Chapter IV: Part 4

"Yes, I should," answered Ann. "I love the place, and I would like to think that Reginald would have it one day, and that he would marry and have children; and so it would go down from generation to generation, a fair heritage."

"As it was with the De Lisles," said Agnes thoughtfully. "Ah well!" she added, "it does not much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory of it."

Instinctively the words had come to her lips--how they did so she knew not--it was the inspiration of a moment. She had dropped her needle whilst listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy look in the great dark eyes as she gazed through the window up to the sky which overhung the river. The summer day had come to a close; she could no longer see to put her stitches into the canvas. A sense of unreality crept over her, a sort of feeling as if she had lived in another world once upon a time--she was, and she was not--a spell seemed laid upon her. Would she awake and find her present life only a dream?

Patience's voice roused her.

"Ann Newbolt," she said, "a messenger has come from your brother. Neither he nor your mother can return to-night. He requests me to keep you with us."

"My father is dying, then?" said Ann.

"The messenger does not say so," answered Patience, "merely that they cannot leave the prison."

*CHAPTER XI*

*A Brave Woman*

Sooner or later we all find a place which fits us in the world, and when Mistress Newbolt crossed the threshold of Newgate to take charge of her husband, unwittingly, even to herself, she had reached her bourne. She did not know it, she did not realize it till long after; but her work had found her, and she was not one of those who, having put her hand to the plough, would turn back again.

An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the misery which surrounded her, but she never did. All the sorrow, the discontent, which so often troubled her, ceased to be as she stood beside her husband in that narrow cell. With strong hands, helped by Reginald, she arranged his bed; she spoke to him, she comforted him; even in his delirium he knew her and clung to her. That he was desperately ill she saw at a glance, but even the doctor, a rough, hard man, when he came to visit him, grew soft in Mistress Newbolt's presence.

"Madam," he said, "I cannot tell whether he will live or die. His life is in your hands."

"Not in mine," said Mistress Newbolt, "but in God's."

"We do not hear much of God here," said the doctor roughly. "It is verily a God-forsaken place; but your presence is potent, your care may save him."

"I can only stay here a few hours," she answered, "at least, so I am told. I will do what I can."

"You may stay here as long as you choose," said the doctor. "I will speak to the governor."

And so it came to pass that Mistress Newbolt was established at Newgate. That first night her husband was seized with such violent delirium that it required two men to hold him down.

Reginald therefore remained till early morning, when, exhausted, the patient dropped into a deep sleep. Then his mother bade him go and rest.

"You have your duties to attend to; you have Ann to see after," she said. "I am sufficient here."

"Will you not be afraid to remain here alone, Mother?" asked Reginald.

"Afraid!" she answered, "of what? Is not God with me?" And that strangely inspired look came into her face. "I feel as if my place were here, as if at last I had found my appointed task. Go, and do not trouble about me or your father."

Reginald kissed her hand.

"You are wonderful, Mother," he said. "I will return this evening before the prison gates close." And so he left her.

As Mistress Newbolt stood in the passage she heard cries and moans, loud voices, and bitter plaints.

"Are those the prisoners?" she asked of Knight, the jailer.

"Yes," he answered, "they are hungry dogs to-day. They declared that the morning allowance of food was insufficient. There was not a hunch of bread for each man, and it was sour, not fit to cast to the dogs."

"How was it so?" asked Mistress Newbolt.

The keeper shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I tell?" he said. "It is bought by contract. As we get it we give it them. Those who have no money of their own, and no friends, come badly off. Your husband is sleeping, will you come and look at them?"

Mistress Newbolt acquiesced.

He took her down the passage to a great iron door, in which there was a sliding panel, not large, but large enough to allow an outsider to look into the interior. The keeper drew back the panel, and shrill voices fell upon her ears, uttering curses and foul language. She saw men and women with scarce any semblance of humanity, rather like wild beasts. Some were tearing at hard crusts of bread, others at meat of the worst kind; men belaboured the women and thrust them back, snatching the food out of their thin hands. And they in their turn clutched at them and tore their hair, scratching their faces in their madness. One or two had infants in their arms, parodies of childhood.

"It is terrible!" said Mistress Newbolt, her pale face paling.

"Here is gold," she said to the keeper; "go fetch me food! I will give it them. And look you," she continued, "that you are just, and bring me full measure for the money."

Her stern eyes stared straight into Knight's, and he, as if affrighted, looked away; nevertheless he took the gold and departed to do her bidding.

Mistress Newbolt faced the opening again and called out, "Peace, peace!"

Her words were received with a loud yell.

"Peace? There is no peace here."

"Peace, peace, God's peace be with you!" she continued; and then in a loud voice, which rose above the turmoil, she began:

"Our Father which art in heaven."

Shrieks of mockery greeted her words.

"He who would have bread let him pray for it," she cried out. "Surely it will come to him who asketh."

A loud voice greeted her words.

"We have asked, and they have given us stones for bread," said a gaunt man.

