yq 5TOEV OF Y 1 ANCIENT H05E IPOmCH 
 IN Y 1 SEVENTLENTH CENTURY
 
 
 - ~ 
 
 240 Long ueach Blvd. 
 Long Beach 2, Calif.
 
 A KING'S RANSOM.
 
 A KING'S 
 RANSOM. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE MARTYRS OP 
 THE CORNHILL. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 W. E. HARRISON, THE ANCIENT HOUSE, 
 IPSWICH ::::::::: MDCCCCIX.
 
 Copyright, Entered at Stationers' Hall. 
 
 Printed at The Ancient House Press, Ipswich.
 
 MO'- 
 
 SRLG 
 URL 
 
 " Now, true love 
 
 No such effects doth prove ; 
 That is an essence far more gentle, fine, 
 
 Pure, perfect, nay, divine ; 
 It is a golden chain let down from heaven, 
 
 Whose links are bright and even : 
 That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines 
 
 The soft and sweetest minds 
 In equal knots."
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 1 
 
 London Bridge. 
 
 CHAPTER II. - 15 
 
 At the Sign of the Bull, Colchester. 
 
 CHAPTER III. - 31 
 
 Mote End. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. - 42 
 
 Home Coming. 
 
 CHAPTER V. - 59 
 
 The Chimney Recess. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. - 76 
 
 The Ninth Gable. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. - 92 
 
 Alice's Garden. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. - 110 
 
 An Unexpected Guest. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. - . 127 
 
 Recognition.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER X. - 144 
 
 Father Martin. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. - 159 
 
 The Face at the Window. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. - 175 
 
 A Night Watch. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. - 191 
 
 The Escape. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. - 206 
 
 The Price of the Ransom. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. - 218 
 
 The End. 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 CHARLES II. 
 
 EXTERIOR OF THE ANCIENT HOUSE, 
 OLD BUTTER MARKET, IPSWICH. 
 
 THE OAK PANELLED ROOM. 
 THE CHAPEL.
 
 CHARLKS n. 
 
 I'roin an original portrait in tlie possession of the author.
 
 A KING'S RANSOM 
 
 C HAPTE R I. 
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 
 
 It was a brilliant afternoon, in the summer of the year 
 of grace 1651. Even late in the day the August sun 
 was intolerably fierce. Out in the open country, the 
 work of ripening corn and fruit was almost done ; here 
 in London City, the rays beat down into crowded alleys 
 and narrow lanes, and made them close and sultry, like 
 streets of an Eastern town. But nowhere did the sun- 
 beams rest more gaily than on the broad bosom of the 
 river Thames. They shone upon the stately palaces 
 and beautiful gardens with which its banks were lined, 
 caught the edges of the leaves rustling in the breeze, 
 and sparkled in a thousand lights upon the rippled 
 surface of the water. 
 
 There was scarcely a view in all England which, for 
 historic and picturesque interest, could equal the sight 
 from old London Bridge. To the North rose the still 
 graceful structure of St. Paul's Cathedral. The beauti- 
 ful spire, for centuries the pride of the City, had been 
 burnt down in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and an 
 insignificant tower substituted for it. The South tran- 
 sept, designed by Inigo Jones, had been hastily pulled 
 down by the Parliament for the sake of the scaffolding, 
 and part of the Cathedral with it ; and the interior had 
 been sadly desecrated by the Puritans. Still, however, 
 to outward seeming, the building was the noblest in 
 London. 
 
 Close to the end of the bridge stood a confused mass 
 of houses, the hall and offices, as we should now call 
 them, of the Fishmongers' Guild. Somewhat shorn of
 
 2 . A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 their splendour were these Fishmongers, since the rigid 
 Puritan regime had abolished the demand for fish in 
 Lent. One branch of their profit had been struck at, 
 but in a great seafaring country like England, the Fish- 
 mongers were always certain to rank among the chief 
 commercial Guilds. 
 
 Nearer the bridge the houses were crowded together 
 in strange proximity. Further on, where the streets 
 were wider and fewer, the river swept round in a grand 
 curve, bound in, not by stiff embankments, or a ragged 
 border of mud and rotting hovels, but fringed to the 
 water's edge with a beautiful varied line of palaces, 
 houses, gardens, and stately water gates, designed by 
 the first artists in Europe. 
 
 The road stretched on to the twin town of West- 
 minster, where the houses grew thicker again round the 
 beautiful Abbey Church of Edward the Confessor. This 
 noble street of palaces somewhat resembled the build- 
 ings on the canals of Venice, save that every house was 
 embowered in trees. For in those days, when locomotion 
 by land presented innumerable difficulties, the Thames 
 was the great highway of London. Every house of the 
 better class had its private landing place and boat, and 
 the broad river was always covered with barges, 
 wherries, gaily painted skiffs, and crafts of all kinds. On 
 a fine summer afternoon, the citizens of London were 
 accustomed to take the air on the river by hundreds. 
 
 In the distance, plainly visible across the streets and 
 gardens, orchards and fields, which lay between, rose 
 the wooded heights of Hampstead and Highgate, and 
 Harrow beyond them, a conspicuous landmark for miles. 
 From the London of that day to these outlying districts 
 all was open country, and the same strange sight of 
 trees and green fields stretched along the Surrey side 
 of the river. For perhaps half-a-mile inland there were 
 a few streets, but only one was continued in a straight, 
 unbroken line, the great highway which ran to Dover 
 and Canterbury. 
 
 Not far from the bridge foot, as the Southwark end 
 of the bridge was called, was the splendid palace
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 3 
 
 of the Bishop of Winchester. He, poor man, like all 
 his brother prelates, had fared badly in the rapid 
 vicissitudes of the times. The Puritans, to whom 
 Prelacy was only less obnoxious than Popery, had sent 
 him about his business as soon as they obtained the 
 upper hand. His Palace had been first turned into a 
 prison by the Parliament, and then, the necessity being 
 urgent for ready money, it had been sold, some two 
 years before, to the highest bidder. 
 
 But the bridge itself was even more wonderful than 
 the view from it. Not a wide, open space, with low 
 walls and broad pavements : but a street of tall, narrow 
 houses, with all the picturesque defects of the archi- 
 tecture of those days. It was supported by eighteen 
 piers of different shapes and sizes, and upon these piers, 
 or " starlings " as they were called, as many houses 
 were crowded together as space would permit. These 
 were mostly built across from side to side, a covered 
 passage, as dark as a tunnel, being pierced through 
 them, along which passengers painfully groped their 
 way. One huge house, a fantastically carved wooden 
 building, called Nonsuch House, had been erected upon 
 the arches of the bridge, and common report declared 
 that it had been brought over from Holland in pieces, 
 and put together with wooden pegs. A little further on 
 was an ancient chapel, curiously built into one of the 
 buttresses, the basement of which could be entered by 
 steps from the river below. Huge waterworks stood 
 upon the northern end ; and at the bridge foot there 
 were four corn mills, built out on stakes, and projecting 
 far into the river 
 
 The bridge had this awkward peculiarity, that the 
 houses were continually falling down, sometimes as 
 many as forty at once. Considering the traffic, how- 
 ever, and the mass of buildings which, in the course of 
 centuries, had accumulated on its piers, the wonder was, 
 not that the houses occasionally fell, but that the whole 
 colossal structure had not long since subsided. 
 
 To a casual observer, standing on the bridge that 
 warm August afternoon, it might have seemed as if the
 
 4 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 warlike deeds, which had often been enacted on it in 
 former days, were about to be repeated. Some unusual 
 agitation among the people was visible. The bridge was 
 thronged with armed men hastening across it by twos 
 and threes, or singly, up from the great Kent Road, and 
 the various other ways which met at the bridge foot. 
 Most of them were accoutred in leather jerkins, long 
 heavy boots, and steel helmets. A few were fully armed 
 with cuirasses, shoulder pieces, and greaves, while all 
 had swords at their sides, and long pikes in their hands. 
 Now and then a horseman clattered between the high, 
 dark houses, with still bigger boots, and heavier breast- 
 plate, and longer sword. 
 
 Upon the face of every man was a look of solemn 
 determination. They were going to fight, these grim 
 Ironsides, and to fight under the Lord General 
 Cromwell meant to conquer ; but not a feature betrayed 
 their inward satisfaction. Yet they held their heads 
 high, like men who knew their own worth. Time was 
 when these Puritans had crept into holes and corners, 
 or had been forced, cap in hand, to ask leave to live of 
 their Cavalier opponents. Now, such of the Cavaliers 
 as ventured to appear slunk along the streets, keeping 
 out of sight as much as possible. But even these were 
 few ; for most of the Royalists were either up in the 
 North with the Scotch Army, or lying hidden in their 
 own or their friends' houses, trying, and often in vain, 
 to escape the vigilance of their enemies. 
 
 All this commotion, on the bridge and elsewhere, was 
 occasioned by a young man, scarcely out of his teens, 
 known variously as the man of sin, Charles Stuart, the 
 King of Scots, or spoken of by the Royalists with bated 
 breath as " the King." Early in the morning of this 
 day the news had flown through London that this youth, 
 who had already by a bold stroke penetrated into 
 England, was in full march with his army of Scots and 
 Cavaliers for the Capital. The Lord General, who was 
 following closely at his heels, had sent an express for 
 every able-bodied man to arm and join him, and all the 
 old Puritan soldiers were flocking up to London,
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 5 
 
 meaning to push on from thence into the Midland 
 Counties, whither the tide of battle had turned. 
 
 In the centre of the bridge was an open space, 
 formerly much used for lists and tournaments. It formed 
 an excellent breathing place, where the passengers, 
 emerging hot and stifled from the dark tunnel of the 
 houseways, were glad to pause, and enjoy the fresh air 
 which came up from the river. Here a couple of work- 
 men were busily employed in examining and repairing 
 part of the under structure of the bridge. A young man 
 stood watching absently. He was tall and finely made, 
 and his long hair and picturesque dress showed him to 
 be one of the proscribed party of Royalists. Evidently 
 much time and care had been bestowed upon the rich 
 dark curls which fell over his shoulders, and his glossy 
 moustache and small pointed beard were carefully 
 trimmed after the fashion of the late " martyred " king. 
 He wore a broad, plumed, felt hat, leather boots coming 
 to the knee and frilled with lace, long gauntleted gloves 
 and huge spurs ; the rest of his dress was hidden under 
 his riding cloak. 
 
 But one glance at his noble forehead and broad eager 
 brow sufficed to show that he was no fop. He seemed, 
 indeed, far too pre-occupied and in too great haste, to 
 concern himself about the impression a Royalist might 
 make in this hot-bed of Puritanism. For the last ten 
 minutes he had been curbing his impatience with 
 difficulty. Sometimes he peered restlessly down the 
 lane of dark houses on either side of the bridge ; some- 
 times he walked to and fro along the parapet, and 
 looked down into the sparkling water below. Anon, he 
 took up his station near one of the buttresses, and tried 
 to school himself to patience by watching the men. 
 
 " A plague upon this job ! " said one of them, lifting 
 his ruddy face from a link of the chain he had been 
 carefully testing. " Belike it will never be needed ; the 
 bridge will never be attacked. Oliver knows his work 
 too well to suffer those malignant rogues to come thus 
 far." 
 
 " Friend," quoth the other man, gravely, " thy speech
 
 6 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 is ill-considered. Firstly, it savoureth not of the Gospel, 
 but rather of that profane sin of swearing. Secondly, 
 thou hast spoken lightly of dignities, and Holy Writ 
 saith we should give honour to those that are set in 
 authority over us." 
 
 " Out upon you, Master Jeremiah ! " returned his 
 companion, testily. " What harm lieth in my words ? 
 An I said, ' A plague on't ' ; I meant but to signify the 
 plagues of Egypt. And verily 'tis a plague of Egypt to 
 work in this heat." 
 
 " Grudge not thy labour for the Lord's elect," said 
 the second workman. " Did not worthy Master Full-of 
 Love Stivers bid us, at the last monthly fast, ' what- 
 soever we did, to do it unto the Lord ' ? And, prithee, 
 how wouldest thou be better occupied than in labouring 
 to keep those accursed malignants out of the Lord's 
 City of London ? " 
 
 " To keep them out, say you ? Why, man, they stand 
 at our very elbow," rejoined his irritable companion. 
 And touching his arm, he pointed to the stranger, whom 
 neither of the men had noticed. " Ay, look at that now. 
 Think you we keep the wolf from the fold, while these 
 same fellows prowl about our city ? There's mischief 
 within, and mischief without, I trow." 
 
 His fellow looked at the Cavalier. " And what, sir, 
 might your business be ? " he said, insolently, without 
 doffing his cap. " We would fain know wherefore you 
 examine us thus. We like not such close watching at 
 our work." 
 
 The stranger started, and the blood shot up into his 
 face, at being so familiarly accosted. His first impulse 
 was to clap his hand to his sword, but the next moment 
 he controlled himself. 
 
 " Friend, I do thee no wrong," he answered, mildly. 
 " Doth your Christian charity forbid a man to look at 
 you ? May he not stand here awhile and take the air 
 by the river ? " 
 
 " Ay, if he be of the Lord's people, not otherwise," 
 replied the man. " And he be one of your drunken 
 ruffling, swearing malignants, let him not come hither.
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 7 
 
 Such an one is not fit to live. Away with him from the 
 earth ! ' ' 
 
 None of these abusive epithets seemed applicable to 
 the stranger, but the look of dignified contempt with 
 which he met them appeared still further to incense the 
 men. Laying aside their tools, they advanced towards 
 him as if ready to carry their words into effect. 
 
 " Sir, we would have you to know," said the one, 
 " that in the Lord's City of London we suffer none but 
 the godly." 
 
 "A Papist, Master Jeremiah!" muttered the other. 
 " Think you not he hath the look of a spy ? " 
 
 " None of the accursed brood of Papists and Prelatists 
 will we harbour here. Get you gone in haste." 
 
 " We are two to one. Twere easiest to throw him 
 into the river, and make an end of him forthwith." 
 
 As good luck would have it, a fourth person intervened 
 in what threatened to become a dangerous street fray. 
 
 " Forbear ! " exclaimed a voice from behind, and a 
 hand was suddenly laid upon the Royalist's shoulder. 
 " Thou art here, Ralph ! I thank thee with all my 
 heart," continued the new comer. " The Lord hath 
 surely brought thee hither." Then, turning to the 
 workmen, the speaker said : " Good, Christian brethren, 
 I pray you, harm not this noble gentleman. He is mine 
 own particular friend, and albeit not one of us, I will 
 answer for his honour with my life." 
 
 The Cavalier turned, and grasped his friend's hand. 
 There was no fear in his eyes, only a look of relief, at 
 his escape from so undignified a squabble. Then both 
 the friends smiled, as if the mere sight of each other 
 were a happiness. The workmen slunk back to their 
 task, and without further notice of them the new comer 
 took his companion by the arm, and led him into a small 
 recess formed by the solid masonry of the bridge, where 
 they could carry on their conversation undisturbed. 
 
 Puritan and Cavalier! It was a strange sight, in 
 those fanatical days, to see two men, whose very dress 
 proclaimed them of opposite creeds, in familiar discourse. 
 For assuredly the last comer would not have found it so
 
 8 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 easy to extricate the Royalist from his precarious 
 position, had not his stiff and sombre attire marked him 
 out as a Puritan. He was younger by several years 
 than his companion, slenderly made, and thin and worn. 
 His close-cropped hair gave no relief to his pale face, 
 and brought his small ears into unnatural prominence ; 
 his forehead was high and narrow, the chin large, the 
 lower jaw projecting. Not a handsome man by any 
 means, only redeemed, in fact, from absolute plainness 
 by his large, dark eyes. Sometimes they kindled with 
 sudden fire, sometimes they were soft and pensive ; 
 and there was always an earnest, wistful look in them, 
 which attracted people in spite of themselves. Perhaps 
 those eager eyes accounted partly for the glance of 
 loving concern his friend cast at him, as they went 
 across the bridge. 
 
 To outward appearance, no two men could be more 
 unlike. The young Puritan's sad coloured coat, his 
 plain hose, and the stiff linen collar and cuffs which had 
 almost become the badge of his sect, did not differ more 
 widely from the Cavalier's graceful flowing dress, than 
 did his spare figure from the other's splendid physique. 
 And, as if to point the contrast between them, the 
 Puritan limped slightly in his walk, a sore defect in war- 
 like times, when a man's life often depended on his 
 strength and soundness of limb. 
 
 " Still lame, Roger ? " were the Cavalier's first words, 
 as the friends reached the sheltering recess in the 
 masonry, and sat down. " I heard thou hadst gotten a 
 hurt. Hath it not healed ? " 
 
 " Yea, Ralph, still lame," he answered, " else were I 
 not here, and had not brought thee into this peril. 
 Prithee, friend, forgive me. I knew not that our Puritan 
 folk were so bitter against those of thy party." 
 
 " The danger to me was nothing," rejoined the other 
 with a curl of the lip. " I had knocked both the knaves 
 over with a cut of my sword an I had chosen to draw 
 it. But leave that matter. I have come hither at some 
 pains to myself, and since we are met at last, let us not 
 waste our words on trifles. Tell me first news of thee
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 9 
 
 and thine. How fares thy mother ? And thy foot, what 
 is this trouble with it ? " 
 
 " My mother is well," answered Roger Sparowe, " and 
 would greet thee heartily, knew she of our meeting. 
 Touching this foot of mine, 'tis an obstinate wound I had 
 in Scotland last year, which will not fully heal, and the 
 physicians cannot set it right. It troubleth me some- 
 what," he went on. "Here am I stayed in idleness, 
 when I would fain be in my place in the Lord Genei al's 
 Army, fighting against the ungodly." 
 
 " Whereof I am one," rejoined his friend with a smile. 
 " I owe thy foot no grudge, then, since it keeps thee 
 here, and gives us one enemy the less. Roger, dost 
 know that, save for this foot of thine, we might be 
 arrayed against each other in battle ? " 
 
 " The will of the Lord be done ! " said Roger, lapsing 
 into a slightly drawling Puritanical tone. " A worthy 
 minister in this city told me that the Lord hath often- 
 times as much work for them that bide at home, as for 
 those that go forth to the fight. And I strive to believe 
 it, but faith is weak." 
 
 Now it was noticeable that the Royalist, who had 
 listened to the workmen's choice biblical language with 
 an ironical smile, winced whenever the same stilted 
 phraseology fell from his friend's lips. But Roger 
 Sparowe spoke in so earnest a tone, that his words 
 carried conviction of his own belief in them, and the 
 Cavalier listened in silence. 
 
 " To our business ! " he said at last. " Prithee, friend, 
 let it be brief. This very day was I to have taken my 
 journey to the North, and have delayed it only to come 
 hither." 
 
 As he spoke, he opened his cloak, and Roger saw that 
 his friend was accoutred in the buff coat and small steel 
 throatlet, which was all the armour the Cavaliers 
 deigned to wear, when opposed to such despised enemies 
 as the Puritans. 
 
 " This is my business," said Roger, laying his hand on 
 his friend's arm, "To pray thee, Ralph, as thou 
 vainest thine own soul, not to join that impious army.
 
 10 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Evil will come of it, of that I am fully persuaded. The 
 Man of Sin shall not be suffered to work his will. He 
 ' shall be taken out of the way, whom the Lord shall 
 consume with the spirit of His mouth.' 'Twas at that 
 text I opened my Bible in the evening exercise yesterday, 
 and straightway, when I lighted upon it, I was constrained 
 to send for thee, and pray thee not to go." 
 
 "Forbear!" cried the Cavalier, hotly. "Another 
 word will cost thee our friendship. Roger, I had not 
 thought it of thee, that thou couldest desire me to do 
 this foul dishonour to myself and our cause. 
 
 " Tis no dishonour to do that which shall save thy 
 soul alive. I tell thee, Ralph Wentworth, thou art 
 fighting, not against man, but against the Lord." 
 
 " Then let Him see to it," answered Wentworth, 
 fiercely. " Of what worth is my poor soul beside our 
 noble cause ? I give my body willingly in the king's 
 service ; my soul may fare as it will." 
 
 " Blaspheme not, friend," said Roger, solemnly. 
 " Thy soul which I seek to save is more precious even 
 than our friendship. Friendship is much, but what 
 shall a man give, saith Holy Writ, in exchange for his 
 soul ? " 
 
 " Ay, your souls, your souls ! " retorted Wentworth, 
 bitterly. Ye think of naught but your own souls, ye 
 Puritans. Ye have no thought to bestow upon honour, 
 which is more than life itself. Look thee, Roger. Wilt 
 thou not understand that a man may forget himself, 
 body and soul, for the sake of another ? Can ye not 
 endure it, ye Puritans, if a man is loyal to his king?" 
 
 The hot blood rushed into Wentworth's face, and his 
 dark eyes sparkled. Not one of Cromwell's Ironsides 
 could have looked sterner or more resolute. 
 
 "Thou dost misapprehend," said Roger. " This king 
 of thine, by whom thou settest such store, is no king, 
 but a puppet in the hands of the Scots. 'Tis no man's 
 duty to serve him." 
 
 " He is my king," returned Wentworth firmly. 
 " Roger, thou wouldest make of me a craven coward, 
 dishonoured and disgraced."
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 11 
 
 "To fight in an evil cause is not honour." 
 
 " Ours is no evil cause," rejoined Wentworth, " We 
 fight for God, and king, and country, and none can take 
 up arms more worthily. If thou speak of duty, know 
 that the king hath a divine right to our allegiance,, 
 which no man, an he be not a rank rebel, can refuse 
 him." 
 
 11 It lies not in the power of one man to rule over 
 another's conscience," answered Roger. " God is our 
 King. We owe no allegiance to Caesar. Shall we, who 
 have felt the misery of one earthly king, choose us 
 another ? " 
 
 " How choose him ? " replied Wentworth, frowning, 
 " How meanest thou that ? Doth a man choose his 
 father or mother ? Neither can he choose under what 
 king he will serve. The right to rule cometh of God r 
 and not of man." 
 
 "Alas, Ralph, I perceive that thou art yet in outer 
 darkness," cried Roger. " Thine heart is enslaved by 
 the prince of this world. The Lord grant thee light I 
 As for this mock king of thine, Charles Stuart, the boy 
 who hath been playing at kingship awhile in the North, 
 how hath he any claim on thee ? " 
 
 " Roger, try me not too far," exclaimed Wentworth, 
 fiercely. " Even from thee I cannot brook this. What ! 
 would'st have me forsake the king because he is poor 
 and in trouble ? He doth but need me, and every man 
 who can help him, the more." 
 
 " I would have thee think of thyself and of thy certain 
 ruin. Thou art blind, Ralph, and dost not see that the 
 king of Scots must fail. He hath but 10,000 men with 
 him, half-hearted knaves, who follow him because their 
 leaders drive them. And all England is against him. 
 Hast ever heard yet that the Lord General and his 
 Ironsides were beaten ! Come back, Ralph, and abide 
 with me, and I pledge my own life that not a hair of 
 thine head shall be hurt." 
 
 " No more of this ! " cried Wentworth, half beside 
 himself with indignation. " Is this the language which 
 befits a Sparowe and a gentleman ? I tell thee the very
 
 12 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 stones would cry out against me, were I guilty of such 
 base treachery. Ye are all the same, ye Puritans. 
 Selfish are ye, everv one of you." 
 
 " Selfish ! " cried Roger, with sparkling eyes. " Selfish, 
 sayest thou, when I have risked our ancient friendship 
 to plead with thee ? " 
 
 The two friends stopped, and looked at each other. 
 " Is it so, Roger? " said Wentworth, more gently, after 
 a pause. " Nay, then, let us bethink ourselves, ere we 
 suffer bitter words to part us." 
 
 Roger's eyes grew moist. " I could almost give thee 
 up, Ralph, even thee," he said, in a low voice, " did my 
 conscience bid us." 
 
 " It shall not be," answered Wentworth. " We will 
 hold to each other, let happen what will to king or 
 general. The war of creeds shall not part us ; we are 
 too closely bound." 
 
 " Would God it had been closer," said Roger, with a 
 sigh. " Had Mary lived, she had made thee one of us, 
 Ralph. She perchance, had kept thee from rushing on 
 thine own ruin." 
 
 Wentworth pushed away Roger Sparowe's hand. " It 
 is not well to speak of these things," he said, hastily. 
 " Thou doest not wisely, Roger, to stir sleeping sorrows. 
 Enough that the past is past. ' jfe me contented " 
 
 " The Lord's will be done 1 " returned Roger. " But, 
 oh ! 'tis hard to see thee going to destruction, Ralph. 
 Will nought move thee ? " 
 
 " Nought, my friend," was Wentworth's quiet answer. 
 " That which is my duty I must do and thou too. 
 Roger, are we friends ? Never, methinks, in two hundred 
 years, hath the friendship between Sparowe and 
 Wentworth been strained so nearly to the breaking 
 point as to-day. Hath it stood the test ? " 
 
 " 'Twas no test with me, Ralph. Thou art the same 
 
 * At the battle of Hexham John Sparowe and his friend Wentworth fought side 
 by side. As they both lay a-dying, a double motto was bestowed upon them, to 
 commemorate their value and friendship. The motto given to John Sparowe, 
 which has been borne by the family from that time, was " Ncscia sola inori:" 
 " Unable to die alone." To which the dying Wentworth is said to have 
 answered: "Je tne contents."
 
 LONDON BRIDGE. 13 
 
 to me as ever. I sought but to save thee, and since the 
 Lord willeth not thy salvation through me, unto Him 
 I commit thee." 
 
 The two men wrung each other's hands, and for a 
 moment there was silence so profound, that they could 
 hear the water lapping softly against the buttresses 
 below. Then speaking with assumed carelessness, 
 Wentworth asked : 
 
 " And how fares my friend, Walter ? Doth he remain 
 with thee, or comes he to the war, to win his knightly 
 spurs." 
 
 " Walter abides at home," answered Roger gravely. 
 "While I am master in our house, he must submit 
 himself to me. And since he will not fight on the Lord's 
 side, I will not suffer him to join the battle. He is young 
 and weak, and hath readily yielded to my desires." 
 
 Wentworth shot a keen sharp look at his friend, and 
 a smile, instantly repressed, curled his lips, but he made 
 no comment. " Farewell, Roger," he said after another 
 pause. " For thy sake I desire it may be as thou 
 wouldest have it for mine own scarcely. I dare not 
 tarry longer. There are others who wait for me. 
 When shall we meet again, my friend ? " 
 
 " I know not," answered Roger sadly. " None can- 
 say what may betide on the morrow. These be 
 troublous times, Ralph. But our bond of friendship 
 standeth sure ? " 
 
 Wentworth nodded, and Roger went on : " Forget 
 not if thou art in want or trouble, that thou hast a 
 friend. I hold it sinful to swear, but I give thee mine 
 hand here before the Lord, that I will not fail thee in 
 any stress. If the battle go against you as it must 
 do, ye have not a third of our men all I have is thine. 
 Make thy way to me, and I will hide thee." 
 
 "A man may lose his head for saying as much," 
 said Wentworth significantly. " I thank thee, Roger. 
 There spoke thy noblest self. But be at ease ; I shall 
 not put thee to the proof. We shall not lose. The 
 goodness of our cause will give each man the strength 
 of ten. Nay, forsooth," he continued with a sad smile ;
 
 14 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " It may the rather be that thou wilt need protection of 
 me, and thou shalt have it, fear not." 
 
 Then the two men laid their hands on each others 
 shoulders, and kissed each other solemnly, after the 
 more demonstrative fashion of those times. 
 
 " Farewell, Ralph," said Roger, mournfully. " Alas, 
 that it should be farewell ! that we fight not side by 
 side ! Surely 'tis a judgment of the Lord upon me that 
 all I love mother, brother, friend should be against 
 tne." 
 
 " Nay, not all of us," said Wentworth, with a smile. 
 *' Be not so sad-hearted. Methinks I have heard talk of 
 a fair Puritan damsel, who seest these things as thou 
 dost, down there in Suffolk. Come, man, pluck up thy 
 spirit. How stands it with thee ? Hath report spoken 
 true ? " 
 
 " These be no times to think of love," returned 
 Roger, but his averted face was crimson. " 'Tis war 
 and bitter strife with which we are concerned, not the 
 courting of fair ladies. Once more, farewell ! and the 
 Lord grant thee to see the error of thy way." 
 
 And, great as was Wentworth's need to be gone, 
 Roger left him so abruptly, that the Puritan's slight 
 figure had already vanished into the dark tunnel between 
 the houses, before the Royalist turned, and made for the 
 bridge end, where his horse awaited him.
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 
 
 Emerging from the northern end of London Bridge, 
 Roger stood a moment in a gap between the houses, to 
 recover his composure. He was more disturbed by 
 Wentworth's last words than he cared to let anyone 
 see. His breath came and went, and he put his hand 
 over his eyes for a moment, as if to shut out some 
 remembrance. Had he not been so moved, he would 
 scarcely have stopped in a place few Londoners could 
 pass without a shudder. For just above him, on the 
 gate which formed the northern boundary of the bridge, 
 stood a row of pikes which, from time immemorial, 
 had been adorned with the heads of traitors. 
 Fortunately this spectacle, with other relics of barbarism, 
 had fallen into disuse, and no such ghastly sight 
 disgraced the Puritan government. 
 
 From this point Roger could see the wide and 
 beautiful curve of the river as far as Westminster. 
 The Abbey church, still spireless, though it had been 
 begun six centeries ago, stood out from amid a group 
 of houses. Nearer rose the stately pile of Whitehall, 
 the scene of a certain tragedy, more than two years 
 ago, on which few Englishmen, whether Puritans or 
 Cavaliers, cared to reflect. The houses which reached 
 from Westminster to the foot of the bridge were as 
 varied in the purposes to which they were put, as in 
 their outward appearance. By the side of a palace 
 stood a brew-house, the manufacture of beer, before 
 the introduction of tea, being an important article of 
 commerce. Beyond this was a cluster of small houses, 
 built almost into the water, their upper stories raised 
 on piles ; while further down the river rose the Tower, 
 still the chief fortress of the capital.
 
 16 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 People in those days, however, did not concern them- 
 selves much with the picturesque. Life was too full to 
 leave much scope to the imagination. Roger would 
 have thought it a sin to stand gazing at a scene which, 
 to his country-bred eyes, was at least impressive. 
 Turning to the right, he plunged into a long narrow street 
 running by the side of the river, at some distance from 
 it. Here the tall houses, with their quaint pointed 
 gables and high sloping roofs, almost touched each 
 other. Only a slender strip of air and light was 
 between them, and this was nearly choked by the long 
 poles thrust out from the upper windows, on which the 
 linen of the household was hanging to dry. 
 
 A few steps further brought the traveller to the inn 
 where he had taken up his quarters two days ago. It 
 was a handsome, roomy building, with gables and rich 
 fantastic carvings, and fine "pargetting" work. Inns 
 in those days of posting and riding across country were 
 not the puny establishments to which they have 
 dwindled. The inn where Roger lodged was built round 
 a court-yard. The upper stories on two sides projected, 
 and, in the wide roofed space between them, huge 
 travelling coaches were stowed away in safety, horses 
 stabled and groomed, and room found for the army of 
 serving men who accompanied travellers of rank on 
 their journeys. 
 
 In former days the court-yards of these large inns, 
 with their many recesses and commodious galleries 
 above, had often been used for dramatic representations. 
 Many were the plays which, in the merry times of good 
 Queen Bess, had been witnessed, again and again, from 
 these very upper windows; things whereon a good 
 Puritan could not reflect without a shudder. 
 
 The business which had brought Roger Sparowe ta 
 London was of no pleasant nature. One of the first 
 duties which fell to the Long Parliament when, some 
 years before, they took the administration of the 
 country into their hands, was to provide for the better 
 government of the church. All the bishops, and most 
 of the clergy, had followed the king. The common
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 17 
 
 people were disgusted with the elaborate ritual forced 
 upon them by Archbishop Laud, and clamoured for 
 reform, and the reaction against Prelacy was quickened 
 by the massacre of the Protestants in Ireland. For 
 nearly twenty years the Puritans were supreme in 
 Church and State. 
 
 The first use they made of their newly acquired power 
 was to eject all the ministers of the Church who would 
 not swear fealty to the Parliament, a sweeping measure 
 which touched four-fifths of the clergy. It was 
 necessary to supply their places without delay. The 
 sheep could not be left without a shepherd : and an 
 Assembly of Divines was convened by the Parliament at 
 Westminster to aid them in the bestowal of the livings. 
 But though these men laboured zealously to recommend 
 none but persons fit for the duty, it could not but 
 happen that the shepherds were often hastily chosen 
 and unworthy. The demand for " preaching ministers " 
 far exceeded the supply, and the most unsuitable pastors 
 were often thrust into important cures. To such an 
 one, at least in the opinion of Roger Sparowe, and some 
 of his townsfolk, had been confided the care of souls in 
 the good town of Ipswich. It was to procure his 
 removal that Roger, after due complaint lodged, had, at 
 the summons of the Westminster Assembly, undertaken 
 the toilsome journey to London. 
 
 It made his expedition none the less tedious to know 
 that the other members of his family, his mother and 
 brother, were bitterly averse to it. If Master Obadiah 
 Sturges had not succeeded in winning the favour of the 
 rest of his parishioners, he had at least found his way 
 to the heart of Mistress Margaret Sparowe. Mistress 
 Sparowe was a stauch Royalist, bigoted for Church 
 and King. Yet no one knew why she was devoted 
 to the preacher who, by mandate of the Parliament, 
 had been thrust into the rich Ipswich living. It was a 
 singular thing, people said, and served to increase the 
 suspicion with which he was regarded. 
 
 There were altogether some strange anomalies in the 
 Sparowe family. Here was Mistress Margaret, a well-
 
 18 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 known Royalist, sincerely, almost fanatically, attached 
 to Prelacy, who yet appeared to delight in the minis- 
 trations of that ultra-Calvinist, and faithful servant 
 of God, Master Obadiah Sturges. And, as if that were 
 not enough, Roger's younger brother, Walter Sparowe, 
 had, during the past year, shown an equal attachment 
 to the minister. There was something almost ludicrous 
 in the deferential way in which the dashing young 
 Cavalier treated the stiff, sanctimonius Puritan, who 
 was so rigid in conduct and doctrine, that the good folks 
 of Ipswich were fain to beg for a less strait-laced 
 minister. It was even whispered that Walter Sparowe 
 had, on one occasion, sat without flinching through the 
 six hours service ordained by Parliament at the fast on 
 the last Wednesday in every month ; an infliction under 
 which even the most rigid Puritans occasionally grew 
 restive. " A sign of grace ! " said some of his 
 neighbours ! " A hypocritical pretence ! " answered 
 others, who knew better the stuff of which the wild 
 young fellow was made. Strangest of all, the head of 
 the Sparowe house, that godly youth, Master Roger, 
 who had followed in the steps of his Puritan father 
 from childhood, seemed to view this singular friendship 
 between his scape-grace brother and Master Obadiah 
 with much uneasiness. To the surprise of the towns- 
 folk, he placed himself at the head of the movement for 
 the removal of the unpopular minister. 
 
 As he rode into the Dean's yard at Westminster, 
 where the assembled divines were holding their sittings, 
 Roger felt himself in evil case. Life never went easily 
 with him, and at this moment the burden seemed 
 heavier than usual. His sad parting with Wentworth 
 dwelt in his mind. The task on which he was engaged, 
 though of vital importance, was exceedingly distasteful 
 to him. It was his aim to have a "conscience void of 
 offence towards all men," yet his present object was to 
 oust a man with whom he had no personal quarrel, from 
 his living. And, further, he was distressed by the sight 
 of the soldiers who passed him. These were men 
 inured to battle, Ironsides and warlike train bands,
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 19 
 
 going forth under a tried and well beloved leader to 
 almost certain victory. He, too, had it not been for 
 his luckless wound, would have been with them. 
 
 Ill fortune had attended Roger in all his military 
 enterprises. He had hurried up in hot haste to 
 Scotland last year, only to arrive too late for the battle 
 of Dunbar, to get his foot crushed in an obscure 
 skirmish, and to be laid aside all the winter. Mistress 
 Margaret had tried her hand at healing the broken bone, 
 and all the leeches in the country side, but to no 
 purpose. Roger did not console himself with the 
 thought that now he should not cross swords with 
 Wentworth. He only chafed that the dream of his 
 life would remain unfulfilled, and he would never win a 
 word of recognition from the great Puritan general. 
 
 Arrived at Westminster, he flung himself off his 
 horse, and asked to be conducted to the Assembly. He 
 was brought into an upper room, where a committee of 
 the Divines was sitting. But here he fared no better 
 than he might have expected. These learned men were 
 already somewhat nettled that their choice of a minister 
 had been called in question, and when they found that 
 the charge was preferred by a beardless stripling, who 
 could apparently assign no reason for so heavy an 
 accusation, they were as angry as such grave and 
 reverend men ever permitted themselves to be. 
 
 " Methinks your townsfolk had shown greater honour 
 to this Assembly, by sending a burgess of maturer 
 age to represent them," were the first words of 
 the prolocutor, or, as he would now be called, the 
 chairman of the committee. 
 
 " So please you, all our able-bodied men have gone 
 forth to the war," answered Roger. " Our city is left 
 like to a lodge in the wilderness, and I alone remain, by 
 reason of a certain hurt in my foot, whereby I am 
 hindered from fighting. When the question arose, who 
 should come hither to present this petition, I offered 
 myself, and there being none other, the town elected me." 
 
 " Better, my son, to have remained at home, than to 
 have undertaken so long and toilsome a journey," said
 
 20 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 one of the ministers. " Yours will prove a bootless 
 errand, I fear." 
 
 " You have here brought a heavy accusation against 
 a man whom we esteem as a godly minister of Christ," 
 continued another, leaning forward to look at the 
 petitioner. " Such a charge we cannot lightly entertain. 
 Master Obadiah Sturges was inducted into his cure by 
 my lord of Manchester himself, after full examination 
 had of his credentials, and "- 
 
 " After full examination ? Was that verily so ? Had 
 your reverences good cause for this high opinion ye 
 entertain of him ? " 
 
 " Assuredly we had good cause," returned the minister, 
 with the look of anger at the unseemly interruption. 
 " We appoint no man lightly to the weighty care of souls. 
 Young man, you have yet to learn to listen in silence to 
 the elders of the Church." 
 
 " Reverend sir, I crave your pardon," answered Roger, 
 penitently. " I meant not any discourtesy. Only I 
 would fain know the matter toucheth me so nearly 
 wherefore the man hath been preferred to our living." 
 
 "And wherefore should the matter touch you so 
 nearly ? " demanded the prolocutor. Wherefore 
 should you inquire so earnestly into our reasons ? Is it 
 to gratify some private revenge that you desire the 
 removal of Master Obadiah ? " 
 
 " Nay, sir," cried Roger, earnestly, " revenge hath no 
 part in me. There is no hatred betwixt us ; rather is he 
 more fair spoken toward me than need is. But I would 
 fain see our Church flourish in all godly honesty and 
 good report, and it can scarce be so with Master Obadiah." 
 
 " And your reason for this evil thought of him ? " 
 
 Roger turned crimson, and looked on the ground. 
 " He is not well spoken of in the town," he said. 
 " Some will have it that he hath sinned against 
 morality." 
 
 " And have you no better ground for your charge than 
 hearsay? Let his accusers stand forth, and prove what 
 they say. Doth this which you affirm come within your 
 own knowledge ? *'
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 21 
 
 " Nay, I know naught myself of the matter," said 
 Roger, and again he hung his head abashed. " I speak 
 but that which is town talk. And" he hesitated 
 " and some there be that say he is Popishly inclined." 
 
 "Ay, how mean you that?" was the reply. "The 
 petition here says that Master Obadiah is of unsavoury 
 report among the godly by reason of his too great 
 strictness a strange objection, forsooth, to lodge 
 against a man. But it is manifest that a man cannot 
 be over strict, and likewise Popishly inclined." 
 
 " It seemeth to me," said a third, who had not yet 
 spoken, " that the charges rest chiefly on town gossip 
 a sorry guide in so weighty a matter. Have you verily 
 undertaken this journey with no better proofs to your 
 hand ? " 
 
 Roger stood silent for a moment, and the colour went 
 and came in his face. " I have no proofs," he answered 
 at last, " none, I would say, which I can advance. I 
 would only beseech you, reverend sirs, to make such 
 inquiry touching this man as shall bring the truth to 
 light, whether he be, to wit, a child of the Lord." 
 
 " And think you," replied the prolocutor, significantly, 
 " that we, who have the care of all the churches upon 
 us, have leisure to enquire concerning the character of 
 a man, when ye, who live at his door, can discover 
 nothing of a surety against him ? Have a care, Master 
 Sparowe. They who bring railing accusations against 
 others may peradventure find themselves accused. You 
 have a mother and brother who, if report say true, are 
 yet in the bond of iniquity." 
 
 " None grieve over their error more am I, reverend 
 sir," replied Roger, sadly. 
 
 " The wise man doth not grieve, but act," answered 
 the prolocutor, and there was a murmur of assent all 
 round the table. " You harbour those who would fain 
 restore the accursed thing in Church and State, against 
 which the Lord in these latter days hath so abundantly 
 testified. Perchance you hold with them yourself." 
 
 " Nay, Sir, nay ! I cannot drive them from me, but I 
 think not as they do. And forget not, I pray you," he
 
 22 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 looked wistfully round at the stern, forbidding faces, 
 " that my father sealed his faith at Naseby." 
 
 " Ay, was that so ? In sooth I had forgotten it," 
 replied his questioner. " It is well, then, my son. For 
 your father's sake we will not doubt your own con- 
 formity. See only that you bring no further charge 
 against this holy man. Even the child of the Lord 
 may err, and in this matter you are clearly in fault." 
 
 With this unsatisfactory answer Roger was fain to be 
 content. He had failed in his business, as he knew 
 he should fail. With a sigh he resigned himself 
 to the prospect of seeing a man, to whom he felt the 
 strongest aversion, discharging duties for which he knew 
 him to be utterly unfit. All these things were against 
 him. He was but an unprofitable servant, he said to 
 himself, as he rode slowly back to his hostelry. His 
 nearest and dearest were all arrayed in opposition to 
 him, all ranked on the side of failure, of sin, of the 
 devil. Perhaps he was verily, as he sometimes thought 
 himself, forsaken of God. 
 
 Roger Sparowe was a Puritan in all points but one. 
 Strive as he would, he could not attain to the self- 
 confidence, the unquestioning belief in the purity of his 
 own motives, which was characteristic of the sect to 
 which he belonged. He was never free from doubts and 
 fears, and when he saw others satisfied with themselves, 
 and with their actions, he felt that the fault lay with 
 him, and that he still dwelt in outer darkness. 
 
 Something, too, in Wentworth's face, when Walter 
 Sparowe was spoken of, made Roger vaguely anxious 
 on his brother's account. There was nothing now to 
 detain him in London, a lonely place enough to a young 
 country squire who seldom stirred from home. Accord- 
 ingly, on the following morning he was up betimes, 
 settled his modest account at the inn, and started on 
 his homeward journey. 
 
 Two hundred years ago the tide of fashion in London 
 had already begun to set westward. Temple Bar was 
 the great landmark between the city and the suburbs, 
 From thence the houses stretched along the Strand,
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 23 
 
 growing fewer, and the gardens larger, as they approached 
 Westminster. In this quarter lived those of the upper 
 classes whom duty or pleasure compelled to be in 
 London. Not but what there were many splendid 
 mansions, surrounded by noble gardens, to be found 
 within the City. Still, that was emphatically the place 
 where business was transacted, and the merchants' 
 houses and shops clustered thickly round St. Paul's and 
 the Royal Exchange. 
 
 As Roger Sparowe took his way through the wards 
 of the City, out at the Bishop's Gate, and along the 
 street which still bears that name, he passed through 
 the poorest parts of the town. The country soon began. 
 The houses extended as far as Mile End and Stepney, 
 then both pretty rustic villages, and beyond these the 
 young traveller saw before him a vast extent of forest 
 land, stretching away to the rising ground of Epping 
 Forest. To the left of the road lay the great woodland 
 of Enfield Chase, a favourite hunting ground of the 
 Tudor sovereigns. Here Queen Elizabeth had rested 
 the night previous to her triumphal entry into the 
 Capital, which she had quitted a few years before as a 
 prisoner ; and here she had often kept royal state at her 
 crown demesne of Elsynge Hall. So excellent, indeed, 
 was the hunting, and so enamoured had her successor, 
 King James, become of it, that he had compelled his 
 favourite, Robert Cecil, in somewhat arbitrary fashion, 
 to exchange his fine hunting lodge at Theobalds, on the 
 borders of the chase, for another at Hatfield. 
 
