck and enter. Once inside I stood listening. On the instant I knew that there were no horses there. The place was cold, damp, evil-smelling, and silent as a dead-house. Now a stable in which horses have their habitation is warm as one’s own bed at getting-up time, and so I knew from its very coldness that neither the bay mare nor any other mare or horse stood ready to hand. And I was outside again in a moment and standing on the straw that I had laid down so carefully just before, with my brains busily wondering what had come to Reuben Trippett, whose stables and byres had always been full of cattle. As I stood stroking my chin, I minded me of the chink in the kitchen window. “I’ll peep within,” says I, “whatever comes of it,” for I was in the mood for adventures that night. And so, crossing the fold with cautious steps I approached the window very gingerly, and put my eye to the crack through which the light streamed. And seeing that within which interested me more than a little, I kept it there and took a longer and steadier look. There was naught in that kitchen (which I remembered as being well stocked with house stuff of all sorts) in the way of plenishing but a rickety table, a mouldering settle, and a crazy chair. The lath and plaster hung from the ceiling and walls in strips—’twas plain to me that old Reuben was either gathered to his fathers and sleeping quiet in Badsworth churchyard, or gone elsewhere. Nevertheless, there was human life in the place, and it was the form under which it came that surprised me. Three men sat on the settle, and a fourth leaned against the jamb of the black, empty fire-place, the fifth sat on the broken chair with his back to the window through which I peered. One of the three on the settle I recognised for Jack Bargery, as villainous a rogue as all Osgoldcross, either Upper or Lower, could show, the men on each side of him and the fellow leaning against the jamb I had no knowledge of. But the figure in the chair, and mark you, I saw nought of it but the back, which made a black mass against the light of the candle burning on the table, seemed somewhat familiar to me and set some memories itching in my brain. And then a sudden turn of the man’s head brought it all back to me, and I knew him at once for my precious kinsman, Anthony Dacre. “Ho-ho!” thinks I to myself. “Here’s a pretty meeting by candle-light. What may these five sweet gentlemen be about?” I says. And because my curiosity was aroused I straight forgot everything, Cromwell’s despatch and all, in a rare desire to hear what the fellows were talking of. But ’twas no good straining my ear, for there was a thick pane of dullish glass ’twixt me and them, and I could make naught out, though I heard a mumbling sound, and saw their jaws move now and then. And just because ’twas Anthony Dacre that seemed to be doing all the talking, the others only putting in an occasional yea or nay, my curiosity warmed to boiling point and must needs be satisfied. So for the second time that night I began to cast about for means. Now, in the old times, I knew every inch of the land round about my uncle’s estate, and the farmsteads were as familiar to me as the pump in our own stable-yard. I remembered, as I stood with my eye to the crack in the shutter, that in the rear of Reuben Trippett’s kitchen there was a lattice at which the maids used to hand in the milk-pails from the byre. ’Twas a matter of thin strips of lath, and in the daytime was left swinging as the wind liked, but in the night a shutter came down over it, and was secured by a bolt. If the shutter, by any good or ill luck,—I cared not which it might properly be called,—had been left up when the house was deserted, I should be able from the byre to hear every word spoken in the kitchen as well as if I had been inside. So, remembering this, I stole round the corner of the house to the byre, all agog to hear what mischief Master Dacre, that scamp Bargery, and t’other three were compassing. That it was mischief I never doubted for a moment; there was not an honest pair of eyes amongst the four that I had seen, and I remembered Anthony’s for more years than I could then call to mind. The byre, like the stable, was cold and empty. I warrant me there had been no cows in it for a twelve-month. I had grown somewhat heated by my adventures in the bog, and the chill stuck to my bones and made me shiver. One glance at the far end of the mistal, however, helped me to forget cold and everything. They had forgotten to put down the shutter when they left the old house, and the lattice window made dim bars of shadow against the swimming light of the candle. There was naught left to me but to steal gently along the slimy walls of the byre (ugh! I can feel the damp of them now, and snuff their fetid odour, which then came thick and heavy to my nostrils) until I came to the lattice. And since I dared not venture to stick my head before it, lest the fellows within should catch sight of me, I got as near to the window frame as I dared, and listened with more attention than I had ever given, I think, to aught before. Anthony Dacre was speaking when I put my ear as close to the latch as I dared, but he had evidently come to the tail of his sentence, and I could make little sense of it. “Fair or foul,” says he, to wind up; “fair or foul.” “And more foul than fair, I warrant me,” thinks I. “A deal more o’ the foul than the fair, Master Anthony, if I know aught o’ thee.” And I composed myself to hear somewhat more. I heard a shuffling of feet on the kitchen floor, as if each man nudged his neighbour’s knee. “Come,” says Anthony; “is there ne’er a tongue amongst the lot o’ you?” The man Bargery spoke—I knew his voice, too. “Why,” says he, “’tis like this: what use is speaking till we know Master Dacre’s plans? Or are we as soldiers that march under sealed orders?” “Ah!” says another; “well put.” “Why,” says Anthony, “I see no objection to telling you all that’s in my mind—why not? The main object’s in your knowledge already; ’tis the details that you’re curious about, eh?” “There might be cutting of throats, and such like,” said another. “’Tis best we should know. