The Adventures of Harry Rochester: A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover art]

[Illustration: The Fight in the Castle Yard]

The Adventures of Harry Rochester

A Tale of the Days of Marlborough and Eugene

By

Herbert Strang

AUTHOR OF "TOM BURNABY" "BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" "KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR"

Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I.

New York G. P. Putnam'S Sons 27 And 29 West 230 Street 1905

"Honour hath three things in it: the vantage-ground to do good; the approach to kings and principal persons; and the raising of a man's own fortunes."

--_Bacon_.

_My dear Tom,_

_You received my former books so kindly that I feel assured you will not object to have this volume inscribed with your name. I am not the less convinced of this because you know well the country in which my opening scenes are laid, and I had the pleasure last year of playing cricket with you within a few miles of the village here disguised as Winton St. Mary._

_I hope you will bear with me for one minute while I explain that in writing this book I had three aims. First, to tell a good story: that of course. Secondly, to give some account of the operations that resulted in one of the most brilliant victories ever gained by our British arms. Thirdly, to throw some light--fitful, it may be, but as clear as the circumstances of my story admitted--on life and manners two hundred years ago. History, as you have no doubt already learnt, is not merely campaigning; and I shall be well pleased if these pages enlarge your knowledge, in ever so slight a degree, of an interesting period in our country's annals. And if you, or any other Christ's Hospital boy, should convict me of borrowing a week from the life of a great personage, or of antedating by a little a development in our national pastime--well, I shall feel complimented by such evidence of careful reading, and not be in the least abashed._

_I take the opportunity of this open letter to acknowledge my indebtedness to the monumental "Memoires militaires relatifs a la succession d'Espagne" issued by the French General Staff; to Mr. Austin Dobson for a detail which only his perfect knowledge of the 18th century could so readily have supplied; and to Lord Wolseley's brilliant life of Marlborough, which every student of military history must hope so competent a hand will continue and complete._

_Yours very sincerely,_ _HERBERT STRANG._

_Michaelmas Day, 1905._

*Contents*

_Chapter_ I The Queen's Purse-Bearer

_Chapter_ II Sherebiah Shouts

_Chapter_ III Master and Man

_Chapter_ IV Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another

_Chapter_ V A Message from the Squire

_Chapter_ VI My Lord Marlborough makes a Note

_Chapter_ VII Snared

_Chapter_ VIII Flotsam

_Chapter_ IX Monsieur de Polignac Presses his Suit

_Chapter_ X Bluff

_Chapter_ XI The Battle of Lindendaal

_Chapter_ XII Harry is Discharged

_Chapter_ XIII Concerning Sherebiah

_Chapter_ XIV Harry Rides for a Life

_Chapter_ XV The Water of Affliction

_Chapter_ XVI Knaves All Three

_Chapter_ XVII In the Dusk

_Chapter_ XVIII A Little Plot

_Chapter_ XXI Marlborough's March to the Danube

_Chapter_ XX The Castle of Rauhstein

_Chapter_ XXI Across the Fosse

_Chapter_ XXII The Fight in the Keep

_Chapter_ XXIII Blenheim

_Chapter_ XXIV The Wages of Sin

_Chapter_ XXV A Bundle of Letters

_Chapter_ XXVI The New Squire

_Chapter_ XXVII Visitors at Winton Hall

*List of Illustrations*

_Plate_ I The Fight in the Castle Yard . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

_Plate_ II Harry makes a Diversion

_Plate_ III My Lord Marlborough

_Plate_ IV At the Last Gasp

_Plate_ V "Mon Colonel, we are surrounded!"

_Plate_ VI The Stroke of Eight

_Plate_ VII "Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby

_Plate_ VIII Mein Wirth is Surprised

*Map And Plan*

Map of the Low Countries in 1703

Plan of the Battle of Blenheim

*Chapter I*

*The Queen's Purse-Bearer*

Winton St. Mary--Cricket: Old Style--Last Man In--Bowled--The Gaffer Explains--More Explanations--Parson Rochester--"The Boy"--Cambridge in the Field--Village Batsmen--Old Everlasting makes One--The Squire--An Invitation--Lord Godolphin is Interested--An Uphill Game--Young Pa'son--The Winning Hit

"Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again! Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle--and I've too many--is filled with dust; and my wig--plague on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat. Look at it--whew!"

My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, and shook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse of one of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excuse for his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of glorious weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other English highways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumn rains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. The Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked, with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, every day of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, now nearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had he been a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had he been of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; but being near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in his private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perils of footpads and highwaymen.

It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begun to acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey to London that day.

"Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider on the off-side.

"Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenue yonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and the village here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord."

"Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles. My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but she must e'en be content to wait. Time was----eh, my boy?--but now, egad, I'll not kill myself for her or any woman."

"'Twould be a calamity--for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin with a grin.

"So it would, i' faith. Never fear, Frank, I'll not make way for you for ten years to come. But what's afoot yonder? A fair, eh?"

The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sight of the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind the church, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned, broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and bounded in the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord's exclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met his eyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were ranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from the humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some county magnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a crowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betoken incidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldness and reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keen sportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a sword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss to him; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes lit up with an anticipation vastly different from his air of weary discontent.

"Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual with him; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us up. John," he added to the postilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening you find in the ring. Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make an afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger, come what may."

The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drove with many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehicles until they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a dray heaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to the crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiously towards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, for beyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed to the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front of the church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched--very primitive compared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumps were two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing had been done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby, with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong. There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there any uniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings and pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in their shirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth.

"Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, and something in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game was at a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was to receive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall, loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easy confidence.

"Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "I knew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who's the bowler? I don't know him."

The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair, not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left hand.

"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!" he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by the rope, "how stands the score?"

The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied:

"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'ready twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out."

"Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the ball--underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground, pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual--the village smith. He, bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision and disappointment.

"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner, running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two notches in the scoring stick.

Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upon their enjoyment.

Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had.

"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a most teasing twist; capital, capital!"

"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?"

"Not I, i' faith. 'Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I'll drink a glass of cider here and wait your return."

There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lord a brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquor touched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was at least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave it back he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one hand upon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough three-legged stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and the rope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun; his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still a brightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespoke health and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hat and wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked placidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear, for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to get refreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then Lord Godolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage and went towards the veteran.

"Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?"

The old man looked up.

"Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med think me too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall be eighty-one, and I ha'n't a wamblen tooth in my head--not one, old as I be. A man's as old as he feels, says my boy--one o' the wise sayens he has: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive year neither."

"By George! I wish I could say the same. What's the match, gaffer?"

"Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye this' and 'I'll lay ye that' in these days. I don't know the rights on't, but 'tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire's.--Do 'ee know Squire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire's son be hot wi' his tongue, and at this same supper--I tell 'ee as I yeard it--he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he'd bring eleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our village players at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said. Master Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come about. The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on 'em; our folks, as your honour med see, be just or'nary folks in the main: there's Long Robin the tanner and Lumpy the smith--he that turned topsy-turvy a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlasten they calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay, a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own. And there be Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk; and the only gentry among 'em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa'son's son, and he don't count for gentry wi' some. Do 'ee know pa'son? a good man, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son Rochester, and stands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do--a right good man is pa'son, ay sure. And his son Harry--well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'm main fond of the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken too, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a deal o' he. Why, 'twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t' last man from Cambridge college.--There, my old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?"

"Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson's son, eh? Bred for a parson too, I suppose?"

"He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He said to me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me when I go up to Oxford?' He be gwine come October, a' believe. 'Twas at Oxford college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll put on the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat better. But he'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless 'ee, Pa'son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a'n't afeard o' Squire. I be afeard o' Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it. Ah! he's a hard man, is Squire. A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause he wouldn't be his chaplain--goo up t' hall an' say grace and eat the mutton and turmuts, an' come away wi'out pudden. Wi'out pudden!--I wouldn't goo wi'out pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancy for pa'son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of this common land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi'out mind; and pa'son stood up to 'n, and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agen the law, an' he had the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up in Lun'on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor' bless 'ee, Squire be as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for judges; he ups and 'peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an' Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take a time for her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the matter; her don't know pa'son so well as we."

"Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word for him," said my lord jestingly.

The old man stared.

"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said slowly.

"I? Oh--well, I have care of the Queen's purse."

"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight or squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o' the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man--ay, gone eighty year. I was born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ell was the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather, true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty year back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life when Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be sure; ay, that 'tis."

Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagers approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled affectionately.

"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the year afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."

The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:

"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May, Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away. For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin', But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'. For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut; And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut."

"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill lead un into bad company in the days o' his youth. He _will_ sing 'Sir Simon the King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as we marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.--Boy, doff your hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.--Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an' speritual songs in my time, as the Book says."

"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin. "Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows his own child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to bad courses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready for churchyard--bean't 'ee, dad?"

"Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy."

"May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin, coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd.

My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day, in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man.

"I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert.

"My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with a startled look. "My lard,--an' I ha'n't even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your cap to my lard! And the Book says, 'They shall stand afore princes', and I'm a-sitten!"

The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff, but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down.

"Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I am pleased to have met one of Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and I hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."

He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned to his carriage. The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men were already taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred was higher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerly discussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothing of the other side's bowling powers, but as they compared notes on the various merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in the mouth.

The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were Old Everlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled by Gilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of the four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was called. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very red hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat in a nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of the crowd.

"Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan't be afeard, man."

"Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for the barber's attentions.

Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the other end. The ball came towards him--a slow, tempting lob that was too easy to let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to the bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced little barber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!--a bad beginning for Winton St. Mary.

Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning up his sleeves--a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick as most men's thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle the bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use that was to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil. Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his left hand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not to be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for the ball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicular blow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. The Cambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, and Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ball of the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completely round as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it high over long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovered until he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of the over thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed upon the spectators with his usual smug smile.

Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him; if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out every time with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover his balance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls that fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bow leg's, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail was promptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven.

After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that the villagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball, and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather the ball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of his own--one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took down every week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit a ball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to his cronies that another week's greasing would have prevented the accident. Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himself came in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom he was very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the match and the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. He snicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intense enthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring his first notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all the runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra from an overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the best batsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind. There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waited in glum silence for the next man to appear.

"Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squire a-comen down-along by covert fence?"

"True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes 'ee've got, for a old ancient soul! 'Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and the Cap'n wi' un."

Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered at the three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in semi-military garb--a feathered hat, long red coat marked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, and spurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent and blood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt. The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity of foppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned a full auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoat purple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk was tucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockings were of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles. In Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttons of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane.

The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall and thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows that ill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as he moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. His dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man must have resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second's time.

"Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "The rascals there avoid him as he had the plague."

"On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow with him might stand for Bobadil himself."

"Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play."

"And the young sprig wants a kicking."

"Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "'tis old Squire, and young Squire, and---- No, I won't say 't; a wise head keeps a still tongue; I won't say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air med carry it where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner o' good."

The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way for the new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his two companions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few vehement words in a low tone that no one else could hear. Captain Ralph Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across the common towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance for a moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came to within a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage.

"Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound bow, copied with elaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voice that set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground, and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship."

"I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.----"

"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to offer your lordship a cover at my table--poor country fare, I fear, but such as it is, freely at your lordship's disposal."

"'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not permit us to accept of your hospitality.--Ah! I perceive the next batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you're as keen a sportsman as I am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game."

Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment's irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two, gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away sucking it.

The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than forty-five.

"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin.

"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?"

"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake," said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?"

"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly."

"A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as he bowls?"

"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a deal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But there, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as you med say."

"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a pretty lad. Gi' un a cheer, souls."

"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say."

"True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n't think it. Well!"

But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new batsman's honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the bowler.

The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip in the village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patient wariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with a respectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style. He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after another excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The first ball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps alone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, saw his lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly gleam--and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler's head, passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on the point of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a "Mind old Squire, feyther o' mine."

"Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I could do a bit o' cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine."

Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily to Harry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope among the crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut to his credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and Harry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till the fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus to the wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators by driving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score had risen to sixty-three.

"'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harry has'n clear an' steady. Ay sure, a' would ha' made a good captain for Noll Crum'ell; if so be he's a pa'son, all the use he can make o' his eye, 'twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard."

But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. Old Everlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a new bowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops were placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll, rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to the tent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit of this was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ball missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called his partner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second run he was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This he hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partner was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptly run out after one run had been scored.

Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five--thirty-five behind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable in the crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and there was general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsman was a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about the village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence.

"A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits, souls."

Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was never seen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy to do just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how to obey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground he remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hitting when it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose by ones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of the spectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Every hit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa'son" added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal and opposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game. Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in one another's way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly and confidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a full pitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler's head, and brought the total to a hundred and two.

The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away. Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the tent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous victory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was with difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of his stick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation:

"A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!"

"By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is a lad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a sportsman an he lives long enough. Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the Lord Treasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we'll drive on."

He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off. Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash.

"Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen's purse, my lads, mighty fine! There be a power o' these same shinen bright ones in the Queen's purse; eh, lads?"

A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group around old Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin's carriage had broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging, and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull was left to himself.

*Chapter II*

*Sherebiah Shouts*

An Angling Story--Old Izaak--Landed--Breakfast--Marlborough's Smile--The Story of a Potticary--Dosed--On the Horizon--Highwaymen--A Man of Peace--Behind the Scenes--Nos Duo--Promises--Black John Simmons--Sherebiah is Troubled

"'Tis here or hereabouts, baten years ha'n't tooken my memory. True, feyther o' mine calls me boy, and so I be to a old aged man like him; but when a man's comen on forty-four, and ha' seen summat o' the world--well,

"'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble; 'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care, An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'

Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so!"

