Lawrence Clavering

Chapter XVII

The March to Preston

A.E.W. Mason


IT WAS more from the exhaustion of hunger than any other cause that I fainted, and being come to myself, I was given food and thereafter accommodated with a horse; so that without any great delay the calvacade proceeded to its rendezvous. We fell in with Mr. Forster at the top of a hill, which they call the Waterfalls, and swelled his numbers to a considerable degree, there being altogether gathered at this spot, now that we were come, near upon sixty horse, gentlemen and their attendants, and all armed. After a short council it was decided that we should march northwards and meet Brigadier Macintosh at Kelso. Besides, argued Mr. Forster, there was great reason to believe, that if we did but appear before the walls, Newcastle would open its gates to us; in the which case we should not only add largely to our forces but secure that of which we stood most in need—I mean ordnance and ammunition. “For,” said he, “Sir William Blackett, whose interest is very considerable in the town, has armed and enlisted in troops all the colliers and keelmen and miners in his pay, and does but wait for us to set them in motion.”

Accordingly, in the height of confidence and good spirits, the little band set out towards Plainfield on the river Coquett, though for my part I could but ponder in the greatest distress upon the deserted aspect of Applegarth. Nor was Lord Derwentwater in any way able to relieve my fears, seeing that he had himself been seeking refuge from one place to another. I was driven therefore to persuade myself as the best hope which offered, that Mr. Curwen and his daughter had embarked in the Swallow and were now come safely to France. Yet, somehow, the while I persuaded myself, my heart sank with the thought of the distance that was between us.

We came that night to Rothbury, and sleeping there, marched the next morning to Warkworth where, the day being Saturday, the 7th of October Mr. Forster resolved to lie until the Monday. It was in the parish church of Warkworth that Mr. Buxton, our chaplain, first prayed publicly for King James III., substituting that name for King George, and it was in Warkworth too that King James was first of all; in England proclaimed King of Great Britain. I remember standing in the market-place listening to the huzzaing of our forces and watching the hats go up in the air, with how heavy a heart! So that many chided me for the dull face I wore. But I was picturing to myself the delight with which Dorothy would have viewed the scene. I could see her eye sparkle, her little hand clench upon her whip; I could hear her voice making a harmony of these discordant shouts.

On Monday we rode out of Warkworth, and being joined by many gentlemen at Alnwick and other places, and in particular by seventy Scots Horse at Felton Bridge, marched into Morpeth, three hundred strong, all mounted. For we would entertain no foot, since we had not sufficient arms even for those we had mounted, and moreover were in a great haste to surprise Newcastle. To this end we hurried to Hexham, where we were joined by some more Scots Horse, and drew out from there on to a moor about three miles distant It was there that we sustained our first disappointment. For intelligence was brought to us from Newcastle that the magistrates having got wind of our designs, had gathered the train-bands and militia within the walls, and that the gates were so far from opening to receive us that they had been walled up and fortified with stone and lime to such a degree of strength that without cannon it was useless to attempt them.

Accordingly we marched chapfallen back to Hexham and lay there until the 19th, with no very definite idea of what we should do next. However, on the 18th a man came running into the town crying that General Carpenter with Churchill’s Dragoons and Hotham’s foot, and I know not what other regiments, had on this very day arrived at Newcastle from London, and without an instant’s delay had set about preparing to attack us. The news, you may be sure, threw us into a pretty commotion, and the colour of our hopes quite faded. Messengers sped backwards and forwards between General Forster and Lord Derwentwater and Captain Shaftoe; councils were held, broken up, reformed again; the whole camp hummed and sputtered like a boiling kettle. I passed that day in the greatest despair, for if this rising failed, every way was I undone. It was not merely that I should lose my life, but I should lose it without securing that for which I had designed it—I mean Mr. Herbert’s liberation. In the midst of this flurry and confusion, however, Mr. Burnett of Carlips rode into Hexham, with a message that Viscount Kenmure, and the Earls of Nithsdale, Carnwath, and Wintoun had entered England from the western parts of Scotland and were even now at Rothbury. Mr. Forster returned an express that we would advance to them the next morning; the which we did, greatly enheartened by the pat chance of their arrival, and being joined together with them marched in a body to Wooler on the following day and rested the Friday in that village.

