St. George and St. Michael Vol. II

G >> George MacDonald >> St. George and St. Michael Vol. II

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As soon as his eyes had grown capable of using what light there was,
which however was scarcely sufficient to render him the smallest
service, Richard began to whistle, very softly, a certain tune well
known to Lady, one he always whistled when he fed or curried her
himself. He had not got more than half through it, when a low drowsy
whinny made reply from the depths of the darkness before him, and
the heart of Richard leaped in his bosom for joy. He ceased a
moment, then whistled again. Again came the response, but this time,
although still soft and low, free from all the woolliness of sleep.
Once more he whistled, and once more came the answer. Certain at
length of the direction, he dropped on his hands and knees, and
crawled carefully along for a few yards, then stopped, whistled
again, and listened. After a few more calls and responses, he found
himself at Lady's heels, which had begun to move restlessly. He
crept into the stall beside her, spoke to her in a whisper, got upon
his feet, caressed her, told her to be quiet, and, pulling her buff
shoes from his pockets, drew them over her hoofs, and tied them
securely about her pasterns. Then with one stroke of his knife he
cut her halter, hitched the end round her neck, and telling her to
follow him, walked softly through the stable and up the stair. She
followed like a cat, though not without some noise, to whose echoes
Richard's bosom seemed the beaten drum. The moment her back was
level, he flung himself upon it, and rode straight through the porch
and into the hall.

But here at length he was overtaken by the consequences of having an
ally unequal to the emergency. Marquis, who had doubtless been
occupied with his friends in the stable yard, came bounding up into
the court just as Richard threw himself on the back of his mare. At
the sight of Lady, whom he knew so well, with her master on her
back, a vision of older and happier times, the poor animal forgot
himself utterly, rushed through the hall like a whirlwind, and burst
into a tempest of barking in the middle of the fountain
court--whether to rouse his mistress, or but to relieve his own
heart, matters little to my tale. There was not a moment to lose,
and Richard rode out of the hall and made for the gate.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE APPARITION.

The voice of her lost Marquis, which even in her dreams she could
attribute to none but him, roused Dorothy at once. She sprang from
her bed, flew to the window, and flung it wide. That same moment,
from the shadows about the hall-door, came forth a man on horseback,
and rode along the tiled path to the fountain, where never had hoof
of horse before trod. Stranger still, the tramp sounded far away,
and woke no echo in the echo-haunted place. A phantom surely--horse
and man! As they drew nearer where she stared with wide eyes, the
head of the rider rose out of the shadow into the moonlight, and she
recognised the face of Richard--very white and still, though not, as
she supposed, with the whiteness and stillness of a spectre, but
with the concentration of eagerness and watchful resolution. The
same moment she recognised Lady. She trembled from head to foot.
What could it mean but that beyond a doubt they were both dead,
slain in battle, and that Richard had come to pay her a last visit
ere he left the world. On they came. Her heart swelled up into her
throat, and the effort to queen it over herself, and neither shriek
nor drop on the floor, was like struggling to support a falling
wall. When the spectre reached the marble fountain, he gave a little
start, drew bridle, and seemed to become aware that he had taken a
wrong path, looked keenly around him, and instead of continuing his
advance towards her window, turned in the direction of the gate. One
thing was clear, that whether ghostly or mortal, whether already
dead or only on the way to death, the apparition was regardless of
her presence. A pang of disappointment shot through her bosom, and
for the moment quenched her sense of relief from terror. With it
sank the typhoon of her emotion, and she became able to note how
draggled and soiled his garments were, how his hair clung about his
temples, and that for all accoutrement his mare had but a halter.
Yet Richard sat erect and proud, and Lady stepped like a mare full
of life and vigour. And there was Marquis, not cowering or howling
as dogs do in spectral presence, but madly bounding and barking as
if in uncontrollable jubilation!

The acme of her bewilderment was reached when the phantom came under
the marquis's study-window, and she heard it call aloud, in a voice
which undoubtedly came from corporeal throat, and that throat
Richard's, ringing of the morning and the sunrise and the wind that
shakes the wheat--anything rather than of the tomb:

'Ho, master Eccles!' it cried; 'when? when? Must my lord's business
cool while thou rubbest thy sleepy eyes awake? What, I say! When?
--Yes, my lord, I will punctually attend to your lordship's orders.
Expect me back within the hour.'

The last words were uttered in a much lower tone, with the respect
due to him he seemed addressing, but quite loud enough to be
distinctly heard by Eccles or any one else in the court.

Dorothy leaned from her window, and looked sideways to the gate,
expecting to see the marquis bending over his window-sill, and
talking to Richard. But his window was close shut, nor was there any
light behind it.

