Munsey's Magazine/Volume 90/Issue 3/The Prince's Pearl

by J. S. Fletcher

The Prince's Pearl

 

HOW MARJORIE SUMMERS BECAME POSSESSED OF A RARE JEWEL WHICH IS AN HEIRLOOM IN HER FAMILY TO THIS DAY

 

By J. S. Fletcher

 

TO us at the Moat Farm, that day, the 2nd of July in the year of our Lord 1644, had been one of as great anxiety as ever I spent in my life. That I can say with knowledge, for I shall be an old woman of three and seventy years come St. Thomas's Day.

To begin with, my father was so ailing in his body that he was obliged to take to his bed ere noon, and Martha Thorpe had a sad time with him before he got some ease. My brother Francis had gone away on business into the Westmorland Fells, and my younger brother, John, was at the wars, fighting for the king. The only man we had about the place, therefore, was Simon Trippett.

Not a very strong garrison, you will say, for a great rambling house like ours—an old woman of sixty, though hale and strong, a young maiden of seventeen, and a man of forty, who, if I must tell the truth of him, was scarce worth his meat at any time. He was the only man we had to live in the house. Our other laborers lived in the village, some distance off.

At nine o'clock that night, my father being then asleep in his chamber upstairs, Martha Thorpe and I were sitting on the settee in the great kitchen, knitting peacefully and diligently, when the door was suddenly opened, and in came Simon Trippett, looking as if he had seen a hundred ghosts. Behind him, through the open door, you could see glimpses of as fair a summer's evening as ever was like to make a man's spirit strong and glad; but Simon's heart had evidently gone down to his shoes and carried all his strength there. His knees knocked together, his head shook, his fingers could not keep still.

“What the good year?” cries Martha Thorpe, staring at him as if she, too, had seen a ghost. “Is aught the matter, man?”

Simon wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Matter?” he said. “Matter? We shall all be murdered!”

“Then get thy supper and go to bed, and be murdered there,” says Martha, pointing to his supper, which had been ready for him a good half hour. “'Tis the best place to die in.”

“Bed?” said Simon, staring about him. “There will be no beds for any one, gentle or simple, to-night, methinks. We are all to be murdered, or worse!”

“Now, may the Lord lend thee sense, thou—” began Martha; but I stopped her from further scolding of poor Simon, whose wits, it was easy to see, were all distraught.

“What is it, Simon?” I said gently. “Tell us.”

Simon fumbled with his cap.

“Mistress Marjorie,” says he, “'tis this, i' faith—I ha' been to Boroughbridge with the brown mare, and there I did hear that king's men and Parliament men have been gathering 'twixt there and York for days, and to-night they are fighting. I heard the cannon with these ears, as I live, Dame Martha; and there was a man rode post-haste through Boroughbridge, while I stood at the blacksmith's shop, who had come away from Marston village at eight of the clock. He said the moor was black with smoke and red with blood, and that every king's man was dead, and the Parliament men were sweeping the land to kill every mother's son of us, and advising all to make for-the west country; and so I jumped on the mare's back and rode for home.”

“Sit down and eat thy supper, man,” said Martha. “It 'll put some heart in thy belly. Art the faintest-hearted poor atomy that ever I made bread for!”

Now it chanced that while poor Simon was hesitating—and indeed he had drawn nearer to his supper—two gamekeepers who were out on the land near by chanced to discharge their fowling pieces. At the sound thereof he uttered a great cry of—

“They are at hand—they are at hand!”

Then, leaping through the door, he made off across the garth without, as fast as his trembling legs could carry him.

“The Lord help thee for a poor weak mortal!” said Martha. “And here's a pretty to-do if the master chances to be seized with another of his complaints in the night. Not a man about the place to send for the 'pothecary! And—hush!”

In the silence we heard my father's stick, that we had left by his bedside, knocking on the floor of his chamber.

“I warrant me the poor man is took again!” sighed Martha.

Going up to the chamber, we found that she had guessed rightly. My poor father was once more in pain, and for another hour we were busily engaged in endeavoring to give him some ease. At last, as it neared midnight, he fell again into a restful sleep.

It was soon after that, as Martha Thorpe and I tiptoed down the stair, that we heard a low tapping on the door of the stone hall which opened into the apple orchard.

II

Now if it had been a great, boisterous knock that we had heard, such as he knocks who knows he has a right to admittance, I should not have felt any unusual interest in the sound; but this was a low, stealthy knocking which told us as plainly as possible that whoever knocked was not minded to attract any great attention. Martha and I looked at each other with the same question in our eyes—could it be my brother Francis, who, returning sooner than we had expected, and knowing that my father was but poorly in health, was trying to gain our attention as quietly as possible?

