The Pigeon Pie

“I don’t forget how the cannon roared all day,” said Lucy.

“Ah! that dismal day!” said Rose.  “Then by came our troopers, blood-stained and disorderly, riding so fast that scarcely one waited to tell my mother that the day was lost and she had better fly.  But not a step did she stir from the gate, where she stood with you, Charlie, in her arms; she only asked of each as he passed if he had seen my father or Edmund, and ever her cheek grew whiter and whiter.  At last came a Parliament officer on horseback—it was Mr. Enderby, who had been a college mate of my father’s, and he told us that my dear father was wounded, and had sent him to fetch her.”

“But I never knew where Edmund was then,” said Eleanor.  “No one ever told me.”

“Edmund lifted up my father when he fell,” said Walter, “and was trying to bind his wound; but when Colonel Enderby’s troop was close upon them, my father charged him upon his duty to fly, saying that he should fall into the hands of an old friend, and it was Edmund’s duty to save himself to fight for the King another time.”

“So Edmund followed Prince Rupert?” said Eleanor.

“Yes,” said Lucy; “you know my father once saved Prince Rupert’s life in the skirmish where his horse was killed, so for his sake the Prince made Edmund his page, and has had him with him in all his voyages and wanderings.  But go on about our father, Rose.  Did we go to see him?”

“No; Mr. Enderby said he was too far off, so he left a trooper to guard us, and my mother only took her little babe with her.  Don’t you remember, Walter, how Eleanor screamed after her, as she rode away on the colonel’s horse; and how we could not comfort the little ones, till they had cried themselves to sleep, poor little things?  And in the morning she came back, and told us our dear father was dead!  O Walter, how can we look back to that day, and rejoice in a new war?  How can you wonder her heart should sink at sounds of joy which have so often ended in tears?”

Walter twisted about and muttered, but he could not resist his sister’s earnest face and tearful eyes, and said something about not making so much noise in the house.

“There’s my own dear brother,” said Rose.  “And you won’t tease Deborah?”

“That is too much, Rose.  It is all the sport I have, to see the faces she makes when I plague her about Diggory.  Besides, it serves her right for having such a temper.”

“She has not a good temper, poor thing!” said Rose; “but if you would only think how true and honest she is, how hard she toils, and how ill she fares, and yet how steadily she holds to us, you would surely not plague and torment her.”

Rose was interrupted by a great outcry, and in rushed Deborah, screaming out, “Lack-a-day!  Mistress Rose!  O Master Walter! what will become of us?  The fight is lost, the King fled, and a whole regiment of red-coats burning and plundering the whole country.  Our throats will be cut, every one of them!”

“You’ll have a chance of being a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army,” said Walter, who even then could not miss a piece of mischief.

“Joking now, Master Walter!” cried Deborah, very much shocked.  “That is what I call downright sinful.  I hope you’ll be made a mark of yourself, that I do.”

The children were running off to tell their mother, when Rose stopped them, and desired to know how Deborah had heard the tidings.  It was from two little children from the village who had come to bring a present of some pigeons to my lady.  Rose went herself to examine the children, but she could only learn that a packman had come into the village and brought the report that the King had been defeated, and had fled from the field.  They knew no more, and Walter pronouncing it to be all a cock-and-bull story of some rascally prick-eared pedlar, declared he would go down to the village and enquire into the rights of it.

These were the saddest times of English history, when the wrong cause had been permitted for a time to triumph, and the true and rightful side was persecuted; and among those who endured affliction for the sake of their Church and their King, none suffered more, or more patiently, than Lady Woodley, or, as she was called in the old English fashion, Dame Mary Woodley, of Forest Lea.

When first the war broke out she was living happily in her pleasant home with her husband and children; but when King Charles raised his standard at Nottingham, all this comfort and happiness had to be given up.  Sir Walter Woodley joined the royal army, and it soon became unsafe for his wife and children to remain at home, so that they were forced to go about with him, and suffer all the hardships of the sieges and battles.  Lady Woodley was never strong, and her health was very much hurt by all she went through; she was almost always unwell, and if Rose, though then quite a child, had not shown care and sense beyond her years for the little ones, it would be hard to say what would have become of them.

Yet all she endured while dragging about her little babies through the country, with bad or insufficient food, uncomfortable lodgings, pain, weariness and anxiety, would have been as nothing but for the heavy sorrows that came upon her also.  First she lost her only brother, Edmund Mowbray, and in the battle of Naseby her husband was killed; besides which there were the sorrows of the whole nation in seeing the King sold, insulted, misused, and finally slain, by his own subjects.  After Sir Walter’s death, Lady Woodley went home with her five younger children to her father’s house at Forest Lea; for her husband’s estate, Edmund’s own inheritance, had been seized and sequestrated by the rebels.  She was the heiress of Forest Lea since the loss of her brother, but the old Mr. Mowbray, her father, had given almost all his wealth for the royal cause, and had been oppressed by the exactions of the rebels, so that he had nothing to leave his daughter but the desolate old house and a few bare acres of land.  For the shelter, however, Lady Woodley was very thankful; and there she lived with her children and a faithful servant, Deborah, whose family had always served the Mowbrays, and who would not desert their daughter now.

