"After that, she and I was a good bit together, she carrying her dollars and I carrying the boy; but the way grew worse and worse, and but for the boy I think that I should have gived out myself as so many did. Once I remember I saw a sojer and his wife a-lying down by the wayside; they couldn't go no farther and had lain down to die together; and I wished that it had been Jan and me; but I had the boy on my back and I went on. Well, I won't tell you what terrible sights we saw on the road; but I'll tell 'ee this, that I have seen grown men a-sobbing like children for pain and cold and hunger. It was enough to turn the head of a grown man, let alone a child. And so it was that after a time the boy stopped crying and complaining and went quite quiet. I couldn't think what was come to mun, that he was always a-staring and never speaking nor taking no notice; but I reckoned that if I could carry mun on to the end, he would recover hisself. And I did carry mun on to the end to--what was the name of the place again?--something like currants it was."

"Corunna?" said Colonel George.

"Ay, that was it, Corinner--but when we got there, there wasn't no ships, and General Moore had to fight the French and bate mun before he could sail home. And he was a-killed, poor gentleman, he was, as you know, and many other brave men besides. But we and the sick and the wounded was put aboard before the battle was fought, and a strange thing there was that happened. The woman that had taken the dollars come aboard with me, but her hands were so full that she gave me a part of the money to hold, while she climbed from the boat to the ship's side. And as she stepped on the ladder, her foot slipped, and she fell into the sea and sank like a stone; for she had dollars sewn up in her clothes so heavy, that down she went and never come up again. So there was I left with what she give me, and as her husband was killed in the battle and there wasn't no one else belonging to her to take the money, I reckoned I might keep it. And then one day I thought of what the old Betsy had said, that I should cross the sea and bring back gold, though it wasn't gold, but silver.

"Well, on board ship the boy didn't change, though he got a bit stronger in his body. We had a terrible storm on the way home, and for all I could do I couldn't keep mun from being knocked about; the ship rolling and plunging so that the men could hardly save themselves. And when we got home and was set ash.o.r.e on the beach, I could see that my boy wasn't the only one that was gone wrong. I tell 'ee, my Lady, that some men was even blind with the toil of that march, and hunger and cold and misery.

"So there I was alone with my boy, for hardly a man of Jan's company was left and not many of the whole ridgment, while what there was of them was mostly sick. 'Twas lucky that I had money, or I can't think what I should have done. But the worst was that my boy remained just the same as he was. I showed mun to the doctors, and they took blood from mun once and wanted to take more, but I wouldn't have that, for I'd a-seen what they was with their lancets if they was let alone; and at last they telled me that his mind was gone and wouldn't never come back. But he grew stronger in his body after a bit, and I was able to take mun abroad; and though he liked the sound of the drums he was a bit frightened at the sight of a red coat, for fear that it should be a sarjint, and if it was a sarjint he would run like a rabbit. So I was obliged to move away as soon as I could; but go where I would there was no peace, for he'd a-lost his speech except some few sounds, and I couldn't let mun run with other children, for they always make sport of such poor things as he. So for a long time we wandered from place to place, getting little but hard words, though the boy was happy enough, I believe; for living in the air as we did he took up with every bird and every beast that he could find, and they seem to know mun for a friend. Many was the young one that he took and made so tame as could be.

"Then at last the money began to run short, for all that I was careful, and that now and again we could earn a little bit; so I minded what old Betsy Lavacombe had said, and thought I would go back and find she. It was a long way to go, but we walked on day after day till we got nigh to the moor, when I chose my road very careful and walked night-times only till we come to this house. The old Betsy was agone, and the house was nigh failed to pieces, and I've a-heard since that she was found drowned in a lime-pit some years back. But I digged under the table as the old Betsy had said, and there deep down was a box wrapped up in a sheepskin, full of silver money, and a little gold too. How she got it, I can't tell, unless she took it from her husband, who had been a sailor, as she told me once, though sailors isn't given to saving. So we built up the house again and here I made up my mind to live, where no one couldn't hurt my boy, for he was shy of grown-up folks, and children won't leave mun alone.

"So here we've a-been now these many years, and the boy's been so happy as could be. Jackdaws, hedgehogs, squirrels, deer, naught comes amiss to mun: and he knows the moor and the woods so well as the deer themselves. He growed stronger too, though I wouldn't never take him with me when I went down to the villages to buy meal: but he would always keep out of sight and wait for me. And I suppose that just lately he may have been getting a bit better in his head, for he runned down to join the children that day when I come to Ashacombe, as you remember; and for all that he was a bit frightened then, he was so took up with your little lady that I hadn't the heart to keep mun from going to look at her, though I was always hid not very far from mun. It was me that your servant saw in the woods the day Jan brought the bullfinch; but Lord, Lord, I never thought that it would have come to this."

