The Pigeon Pie Part 8

"So, sir," said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, "you attach great importance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!"

"A blow with the b.u.t.t-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man," answered the officer.

"When last I served in England," continued the cavalier, "Cromwell's Ironsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You can have no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, against him."

"Why--no, sir; but--however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I do not care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannot permit him to be at large while you are in the house."

"Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. We have been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting."

"So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I am willing to oblige you," answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour had curiously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly and gentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. "Now, madam, to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow."

"Good-night, mother," said Edmund. "Sleep well; think this is but a dream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house."

"Good-night, my brave boy," said Lady Woodley, as she embraced him ardently. "A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father's face you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow. G.o.d'S blessing be upon you, my boy."

And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by a soldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter.

Edmund next kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing them good-night, and a.s.suring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon.

Rose whispered to him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weep piteously.

"Deborah," he said, "I must thank you for your long faithful service to my mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that you were doing me any harm."

"Oh, sir," cried poor Deborah, "Oh don't speak so kind! I had rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army than be where I am now."

Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged to hasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for the night. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor little Charles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion.

Deborah's troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, and seeing Walter's basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once for him. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceeded to her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time.

"Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have been the death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! 'Tis little I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love the very best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at the root! I wish--I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after having known him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer? Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heart less."

And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her ap.r.o.n over her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards as before. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted to be softened into an insinuating tone. "I say, Deb, don't take on."

She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him.

"Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?"

"Come, come, don't be fractious, my pretty one," said Diggory, in the amiable tones that had once gained her heart.

But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. "Your'n, indeed! I'd rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you. O Diggory Stokes," she added ruefully, "I'd not have believed it of you, if my own father had sworn it."

"Hush, hush, Deb!" said Diggory, rather sheepishly, "they've done hanging the folk."

"Don't be for putting me off with such trash," she returned, more pa.s.sionately; "you've murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat, and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you've broke my lady's heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And now you think to make up to me, do you?"

"Wasn't it all along of you I did it? For your sake?"

"Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?" cried Deb, her voice rising in shrillness with her indignation.

"Patience, Deb," said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. "No more toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty sc.r.a.ps, hard words, and no wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See here, Deb," and he held up a piece of money.

"Silver!" she exclaimed.

"Ay, ay," said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, "and there be plenty more where that came from."

"It is the price of Master Edmund's blood."

"Don't ye say that now, Deb; 'tis all for you!" he answered, thinking he was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive the difference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding.

"So you still have the face to tell me so!" she burst out, still more vehemently. "I tell you, I'd rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, if they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you. Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy in Dorset but will cry shame on you."

"But Deb, Deb," he still pleaded.

"You will have it, then!" And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, away ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping and astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on his hands and knees.

Suddenly a voice exclaimed, "How now, knave, stealing thy mistress's goods?" and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidable halberd, stood over him.

"Good master corporal," he began, trembling; but the soldier would not hear him.

"Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberd about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight of Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart." Here Diggory judged it prudent to slink away through the back door. "And so,"

continued the Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, "and so the gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!"

In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to Walter's bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside the door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with a gesture of rage and despair. "The villains! the rogues! To be betrayed by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life.

O Edmund, Edmund!"

"It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance," returned Edmund. "Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkable proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me; but I should have thought my mother's gentle kindness must have won the love of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging to her."

A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence, then suddenly exclaimed, "The surly rascal! I verily believe it was all spite at me, for--"

"For--" repeated Edmund.

"For rating him as he deserved," answered Walter. "I wish I had given it to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all,"

added he, hesitating, "perhaps if I had been civiller--"

"I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue," said Edmund, smiling.

"It is what my mother is always blaming me for," said Walter; "but really, now, Edmund, doesn't it savour of the crop-ear to be picking one's words to every rogue in one's way?"

"Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we are cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low.

You should see our young King's frank bright courtesy; and as to the little King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old poissarde in the streets."

Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if consoling himself, "He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue, whom hanging is too good for."

"Don't let us spend our whole night in abusing him," said Edmund; "I want to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other."

"O, Edmund! you don't mean--they shall not--you shall escape. Oh! is there no way out of this room?" cried Walter, running round it like one distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it down.

"Hush! this is of no use, Walter," said his brother. "The window is, I see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape."

Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.