town-guard, the cavalry officer would have been slain by the people on the spot; and it was with no small difficulty that they protected him to the boats, and back to Monmouth’s ship. This incident quickened the departure of the invaders. They were not quite so popular in Lyme the second day as the first, and therefore more open to remonstrance about allowing the King’s forces time to rally in the west, in the direction of their march.
Yet it was a brave array which wound up the narrow and steep and rocky street of Lyme, and issued forth upon the open country where new companies were waiting to join the march; and where troops might be seen converging to the down through lanes, and up the slopes from the interior country, and across the grassy uplands. When all Lyme was out of town, except the weary authorities, and the loyal gentry who had shut themselves up while the turmoil lasted, the Squire went off duty, and quietly entered his yard from the back,—so haggard and unlike himself that his own good dog Tubal hesitated for an instant to greet him.
There was a person in the yard, however, who greeted him without any hesitation. Reuben Coad came forward from the stables with a smile.
“Reuben!” exclaimed the Squire. “Have you left your master, Reuben?”
“Left him, your worship! No, indeed! He is too good a master to leave in a hurry. My master is here,” pointing to the house. “Bid not your worship know we were coming?”
The Squire did not answer; but the man was entirely satisfied that Christopher’s arrival was unexpected.
The house was very quiet. Most of the servants who were not with the young people at Dunn’s farm had turned out upon the down to see the march of Monmouth’s soldiers out of Lyme. Eleazer, the old butler, unbarred the door for his master; and the only persons in the house besides were his mistress and Elizabeth, and Christopher, who had appeared half an hour before.
The Squire said afterwards that he had never seen such an expression on any human face as that with which Elizabeth now met him. All the three rose as he entered the room where they were in earnest conversation; but Elizabeth went to meet him, putting her arm within his, and looking up into his face as she said—
“Christopher has come to tell us that he is going to join the Duke of Monmouth.”
“I hope—I pray God this is not true, Christopher!” his father exclaimed, in a low and solemn voice.
“It is true, father: and I fully expected that we should be of one mind as to our duty. I cannot believe that you will support the Usurper for an hour after a Protestant king has appeared. No one will imagine such a thing as your holding back I can’t bear to put such a thought into words.”
“Leave it unspoken, then, my son. You and I shall never misjudge one another. We will discuss this grave matter; but first we must take care of these precious women. Your mother is in mortal dread, I see, though she will never own it: and this dear child,” caressing Elizabeth,—“we must send her back to the High-Sheriff and his safe roof before worse happens.”
Christopher said there could be no doubt of this, and he had planned to send her, in charge of Reuben and a sufficient escort, if it should be thought safer for her than his own presence.
“I would not trust her with Reuben,” the Squire observed.
“I hoped you would let me stay,” Elizabeth said. “I wish to do exactly what is right. I wish to be worthy of Christopher,” she explained, looking at him with a gaze of pride and love which brought tears into eyes which scarcely knew the feel of them. “He has devoted himself”
“And you, too,” sighed the father.
“Oh! I bless him for it—that he has devoted me, too,” she continued; “and I desire to be worthy of it; to help where I can, and hinder nothing. I could wish to stay, and do my best: but if you tell me it is right for me to go, I will go—and cheerfully, if I can.”
No one had any doubt. They would have sent her to-night but for the fear of stragglers from Monmouth’s force being about; and she must depart as soon as it was light. A few words explained why she was not at Dunn’s farm with the rest. She had longed to stay and be daughter to Mrs. Battiscombe; and, on the other hand, it was thought that if her brother should send for her, it would be better that she should be on the spot.
Though the supper which the Squire so much needed was short, the grace was long. Never had grace, both before and after meat, been so solemn in that house. This might be the last time that the four would sit down to table together: and it was, almost certainly, the last time they would eat together before events had happened which would decide the fate of their lives, and the destiny of the kingdom.
The conversation which ensued was not very long. Father and son knew what they meant to say, and understood one another perfectly. The Squire could not agree to stake the cause of the Reformation on the chances of the illegitimate son of a licentious king being accepted as his heir. He was not satisfied as to the willingness of the Protestants of the kingdom to welcome a gay worldling like Monmouth, as the representative of their antagonism with the Pope and his forces. From what he had seen of the Duke’s adherents, he doubted their quality and capacity; and he told of the murder of Dare in the street, and the consequent loss of Fletcher as a leader. He would not pledge himself to the Catholic king now ruling; but he would maintain civil order till he could see his way. No man could go further than he in scorn and disgust at the bad faith and cruel temper of the new king; and no man could be more confident that such a method of rule as the present could not continue. God and man would determine, ere long, that there should be a Protestant sovereign. The question for every man’s conscience was whether to accept Monmouth for that office, or to wait for the Protestant princesses who should naturally succeed the present