"Why do you think that?"

"My mother told me."

"Do you love her very much?"

"I don't know. I think so. She was beautiful. More beautiful than you. She is in London now with my sister. I wish I could be with her."

"Perhaps," I said, "when the war is finished with, you will go back to her."

"I would run away," he said, "but for London being so far, and I might get caught in the fighting. There is fighting everywhere. There is no talk of anything at Buckland but the fighting. I will tell you something."

"What is that?"

"Last week I saw a wounded man brought into the house upon a stretcher. There was blood upon him."

The way he said this puzzled me. His manner was so shrinking.

"Why," I asked, "are you so much afraid of blood?"

The colour flamed into his pale face.

"I did not say I was afraid," he answered quickly.

"No, but you do not like it. Neither do I. It is most unpleasant. But I am not fearful if I see it spilt.

"I cannot bear to see it spilt at all," he said after a moment. "I have always been thus since a little child. It is not my fault."

"Perhaps you were frightened as a baby."

"That's what my mother brought me up to understand. She told me that when she had me in her arms once my father came into the room and quarrelled violently with her upon some matter and that he struck her on the face and she bled. The blood ran onto my hands. I cannot remember it, but that is how it was."

I began to feel very sick at heart and despondent but was careful that he should not notice it.

"We won't talk about it any more then, d.i.c.k, unless you want to. What shall we discuss instead?"

"Tell me what you did when you were my age, how you looked, and what you said, and had you brothers, and had you sisters?"

And so I wove him a tale about the past, thus making him forget his own, while he sat watching me; and by the time Matty came, bringing us refreshment, he had lost so much of his nervousness as to chat with her, too, and make big eyes at the pasties which soon disappeared, while I sat and looked at his little chiselled features, so unlike his father's, and the close black curls upon his head. Afterwards I read to him for a while, and he left his chair and came and curled on the floor beside my chair, like a small dog that would make friends in a strange house, and when I closed the book he looked up at me and smiled--and the smile for the first time was Richard's smile and not his mother's.

14.

From that day forward d.i.c.k became my shadow. He arrived early with my breakfast, never my best moment of the day, but because he was Richard's son I suffered him. He then left to do his lessons with the sallow Mr. Ashley while I made my toilet, and later in the morning came to walk beside my chair upon the causeway.

He sat beside me in the dining chamber and brought a stool to the gallery when I went there after dinner; seldom speaking, always watchful, he hovered continually about me like a small phantom.

"Why do you not run and play in the gardens," I asked, "or desire Mr. Ashley to take you down to Pridmouth? There are fine sh.e.l.ls there on the beach and, the weather being warm, you could swim if you had the mind. There's a young cob, too, in the stables you could ride across the park."

"I would rather stay with you," he said.

And he was firm on this and would not be dissuaded. Even Alice, who had the warmest way with children I ever saw, failed with him, for he would shake his head and take his stool behind my chair.

"He has certainly taken a fancy to you, madam," said the tutor, relieved, I am sure, to find his charge so little trouble. "I have found it very hard to interest him."

"He is your conquest," said Joan, "and you will never more be rid of him. Poor Honor. What a burden to the end of your days!"

But it did not worry me. If d.i.c.k was happy with me that was all that mattered, and if I could bring some feeling of security to his poor lonely little heart and puzzled mind I should not feel my days were wasted. Meanwhile, the news worsened, and some five days after d.i.c.k's arrival word came from Fowey that Ess.e.x had reached Tavistock, and the siege of Plymouth had been raised, with Richard withdrawing his; troops from Saltash, Mount Stampford, and Plympton, and retreating to the Tamar bridges.

That evening a council was held in Tywardreath amongst the gentry in the district, at which my brother-in-law presided, and one and all decided to muster what men and arms and ammunition they could and ride to Launceston to help defend the county.