A minute or two passed, during which she heard the combined discords
of the rising portcullis. Then out came Eccles, slow and sleepy.

'By St. George and St. Patrick!' cried Richard, 'why keep'st thou
six legs here standing idle? Is thy master's business nothing to
thee?'

Eccles looked up at him. He was coming to his senses.

'Thou rides in strange graith on my lord's business,' he said, as he
put the key in the lock.

'What is that to thee? Open the gate. And make haste. If it please
my lord that I ride thus to escape eyes that else might see further
than thine, keen as they are, master Eccles, it is nothing to thee.'

The lock clanged, the gate swung open, and Richard rode through.

By this time a process of doubt and reasoning, rapid as only thought
can be, had produced in the mind of Dorothy the conviction that
there was something wrong. By what authority was Richard riding from
Raglan with muffled hoofs between midnight and morning? His speech
to the marquis was plainly a pretence, and doubtless that to Eccles
was equally false. To allow him to pass unchallenged would be
treason against both her host and her king.

'Eccles! Eccles!' she cried, her voice ringing clear through the
court, 'let not that man pass.'

'He gave the word, mistress,' said Eccles, in dull response.

'Stop him, I say,' cried Dorothy again, with energy almost frantic,
as she heard the gate swing to heavily. 'Thou shalt be held to
account.'

'He gave the word.'

'He's a true man, mistress,' returned Eccles, in tone of
self-justification. 'Heard you not my lord marquis give him his last
orders from his window?'

'There was no marquis at the window. Stop him, I say.'

'He's gone,' said Eccles quietly, but with waking uneasiness.

'Run after him,' Dorothy almost screamed.

'Stop him at the gate. It is young Heywood of Redware, one of the
busiest of the round-heads.'

Eccles was already running and shouting and whistling. She heard his
feet resounding from the bridge. With trembling hands she flung a
cloak about her, and sped bare-footed down the grand staircase and
along the north side of the court to the bell-tower, where she
seized the rope of the alarm-bell, and pulled with all her strength.
A horrid clangour tore the stillness of the night, re-echoed with
yelping response from the multitudinous buildings around. Window
after window flew open, head after head was popped out--amongst the
first that of the marquis, shouting to know what was amiss. But the
question found no answer. The courts began to fill. Some said the
castle was on fire; others, that the wild beasts were all out;
others, that Waller and Cromwell had scaled the rampart, and were
now storming the gates; others, that Eccles had turned traitor and
admitted the enemy. In a few moments all was outcry and confusion.
Both courts and the great hall were swarming with men and women and
children, in every possible stage of attire. The main entrance was
crowded with a tumult of soldiery, and scouts were rushing to
different stations of outlook, when the cry reached them that the
western gate was open, the portcullis up, and the guard gone.

The moment Richard was clear of the portcullis, he set off at a
sharp trot for the brick gate, and had almost reached it when he
became aware that he was pursued. He had heard the voice of Dorothy
as he rode out, and knew to whom he owed it. But yet there was a
chance. Rousing the porter with such a noisy reveillee as drowned in
his sleepy ears the cries of the warder and those that followed him,
he gave the watch-word, and the huge key was just turning in the
wards when the clang of the alarm-bell suddenly racked the air. The
porter stayed his hand, and stood listening.

'Open the gate,' said Richard in authoritative tone.

'I will know first, master,--' began the man.

'Dost not hear the bell?' cried Richard. 'How long wilt thou
endanger the castle by thy dulness?'

'I shall know first,' repeated the man deliberately, 'what that
bell--'

Ere he could finish the sentence, the butt of Richard's whip had
laid him along the threshold of the gate. Richard flung himself from
his horse, and turned the key. But his enemies were now close at
hand--Eccles and the men of his guard. If the porter had but fallen
the other way! Ere he could drag aside his senseless body and open
the gate, they were upon him with blows and curses. But the
puritan's blood was up, and with the heavy handle of his whip he had
felled one and wounded another ere he was himself stretched on the
ground with a sword-cut in the head.

CHAPTER XXX.

RICHARD AND THE MARQUIS.

A very few strokes of the brazen-tongued clamourer had been enough
to wake the whole castle. Dorothy flew back to her chamber, and
hurrying on her clothes, descended again to the court. It was
already in full commotion. The western gate stood open, with the
portcullis beyond it high in the wall, and there she took her stand,
waiting the return of Eccles and his men.

Presently lord Charles came through the hall from the stone court,
and seeing the gate open, called aloud in anger to know what it
meant. Receiving no reply, he ran with an oath to drop the
portcullis.