The neighbours in the village loved, and were sorry for, their lady, and used to send her little presents; there was a large garden in which Diggory Stokes, who had also served her father, raised vegetables for her use; the cow wandered in the deserted park, and so they contrived to find food; while all the work of the house was done by Rose and Deborah.  Rose was her mother’s great comfort, nursing her, cheering her, taking care of the little ones, teaching them, working for them, and making light of all her exertions.  Everyone in the village loved Rose Woodley, for everyone had in some way been helped or cheered by her.  Her mother was only sometimes afraid she worked too hard, and would try her strength too much; but she was always bright and cheerful, and when the day’s work was done no one was more gay and lively and ready for play with the little ones.

Rose had more trial than anyone knew with Deborah.  Deborah was as faithful as possible, and bore a great deal for the sake of her mistress, worked hard day and night, had little to eat and no wages, yet lived on with them rather than forsake her dear lady and the children.  One thing, however, Deborah would not do, and that was to learn to rule her tongue and her temper.  She did not know, nor do many excellent servants, how much trial and discomfort she gave to those she loved so earnestly, by her constant bursting out into hasty words whenever she was vexed—her grumbling about whatever she disliked, and her ill-judged scolding of the children.  Servants in those days were allowed to speak more freely to their masters and mistresses than at present, so that Deborah had more opportunity of making such speeches, and it was Rose’s continual work to try to keep her temper from being fretted, or Lady Woodley from being teased with her complaints.  Rose was very forbearing, and but for this there would have been little peace in the house.

Walter was thirteen, an age when it is not easy to keep boys in order, unless they will do so for themselves.  Though a brave generous boy, he was often unruly and inconsiderate, apt not to obey, and to do what he knew to be unkind or wrong, just for the sake of present amusement.  He was thus his mother’s great anxiety, for she knew that she was not fit either to teach or to restrain him, and she feared that his present wild disobedient ways might hurt his character for ever, and lead to dispositions which would in time swallow up all the good about him, and make him what he would now tremble to think of.

She used to talk of her anxieties to Doctor Bathurst, the good old clergyman who had been driven away from his parish, but used to come in secret to help, teach, and use his ministry for the faithful ones of his flock.  He would tell her that while she did her best for her son, she must trust the rest to his Father above, and she might do so hopefully, since it had been in His own cause that the boy had been made fatherless.  Then he would speak to Walter, showing him how wrong and how cruel were his overbearing, disobedient ways.  Walter was grieved, and resolved to improve and become steadier, that he might be a comfort and blessing to his mother; but in his love of fun and mischief he was apt to forget himself, and then drove away what might have been in time repentance and improvement, by fancying he did no harm.  Teasing Deborah served her right, he would tell himself, she was so ill-tempered and foolish; Diggory was a clod, and would do nothing without scolding; it was a good joke to tease Charlie; Eleanor was a vexatious little thing, and he would not be ordered by her; so he went his own way, and taught the merry chattering Lucy to be very nearly as bad as himself, neglected his duties, set a bad example, tormented a faithful servant, and seriously distressed his mother.  Give him some great cause, he thought, and he would be the first and the best, bring back the King, protect his mother and sisters, and perform glorious deeds, such as would make his name be remembered for ever.  Then it would be seen what he was worth; in the meantime he lived a dull life, with nothing to do, and he must have some fun.  It did not signify if he was not particular about little things, they were women’s affairs, and all very well for Rose, but when some really important matter came, that would be his time for distinguishing himself.

In the meantime Charles II. had been invited to Scotland, and had brought with him, as an attendant, Edmund Woodley, the eldest son.  As soon as he was known to have entered England, some of the loyal gentlemen of the neighbourhood of Forest Lea went to join the King, and among their followers went Farmer Ewins, who had fought bravely in the former war under Edmund Mowbray, several other of the men of the village, and lastly, Diggory Stokes, Lady Woodley’s serving man, who had lately shown symptoms of discontent with his place, and fancied that as a soldier he might fare better, make his fortune, and come home prosperously to marry his sweetheart, Deborah.

CHAPTER II

Walter ran down to the village at full speed.  He first bent his steps towards the “Half-Moon,” the little public-house, where news was sure to be met with.  As he came towards it, however, he heard the loud sound of a man’s voice going steadily on as if with some discourse.  “Some preachment,” said he to himself: “they’ve got a thorough-going Roundhead, I can hear his twang through his nose!  Shall I go in or not?”

While he was asking himself this question, an old peasant in a round frock came towards him.

“Hollo, Will!” shouted Walter, “what prick-eared rogue have you got there?”