 Crossing the river Lea, Roger struck over a spur of 
 the hilly ground, which was covered for miles by the 
 dense growth of Epping Forest, and proceeded in the 
 direction of Brentwood. At the pretty little village of 
 Epping, he stopped for a few moments to refresh his 
 horse. Epping was a fair type of the hamlets which 
 were dotted all over England. In the centre rose a 
 church of noble Gothic architecture, built in the days 
 when men undertook such work for the salvation of their 
 souls, and made it the occupation of a lifetime. The 
 houses clustered thickly round it. Set in the heart of a
 
 24 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 great woodland, most of them were built of timber, and 
 thatched, a foot thick, with straw ; but all of them had 
 high pointed gables, and some of the steep roofs were 
 tiled with red brick, which gave them a rich, warm 
 appearance. Many of the larger houses had huge 
 chimneys, square or six-sided, solidly built of red brick. 
 These picturesque chimneys served a double purpose. 
 Not only did they provide an outlet for the smoke, but 
 if all tales were true, many of them contained small 
 chambers and hiding places, built into the thickness of the 
 masonry. There was scarcely a house in England which 
 could not boast of some such internal peculiarity of 
 structure, where a man in distress Cavalier, Noncon- 
 formist minister, or Popish priest could be concealed. 
 The disturbed state of the times rendered such arrange- 
 ments almost necessary. 
 
 Another striking evidence of the crisis of civil war 
 through which the country had passed was seen in the 
 small proportion of land under cultivation. The rough, 
 broken ground, half grass, half heath and barren sand, 
 stretched to the very walls of the houses, without any 
 intermediate fringe of garden or field. The time when 
 men, as they sowed their fields, doubted who should 
 reap them, was passed. The swarms of Royalist troopers 
 had been exterminated by the strong arm of the Lord 
 General. But the great Civil War was still felt in every 
 part of the country. So many able-bodied men had 
 been drawn off, some of them never to return, that 
 much land had fallen out of cultivation, and at that time 
 perhaps not more than half the country, at most, was 
 tilled. The new call to arms had come at the most 
 inconvenient season of the agricultural year ; and Roger 
 Sparowe, as he passed along, wondered from whence 
 the men would come to gather the harvest he saw 
 ripening under the golden August sun. 
 
 At Chelmsford he stopped to dine and rest his horse, 
 then pushed on through the long summer afternoon to 
 Colchester, 50 miles from London, where he intended 
 to spend the night. Young, active, and inured to 
 Jong distances on horseback, he might perhaps have
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 25 
 
 accomplished the whole journey to Ipswich in one long 
 day, had the roads been good. But roads in England had 
 degenerated sadly from the days of the splendid old 
 Roman causeways. Under the genial influence of the 
 summer sun, the road along which Roger Sparowe 
 picked his way was as nearly passable as it ever was. 
 It would be a misnomer, however, to say that the roads 
 were made, in any modern sense of the word. For the 
 most part they were left as they were. Sometimes they 
 degenerated into a mere sheep-track, sometimes they 
 widened into a quagmire, and always, in the best 
 weather, they were two or three feet deep in mud. At 
 certain periods of the year the waters were out, and the 
 country was flooded for miles. Much of the land was 
 still marshy ground, especially in the low-lying districts 
 of Essex and Cambridge, and inundations were frequent 
 and disastrous. 
 
 In addition to these difficulties, the roads, especially 
 those in the neighbourhood of the capital, were infested 
 with highwaymen, who, to a much later date, robbed 
 and murdered with impunity. Thus a journey to 
 London and back was not accomplished without manifold 
 dangers and hair-breadth escapes. 
 
 The easiest method of travelling was that usually 
 adopted, namely, on horseback ; and if a lady were of 
 the party, she rode pillion behind one of the men on a 
 large horse, called a double horse. One or two such 
 parties did Roger fall in with on his way. Now and 
 then he met a huge travelling coach, containing eight or 
 ten people, and painfully dragged along by six horses, 
 as a matter of necessity, not of luxury. These coaches 
 usually stuck fast in the mire every few miles ; and, in 
 spite of his lame foot, Roger was often obliged to 
 dismount, and to assist in bringing them through a 
 marsh, a bit of broken ground, or the bed of a small river. 
 
 The state of the roads being such, care for his horse 
 made him draw rein soon after he had crossed the river 
 Colne, from which the town of Colchester took its 
 name. Colchester still bore traces of the severe siege 
 it had sustained three years before, but it was beginning
 
 26 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 to recover its usual aspect. Here was an inn, where 
 Roger had occasionally rested on his journeys to and 
 fro, and where he intended to lodge for the night. 
 
 Like every other hostelry he had passed, the place 
 was swarming with stern-faced, buff-coated Puritan 
 soldiers, on their way to join the army in the North. 
 Some, after the manner of soldiers, were drinking, 
 moderately, for all excesses were strictly forbidden. 
 But the greater number sat at the rough inn table, Bible 
 in hand, and talked of predestination, election, 
 perseverance in grace, eternal reprobation, and other 
 kindred topics of absorbing interest. From time to 
 time, some man with a gift of utterance took the word 
 out of the mouth of his less eloquent brethren, and 
 discoursed learnedly on the matter under discussion, 
 while the rest listened in solemn silence. 
 
 Roger did not join the company, as they evidently 
 expected him to do. Puritan though he was, he could 
 not forget that he was also a gentleman, with a shield of 
 many quarterings, and counted back his ancestry for at 
 least 250 years. Ke ordered his supper, therefore, in a 
 small inner room, and thither, as soon as his host had 
 signified that it was ready, he betook himself. 
 
 He was served by a comely damsel, dressed after the 
 usual fashion of waiting maids in those days, but 
 displaying somewhat more of a full white throat and 
 neck, and a well rounded arm than was necessary. 
 
 As she brought in a huge jug of home-brewed ale, and 
 set it down before the traveller, she looked closely at 
 him. Her gaze was rather curious than impertinent, 
 but Roger glanced up sharply, feeling that he was being 
 narrowly examined. He saw before him a handsome 
 girl, with bright dark eyes, and a brilliant white and 
 pink skin ; but there was something in those eyes which 
 made the young Puritan, the moment he met them, 
 blush and turn away. 
 
 He could not tell why this untoward impression had 
 been made upon him. The girl seemed neither forward 
 nor unmaidenly, as she moved about the room, attending 
 to his wants with less than usual of the uncouth
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 27 
 
 brusqueness to which his experience of inns had 
 accustomed him. On one pretext or another, however r 
 she lingered, till at last he told her sharply that he 
 no longer required her attendance. 
 
 Once alone, Roger took himself to task for this 
 unwonted irritation. Why had the woman's presence 
 such strange power to annoy him ? He was certain he 
 had never seen her before, and, far from admiring her, 
 he found her openly displayed charms almost repulsive. 
 Doubtless it was a wile of the devil, who had been 
 permitted thus to annoy him, because in the pride of 
 his heart, he had withdrawn himself from the company 
 of godly soldiers in the other room. 
 
 To turn his thoughts he walked to the window, and 
 looked down into the courtyard below. On the opposite 
 side was a huge kitchen, a mere barn, with a mud floor, 
 roughly roofed in, and furnished only with a great brick 
 chimney above the enormous open hearth. The side 
 next the courtyard was not walled in, but stood open to 
 all comers, and Roger could plainly see everything that 
 went on in the room, if such it could be called. It 
 seemed to be full of people. Rough country folk, drivers, 
 carriers, ostlers, were incessantly passing in and out- 
 A few soldiers lounged idly against the rude wooden 
 pillars, blackened with smoke, which supported the open 
 side of the kitchen : while two or three women moved 
 to and fro across the great hearth, with its huge 
 cauldrons and pipkins, superintending the primitive 
 cooking arrangements of the inn. 
 
 On one side of the fire stood a high wooden box. 
 Roger wondered what purpose it could serve in such a 
 place. Presently, however, through the coarse talk of 
 the men, and the sharp voices of the women, he heard 
 a babe crying, and suddenly discovered that this curious 
 object was a cradle. Amid all the din and noise, a little 
 child had been sleeping 1 
 
 The cry continued. Apparently it was no one's 
 business to stop it; when, just as Roger felt a foolish 
 impulse to go himself for he dearly loved children he 
 saw the serving maid whose appearance had so strangely
 
 28 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 impressed him. She crossed the kitchen hurriedly, 
 struck a blow at a man who was staring too curiously 
 into the cradle, took up the child, and, without the 
 smallest reticence, proceeded to satisfy it. 
 
 Roger turned away with a sense of relief. After all, 
 this girl was no common serving wench, but some 
 respectable married woman, called in, probably, to help 
 in an emergency. Or possibly mine host's own daughter, 
 on a visit to her father, who had consented to wait on 
 the guests during the pressure of work caused by the 
 sudden influx of soldiers. 
 
 The next morning Roger was up with the sun, and 
 ready to start, hoping to reach Ipswich before noon. 
 Early as he was, however, the girl had forestalled him, 
 and this time she seemed determined to have speech of 
 him. As she set down his breakfast, consisting of a 
 huge venison pasty, and home-brewed ale breakfasts in 
 those days were as substantial as a modern dinner she 
 again looked at him, and said, with the same curious 
 expression : 
 
 44 I know your honour's face well." 
 
 Roger started. " Thou knowest me ? " he asked, trying 
 to speak in an unconcerned voice. " Where hast thou 
 seen me ? I come not often hither, and I cannot call to 
 mind that thou hast served me before." 
 
 " Nevertheless, I know you, Master Sparowe," she 
 answered, more boldly ; " and your worship's brother, 
 Master Walter, I have waited on many a time. That 
 was in the old days; now, forsooth, I serve him no 
 longer," she added, with a toss of her head. 
 
 " Hath my brother been here ? " asked Roger, vaguely 
 alarmed at the tone in which she spoke. " He is oft 
 from home, and it may be he hath journeyed as far as 
 this. Thou knowest us both, then, even to our names ? " 
 
 44 Know you ! " echoed the girl, with a bitter laugh. 
 " Ay, to your names and your faces, and all else con- 
 cerning you. I am not like to forget a name which 
 should have been mine own." 
 
 41 Thine ! thou a Sparowe ! " repeated Roger, with a 
 puzzled expression. <4 How could that be ? "
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BULL, COLCHESTER. 29 
 
 The woman dropped her eyes before his frank look of 
 inquiry. " You may know how it could be." she 
 answered, with less confidence. " I speak only of that 
 which was due to me." 
 
 " But thou art not of our lineage," said Roger. 
 " How couldst thou bear the name ? " 
 
 " If all had their rights," she muttered, " I were as- 
 good as any of you. But foul dishonour hath been done 
 me the name hath been wrongfully withheld " 
 
 Roger sprang to his feet, his face blazing with pride 
 and anger. " Woman ! " he exclaimed, fiercely, " have 
 a care what words you say. Your pardon ! " for he had 
 clapt his hand on his sword ; " but I would have you 
 know that the name of our honourable house is not to 
 be lightly spoken." 
 
 "An honourable house, forsooth," answered the 
 woman, bitterly, "and honourable are his deeds. Is it 
 an honourable thing, think you, to lure a girl from her 
 home with promise of marriage ? Only a poor serving 
 maid ! A high favour to her if a young gallant do but 
 look at her. But serving maids have hearts, mark you, 
 as well as other folk." 
 
 " Who ? who hath done this ? " cried Roger. " Name 
 him, that I may confront him with his evil deeds. This 
 sword shall be as the sword of the Lord to avenge thee, 
 if thy words are true." 
 
 The girl shrank back ; she seemed almost afraid for 
 a moment of the spirit she had aroused. " Who should 
 it be but your honour's own brother ? " she said, more 
 quietly. " Knew you verily naught thereof ? But hold, 
 good sir, I need no avenging, no drawing of swords. I 
 spoke but to show you how matters should stand 
 between us, if right were done me." 
 
 " My brother ! " repeated Roger, his face crimson with 
 horror. " Tis impossible ! Woman, thou art beside 
 thyself; trouble hath driven thee mad. Walter is yet a 
 child, who knoweth not his right hand from his left. If 
 thou must needs accuse, spare one at least who is too 
 young to be guilty." 
 
 "Your brother it is, and none other," she replied.
 
 30 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 stubbornly. " Ay, glare at me as you will, you cannot 
 move me from my words. I know you well, Master 
 Sparowe, and that dainty madam, your mother. 
 Perchance, an it were not for fear of hurting her, 
 Walter had made a lady of me." 
 
 " Forbear ! " cried Roger, livid with passion. " Take 
 not my mother's name within thy polluted lips." 
 
 " Polluted, quotha ! " she answered, bitterly, " and 
 who hath polluted them ? Now mark me well, Master 
 Roger Sparowe. For all your smooth ways, and canting 
 Puritanical tongue, you are proud as Walter himself. 
 Proud are ye all, ye Sparowes. It hath made me mad 
 to think how near, but for your pride, I might have 
 been to you. But pride goeth before destruction, and 
 an haughty spirit before a fall." 
 
 She was at the door before Roger, stupefied with 
 horror and astonishment, could utter a word. There 
 she paused a moment, glanced irresolutely at him, and 
 coming swiftly back, whispered : " But no violence, I 
 charge you, no violence ! Harm him not. He is your 
 brother, and but a lad. The wrong is done and naught 
 will mend it." 
 
 " I will sift the mystery," said Roger. " Before the 
 sun sets this day, I will know whether thy words are 
 true. And, if it be so, God do so to me, and more also, 
 if I see not justice done."
 
 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MOTE END. 
 
 ABOUT six miles out of the ancient town of Ipswich, 
 near the great high road that ran to London, stood a 
 country house. It was built only on two stories, and 
 in so queer and rambling a fashion, that it seemed to 
 cover even more ground than it really did, though the 
 buildings occupied nearly half an acre. Here, too, was 
 the bareness which characterized the whole country. 
 Right up to the outer walls of the mansion stretched 
 the bleak, open ground, dotted over here and there with 
 trees, ,but with never a road, and scarcely even so 
 much as a hedge to break the monotony. A long reach 
 of dead wall about ten feet high enclosed the house, 
 stabling, outbuildings, and gardens, and all on the outer 
 side was rough grass land. 
 
 The house was buik, like many others, in the form of 
 a quadrangle, with two projecting wings. The main 
 entrance was defended by a strong iron grating, like a 
 portcullis, behind which was a stout wooden door, bound 
 and clamped with iron, set in the thickness of the wall. 
 From the main block the stables ran out in a long 
 straggling line in the rear, and were approached by a 
 huge gateway, built into the outer wall, and closed by 
 oaken doors half-a-foot thick. One wing faced the 
 entrance, running at a short distance from the wall. On 
 this side the windows were few and small, looking almost 
 like loopholes. Such grace and beauty as the solid 
 castellated mansion possessed lay all in the other wing, 
 which was on the side of the house furthest from 
 the stables and entrance. Here were the rooms of the 
 ladies of the house, and here, surrounded by high walls, 
 was a fair flower garden. It was laid out stiffly, in the 
 style of the time, but abounded in old-fashioned, sweet- 
 scented flowers.
 
 32 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Seen from the outside, this house of grim and for- 
 bidding aspect looked as if it were prepared to abkle a 
 siege of several months' duration. For that very reason, 
 perhaps, its defensive capabilities had never been put to 
 the test throughout the war. In the bottom of their 
 hearts, this was a sore chagrin to the large retinue of 
 grooms and serving men, without whom no household 
 of a man of wealth was complete. They had all been 
 drilled and trained to arms with the most rigid precision. 
 Each man knew the post he was to take up in case 
 the house was attacked ; and now the war had dwindled 
 into a mere duel, certain to be soon ended, between the 
 Lord General and young Charles Stuart, and they had 
 never been called on so much as to convoy a waggon 
 load of provisions. 
 
 All these martial preparations, sufficient to have 
 defended a town, were intended to serve for the protec- 
 tion of an old man and his two daughters. Master 
 Nehemiah Burroughs, the owner of this well-garrisoned 
 house, was one of the leading burgesses of the neigh- 
 bouring town. He had been in turn chamberlain, 
 portman (an office which he held for life), and bailiff, 
 and had only declined the honour of representing Ipswich 
 in the present Parliament, because he found it impossible 
 to delegate his important duties at home to any sub- 
 stitute. It was in a happy hour that he refused. The 
 Parliament of 1640, known as the Long Parliament, 
 had now been sitting without intermission for 1 1 years, 
 and had he been a member of it, he would have had 
 small joy of his home and of his children. 
 
 Still he was forced to be often absent. Puritanism 
 had taken a stronger hold of the Eastern Counties than 
 of any other part of England. Every man of pious 
 mind was required to put his hand to the plough, and to 
 keep the two-headed hydra, in the shape of Popery and 
 Prelacy, at bay. Those who stayed at home were to 
 the full as serviceable to the good cause as those who 
 took sword and pike, and proved their valour at Marston 
 Moor and Naseby. The men in these Eastern Counties 
 were mostly of stern Puritanical stuff, "godly" men
 
 MOTE END. 33 
 
 according to the phraseology of the time. It was from 
 them that Cromwell drew the bulk of those redoubtable 
 Ironsides who truly, as he said, were " never beaten 
 at all." 
 
 Early in the struggle the seven Eastern Counties had 
 formed themselves into an association for purposes of 
 defence. It was probably owing to the firm front 
 presented by this association, that the tide of war had 
 never touched the East of England at all, but had been 
 mainly confined to the West and centre. Master 
 Burroughs had been appointed member of the committee 
 for the county of Suffolk. The office caused him 
 almost as many journeys, and goings to and fro, as if he 
 had taken part in the furious war with mouth and pen, 
 the disputings, discussions, orderings and counter- 
 orderings, which had been carried on for years at 
 Westminster. What with drilling the soldiers, extracting 
 their pay always with much difficulty from the 
 Parliament or the local authorities, and crushing all 
 symptoms of disaffection, Master Burroughs had a busy 
 time of it. 
 
 During these absences his place was ably filled by his 
 daughter, Mistress Kezia. The rigid Puritan household 
 flourished under her care. She conducted with much 
 unction the morning and evening exercise ; marshalled 
 the household to the periodical fast, the last Wednesday 
 in the month, strictly enjoined by Parliament, and now of 
 ten years' standing ; repressed the least attempt at a jest 
 or light word in the youngest stable boy ; and maintained 
 the whole family on the principle of severe abstinence 
 from everything that was pleasant or agreeable. Master 
 Nehemiah himself, albeit there was no more orthodox 
 Puritan in all the country side, found it needful at times 
 to temper her zeal. Kezia was especially an adept in 
 the art of wielding texts from the Bible, which seemed, 
 under her skilful manipulation, literally to become a 
 two-edged sword ; while her younger sister Alice was 
 like to weep sometimes for sheer heart hunger, so little 
 spiritual sustenance did she find in the stern theology of 
 father and sister.
 
 34 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Yet Alice, too, was religious to the heart's core. 
 Heaven and hell were very real, and almost equally 
 appalling, to her. There were times when she looked at 
 the world about her, and wondered why it was so fair, 
 since, as she was taught to believe, it was the City of 
 Destruction, from which every Christian was bound to 
 flee. She wearied of the continual talk of election and 
 final perseverance, and the condemnation of the whole 
 world, except the Presbyterians, to eternal perdition. 
 It almost seemed as if there were something wanting in 
 this vigorous Puritan belief, so little did it meet her 
 spiritual needs. Of late, since the visits of a grave 
 young gentleman, with wistful dark eyes, Alice had 
 begun to doubt whether the one thing lacking, in her 
 life as in her religion, were not love. 
 
 Roger Sparowe, who had ridden at full speed from 
 Colchester, drew rein at last, as he approached Mote 
 End. Dropping the bridle on the horse's neck, he 
 debated with himself, for the space of full five minutes, 
 whether he should ride across to the entrance, ring at 
 the great bell, and gain admittance to the closely 
 guarded house. He was well acquainted with all the 
 movements of the family. He knew that he would find 
 Master Nehemiah at home, remembering suddenly some 
 talk of a sermon to be preached in the neighbourhood, 
 which would be over by this time. 
 
 Further, inhospitable as was the outward aspect of 
 the house, Roger felt he was sure of a welcome, though 
 not perhaps so cordial as usual. Like many of his 
 neighbours, Master Burroughs disapproved of Roger's 
 journey to town, and held that the Reverend Obadiah 
 Sturges had been wrongfully suspected. That he would 
 win no sympathy from him in the failure of his mission 
 did not weigh so much with Roger, as the fear lest 
 Mistress Kezia should act as she had done at his last 
 visit, monopolize the guest, despatch her younger sister 
 elsewhere, and prevent him from having a moment's 
 speech with her. 
 
 Then, too, that scene in the inn parlour at Colchester 
 rankled in his mind. Roger did not believe the woman's
 
 MOTE END. 35 
 
 words, but he felt that until he could see his brother, 
 and hear the refutation of them from his own lips, a 
 kind of stain rested upon the honour of his house. 
 And there was an atmosphere of such exquisite purity 
 about Alice Burroughs that Roger, in his fantastic 
 integrity, shrank from seeing her, until he could do so 
 with an absolutely clear conscience. 
 
 Full of these thoughts, Roger caught up the rein 
 with a jerk, as his tired horse, which was used to the 
 creature comforts of Moat End, made a feint of drawing 
 up to the stable gate. He had not gone far, however, 
 before he was suddenly hailed from behind. Hailed ! 
 nay, that was altogether the wrong word. It was no 
 shout, but rather the grave and authoritative utterance 
 of his own name, which reached Roger's ears, and made 
 him turn instantly, with a beating heart, knowing very 
 well who had accosted him. 
 
 The owner of Mote End, Master Burroughs himself, 
 was in the act of riding up to the iron gateway. He 
 was a short, stout man, with a sallow skin, thin lips, 
 and a broad nose with an unpleasant looking lump in 
 the middle of it. He was dressed in a long black coat, 
 with deep, pointed collar and cuffs, all of spotless, stiff 
 starched linen, and on his head he wore a small velvet 
 skull cap. He road an enormous double horse, and 
 behind him, on a pillon, was a lady. For a moment 
 Roger's heart beat quickly, but as she sprang down, and 
 displayed a small neat figure, almost lost in the folds 
 of her heavy riding cloak, he sighed, and leant over his 
 horse's neck, awaiting an invitation to enter. 
 
 "The Lord be with you, my son," said Master 
 Burroughs, in a deep, unctuous voice, as soon as he had 
 slowly accomplished the business of dismounting. 
 " Whither away in such haste ? Have you never a word 
 for old friends, but must needs pass their very door. 
 Come in, man, come in, and refresh yourself this warm 
 morning with a draught of fresh ale." And stepping to 
 Roger's side, he laid his hand on his arm. 
 
 Roger winced at the heavy touch. " I am in haste, 
 honoured sir," he replied, as he dismounted, half
 
 36 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 reluctant, half eager to go in. " Needs must be that I 
 reach home at noon ; my mother hath not seen me 
 these ten days." 
 
 " Noon, say you ? why it is but ten of the clock. 
 You have been up betimes, friend, and your horse is 
 weary, an you are not. Whence come you ? " 
 
 But just as Roger was beginning to broach an 
 unpleasant subject, Mistress Kezia broke in, for once, 
 with a welcome interruption. 
 
 " Such a godly discourse as we have sat under this 
 morning 1 " she said, in a high shrill voice : " the Lord 
 grant us to profit thereby. The text was 2 Cor. vi. 7, 
 and the worshipful Master Hold-fast-the-Truth dwelt 
 much on the need of separating ourselves from the 
 unclean thing. 'Twas a grief to me that you were not 
 there, Master Sparowe. Perchance the Lord had 
 blessed the word to your spiritual benefit, and caused 
 you to cast in your lot more fully with His people." 
 
 " I walk according to my light, Mistress Kezia," said 
 Roger, humbly. " The Lord knoweth them that are His. 
 If my heart be right in His sight I am content." 
 
 " ' By their fruits ye shall know them,' " quoted 
 Kezia. " And St. Paul saith : ' Can two walk together 
 except they be agreed ? ' The Lord hath often laid it 
 upon my soul to tell you, that your Christian walk and 
 conversation are hindered, and much offence given to 
 the godly, because you suffer them in your house that 
 live not according to the Word." 
 
 Had Kezia not been Alice's sister, Roger would have 
 retorted that the Lord laid upon her soul to speak of 
 a great many things with which she had no concern. 
 But her influence over Master Burroughs was so great, 
 that the young man felt the necessity of conciliating her. 
 
 They were now walking across the quadrangle in front 
 of the house. Master Burroughs was behind them, 
 listening to his steward's report. Roger, who always 
 strove to be deferential and courteous with father and 
 daughter, to-day could not resist glancing furtively 
 round him, to see if Mistress Alice were nowhere in 
 sight. But not a glimpse of her could he obtain.
 
 MOTE END. 37 
 
 Probably she was in her flower garden, or in the still- 
 room or kitchen, and Roger, feeling it incumbent on him 
 to speak, turned on Kezia. 
 
 " Those that I suffer in my house, Mistress Kezia," he 
 said, "are my own flesh and blood. Is it my mother 
 that you would have me turn adrift ? 'Twould break her 
 heart and mine. And whither, pray you, should I 
 send her ?" 
 
 " Oh, that I know not," returned Kezia, easily. 
 " Neither meant I to testify thus straitly against her. 
 It needs not that she should leave you. Lies it not in 
 your power to turn her from her evil ways, with reading 
 of the scripture and prayer ? " 
 
 " Ay, there it is," chimed in Master Burroughs, who 
 had now joined them, and took up his daughter's words. 
 " Neglect not the gift that is in you to edification, my 
 son. An I knew not that you are verily one of the 
 Lord's children, I should account you a Malignant 
 yourself, for harbouring two such rank Prelatists as 
 Mistress Sparowe and Walter. Nay, if report speak 
 true, thy brother is even more than a Prelatist and a 
 Malignant." 
 
 Walter again ! Was Roger never to hear the last of 
 his scapegrace younger brother ? 
 
 " I pray you, sir, speak no more of it," he cried, 
 crimson with pain and perplexity. " My brother will 
 doubtless not remain long with me. He passeth his 
 time in hunting and drinking, and of his own will he 
 cannot chose but leave us, when liberty in such things 
 is denied him. But my mother she hath lived in the 
 house all her life. How can I send her away ? 'Twould 
 be to her death." 
 
 " And her remaining is death to your soul, my son. 
 You are yet enslaved by the motions of the flesh. Hear 
 now a word I have for thee from the Lord. ' Love not 
 the world, neither the things of the world.' " 
 
 " 'If any man love the world,'" Kezia completed the 
 text, afraid lest her father should miss a tittle of the 
 application, "'The love of the Father is not in him.' 
 Good Master Sparowe," she continued, blandly, "you
 
 38 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 are blinded by the carnal love of your mother, and see 
 not the wrong you do unto your heavenly Father. 
 Bethink you, ere it be too late, and flee from the wrath 
 to come. 
 
 Neither Kezia nor Master Burroughs meant any 
 impertinence by these words. Their feelings towards 
 Roger were merely those of sincere, if somewhat out- 
 spoken friendship. It seemed to them that he was 
 wilfully courting destruction, and they held themselves 
 bound to speak. 
 
 Fortunately at this moment the painful conversation 
 was interrupted. They had now entered the dining hall, 
 a long room, which ran the whole length of the house. 
 The lofty roof was closed with heavy oaken rafters, the 
 floor uncarpeted, and the walls were hung with tapestry. 
 Here all the maids and serving men were drawn up in 
 two rows, waiting for the devotional service which 
 always began the day. It was not usual to take this 
 religious exercise, as it was called, so late in the 
 forenoon. But Master Burroughs and Mistress Kezia. 
 had ridden off early that morning to a village at some 
 distance, to hear a noted preacher. The household, 
 therefore, had been bidden to assemble on their return, 
 summoned by the great bell of the house, which had 
 been clanging vigorously for some minutes. 
 
 Everyone was ranked in their places, according to age 
 and degree, and Mistress Kezia was scanning the well- 
 ordered rows, to assure herself that neither man nor 
 maid was missing, when a side door opened, and a young 
 girl came in. She was tall and slender, with hair brown 
 in the shade, golden as it caught a ray of sunlight 
 though a window. Her features bore a family likeness 
 to Kezia's, but were cast in a larger and softer mould, 
 and her forehead was broad and smooth. Her mouth 
 belied the grave expression of the rest of her face. It 
 was not a Puritan mouth at all. The lips were full and 
 rich, the upper lip delicately arched " like Cupid's bow," 
 as someone had once unluckily whispered in Kezia's 
 hearing. Whereupon that godly maiden had been 
 moved to such a pitch of righteous indignation, that sh e
 
 MOTE END. 39 
 
 thenceforth regarded her sister almost in a semi-pagan 
 light. 
 
 Since then Alice had often been chidden for her 
 mouth, and for the foolish habit it had of smiling at all 
 the world. Sometimes, when she wished to be 
 especially impressive, Kezia would assure Alice that her 
 mouth alone was a sign of the evil within. Then the 
 lips would quiver, and the corners of the offending 
 mouth would turn down in real earnest, and Alice would 
 begin to cry. Whereupon Master Burroughs, who, stern 
 as he was, had a lurking fondness for his tender younger 
 daughter, would bid Kezia desist, and kiss the poor 
 mouth back into a smile. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the serious gravity of Alice's 
 face to-day, as she took her seat. Her lips trembled a 
 little as she passed Roger, but she did not raise her 
 head ; while he, for his part, dared not even look at her. 
 Only, there came a sparkle into his eyes, which were 
 decorously fixed on Master Burroughs, and a smile 
 flitted across his face. 
 
 The service concluded with the solemn salutation : 
 " The Lord be with you," addressed to each member of 
 the family in turn, and, this simple ceremony over, 
 Roger came eagerly across the room. 
 
 " Good day to you, Mistress Alice," he said. " You 
 thought not, doubtless, to see me here." 
 
 " We are right glad to see you at any time, Master 
 Sparowe," she answered, demurely. " My father maketh 
 you always heartily welcome." 
 
 " Yea, a better friend can no man desire. And you ? " 
 
 " My father's friends are mine," she replied, her eyes 
 still on the ground. " It becomes not a daughter to have 
 any others. And tell me now, sir, how you have fared." 
 
 " Well and ill," answered Roger. " The Assembly of 
 Divines hath refused my petition, and will not that 
 Master Sturges be removed, whereat your father and 
 my mother, strangely enough, will both rejoice. 'Twas 
 meet, doubtless, that ill success should befall me, but I 
 grieve that the man remains. The Lord overrule all to 
 His glory! "
 
 40 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Alice looked at Roger Sparowe a moment in perplexity. 
 
 11 Grave cause must you have, I trow, to seek his 
 dismissal. My father saith that you wrong this holy 
 man, Master Sparowe. Is it so ? " 
 
 " No, Mistress Alice, I do not wrong him," answered 
 Roger, sighing. " An 1 could tell all I know " he 
 glanced hurriedly round him " peradventure I should 
 be blamed for overmuch mildness." 
 
 Alice flushed scarlet. " Oh, sir, I meant not to 
 rebuke you ; I pray you, mistake me not," she replied, 
 hastily. " I know that these be times when a man must 
 walk according to his own conscience, not another's. 
 If but the inward light be pure, and the guidance clear " 
 
 " Alas, my light is never pure I " interrupted Roger, 
 Then seeing her look of astonishment he added : " Sweet 
 mistress, an I had but guidance . . . this guidance 
 whereof you speak," . . . 
 
 " 'Twas an inward guidance I meant," said Alicei 
 confused by his earnest look. 
 
 " Ay, inward, but sometimes vouchsafed to us by 
 earthly means. But as touching this matter of Master 
 Sturges, some day it may be that I can speak plainly to 
 you thereof. Till then, I pray you, trust me." 
 
 Alice did not answer, but she gave Roger a look which 
 made his heart leap. At this moment Kezia struck in. 
 She had already been meditating an interruption of the 
 talk which, with the hesitation, and frequent changes of 
 colour, looked far less innocent than it really was. 
 
 "Alice," quoth she, "hast finished the work in the 
 buttery ? " 
 
 "Yea, sister, 'tis done," answered Alice. 
 
 "All of it? " questioned Kezia. " Hast given orders 
 for the killing of those pigs ? " 
 
 " Nay, I left that to thee," replied her sister, with a 
 little shudder. 
 
 " Ay, I thought thou wouldest neglect it. I pray you, 
 Master Sparowe," she said, turning to Roger, " suffer 
 my sister to go. I being from home, these household 
 matters were left in her charge, and she hath over-
 
 MOTE END. 41 
 
 looked them. We shall have no pork at Michaelmas, 
 an the pigs be not killed to-day." 
 
 " I, too, must go, Mistress Kezia," said Roger. " I 
 have an hour's riding before me, and the sun is already 
 high. Fray you, bid them bring my horse." 
 
 Roger would not have been in such a hurry to start, 
 had not Alice already disappeared. He did not refuse a 
 tankard of home-brewed ale, and having quaffed it, he 
 bade farewell to father and daughter, sprang into the 
 saddle, and rode off. 
 
 Matters went always thus at Mote End, Roger ruefully 
 said to himself, as he put his horse to a brisk trot. 
 Interminable controversies with Master Burroughs and 
 Kezia, discussions of texts, lasting sometimes for hours, 
 the distasteful topic of his weak compliance with his 
 mother's schismatical ways continually thrust upon him ; 
 and as a reward, half a dozen words hastily snatched 
 with Alice, and one soft look from her eyes. Weeks 
 would pass, perhaps, before he had the chance of 
 another. Such was the history of Roger's visits to 
 Mote End. This had been his life for many months 
 past, yet on food so poor he had contrived to nourish 
 hope and love.
 
 42 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOME COMING. 
 
 Two hundred years ago the river Orwell did not run 
 through, but at the foot of the good town of Ipswich. 
 The original site of the town was on a rising ground to 
 the north-east, from whence an almost unbroken line of 
 churches and houses stretched to the river. 
 
 Like most towns of that day, Ipswich boasted of a 
 goodly number of noble buildings. With a population 
 which, in our time, would reduce it to the rank of a 
 village, it was nevertheless filled, not only with fine 
 churches, but with splendid private mansions. People 
 did not go to London more than once or twice in a 
 lifetime. Noblemen and gentlemen spent their lives and 
 their incomes on their own estates, and among their own 
 people, and had their palaces in the county town. 
 Hence the number of beautiful houses in Ipswich and 
 other old English towns, now often degraded into shops 
 and taverns, but which were in those days the ancestral 
 homes of the upper classes. 
 
 At just such a house, standing opposite one church, 
 with another immediately in the rear, did Roger at last 
 alight. It was a fine house about a hundred years 
 old, distinguished even then for the splendour of its 
 architecture. The walls were of brick, and covered with 
 white plaster, a style much in vogue. It was called 
 "pargetting" or " pargettry " work. In this house the 
 plaster was moulded into elaborate figures of fat 
 cherubs and giants, fiends and pigmies, and other 
 monstrosities of the Renaissance period. Timber was 
 scarce in the country, and wood entered very little into 
 the composition of the houses. Here it was only employed 
 to outline with quaint carving the picturesque gables 
 which fronted the street. There were nine gables in all, 
 which some profane wit, in earlier days, when a chance
 
 HOME COMING. 43 
 
 allusion to heathen mythology was still permitted, had 
 likened to the nine Muses. Whoever thus personified 
 them was a sharp-sighted man as well as a mirthful 
 talker, for the ninth gable was hidden away at the back, 
 and crowded almost out of sight by the graceful curves 
 and angles of the building. 
 
 Placed in the heart of a thriving town, there was no 
 need to fortify this house, like the mansion at Mote End, 
 and indeed the hospitable doors, in the summer time, 
 stood open all day long. As Roger rode up he had to 
 thread his way carefully between booths and carts, huge 
 baskets of screaming cocks and hens and live fish, and 
 low tables on trestles, on which, and on the ground, 
 all manner of dairy produce, butter, cheese, and eggs, 
 were displayed. For in this space, opposite the house, 
 and filling all the ground between it and the church, was 
 the town market; and here, almost every day in the 
 week, a rustic fair was held. 
 
 At the door of the house, watching one of her maids, 
 who was bargaining with a country woman at a little 
 distance, stood a graceful dame, hardly yet old, though 
 her beautiful hair was streaked with grey. It was not 
 arranged in ringlets according to the prevailing fashion, 
 but carefully dressed in rolls under a rich black lace cap 
 or mantilla. Beneath it a pair of clear hazel eyes, still 
 undimmed, and full of sweetness, looked out brightly at 
 the world ; while the mouth, soft as a baby's, had just a 
 pathetic droop at the corners which gave a touch of 
 feeling to the face it would otherwise have lacked. 
 
 The figure of this charming lady was as graceful and 
 slender as her face was youthful. It was set off to the 
 best advantage by a soft, rich coloured gown, confined 
 at the waist with a girdle, and flowing thence to the feet 
 in simple folds. In front the bodice parted over an 
 undervest of clear, white lawn, which was turned back 
 with rich lace at the throat. This warm August morning 
 the lace had been left a little open, and the brooch 
 which always closed it, a brooch Roger could remember 
 since he was a baby, with his father's hair in it, was 
 clasped lower down on the bosom of the dress.
 
 44 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Well, lady mother," he said, a smile for a moment 
 lighting up his grave face as he stooped to kiss her hand, 
 " here am I, thou seest, back within the time thou gavest 
 me. Didst not say to-day at noon ? And thou art at 
 thy marketing again, forsooth I Was ever such a 
 housewife known ? " 
 
 " Welcome, my son." she said, as she raised him, and 
 kissed him with pretty ceremony on the forehead: 
 " welcome whene'er thou comest. My sons are as the 
 sunshine to me. Prithee go not often from home. 
 Thine old mother misses thee sorely." 
 
 "Old!" echoed Roger, with a little laugh. "Thou 
 hast aged then since last I saw thee, for I left the 
 blythest and youngest mother of her years in England. 
 Hath all gone well? " he continued, anxiously. 
 
 Mistress Sparowe's face clouded. "Well ay. Why 
 dost thou ask ? Wherefore should anything be amiss ? " 
 she answered, avoiding his eyes. " Hast heard anything ? " 
 
 " Nay, I did but ask," said Roger, smiling at his 
 mother's anxious face. 
 
 " Then cease thine asking, and come within, and tell 
 me how thou hast fared in London." 
 
 By this time one of the serving men had led off 
 Roger's horse to the stable in the rear. The young man 
 followed his mother into the large hall which formed 
 the whole front of the building. Here several of the 
 maids were preparing the midday meal, which was the 
 principal repast of the day. Crossing the hall, mother 
 and son passed on to the noble flight of oaken stairs, 
 richly carved, which led to the upper rooms. 
 
 " Not there, mother," said Roger, stopping her as she 
 was about to mount. " Here in the withdrawing room 
 I can tell thee all there is to tell. There is not much." 
 
 Roger sighed, and the wistful, unquiet look his face 
 usually wore settled on it again. The momentary 
 pleasure of meeting his mother was over. Things were 
 never well with him for long at home. Strive as he 
 would to be honest and upright in his dealings, as became 
 one of the " godly," he was perpetually hindered by the 
 schism in his own household. With their strong Royalist
 
 HOME COMING. 45 
 
 tendencies it was impossible but that his mother and 
 brother, if they did not actively thwart his plans, should 
 wish them to fail. Roger had always the miserable 
 sense that things were done in secret, behind his back, 
 which it behoved him to know ; and his difficulties were 
 increased by his almost idolatrous devotion to his mother, 
 a devotion which his Puritan friends were not slow to 
 tell him was almost sinful. The feeling of deception was 
 painfully heightened by his last discovery at Colchester. 
 
 Dame Margaret, too, had her cares, and her face was 
 graver than usual as she asked, anxiously : " And how 
 hath thy business sped rny son ? " 
 
 " Failed, utterly failed," said Roger, flinging himself 
 into a chair. " The Assembly would scarce give me so 
 much as a hearing. They began to question mine own 
 orthodoxy, and I had to make mention of my father's 
 services to stop them. Ah, mother, I have griefs that 
 none wot of. As for Master Sturges, he must e'en stay, 
 since they will have it so, and work us what harm he can." 
 
 Roger had made up his mind that his mother should 
 learn nothing from him of his latest trouble. He always 
 sedulously kept all evil talk from her ears, but he could 
 not wholly control himself to-day. Mistress Margaret 
 looked at him in surprise. 
 
 " Never have I understood thy bitterness against 
 Master Sturges, Roger," she said, after a moment's 
 pause. " A worthy preacher of the Word, a godly man, 
 one well looked on by all in the town, and thou, a 
 Puritan thyself, wilt have no dealings with him ! Tis 
 passing strange." 
 
 " An he were all thou sayest, 'twere more than strange 
 that I should be thus evilly-minded towards him," 
 answered Roger. " But mother, thou knowest, as I do, 
 that it is so only in outward seeming." 
 
 Mistress Sparowe dropped her eyes, and blushed, but 
 recovering herself in a moment, she continued : " 'Twill 
 be good news to him that he is to remain, albeit he saith 
 that he is willing to go or stay, the holy man. I shall 
 have the joy of telling him first thereof." 
 
 " How ! wilt thou go to him ? " asked Roger, frowning.
 
 46 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Nay, he will be here anon. He dines with us to-day." 
 
 " He will be here?" repeated Roger, in a reproachful 
 tone. " He cometh hither, the very day of my return ? 
 Mother, hast thou done this ? " 
 
 " I knew not thou wert coming, my son," faltered 
 Mistress Margaret. " I thought perchance, thou wouldst 
 be delayed." 
 
 " But thou knowest that, whether present or absent, I 
 desire not his company. Neither I nor my household 
 should have dealings with him." 
 
 " Thou art too stern, Roger," replied his mother. " I 
 was compelled to ask him for a special reason. Nay, 
 knit not thy brows at me. Thou shalt thou must 
 hear thereof anon." 
 
 " Ah, mother, mother," cried Roger, bitterly ; " who 
 hath been at work here while I was absent ? What hast 
 thou done, thou, and Walter, and Master Sturges ? Are 
 ye all in league against me ? " 
 
 Dame Margaret hated everything that threatened to 
 be unpleasant, and was determined to stave off as long 
 as possible the disagreeable explanation which she knew 
 to be impending. 
 
 " Now, thou art at thine old trick of fault-finding 
 again, Roger ! " she exclaimed, plaintively. " In good 
 time thou shalt know all, only hurry me not. Prithee 
 tell me first, didst thou verily spend all thy time at 
 Westminster, on thy doleful errand ! Didst see nought 
 else in London ? Hast brought no news ? no talk of 
 fashions, wherewith to amuse thy mother, who is moped 
 to death in this country place ? " 
 
 " Fashions, mother ! " echoed Roger, drearily. " Nay, 
 I thought not of fashions. I could not discourse thereof, 
 an I had seen a countess in her bravest attire. Some 
 new devices in head pieces I examined . . . But the 
 fashion we need is the fashion of repentance, that we 
 should turn with all our hearts unto the Lord, if haply 
 He will have mercy upon us." 
 
 " Didst have speech of Ralph Wentworth ? " inquired 
 Mistress Margaret, who always tried to stop Roger, 
 when he discoursed in this strain.
 
 HOME COMING. 47 
 
 "Yea, I saw Ralph. How didst thou know that I 
 purposed to see him ? And he hath refused my counsel 
 and warning, and hath gone to join the King of Scots." 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Mistress Sparowe. " I knew of 
 a surety he would go. And how went he ? with whom ? 
 Had he companions? Didst thou take note of the way 
 he journeyed ? " 
 
 " Nay : wherefore should I ? " replied Roger, surprised 
 at her eagerness. " He went, that alone did concern 
 me. He would not stay for all my pleadings. We are 
 not like to follow him, any of us, I trow. He is gone for 
 ever. For either he will be slain, or taken prisoner, or 
 compelled to flee beyond the seas. For once I wished 
 myself not well of my lame foot, since now we cannot 
 cross swords with each other." 
 
 Before Dame Margaret could answer, the door from 
 the hall was pushed open, and a young man sauntered 
 carelessly into the room. 
 