'Is there a mutiny amongst the rascals?' he cried.

'There is no cause for dread, my lord,' said Dorothy from the shadow
of the gateway.

'How know you that, fair mistress?' returned lord Charles, who knew
her voice. 'You must not inspire us with too much of your spare
courage. That would be to make us fool-hardy.'

'Indeed, there is nothing to fear, my lord,' persisted Dorothy. 'The
warder and his men have but this moment rushed out after one on
horseback, whom they had let pass with too little question. They are
ten to one,' added Dorothy with a shudder, as the sounds of the fray
came up from below.

'If there is then no cause of fear, cousin, why look you so pale?'
asked lord Charles, for the gleam of a torch had fallen on Dorothy's
face.

'I think I hear them returning, doubtless with a prisoner,' said
Dorothy, and stood with her face turned aside, looking anxiously
through the gateway and along the bridge. She had obeyed her
conscience, and had now to fight her heart, which unreasonable
member of the community would insist on hoping that her efforts had
been foiled. But in a minute more came the gathering noise of
returning footsteps, and presently Lady's head appeared over the
crown of the bridge; then rose Eccles, leading her in grim silence;
and next came Richard, pale and bleeding, betwixt two men, each
holding him by an arm; the rest of the guard crowded behind. As they
entered the court, Richard caught sight of Dorothy, and his face
shone into a wan smile, to which her rebellious heart responded with
a terrible pang.

The voice of lord Charles reached them from the other side of the
court.

'Bring the prisoner to the hall,' it cried.

Eccles led the mare away, and the rest took Richard to the hall,
which now began to be lighted up, and was soon in a blaze of candles
all about the dais. When Dorothy entered, it was crowded with
household and garrison, but the marquis, who was tardy at dressing,
had not yet appeared. Presently, however, he walked slowly in from
the door at the back of the dais, breathing hard, and seated himself
heavily in the great chair. Dorothy placed herself near the door,
where she could see the prisoner.

Lady Mary entered and seated herself beside her father.

'What meaneth all this tumult?' the marquis began. 'Who rang the
alarum-bell?'

'I did, my lord,' answered Dorothy in a trembling voice.

'Thou, mistress Dorothy!' exclaimed the marquis. 'Then I doubt not
thou hadst good reason for so doing. Prithee what was the reason?
Verily it seems thou wast sent hither to be the guardian of my
house!'

'It was not I, my lord, gave the first alarm, but--' She hesitated,
then added, 'my poor Marquis.'

'Not so poor for a marquis, cousin Dorothy, as to be called the poor
Marquis. Why dost thou call me poor?'

'My lord, I mean my dog.'

'The truth will still lie--between me and thy dog,' said the
marquis. 'But come now, instruct me. Who is this prisoner, and how
comes he here?'

'He be young Mr. Heywood of Redware, my lord, and a pestilent
roundhead,' answered one of his captors.

'Who knows him?'

A moment's silence followed. Then came Dorothy's voice again.

'I do, my lord.'

'Tell me, then, all thou knowest from the beginning, cousin,' said
the marquis.

'I was roused by the barking of my dog,' Dorothy began.

'How came HE hither again?'

'My lord, I know not.'

''Tis passing strange. See to it, lord Charles. Go on, mistress
Dorothy.'

'I heard my dog bark in the court, my lord, and looking from my
window saw Mr. Heywood riding through on horseback. Ere I could
recover from my astonishment, he had passed the gate, and then I
rang the alarm-bell,' said Dorothy briefly.

'Who opened the gate for him?'

'I did, my lord,' said Eccles. 'He made me believe he was talking to
your lordship at the study window.'

'Ha! a cunning fox!' said the marquis. 'And then?'

'And then mistress Dorothy fell out upon me--'

'Let thy tongue wag civilly, Eccles.'

'He speaks true, my lord,' said Dorothy. 'I did fall out upon him,
for he was but half awake, and I knew not what mischief might be at
hand.'

'Eccles is obliged to you, cousin. And so the lady brought you to
your senses in time to catch him?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'How comes he wounded? He was but one to a score.'

'My lord, he would else have killed us all.'

'He was armed then?'

Eccles was silent.

'Was he armed?' repeated the marquis.

'He had a heavy whip, my lord.'

'H'm!' said the marquis, and turned to the prisoner.

'Is thy name Heywood, sirrah?' he asked.

'My lord, if you treat me as a clown, you shall have but clown's
manners of me; I will not answer.'

''Fore heaven!' exclaimed the marquis, 'our squires would rule the
roast.'

'He that doth right, marquis or squire, will one day rule, my lord,'
said Richard.