We crossed the Tweed and entered Kelso on the 22nd of October, and about an hour after our entry the Highlanders, with their outlandish bagpipes playing the strangest skirling melodies, were led in by old Mackintosh from the Scots side. The joy we all had at the sight of them may be easily imagined, and indeed the expression of it by some of the baser followers was so extravagant that a man can hardly describe it with any dignity. But I think we all halloo’d them as our saviours, and so even persuaded our ears to find pleasure in the rasping of their pipes.

The next day being Sunday, Lord Kenmure ordered that Divine Service should be held in the great Kirk of Kelso, at which Papists and Protestants, Highlanders and Englishmen attended very reverently together; and I believe this was the first time that the rubric of the Church of England was ever read on this side of the Forth in Scotland. Mr. Patten, I remember, who after turned his coat to save his life, preached from a text of Deuteronomy, “The right of the first-born is his.” And very eloquent, I am told, his sermon was, though I heard little of it, being occupied rather with the gathering of men about me, and wondering whether at the long last we had the tips of our fingers upon this much-contested crown. For the Highlanders, though poorly armed and clad, had the hardiest look of any men that ever I saw. My great question, indeed, was whether amongst their nobles they had one who could lead. For on our side, except for Captains Nicholas Wogan, and Shaftoe, we had few who were versed in military arts, and Mr. Forster betrayed to my thinking more of the incompetency of the born Parliament-man than the resourceful instinct of the born strategist; in which opinion, I may say, I was fully warranted afterwards by that fatal omission in regard to Kibble Bridge.

On the Monday morning the Highlanders were drawn up in the churchyard and marched thence to the market-place, in all the bravery of flags flying, and drums beating, and pipes playing. There they were formed into a circle, and within that circle another circle of the Gentlemen Volunteers, whereof through the bounty of Lord Derwentwater, in supplying me with money and arms, I was now become one; and within that circle stood the noblemen. Thereupon a trumpet sounded, and silence being obtained, the Earl of Dumferling proclaimed King James, and read thereafter the famous manifesto which the Earl of Mar sent from his camp at Perth by the hand of Mr. Robert Douglas.

We continued, then, in Kelso until the following Thursday, the 27th of October, our force being now augmented, what with footmen and horse, to the number of fourteen hundred. The delay, however, gave General Carpenter time to approach us from Newcastle, and he on this same Thursday came to Wooler and lay there the night, intending to draw out to Kelso and give us battle on the following day. No sooner was the intelligence received than Lord Kenmure calls a council of war, and here at once it was seen that our present union was very much upon the surface. For whereas Earl Wintoun was all for marching into the west of Scotland, others were for passing the Tweed and attacking General Carpenter. For, said they, “in the first place, his troops must needs be fatigued, and in the second they do not count more than five hundred men all told, whereof the regiments of Dragoons are newly raised and have seen no service.”

Now, either of these proposals would in all probability have tended to our advantage, but when a multitude of counsels conflict, it is ever upon some weak compromise that men fall at last; and so it came about that we marched away to Jedburgh, intending thence to cross the mountains into England. Here it was that our troubles with the Highlanders began. For they would not be persuaded to cross the borders, saying that once they were in England they would be taken and sold as slaves, a piece of ignorance wherein it was supposed Lord Wintoun had tutored them. Consequently our plans were changed again, and instead of crossing into North Tynedale, we turned aside to Hawick, the Highlanders protesting that they would not keep with us for the distance of an inch upon English soil.

