The Pigeon Pie

CHAPTER IV

In a very strong fit of restlessness did little Mistress Lucy Woodley go to bed in Rose’s room that night.  She was quite comforted on Edmund’s account, for she had discernment enough to see that her mother and sister did not believe Diggory’s dreadful narration; and she had been so unsettled and excited by Mr. Sylvester Enderby’s notice, and by the way in which she had allowed her high spirits to get the better of her discretion, as well as by the sudden change from terror to joy, that when first she went to Rose’s room she could not attend to her prayers, and next she could not go to sleep.

Perhaps the being in a different apartment from usual, and the missing her accustomed sleeping companion, Eleanor, had something to do with it, for little Eleanor had a gravity and steadiness about her that was very apt to compose and quiet her in her idlest moods.  To-night she lay broad awake, tumbling about on the very hard mattress, stuffed with chaff, wondering how Rose could bear to sleep on it, trying to guess how there could be room for both when her sister came to bed, and nevertheless in a great fidget for her to come.  She listened to the howling and moaning of the wind, the creaking of the doors, and the rattling of the boards with which Rose had stopped up the broken panes of her lattice; she rolled from side to side, fancied odd shapes in the dark, and grew so restless and anxious for Rose’s coming that she was just ready to jump out of bed and go in the passage to call her when Rose came into the room.

“O Rose, what a time you have been!”

It was no satisfaction to Rose to find the curious little chatter-box so wide awake at this very inconvenient time, but she did not lose her patience, and answered that she had been first with Charlie, and then with their mother.

“And now I hope you are coming to bed.  I can’t go to sleep without you.”

“Oh, but indeed you must, Lucy dear, for I shall not be ready this long time.  Look, here is a great rent in Walter’s coat, which I must mend, or he won’t be fit to be seen to-morrow.”

“What shall we have for dinner to-morrow, Rose?  What made you eat so much supper to-night?”

“I’ll tell you what, Lucy, I am not going to talk to you, or you will lie awake all night, and that will be very bad for you.  I shall put my candle out of your sight, and say some Psalms, but I cannot talk.”

So Rose began, and, wakeful as Lucy was, she found the low sweet tones lulled her a little.  But she did not like this; she had a perverse intention of staying awake till Rose got into bed, so instead of attending to the holy words, she pinched herself, and pulled herself, and kept her eyes staring open, gazing at the flickering shadows cast by the dim home-made rush candle.

She went to sleep for a moment, then started into wakefulness again; Rose had ceased to repeat her Psalms aloud, but was still at her needlework; another doze, another waking.  There was some hope of Rose now, for she was kneeling down to say her prayers.  Lucy thought they lasted very long, and at her next waking she was just in time to hear the latch of the door closing, and find herself left in darkness.  Rose was not in bed, did not answer when she called.  Oh, she must be gone to take Walter’s coat back to his room.  But surely she might have done that in one moment; and how long she was staying!  Lucy could bear it no longer, or rather she did not try to bear it, for she was an impetuous, self-willed child, without much control over herself.  She jumped out of bed, and stole to the door.  A light was just disappearing on the ceiling, as if someone was carrying a candle down stairs; what could it mean?  Lucy scampered, pit-pat, with her bare feet along the passage, and came to the top of the stairs in time to peep over and discover Rose silently opening the door of the hall, a large dark cloak hung over her arm, and her head and neck covered by her black silk hood and a thick woollen kerchief, as if she was going out.

Lucy’s curiosity knew no bounds.  She would not call, for fear she should be sent back to bed, but she was determined to see what her sister could possibly be about.  Down the cold stone steps pattered she, and luckily, as she thought, Rose, probably to avoid noise, had only shut to the door, so that the little inquisitive maiden had a chink to peep through, and beheld Rose at a certain oaken corner-cupboard, whence she took out a napkin, and in it she folded what Lucy recognised as the very same three-cornered segment of pie-crust, containing the pigeon that she had last night been accused of devouring.  She placed it in a basket, and then proceeded to take a lantern from the cupboard, put in her rushlight, and, thus prepared, advanced to the garden-door, softly opened it, and disappeared.

Lucy, in an extremity of amazement, came forward.  The wind howled in moaning gusts, and the rain dashed against the windows; Lucy was chilly and frightened.  The fire was not out, and gave a dim light, and she crept towards the window, but a sudden terror came over her; she dashed back, looked again, heard another gust of wind, fell into another panic, rushed back to the stairs, and never stopped till she had tumbled into bed, her teeth chattering, shivering from head to foot with fright and cold, rolled herself up tight in the bed-clothes, and, after suffering excessively from terror and chill, fell sound asleep without seeing her sister return.