We were at once in a state of consternation and the following morning saw the preparations for departure. All those on the estate who were able-bodied and fit to carry arms paraded before my brother-in-law with their horses and their kits packed on the saddles, and amongst them were the youngest of the house servants who could be spared and all the grooms. Jonathan and his son-in-law, John Rashleigh of Coombe, and Oliver Sawle from Penrice--brother to old Nick Sawle--and many other gentlemen from round about Fowey and St. Austell gathered at Menabilly before setting forth, while my poor sister Mary went from one to the other with her face set in a smile I knew was sadly forced, handing them cake and fruit and pasties to cheer them on their way. John was left with many long instructions, which I could swear he would never carry in his head, and then we watched them set off across the park, a strange, pathetic little band full of ignorance and high courage, the tenants wielding their muskets as though they were hay forks, and with considerably more danger to themselves than to the enemy they might encounter. It was '43 all over again, with the rebels not thirty miles away, and although Richard might declare that Ess.e.x and his army were running into a trap, I was disloyal enough to wish they might keep out of it.

Those last days of July were clammy and warm, a sticky breeze blowing from the southwest that threatened rain and never brought it, while a tumbled sea rolled past the Gribbin white and grey. At Menabilly we made a pretence of continuing as though all were as usual, and nothing untoward likely to happen, and even forced a little gaiety when dining that we must wait upon ourselves, now that there were none but womenfolk to serve us. But for all this deception, intended to convey a sense of courage, we were tense and watchful--our ears always p.r.i.c.ked for the rumble of cannon or the sound of horses. I can remember how we all sat beside the long table in the dining chamber, the portrait of His Majesty gazing calmly down upon us from the dark panelling above the open hearth, and how at the end of a strained, tedious meal Nick Sawle, who was the eldest amongst us, conquered his rheumatics and rose to his feet in great solemnity, saying, "It were well that in this time of stress and trouble we should give a toast unto His Majesty. Let us drink to our beloved King and may G.o.d protect him and all who have gone forth from this house to fight for him."

They all then rose to their feet, too, except myself, and looked up at his portrait-- those melancholy eyes, that small, obstinate mouth--and I saw the tears run down Alice's cheeks--she was thinking of Peter--and sad resignation come to Mary's face, her thoughts with Jonathan, yet none of them gazing at the King's portrait thought to blame him for the trouble that had come upon them. G.o.d knows I had no sympathy for the rebels, who each one of them was out for feathering his own nest and building up a fortune, caring nothing for the common people whose lot they pretended would be bettered by their victory; but nor could I, in my heart, recognise the King as the fountain of all truth, but thought of him always as a stiff, proud man, small in intelligence as he was in stature, yet commanding by his grace of manner, his dignity, and his moral virtue a wild devotion in his followers that sprang from their warm hearts and not their reason.

We were a quiet, subdued party who sat in the long gallery that evening. Even the sharp tongue of Temperance Sawle was stilled, her thin features were pinched and anxious, while the Sparkes forewent their usual game of cribbage and sat talking in low voices, Will, the rumour-monger, without much heart now for his hobby.

"Have the rebels crossed the Tamar?" This was, I think, the thought in all our minds, and while Mary, Alice, and Joan worked at their tapestry and I read in a soft voice to d.i.c.k, my brain, busy all the while, was reckoning the shortest distance that the enemy would take and whether they would cross by Saltash or by Gunnislake.

John had left the dining chamber as soon as the King's health had been drunk, saying he could stand this waiting about no longer but must ride to Fowey for news. He returned about nine o'clock, saying that the town was well-nigh empty, with so many ridden north to join the Army, but those who were left were standing at their doors, glum and despondent, saying that word had come that Grenvile and his troops had been defeated at Newbridge below Gunnislake, while Ess.e.x and some ten thousand men were riding toward Launceston.

I remember Will Sparke leaping to his feet at hearing this and breaking out into a tirade against Richard, his shrill voice sharp and nervous. "What have I been saying all along?" he cried. "When it comes to a test like this the fellow is no commander.

The pa.s.s at Gunnislake should be easy to defend, no matter the strength of the opponent, and here is Grenvile pulled out and in full retreat without having struck a blow to defend Cornwall. Heaven, what a contrast to his brother."