Without putting the question into words, we answered it as silently with a shake of the head, for we knew that Francis had his own way of getting into the house through a window.

“But who, then, can it be, Martha?” said I in a whisper. “Who is there would come knocking at the apple orchard door at this time of night?”

Then a sudden thought came into my head, and I gripped Martha Thorpe's arm in a fashion that at any other moment would have made her cry out.

“Martha! If—if it should be John, back from the war, and perhaps hurt—wounded!”

Before she had time to stop me, I rushed down the stair to the door, and had it open before I had realized the foolishness of what I was doing.

Out of the dark blue dusk of the summer midnight came two cloaked figures, who were within the house, and had closed and bolted the door, before I realized their presence. I fell back against the wainscoting, staring at them.

“Oh!” I said. “I thought it had been my brother John, home from the wars!”

One of the men, a great, broad-shouldered fellow, drew out a paper.

“If this is Master Summer's place, the Moat Farm, mistress,” said he, “here is a matter of writing from your brother John that should insure us a welcome. Use speed in reading it, for we are pursued.”

Martha had followed me closely down, a candle in her hand. By its light I opened the paper —a rough bit of paper, hastily folded; and the first thing I saw was a faint blood stain.

This is what I read:

Dear Sister Marjorie:

I am wounded, not a great deal, but too much to win home. These are dear friends; harbor them in the secret chamber until they can pass on westward.

Thy brother,
Jock.

I clasped the paper in my hands and gazed imploringly at the man who had delivered it to me.

“Oh, sir!” I said. “Where is my brother?”

“Four miles the other side Boroughbridge, mistress, and in good hands,” he answered hastily. “But this secret chamber—for your brother's sake, hasten!”

Now, I must tell you that our house was an ancient one, which stood halfway 'twixt Boroughbridge and Ripon, in the midst of a somewhat lonely country. I have heard my father say that it was built in the days when Henry VII was King of England; and I never doubted this, for it was as old a farmstead as any one of our parts had ever seen, full of strange nooks and corners in which we children used to play hide and seek. A great moat ran all round it, but it had long been dug, and could be crossed at several places.

Once, my father said, the farmstead had been the grange of some great house near, but had been sold to his forefathers at the time of the Reformation. In the very middle of the house there was a secret chamber, cunningly devised and entered by a way which was hard to discover, wherein they said the priests used to hide; and that was the place in which my brother bade me to hide these men.

There was a tradition in our family that no member of our household but ourselves should know of it; so I looked at Martha Thorpe, and she knew what I meant.

“Rest content, Mistress Marjorie,” she said, handing me the candle. “Put Master John's friends in safe keeping, and I'll to the larder and find meat and drink for them. I'll warrant me they'll give no foul looks at a chine of beef and a tankard of ale.”

“That we shall not, mistress!” said the man who had handed me my brother John's letter.

The other man, who had not spoken since his entrance, made me a polite bow, and then favored Martha with another. He turned to me again.

“But this secret chamber?” he said.

There was something in his voice that was of a vast difference to the voice of the other man. His face I could see nothing of, so wrapped about was it—save a pair of burning black eyes, in which I saw pride and sorrow.

“Get the food and drink, Martha,” said I.

When she had gone, and was safely in the great kitchen, I had the two men into the secret chamber very quickly. It was a simple trick, that of making its entrance.

Once within, the man who had only spoken once drew a deep breath. He looked round him, and, after a quick glance at me, threw off his cloak.

Then I saw that this was no common man. There was that in his face and eyes which commanded respect and attention. He reminded me of his sacred majesty the king, whom my father had carried me into Ripon to see when he came there in the year 1629; and yet there was a difference. This was not the king; but, girl though I was, knowing little of the world, I felt some strange conviction that this was one of his majesty's kinsmen.

I think he saw that conviction in my eyes, for suddenly he turned to the other man and laughed.

“Sergeant Bloodyer,” said he, “this young lady hath a pretty discernment, and I would rather throw myself on her mercy than let her remain under a false impression. Mistress Marjorie, your good brother John, Sergeant Bloodyer, and myself chanced by the fortunes of war to be thrown into one another's company in the retreat from Marston Moor this evening, and your brother was conducting me hither to this very safe retreat when he was wounded by our pursuers. I am his majesty's nephew, Prince Rupert.”

I made him the best curtsy I knew of, trying to ape the fine madam whom I had seen making obeisance to the king in Ripon market place. He smiled and bowed his head.

“We are escaping to the west, Mistress Marjorie,” said he, “and for to-night, or for a few hours, at any rate, I must be safely hidden. There are pursuers on our track—they were close upon us when we abandoned our horses in a safe place and came hither across the meadow. If they track us here, think you you can keep the secret of the secret chamber safe?”

“Unless they pull the whole house down, sir,” said I, “they'll never find a way in here. Our own servants have never known the secret.”

