Kitabı oku: «The Coming of the King», sayfa 21
"I do not fear," said the old clergyman; "the Lord hath called me to preach the Gospel, and I may not hold my peace. Still, seeing we live in evil times, it may be as you say, therefore do one of you watch while we seek to eat of the Bread of Life."
I had come up to the cottage unheeded by the worshippers. As far as I could gather there were not a dozen in all, who were evidently labouring men and their wives. Standing where I was, however, I could see the cottage plainly, and I noticed that one of their number went out, and stood at a place where he could take note of any that might come.
After Master John Day had prayed, he began to speak to the people. First of all he expounded the Scriptures to them, and then he sought to enforce his teaching concerning God's providence by example. "You know, my friends," he said, "how I have been put to great straits for bread. You have helped me all you could; but you have had barely enough for your own necessities. I have tried to obtain service at the hands of those who employ labour, but few would hire me. In truth, I should have starved, but for one dear friend who shall be nameless. Then the time came when even she was powerless, and yesterday I and my little ones would have starved had not the Lord sent a stranger along the road, who hath given us enough for our necessities for several days. Shall we doubt the Lord, dear friends? It is true we have been driven from our home, and we have even been forbidden to take religious exercises together, yet hath the Lord watched over us, ay, and He will watch over us, even to the last."
He had scarcely said these words than the man who had been appointed as a watcher rushed in.
"The constables!" he cried; "they will be here in a minute more."
"Shall we stay and meet them boldly?" said Master John Day.
"What good will it do?" one cried. "I know that the Quakers take no note of them, but we be wiser than they. We must e'en disband."
"Nay, but I will gladly suffer for Christ's sake," said John Day. "Still, I must remember my wife, and my dear little ones."
Upon this the light was extinguished, and a few seconds later I heard hurrying footsteps.
I waited hidden behind a thick bush, and presently I heard stealthy footsteps approaching.
"All is dark," said a voice.
"Ay, but they have been here."
"Yes, but they are gone. Let us go in and see if Master Day is there."
"That will be no use. If we go in it will make them more watchful against another time."
"Perhaps that is so. We have missed them this time, but we will pounce upon them unawares another time. You know that Parson Gilloch told us we should have a crown apiece and a gallon of strong ale if we caught Master Day in the act of preaching."
"Ay, that is so. Well, we had better go for the night."
I heard them creep away as silently as they had come, and in a few more minutes all was still. The worshippers had evidently gone to their homes, and not a sound could I hear disturbing the stillness of the night.
Still I waited. I felt that here was my opportunity of finding out the truth concerning the whereabouts of Constance, and I determined to remain where I was until the minister's fears were stilled, after which I would try and have speech with him.
After a time a light twinkled in the cottage again, and I heard the low murmur of voices. The night had become perfectly still, and not a breath of wind moved the bare tree branches. I thought I smelt the breath of spring in the air, the thought of which gave me joy, I knew not why.
"She cannot be coming here to-night," I thought. "It is now wellnigh midnight, and this place must be at least three miles from Goodlands, even although there be a short cut across the fields." This thought made my heart cold, and yet I stayed there in hope, my eyes hungering for a sight of her face. How long I stayed I know not, but presently I thought the voices grew louder, whereupon I crept silently forward, until I could hear more plainly.
"It is because of the goodness of God that you have come to me, my child," the old clergyman said, "and we thank you beyond all telling. Yet do I wish you had not come. The way is long to your hiding place, and the night is dark. Besides, God hath ministered to our necessities. He hath sent a friend to help us."
"Who hath he sent?"
My heart almost stood still! It was the voice of Constance which I heard, and in an instant it seemed to me as though my full strength had come back again. My weakness I felt not, and my weariness had passed away, even as snow ceases to be when the hot sun shines.
"It was yester eve," said the old clergyman. "I was in despair because I had no food for my wife and children, and because I was afraid harm had happened to them. While I was waiting for them, a youth came along riding a raven black horse. We fell to speaking together, and the Lord touched his heart."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"Ay, my child, and although you have told me nought, I cannot help believing that his coming will be good news to you. His name is Roland Rashcliffe."
"Tell me more! Tell me more!"
