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CHAPTER IV
THE HAPPENING AT THE INN

After I had partaken of food, I made my way to the harbour for the purpose of finding out when a boat might be leaving for the neighbourhood of Boulogne. By this time the rain had ceased, and although the night was wellnigh upon the town I was able to see something of its character. Not that it was of any great note. It consisted of only a few narrow streets, which being wet, looked miserable and squalid. The bold outline of the cliffs impressed me greatly, however, and I judged that on fair days the whole district must be pleasant to behold.

I found as I passed through, that here as well as in London the sole subject of conversation was the coming of the new king, and of the changes his coming would bring about. Here also as in London, men had it that it would go hard with those who had fought against the late king, and especially against those who had put him to death. Nevertheless none, as far as I could discover, spoke against him; rather they even praised the profligacy of which all seemed to believe him guilty.

But much to my disappointment I could hear of no vessel that would leave for the French coast, at least for three days, and as I had not enough money to hire one for myself I had to content myself with the prospect of spending that time in the vicinity of Folkestone. I was not at all dismayed at this, for I reflected that I might be able to discover something of Master Elijah Pycroft, and might not indeed have to go to France at all.

When I returned to the inn I found my way into a large low room where several persons were sitting. Some were playing cards, others were drinking, as it seemed to me for the sake of drinking, while others still were laughing at their own wit for want of something better to laugh at.

No one seemed to take note of my entrance, save one, who pointed to a seat by his side, as if to bid me welcome.

"What will you drink?" he asked.

"What is the house noted for?" I asked, for although I determined not to drink, remembering the old adage that "when the drink's in the wit's out," I thought it best to attract no notice by failing to fall in with the custom.

"Sack, my master, sack," replied the man. "There is no better sack between here and London town than can be bought at the Barley Sheaf, and what is more a man can drink his fill and no questions asked. We be no longer troubled by a sour-faced Independent constable who is ever on the watch for a man who seeks to be merry."

"Did they trouble you much in Cromwell's days?"

"Trouble me! Marry, and that they did. No man pleased unless he carried a Bible at his belt, and sung psalms through his nose. Why a man could in no wise make merry. The man who kept a dog or a cock was watched day and night, while those who were suspected of having a Prayer-book in his house was almost as much in danger as those who read the Bible in Queen Mary's days. Why even the town crier had to speak through his nose, as though he were singing psalms in church."

At this he laughed as though he had made a good joke.

"But all will be changed now?" I suggested.

"Ay, but they be changed already, young master," said another man who was listening. "Already Old Nol's people be seeking to make friends with those who be shouting 'God save the king!' while a man may kiss his sweetheart, and no questions be asked. And what would you? The king, who hath received fifty thousand pounds from Parliament to buy himself good clothes, and good wine, hath sent word to us that we must drink his health in the best wine and ale that our town affords."

"Ay," said the other, "and painters be everywhere washing out the State's arms and painting the Lion and the Unicorn instead. I do hear, too, that the king hath given orders that all the vessels built by Old Nol are to be renamed, as his Majesty doth much dislike the present names."

"Have you heard aught concerning what will be done to those who took part in the king's father's death?" I asked.

"I would not stand in their shoes for something," he replied significantly.

"In spite of the Act of Oblivion," I suggested.

"Act of Oblivion! Think you that the new king will forget the name of those who killed his father? Why I do hear that Sir Charles Denman is even now being followed by those who were faithful to Charles I."

"Sir Charles Denman, who is he?" I asked, for I had never heard his name before.

"Never heard of Sir Charles Denman! Why where have you lived, young master? He was one who cried loudest for the death of Charles I, and who hath ever since Richard Cromwell died done his utmost to persuade General Monk against having aught to do with the new king. He hath spoken words which are said to be treasonable, and what is more is as fanatical a preacher as Hugh Peters himself."

"Ay, but there are no edicts out against him?" I queried.

"But there are, young master; at least so men say. Some have it that the king, no sooner was he invited to come back to his throne, than he sent secret instructions that Sir Charles should be arrested and imprisoned until his Majesty's pleasure be known."