"Because ye have asked amiss," she answered. "Down on your knees and I will pray for you."

A moment's hesitation, then there was dead silence, and that crowd fell down as if moved by some invisible power.

"Repeat what I say, after me," she cried. "Our Father."

And so through that blessed prayer, the like of which there is none other, these poor wretches, the outcast of the earth, followed her, repeating the words, some with sobs, some still cursing between the words.

As the Amen died out, Knight stood beside her.

"Open the gate and let me in to them," she said, "and then do as I bid you."

She took a great white loaf from the basket he had brought.

"There are more coming," he said in a low voice; "this is not all your bounty gives."

"A knife," she said. "I will break each loaf in four. Open the gate," she continued, "and I will go in and feed them myself."

"They will tear you to pieces," said Knight.

"No they will not," she answered; and she stood erect as one inspired.

The jailer took the bunch of keys from his side, unlocked the door, and she passed in.

In a second she was surrounded.

"The bread, the bread we have prayed for!" they cried.

"It is coming," she answered; and she took the lumps of bread which Knight handed her. Quickly they were snatched from her.

Suddenly she stopped, for she saw that the men in their greed were thrusting the women back, and fighting their way towards her.

"Cowards!" she cried, "stand back! The women and the children. Have you nothing human left in you? Shame! Shame!"

There was a deep growl of anger, but slowly the men fell back, and the women rushed forward, kneeling at her feet, kissing her hands. Their souls were touched, and she, stooping over them, bade them rise, and gave them food. She took one child in her arms and fed it with her own hands.

"Water!" they called out, "water!" And they showed her a pitcher filled with a foul liquid.

"Water, bring water!" she repeated; and the keepers brought it as they would have brought it at an angel's word.

She held the jars to the parched, thirsty lips, and they drank, all those who could get near enough; but it was not enough, there were so many.

"That is all," she said at last. "I have no more; but to-morrow I will come back and feed you again; only be human and know there is a God who careth for you. Ye have sinned, but He will pardon you if you repent. He suffered, though He was sinless, and you are sinners. It is but just that you should suffer for your sins. Listen to what the psalmist of Israel sang." In a loud, clear voice she recited the 77th Psalm:

"'I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice, and he gave ear unto me'," and so on to the end.

Where there had been such an uproar there was now a grave stillness, save for the groans of the men and the weeping of the women. She stood with the half-naked child still in her arms, and looked down upon the people, her tall figure resting against the unclean wall of that prison-house. Her voice was steady; her eyes had in them that strangely luminous look of inspiration.

When she had finished she gave the child back to its mother.

"If they will let me, I will come to you to-morrow," she repeated, "and so each day. Only be patient, and the Lord will be with you."

As she spoke she backed out of the cell, and disappeared from their sight.

The keepers told the governor they had never had such a quiet day; the prisoners seemed subdued. They took their portions of food at night and hardly murmured. There were many brutes amongst those men, and many shameless women, but their passions were curbed and their evil tongues silenced.

Mistress Newbolt went back to her husband and tended him all that day, praying beside him with such earnestness, and with such impassioned eloquence that the warders came and stood at the door of the cell and listened. There was not one of them who would not gladly serve her; she might ask what she would of them, they did it.

The governor, hearing what she had done, though knowing it to be against the rules, said:

"Let her do what she will for the poor wretches!"

And so every morning for ten long days she went in to them. Some passed away, but the greater number remained. Every day she added something to her bounty: she gave the women cloths and brooms, and bade them try to keep some order and cleanliness in the cells; but it was impossible, and she soon recognized it was so.

Some days she would repeat a few verses from the Bible to them, and they would listen. Her heart would be glad then, thinking she had won them, but on the morrow there would be fresh cursing, swearing, and evil-speaking. Still, she never wearied. She brought fresh water and clean linen, and dressed their wounds; she brought milk for the little children; she spent herself and her wealth for these outcasts. They grew to look upon her coming as the one thing in the twenty-four hours for which they lived.

"Our mother's coming," they told one another, as the hour approached, and like children they watched for her.

It was wonderful how her strength stood it all--those long days and nights at her husband's pallet, and the horror of her surroundings.

The order came at last that her husband should be removed to Aldersgate to await his trial. The class of prisoners there was of a higher degree, and the prison was less crowded. But the order came too late; they could not move him.

"He will die on the way," the doctor said; "he must die, therefore let him remain here in peace."

When she was not tending the prisoners or waiting on her husband she was praying, this marvellous woman, in whom verily the blood of martyrs must have flowed. She grew gaunter and gaunter, but there came into her face a look of enthusiasm, as if she no longer belonged to this world, but to the heaven of which she spoke.

"If Ann is to see my father alive, I must bring her soon, Mother," said Reginald, on the eighteenth day of the colonel's illness.

"He will not die until the twenty-first," she answered.