After that I could not stay outside a moment longer, for she spoke with eagerness and joy. I called to mind the look she had given me when we stood together in the presence of the king, and I felt that she had not forgotten me.
Without ado I opened the door, and stood before them. At first I thought she looked afraid, and this made me say what I should not have dared to say otherwise.
"Constance," I said, "I could not come before, but I have loved you all the time, even as I told you I should."
Her eyes were lifted to mine as if in great wonder, then I saw the tears well up in them; but they were not tears of sorrow.
"You are not angry with me, are you?" I said.
And then she burst out sobbing upon my shoulder, while I, unheeding Master Day and his wife, strained her to my heart.
We did not stay long at the cottage. I gave Master Day enough money to meet his needs for some time to come, and then Constance and I walked to Goodlands together along the silent, lonely road whither she had come.
I will not write of all the things we spoke about during that long journey. Enough to say that she had escaped from the king's palace as my father had told me, and had made her way to Goodlands, which she entered by a secret known only to herself, and to the faithful farmer who occupied the kitchen part of the house and looked after the Goodlands estate. Here she was able to remain unmolested. The entrance to the house, she told me, was by a secret underground passage, the opening of which could only be discovered with great difficulty. Here, moreover, were rooms in which her forefathers had been hidden in the days of Queen Mary, the secret of which had defied all searchers. It was here she had hidden Father Solomon, whose real name was John Walters, and her sister Dorcas, and it was from here she had sent her sister to Holland to meet her husband.
She told me, moreover, that this old man, who claimed to be the father of Lucy Walters, had been driven wellnigh mad because of his daughter's shame, and that he had left his wife because she encouraged her child in her evil ways. He had, moreover, become friendly with Sir Charles Denman, who had given him the right to live in the lonely house. For years he had been a student of the occult sciences, in order, he said, to find out the hiding place of the marriage contract between his daughter and the king, and it was here that her sister came, after she, in a fit of religious frenzy, had sought to take the life of General Monk.
Constance told me, moreover, that she had been taught to fear this old man; yet did she visit him for her sister's sake, on the night when we first met. Whether the marriage contract was genuine, or whether it had been forged by the old man or no, she could not tell, neither did she know where he was now. Directly after her sister had escaped to Holland, he also had disappeared; but before he went he declared that he would yet see his daughter owned as the king's wife, while her son should be king of England.
But it was not these things which troubled me as I walked by Constance's side that dark night in March. I was thinking rather of my great love for her, and how I could take her from the hands of her enemies. For she was now all alone in the world. Her father was dead, hanged by the king, while her sister had rejoined her husband, a man whom Constance regarded with fear and anger.
Although she had stayed long at Goodlands, she felt that her stay there must soon come to an end. She could not live much longer under such circumstances, especially as she felt sure that she was suspected of being hidden in the house.
Of the love we confessed one to another I will not write, for that is not the affair of those who may read this; but that she did love me I did not doubt. How could I doubt it when for me she had defied the king? How could I doubt after the way she had sobbed out her love for me in Master John Day's cottage?
Thus it was that the long walk was to me a joy beyond words. At last my love was by my side, and so I did not dread the dark clouds that hung in our sky, I did not fear the enemies which beset her on every hand.
"There is nought for us to fear," I said to her, for at that moment everything seemed possible to me.
"Oh, I have prayed for this so long, so earnestly," she said. "That night when we stood before the king, I wanted to tell you what was in my heart, but – but – " and then she told me again what my heart was hungering to hear.
"We cannot stay in England," I said, "but we can go across the seas, and make a home in New England, even as your Puritan forefathers did. Will you, Constance?"
"Whither thou goest, I will go," she said; "where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."
Then I thanked God with a full heart for all His great goodness to me, and there and then we arranged that I should come for her the following night, and that we should ride together to my father's house before setting out to find a new home.
"Good-night, my beloved," I said as we parted; "we will trust, and not be afraid."
"Come as early as you dare," she said shyly, "for in truth I feel I can no longer live without you."
And this I promised with a right good will and with a light heart, for I did not then know what would soon be revealed to me.