"Know you aught of Sir Charles?" I asked.

"Nay, I know naught, but men have it that he is a dangerous man, and not to be trusted. I have been told that his very preaching is only a cloak to cover up his misdoings. Men say he hath never married, and yet he is accompanied on his journeys by one who ought to be his wife. It is said, too, that he whips her as a man might whip a spaniel. A sullen, cruel man whom no one loves."

At this I was silent, whereupon the man went on.

"Some have it that he is married to this woman, who is of low degree, while other gossips say that he hath stolen her from her father's house, because she will inherit a great fortune when her father dies."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Nay, but I am told he is the best swordsman in the kingdom, that he is deadly with the pistol, and that he shews no mercy anywhere?"

"And are all the people loyal around here?" I asked.

"Ay, what would you?"

"And all the old families will receive the new king with open arms?"

"Ay, all as far as I know."

"I do not know the names of these families – at least not of all," I said, feeling my way towards the information I desired, "but you as an important man doubtless know them all."

"Ay," he replied, sitting back in his chair with a look of importance on his face. "There be the Jeffries and old Sir Michael Oldbury, and Admiral Billton, and Squire Barton, and my Lord Bridgman, and others. Most of them nod to me when they come to town."

"I think I have heard of a Master Pycroft," I said, "know you him?"

He shook his head. "No," he replied, "there be no man of note within ten miles of Folkestone who bears that name."

At this my heart seemed to sink in my shoes, for it seemed as though I had come on a fool's errand. Still I kept a brave face, and answered as though the matter were of no import.

"I must have mistaken the name," I said, "or perchance he lived in some other part of the country."

"Stay," said the man, "there is an old place called 'Pycroft,' but it hath been in ruins for years. It is an old house among the Pycroft woods, and is said to be haunted. No man lives there, but I have heard that an old miser had it long years ago. He was killed for his money, and ever since the place hath been infested by evil spirits. Years ago, about the time the king was beheaded, I mind me that I passed by it, but not a soul was to be seen. The windows were broken, and the gardens were all covered with weeds. Neither sight nor sound of living being could I see or hear. Even the birds seemed afraid to sing."

"What was the name of the miser?" I asked.

"People called him 'Solomon the Fool,'" replied the man; "'Solomon,' because he was said to have much learning, and 'The Fool' because he did not know how to use it. Ah, and now I come to think of it, I have heard that it was once held by the Denmans, but whether they were any kin to Sir Charles, of whom we have been speaking, I know not."

After this I learnt but little more, for a man came in who said he had ridden from Dover, and began to tell of the grand preparations which were being made to welcome King Charles II when he landed on English shores. So feeling somewhat weary, and desiring to think of what I had heard, I made my way to the chamber the innkeeper had allotted to me, and then by the light of the candle which had been given to me, I sought to set down in order what had happened to me since I left London town. I had come to my chamber very quietly, but even if I had made a noise the shouts of the revellers in the room below had drowned any sounds I might have made. When I had been alone an hour or more, however, they began to grow more quiet, which led me to think they were leaving the inn for their homes. I therefore decided that I would undress and go to bed, but on second thoughts I simply pulled off my riding boots and doublet and threw myself on the bed. I did not feel at all sleepy, but ere long I felt myself becoming drowsy; but even then I did not think I should fall asleep. In this I was mistaken, however, for after that I remembered nothing until I suddenly awoke.

At first I scarce remembered where I was, but the sound of someone sobbing brought everything to my recollection with great clearness.

"No, no! Not that!"

I heard the words with great distinctness, and they were spoken by a woman. Moreover, the one who spoke them was in great terror, for although she spoke not loudly, I detected the anguish in her voice.

As may be imagined, the woman's cries caused me to listen intently.

"I tell you, yes." It was a man's voice I heard, and the partition between the room in which I lay and the next, from whence the sounds came, was so thin that I could hear much of what was said. "This must be done. It is my will."

He spoke in a low voice, but it vibrated with passion.

"But it is more than five miles away, and it is midnight."