 "Ah, Roger, thou art there," he said, recognizing 
 Roger with a start. " Methought I heard thy voice in 
 the hall. The Fates will have it, then, that we meet 
 once more. Mother" he turned to her "there lacks 
 a strap to my gorget. Prithee let one cf the men run 
 with speed to the blacksmith's for it." 
 
 Roger sprang to his feet, and looked at his brother 
 in unfeigned astonishment. ' We meet once more, 
 sayest thou ? and thou in this guise ? " He pointed 
 to the other's buff jerkin and pistols. " Whither goest 
 thou, Walter, thus armed ? " he asked, hastily. " Before 
 thou undertake a journey, 'twere well surely to speak 
 with me." 
 
 " Thou wert from home," answered Walter Sparowe, 
 sullenly, " and the matter pressed. The need was 
 urgent for us to be gone at once. Hath my mother 
 told thee nought ? " 
 
 " Thy brother is but now come," replied Mistress 
 Margaret, rising ; " and I have scarce had speech with 
 him yet. Prithee tell him thy news thyself, and I 
 meanwhile will see to thy gear." And, gathering up
 
 48 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 her dress, Mistress Margaret tripped from the room, 
 inwardly congratulating herself on having escaped the 
 coming storm. 
 
 It was impossible to imagine a greater contrast than 
 Roger and Walter Sparowe presented. Roger's spare, 
 slender figure was always drawn up to its full height, in 
 the half conscious endeavour to make the most of it ; 
 Walter was tall and largely made, with a habitual stoop, 
 and already inclined to the corpulence which had been 
 a distinguishing characteristic of most of the Sparowes 
 for generations. He was only one and twenty, and thus 
 three or four years younger than Roger, but his figure 
 made him look the older of the two. He had a high, 
 smooth forehead, large, feebly-moulded chin, and 
 aquiline nose, features which were repeated with more 
 or less variation in the ancestral portraits round the 
 room. 
 
 As handsome as Roger was plain, his face neverthe- 
 less on close inspection gave a certain, not altogether 
 pleasing, impression of weakness and indecision. His 
 small, well-shaped mouth, the upper lip just touched 
 with a light down, added to his effeminate appearance. 
 He wore his beautiful hair in soft ringlets, which fell to 
 the shoulder over a rich lace collar. The same costly 
 lace was turned back at the wrist from his white, 
 shapely hands. It was a somewhat incongruous addition 
 to the stout coat made of buffalo leather, with which 
 every man who went to war was provided. But it was 
 the fashion of the Cavaliers to affect this dainty attire, 
 even in battle. 
 
 The two brothers looked at each other askance. Both 
 were conscious of a disagreeable secret which it was 
 necessary for the other to know, but which neither cared 
 to tell. At length Walter tossed his long gloves down 
 on the table, and said, with assumed carelessness : " I 
 go from hence to-day, Roger." 
 
 "Thou doest well to tell me now," rejoined Roger, 
 angrily, "when it is too late to hinder thy journey. 
 May thine elder brother, forsooth, be permitted to ask 
 whither ? "
 
 HOME COMING. 49 
 
 " Whither, but there where it behoves every true and 
 loyal man to be " Walter raised his head defiantly 
 " I have engaged myself to join the army of our 
 Sovereign lord the King." 
 
 " Charles Stuart ! the King of Scots ! To go to him ! " 
 cried Roger, aghast. " Nay, Walter, it shall not be. 
 Never while I am master in this house shall one go from 
 it to ally himself with the man of sin. I forbid it thee." 
 
 Walter laughed bitterly. " Thou forbid it, forsooth ! 
 And by what right dost thou forbid it ? Our father's 
 death hath made thee master here, but not master of 
 mine actions. I am free to come and go as I list." 
 The young man drew himself up as he spoke, and 
 towered over his brother in his indignation. 
 
 " Free, aye," groaned Roger, flinging himself into a 
 chair. " Free, as thou sayest. Free to rush to thine 
 own destruction, as Ralph hath done, and dishonour me 
 for ever. Have I no claim then on thee ? " 
 
 " None, if thou dost think to hold me back," said 
 Walter. " I' faith, thou hast not made me so welcome 
 in thine house of late, that I should desire to remain. 
 Mine honour and duty call me." 
 
 "Thou goest to certain ruin." 
 
 " Ruin, fie ! The tide hath turned, I tell thee. The 
 king will soon come into his own again, and these 
 Puritan knaves shall have their deserts. We will drive 
 them out and make them quit their ill-gotten gains. 
 And then, when thy brother returns in trumph, thou 
 wilt be fain to creep to him, and pray him to speak a 
 word on thy behalf." 
 
 " Oh, fools, fools, all of ye ! " groaned Roger. " It is 
 not as thou sayest, Walter. We are strong as ever, and 
 the Lord General hath never been beaten yet." 
 
 Walter laughed derisively. " And how, if he were 
 beaten now ? " he asked. " Thou canst not deny it, 
 Roger. Our army hath given him the slip. This once, 
 at least, he hath been foiled." 
 
 " For some good purpose he hath suffered the Scottish 
 army to pass him, but there is no man in England who 
 doubts him. And the issue is sure. For thou and thy 
 
 E
 
 50 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 fellows, Walter, trust in an arm of flesh, but with us is 
 the Lord of Hosts." 
 
 Walter turned on his heel, and paced the room angrily. 
 Like Wentworth, he could not bear this sanctimonious 
 phraseology from Roger's lips. It always seemed to 
 drive him to fury. 
 
 " And how wilt thou restrain me ? " he asked. " Wilt 
 thou use force ? for I tell thee plainly, by suasion shalt 
 thou effect nothing. Good, then. Bid the men who 
 have served me from childhood guard the door, that 
 their young master may not go forth, and fight for his 
 king. Or turn informer, if it like thee, and hail me 
 before the town council, that they may put me in ward, 
 because I will not forswear all honour and loyalty to my 
 country. Thou art a justice thyself; the thing is easy." 
 
 Never before had the indolent Walter worked himself 
 up into such a tempest of wrath. He walked to and fro, 
 hurling bitter words at his brother, while Roger sat with 
 face in his hands. 
 
 " I cannot do it, thou sayest, truly ; I cannot do it," 
 he muttered, " no, not if I give half my fortune to keep 
 thee. And I, a Puritan, well reported of among the 
 godly in the town 1 Disgraced and put to confusion, by 
 mine own kindred." 
 
 "Thou hadst no call to be a Puritan," retorted Walter. 
 " Wherefore couldst thou not adhere to the traditions 
 of our house ? Our ancestors did good service to the 
 king, ay, and sealed it with their blood at Hexham and 
 Bosworth, as I am ready to do now. What spirit 
 possessed our father to take part with the fanatics, and 
 to join himself with that arch-traitor Cromwell ? " 
 
 " Hold ! " cried Roger, fiercely, springing to his feet. 
 "Thou shalt not speak those honoured names thus 
 lightly. Thou art not worthy to loose the shoe latchet 
 of our saintly father. Such as thou wilt never know 
 what it cost him to eschew the evil and pursue the good. 
 'Twas a nature, the depths whereof thou couldst never 
 sound ; and such another is my Lord General." 
 
 Walter felt that he had gained his point, and was in 
 no mood to prolong the discussion. At this moment, to
 
 HOME COMING. 51 
 
 his secret relief, the great house bell rang, notifying to 
 all that the hour of noon had arrived, and with it the 
 one great meal of the day. Roger rose from his seat, 
 and stood for a few minutes by the table, trying to 
 compose himself. Walter gathered up his gloves, and 
 was on his way to the hall, whistling a tune, when Roger 
 stopped him. 
 
 " A moment more, Walter," he said, earnestly, " Our 
 mother saith that the Reverend Mr. Sturges cometh 
 here to-day, to dine with us. Is this thy doing ? " 
 
 " No, 'twas our mother who asked him," answered 
 Walter, readily. " It seemed meet that he should come 
 to bid me farewell, and " he glanced round the room, 
 and lowered his voice " to provide me with some 
 matters I needed." 
 
 "Ay, I understand thee, with credentials," replied 
 Roger, bitterly. " Credentials from such as he to mine 
 own brother, and the son of so godly a father. It is 
 he, then, who hath urged thee to this journey in mine 
 absence. Deny it not, Walter. He hath worked on thy 
 youth and innocence, and thou hast listened greedily to 
 his words. I cannot stop his false, honied tongue," he 
 continued mournfully, " nor thine ears from giving heed 
 to it. But here in this house it shall not be. How 
 didst thou presume to ask him, when thou knowest that 
 I will not suffer it ? " 
 
 " Our mother would have it so," said Walter, shrugging 
 his shoulders. " She hath a marvellous love and affec- 
 tion for this man, at which I wonder oftentimes seeing 
 she knoweth him not fully." 
 
 " But thou who dost know him, how canst thou lend 
 thyself to the deception daily practiced upon her, and 
 upon the whole town ? " said Roger, hotly. " Hast thou 
 no truth or honour in thee, that thou dost seek the 
 company of one whose whole life is a lie ? " 
 
 Walter started up fiercely, and for a moment it seemed 
 as if the quarrel between the brothers must come to 
 blows, but he controlled himself. 
 
 " There may be reasons for that I do," he said. 
 " Prithee leave me in peace, and inquire not too closely
 
 52 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 concerning me. As for this man," he continued, in a 
 more conciliatory tone, warned by a look of indignant 
 surprise from Roger, " he liveth peaceably and giveth 
 offence to none. If thou dost bruit abroad that thou 
 knowest, it may cost him his neck, and thou wilt be 
 guilty of his blood. And in any case while he is here 
 we cannot have some canting Puritan knave thrust upon 
 us." 
 
 With this parting shot, Walter sprang up a short flight 
 of steps, and entered the entrance hall. Here the mid- 
 day meal was prepared at a table in the centre. For 
 some years after the house was built, the good old 
 practice had still obtained that the whole household, 
 masters and servants, should dine together. But this 
 custom had long fallen into disuse ; and Walter, as he 
 came from the withdrawing room, found no one at the 
 table but his mother and a sleek, smooth-faced man, to 
 whom she was talking eagerly. 
 
 There was nothing at first sight to distinguish the 
 Reverend Obadiah Sturges,the subject of such passionate 
 controversy in the Sparowe family, from any other godly 
 minister. His dress was ostentatiously clerical a black 
 Genevan gown, and snow-white collar and bands. He 
 was of middle height, his features unexpressive, his light 
 blue eyes almost devoid of animation. His head was 
 small, and looked still smaller, because of the tight- 
 fitting black skull cap he always wore, which scarcely 
 allowed his close-cropped hair to be seen. These caps, 
 coming down low over the ears, were much affected by 
 elderly men in those days. Perhaps the Reverend 
 Master Obadiah was somewhat more unctuous in speech 
 and larded his discourse more freely with Biblical 
 phraseology, than was held to be necessary ; bet this 
 was accounted, by his more ardent followers, as a sign of 
 a godly disposition. To any one who had heard the hot 
 discussions concerning him in the Sparowe household, 
 and throughout the town, and had known that Roger's 
 journey to London had been undertaken with no other 
 object than to effect his removal, the sight of the minister 
 himself was disappointing. It seemed incredible that so
 
 HOME COMING. 53 
 
 insignificant a man should possess so much influence 
 or be worthy of so many heart burnings. 
 
 The meal proceeded almost in silence. Roger was in 
 no mood for conversation. Although their intercourse 
 had been already strained to the verge of a quarrel, 
 he knew that he must have further speech of his 
 brother before he went. Walter, who was secretly 
 afraid of his stern elder brother when he chose to 
 assert his authority, maintained a discreet silence; while 
 the Reverend Obadiah, never a man of many words, 
 was more than usually quiet. 
 
 Nevertheless he played his part manfully in the main 
 busiaess of the meal. Saint as he was, even his 
 admirers could not deny that he was not above a certain 
 serene enjoyment of the good things of this life, and the 
 bountiful hospitality of the " Old House " was never 
 lost upon him. 
 
 " Is it permitted me to ask how you fared in London, 
 Master Sparowe ? " he said at last, in the monotonous 
 nasal tone many of the Puritans had contracted. " Hath 
 it been granted you to help towards the Lord's work ? " 
 
 Master Obadiah spoke as if he had only a gentle 
 interest in the matter, but Roger, glancing up, saw a 
 slight quiver of his thin lips, and knew instantly that the 
 Puritan was as well aware of the purport of his journey 
 as he was himself. 
 
 " I fared well or ill, sir, as it may like you to take it," 
 he answered, with the visible constraint he was always 
 compelled to put upon himself whenever he addressed 
 the minister. 
 
 " Saw you your friend ? " 
 
 " Yea, and did nought with him. He would not heed 
 me," answered Roger, moodily. " He hath gone to the 
 fight." 
 
 Only Roger, who was watching Master Sturges 
 sharply, saw him nod his head softly, as if the news 
 were not wholly unexpected. 
 
 " Roger is grieved for his friend," said Mistress 
 Margaret ; " but I tell him all will soon be well again. 
 It is right that he should not go to the war, for assuredly
 
 54 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 the Roundheads will soon be defeated. And then 
 England will join as one man to welcome her king." 
 
 " Amen, noble lady, if he come in the name of the 
 Lord," rejoined Master Sturges, with much fervour. 
 " If he will submit himself to our godly ministers here, 
 as he hath done already in Scotland, I doubt not the 
 Lord will restore him." 
 
 Mistress Margaret gazed at the speaker in a perplexed 
 way for a moment, but seeing that he returned her look 
 with perfect equanimity, she recovered her composure. 
 Undoubtedly she was the most cheerful of the four 
 to-day. She was grieved to part with her younger son 
 on so dangerous a mission, but, naturally sanguine, she 
 did not realize to what he would be exposed. She was 
 sure there would be no battle. The sight of the young 
 king would disarm all opposition, and he would soon be 
 able to enter London in triumph. The Puritan faction 
 Mistress Margaret could never understand that 
 the Puritan faction had grown into a victorious and 
 all-powerful nation would be disposed of in some 
 comfortable way, Roger would be persuaded to give up 
 his praying and Psalm singing, and Walter would easily 
 make peace for him with the Royalists. 
 
 So she chatted gaily on, relieved to find that the 
 announcement of Walter's departure had apparently 
 not led to an open breach between the brothers, though 
 both sat moody and silent. She rallied Roger on his 
 grave face, and loaded Walter with tender little motherly 
 directions for his health and comfort, not one of which 
 he was likely to remember. In the fulness of her 
 satisfaction she submitted, without a sigh, to the 
 lengthy grace with which Mr. Sturges concluded the 
 meal. Mistress Margaret flattered herself that all 
 danger of a collision was over. She was struck with 
 consternation, therefore, to hear Roger say, sternly, as 
 Walter sprang impatiently up : 
 
 " A word further with thee, brother." 
 
 With a beating heart, Walter followed Roger once 
 more into the withdrawing room, and through it to a long, 
 low room, lined with oaken wainscotting, richly carved
 
 HOME COMING. 55 
 
 from floor to ceiling, which looked into the garden at the 
 back of the house. Like his mother, he had fancied 
 that all fear of opposition was past. He ran hastily over 
 in his mind the possible points of difference between him 
 and his brother. His departure to join the Royalist 
 army, the unwelcome presence of Master Sturges Roger 
 had acquiesced in all these, with however bad a grace. 
 But, for all his gay careless nature, there were certain 
 passages in Walter's life which not for the whole world 
 would he have wished Roger to hear of. His brother's 
 rigid Puritanism, and the distracted circumstances of 
 the times, had made a conspirator of him, almost against 
 his will. With ill-concealed anxiety, therefore, he waited 
 for Roger to speak. 
 
 But Roger seemed in no hurry to begin his unpleasant 
 communication. He walked to the window and looked 
 out into the garden a small, carefully cultivated en- 
 closure between high walls, just now flooded with the 
 brilliant light of the noonday sun. Then he came back 
 to the great hearth at the further end of the room, his 
 lameness showing the plainer as he walked, because he 
 was wearied with his journey. 
 
 " Walter," he began at last, in a husky voice, his eyes 
 fixed on the empty hearth, " I have somewhat more 
 to say to thee. Prithee come here" as he heard his 
 brother moving about at the other end of the room 
 " and give heed to me. That which I have to speak of 
 concerns thee much." 
 
 Walter came forward, and flung himself sulkily down 
 upon a settle in the chimney corner. 
 
 " My time is short," he said. " Pray thee, brother, 
 speak briefly, and to the point. Or, better still, speak 
 not at all. Wherefore should our parting be further 
 embittered ? " 
 
 " Nay, I must speak, I dare not leave it. Think not 
 thus to escape me," said Roger, angrily. " Last night, 
 Walter, I lay at Colchester at the ' Bull ' inn." 
 
 Walter started, but did not speak, and Roger con- 
 tinued : " Dost know who lives at the ' Bull ' inn, at 
 Colchester, or do I need to tell thee ? "
 
 56 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 Walter twisted uneasily on the settle, but still main- 
 tained an obstinate silence. " Thou dost put me then to 
 the shame of speaking that I scarce know how to utter," 
 continued Roger, his pale face crimson with agitation. 
 " Thou mightest have spared me, or at least have met 
 me half-way, if thou knowest aught thereof. A woman 
 lives there I know not her name who saith she is 
 thy wife ! " 
 
 " Never ! " exclaimed Walter, springing to his feet. 
 " The impudent hussy ! Hath she dared to speak ? 'Tis 
 a lie, an infamous lie ! I will confront her with it, and 
 thrust it down her throat." 
 
 " It is not true, then," said Roger, looking up with an 
 expression of intense relief. " She hath slandered thee ? 
 Oh 1 shame upon me, that I gave her credence. Forgive 
 me, brother. For a moment she spoke so stoutly, I 
 believed it of thee." 
 
 Roger stretched out his hand, but Walter did not take it. 
 
 " How meanest thou, Roger?" he said, stiffly, avoiding 
 his brother's eyes. " Let me know first whereof I am 
 accused. This woman, what said she to thee ? What 
 crime did she lay to my charge ? " 
 
 " Nay, what signifieth what she said, since thou hast 
 declared it untrue ? Wherefore should we talk of crime ? 
 Thou hast not done her this wrong, let that suffice us 
 both. Oh ! Walter, I knew it well. I told her she 
 mistook us. That a Sparowe would never so far forget 
 the honour of his house, as to give to such as her the 
 right to be his wife." 
 
 " As for right," returned Walter, uneasily, "'tis a nice 
 question, that. These women be hard to pacify. Give 
 them an inch, and they will take an ell. Let them think 
 they have the least claim upon you, and, look you, they 
 push it to the utmost." 
 
 " Walter ! " Roger stopped his brother with a look of 
 horror. " What meanest thou ? Tell me, I beseech 
 thee, the whole truth for once, if thou hast never told it 
 before. Hath this woman any claim upon thee ? " 
 
 " Nay, how should I know ? " answered Walter. " Thou 
 dost press me too hard. Thou art a saint thyself. Ye
 
 HOME COMING. 57 
 
 are all saints, ye Puritans, and ye have no pity for our 
 faults. Ye know naught of the temptations which beset 
 us." 
 
 " It is not true it cannot be true ! " muttered Roger. 
 " Oh, Walter, purify thy soul by penitence ! " 
 
 Walter laughed. " Tis no such great crime, after all. 
 Thou art a fool, Roger, for all thy sainthood. May not 
 a man kiss a pretty girl, but thou must move heaven and 
 earth to punish him ? " 
 
 "Walter!" Roger seemed to shrink from the sound 
 of his own voice, as he crouched back in the chimney 
 corner. "An this be true, as thou dost drive me to 
 think for even now thou wilt not reveal the whole 
 matter we are brothers no longer. I have rebuked 
 thee. Henceforth thou art to me as an heathen man 
 and a publican. But, ohl once more, I conjure thee, 
 speak, if it be not true." 
 
 There was dead silence for a moment. Walter turned 
 sullenly away, and began to pace the room. 
 
 " Thou hast broken God's law," said Roger solemnly, 
 after a long pause. " Beside that, 'tis a small matter 
 that the honour of our noble house is stained. Thou art 
 no longer fit to dwell beneath the same roof as our pure 
 mother." 
 
 " Cast me out, then," cried Walter, vehemently. 
 4t Drive me forth from the home where thou and I have 
 dwelt as children. Cut the link that binds us 1 In good 
 sooth," he went on with a bitter smile, " my saintly 
 brother hath well chosen his time to send me adrift, 
 when I am about to hazard life and limb. The world 
 will not judge me so hardly. 'Tis but a little sin. None 
 but thou had thought it worthy of mention ; thou wilt 
 make of it, meseems, a life-long quarrel." 
 
 " Repair it, then. Marry her who in the sight of the 
 Lord is already thy wife." 
 
 " No, for ten thousand crowns, no," cried Walter, 
 41 What, marry such an one ? Force our lady mother, 
 daily and hourly, to bear her company. Nay, if I did it, 
 thou mightest then cry shame on me. 'Twould be a stain 
 on our noble shield, such as it hath never yet known."
 
 58 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Thou hast stained it already," answered Roger. "The 
 soil is there, whether thou wilt see it or no." 
 
 " Prithee, cease thy sermon," said Walter, striding to 
 the door. " Time presseth. I must be gone, and have 
 yet to bid farewell to my mother." 
 
 " Ay, we do but waste words," sighed Roger. " Hear 
 me, then, Walter. Our father's house shall still be open 
 to thee. Thou shalt not be cut adrift, as thou sayest. 
 Come when thou wilt, for our mother's sake, the door 
 shall not be closed upon thee, but speech from me thou 
 shalt not have again. Until thou repair the evil thou 
 hast done: if that may ever be seek me no furthur. I 
 will pray for thee. Night and day I will beseech the 
 Lord that He be gracious unto thee, and deliver thee 
 from the bond of this sin. But from this day forth we 
 have no further concern one with the other. Walter, 
 farewell." 
 
 And with one look, more of sorrow then anger, at his 
 brother, Roger passed from the room, and went slowly 
 up the great oaken staircase to his own chamber. Here 
 he was wont to spend hours every day in lonely medita- 
 tion, or in agonized wrestlings upon his knees, the open 
 Bible before him ; and here he flung himself down in a 
 tumult of feeling, too much agitated to frame a single 
 prayer. He did not re-appear in the household, not 
 even, as the servants thought he might have done, to 
 bid his brother a last farewell. He left the charge of 
 speeding him on his journey to his mother and Master 
 Sturges. And every one stood too much in awe of the 
 young squire's solitary retirement, to break in upon it. 
 Perhaps he was jealous of his brother, whispered the 
 serving men to each other, as they stood watching the 
 handsome young fellow ride off, attended by a couple of 
 well-armed varlets, to join his companions outside the 
 town. But at least the Master might have come to 
 comfort his mother, and to lead her away when, in 
 spite of her boasted courage, her spirits failed, and she 
 burst into piteous sobs as she waved farewell to the 
 traveller.
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 
 
 THE great dissension between Cavaliers and Puritans, 
 which had convulsed all England for the last ten years, 
 was no new thing in the Sparowe family. There, as 
 elsewhere, it might truly be said that a man's foes were 
 they of his own household. Robert Sparowe, the father 
 of Roger and Walter, was a man whose name was 
 always mentioned with tender love and sorrow by his 
 wife and children, and with reverence in the town. He 
 had been a Puritan all his life, though he came of a 
 Cavalier stock. He was one of a large family, most of 
 whom had died young. Much of his childhood had 
 been spent in the house of a maiden aunt, the daughter 
 of a certain Judge Clench, who had been a noted man 
 among what we might call the Low Church party in the 
 reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Robert Sparowe, growing to manhood amid the varied 
 influences of the great city of London, had been an eye- 
 witness of the terror caused by the discovery of the 
 Gunpowder Plot. The effect upon him was vivid and 
 permanent. The dread of Popery, which grew in time 
 among the Puritans to an almost unreasoning horror, 
 took possession of him, and coloured all his life. He 
 soon recoiled, not only from Catholicism, but from those 
 rites and ceremonies which the Church of England had 
 retained, and which seemed to him only another disguise 
 of the scarlet woman of Babylon. 
 
 Church and dissent were not then marked off into 
 the broad divisions which have parted them since the 
 Restoration. Those who actually dissented from the 
 established religion, Anabaptists, Quakers, and the like, 
 were looked upon with quite as much horror by the 
 Puritans, or Low Churchmen, as by the Laudites-
 
 60 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 They were branded as heretics, and both parties joined 
 in persecuting them rigorously. The word dissenter was 
 unknown ; the Puritans still formed part of the National 
 Church. Robert Sparowe punctually attended the 
 services in the parish church was even churchwarden 
 and filled other offices of a like nature, but always with 
 a growing horror of the Romanizing tendencies fostered 
 by Archbishop Laud. Outwardly he belonged to the 
 Church of his fathers, in which he had been brought up. 
 There was no recognised sect beyond the ecclesiastical 
 pals, to which a man who valued his reputation as a 
 Christian could adhere. But he began to feel towards 
 the Anglican liturgy, and the hierarchical form of 
 government, that fierce hatred which distinguished all 
 the Puritans, and which caused the abolition of the 
 English Church, as soon as the rival party was in power. 
 
 While these opposing forces were at work, poor foolish 
 King James died, and Charles I. young, graceful, clever, 
 and gifted with all the strange, personal fascination of 
 the Stuarts came to the throne. Just about this time 
 Robert Sparowe, who, by the death of several brothers, 
 had become the head of the house, took to himself a 
 wife. Not such a staid, God-fearing maiden as the 
 Puritan party in the town, to whom he had already 
 allied himself, hoped and expected. He fixed his fancy 
 on a charming, lovely girl, who came of an old but 
 impoverished county family, had nothing but her pretty 
 face and sweet ways to recommend her, and had been 
 bred in the highest and stiffest Anglicanism. 
 
 With her the grave and pious Master Robert Sparowe 
 fell "over head and ears" in love. In a short time he 
 wooed and won her, and to the day of his death she 
 remained the idol of his heart. 
 
 It is possible that the new wife might, as was feared, 
 have drawn Master Sparowe away from his rigid 
 profession of religion had he not, a few years later, 
 formed a friendship which, like his passionate love for 
 his wife, lasted for the rest of his life. There was a 
 certain quiet, rough, country gentleman, living at 
 Huntingdon, within two days' ride of Ipswich, who was
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 61 
 
 already beginning to be recognised as a man of weight 
 in the country. It was by accident that Robert Sparowe 
 first met this same Mr. Cromwell, and was attracted at 
 once, despite his homely appearance, by his singular 
 earnestness, and the power and depth of his character. 
 From henceforth the young man knew what it was to 
 have a friend. The intimacy ripened slowly but surely, 
 and the strength and comfort which, as time went on, 
 he felt to be lacking in his own home, were supplied by 
 the wise counsels of the squire of Huntingdon. 
 
 It was to follow his friend, as much as at the call of 
 duty, that Master Sparowe, with a dozen well-armed 
 retainers, joined the Parliament army, when the fierce 
 religious and political differences between the king and the 
 nation broke out at last into civil war. And all through 
 the long, hot summers that followed.with their marchings 
 and counter-marchings, battles and sieges, fruitless 
 parleys and treaties, Robert Sparowe was always to the 
 front. A man after the General's own heart, who 
 talked little concerning the divine right of Prelates or 
 Presbyters, but was always to be found where the fight 
 raged hottest. Such as he were to be counted by 
 thousands in the new modelled army, and they laid the 
 foundations of the England of to-day. 
 
 One thing was wanting to Robert Sparowe's satisfac- 
 tion. It had never fallen to his lot actually to serve under 
 his friend, whose rare military qualifications he had 
 always recognized. His wish was gratified at last. In 
 the final struggle of the war, the terrible battle of Naseby, 
 Master Sparowe received his death wound, as he led a 
 company of pikemen to the charge. As he lay dying, 
 the victorious general snatched a moment to press his 
 friend's hand, and to bid him farewell. And to Robert 
 Sparowe's failing ears it seemed as if he already heard 
 his Lord's : "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." 
 
 It might have been expected that fair Mistress Margaret, 
 amid such strange surroundings, would either have spent 
 her life in perpetual opposition to her rigidly devout 
 husband, or herself have imbibed something of his stern 
 Puritanism. Neither one nor the other happened.
 
 62 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Bright and gay she was when her husband brought her 
 to his ancestral home, and bright and gay she continued. 
 She passed over the rough places of life with fairy foot- 
 steps. She sported with her husband's deep and earnest 
 nature, only half-conscious of the love which transfigured 
 it. As to her religion, it was made up for the most part 
 of those outward shows and ceremonies, and the 
 elaborate ritual which were so abhorrent to the Puritans. 
 One thing only she hated with a fierce, deep hatred 
 not the gloomy fanatics themselves how could she feel 
 bitterly towards men who numbered among them her 
 husband and son ? but the cruel creed which had 
 dragged that husband from her, and had left her, still in 
 the bloom of life, a widow. 
 
 The boys grew up amid these conflicting circum- 
 stances, and were influenced by them in opposite 
 directions. In character, Roger was his father over 
 again. Outwardly cold and reserved, but capable of 
 strong, deep affection, he had from the first turned with 
 a kind of instinct to Puritanism. As for Walter he 
 seemed to be the very counterpart of his mother in his 
 good looks, his airy disposition, and his abhorrence of 
 everything that savoured of dullness. Life had not 
 tested him yet, and no one, least of all himself, knew the 
 real stuff of which he was made. 
 
 But Roger and Walter were not the only children to 
 whom Master Sparowe hoped to hand down his name. 
 A year after their marriage Dame Margaret presented 
 her husband with a little daughter. Robert Sparowe, 
 who had lost several sisters in early life, took the child 
 home to his great, deep heart, and lavished a love upon 
 her which, excellent father as he was, he never evinced 
 for either of the two brothers who followed her. Between 
 him and his little Mary so he named her after his 
 mother there was one of those strong affinities often 
 seen between mother and son, more rarely, perhaps, 
 uniting father and daughter. Mary Sparowe was the 
 pride of the house. She was beautiful as her mother, 
 devout as her father ; and she never caused him but one 
 sorrow, when she fell madly in love, as he had done
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 63 
 
 before her, and gave her innocent maiden's heart into 
 the keeping of the handsome young Cavalier, Ralph 
 Wentworth. 
 
 The friendship between the houses of Sparowe and 
 Wentworth had existed for 200 years, but they had never 
 been united by marriage. There was a tradition among 
 them that no such alliance could ever come to pass. 
 Perhaps a touch of this superstition, though he always 
 affected to despise it, mingled with Master Sparowe's 
 exceeding abhorrence of a Royalist alliance for his 
 daughter, and made him set himself so earnestly against 
 it. All through the winter of 1644-45, while the two 
 armies were in quarters, the matter was hotly debated. 
 Much communication, in spite of the almost impassable 
 roads, was carried on between the Wentworths in 
 the North, and the Sparowes in the East. Then the 
 war began again, a combat this time a Uoutrance, for the 
 new modelled Puritan army was burning for action. The 
 head of both families were called to the field. Robert 
 Sparowe parted with his daughter, not in anger he 
 had never been angry with her in his life but grieved 
 and heavy at heart. Six weeks after, his dead body 
 was carried across the threshold of the home he had 
 left in the fulness of health and vigour. 
 
 By some mischance, the news had not been broken to 
 Mary Sparowe. She came in hastily, people said after- 
 wards, unprepared for the sight, and when she saw her 
 father's corpse she fell prostrate on it, in a swoon which 
 lasted for hours. That fatal thrust at Naseby had been 
 her death-wound too. She never rallied from the shock. 
 Through the summer she bore her grief calmly, almost 
 cheerfully, and sustained her mother, who was nearly 
 prostrate beneath the blow. But, as the months went 
 on, she grew whiter and thinner. When she knew that 
 she was dying, she sent for Ralph Wentworth, and the 
 lovers took a last farewell of each other. And when 
 the first frosts of winter came, she fell nipped in the 
 bud, like the late roses that bloomed outside her window. 
 The old tradition had come true; the houses of Sparowe 
 and Wentworth were not to be united.
 
 64 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 These sad events could not fail to produce an effect 
 upon the boys. The deep, religious tone of Roger's 
 character was strengthened, and to it was joined a 
 reverential feeling towards the dead father and sister, 
 whose names he scarcely ventured to speak. Much of 
 his love for them he transferred to Ralph Wentworth, 
 who had been so closely associated with the family 
 sorrows. From that day forth, in spite of his rigid 
 Puritanism, he cherished for him an overweening 
 affection. Walter, who was a boy at the time, naturally 
 took the matter more lightly ; and Roger, who thought 
 he ought now to be in the place of a father to his 
 younger brother, was often troubled with the idea that, 
 through his own remissness, the dispensation had not 
 been sufficiently blest to them both. 
 
 Notwithsanding the blight this double sorrow cast 
 over their lives, the brothers grew up as healthy and 
 vigorous as boys could be. Roger himself, with all the 
 cares of a county magnate prematurely thrust upon him, 
 often forgot his troubles, and hunted and fished, fenced, 
 and played at games of skill with his brother in the 
 courtyard, as if he had never known a sorrow. The 
 mere living in such a splendid place as the house in the 
 Ipswich market was a pleasure. For boys who were 
 full of healthy life, and brimming over with energy, 
 no better home could be imagined. The rooms were 
 arranged round a fine courtyard, which was enriched with 
 the same " pargetting " work as the front of the house. 
 On one side of this yard, on the open space of a blank 
 wall, some country artist had modelled a fat cherub in 
 relief. The beauty of the work might be questioned ; 
 the solidity of it no one could deny. The cherub's nose 
 had been a favourite target with Roger and Walter as 
 children ; but though they had shot at it hundreds of 
 times, it remained as round and prominent as ever. 
 
 Another side of the yard, which ran parallel to a lane 
 at right angles to the main street, afforded them still 
 better pastime. Here was a recess roofed over by the 
 upper storey, and in this recess, in wet weather or in fine, 
 the boys might generally be found playing. Though the
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 65 
 
 house had only been built a hundred years it was already 
 full of traditions. There were stories of money hidden 
 here, of secret chambers there, of mystery and marvel 
 everywhere. Yet, often as the boys had tried to test the 
 truth of these tales, and to discover something them- 
 selves, they had never succeeded so much as in unloosing 
 a bolt, or dislodging a single board. 
 
 In the noble wainscotted room that looked on to the 
 small piece of garden ground in the rear, was a splendid 
 chimney piece. Not many houses in the town could 
 boast of such a fine example of rich carving. The family 
 crest and coat of arms, the three red roses won at 
 Hexham, were sculptured in the wood work, and just 
 above was a curious, cube-shaped projection, behind 
 which, according to one of the stories current in the 
 household, money or some treasure was concealed. 
 Between this room and the withdrawing room leading 
 into the great hall were two large cupboards, formerly 
 used by Mistress Margaret for storing her preserves, and 
 the distilled waters and cordials she made from herbs 
 and flowers. Of late years, however, she had ceased to 
 keep such things here, because the cupboards, being 
 built into the huge chimney which ran up between the 
 two rooms, were apt to become overheated, and to spoil 
 her condiments. Forthwith the boys had seized upon 
 them, and rare hiding places they made. To this curious 
 playground they annexed the wainscotted room which, 
 in consequence of the sombreness of the oak carving, 
 was seldom used by the family, and turned it into a 
 passage for rushing from one cupboard to another. 
 
 During the course of a wrestling match, Roger had 
 once accidentally flung Walter with considerable force 
 against the wedge-like projection above the chimney. 
 In the darkness in which this part of the room usually 
 lay, neither of the boys had noticed this wedge before. 
 Now, when it inflicted a pretty deep cut, they were led 
 to examine it more closely. Much they wondered at it, 
 and, recalling the family tradition, they tried, with all 
 the strength of their active fingers, to move it, but in 
 vain. They sounded the wall on either side till their 
 
 F
 
 66 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 knuckles were sore, and speedily arrived at the con- 
 clusion that it was hollow, but all their efforts to displace 
 the least fragment of carving were useless. Their 
 father calling them at this moment, the subject of the 
 chimney piece was dismissed. 
 
 For the time at least ; but the matter dwelt in Roger's 
 tenacious memory, and one day, about a year before his 
 journey to London, while harmony still reigned between 
 him and Walter, he suddenly proposed that they should 
 solve the mystery of the carved wedge. The brothers 
 were alone in the wainscotted room, mending their 
 fishing gear. Mistress Margaret was from home for the 
 day, the servants were all busy in the kitchen, on the 
 other side of the house. Roger, a grave, careworn man 
 by this time, bearing his full share of the troubles and 
 anxieties which distracted his unhappy country, proffered 
 the suggestion more for the sake of the diversion to his 
 own thoughts, than with any idea of making a discovery. 
 Walter, delighted at the prospect of a fresh adventure, 
 joyfully acquiesced. 
 
 Boys in those days had no toys or tools, except such 
 as they could fashion for themselves. Walter and Roger 
 had passed through youth without even a penknife ! 
 Their sole weapon was a small dagger of rare Spanish 
 workmanship, which had been given to Roger as a child, 
 and had served them ever since for all manner of 
 mysterious operations. Finding their fingers powerless 
 to loosen the wood work, Walter fetched this dagger, 
 and they managed, after various attempts, to insert it 
 where the wedge was fitted into the chimney piece. 
 
 The wood yielded more easily than they had hoped, 
 after the first. The wedge removed with infinite care, 
 the young men saw within a small recess about a foot 
 square. It was empty, absolutely empty. Not so much 
 as a single gold coin, an ornament or jewel, or even a 
 paper which might have been of consequence, could they 
 discover. But as Roger swept his hand for the last 
 time round the interior, to satisfy himself that the recess 
 contained nothing, his fingers came with some force into 
 contact with a projecting knob in the further corner.
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 67 
 
 Immediately a dull, whirring noise was heard, succeeded 
 by a slow, creaking sound, as of a heavy door turning 
 slowly on its hinges. This lasted for about two minutes, 
 after which all was again still. The brothers held their 
 breath, and looked at each other in amazement. 
 
 " Roger : what is it ? " whispered Walter, timidly, who, 
 in spite of his height and figure, was the weaker-nerved 
 of the two. 
 
 " I know not, Walter, more than thou dost," answered 
 Roger. " Something hath moved, that is certain. It 
 may be that I touched a spring concealed in the hollow." 
 
 " But didst hear the noise ? " 
 
 " Ay, I heard it," answered Roger. " Twas the spring, 
 doubtless, that set something in motion, and that some- 
 thing, whatever it be, it behoves us to discover. Come, 
 Walter, bestir thyself. This mystery shall not remain 
 unsolved." 
 
 Roger's face was flushed with excitement and pleasure. 
 Here was a certain thing to be done, always a delightful 
 sensation to a morbid man. 
 
 " I can see nought here which hath been moved," he 
 said, going round the room, and carefully sounding the 
 oaken wainscotting. "Test the spring again, Walter, 
 while I stand and listen ; we may haply discover from 
 whence the sound comes." 
 
 But the spring had done its work, whatever it was. 
 Nothing more was heard, though Walter, emulating his 
 brother's courage, tried again and again to make it snap. 
 Failing to obtain a further clue, the two brothers next 
 consulted together, from which direction the whirring 
 and creaking had come, each maintaining that it had 
 originated in an opposite quarter. 
 
 " The mystery shall not baffle us," cried Roger, eagerly. 
 " We will search both chambers. Not a cranny in this 
 or the withdrawing room shall be unvisited. We will go 
 thither next. Use thine eyes, Walter, and let nothing 
 escape thee." 
 
 Now it had chanced that Mistress Margaret, needing 
 something for her journey from one of the deep cup- 
 boards already mentioned, which filled the passage
 
 68 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 between the two rooms, the door, which was usually 
 kept fastened, had been left open. Passing to the other 
 room, Roger's quick eye was caught by a black shadow 
 within the cupboard, where he was accustomed to see a 
 blank wall. 
 
 " Something is changed here," he exclaimed, flinging 
 the door wide open. " This is not as it hath always 
 been. Oh, Walter, see I " 
 
 " Brother, what is it ? " 
 
 Walter, who was in the wainscotted room, still fumb- 
 ling over the spring in the recess, hurried up, and peeped 
 over Roger's shoulder. The young men, to their intense 
 astonishment, looked down into the black mouth of a 
 gap, about three feet square, in the oaken wainscotting 
 of which the wall of the cupboard was formed. A small 
 panel had, by some means, which they immediately 
 connected with the spring in the recess, been displaced, 
 and revealed, as far as they could see through so narrow 
 an opening, a passage about 2 feet high. The two 
 men stood staring open-eyed into the gap, and as the 
 light was behind them, their own shadows made the 
 darkness more profound. Walter was the first to speak. 
 
 " Roger, what can it be, this great black hole ? " he 
 whispered. 
 
 " Faith, brother, I know not yet," replied Roger, 
 smiling at Walter's white face. A secret way of some 
 sort, doubtless. 'Tis no hole, but a passage that thou 
 seest, and whither it leads we will presently discover." 
 
 "Oh, Roger, no! Prithee adventure not thyself into it." 
 
 " Assuredly I must," replied Roger, " if we would hope 
 to find the secret. Thou needst not to come." 
 
 " Nay, thou shalt not go alone," returned Walter. 
 
 " Good, then let us set forth. But first we must have 
 a light. Stay thou here a moment, and I will fetch one.'* 
 
 Usually in all their adventures, which were mostly 
 confined to hunting and fishing, Walter had been first 
 and foremost; but now he stood leaning against the 
 cupboard door, afraid seemingly to move a step alone. 
 It was an unknown danger from which he shrank ; but 
 the mysterious character of the enterprise only seemed
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 69 
 
 to lend it the greater charm in Roger's eyes. He soon 
 re-appeared, carrying a torch, tinder box, and flint, and 
 was on the point of stepping into the passage when he 
 again stopped. 
 
 " This road may lead us far," he said, " and perad- 
 venture, ere we return, the panel will be closed against 
 us by some mischance. It were wiser to learn the secret 
 of it before we venture ourselves. Do thou stand here, 
 Walter, and watch, while I try the spring yonder." 
 
 " Tis time wasted," answered Walter. " The spring 
 doth not act. It failed when I handled it a while ago. 
 Whatever the secret, it lieth not there." 
 
 " Nay, but we will try," said Roger, cheerfully. " The 
 spring must needs have somewhat to do with it." 
 
 Mechanical contrivances in those days were neither 
 common nor simple, but it was some time before the 
 brothers were able to understand the cumbrous machinery. 
 Although apparently separated by the width of a room 
 and two doors, the recess and the cupboard were really 
 contiguous, the communication between them passing 
 through the chimney. It was necessary to push the 
 panel forward, and as it closed with a click, the spring 
 was fastened. A light pressure upon the knob in the 
 recess was then sufficient to set it in motion again, and 
 to make the panel slide back. 
 
 Armed with the torch, and closely followed by Walter, 
 Roger crawled into the dark passage, the opening being 
 only wide enough to admit a man on his knees. He 
 found himself almost immediately at the top of a short 
 flight of stairs. By the damp air which blew in their 
 faces when they reached the bottom, the brothers knew 
 at once that they were in a vault. 
 
 " This must needs be the crypt below the house," said 
 Roger. " I have often heard that such a vault was dug 
 out, when the foundations of the house were laid, and I 
 have marvelled that there was no way to it. Now, 
 Walter, look well, for surely there must be a path from 
 hence." 
 
 The crypt was small and low, and had evidently been 
 built only under the oldest part of the house. Apparently,
 
 70 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 too, there was no egress except by the stairs down which 
 the brothers had come. They were on the point of 
 giving up the search in despair, when Walter's sharp 
 eyes lighted upon a small door, so curiously hidden in 
 the angle of the wall that he would never have seen it, 
 had not the light of the torch gleamed for a moment 
 upon the rusty iron fastenings. Close by, hanging 
 within easy reach, was a huge key, and both key and 
 door were so covered with cobwebs that Roger, after a 
 hasty examination, declared that many years must have 
 elapsed since the door was opened. 
 
 Both brothers set themselves strenuously to force the 
 door, a doubly difficult manner, since it opened inwards. 
 It needed their combined strength to make any im- 
 pression, and as they could not tell how near the 
 inhabited part of the house might be, they were compelled 
 to be exceedingly cautious. While Roger was trying to 
 thrust a bolt back with as little noise as possible, he was 
 struck with the curious resemblance in the structure of 
 the door to some other door he had seen, but where he 
 could not remember. Probably in some disused portion 
 of the house, which was as full of doors and passages as 
 any old house could be. At this moment a truce was 
 put to his speculations. The door yielded slowly at last, 
 creaked on its hinges, and finally remained half-way 
 open, disclosing a long dark passage, leading apparently 
 into outer darkness. 
 