Causeless fears pursue those who are not in the right path, and turn from what alone can give them confidence.  A sense of protection supports those who walk in innocence, though their way may seem surrounded with perils; and thus, while Lucy trembled in an agony of fright in her warm bed, Rose walked forth with a firm and fearless step through the dark gusty night, heedless of the rain that pattered round her, and the wild wind that snatched at her cloak and gown, and flapped her hood into her eyes.

She was not afraid of fancied terrors, and real perils and anxieties were at this moment lost in the bounding of her young heart at the thought of seeing, touching, speaking to her brother, her dear Edmund.  She had been eleven years old when they last had parted, the morning of the battle of Naseby, and he was five years older; but they had always been very happy and fond companions and playfellows as long as she could remember, and she alone had been on anything like an equality with him, or missed him with a feeling of personal loss, that had been increased by the death of her elder sister, Mary.

Quickly, and concealing her light as much as possible, she walked down the damp ash-strewn paths of the kitchen-garden, and came out into the overgrown and neglected shrubbery, or pleasance, where the long wet-laden shoots came beating in her face, and now and then seeming to hold her back, and strange rustlings were heard that would have frightened a maiden of a less stout and earnest heart.  Her anxiety was lest she should be confused by the unwonted aspect of things in the dark, and miss the path; and very, very long did it seem, while her light would only show her leaves glistening with wet.  At last she gained a clearer space, the border of a field: something dark rose before her, she knew the outline of the shed, and entered the lower part.  It was meant for a cart-shed, with a loft above for hay or straw; but the cart had been lost or broken, and there was only a heap of rubbish in the corner, by which the children were wont to climb up to inspect their kittens.  Here Rose was for a moment startled by a glare close to her of what looked like two fiery lamps in the darkness, but the next instant a long, low, growling sound explained it, and the tabby stripes of the cat quickly darted across her lantern’s range of light.  She heard a slight rustling above, and ventured to call, in a low whisper, “Edmund.”

“Is that you, Walter?” and as Rose proceeded to mount the pile of rubbish, his pale and haggard face looked down at her.

“What?  Rose herself!  I did not think you would have come on such a night as this.  Can you come up?  Shall I help you?”

“Thank you.  Take the lantern first—take care.  There.  Now the basket and the cloak.”  And this done, with Edmund’s hand, Rose scrambled up into the loft.  It was only the height of the roof, and there was not room, even in the middle, to stand upright; the rain soaked through the old thatch, the floor was of rough boards, and there was but very little of the hay that had served as a bed for the kittens.

“O Edmund, this is a wretched place!” exclaimed Rose, as, crouching by his side, one hand in his, and the other round his neck, she gazed around.

“Better than a prison,” he answered.  “I only wish I knew that others were in as good a one.  And you—why, Rose, how you are altered; you are my young lady now!  And how does my dear mother?”

“Pretty well.  I could hardly prevail on her not to come here to-night; but it would have been too much, she is so weak, and takes cold so soon.  But, Edmund, how pale you are, how weary!  Have you slept?  I fear not, on these hard boards—your wound, too.”

“It hardly deserves such a dignified name as a wound,” said Edmund.  “I am more hungry than aught else; I could have slept but for hunger, and now”—as he spoke he was opening the basket—“I shall be lodged better, I fear, than a king, with that famous cloak.  What a notable piece of pasty!  Well done, Rose!  Are you housewife?  Store of candles, too.  This is noble!”

“How hungry you must be!  How long is it since you have eaten?”

“Grey sent his servant into a village to buy some bread and cheese; we divided it when we parted, and it lasted me until this morning.  Since then I have fasted.”

“Dear brother, I wish I could do more for you; but till Mr. Enderby goes, I cannot, for the soldiers are about the kitchen, and our maid, Deborah, talks too much to be trustworthy, though she is thoroughly faithful.”

“This is excellent fare,” said Edmund, eating with great relish.  “And now tell me of yourselves.  My mother is feeble and unwell, you say?”

“Never strong, but tolerably well at present.”

“So Walter said.  By the way, Walter is a fine spirited fellow.  I should like to have him with me if we take another African voyage.”

“He would like nothing better, poor fellow.  But what strange things you have seen and done since we met!  How little we thought that morning that it would be six years before we should sit side by side again!  And Prince Rupert is kind to you?”

“He treats me like a son or brother: never was man kinder,” said Edmund, warmly.  “But the children?  I must see them before I depart.  Little Lucy, is she as bold and pert as she was as a young child?”