On the morning of the twenty-first it was evident that he was sinking, that he would not outlive the day, and so Reginald went for Ann and brought her to the prison. He had told her something of their mother's doings, but it was difficult for anyone who did not see it to know what that prison life was, and Ann was spared the horror. In the cell where her father lay dying everything was spotless. There was scarcely standing room for two or three people, but the door was left open; there was no fear of his escaping--the spirit would go, but the shell would remain, until it was given back to earth. Man could not hurt him; he need not fear being called to any earthly judgment.

So changed was he that Ann hardly knew him. If she had not known he was her father she would not have recognized him. Looking at her mother, she saw it was the same with her.

"Can this be my father," she thought, "by whose side I have ridden over moor and fell, whose voice was so strong to command, whose presence was so good?" And then, looking at her mother, she grew faint with fear.

There was something unearthly in Mistress Newbolt's appearance: her tall figure had grown supernaturally thin, her hands and face were transparent in their whiteness, her eyes shone with kind and tender pity--they were no longer cold and hard as they had been.

When Ann, overcome with grief, sank by her father's bedside and sobbed out her sorrow, she felt her mother's hand on her head, and her voice whispering:

"Nay, my child, do not weep; it is well with him. We have prayed together, he and I, when God has vouchsafed to him short glimpses of reason, and I am persuaded that his soul is safe in the hands of his Maker. Do not trouble; it is well with him."

Then she knelt beside her and poured forth her soul in prayer. It was wonderful to hear her; she was as one inspired; the words flowed forth in a stream of unbroken eloquence. The warders, the keepers, the women of the prison, all gathered round to hear her, and many having come to mock, remained to pray. Throughout the day this went on.

Towards evening Reginald came to take Ann away. Suddenly life seemed to come back to the dying man. He sat up; they put pillows behind him. He looked around him, and seeing Ann and Reginald, beckoned them to come to him. Laying his hands on their heads, he blessed them.

"I have one desire," he said. "I have loved lands, and wealth, and all the good things of this world; now I know they are of no value at all. I charge you two to discover if there be any child, kith or kin, of those who possessed Newbolt Manor before it came into my hands. If so, give it back to them; if not, then do as the disciples of old--succour the poor, make a home for the destitute, let the wealth go back to God who gave it. You will remember?"

"I will remember, Father," said Reginald; "have no fear."

Colonel Newbolt sank back on his pillows as if content, and quietly, without an effort, as if he were falling asleep, passed away.

His wife rose from her knees and covered his face. At a sign from her all those present left the cell, except her children. They remained with her until the last offices for the dead had been accomplished, then, at her command, hand in hand they went forth; she remaining alone to keep watch beside him who had been her husband.

*CHAPTER XII*

*A Faithful Friend*

In the life of every one of us, from the cradle to the grave, there are landmarks. The child's first tooth, its first step as it half tumbles across the floor into its mother's arms, the first word from the baby's lips, are stages in the child's life and in the mother's heart. So it goes on imperceptibly--the child, the youth, the man, school and college; these come to all. But there are waves which sweep over each individual soul, casting it ashore; a master wave, drawing us into the great sea of destiny.

The death of Colonel Newbolt changed the current of more lives than one. Ann had adored her father, and when Reginald took her forth out of that prison-house where he lay dead, she was as one stunned. How great the change in her life was to be she did not then conceive, for in the first hour of a _great_ sorrow, that sorrow alone holds us.

Ann went back to Somerset House, and Patience and Agnes tried to comfort her; but on the morrow Reginald fetched her, and she went home to her mother.

Then a strange thing happened. One morning, as Patience and Agnes sat at work, a commissioner came and informed them that the king had given orders that the queen's apartments, and, in fact, the whole of Somerset House, was to be put under repair. This was to be done quickly because of the king's marriage and the return of her majesty, the queen dowager. "Therefore", he said, "the king desires that you should remove to Hampton Court, to the apartments he has given you there."

Patience listened in silence, and when the messenger had departed she went and shut herself into her own room and did not appear till supper-time, much to Agnes's astonishment, for she had never before been left so many hours alone. The first words she spoke startled Agnes.

"You heard the order for us to leave this house and go to Hampton Court," she began. "Well, I will not obey, because I do not choose that you should live in the midst of the king's court. I find," she continued, "that with great economy, and by living in some quiet country village, I have money enough to keep us for two or three years. Will you be content to live thus?"

"I shall be glad to do so," said Agnes. "Ever since we were at Greenwich my heart has yearned for a country life. I told you a long time ago I was tired of courts. Take me where you will, Patience, as far out of the world as it pleases you. Of course, Ann and Reginald will know where we go?" she added.

"No," said Patience, "nobody must know. I am taking you where it would be a danger for you to be known."

Agnes's face fell. "But I love my friends," she said, "and would not be wholly parted from them."

"For the present you must be," said Patience. "What the future holds in store for you I cannot tell. May the Lord guide our footsteps in the right way!"