From Hawick we marched to Langholme, a little market-town belonging to the Duchess of Buccleugh; and there we made another very great mistake. For here the Earl of Wintoun strongly advised that we should make ourselves masters of Dumfries, and to that end, indeed, a detachment of cavalry was sent forward in the night to Ecclefechan. And no doubt the advice was just and the plan easy of accomplishment Dumfries, he urged, was unfortified either by walls or trainbands; it stood upon a navigable river whereby we might have succours from France; it opened a passage to Glasgow; and the possession of so wealthy a town would give us great credit with the country gentlemen thereabouts, and so be the means of enlarging the command. All these arguments he advanced, as Lord Derwentwater, who was present at the council, informed me, with singular moderation of tone, but finding that they made no sort of headway with the English party:

“It is sheer folly and madness,” he burst out. “You are so eager to reap your doubtful crops in Lancashire, that you will not stoop to the corn that lies cut at your feet. I tell you, there are many stands of arms stored in the Tolbooth and a great quantity of gunpowder in the Tron Steeple, which you can have for the mere taking. But you will not, no, you will not Good God, sirs, your King’s at stake, and if you understand not that, your lives;” and so he bounced out of the room.

The truth is we of the English party were so buoyed up by the expresses we received from Lancashire that nothing would content us but we must march hot-foot into England. And though, of course, I had no part or share in the decision of our course, I was none the less glad that our side prevailed, nay, more glad than the rest, since I had an added motive. For so long as we remained in Scotland there would be no disturbance of administration in England. Examinations would be conducted, assizes would be held, and for all I knew, Mr. Herbert might be condemned and hanged while we were yet marching and countermarching upon the borders. The thought of that possibility was like a sword above my head; I raged against my ignorance of the place of Mr. Herbert’s detention. Had I but known it, I think that in this hesitation of our leaders I would have foregone those chances of escape which the rebellion promised, and ridden off at night to deliver myself to the authorities. For it was no longer of my dishonour, if I failed to bring the matter to a happy event, at least for Anthony Herbert and his wife, that I thought. But the prospect of failure struck at something deeper within me. It seemed in truth to reach out sullying hands towards Dorothy. I held it in some queer way as a debt to her, due in payment for my knowledge of her, that I should fulfil this duty to its last letter. So whenever these councils were in the holding, I would pace up and down before the General’s quarters, as a man will before the house in which his mistress lies sick; and when the counsellors came forth, you may be sure I was at Lord Derwentwater’s elbow on the instant, and the first to hear the decision agreed upon.

From Langholme, then, we crossed into England. It is no part of my story to describe our march to Preston, and I need only make mention of one incident during its continuance which had an intimate effect upon my own particular fortunes.

This incident occurred when we were some ten miles out of Penrith. The whole army was drawn up upon a hill and lying upon its arms to rest the men. I was standing by the side of young Mr. Chorley, with my eyes towards Appleby, when Mr. Richard Stokoe, who acted as quartermaster to Lord Derwentwater’s troop, suddenly cried out behind me—

“Lord save us! Who is this old put of a fellow?”

“He mounts the white cockade,” said young Mr. Chorley, turning and shading his eyes with his hand.

“And moves a living arsenal,” said the other with a laugh.

“Yet hardly so dangerous as his companion, I should think.”

“Very like. We’ll set her in front of the troops, and so march to London with never a shot fired. But, Clavering!” he cried of a sudden. “What ails the man?”

But Clavering was galloping down the hillside by this time, and did not draw rein to answer him. For the old put of a fellow and his companion were no other than Mr. Curwen and his daughter. A living arsenal was in truth no bad description of the old gentleman; for he carried a couple of old muskets slung across his shoulders, a pair of big pistols were stuck in his belt, another pair protruded from the holsters, a long straight sword slapped and rattled against his leg, while a woodman’s axe was slung across his body.

When I was a hundred yards from the pair I slackened my horse’s speed: when the hundred yards had narrowed to fifty, I stopped altogether. For I remembered my unceremonious departure from Applegarth, and was troubled to think with what mien they would accost me. I need, however, have harboured no fears upon that score. For Mr. Curwen cried out:

“I wagered Dorothy the sun to a guinea-piece that we should find you here.”

