Chapter 3

Jane had taken the lady back to the house-place and was hovering around
her, with little of the grace of a maid-of-honour to be sure, but with a
heartiness and zeal that more than atoned for any lack of style. From
mother's withdrawing-room I fetched our chief household god, a small
ancient silver goblet, and, filling it with wine, offered it to the
stranger with what I supposed, no doubt wrongly, to be a modish bow. She
drank a little, and then, at my urging, a little more.

"Madam," I said, "I think you do not need to be 'Molly Brown' any longer.
Yon dragooner is quite certain that you are not here, and we can safely
take advantage of his opinion. As for you, Jane, you've done splendidly,
and I heartily thank you." I re-filled the goblet and handed it to Jane,
saying, "Drink, Jane, to madam's good luck."

The honest girl blushed with joy at my words, and as for drinking wine
out of the famous silver goblet of the Hanyards--such a distinction, as she
conceived it, was reward enough for anything.

"Thanks are payment all too poor for what you have done, sir," said
madam, "and any words of mine would make them poorer still. But, sir, I do
thank you most heartily. And you, too, Jane, have done me splendid
service. You are as brave and clever as you are bonny and pretty."

"Madam," said I, bowing low, "you are too kind to my services, which
have, indeed, been rather crudely performed."

"Not so," she replied, "but with shrewd, ready wit and certain judgment.
I cannot imagine myself in a tighter corner than at the bridge, and your
device had the effective simplicity of genius. Your plan here was, to be
sure, commonplace, but it, too, required caution and good acting, and you
and Jane supplied both. It was nicer than popping me into some musty
priest's hole, though I expect this ancient building has one."

I looked at the wall as half expecting the sword of Captain
Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman to rattle to the ground under this awful
insinuation.

"The only use our family has found for priests, madam," I said, "has
been, I fear, to hunt them like vermin. As a Wheatman of the Hanyards, I'm
afraid I'm a degenerate."

"You'll not even be that much longer if I keep you from getting into some
dry clothes. And, if Jane is willing, I will make myself myself. I would
fain be on."

With a sweet smile and a gracious curtsy, she followed the ready Jane
upstairs.

I removed all traces of what had taken place, and carried my precious
jack into the pantry, where I hung him in safety. He should be set up by
Master Whatcot of Stafford as a trophy and memento in honour of this great
day. I then hurried off to my room to attend to my own appearance, and
indeed I needed it, for I was caked with mud up to my knees and soaking
wet up to my waist. For the first time in my life I was grieved to the
bone at the inadequacy of my wardrobe, and even when I had donned my
Sunday best my appearance was undoubtedly villainous from the London point
of view. I feathered myself as finely as my resources permitted, but it
was a homely, uncouth yeoman that raced downstairs and awaited her coming.
I drew the curtains, lit the candles, kicked the fire into a blaze, and
built it up with fresh logs.

It would be impossible for me to set down the hubbub of thoughts and
ideas that filled my mind. I had been plunged into a new world, and
floundered about in it pretty hopelessly, I can tell you. The days of
knight-errantry had come over again, and chance, mightier even than King
Arthur, had commanded me to serve a sweet lady in distress. But I had had
no training, no preliminary squireship, in which I could learn how things
were done by watching brave and accomplished knights do them. I had lived
among the parts of speech, not among the facts of life. I could hit a bird
on the wing, snare a rabbit, ride like a saddle, angle for jack and trout,
strike like a sledge-hammer, swim like a fish--and that was all. I knew,
too, every turn and track and tree for miles round; and that might be
something now, and indeed, as will be seen, turned out my most precious
accomplishment. Some people said I was as proud as Lucifer, others that I
was as meek as a mouse, and I once overheard our Kate tell Priscilla
Dobson, Jack's vinegary sister, that both were right--which confounded me,
for our 'Copper Nob,' as I used to call her, was a shrewd little woman.
Still, such as I was, the stranger lady should have me, an she would, as
her squire, to the last breath in my body. Only let me get out of my
cabbage-bed, only give me a man's work to do, and I would ask for no more.
Neither for love nor for liking would I crave, but just for the work and
the joy of it.

The yard gate clicked, and a moment later mother and Kate came in.

"Oh, Noll, it's been grand!" burst out Kate. "I wish you'd been there.
There were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, horse and foot, and guns
and wagons without end. Lord Brocton was there, and Sir Ralph Sneyd, who
is just a duck, and a nasty-looking major with his face all over blotches.
And they saw us, and crowded into the vicar's to talk to us."