When Reginald called the next day to ask them to come to his mother and Ann, they were gone--no one could tell where, no one knew. They had left soon after dawn, taking Martha with them, also Rolfe, a north-country man who had accompanied Patience to France many years before. Evidently Patience had judged these two to be fitting persons to serve them, to be trusted.

Sad at heart, Reginald returned and told his mother what had happened.

"I am sorry," she said. "I was going to ask Patience to take charge of Ann, because this night I had a call--I heard voices and I saw visions. The spirit of the Lord bids me forsake the world and serve Him only. Nothing must hinder me, and yet Ann stands in my way; she is there before me, blocking my path. What can I do with her? The Lord calls me and I must go. Within those prison gates my work lies; my work is the saving of the souls which He has given into my hands."

"But, Mother," said Reginald, "what can you do for so many?"

"Do!" she answered. "I will feed their bodies and souls; I will teach them and I will preach to them, if perchance I may save but one soul alive."

"And who will care for you, Mother?" asked Ann.

"The Lord," answered Mistress Newbolt, "He will care for me."

Tears were pouring down Ann's face.

"Ah, Mother, you will surely need someone," she said. "I will tend you, I will love you, I will care for you; my heart tells me this is my work. We will leave this great house. We will take just two rooms without the prison gates; you can do your work and I will do mine. When you are weary you can rest, and I will tend you. Shall it not be so, Reginald?" And she turned to her brother.

"Ann speaks wisely, Mother," said Reginald. "Let her remain with you."

"I will not hinder you, Mother," said Ann; "I will help you. To Newbolt we cannot go, because you know my father has willed that we should not dwell there."

"In any case," said Reginald, "I doubt if we shall keep it long. The king's greed is great; he would not have suffered us to remain. Doubtless, now that my father is dead, he will take it in payment for the fine which would have been imposed."

"Then sell it at once, and give the money to my poor," said his mother.

"If I can," answered Reginald; "but I doubt if that be possible. For myself, I shall go abroad. Surely better days will dawn ere long!"

He might well say this, he might well hope this. Throughout England and Scotland a religious persecution was waging: the Act of Uniformity was passed. Against the Independents and the Presbyterians the utmost rigour of the law was enforced; the prisons were filled with nonconformist ministers and their people. Many compared this time to the great St. Bartholomew massacre of the Huguenots. And what was still more grievous to all righteous souls, the court was a hideous place, full of evil-doings, grieving those who retained still the faintest semblance of morality.

The marriage of the king did not improve the state of things; indeed, it made matters worse, for the misery endured by the young queen, Catherine of Braganza, was very great. She was left in solitude, her own country-people were taken away from her, and she was forced to consort with the king's friends, who, for the most part, were distasteful to her.

All the ideal dreams which Reginald and Ann had dreamt fell crumbling to the ground. They looked back with something almost of regret to the days of Cromwell's rule, when the strictest observance of religious duty and of virtue was at least commended. Their hearts were sore within them. How would it end? There seemed much trouble in the future for both of them.

"If only a war would break out I would volunteer," said Reginald. "I will not stay at home. If I cannot serve my king at home, I will serve my country by sea or by land."

"And I will serve my mother," said Ann; and timidly, because she feared her, and yet fondly, because she knew she was her mother, Ann threw her arms round her neck and whispered softly in her ears:

"Where thou goest I will go; thy God shall be my God."

Mistress Newbolt did not return the caress, she merely answered:

"It is the will of the Lord. Thou shalt abide with me."

That same day she dismissed all her servants, acting justly by them, even kindly, for she gave them their full wages and something over; then she and Ann went together into the city, and found two or three rooms at the top of a house in the Old Bailey.

Ann, who had been accustomed to open air and freedom, wondered how she would live there; but she did not oppose her mother. On the contrary, she fell in with her views, and for the next day or two they were busy moving what furniture was necessary from the great house to the poor lodging. Ann thought of many things, and her activity was very great. She piled up the linen, she took all she imagined could possibly be for their comfort; but her heart sank as she went up those narrow stairs, meeting ever and again strange faces of men and women such as she had never looked on before. To her it was an ugly life: would anything make it beautiful? She never thought of that; she only knew she had to live in the midst of it, and she prayed for strength to do her duty.

Sometimes for days together she never saw her mother. She wondered where she was, until at last Reginald told her that the governor had sent for her. It came to pass that when Mistress Newbolt ceased to go amongst the prisoners they had become insubordinate and had clamoured for her. Therefore the governor besought her to renew her work amongst them, for it meant a certain amount of peace, which no one else could secure, and she answered him:

"I was waiting for your call, sir; God told me it would come. I am ready."

So Ann was left alone in the upper part of the strange house, with only an old woman whom she had taken to help her in the work, for her mother would have no servants. The old woman lived in the same house in a garret, and she had no belongings. The neighbours said that in winter time she was well-nigh starving, but in the summer she hawked flowers in the street, and sometimes fruit.

"You will do that no longer," said Ann. "I will feed you, and you will do the rough work for me while my mother is out."