“I did not take the wager,” cries Dorothy, as she drew rein; she added demurely, “But only because he could not have paid had he lost.”

They were followed at a little distance by some half a dozen shepherds and labourers mounted on ponies, which, to say the least, had long since passed their climacteric, and armed with any makeshift of a weapon which had happened to come handy. The troop drew up in a line, and Mr. Curwen surveyed them with some pride.

“They lack a banner,” said he, regretfully. “I would have had Dorothy embroider one of silk for Roger Purdy, in the smock there, to carry—straighten your shoulders, Roger!—a white rose opening, on a ground of sky-blue, but——”

“But Dorothy had some slight sense of humour,” says she, “and so would not.”

“Then,” said I, with a glance of perplexity towards the girl, “you are, indeed, come to join us?” For I could not but wonder that she who had so resolutely removed her father from the excitement of the preceding intrigues, should now second his participation in the greater excitement of the actual conflict.

“Indeed,” he cries, “I am; and Dorothy has come so far to wish us a God-speed, but will return again with Dawson there. What did I tell you, Mr. Clavering? There is a work for the weakest arm. But you are surprised! “

“I am surprised,” I answered, “that Mary Tyson is not here as well.”

“Ah,” said he, “do you know, Mr. Clavering, I fear me I have done some injustice to Mary Tyson. I thought her a poor witless body.” Dorothy made a movement, and he hurriedly interposed, “The best of servants, but,” and he glanced again defiantly at his daughter, “a poor witless body outside the household service. But since the messenger came with the constables to Applegarth, she has shown great good sense, except in the matter of simples. For, indeed, my pockets are packed with them.”

“The constables came to Applegarth!” I exclaimed, bethinking me of Jervas Rookley’s threat. “And when was that?”

Miss Curwen, I noticed, was looking at me with a singular intentness as I uttered the exclamation, and gave a little nod of comprehension as I asked the question. It was as though my asking it assured her of something which she had suspected.

“When?” echoed Mr. Curwen, with a smile. “Why, the morning you left us. You were right in your surmise, and I take it very kindly that you delayed so long as to scribble your gratitude, though that delay was an added danger.”

“Oh, I was right?” said I, though still not very dear as to what it was that I had surmised correctly; and again Miss Curwen nodded.

“Yes!” said he, “but, indeed, it was early for travellers. But we were waiting for you at the breakfast-table when we first heard the sheriff’s horses. I was not sure that you would hear them at the back of the house.”

“But one of the windows looked down the road,” said I, understanding why he had seen no discourtesy in my precipitate departure. I could not in any case give the real reason which had prompted me to that, and since here was one offered to me, why, I thought it best to fall in with it—“the window about which I hunted so long for the owl,” I added, turning to Miss Curwen, For her manner of a minute ago warned me that she put no great faith in her father’s explanation of my conduct, and I was desirous to test the point.

“You hunted vainly,” said she, “because the owl flitted one night,” and so left me in doubt.

“That is true,” continued Mr. Curwen to me. “I did not think of the window, and indeed was somewhat puzzled by the quickness of your escape. For I sent Mary Tyson to warn you the while I barricaded the door and held a parley with the sheriff from the window. She came back to tell me you were gone.”

“Would she had come back quicker! “exclaimed Dorothy with a shudder.

“Why?” I cried at the sight of her distress. “Was there—was there—any hurt done? Oh no, not to you. I could never forgive myself. “

“No, not to us,” replied Mr. Curwen. “Dorothy takes the matter too much to heart. Had she fired of a purpose she would have been right, or very little to blame. For I am old-fashioned enough to consider a guest sacred as an altar-vessel But since she fired by mistake——”

“Miss Curwen fired! “I said.

“And shot the sheriff from behind my shoulder,” continued Mr. Curwen.

“Father!” she entreated, covering her face with her hands.