''Tis well said,' returned the marquis. 'I ask your pardon, Mr.
Heywood. In times like these a man must be excused for occasionally
dropping his manners.'

'Assuredly, my lord, when he stoops to recover them so gracefully as
doth the marquis of Worcester.'

'What, then, would'st thou in my house at midnight, Mr. Heywood?'
asked the marquis courteously.

'Nothing save mine own, my lord. I came but to look for a stolen
mare.'

'What! thou takest Raglan for a den of thieves?'

'I found the mare in your lordship's stable.'

'How then came the mare in my stable?'

'That is not a question for me to answer, my lord.'

'Doubtless thou didst lose her in battle against thy sovereign.'

'She was in Redware stable last night, my lord.'

'Which of you, knaves, stole the gentleman's mare?' cried the
marquis.--'But, Mr. Heywood, there can be no theft upon a rebel. He
is by nature an outlaw, and his life and goods forfeit to the king.'

'He will hardly yield the point, my lord. So long as Might, the
sword, is in the hand of Right, the--'

'Of Right, the roundhead, I suppose you mean,' interrupted the
marquis. 'Who carried off Mr. Heywood's mare?' he repeated, rising,
and looking abroad on the crowd.

'Tom Fool,' answered a voice from the obscure distance.

A buzz of suppressed laughter followed, which as instantly ceased,
for the marquis looked angrily around.

'Stand forth, Tom Fool,' he said.

Through the crowd came Tom, and stood before the dais, looking
frightened and sheepish.

'Sure I am, Tom, thou didst never go to steal a mare of thine own
notion: who went with thee?' said the marquis.

'Mr. Scudamore, my lord,' answered Tom.

'Ha, Rowland! Art thou there?' cried his lordship.

'I gave him fair warning two years ago, my lord, and the king wants
horses,' said Scudamore cunningly.

'Rowland, I like not such warfare. Yet can the roundheads say nought
against it, who would filch kingdom from king and church from
bishops,' said the marquis, turning again to Heywood.

'As they from the pope, my lord,' rejoined Richard.

'True,' answered the marquis; 'but the bishops are the fairer
thieves, and may one day be brought to reason and restitution.'

'As I trust your lordship will in respect of my mare.'

'Nay, that can hardly be. She shall to Gloucester to the king. I
would not have sent to Redware to fetch her, but finding thee and
her in my house at midnight, it would be plain treason to set such
enemies at liberty. What! hast thou fought against his majesty? Thou
art scored like an old buckler!'

Richard had started on his adventure very thinly clad, for he had
expected to find all possible freedom of muscle necessary, and
indeed could not in his buff coat have entered the castle. In the
scuffle at the gate, his garment had been torn open, and the eye of
the marquis had fallen on the scar of a great wound on his chest,
barely healed.

'What age art thou?' he went on, finding Richard made no answer.

'One and twenty, my lord--almost.'

'And what wilt thou be by the time thou art one and thirty, an' I'll
let thee go,' said the marquis thoughtfully.

'Dust and ashes, my lord, most likely. Faith, I care not.'

As he spoke he glanced at Dorothy, but she was looking on the
ground.

'Nay, nay!' said the marquis feelingly. 'These are, but wild and
hurling words for a fine young fellow like thee. Long ere thou be a
man, the king will have his own again, and all will be well. Come,
promise me thou wilt never more bear arms against his majesty, and I
will set thee and thy mare at liberty the moment thou shalt have
eaten thy breakfast.'

'Not to save ten lives, my lord, would I give such a promise.'

'Roundhead hypocrite!' cried the marquis, frowning to hide the gleam
of satisfaction he felt breaking from his eyes. 'What will thy
father say when he hears thou liest deep in Raglan dungeon?'

'He will thank heaven that I lie there a free man instead of walking
abroad a slave,' answered Richard.

''Fore heaven!' said the marquis, and was silent for a moment.
'Owest thou then thy king NOTHING, boy?' he resumed.

'I owe the truth everything,' answered Richard.

'The truth!' echoed the marquis.

'Now speaks my lord Worcester like my lord Pilate,' said Richard.

'Hold thy peace, boy,' returned the marquis sternly. 'Thy godly
parents have ill taught thee thy manners. How knowest thou what was
in my thought when I did but repeat after thee the sacred word thou
didst misuse?'

'My lord, I was wrong, and I beg your lordship's pardon. But an'
your lordship were standing here with your head half beaten in, and
your clothes--'

Here Richard bethought himself, and was silent.

'Tell me then how gat'st thou in, lunatic,' said the marquis, not
unkindly, 'and thou shalt straight to bed.'