Thus it was arranged. At first Ann would send her marketing--she was herself afraid of being alone in the streets--but gradually, as she grew familiar with her new life, she ceased to do this, and went out herself to make her purchases. The air did her good, and, as her mother gave her but little money, she had to be economical.

One day, as she and Reginald were walking down Drury Lane, she asked: "Where has all our father's fortune gone?"

"Our mother is spending it," he answered. "There are the rents of Newbolt Manor; she gets them all. I went to see our lawyer the other day. He told me that by my father's will everything went to our mother, unconditionally. She is mistress of everything; we are dependent upon her."

"It is not right," said Ann; "we shall be beggars."

"I am afraid we shall," said Reginald, "but it cannot be helped. You will care for our mother; I, as best I can, will care for you both; but the glory is gone out of my life."

"Tut, tut!" said a man's voice, and a hand came down heavily on Reginald's shoulder.

He turned sharply, put his hand to his hat, exclaiming: "My Lord Craven!"

"I was coming on behind you, and I heard you say that wicked thing, that the glory was gone out of your life," said Lord Craven, "and you but a lad still. You are starting in life, and because you have one disappointment your heart fails you. Is that being a man? Turn in with me, and we will speak together. I am no longer young, and verily the glory has departed out of my life." And his quaint face, neither old nor young, grew very sad.

Lord Craven had been all his life the champion of the Protestant religion throughout Europe, and the acknowledged knight of that beautiful but unfortunate queen, Elizabeth Stuart of Bohemia, aunt of Charles II. The queen had come to London, and had lived a few months at Lord Craven's house in Drury Lane. She had died in the early spring, and so a life-long service had come to an end, and disappointment and ingratitude were to be his reward.

This is the romance of history, savouring of that mediaeval worship of a woman which we meet with once and again, the Lauras and Beatrices of life; stories scattered here and there to show us what so few realize, the spiritual side of the life of man and woman; love which is content to live, asking for nothing, looking for nothing that this earth can give, wholly unselfish, content to serve, content to worship.

Both Reginald and Ann knew Lord Craven's story well, they knew his devotion to the queen and to the Protestant faith, also his untiring goodness to the whole Stuart family. They had seen him, as all the world had seen him, follow the coffin of his "queen", as he always called Elizabeth Stuart, holding in his hand his plumed helmet, in which was fastened always a small white glove, his token of service. Many mocked, some smiled at the little Lord Craven, as he was ofttimes called; but in their hearts all good-minded men honoured him.

That the earl should address him thus familiarly was a high honour for Reginald, and he felt it as such.

"My lord," he said, "I thank you, but I have my sister with me, and cannot leave her."

"Mistress Ann," said Lord Craven, and his kindly face smiled down upon the girl, "it seems to me we do not live far apart. Had you not a house about here?"

"Yes, my lord, we lived in yonder house," answered Reginald, and he pointed to their old home. "But my father was arrested and thrown into prison. He is dead, and we have moved to a humbler lodging."

"I thought as much," said the Earl. "Come and tell me all that has befallen you." And with that graciousness which bespoke the man who had lived in courts, he bowed, and, looking at Ann, added:

"You will do me much honour if you will accompany your brother to my house." And he doffed his hat, with the white glove.

Ann curtsied, and the three turned back together until they reached the great portal leading to the earl's house at the corner of Drury Lane and Aldwych. The door was wide open, as was often the custom in those days, and men-servants stood here and there ready to receive and execute their master's orders. Passing through the great hall, the earl conducted his guests to his private library, where he mostly sat himself. It looked out upon gardens, and seemed to all intents and purposes far removed from the busy world. Over the mantelpiece was a lovely portrait of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and beneath it was written:

"Your most affectionate and most obedient slave, who loved you and will love you incessantly, infinitely, unto death".

Such was the vow William Craven had made as a young man, and from which, now his hair was grey, death alone had released him.

To Ann and Reginald in their youth, with the glamour of life still before them, this room seemed a sanctuary.

"Sit down, sit down," said the earl, "and tell me what your trouble is, and why the glory has gone out of your young life."

He smiled as he repeated Reginald's words. He recognized in them the impatient cry of youth.

Reginald never knew how it happened, but he poured out his whole soul to the earl. He told him how he had refused to have anything to do with Cromwell and the Commonwealth, how he had vowed allegiance to King Charles and the Stuarts, how his father had been, so to speak, done to death, and how he himself, seeing what the court of Charles II. was, had lost heart.

"You have been serving a man and not a cause," said Lord Craven; "that is why you are in this plight. Forget the man, and think of the cause. You do not know the Stuarts as I know them. They are a wild race--they will not be curbed either for good or evil--daring, brilliant, beautiful!" He paused, his eyes turning involuntarily to the portrait of his queen. Then he continued, "They hold men's hearts in their hands, and they break them without more ado than if they were of common clay. Look back to their past history!" he exclaimed, and his face had in it a strange beauty as he stood before the two young people and spoke to them. "Think of Mary Stuart; she lost her crown, her kingdom, everything, for love, and others lost everything for her. It is in their blood; they cannot help it any more than men can help kneeling before their shrine and worshipping them. We were a score of gentlemen who first vowed ourselves to the service of the Princess Elizabeth when she went forth out of England to wed the Prince Palatine. They are all dead; I am left alone. Do you think I have not suffered? And yet you, because you have high ideals and are disappointed, turn away in disgust, and would go over to the enemy."