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.” “Listen, then,” says Anthony. “Faith, I think you’ll say ’tis as pretty a bit o’ contrivance as was ever devised. Sir Nicholas, as you know, has made himself something beyond obnoxious to the Parliamentarians, and I saw a rare chance in that. So this morning I goes to Fairfax in his camp, and professes my devotion to the Parliament, and then spins him a long yarn about Sir Nicholas Coope and his efforts to keep the king’s flag flying over his old barn of a house. And, ’sdeath, lads! I played my cards so well that I got a warrant from him to apprehend my worthy relative, and take him before Fairfax. Here ’tis—there’s Fairfax’s own seal and fist.” I heard a murmuring growl from the four men, and the shuffle of their feet as they drew near to the table to inspect the paper. “But——” says Bargery. “When I’ve finished,” says Anthony Dacre. “Now, here’s my plan: we shall go, the five of us, and apprehend Sir Nicholas, and thus get admission to the house, the door o’ which my pretty mistress keeps so persistently shut in my face. If the old knight calls up his fellows, we must give them as many tastes of cold steel as will suffice for their supper. I have little fear of trouble in that quarter, however.” “There are four stout men i’ the house,” says Bargery, “and as many arms as would set up a troop.” “What are four men to five, with Fairfax’s warrant behind them? And thy four men—zounds, there is but old Gregory, and ancient Jasper, and two lads that cannot tell the difference ’twixt a musket and Sir Nicholas’s cane! Besides, we go in peace—leave it to me to make fair professions. I look not for any fighting—nevertheless, ’tis as well to be prepared. But hark ye, lads, I have a second paper from Fairfax that I set more store by than the first. Look at that for a piece o’ rare generalship.” I heard the shuffle of their feet again as the men approached the table, and a murmuring as if none of the four could read over well. “’Tis such a crabbed fist,” says Bargery at last, and they shuffled back to the hearth and the settle. “But plain enough for all I want,” says Anthony. “’Tis a safe conduct, lads, granted at the request of Master Anthony Dacre to Mistress Alison French, so that she may pass through any opposition of the Parliamentary troops to her father’s house. Now ye see my plan, eh? We shall go to the old knight and arrest him, but I shall be so full of concern and care for my cousin that I shall tell ’em great tales of my procuring this favour for her lest she should experience discomfort.” “But,” says Bargery, “they tell me that she sets great store by the old man, and she’ll therefore let it count heavy against you that you come to hale him out o’ the house.” “And I thought o’ that, too,” says Anthony. “And so I arranged that two of Fairfax’s troopers should accompany us to the house. We shall, therefore, be seven to four if it comes to fighting. Now, hark ye, lads, this is the whole manner of it. At nine o’clock to-night we meet the troopers at the corner of Hardwick village. They, Bargery there, and myself, go to the Manor House, and seek admission—t’other three o’ you wait me in the lane that leads past Hundhill. We gain admission, and I, very sorrowful, crave private audience of Sir Nicholas. I tell him how it grieves me that he and I should think differently on these matters of state, but that I am at least an honest man. Then I go on to say that I have learnt in the camp that Fairfax has issued a warrant against him, and that being personally much concerned because of it, I am come with the troopers myself to see that no indignity is offered him. Eh, you follow my notions?” “Excellent!” says Bargery. “I see the reason on’t.” “Then I brings out my safe conduct for Mistress Alison,” continues Anthony, “and offers her myself and three o’ my own men as escort along the road. Once the old knight is off to Fairfax’s camp, she will set out with me and you three that have waited for us, towards Doncaster. And as for the rest,” he says, with a laugh, “why, I need say naught of it. And now, lads, we’ll make arrangements for our meeting.” Then there was a silence, and I wondered what they were doing, and whether I had best not slip away ere they came out of the house. But I think the four men must have been staring at each other, each wanting to say something that was on his mind. For presently one of them, a fellow with as hoarse a voice as ever I heard, growls out, “And our pay, Master Dacre; ye han’t said e’er a word o’ that.” At that I pricked up my