This the woman said in a low, fearsome voice.

"What of that? The distance is not too great for you to walk easily. You have rested, and you have had food. As to its being night, so much the better. Every one is now abed, and no one will see you."

"But the way is lonely; besides, the place hath an evil name. You have told me yourself that it is haunted."

"So much the better for my purposes. You must go thither, and find out what I have told you of. You can be back here before folks be astir."

"It is cruel, cruel," said the woman with a sob.

"It is your duty; you owe it to me," replied the man. "Besides, you dare not refuse. If I speak but a word you know what will happen, so do my bidding, and that without delay."

"But who shall I find there? It is said to be an empty house; besides, perchance I cannot find it. It is in the midst of woods; and even if I met some one on the road, I dare not ask them where Pycroft is."

At this, as may be imagined, my heart gave a great bound. These people were speaking of the very place I desired to enter; moreover, there was evidently some secret surrounding it. Did this man know aught of what had been told me? Did he seek to find the king's marriage contract as well as I? Besides, who was he, and what was his relation to this woman? These and many other questions I asked myself as I lay silently on my bed, for in my eagerness I did not realize that I was playing the eavesdropper. In truth, everything had come upon me so suddenly that I scarce understood what was taking place.

"There will be no difficulty in finding the way," said the man. "You will climb the hill out of the town, then you will take the road that leads to London. This road you wot of as well as I. When you come to the pond by the roadside you will see the gate on the right side of the road, and from there you can easily follow the path leading to the house."

"But why can you not go yourself?" said the woman.

"Because it is not my will," replied the man. "Besides, it would not be safe for me to go until I know the old man's thoughts: he might betray me, and then what would happen to you?"

"To me?" repeated the woman.

"Ay, to you. Whither can you go if I cease to protect you? Ay, and what will befall you?"

"But I have done nothing."

"Nothing! Then go and show yourself to him. Ay, let it be known in the inn who you are. If I had not given you my name, where would you be now?"

I have recorded this conversation as well as I am able; nevertheless I cannot vouch for its entire correctness, seeing that many of the words were almost inaudible.

After this I heard sounds as though some one were preparing to go out; a little later there were footsteps along the passage, and then silence. My nerves were all tingling, while my brain was in a whirl. What did all this mean, and what had I to do?

In a minute my mind was made up. I would wait until all was silent, and time given for the man to return to his chamber, and then I would creep out of the house, and follow the road the man had so clearly marked out. If their interest was at Pycroft, so was mine; besides, my heart went out in sympathy towards the woman whose voice was so plaintive, and whose condition seemed so piteous.

Presently I heard stealthy footsteps outside my door. They passed along the corridor, and presently were lost in the distance. Now was the time for me to act. All my weariness had gone; I was eager and alert; the mystery upon which I had happened threw its spell upon me, and I longed to discover its meaning. Besides, it fell in with my plans; and I remembered my father's words warning me never to allow want of courage to stand in the way of fulfilling my purpose.

I fastened my sword carefully by my side, and having seen to my pistols, I took my riding boots in my hand, and crept carefully along the passage towards a doorway I had noted during the evening. No one seemed astir, and the house was as silent as death. When I came to the door, I found that it was unbolted. Evidently the man had left it so that the woman might enter when she had performed his mission.

Closing the door silently behind me, I pulled on my boots, and a minute later was creeping silently up the hill out of the town. Once away from the houses, I realized the cruelty of the man in sending out a woman on such an errand. It is true the night was neither dark nor cold, but for a woman to take such a long weary journey alone at such a time was hard indeed. The country, since Oliver Cromwell's death, had become infested with footpads, while the thought of going to a haunted house was terrible enough for a man, much less a woman. Besides, she was troubled by some fear. The man had some power over her beyond the ordinary, or she would never submit to his will. What was it? I called to mind the story told me concerning Sir Charles Denman that very night. Was this man Sir Charles? And was this woman the one who had been associated with him? This might be the case; and yet I could not believe it, why I could not tell. Perhaps it was because I had learnt to be wary of stories told at taverns and inns, perhaps because I desired another solution to the mystery.