"No, not that," said Reginald, "not that, but I will not be a courtier. I will be what you are, my lord, a soldier. I will fight if there be still a cause to fight for."

"I think that will be easily found," said the earl; "there is likely to be war with Holland before long. If you are truly desirous of seeing active service, I will take care that you have a place found for you. Will you serve under Prince Rupert?"

"Indeed I will," answered Reginald. "I could hope for nothing better."

"Then take courage," said the earl, "I will speak for you. You say that your father is dead. He was like many another; the tables turned. Your estates are likely to be forfeited, you will surely have heavy fines to pay, but beyond that, seeing that you are yourself in the king's service, and that you have never drawn sword against him, you will not suffer. What estates have you?"

"We have but one large estate," said Reginald, "and my father with his dying breath bade me return it either to its lawful heirs or to God's poor."

"Where is it?" asked the earl.

"Up north, in Westmorland," answered Reginald. "Newbolt Manor it is called now, but it was once De Lisle Abbey, and belonged to the De Lisles."

"That's strange," said the earl; "poor Gilbert De Lisle! I knew him well. He was killed at Worcester, and he left a fair young wife, who died of a broken heart in child-birth. I never heard whether the child lived or died."

"I have always understood it died," said Reginald, "and that there was no heir to the estate."

"Ah, well, then the king will bestow it on some of his favourites," said Lord Craven. "And your sister, has she no fortune, no dower-money?"

"My father left some money," answered Reginald, "but my mother is spending it." And then rapidly he told the earl of his father's imprisonment and death, and how by natural instinct his mother had taken up work in the prison, and now was spending all the wealth they had upon it.

"Then, Mistress Ann, we shall have to see to you," said the earl; "only prevent this brother of yours from forsaking the cause. It has had its dark days; you must live them down. Be not down-hearted," he said, turning to Reginald. "We cannot make the world as we would have it; we must take it as it comes and make the best of it. Resign your commission in the King's Guards, and go abroad to Holland; I will give you an introduction to Prince Rupert."

Reginald hesitated for a moment.

"My mother and my sister," he said, "I cannot leave them unprovided for."

"I will see to them," said the earl; "they shall not suffer. We cannot afford to let young earnest souls like yours go adrift."

"Thank you!" said Reginald, "I will think the matter over and bring you my answer, if you will let me; but in any case I thank you for your kindness to us strangers."

"You are no strangers," said Earl Craven. "I have heard of you from my friend Delarry." As he said this he looked at Ann, whose face coloured and eyes drooped. "Moreover, I have watched you both. I knew of your father's arrest and of his death, and I shall be glad to be of service to you. I am afraid the king is making enemies of those who would be faithful servants, so, as is my custom, I must step into the breach."

"And we thank you," said Reginald; "your generosity will not have been bestowed in vain."

He bowed to Lord Craven, Ann curtsied, but the earl held out his hand to them both.

"We are friends. Think of me as such," he said; "for I am a lone man, and would gladly boast of a son and daughter such as you are, to comfort me in my old age. My house is open to you; when you need me you will not be refused."

With that he turned away, and Reginald and Ann went out together.

"Surely it is God's hand," said Ann. "We were well-nigh despairing, you and I, Reginald, and now we have a friend."

"Yes," answered Reginald, "not too soon; the world seemed very dark, and now, well, I see the sun."

Ann looked up and smiled at him.

"So do I," she said, and they went on together with light hearts. The young are so glad to cast a burden off their shoulders, to greet the sunshine, to welcome hope; it is the prerogative of youth!

*CHAPTER XIII*

*The Hamlet of St. Mary's*

It was but a tiny village nestling in the midst of moors and fells. The river Eden ran through it, and all around was the richest verdure, woods and plantations, such as can only be seen in Westmorland, one of the smallest but also one of the most fertile counties in England.

It was just before harvest time--the golden corn waved over many an acre. A tiny church stood with its white turret just under the hill-side; beside it was the vicarage, and there for many a year the Rev. John Ewan had dwelt and ministered to a scattered moorland flock. He had come there as a young man with a young wife. She lay in the little churchyard, and of their three children there remained but one, a girl of sixteen summers, who kept house and served her father with untiring devotion. She had never been beyond the radius of the three counties which bound Westmorland, and she had no ambition to wander. She had no companion save her father; she rode and walked with him. He had taught her all she knew, and that was considerably more than most girls, for the winters were long and the days short, and in the evening, over the fireside, she read much, and she listened to her father as he spoke to her of things of the past. She knew much of the history of England; it was a passion with her, and she had ever been a rigid loyalist, as her father was.