 Down this passage the brothers adventured them- 
 selves, without a moment's hesitation. An enterprising 
 spirit had seized them both, and neither thought of 
 turning back. But still Roger, always cautious, insisted 
 on going slowly, lest a hasty movement should put out 
 the torch, and threw the light as far before them as 
 possible. 
 
 Ere long this strange underground journey became 
 intensely wearisome. The passage seemed to extend 
 before them as they walked. It proved of such intermin- 
 able length that, had it not been for the solid masonry 
 of which it was built, they would have doubted whether 
 it were really an artificial excavation, or whether they
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 71 
 
 had not wandered into some natural tunnel, hollowed in 
 the earth, which led no whither. Fortunately the 
 passage was high enough to admit them standing, 
 though they could not walk abreast in it. Their chief 
 inconvenience was from the closeness of the air. 
 
 " Roger, I can go no further," said Walter at last. 
 41 1 am like to be stifled here, and the passage hath no 
 end. Prithee let us return with all speed, before we die 
 in this dreadful place." 
 
 " Return 1 " answered Roger, with a little laugh, that 
 echoed drearily through the vault. " Nay, Walter, be 
 not so faint-hearted. Keep up thy courage like a man ; 
 'tis only for a while. There must be some outlet, else 
 wherefore was the passage built. Methinks this very 
 moment I felt a breath of pure air upon my face." 
 
 The breath of fresh air must have been an innocent 
 device of Roger's to animate his brother's drooping 
 spirits. They walked at least another half a mile, as far 
 as he could compute, Walter protesting and lamenting 
 all the way, before a faint glimmer of light was visible. 
 At the same instant the torch went out. Walter, who 
 had not seen the light, fell forward, and clutched his 
 brother by the arm. 
 
 " Forbear, Roger," he cried ; " hast a mind to kill me 
 outright? I tell thee, I can struggle no longer. My 
 legs fail me, and now the torch is out, we cannot go on. 
 Come back, ere it be too late." 
 
 " But there is the light," cried Roger, gaily. " Look 
 at it, Walter. The danger is greater behind than before. 
 Now or never, we must on." 
 
 A few minutes more of stumbling wearily along for 
 Roger, despite his cheerfulness, was almost as exhausted 
 as Walter brought them to the end of the passage. 
 The light, which had been growing brighter at every 
 step, suddenly flashed upon them with a brilliancy more 
 vivid than day itself, through a small opening. Wonder- 
 ful was the scene that met their eyes ! Emerging from 
 the darkness which had so long surrounded them, Roger 
 could see nothing at first but a blaze of light, behind 
 the pillar which partly concealed the opening. By and
 
 72 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 bye he distinguished the soft shimmer of wax tapers, 
 flowers, rich colours, and above them the graceful 
 spring of Gothic arches. Already half suffocated by the 
 close air of the passage, he was nearly choked by a 
 whiff of strong, subtle fragrance, that was suddenly 
 borne to him. 
 
 His senses, as well as his eyes, were dazzled for a 
 moment. Then at last he saw clearly before him a 
 small, brilliantly lighted chapel. The altar was hung 
 with gold embroidery, and adorned with flowers and 
 ornaments. An exquisitely chased crucifix hung above 
 it, and the walls of the chancel were covered with 
 pictures. In the body of the church were about a dozen 
 men and women, some kneeling, some standing, but all 
 absorbed in devotion. An acolyte in his white robes, 
 swinging a censer, stood close to the brothers fortunately 
 with his back to them ; and a tonsured priest, splendidly 
 robed, was kneeling on the steps of the alter. After a 
 few moments he rose, murmured a few words and raised 
 a golden chalice above his head. Immediately a little 
 bell sounded, and the whole congregation fell on their 
 knees. Roger Sparowe, the Puritan, had witnessed the 
 Elevation of the Host in High Mass ! 
 
 The silence which succeeded was so absolute that the 
 faintclickof the censer, and the stifled sobs of the kneeling 
 women were distinctly audible. Then the priest began 
 to chant in a monotonous undertone. He rose from his 
 knees, bowed to the altar, and turning to the little 
 congregation, raised his hands over them in the attitude 
 of blessing. At the same moment his face, for the first 
 time, came full into view. As the light from the tapers 
 fell upon it, Roger leaned forward, curious to see what 
 manner of man it was who dared to affront the law with 
 the Popish idolatry of the Mass. The face was strangely 
 familiar. He saw before him that exemplary minister 
 of the Word Mr. Obadiah Sturges, of Ipswich ! 
 
 Breathless with astonishment and horror, the young 
 man staggered back into the passage, dragging his 
 brother with him. This involuntary movement saved 
 him from discovery. For at the first sight of the
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 73 
 
 priest's face, Roger could not forbear an exclamation 
 which had attracted notice, and had he not shrunk back, 
 his presence must have been detected. 
 
 " What ails thee, brother ? " whispered Walter. 
 " Thou hast surmounted the dangers of the passage 
 art afraid of this to which it has led ? 'Tis the Catholic 
 chapel at Alnesbourne," he continued. " Some pious 
 ancestors of ours doubtless built this secret way to it 
 from our house, in the old days when the Priory stood 
 here." 
 
 " But the priest ! the priest ! " gasped Roger. " Didst 
 see the priest ? " 
 
 " Ay, I saw him, as thou didst," answered Walter, 
 after a moment's pause. " What of him ? Catholic 
 chapels must be served by priests, I trow, as well as 
 churches of our own religion. And a bold man he 
 must be, to take his life in his hand, and say the Mass." 
 . "Then thou didst not see? 'Twas Master Sturges 
 himself." 
 
 Walter burst into a mocking laugh, that echoed 
 horribly through the vault. " Master Obadiah Sturges ! 
 Roger, I marvel that thou canst let thine eyes deceive 
 thee thus. They were dazzled with the light. A chance 
 resemblance hath misled thee. How could it be Master 
 Obadiah ? " 
 
 " It was Master Obadiah himself, and none other," 
 protested Roger. " 'Twas no chance resemblance, I 
 would stake my life upon it." 
 
 This whispered conservation had passed between 
 them, while Roger was busy with the laborious process 
 of striking a light. They had gradually retreated into 
 the passage, until the tapers of the chapel glimmered 
 feebly in the distance. As Roger uttered the last words, 
 the tinder flared up, and he caught sight of his brother's 
 face, with a sinister expression on it he had never seen 
 before. Walter turned hastily away, but it was too late. 
 
 " Walter, what means that look ? " asked Roger, 
 stopping abruptly in the narrow passage, and making 
 the torch light play before him. " Dost thou know 
 anything of this business ? "
 
 74 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 11 Nought, brother," answered Walter, uneasily. " How 
 should I know more than thou, since I have never seen 
 this way nor the chapel before ? " 
 
 " But Master Obadiah ? On thine honour as a 
 Sparowe, didst thou never hear of him before as a 
 priest ? " 
 
 There was silence. Walter tried to pass, and continue 
 the journey, but Roger barred the way. 
 
 " And what if I did know ? " he said, sullenly, at last. 
 " Thou art so stern, so strict, Roger. Thou wilt have 
 every one as fierce a fanatic as thyself." 
 
 " Thou didst know ? Thou hast lied to me ? " asked 
 Roger, breathlessly. 
 
 " Herein thou canst not blame me," returned his 
 brother, stubbornly. " The matter was no concern of 
 mine. 'Twas told me under an oath of secrecy, which 
 thou, of all men, wouldst not have me break." 
 
 " Thou hast no right to pledge thyself to conceal it." 
 
 " An I had spoken, wouldst thou or any other man 
 have believed me?" asked Walter. "And wherefore 
 should I speak, and betray a good man who trusted me ? " 
 
 " A good man ! " Roger shivered at the words. To 
 him, as to all his fellow Puritans, every Papist was an 
 incarnation of Antichrist ; yet his own brother was 
 taking the part of a man who, to the deadly sin of Popery, 
 added the yet deadlier sin of deceit. 
 
 The journey back to the house was accomplished in 
 silence. When they reached the wainscotted room, and 
 all had been replaced as before, Roger turned to his 
 brother. " Thou hast deceived me. I can never trust 
 thee again," he said, slowly and sternly ; and therewith 
 he quitted the room, and the brothers did not meet 
 again for days. 
 
 From that time, the dislike Roger had always felt for 
 the Reverend Obadiah Sturges was increased to loathing* 
 But he dared not openly accuse him. The story he had 
 to tell was so improbable that, as Walter said, he could 
 not hope to obtain credit for it, unless he made a fult 
 confession of the means by which he had obtained his 
 knowledge. This would compel him to divulge a secret
 
 THE CHIMNEY RECESS. 75 
 
 which he and Walter seemed tacitly agreed to keep to 
 themselves. Even Mistress Margaret was not told of 
 the adventure, which argued, perhaps, more knowledge 
 of her character than she would have given her sons 
 credit for. 
 
 So Roger waited, and held his peace, though it was 
 pain and grief to him. From that day forth a coolness 
 sprang up between the brothers, which increased until 
 it culminated in an open breach, the day of Walter's 
 departure.
 
 76 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 
 
 TIME hung heavily on Roger's hands after Walter had 
 gone. He missed his brother more than he cared to 
 confess, for Walter, though moody and silent with him, 
 was almost as gay and cheerful a presence in the house 
 as Mistress Margaret. With his horses and dogs, his 
 hunting and fishing, and it must be confessed his bouts 
 of drinking, he occupied a far larger space in the family 
 than of right belonged to him. When the young squire, 
 as he was called, was at home, he was always wanting 
 someone to do something for him. In spite, however, of 
 the constant attention he demanded, he was far more 
 popular with the household than Roger, who gave 
 trouble to no one, cared not what he ate, was abstemious 
 in drink, and had almost given up hunting since the hurt 
 to his foot. 
 
 But for a practical clear-sighted man like Roger there 
 was always plenty of work. The invasion of the King of 
 Scots had fallen at the worst time of the year. To take 
 men from their homesteads in the middle of August, 
 was to risk the loss of the fine harvest which now lay 
 ripening in the fields. The Scots army could afford to 
 make this inroad, the farmer folk complained. In their 
 bleak, inhospitable climate the harvest could not be 
 carried home for another month, but agriculture in 
 England was sure to suffer. Nevertheless, so absolute 
 was Cromwell's power over the hearts of his countrymen, 
 and so fierce their hatred of the Stuarts, that the Iron- 
 side soldiers, almost to a man, put away their sickles, 
 took down sword and pike, kissed their wives and bairns, 
 and went forth " to do battle for the Lord." 
 
 Those who stayed at home could not be accused of 
 idleness. The task of governing a town, now divided
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 77 
 
 between the vestries and the central authorities, was in 
 the seventeenth century undertaken by the gentlemen 
 who lived in or near it. They looked upon it as their 
 indefeasible right and duty, and accomplished an amaz- 
 ing amount of administrative work. The higher the 
 rank, the heavier the responsibility. Far from being 
 regarded as drudgery, the task of helping to govern his 
 fellow-citizens was an honour from which no gentleman 
 shrank. But the war had wrought such havoc among 
 the natural leaders of the people, some of whom were 
 dead, some in exile, and some forced to hide, that the 
 work fell heavily on the few that remained. Of these, 
 too, no small proportion were obliged, as members of 
 the apparently illimitable Long Parliament, to spend 
 half the year at Westminster. 
 
 Bailiffs, portmen, and chamberlains at Ipswich, had 
 their hands full. Roger himself was already portman 
 and justice, and was spoken of as likely to be elected 
 bailiff shortly. He was never idle ; and had hard work 
 been a panacea for his cares and troubles, he would 
 soon have made an end of them. 
 
 But everyone seemed to share his gloom. As August 
 passed, the anxiety for news from the front became 
 intense. In those days, when telegrams, newspapers, and 
 war correspondents did not exist, the knowledge of 
 events transpired slowly, often months after they had 
 taken place. Villages and towns in the vicinity of the 
 seat of war naturally heard the result of a battle imme- 
 diately, and the news was usually carried, as quick as 
 fugitives could carry it, to London. Garbled accounts 
 circulated among the places on the line of march or 
 retreat, but the bulk of the country towns remained for 
 weeks in ignorance. Unless some man of note was 
 fortunate enough to receive a news-letter, the contents 
 of which were immediately communicated to all in the 
 neighbourhood, the people in the rural districts had no 
 chance of learning speedily the issue of a contest. 
 
 One afternoon, Roger, who had ridden out that morn- 
 ing to a village at some distance, to settle a dispute 
 about a piece of land, and had been in the saddle since
 
 78 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 daybreak, betook himself, by way of rest and refresh- 
 ment of mind, to a book. As usual, the hospitalities of 
 the house at the mid-day meal had been bountiful. 
 Several of the Common Councilmen had partaken of, 
 and had not failed to do justice to, Mistress Margaret's 
 excellent cheer. There was not much drinking at the 
 meal, but in accordance with the custom of the time, 
 the guests adjourned, as soon as it was over, to a neigh- 
 bouring tavern, there to drink themselves as drunk as 
 they pleased. 
 
 Courtesy required their host to accompany them. 
 But Roger, by temperament, early training, and religion, 
 disliked such convivialities. His father's moderation 
 had been a jest and a taunt with the older men in 
 Ipswich, who got druuk, as a matter of course, every 
 day of their lives. Among the town airs dainty Mistress 
 Margaret brought with her from London, and which 
 gave great offence to sturdy country folk, was reckoned 
 a horror of drinking parties, where it was the fashion 
 for women as well as men to appear. Her husband's 
 rigid prohibition to abstain from them was not needed. 
 On both sides, therefore, Roger inherited a love of tem- 
 perance, almost unheard of in his days, and that made 
 him the subject for much wonder, and many gibes among 
 his friends. 
 
 Walter drank freely, like others. Considering the con- 
 vivial tastes of the Royalists, the wonder would have 
 been, if he had not indulged in deep and frequent 
 potations. But even he was a constant rather than a 
 hard drinker. Not more, perhaps, than once a week 
 were the servants obliged to carry their young master to 
 his bed, whereas his boon companions were seldom or 
 never sober. 
 
 When other men drank, Roger, as now, occupied him- 
 self with a book. A country squire who read was 
 almost as strange an anomaly as a country squire who 
 did not drink. And Roger's studies did not wholly con- 
 sist, as, according to his Puritan profession they should 
 have done, of the Bible, and works of divinity. He 
 knew his Shakespeare and Ben Johnson by heart, and
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 79 
 
 Spencer's " Fairie Queen," and the plays of the Eliza- 
 bethan dramatists took the place of lighter literature. 
 
 His usual place of retirement was a noble room above 
 the hall, with richly carved ceiling, and quaint oriel 
 windows set in deep recesses. The walls were hung 
 with portraits of the Sparowe ancesters, among which 
 one or two fine Vandykes had recently been placed, and 
 here and there an exquisite Italian master-piece. The 
 picture gallery, or summer drawing-room, as it was also 
 called, was over the entrance, and ran the whole length 
 of the house. It was not often used, except for ban- 
 quets, christenings, marriages, and other state occasions. 
 The builder of the house had doubtless hoped that the 
 Sparowe family would, in the course of a few genera- 
 tions, multiply so greatly that the room would be in 
 constant requisition. Now the household had dwindled 
 to Dame Margaret and her two sons, and the splendid 
 banqueting hall was never entered, except by Roger, who 
 had selected one of the deep bay windows as a place for 
 his books. The great room was the coolest part of the 
 house this sultry September day, and here he settled 
 himself to enjoy his rare leisure. 
 
 His thoughts soon wandered from the book. Instead 
 of the big, black letters, he saw a tender face framed in 
 golden-brown hair, and a mouth that seemed to melt 
 with sweetness. Of late, fancy had often played him 
 this trick. He had grown indifferent to his books, and, 
 when he seemed to be reading, was sometimes only 
 plunged in pleasant meditation. Perhaps that was one 
 reason why he betook himself so often to this secluded 
 corner, where alone in the great house he was free from 
 disturbance. Once at his books there was scarcely a 
 servant in the house who, from sheer awe, would have 
 ventured to interrupt the young master's studies. 
 
 One person, however was a privileged intruder. A 
 brown, wizened face was presently put in at the door, 
 and immediately after a little old woman in a maid's 
 gown, with a wide white apron and snowy kerchief, walked 
 into the room. Over her head she wore a second ker- 
 chief, covering the scanty grey hair which contrasted
 
 80 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 strangely with her pretty pink cheeks. At first she 
 looked about her in perplexity, not seeing Roger, who 
 was hidden in the oriel. 
 
 " I am here, Joan. What would'st thou ? " he asked 
 at last. 
 
 She started at the sound of his voice. " Ah, thou art 
 there, squire," she exclaimed, in a high, thin treble. 
 " The fairies have not stolen thee yet, then, though I 
 dreamt it yesternight. Dear, my master, I know not 
 how to bear thee from my sight, since Master Walter 
 hath gone to the war, some evil will light upon the 
 house, and when I see thee not, my heart faileth me." 
 
 "Good Joan," said Roger, with a smile, "what evil 
 dost thou think is like to befall us. Have we not had 
 trouble enow. The day that my father died evil came 
 upon us, enough to satisfy even thee." 
 
 " To satisfy me ! Hear to the lad ! 'Twould a' seem 
 as though I desired thy hurt, I who would guard every 
 hair of thy head." 
 
 " Nay, I say not so," answered Roger, " but thou art 
 ever foreboding evil. Prithee, Joan, look more brightly 
 upon the fortunes of our house." 
 
 Joan shook her head slowly. " Alas, poor lad ! " she 
 said. " Thou speakest of thy father, but know that by 
 that same token they " she glanced over her shoulder 
 with a frightened look " will work further mischief 
 upon thee. Did I not dream three nights following, 
 that I saw a corpse ? and on the third day, was not thy 
 father's corpse carried in by the same way that he went 
 forth ? " 
 
 " Joan," said Roger, gravely, " a truce to these idle 
 tales, as thou art a God-fearing woman." 
 
 "Talk not to me of being a God-fearing woman, 
 Master Roger. Idle tales, quotha ! Why, thou didst 
 not see as I did, that thy brother, when he went from 
 hence, crossed the threshold with his left foot first. 
 Doth that not bode evil, hey ? And tho' I cried after 
 him to return, and set it right, he would not heed me. 
 Whereby I know full well that I shall never see my 
 bonny boy again."
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 81 
 
 " Hast thou come hither," asked Roger, seeing it vain 
 to reason with her, " only to pour out these lamentations 
 to me ? Methinks thou mightest have chosen a more 
 convenient season, and not have thus disturbed me." 
 
 " I disturb thee, master ! " she exclaimed, with a look 
 of horror. " How canst thou say that of me ? I am 
 too much afeared of thee when thou art at thy books. 
 Who knows if the writing of them be not of the devil ? " 
 Joan began to make the sign of the cross, then checked 
 herself, remembering her Puritan principles. "'Twas 
 the mistress I sought," she continued. " The yarn mer- 
 chant hath come, and would have speech of her." 
 
 " Then why didst not say it before, and save me this 
 long parley ? Thou wilt find her upstairs ; she hath been 
 there an hour or more." 
 
 " In the loft ? " said Joan, with a frightened air. "Alas, 
 master thither I dare not adventure myself. Go thou 
 for me, and beseech her to come ; the man is in haste." 
 
 With a laugh at the old servant's many superstitions, 
 Roger laid his book aside, opened a small door at the 
 hither end of the room, and sprang lightly up the carved 
 oaken stairs with which it communicated. The upper 
 floor of the house consisted of one long loft or attic, 
 the roof formed by the four front gables, and the 
 windows set in the wall, above the oriels which presented 
 so picturesque an appearance from without. It was 
 scarcely a room, being merely the space left between 
 the ceiling of the picture gallery below, and the actual 
 roof of the house. There were hardly six yards of wall 
 which were not broken by some oaken beam, recess, or 
 jutting projection, and the ceiling varied in height from 
 five feet to twelve. 
 
 Such as it was, with its fantastic nooks and corners, 
 it seemed the very ideal of a play room. A better place 
 for hide-and-seek was not to be found out of Arcadia. 
 One might lie hidden there for days, Roger and Walter 
 had often wistfully suggested to each other, as they 
 eyed the loft from the street or the courtyard. The very 
 sun, as it streamed in, now at one window, now at 
 another, sported mischievously with the light and shadow
 
 82 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 it threw into the room. But the sunshine was the only 
 visitor; the long loft was forbidden ground to the 
 Sparowe household. Boys were then, in practice as well 
 as theory, in strict subjection to their parents, and when 
 Robert Sparowe briefly enjoined upon his sons never 
 to set foot in the upper floor of the Old House, they 
 obeyed his command in silence, without attempting to 
 discover the reason of it. 
 
 Naturally a sense of mystery, fostered no doubt by 
 the strict secrecy the head of the house maintained con- 
 cerning it, grew up around the room. The prohibition 
 had of course ceased to exist long ago. As master of 
 the house, there was nothing to prevent Roger from 
 exploring every nook and cranny of it, had he so pleased. 
 Dame Margaret was certainly not one to hinder him. 
 But Roger held himself bound by his father's wishes, 
 none the less when that father was no longer there to 
 enforce them. He had no desire to penetrate the secret 
 of the loft, if indeed there were any. His one attempt 
 to solve the mystery of the house had resulted in so 
 lamentable a discovery, that his love of adventure was 
 quenched. During the six years which had elapsed 
 since his father's death, he had perhaps not set foot a 
 dozen times in the loft. 
 
 He was surprised, as he entered, at not seeing his 
 mother. He called her name softly, half afraid of the 
 sound of his own voice. Looking round him carefully, 
 his eye was caught by a door at the further end, which 
 he did not remember to have seen before. He made for 
 it immediately, and found that it communicated with a 
 small inner loft, built over the fourth gable of the 
 house. At the first glance this loft appeared to be 
 lighted by two windows, but closer examination showed 
 that one was not a window, but a glazed door, set in the 
 thickness of the wall. Opening it, Roger, to his astonish- 
 ment, stepped out on to the wide leads over the projecting 
 oriel windows below. It was a minute's work to follow 
 this aerial pathway round two sides of the house. It 
 terminated abruptly against one of the huge stacks of 
 square, red-brick chimneys ; and Roger, as he stood for
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 83 
 
 a moment looking down into the courtyard far below, 
 and curiously examining the gables and chimneys from 
 this novel point of view, could not help thinking how 
 easy it might be to swing one's self down among them. 
 For a man hiding for his life, no better place of con- 
 cealment could be imagined than the loft with this 
 absolutely unexpected mode of egress. 
 
 And now a curious thing happened. Straight across 
 from where he was standing, running at right angles to 
 the main block of buildings, which fronted the street, 
 Roger's attention was attracted by a ninth gable. He 
 had never seen, or at least had never noticed that gable 
 before. Whether it were visible from another point, 
 Roger, who habitually used his eyes no more than any 
 other careless observer, could not say. Certain it is 
 that the gable was new to him, and he at once began to 
 try and connect it with some room in the house. 
 But he could not account for it in any way, though 
 he thought he knew the whole plan of the building by 
 heart. 
 
 Pleasantly interested in his new discovery, he returned 
 to the loft in a gayer mood than he had known for many 
 days. His mother was there, though how she had 
 entered the room in his absence, when he was positive 
 it had been empty when he left, he was puzzled to know. 
 In her hand she held a key, large and cumbersome as 
 keys usually were. It was not attached to her house- 
 wife's bunch, and Roger, the moment he cast eyes on it, 
 knew he had never seen that key before. She uttered a 
 faint scream on seeing her son. 
 
 " Thou here, Roger ? " she asked, hurriedly. " How 
 hast thou dared to follow me ? and whence comest 
 thou now ? 
 
 " Prithee, mother mine, chide me not," he answered, 
 gaily. " I did but follow thee to tell thee that the yarn 
 merchant desires speech of thee ? " 
 
 " What hast thou seen ? " she asked, with a look of 
 terror." "Ah, luckless boy; tell me where thou hast 
 been ? " 
 
 " On the roof," he replied. " I knew not till now that
 
 84 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 there was a way round it. Nay, look not so fearful, 
 mother. Thou canst see that no harm hath befallen me. 
 My head is steady, and the pathway was broad." 
 
 Contrary to her usual habit, Mistress Margaret, 
 without uttering a word, turned to lead the way down- 
 stairs, but Roger had no mind to leave this delightfully 
 mysterious place without endeavouring to solve the 
 enigma of the gable. He stopped as he passed a 
 window which looked down into the courtyard below. 
 . " One strange thing I saw up there, mother," he 
 said " a certain gable which I had not perceived before. 
 Methought I knew every corner of our house, but this 
 gable hath baffled me. Canst thou tell me over what 
 room it stands ? " 
 
 " I know nought of gables," answered Mistress 
 Margaret, pettishly, as she moved to the door. " Come, 
 Roger." 
 
 " Stay but a moment, and let me set my wits to work. 
 Why, mother, there it stands, that self-same thing. 
 Why didst thou not tell me ? " 
 
 At his left hand, so near that he could almost have 
 touched it, rose the gable which had puzzled Roger. 
 But the sight of it only whetted his curiosity. For now 
 that he was close to it, Roger felt certain that it 
 corresponded to no part of the house that he knew of. 
 
 " Some room lieth hard by here, beneath that gable," 
 he said, turning to his mother. " Canst thou not 
 explain it ? Surely the loft goeth no further than this 
 wall, and yet, to see that gable . . . some building must 
 be beneath it." 
 
 But to his astonishment, instead of answering him, 
 Mistress Sparowe dropped the bunch of keys at her 
 girdle, with which she was nervously toying, covered her 
 face with her hands, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Mercy, Roger, mercy," she sobbed. " Thou art so 
 cold and stern, like thy father, save that he was ever 
 gentle with me. Look not at me with those cruel eyes. 
 I have done no wrong." 
 
 " Wrong ! Nay, mother, who held thee blameworthy ?" 
 answered Roger, much puzzled. " I sought but to know
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 85 
 
 the mystery of this gable, and straightway thou weepest, 
 and dost accuse of cruelty." 
 
 " Thou art cruel to me," she cried, plaintively. " Thou 
 dost suspect me, and sit on judgment on thy mother, 
 as no son ought to do." 
 
 " I judge thee, mother ? How, prithee, can that be ? A 
 thing here hath made me curious, and since thou canst 
 tell me nought concerning it, it followeth that thou dost 
 not thyself know all the secrets of the house." 
 
 "There is no secret, no mystery," sobbed Dame 
 Margaret. " What wouldest thou know ? Hast thou no 
 compassion ? Nay, I understand thee now. It pleaseth 
 thee to see thy mother in tears thus." 
 
 And to Roger's horror, who had a man's dislike of a 
 scene, his mother sank down on her knees before him. 
 In vain he raised and kissed her tenderly, assuring her 
 that nothing could be further from his wish than to give 
 her pain. At last, finding that all his efforts to comfort 
 her were in vain, he determined to leave her to compose 
 herself, and to investigate the mystery alone. 
 
 He had not far to seek. Just round the corner, 
 beyond the angle from the projecting masonry in which 
 the window where this little scene had taken place was 
 set, he found a deep recess. Three steps, almost hidden 
 by the shadow, led to it. Passing down them, he found 
 his progress barred by a door, so cunningly contrived in 
 the wall, that only the closest inspection and the clue 
 given by the three steps showed that it was a door at 
 all. It was locked and bolted, but there were no 
 cobwebs over it, and Roger saw immediately, from the 
 ease with which he could play the bolt, that it had been 
 freshly slipped. Some one had passed through lately, 
 and he instantly connected the door with the key he had 
 seen in his mother's hand. 
 
 The next step was to persuade her to give it up. 
 Mistress Margaret was still crying pitifully, and plain- 
 tively lamenting his cruel and undutiful conduct. But 
 Roger was now so absolutely set upon discovery that the 
 sight of her tears no longer affected him. His suspicions 
 were roused. He began to perceive that here was
 
 86 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 another mystery which had been concealed from him, 
 and to which his mother was privy. He demanded the 
 key of her in so peremptory a tone, that she resigned it 
 at last, with a little shuddering scream, and Roger pro- 
 ceeded to unlock the door, which yielded easily. But as 
 he flung it back, he was like to have fallen headlong, not 
 perceiving for a moment that the flight of steps was con- 
 tinued to the floor of an inner room, some three feet below. 
 
 Roger found himself, apparently, in a small chapel. 
 Or rather, as he saw, the moment he began to examine 
 the structure more closely, in the roof of what had once 
 been a chapel. On a rough calculation he judged that 
 the space occupied by the building was from twenty to 
 thirty feet long, and wide in proportion. The ceiling 
 was so low that in many places he could touch it with 
 his hand, and from floor to roof it was filled with ex- 
 quisitely moulded arches. They were in the Gothic 
 style, slightly pointed, and the interstices between were 
 filled in with delicate open tracery. Nothing could be 
 more beautiful than the graceful spring of these arches, 
 but the effect was wholly spoiled by their close proximity. 
 So thickly were they crowded one upon the other, that 
 it was impossible from any point to command a complete 
 view of the room. 
 
 These arches seemed to rise from the floor, but, to 
 judge from the curve the described, they must 
 originally have been continued to a considerable distance 
 below it. Roger, in common with many country gentle- 
 men, possessed a slight knowledge of architecture, and 
 so soon as he began to examine the arches, it seemed to 
 him that their structure dated back to an earlier time 
 than the period assigned to the building of the house. 
 When and by whom had this chapel been built ? And 
 how had it come to be imbedded in the house in such a 
 manner, that its existence had never been suspected by 
 the inmates ? Upon this latter point Roger soon satisfied 
 himself. To conceal the chapel a false flooring had 
 been made, cutting it horizontally in two, and his 
 mother's chamber immediately below had really been 
 formed out of the body of the building.
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 87 
 
 There was a tiny window at the further end. Roger, 
 resolved to inspect every part of the chapel, opened it 
 with difficulty, and was surprised at the noble view it 
 commanded. The river Orwell and the shipping in it 
 were plainly visible, not a quarter of a mile distant. On 
 the other side was the little village of Stoke, connected 
 with the town by a bridge, and beyond, the flat sandy 
 land stretched away to Harwich, then one of the most 
 important seaport towns in the kingdom, through which 
 the line of communication passed with Holland and the 
 Low Countries. 
 
 But had the chapel been used of late years ? Roger 
 felt that this was a far more important question than 
 the actual date of the building, and it troubled him to 
 think how easily the door had yielded to him. As he 
 turned away from the window his foot slipped upon some 
 greasy substance, and stooping down he saw a spot of 
 wax, which had evidently been dropped hot upon the 
 floor, and hardened into a lump. Nothing else I Not a 
 mark, not a shred, nothing but this blot of wax upon 
 the floor, to show that anyone had disturbed the solemn 
 silence of the chapel for years. 
 
 Roger went slowly back up the steps, cogitating the 
 matter. He turned mechanically when he reached the 
 top, and closed and locked the door. As he did so, he 
 noticed a peculiarity in its structure, and the idea 
 instantly struck him that he had seen the same before. 
 Somewhere, in some forgotten corner of the house, this 
 door had a counterpart. Roger went over the massive 
 beams one by one, and all the cumbrous bolts and 
 fastenings, as if they could help him to remember; 
 when suddenly the recollection of Master Sturges, the 
 secret passage, and the Catholic chapel at Alnesbourne 
 came vividly back to him. Just such a door it was which 
 Walter and he had with infinite difficulty unbolted in the 
 crypt. Whoever had built the one had probably built 
 the other, the crypt itself, as far as he could judge, 
 lying immediately below the chapel. And intuitively, 
 Roger, though he was not usually quick to decide a 
 matter, leapt to the conclusion that Master Sturges, the
 
 88 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 traitor in disguise, was somehow connected with the 
 Popish chapel, which, to his horror, he had discovered 
 beneath his own roof. 
 
 " Mother," he said, speaking more sternly than he had 
 ever done before, " here is thy key. It hath done good 
 service. And now tell me, if it please thee and even if 
 it do not please thee, for I am resolved to know the 
 mystery of this chapel." 
 
 The inevitable had come. Roger was in possession of 
 the secret she had jealously striven to keep from him, 
 and Mistress Margaret, still sobbing, dried her tears, and 
 consented to make a full confession. 
 
 " Thou dost blame me, Roger," she said, plaintively, 
 " for that which is none of my doing,, Wherefore should 
 I be called to account ? I did not build the chapel. If 
 thou must chide, prithee chide thy father's memory. 
 'Twas he who brought me hither, and trusted me with 
 the key and the secret." 
 
 " No word of blame hath fallen from my lips," 
 answered Roger. " I seek but to know of thee wherefore 
 the secret was kept from me, the master of the house. 
 Wherefore couldest thou not have shown me this key 
 when the others, after mine honoured father's death, 
 were given me. Is it seemly that a man should be in 
 ignorance of that which is in his own house ? " 
 
 " 'Twas thy father's wish that none should know," 
 faltered Mistress Margaret. " The secret belonged, he 
 said, to the head of the Sparowes." 
 
 " Then by that same token it was thy duty, methinks, 
 to tell me, mother." 
 
 " Thou shalt hear it now, the tale of it, an it please 
 thee," she answered. " He hath often told it me. How 
 that the Sparowes, being devout Catholics, did worship 
 in this chapel, which they found here, and built the 
 house round it. Until the persecution of the Papists 
 arose, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, whereupon a 
 room was cunningly contrived below, and the roof of the 
 chapel shut off, that none might know it was there. 
 And thou, too, wouldest never have found it out, hadst 
 thou not seen the gable," she concluded, ruefully.
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 89 
 
 " Then the chapel hath not been used for nigh these 
 eighty years ? " asked Roger abruptly. 
 
 Mistress Margaret started. " Did I say so ? Nay, 
 how should I know ought thereof?" 
 
 " Thou knowest much, mother." 
 
 " Thy father trusted all to me," she answered, with a 
 sob, " And thou wilt trust me in nothing. He showed 
 me the door, and charged me that it should remain 
 closed, for mischief and sorrow, he said, would befall us, 
 if it were opened." 
 
 " But thou hast opened it," said Roger. 
 
 Mistress Sparowe looked piteously at her son. " I 
 come not often here," she murmured. " Sometimes, 
 when Walter will have it so." 
 
 " Walter ! " cried Roger, sharply. " Walter, didst thou 
 say ? What hath Water to do with it ? Hath he know'n 
 this secret, which thou hast guarded so safely from me ? " 
 
 " He is masterful," sighed Mistress Margaret. 
 " He will never be content, when I say him no. He 
 tormented me, until I told him." 
 
 Mistress Margaret was in sore perplexity. She hated 
 sharp words and recrimination, and would fain not have 
 had so much as a crumbled rose leaf to disturb her. And, 
 behold ! unkind Fate had cast her lot in the midst of 
 such jarring interests, such fierce strife, that she was 
 drawn helplessly into trouble after trouble. Roger's 
 next words did not tend to comfort her. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother ! " he exciaimed, " wilt thou for 
 ever use this secrecy with me ? Shall that be always 
 done behind my back, which none dare own to my 
 face ? " 
 
 " Now thou art angry with me," quoth Mistress 
 Margaret, beginning to cry afresh, " and thou wilt chide 
 me, and be stern, and thine eyes will reproach me, when 
 thou knowest I cannot bear wrathful looks. Could I 
 help it, when Walter was so instant with me for the key, 
 that I gave it him perforce, only to be rid of him. I 
 see not, even now, that I have done aught amiss." 
 
 " I chide thee not, mother. We will speak no more 
 of it."
 
 90 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Roger turned slowly away, and went down stairs, 
 leaving his mother standing alone in the great bare loft. 
 Even to Mistress Margaret, who never insisted upon her 
 parental rights, such an act, in those days of rigid 
 deference, seemed greatly disrespectful. But Roger 
 was in no mood for ceremony. His heart was sore 
 within him. Her half petulant expostulations fell 
 unheeded on his ear. Wherever he turned, he was met 
 with falsehood and equivocation. A network of treachery 
 had been woven round him. His love for his mother 
 had blinded him hitherto to her faults. Now, he could 
 no longer hide from himself that she had deceived him 
 in this matter, as he feared she had deceived him in 
 others. 
 
 But Roger had never the heart to blame his mother 
 for long. Like his father before him, he made wide 
 allowance for her. She could not help it, he said to 
 himself. She was a woman, and therefore not to be 
 held as fully responsible for her actions as a man. As 
 usual, whenever he was tempted to be angry with her, 
 he made Walter the scapegoat. It was he who had led 
 their mother into wrong-doing, he, doubtless, who had 
 sealed her lips, and forbidden her to speak of the secret 
 chapel. 
 
 Since Walter went to the war, Roger had begun to 
 feel more tenderly towards him. In his inmost heart he 
 had relented, not because Walter's sin appeared the less 
 heinous, but simply because he hungered for love and 
 family union. Once more, his love was thrown back 
 upon itself; once more his heart closed, and this time, 
 as it seemed, for ever. This last evidence of deceit was 
 too much. The proceedings in the Catholic chapel at 
 Alnesbourne were as nothing as compared with the fact 
 that he, Roger Sparowe, the Puritan, had a Popish 
 chapel established in his own house, sanctioned by his 
 own family. That blot of wax on the floor! Roger 
 remembered, with a shudder, how the wax had dropped 
 from the tapers on the altar at Alnesbourne. 
 
 Now also various strange circumstances came to his 
 mind. Sometimes after Master Sturges, much to the
 
 THE NINTH GABLE. 91 
 
 host's annoyance, had joined them at the mid-day meal, 
 Roger recollected that Walter and the guest had betaken 
 themselves upstairs for hours, to drink, as they said. 
 Where they went had alway been a mystery to him, 
 since he had never been able to find them in any of the 
 usual sitting rooms. Beyond all question, they had 
 spent their time in the chapel, and who could tell what 
 had taken place ? Far better, Roger bitterly reflected, 
 had Walter half drunk himself to death on these 
 occasions, than have allowed Master Obadiah to tamper 
 with his spiritual convictions. Roger was not more 
 illiberal than the rest of his countrymen, but Popery, to 
 all the Puritans, was a very real and terrible thing 
 Even the discovery at Colchester did not weigh with 
 Roger as much as that morsel of wax on the chapel 
 floor. 
 
 So he sat and mused, and grieved over the conduct of 
 the household committed to his charge, and humbled 
 himself for his shortcomings. Then he took his Bible, 
 and searched out all the texts he was accustomed to 
 refer to Popery, and all which would bear application to 
 himself, as a lax steward of his trust. Until, after an 
 hour of this self-tormenting, he began to doubt whether, 
 in truth, Walter or he were the greater sinner.
 
 92 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 
 
 THE harvest time wore away, News began slowly to 
 circulate, in vague rumours at first, to which more 
 authentic details were gradually added. In the second 
 week in September, a few wounded soldiers from the 
 army of the Commonwealth made their appearance in 
 the town. They brought positive confirmation of the 
 report that a great battle had been fought at Worcester, 
 and the Royalists totally defeated. The army of the 
 young King had dispersed. The Scottish forces were 
 retreating in a body to the North, while the English 
 Royalists, scattered and broken, were hunted down and 
 taken prisoners by the victors. 
 
 The main bulk of the Puritan army still lay in the 
 neighbourhood of Worcester, in spite of the pressing 
 necessity that the country people should be at home, to 
 gather in the harvest. It was not thought prudent to 
 disband them until the last remnant of the Cavaliers 
 had been crushed. According to some, the Lord General 
 had determined to make an end of the Malignants, and 
 to vindicate the authority of the Parliament. Others held 
 that the authority of Parliament had long been only a 
 cloak for the establishment of his own supremacy. At 
 this moment he was all-powerful in England, the one 
 clear-headed man among hundreds of waverers, and 
 what he would do was a far more critical question than 
 the fate of the defeated army. 
 
 All hope or all danger, according to the view taken of 
 the campaign, being now at an end, the chief concern 
 of almost every family in England was to learn the fate 
 of individual soldiers. Although there was scarcely a 
 household which was not directly interested in the issue 
 of the struggle, the most agonizing uncertainty prevailed
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 93 
 
 for some time. No one could even say what had become 
 of the young King. From the absence of all mention 
 of him in the various reports, it was supposed at first 
 that he had escaped, and that the Puritan army would 
 not disband till he was captured. But the soldiers, as 
 they dropped into the town by twos and threes, so 
 positively asserted that he was killed, some even declar- 
 ing that they had seen his dead body, that it came to be 
 generally believed that he had met a soldier's fate on the 
 field of battle. 
 
 Among the first to abandon all hope was Mistress 
 Margaret. She had transferred to the young King she 
 had never seen, her almost idolatrous devotion to the 
 memory of his martyred father, a devotion only second 
 to her love for Walter. Now, in the reaction from her 
 over sanguine hopes, she fell into the deepest despair. 
 Almost in one moment she made up her mind that her 
 son and his master were both dead. She pathetically 
 bewailed her sad fate in losing husband and son in the 
 war, and it was vain to represent to her that Walter's 
 death was not yet a certainty. When Roger tried to com- 
 fort her by suggesting that his brother was probably in 
 hiding, otherwise tidings of him must have reached them 
 by this time, she retorted with bitter words and re- 
 proaches. She told him that he desired the death of 
 the King, which was undoubtedly true, since Roger, in 
 common with most Puritans, thought the country would 
 never be settled while he was alive. Then she cast in 
 his teeth, that he wished for his brother's death too, and 
 leapt, by a curious process in her own mind, to the con- 
 viction that because he wished it, Walter was sure 
 to die. 
 
 As time went on, Roger himself grew terribly anxious. 
 It was hard to believe that Walter, if he were alive, 
 could not have found means to send them news of his 
 safety. Each day that passed increased the agony of 
 uncertainty. Roger sometimes felt as if he would give 
 the whole world to look his brother once more in the 
 face. Yet the difference between them was irreconcil- 
 able. His rigid nature, almost fantastically upright and
 
 94 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 honourable, revolted from Walter's conduct, from his 
 miserable entanglement at Colchester, and his deceit 
 with Master Sturges. But nature was strong, and he 
 often found himself yearning for the old love and boyish 
 confidence, which could never be restored. 
 
 Roger Sparowe with his grave face, his measured 
 speech, his careful self-control, was as hungry for love as 
 any child. And this heart hunger had never been satisfied. 
 Death had severed the bond which united him and his 
 father ; his mother and Walter feared him more than 
 they loved him. Ralph Wentworth was away, dead 
 perhaps by this time, and Roger had no other friend. 
 There was something in the young Puritan's cold, quiet 
 exterior, which repelled instead of attracting people. 
 Roger was fully conscious of it, conscious too that no 
 one had been at the pains to break the crust of reserve, 
 and discover the warm deep heart beneath. 
 
 No one I Having come to this conclusion, Roger 
 stepped out into the courtyard, looked up at the sky and 
 the clouds, and suddenly determined, this very afternoon, 
 to go to Mote End. An excellent excuse for the journey 
 lay ready, besides the necessity of taking advantage of 
 the fine summer weather to pay all needful visits at a 
 distance. Tidings had come that Master Burroughs 
 had received a news-letter from London ; and Mistress 
 Margaret herself had, for some days, been urgent with 
 her son to go and hear the contents of it. 
 
 It was a brilliant afternoon in September that Roger 
 stood, booted and spurred, waiting for his horse at the 
 door of the great house. Like other reserved men, he 
 seemed to have a kind of innate sympathy with animals 
 and children, and all dumb and helpless creatures. He 
 handled them easily, without any nervous timidity, and 
 there was not a horse in the stable he could not control 
 by his voice. The animal he was going to ride was a 
 beautiful Spanish jennet, given him not long ago by a 
 merchant to whom he had been able to render some 
 service. Roger was not yet intimate with his new 
 favourite. When he went to London, he had ridden a 
 stout Flemish mare, kept for the heavy work of the
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 95 
 
 household, the Spanish horse not being strong enough 
 for so long a journey. Yet, though she had only been a 
 few weeks in his stables, the beautiful creature, when she 
 was brought round, pawed the ground, pricked up her 
 delicate ears, and curvetted with pleasure, as Roger took 
 the reins, with a pat of the neck and a few kind words. 
 As he rode off, and looked back to wave farewell to 
 his mother, whose usually bright face was clouded and 
 disconsolate, Roger had an unwonted sense of pleasure 
 and comfort. He was well mounted and well accoutred. 
 The paces of his horse were perfect, his attire was trim, 
 his grey riding suit of the finest cloth. His spurs, the 
 pistols at his holster, without which no gentleman 
 stirred abroad, and the trappings of his horse, all shone 
 like silver. And to crown all, he was going to Mote 
 End ! For a moment he was absolutely elated. Then 
 a sudden presentiment of disaster, such as had often 
 disturbed him of late, seized him ; and the rest of the 
 journey was accomplished with his usual melancholy 
 gravity. 
 