When I was well out in the country I stopped and listened. I also looked eagerly along the road, but I could neither hear nor see the woman I had come out to follow. Thereupon I started running, for the road was better than ordinary, and the light of the moon revealed all pits and dangerous places. Presently I reached the top of the hill, where the road crossed an open space. Neither hedge nor ditch hid aught from me, although a mile on, skirting the open plain was a belt of trees. Here I stopped again, and gazed eagerly along the roadway. Yes, there could be no doubt about it, away in the distance was a dark object.

Up to this time I had formed no plan of action save to follow the woman. Now it came to me that if I desired to speak to her I should not know what to say, while if I watched her without letting her know of my presence I should be acting the part of a spy. She was alone and unprotected, she did not know that I heard something of what had passed between her and the man at the inn. Therefore my presence would give her a fright, while I had no excuse for intruding upon her as she took this lonely and mysterious night journey.

What an older man might have done I may not say. What I should do now that I have passed the age of impetuous youth I dare not hazard. But then I was young, I knew naught of the world, and the mission upon which I myself had come caused me to surround everything with the halo of youthful vision. I determined that I would overtake her, tell her that I had heard what had passed between her and the man at the Barley Sheaf, and then offer to accompany her on her journey. Doubtless an older man would have acted differently, but I suspect that my decision was that which any youth of my age will understand.

I therefore commenced running again, and I saw that every step lessened the distance between me and the dark form which toiled silently along the lonely road. Not a house was in sight, neither could I see aught but the line of road curling its way along the heather covered land, and the belt of trees which lay beyond. I ran silently, because I kept on the edge of the road, where grass grew, and as I drew nearer I saw that the woman kept straight on, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

Presently the moon, which had been under a cloud, shot into the clear sky, so that I could see her plainly. She was clad from head to foot in a long garment, while on her head she wore a hood, as if even in the loneliness of midnight she desired to hide her face. I could see, too, that she was tall and that she moved with rapidity and ease; but that was all, for her back was toward me, and although the light of the moon was bright I could not even tell the colour of the garment she wore.

As I came up close to her, my heart fell to beating wildly, not because of my exertion in overtaking her, but because of the strangeness of my adventure. In truth it seemed as though I were in a dream from which I should presently awake, only to find what had taken place was but the wild fancy which comes to one when one loses control over one's own imaginings.

Whether I should have dared to speak to her I know not, but when I was only a few yards from her I happened to kick a stone which lay in my way, and as it rattled along the road she turned around sharply, and with a cry of fear.

"What do you wish?" she asked, and I noted that her voice trembled not one whit.

But I did not reply; I was so much wrought upon that no words would come to me.

"I have naught to give you," she said, "so pass on and allow me to go my way."

As she spoke her hood dropped from her face and I saw her every feature plainly.

CHAPTER V
A MIDNIGHT MEETING

My first glance at the woman's face showed me that it was the same as I had seen a few hours before. In the moonlight she looked very pale, and I saw that she was young, not indeed as I judged more than twenty years of age. But what struck me most was the fact that she betrayed no fear; rather I saw a look of defiance, and I could not understand how a woman who had, as I thought, been cowed by the man at the inn could meet me here alone at midnight and be so brave. Nay, as I thought, there was a look of defiance in her face, and a confidence in her own strength.

"I desire naught from you, and I have no will to molest you," I said.

"Then go your way."

"Ay, I will go my way," I replied, "and perchance my way may be yours."

"It cannot be. If you have no will to molest me, take your road and I will take mine."

Her quiet confidence almost angered me. Fearfulness I was prepared to meet, while cries I expected; but to be quietly commanded to pass on, knowing what I knew, made me somewhat impatient, and hence more at my ease.

"It may be, mistress, when I have told you what is in my mind, you will not be so desirous to be rid of me."

"There can be naught in your mind that concerns me." Then with a flash as quick as light she said, "Do you boast of gentle blood, young sir?"

"I am of gentle birth," I replied.

"Then you must know that when a lady would be alone no man of honour will stay by her side."