Strange to tell, throughout the Civil War this little village and its minister had been left unmolested, and yet it was at no great distance from Appleby; but then it was such a little place, and the farmhouses were so scattered. Often during those days of internal warfare they had seen men on horseback, Roundheads and Royalists alike, ride in hot haste through the village, and Jessie had longed for them to stop. She would have dearly loved to speak with them, but they passed on. There was nothing to tempt them in the dozen low thatched cottages which clustered together; there was no inn for them to halt at for refreshment, so they invariably rode on. Almost at the top of the hill, beyond which the moorlands stretched, there was an old farmhouse. No one knew to whom by rights it belonged. Some said it was part of the De Lisle estate; others that it was tithe land, and the vicar could lay claim to it. Be that as it may, it had been long uninhabited, when one morning a serving-man stopped at the vicarage gate and asked to see the minister.

He was shown into a room with great rafters across the ceiling and walls lined with books. At a table in the centre, at his desk, sat the vicar. He was a man something over forty, with a handsome, clever face, but with a look of abstraction in his eyes not unusual in one who lives far away from the world and its doings. This morning he had two companions, a big sheep-dog and Jessie, the latter curled up in an arm-chair deep in her book.

"A man wants to see you, sir," said the woman servant, opening the door just wide enough to put in her head.

"Show him in, Mary," answered the vicar; and a big man in a rough brown jerkin, leggings, coarse stockings, and hob-nailed shoes entered, holding his cap in his hand. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, with a mass of brown hair and a somewhat reddish beard.

He came up and stood at the vicar's table. As he did so he laid a letter before him.

"My mistress has sent me with this," he said; "will you please read it, sir, and give me your answer."

The vicar looked at the man.

"It seems to me I have seen you before," he said.

The man shook his head.

"It is many a long day since I have been in these parts," he said.

"Then you _have_ been in these parts before?" asked the vicar.

"Will you read the letter, sir, because I have left the missus in the wood out yonder," he answered shortly, adding, "We have travelled all the way from London, and shall be glad to have a roof over our heads."

Jessie twisted herself round, looked at the man, then rose, saying quickly:

"There is no room in this village, and no inn; you must go farther on to Dearham."

The man looked at her, a queer smile lighting up his rugged face.

"There be the Holt, missie, I ween."

"The Holt!" exclaimed Jessie; "people don't go to the Holt, do they, Father?"

During this conversation the vicar was reading the letter which had been given to him. It consisted of four pages of close writing, and the vicar's face changed more than once while he was mastering its contents.

When he had finished he laid the letter down and rested his head in his hands.

"Well, sir?" said the man anxiously.

"I will go back with you, my man," he said.

"Jessie," he continued, "the key of Holt Farm is on the nail; take it, go quickly and open the house." And without another word he and the man went out together.

Jessie rose, took the key, whistled, and went to the door, the sheep-dog at her heels.

"Where be you going, miss?" asked Mary, looking out from the half-open kitchen door.

"I am going to Holt Farm," she answered, "to open it."

"What for? It was aired last Monday," said Mary.

"Father told me to go," answered Jessie; and with that she left the house, went through the garden and the adjoining churchyard, crossed a low stone bridge which spanned the river a few yards lower down, and began climbing the hillside.

It was pretty steep, but she did not feel it; she had been born among the hills, and fells, and dales. The dog bounded before her, sniffing the balmy air, odorous with the scent of the heather and the multitudinous wild flowers which grew on the hillside. It was a good walk before she reached the wicket-gate, and, lifting the latch, went into the farm garden.

A gravel path led up to the house. There were no weeds, no overgrowth of any sort, as is often the case in an uninhabited homestead.

He had never given any reason for his doing so, but the vicar had himself kept the place in order, had had repairs done when necessary, and had seen that the garden was trim and neat, and that every week the windows were thrown open. The house was literally buried in trees, so that till you came close up to it you could not see more than the outline of a building. There had been no clearance made for the last fifteen years, and the boughs of the elm-trees touched the windows.

It was not a large place: a stone house with a deep porch in the centre, on either side of which were long low windows, with lozenge-shaped panes of glass. On the first and only story were two similar windows, that was all; but the house extended far back, looking out upon a somewhat large court-yard, in which there were stables and outhouses, as was common in farmhouses.

Jessie turned the big key in the door; it opened immediately, and she entered a small, square hall. It was red-tiled and furnished with some oak chairs, and a great clock of the kind we nowadays call a grandfather's clock. From this hall a staircase led to the upper rooms. On either side of the hall were doors, which Jessie now threw open. The one on the right hand showed a long, low, oak-panelled room, with a large fireplace, a great oak table in the centre, a sideboard, and a dresser, upon which were arranged plates, and dishes, and great pewter mugs.