"It is only rumour, Cousin Will," said John with an uncomfortable glance in my direction. "There was no one in Fowey able to swear to the truth of it."

"I tell you, everything is lost," said Will. "Cornwall will be ruined and overrun, even as Sir Francis Ba.s.sett said the other day. And if it is so, then Richard Grenvile will be to blame for it."

I watched young d.i.c.k swallow the words with eager eyes and, pulling at my arm, he whispered, "What is it he says? What has happened?"

"John Rashleigh hears that the Earl of Ess.e.x has pa.s.sed into Cornwall," I told him softly, "finding little opposition. We must wait until the tale be verified."

"Then my father has been slain in battle?"

"No, d.i.c.k, nothing has been said of that. Do you wish me to continue reading?"

"Yes, please, if you will do so."

And I went on with the tale, taking no notice of his biting of his hand, for my anxiety was such that I could have done the same myself. Anything might have happened during these past eight and forty hours. Richard left for slain upon the steep road down from Gunnislake and his men fled in all directions, or taken prisoner, perhaps, and at this moment being put to torture in Launceston Castle that he might betray the plan of battle.

It was always my fault to let imagination do its worst, and although I guessed enough of Richard's strategy to know that a retreat on the Tamar bank was probably his intention from the first, in order to lure Ess.e.x into Cornwall, yet I longed to hear the opposite and that a victory had been gained that day and the rebels pushed back into Devon.

I slept ill that night, for to be ignorant of the truth is, I shall always believe, the worst sort of mental torture, and for a powerless woman who cannot forget her fears in taking action there is no remedy.

The next day was as hot and airless as the one preceding, and when I came down after breakfast I wondered if I looked as haggard and as careworn to the rest of the company as they looked to me. And still no news. But everything strangely silent, even the jackdaws that usually cl.u.s.tered in the trees down in the warren had flown and settled elsewhere.

Shortly before noon, when some of us were a.s.sembled in the dining chamber to take cold meat, Mary, coming from her sun parlour across the hall, cried, "There is a horseman riding across the park towards the house."

Everyone began talking at once and pushing to the windows, and John, something white about the lips, went to the courtyard to receive whoever it should be.

The rider clattered into the inner court, with all of us watching from the windows, and though he was covered from head to foot with dust and had a great slash across his boot I recognised him at once as young Joe Grenvile.

"I have a message for Mistress Harris," he said, flinging himself from his horse, and my throat went dry and my hands went wet, and he is dead, I thought, for certain.

"But the battle, how goes the battle?" and "What of the rebels?"

"What has happened?" Questions on all sides were put to him, with Nick Sawle on one side and Will Sparke on the other, so that he had to push his way through them to reach me in the hall.

"Ess.e.x will be in Bodmin by nightfall," he said briefly. "We have just had a brush with Lord Robartes and his brigade above Lostwithiel, who have now turned back to meet him. We ourselves are in hot retreat to Truro, where Sir Richard plans to raise more troops. I am come from the road but to bring this message to Mistress Harris."

"Ess.e.x at Bodmin?" A cry of alarm went up from all the company, and Temperance Sawle went straightway on her knees and called upon her Maker. But I was busy tearing open Richard's letter. I read: My sweet love, the hook is nicely baited, and the poor misguided fish gapes at it with his mouth wide open. He will be in Bodmin tonight, and most probably in Fowey tomorrow. His chief adviser in the business is that cra.s.s idiot, Jack Robartes, whose mansion at Lanhydrock I have just had infinite pleasure in pillaging. They will swallow the bait, hook, line, and sinker. We shall come up on them from Truro, and His Majesty, Maurice, and Ralph Hopton from the east. The King has already advanced as far as Tavistock, so the fish will be most prettily landed. Your immediate future at Menabilly being somewhat unpleasant, it will be best if you return the whelp to me, with his tutor .I have given Joe instructions on the matter.