"That's as may be," I replied. "The lady may be surrounded by dangers of which she knows nothing, in which case the man of honour will stay and protect her even against her will!"

For a moment she gazed around her as if she apprehended danger, but only for a moment.

"Will it please you to pass on?" she said.

"Not until I have told you what is in my mind."

"Then you are a spy."

"As you will," I replied, for the words angered me, and even although I had no sufficient excuse for remaining by her side, I determined to know more of her.

"Perhaps my first impression was right," she went on, "and you are a common thief. If so, it is useless coming to me, I have no money."

At this I was silent, for my brain refused to give me a suitable answer.

"So having no money, and having no desire to remain longer in your company, I will e'en go on my way."

"No you will not."

At this her eyes flashed like fire.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you are afraid to let me know where you are going."

At this she gazed fearfully at me, but she spoke no word.

"Nevertheless, I know the place for which you are bound," I said. "But if I were you I would not go."

"Why?"

"Because the man who sent you seeks only his own safety and not yours. Because he desires to use you only as a key to unlock the door by which he would enter, because he has gained power over you only to make you his tool."

"What do you know of the man who sent me?"

This she said, as I thought, involuntarily, for she quickly went on: "How do you know I have been sent? In these days even a woman may – " and then she stopped suddenly, like one afraid.

"Because I have been staying at the Barley Sheaf," I replied. "Because I saw you come to the inn; because I heard your conversation to-night with the man who hath sent you to do his bidding, against your own will."

"Then you are a spy?"

"If you will, but let me tell you what is in my mind before you call me by that name again. I was awakened an hour or two ago by the sound of a woman sobbing. She was pleading with some man not to send her out at midnight, but he persisted. I heard him threaten her, I heard him tell her that if her name were known some dread calamity would happen to her. I knew that he had some power over her, possessed some secret concerning her, and that she had perforce to do his will."

"Well, what then, sir?" she asked sharply.

"He commanded her to go to Pycroft, along a road that is infested by footpads."

"And what have you to do with this?"

"Nothing except that I determined to follow her, and offer her what protection and help I could give her. Ay, and more, to rid her from the man who is so unworthy to call himself her protector."

At this she came up close to me, and looked steadily into my face.

"Is that all you know?" she said.

"That is all."

"And that is your reason for following me?"

"That is my reason."

"What is your name?"

I could see no harm in telling her. My name was unknown, and my mission hither was, I believed, a secret.

"Roland Rashcliffe," I said.

"Of Epping?"

"Of that family, yes."

"And this is true?"

"On my word as a gentleman, yes."

Again she looked at me steadily as if she were in sore straits what to do, and did not know whether she might trust me.

"You know nothing about me beyond what you have said?"

"Nothing."

"And you desire only to see me safe from harm?"

"That is all," and at the time it was true, for under the influence of the woman's presence my own mission to Pycroft seemed of little import.

"And if I allow you to accompany me you will ask me no questions?"

"I desire you to answer no questions of mine, nor to reveal to me anything which you would keep secret."

"You do not know my name – nor his name?"

"No."

Again she scanned me eagerly, and then looked around her. All round us was a weary waste of uncultivated land, beyond the dark woods a cloud shot over the moon, while away in the distance the horizon was blackened by what looked like a coming storm. The winter had gone, and the spring was upon us, nevertheless the night had grown cold. I saw her shudder.

"What are you?" she said. "Roundhead, or Cavalier?"

"I do not know."

At this she looked at me suspiciously.

"My father fought for the king in the first Civil War," I replied. "But I have stayed at home all my life. I have not interested myself in politics. I have helped to look after what remains of my father's estates."

"You have spent your life in idleness?"

"I have sought to learn those things which may become a gentleman," I replied. "I can use a sword, and I am not altogether an ignoramus."

"You love books then?"

"I have read the writings of both William Shakespeare and John Milton," I replied, "and I know a little of such writings of Corneille and Molière as have been brought to this country."

"You know French then?"

"A little. But that hath nothing to do with my desire to befriend you. You are in trouble, and I would help you."