“Nay, child,” said he, reassuringly. “There was no great harm done. A few weeks with his arm in a sling.”

“But I saw the blood redden through his sleeve!” cried she, drawing her hands down from her face and clasping them together. And as though to rid herself of the topic she jogged her bridle and rode forward.

I turned my horse and followed with Mr. Curwen, the while he gave me more precise account of what had happened.

“The sheriff took an absurd and threatening tone when he found the door barred, which suited me very ill. So I bade Dorothy load my pistols while I parleyed with the man. He threatened me in I know not how many Latin words and in a tone of great injury, whereupon, perceiving that, since he spoke a learned tongue and wore the look of a gentleman, it would be no derogation, I threw down my glove as a gage and challenged him to take it up.”

I shot a glance at Mr. Curwen, but he spoke in a simple, ordinary voice.

“Instead of doing that,” he continued, “he disappointed me greatly by a violent flow of abuse, which was cut short on the instant by Dorothy’s pistol. She was standing behind me, who stood on a chair, and fired beneath my arm. ‘Oh, the poor dear!’ she cried, ‘I have hurt him,’ and plumped down in a faint. It was indeed the luckiest accident in the world, for the constables, seeing their chief wounded, were sufficiently scared to stay no longer than gave them time to pick him up.”

“But all this occurred a month ago!” I exclaimed, “Surely the sheriff’s men returned.”

“In the evening; but they found no one at Applegarth. Dorothy and I with Mary Tyson were on our way to Carlisle. The other servants I sent to their homes. We have good friends at Carlisle, Mr. Clavering,” he said, with one of his prodigiously cunning winks, “very good, safe friends. We said good-bye to them when your army had passed Carlisle, and so returned home.”

“And Miss Curwen?” I asked. “What of her, since you come with us?”

“She will be safe at home now,” said he, “and Mary Tyson is there to bear her company.”

“She will be safe, no doubt,” said I, “so long as we keep the upper hand.”

We were by this time come to the top of the hill, and Dorothy was already talking to Lord Derwentwater.

“So,” says he, coming forward and taking Mr. Curwen by the hand, “here are the four of us proscribed.”

“We will wear our warrants for an order at St James’s Palace,” cries Dorothy; and at that moment the trumpet sounded.

A brief leave-take between Dorothy and her father, and we were marching down the hill, Mr. Curwen joined to the Gentlemen Volunteers, his six henchmen enrolled in Lord Derwentwater’s troop.

Dorothy remained behind upon the hilltop with the servant who was to convey her home, and though we marched away with our backs towards her, I none the less gathered, as we went, some very distinct impressions of her appearance. Nor can it be said that they were the outcome of my recollections. For when I first saw her riding towards the hill, I was only conscious that it was she riding towards me, and very wonderful it seemed. And afterwards, when I heard her voice, I was only conscious that it was she who was talking, and very wonderful that seemed too. But I did not remark the particulars of her appearance. Now as we were marching away, I gained very distinct impressions, as for instance of: item a little cocked hat like a man’s, only jauntier; item a green riding-coat; item a red waistcoat, etc. The truth is, my head was turned backwards all the time, and we had not advanced more than a couple of hundred yards before my horse was turned in the same direction. For I let myself fall to the rear until I was on the edge of the troops, and then faced about and fairly galloped back to her.

She was looking with great intentness in the direction precisely opposite to that from which I came; and as I halted by her side:

“Oh!” said she, turning in the most perfect surprise, “I did not think that it would be you. I expected it would be my father.”

“I gathered that,” I replied, “from your indifference.”

She answered nothing, but industriously stroked the mane of her horse.

“Now say ‘owl,’” I added.

She began to laugh, then checked herself and looked at me with the chilliest stare.

“And if I did say ‘owl,’” she asked in a puzzled simplicity, “would it rain?”

I began to wish that I had not spoken.

“Well?” she insisted, “what if I did say ‘owl’?”