“Little changed,” said Rose, smiling, and telling her brother the adventures at the dinner.

As cheerfully as might be they talked till Edmund had finished his meal, and then Rose begged him to let her examine and bind up the wound.  It was a sword-cut on the right shoulder, and, though not very deep, had become stiff and painful from neglect, and had soaked his sleeve deeply with blood.  Rose’s dexterous fingers applied the salve and linen she had brought, and she promised that at her next visit she would bring him some clean clothes, which was what he said he most wished for.  Then she arranged the large horseman’s cloak, the hay, and his own mantle, so well as to form, he said, the most luxurious resting place he had seen since he left Dunbar; and rolled up in this he lay, his head supported on his hand, talking earnestly with her on the measures next to be taken for his safety, and on the state of the family.  He must be hidden there till the chase was a little slackened, and then escape, by Bosham or some other port, to the royal fleet, which was hovering on the coast.  Money, however—how was he to get a passage without it?

“The Prince, at parting—heaven knows he has little enough himself—gave me twenty gold crowns, which he said was my share of prize-money for our captures,” said Edmund, “but this is the last of them.”

“And I don’t know how we can get any,” said Rose.  “We never see money.  Our tenants, if they pay at all, pay in kind—a side of bacon, or a sack of corn; they are very good, poor people, and love our mother heartily, I do believe.  I wish I knew what was to be done.”

“Time will show,” said Edmund.  “I have been in as bad a case as this ere now, and it is something to be near you all again.  So you like this place, do you?  As well as our own home?”

Rose shook her head, and tears sprang into her eyes.  “Oh no, Edmund; I try to think it home, and the children feel it so, but it is not like Woodley.  Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the branches that came down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?”

“And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home from the justice-meeting.  And the meadow where the hounds killed the fox that had baffled them so long!  Do you hear anything of the place now, Rose?”

“Mr. Enderby told us something,” said Rose, sadly.  “You know who has got it, Edmund?”

“Who?

“That Master Priggins, who was once justices’ clerk.”

“Ha!” cried Edmund.  “That pettifogging scrivener in my father’s house!—in my ancestors’ house!  A rogue that ought to have been branded a dozen years ago!  I could have stood anything but that!  Pretty work he is making there, I suppose!  Go on, Rose.”

“O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear.”

“Neighbour’s fare! as you say,” replied Edmund, with a short dry laugh.  “Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave man naturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries could not go in a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that in my father’s place is enough to drive one mad with rage!  Come, what has he been doing?  How has he used the poor people?”

“He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but Mr. Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.”

“I wonder what unlucky fate possessed that Enderby to take the wrong side!  Well?”

“He could not tell us much of the place, for he cannot endure Master Priggins, and Master Sylvester laughs at his Puritanical manner; but he says—O Edmund—that the fish-ponds are filled up—those dear old fish-ponds where the water-lilies used to blow, and you once pulled me out of the water.”

“Ay, ay! we shall not know it again if ever our turn comes, and we enjoy our own again.  But it is of no use to think about such matters.”

“No; we must be thankful that we have a home at all, and are not like so many, who are actually come to beggary, like poor Mrs. Forde.  You remember her, our old clergyman’s widow.  He died on board ship, and she was sent for by her cousin, who promised her a home; but she had no money, and was forced to walk all the way, with her two little boys, getting a lodging at night from any loyal family who would shelter her for the love of heaven.  My mother wept when she saw how sadly she was changed; we kept her with us a week to rest her, and when she went she had our last gold carolus, little guessing, poor soul, that it was our last.  Then, when she was gone, my mother called us all round her, and gave thanks that she could still give us shelter and daily bread.”

“There is a Judge above!” exclaimed Edmund; “yet sometimes it is hard to believe, when we see such a state of things here below!”

“Dr. Bathurst tells us to think it will all be right in the other world, even if we do have to see the evil prosper here,” said Rose, gravely.  “The sufferings will all turn to glory, just as they did with our blessed King, out of sight.”

Edmund sat thoughtful.  “If our people abroad would but hope and trust and bear as you do here, Rose.  But I had best not talk of these things, only your patience makes me feel how deficient in it we are, who have not a tithe to bear of what you have at home.  Are you moving to go?  Must you?”

“I fear so, dear brother; the light seems to be beginning to dawn, and if Lucy wakes and misses me—Is your shoulder comfortable?”

“I was never more comfortable in my life.  My loving duty to my dear mother.  Farewell, you, sweet Rose.”

“Farewell, dear Edmund.  Perhaps Walter may manage to visit you, but do not reckon on it.”