“Hush, hush, Master Walter!” said the old man, taking off his hat very respectfully.  “Best take care what you say, there be plenty of red-coats about.  There’s one of them now preaching away in marvellous pied words.  It is downright shocking to hear the Bible hollaed out after that sort, so I came away.  Don’t you go nigh him, sir, ’specially with your hat set on in that—”

“Never mind my hat,” said Walter, impatiently, “it is no business of yours, and I’ll wear it as I please in spite of old Noll and all his crew.”

For his forefathers’ sake, and for the love of his mother and sister, the good village people bore with Walter’s haughtiness and discourtesy far more than was good for him, and the old man did not show how much he was hurt by his rough reception of his good advice.  Walter was not reminded that he ought to rise up before the hoary head, and reverence the old man, and went on hastily, “But tell me, Will, what do you hear of the battle?”

“The battle, sir! why, they say it is lost.  That’s what the fellow there is preaching about.”

“And where was it?  Did you hear?  Don’t you know?”

“Don’t be so hasty, don’t ye, sir!” said the old slow-spoken man, growing confused.  “Where was it?  At some town—some town, they said, but I don’t know rightly the name of it.”

“And the King?  Who was it?  Not Cromwell?  Had Lord Derby joined?” cried Walter, hurrying on his questions so as to puzzle and confuse the old man more and more, till at last he grew angry at getting no explanation, and vowed it was no use to talk to such an old fool.  At that moment a sound as of feet and horses came along the road.  “’Tis the soldiers!” said Walter.

“Ay, sir, best get out of sight.”

Walter thought so too, and, springing over a hedge, ran off into a neighbouring wood, resolving to take a turn, and come back by the longer way to the house, so as to avoid the road.  He walked across the wood, looking up at the ripening nuts, and now and then springing up to reach one, telling himself all the time that it was untrue, and that the King could not, and should not be defeated.  The wood grew less thick after a time, and ended in low brushwood, upon an open common.  Just as Walter was coming to this place, he saw an unusual sight: a man and a horse crossing the down.  Slowly and wearily they came, the horse drooping its head and stumbling in its pace, as though worn out with fatigue, but he saw that it was a war-horse, and the saddle and other equipments were such as he well remembered in the royal army long ago.  The rider wore buff coat, cuirass, gauntlets guarded with steel, sword, and pistols, and Walter’s first impulse was to avoid him; but on giving a second glance, he changed his mind, for though there was neither scarf, plume, nor any badge of party, the long locks, the set of the hat, and the general air of the soldier were not those of a rebel.  He must be a cavalier, but, alas! far unlike the triumphant cavaliers whom Walter had hoped to receive, for he was covered with dust and blood, as if he had fought and ridden hard.  Walter sprung forward to meet him, and saw that he was a young man, with dark eyes and hair, looking very pale and exhausted, and both he and his horse seemed hardly able to stir a step further.

“Young sir,” said the stranger, “what place is this?  Am I near Forest Lea?”

A flash of joy crossed Walter.  “Edmund! are you Edmund?” he exclaimed, colouring deeply, and looking up in his face with one quick glance, then casting down his eyes.

“And you are little Walter,” returned the cavalier, instantly dismounting, and flinging his arm around his brother; “why, what a fine fellow you are grown!  How are my mother and all?”

“Well, quite well!” cried Walter, in a transport of joy.  “Oh! how happy she will be!  Come, make haste home!”

“Alas!  I dare not as yet.  I must not enter the house till nightfall, or I should bring danger on you all.  Are there any troopers near?”

“Yes, the village is full of the rascals.  But what has happened?  It is not true that—”  He could not bear to say the rest.

“Too true!” said Edmund, leading his tired horse within the shelter of the bushes.  “It is all over with us!”

“The battle lost!” said Walter, in a stifled tone; and in all the bitterness of the first disappointment of his youth, he turned away, overcome by a gush of tears and sobs, stamping as he walked up and down, partly with the intensity of his grief, partly with shame at being seen by his brother, in tears.

“Had you set your heart on it so much?” said Edmund, kindly, pleased to see his young brother so ardent a loyalist.  “Poor fellow!  But at least the King was safe when I parted from him.  Come, cheer up, Walter, the right will be uppermost some day or other.”

“But, oh, that battle!  I had so longed to see old Noll get his deserts,” said Walter, “I made so sure.  But how did it happen, Edmund?”

“I cannot tell you all now, Walter.  You must find me some covert where I can be till night fall.  The rebels are hot in pursuit of all the fugitives.  I have ridden from Worcester by byroads day and night, and I am fairly spent.  I must be off to France or Holland as soon as may be, for my life is not safe a moment here.  Cromwell is bitterer than ever against all honest men, but I could not help coming this way, I so much longed to see my mother and all of you.”

“You are not wounded?” said Walter, anxiously.

“Nothing to speak of, only a sword-cut on my shoulder, by which I have lost more blood than convenient for such a journey.”

“Here, I’ll lead your horse; lean on me,” said Walter, alarmed at the faint, weary voice in which his brother spoke after the first excitement of the recognition.  “I’ll show you what Lucy and I call our bower, where no one ever comes but ourselves.  There you can rest till night.”