“I should say ‘Robin Redbreast,’” I replied weakly.

“And a very delicate piece of wit, to be sure, Mr. Clavering,” says she with her chin in the air. “You have learnt the soldier’s forwardness of tongue. Let me pray you have learnt his——” And then, thinking, I suppose, from my demeanour that I was sufficiently abashed, she broke off of a sudden. “I would that I were a man,” she cried, “and could swing a sword!”

She looked towards the little army which defiled between the fields, with the sun glinting upon musket and scabbard, and brought her clenched fist down upon the pommel of her saddle.

“Nay,” said I, “you have done better than swing a sword. You have shot a sheriff, though it was by accident”

She looked at me with a certain timidity.

“You do not blame me for that?”

“Blame you. And why?”

“I do not know. But you might think it bloodthirsty,” she said, with a quaver in her voice, betwixt a laugh and a cry.

“How could I, when you swooned the instant afterwards?”

“My father told you that!” she exclaimed gratefully; and then: “But he did not tell you the truth of the matter. He said I fired by accident. But I did not; I meant to fire;” and she spoke as though she was assuring me of something incredible. “Now what will you say?” she asked anxiously.

“Why,” said I foolishly, “since it was done to save your guest——”

“Oh dear, no,” she interrupted coolly, and the anxiety changed to wonder in her eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Clavering, you must not blame yourself that it was on your account I fired.” She spoke with the greatest sympathy. “You have no reason in the world to reproach yourself. It was because of my father. He threw down his glove from the window and challenged the sheriff to mortal combat, with whatever weapons he chose, and the sheriff called him mad. It was that angered me. I think, in truth, that I was mad. And since the pistol was loaded and pointed at the man, I—I pulled the trigger.” Then she turned to me impulsively, “You will have a care of my father—the greatest care. Oh, promise me that!”

“Of a truth, I will,” I replied fervently.

“Thank you,” said she, and the old friendliness returned to her face. “We could not keep him. From the day that he heard of the rising in Northumberland, he has been in a fever. And he meant to go without our knowing. You are familiar with his secrecies;” she gave a little pathetical laugh. “He was ever scouring his pistols and guns in the corner when he thought we should not see him. He meant to go. I feared that he would slip from the house one night, like——” She caught herself up sharply, with half a glance at me. “So it seemed best to encourage him to go openly.” “Besides,” she added slowly, bending her head a little over her horse’s back—she seemed to be carefully examining the snaffle—“I thought it not unlikely that we should find you here.”

“Ah, you had that thought in your mind?” I cried, feeling my heart pulse within me. “Indeed, it turns my promise to a sacred obligation. What one man can do to keep your father safe, believe it, shall be done by me.” I was looking towards the receding army as I spoke, and a new thought struck me. “You would have let me go,” I exclaimed in reproach, “without a hint of your request, had I not come back to you?”

She coloured for an instant, but instead of answering the question—

“I knew you would come——” she began, and broke off suddenly. “Yes, why did you come back?” she asked in a voice of indifferent curiosity.

“I had not said good-bye to you. You gave me no chance, and it hurt me to part from you that way.”

“But I thought that was your custom,” she replied, with some touch of resentment underneath the carelessness. “It would not have been the first time. You were careful not to leave a light burning in the stables the last night you quitted Applegarth.”

“I saw that you knew.”

“Yes,” said she, hurriedly. “I heard your foot upon the gravel.”

“But I said good-bye to the candle in your window all that night, until the morning broke from a shoulder of High Stile. I had to go. There were reasons.”

She interrupted me again in a great hurry, and with so complete a change of manner that I wondered for a moment whether Mary Tyson had related to her the conversation at the gate of the garden.

“I have no wish to hear them,” she said with a certain pride.

“Nor I to tell you of them,” I returned, and doubtless I spoke in a humble and despondent voice.

“I do not know the secret,” she said gently; “but if I can help you at all——” she relapsed into gentleness. “Why, you are helping me, and I would gladly pay you in the same coin.”