"And what about Jack Dobson?"

"Oh, Oliver, what have you got your best clothes on for?"

"Because I got wet through catching a great jack. But never mind my best
clothes. How did Jack look in his uniform?"

"A lot better than Lord Brocton, or anyone else there, if you must know,"
she said, jerking the words at me, with her cheeks near the colour of her
hair.

"Can he talk sense yet?"

"He talked like the modest gentleman he is," said my mother, "and looked
nearly as handsome as my own boy. He sent his loving greetings to you, and
would fain have come to see you but his duties would not allow of it."

Of course my gibes at Jack were all purely foolish and jealous, and,
moreover, I could now afford to be truthful; so I said, "If Jack doesn't
do better, as well as look better, than my Lord Brocton, I'll thrash him
soundly when he gets back. But he will. He's a rare one is Master Jack,
and by a long chalk the pluckiest soul, boy or man, I've ever come across.
And he'll learn sense, of the sort he wants, as fast as anybody when the
time comes."

"Of course the lad will," said mother, taking off her long cloak, and
Kate, when mother turned to hang it on its accustomed hook, gave a swift
peck at my cheek with her lips, and whispered, "You dear old Noll!"

All this time I had been listening with strained ears for footsteps on
the stairs. Now I heard them, and waited anxiously. The door opened, and
Jane came in, upright and important. She curtsyed to my mother, announced,
"Mistress Margaret Waynflete," and my goddess came into the room.

Straight up to my mother she walked,--a poor word to describe her sweet
and stately motion, _et vera incessu patuit dea_, as the master has
it,--curtsied low and nobly to her and said, "Mistress Wheatman, I am a
stranger in distress, and should have been in danger but for your son, who
has served me and saved me as only a brave and courteous gentleman could."

I had ever loved my mother dearly, but I loved her proudly now, for the
greatest dame in the land could not have done better than this sweet,
simple mother of mine. Without surprise or hesitation, she took Mistress
Waynflete's hands in her own, and said, "Dear lady, anyone in distress is
welcome here, and Oliver has done just as I would have him do. And this is
my daughter, Kate, who will share our anxiety to help you."

And then I was proud of our Kate, Kate with the red hair and the
milk-white face, the saucy eye and the shrewd tongue, Kate with the
tradesman's head and the heart of gold. She shook madam warmly by the
hand, and led her to my great arm-chair in the ingle-nook as to a throne
that was hers of right.

Thus was Mistress Waynflete made welcome to the Hanyards.

Mother and Kate took their accustomed seats on the cosy settle beside the
hearth. I sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, and Jane
flitted about as quietly as a bat, laying the table for our evening meal.

Never had the house-place at the Hanyards looked so fair. The firelight
danced on the black oak wainscot which age and polishing had made like
unto ebony, and the row of pewter plates on the top shelf of the dresser
glimmered in their obscurity like a row of moons. Our special pride, a
spice-cupboard of solid mahogany, ages old, glowed red across the room,
and from the neighbouring wall the great sword and back-and-breast with
which Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman, Captain of Horse, had done service at
Naseby, seemed to twinkle congratulations to me as one not unworthy of my
name. Not an unsuitable frame, perhaps, this ancient, goodly house-place,
for the beautiful picture now in it, on which I looked as often as I dared
with furtive eyes of admiration.

She told her story with simple directness. Her father's name was
Christopher Waynflete, a soldier by profession, who had seen service in
many parts of the Continent and had attained the rank of Colonel in the
Swedish army. Her mother she had never known, for she had died when
Mistress Margaret was but a few months old, and her father had maintained
an unbroken reticence on the subject. Some six months ago, Colonel
Waynflete had returned to England to settle, desiring to obtain some
military employment, a plan which his long service and professional
knowledge seemed to make feasible. In London he made the acquaintance of
the Earl of Ridgeley, to whom, indeed, he bore a letter of introduction
from a Swedish diplomat in Paris. Through the Earl he had met Lord
Brocton, the Earl's only son and heir. The Colonel's hope of employment in
the army had not been realized, and this and certain other reasons, which
she did not specify, had embittered him against the Government. Not having
any real allegiance to King George, whom he had never served, and who now
refused his services, he easily entered into the plans of certain
influential Jacobites in London whose acquaintance he had made. Three days
previously he had set out from London to join Prince Charles. For certain
reasons (again she did not give details) she was unwilling to be separated
from her father, at any rate not until circumstances made it necessary for
them to part, and then the plan was that she should go to Chester, with
which city she was inclined to think her father had some old connexion,
and stay there with the wife of a certain cathedral dignitary of secret
but strong Jacobite inclinations. Colonel Waynflete's connexion with the
Jacobite cause had, naturally, been kept secret, but she was almost
certain that Lord Brocton had discovered it through a certain spy and
toady of his, one Major Tixall.