CHAPTER XXX
HOW I LEFT MY OLD HOME
Excited as I was, I found my way back to the inn and slept like a child. No ill dreams disturbed my rest, nor did a shadow of fear enter my heart. When I awoke next day the clouds had rolled away, the sun shone in a clear sky, and there was indeed a smell of spring in the air. I would have given much to have paid a visit to the gaol to see John Bunyan, but this I dared not do, for I knew that suspicion would fasten upon me if I made the attempt. So, although I remembered his former speech with much kindness, my love's safety forbade my going to him, and hear him tell me the wondrous story of how he had, as he said, "found the King in His beauty." In truth, throughout the whole day I kept indoors, not shewing myself to any man, and simply telling mine host that I must leave him that night at eight o'clock, in order to do business elsewhere. I had no need to seek a steed for Constance, for the old farmer who lived at Goodlands was able to obtain one, so I e'en sat in the inn dreaming of the glad time to come when my Jove and I would ride side by side towards my father's house.
When night came on, however, that happened which caused me to go into the town, and it was well I did so, else had all things happened different to me. Not that I meant to leave the place until I mounted Black Ben to ride to Goodlands, but as I looked out of the window, I saw Peter Blewitt hurrying by with an eager look in his eyes as though he were bent on a matter of importance.
"Ah, whither go you, Peter?" I heard mine host say.
"That is my business, Jonathan Coad," was the reply.
"Thy business," laughed the other.
"Ay, mine, and such as I will not tell the landlord of the General Fairfax."
"Ah, ah!" laughed the landlord, "as though thou ever had business in thy life. Thou could'st never catch a thief even if he took thine own horse."
"Ah, could I not?" said Peter.
"Why, no," said the landlord. "If thou could'st have caught aught, thou wouldst have caught Mistress Constance Leslie. That would have meant a hundred pounds, and yet thou did'st e'en let her slip through thy fingers."
"Wait a bit!" said Peter.
"Ay, wait till doomsday, and thou will never catch her."
"Wait till to-morrow noon," said Peter, and he hurried away.
Now it was this which caused me to go out into the town, and to follow Peter as closely as I could without him seeing me.
The night had now come on, perchance it was turned six o'clock, but it was not so dark but I saw Master Sturgeon coming towards the constable.
"Ah, Peter, whither goest thou?"
"To the chief constable, Master Sturgeon."
"Ah, why?"
I did not catch his answer to this; nevertheless, I knew it to be of import by the look on the gaoler's face.
"Good, Peter," I heard him say presently, "then I shall have her under lock and key again this very night, and I'll warrant young Master Rashcliffe shall not get her out a second time."
"Ay, we know where she is hidden, and we must go to her without a minute's delay. I must make haste, for if news were to reach her at Goodlands, then should I lose my hundred pounds."
With this Peter hurried on, while I fled back to the inn with the speed of the wind. In less time than it takes me to tell, I had paid my count, and had saddled Black Ben, and without saying a word to mine host, I rode to Goodlands as fast as my horse could carry me.
When I reached there all was dark. Not one sound could I hear, no one could I see. I hammered again and again at the door, but no man answered, until, as I remembered how rapidly the time was flying, I was wellnigh in a frenzy.
"Come, farmer, come!" I cried; "it's a matter of life and death!" But still I got no answer, save that I thought I heard a low, mocking laugh.
I knew not what to do, for it was full two hours before I had arranged to meet Constance. Neither did I mean to go into the house at all. She had told me that her horse should be waiting at the door saddled, and that we could ride away together. But no horse was there, neither was there, as I have said, any sign of life; and when I remembered that the constables might be there at any moment, I was in danger of losing my senses.
Thus I did what under any other circumstances might have placed my life in great danger, for I called to her aloud by name, and if watchers had been near they would have known that she was there.
"Constance, my love!" I cried, "it is Roland!" and then, quick as a flash of light, I felt that she was coming towards me.
"Roland, is it you?"
"Ay, it is. Quick! Quick!"
"Why, what is the matter?"
"The constables have discovered your hiding-place – they are even on the way now. Where is your horse?"
"In the stable. It will take me ten minutes to saddle him." It was the farmer who spoke.
"Then saddle him," I cried. "As for you, Constance, will you make yourself ready for the journey?"