Sherebiah sighed, but the sigh ill became his round, jolly face; it was merely to chime with the words of the song. He was walking, about six o'clock on the morning after the cricket-match, along the bank of a little hill-stream, rod in hand, yet not expecting to halt for a while, for he took no pains to moderate his voice. He was not alone. His companion was the youth who had won the match for Winton St. Mary on the previous day--Harry Rochester, the parson's son. Each carried a rod--the huge clumsy rod of those days, nearly seventeen feet in length; each was laden with wallet, landing-net, and other apparatus; and in fact they had already had an hour's sport with ground-bait, having risen from their beds soon after three on this ideal angler's morning. A haze lay over the ground, and a light rain was falling.

Sherebiah was several yards ahead, scanning the banks. His voice sank a little as he repeated the lines:

"'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care, An' care, an' money, an' trouble."

"Cheer up!" said Harry, behind him. "I like the second verse best, Sherry:

"'But we'll take no care when the weather proves fair, Nor will we vex now though it rain--

He was interrupted by the sudden halt of Sherebiah. The man had swung round; his lips were shot out in the motion of shooing, a warning finger was held up. Harry's voice died away, and he hastened to his companion's side.

"Yonder's the spot," said Sherebiah in a whisper, pointing to a large pool, shaded with willows, some thirty yards ahead. "Mum's the word! They be sharp-eared, they trouts. 'Tis there I took ten lusty nibblers, ten year agoo come Michaelmas. Faith, 'twas all I could do to carry 'em; ay, and I shouldn' ha' got 'em home but for Tom Dorrell, t' carrier from Salisbury, who came trundlen along in his wagon. He be dead an' gone, poor soul, as must we all."

"And what did you do with them?" asked Harry with a smile.

Sherebiah was famous for his angling stories, and they had perhaps as much foundation as most. No one in the country-side knew the ways of the trout as he did; but he was equally at home in trolling for jack or pike, roving for perch, and sniggling for eels. None could match his knowledge of the flies in their several seasons: the hour of the day at which each is most killing; the merits of the silver twist hackle and the lady-fly, whether for dapping or whipping; when to use the black gnat, when the blue; under what conditions of the evening sky the shyest trout will rise to a red spinner. And who could tie a fly like Sherebiah Minshull? Many a time Harry had examined his rich store of materials--as varied as the contents of a witch's cauldron: feathers of every bird that flies, manifold silks and wires and hooks, wax and needles, hog's down and squirrel's fur. Many a time had he watched him dress a fly and thread a bait, and admired his dexterous whipping of the streams.

"What did I do wi' 'em?" Sherebiah had sat down with legs far apart, and was carefully selecting a fly from his case. He spoke always in a whisper. "Well, 'tis ten year since, and my memory bean't what it was; but now I mind on't, I gi' one to Tom carrier for his lift, and a couple to miller up by Odbury, and one to Susan Poorgrass at Sir Godfrey's--I was a-courten then; her wouldn't ha' me, thank the Lord!--and a couple to Ned Greenhay, Sir Godfrey's keeper as was, for a brace o' leverets; and to please feyther o' mine I took three up to the Hall. Zooks! and small thanks I got, for old Squire hisself come to the door, and gi' me a douse, he did; said if I didn't find summat better to do than go traipsen the country-side, poachen or wuss, he'd commit me for a rogue and vagabond. An' th' old curmudgeon kept the fish; ay, he did so!--Ah! ha' got it; 'tis a fly that cost me more time in the maken than a dozen others; a beauty, to be sure; eh, Master Harry?"

He proceeded to put it on his hook. It was an artificial oak-fly, blue, green, brown, and orange so cunningly mingled that no trout could fail to be deceived.

"We'll now see some sport," continued Sherebiah, still in a whisper, as he prepared to cast. "I can't abide bait-fishen; sport, i' faith! 'tis mere bludgeon-play. True, it fills the pot, but there's no pleasure in 't. 'Tis no pastime for a true bob."

"Why, Sherry, 'twas only yestere'en I was reading in a most excellent book of angling by Master Izaak Walton, and he, it seems, held little to the fly. His discourse is in the main of bait."

"Why, there 'tis. I met Master Walton once, a-fishen in the Itchen above Winchester--a quaint man, with a good breast for a song, for all he was ripe for the grave. Myself I was but twenty or so, he a man of fourscore and upward; ay, a fine hale old man, wi' a store o' memories. We fell into talk; a' told me how a' once rid to Lunnon wi' a rich jewel o' King Charles's in his doublet; ay, he was a royal man, wi' a jolly red face, but no harm in un, not a whit; and learned, too--but no angler. No, faith, no angler, for a' talked o' fishen down stream, a' did, when ne'er a child but knows fish lie wi' their heads up stream. Ye cotch fish as 'ee do Frenchmen, from behind! Now, hook's ready. Mum, Master Harry, while I cast."

He dropped his fly deftly into the still pool, watching it with keen eyes and pursed lips. Meanwhile Harry had chosen an orle fly, and made his cast a little lower down. The anglers were silent for some minutes.

"What's that?" asked Harry suddenly, looking up as a distant sound of wood-chopping reached his ears.

"Mum, boy!" whispered Sherebiah in reply. "There, I beg pardon, Master Harry, but you've scared away a samlet just as he opened his jaws. That? 'Tis Simon forester, belike, fellen Sir Godfrey's timber. Now, a still tongue----"

He broke off, rose, and followed his line stealthily for a yard or two. The surface of the water was disturbed, and Harry caught a glimpse of a gleaming side. There was a splash; the rod bent; then Sherebiah hastened his steps as the fish went away with a rush.

"He's a-showen fight," whispered Sherry. "Whoa! he's sounded, Master Harry; a big un. Pray the tackle may hold! Ah! he's clear, and off again! Whoa! whoa! Nay, my pretty, 'ee may fight, but I'll land 'ee."

For ten minutes the contest continued; then the angler got in his line slowly, and beckoned to Harry to assist him. The fish was carefully drawn in; Harry stooped with his net at the critical moment, and with a sudden heave landed a fine four-pounder, which he slipped into Sherebiah's creel.

"That's the way on't, Master Harry," said Sherebiah contentedly. "Had no luck yourself, eh? What be 'ee a-fishen wi'?"

"An orle."

"Ah, 'tis an hour or two too early in the day for that, mebbe. Still, these waters of Sir Godfrey bean't often fished since young Master Godfrey went to Cambridge college, and the trout mayn't be over squeamish. Stick to 't!"

An hour passed, and both anglers were well satisfied. Sherebiah's fly proved irresistible, either from its cunning make or the wary skill with which he whipped the stream. Four fat trout had joined the first in his basket; two had rewarded Harry's persistence; then he laid down his rod and watched with admiration the delicate casts of his companion. Sherebiah landed his sixth. The haze having now disappeared, and the sun growing hot, he wound up his line and said:

"Rain afore seven, fine afore 'leven. I be mortal peckish, Master Harry; what may 'ee have in your basket, now?"

"Powdered beef, I think, Sherry; and Polly put in a cate or two and some radishes, and a bottle of cider; plain fare, you see."

"Well, hunger's the best saace, I b'lieve. We poor folks don't need to perk up our appetites. I warrant, now, that mighty lord we saw yesterday would turn up his nose at powdered beef. Fine kickshawses a' had at Sir Godfrey's, no doubt. To think o' such a mighty lord, the Queen's purse-bearer an' all, bein' kept in a little small village by rust or dry-rot, just like a ordinary man! Old Squire would ha' liked to gi' him a bed, I reckon; but Sir Godfrey were aforehand, an' there he lies till this mornen: axle was to be mended by six, if Lumpy had to work all night to finish the job. Med I axe 'ee a question, Master Harry? Do 'ee think that shinen piece a' flung to feyther were his own, or out o' Queen's purse?"

Harry laughed.

"Lord Godolphin doesn't go about the country with the Queen's purse slung at his waist, Sherry. What he meant was that he was Lord Treasurer, the Queen's chief minister, the man who rules the country, you know."

"Well, now, if I didn't think it'd be folly to carry the Queen's purse loose about the country! Then 'tis Lord Godolphin says we're to fight the French?"

"Yes, he and my lord Marlborough between them."

"Ah! there 'tis. My lord Marlborough bean't free with his money like t'other lord. _He_ wouldn't ha' given old feyther o' mine nothen. Why, I was at Salisbury in '88 when my lord--Lord Churchill he was then, to be sure--was there to meet King Willum, and I held his horse for 'n, and he gi' me--what do 'ee think he gi' me, Master Harry?"

"Well?"

"Nowt but a smile! What med 'ee think o' that for a lord? 'Thank 'ee, my man,' says he, and puts his foot in the stirrup and shows his teeth at me, and rides off! Lord! Now t'other one, the Lord Godolphin, he is a lord, to be sure, a fine free-handed gentleman, though he ha'n't got such fine teeth. I like a lord to be a lord, I do."

"My lord Marlborough is indeed rather close-fisted, they say."

"Ay, but I ha' knowed a wuss. Did ever I tell 'ee of Jacob Spinney the potticary? I was a growen lad, and feyther o' mine wanted to put me to a trade. So he bound me prentice to Jacob Spinney, that kept a potticary's shop by Bargate at S'thampton. Zooks! Jacob was a deceiver, like his namesake in the Book. A' promised feyther he'd gi' me good vittles and plenty on 'em, bein' a growen lad; but sakes, I never got no meat save at third boilen; 'twas like eatin' leather. A' said I was growen too fast, a' did, and he'd keep me down. Pudden--I never put my lips to pudden for two year, not once. I took down shutters at zix i' the mornen, and put 'em up at eight o' nights; betwixt and between I was pounden away at drugs, and carryen parcels, and scrubben floors and nussen mistress' babby: ay, what med 'ee think o' that? If so happened I broke a bottle, or overslept five minutes--oons! there was master a-strappen me to a hook in the wall he kept o' purpose, and layen a birch over my shoulders and keepen me on bread and water or turmuts not fit for a ox. I dwindled crossways to a shadder, Master Harry, I did so, and every week th' old villain made me write a letter to feyther, sayen as how I was fat and flourishen like a green bay tree. Do what a' would, however, I growed and growed, at fourteen a long slip of a feller all arms and legs. Two mortal year I put up wi' un; then I got tired. One day, mistress was out, and I was rollen pills in the little back shop, when master come in. He was in a terrible passion, goodness alone knows what about. He pitched into me for wasten his drugs and eatin' up all his profits, and hit me with his cane, and sent me spinnen agen the table, and knocked off his best chiney mortar, and there 'twas on the floor, smashed to atomies. Bein' his own doen, it made his temper wuss, it did, and he caught me by the hair and said he'd skin me. I' fecks, I were always a man o' peace, even as a boy, but I'd had long sufferen enough, and now my peaceful blood was up. I wriggled myself free--and there he was, flat on the floor, and me a-sitten on him. He hollered and cussed, for all he was a Puritan; and, haven respect unto my neighbours, I stuffed a handkercher into his mouth. There I sits, a-thinken what to do wi' un. 'Twas in for a penny in for a pound wi' me then; I'd have to run, 'dentures or no 'dentures, and it seemed fair to have my pen'orth afore I went. There was that hook I knowed so well, and that strap hangen still and loose: 'I'll gi' un a taste o' the birch he be so uncommon fond on,' thinks I. So I hoists un up, and soon has un strapped ready; but looken at un I thinks to myself: 'You be a poor wamblen mortal arter all, skinny for all the pudden you eat. I'll ha' mercy on your poor weak flesh.' Besides, I had another notion. So I casts un loose and sits un on a chair and straps un to chair-back, hands to sides.

"You med have heard of Jacob Spinney's famous mixture for pimples? Well, 'twas knowed all over Hants and Wilts. 'Twas a rare sight o' market days to see the farmers' wives a-troopen into the shop for bottles o' the mixture. But th' odd thing was, Spinney hisself was owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un take a dose o' his own firm cure. 'I pity 'ee,' says I to un, as he sat strapped to the chair; 'poor feller, wi' all those pimples. Shall have a dose, poor soul.' Many's the bottle I'd made up: 'twas brimstone and powder o' crab and gentian root in syrup. Well, I mixed a dose all fresh afore his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and slipped the handkercher out o' his mouth and the dose in. The ungrateful feller spets it out and begins to holler again; so in goes the handkercher, and says I: 'Ye don't know what's for your own good. Bean't it tasty enough? Ah, Master Spinney, often and often 'ee've physicked me; what's good for me without pudden will be better for 'ee with; you shall have a dose.' So I made un a dose o' senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in he had his teeth clinched tight. But I hadn't nussed the babby for nothen. I ups with finger and thumb and pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath, and in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller, he did.

"Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish days. I bean't so fond o' pudden now. Not but what they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a world o' good, for his next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen into his master's business when he was laid in churchyard. _I_ got no good on 'em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try another line o' life, and ha' been a rollen-stone ever since. Ay well, 'tis all one to a man o' peace."

During his narrative the breakfast had been finished.

"Well, Sherry, when I'm out of sorts I'll come to you," said Harry, rising. "Now, while you pack up, I'll go a stroll up the hillside; there'll be a good view now the day is clearing, and maybe I'll get a glimpse of Salisbury spire."