She stopped, and pulling the clothes aside looked sadly at the sick man's face. "See there," she said in a hard, changed voice, "that's how he looked often when we was marching back to Corinner. I thought that I should never get mun back alive then, but I did hope never to see mun look so again. And though he can't spake I know what he's a-thinking. He thinks that the sarjint's come for mun, and it's a killed the heart within mun."

CHAPTER XIV

There was a long silence when Lucy Dart came to the end of her story.

There were parts of it that struck home to Lady Eleanor, for was not she also the widow of a soldier who had been killed in action? But what moved her and Colonel George above all was the change in the woman's face. While she was talking of her young days her features were softer; but as she neared the end of her story they grew harder and harder until they a.s.sumed an expression of worn, dogged despair, as though she still felt the stress of those terrible days in the retreat to Corunna. She was ghastly pale also, and seemed quite exhausted when she came to the last word; and both of her visitors recalled her words, that she had carried her son, a grown man, most of the many miles from Bracefort to the hut where he now lay.

Colonel George broke the silence by telling Lucy that she must take care to keep up her own strength as well as her son's, and that he would come back the next day with a fresh store of provisions for them both. He begged at the same time to be allowed to bring the doctor with him, but Lucy positively refused. A doctor could do no good, she said; and she begged that the colonel would not come again until the day after to-morrow, as she wished to be left alone.

So with a heavy heart Lady Eleanor bade her good-bye, and they left her bent over the body of her son; Colonel George saying that he could find his way back over the bog without help. And so indeed he did, with a skill which to Lady Eleanor seemed marvellous; but she said not a word to him until they reached the high ridge, on a point of which she had once rested while the searching parties were scouring the moor for her lost children, as weary with watching and misery as the woman from whom she had just parted. And then for the first time there occurred to her the readiness, quickness and foresight with which Colonel George had arranged everything, not only for the finding of the children, but for letting her know by signal what had happened, for better or worse, as early as possible. Involuntarily she quickened her horse's pace a little as she thought of her race home to the children, after they were found; and then came the chilling remembrance that, when she reached home, d.i.c.k would not be there. She pulled up, and looked round for Colonel George, who had dropped somewhat behind her, and was gazing at the glorious prospect of moor and valley and woodland that was spread out before him. Instantly he was at her side.

"I am afraid that we have not the same excuse for scampering home to-day," he said, divining her thoughts; "poor old d.i.c.k is well on his way by now. Well, the Corporal will be back in a few days to tell us all about him; and I hope to see him myself before long, as he will be close to London."

"Then you are going?" said Lady Eleanor, "for how long?"

"For a long time," he said, "I am going abroad again. Three months is not very long leave after a six months' voyage perhaps, but I am a soldier and must go where I am told. But I don't start for another month," he added, "so I hope to clear up this little trouble for you before I go."

Lady Eleanor stifled a little cry. "Going away again so soon?" she said. "Surely you are not wanted already?" But she checked herself and went on calmly. "Then you think there is nothing very serious the matter with that poor idiot after all?"

Colonel George shook his head. "I am not a doctor," he answered, "but I confess that I think very badly of him, and I believe that the woman is right, and that a doctor would be useless."

They rode on silently for a time, when Colonel George said, "That poor woman looked nearly as ill as her son. She went through terrible things before Corunna, but the last few days must have been almost worse. The strain of carrying him all that distance from Bracefort must have been more than she could really stand. She has no one except him in the world, and if he be taken from her, I cannot think how she will struggle on alone."

"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, as if talking to herself, "it is terrible to be left alone."

Colonel George glanced at her quickly, but she was looking sadly straight in front of her, and he rode on for some way further in silence before he broke out almost fiercely, "When I lost my best friend at Salamanca, my first thought was for her who by his death was left alone. When I came back after the peace I should have asked her, if I had dared, to live alone no longer, but to come and live with me.

But I dared not, and went away again, dreading every day lest I might no longer find her alone when I came back. And now I am about accepting an appointment at the Cape and leaving her alone again, when G.o.d knows, all I care for in this world is to throw up my commission and stay with her--always, if she will let me. Eleanor, it is true--you are more than all the world to me. Tell me, shall I go or stay?"

Lady Eleanor flushed deeply but rode on in silence; and Colonel George added very gently:

"One word more; whatever your answer, remember that you can count upon me always for your faithful friend."

So they rode on without a word for some way further till they came to two rough tracks, of which one led to Fitzdenys Court and the other to Bracefort, where Colonel George pulled up and looked at her straight in the face.

"Is it go or stay?" he asked.

"Go now," she said with some difficulty; "come back,--not to-morrow, but when you return from visiting the hut on the day after."

"If I come back to you, I shall stay," he answered.

"Come back," she repeated, "but leave me for to-morrow; and now good-bye."