CHAPTER V

The vigils of the night had been as unwonted for Lucy as for her sister, and she slept soundly till Rose was already up and dressed.  Her first reflection was on the strange sights she had seen, followed by a doubt whether they were real, or only a dream; but she was certain it was no such thing; she recollected too well the chill of the stone to her feet, and the sound of the blasts of wind.  She wondered over it, wished to make out the cause, but decided that she should only be scolded for peeping, and she had better keep her own counsel.

That Lucy should keep silence when she thought she knew more than other people was, however, by no means to be expected; and though she would say not a word to her mother or Rose, of whom she was afraid, she was quite ready to make the most of her knowledge with Eleanor.

When she came down stairs she found Walter, with his elbows on the table and his book before him, learning the task which his mother required of him every day; Eleanor had just come in with her lapfull of the still lingering flowers, and called her to help to make them up into nosegays.

Lucy came and sat down by her on the floor, but paid little attention to the flowers, so intent was she on showing her knowledge.

“Ah! you don’t know what I have seen.”

“I dare say it is only some nonsense,” said Eleanor, gravely, for she was rather apt to plume herself on being steadier than her elder sister.

“It is no nonsense,” said Lucy.  “I know what I know.”

Before Eleanor had time to answer this speech, the mystery of which was enhanced by a knowing little nod of the head, young Mr. Enderby made his appearance in the hall, with a civil good-morning to Walter, which the boy hardly deigned to acknowledge by a gruff reply and little nod, and then going on to the little girls, renewed with them yesterday’s war of words.  “Weaving posies, little ladies?”

“Not for rebels,” replied Lucy, pertly.

“May I not have one poor daisy?”

“Not one; the daisy is a royal flower.”

“If I take one?”

“Rebels take what they can’t get fairly,” said Lucy, with the smartness of a forward child; and Sylvester, laughing heartily, continued, “What would General Cromwell say to such a nest of little malignants?”

“That is an ugly name,” said Eleanor.

“Quite as pretty as Roundhead.”

“Yes, but we don’t deserve it.”

“Not when you make that pretty face so sour?”

“Ah!” interposed Lucy, “she is sour because I won’t tell her my secret of the pie.”

“Oh, what?” said Eleanor.

“Now I have you!” cried Lucy, delighted.  “I know what became of the pigeon pie.”

In extreme alarm and anger, Walter turned round as he caught these words.  “Lucy, naughty child!” he began, in a voice of thunder; then, recollecting the danger of exciting further suspicion, he stammered, “what—what—what—are you doing here?  Go along to mother.”

Lucy rubbed her fingers into her eyes, and answered sharply, in a pettish tone, that she was doing no harm.  Eleanor, in amazement, asked what could be the matter.

“Intolerable!” exclaimed Walter.  “So many girls always in the way?”

Sylvester Enderby could not help smiling, as he asked, “Is that all you have to complain of?”

“I could complain of something much worse,” muttered Walter.  “Get away, Lucy?”

“I won’t at your bidding, sir.”

To Walter’s great relief, Rose entered at that moment, and all was smooth and quiet; Lucy became silent, and the conversation was kept up in safe terms between Rose and the young officer.  The colonel, it appeared, was so much better that he intended to leave Forest Lea that very day; and it was not long before he came down, and presently afterwards Lady Woodley, looking very pale and exhausted, for her anxieties had kept her awake all night.

After a breakfast on bread, cheese, rashers of bacon, and beer, the horses were brought to the door, and the colonel took his leave of Lady Woodley, thanking her much for her hospitality.

“I wish it had been better worth accepting,” said she.

“I wish it had, though not for my own sake,” said the colonel.  “I wish you would allow me to attempt something in your favour.  One thing, perhaps, you will deign to accept.  Every royalist house, especially those belonging to persons engaged at Worcester, is liable to be searched, and to have soldiers quartered on them, to prevent fugitives from being harboured there.  I will send Sylvester at once to obtain a protection for you, which may prevent you from being thus disturbed.”

“That will be a kindness, indeed,” said Lady Woodley, hardly able to restrain the eagerness with which she heard the offer made, that gave the best hope of saving her son.  She was not certain that the colonel had not some suspicion of the true state of the case, and would not take notice, unwilling to ruin the son of his friend, and at the same time reluctant to fail in his duty to his employers.

He soon departed; Mistress Lucy’s farewell to Sylvester being thus: “Good-bye, Mr. Roundhead, rebel, crop-eared traitor.”  At which Sylvester and his father turned and laughed, and their two soldiers looked very much astonished.