He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle ascent, which gradually became steeper until it terminated somewhat suddenly in a stretch of level ground. Fifty yards from the edge rose a long grassy mound, a well-known landmark in the neighbourhood. It was, in fact, a barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages--the burial place, perhaps, of British warriors who had fought and fallen in defence of their country against the Roman invader. Harry had always felt a romantic interest in these memorials of the past, and more than once had stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer night, while his imagination called up visions of far-off forgotten things.

He sat down now with his back to the mound, and allowed his eyes to rove over the prospect. Tradition said that three counties were visible from this elevated spot, and on a clear morning like this it seemed likely enough that report said true. Far to the left, peeping over the bare contour of Harnham Hill, rose the graceful spire of Salisbury Cathedral, at least fifteen miles away as the crow flies. His eye followed the winding course of the little stream below him, losing it here and there behind some copse or knoll, tracing it again to its junction with a larger stream, till this in its turn was lost to view amid the distant elm-bordered meadows. Nearer at hand he saw the old Roman road, grass-grown and silent now, bounding the park of Sir Godfrey Fanshawe, crossing the stream by an ancient bridge, and running into the London road at some invisible point to the right. It was a very pleasing prospect, brilliant beneath the cloudless sky, and freshened by the early morning showers.

As he looked along the forsaken highway, once trodden perhaps by the legions of Constantine the Great, his glance was momentarily arrested by a small moving speck in the distance. "Some wagon from one of Sir Godfrey's home farms," he thought. It was approaching him, for it passed out of sight into a clump of trees, then reappeared, and was again hidden by an intercepting ridge. The road was downhill; in fifteen or twenty minutes, perhaps, the wagon would pass beneath him, at a point nearly three-quarters of a mile away, where the highway skirted a belt of trees perched on the side of a steep declivity. Between him and the road lay a ditch which, as he knew, was apt in winter-time to overflow on to the meadows and the lower parts of the track, making a sticky swamp of the chalky soil. But it was dry now, and the floodings were only indicated by the more vivid green of the grass and the tall reeds that filled the hollow on this side. On the other side a strong stone wall edged the road, marking the boundary of Sir Godfrey's park; it was overhung with elms, from which at this moment Harry saw a congregation of rooks soar away.

Thus idly scanning the roadway, all at once his eye lit upon the figure of a horseman half concealed by the belt of reeds in the hollow. He was motionless; his back was towards Harry, his horse's head pointing towards the road, from which he was completely screened by the reeds and the willows.

"What is he doing there?" thought Harry. He rose, and walked towards the edge of the descent. Narrowly scanning the brake, he now descried two other horsemen within a few yards of the first, but so well concealed that but for his quickened curiosity he would probably never have discovered them. For all he knew, there might be others. "What is their game?" His suspicion was aroused; the vehicle he had seen approaching was perhaps not a wagon; it might be a chaise belonging to Sir Godfrey; it might be---- "Why, 'tis without a doubt Lord Godolphin himself on his way to London, and coming by the shortest cut." There was no need for further speculation; in those days the inference was sure: a carriage in the distance, a party of horsemen lurking in a copse by the roadside---- "'Tis highway robbery--ah! the Queen's purse!"

Harry unconsciously smiled at the thought. His first impulse was to warn the approaching travellers. But the carriage was at present out of sight; he could not make signals, and before he could reach the stretch of road between the ambuscade and their prey, the travellers would certainly be past, while he himself might be seen by the waiting horsemen, and headed off as he crossed a tract of open country. Moving downwards all the time, he in a flash saw all that it was possible to do. The stream passed under the roadway some twenty yards beyond the spot where the horsemen were lying in wait; the banks were reedy, and might screen an approach to the copse beyond the wall. There was a bare chance, and Harry took it.

He raced downhill towards Sherebiah, who was sitting on the bank still, placidly smoking his pipe; landscape had no charm for him.

"Sherry," said Harry in jerks, "Lord Godolphin or someone is driving down the road; highwaymen hiding in the reeds; in five or six minutes--come, come, we have no time to lose."

"Then we'll go home along," said Sherry, putting his pipe in his pocket as he rose.

"Nonsense! we can't slink away and leave them to be robbed." Harry took Sherry by the arm to drag him along.

"What be the good? Fishen-rods bean't no match for pistols, and bein' a man o' peace----"

"Come, I can't wait. I'll go alone, then."

He released the man's arm and stepped into the stream. Sherebiah hesitated for a moment; then, seeing that Harry was in earnest, he dropped his tackle and strode forward, saying:

"Zooks, not if I knows it! I'm a man o' peace, sure enough, but fairplay's a jewel. Have at the villains!"

He followed Harry into the water. Side by side they raced on, dodging the weeds, scrambling over occasional rocks, slipping on the chalky bottom, making at top speed for the bridge. As they approached this they went more slowly, to avoid being heard. Fortunately, at the point where the road crossed the stream there was a line of rocks, over which the water plunged with a rustle and clatter, drowning the sound of their footsteps. They had to stoop low to avoid the moss-grown masonry of the arch; as they emerged on the farther side they heard a muffled exclamation from one of the horsemen, and climbing the steep face of the tree-covered slope towards the wall they heard a shot, then another, mingled with shouts and the dull thuds of horses' hoofs on the turf-covered road.

On the way Harry had explained his plan in panting whispers. Running along now under cover of the wall, they came opposite to the scene of the ambush.

"Now, Sherry, do your best," said Harry, as he prepared to mount the wall.

Instantly a new clamour was added to the uproar in the road.

"This way!"

"Shoot 'em!"

"Lash the noddy peaks!"

"Pinch their thropples!"

"Quoit 'em down!"

"Haick! haick!"

By this time Harry was on the wall, by favour of Sherebiah's strong arm. A slug whizzed past his head and sank with a thud into the trunk of a tree just behind; next moment the horse-pistol from which it had been discharged followed the shot, the butt grazing Harry's brow. There was no time to take in the details of the scene. Harry made a spring for the masked horseman who had fired at him, two yards from the wall; but the fellow, alarmed by the various shouts and the sudden appearance of Sherebiah at Harry's side, dug the spurs into his steed's flanks and galloped off down the road, over the bridge, and out of sight. One of his companions lay motionless on the road; the others had ridden away at the first alarm from the wall.

Harry mopped his brow and looked about him. Lord Godolphin stood upright in the carriage, his lips grimly set, a smoking pistol in his hand. His son was on foot with drawn sword; a postilion was crawling out of the ditch all bemired, pale and trembling.

"Odzooks!" cried my lord, "a welcome diversion!"

[Illustration: Harry makes a Diversion]

He was perfectly cool and collected, though his hat was off and his wig awry. "A thousand thanks, my men. Whew! 'twas in the nick of time. Where are the rest of you?"

"There are no more, my lord," said Harry, lifting his cap.

"No more! But the shouts, then?--I heard a dozen shouting, at least. Are the rest on the other side of the wall?"

"All on this side, my lord," said Harry with a smile. "Here is the mob."

He indicated Sherebiah, who touched his cap and bobbed to his lordship.

Godolphin stared, then chuckled and guffawed.

"Egad! 'tis a rare flam. Frank, this fellow here did it all, shouted for a dozen; by George, 'twas a mighty neat trick! And, by George, I know your face; I saw you yesterday, I believe! What's your name, man?"

"Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull, my lord," said Sherry, "by the water o' baptism, your honour, for I was born while old Rowley were in furren parts. If a'd been born two year arter, my lord, I med ha' been chrisomed wi' less piety."

"I remember you, and the old gaffer your father--a fine old fellow. Well, my man, your name suits me better; 'tis for us to stand up and bless, eh, Frank? And here's a guinea for you."

Sherebiah put his hands behind him and looked down at the coin in my lord's hand.

"Nay, nay, my lord," he said slowly. "True, I did the shouten, or most on't, but 'twas Master Harry his notion. Pa'son's son, you see, my lord; know'd all the holy story o' Gideon; says to me, 'Sherry,' says he, 'shout high and low, bass and tribble, give it tongue,' says he; and I gi'd it tongue, so I did."

Both gentlemen laughed heartily.

"I recognize you now," said my lord, turning to Harry, who looked somewhat embarrassed. "Surely you are the hero of yesterday's cricket match? You swing a straight bat, my lad, and, stap me! you've a quick wit if you devised this late surprise. How came you on the scene?"

"We'd been fishing yonder, my lord, and I chanced to spy your carriage and the villains waiting here, almost at the same time. It was clear what they were about, and as there was no time to warn you we came along the stream, and--Sherry shouted."

His smile as he said the last words met an answering smile on Lord Godolphin's face.

"A mighty clever trick indeed--eh, Frank? We're beholden to you. 'Twas a mere chance that I sent my mounted escort on ahead by the highway to arrange a change of horses, never thinking to be waylaid at this time o' day."

"Ay, 'twas the Queen's purse, my lord," struck in Sherebiah. "To know Queen's purse-bearer were a-comen along old road like a common mortal, 'twere too much for poor weak flesh and blood."

"The ignorant bumpkins mistook your meaning," said Frank.

"So it appears. But come, you're the parson's son, I believe. I forget your name?"

"Harry Rochester, my lord."

"Going to be a parson yourself, eh?"

"I am going up to Oxford in October, my lord; my father wishes me to take orders."

"Ah! And your own wish, eh?"

Harry hesitated.

"Come, out with it, my lad."

"I had thought, my lord, I should like to carry the Queen's colours; but 'tis a vain thought; my father's living is small, and----"

"And commissions in the Queen's army sell high. 'Tis so, indeed. Well, I heard something of your father last night at Sir Godfrey's; you can't do better than follow his example. And hark 'ee, if ever you want a friend, when you've taken your degrees, you know, come and see me; I owe you a good turn, my lad; and maybe I'll have a country vicarage at my disposal."

"Thank you, my lord!"

"And now we must get on. Dickory, you coward, help these two friends of ours to remove that tree. The villains laid their ambush well; you see they felled this larch at an awkward part of the road."

"And I thowt 'twas Simon forester a-choppen," said Sherebiah, as he walked towards the tree.

"What shall we do with this ruffian on the road?" said Frank Godolphin. "He appears to be stone dead. 'Twas a good shot, sir."

"Leave the villain. You'll lay an information before Sir Godfrey or another of your magistrates, young master parson. Did you recognize any of the gang?"

"No, my lord. I only saw the masked man. Perhaps Sherry was more fortunate."

"Not me neither," said Sherebiah hastily. He had gone to the fallen man, looked in his face, and turned him over. "'Twas all too quick and sudden, and my eyes was nigh dazed wi' shouten."

"Well, well, Sir Godfrey's is near at hand; go and inform him, and he will scour the country. We must push on."

The tree was removed; the bedraggled and crestfallen postilions resumed their saddles, and with a parting salutation my lord drove off. Harry stood looking thoughtfully after the departing carriage.

"Master Harry," said Sherebiah, coming up to him, "this be a bad business. The man bean't dead."

"He's saved for the hangman, then."

"Ay, and who med 'ee think he be?"

"You do know him, then! What does this mean, Sherry?"

"Well, I be a man o' peace, and there's mischief to come o' this day's piece o' work, sure as I'm Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless. 'Tis black John Simmons, Cap'n Aglionby's man."

"A scoundrel his master may well be rid of."

"Ay, if the man were dead! But he be alive; the lord didn't shoot'n at all; 'a fell off his horse and bashed his nob; an' he's got a tongue, Master Harry."

"Well, what then? If he rounds on his fellows, so much the better. What are you afraid of, Sherry?"

"I bean't afeard, not I; but the Cap'n----"

He paused, and Harry looked at him enquiringly. Sherebiah turned away.

"Ah! little sticks kindle fires, little sticks kindle fires, they do."

*Chapter III*

*Master and Man*

A Midnight Summons--A Warm Reception--Righteous Indignation--Aglionby Retorts--The Berkeley Arms--A Village Sensation--The Constable's Story--Aspersions--Unimpeachable References--Waylaid--Squaring Accounts--The Captain Rides Away

The clock of St. Mary's church had just chimed the first quarter after midnight, and the deep note of the lowest bell was dying away over the tree-tops, when the sound was intercepted by the distant clink and clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the hard road, approaching from the direction of Salisbury. The horse's pace was slow, and there was something in the fall of the hoofs that betokened a jaded steed. It was a clear calm night; the air carried every sound distinctly; and nothing broke the stillness save the footfalls of the horse, an occasional murmur from the birds in the trees, and the whirr of wings as a solitary owl, disturbed by the nocturnal rider, left its search for food and rustled back to its nook in the tower.

The horseman came presently to the church, wheeled round to the right, and urged his flagging beast along the road leading to the manor house. Arriving at the park, he flung himself from the saddle, hitched the bridle over his left arm, and turned the handle of the massive iron gate. But there was no yielding to his push: the gate was locked. The man shook and rattled the handle impatiently, to assure himself that he was not mistaken, then turned aside with an inarticulate rumble of anger, and went to the lodge, a low ivy-grown cottage abutting on the road. He tapped on the small latticed window with the butt of his riding-whip; there was no reply. The horse by his side hung its head and breathed heavily; it was jaded to the point of exhaustion. Again he rapped on the glass, growling between his teeth; and when his summons still met with no response he dealt so smart a blow that one of the thick square panes fell in with a crash. A moment later a voice was heard from within.

"Away wi' 'ee! Who be you, a-breaken an honest man's rest at this fearsome time o' night?"

A night-capped head appeared at the hole, just visible in the faint illumination of the clear summer sky.

"Open the gate, Dick," said the rider impatiently. "Ods my life, will you keep me waiting here, will you?"