ears. “Ha, ha!” says I. “Now there’s a chance for honest men.” But as luck would have it there was no falling out amongst these rogues, for Anthony promised to satisfy their demands, and presently they talked of parting. Thereat I stole away from the hatch and into the fields. The night had come on as black as a dog’s throat, and I found it hard work to make my way back to the road, but, faith! I had so much to think of that I never once stayed to consider the whereabouts of the marshy ground. And it was most likely, because I never remembered it, that I missed it and went sailing along in the darkness, comfortable enough—for I never thought of the discomfort—until I found myself in the hedge which separated me from the road. That I had not perceived, but I forgave it, for all that it had run various thorns into tender parts o’ my body. And so I climbed over it—having hurried alongside it till I found a post and rails—and stood on the road, once more wondering what to do next. “Here’s a pretty coil!” says I. “Egad, Master Anthony, I used to trounce thee in the old days—why did I not give thee such a trouncing that thou hadst never needed more?” But what was the good of that? The thing was to do—not to stand there thinking. But as thought goes before action—at least with wise men—I gave two minutes to it. And this is what I thought: First, it was plain that my rascally kinsman, Anthony Dacre, whom I there and then prayed God to utterly confound, meditated some serious injury to Mistress Alison French, and was minded to stop at naught, not even the seizure of Sir Nicholas himself by force, in order to compass his evil intentions. Second: There was nobody but myself who, knowing his plans, could warn my uncle and cousin of their danger. Third: I had a packet from Cromwell to Fairfax in my breast, which I was in honour bound to deliver as quickly as I might. Fourth: It seemed but a Christian-like thing to stay at my uncle’s house and tell him and Alison of that villain Anthony’s notions concerning them. Fifth: What was I going to do?—go straight on to Fairfax’s camp, or proceed to the Manor House? Sixth: Why the dickens should I interfere on behalf of Sir Nicholas (who had misunderstood me) or of my cousin Alison (who had—to my face, too!—called me a poltroon). Seventh: I hated Anthony Dacre, and would give much to circumvent him. Eighth: Blood is a deal thicker than water. Ninth: If I made haste I could inform Sir Nicholas, speak a word of warning in my cousin’s ear, and go forward to Pomfret before nine o’clock. And tenth: Soldier of the Parliamentary army as I was, and faithful to the cause of the people, and to the special trust that their leaders had reposed in me, I would see Parliament, people, Cromwell, Fairfax, and everything, damned before Anthony Dacre should have his will of an old man and an innocent girl! “But God send,” says I to myself, “that there be no need of it!” And I set off along the road at a round pace. The night seemed to grow darker, and there is something in me—and there was a deal more of it in those days—that cannot abear darkness, but I trotted along, being pretty sound in wind and limb, keeping my ears open for any noise, until I came to the cross roads, having Thorpe on one side o’ me and Wentbridge on t’other. And here a notion struck me, for which I thanked God many a time in the days to come. There were two brothers, John and Humphrey Stirk, yeomen, exceeding true and honest fellows, that lived in their farmhouse at Thorpe, and farmed their own bit of land—egad! they were the very men to do a good deed! I had played with ’em many a time when we were lads together, and so had little Alison, and I knew that they would put themselves out of the way to serve either her or me. The thought of them came into my mind as I trotted up to the cross roads, and so I never stopped in my run but turned the corner to the left and went forward to their house. There was a light in the kitchen window—and so I was within, half-breathless, holding a hand of each, and looking from one honest pair of eyes to another. “God save us!” says Humphrey. “’Tis Master Dick!” “We thought you was at the wars,” says Jack. “And, faith, you look as if you had been!” “Natheless,” says Humphrey, “we’re glad to see you home again—and sit you down, Master Dick,” says he. But there was no thought of sitting down in my mind. And in a few words I had told them sufficient of what I knew, and had begged their assistance. “Willing enough,” says Humphrey. As for Jack, he says naught, but goes to the wall and takes down his musket. “There’s powder and shot,” says Humphrey, “in the cupboard,” and he lays hands on his own musket, that stood in the corner. “Let’s have enow of both, brother,” he says, and Jack nods his head. “Trust me,” says Jack. “’Tis but poor work to go fowling with a single charge.” And so within five minutes of seeing their lighted window I was back in the road again, with one on each side of me, and all three of us making our way towards my uncle’s house. “Anthony,” I says to myself, “will have a greeting that he recks not of.” And I laughed at the thought of it. But my laughter died away quick when I reflected upon everything. In good sooth, chance, fate, or Providence, had put me in as tight a corner as a man could wish to be out of.

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