 The news-letter proved to contain very little intelligence 
 Roger had not already heard. Naturally it dwelt chiefly 
 on the great deliverance wrought at Worcester, and gave 
 a tolerably accurate list of the Puritans who had fallen 
 in the battle, but not a single Cavalier officer was 
 mentioned by name. Roger's anxiety about his brother 
 was in no ways lessened, It almost seemed as if he 
 would be obliged to go up to London, or to the seat of 
 war, to obtain certain information of his fate. Some 
 hint of such a project transpired, as Master Burroughs 
 and he carefully perused each paragraph of the news- 
 letter. 
 
 " Do it not, my son," counselled the old Puritan. 
 " 'Twere a hazardous and a bootless journey to under- 
 take. Neither can it profit you to go. Long ere this, 
 your erring brother should have been to you as an 
 heathen man and a publican. ' If thine hand or thy 
 foot offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee.' " 
 
 " But Walter may be in trouble ; he may need me," 
 objected Roger.
 
 96 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 " He hath sinned, not only against you, but against 
 the Lord," continued Master Burroughs, disregarding 
 the interruption. " Let him die in his sins ; the time 
 for repentance is past." 
 
 Perhaps Master Burroughs would not have delivered 
 so stern a judgment had it touched a son of his own. 
 He was always harsher in theory than in practice, but 
 Walter Sparowe, in his careless way, had contrived to 
 inspire him with a deadly aversion. Roger knew that 
 argument was useless, and changing the conversation, 
 inquired after the ladies. 
 
 " They are both within," answered his host. " Kezia 
 is sick, and keepeth her chamber ; the Lord restore her 
 to health ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " said Roger, devoutly, but he could not 
 repress a feeling of pleasure at the thought that he 
 might by chance, have a few moments alone with Alice. 
 " Of what nature is her sickness ? She had it not when 
 I came hither before." 
 
 " No, and 'tis but slight," answered Master Burroughs. 
 " She over-heated herself a week since, and nought will 
 serve but she must keep her chamber. She is but a 
 weakly body, though the spirit is willing." 
 
 " And Mistress Alice ? " 
 
 ' Alice is in the buttery. Nay, hold, I saw her in the 
 garden gathering herbs. She hath had more to do since 
 Kezia's sickness, and hath bestirred herself bravely. 
 This affliction hath been blessed to her. Methought she 
 was over quiet before." 
 
 " But she hath not been ill," asked Roger, anxiously. 
 
 " I say not ill," answered Master Burroughs, stroking 
 his beard, " but silent beyond the wont of a young 
 maiden. I like it not. Women should be blythe and 
 active, and wholly concerned in household work, like 
 mine honoured mother not pensive, and given to lonely 
 musings." 
 
 The old man glanced up, as he spoke, at a picture 
 above the hearth. Roger and he were sitting in the long 
 hall, the common room of the family. It was not hung 
 with ancestral portraits, like the rooms in the Old
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 97 
 
 House. The walls were chiefly adorned with hunting 
 and military trophies, and over the door hung the sword 
 Master Burroughs had worn at Marston Moor. But 
 this painting evidently occupied the place of honour. It 
 represented a stern Puritan dame, arrayed in draperies 
 so sombre that it was only in certain lights they could 
 be seen at all. To the ordinary observer nothing was 
 visible but rigid, pale features, curiously like Kezia's, 
 framed in a white, close-fitting cap, a huge ruff round 
 the throat, and a pair of bony hands holding a Bible. 
 The artist, however, had probably not done justice to his 
 sitter. Something of human love and tenderness there 
 must have been in the original, or Master Burroughs 
 would never have bestowed such a look of affectionate 
 admiration upon the portrait. But Roger, glancing up, 
 was seized with misgiving, as if Kezia herself were 
 watching him with those cold eyes, and suddenly 
 determined that, now or never, while she was absent, 
 he would put his hopes to the test. 
 
 " Master Burroughs," he asked, in a trembling voice, 
 " might I crave a few moments private speech of you ? " 
 
 Master Burroughs looked up with a smile. " Me- 
 thought we had discoursed already touching various 
 matters, my son," he answered ; " but an you have 
 somewhat further to say, say on." 
 
 But Roger seemed in no hurry to avail himself of the 
 permission. He cleared his throat, fidgetted, and played 
 with his collar bands, till Master Burroughs, growing 
 impatient, took up a parchment and began to read. At 
 this moment a serving man entered, and whispered a 
 few words to the master of the house. 
 
 " Tell him I will not see him," said Master Burroughs, 
 angrily. " I cannot help him. I know nought touching 
 his bit of land. And I have company here, on business 
 of importance." 
 
 " The man saith he will be brief, if your honour will 
 see him," answered the servant. " He is a poor man, 
 and hath been here before." 
 
 " I know it," said Master Burroughs, with a frown. 
 "Tis some poor wretch," he continued, turning to 
 
 H
 
 98 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Roger, " who tormenteth me concerning a bit of land 
 he saith is wrongfully withheld from him." 
 
 " I would not detain you, sir ... ." began Roger. 
 
 " Nay, my son, your business hath waited already. 
 But an it could stay a while, and I saw this man, and 
 made an end of him and his petition . . ." 
 
 Roger rose, not without a feeling of relief at putting 
 off the communication he had to make. " His need of 
 you is more urgent than mine," he said. " I will wait, 
 sir, in this room, if you will suffer me." 
 
 " Nay, you shall not lack for company. Alice is in 
 the garden, and she will make shift, I doubt not, to 
 entertain you till I am quit of the man. A thousand 
 thanks for your patience, my son." 
 
 Roger did not look as if his patience were severely 
 tested. He sprang up joyfully from the settle, then 
 composed himself, and tried to walk demurely out of the 
 room, as he caught a meaning smile from the servant, 
 which sent the blood to his cheeks. Like most of the 
 household retainers the man regarded the affairs of the 
 family with almost as much interest as his own, and he 
 seemed highly amused at Roger's eagerness, and Master 
 Burroughs convenient ignorance of what was passing 
 before his eyes. 
 
 Mistress Alice's garden had become a proverb in the 
 country for beauty and sweetness. When the house 
 had been built, not so long ago, for the Burroughs had 
 only settled on the land within living memory, not a 
 thought had been bestowed upon the laying out of the 
 ground. It was left in its natural uncultivated state, 
 and the grass was suffered to grow up to the threshold, 
 and the great trees to obstruct the view, without let 
 or hindrance. The inhabitants of Mote End were too 
 practical, and the times too anxious, for anyone to care 
 about mere beauty of appearance. Trouble was in the 
 very air of England, long before the Civil War broke 
 out ; and when the struggle came it was idle, of course, 
 to think of laying out as a garden to-day what might be 
 in ruins to-morrow. 
 
 But when, some three or four years before, Alice grew
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 99 
 
 out of childhood, one of the few requests she made to 
 her father was that he should give her a bit of this 
 rough ground, to do as she would with it. It might be 
 had for the asking, he told her with a grim laugh, as he 
 granted her petition. Had he consulted his elder 
 daughter, he would not have yielded so easily. When 
 Kezia saw the use to which Alice intended to put her 
 ground, she was struck with horror, and solemnly 
 warned her not to follow the example of Cain, and 
 make an offering to the Lord of the fruits of the ground. 
 It was her own heart, still full of all manner of 
 uncleanness, which needed the fostering care she, in a 
 carnally-minded way, was bestowing on a plot of grass. 
 Whereupon one of their rare altercations ensued between 
 the sisters. Alice, always, was perfectly gentle, but 
 she did not yield her point. She seldom did, when 
 convinced that it was right. And, after citing the 
 example of the great first father, who was set in the 
 garden of Eden expressly to till it, and other Scripture 
 precedents, she was allowed, at last, to continue her 
 work. 
 
 Alice's next step was to press into the service a lad 
 about the place, who had been her devoted slave, ever 
 since she had nursed him through a dangerous illness. 
 Then it was a pretty sight to see how she worked and 
 planned and laboured. How she soiled her delicate 
 white hands with the unmaidenly occupation of planting 
 and pruning, and even sometimes would take a spade, 
 and help the boy to dig. How she tended and cherished 
 the flowers, as it was her nature to cherish everything, 
 and made a special study of all their peculiarities. And 
 how at last she was rewarded for all her pains, and the 
 grateful earth began to smile, and the wilderness to 
 blossom, literally, as the rose. 
 
 Alice loved roses, and it was one of her fancies to 
 have them everywhere. Not the tender exotics of our 
 day, which must be shaded, and watered, and coaxed into 
 growing, and which, with all the care in the world, will 
 scarcely yield a dozen blossoms in the year ; but great 
 noble bushes that, once planted, ran wild, and trailed
 
 100 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 their lovely branches over half the garden. From June 
 to October the rose trees were in full bloom, and Alice 
 was even able to have a few flowers for her sick folks, 
 from some of the hardier kinds, as late as Christmas. 
 
 The view from here was lovely. Alice had chosen a 
 little plot of rising ground, which commanded the 
 surrounding country. In the distance rose the town of 
 Ipswich, with its stately churches, and picturesque gables, 
 and red tiled roofs, which conveyed so quaint a sense of 
 warmth and comfort. 
 
 But the distinguishing feature of the garden was its 
 fragrance. Every wind that blew seemed to breathe 
 sweetness into the flowers. Besides the roses, there 
 were bushes of lavender, and clumps of sweetwilliams, 
 and tall pinks and gillyflowers that scented the whole 
 garden. Not a flower was admitted that had not some 
 sweet perfume of its own. 
 
 Yet there was one bed where this rule had been 
 infringed. Here were nothing but small, low plants and 
 stunted bushes, with brown dusty-looking leaves, and no 
 blossoms worthy of mention. They had neither beauty 
 nor fragrance to recommend them, and yet Alice 
 bestowed more pains and care on this bed than on any 
 other. Truth to tell, it was chiefly for the sake of it, 
 that she had begged the ground of her father. It was 
 her herbarium, where she cultivated the medicinal plants 
 and herbs which, with her own hands like most ladies 
 of the time she made up into potions, and cordials, 
 and cooling draughts. 
 
 At that time, in country districts, ladies were often 
 the only doctors. The still room, as it was called the 
 place where waters were distilled, and the stock of 
 household medicines prepared was an important part 
 of the house. At Mote End there was no physician 
 within nearer reach than the doctor at Ipswich, whose 
 fees were enormous, who was growing old and stout, 
 and who absolutely refused to toil through the miry 
 roads in winter. Thus it happened that the practice of 
 the district if we may use a modern expression had 
 fallen into Alice Burroughs' fair hands. Kezia's clear
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 101 
 
 head and practical common sense were often helpful, 
 but she had no patience, and she could not, like Alice, 
 bring her heart as well as her head to bear upon any 
 difficult lease. Mistress Alice's cures were renowned, 
 and the country people maintained that there was no 
 doctor to compare with her. 
 
 As Alice turned to greet her guest her hands, literally 
 as well as metaphorically, dropped fragrance. This was 
 the day set apart from time immemorial for the annual 
 gathering of rose leaves and lavender, and sweet-smelling 
 herbs, wherewith to perfume the stores of household 
 linen. And although Kezia herself was laid aside by 
 sickness, she had none the less insisted that the work 
 should proceed as usual. Alice, therefore, had been 
 gathering rose leaves and lavender since early morning, 
 and dearly as she loved flowers, she was almost weary 
 of her task. 
 
 " Good day to you, Mistress Alice," said Roger 
 shading his eyes with his hand, as he advanced from 
 the dark house into the glowing sunshine. " Your 
 father hath permitted me to come hither and enjoy 
 your company for awhile. He hath some business to 
 dispatch. But I hinder you, may be." 
 
 " Nay, you hinder me not, Master Sparowe," returned 
 Alice, blushing. " I do but fear my dull company may 
 prove wearisome to you." 
 
 " Wearisome 1 " Roger looked up, hastily, then checking 
 himself, he said : " I pray you, let me not delay you at 
 your work." 
 
 " It will stay for a few minutes," said Alice. " I am 
 somewhat weary of it, and much hath been done 
 already. Even Kezia. would say I had been diligent." 
 
 She plunged her shapely arms, bare to the elbow, into 
 a great wooden tub of rose leaves that stood by, and let 
 them drop lovingly through her fingers. Roger watched 
 her with delight. 
 
 " Mistress Kezia herself is not more diligent than 
 you," he said. " Never do I see you, Mistress Alice, 
 but you are helpful to someone. Those rose leaves now 
 I trow they are for some poor body."
 
 102 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Nay, they are to scent the linen. But when we 
 have good store, wherefore withhold it from those who 
 have nought. It maketh our own enjoyment the 
 sweeter, albeit Kezia saith the gathering of rose leaves 
 is partly vanity." 
 
 "That which you do cannot be vanity," protested 
 Roger, earnestly. " All that you do is well done. Tis I 
 alone, Mistress Alice, who am an unprofitable servant, 
 cumbering the ground." 
 
 Alice looked up from the rose leaves. " We are all 
 unprofitable servants. There is not one that doeth 
 good," she said, gravely. " But, Master Sparowe your 
 pardon, if my words hurt you is it not possible to 
 think too much even of our own unprofitableness ? " 
 
 " How can that be ? " asked Roger, surprised. " Doth 
 it not behove us all to keep ourselves in mind of our 
 lost estate and wretchedness, and of the fear of hell, 
 and of eternal perdition ? " 
 
 " The fear of hell ! ay, and likewise the hope of 
 heaven. Sometimes, good Master Sparowe, methinks 
 we forget our Father and think only of our Judge." 
 
 " I apprehend you not, Mistress Alice," answered 
 Roger. "Is it not enjoined on us in our weekly 
 exercises, and in the monthly fasts, to purify our souls 
 by confession and repentance ? Hath not the Parlia- 
 ment appointed days of national humiliation for our 
 wickedness ? " 
 
 Alice did not answer for a moment. The two were 
 walking slowly down a garden path, and as they reached 
 the bed where the medical herbs grew she stopped, 
 and turned to Roger with a quiet smile. 
 
 " Master Sparowe," said she, " when I prepare my 
 potions from these herbs, and carry them to our poor 
 sick folk, I sit me down by their beds, and ask them first 
 how they feel. Where lies the pain ? Is their sickness 
 assuaged by this remedy, or by that? Is the head hot 
 or cool ? And I bid them tell me all and count nothing 
 too trifling. But when, by the Lord's mercy, they are 
 raised up again, as happeneth oftentimes, then when I 
 visit them, I ask them nought. I bid them straightway
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 103 
 
 forget their ailment, and having given thanks, to go on 
 their way rejoicing." 
 
 Alice paused, but Roger did not interrupt her. He 
 was puzzled, and waited for her to explain her 
 meaning. 
 
 " I have often seen Master Sparowe," she continued, 
 " that a healthy body doth not take cognizance of itself. 
 Those who think much of their health, and how to 
 preserve it, have assuredly some disease of mind or 
 body. And so, methinks, is it oftentimes with our 
 souls. We are given to much, it may be to overmuch, 
 meditation on our sins. Should we not rather, being 
 persuaded that we are the children of our Father in 
 heaven, commit the keeping of our souls to Him ? " 
 
 Alice had never before, in Roger's hearing, made so 
 long a speech, and her vivid blushes showed the effort it 
 cost her. 
 
 " Mistress Alice," he said, "an I could take comfort 
 in your words, I were a happier man. It may be I 
 trouble myself overmuch, but I have many cares and 
 the right path is hard to choose." 
 
 " Fear can only blind us, and make the right harder to 
 see," she answered gently. " And touching those same 
 cares, Master Sparowe " she glanced over her shoulder 
 to see if they were alone, " I have somewhat I would 
 fain say to you, if I may." 
 
 " Speak and fear not," cried Roger. " You are as a 
 good physician to-day, who lays a wound bare, that he 
 may apply a healing salve to it." 
 
 " Nay, I am no physician of the mind," said Alice, 
 smiling a little to cover her embarrassment " I know 
 not if I dare ... if you will not hold me to be forward 
 and unmaidenly, and meddling in matters which concern 
 me not." 
 
 " How were that possible ? " Roger seized her hand, 
 then catching a distressed look from her, he dropped it 
 again, and the two paced slowly down the path for a 
 few moments in silence. 
 
 " Peradventure I shall offend you," said Alice at 
 last, "but my father and Kezia have so often spoken . . ."
 
 104 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Mistress Kezia ! Proceed, I beseech you." 
 
 " Tis in the matter of your lady mother, and of her 
 remaining with you," continued Alice. " My father and 
 sister have dealt with you to send her from you, because 
 of her leanings towards Prelacy, or to constrain her to 
 change her religion." 
 
 " I cannot do it," said Roger, hoarsely, turning white 
 to the lips. " Have they set you on likewise to urge me, 
 Mistress Alice ? Forbear, I pray you ; here alone your 
 words will avail nothing." He turned aside, and flung 
 away a rose Alice had given him, crushed into a shape- 
 less mass. 
 
 " No, no," cried Alice. " It is not so. None hath 
 urged me. I speak of myself, and you misapprehend 
 me. Your mother must not leave you. She hath the 
 right to the first place in your heart, and in your home." 
 
 " You would not she should go ? " asked Roger, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Never. Mistress Margaret is soft and delicate, and 
 'twould kill her. An you could bear it, I could not I 
 that would fain comfort every living creature. But 
 sometimes, when my father and Kezia are urgent with 
 you, 1 fear lest you should be wrought to do it, hard 
 as it may be." 
 
 " Mistress Alice," said Roger, his eyes moist with 
 tears, " methinks you are an angel straight from heaven. 
 I needed not your words, since I could never find it in 
 my heart, but oh 1 to hear you say 'tis not my duty ! " 
 
 " It is not what I say," interrupted Alice. " Doth not 
 your own conscience speak ? A mother ! to be harsh 
 with a mother ! Ah, if I had a mother 1 " 
 
 The tears, which had lain near the surface all the 
 time, dropped at last. Roger took her hand, and tWs 
 time she did not withdraw it. 
 
 " We are so hard, all of us I " she murmured, softly. 
 " We call not to mind that our God is a God of love, 
 and the fruit of the spirit is gentleness. We forget 
 oftentimes the simple law of charity to our neighbours." 
 
 " Mistress Alice," said Roger, as she wiped away her 
 tears, " what is it hath moved you to-day ? You have
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 105 
 
 comforted me so wondrously, I would fain see if I cannot 
 bring you help. Tell me your grief, I pray you." 
 
 " It is nought, it is nought," she answered, hastily. 
 " I am not worthy of the good opinion you have of me, 
 Master Sparowe. Only I would fain think as Kezia 
 doth in all matters, and I cannot do it. Even she is not 
 always right." 
 
 Alice's usual trouble had befallen her. She had been 
 obliged to submit that morning to a sharper lecture 
 than usual from Kezia, for sickness had not improved 
 the elder sister's temper. The day before, Alice had 
 ventured to remain at home, to nurse the dying child of 
 one of the cottagers, instead of accompanying the rest 
 of the household to the weekly exercise ; and Kezia, 
 being unable to go herself, had been all the more rigidly 
 determined to send every other member of the family. 
 Great was her wrath when she discovered the bad 
 example Alice had set. 
 
 " Tis well for me," said Roger, with a little smile, 
 " that you think not like your sister, Mistress Alice, in 
 all things. For she holdeth, as I well know, that I am 
 still in the bond of iniquity ; but you, I trow have softer 
 thoughts of me." 
 
 " The Apostle Paul bids us be in love and charity 
 with all men "... began Alice, and stopped, blushing 
 crimson. 
 
 " But even he had a particular affection towards 
 some," interrupted Roger. "Ah, Mistress Alice, if I 
 could" . . . 
 
 " The master desires your honour's presence." 
 
 Roger turned and saw behind him the same serving 
 man, who had already interrupted him in the dining hall. 
 This time there was an unmistakeable grin on the man's 
 face, and an amused look in his eyes that galled Roger 
 exceedingly. Without doubt he had overheard some 
 part of the conversation, how much Roger could not 
 tell. The young man's cheeks tingled with shame, as he 
 took leave of Alice with a stately bow, and followed the 
 servant to the hall. 
 
 Master Burroughs was wholly unprepared for the
 
 106 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 communication Roger nerved himself to make. He was 
 comfortably rid of his importunate suitor, and when 
 Roger entered, he was sitting in his huge, leathern 
 armchair, rubbing his hands, and stroking his beard 
 complacently. His curiosity was agreeably whetted to 
 know what more Roger could have to say to him. No 
 suspicion that Roger and Alice were otherwise than 
 religiously concerned each for the spiritual welfare of 
 the other had ever crosssd his mind. Besides, Alice, 
 though now grown to woman's estate, was still a child 
 in his eyes. A mother would long ere this have divined 
 the reason of the young man's frequent visits, and even 
 Kezia had begun to wonder why he came so often. But 
 fathers are usually the last to take cognizance of such 
 delicate matters. 
 
 " Forbear, my son," he exclaimed at last. " Your 
 many words bewilder me sorely. This matter hath 
 come so suddenly upon me that I know not what to say 
 thereto." 
 
 " Methought you would have seen "... faltered 
 Roger. 
 
 " Seen ? and what, I pray you ? Hath my daughter, 
 forsooth, so far forgotten herself as to give you tokens, 
 meetings, and such like ?" 
 
 " Nay, sir, none," answered Roger, frankly. " We 
 have not seen each other, save in your presence. Until 
 you bade me go to her in the garden a while since, I 
 have never spoken to her alone." 
 
 11 Truly I saw that you came here oftener than other 
 of my friends," said the old man, after a pause, 
 " and I rejoiced at it. I thought that you desired to 
 be refreshed by the sight of our Christian walk and 
 conversation." 
 
 " So was it, sir," replied Roger. " I have been greatly 
 edified by the Christian exercises in this household, 
 nevertheless your sweet daughter "... 
 
 " My sweet daughter ! " retorted Master Burroughs. 
 " Hath it come as far as that ? Alice then hath 
 shown herself unmaidenly and forward hath encouraged 
 you."
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 107 
 
 " Never ! " exclaimed Roger, springing to his feet. 
 " Think as you will of me, sir, but beware how you 
 impute blame to her." 
 
 Master Nehemiah's face relaxed. He began to 
 accustom himself to the extraordinary idea of a Puritan 
 in love. 
 
 " How stands she affected to you, my son ? Tell me 
 truly." 
 
 " I know not," returned Roger, with a sigh. " She is 
 kind and gracious to me, but so she is to all. How 
 dare I take to myself a sweet word or look, when the 
 same is bestowed upon the next beggar who asketh an 
 alms ? " 
 
 Master Burroughs walked to the window, and stood 
 debating the matter with himself. 
 
 " Against you I have nought, Master Roger, save that 
 the question hath been too suddenly brought forward. 
 In an affair of such moment, much prayer and many 
 searchings of heart are needed. I must seek counsel 
 from the Lord. But I am fain to tell you at once 
 I lighted this morning on the text : ' Can two walk 
 together except they be agreed ? ' the which can have 
 but one application. Doubtless 'twas sent me as a 
 sign." 
 
 " I beseech you, sir," exclaimed Roger, hastily, " reject 
 me not because of a chance opening of the Bible. We 
 will be agreed, Mistress Alice and I ; she can desire 
 nought that I will not do." 
 
 " Young man," returned Master Burroughs, solemnly, 
 "would you call in question the Scriptural custom of 
 casting lots ? You advance not your cause thereby. 
 And as touching agreement, how can such be between 
 you, when you would take my daughter to the house of 
 that Popish woman, your mother ? " 
 
 " My mother is no Papist. Oh, sir, beseech you, 
 speak not of her ! She hath done you no wrong. And 
 if Alice Mistress Alice, I would say "... 
 
 " Further more," continued Master Burroughs, " you 
 are guilty of harbouring that rank Malignant and 
 defamer of true religion, your brother Walter."
 
 108 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " My brother and I have quarrelled," answered Roger, 
 turning crimson. " It needs not to speak of him. He, 
 I trow, will scarce desire to cross my threshold again." 
 
 " And yet you would undertake a toilsome journey to 
 London to have news of him," said the other, glancing 
 sharply at Roger. " Ye be strange folk, ye Sparowes. 
 For your mother's sake, say you. Well, be it so. 
 Natheless," he continued, in a mollified tone, " since he 
 will trouble us no more, and your mother perchance 
 may be won over to forsake her evil ways, and your 
 household be thereby purified, it may be, I must have 
 time. I will consider more closely of the matter." 
 
 Master Burroughs stroked his short grey beard with 
 a satisfied air. He had a strong dislike to innocent 
 Mistress Margaret, considering her, with her dainty, 
 extravagant ways and invincible attachment to the pro- 
 scribed Church, a most blameworthy woman. But her 
 prelatical tendencies could not blind him to the advan- 
 tages of the proposed connection with her son. Strict 
 Puritan as he was, Master Burroughs did not overlook 
 the fact that Roger Sparowe was socially above him. 
 A parvenu himself, he was inclined rather to overrate 
 than depreciate the prestige of ancient birth and 
 honourable lineage. And Roger Sparowe, though only 
 a country squire, could boast of noble descent and broad 
 lands, then the most precious of worldly possessions. 
 The more he thought the matter over, the more feasible, 
 nay desirable, did it appear. 
 
 Something of these favourable dispositions Master 
 Nehemiah allowed Roger to see; and as he took his 
 homeward way, the young man was not wholly in 
 despair. For a time he had thrown off the burden of 
 his cares and troubles. True, they all came thronging 
 back upon him, as he rode down the long street that 
 led to the heart of the town ; but he was able to put 
 a brave face upon them. There were two tangible 
 sources of comfort. Mistress Alice had been kinder 
 and sweeter than ever before ; her father had not per- 
 emptorily rejected him. His conversation with Alice 
 had not been exactly lovers' talk, but something far
 
 ALICE'S GARDEN. 109 
 
 higher and sweeter. Thinking it over, and recalling 
 hungrily every look and every tone, hope revived within 
 him. With Alice's help he did not doubt to overcome 
 Master Burroughs' objection to Mistress Sparowe ; and 
 a home blest with the presence of mother and wife 
 would be like heaven on earth. 
 
 Walter was the difficulty. He had declared that his 
 brother should darken his threshold no more. But what 
 if Walter were in trouble, and came and asked for 
 shelter, how could he turn him away ? The thing was 
 impossible. 
 
 What would become, what had become of Walter ?
 
 110 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 
 
 MISTRESS MARGARET stood watching her son with a 
 smile, as he rode off down the street. A glow of 
 motherly pride flushed her soft cheeks, as he turned the 
 corner leading to the Cornhill, and looked back to wave 
 farewell. Roger always appeared at his best on horse- 
 back, and to-day he was almost handsome. But his 
 mother's smile was quickly followed by a sigh over both 
 her sons, and Mistress Margaret stepped back into the 
 great hall, where old Joan was mending a pile of house- 
 hold linen in a sunny corner. Joan's eyes had failed her 
 of late, a grievous matter before the introduction of 
 spectacles. Still, she stoutly maintained that she could 
 see as well as a young girl, and to prove her words, she 
 kept in her own hands the repair of the house linen, and 
 often cobbled it woefully in the process. 
 
 " Busy, Joan, always busy," said Mistress Margaret, 
 after watching her a few moments. " Dost never give 
 those quick hands of thine any rest?" 
 
 " Never, Mistress," answered Joan. " Nimble fingers 
 make a light heart. I think not so much on all the 
 trouble that hath come, and that is for to come, when I 
 sit a sewing." 
 
 Joan, in her homely way, was like a seventeenth 
 century Cassandra ; she was always predicting disaster. 
 
 "And wherefore should further trouble come upon 
 us ? " said Mistress Margaret. " Have we not had 
 enough already, and to spare ? Now that these sour- 
 minded fanatics have turned Roger's head, they may 
 surely be content." 
 
 "Have ye news of Master Walter?" asked Joan, 
 sharply. " No, nor never will have. Did he not cross 
 the threshold with his left foot first ? And hath a man
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. Ill 
 
 ever been known to do such a thing, and not bring evil 
 upon himself? " 
 
 In her present depressed state of mind, such dismal 
 croakings were more than Mistress Sparowe could bear. 
 Leaving Joan still muttering to herself, she went to the 
 still room and buttery. Her operations were in full 
 progress for preserving fruits and distilling strong waters 
 from flowers and herbs. Mistress Margaret, town born 
 and town bred, had never attained to the perfect house- 
 keeping which distinguished her country neighbours ; but 
 her dainty ways, and desire to have everything about 
 her of the best, made her bestow as much care on it as 
 they did. To-day, however, in spite of her desire to 
 test a new recipe for preserving apples, nothing went to 
 her mind. In despair, she forsook her stew pans and 
 pipkins, and determined to use the fine afternoon, and 
 Roger's absence, to pay a visit to a friend. There was 
 nothing, she thought, like a long confidential gossip, to 
 relieve one's mind. 
 
 Half-an-hour after her departure a traveller, covered 
 with mud and dust from head to foot, on a limping 
 horse that seemed as if it would drop by the way, rode 
 up to the great house. Two serving men lounged about 
 the door, enjoying the fresh evening air, and to one of 
 them the newcomer tossed his reins, as he wearily 
 dismounted. His hat was slouched over his face, and 
 his torn and dirty cloak wrapped so closely round him 
 that the man, when questioned afterwards in the kitchen 
 who this strange apparition might be, declared that 
 he could not be sure if it were Master Walter or 
 not. Joan had no such doubts. She had just folded a 
 cloth of finest home-spun linen, and though her eyes 
 ached sorely, she saw with delight that the darning 
 stitches were as even and close as in her best days. As 
 she was exulting in the thought that the napery would 
 now last her young masters their life time, a sudden 
 noise made her raise her head. 
 
 Before her, sound in body and limb, though haggard 
 and worn like a man of double his years, stood Walter 
 Sparowe. His leather jerkin was soiled, and stained, in
 
 112 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 some places with blood ; the delicate lace, which Joan 
 herself had washed and starched for the journey, hung 
 in shreds; while as for his wide boots, they were so 
 coated with dust and dirt that Joan would take her 
 Bible oath, she said afterwards, that they had never 
 been cleaned since he went. 
 
 " Mercy on us, Master Walter ! " she screamed, " is't 
 you or your ghost ? Oh, honey, look at your beautiful 
 lace ! and your coat, too, with the blood on't 1 The 
 Saints no, the Lord be praised, that you are back safe, 
 though you went out left foot first. A plague on 
 those lying proverbs. Ne'er will I believe one of them 
 again." 
 
 And Joan, in the fulness of her ecstacy, flung herself 
 into Walter's arms, and began to kiss the sleeve of his 
 coat. Walter put her abruptly from him. 
 
 " My mother ? " he asked, anxiously. " Where is my 
 mother ? And Roger ? is he here ? " 
 
 " The squire, say you ? He hath gone for an airing 
 to Mote End, I heard tell " here Joan smiled archly. 
 " But the mistress is not far to seek. She hath grieved 
 for you night and day ; she will be beside herself for joy 
 when she sees you safe and well. I will fetch her in a 
 trice ; she hath but stepped round to her gossip's." 
 
 " Do it not ! " exclaimed Walter, sternly, stepping 
 between her and the door, when he found he could stop 
 her torrent of words in no other way. " 'Tis at thy peril, 
 if thou stir from hence. I want neither mother nor 
 brother, only to be left alone." 
 
 Poor Joan shrank back, appalled at such rough usage. 
 For a moment she doubted whether it were really 
 Walter, who had never spoken sharply to her in his life, 
 or his wraith. He was white enough for a ghost, any- 
 way ; even Joan could not mistake the look of utter 
 exhaustion in his eyes. 
 
 " Fool that I am ! " she cried. " While I stand prating 
 here, you are like to drop with hunger. Wait but one 
 moment, honey, and I will bring you food." 
 
 " Thou shalt not go," cried Walter, arresting her a 
 second time as she was hobbling off to the kitchen. " I
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 113 
 
 am neither hungry nor weary," he added, in a voice that 
 belied his words. " Good Joan, I need nothing but to 
 be left in peace. Come back to thy work," he continued, 
 leading her to the chair from which she had just risen, 
 " and sew for thy life. Stir not from thy seat, what- 
 ever betide and if thou see any one, say not that I am 
 within." 
 
 Poor Joan, terrified out of her wits, and now firmly 
 convinced that she had to deal not with Walter, but with 
 an evil spirit in his shape, sat down and waited for 
 what would happen next. So completely had the young 
 man overawed her, that she dared not even, as she 
 afterwards declared, turn her head for a moment, and 
 therefore could only judge by the sound that he crossed 
 the hall, and passed softly down the steps which led to 
 the withdrawing room. 
 
 Walter Sparowe's first act, when he was out of ear- 
 shot, was to lock and bolt the door behind him. By so 
 doing, he cut off all communication between the entrance 
 hall, and the family sitting rooms. To reach the upper 
 floor from thence was now only possible by crossing the 
 court-yard, and mounting a narrow flight of steps hard 
 by the door of the huge kitchen. These steps led by a 
 back way to the opposite side of the gallery with latticed 
 windows, that ran round three sides of the house. 
 Having secured the door, Walter passed to the inner 
 wainscotted room, and without a moment's hesitation, 
 drew a small dagger from his belt, and began to loosen 
 the wedge-shaped projection, above the shield with the 
 family arms, which was carved over the chimney piece. 
 Partly from fatigue, and partly from agitation, his 
 fingers trembled so much that the business took him far 
 longer than need was, though he fumbled with the 
 dagger, and an oath or two escaped him at his own 
 clumsiness. 
 
 At length the inner recess was opened, and Walter 
 immediately thurst his hand in, and snapped the spring. 
 The same whirring sound was heard as before, but un- 
 accompanied this time by any creaking. Care had 
 evidently been taken, since the first discovery of the 
 
 i
 
 114 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 passage, to oil the hinges of the panel, and not the least 
 jarring noise betrayed the secret. Walter stayed a 
 moment to replace the wedge, then hurried round to 
 the cupboard. The door was open, fortunately. There 
 was no necessity for him to force it with his dagger, as 
 he was evidently prepared to do. Entering, he closed 
 it after him, struck a light with a tinder box he carried, 
 lit a piece of wood he found in a corner of the cupboard, 
 and fixed it carefully immediately in front of the panel. 
 
 A long time now elapsed. Walter Sparowe crouched 
 beside the passage, straining his ears for the least 
 sound that broke the stillness. His handsome, usually 
 irresolute face was drawn up with intense expectation, 
 the moisture stood on his forehead, and his eyes had a 
 look of feverish anxiety. His large, soft white hands, 
 of which he had always been inordinately proud, were 
 soiled and bruised, and trembling with nervous excite- 
 ment. From time to time he put his head to the 
 ground, and held his breath to hear, then raised himself 
 again with a long gasping sigh. Once a sudden thought 
 seemed to strike him. He sprang lightly up, and 
 hurried off to close the latticed window that looked 
 towards the garden, and to satisfy himself that the door 
 between the two rooms, leading into the court-yard, was 
 securely bolted. Then he came back, and took up his 
 position again beside the opening. 
 
 At length he caught the sound of a feint thud, as if a 
 door at a great distance were softly closed. Knowing 
 what to listen for, he was next able to distinguish the 
 muffled tread of feet. The cautious footfalls came 
 nearer and nearer, and Walter, in spite of his anxiety, 
 durst not thrust himself forward, lest he should shut 
 out the light. He knelt down beside the panel, strung 
 to such a pitch of eager expectation that he trembled 
 from head to foot. Presently a low voice from within 
 asked : " Who goes there ? " 
 
 " A friend to Caesar," answered Walter. 
 
 A man's head and shoulders now appeared through 
 the opening. Walter gave the new comer his hand, and 
 helped him to disengage himself from the narrow
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 115 
 
 passage. A perfect Hercules in build the fugitive 
 seemed, as he crawled out, rose to his feet, and began to 
 brush the dust from his jerkin and hose. As he raised his 
 head, and tossed back his long, dark curls with an 
 impatient gesture, he disclosed the stern, grave features, 
 and keen eyes of Ralph Wentworth. Without a word 
 he straightened himself, stretched his long limbs for a 
 moment, then bent down to help another man who had 
 followed him, and now crept, on hands and knees, out of 
 the passage. 
 
 The new comer was younger than his companion, and 
 slenderly made. He did not look more than twenty, and 
 was rather under than above the ordinary height. His 
 complexion, swarthy by nature, had become still darker 
 through the dust, dirt, and soot which disfigured it. 
 Out of this almost squalid face shone a pair of brilliant 
 black eyes, full of life and spirit, though now heavy with 
 fatigue. The young man's forehead was broad and well- 
 shaped, but his mouth was wide, and his thin lips had a 
 cynical expression. This strange individual wore his 
 black hair closely cropped like a Puritan's, and this, 
 coupled with his slight figure, made him look almost 
 insignificant beside the two tall, splendidly built men, 
 with their long curls, and rich Cavalier dress, who 
 anxiously helped him to rise, and dusted the marks of 
 the underground journey from his clothes. 
 
 His costume was as poverty-stricken as his appearance. 
 He wore a dirty green doublet, and a pair of old 
 breeches hanging far below the knee. The huge, wide 
 boots, evidently much too large for him, had been cut 
 and slashed to ease the wearer's feet. Neither cuffs nor 
 collar relieved his wretched attire, which was completed 
 by a high grey felt hat without a band, and stained, like 
 his jerkin, with grease. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by any of the three men. 
 Walter first satisfied himself that the two guests, who 
 had arrived in this extraordinary fashion, were unhurt ; 
 then pressing his finger to his lips, he hastened to the 
 wainscotted room, set the spring in motion, and in a 
 few moments the sliding panel glided again into its place.
 
 116 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 Having watched the closing of the aperture, and 
 extinguished the light, his companions followed him, 
 shutting all the doors carefully behind them. Although 
 it was still warm, summer weather, a small log fire was 
 burning on the hearth, and a welcome sight it seemed to 
 both men. The younger traveller yawned, stretched his 
 stiff limbs, and threw himself into an arm-chair Walter 
 had pushed towards the fire. Wentworth, after rubbing 
 his hands for a moment over the blaze, began to make 
 a careful examination of the room, to guard against the 
 danger of a surprise. 
 
 Meanwhile Walter bolted the door, and approaching 
 the man by the fire with an air of great deference, 
 dropped on one knee, took his hand, and kissed it 
 respectfully. 
 
 " Nay, good sir," said the young man, raising himself 
 wearily, " this is not wise, even among friends. I am 
 but plain Will Somers, at your service. Tis I rather 
 who am beholden to you for our deliverance. My 
 thanks shall not be wanting when I am somewhat 
 recovered from our lengthy journey through " Tartarus." 
 
 " The honour is sufficient "... began Walter. 
 
 " Faith, I was never better pleased than when our 
 good Wentworth here espied your light," interrupted the 
 other, a smile lighting up his tired face. " Twas as 
 welcome as land to a shipwrecked sailor." 
 
 Wentworth now came back from the other end of the 
 room, and taking Walter aside, earnestly inquired if the 
 garden was safe. 
 
 " Save for the maids, we are alone in the house for 
 an hour or two," answered Walter. " By special favour 
 of Providence or the Saints, my mother and brother are 
 both from home." 
 
 Reassured on this point, Wentworth approached the 
 fire, and joined in the conversation. 
 
 " I thought many a time our strength would fail," he 
 said. " Thou hadst not prepared me, Walter, for the 
 length of the way, nor the stifling heat of the vault. 
 Twas your patience and courage, sir, alone, which 
 brought us through. Nothing can shake your fortitude."
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 117 
 
 " I am used to it, Ralph, more used than thou, per- 
 chance," said the other, with a little laugh. " My head 
 is in jeopardy, if I lose heart. How say you, Master 
 Sparowe ? If a man know that those dogs of Puritans 
 are at his heels, and that his own skin will pay for it, 
 think you not he is like to keep up his courage, and to 
 adventure himself into the very jaws of hell ? " 
 
 " Your Majesty "... began Walter again, diffidently. 
 " Majesty me not," returned his companion, good 
 humouredly, leaning back in the arm chair, and stretch- 
 ing his feet towards the fire. " You do but mock at me, 
 my friend. I am lord over nothing, not even over that 
 which a man holdeth to be verily his own, his body, 
 to wit. How many times, Ralph," he continued, 
 with a droll twinkle in his eyes, "dost think I must 
 hear the tale of mine own death and burial ? How 
 many times shall I be shown the very coat in the which 
 I was killed ? " 
 
 " You are pleased to jest, sir," said Wentworth, 
 gravely, " but the peril wherein we stand is as great as 
 ever, and precious time is passing. Thou hast brought 
 us hither, Walter, upon promise of safety ; tell me now, 
 how and where dost thou propose to hide us ? " 
 
 " Ralph Wentworth," said his fellow-refugee, solemnly, 
 " there is a yet greater danger than any thou wottest of, 
 the danger, namely, that this worthless body of mine 
 will perish of hunger, whilst thou art casting about for 
 some place of concealment for it. Good Master Walter, 
 I am assailed at this moment by a most unkingly 
 appetite for food, and I doubt not Wentworth hath 
 the like, though he will not avow it. Is it possible, 
 think you, in this house to judge by this room, a right 
 noble house to have a morsel of bread and a draught 
 of ale ? " 
 
 It was noticeable that, utterly weary as both Walter 
 and Ralph Wentworth were, neither of them offered to 
 sit down. Wentworth held himself painfully erect, but 
 Walter leant, exhausted, against the chimney as he 
 answered, " I crave your pardon, my liege. The business 
 of procuring entrance for you was so urgent, and I
 
 118 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 feared so many difficulties, now happily overcome, that 
 I bestowed no thought upon the food. 'Twas a hard 
 gallop from Alnesbourne, to be here in time to open the 
 way." 
 
 "True, most true, my friend; my necessities make 
 me forget myself. Nevertheless this question of refresh- 
 ment, though but a minor matter, hath also to my mind 
 some degree of urgency." 
 
 " It shall be seen to on the instant, sir," said Went- 
 worth. "Whom hast thou told, Walter ? " he asked. 
 
 " None," answered Walter. " I had but time to come 
 straight in hither from the road. None saw me but Joan, 
 who sat in the great hall, and her I charged to remain 
 at her needle, and not to stir hand or foot. She will sit 
 there, good faithful soul, I doubt not, until such time as 
 I give her leave to move." 
 
 " But peradventure thy mother may return ? " 
 
 Walter shook his head with a faint smile. " I trow 
 not," he said, " She is not wont to return soon, when 
 she goeth to her gossips. I have known the business 
 there to last till nightfall. Doubtless she hath much 
 to unburden herself of, with all the tale of my evil 
 deeds." 
 
 " And Roger ? " 
 
 " My Puritan brother hath gone to Mote End, and ere 
 this hath assuredly lost all count of time. Thou canst 
 judge for thyself when he will be back." 
 
 " Jest not, Walter, touching so solemn a matter," said 
 Wentworth, who was too anxious about the safety of his 
 companion to bear the least approach to levity. " It 
 seemeth then, from thy words," he continued, after a 
 moment's reflection, " that we are safe from them for 
 some hours, and may make our plans without fear of 
 disturbance." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the young man from the depths of 
 the arm-chair, behind which this conversation was 
 carried on, " lay what plans you please. Only I 
 would warn you that you will soon have none to lay 
 them for. A man who hath not had a dinner for three 
 days is not worth saving. By my halidome, good
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 119 
 
 sirs, I, me seems, who have escaped by a miracle 
 .from the clutches of Sultan Oliver, must now strike 
 my colours to King Hunger." 
 
 "Your pardon, my gracious liege, "answered Wentworth, 
 penitently," I did but seek to know the present disposition 
 of the family. Now Walter, lad, set thy wits to work. 
 How canst thou convey to us food from the buttery 
 without raising suspicion ? " 
 
 " Through Joan," was Walter's reply. " "Tis an easy 
 matter. I will bid her bring me food and drink for two 
 friends of mine who have come hither." 
 
 " Hold ! " exclaimed Wentworth, as Walter turned to 
 give the order. " Joan, thou sayest, hast been all this 
 while in the hall. She will marvel by what way thy 
 friends have come, since she hath not seen them enter, 
 and will gossip thereof with the maids. No, Walter, 
 thy plan is bad. Devise another." 
 