"Be it you, Cap'n?"

"Zounds, man, must I tell you my name? Ha' ye never seen me before! Stir your old stumps, or by the lord Harry----"

"Squire give orders t' gate were to be locked and kep' locked; not a man to come in, not a soul. They's my orders, ay sure, Cap'n."

"Orders! orders!" cried the other in a burst of passion. "Adslidikins, if you're not at the gate with the key inside of two minutes I'll put a slug through your jolt head, you mumper, you miching rogue you!"

And indeed Captain Aglionby displayed a monstrous blunderbuss, and pointed it full in the face of the scared lodge-keeper. For an instant the man hesitated; then, muttering to himself, he disappeared from the window, and soon afterwards emerged from the side door within the palings, his night-gown showing beneath a heavy driving coat. He came towards the gate with the key--a bent old man, tottering and mumbling.

"I shall lose my place; Squire give orders, a' did, not a soul to come in; to drag a aged man from his nat'ral sleep an' lose him his place an' all; well, I was forced; no man can zay as I warn't forced; mumper as I be, I vallies my little bit o' life, and----"

"Hold your tongue, you old flap-eared dotard, and make haste, or I'll pink your soul. Don't you see the jade's dead-beat; 'tis time I stabled her."

The man turned the key and slowly opened the gate. With a grunt the captain led his horse through, and, without so much as a glance at the lodge-keeper, proceeded up the quarter-mile drive leading to the house.

"Old Nick's not abed," he said to himself as he cast his eye over the house front. A light shone from a window in the turret over the porch. "The old nightbird! Lock me out! Oons!"

He threw the bridle over an iron post at the side of the entrance, and walked round a projecting wing of the building till he came to a small door in the wall. He turned the iron ring, pushed, rattled; the door was fast shut. Cursing under his breath, he was proceeding towards the servants' quarters when he heard the creak of a key turning, and, wheeling round, came to the postern just as it was opened by Squire Berkeley himself, his tall, lean, bent figure enwrapped from neck to heel in a black cassock-like garment, a skull-cap of black velvet covering his head. He held a lighted candle; his piercing eyes flashed in the darkness.

"Hey, Squire!" cried the captain in a tone of forced good-humour, "I had much ado to rouse old Dick. 'Tis late to be sure; but if you'll give me the key of the stables I'll settle Jenny for the night and get to bed."

He made as if to enter, but Mr. Berkeley spread himself across the narrow doorway.

"Who are you, sirrah," he said, "to break into my park against my express orders?"

There was contempt in his cold incisive tones, and anger with difficulty curbed.

"Why now----" Aglionby began.

"Who are you, I say? And what am I, that my orders are defied, and my house made a common inn, a toping house for you and your toss-pot ruffians? Go--go, I say!"

The captain was for a moment staggered; the old man's manner left no room for doubt that he was in earnest. But Aglionby was too old a campaigner to cry off so easily. In a tone half-conciliatory, half-aggrieved he said--

"Fair and softly, Squire! this is but scurvy treatment of a tired man. Look you, I've been in the saddle this livelong day; the mare's well-nigh foundered; and for myself--gads so, I could eat an ox and drink a hogshead. To-morrow, in a few hours, I'll bid ye good-bye--for a time, if ye want a change; but to-night--no, Squire, 'tis not hospitable of you, 'tis not indeed."

"You dally with me!" cried the squire, the hand that held the candle shaking with passion. "You set no foot within this door--now, nor ever again. Begone, while there is time."

"While there is time! Look ye, Master Berkeley, I will not brook insults from you. Yesterday you must put an affront on me in the presence of my lord Godolphin, shoving me out of the way as I were a leper, and at the very moment, stap me! when I might ha' paid court to his lordship, and got the chance o' my life. Adsbud, I was not good enough to approach my lord, to accost him, have speech with him----"

"An omission you have since repaired," interjected the old man with a meaning look. The captain started, and there was a perceptible interval before he resumed, in a tone still more blusterous--

"Ods my life, what mean you now? You took care I should not meet my lord in your company; and, i' faith, he showed he wanted none of that neither."

"Hold your peace and begone!" cried the squire in a fury. "You think I know nothing of your villainies? How many times have I harboured you--ay, saved you perchance from the gallows! How many times have you eat my food, rid my horses, browbeat my servants, roistered it in my house, till I could bear with you no longer, and then betaken yourself to your evil practices abroad, consorted with villains, run your neck well-nigh into the hangman's noose, and then come back with contrite face and vows of amendment, to fawn and bluster and bully again? Out upon you! Your rapscallion of a servant is even now laid by the heels, and to-morrow will have to answer to the charge of waylaying the Lord Treasurer. He's a white-livered oaf, and his tongue will wag, and you'll companion him before Fanshawe, and you'll swing on the same gibbet."

At the mention of his man's plight the captain's face had fallen; but when Mr. Berkeley's tirade was ended he broke into a laugh.

"Ha! ha! Squire, now I come to understand you. 'Tis your own skin you have a care for! Ha! ha! I might have known it. I am to be haled before Sir Godfrey, am I? and to hold my tongue, am I? and to be mum about certain little affairs in the life of Master Nicolas Berkeley--that paragon of virtue, that pampered, patched old interloper, am I? By the lord Harry, if I stand in manacles before Sir Godfrey, you shall bear me company, you painted pasteboard of a saint!"

Berkeley's pale face blanched with fury. For a moment he was incapable of speech. Then he stepped forward a pace; the hand holding the candle shook so, that the grease sputtered upon his gown. His voice came in vehement passionate whispers:

"You threaten me! Do your worst--I defy you!--Back to your wallow, bully!--begone!"

He suddenly withdrew within the doorway, slammed the door, and bolted it.

"Whew!" whistled the captain, left standing outside. "'Tis the worst passion ever I saw him in. Defies me! Well, Master Nicolas, would I could afford to take you at your word! A plague on Simmons! I thought he was dead. He'll split, sure enough, and there's an end of Ralph Aglionby. Jenny, my dear, you're a sorry jade, but you'll have to bear my carcase till we're out of harm's way. We have five or six hours before the world's astir. Do your best, my girl, and we'll cheat 'em yet."

Captain Aglionby led his tired steed down the drive to the gate, roused Dick the lodge-keeper with scant ceremony, and in a few minutes was riding slowly towards the village. As he came into the principal street, he was surprised to notice that the only inn was lit up, a most unusual circumstance at that time of night. The door stood open, and there were lights in several of the rooms on the ground floor. A feeling of apprehension seized upon him; he could not but connect these lively signs with the events of the morning, and especially with the capture of his man. Could the fellow have blabbed already? He was just making up his mind to spur the mare past the inn, over the bridge, on to the London road, when two persons came to the door and caught sight of him. One was Mistress Joplady, the buxom hostess; the other William Nokes, the village constable. It was too late to evade them: indeed he heard the hostess exclaim, "Well, I never! 'tis the Cap'n hisself, sure." Resolving like a wise man to make the best of it, he rode up to the door, dismounted, and, swaggering, with his usual air of assurance said:

"Egad, mistress, I'm glad to find you afoot. My mare's dead-beat, has carried me nigh forty miles this day; send Tom ostler to stable her, like a good soul; and give me a bite and a bed. I didn't care about disturbing the squire at this time o' night."

The captain was no favourite with good Mistress Joplady, but she received him now with something more than her usual urbanity.

"Come away in, Cap'n Aglionby," she said. "Sure your name was in our very mouths. Strange things be doing--ay, strange things in Winton Simmary; bean't it so, William Nokes? Take the cap'n into the parlour, William; a few souls be there, Cap'n, not fit company for the likes o' you, to be sure, but they'll tell 'ee summat as'll stir your blood, they will so. Tom'll see to Jenny, so be easy."

Captain Aglionby followed the constable into the parlour, where a group of the village worthies were assembled. They were neither smoking nor drinking, a sure sign that they had something momentous to talk about. A silence fell upon the company as the captain clanked into the room, and one or two of the more active-minded of them threw a quick glance at each other, which the new-comer did not fail to note.

"A fine night, men," said the captain jovially.

"Ay, 'tis so."

"And a late hour to find the Berkeley Arms open."

"Ay, 'tis latish, sure enough."

"Any news from the army in Flanders? A post from London, eh?"

"Nay, not 'zackly that."

"Odzooks! speak up, men," cried the captain impatiently. "Why are they all mumble-chopped to-night, mistress?" he asked, turning to the hostess, who had followed him with bread and cheese and beer.

"Ah, they be pondering strange things," returned Mrs. Joplady. "Tell the cap'n all the long story, William Nokes."

The constable, fingering the hat in his hand, looked for sympathy into the stolid faces of his fellows, cleared his throat, and began:

"Cap'n, your sarvant. Eight o'clock this mornin', or mebbe nine--'twixt eight and nine, if the truth was told--comes Long Tom from the Grange, Sir Godfrey's man, as ye med know, Cap'n. Says he to me, 'Constable,' says he, 'Sir Godfrey commands 'ee as a justice o' the peace to bring your staff and irons and other engines,' says he, 'up along to Grange, wi'out remorse or delay, and arrest a prisoner in the Queen's name.' You may think what a turn it gi' me, souls, so early in the mornin'. 'Be he voilent?' says I. 'Can I arrest the villain all alone by myself?' 'Ay sure,' says he; 'there's no knowin' what a tough job 'twould be an he were sound and hearty, but he's dazed, so he be, wi' a crack in the nob, and won't give no trouble to no mortal constable, not a bit,' says he. 'A crack in the nob,' says he; didn't he, souls?"

A murmur of assent came from the group.

"So I ups and goos wi' Long Tom hotfoot to the Grange, and Tom he tells me by the way the longs and shorts on't. Seems 'twas Sherry Minshull as cracked his nob, leastways he picked un up, he and young master pa'son betwixt 'em, an' hoisted him on a cart o' Farmer Leake's, an' so carried un to Grange and laid un afore Sir Godfrey. 'Twas highway robbery, Cap'n, a-took in the very act, a-stoppen the carriage o' the high lard as come this way yesterday, or day afore, as 'ee med say, seein' 'tis mornin' now by the rights on't. And Sir Godfrey commits un, he do, dazed as he were wi' the crack in the nob, and hands un over to the law, and says, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep the knave fast in the lock-up, an' hold un till I gets word from my Lard Godolphin in Lun'on.' They be his words, Cap'n."

"Well, well, cut your story short, man. Adsheart, ye've more words than matter."

"Ay, but wait to th' end, wait to th' end," put in a voice.

"The end of a rope 'twill be, and not for one neither," added another.

The constable looked a little uncomfortable.

"So I had un fast in the lock-up, Cap'n," he went on, "and 'twas the talk o' the village all day long. Squire himself heard on't, and down he come, so he do, and bein' hisself a justice o' the peace he goos into the lock-up and zees the man, and axes un questions, not for my ears, me bein' a constable; nay, I stood guard at the door; and when Squire coom out he says to me, 'Constable,' says he, 'keep a good guard on un; he deserves hangen, ay, and his mates too.' Never seed I Squire so mad-like; 'twas 'cos it was a lard, maybe, and on his own ground, as 'ee med say."

"Ay, and nearer nor that," said a voice.

The captain put down the tankard from which he was quaffing, and glared round the faces. They were blank as the wall behind them.

"And now what'll he say?" pursued the constable. "He were mad afore, ay sure; now he'll ramp and roar worse nor the lion beast at Salisbury Fair. Ye med not believe it, Cap'n, but 'tis true for all that; the godless villain ha' dared Squire an' Sir Godfrey an' me an' all; ha' broke his bonds an' stole away, like a thief i' the night, as the Book says."

"What!" cried the captain, leaning forward and thumping the table. "Escaped, has he?"

"A' has so, like a eel off the hook."

"Ha! ha! Stap me! eels are slippery things. But 'tis a rub for you, master constable. You'll lose your place, i' faith, you will."

"Why now, it be no sin o' mine. I left un snug in lock-up, I did, door double-locked and bar up, an' went to take my forty winks like a honest poor man; an' no sooner my back turned than out skips the pris'ner, like Simon Peter in the story. There be witchcraft in't, an' that 'ee ought to know, Cap'n, seein' as the villain be your own sarvant."

"Eh, fellow?"

"Sakes alive, I thowt as 'ee knowed that all the time! Sure 'twas John Simmons, your honour's own body-slave, so to speak. An' I was main glad to see 'ee, Cap'n, 'cause now 'ee know un for what he is, 'ee'll help me to cotch un, in the Queen's name."

"Knows where he be, I'll be bound," said one of the group in a low tone. The captain sprang from his chair, ran round the table, and, before the speaker could defend himself, he caught him by the throat and hurled him to the floor.

"Zounds, loon!" he cried in a passion, "what do you mean? Will you affront me, eh? will you mouth your cursed insults to my very face? Odzooks, I'll slit your weazand, hound, and any man of you that dares a hint o' the sort, so 'ware all!"

The men looked abashed and uncomfortable; the hostess was pale with apprehension, and the constable edged away from the irate captain. His burst of passion over, he turned to Mrs. Joplady and spoke in quieter tones.

"I brook no insolence, mistress. I don't answer for my servant's deeds behind my back. I've been away all day, as poor Jenny will bear me witness; was I to know my fool of a servant would play highwayman in my absence? 'Tis a useful fellow, civil, too, beyond most; I picked him up in London; he was in truth commended to me by no less than his grace the Duke of Ormond, who tapped me on the shoulder in the Piazza at Covent Garden, and said, 'Aglionby, my bawcock, you want a servant; I know the very man for you!' Could I suspect a man after that? How he got mixed up in this business beats me. And as for helping master constable to repair his carelessness--adsbud, 'tis not likely. The man in truth is no longer servant of mine. I am on my way to serve the Queen in Flanders, and this very day arranged with my friend Sir Rupert Verney to take the fellow off my hands. You may hang him, for me!"