"Ay, I have been ready for a full hour," she said, and I noticed that she wore close-fitting garments, but in the dimness of the light I could not see her as plainly as I desired.
At that moment I heard the sound of horses' hoofs. Evidently they had wasted not a moment in coming hither.
"It is they!" I cried. "Hark! they be coming towards us!"
My love spoke not a word; but she came close to me as if to gain strength from my strength.
"We dare not wait for your horse to be brought," I said.
"Tell me what to do, and I will do it," she whispered. "Do not be afraid for me, Roland."
With one leap I was on Black Ben's back, and a second later she sat before me.
"Who goes there?"
I did not speak, but touched Black Ben's side with my spur. The brave horse leaped forward, and then stopped as if held by a strong hand.
"'Tis she, 'tis she! Help! help!"
"Forward, Ben!" I said, and the horse gave a great leap, leaving himself at liberty. But this was only for a moment. Another man had leaped forward, and brought the horse to his haunches.
"We've got them!" he cried. "Help! help!"
My sword hand was by this time free, and I brought my weapon down upon the man's head. The blade turned in my hand, or I must have cleaved his skull with the blow. But I think he must have worn a steel cap, for although he fell, I knew I had not killed him.
"Let me guide your horse, then will your right arm be free, I know the road," cried Constance; and she took the reins, heedless of the cries we heard, and a few seconds later we were in a lonely lane.
"Towards London!" I said, as she hesitated which way to turn, and then a bullet passed so close to me that it e'en shaved my ear, and to this day my right ear is not perfect as my left ear is.
It was no longer a fight. It had now become a race. We had much against us, seeing we both sat on one horse; but we had much for us also, seeing that Black Ben had the strength of two horses, and bore us as though we were feathers. Nevertheless, I knew we could not ride to my father's house in this fashion, and even then I remember wondering how I was to get a steed for my love.
I quickly discovered that there were two horses following us, but whether they gained on us I could not tell; sometimes I thought they did, and again I fancied otherwise; but, in any case, we had happened upon a dangerous time, for more than once I heard a pistol shot, even although neither of us was harmed.
"They are gaining on us," I said presently.
"But only one, Roland."
"That is true," I said with a laugh, for now that I had my love by my side I cared not one whit for danger; neither did I feel my weakness, as I had feared I should. In truth, my strength had come back to me wondrously.
Black Ben dashed on at a fine speed as soon as we gained the highway, but I knew that if our pursuers were well mounted we must in time be overtaken, for I was never a light man, and must have weighed nine score pounds even then; while Constance, as I have before stated, was no slender slip of a maid, but well grown and finely proportioned. However good a horse may be, he cannot carry two as easily as one, and thus, as one of our pursuers gained upon us, I had to think of what we were to do.
"I have a plan," I said presently.
"What, Roland?"
"We will presently let the man close behind us come up to us. I will unhorse him, and then you shall take his place. There is only one thing against that."
"What is that?" she asked eagerly.
"Only that a man's saddle will be on the nag's back, and it will look strange for a maid to be riding on a man's saddle."
I felt her laughing as I spoke, at the which I wondered.
"Why do you laugh?" I asked.
"Because I am afraid I should look more strange on a woman's saddle than a man's," she replied.
At this I laughed too, for now I realized that she was dressed in the attire of a gallant, the which I had not noticed at first, seeing that she wore a long cloak.
She did not seem to have a vestige of fear, and I knew by the tone of her voice that her heart was light, even in spite of all she had passed through.
Presently we came to a lonely spot, and then I allowed the man who had been shouting at us to stop to overtake us.
It was but the work of a moment. The man was no swordsman, neither was he prepared for my attack. In truth, I believe he expected to find only Constance, so heedlessly did he ride up. As it was, he fell to the ground stunned and helpless.
In less time than it takes me to tell, Constance had leaped on to the man's horse, and we were soon galloping side by side towards London.
"They cannot catch us now," she laughed.
"Why do you think so?"
"Because I have the better horse. The man who rode this left the other far behind."
After this we spoke not for some time, but rode steadily on.
"You are not afraid, Constance?"
"Not with you," she replied, and my heart burned with joy at the sound of her voice.