“Nay,” said I, shaking my head, “no one can help me. It is my own fault, and I must redeem it by myself. It was a little thing in the beginning, only I did not face it. It grew into a trouble, still I did not face it. Now the trouble has grown into a disaster, and I must face it.”

She sat her horse in silence for a moment

“I have known for a long while that there was some trouble upon you. But are you sure”—she turned her face frankly to me—“are you sure I cannot help? Because I am a woman, after all?” she said with a whimsical smile.

“Miss Curwen,” said I, “if this was a case wherein any woman could fitly help me, believe me, I would come to you first in all this world. But——” I hesitated, feeling it in truth very difficult to say what yet remained. But I had already said too much. I had said too much when I told her I had watched the light in her window, and the consciousness of that compelled me to go on. “But the business is too sordid. I would have no woman meddle in it, least of all you. The trouble is the outcome of my own wilful folly, and my one prayer is that I draw the consequence of it solely upon my head.” I gathered up the reins and prepared to ride away.

“Well,” said she, in a voice that trembled ever so little, “we may at least shake hands;” and she held out her hand to me. “And observe, Mr. Clavering,” she continued with a smile, “I say hands” laying some emphasis upon the word.

I could not take it.

“I have not even the right,” I said, “to touch you by the finger-tips. But,” and I drew in a breath, “if ever I regain that right——”

“You will,” she interrupted, her voice ringing, her face flushing, her eyes bright and sparkling. “I am sure of that. You will.”

The confidence, however misplaced, was none the less very sweet to me, and I felt it lift my heart for a moment. But then—

“Even if that comes true,” I replied, “there will still be a barrier which will prevent you and me from shaking hands, and that barrier will be a prison-door.”

She started at the word, as though with some comprehension; and since I had no heart to explain to her more concerning the pit into which I had fallen, I raised my hat and rode down the hill. It seemed to me that the prison-door was even then shutting between us in the open air. For these last days I had lost my hopes that in this rising we should succeed. The chessboard was spread open, and the chessmen ranged upon the board. We had no pawns, and only novices to direct the game. There was General Wills in front of us, and General Carpenter behind us; and, moreover, one question dinning in our ears, at every village where we halted, at every town where we encamped, “Where is the King?” With the King in the midst of us, who knows but what the country might have risen? But, alas! the King was not as yet even in Scotland, and since he delayed, what wonder that our lukewarm friends in England tarried too?

All this flashed through my mind as I rode down the hillside, and the reflection brought with it another thought I turned in my saddle. I could just see Miss Curwen disappearing on the further side of the hill, and again I rode up to the top and descended with a shout towards her.

“Should we fail,” I cried hurriedly “should the usurper hold his own——”

“And you think he will, I know,” she answered. “You told me so a minute ago, when you spoke of the prison-door.”

Her words fairly took my breath away. I stared at her, dumbfoundered. Did she know my story, then?

“But if we fail, what then?” And her question brought me back to her own necessities.

“Why, there will be a great danger for you at Applegarth.”

She turned to me very solemnly.

“If we fail,” she said, “keep that word you pledged to me. I shall treasure the pledge, knowing you will not break it. Guard my father!”

“But it is of you that I am thinking.”

“Of me?” she said; “why, if needs be, I suppose I—I can shoot another sheriff;” and with a plaintive little laugh she set the spur to her horse.

I rode across the hill, and, once upon the flat, galloped after our regiments. The expression of her confidence was as a renewal of my blood. It sang in my ears sweet, like a tune dimly remembered, and heard again across a waste of years. “I would fulfil that double trust,” I cried with a leaping heart, and then in more humility fell to a prayer that so I might be permitted.

For it was a double trust I felt It was not merely that I was pledged to the safeguarding of her father, but it seemed to me that I was no less firmly pledged to bring about that other and more difficult result. I must regain the right to hold her hand in mine, even though I might win no advantage from the right.


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