Evidently this was the dining-hall and kitchen in one, for beyond was the scullery. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a light covering of dust. The door on the other side of the hall led into a parlour, which was furnished with unusual luxury for those days. The sofas and easy-chairs were covered with a delicately faded chintz. There were taborets and small tables, scattered here and there, of highly-polished oak, upon which stood vases and big bowls of old china. A pair of virginals occupied one corner of the room, and beside them, on a stool, lay an unstrung guitar. It was a room which conjured up dreams. Who had dwelt there? What gentle soul had once touched those now broken cords, or let her fingers run over the notes of the virginals? There were portraits also on the walls, not many; but two attracted the eye at once. They represented a young man in full court dress of the time of Charles I, and a young girl, a child almost, in a white satin gown, with strings of pearls round her neck, and her fair, golden hair in curls about her forehead.

Jessie from her childhood had always loved this room. Once or twice she had asked her father whom these pictures represented, and what was the story of this house where no one dwelt, but he had answered:

"I cannot tell you, Jessie. I was a young man when I came here. I only saw the mistress once--when she was dying. Don't ask me anything more, child!"

So she had dreamt of many things, and made pictures to herself of those who had once lived in those rooms.

Upstairs there were two bed-rooms with great beds in them, one shrouded in damask, the other in white dimity.

Looking out of the window she saw her father and the man coming up towards the house leading three horses. On two of them women were riding on pillions; the other one had no rider, but instead a girl was running on in front. She had thrown off her cloak, for although it was early morning the day was warm, and she was bareheaded.

Jessie went out into the porch, and, looking down at this girl, saw that her face and figure were unlike any she had ever seen before. She resembled a lily, tall and willowy, with golden hair, upon which the sun now glinted, and with a face so sweet that at a distance it might have been an angel's.

She was evidently impatient, for she ran quickly on in front of the others. Once she paused and looked back, and Jessie heard her call out:

"Is it up there--all the way up there?"

And her father, raising his hat, had answered her:

"Yes, up there, my child."

In a short time she had reached the wicket-gate, caught sight of Jessie in the porch, and laughed at her, such a glad, merry laugh, which seemed to bring joy with it, and stir up all the echoes in the old house!

Jessie started. Could it be that she heard that laugh re-echoed from somewhere? But she had no time to listen; her hands were taken, and rosy lips pouted to kiss her.

"You have come to welcome us!" exclaimed the girl. "That is good of you. Oh, I am so glad to be here; I am so tired!"

"One would not think so," returned Jessie; "you have come so quickly."

"Of course, of course I came quickly, because I am so tired," was the merry answer. "Let me see." And she pushed her way past Jessie and ran straight into the parlour.

"Oh, how sweet! how pretty!" she exclaimed. "I thought it would be ugly and desolate. Patience would not tell me; she said she had seen Holt Farm long long ago, and verily it looks as if someone had just gone out and left it for us. Oh, I shall be so happy here, so happy!" And she let herself fall into a great arm-chair, which seemed to swallow her up.

Just at that moment the vicar and Patience reached the house. The vicar lifted Patience down, and, turning, said to Rolfe, the man-servant:

"Take the horses round to the back. I will come and show you the way to the stables."

"Thank you kindly, sir, I know the way," answered Rolfe. "You had better get down here," he added, speaking to the serving-woman, and he lifted her to the ground; but she was stiff with her long journeyings, and would have fallen if he had not steadied her.

"Lack-a-day!" she exclaimed, "I hope this is the end of our journeyings. A poor place, and a lonely one! Why, man, we might be murdered up here and no one be any the wiser!"

"Have no fear; you will not be murdered," said Rolfe, and, taking the three horses by their reins, he led them away.

Patience had entered the house. Her face was very white, her eyes full of tears, as she stood inside the parlour door looking around her.

Agnes, when she saw her, sprang up.

"Patience, you never told me it was so beautiful! It is the loveliest little place I have ever seen."

"It is a very humble home," said Patience, "but it is home."

"I have never had a home before," said Agnes, "only big rambling palaces. I shall love this; it breathes of love." And, taking Jessie's hand, she said, "Take me, show me everything."

Jessie looked at her father. This impetuous young person was a revelation to them both; life was so still and calm at St. Mary's, for so the hamlet was called. A little way down the river there had once been a chapel, dedicated to the Virgin. It formed part of an old convent, but the convent and chapel had been destroyed in the time of Henry VIII; a few stones only remained to show where it had been, but the name of St. Mary's had remained to the hamlet.

"Well," said Agnes, "are you not going to show me anything?" And she frowned at Jessie.

"Yes, yes! Come, I will show you all!" Jessie answered quickly, as if she were bound to obey this newcomer.

"First tell me your name."

"My name is Jessie," was the answer.

"And mine is Agnes. That will do; now, Jessie, come along." And the young feet pattered away over the tiled floors, through the kitchen and scullery, out into the court-yard, then up the stairs, and through the bed-rooms, awakening echoes where there had been a long silence.

Patience looked up at the vicar.

"Have I done well?" she asked.

"I think you have done well and wisely," he answered.