The man whom the prince had called Sergeant Bloodyer gave a great sigh of content, and, as if he were suddenly satisfied, dropped into a chair; but he suddenly started up again.

“Your highness's pardon,” he began.

His highness laughed, and pushed the man back. Then he looked at me with that rare smile of his. He had the darkest eyes of any man I ever chanced across.

“If we might sup, Mistress Marjorie?” he said.

III

When I had carried them meat and drink to the secret chamber, and had made them as comfortable as I could for the time they must needs spend there, I went back to Martha Thorpe in the great kitchen. Although 'twas summertime, she had lighted a fire, and was making herself a cup of spiced ale.

“For indeed,” said she, “we are like to have a nice night of it, what with master ill in his bed, poor man, and runaway soldiers knocking at the door and seeking shelter; and one requires a little of something comfortable to keep up one's heart. As for that poor body of a Simon Trippett, Lord knows where he may not have got to! A likely drowned himself out of fear in the pond, or ran all the way home to his mother, the widow woman of Whizley, poor soul, that has nothing left in the world but him, and—”

At that moment, before Martha Thorpe could say more, there was a strange scraping sound in one of the great cupboards which stood on either side of the fireplace, and its door opened gently, and out came Simon Trippett himself!

“What the good year?” says Martha, dropping her cup of spiced ale on the sanded hearthstone. “Ye good-for-nothing fly-by-night! How came you into that cupboard?”

Simon Trippett made no answer, but came tiptoeing up to me and put his finger on his lips. He looked at Martha and then at me, and he smiled at us in a fashion that made me wonder.

“Hist!” says he. “I am not such a fool as you seem to think, Mistress Martha. I can hear a thing and see a thing, and keep my own counsel about it—if I am paid to do so.”

“What are you talking about, Simon?” said I, with some impatience, for I could not make out his meaning. “What is all this you prate of?”

“Prate here, prate there,” says Simon. “Well I wot that he they call Rupert of the Rhine is in this house. Being marrow to the king's majesty, he must carry a mort of money on him!”

Here was pretty news! Young as I was, I saw that the only thing to do was to exercise one's woman's wit on Simon Trippett.

“Money,” said I, “is an excellent thing to have, Simon, isn't it?”

He rubbed his hands and grinned like the knavish fool that he was.

“How shall we get it?” said I.

“What the—” began Martha Thorpe; but I gave her a sharp glance, and she suddenly saw what I was after.

“What have you got to say, Simon?” I said, speaking to him as if he had been the king's own man of law.

“Why,” says he, whispering his words, “'tis this way, Mistress Marjorie. When I ran away, affrighted by the sound of musketry, I wandered me down to the highway where the four crossroads are. There, hidden in the hedge bottom, I hears two horsemen come up. They bestowed their horses in Dead Man's Copse, and I heard them talk of the Moat Farm, and one man called the other 'highness.' Upon that, other men came up with a great jingling of harness and clank and clink of swords and spurs. They pull together at the crossroads, and there is talk of Prince Rupert, and which way has he gone, and shall they take this road or that, and this, that, and the other; and all the time there was his royalty a hiding in the copse with t'other man, and me a sitting in the hedge bottom! In the end one lot goes on toward Ripon, and one turns back to Boroughbridge, and the man that seemed to master the lot says, 'Search every house in the neighborhood,' says he. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! 'Aye!' says I. 'Seek and ye shall find, as parson says, but it 'll take some seeking before ye find our secret chamber!' Said I not well, Mistress Marjorie?”

“Excellently well, Simon,” said I. “And then—”

“I waits until the pursuers had gone, after hearing them say grumblingly that twas poor work hunting princes. Then I followed his royalty here and watched you let him in by the apple orchard door, and well I wot you have him hidden in the secret chamber; and being marrow to the king, he must, as I say, carry a mort of money on him, Mistress Marjorie—a mort of money!”

I glanced at Martha Thorpe. Her eyes were as round as saucers, her mouth wide open.

“A matter of ten golden guineas now, Mistress Marjorie,” said Simon, his face working with excitement. “Ten golden guineas not to ride down to Boroughbridge and bring the pursuers on him! I could have told them there and then, but, thinks I, a king's man is likely to have more money about him than a Parliament man, and I could—”

“But if he will not give you the golden guineas, Simon?” I said.

“I can ride down to the troopers at Boroughbridge in ten minutes,” says he, and I saw he meant it. His fingers began to twitch again. “Ten golden guineas—a mort o' money!” says he. “Get some out of him for yourself, too, Mistress Marjorie. A prince—'tis not oft a prince rides our way!”

“The poor soul!” says Martha Thorpe, under her breath.