 " Let me tell her boldly that I am seized with a raging 
 hunger, that I have not tasted food or drink for days 
 which was not far from the truth and swear that all 
 the meat in the buttery will not satisfy me." 
 
 " Ay, man, well said," put in the hungry guest from 
 the fire, " and then "... 
 
 " Then she will place the best in the house before me, 
 and when I have dismissed her, I will bring that which 
 she provides in hither." 
 
 " Do so, friend, and earn my lasting thanks. How 
 now, Ralph," said the young man whom, eschewing all 
 party epithets, we will call simply Charles Stuart, "what 
 sayest thou ? Art thou not thyself a prey to these 
 pangs of hunger, though thou dost affect to make 
 light of them ? Thou likewise hast not broken thy fast 
 since dawn." 
 
 " My liege," answered Wentworth, as he came back 
 after bolting the door, " my concern for your welfare 
 is so great, that I have no thought to bestow on 
 myself. I know not whether I be tired or hungry. I 
 know only that your Majesty is, for a few hours at 
 most, in safety." 
 
 " Why, the devil take it, friend," returned Charles,
 
 120 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " a man hath but one life. And truly mine hath been so 
 often jeopardized, the demise of the Crown, so to speak, 
 hath been so frequently certified to by these lying 
 Puritan knaves, that I doubt me at times whether I am 
 verily in the flesh or no. This poor body of mine doth 
 not deserve the care my friends bestow on it." 
 
 Wentworth was about to answer and to protest 
 against the unprecedented view his royal master took 
 of the matter. But at this moment there was a low 
 knock at the door, and Walter, giving the pass word : 
 " A friend to Caesar," was immediately admitted. In one 
 hand he carried a noble chine of beef on a wooden 
 platter, in the other a jug of home-brewed ale. Under 
 one arm was an enormous loaf of coarse, unsifted bread 
 very little white bread being used in those days, even 
 in gentlemen's houses while upon the other was hung 
 a cloth of finest home-spun linen. 
 
 " Now, all the Saints be with thee, man ! " cried 
 Charles, starting joyfully from his seat. " Thou art the 
 very harbinger of plenty. Fain would I dub thee, like 
 my grandsire, a knight on the spot, for this loyal service 
 of thine, did I not fear such an honour would bring thee 
 to trouble." 
 
 And with his own royal hands which were so begrimed 
 with dirt that nothing but their shape attested the kingly 
 blood in them, he helped to relieve Walter of his burden. 
 But when it came to spreading the table with Mistress 
 Margaret's delicate napery, the vivid contrast between 
 it, and the hands and faces of those who were about to 
 use it, made them pause. 
 
 " There needed not this display of luxury, my friend," 
 said Charles, with a smile. " My last meal was eaten 
 on the floor, out of an earthen pipkin." 
 
 " Methought, since it pleased your Majesty to grace 
 our humble table," answered Walter, " that 'twas well 
 to bring it." 
 
 Charles shrugged his shoulders. " Then since it 
 is so, we must suit ourselves to our circumstances," he 
 answered. " How now, Ralph ? Is it safe to wash off 
 some part of the soil of our journey ? Are we here in
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 121 
 
 such security that I may rejoice in the comfort of a 
 clean skin ? " 
 
 Wentworth hesitated a moment, as if the dirt were 
 actually too necessary a part of his master's disguise to 
 be lightly discarded. Receiving an assurance from 
 Walter that, so far, they were alone in the house, he 
 consented to go into the next room, Charles casting an 
 affectionate glance as they passed, upon the chine of 
 beef. Here, without bestowing a thought upon his own 
 travel-stained condition, Wentworth knelt down, and 
 drew off his master's boots, while Walter flitted between 
 the two rooms, laying the meal in rough, soldier-like 
 fashion, and listening anxiously from time to time at the 
 door which led to the hall. 
 
 When the two travellers reappeared, both several 
 shades fairer of complexion, Charles eagerly attacked 
 the huge joint. So intent was he on satisfying his 
 hunger, that he did not discover for some time that 
 his two companions had neither of them joined him. 
 Looking up then, he perceived that Wentworth and 
 Walter were standing on either side of him in respectful 
 silence. Such a stretch of deference Charles would 
 by no means permit, but it was not till he had 
 commanded them on their allegiance, that the two 
 consented to sit down, and eat at the same table. 
 In spite, however, of his anxiety, and of his pro- 
 testations that he needed nothing, Wentworth did 
 ample justice to the meal, and Walter seconded him 
 vigorously. Their hunger allayed, they began to hold 
 counsel concerning the next step to be taken in the 
 present juncture. 
 
 " You have then your mother with you, Master 
 Sparowe," said Charles. " Is she favourably affected 
 towards us ? " 
 
 " She is devoted, heart and soul, to your Majesty's 
 cause," answered Walter, fervently. 
 
 " Ay, that is well. Nevertheless I rejoice that she is 
 from home to-day. In sooth, I care not to present 
 myself before any lady in this guise." 
 
 " But she will return anon, and Roger likewise," said
 
 122 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Wentworth, impatiently. " Both will be here ere we 
 can lay any plans of concealment." 
 
 Walter shifted uneasily in his chair at the mention of 
 his brother's name. " Dost thou know, Ralph," he 
 asked in a low voice, " that he hath forbid me to 
 come hither ? " 
 
 " Nay, then are we worse bested than ever," rejoined 
 Wentworth. " I pray you, sir, let us now consider what 
 we will do next, and to whom we may entrust the secret 
 of your presence." 
 
 " I understand you not," answered Charles, looking in 
 perplexity from one to the other. " Who is this Roger 
 of whom you speak ? Is not our friend here master of 
 this house ? " 
 
 " Would that I were, my liege ! " exclaimed Walter, 
 earnestly, " This poor dwelling, and all that it contains, 
 were then most heartily at your disposal. Alas ! the 
 master here is this same brother of mine, Roger Sparowe." 
 
 " And is he one of us ? " 
 
 " No, forsooth, but a sour-minded Puritan, who hath 
 never a good word for any man who holdeth not with 
 him. And, truth to tell, for some slight difference of 
 opinion betwixt us, a trifling matter whereat none but he 
 had taken offence, he turned me from the house, before 
 I joined the good cause at Worcester. He will assuredly 
 not be well pleased to see me again." 
 
 Charles listened attentively to Walter's explanation, 
 then, to the dismay of his companions, flung himself 
 back in his chair, and gave vent to a hearty laugh. 
 
 " And so it seems that thou, Ralph, the cautious, the 
 prudent, to whom my lord Wilmot did so solemnly 
 entrust me that thou hast brought me to the house 
 of a Puritan fanatic. Into those very jaws of death, 
 from which I sought to escape, hast thou now led me. 
 By my faith, I would not give a straw for the safety of 
 mine own neck, when this same cross-grained fanatic 
 discovereth my presence." 
 
 " Beseech your Majesty not to jest in so vital a 
 matter," replied Wentworth, much distressed. " Hear 
 me, I pray you."
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 123 
 
 " Well, man, what hast thou to say for thyself ? " 
 returned Charles, still amused. " How wilt thou justify 
 this venture of thine ? Oh, if Wilmot could but see me 
 now, in the very house of a Puritan ! " 
 
 "Firstly, my liege," answered Wentworth, "that I 
 was driven to do it. By no other than the secret way 
 could we have left Alnesbourne, the soldiers were so 
 close upon us. And Roger Sparowe, though he be, alas ! 
 a Puritan, is likewise my own dear friend. I have known 
 him, and trusted him, since we were boys together. 
 He is a gentleman of stainless birth and honour, who 
 would scorn to yield up a fugitive who sought shelter 
 with him. Walter, thy difference with thy brother 
 hath blinded thee to the nobleness of his nature, else 
 thou couldest not speak so harshly of him." 
 
 " Is this so ? " asked Charles. " Is thy friend verily 
 such an one as thou boldest him to be ? " 
 
 " I would stake mine own honour upon his," answered 
 Wentworth emphatically. " We have been friends for 
 many years, my liege. Never hath Roger Sparowe 
 failed any man that trusted in him." 
 
 " If it be as thou sayest, Ralph "... began Charles, 
 after a moment's pause, with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " It is so of a truth, sir." 
 
 " This noble-minded Puritan gentleman, then, is like 
 to be sore exercised in his mind, when he finds to what 
 purpose we have used his house. It is his desire to 
 stamp out the Malignants, root and branch. What, 
 think you, will he do and say when he hath the very 
 chief of them in his hands ? " 
 
 Walter did not speak, but Wentworth answered 
 firmly: " He will do his duty, my liege, and that right 
 honourably." 
 
 " The saints forbid ! " returned Charles, with a laugh. 
 " His duty, forsooth ! His duty, good Ralph, were to 
 deliver me up to the nearest justice of the peace, and 
 win a thousand pounds thereby. Ay, you may flinch, 
 Master Walter, but so it is. Faith, I was never worth 
 so much before." 
 
 " I will run him through the body myself, ere he do
 
 124 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 so dastardly a deed," cried Walter. " Hear me, sir. 
 There needs not that he should know ought of the 
 matter. Thou hast come hither, Ralph, to claim help of 
 him, and hast brought with thee thy serving man I 
 crave your Majesty's pardon that I speak thus of you. 
 Nought can be simpler than the tale we have to tell, 
 and Roger, who is guileless enough, as I well know, 
 will suspect nothing," 
 
 " He will suspect everything," replied Wentworth. 
 " He will not believe it for a moment. He is no fool, is 
 thy brother Roger. Thinkest thou his keen eyes will 
 not instantly perceive that my serving groom is no 
 common man ? And his suspicions once set a'foot, he 
 will never rest till he hath discovered all." 
 
 "Then i' God's name, let him discover all," said 
 Charles. " For my part, I am weary of all this con- 
 cealment. An he be the man thou sayest, Ralph, he 
 will at least be silent, though he cannot look on me with 
 favour. I thank you both for your care of me, but 
 herein I only will act. Myself will tell him the whole 
 truth, as soon as he doth begin to suspect." 
 
 On the whole, after mature deliberation, the boldest 
 seemed also the wisest course. It was agreed that 
 Charles should pass for the character he had assumed, 
 Will Somers, a groom in waiting upon the Cavalier, 
 Ralph Wentworth, who had contrived to escape with 
 his master from Worcester. The deception should be 
 carefully kept up with the household, but as soon as 
 Roger showed signs of incredulity, the whole secret 
 should be frankly divulged to him. Walter yielded the 
 more readily to the better judgment of his friends, 
 because he himself began to doubt the possibility of 
 blinding Roger much longer in this, or in other matters. 
 
 But he strenuously resisted the proposal that the 
 mystery should be revealed to his mother, ardent 
 Royalist though she was. Her very zeal would betray 
 them, he said. She would not be content, as they were, 
 to treat the king before strangers with well-bred 
 indifference, and would sooner risk the safety of them 
 all than show herself, or allow others to show, the least
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 125 
 
 disrespect towards him. She need scarcely see or hear 
 of so insignificant a person as Will Somers. Walter 
 promised soon to make her forget his very existence ; 
 and he undertook so to work upon her fears for his own 
 and Wentworth's safety, that he doubted not to bind 
 her to silence. 
 
 There was still the difficult question how far Joan 
 should be trusted with the important secret. She had 
 such free and constant access at all hours to every part 
 of the house, that Walter thought it would be impossible 
 to keep her wholly in ignorance. It was determined, 
 therefore, to take her to a certain extent into confidence, 
 leaving it to the future to determine how far that 
 confidence should be extended. 
 
 Matters being thus settled, as satisfactorily as possible 
 under the circumstances, Walter took his two guests to 
 their place of concealment the loft Roger had explored 
 with so much astonishment a few days before. Walter 
 showed himself perfectly acquainted with every corner 
 of the strange, rambling old attic. He pointed out the 
 passage over the leads, and explained where it ended, 
 though he dared not take the fugitives along it in broad 
 daylight, for fear of being seen from the street. 
 Unlocking the door that led to the chapel, he showed 
 them the tiny window, and the noble view from it over 
 the river Orwell. 
 
 Finally, Walter brought his guests to the most secret 
 recess in the house, a hiding place known probably only 
 to himself, and on the strength of which he had ventured 
 to incur the terrible risk of receiving his royal master. 
 Part of the loft was covered only by the roof of the 
 house, which ran up into gables, with all the rafters and 
 cross beams showing. Over another part the ceiling 
 was flat and low, though so broken was the outline of 
 walls and roof everywhere, that the difference in height 
 was scarcely perceptible. Here, set in the thickness 
 of one of the gables, to be reached only by a ladder, was 
 a tiny chamber, not more than six feet square, where 
 anyone, provided he had food, might lie securely hidden 
 for days and weeks. A sliding panel closed this room
 
 126 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 from below, and when it was fastened, it was impossible, 
 without knowing the exact spot, to find it again. 
 
 Having made the fugitives thoroughly acquainted with 
 this place of safe retreat in case of danger, Walter left 
 them in the attic, until a room could be prepared for 
 them. Before him lay a task as difficult as any he had 
 yet attempted to break to his mother and Roger, as far 
 as he dared, the news of the arrival of these strange and 
 unwelcome visitors.
 
 127 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 THE Fates were certainly propitious to Walter Sparowe 
 and his companions this brilliant September evening. 
 For Mistress Margaret's journeys from home were few, 
 and such an event as an afternoon comfortably devoted 
 to gossip had not fallen for months. Roger disapproved 
 of these visits to Gossip Thurton's, and his mother 
 rarely ventured upon them except when he was away. 
 In the present instance Walter had rightly judged her. 
 So long did she stay with her friends, talking over matters 
 which, in a household composed wholly of men, she had 
 no opportunity of discussing, that she was appalled, on 
 coming forth at last, cloaked and hooded for her home- 
 ward journey, to find that the sun had set, and night 
 was upon her. 
 
 Now a night walk in those days, if there was no moon, 
 was a very different matter from a night walk at the 
 present time. To say nothing of the danger from out- 
 throats and robbers, who infested the outskirts of all the 
 larger towns, the streets themselves were neither safe 
 nor pleasant. There were no well defined footways to 
 shield the pedestrians from passing carriages, and the 
 rough stones with which the high road was paved were 
 usually ankle deep in mud. The streets were so narrow 
 that a huge travelling coach, with its team of six or 
 eight horses, might at any moment drive the passers by 
 to take refuge for safety in one of the corners, angles, or 
 covered gateways which abounded in all the picturesque 
 old towns. Added to which, the darkness, even in the 
 principal thoroughfares of a town, was such as we can 
 form no idea of, except in a country lane in mid winter. 
 It is true that, by Act of Parliament, all houses of the 
 better class were compelled to hang out a lantern at 
 night, but this law was never rigidly enforced, even in
 
 128 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 London, and habitually evaded in the country. Besides, 
 as it was only in operation from All Hallows to Candle- 
 mas, it was of no use to wayfarers on a dark night in 
 early autumn. And even where common charity led a 
 householder to put a lamp before his door, the feeble 
 light it gave only made darkness more visible. 
 
 Under cover of the night, too, the streets were made 
 the receptacle of the filth which had accumulated in the 
 houses during the day. There were no other sewers ; 
 and woe to the unwary passer by, on whom some zealous 
 housewife unwittingly emptied her pail of refuse. 
 
 Under the circumstances it is not surprising that no 
 lady stirred abroad after dark, unless well guarded by 
 footmen with torches. Mistress Margaret, however, 
 not intending to stay late, had given no orders for her 
 homeward escort, and she was standing at the door of 
 Gossip Thurton's house, ruefully looking out into the 
 darkness, and lamenting her plight, when a man on 
 horseback paused at the sound of her voice, turned, and 
 to her joy she beheld Roger. 
 
 Here, too, some lucky chance had favoured Walter. 
 Roger also was returning later than he intended, for he 
 was not often from home after dark. He had left Mote 
 End long before sunset, but as he rode into the town, he 
 met a friend, one of the Common Councilmen. This 
 gentleman was anxious to consult young Master 
 Sparowe, .whose practical sense and clear head for 
 business were justly valued by the borough authorities, 
 upon some matter connected with the shipping by the 
 riverside. There was still an hour of daylight, and the 
 worthy man proposed that, since there was no time like 
 the present, they should go at once, and examine the 
 land in question. The dispute turned upon the point 
 whether a certain piece of ground, lying alongside the 
 Orwell, were within the town boundaries, and whether 
 the Corporation could claim the port dues upon all 
 goods landed there. Roger Sparowe listened, put a few 
 questions, surveyed the land, and promised to look over 
 certain papers he had by him at home, which might, he 
 thought, throw some light upon the subject.
 
 RECOGNITION. 129 
 
 In this way it happened that Roger, instead of 
 jogging along the fairly kept high road from London, 
 was picking his way painfutty through one of the narrow 
 bye-streets leading from the river, at the same moment 
 that Mistress Margaret, standing at Gossip Thurton's 
 door, was wondering how, on so dark a night, she should 
 ever reach home. To dismount was the work of a 
 moment. Since his mother could not ride behind him, 
 Roger walked beside her, his horse's rein over his arm. 
 Such a conclusion to the journey caused no small 
 perturbation to the Spanish jennet. By neighing and 
 pawing, and pushing her slender nose into his hand, she 
 tried to convey to her master that this slow walk, when 
 the stables were almost within sight, was a sore trial to a 
 horse's feelings. Roger smiled at her impatience, and 
 now and then he broke off his talk with Mistress Sparowe, 
 to bestow a playful caress or a kind word upon her. 
 
 The conversation was easier and more cheerful than 
 usual. The afternoon's journey had done good to both 
 mother and son. Mistress Margaret was happier than 
 she had been for weeks. She had been able to unburden 
 her mind of a great many things, which were robbed of 
 half their importance merely by being put into words. 
 Roger, too, was strangely and unaccountably light- 
 hearted. For a time he had absolutely forgottenWalter, 
 and talked, and laid plans, as easily as if there were no 
 terrible anxiety pressing upon him. It was with a 
 sudden pang that he caught sight of Joan, standing at 
 the door of the great house, a torch in her hands, 
 evidently on the watch to impart some important piece 
 of news. And it was with mixed feelings of anger and 
 relief that he listened to her joyful report, somewhat 
 indiscreetly proclaimed before they had crossed the 
 threshold, that the wanderer had returned in safety. 
 
 " As hale and hearty, Mistress, i' faith, as if he had 
 never gone out wrong foot first. I know not what to 
 make of 't. He ails nothing, I'll take my oath on't. I 
 thought 'twas his wraith at first, but now he hath eaten 
 such a meal since he came, ay, such a meal as 'ud last 
 me half the week. I'll warrant my poor boy hath had 
 
 K
 
 130 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 nought pass his lips for days, may be. Them Puritan 
 folk," she continued, with a cautious glance at Roger, 
 " were like to have starved him to death." 
 
 Joan was almost equally divided between her delight 
 at Walter's return, and her vexation at the failure of 
 her prophecy. Roger did not much concern himself 
 about her view of the matter. He was seized with a 
 sudden dread, lest he should be confronted with Walter 
 before he had made up his mind how to treat him. 
 Making the excuse that he wished himself to see to the 
 mare's comfort, he took the reins, and led her off down 
 the lane by the side of the house, into which the stables 
 opened. Mistress Margaret turned to Joan. 
 
 " And why comes my son not to me ? " she asked, 
 impatiently. " Since he hath returned whole and sound, 
 he should be here. Hath he forgotten how his mother 
 longs to see him ? " 
 
 " Hist, Mistress," said Joan, with her finger to her 
 lips, drawing Dame Margaret into the house. " Soft I 
 had forgotten we must be secret we must not speak 
 openly. Master Walter hath told me that it is death to 
 him if I talk of it. He dare not come forth, he saith ; 
 he must be in hiding. He is in the wainscotted room." 
 
 Mistress Margaret hurried off, full of joyful eagerness 
 to welcome her son, but a little frightened at Joan's last 
 words. Her fears were increased at the sight of Walter. 
 His worn face, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes, with 
 great black lines beneath them, startled and alarmed 
 her. He seemed even to have grown thinner, so at least 
 she declared, for his clothes sat loosely on him. His 
 mouth twitched incessantly, and his hands were never 
 still for a moment, Three weeks ago he had left her, a 
 gay, light-hearted boy, going gleefully to make his first 
 trial of arms ; and here she beheld a grave, care-stricken 
 man, looking years older even than her staid Roger. Time 
 was when, let what would happen, Walter's easy com- 
 posure was never disturbed. Now he started at every 
 sound, and his eyes were constantly fixed on the door. 
 
 "Thou art ill, my son," she said, anxiously, as, after 
 the first greeting, Walter closed the door she had left
 
 RECOGNITION. 131 
 
 open, and flung himself wearily into a chair. " Joan 
 saith thou art hale and sound, but she is wrong. Thou 
 art not the same. Tell me what ails thee. Is it some 
 wound thou wilt not speak of ? " 
 
 " None, mother. Look not so fearfully at me ; I have 
 not won so much as a scratch. I am weary, not ill. A 
 man who hath known no better bed than a truss of straw 
 for twelve nights is fain to be weary." 
 
 " No bed, Walter!" cried Mistress Margaret, in horror. 
 " Those cruel Parliament men ! Would they not let 
 thee sleep ? Not for twelve nights, didst say ? Then 
 not another word will I hear. Come straightway to thy 
 chamber, and get thee to bed, and rest thee there 
 undisturbed till to-morrow night, if thou wilt." 
 
 Walter looked down at his mother, and a softer 
 expression came into his eyes. " That were too hard for 
 thee, mother mine, for I trow thou art bursting with a 
 thousand questions. There are other things more 
 needful than rest and sleep. Didst not say that Roger 
 was with thee. Doth he know that I am come ? " 
 
 "Ay, Joan hath told him," said Dame Margaret, care- 
 lessly. " He will be here anon ; he hath but gone to 
 see to the new Spanish mare. How now, Walter? 
 Thou wast pale before, but now thou art whiter than 
 this kerchief. Is it the mention of thy brother's name 
 that hath so troubled thee ? Foolish boy ! as though 
 he would not be as glad to see thee as I am." 
 
 " Mother, I know not," answered Walter, shuddering. 
 " I was not welcome before "... 
 
 " Some boyish quarrel, which Roger will be first to 
 forget and forgive," interrupted Mistress Margaret. " He 
 is happy to-day, in gayer mood than I have seen him for 
 a long while. How canst thou think such hard things 
 of him, Walter ? " 
 
 " Thou dost forget, Mother. I have no right to be 
 here, nor anywhere else. The Parliament dogs are at 
 my heels. If Roger receive me, he giveth shelter to a 
 man on whose head a price hath been set. Perchance 
 'twill bring himself into jeopardy. For, oh ! the good 
 cause is lost lost ! "
 
 132 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 And for a moment Walter's head fell forward on the 
 table, and a long shivering sigh escaped him. Then he 
 clenched his hand, and raised himself with an effort, 
 muttering : " Fool that I am ! This weakness shall not 
 be. There are others to consider." 
 
 Mistress Margaret sat and gazed at him, horror struck. 
 Till now she had not realized the significance of the 
 defeat at Worcester. She had only a vague, blurred 
 notion that the cause of one son had been lost, the cause 
 of the other won ; the meaning of it had not come home 
 to her. She did not know how to comfort Walter. 
 She could only look helplessly at him, and take his hand 
 softly between her own, and press it. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Roger entered. 
 He came in quietly, moving with great deliberation, as if 
 he were not dreading this inevitable meeting as much as 
 Walter. A hard task lay before him. Three weeks 
 ago, he had driven Walter to leave the house, and held 
 himself fully justified in so doing ; now, his brother 
 came back under such circumstances, that to refuse to 
 admit him was to consign him to almost certain death. 
 Roger knew well that all who had fought at Worcester 
 were marked men, for the Parliament had determined 
 to show no mercy to those Malignants who had a third 
 time involved the unhappy country in civil war. He 
 knew that his own interest with the victorious party 
 would be taxed to the uttermost to shield Walter ; that 
 to give his brother shelter would probably damage his 
 good reputation, and would certainly imperil the hopes 
 he had indulged in only a few hours before. All these 
 thoughts surged through poor Roger's brain, as he drew 
 himself up, and walked across the room with as much 
 composure as he could affect. 
 
 As Roger came towards him, Walter dragged himself 
 wearily up from his chair and stood leaning against the 
 table. For a moment there was silence, each brother 
 striving to read the other's thoughts in his face. Then 
 Roger said, stiffly, " Good even to thee, Walter. Thou 
 hast found thy way back to us, then." 
 
 " Yea, for I knew not where else to go, and the pursuit
 
 RECOGNITION. 133 
 
 was sharp. But I stay not unless thou will it, brother, 
 Give me a night's shelter, and I will be gone to-morrow." 
 
 The altered tones of Walter's words startled Roger. 
 Looking more closely at him, he saw, what Mistress 
 Margaret's quick eyes had perceived at the first glance, 
 his brother's ragged dress, and haggard face, and sunken 
 eyes. His heart smote him, but he only answered, 
 coldly : " Thou canst remain. I have told thee that, for 
 our mother's sake, thou shalt be free of this house as 
 long as she lives." 
 
 " Ay, but that was in other times. I come now as a 
 fugitive, with a price on my head." 
 
 Roger shrugged his shoulders. " I see not that aught 
 is altered thereby," he answered, in the same cold tone. 
 " Thou knowest well wherefore I will hold no further 
 converse with thee. That sin being still unrepented of" 
 he glanced cautiously at Mistress Sparowe, who was 
 sobbing gently " it doth not signify whether the 
 Malignants be beaten or victorious. Thou art in danger, 
 and our father's house is thy rightful shelter." 
 
 He turned to leave the room before Walter could 
 reply, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him. 
 " Hast given thanks to the Lord for thy deliverance ? " 
 
 " And wherefore should I give thanks ? " answered 
 Walter, bitterly. " Dost thou think that so wretched a 
 life as mine is worth preserving, when mine own brother 
 will scarce speak with me ? " 
 
 " Oh, Walter, say not so," cried Mistress Margaret. 
 " He will relent, our stern Roger ; he will forgive when 
 his mother kneels to him for pardon and pity." 
 
 " Mother, spare thy pains," answered Walter. " He 
 hath no pity. Nevertheless, brother, thou must tarry a 
 moment longer. I have somewhat more to say to thee." 
 
 " Thou canst have nought to say that I desire to hear," 
 answered Roger. " Speak thy business to our mother, 
 and she shall tell me of it. Or, I will see thee again 
 to-morrow." 
 
 And Roger hurried away, more agitated than he cared 
 to confess. He took refuge in his own room, where, 
 with his Bible before him, he endeavoured to think the
 
 134 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 matter out, and determine what was his duty. Never, 
 he thought, had man found himself in a more painful 
 position. For the present, Walter must remain, at 
 whatever risk. Even Master Burroughs could hardly 
 wish Roger to hand his own brother over to destruction 
 by denying him shelter, and Roger blushed with shame 
 so much as to think of Master Burroughs' opinion at 
 this crisis. But the longer he reflected, the more 
 convinced he became that, for Walter's own sake, he 
 must endeavour to convey him out of England as 
 speedily as possible. There would be no safety for him 
 till he was beyond seas. And while Walter remained at 
 the Old House, he would have to submit to the most 
 rigid secrecy. It would be necessary to conceal his 
 presence from the servants, unless they had already 
 heard of it through Joan, and certainly from the 
 neighbours. The master of the house and Mistress 
 Sparowe must go about their daily business, and meet 
 their friends, as though nothing had happened, strictly 
 hiding the fact that they had a rank Malignant, who had 
 actually been in arms, under their roof. Roger sighed 
 over the inevitable deception, and a prayer rose to his 
 lips that the enemy of souls might not be suffered too 
 severely to molest him, that he might not be forced into 
 any actual falsehood. 
 
 Roger was up betimes the following morning. He was 
 anxious not to lose a single day in making arrangements 
 to send Walter out of England. This could not prove a 
 difficult matter. Down by the wharf there were always 
 plenty of vessels going to Holland, one of which, for a 
 handsome consideration, might take his brother on 
 board. There was much traffic at that time with the 
 Netherlands. Trade had never been so brisk between 
 the two countries. The new English Commonwealth 
 naturally sought help and countenance of the older 
 Republic, and a bond of mutual convenience, if not of 
 affection, united them. Roger did not doubt that he 
 should be able to find a ship going to Rotterdam or the 
 Hague, and would succeed in persuading the captain to 
 encumber himself with a suspicious guest.
 
 RECOGNITION. 135 
 
 Before he went, he wished to put his mother on her 
 guard against revealing Walter's presence to any chance 
 visitor. He felt that he could not speak to Walter him- 
 self. He shrank from coming in contact with him. 
 When he thought of all that his presence might cost 
 him, it went hard with Roger that he did not hate his 
 brother. 
 
 Roger was not often at home of a morning. Three 
 days a week he attended the meetings of the Corporation. 
 At other times he was usually engaged in matters per- 
 taining either to the government of the borough, or the 
 administration of his own estates. When he had a 
 leisure day he was glad to employ it, more for health's 
 sake than for any pleasure it gave him, in hunting and 
 fishing. Sometimes, however, business detained him 
 at home, when he sat in his own room, close to the 
 entrance hall, and never appeared in the family sitting 
 rooms till noon. 
 
 As to Mistress Margaret, though considered by her 
 neighbours somewhat of a fine lady, she was the most 
 exemplary of housewives. Her usual resort of a morning 
 was the buttery a delightful room, half kitchen, half 
 parlour. Here, and in the adjoining still room, she 
 cooked her more delicate cakes and viands, compounded 
 her simple medicines, saw her poorer neighbours, and 
 otherwise busied herself in various household duties. 
 
 To his surprise, Roger did not for once find his mother 
 here. Crossing the courtyard, he opened the door which 
 led to the sitting rooms, and hearing voices in the wains- 
 cotted room, walked quietly in. Mistress Margaret, in 
 a graceful morning wrapper, was sitting at the table, 
 apparently engaged, at ten o'clock of the forenoon, in no 
 more important occupation than talking. Her pretty 
 hands lay idle in her lap, or played with the ribbons of 
 her gown ; her soft face was clouded with perplexity, 
 and wrinkled as Roger had seldom seen it before. 
 Beside her, with his back to the door, leaning forward, 
 and talking earnestly to her in a low voice, sat his 
 brother, as Roger supposed ; and he was on the point of 
 beckoning his mother unceremoniously from the room,
 
 136 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 when the other, hearing his footsteps, turned. It was 
 not Walter. In a moment, with a shock of surprise, 
 Roger recognized the dark resolute face and flashing 
 eyes of Ralph Wentworth. 
 
 " Well met, Roger," said Wentworth, advancing and 
 holding out his hand, "or rather should I not say, 
 ill-met ? since thou canst scarce desire to see me here. 
 How ! " as Roger started back and an exclamation of 
 astonishment escaped him : " Walter hath not told thee, 
 then. Foolish lad ! when I laid it on his conscience 
 if he hath one not to suffer thee to sleep till the secret 
 was out. I would not have thee kept one hour in 
 ignorance. But he hath been for delay, all through the 
 business." 
 
 " Thou, Ralph ! here, and beneath my roof ? " gasped 
 Roger, in intense astonishment. " Now the Lord have 
 mercy upon us all I " 
 
 " The Lord have mercy, as thou sayest, friend, for 
 from man we are like to get none," returned Wentworth, 
 drily. " I come to claim thy shelter, if thou wilt give it 
 me. If not, to take my last leave of thee, for assuredly 
 we shall not meet again in this world. Those knaves of 
 Parliament men have run us too close to earth this time." 
 
 Roger did not answer. The blood rushed to his face 
 as he stood, mechanically holding Wentvvorth's hand, 
 and forgetting in his agitation to drop it. 
 
 " Was it ill done, Roger, to take thee thus at un- 
 awares ? " asked his friend, after a pause. " When men 
 fly for their lives, they stay not for nice ceremony. And 
 we have one with us, Will Somers, my serving man 
 'tis well thou shouldest know all. Prithee give him 
 shelter likewise. Come, man, speak," as Roger still 
 continued silent. " Have I strained thy friendship 
 too far ? " 
 
 " Roger, send them not from thee," pleaded Mistress 
 Margaret tearfully, laying her hand on her son's arm. 
 " If thou turn them away, their blood will be upon thy 
 head. Be merciful, my son, as thou hopest for mercy 
 thyself. An the chance of war had gone another way, 
 thou wouldest thyself have had to fly."
 
 RECOGNITION. 137 
 
 "Mother, I think not to send them from me," said 
 Roger, at last, in a husky voice. " Let them remain. 
 As long as this house can shelter them, they shall be 
 here." He stopped a moment, then forced himself to go 
 on : "I tell thee, Ralph, as I told Walter yesternight, 
 that I will protect thee so far as my power doth extend. 
 It shall never be said that a Sparowe turned a 
 Wentworth from his door." 
 
 "There spoke my brave-hearted Roger. Friend, I 
 would thank thee, but words are feeble. I knew it. 
 I told Walter 'twould be thus. I said to Will Somers 
 that I would answer for thine honour with my life." 
 
 " Tis no question of honour, as I take it," said Roger, 
 hoarsely. " Christian charity and goodwill alone are 
 concerned in it. I dare not refuse the shelter ye ask 
 for. Only" Roger forced a smile to his white lips 
 " ye must consent to lie close, else my good name will 
 not avail to shield you." 
 
 " We will lie close as any hunted creatures," returned 
 Wentworth, " Have no fear of us. Thou canst trust 
 us." And then the two men looked at each other and 
 nodded, and, without more words, the bargain was sealed. 
 Mistress Margaret clapped her hands. 
 
 " Now thou art kind again, Roger," she cried. " I 
 knew not I dare not make so sure of thee as Ralph 
 here. And now we can all rejoice and be happy. For 
 harm cannot come of it. Who would hold thee to blame 
 for sheltering thine own brother and dearest friend t " 
 
 Roger and Wentworth exchanged looks, but neither 
 spoke, and Mistress Margaret continued : " And, oh, 
 Roger! Prithee chide not thy brother so sharply as 
 thou didst yesternight. He hath done naught to anger 
 thee, save only that he hath espoused the King's cause." 
 
 " We will not speak of these things, mother," said 
 Roger, gently. " Much now lieth with thee. Firstly, 
 thou must see that our friend lacks for naught while he 
 is with us. That I may safely leave to thee. Secondly, 
 look to it that thou betray not his presence, or Walter's, 
 to our neighbours by speech or sign. A word from thee 
 may undo us all."
 
 138 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " It shall be seen to," answered Mistress Margaret, 
 readily. " And now our next concern is the dinner, 1 
 trow. Alack I I have left as fine a pasty as man could 
 wish to taste in the oven, and while I stay talking here 
 'twill be burnt as black as my shoe. The maids, foolish 
 things, know not when to take a pasty from the oven. 
 Out upon me for forgetting it, and upon you both for 
 disturbing me when I have so much on hand ! " And 
 catching up the huge bunch of keys at her girdle, 
 Mistress Margaret hastened to the rescue of her pie. 
 
 The two men turned, and looked at each other. " A 
 word further with thee, Ralph," said Roger, as soon as 
 his mother had disappeared into the buttery. " I give 
 thee shelter freely, but this is no place for thee, or for 
 Walter now, as thou must know. Hast devised any 
 plan to get from hence?" 
 
 " We have friends in Harwich, who busy themselves on 
 our behalf," answered Wentworth, "and we trust shortly 
 to have news of a boat for Holland. We will not put 
 thy goodness to the proof longer than needful. Roger," 
 Wentworth went towards his friend, and laid his hand on 
 his shoulder, " before thy mother I made somewhat light 
 of the protection we have claimed of thee. I desired 
 not to affright her. But think not I am ignorant or 
 careless of thy risk. For myself, I had died sooner than 
 ask this of thee. God forbid that, for mine own safety 
 only, I should place thee in such jeopardy." 
 
 He stopped, and Roger, looking up, was astonished 
 to see his usually calm face quivering with emotion. 
 With an effort to speak cheerfully, Wentworth went on : 
 
 " We have hopes of some conveyance hence, out of 
 England, and till the matter was arranged, we were 
 forced to lie hidden in these parts. I knew no house but 
 thine, where such concealment could be, and therefore I 
 yielded to Walter, and came." 
 
 " Thou hast well done," said Roger, heartily. " Speak 
 not of the danger, Ralph. Are we not friends, and doth 
 not that suffice ? Is there anything thou couldst ask, 
 which I would not freely give thee ? " 
 
 " Roger, I deserve not thy goodness," said Wentworth,
 
 RECOGNITION. 139 
 
 more moved than even the occasion seemed to warrant. 
 11 Dost thou know that we have a price on our heads, 
 and that it is death to anyone to give us shelter ? " 
 
 " Ay, I know it," answered Roger. " What of that ? 
 Do I set such store by mine own life, Ralph, that I 
 cannot give it willingly for my friend ? So I can but act 
 rightly, and do my duty the Lord grant me light ! " 
 
 Wentworth seized his friend's hand, but before he 
 could answer the door opened, and Walter's tall figure 
 appeared in the entrance. He was about to enter when, 
 glancing over his shoulder, he stopped and stood aside, 
 to let a young man pass into the room. Two things 
 about the stranger rivetted Roger's attention. He was 
 struck with the incongruity between his brilliant dark 
 eyes, delicate lips, and keen vivacious face, and the 
 rough, dirty, serving man's suit he wore ; and he could 
 not fail to notice that Walter, who rarely showed much 
 courtesy, even to his mother, treated with marked 
 deference a man who, if Wentworth was to be believed, 
 was greatly his inferior in station. 
 
 The moment Walter caught sight of his brother, he 
 started and blushed crimson, then pushing rudely past 
 his companion, he tried to assume a careless air, 
 swaggered haughtily up to Roger, and wished him 
 " Good day." 
 
 Roger absently returned his brother's greeting. His 
 eyes were fixed upon the stranger who, after a modest 
 bow to the company, placed himself respectfully behind 
 Wentworth, cap in hand, and stood awaiting his orders. 
 
 " This," said Wentworth, turning to Roger, " is the 
 serving man of whom I spoke. He hath been a faithful 
 friend to me in the war. But for him, I had not come 
 alive out of Worcester fight. Prithee let me bespeak 
 thy good offices for him." 
 
 Roger did not answer. The more closely he watched 
 the new comer, the more convinced he felt that he had 
 seen those brilliant eyes, that swarthy face, and those 
 thin, cynical lips before. Wentworth continued : " I 
 have no further need for thee now, good Will. Go thou 
 to our chamber, and see to my gear. Hold thee in
 
 140 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 readiness to start at a moment's warning. For his sake, 
 and our own, we will not quarter ourselves on our friend 
 longer than need is." 
 
 The young man bowed in silence, and was on the 
 point of going to execute his master's orders, when Roger 
 sprang across the room, and stopped him with a sudden 
 "Hold!" Walter darted forward with an oath, but 
 Wentworth dragged him back, and thrust his hand over 
 his mouth. 
 
 " What wouldest thou with my man, Roger ? " he 
 asked, and though his voice was calm, his whole frame 
 trembled. " Methinks our talk is scarcely fit for his 
 ears. Let him go and see to mine armour." 
 
 " This is no man of thine," said Roger, sternly. 
 " Mock me not with a falsehood, Ralph. Is it not 
 enough that I risk my life to shelter you, but ye must 
 needs use further concealment ? The Lord help me I 
 Thou, and Walter, and thy friend here, ye are all 
 deceiving me. Will not one of you speak the truth ? 
 As for this gentleman," he went on, turning to the 
 stranger, " I have seen his face before. In Scotland, 
 was it not ? Ay, in Scotland last year, when I served 
 against the King of Scots." 
 
 There was a dead silence. Wentworth turned ghastly 
 pale, and bent his eyes to the ground. Walter stamped 
 his foot and ground his teeth in futile rage and despair. 
 Roger, trembling from head to foot, stood between the 
 stranger and the door. The subject of the controversy 
 alone was apparently unmoved by it. He stood still, 
 when Roger stopped him, without offering any resistance, 
 and tranquilly submitted to the young man's scrutinizing 
 gaze. There was a breathless pause, while he seemed 
 to debate something with himself: then he raised his 
 eyes, and confronted Roger with absolute composure. 
 
 "You are right, Master Sparowe," he said, with a 
 quiet dignity in tone and bearing which rivetted the 
 attention of all. " 'Tis a poor return for the protection 
 you give us, to keep you in ignorance of aught that 
 concerns you. Truly you owe us small thanks for 
 thrusting ourselves upon you at this unwelcome juncture.
 
 RECOGNITION. 141 
 
 My friends here willed it so ; I had never done it with- 
 out your consent. But at least there shall be no error ; 
 you shall know whom you shelter." 
 
 " He put on the small, round cap he held in his hand, 
 and continued : " Ten days ago, I was a King ; now I 
 am plain Will Somers, at your service." 
 
 Roger staggered back, horror struck. " The King of 
 Scots ! " he exclaimed wildly. " Charles Stuart him- 
 self! It cannot be!" 
 
 " So is it, nevertheless," answered the other, with a 
 faint smile. " I have borne so many names, it signifieth 
 little by which you please to call me. I am much 
 beholden to you, that you dub me not forthwith the Man 
 of Sin. Charles Stuart then it is, who asks the shelter 
 of your house for forty-eight hours." 
 
 " The King of Scots ! the King of Scots ! " repeated 
 Roger, in a terrified voice. 
 
 " King neither of Scotland or England for the nonce," 
 returned Charles. " Now, good Master Sparowe, since 
 our friends yonder are dumb-founded, it behoves me to 
 use plainness of speech, and to put clearly before you 
 how we stand. We are in your hands. Either you may 
 deliver us up to the nearest justice, or belike you are a 
 justice yourself, you may with your own hands clap us 
 in ward. Or you may bid us depart in peace, which we 
 will do forthwith, and run our chance of the Parliament 
 men. Or you may shelter us, at the risk of your life, 
 till we get a ship to Holland ; in which latter case I 
 remain for ever your debtor. And, marry, I care not 
 greatly which course of the three you take." 
 
 And Charles leant back against the door, and watched 
 Roger's troubled face with quiet composure. A long 
 silence ensued, a silence so painful that the actors 
 in this strange drama scarcely dared to breathe. Walter 
 was the first to break it. As Roger turned and 
 looked at him and Wentworth, he held out his hands 
 appealingly. 
 
 " Mercy, brother," he cried, " mercy I Thou art so 
 cold and hard, I dared not tell thee. I said to Ralph 
 that 'twas best to keep thee in ignorance. Yet oh ! we
 
 142 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 could no other. The King needed a place of safety, and 
 I knew of none other on this coast. Thou hadst told 
 me, too, that thou wouldest not shut me from our 
 father's house, for any difference betwixt us." 
 
 " Be still, Walter 1 " said Roger, sharply. " Thou 
 hast wrought me evil enough ; prithee leave me in peace. 
 As for you, sir, I pray you suffer me to withdraw for 
 awhile. Matters have come to that pass that I know 
 not how to act." 
 
 "We would not hasten your decision, sir," said 
 Charles, with a courteous wave of the hand. " Pray 
 you, consider it as long as you will." 
 
 " I would seek counsel of the Lord," said Roger, so 
 earnestly that even Charles did not smile. " In a few 
 hours, it may be, with prayer and supplication, I shall 
 have light." 
 
 "And thou wilt not kiss the King's hand before thou 
 goest, Roger ? " asked Walter, eagerly. 
 
 " It needs not," said Charles, with a gracious smile. 
 " The service you have already rendered, sir, makes me 
 for ever your debtor. The excellent dinner and bed 
 wherewith I was hospitably entertained last night, at 
 your cost, albeit not with your knowledge, do greatly 
 outweigh any such trifles. I' faith, I stood in sore need 
 of both." 
 
 With a bow Roger was leaving the room, hoping to 
 put an end to this painful scene, when Wentworth, who 
 had been an agitated spectator, stepped up to him, and 
 drew him aside. " Roger," he asked, " dost remember 
 our pledge at parting on London Bridge three weeks 
 since ? " 
 
 " I mind it well, Ralph," answered Roger. " I give 
 not my pledges lightly." 
 
 " Nor do I claim them lightly. We did swear then to 
 stand by each other, and help each other as friends to 
 the uttermost. Was it not so ? " 
 
 Roger bent his head, and Wentworth continued : " If 
 thy pledge had meaning in it, Roger, redeem it upon him 
 who stands there. He is more to me than all the world 
 besides."
 