"You desire not to harm me?"

"So help me God, no."

"But why are you here?" she asked suspiciously. "If your home is at Epping Forest, what are you doing at Folkestone?"

"I came at my father's bidding," I replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Ah, you have a secret, too," she cried.

At this I was silent, while I wondered at the quickness with which she fastened upon the truth. Nevertheless, I was sure her voice was friendly, and I thought she was glad to have me near. And this was no wonder, for courageous although she might be, her mission was one which must strike terror in the bravest heart.

But still she hesitated. What was passing in her mind I knew not; but I imagined that two fears fought one against the other in her heart. One, the fear of going alone to the haunted house situated amid the great Pycroft woods, and the other the fear of accepting the protection of one of whom she knew nothing, and whom she had never seen until that hour.

The winds blew colder, while away in the distance I heard the rumble of thunder, and this I think decided her. Had it been day I do not believe she would have listened to me for a moment, but it was night and a thunderstorm was sweeping towards us; besides, although a courageous one, she was still a woman.

"Promise me again that you will not seek to interfere with my mission, or to harm me," she said.

"I promise," I replied.

"I will accept your escort," she said. "Come quickly, for what is done must be done quickly."

We walked together across the broad open land, while the black cloud grew larger and larger. The moon had also sunk low, and the night had grown dark. Even now a strange feeling comes into my heart as I think of our journey towards the old house, for reared in the country as I had been, ay, and in the very midst of the great forest which lies east of London town, I thought I never knew any place so lonely as this. Besides, I knew naught of my companion. That she was young, and fair to look upon, I could not help seeing, but I knew not her name, neither did I understand the mystery which surrounded her life.

Twice I saw her turn and gaze furtively at me, as though desiring to know what was in my mind, but for the most part she walked straight on, never turning to the right nor to the left.

Nearer and nearer we came to the pine woods which stood on the edge of the open land, and as we did so drops of rain began to fall upon us. Then I thought I saw her shudder, but she spoke no word. In spite of the way she had spoken to me, I fell to pitying her more than ever. For truly it was a sad predicament for a young maid, evidently well-born and tenderly reared, to be placed in. From what she had said to the man at the inn, she knew nothing either of Pycroft or its inmates, neither could she tell what her welcome to the lonely house would be like.

Once she stopped and listened as though she heard strange sounds near, and then presently moved on again without a word. By and bye we came to a pond beside the road, close by which was a gateway. Beyond were, as far as I could judge, dense dark woods.

"This is the place," I said.

"How do you know?"

"It accords with the description the man gave you at the inn."

"Yes, but you know nothing of those who live at the house?"

"Nothing."

"You may accompany me until we come in sight of the house, but after that you must go no further."

"Why?"

"You promised to ask no questions."

"I promised not to interfere with your mission," I replied, "neither will I. I have kept by your side for more than two miles without speaking a word concerning it. Nevertheless I have not promised to obey you in all things. Had I, I should not be by your side now. I cannot promise not to go too close to the house. It may be that you will need help, and I mean to keep close by your side."

"But why?" and I thought my words gave her comfort.

"Because I desire to be your friend."

In this I spoke the truth, for although I had it in my heart to enter the house in order to carry out my plans, yet my pity for the maid, and my determination to befriend her became stronger each minute.

"My friend!" she said. "You do not know what you say. Do you know what it would cost to be my friend? Besides, why should you? You do not know who I am; you have never heard my name."

"No," I replied, "I have never heard your name, I do not know who you are."

"Then why should you desire to befriend me?"

I could not answer her, neither for that matter could I answer myself when the question came to me. But I think I know now. Although my father had taught me to distrust all men, he had always led me to think of my mother as a beautiful noble woman, one who was as pure as an angel, and as truthful as the sun which shines in the heavens. Thus it came about that I was led to look at womanhood through the medium of my mother's life, and to regard it as a gentleman's duty ever to treat them with respect and reverence. Nay, more, I had learnt, I know not how, to regard it the first duty of a man of honour ever to seek to befriend a gentlewoman, and that at all hazards.