'My lord,' returned Richard, 'you have taken my mare, and taken my
liberty, but the devil is in it if you take my secret.'

'I would thy mare had been poisoned ere she drew thee hither on such
a fool's errand! I want neither thee nor thy mare, and yet I may not
let you go!'

'A moment more, and it had been an exploit, and no fool's errand, my
lord.'

'Then the fool's cap would have been thine, Eccles. How earnest thou
to let him out? Thou a warder, and ope gate and up portcullis 'twixt
waking and sleeping!'

'Had he wanted in, my lord, it would have been different,' said
Eccles. 'But he only wanted out, and gave the watchword.'

'Where got'st thou the watchword, Mr. Heywood?'

'I will tell thee what I gave for it, my lord. More I will not.'

'What gavest thou then?'

'My word that I would work neither thee nor thine any hurt withal,
my lord.'

'Then there are traitors within my gates!' cried the marquis.

'Truly, that I know not, my lord,' answered Richard.

'Prithee tell me how them gat thee into my house, Mr. Heywood? It
were but neighbourly.'

'It were but neighbourly, my lord, to hang young Scudamore and Tom
Fool for thieves.'

'Tell me how thou gat hold of the watchword, good boy, and I will
set thee free, and give thee thy mare again.'

'I will not, my lord.'

'Then the devil take thee!' said the marquis, rising.

The same moment Richard reeled, and but for the men about him, would
have fallen heavily.

Dorothy darted forward, but could not come near him for the crowd.

'My lord Charles,' cried the marquis, 'see the poor fellow taken
care of. Let him sleep, and perchance on the morrow he will listen
to reason. Mistress Watson will see to his hurts. I would to God he
were on our side! I like him well.'

The men took him up and followed lord Charles to the housekeeper's
apartment, where they laid him on a bed in a little turret, and left
him, still insensible, to her care, with injunctions to turn the key
in the lock if she went from the chamber but for a moment. 'For who
can tell,' thought lord Charles, greatly perplexed, 'but as he came
he may go?'

Some of the household had followed them, and several of the women
would gladly have stayed, but Mrs. Watson sent all away. Gradually
the crowd dispersed. The tumult ceased; the household retired. The
castle grew still, and most of its inhabitants fell asleep again.

'A damned hot-livered roundhead coxcomb!' said lord Worcester to
himself, pacing his room. 'These pelting cockerel squires and yeomen
nowadays go strutting and crowing as if all the yard were theirs! We
shall see how far this heat will carry the rogue! I doubt not the
boy would tell everything than see his mare whipped. He's a fine
fellow, and it were a thousand pities he turned coward and gave in.
But the affair is not mine; it is the king's majesty's. Would to God
the rascal were of our side! He's the right old English breed. A few
such were very welcome, if only to show some of our dainty young
lordlings of yesterday what breed can do. But an ass-foal it is! To
run his neck into a halter, and set honest people in mortal doubt
whether to pull the end or no!

How on earth did he ever dream of carrying off a horse out of the
very courts of Raglan castle! And yet, by saint George! he would
have done it too, but for that brave wench of a Vaughan! What a
couple the two would make! They'd give us a race of Arthurs and
Orlandos between them. God be praised there are such left in
England! And yet the rogue is but a pestilent roundhead--the more's
the pity! Those coward rascals need never have mauled him like that.
Yet had the blow gone a little deeper it had been a mighty gain to
our side. Out he shall not go till the war be over! It would be
downright treason.'

So ran the thoughts of the marquis as he paced his chamber. But at
length he lay down once more, and sought refuge in sleep.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE SLEEPLESS.

There were more than the marquis left awake and thinking; amongst
the rest one who ought to have been asleep, for the thoughts that
kept her awake were evil thoughts.

Amanda Serafina Fuller was a twig or leaf upon one of many decaying
branches, which yet drew what life they had from an ancient
genealogical tree. Property gone, but the sense of high birth
swollen to a vice, the one thought in her mother's mind, ever since
she grew capable of looking upon the social world in its relation to
herself, had been how, with stinted resources, to make the false
impression of plentiful ease. For one of the most disappointing
things in high descent is, that the descent is occasionally into
depths of meanness. Some who are proudest of their lineage, instead
of finding therein a spur to nobility of thought and action, find in
it only a necessity for prostrating themselves with the more abject
humiliation at the footstool of Mammon, to be admitted into the
penetralia of which foul god's favours, they will hasten to mingle
the blood of their pure descent with that of the very kennels,
yellow with the gold to which a noble man, if poor as Jesus himself,
would loathe to be indebted for a meal. In 'the high countries'
there will be a finding of levels more appalling than strange.

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