Keep to your chamber, my dear love, and have no fear. We will come to your succour as soon as may be. My respects to your sister and the company.

Your devoted servant, Richard Grenvile I placed the letter in my gown and turned to Joe.

"Is the general well?" I asked.

"Never better." He grinned. "I have just left him eating roast pork on the road to Grampound, while his servant cleaned his boots. We seized a score of pigs from Lord Robartes's park, and a herd of sheep, and some twenty head of cattle--the troops are in high fettle. If you hear rumours of our losses at Newbridge pay no attention to them; the higher figure they are put at by the enemy, the better pleased will be Sir Richard."

I motioned then that I should like to speak with him apart, and he withdrew alone with me to the sun parlour.

"What is the plan for d.i.c.k?" I asked.

"Sir Richard thinks it best if the boy and Mr. Ashley embark by fishing boat for St.

Mawes, if arrangements can be made with one of the fellows at Polkerris. They can keep close insh.o.r.e, and once around the Dodman the pa.s.sage will not be long. I have money here to pay the fishermen, and pay them well, for their trouble."

"When should they depart?"

"As soon as possible. I shall see to it and go with them to the beach. Then I shall return to join Sir Richard and, with any luck, catch up with him on the Grampound Truro road. The trouble is the roads are already choked with people in headlong flight from Ess.e.x, all making for the West, and it will not be long now before the rebel cavalry reach the district."

"There is, then, no time to lose," I answered, "and I will ask Mr. John Rashleigh to go with you to Polkerris; he will know the men there who are most likely to be trusted."

I called John to come to me and hurriedly explained the plan, whereupon he set forth straightway to Polkerris with Joe Grenvile, while I sent word to Herbert Ashley that I wished to speak to him. He arrived looking very white about the gills, for rumour had run riot in the place that the Grenvile troops were flying in disorder with the rebels on their heels and the war was irrevocably lost. He looked much relieved when I told him that he and d.i.c.k were to depart upon the instant, by sea and not by road, and went immediately to pack their things, promising to be ready within the "our- The task then fell upon me to break the news to my shadow. He was standing by upside door, looking out on to the garden, and I beckoned him to my side.

d.i.c.k," I said to him. "I want you to be brave and sensible. The neighbourhood is likely to be surrounded by the enemy before another day, and Menabilly will be seized. Your father thinks it better you should not be found here, and I have arranged, therefore, with Mr. Rashleigh, that you and your tutor go by boat to St. Mawes, where you will be safe."

"A. K you coming too?" he asked.

No, d.i.c.k. This is a very sudden plan, made only for yourselves. I and the rest of we company will remain at Menabilly."

"Then so will I."

"No, d.i.c.k. You must let me judge for you. And it is best for you to go."

"Does it mean that I must join my father?"

"That I cannot tell. All I do know is that the fishing boat is to take you to St.

Mawes."

He said nothing but looked queerly sulky and strange, and after a moment or two went up to join his tutor.

I had a pain at the pit of my stomach all the while, for there is nothing so contagious as panic, and the atmosphere of sharp anxiety was rife in the air. In the gallery little groups of people were gathered, with strained eyes and drawn faces, and Alice's children, aware of tension, chose--poor dears--this moment to be fretful and were clinging to her skirts, crying bitterly.

"There is time yet to reach Truro if only we had a conveyance," I heard Will say, his face grey with fear, "but Jonathan took all the horses with him, and the farm wagons would be too slow. Where has John gone? Is it not possible for John to arrange in some manner that we be conducted to Truro?"

His sisters watched him with anxious eyes, and I saw Gillian whisper hurriedly to Deborah that none of their things were ready, it would take her till evening to sort out what was necessary for travel. Then Nick Saw le, drawing himself up proudly, said in a loud voice, "My wife and I propose to stay at Menabilly. If cowards care to clatter on the roads as fugitives they are welcome to do so, but I find it a poor return to our cousin Jonathan to desert his house like rats in time of trouble."

My sister Mary looked towards me in distress.