"There now, Sam," said the hostess, turning to the man who had been felled, and was now at the door glowering; "your tongue runs away wi' 'ee. Beg the cap'n's pardon, and don't go for to make a ninny o' yourself."

"Never mind, my good woman," said Aglionby loftily. "The yokel knows no better. Now, I'm tired out; give me a bed, good soul, for I must away at sunrise--and egad, 'tis past one o'clock! Good-night to 'ee, men; and I hope Sir Godfrey will forgive you, constable."

He went from the room, and soon afterwards the hostess bade the villagers get to their beds, and closed the inn for the short remnant of the night.

Before seven o'clock next morning the captain was on horseback. The ground was wet; it had been drizzling for several hours, but a misty sun was now struggling up the sky, and Tom ostler foretold a fine day. The captain rode off, answering with a bold stare the suspicious and lowering glances of the few villagers who were on the spot. He was in high spirits; the anxieties of the past night were gone; and as he rode he hummed a careless tune. He had ridden but little more than a mile when, from an intersecting lane, a man stepped out and gripped the horse's reins.

"Get off that there horse!" he said bluntly.

"Gads so, Sherry, you gave me quite a turn," said the captain with unusual mildness. "Don't hinder me, man; I'm off to Flanders, and, i' faith, that's where you ought to be yourself, if all was known. Come, what's the meaning o't?"

"Get off that there horse!" repeated Sherebiah. "I'm a man o' peace, I be, and I settles all scores prompt."

There was a look of determination in his eyes, and in his right hand he grasped a knobby cudgel.

"Right! but we've no accounts to settle.--What!" he cried, as he saw Sherebiah's cudgel raised, "you play the bully, eh? Gadzooks, I'll ferk ye if----"

He was drawing his sword, but the cudgel fell with a resounding whack upon his knuckles, and with a cry of pain he scrambled to the ground and stood, a picture of sullen rage, before his intercepter.

"I'll thank 'ee for your pistols," said Sherebiah, removing them from the holsters as he spoke. "Nay, don't finger your sword; I be a man o' peace, and you know my play with the quarterstaff. Jenny, old girl, crop your fill by the roadside while I have a reckonen wi' Cap'n Aglionby." He laid a curious stress upon the title. "Now, Ralph, you be comen wi' me into wood yonder. 'Tis there we'll settle our score."

Seizing the captain with his left hand, he led him down the lane, through a gap in the hedge, into a thin copse of larches, until he came to a narrow glade. Aglionby assumed an air of jocular resignation; but that he was ill at ease was proved by the restless glances he gave Sherebiah out of the corner of his eye.

"Off wi' your coat!" said Sherebiah, having reached the centre of the glade. "Off wi't! I be gwine to pound 'ee; you can defend yourself, but you'm gwine to be pounded whether or no."

"Confound you, man, what have I done to you? Why the----"

"Off wi't, off wi't! Least said soonest mended. Great barkers be no biters, so it do seem; doff your coat, Cap'n Aglionby!"

"Well, if you will!" cried the captain, with a burst of passion. "I'll comb your noddle, I'll trounce you, for an insolent canting runagate booby!"

He flung his coat on the wet grass; Sherebiah laid down the cudgel and followed his example.

"Come on, Cap'n Aglionby!" he said. "'Tis not, as 'ee med say, a job to my liken, trouncen a big grown man like you; but 't ha' got to be done, for your good and my own peace o' mind. So the sooner 'tis over the better."

To a casual onlooker the two would have seemed very unequally matched. The captain stood at least a head taller than his opponent, and was broad in proportion. But he was puffy and bloated; Sherebiah, on the other hand, though thick-set, was hard and agile.

As if anxious to finish an uncongenial task with the least delay, he forced matters from the start. The captain had no lack of bull-dog courage, and he still possessed the remnant of great physical strength. To an ordinary opponent he would have proved even yet no mean antagonist; and when, after a few sharp exchanges, Sherebiah's punishing strokes roused him to fury, he rained upon the smaller man a storm of blows any one of which, had it got home, might have felled an ox. But Sherebiah parried with easy skill, and continued to use his fists with mathematical precision. Once or twice he allowed the captain, now panting and puffing, to regain his wind, and when the burly warrior showed a disposition to lengthen the interval he brought him back to the business in hand with a cheery summons.

"Now, Cap'n Aglionby," he would say, "let's to 't again. Come, man, 'twill soon be over!"

At last, beside himself with rage, the captain attempted to close with and throw his opponent. He could scarcely have made a more unfortunate move. For a few moments the two men swung and swayed; then Aglionby described a semicircle over Sherebiah's shoulder, and fell with a resounding thud to the ground. Neither combatant was aware that for some time a spectator had been silently watching them. Harry Rochester, coming whistling through the trees, had halted in surprise, at the edge of the glade, as his eyes took in the scene.

"There now, 'tis over and done," said Sherebiah, stooping to pick up his coat. "That score's wiped off. Stand on your feet, man! And I'll trouble 'ee for your sword."

The captain staggered to his feet. He was in no condition to refuse the victor's demand.

Sherebiah took the weapon and broke it across his knee. From his own pocket he then took the captain's pistols. He carefully drew their charges, and handed them back.

"Now, hie 'ee to Flanders," he said. "You've done more fighten this mornin' than you'll ever do there. You'll find Jenny on the road."

The captain glared at him, and seemed about to reply. But he thought better of it, and with a vindictive glare walked slowly away.

"What's it all about, Sherry?" said Harry, stepping forward when Aglionby had disappeared.

"Ah, that be 'ee, sir? 'Twas only a little small matter o' difference 'twixt Cap'n Aglionby and me. We're quits now."

"You'll have to get Mistress Joplady to give you a raw steak for your eye."

"Ay sure, Cap'n did get in a hit or two," replied Sherebiah placidly.

"I didn't know you were such a fighter."

Sherebiah gave him a quick look out of his uninjured eye.

"Nay, I bean't a fighter, not me," he said. "I'm a man o' peace; I be so."

*Chapter IV*

*Mynheer Jan Grootz and Another*

The Gaffer Chops Logic--In Print--The London Coach--Simple Annals--A Village Hampden--Bereft--An Offer of Service--A Hearty Send-off--Outside Passengers--Introductions--Contractor to the Forces--Followed--The Man on the Road--Sherebiah Muses

It was a dull, damp day towards the end of November, a little more than four months after Captain Aglionby's unhappy departure from Winton St. Mary. There was again great bustle at the Berkeley Arms; Mistress Joplady's ample face was red with exertion, and her voice, when she gave directions to her servants, was raised to an acrimonious pitch far from usual with her. The whole village appeared to be gathered either within or without the inn. Gaffer Minshull was there, seated with his back to the wall and leaning on his inseparable staff. Lumpy, Soapy Dick, Long Robin the tanner, Old Everlasting the miller, stood in a group about the door, talking to the ostler, who stood guard, with arms akimbo, over four brimming pails of water ranged along the wall.

Soft Jemmy was standing a yard or two away, watching with open mouth a man who, straddling across a step-ladder, was smearing the ancient sign-board with daubs of black paint, obliterating every trace of the crude heraldic design that had marked the inn's connection with the lord of the manor. When the board was one unbroken black, the painter descended the ladder with his brush and can, winked at Jemmy, and went into the inn to "mix the flavours", as he said in passing. The half-witted youth contemplated his handiwork for some minutes in mild surprise; then he walked towards old Minshull and addressed him timorously:

"Gaffer, I'm afeard my poor yead won't stand the wonder on't, but it med do me good to know why John painter ha' covered that noble pictur wi' the colour o' sut."

"Why, boy, black's for sorrow, as 'ee med know wi'out tellen an 'ee weren't so simple, and 'tis a black day for Winton Simmary, so 'tis."

"Why be it more black to-day than 'tis a-Sunday?" asked the youth. "'Tis Tuesday, gaffer, bean't it? and new pa'son didn't holler it in church for a holy day."

"Boy, your poor yead won't stand high things, 'tis true, but 'ee know young pa'son be off to Lun'on town to-day, an' that's why all the souls be here, to see the last on un."

Jemmy looked up again at the defaced sign-board, puzzling his poor brains to find some connection between it and the departure of "young pa'son".

"'Tis a shame, gaffer," said Honest John, "to deceive the poor lad, when you know the sign bean't painted out for no such thing."

"Why, there now," returned old Minshull, "bean't it all one? I axe 'ee that, souls. Young pa'son be a-gwine to Lun'on 'cause his poor feyther's dead an' gone; Pa'son Rochester be dead an' gone 'cause o' the fight; an I weren't afeard on un, I'd say the fight were all along o' Squire; and Mis'ess Joplady ha' changed the ancient sign of th' inn 'cause her can't abear to think on't. Bean't that gospel truth, souls all?"

The group looked impressed with the old man's logic. Mistress Joplady, coming for a moment to the door, had overheard his concluding sentences.

"'Tis true," she said, wiping away a tear. "I never liked Squire; nobody never did as I ever heerd on; but when pa'son died I couldn't abear him. One thing I'm thankful for from the bottom o' my heart, and that is, that my house is college property, like the church, and I can snap my vingers at Squire, and I do." She suited the action to the word. "Has been the Berkeley Arms for a hunnerd years, but 'twill be so no longer. When paint's dry, up goos the yead o' Queen Annie, bless her! a poor soul as ha' lost all her childer, like myself, and the Queen's Head it'll be for ever more."

"Ay, things be main different in village now, sure," said Lumpy. "To think what mighty changes come in a little time! Zeems only a few days sin' young pa'son won that noble match--you mind, souls, the day the lord's carriage broke under the weight of the Queen's purse--ay, the day afore he were stopped in old road. I never understood the rights o' that bit o' work. Gaffer, hav 'ee got that printed paper ye read, where the Lun'on talk be given like the words of a book?"

Old Minshull slowly drew from his pocket a folded sheet, rather dirty, worn at the edges, and falling apart at the folds. He opened it out with great care, and spread it on his knees.

"That's he," said Lumpy. "Gaffer, you be a scholard; read it out loud to us again."

"Ay, an' don't need spectacles neither," said Minshull proudly; "well, listen, souls."

Very slowly, and with as much deliberation as though he were reading it for the first instead of the hundredth time, and moving his forefinger along the line, the old man began to read the account of the attempted robbery of Lord Godolphin which the _Daily Courant_ presented to the London public a week after the event. The names of the principal persons concerned appeared with a dash between the initial and final letters, and Godolphin's was read by Minshull as "Lard G line n". After briefly relating the incident, the writer of the paragraph added:

"'Tis said the Prisoner that broke jail was a Servant of a Captain A----y, a Guest at that time of Esq. N----s B----y. The gallant Captain's Commission (as it is credibly reported) is not under the seal of her Gracious Majestie, or King William lately Deceas'd of Noble Memorie, but of the Czar of Muscovy. 'Tis vouch'd by some 'twas none other than the Great Cham."

"Ay, that's print," said Soapy Dick at the conclusion of the reading. "The 'Cap'n A line y' was Cap'n Aglionby sure enough, an' some did zay as how 'twas he let the pris'ner out o' lock-up, and so brought shame to Will'm Nokes."

"Ay, an' some did say as how the Cap'n hisself made one o' the cut-purse rogues as waylaid the lard," said Honest John.

"Old wives' tales," said Minshull. "My boy Sherry be wise for his years, an' he says Cap'n couldn't ha' let prisoner out, 'cause a' were miles away at the time. And as for Cap'n bein' on the road--why, when Sir Godfrey coom in all the might o' the law to 'stablish the truth, Squire up and said as how Cap'n was abed and asleep on that early mornen when the deed was done."

"Ay true, Squire said so; but did a' take his dyin' oath like a common man? Tell me that, souls."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted, and the villagers were thrilled into excitement by the distant tootle of a horn.

"Here be coach at last," cried the ostler. "Ten minutes behind time, and no sign of young Master Rochester. Giles coachman won't wait, not he."

But as the coach came in sight at a bend of the road, two figures were seen hastening along from the direction of the rectory. One was a tall youthful form clad in black from his low felt hat to his buckle shoes. His steinkirk was black, and its fringed ends were tucked into a black waistcoat. Black were his plain drugget coat and breeches, black also his woollen stockings. Nothing redeemed the sable hue of his garments save his cambric shirt, the white front of which was much exposed, in the fashion of the time. Harry Rochester's face was pale, its expression sad.

His companion, a head shorter than himself, was Sherebiah Minshull, clad in the sober brown of ordinary country wear, and trudging along steadily under the weight of a fair-sized valise. Winter or summer, his appearance never varied: his firm round cheeks were always ruddy, his blue eyes always bright; and his expression, now as always, was that of placid self-content, well becoming "a man of peace".

The two drew nearer to the inn, where the group had by this time been enlarged by the accession of the greater part of the village population, women and children, workers and loafers, mingled in one interested throng. As Giles Appleyard was at that moment explaining to the passenger at his side, he had never seen such a crowd at Winton St. Mary before, though he had driven the coach, good weather and bad, for fifteen years come Christmas. It reminded him of the crowd at Salisbury Fair.