"Pimples all over his face?" broke in Kate.

"Yes," said Mistress Waynflete, with a little shudder.

"He was in the village this afternoon with Lord Brocton," returned Kate.

"Peace, dear one," said mother, "our turn is coming. Be as quiet as
Oliver."

"Oliver, mother dear, hasn't seen Major Tixall, whose face is enough to
make an owl talk, let alone a magpie like me."

Her right ear was near enough to me, the stool being big and I bigger, so
I pinched the pretty little pink shell, and whispered in it, "Shut up,
Kit, and think of Jack," which effectually silenced her.

Mistress Waynflete had little more to tell. They had travelled rapidly,
avoiding Coventry and Lichfield, where the royal forces had assembled, but
bending west so as to get by unfrequented roads to Stafford, and so on to
the main north road along which the Prince was now reported to be
marching. Just outride the "Bull and Mouth" her horse had cast a shoe.
Leaving her to rest in the ale-house, the Colonel had gone on with the
horses to the nearest smithy at Milford. He was quite unaware of the
northward movement of troops from Lichfield, and was under the impression
that he was now well beyond the danger zone. We had heard from the
serjeant of his capture.

Kate, at mother's request, took up the tale here. The road past the
Hanyards to the village enters the main road abruptly, and clumps of elms
prevent anyone travelling along it from seeing what is happening in the
village. The vicarage is opposite the smithy and the inn, and when mother
and Kate got there, only a few dragoons were about. They watched the
Colonel ride up, leading his daughter's horse, and saw him turn round at
once and attempt to go back as soon as he caught sight of the dragoons;
but a larger body, under the command of Major Tixall, cantered in at the
moment and, trapped between the two bodies, the Colonel had been compelled
to surrender. He was kept until my Lord Brocton's arrival nearly an hour
later, and had then been sent on to Stafford under a strong guard.

This was the only fresh piece of information that was of any importance.
There is a jail at Stafford, and no doubt the Colonel was by now lodged in
it.

"I fear that my views, or at any rate my father's views, make me a
dangerous guest," said Mistress Waynflete, "though your kindness has made
me a welcome one."

"Madam," I said coldly, "the only politics I know is that my Lord Brocton
is fighting against the Stuart, and if by fighting for the Stuart I can
get in a fair blow at my Lord Brocton, I fight for the Stuart."

"Oliver," said mother, "it is wrong--I say nothing about its wisdom--to
choose sides in such matters on grounds of personal enmity."

"Lord Brocton's a beast," said Kate shortly.

Mistress Waynflete had turned a richer colour at the mention of Brocton's
name, but at Kate's words she became scarlet, and for that I vowed I would
knock him on the head as ruthlessly as if he were a buck rabbit as soon as
I got the chance.

She recovered and continued her story, but as it only concerned my share
in the day's doings, it is unnecessary to repeat it here. She told it,
however, in such kind terms, that I made an end to my discomfort by going
to fetch the great jack for mother and Kate to look at. When returning,
however, I could not help hearing Kate say to Mistress Waynflete, "Without
a 'by your leave'?"

"As indifferently as if I had been a bag of flour," was the cool reply.
And I had dithered like an aspen leaf!

"I suppose he half drowned you?"

"On the contrary, there was not a wet stitch on me."

"Oliver," added my mother, "has not many things to do that are worth his
doing, but what he finds he does well."

"Such as catching jack," said I, staggering in with my heavy load. It was
admired unstintingly, and was indeed worthy of all praise.

"Supper is ready, mam," said Jane; "and Joe says he knowed it wor as big
as a gate-post."

"And where is Joe?"

"In the kitchen, Master Noll."

"Give him a good supper, not much ale, and that small, and tell him to
stop there. I shall want him." Then, turning to Mistress Waynflete, I went
on: "There's one way, and only one, into Stafford that's perfectly safe
to-night. Joe and I will row you there. Now, mother, I'm hungrier than the
great jack ever was."