"What do you counsel, Honor?" she asked. "Should we set forth or should we stay?

Jonathan gave me no commands. He a.s.sured me that the enemy would not cross the Tamar, or, at the worst, be turned back after a few miles."

"My G.o.d," I said, "if you care to hide in the ditches with the driven cattle, then by all means go, but I swear you will fare worse upon the road than you are likely to do at home. Better to starve under your own roof than in the hedges."

"We have plenty of provisions," said Mary, s.n.a.t.c.hing a ray of hope. "We are not likely to want for anything unless the siege be long."

She turned in consultation to her stepdaughters, who were all of them still occupied in calming the children, and I thought it wisest not to spread further consternation by telling her that once the rebels held the house they would make short work of her provisions.

The clock in the belfry had just struck three when d.i.c.k and his tutor came-down ready for departure. The lad was still sulky and turned his head from me when I would say good-bye. This was better than the rebellious tears I had expected, and with a cheerful voice I wished him a speedy journey and that a week or less would see the end of all our troubles. He did not answer, and I signed to Herbert Ashley to take his arm and to start walking across the park with Frank Penrose, who would conduct them to Polkerris, and there fall in with John Rashleigh and Joe Grenvile, who must by this time have matters well arranged.

Anxiety and strain had brought an aching back upon me, and I desired now nothing so much as to retire to the gatehouse and lie upon my bed. I sent for Matty, and she, with the help of Joan and Alice, carried me upstairs. The sun was coming strongly through my western cas.e.m.e.nt and the room was hot and airless. I lay upon my bed sticky wet, wishing with all my heart that I were a man and could ride with Joe Grenvile on the road to Truro, instead of lying there, a woman and a cripple, waiting for the relentless tramp of enemy feet. I had been there but an hour, I suppose, s.n.a.t.c.hing brief oblivion, when I heard once more the sound of a horse galloping across the park, and, calling to Matty, I enquired who it should be. She went to the cas.e.m.e.nt and looked out.

"It's Mr. John," she said, "in great distress by his expression. Something has gone amiss."

My heart sank at her words. Perhaps, after all, the fishermen at Polkerris could not be tempted to set sail. In a moment or two I heard his footstep on the stairs and he flung into my room, forgetting even to knock upon the door.

"We have lost d.i.c.k," he said; "he has vanished. He is nowhere to be found." He stood staring at me, the sweat pouring down his face, and I could see that his whole frame was trembling.

"What do you mean? What has happened?" I asked swiftly, raising myself in my bed.

"We were all a.s.sembled on the beach," he said, his breath coming quickly, "and the boat was launched. There was a little cuddy below deck, and I saw d.i.c.k descend to it with my own eyes, his bundle under his arm. There was no trouble to engage the boat, and the men--both of them stout fellows and well known to me--were willing.

Just before they drew anchor we heard a clatter on the cobbles beside the cottages, and some lads came running down in great alarm to tell us that the first body of rebel horse had cut the road from Castledore to Tywardreath and that Polmear Hill was already blocked with troops. At this the men began to make sail, and young Joe Grenvile turned to me with a wink and said, 'It looks as if I must go by water too, ' and before I could answer him he had urged his horse into the sea and was making for the sand flats half a mile away to the westward. It was half low tide, but he had reached them and turned in his saddle to wave to us within five and twenty minutes. He'll be on Gosmoor by now and halfway to St. Austell."

"But d.i.c.k?" I said. "You say you have lost d.i.c.k?"

"He was in the boat," he said stubbornly, "I swear he was in the boat, but we turned to listen to the lads and their tale of the troops at Tywardreath, and then with one accord we watched young Joe put his horse to the water and swim for it. By heaven, Honor, it was the boldest thing I have ever seen a youngster do, for the tide can run swiftly between Polkerris and the flats. And then Ashley, the tutor, looking about him, called for d.i.c.k but could not find him. We searched the vessel from stem to stern, but he wasn't there. He was not on the beach. He was not anywhere. For G.o.d's sake. Honor, what are we now to do?"