 RECOGNITION. 143 
 
 " More than I, Ralph ? Is it verily so? Thou dost 
 not know him. Thou hast scarce seen him a dozen 
 times, and we have been friends from childhood." 
 
 " Roger, thou dost not understand," interrupted 
 Wentworth impatiently. " Thou art my friend, but he 
 is my King. I would sacrifice thy very friendship, if 
 need were, to secure his safety. For his sake, Roger, 
 
 ask thee to fulfil the pledge. For his sake ! " 
 
 Roger glanced back into the room. Charles was 
 examining the rich carving of the wainscotting, des- 
 canting upon its beauty with the air of a connoisseur, 
 and talking as easily to Walter, as if no lives hung in 
 the balance. 
 
 " I understand thee now," said Roger, in a low, bitter 
 voice. " Ralph Wentworth, I offered thee safety. Dost 
 thou claim it for him rather than thyself ? " 
 
 " Yea, for him," answered Wentworth. " Else is the 
 pledge of no avail." 
 
 Roger put his hand over his eyes. " I see it all," he 
 said. " Have patience with me, friend. I will lay the 
 matter before the Lord, and peradventure it shall be 
 as thou wilt." 
 
 And with these words, the young Puritan quitted the 
 room.
 
 144 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 
 
 LEFT to themselves, the three fugitives held a hasty 
 consultation. Or rather, to speak more truly, Walter 
 and Wentworth discussed plans, and weighed the 
 chances of escape and discovery, while the object of 
 their anxious deliberations threw in a word here and 
 there, sometimes apposite, often gay, and occasionally 
 even trivial. 
 
 It was decided at once that Charles could not risk 
 himself again in the family sitting rooms. He had 
 already been recognized by Roger, and if he mixed freely 
 with the company that frequented the house, his person 
 could not fail to be known to some at least among them, 
 more especially since the town was crowded with soldiers 
 from Worcester. The courtyard was often full of 
 visitors, rich and poor. People came there to see Roger 
 on business ; country neighbours rode in, and without 
 more ceremony proceeded to " stable " their horses ; 
 poor folk waited there for Mistress Margaret, and dis- 
 cussed their ailments freely with the servants. In the 
 narrow lane which ran down the side of the house was a 
 small postern gate, much used by those who did not care 
 to be at the trouble of making a formal entry by the 
 great front hall. Walter knew well how frequently 
 intimate friends of the family were in the habit of 
 entering the courtyard by this gate, crossing over, and 
 coming without further announcement than a knock into 
 the sitting rooms. At any moment, then, a stranger 
 might appear, recognize the King, and throw all their 
 plans of concealment to the winds. 
 
 Above this room, just beneath the chapel gable, was a 
 noble chamber. The roof of it had always excited the 
 admiration and envy of master builders. The walls and
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 145 
 
 ceiling were united in one single vaulted arch, curiously 
 poised, which sprang from the sides of the room at a 
 distance of six feet from the ground, and rose to nearly 
 treble that height. This magnificent arch culminated in 
 the centre of the roof in a richly carved rose, and the 
 same ornament was seen, quartered, in the four angles of 
 the room ; a delicate allusion, probably, to the three red 
 roses which formed the Sparowe coat of arms. The 
 room looked towards the garden, and partly because it 
 was quiet, partly on account of its noble proportions, 
 was usually assigned for the accommodation of guests of 
 quality. Royalty itself before now had used this room, 
 when honouring the Sparowe family with a visit. Here 
 Wentworth had been formally installed, the night before, 
 by Mistress Margaret, and a low tuckle bed hastily 
 made up in the corner for Will Somers, which 
 Wentworth, as soon as they were alone, lost no time in 
 taking for himself. 
 
 Walter now proposed that his dangerous guests should 
 establish themselves here for the present, only venturing 
 into the lower part of the house, when he could certify 
 that they might do so without risk. For himself, he 
 openly declared that he did not intend to use much 
 concealment. By this time, nearly all the servants had 
 seen him, but being mostly old retainers of the family, 
 they could be trusted. They were as certain as Roger 
 himself and Mistress Margaret not to speak of their 
 young master's return, if bidden to be silent. It was 
 already known among them that Master Walter had 
 brought a friend and his serving man, and that both were 
 obliged to remain concealed for the present. Notwith- 
 standing their curiosity, therefore, they had respected 
 the secret, and had forborne to way-lay the serving man, 
 and extract from him, as they were longing to do, a 
 circumstantial account of the battle. It was more to 
 guard against the intrusion of outsiders, than against 
 any indiscretion on the part of the servants, that Walter 
 entreated Charles and Wentworth to keep strictly to the 
 alcove room for the rest of the day. 
 
 They were sitting here in anxious talk, waiting for 
 
 L
 
 146 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 Roger's decision. Walter, despairing already of the 
 result, declared that his brother would turn them out of 
 doors, as soon as his conscience had convinced him, as it 
 assuredly would do, that such was his duty. 
 
 "Truly, friend, I for one could scarce blame him," 
 returned Charles. " Were I myself a Puritan, and in 
 mine absence found my house suddenly overrun with a 
 pack of Cavalier knaves, the keeping of whom were 
 death to me, I would make short work of them. Out 
 they should all go, neck and crop. I scarce see how 
 your brother can come to any other conclusion." 
 
 "Your Majesty doth misjudge my friend, and thou, 
 Walter, thy brother most grievously," said Wentworth, 
 earnestly. " He is a Puritan, but likewise a man of 
 honour, and of the tenderest heart withal. He cannot 
 do it, 'tis not in his nature. He could never be guilty of 
 so foul a deed, and drive us all to certain death. I had 
 some speech with him before you came, sir, and found 
 him the same Roger as of old, which thy words, Walter, 
 had almost caused me to doubt." 
 
 Wentworth's passionate vindication of his friend was 
 interrupted at this moment by a low knock at the door. 
 He hastened to it, and cautiously asked, who stood there? 
 To his surprise he received for answer the Royalist pass- 
 word "A friend to Csesar." He turned in dismay to 
 Walter. 
 
 " Who can this be ? " he asked in a terrified whisper. 
 " Some one is here who knoweth us already. We are 
 betrayed, Walter." 
 
 " Prithee, let me to the door," said Walter. " I shall 
 know who it is by the voice." And putting Wentworth 
 aside, he bent down to the latch. A moment's whispered 
 conference ensued, while Wentworth waited in breathless 
 anxiety. Then saying over his shoulder : " All is well," 
 Walter unbolted the door and threw it open. 
 
 Even Charles himself was not proof for an instant 
 against a movement of alarm, and Wentworth strode 
 fiercely up to the new comer, his hand on his sword. 
 For Walter had admitted none other than a Puritan 
 minister, in orthodox cassock and bands. His sour face
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 147 
 
 wore an expression of more than ordinary sanctity, and 
 his short grisly beard and moustache added to his 
 forbidding appearance. 
 
 " Whom have we here ? " said Charles, forgetting in 
 his astonishment his assumed character of Will Somers. 
 11 Reverend Sir, you have mistaken your company. We 
 are, alas ! no Puritan saints, but a couple of as arrant 
 Cavalier rogues as were ever doomed to perdition. 
 Your reverence may spare your prayers." 
 
 For only answer Master Sturges flung himself upon 
 his knees, and seizing the hand of the poorly clad serving 
 lad, covered it with tears and kisses. 
 
 " Tis you who mistake, my liege," he cried at last, as 
 well as his sobs would permit him, " but I wonder not at 
 it. Even at the door I dared not remove these hateful 
 disguises." And taking off his false beard and moustache, 
 and removing the small velvet cap he wore, he displayed 
 the smooth shaven face, and tonsured head of a Catholic 
 priest. Charles was fairly startled out of his usual 
 composure. 
 
 " Father Martin ! my dear and honoured Father 
 Martin ! " he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion. 
 " Prithee how, in the name of all the Saints, came you 
 hither? Nay, kneel not to me. 'Tis I rather who 
 should kneel to you, and crave your blessing. My good 
 angel it is who hath sent you to me in my sorest need." 
 
 Father Martin rose from his knees and wiped his eyes. 
 
 " Alas ! that ever I should behold you in this plight, 
 my liege," he said tearfully. " Her Majesty the Queen 
 herself would scarce know you. Yet let me not grieve 
 over much. One mercy at least is vouchsafed us. You 
 are here hale and sound, though but yesterday your 
 death was declared to me by a soldier of the fanatics, 
 with so many circumstances thereof, that I could not 
 but believe it." 
 
 " Heard you not that news before, father ? " returned 
 Charles, laughing. " Myself have been told it ten times 
 at the least. I am in a manner hardened to it ; the tale 
 begins to pall upon me. We will speak of other 
 matters, and first tell me how came you hither ? "
 
 148 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Hath it not then reached your Majesty's ears, but 
 no, the news were too trifling, that I am now Puritan 
 minister in this godly parish of Ipswich ? " 
 
 Charles looked at the speaker for a moment, then 
 burst out into so merry and ringing a laugh, that Went- 
 worth laid his hand on his arm to enjoin caution. 
 
 "You, father, parish priest here? Tis impossible. 
 To beard the lion in his den after that fashion ! Nay, 
 I gave you not credit for such marvellous courage. 
 Pray you how long have you held the office ? " 
 
 " For a matter of a year and more," returned Father 
 Martin, composedly, " and I trust I have been enabled 
 to give some help in secret to the good cause." 
 
 " I heard nought thereof," said Charles. " No news 
 for many months past hath been suffered to come to mine 
 ears, save such as it hath pleased those Presbyterian 
 knaves to give me. I tell thee, father, such a life did 
 I lead in Scotland, what with the Covenant, and the 
 preaching and praying, and the sermons six hours in 
 length, to listen to almost daily, that even these my 
 wanderings seem light in comparison." 
 
 Charles heaved a deep sigh at the recollection of his 
 Scotch experiences. " But hold," he continued, " are 
 we not in the house of a Puritan ? " 
 
 " Ay, and the rankest of them all," returned Father 
 Martin. " I marvel that your Majesty was brought 
 hither for shelter. There is no more hot-headed zealot 
 in all this town than Master Roger Sparowe." 
 
 " Ah, say you so ? Now mark him, Ralph." 
 
 " He hath but newly made a journey to London," 
 continued the priest, " of set purpose to have me 
 deprived of my cure. He had suspicions," he said. 
 
 " And not without reason, I trow. There were enough 
 in his own house, to say nothing of the doings in the 
 town, to cause such an one to have many suspicions. 
 He is no fool, is this same Master Roger Sparowe. 
 Why, father, an the good folks here saw you now, what, 
 think you, were your fate ? Hanging were too good." 
 
 " Twas not I who adventured myself, my liege," 
 returned the father, quietly. " I am but the hand that
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 149 
 
 executes ; our Holy Mother Church, the true head of us 
 all, bid me to the work. From her I received the com- 
 mandment to take upon me this post of danger, and I 
 trust there are some who have cause to bless my coming." 
 
 He glanced at Walter with a smile full of meaning. 
 The young man coloured, and looked on the ground. 
 
 " I doubt not, father," r said Charles, without noticing 
 his last words, " that wheresoever you are, the Church 
 finds in you a faithful servant. Nevertheless,^ seemeth 
 a hazardous life to me. But how heard you of our 
 coming ? " 
 
 " I had news of it yesternight," answered Father Martin, 
 " and hastened hither as soon as safety would permit. 
 For, although the news from that source hath always 
 been trustworthy, this that was told me was so passing 
 strange, that I could not believe it, till I had beheld 
 your Majesty with mine own eyes." 
 
 " News of our coming yesternight ? " said Charles, with 
 a puzzled look. " But how save through Walter here ? " 
 
 " Walter told me not," returned the priest, evasively. 
 ' Let it suffice that the news was true. And now, since 
 your Majesty is here, suffer me to say that you can 
 have no safer messenger than my poor self. I am well 
 looked on by all the townsfolk; Mistress Margaret hath 
 made me free of this house, and I can bring you news 
 without fear." 
 
 "We thank you, sir, for your good offer," said Went- 
 worth, who had stood listening to the conversation in 
 silence. " Since it pleases the King to trust you, we 
 will gladly accept your help. This gentleman is known 
 to you sir ? " 
 
 " Known to me ! Why, man, hast never heard speak 
 of Father Martin ? " replied Charles. " He hath been 
 about the Court, as one of the advisers of our mother 
 the Queen, since I was a child. 'Twas he who helped 
 to sell the crown jewels, and to bring arms and ammuni- 
 tion into the kingdom, for the furtherance of the war, 
 about which the Parliament men made so rare a piece 
 of work. I trust him, Ralph, as I would thee." 
 
 Wentworth listened respectfully, but his face showed
 
 150 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 that he was ill-satisfied. Like many other ardent 
 Royalists, he was a sincere Protestant, and cordially 
 disliked the constant indentiflcation of the King's cause 
 with the Papists. It was inevitable at the present 
 crisis ; it had, apparently, been inevitable all through the 
 war, but Wentworth, none the less, was as bitterly 
 opposed as any Puritan to the Queen mother and her 
 train of priests. 
 
 14 Disdain not help, even though it come from a Papist," 
 said a low voice in his ear. Wentworth started. The 
 priest was looking steadily at him, with a smile on his 
 face, and seemed to read his inmost thoughts ; but before 
 he could reply, Father Martin went on aloud : 4< From 
 the same quarter from whence I received news of your 
 Majesty, I obtained intelligence of some boats which are 
 about to^start for Holland. One of them, it is hoped, 
 will serve your Majesty's purpose, and convey you out 
 of the country." 
 
 44 That were good news indeed," said Charles, joyfully, 
 44 the best 1 could have at this time. For to say truth, 
 our lodging here is of the strangest. We are in the 
 house of a godly Puritan, Master Roger Sparowe, who 
 hath not yet consented to give us shelter. While we 
 speak he is deliberating, peradventure on his knees, 
 after the manner of our Scotch friends, whether he shall 
 deliver us up to justice, or let us live." 
 
 4< Was it well done to tell him, sir ? " asked Father 
 Martin. "Was it not possible to hide your presence 
 from him ? " 
 
 44 It was not possible," answered Charles, quietly. 44 1 
 would not have it, father ; I told him myself. And now, 
 since you can do so much, have you no power to soften 
 the heart of this stern fanatic, that he may keep us until 
 the morrow ? " 
 
 44 1 can do nought with him, sir," answered the priest. 
 " Master Sparowe hath an ill-opinion of me. He 
 suspected me from the first, and I have greatly 
 marvelled wherefore, knowing who I was, he hath not 
 openly denounced me." 
 
 44 1 have told you the reason of it, father," said Walter,
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 151 
 
 coming forward. " That which keeps him back is the 
 fear of revealing the secret of the passage, which he and 
 I discovered after so strange a fashion. We have agreed 
 to guard the knowledge of it jealously. Only," he went 
 on, turning to Charles, " when your Majesty's life was 
 in danger over at Alnesbourne, I was forced to disclose 
 it. But I have besought you, sir, to speak to none of 
 the means by which you entered this house." 
 
 " We are silent as the grave," answered Charles, 
 lightly. " Tut, man, I have made acquaintance, since 
 the day of Worcester fight, with so many secret ways 
 and passages, and hidden chambers, and closets built 
 into chimneys, that I should be hard put to it, six months 
 hence, to remember any one of them." 
 
 " Concerning this boat for the Low Countries? " asked 
 Wentworth, anxiously. " What news do you bring us, 
 father ? " 
 
 " Those that are busying themselves in the matter," 
 said Father Martin, mysteriously, " have already partly 
 gained the master of a small boat, which hath arrived 
 these few days since from Holland. Interest hath been 
 made with him, for the consideration of a round sum of 
 money, to load again at once, and put to sea, taking on 
 board a gentleman who hath given his creditors the slip, 
 and his servant. Thus far have the negotiations pro- 
 gressed. The man is almost won, and I am sent hither 
 to your Majesty to arrange for the final settlement." 
 
 " When can the man be ready ? " asked Wentworth. 
 
 " To-morrow night, it may be, or the night after. He 
 hath to victual his boat, and to get together some kind 
 of cargo, that his hasty departure, when he is but newly 
 arrived, raise not suspicion." 
 
 " How serves the tide ? " said Wentworth. 
 
 " That I know not. It were an easy matter for me to 
 come here again, and acquaint you with the hour of 
 sailing ; but those that sent me judged it wise to have 
 some signal betwixt us, if it were possible." 
 
 "A signal were best," said Wentworth, decisively. "It 
 may be safe for you, father, to come hither, but not so 
 safe for the King to be seen in your company "
 
 152 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " From whence doth the boat sail ? " asked Walter. 
 
 " From Harwich," answered Father Martin, " but 'tis 
 agreed that she shall come up the river as far as her 
 draught will permit. A light river skiff shall be kept in 
 readiness here, near Stoke Bridge, and your Majesty can 
 drop down in her, as soon as the boat appears." 
 
 " At Stoke Bridge, beyond St. Peter's Church ? " 
 asked Walter again. "The signal then is easy. Let 
 them show a light from the mast-head of the boat, 
 and we can see it from the little window in the chapel. 
 You know it well, father. We have often watched the 
 ships in the river from thence." 
 
 Walter's plan seemed feasible, and was readily 
 adopted. It was agreed that the signal should be a light 
 three times shown, at intervals of a minute, from the 
 boat. Everything appeared to promise well, when 
 Charles, who had listened with his usual careless air, 
 suddenly struck into the conversation. 
 
 " Hold, father," he said, "one thing hath been for- 
 gotten. Let the skipper know that he hath three 
 passengers to convey." 
 
 " Three ! " exclaimed Father Martin in consternation. 
 " Sir, it is impossible. The pass is for two only. The 
 man will raise some demur, and cry off from his bargain, 
 when he findeth the number of fugitives increased." 
 
 " We will all go or none," answered Charles. " Think 
 you I will leave this lad behind ? We owe it to him 
 that we are here at all." 
 
 " It cannot be," cried Father Martin wringing his 
 hands in despair. " Would your Majesty, then, imperil 
 your own precious person for the sake of a boy ? " 
 
 " If need be, yes, " replied Charles, firmly. " Had he 
 not led us by cross-roads and bye-ways so intricate that 
 none had known them save one born in the country, 
 we could never have baffled the hot pursuit. Without 
 him, those hounds of fanatics had trapped us long ago. 
 And hath he not placed his whole family in jeopardy to 
 save my worthless life ? You mistake me, father. He 
 shall not be left behind." 
 
 " Think not of me, my liege," cried Walter, flinging
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 153 
 
 himself on his knees and covering Charles' hand with tears 
 and kisses. " Better that I should die a thousand deaths 
 than a hair of your Majesty's head should be imperilled." 
 
 Charles rubbed his hand over his rough crop of short 
 black hair. " Good Master Walter," quoth he, with a 
 smile, " all the hair on mine head would scarce make one 
 of your dainty love locks. Wilmot's shears did their 
 work well, methinks. But as regards this matter, save 
 yourselves further speech. My resolve is taken." 
 
 In vain did Wentworth and Father Martin expostulate. 
 Charles, usually so easily led, was for once immoveable, 
 and turned a deaf ear to Walter himself, when he tear- 
 fully begged to be allowed to shift for his own safety." 
 
 " With a Puritan brother, and a town full of fanatic 
 soldiers, fresh from victory. Nay, man, I know the 
 country better than you. In three days' time the place 
 will be too hot to hold any one of us. Thy brother 
 protect thee ! Why, they will put such force upon his 
 conscience that he will think, forsooth, it is his bounden 
 duty to deliver thee up. Either thou shalt come with 
 us, or we will all stay." 
 
 Sorely against his better judgment, Father Martin 
 was forced to promise that, through the mysterious 
 agency to which he had already referred, he would 
 arrange with the skipper to take Walter also on board. 
 He contented himself with warning his confederates that 
 the whole negotiation might thereby fall through. As 
 to leaving the house unseen, as soon as the signal was 
 given from the river, that was no difficult matter. A 
 sort of alcove, adorned with huge figures painted in 
 Dutch tiles, ran the length of the two sitting rooms on 
 the ground floor, on the opposite side to the courtyard. 
 It ended in a passage leading to a small side door, which 
 opened into a lane at the back of the house. The lane 
 joined the road which led in almost a straight line to 
 St. Peter's Church, and on to the river side. This was 
 the exit Walter proposed to make use of, and as the 
 servants' rooms were all in the other part of the house, 
 he hoped that the travellers would be able to slip out 
 unperceived.
 
 154 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 Matters being at last arranged, Father Martin rose to 
 take his leave. There was a pause, as he drew his 
 cassock over his shoulders, which the warmth of the 
 room had made him throw off. He hesitated, as if 
 something still remained to be said, and glanced doubt- 
 fully at Walter. Then, approaching Charles, the priest 
 said something to him in a low voice. Charles started, 
 and looked at his companions. 
 
 "Here, father? In the house of a Puritan? How 
 could such a thing be ? For his brother's sake, Master 
 Walter dare not connive." 
 
 " Walter would not only connive, but rejoice to par- 
 ticipate," returned Father Martin. " Your Majesty 
 hath seen the chapel here. Many a time since my 
 coming hath it been put to its rightful use." 
 
 " 'Tis not for me to make objection," returned Charles, 
 shrugging his shoulders, " albeit I am not altogether of 
 your way of thinking, father. If Walter here hath 
 nought to say to it "... 
 
 " The Sparowes were of the true faith formerly, my 
 liege. The father of these lads was the first Puritan of 
 the stock." 
 
 " Well, be it so, then," said Charles, with a curious 
 smile. " This house is full of mystery, but none, me- 
 thinks, is greater than this, that the Catholic worship 
 should be established under the roof of a fanatic. Doth 
 he know of it ? Marry, I never felt compassion for a 
 Puritan before, but I could find it in my heart to pity 
 Master Roger Sparowe." 
 
 Charles' pity would probably have been mixed with 
 contempt, could he have seen how Roger was employed 
 at this moment. Deceived by his brother, thwarted by 
 his dearest friend, entangled in a web of intrigue and 
 duplicity utterly abhorrent to his candid nature; and, 
 above all, burdened with the most frightful responsibility 
 ever thrust upon unwilling shoulders, Roger had, on 
 entering his room, flung himself on his knees. In this 
 attitude he remained for hours. As a Puritan, he was 
 bound to believe himself one of the elect, to whom the 
 Divine light and guidance would always, and on the
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 155 
 
 instant, be vouchsafed. But, alas ! pray as he would, 
 the light did not come. No answer seemed to be given 
 to his passionate supplication, no heaven-sent impulse 
 showed him what he ought to do. In despair he sprang 
 to his feet, and snatched up his Bible, " to try the spirits 
 by the Word of God." It was a method of solving 
 doubts much in favour among the Puritans, but it also 
 failed him. Not a text could he find applicable to his 
 present difficulties. 
 
 Then Roger began to torture himself with rigid self- 
 examination. Heaven could not be wrong ; it must be 
 some sin within his own heart which kept back the 
 answer to his prayer. He tested his purity of motive 
 by every method of self-analysis practised in a morbidly 
 religious age, till the natural result ensued, and he 
 fancied himself the most depraved of sinners. But still 
 the heavens " were as brass above him." 
 
 From a worldly point of view, there could be no 
 question of the course he should adopt. Apparently 
 interest and religion were for once agreed. Both bade 
 him set his conscience at rest, and deliver the men up 
 to justice, who had taken shelter under his roof, without 
 his permission or knowledge. That one was his brother, 
 and another his friend, was an argument which, he 
 knew, ought not to influence him. Any Puritan casuist 
 would have told him that the guilt of the third party 
 far outweighed any tender considerations to which the 
 other fugitives might be entitled. If the argument 
 were raised, that no crime could be alleged against 
 Charles, save that he had taken up arms to resist a 
 government which he regared as a usurpation of his 
 rights, Roger would not have endorsed it. To him, as 
 to every Puritan, the very name of Stuart was hateful. 
 He was willing to acknowledge his pledge to Wentworth, 
 but no tie of loyalty bound him to Wentworth's master. 
 
 The more Roger pondered the question, the more 
 bewildered he became. If he gave the fugitives up to 
 justice, or sent them away, he would be lacking in the 
 Christian charity he was bound to show to all men. If 
 he allowed them to remain, he would have to bear the
 
 156 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 sting of a guilty conscience, to lend himself to tacit, if 
 not open deceit, and to incur, as he verily believed, the 
 anger of the Lord. He rose from his knees, and paced 
 the room, moody and defiant. Since light came not, 
 since help was not vouchsafed, his baser nature began 
 to get the upper hand. He would send these men away, 
 with as much care for their safety as possible. He 
 would not for their sakes forfeit his peace of mind, nor 
 blight all his hopes. For assuredly, if tidings came to 
 Master Burroughs' ears that Roger was tampering with 
 the Royalists, to say nothing of harbouring the arch- 
 traitor himself, the young man would fare badly at 
 his hands. 
 
 Suddenly, as he stood by an open window, his last 
 conversation with Alice Burroughs came to his mind. 
 Again he seemed to hear her soft voice saying : " We 
 forget oftentimes the simple law of charity to our 
 neighbours." And in an instant all the elaborate 
 arguments he had built up to justify himself, fell to 
 pieces, and Roger knew that he could not follow his own 
 wishes, that he dared not sacrifice these men, who had 
 trusted their lives in his hands, be they who they might. 
 And after this manner his prayer was heard. 
 
 An hour later, when he came to the alcove room, he 
 found Wentworth alone. His friend did not guess, as 
 Roger quietly announced that he was willing to run the 
 risk of giving shelter to him and his companion, through 
 what a conflict the young man had passed. Roger's 
 pale face was as calm as usual. He seemed indeed 
 far less agitated than Wentworth, who, since the others 
 left him, had paced the room incessantly, chafing 
 against his own bitter, anxious thoughts. The high- 
 minded Cavalier was sorely troubled at the further 
 deception to which he had been forced unwillingly to lend 
 himself. He could not endure to think that the King he 
 so passionately loved was, at this moment, taking part 
 in a Catholic service. Nor was he comforted by the 
 careless remark Charles had whispered to him as he left 
 the room, that " anything was better than those canting 
 Presbyterian sermons."
 
 FATHER MARTIN. 157 
 
 It was a great relief to Roger to find that his 
 inconvenient guests were as anxious to take their 
 departure, as he to be rid of them. But when 
 Wentworth began to enter into the question of ways 
 and means, Roger stopped him. 
 
 " I have no desire to know what thou art about to 
 do," he said. " It were far safer not to tell me. This 
 house is for thy use, and thy companions, as long as 
 ye choose to remain here, but prithee seek not much 
 speech of me. For your own sakes, and not to raise 
 suspicions, it were better thus. Let me go mine own 
 way as heretofore." 
 
 " Thou art right, Roger, but it grieves me to bring thee 
 to it. I know thy tender conscience putteth thee to sore 
 straits. Alack that I am forced to ask so much of thee ! " 
 
 " We will not speak of these things, Ralph," answered 
 Roger, quietly, " The heart knoweth its own bitterness. 
 I trust only that the Lord hath given me grace to see 
 what I ought to do." 
 
 " Nay, thine own honourable nature it is which hath 
 led thee right. 'Tis the old story, Roger. A Sparowe 
 and a Wentworth, and a Sparowe giveth himself again 
 for his friend. Wouldest thou have done it without me, 
 and the pledge I was bound to claim of thee ? Pray 
 God thou lose not in the end that which might be dearer 
 than life itself." 
 
 " Tis done now, Ralph. Prithee speak not further of 
 it," answered Roger, hastily. " Meanwhile there is one 
 thing more I would ask of thee, and then it shall be 
 agreed between us, not to see each other, unless need 
 arise. My mother how much does she know of this 
 business ? " 
 
 " She hath only heard," answered Wentworth, " that 
 I am here, and that I have a young serving man in my 
 company. But thou wilt see her shortly, and I beseech 
 thee, friend, enjoin earnestly upon her the fearful need 
 for secrecy. Charge her, as she values her son's life, 
 that she tell no one of our coming. I fear thy mother's 
 tongue, Roger, more than ought else, but thou knowest, 
 doubtless, how to deal with her."
 
 158 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " I will do thy behest to the utmost," answered Roger. 
 " And now, Ralph, we part. Prithee fret not thyself 
 because of any hurt thou doest me. If harm come of 
 this business, I am well able to bear it. My life is not 
 more at stake than thine." 
 
 " Ah, if thou wert one of us ! " sighed Wentworth, his 
 dark eyes suddenly moist with tears. " Ours is a noble 
 cause, fit to nerve any man to act the hero, but thou 
 hast no such consolation." 
 
 " Nay," answered Roger, with a faint smile, " to me 
 mine seemeth the nobler cause. Canst thou not believe 
 in it, Ralph ? For what higher purpose can a man 
 strive than to do right ? " 
 
 " But thy duty, were it not, to deliver us up ? " 
 
 " So I thought this morning," answered Roger, " but 
 now I see it otherwise. The Lord hath shown me that 
 I have a duty to my neighbour, as well as to mine own 
 soul." 
 
 " How, to thy neighour only ! " echoed Ralph, frown- 
 ing. " Dost thou not owe allegiance to the King ? " 
 
 " We have a King over us, and His name is the Lord 
 of Hosts," answered Roger. " He whom thou callest 
 King is no more to me than Charles Stuart." 
 
 " Why dost thou shelter us, then, if thou dost not 
 hold thyself bound to the King ? " 
 
 " For love of thee, Ralph, and Walter. And likewise, 
 and chiefly, because I take it to be the will of the Lord, 
 and my duty." 
 
 Wenthworth took his friend's hand. " So thou do it, 
 Roger, that is all we ask of thee. Whether from love 
 of thy King and thy cause, as thou sayest, or for love of 
 our King and cause, the act is tbe same, and I thank 
 thee heartily." 
 
 And with these words, the two men embraced, and 
 went their ways.
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 MASTER NEHEMIAH BURROUGHS had been in much 
 perplexity of mind since Roger's last visit to Mote End. 
 The young man's suit for his daughter's hand had taken 
 the old Puritan at unawares, and he was not sure 
 whether the ambiguous answer he had returned had 
 been altogether wise. He had no intention of losing so 
 excellent a prospect of settling his daughter in life. In 
 every respect save one, no better son-in-law could be 
 desired than Roger Sparrowe. 
 
 He was rich in land, the only form wealth could take 
 in those days. About a hundred and fifty years before, 
 a younger branch of the Sparowes had migrated from 
 their original home at Somersham to Ipswich. The 
 elder line had failed, and the Somersham estates, which 
 were strictly entailed, had reverted to the Ipswich 
 representatives of the family. They had also acquired 
 considerable property in the town itself, and Roger 
 Sparowe, now head of the house, owned much land in 
 the county. 
 
 Furthermore, he had the inestimable advantage of 
 birth. The Sparowes had not, it is true, come over with 
 the Conqueror, but so many noble families had perished 
 in the Wars of the Roses that it was a distinction only 
 to have survived them. Wealth could be acquired. 
 Estates, since the dissolution of the monasteries, were 
 plentiful; but ancient descent, as Master Burroughs, 
 who traced his own from his grandfather, a silk mercer 
 in the time of Queen Elizabeth, sometimes ruefully 
 acknowledged, was unattainable. The more he thought 
 of Roger Sparowe, and of -Roger Sparowe's ancestors, 
 the more delighted he felt at the thought of connecting 
 himself with him.
 
 160 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 There was one drawback to this glowing prospect. 
 Roger Sparowe shared his ancestral home, not only 
 with his mother, a vain and foolish woman, a Royalist 
 and an Anglican, but with a brother who, if report 
 spoke true, leaned strongly to Popery itself. Rumours 
 had reached Master Borroughs that young Walter 
 Sparowe, for all his innocent, boyish face, and frank 
 manners, was deeply concerned in Malignant, and even 
 in Catholic plots. It had actually been whispered to 
 him, under the seal of the strictest secrecy, that there 
 was one chamber in the Old House never opened, and 
 unknown perhaps even to the master, where the 
 abomination of the Mass itself had been perpetrated. 
 
 To look into Roger's earnest candid face, was enough 
 to know that he was not privy to such foul deeds, but 
 Master Nehemiah was not satisfied. Roger was an 
 excellent youth, a godly youth, but he lacked the zeal 
 against the enemies of the Lord which formed so 
 prominent a feature of the Puritan code. Before his 
 carefully trained daughter could enter the house, Master 
 Burroughs felt that it must be purified from the 
 least taint of suspicion. Mistress Margaret might be 
 honourably banished to the family dower house, and if 
 there were any difficulties in the way of an income for 
 her, he was ready to bear his share. But it was still 
 more necessary that the scapegrace, Walter, should be 
 forbidden to return to the house for ever, unless he gave 
 satisfactory proof of repentance and amendment. 
 
 But now Master Burroughs was thrown into fresh 
 perplexity of mind. Tidings reached him through a 
 reliable channel that this worthless fellow, Walter, 
 who had saved his head at Worcester, when far better 
 men were killed, was not only himself in hiding at the 
 Old House, but had brought two or three other 
 fugitives with him. Master Nehemiah could not believe 
 it. Roger had positively declared, only two days ago 
 that he and his brother had quarrelled and parted for 
 ever, and yet, if report spoke true, Walter was actually 
 at that very moment under his roof. If this were so, if 
 Roger had been guilty of such gross deception, Master
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 161 
 
 Burroughs swore for although a Puritan, he did swear 
 sometimes, under great provocation that the young 
 man had paid his last visit to Mote End, and taken his 
 last look at fair Mistress Alice. 
 
 Master Nehemiah was puzzled. There was a mystery 
 somewhere, which even his astuteness could not fathom. 
 He knew Roger too well, lightly to credit him with false 
 dealing. At last he seemed to see his way out of the 
 difficulty. He would pay Master Sparowe a visit, without 
 previous notice, and taking him thus at unawares, he 
 would be able to judge if he were maligned or no. 
 
 He approached his task diplomatically. Knowing that 
 Roger would have to be cautiously treated, and the 
 secret if there were one drawn from him in the most 
 guarded manner, the sharp-witted old Puritan determined 
 to take Alice with him. He would tell her nothing. It 
 would not be safe to breathe the report to her, for, 
 guileless as she was, she was sure to betray her know- 
 ledge. But it was just possible that Roger, if really in 
 trouble, might confide his difficulties to her, and he 
 was certain to be so engrossed by her, that Master 
 Burroughs would be able to pursue his investigations 
 undisturbed. 
 
 Kezia had now recovered from her sickness, and great 
 was her wrath when she found that her father intended 
 to take her younger sister instead of her. Visits in those 
 days were matters of much ceremony, and it was 
 almost a point of honour with Kezia much as she 
 hated Mistress Sparowe to go herself. She alleged 
 half-a-dozen domestic duties as a reason for keeping 
 Alice at home, and was not more mortified than 
 astonished when her father overruled them all. Master 
 Burroughs had an object in view, and even Kezia's 
 imperative wishes could not be allowed to stand in 
 the way. 
 
 One fine afternoon in September, therefore, the very 
 day after the last sheaf of corn had been carried home, 
 Alice mounted pillion behind her father, and rode off to 
 pay her first visit to the Old House. Yes, she was verily 
 going at last to see Master Sparowe's house, of which 
 
 M
 
 162 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 she had heard so much. Strange to say, although she 
 lived so near, she had scarcely been a dozen times in 
 Ipswich in her life. Ladies in those days seldom or 
 never left their homes. They were too necessary to 
 their households and their poor neighbours to be much 
 abroad. The housekeeping at Mote End, under Kezia's 
 vigorous rule, was not so onerous but that Alice might 
 sometimes have been spared. But the disturbed state 
 of the country for the last ten years, furnished an 
 ample excuse for keeping her a prisoner within the grim 
 walls of Mote End. This journey to the Old House, 
 therefore, from the moment her father proposed it, 
 assumed in hereyes a quite immeasurable importance. It 
 was an epoch in her uneventful life. Outwardly calm 
 and composed as usual, she was inwardly brimming over 
 with girlish excitement and delight, as she tripped down 
 the broad steps, gave her hand to her father, and was 
 swung lightly up to the pillion. 
 
 Another day had come, and Roger Sparowe, partly in 
 dismay, partly in exultation, reckoned that his dangerous 
 guests had already been nearly forty-eight hours under 
 his roof. The time had gone so slowly that it seemed 
 as if he had been living for months on the edge of a 
 volcano. That morning, however, Wentworth had 
 positively assured him that the fugitives would no longer 
 require the generous shelter he gave them. The final 
 arrangements had now been made for a ship to convey 
 them to Holland, and the skipper was only waiting for 
 a favourable tide to run up as near the town as possible 
 and take them off. Since early morning watch had 
 been kept at the window looking from the chapel, to 
 catch the first signal which was to bid them prepare to 
 start. At his own request, Roger was left in ignorance 
 of the time of their actual departure. He only knew 
 that to-night, at latest, would see his house freed from 
 these terrible visitors. Twelve hours more and he was 
 safe! 
 
 Considering all the events which had since happened, 
 it is scarcely wonderful that Roger's visit to Mote End 
 seemed for the time a matter of secondary importance.
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 163 
 
 He had hardly leisure of mind to think of it at all, and 
 when he did, it was as a fair dream which he had dreamt 
 long ago. The interest of it had paled before weightier 
 concerns. It was far enough from his thoughts now, 
 as he stood in one of the beautiful oriel windows of the 
 large banqueting room. He could not set about his 
 ordinary business, though he knew that nothing would 
 more certainly give rise to suspicions than this desultory 
 loitering. Suddenly he saw a big horse and a well- 
 known rider crossing the open market place. He leant 
 forward in horror. He could not be mistaken. It was 
 the burly form of Master Burroughs, and behind him, 
 peeping over his shoulder, a fair face flushed with 
 pleasure and excitement. Father and daughter appeared 
 like strangers from another land. Never before had 
 Mistress Alice come to see him, and now the sight of 
 her filled Roger with amazement and consternation. 
 Fate was hard upon him. At any other time, with what 
 unutterable joy would he have welcomed the lady of his 
 love! 
 
 He shook off these thoughts with a strong effort, and 
 went down to greet his guests. But the touch of Alice's 
 hand, as he helped her to alight, sent a fresh pang of 
 terror through him. What if she should guess any- 
 thing ! see anything ! If the terrible secret he was 
 guarding at the risk of his life should come to her 
 knowledge ! As he led her ceremoniously into the great 
 hall, where Mistress Margaret had not yet appeared, 
 and excused his mother's momentary absence, his heart 
 was beating wildly. And his alarm was not groundless. 
 Master Burroughs, as he entered the hall, cast a sharp 
 inquisitive glance round it, and into every corner, which 
 warned Roger that the visit was not without a purpose. 
 
 It was assumed, as a matter of course, that the 
 travellers had come to dinner. No one, in those 
 hospitable days, paid a visit, even at a distance of a few 
 rniles only, without being invited to break their fast, and 
 a refusal would have been an insult to the host. Master 
 Burroughs of course protested that his boots were not 
 fit for a lady's dining room, and Alice that she was in
 
 164 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 travelling costume, but the moment she removed her 
 cloak, she showed that she was speaking for form's sake 
 only. Puritan though she was, her dress would bear 
 comparison with Mistress Margaret's much more 
 elaborate attire. There was always about her a certain 
 exquisite freshness, as if she came straight that very 
 moment from her toilette, and she did not belie her 
 usual appearance to-day. There was not a speck of 
 dust from the journey on her grey gown, as she shook it 
 out into soft folds round her. Her white linen collar 
 and cuffs were as spotless as if she had that moment 
 put them on ; and the kerchief at her throat, edged with 
 a little embroidery worked by her own dainty fingers, 
 was of the finest and clearest lawn. 
 
 Dame Margaret, being town bred, had always affected 
 a certain elegance and richness of dress which were 
 not strictly in keeping with a country squire's wife. 
 Although a housekeeper who saw to everything herself, 
 she would sometimes have found time hang heavy on 
 her hands, had not the care of her wardrobe proved an 
 unfailing source of occupation and amusement. And 
 dress at that period assumed a real importance and 
 significance. Men and women, men perhaps more than 
 woman, were ranked according to the plainness or 
 richness of their attire, in one or other of the two 
 great parties into which England was divided. 
 
 Mistress Margaret, therefore, the moment the tidings 
 of Master Burroughs' arrival reached her, determined 
 to affront the stern old Puritan with one of her richest 
 gowns. Joan acted as tire-woman on these occasions, 
 and desperate were the struggles of mistress and maid 
 not to keep the guests waiting longer than courtesy 
 would allow, and yet to arrange stomacher, lace collar, 
 and ruffles with becoming taste. If the lady's mis- 
 chievous intention was to irritate her guest, she amply 
 succeeded. At sight of her costly gown, the price of a 
 month's wage to a poor man, Master Burroughs felt the 
 same movement of fanatical rage as was excited in him 
 by all the proceedings of the Royalists. It seemed to 
 him that he beheld the skirts of the scarlet woman of
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 165 
 
 Babylon. He could have torn the dress off Mistress 
 Margaret's back, and her manifest pleasure in her own 
 appearance only increased his anger. But he controlled 
 himself. The lady of the gorgeous gown might per- 
 chance be exceedingly useful to him before the day 
 was over. 
 
 Out of the little company who gathered round the 
 table Alice was the least agitated. Yet even she was 
 not as composed as usual. Her heart beat foolishly 
 every time Roger Sparowe came near her, and she was 
 childishly awed at the sight of his mother, whom she 
 had not seen a dozen times before, and who impressed 
 her now, as always, with an overwhelming sense of 
 aristocratic grace and elegance. Alice blushed to think 
 that, two days ago, she had actually taken upon herself 
 to plead the cause of this stately lady. Never had she 
 felt more awkward and country-bred. Never had she 
 been more convinced that she was utterly unfit for the 
 position which, deny it as she would, she knew might, 
 at any moment, be her's. 
 
 But all these, and a thousand other innocent fancies, 
 were put to flight by the discovery that Roger himself 
 was changed. He was as deferential to her as ever, 
 but graver and more silent than she had seen even him 
 before. Every word seemed to cost him an effort, and 
 to look at her was almost beyond his strength. His 
 face was white and haggard, and he was evidently ill at 
 ease. Once or twice, when the door opened suddenly, 
 he started and turned hastily towards it, and Alice 
 fancied, she hardly knew why, that when her father 
 spoke, it brought a deeper shade over Roger Sparowe's 
 worn face. 
 
 These signs of discomfiture were not lost upon 
 Master Burroughs. He noted everything, Roger's 
 restless anxiety, and Mistress Margaret's fluttered and 
 uneasy spirits. These two people, he said to himself, 
 had some guilty secret on their conscience. He had 
 done well to come, and to bring Alice with him ; with 
 her innocent help he hoped to discover the mystery 
 before he left.
 
 166 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " What news may you have, Mistress Sparowe, of 
 your younger son ? " he asked, during a pause in the 
 meal, when he fancied Roger's attention was wholly 
 occupied with Alice. " Hath an old friend leave to ask 
 after him ? " 
 
 " Surely, sir, I am but too pleased that you remember 
 him," answered Mistress Margaret, the colour rushing 
 into her fair face. " We have certain and joyful 
 intelligence that my son Walter is safely come out of 
 the battle, without hurt to life or limb." 
 
 " Ah, he hath escaped. Not many Malignants, I trow, 
 have fared as well, for the Lord delivered them into our 
 hands, and the slaughter was great. And whither hath 
 he gone, madam ? " 
 
 Dame Margaret winced, and cast an appealing glance 
 at Roger, who had stopped his conversation with Alice, 
 and was listening anxiously. "He is, we trust, in 
 safety," she answered, cautiously. 
 
 " In safety ! It were no easy matter to have him in 
 safety. Trust him not to the care of any chance keeper," 
 said Master Burroughs, with an air of benign interest. 
 " For I dare assure you, that the price set on the heads 
 of these Malignants is high enough to tempt any poor 
 man to betray them. Too high, methinks, even for the 
 purpose of securing them, for money is scarce with us. 
 And it is death to harbour them." 
 
 Mistress Margaret uttered a little scream, but before 
 she could answer, Roger interposed from the other end 
 of the table. 
 
 " Master Burroughs," he said, " try not my mother, I 
 pray you, with further questions. That which you seek 
 to know I will myself tell you. My brother is under the 
 shelter of this roof, and here he will remain until we are 
 able to bestowe him elsewhere with safety." 
 
 Alice could not repress a start of astonishment, but 
 Master Burroughs was equal to the occasion. 
 