What to do? That was what I was asking myself. Here was this dolt of a Simon Trippett thrown clean out of his simple mind; and he was a strong man, and we were two weak women.

“A mort o' money—a mort o' money!” he repeated. “They do say the king's own self always carries a hundred guineas in his breeches pocket. Ten golden guineas, mistress!”

At that moment there came a loud knock on the door of the great kitchen. Simon Trippett leaped as if he had been shot this time, instead of hearing shots fired. He threw up his arms.

“The troopers!” he screamed. “The troopers! I' faith, Mistress Marjorie, 'twas not I that told them—'twas not I—'twas not I!”

But I had him by the shoulder and was dragging him out.

“Quick, Simon, quick!” I said. “This way—this way! You shall have your ten golden guineas, but come with me—quick!”

For the first time in the history of our family I broke the tradition of the secret chamber; for I took Simon Trippett into it.

Prince Rupert and Sergeant Bloodyer were at their supper. I pushed Simon into the very midst of them, head and crop.

“Keep him quiet,” said I. “Keep him quiet, if you have to kill him, for now's the time!”

Then I rushed back to the great kitchen like a mad thing.

IV

I was quiet and staid and gentle enough—a much-wronged, disturbed maiden— when, a few minutes later, after repeated knockings, and timid demands on my part to know who knocked, I opened the door.

In the yellow light of the candle which I held above my head I saw a ring of men's faces. They were hard enough and stern enough, but as I looked from one to the other the hardness and the sternness seemed to die away.

“What is it, gentlemen?” said I. “I pray you, make no noise or disturbance. My father is grievously sick, and there are but myself and our serving woman, Martha, in the house.”

One of the men came within. He glanced around him, then looked back at me.

“You have had no men asking refuge here to-night, young mistress?” he asked.

He looked at me with straight eyes. I looked back at him with a direct straightness, and I told the one lie that I ever told in my life.

“No!”

He uncovered his head and withdrew; but another man spoke.

“Let us see the sick father! It may all be a trick.”

Then the first man spoke again, pointing to a younger man:

“Cornet Trimblethwaite!” He turned to me with a bow. “Let this gentleman see your father, mistress,” he said.

I led Cornet Trimblethwaite up the stair. Every step we took I took on tip-toe, turning with a finger on my lip, to caution him to silence. He was a docile and sympathetic young gentleman.

Within my father's chamber I held the candle over my father's head. Thank God, he was asleep!

“There, sir,” I whispered.

He bowed his head and glanced at me as he did it. Then we tiptoed out of the chamber and down the stairs, and tiptoed out of the great kitchen. The man who had first entered came forward. He looked at Cornet Trimblethwaite inquiringly, and then at me.

“Yes, sir, it is as she told us,” said Cornet Trimblethwaite.

And in another minute Martha and I had fastened the door upon them.

V

An hour before the dawn on that soft summer night I went to the secret chamber; and there I found a sight that had surely moved Old Noll himself to laughter. The prince and Sergeant Bloodyer, having eaten and drunk their fill, had apparently invited Simon Trippett to satisfy whatever appetite he had; and this he had evidently done so heartily that he had fallen asleep in an easy-chair between them, and lay there, with his hands folded across his stomach, and his legs stretched out, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. On one side sat Prince Rupert, and on the other the sergeant, both silent.

They sprang to their feet as I entered, and in a word or two I told them what had happened.

“And if your highness is minded to make a clear escape now,” I said, “I can show you a way through our stack garth and across the fields that will bring you to your horses, if they still be there, or to Ripon, with a full assurance that none shall see you.”

“Mistress Marjorie,” said the prince, taking my hand, “I am your debtor for life, for I was hard pressed, and the few hours' respite has saved me. You will keep this little trinket in remembrance of to-night—and of me?”

Herewith he put into my hand this pearl, set, you see, in fine gold, which we shall keep in the family as long as the family lasts.

“And it will be no shame to you, either,” he says, “that a prince has kissed your cheek—and your lips—for gratitude!”

“But tell me, sir,” said I, their kindnesses being over, “what am I to do with this fellow?”

And I pointed to Simon Trippett, still fast asleep and snoring.

“Let me run him through with my sword,” growled Sergeant Bloodyer. “'Tis all he's worth.”

But Prince Rupert laughed and put a purse in my hand.

“You will easily buy his silence with this, Mistress Marjorie,” he said. “Tell him he had a strange dream, and had doubtless drunk too much strong ale. And now, sergeant—”

I showed them the way I had spoken of. There was a faint glow of color in the eastern sky across the gables of the barns and granaries, and a cock crowed from the farmyard.

They went away with the purpling morning shadow. I watched them until I could not tell which was shadow and which was man.

And then I hurried back into the house and kissed the blood stain on my poor Jock's hastily scrawled letter.