"And seein' as how I've been laid up wi' a bad leg for two months," he added, "I'm behind the times, I be; news travels slow to them as don't drive coaches, and, i' feck, I know no more than the dead what this mortal big crowd do mean, i' feck I don't."

But many voices were ready to tell him when, having pulled up his four steaming horses at the inn door, he descended with grave deliberation from his perch, saluted Mistress Joplady with the gallantry of the road, and entered her house "to warm his nattlens", as he said, with a tankard of her home-brewed. Young pa'son was a-gwine to Lun'on town! It seemed a slight cause for such an unwonted scene; in reality it was a momentous event in the life of Harry Rochester and in the history of his village. Small things bulk large in the imagination of rustic folk; a journey to London came within the experience of few of them; and the departure of young pa'son, following so closely upon two such notable events as the cricket match and the attack on the Lord High Treasurer, had already furnished unfailing material for gossip, and would be the theme of comment and speculation for a year to come.

It was all along of old Squire, they said; and the coachman, for the first and only time in his career, delayed his departure for some minutes after the horses had been watered, in order to listen to the story. A few days after Lord Godolphin's flying visit, Squire Berkeley had fenced in a piece of land which time out of mind had been regarded as part of the village common. Old Gaffer Minshull, whose memory went back fifty years, was called up to tell how in the year '53, just before Christmas, the then parson had held a prayer-meeting on that very spot to celebrate the making of Noll Crum'ell Lord Protector; he remembered it well, for it lasted five hours, and old Jenny Bates fainted on the ground and took to her bed from that day.

"Ay, 'twas a holy spot, an' Squire med ha' feared to touch un, as the old ancient folk feared to lay hands on the Lord's holy ark; but, bless 'ee, Squire bean't afeard o' nothen, nay, not o' the still small voice pa'son do zay be inside on us all."

When the ground was fenced in the good parson was disposed to carry the matter to law. But though he had already won one case (a matter of right of way) in the courts, the only result was that the squire had carried it to appeal, trusting in the power of the purse. The angry villagers therefore determined to take the law into their own hands. Without consulting the rector, they assembled one evening towards the end of October, and hastening in a body to the disputed space, began to make short work of the new fencing. But the squire had got wind of their intention, by some witchcraft of his own, they believed: he soon appeared on the scene at the head of a gang of his own men. There was a fight; heads were broken, and the squire's party were getting badly mauled when the rector suddenly arrived and rushed between the combatants.

"Ay, poor pa'son, I zee un now, I do," said Gaffer Minshull feelingly, "goen headlong into the rout wi' all his petticoats flyen! A fine upstanden man was pa'son, as ought to ha' been a man o' war. A' stood in the eye of Squire, an' Squire opened on un, gave tongue to a deal o' hot an' scorchen words, a' did. But pa'son took no heed to'n, not he: he spoke up fair an' softly to Squire's men, and wi' that way o' his a' made 'em feel all fashly like; a' had a won'erful way wi' 'n, had pa'son; an' they made off wi' their broken heads, they did; an' Squire was left a-frothen an' cussen as he were a heathen Frenchman or Turk. Ah, poor pa'son! Such a fine sperit as he had, his frame were not built for 't; wi' my own aged eyes I seed un go blue at the lips, and a' put his hand on his bosom, a' did, an' seemed as if all the breath was blowed out of his mortal body; and a' went home-along a stricken soul, and two days arter his weak heart busted, an' young pa'son had no feyther--ay, poor soul, no feyther, an' my boy Sherebiah be nigh varty-vour, and here I be. 'Tis strange ways Them above has wi' poor weak mortals--strange ways, ay sure!"

Mr. Berkeley took advantage of the rector's death to pay off old scores. The legal actions which Mr. Rochester had taken, on behalf of his flock, collapsed for want of further funds; he had already seriously impoverished himself by his open-hearted generosity; and when the squire came down on the dead man's estate for the law costs, Harry found that, after all debts were paid, he was possessed of some twenty guineas in all wherewith to start life.

His project of going to Oxford was necessarily abandoned. He was at a loss to find a career. Educated by his father with a view to entering the Church, he was fairly well grounded in classics and mathematics, and had in addition a good acquaintance with French, and a great stock of English poetry; but his knowledge was not marketable. He was too young for a tutor's place, and had no influence to back him; friendless and homeless, he was at his wits' end.

Then one day he bethought him of Lord Godolphin's promise. It had been frank and apparently sincere. My lord, it was true, had spoken of a country benefice when Harry's Oxford days were over; but Harry reflected that the slight service he had rendered was not likely to appear greater with the lapse of time, while his need was actual and urgent. Why not take the Lord Treasurer at his word, journey to London, and put his case before the man who, in all the kingdom, was the most able to help him if he would?

He mentioned the matter to Gaffer Minshull, rather expecting that the sturdy veteran would pour cold water on his idea. To his surprise the old man urged him to carry it out, and overbore the objections which every high-spirited lad, even in those days of patronage, must have had to soliciting favours from the great. His eagerness was partially explained to Harry when the old fellow added a suggestion of his own. He was seriously concerned about his boy Sherebiah. In spite of strict injunctions to have nothing to do with the expedition against the squire's fencing, Sherebiah, man of peace as he was, had been attracted to the scene as a moth to a candle. At first he had watched events from a distance, among other interested spectators; but when he saw the fight at its beginning go against the villagers, owing to the superior training of the squire's men, many of whom were old soldiers, he could contain himself no longer. At the head of the waverers he dashed into the affray, and set such an example of valour that it would have gone hardly with the enemy but for the opportune arrival of the rector.

From that moment Sherebiah was a marked man. Whatever reasons the father had for fearing Mr. Berkeley were strengthened when it became evident that the squire had marked and would resent the son's action. Sherebiah had been doing no good in the village since he suddenly returned to it, from no one knew where, a few years before. His father was anxious that he should go away for a time, at least until the squire's anger had cooled. He welcomed the opportunity afforded by the approaching departure of Harry.

"Let un goo wi' 'ee," he said. "'Tis a knowen boy, handy, with a head full o' wise things he's larned in the world. He'd be proud to sarve 'ee, ay, that he would."

"But, gaffer, I can't afford a servant. Twenty guineas are all I have, and I know not what may happen. If Lord Godolphin fails me, my money will soon be gone, and then there'll be two poor fellows instead of one."

"Never fear. I bean't afeard for 'ee. And what does the Book say? Why, 'twas the holy King David as said it hisself: 'Once I were young,' says he, 'and now I be old; but never ha' I knowed the righteous forsaken, nor his seed a-beggen bread neither.' That's what he said, and he knowed a thing or two, so he did."

"Perhaps he didn't know everything, gaffer. Well, you're set on it, I see. Sherry would certainly be better out of the squire's way; so he can come with me, and as soon as I find something to do he had better look for employment, and London ought to be a good place for that."

Thus it happened that, on this November morning, the two passengers who had booked places in the Salisbury coach for London were Harry Rochester and Sherebiah Minshull.

The story took a long time in the telling in the parlour of the inn, and Giles Appleyard was somewhat perturbed when he saw by the big clock in the corner that his departure was overdue. He drained his tankard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, calling loudly to the passengers to take their places. Harry shook hands all round; every man had something to say to him that was intended to be pleasant and encouraging, but was in many cases the reverse. His heart was full as he thought of leaving the good folk among whom he had lived and whose kindly feeling for him was so evident. When, last of all, Mistress Joplady flung her arms round his neck and hugged him to her ample bosom, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, he felt a lump in his throat, and was glad to escape and mount to his place on the roof of the coach.

"All right, Bill?" shouted the coachman over his shoulder.

"Ay."

"Let goo, ostler."

And gathering up the reins he cracked his whip, and with a clatter and rumble the heavy vehicle, amid a volley of cheers, lurched forward on the way to London.

The journey of nearly seventy miles was not likely to be pleasant. The stage-coaches of those days were large and clumsy structures, with hard springs. The inside passengers were jolted and jostled; the outside passengers had no proper seats, but found what sitting room they could among the packages and bundles. On this morning, there was only one other passenger on the roof of the coach, a stout broad-faced man dressed in brown clothes much like Sherebiah's. He had retained his seat during the scene of farewell, and sat solemnly munching a thick sausage, scanning the crowd out of shrewd little twinkling eyes that seemed a size too small for the other features. When his sausage was finished, he filled a huge pipe and sat puffing in stolid silence.

For some time after the coach started, no word was spoken by the three passengers. Harry was wrapt in his thoughts, brooding over the past, dreaming about the future. Sherebiah had lit his pipe as soon as he was settled, and smoked on contentedly, stealing a glance every now and then at the broad figure separated from him by a large travelling trunk. He seemed to find some amusement in these occasional peeps at his neighbour, who by and by returned his glance.

"Mizzly mornen," said Sherebiah, with a nod.

"Zo," grunted the other. His eyes were resting on Sherebiah's pipe.

"Tobacco be a great comfort," said the latter, noting the look. "Master Harry there, he bean't come to 't yet; true, 'tis not for babes an' sucklens; but I took to 'bacca when Susan wouldn't take me, and 'tis better nor any wife."

"Where you get dat pipe?" asked the stranger, in a slow pleasant voice with a foreign accent.

"This pipe! Why, over in Amesbury; see, 'tis marked wi' the gauntlet, sure token of a Amesbury pipe, an' there's no better in the land. Why med 'ee axe such a feelen question, now?"

"Once I zaw a pipe like it, wid de mark on it--de gauntlet, you zay."

"Oh! I say, master, what part o' the land med 'ee hail from? Your tongue makes me think 'ee med be a Dutchman, though I wouldn't say so to your face."

The man looked at his interrogator without replying. He stuffed the tobacco down into his pipe with a fat forefinger which exactly fitted the bowl.

"You know Amsterdam, my vrient?" he said.

"Ha' been there, mynheer; so 'tis Amsterdam you hail from! Well, I ha' been in wuss places. Ay, ha' seed summat o' the world, I have, and I knowed 'ee by your cut for a Dutchman."

There was silence again for a space. Both the men sat smoking, heedless of all things around them. They finished their pipes at the same moment, and, moved by a mutual impulse, each handed his pouch to the other.

"Virginia," said Sherebiah laconically.

"Ah! Barbados," returned the other. "My name, Jan Grootz."

"And it becomes 'ee," said Sherebiah. "Now mine bean't so good a match; 'tis over long for one o' my inches, and over proud for a man so meek: Sherebiah Stand-up-and-bless Minshull in the church book, but plain Sherry to them as I takes to, like young pa'son there."

Harry was roused from his reverie at hearing himself mentioned. He looked for the first time at his fellow-passenger, who at that moment lifted his podgy right hand and pointed to a windmill in full sail a little distance from the road.

"Ay sure, minds 'ee of home; your country's full of mills, to be sure. Mebbe you be a miller, now?"

The Dutchman waited to blow a great cloud from his mouth before he answered.

"A sailor," he said; "but I have mills."

"A skipper," rejoined Sherry, looking over his costume. "'Tis not for me to say, but to mortal eye you be more like a varmer.--'Tis a skipper from Holland," he added, including Harry in the conversation, "that has a mill or two to his name and smokes 'bacca out o' Barbados."

"Jan Grootz," said the Dutchman.

Harry acknowledged the introduction, and remarked on the slowness of their progress over the rough road. On this Mynheer Grootz volunteered the remark that, having come all the way from Bristol, he would be glad when the journey was ended. By degrees he became still more communicative; and when the coach pulled up at Basingstoke for the mid-day meal, Harry had learnt that the Dutchman had been to Bristol to inspect a vessel of which he was part-owner, and which had come most fortunately to port after being first knocked about by a French privateer, then badly damaged by a storm. It was to the storm that she owed her escape from the Frenchman, and to her captain's seamanship her escape from the storm. Grootz was particularly gratified at her safe arrival, for she represented a large amount not only to him personally, but to others who could ill afford to lose on a venture upon which he had persuaded them to embark.

When the journey was resumed, the conversation became still more friendly. Harry liked the look of the Dutchman. His broad face with its wide nose and little eyes was not handsome, but its expression inspired confidence; and the careful slowness of his speech, and his habit of pointing with his forefinger when he wished to be emphatic, were a little amusing. He asked no questions, but Harry by and by found himself explaining his own position and relating the events that had led to it, and told him of his projected visit to Lord Godolphin. At this up came the forefinger.

"Ah, my young vrient, you are de son of a minister: ver' well: you know de good Book: ver' well: 'Put not your drust in princes;' de words are drue. I tell you dis; besides my mills and my ships, I do oder dings; I supply food for de men and horses of de English and Dutch armies; and I have met princes; yes--I, Jan Grootz. I tell you dis; wid a good honest merchant of London or of Amsterdam, I care not, man knows where he stand; his foot is on de solid rock; but wid dukes and grand-dukes and oder princes--ah! man tread a quicksand. Dey promise, but do dey pay? You are good boy, I dink; mind you, I do not say I know, for outside do not always speak drue; de apple may be red, and all de time a maggot at core. I tell you dis; seven year ago I make contract over hay wid young captain of Bavarian Elector; it was in Namur campaign; he look good, he speak good, I am well content; but donder! my hay I lose, and 3242 thalers 3 groschen beside. Dis den I tell you; avoid arms and de law, drive some honest trade: zo you respect yourself, and oder people dey respect you. You owe noding; nobody owe you; you are a man."

Ever since the departure from Basingstoke, Sherebiah, sitting just behind Harry, had taken no part in the conversation, but appeared to find something curiously interesting in the road behind, for after once or twice looking over his shoulder he at last faced round altogether, and sat with his back to the horses. Just as the Dutchman finished his speech--the longest to which he had yet given utterance, and one that his slow delivery lengthened beyond its natural extent--Sherebiah turned round, tapped Harry on the shoulder, and in a low tone said:

"Summat's i' the wind."