So she gave him her hand, and they went their different ways; but both stopped and looked back after they had gone a hundred yards, to the great surprise and disgust of their horses, who were impatient to get home.

But next morning Colonel George received a hurried note from Lady Eleanor saying she had been disturbed in the night by the sound of footsteps on the gravel by the house; and that, though she could see nothing at the time, the maids on opening the door had found the drummer's coat lying on the step. She therefore feared that something was gone wrong and begged Colonel Fitzdenys, despite his promise, to ride up to the hut on the moor without delay.

Of course the colonel started off at once, and when he caught sight of the hut he noticed that the goats were unmilked and bleating pitifully round the door. As he drew nearer, the jackdaw and magpie came hopping out, cawing with mouths wide open; and then he jumped off his horse, tied him up, and knocked with his whip against the pole which formed the door-post. There was no answer, and he went in. The idiot was lying as he had seen him on the previous day, but the troubled look was gone from his face; and across him with her head close to his lay his mother, while the squirrel with his little bright eyes was sitting up by the heads of both. The woman's skirts were dripping wet, as though she had walked through dewy gra.s.s, and she lay quite still. The colonel laid his hand on the man's forehead; and it was quite cold.

Then he took the woman's hand and that also was cold. He had seen such sights too often in the wars to be dismayed at finding himself alone with the dead. "He must have died at sunset," he said to himself, "and she walked over to Bracefort in the night in distraction and came back to die before sunrise. No wonder, after such a strain as carrying him all those miles." He left the two where they lay, and was about to put the door in its place and go; but the goats clamoured so loud that he stopped to milk them, which he had learned to do in India, and finding the meat that he had brought on the previous day untouched in the basket, he gave some sc.r.a.ps to the magpie and the jackdaw, and ferreted about till he had discovered some nuts in the hut for the squirrel.

Then he set the door in its place and rode straight for Bracefort.

When he reached the hill-top he saw some one riding upward; and galloping down soon found himself face to face with Lady Eleanor. In spite of what she had said on the day before she seemed very happy to see him twenty-four hours earlier than she had appointed, and it was not for some minutes that they came to the matter which had brought them together again. Then Colonel George told her what he had seen at the hut, though he found it hard to tell her anything so sad at such a time. She listened with many tears, but when she had recovered herself somewhat, she told Colonel George that there was one person more who must hear the story of Lucy Dart at once.

So when they came to Bracefort they went to see old Sally Dart, who had become weaker again in the last few days, and had taken to her bed.

She brightened up as they came in, and before either of them could say a word, bade them, as if she knew for what they were come, to tell them about her Jan. So they told her how he had fallen in fair fight with the French, among the rear-guard, which had covered itself with glory in the retreat; and she said that it was well. And they told her how Lucy his wife had stuck to him faithfully through all the hardship of war, that she had carried his boy to the end, when men were dying all round of fatigue and despair, and had brought him out alive, by her patience and courage, though injured for life; and that she had devoted herself wholly to him in the years that followed and died from grief when he died. They kept back from her any more than this lest they should grieve her, but old Sally was satisfied without asking questions, for which indeed she had little strength, but said that it was well, and that she would now go in peace. Then she wished them both good-bye and hoped they might live long and happily together, though they had told her nothing of what had pa.s.sed between themselves; and those were the last words that she spoke, for she was stricken for the second time that evening and after lingering for a day and a night departed in peace, as she had said.

So there were three graves dug in the little churchyard; and grandmother, mother and son were buried together, so that the mourners for old Sally did honour also to the two whom they had treated as outcasts. The goats, the old pony, the magpie, the jackdaw and the squirrel were all brought down at the same time and made over to Elsie; and the little drummer's coat still lies in the gla.s.s case at Bracefort Hall.

But it was all many, many years ago; and there are few now living in Ashacombe village who remember to have heard from their parents the story of the witch of Cossacombe. There are many more monuments now in the churches both at Ashacombe and Fitzdenys than there were then; but those who read from them of George, Lord Fitzdenys, who fought in the Peninsula, at Waterloo, and at Maheidpore, and of Eleanor his beloved wife, think little or know nothing of the manner in which they were brought together. Still less do they know of the part played in the matter by John Brimacott, sometime of the Light Dragoons, who died in their household after forty years of good and faithful service. Those again who read an inscription to the memory of General Sir Richard Bracefort, Colonel of the 116th Lancers, who fought in the Punjaub, cannot tell that this was once little d.i.c.k, who was lost on the moor, nor that Elizabeth his widowed sister, whose memory also is preserved in Ashacombe church, was once little Elsie who was lost with him. But folks still pause to look at the tablet which records the death of Private John Dart in the retreat to Corunna, and of Lucy his wife, who after his fall carried her son of nine years old to the British ships, and having devoted the rest of her life to the care of him, who by G.o.d's visitation could take no care for himself, was found dead upon his body when he died.

THE END