Now and then as we passed into an open space I saw that the feather of her hat waved in the wind, and that the cloak slipped from her shoulders, revealing the gay attire she wore.
"I'faith, you make a pretty man," I said.
"Do I ride like one, Roland?"
"Ay, and you ride like one, too. In truth, so well do you ride that I would e'en like a kiss to assure myself that thou art not some gay gallant who hath come riding with me."
Again we dashed on, until when morning came we had wellnigh reached Barnet, and here I deemed it well to turn aside and make my way through the village of Enfield instead of keeping nearer London. Here we stopped and breakfasted while the horses were fed and groomed. No one cast suspicious eyes upon us, for in truth Constance might have passed as my younger brother, so bravely did she carry herself. Not even the maid of whom Will Shakespeare wrote in the play As You Like It, looked half as sweet and charming as she.
"I would call you Rosalind, only Will's heroine was not half so fair as thee, neither was she half so brave," I laughed as we breakfasted together in the inn.
I saw her lip quiver at this, and the tears well up into her eyes; and then I felt that, although she was as brave as any man – nay, braver than any man I ever knew – she was still a woman. I saw that, while she was fearless and bold in the face of danger, she became trembling and fearful now that the danger was over. Perchance, too, she remembered her father's fate, and thought of her own lonely condition. But that was only for a minute, for her eyes had neither tears nor sorrow in them as they looked up into mine and told me of her love.
By noon we had reached my father's house. I did not come in at the lodge gate, but entered by an unfrequented way. It was by a wicket gate which led through a shrubbery and up to a postern door, a door which was seldom opened in the old days when I lived at home.
My heart seemed ready to burst as I came in sight of the house, for it was now nearly two years since I had seen it; and after all, there is no spot on earth which affects a man as much as the place where he was born and reared.
"I trust my father is at home," I said to Constance.
"Ay, he is, and here to greet thee, Roland!"
I turned and saw my father standing by my side.
"I have been expecting thee, Roland."
I looked at him in astonishment.
"Ay, I knew what thou would'st do. Art thou not my own son? That is why I have been waiting and watching these last twenty-four hours. But come in," and he opened the postern door. "Fasten the horses here," he said. "I will give orders concerning them."
He led the way into the room, where I had had the interview with Katharine Harcomb two years before, while I watched his face closely, wondering what he would think of Constance.
"Remove your hats and cloaks, will you?" he said.
This we did, and I saw him looking at my love all the time.
Presently, after gazing at her steadily for some moments, his lips moved.
"I do not wonder," he said. "He could not help it. How could he help it? Had I been the lad, I should have done just the same."
Neither of us spoke, for I do not think either of us knew what was in his mind.
"Dost thou love this boy – my boy Roland?" he asked of Constance presently.
Her face became rosy red, and her eyes gleamed brightly.
"Ay, I do," she said.
"Then wilt thou kiss me, my child?"
Had it been any other man on earth I should have been jealous, but my heart rejoiced as I saw him kiss my love, for I knew what he thought of her.
After that he asked us many questions, and when we had answered them he said sadly, "I have made all provisions."
"What provisions?" I asked.
"Even for thy wedding, and for thy departure," he said sadly. "To-morrow morn thou shalt go to the old church and be wedded, and then thou must e'en ride to Gravesend and take passage in the vessel there. Perchance, when another king cometh, thou canst return again, but not until then."
Neither of us asked him what he meant, for we knew. It grieved us that we should have to leave my old home, but it had to be, and yet were our hearts filled with a joy that passeth understanding.
The next night, as we sailed down the river past the Kentish coast, we stood side by side and hand in hand. We were man and wife.
"Are you sad, Constance?"
"Nay, Roland. The morning will come. Nay, morning is in my heart now, but morning will also come for our country. For myself I desire nought – nought, I have everything."
In truth so had I, and yet I longed to bring my wife back to the home of my boyhood.
Of how we fared in the new land I will say nothing here. Neither will I tell by what means we at length returned to England again, or describe the joy of our children as they played amongst the gardens of my old home, while my father, a white-haired man, watched them tenderly. That is a part of another story which, please God, I may tell some day.