"What do you mean, Sherry?"

"Wind yourself about and look down the road behind."

"Well, I see nothing--stay, there's a horseman just topping the hill, a good mile behind us: what of that?"

"Why, 'tis like this. He always is a mile behind: that's where 'tis. I seed him afore we come to Basingstoke; but he didn't come to the inn to eat his vittles, not he. I seed him again when we was a mile this side o' Basingstoke; what had he been doen, then, while we eat and drank? We stop, he falls behind; when we trot, he trots; 'tis as if he were a bob at th' end of a line, never nearer never vurther."

"You think we are being followed?"

"That's what I do think, sure enough."

"A highwayman?"

"Mebbe, mebbe not; most like not, for 'tis not dark enough, and he's always in sight."

"Perhaps he thinks he can't be seen."

"Not reckonen on the height of the coach roof? But I seed him, I did, two hours an' more agoo."

"Why should he follow the coach, I wonder? He may belong to someone inside."

"Mebbe, mebbe not; 'tis curious anyways."

"Well, the fellow is clearly dogging the coach; if your curiosity troubles you, suppose you slip off a mile before we reach the next post-house and try to get a nearer look at him as he passes? You can catch up the coach while they change horses."

"Ay, I will, sure. We be nigh the river now; over the bridge and we come to Hounslow heath, a fearsome place for highwaymen. We change at the Bull and Gate, then run straight into Lun'on: oh, I know the road."

It was late in the afternoon by the time the coach reached the inn where the last change of the journey was made. Ten minutes before, Sherebiah nimbly slipped down, crept through a gap in the hedge, and waited for the pursuer to appear. Presently he heard the clatter of hoofs; the sound grew louder, but all at once began to diminish. Scrambling back into the road, he was just in time to see the horseman strike off at full speed along a by-road to his left, which led, as Sherebiah knew, to London by a course only a mile or two longer than the main highway. The man must evidently have changed his horse somewhere on the road, and could only have taken the detour in a desire to arrive in London ahead of the coach.

Sherebiah stared long and earnestly at the retreating figure. He frowned and looked puzzled as he set off to overtake the coach. The driver was mounting the box as he came up.

"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Harry.

"He be gone off by a side road," replied Sherebiah.

"So your curiosity is not to be satisfied after all?"

"Well, he rid away hard to the left, wi' his back towards me, an' 'tis growen duskish, an' nowt but a owl could see clear."

But when Sherebiah clambered to his place he wore a sober look which did not escape the clear little eyes of Jan Grootz, who silently extended his pouch to him. Sherebiah refilled and puffed away, every now and then removing the pipe from his mouth and staring contemplatively at the bowl.

*Chapter V*

*A Message from the Squire*

The Old White Hart--A Letter for the Captain--Visions--Aglionby gives Instructions--The Watch--Half-Truths--Ways and Means--Hard Thinking

Sherebiah sat very silent for the rest of the journey. The coach jolted on rapidly towards the great city: passed the market-gardens of Hammersmith, the open fields of Kensington, along Piccadilly, where the first street-lamps shed a dim oily light, through Holborn, at last pulling up at the Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street. It was past nine o'clock, dull and murky, and few people were about. But a small crowd was gathered at the door of the inn to meet the coach, and Sherebiah, as he shouldered the luggage and moved towards the door, shot a keen but unobtrusive glance at the faces of the men. His movements were somewhat too slow for Harry, who, eager to ease his limbs after a whole day's stiffness and discomfort, entered the hostelry first. All at once Sherebiah quickened his step, hastened into the lobby, set the luggage down at the foot of the stairs, and then, making a mumbled excuse to Harry, slipped out behind one of the inn servants, and looked narrowly at the diminishing crowd. He was just in time to see a man, whom he had already noticed on the outskirts of the group, saunter away in the direction of London Bridge. Appearances are deceptive, and Sherebiah was not sure that he was right, but he thought the man bore a resemblance to the rider whom he had seen following the coach, and of whom he had caught one nearer glimpse as he turned into the by-road. He followed the man, stepping as quietly as his heavy shoes allowed, accommodating his pace to that of the man in front, and taking advantage of the shadow afforded by the penthouse fronts of the closed shops. The man quickened his steps as he approached the bridge. Sherebiah pursued him at a discreet distance over the narrow roadway, beneath the rickety four-story houses that towered above the bridge over almost its entire length, through Traitor's Gate, and on into Southwark. The man went along one narrow street, and at last passed under a low archway. Walking even more stealthily, Sherebiah still followed, and found himself in the spacious yard of the Old White Hart Inn. This famous three-storied hostelry was built about three sides of a square. Along two sides of the upper story ran a balustraded gallery, with wooden pillars supporting the sloping roof. All was quiet. Sherebiah, keeping in the shadow of the arch, peeped round and saw the man he followed standing at the door waiting for an answer to his summons at the bell, which hung on the outer wall under a gabled cover. After a little time the door opened and the porter appeared.

"Be Cap'n Aglionby within?" said the man.

"Ay, and abed and asleep. What do you want wi' him?"

"I want to see un."

"A pretty time o' night! House was shut up an hour ago--no business doin' these hard times. Why didn't you come sooner?"

"A good reason, 'cause I be only just come to Lun'on. I has a message for Cap'n Aglionby."

"Well, needs must, I s'pose," grumbled the servant. "I'll go up and wake the captain, and be cursed horrible for my pains. Who shall I say wants him?"

"Tell un a friend from the country."

The porter went into the inn, and soon reappeared in the gallery at the top of the house, where he tapped at the door of one of the bedrooms opening from it. He tapped once, twice, thrice, and received no answer; then to his fourth knock came a response the tone of which, though not the words, could be heard in the yard below. A colloquy ensued, of which only the share of the inn servant was distinctly audible to Sherebiah.

"A man from the country, Cap'n, to see you."

Mumble from within.

"So I told him, but here he bides."

More mumbling.

"Didn't tell me his name; a man from the country was all he said, and I knows no more."

The answering mumble was of higher and impatient mood. Then the man came slowly downstairs, grumbling under his breath all the way.

"You're to go up," he said to the stranger. "'Tis number thirty-two. And fine tantrums he be in, waked out of sleep; as if I ain't waked out of sleep or kept from it day and night, and all year long."

The man entered the inn after the servant, and began to ascend. Sherebiah meanwhile, looking around, had espied another stairway at the opposite angle of the courtyard. Darting across on tiptoe, he mounted quickly, quietly, and reached the gallery above in time to see the messenger disappear into the captain's room. He hurried along, and, relying on the porter's complaint of the paucity of business, he opened the door of the adjacent room and slipped in, leaving the door ajar. Through the thin partition he heard the murmur of voices in the next room, but could not catch a word distinctly. In a few moments, however, there was a crash as of a chair being overthrown, followed by a torrent of execrations from the captain. Then the door of the next room opened, and Aglionby came out on to the gallery accompanied by his visitor.

"Hang you and the squire too!" said the angry warrior. "The tinder's wet, and I can't light my candle. Give me the letter and I'll read it by the light of the lantern yonder, and catch my death o' cold withal."

Shrinking back into the darkness of his room, Sherebiah caught sight of Captain Aglionby as he passed the half-open door on his way to the single lantern that feebly lit up the gallery. He had pulled on his breeches and stockings, but for the rest was in night attire. The lantern swung from a hook at the corner of the gallery, three rooms beyond that into which Sherebiah had ventured. Standing beneath it, the captain broke the seal of the letter given him by the visitor, and read rapidly under his breath. The reading finished, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and chuckled.

"Stap me, he begs and prays me now!" he exclaimed. "See, Jock, tell me what ye know of this. Ye ha'n't read the letter, ha' ye? By the Lord Harry, I'll slit--"

"Nay, nay, Cap'n," interrupted the man; "I know nought o' the letter. I'll tell 'ee how it all come about. I was openen the gate for Squire, when--"

"Speak lower, man; your brazen throat'll wake the house."

"I was openen the gate for Squire," resumed the fellow in a lower tone, which was, however, still audible to Sherebiah's straining ears, "when who should come by but young master popinjay dressed all in his black. He never bobbed to Squire, not he; never so much as cast eyes on un; but when Squire saw the young swaggerer he stopped still as a stone, and looked after un dazed like. Then he put his arm on the gate, a' did, and leant heavy on it, thinken mortal hard; 'twas a matter o' five minutes afore he lifted his head again, and never seed I a stranger look on any man's face than I seed then on Squire's. A' jumped when his eyes fell on me; 'What be staren at, fool?' says he, in one of his rages. 'Shall I run for doctor?' says I; 'you do look mortal bad.' 'Nay,' says he, ''tis nothen; a little faintness; 'twill pass.' I touched my cap, as becomes me, and Squire went into park and shut gate behind un. But a' hadn't walked more nor three steps when a' stops, swings about, and 'Jock!' says he, 'order post-horses for Hungerford road to-morrer. And come up to hall inside of an hour; I shall ha' a job for 'ee.'

"Well, I went up to hall after I'd ordered horses, and Squire give me this letter. 'You'll ride to Lun'on to-morrer, and take this letter to Cap'n Aglionby at White Hart, South'ark. And you'll tell the cap'n where young Master Rochester be stayen.' 'How'll I know that, Squire?' says I. 'Pon that he burst into one of his terr'ble rages again. 'How, fool!' says he; 'why, keep the coach in sight, and see that 'ee make no mistake.' So here I be, Cap'n, and young Master Rochester he's at Angel and Crown in Threadneedle Street."

"Thank 'ee, Jock; I know the house. And is the young springald alone?"

"Not he; has Sherry Minshull with un, a-carryen his belongens."

"Zounds and thunder! did Sherry see you?"

"No, i' feck; I kept too far from coach to be seen for sarten, and at Angel and Crown Sherry was too heavy laden to spy me."

"Well for you, well for you! Jock, you'll come and take up your quarters here; there's plenty of room. I'll tell 'em to gi' ye a bed."

"What about the horse, Cap'n? I left un at Angel and Crown."

"Let him bide till morning; then you can bring him here too."

"But Squire, Cap'n,--won't he expect us back, me and horse?"

"Not he; 'tis here written; I'm to keep you if there's any work for you, and odzooks! I'll ha' some work for you, never fear. Jock, if your story has made you as dry as it has made me you're main thirsty; go down and bring up beer for two, and a lighted candle. I'll ring and wake that rascal by the time you get to the foot of the stairs."

The man went down by the way he had come, and the captain returned to his room. As soon as the coast was clear, Sherebiah slipped out into the gallery, carrying his shoes to avoid noise, ran down the outer staircase, stood for a few moments at the foot to make sure that all was safe, then darted across the yard and out at the gate. The street was quite deserted, and Sherebiah, secure from molestation, walked slowly along towards London Bridge, deep in thought. His friend Harry had been followed to London at the orders of the squire; what was the meaning of that? Surely Mr. Berkeley did not intend to wreak vengeance on the son for the baffled opposition of the father? What had Captain Aglionby to do with the matter? Rumour the omniscient had informed the village that the captain's departure had been occasioned by a violent quarrel with the squire; yet it was plain that the squire knew the captain's whereabouts and was enlisting his aid in some project. Sherebiah wished that he could get a sight of Mr. Berkeley's letter; he was puzzled to account for the old man's shock as Harry passed the gate; but try as he might to piece these strange circumstances together, all his cogitation suggested no clue.

So absorbed was he, so mechanical his movements, that he started convulsively when, just as he had passed through Traitor's Gate, a man stepped suddenly before him from a narrow entry and bade him stop in the Queen's name. Looking up, he saw that his way was barred by a corpulent constable in cocked hat and laced coat, with a staff two feet longer than himself, and half a dozen ancient and decrepit watchmen with lanterns and staves.

"Stand!" cried the constable. "Give an account of yourself."

Sherebiah took his measure.

"Not so, neither, master constable. Out o' my way; 'tis a late hour, and I ought to be abed."

He made to move on, but the constable stood full in his path, and the watchmen grouped themselves behind their superior.

"You may be a villain for aught I know," said the constable, "or even a vagrom or thief. Why abroad at this hour o' night?"

"I'm as sober as a judge," replied Sherebiah, "and neither thief nor vagrom. Stand aside, master constable."

"Well, 'tis dry and thirsty work watching o' nights, and there be seven of us, and a shilling don't go far in these war times; we'll take a shilling to let ye pass; eh, men?"

The watchmen mumbled assent. Sherebiah laughed.

"A shilling? 'Tis a free country, master constable, and a sober countryman don't carry shillings to buy what's his. And seems to me, so it does, as ye've had drink enough a'ready; out o' my way, I say!"

"Arrest him, men!" cried the constable, angry at being disappointed of his expected tip.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when with sudden energy Sherebiah threw himself against him, at the same time placing a leg behind his knee. As the constable fell, Sherebiah dashed at the watchmen, toppled two of them over, their fall being accompanied by the crash of their lanterns, scattered the rest, and ran rapidly across the bridge. This unexpected onset from one whom they had taken for a simple and timid country bumpkin was too much for the watch. They made no attempt to pursue the fugitive, but returned surly and crestfallen to their lair.

"Where on earth have you been, Sherry?" asked Harry, as his man re-entered the inn.

"Payen a visit to a cousin o' mine, Master Harry. And I was nigh put in lock-up, I was. Was stopped by the watch, but I toppled un over, I did. I'm a man o' peace."

"If you are let alone," said Harry, laughing. "I feared some harm had happened to you. Our Dutch friend tells me London is an ill place at night for a stranger."

"Ay, and by day too, Master Harry," rejoined Sherebiah earnestly. "If I med make so bold, I'd say, get 'ee to-morrow a good cane,--none of your little small amber-tipt fancies as fine gentlemen swing in their dainty fingers, but a stout length of oak or birch, fit to crack a pate."

"I have a sword, Sherry, and can use it, thanks to you."

"Ay, but 'tis not always easy to draw a sword in time in a street brawl, and there be light-fingered gentry as can coax a sword from the scabbard and the wearer none the wiser till it be too late. Be it your poor feyther's sword you ha' brought, sir?"

"Yes, the silver-hilted one; I showed it you once, Sherry."

"Well, 'tis right for a gentleman to wear a sword, though I marvel, I do, at a holy man o' peace like pa'son haven such a deadly piece o' furniture."

"Ay, and I've often wondered how a man of peace like yourself is able to handle a sword so well. You made a swordsman of me, Sherry; how did you become one yourself?"

"Ah, sir, 'tis a many things a man o' peace has to know in the way o' dressens. I believe in peace with a cudgel in your hand. Them as wants peace be most like to get it an they be ready for war."

"You remind me of what Master Butler says:

'There's but the twinkling of a star Betwixt the man of peace and war'.

But the hour is late, Sherry, and I must be up betimes in the morning, for my visit to Lord Godolphin."

"You bean't gwine to see the high lard to-morrer, sir? Better larn to find your way about this tangle o' busy streets first. 'Tis as easy as sucken eggs to lose your way."

"I have made up my mind to go to-morrow. You see, I must lose no time. I have only twenty guineas, as you know, and by to-morrow two of those will be gone. And I sha'n't rest till I have tried my luck. Good-night, Sherry! Wake me at seven."

Left to himself, Sherebiah ordered a pint of small beer, and sat for an hour longer, ruminating, with knit brows and compressed lips. More than once he got up and walked round the deal table, stopping to take a pull at the tankard, heaving a sigh, then going on again. He was disquieted. The sudden discovery that the squire's animosity was pursuing Harry no less perplexed than disturbed him. Harry and Mr. Berkeley had never met at close quarters; there had been no intercourse between hall and parsonage. A personal cause of offence was, as it seemed to Sherebiah, out of the question; yet it was strange that the squire's hatred of the father should extend to the son. At length, muttering "No one can tell what's what with the likes o' old Squire," Sherebiah brought his big fist down on to the table with a bang that made the pewter jump and rattle, and fetched the drawer from his place in the bar.

"What d'ye lack?" said the man.

"Nothen, sonny, nothen. 'Tis a way o' mine to hit out when I be a-thinken, a bold way for a man o' peace, true. Bacon at half arter seven, drawer,--and we be country eaters, mind 'ee. Good-night!"

*Chapter VI*

*My Lord Marlborough makes a Note*

London Streets--A Chair!--A Great Man's Portals--An Effort of Memory--Patronage--Marlborough--A Step in the Peerage--A Memorandum--A Friend in London--A Dinner at Locket's--Mr. Colley Cibber--Great Expectations--A Thick Stick--Prevarication

Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his door next morning. His projected visit to Lord Godolphin gave him some concern. He had no tremors of shyness at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but, ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to time his visit, and could hope for no counsel on that point from Sherebiah. He was too much excited to do justice to the crisp rashers which were placed before him at the breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite. Sherebiah had taken upon himself to wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor, did not think it unbecoming to throw in a word here and there. He gave Grootz his views on the price of oats and the policy of King Louis of France with equal assurance.

"Know ye where de lord live?" asked the Dutchman suddenly.

Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand to his fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his confidence. Before he could reply, Grootz went on:

"He live over against the Queen's Wood Yard, by Thames-side, leading to Scotland Yard. My vrient John Evelyn built de house. I have been dere."

"Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "Then can you tell me the best time to visit him?"

"Ja! De best time, it is ten o'clock, before he go to de palace. He rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him myself in his dressing-gown before his zervant have curled his wig, and I wait my turn two hours. And when you zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out, mark you."

The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his meal, and wagging his fat finger as he concluded.

"And how shall I go? Shall I walk?"

"I' feck, no," said Sherebiah from behind. "The night have been rainy, and the streets be mushed wi' mud; you'd be spattered from head to heel, Master Harry. Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy 'ee a pair o' gloves there for seemliness, and then get your shoes brushed by one o' the blackguards at the corner. Then you can take a chair; 'tis a shilling a mile, and easier goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk on the pavement, and you won't get jolted nor splashed so bad."

"Ja, and I tell you dis," added the Dutchman. "Short poles, and short men; zo, dey take not zo much room, and if dey upzet you, why, you do not fall zo much."

"Ay, and don't let 'em chouse 'ee out o' more than their due," said Sherebiah. "I know they men. If they think a man be up from country, they look at un and then at the shilling, up and down, and miscall un wi' such brazen tongues that he'll pay anything to save his ears. A shilling a mile, Master Harry, no more."

"Zo! De counsel is good. But I give you a better: go not at all. Lords! I tell you dis before: an honest merchant is worth two, dree, no man zay how many lords; and de Book zay, 'Put not your drust in princes'. Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan Grootz; zo!"

He squeezed Harry's hand in his own great fist, and then, having demolished his mountain of food, filled his pipe and set forth for the Custom House on Thames bank. Two hours later, Harry left the inn under Sherebiah's guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the streets of London. Filled though his mind was with the approaching interview, which might mean so much to him, he was yet able to take an interest in the strange scenes that opened before his inexperienced eyes: the brilliant shops, each with its sign of painted copper, pewter, or wood hanging from iron branches; the taverns and coffee-houses, already crowded with people eager to hear and discuss the news, and perhaps to get a peep at the morning's _Courant_; the court and porticoes of the Royal Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the crowds of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients. He went up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange, and bought a pair of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at one of the booths; then strolled along, admiring the rich and dazzling display of silks and jewellery which a few hours later would attract all the fine ladies in town.

Descending to the street again, he passed up Cheapside and through St. Paul's Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill and through Ludgate, where he beheld impaled on stakes a row of hideous heads of traitors, one of which, Sherebiah told him with indignation, was that of Noll Crum'ell. Then skirting the Fleet Ditch, once navigable, but now a noisome slimy sewer, he came into Fleet Street, through Temple Bar to the Strand, and at length arrived at Charing Cross, where he was nearly overturned by a hasty chair-man, whose "By your leave!" was not yet familiar to his ears. At Charing Cross stood a number of boys with boxes before them on the pavement, and cries of "Clean your shoes!" "London fucus!" "Best Spanish blacking!" came in eager competing tones. Sherebiah selected one whose stand was in front of a barber's shop.

"Here's the blackguard for 'ee, Master Harry," he said. "He'll shine your shoes while barber shaves my stubble. A penny; no more."

When the shoes were polished and the stubble mown, Sherebiah called up a couple of chairmen who were sitting on their poles near by.

"Do 'ee know my Lord Godolphin's noble house?" he asked.

"Ay; servant, sir."

"Well then, carry my young master to that very house, and see 'ee don't jolt 'n, or drop 'n, or let 'n get splashed. 'Tis under a mile, Master Harry," he whispered at parting.

Harry would rather have walked. The men took what care they could, but the press of people was so great that they had to dodge at every few steps, and their fare gripped the seat to prevent himself from being knocked against first one side, then the other, of the conveyance. At the corner of Whitehall, as they turned into Scotland Yard, a passing dray splashed up a shower of liquid mud, and Harry felt a moist dab upon his nose. Fortunately the spot was soon removed with his handkerchief; and when, after crossing by the Charcoal House and through the Wood Yard, the chairmen at length set him down at the door of Godolphin's house, he would have felt no anxiety about his personal appearance, if he had been sufficiently self-conscious to think about it. He had put on his best coat, silk stockings, and buckle shoes; at his side he wore the sword about which he had spoken to Sherebiah. He sprang alertly up the steps, and looked about him with a keen quick gaze that bespoke a definite purpose.

The great entrance-hall was thronged. Servants, officers, government officials, men about town, stood in groups or moved here and there in pursuit of their several objects of business or pleasure. No one appeared to remark the presence of the new-comer, who walked quietly through the throng towards the broad staircase. At the foot a gorgeously-dressed flunkey was standing, to whom one or two gentlemen had already applied for information. As Harry was about to address him, his attention was attracted by a woolly-pated wide-grinning black boy, who at that moment ran down the stairs. He carried a silver tray, on which a cup and jug of fine porcelain jingled as he ran.

"Done, Sambo?" asked the tall flunkey at the stair-foot.

"Yussir!" replied the boy with a white grin. "My lord jolly dis mornin; oh yes; drink him chocolate without one cuss. Gwine to begin work now; oh yes."

"Can I see the Lord Godolphin?" asked Harry, stepping up to the servant as Sambo disappeared.

The man gave Harry a stare, but answered respectfully: "My lord's levee is over, sir. The nigger brings down the tray when the last visitor has gone."

"I have come specially to see my lord, and----"

"Have you an appointment, sir?"

"I think if you will take my name to my lord he will see me."

Harry spoke quietly; he was determined not to be turned from his purpose by mere formality or red tape. The man eyeing him saw nothing but self-possession and confidence in his air.

"My lord is now engaged with his correspondence," he said. "He does not brook interruption."

"My name is Harry Rochester; I will answer for it that you will do no wrong in acquainting his lordship."

After a moment's hesitation the man beckoned to a fellow-servant, and gave him Harry's message. He went upstairs, and returning in a few minutes said:

"What is your business with my lord, sir? His lordship does not remember your name."

There was the suggestion of a sneer in the man's voice. With hardly a perceptible pause Harry replied:

"Tell his lordship I am from Winton St. Mary, at his invitation."

A faint smile curled the lips of the two flunkeys. The second again mounted the stairs. When he descended, his face wore its usual expression of deference and respect.

"Be so good as to wait upon his lordship," he said, and led the way.

In a few minutes Harry found himself, hat in hand, making his bow to Lord Godolphin in a large wainscoted apartment. Four large candles burnt upon the mantel-piece, daylight being kept out by the heavy curtains on either side of the narrow window. A huge log fire filled the chimney-place; beyond it stood a broad table littered with papers, which at that moment a young man was sorting by the light of a shaded candle. Lord Godolphin was in dressing-gown and slippers.

"Well, sir?" he said.

"My name is Rochester, my lord."

"I am aware of that. I do not recall it. Well?"

My lord's tone was cold and uninviting.

"Your lordship will permit me to mention a little incident on the Roman road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe's park, when----"

"Stay, I remember now. You are the lad they called the young parson, eh? I have a poor head for names. When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary I supposed you might be a messenger from the gentleman who entertained us there."

Now that Harry was actually face to face with the Lord Treasurer, he felt some diffidence in opening the subject of his visit. My lord, in spite of his deshabille, seemed far less approachable than he had been on the old Roman road. Then he was the country sportsman; now he was the chief minister of the Queen.

"Your shouting friend with the scriptural name--how is he?" he asked in a somewhat more cordial tone.

"He is well, my lord; he is with me in London."

"And your father: has he won his case against the squire? I heard something of him at Sir Godfrey Fanshawe's, I think."

"My father is dead, my lord."

"Indeed! Pray accept my condolences. And now, tell me what brings you here."

"Your lordship may remember, after the scene with the highwaymen----"

"Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man; what then?"

"It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume on it; but you were so good as to say that if, at some future time, I should find myself in need of assistance, I was to come to your lordship."

"Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe. But you,"--he smiled--"why, I really may not venture to set you up in a cure of souls. You have to take your degrees yet."

"That is impossible, my lord. My father impoverished himself in his feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs were settled I found myself possessed of but a poor twenty guineas. I have given up all thought of going to Oxford; I must seek a livelihood."

"H'm!"

Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though estimating his chances of making his way in the world.

"You wear a sword," he said. "Rochester--you are no connection of the earl's?--no, of course not, he is a Wilmot. Where do you spring from?"

"My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard that he died young, but my father seldom spoke of these matters; we have no relatives."

"H'm! I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch for martial life. All boys have, I suppose. Young Lord Churchill was cut to the heart a few months ago because my lady Marlborough would not permit him to follow his father to Flanders. Well, to be frank with you, I see no way of helping you. With twenty guineas you can no more buy a commission than you can enter yourself at a college. To enlist as a common soldier would be a last resource to one of your breeding. There are too many young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court to go round among them. Yet I would fain do something for you."

He began to saunter up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him, stopping for a moment to listen as the sound of cheers came from the street. Suddenly the door was opened, and the voice of the servant was heard announcing a visitor.

"My lord Marlborough."

Harry looked with eager curiosity as the great soldier entered the room. He saw a tall, singularly handsome man, with short curved upper lip, firm chin, long almond-shaped eyes, and a calm benignity of expression. John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough, was at this time fifty-two years of age. As captain-general of the English forces, in the summer of this year, 1702, he had opened in concert with the Dutch a campaign in Flanders against Louis the Fourteenth of France,--a new campaign in the great war of the Spanish Succession which the policy of William the Third had bequeathed to his sister-in-law. Venloo and other towns had been captured by the confederate armies, Liege had been reduced, and the forces having gone into winter quarters, Marlborough had returned to England to support the Occasional Conformity Bill. He was a close personal friend of Godolphin, and allied to him by the ma