 " It is well, my son," he answered suavely. " ' Let 
 brotherly love continue,' saith the Scripture. I rejoice 
 that you act so Christian a part towards him, even 
 though it be at the risk of your own life. Suffer me
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 167 
 
 only to put you in remembrance of a certain word that 
 fell from you on your last visit to me. You were pleased 
 them to delare that Master Walter had left this house 
 for ever, and that you and he thought never to meet 
 again." 
 
 " You speak truly, sir," replied Roger. " I knew not 
 when I spoke that he was here. Nevertheless I have 
 not departed from that which I said. As brothers, 
 Walter and I meet no more, but as a fugitive he claimeth 
 from me pity and compassion, like any other. Dare I, 
 who profess to exercise Christian charity towards all 
 men, turn mine own brother from our father's house 
 when he is in need ? " 
 
 There was a dead silence. Alice's eyes were full of 
 tears, and even Master Burroughs seemed somewhat 
 awed. At last Mistress Margaret asked anxiously : " Is 
 there danger, think you, good Master Burroughs, in 
 giving shelter to those who have escaped ? Surely, if 
 any inquisition is made, none can blame us for a deed 
 of mercy." 
 
 " Danger, yes madam," returned the Puritan, recover- 
 ing himself. " Our friend here hath spoken so worthily, 
 thac I will not gainsay him, whether it be, or be not 
 his duty to shelter his brother. If it please you to 
 take the risk, I know not who should inform against 
 you. But if so be that there were other Malignants 
 here in hiding," he fixed his keen eyes on Mistress 
 Margaret's terrified face, " and a man came to know of 
 it, it would go hardly with them, look you. To my poor 
 thinking, he were bound in honour to declare it." 
 
 Mistress Margaret vainly tried to stifle a little cry of 
 horror, and Roger said, sternly, with a strong effort : 
 " I pray you, sir, to leave my mother in peace. She 
 hath had much to try her, my brother's absence, and 
 the long uncertainty concerning him, and the pressing 
 risk to his person. It were cruel to affright her further 
 with dark hints, which savour of threats. My duty 
 lieth plainly before me, to comfort her, and give shelter 
 to my brother. What say you, Mistress Alice ? " he 
 continued, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful tone.
 
 168 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Since dinner is ended, shall we go into the garden ? 
 Tis cooler than the house to-day." 
 
 And rising, Roger bowed to his guest with a stately 
 composure at which he was himself surprised, and 
 taking her hand he led her into the wainscotted room, 
 and through its open windows on to the lawn, while 
 Master Burroughs followed ceremoniously with Mistress 
 Sparowe. 
 
 Alice was not sorry to escape from the house. She 
 felt as if the air indoors would stifle her. It was like 
 the sulphurous atmosphere before a thunderstorm. 
 There was a strange tension, which she could not under- 
 stand, in every word spoken at the table. Her father 
 seemed in some incomprehensible way to be playing 
 with edged tools, and evidently possessed a secret power 
 over Mistress Margaret, which Alice was sorry to see 
 him exercise. While, as for Roger, she could tell as 
 she walked beside him, by the very difficulty he found 
 in moderating his step to her's, that his rigid control 
 over himself was strained to the utmost. Everyone 
 was more irritated and angry than was usual in polite 
 society, and Alice felt a yearning to soothe and comfort 
 them, did she but know how to begin. 
 
 " 'Tis a pretty garden this, and none too small for a 
 town," she said, after they had taken a few turns up 
 and down in silence. " I knew not that so fair a piece 
 of ground lay behind the house. But the flowers, poor 
 things ! " Alice looked round with a compassionate 
 smile. " Pardon me, Master Sparowe, but doth anyone 
 tend them ? " 
 
 " Doubtless someone hath charge of them," answered 
 Roger. " My mother hath not so great love of flowers 
 as you, Mistress Alice. So she can have some, now 
 and again, to adorn her dress, or a bunch of marigolds 
 to make the broth savoury, or thyme and lavender to 
 sweeten the linen, she is content. She hath not the 
 time, she saith, for such tender care of them as you 
 bestow. Methinks, too, that our town air is ill-suited 
 to flowers." 
 
 " It may be so," answered Alice, thoughfully. " But to
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 169 
 
 have no time for flowers one had as lief have no time 
 for children. Your lady mother must be strangely busy." 
 
 " She is ever hurried," answered Roger, with a faint 
 smile. " I say not she is always busy." 
 
 " Yet be it in town or country," continued Alice, as 
 she raised the drooping head of a rose, " flowers will 
 surely thrive, if they be loved. Look you now," she 
 shook out the cup of the rose, which was full of water, 
 " this poor flower hath had too much of the bountiful 
 rain of yesternight, and is like to be drowned in it. 
 Now it is not overburdened, it will revive in the 
 sunshine." 
 
 Roger watched her deft fingers. " Is there anything, 
 Mistress Alice, that you do not love and tend ? The 
 other day 'twas the poor sick-folk, to-day it is the 
 flowers. An you were my sister, I should be jealous of 
 them." 
 
 " Nay, they need me," answered Alice, simply. 
 " Kezia loveth them not, and oftentimes she saith that 
 my care of them is sinful. But I cannot forbear it. 
 The Lord hath not made them so fair that we should 
 neglect them. And when I see them droop I am pained 
 at heart. Doth a thing want me, straightway I am 
 impelled to care for it." 
 
 " And if a man need thee sorely, sweet Mistress 
 Alice, and were in dire want of care and comfort, 
 wouldest thou feel the like ? " 
 
 Alice blushed crimson. " I know not, Master 
 Sparowe," she answered, hesitating. " I have not 
 thought of it. Only the flowers and the sick-folk 
 have needed me hitherto, and my father at times. 
 Perchance, if it were so " .... 
 
 And Alice in her embarrasment looked at the garden, 
 and up at the house, and anywhere away from the eyes 
 which were watching every breath she drew. Half 
 consciously she gazed at the picturesque irregularity of 
 outline, and traced the many gables and richly-carved 
 wood work of the building. Suddenly she started 
 violently, and Roger, no less agitated, looked up. To 
 his horror he perceived that Alice's eyes were fixed
 
 170 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 upon the chapel gable, which was just visible beyond 
 the nearer projection of the alcove room. From this 
 particular spot in the garden, and from nowhere else, 
 the little window of the chapel was visible ; and at this 
 moment a face was seen at that window, which Alice 
 knew did not belong to any member of the Sparowe 
 family. A young man, with swarthy skin, dark, closely- 
 cropped hair, and brilliant black eyes, was looking out 
 over the garden, and at the view of the town beyond. 
 It was not one of the serving men, Alice saw at a glance. 
 The thin, cynical lips, and graceful poise of the head, 
 marked the owner of the face at once as a gentleman. 
 
 Frightened at the unexpected apparition, she looked 
 round at Roger, and saw an expression of mingled 
 terror and anger on his white face. It darkened as she 
 had never seen it darken before. He stared up at the 
 window fiercely, almost defiantly ; then recollecting 
 himself with a shudder, he glanced over his shoulder, 
 and drew a deep breath when he saw that Master 
 Burroughs and his mother were engaged in earnest 
 conversation at the further end of the garden. 
 
 It was all over in a moment, and when Alice again 
 ventured to look up, the face at the window had 
 vanished like a dream. "Master Sparowe, what is it ?" 
 she asked, in an awe-struck whisper. " Who is that 
 man, and what doth he there ? " 
 
 "Ask me not, Mistress Alice," he answered in a 
 trembling voice. " Ask me concerning nought that 
 you see or hear. None of it is fit for your knowledge. 
 I have done grevious wrong. A snare hath been laid 
 for my feet, and I am fallen into it." His voice sank 
 to a whisper, but Alice caught his words. 
 
 " You are over strict with your own conscience, sir," 
 she said, gently. " I were loath to believe that you had 
 done wrong. What ! may not a friend of yours, whose 
 face is unknown to me, look forth from a window, but 
 you must straightway accuse yourself of sin ? But 'tis 
 passing strange," she went on, turning towards the 
 building, and examining it more closely, " that I had not 
 seen that gable before, nor the window, and yet we have
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 171 
 
 walked here for full half-an-hour. I have heard tell that 
 the house is an old place, and full of secrets." 
 
 Alice did not see the look of agony on Roger's face, 
 and she went on innocently : " Over what room doth 
 that gable lie ? A lofty room it must be, or else high in 
 the roof. I would fain see it. Perchance we might 
 light on some dark corner, where a man might lie 
 hidden " . . . . She stopped abruptly, as Roger seized 
 her hand. 
 
 " This way, Mistress Alice," he said, hurrying her down 
 the path. " Come this way, I pray you. And, as you 
 have any regard for me, and desire not to compass my 
 destruction, speak no more of that window, nor of the 
 gable, nor of aught that you have seen." 
 
 Alice was puzzled and grieved at the effect of her 
 words. 
 
 " Surely, since you desire it, I will be silent," she said. 
 " But what doth it mean, Master Sparowe ? and why is 
 my father so strange to-day, and seemeth to seek a 
 quarrel, though his words are smooth ? " 
 
 " Mistress Alice," said Roger, taking her hand, and 
 looking earnestly into her frightened face, "I would give 
 the half of my possessions, an I dared tell you what it 
 means. But I cannot speak. The lives of others are in 
 my hand." 
 
 "Your brother ? " questioned Alice. " Nay, we rejoice, 
 my father and I, that you have him here with you in 
 safety, after your great anxiety concerning him. You 
 cannot lay blame to yourself that you give him shelter, 
 even though you risk, may be, a fine by concealing him." 
 
 " I shrink not from any risk," answered Roger, steadily. 
 " Nevertheless, sweet lady, pray for me, pity me, and 
 trust me. To-morrow I am a free man. To-morrow 
 you shall know all." 
 
 Roger bent over Alice's little hand, and a hot tear fell 
 upon it as he raised it to his lips. 
 
 " Good Master Sparowe," said Alice, in a trembling 
 voice, " my speech paineth you, I know not wherefore. 
 I pray you to believe that I would not hurt you by so 
 much as a word. To trust you is a simple matter, for I
 
 172 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 have always trusted you. Only I grieve to see you in 
 such trouble, and not to bring you any comfort." 
 
 " You do comfort me," said Roger, his voice breaking 
 at last. " So Mistress Alice will trust me, and mine 
 own conscience acquit me, I care not if the whole world 
 rise up against me." 
 
 Roger's eyes were more eloquent than his words. It 
 was not inhuman nature wholly to mistake their meaning. 
 Distracted by doubt as to the nature of the crime he 
 appeared to impute to himself, perplexed by the mystery 
 which confronted her at every step, Alice was never- 
 theless strangely joyful. Something, she scarcely knew 
 what, had happened to her. Roger Sparowe had come, 
 evidently, to some crisis in his fate when he wanted help 
 and support, and it was to her he turned. Alice was 
 content. 
 
 When the young people rejoined their elders, Roger 
 was dismayed to see that Master Burroughs' face wore 
 an expression of triumph. The young man had fallen 
 into the trap laid for him. He had suffered himself to 
 be wholly absorbed in Alice's society, and her father, 
 once alone with Mistress Margaret, had, without 
 difficulty, gradually drawn from her all she knew about 
 her visitors. For forty-eight hours Dame Margaret 
 had borne the weight of her secret, and to no living soul, 
 save Joan, had she dared to breathe a word of it. To 
 gossip with her neighbours was indeed an impossibility, 
 since Roger, as soon as he knew to whom he had given 
 shelter, mounted guard over his mother, and kept her an 
 unconscious prisoner in her own house. 
 
 Now at last she had an opportunity af unburdening 
 her mind ; and though she had hitherto rather dreaded 
 than liked Master Burroughs, she found him to-day so 
 kind, so sympathetic, so interested in all that concerned 
 her, that five minutes' conversation was sufficient to 
 unloose her tongue. She soon began to reproach berself 
 for her former uncharitable thoughts of him. In a short 
 time the wily old Puritan knew all about Walter, 
 Wentworth, and as much of the young serving man as 
 the lady could tell him. True, she had not much to say
 
 THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 173 
 
 about this last guest, for Will Somers had been kept as 
 far as possible out of her sight. But the moment she 
 made mention of him, Master Burroughs began to 
 suspect that Ralph Wentworth was not the only fugitive 
 of rank to whom Roger was giving shelter. In vain 
 Mistress Margaret assured him that the groom was a 
 little insignificant fellow, the most stupid lad she had 
 ever seen, and that, though she had spoken kindly to 
 him when she met him once or twice about the house, 
 he had never seemed able to answer her civil questions. 
 Master Burroughs listened to her in silence, seeing that 
 to press her would only rouse suspicion. None the less 
 did he feel assured that he held now the clue to the 
 mystery. 
 
 Having already learnt far more that he had ventured 
 to expect, he had just begun to think of finding his 
 daughter, and taking leave, when Roger and Alice 
 appeared. Master Burroughs' exultation for once 
 exceeded the bounds of prudence. 
 
 " I' faith, you lead a gay life here, Master Roger, for all 
 your professions of godliness," he exclaimed. " Guests, 
 forsooth, and, as I understand, persons of quality in 
 disguise ! You hide your birds rarely well, good sir, and 
 put a fair face on it to the world. Some day it may 
 chance that I shall take an opportunity of seeing them, 
 and exploring the secrets of this fine old place of yours." 
 
 Roger's fortitude had been severely tested of late, 
 and features and voice were under perfect control as he 
 answered quietly : " Some day, sir, I shall be proud to 
 show you mine house ; for the present I pray you to 
 excuse me. I have, as you say, guests with me, whose 
 convenience I must consider." 
 
 " Fine guests, I trow, who will not, or dare not, eat 
 at your own table with your friends. I take your offer 
 gladly, sir, and shall speedily put you in mind thereof." 
 
 " Roger, I have said nothing," whispered Mistress 
 Margaret, terrified at the old Puritan's ambiguous words. 
 " If thou hadst persons of quality here, my son, thou 
 shouldest have told me. I knew nought thereof." 
 
 11 Ah, mother, thy tongue hath undone us all,"
 
 174 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 murmured Roger, sadly. Then turning to Master 
 Burroughs, as they walked towards the door, he said : 
 " I pray you, worthy sir, misjudge me not. Guilty in 
 this matter I am not, though guilty I may seem to be. 
 What blame you see fit to lay on me, I will meekly bear. 
 If you think to bring ruin upon me, the Lord judge 
 betwixt us. Mistress Alice will trust me." 
 
 Master Burroughs had controlled himself hitherto, 
 with almost as painful an effort as Roger, but his anger 
 burst out at last over the apparently trivial business of 
 mounting his horse. 
 
 "Women be all fools alike," he exclaimed testily, "as 
 unreasonable as this horse here. Sirrah, wilt stand 
 still ? Hold his head, thou varlet, or I will break thine 
 for thee. Now, girl, art thou ready ? Hark you, Master 
 Roger, a wise man trusts not a woman. And when he 
 acts a double part, he maketh sure that he hath an 
 audience which may be easily gulled." 
 
 And with this parting thrust Master Burroughs, 
 having conquered his horse, and seen Alice bestowed 
 safely behind him, set off at a heavy trot, and Roger, as 
 his guests disappeared down the street, heaved a sigh of 
 intense relief.
 
 175 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 
 
 BUT the respite was short. Roger knew that not a 
 moment was to be lost. His dangerous visitors must 
 go at once. A few hours more, and Master Burroughs 
 might examine the house from garret to cellar, without 
 let or hindrance from any of the inmates, but what 
 was there not to do in those few hours? Instead of 
 returning to Mote End, the old Puritan might make 
 direct for the sheriffs office, and come back with a 
 warrant for searching the house, and a whole posse of 
 men at his heels to carry it into execution. Whether 
 he would do so or not depended on the information he 
 had been able to obtain from the lady of the house. 
 
 Roger brought Mistress Margaret into the wainscotted 
 room, where they were least likely to be disturbed, and 
 began to question her closely. But he could find out 
 little from her. Dearly as he loved his mother, he was 
 always clumsy in dealing with her, and he made matters 
 worse now by frightening her. Earnestly she declared 
 that she had said no more than good breeding required. 
 
 " I have done no wrong, Roger, that thou shouldest 
 be so stern with me," she protested, plaintively. "When 
 a man maketh courteous inquiry of you touching your 
 family, and a man, to boot, who hath never shown over 
 much civility to you before, how can one choose but 
 answer? Wouldest have me, thou with thy strict 
 Puritan ways, give him the lie, and say that I knew not 
 where Walter was ? Or art thou peradventure ashamed 
 of thy brother ? " 
 
 " Nay, mother, nay," returned Roger. " Thou knowest 
 I would deal honestly with all men. Only, at this 
 dangerous time, I would have some slight reserve in our
 
 176 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 talk. As touching Master Burroughs, I doubt not that 
 he knew before he came hither that Walter was in the 
 house." 
 
 Mistress Margaret raised her hands in horror. 
 " Roger, how canst thou say such things ? How should 
 he know, and yet ask where he was ? " 
 
 "He must answer that to his own conscience, mother. 
 From his looks I can certainly affirm that he knew." 
 
 " If he knew," pursued Mistress Margaret, " there 
 needed not to ply me with questions. Nay, Roger, he 
 came as a friend, to ask how thy brother did, and 
 discovered to me a true liking* for the poor lad, which I 
 had never seen in him before. But thou thou wilt 
 never show thyself friendly to Walter. E'en now, when 
 he is in danger of his life, as Master Burroughs saith, 
 thou wilt not so much as speak to him. Fie, my son 1 
 Must the mother that bare you both plead with thee to 
 love him ? " 
 
 " Methinks, mother, I prove my love to him by risking 
 my life on his behalf. But no more of that. Since 
 Master Burroughs plied thee with questions, prithee 
 tell me what more didst thou say ? Didst disclose any- 
 thing further ? " 
 
 " Ah, now thy brows are knit, and thou art stern and 
 hard again," cried Mistress Margaret, bursting into 
 tears. '"Tis thy father's look, when he went about to 
 blame anyone. Only not me he never chid me. But 
 thou art bold to take me to task, Roger. Hast thou no 
 reverence for thy mother ? Whatever she doth should 
 be right in thine eyes." 
 
 " Dear mother, I chide thee not," said Roger, half 
 beside himself with anxiety. " I would only know of 
 thee what thou hast said to Master Burroughs, that, if 
 thou hast revealed aught he should not know, we may 
 beware of danger." 
 
 " Danger 1 thou art always prating of danger, thou 
 and the Puritan too, forsooth. Prithee, what danger 
 is there ? Can any blame us if we shelter thine own 
 brother and thy dearest friend ? Could we turn them 
 away, when they prayed us to help them ? "
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 177 
 
 " Didst tell him," asked Roger, quickly, "that Ralph 
 Wentworth was here ? " 
 
 " Ay, I told him," answered Mistress Sparowe. " That 
 news assuredly he knew not before, for he seemed 
 greatly amazed when he heard it. He was silent there- 
 after for a while. But that which touched him most 
 nearly was when I made mention of that foolish young 
 serving lad Ralph had brought with him. He asked 
 many questions concerning him, why I know not, and 
 hinted that he was a Cavalier in disguise. I told him 
 no, forthwith. As if one of us would disfigure himself 
 after that fashion, and crop his hair like a fanatic ! " 
 
 The result of Roger's conversation with his mother 
 was a request, instantly dispatched through Joan, that 
 Ralph Wentworth would come down and speak with 
 him. The Cavalier promptly went to Roger in the 
 wainscotted room. He was thankful to escape from the 
 dreary loft, where he and his companions had spent 
 the greater part of the day, pacing restlessly to and fro. 
 Roger frankly told him every circumstance of the visit 
 he had just received, not omitting the luckless appear- 
 ance of one of the refugees at the chapel window. 
 Wentworth admitted that it was an imprudent act. 
 
 " The King is heedless," he said, " many a time have 
 I prayed his Majesty to suffer Walter or me to keep 
 watch at that window. But he groweth restless at the 
 long confinement, and would fain see for himself if 
 help is at hand. In sooth I wonder not at it. We are 
 all weary of our idle life." 
 
 " None can more earnestly desire to see it ended 
 than myself," said Roger, with a sigh. 
 
 Wentworth looked at him sadly. " Ay, I do ill to 
 complain, when thou bearest it so bravely. Thou hast 
 as much as any of us to lose by delay ; alas, that we 
 have brought thee to it ! But concerning the King's 
 face at the window. Was he recognized, think you ? " 
 
 " He was not," answered Roger. " That I can most 
 truly affirm. Trouble not thyself on that score, Ralph. 
 I spake of it only to make thee more heedful in time to 
 come."
 
 178 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Ay, but women will prate," returned Wentworth, 
 uneasily. " What if the lady speak thereof to her father ? 
 He might know his Majesty from her description only. 
 Canst thou answer for her ? " 
 
 " With mine own life," replied Roger, shortly. " Now 
 to advise with thee about this ship for in flight lies 
 your only safety. Ye must depart forthwith ; I can 
 shield you no longer." 
 
 " All is planned for to-night," answered Wentworth, 
 " and the tide will not suffer us to go sooner. The hour 
 is late, and before to-morrow even Master Burroughs 
 will scarce do anything against us. Doth not his home 
 lie full six miles from here ? " 
 
 " Ay, if he return straightway, and goeth not first to 
 lodge an information against us at the Borough Court." 
 
 "And even then," argued Wentworth, "they will 
 scarce search the house to-night upon such scant know- 
 ledge as they have. They will come to-morrow, as soon 
 as they can bring the men together. We have twelve 
 hours yet." 
 
 " Then before the morning thou must be gone, thou 
 and thy company. Dost mark me, Ralph ? 'Tis the 
 first time, surely, that Sparowe telleth Wentworth to 
 be gone." 
 
 " Tis not the first time that Sparowe shieldeth Went- 
 worth with his own life," answered the other. " Thou 
 hast nought to reproach thyself with, Roger. Never, 
 surely, had Wentworth a friend like to this Sparowe. 
 Never Wentworth or any other man had so heavy a 
 debt of gratitude to pay." 
 
 " Enough of such talk," returned Roger, almost im- 
 patiently, " Now tell me concerning the ship, for I am 
 forced to ask, though most unwillingly. How and when 
 think ye to escape ? " 
 
 Wentworth proceeded to explain the arrangements 
 which had been made for the flight. The ship was to 
 come up the river as far as possible, with the high tide 
 at midnight, and to dispatch a small boat to take the 
 passengers off. The boat was to wait for them under 
 the shadow of Stoke Bridge, where there was a small
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 179 
 
 landing stage ; the signal, a white light run up twice to 
 the mast head of the vessel, on seeing which the travellers 
 were immediately to leave the house, and make for the 
 river. Wind and tide permitting, they hoped within an 
 hour to be on board, and in thirty-six hours, at latest, 
 the skipper had undertaken to land them in Holland. 
 
 " Prithee, Ralph," said Roger, after Wentworth had 
 detailed the scheme, " whence hast thou this news ? 
 How hath it been contrived, seeing ye have not left the 
 house since ye came ? " 
 
 " There needs not for any of us to leave the house," 
 said Wentworth, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 " Who is it, then, in this godly town of Ipswich," 
 asked Roger, " who bringeth you intelligence ? " 
 
 " Those of whom thou wouldest scarce like to hear," 
 said Wentworth, with a strange look. " Ask me not, 
 unless thou wouldest have thy mind disturbed afresh." 
 
 " Nay, but I desire to know," urged Roger. " There 
 needs no further secrecy or concealment between us. 
 Thou goest hence now, and it may be I shall not see 
 thee for years. Methinks, ere thou depart, I have a 
 right to know." 
 
 Wentworth shook his head. " If thou doth force me 
 to tell thee, thou wilt regret it. Seek not to know, 
 Roger. Others are concerned besides myself." 
 
 " Walter ! " exclaimed Roger, starting. " Nay, now 
 thou shalt speak, Ralph. What hath my unhappy 
 brother done ? What further plottings hath he engaged 
 in?" 
 
 " None which thou dost not already know of or 
 suspect. Since I am compelled to speak, 'tis the 
 Reverend Mr. Sturges who hath been our chief pur- 
 veyor of news. Thou knowest him ? " 
 
 " Mr. Sturges ! " said Roger, thunderstruck. " Ay, I 
 know him. Fool that I was not to have thought of him 
 before ! Such an office befits him better than his post 
 among these misguided people." 
 
 "Walter hath of necessity told me of the strange 
 chance whereby ye both lighted upon him," said Went- 
 worth, " else had I not spoken."
 
 180 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " And hath he in truth devised and carried out this 
 well-conceived plan ? " asked Roger. 
 
 "He and others, whose very names I know not. 
 Those who help us concern me little. Enough that the 
 safety of the King hath been entrusted to me. So I do 
 but bring him out of these dangers, and deliver him safe 
 and sound to my Lord Wilmot, I care not who hath a 
 hand in it." 
 
 " But," persisted Roger, " have ye no go-between ? 
 Since ye came hither, I know of my certain knowledge 
 that Master Sturges hath been from home. Some 
 messenger must have come to and fro." 
 
 Wentworth hesitated. " Someone hath been here to 
 bring us news, but I care not to speak of it. 'Twill but 
 raise thine anger. All is now planned ; the messenger 
 will not come again, and wherefore shouldst thou seek 
 to know ? " 
 
 " Because of Walter," returned Roger, doggedly. 
 " What hath he done ? What hand hath he had in the 
 business ? " 
 
 " Briefly, then, it is the woman thou wettest of, con- 
 cerning whom thou and Walter have quarrelled, who 
 cometh hither with news of the ship. Nay, bend not 
 thy brows so fiercely on me. Thou wouldest know, and 
 now what hast thou gained thereby ? Only that which 
 will widen the breach between you." 
 
 " He seeth her still ? " asked Roger, catching his 
 breath. " This unholy familiarity between them is not 
 at an end ? " 
 
 " Nay, of that I know nought," answered Wentworth, 
 shrugging his shoulders. " Methinks we have all of us 
 too much at stake to spend our time in dallying with a 
 woman. But Walter is of age to see to his own 
 concerns." 
 
 " Ralph, thou mightest help me," said Roger, in an 
 imploring tone. " Thou mightest make him see that 'tis 
 his duty to marry her." 
 
 " To marry her I The Saints forbid ! " exclaimed 
 Wentworth, with a laugh. " That were helping neither 
 him nor thee. Roger, thou art beside thyself. Wouldest
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 181 
 
 have every young man marry the first woman he looks 
 upon ? " 
 
 " I would have him act rightly towards her. Walter 
 hath done this woman sore wrong "... 
 
 " Thy Puritan ways are inconceivable," interrupted 
 Ralph. " As for me, my business lieth with the King, 
 and any who bring news which may help to convey him 
 hence, are welcome to me." 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Walter himself 
 lounged into the room. Ever since he had shot up 
 suddenly to man's stature, this easy, careless gait had 
 been characteristic of him, and now it was almost the 
 only mark left of the blythe young fellow, whose 
 cheerful presence used to brighten the Old House. The 
 strain of the last month had told fearfully upon him. 
 The first sight of war and bloodshed, the terrible anxiety 
 of piloting Charles half across England, the physical 
 fatigues and hardships he had undergone, and the dread 
 of discovery and death, had crushed his light-hearted 
 boyish nature. He was old and haggard, his mouth and 
 forehead were lined with care, and his large dreamy 
 eyes had a fierce look in them, like those of a hunted 
 animal. 
 
 Nothing showed more plainly the unnatural tension 
 of the last few days, than the agitated way in which 
 Roger and Wentworth sprang to their feet at his 
 entrance. Wentworth hurried towards him, and laid 
 his hand on his arm. 
 
 " No news, none ! " he explained, shaking himself 
 free. " Nothing hath been altered. I came only to 
 have a few moments speech of thee, Roger, before we 
 part, it may be for ever. Nay, Ralph," as Wentworth 
 moved to leave the room, " prithee, stay. Thou hast 
 weight with Roger. Thou mayest perchance be of use 
 to me in that I have to say." 
 
 Wentworth reluctantly sat down, and Roger asked, 
 coldly, " Thou goest also, Walter ? Wherefore hast 
 thou not told me ? " 
 
 " I come to tell thee now, Roger, and to bid thee 
 farewell. The time will be short for leaves-taking
 
 182 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 to-night. The King will have it so. His Majesty in 
 the nobleness of his heart, hath refused to leave me 
 behind." 
 
 " I am glad," replied Roger, in the same cold tone. 
 " I could not shield thee longer. Nay, as I have told 
 Ralph, my power to help you all is gone. Ye cannot be 
 here another day in safety." 
 
 " Then, brother, ere we go, bid me God speed," said 
 Walter, suddenly holding out his hands. " Let us not 
 part in anger. It is hard for one who carries his life in 
 his hands to be burdened with a brother's hate." 
 
 " I hate thee not, Walter, I hate thy sin only. The 
 Lord grant thee the grace of repentance. Repair thy 
 sin, and I pledge thee my word as a Christian, all shall 
 be between us as heretofore." 
 
 Walter shook his head. " I cannot do as thou biddest 
 me," he said, sorrowfully. " I cannot repair my sin in 
 the way thou wilt have it. It is impossible. Tell him, 
 Ralph. Prithee, show him that mine honour as a 
 gentleman forbids it me." 
 
 11 Be reasonable, Roger," interposed Wentworth. 
 " Thou canst see for thyself that Walter must not marry 
 this buxom damsel. The thing suits not a man of our 
 quality. Consider the honour of thine ancient house." 
 
 "There is no dishonour, but sin," answered Roger, 
 stubbornly. " I marvel, Walter, that thou darest to 
 draw Ralph into this family difference. 'Tis a matter 
 betwixt thee and me, and I trow it may be settled 
 without recourse had to others." 
 
 "Ay, if thou wilt settle it," answered Walter. " But 
 methought Ralph, who hath known us so long, would 
 help to move thee to peace. Once more, I ask, Roger, 
 wilt thou pardon me, and receive me back to brotherly 
 harmony and love, without forcing me to do that which 
 is impossible ? " 
 
 " No, by my soul's salvation, no ! " exclaimed Roger, 
 " If thou canst not atone for thy sin, neither can I 
 forgive thee." 
 
 "Any other atonement" . . . began Walter. 
 
 " There is no other. Make restitution to her for her
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 183 
 
 honour which thou hast taken from her, or thou shalt 
 never see my face again ? " 
 
 " Roger, be not so hard with thy brother," pleaded 
 Wentworth. " Thou dost wrong to drive him from thee 
 at such a time. Canst not forgive, without enacting a 
 price for thy forgiveness which he dares not pay? 
 To-morrow the lad will be in exile, it may be for years. 
 Let him not go forth with thy curse upon him." 
 
 " 'Tis not my curse, but the Lord's," answered Roger 
 bitterly. " ' The wages of sin is death.' Let him turn 
 unto the Lord, and repent him, and my forgiveness 
 shall not be lacking. But of what avail to speak of 
 repentance," he went on, turning to Walter, " least of 
 all when, as I hear, thou hast dared to affront me by 
 bringing this woman into my very house ? " 
 
 " I have not brought her," faltered Walter. " She 
 cometh as a messenger in the service of the King. I 
 have had no speech of her. The business hath passed 
 between Ralph and and Master Sturges. Chide me 
 not," he entreated, as Roger's brow darkened again at 
 the mention of the priest's hated name. " Roger, we 
 stand both of us in peril of death. Must we part 
 unreconciled ? Can no prayer of mine avail to move 
 thee ? " 
 
 There was a moment's dead silence. Walter fixed 
 his eyes eagerly on his brother, and held out his hand. 
 Then his look of anxious expectation faded slowly. He 
 shrank back, his hand fell, and turning sadly away he 
 went out of the room so softly that the door had closed 
 upon him, before Wentworth and Roger had realised 
 that he was gone. 
 
 Wentworth drew a deep breath. " Pray God, thou 
 do not repent of thy hardness," he said, " and that the 
 lad be not driven to evil courses in foreign parts. Thou 
 art a strange man, Roger. So true towards me, so 
 gentle and forbearing with the other guest whom thou 
 canst not love and towards thy brother so unyielding. 
 Alas ! Would to God that we were quit of this business, 
 and safe, all three of us, on the other side of the 
 water ! "
 
 184 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 Wentworth's wish found an echo from more than one 
 heart that night. It was deemed prudent not to tell 
 Mistress Margaret of the plan of escape. She went to 
 bed perfectly satisfied with herself, the little temporary 
 vexation at the trap Master Burroughs had laid for her 
 quite forgotten, and happily unconscious that, if all went 
 well, the fugitives, and Walter among them, would have 
 left the house before the next morning. Roger, however, 
 was far too anxious to rest. The servants were 
 dismissed, and the house secured as usual. It had been 
 arranged that, as soon as the light was seen, the 
 travellers were to slip out by the small side entrance in 
 the rear of the wainscotted room ; and Roger, not daring 
 to leave the door open, carried the key of it with him, 
 instead of laying it up in his chamber with the others. 
 
 Hour after hour he paced the room, the door open to 
 the great hall, that he might hear the cry of the watch- 
 man in the street. Wentworth stole down once, when 
 the household had retired, to satisfy himself that all was 
 well, then crept upstairs again to the chapel, where 
 Charles and Walter were intently watching for the 
 signal light, and Roger was once more alone. 
 
 It was a marvellously beautiful night, so warm and 
 balmy, that the young man after a time felt the house 
 unbearably hot, opened the lattice window, and stepped 
 out into the garden. The full moon shone with almost 
 the brilliance of day, and the shadows of the trees fell 
 across the path like black bars upon a sheet of silver. 
 Now and again a bird stirred in the branches, and broke 
 the magic stillness of the autumn night with a dreamy 
 chirp. The town itself was hushed into absolute silence, 
 scarcely interrupted by the hoarse cry of the watchman 
 announcing the hour, and exhorting the faithful to pray 
 for the departing soul. 
 
 Peace and quietness were everywhere, save in Roger's 
 distracted brain. Neither in the house nor in the 
 garden could he rest. He tried in vain to think 
 collectedly. Alice, her father, Walter, the danger, the 
 projected escape, all the confused events of that anxious 
 day grew more confused in the retrospect. He had no
 
 
 i * --.,..
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 185 
 
 more power over his thoughts than if he were asleep. 
 His brain seemed to act independently, and to thrust one 
 ruling idea always before him, his harshness to Walter. 
 
 Again and again his brother's haggard face and wistful 
 eyes rose before him, and again and again he tried to 
 feel that he had done well to be angry. But it was of 
 no avail. Here in this room he had wandered in again 
 from the garden where they had played as children, 
 where every nook and corner was associated with some 
 boyish memory ; here in the solemn silence of the night, 
 Roger knew at last that he had been hard and stern. 
 He had condemned the sinner as well as the sin. 
 He had not forgiven as he hoped to be forgiven. But 
 even now it was not too late. Walter was still here, 
 and it would go hard with Roger if he could not find 
 some moment, even in the hurry of parting, to take him 
 aside, and whisper a word of reconciliation. 
 
 What was that ? Roger was startled by the cry of 
 the watchman : " Past one o'clock, and a moonlight 
 night ! " A whole hour then had passed since the time 
 fixed for the start, and yet he heard no movement from 
 above. He stepped again into the garden, and looked 
 up at the chapel gable. There was no light in it, but the 
 moon was streaming in at the little window, and in the 
 deep shadow it cast Roger thought he distinguished two 
 heads, and a pale gleam from Walter's bright curls. 
 
 Two o'clock came, and still no sound but the watch- 
 man's cry broke the silence. The stillness became 
 irksome, then terribly oppressive, till Roger felt as if 
 the lightest noise would be a relief. At last he stole up 
 to the loft, more to quiet his strained nerves with the 
 comforting sound of a human voice, than with any hope 
 of learning the cause of the delay, which he knew the 
 watchers above could no more explain than he. 
 
 The little chapel was flooded with the moonbeams, and 
 all the arches and pillars shone out in the ghostly light. 
 Wentworth sprang up to meet him the moment he entered. 
 
 "What news dost thou bring us, Roger? What hath 
 caused the delay ? Speak, man, and tell us." And as 
 he asked, he laid his trembling hand on Roger's arm.
 
 186 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " Friend, you are most welcome," said another voice 
 out of the darkness, and Charles rose, and came forward 
 from an arched recess, where a few cloaks had been 
 thrown down to make a rough bed for him. " I pray 
 you tell us briefly, if you can, whether anything hath 
 happened to the boat." 
 
 "Alas, sir, I know no more than you," answered 
 Roger. " I have heard nothing. I came hither only to 
 have speech of some fellow-creature, hoping perchance 
 you yourselves might know if there were any change of 
 plan. Down there it is as lonely as the grave, and 1 
 tremble at mine own shadow." 
 
 " And up here we sit and sigh like owls in the night," 
 returned Charles. " Indeed, sir, an you be dismal, you 
 come not to over cheerful company. Faith, I had as 
 lief be in Scotland, as in this gruesome place." 
 
 " Beseech your Majesty to be patient," answered 
 Wentworth, earnestly. " The signal cannot fail to be 
 seen presently. I was assured that the plan could not 
 miscarry this time. Canst thou not see the light, 
 Walter?" 
 
 "There is no light," answered Walter, from the 
 window. " The river lieth mostly in shadow, and it is 
 dark as death." 
 
 " Some mistake hath doubtless arisen," said Roger, 
 " in spite of what thou sayest, Ralph. Shall I go down 
 to the river and see ? " 
 
 Wentworth shook his head. " Too dangerous for 
 thee, Roger, but what saith his Majesty ? " 
 
 " We will not trouble you so far, Master Sparowe," 
 answered Charles, courteously, " We owe you too 
 many thanks for your present care of us, to suffer you 
 to jeopardize your life further. Neither is it safe for 
 one well-known as you are to be about the town at 
 night. 'Twould cause fresh suspicion." 
 
 " What can we do then ? " cried Wentworth, in a tone 
 of despair. 
 
 " Why wait, man, as we have waited any time these 
 three weeks, and keep a brave heart," returned Charles, 
 with imperturbable good humour. " Methinks 'tis a
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 187 
 
 lesson thou hast had opportunity enough to learn, 
 Ralph, ere now. Nay, look not so downcast. Have 
 we slipped so often through Sultan Oliver's fingers, to 
 lose courage now, because a signal light is delayed for 
 an hour. Out upou thee, friend ! Wilmot, now, had 
 been of stouter heart." 
 
 " Tis my anxiety for your majesty which causeth me 
 to be thus faint-spirited," returned Wentworth. " For 
 myself I care not, but I cannot forget that 'twas to my 
 charge that my Lord Wilmot trusted you." 
 
 " Wilmot is a good fellow, an excellent fellow," replied 
 Charles, " and hath a greater love for my poor self than 
 it deserves. Nevertheless he is foolish in some things. 
 What think you, Master Sparowe, of a man who goeth 
 about the country in danger of his life, and will wear no 
 disguise, because he saith it becomes him not ? Gentle- 
 men, an I had stayed to think of what became me, I had 
 not kept a head, ugly or handsome, on my shoulders." 
 
 Somewhat rueful as this sally sounded in the dead 
 stillness of the night, it raised a little laugh, which did 
 every one good, and helped to keep up the spirits of the 
 forlorn company. But when the September dawn came 
 in at the chapel window, even Charles, sanguine as he 
 was, could not but admit that the enterprise had failed. 
 
 The prospect before them was now desperate. Hope 
 of escape was remote, and the danger immediate, as 
 Roger warned them when he came up for a second con- 
 sultation. For it would be impossible for the fugitives 
 to remain in the house through the day, even if the tide 
 would serve to carry out the plan the next night. The 
 town was a very stronghold of Puritanism, and it needed 
 but a whisper from Master Burroughs to bring an angry 
 mob about their ears. Besides, they had no reason to 
 suppose that the arrangements, which had not taken 
 effect once, could be successfully carried out a second 
 time. Before any decision could be arrived at, it was 
 imperatively necessary to learn the reason of the failure, 
 and whether it was due to any discovery which would 
 oblige them to leave Ipswich at once. 
 
 " Someone must go forthwith to the river, and have
 
 188 A KINO'S RANSOM. 
 
 news of the boat," said Wentworth. " But whom shall 
 we send ? None of us dare stir, and thou, Roger, art 
 scarcely less suspect." 
 
 " And why not Father Martin ? " asked Walter from 
 the window. 
 
 " Well said, Master Walter. Father Martin let it be," 
 replied Charles. " But how to convey news of our 
 straits to him, and bring him hither, without raising 
 suspicion ?" 
 
 " That shall be seen to," replied Wentworth. " Thou 
 Roger, must help in this matter, for love of me. 'Tis 
 the last service I will ask of thee." 
 
 " I leave it to your wise consideration," said Charles, 
 yawning. " For in good sooth, gentlemen, my head is 
 so greatly wearied with the night's work that I can 
 scarce keep awake. I would give my chance of the 
 three kingdoms small enough at this moment, I trow 
 for half-an-hour's sleep." 
 
 Wentworth looked anxiously at him. " Your Majesty 
 is overworn," he said. " Sleep you must have, sir, or 
 your strength will fail at the critical moment. And 
 since we must wait an hour or more for news, use it, I 
 beseech you, to take rest, while Walter and I keep 
 watch. The couch is rough, and we dare not go below, 
 but if you could accommodate yourself to it, sir "... 
 
 " I need no beseeching, good Ralph. How thou art 
 not thyself, and Walter too, wearied to death, passeth 
 my comprehension. Never was softer bed to a tired 
 man," he continued, as he flung himself down. " If 
 news come, and I am needed, call me." 
 
 And the next minute, in spite of the tremendous 
 issues of life and death hanging over him, the wanderer 
 had forgotten all his cares and troubles, and was 
 sleeping as peacefully as a child. He slept on while a 
 carefully- worded note was dispatched to Master Sturges; 
 slept while the sun rose higher, and broad daylight 
 awoke the household, and the business of daily life 
 began, within doors and without. Wentworth would 
 not wake him even when Joan appeared, laden with a 
 substantial breakfast, and regaled the fugitives, while
 
 A NIGHT WATCH. 189 
 
 she served them, with a whole budget of town gossip 
 she had already picked up at the house door. Not 
 until, some three hours later, Master Sturges came 
 hurrying up the narrow oaken stairs, and across the 
 loft, at such unusual speed that he almost fell headlong 
 down the steps which led to the chapel, did Wentworth 
 think it necessary to rouse the tired sleeper. 
 
 Master Sturges, or Father Martin rather, for he 
 doffed his cap and his false beard, and entered the 
 chapel as the smooth-shaven Catholic priest, was 
 breathless with haste and agitation. Drops of sweat 
 stood on his forehead, his face was purple, and for a 
 moment he could not speak for excitement. 
 
 " Foiled ! " he exclaimed at last, stamping his foot on 
 the ground. " Foiled ! and by a woman ! " 
 
 " A woman ! How ? what mean you ? " exclaimed 
 Walter and Ralph together ; and Charles, rising from 
 the ground, broad awake in a moment, came forward 
 and said more quietly, " Take breath first, father, and 
 then declare your tidings." 
 
 " A woman, sir, hath wrought this mischief, alas! The 
 most pitiful, paltry jade, to whose apron strings a king's 
 ransom was ever tied. I almost shame to tell the tale." 
 
 " Out with it, father," replied Charles. " 111 news is 
 never the better for keeping. 'Twill not be the first 
 time, nor the last either, that a man's life hath hung 
 upon a woman's whim." 
 
 " But how hath a woman got wind of this business at 
 all? " asked Wentworth. " Have we been betrayed by 
 any in the house ? Surely not thy mother, Walter." 
 
 " Never 1 " answered Walter, vehemently. " And she 
 knoweth nought of the escape." 
 
 " None have betrayed us so far," answered Father 
 Martin. " 'Tis the wife of the skipper who hath foiled 
 the plan. This wretched creature, having some hint of 
 her husband's doings, and marvelling that he should go 
 to sea again so soon, when he was but just returned, 
 began to suspect that he had a treaty with the other 
 side, for which his head, and her's too, might have to 
 pay. Nought to him saith she of her doubts, which
 
 190 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 had put both him and us on our guard. But about an 
 hour before midnight last night as he was in his 
 chamber preparing to start, she claps to the door, and 
 fastens it on him, and holdeth him close prisoner. And 
 the man, finding himself thus bested, and not daring to 
 make much stir for she swore that if he forced the 
 door, she would go forthwith to the town council, and 
 lay an information against him, that he was carrying 
 two Royalists over to Holland could no other than 
 abide quietly till she let him forth. Which she did at 
 eight of the clock this morning, when all chance of 
 going was at end. I have at this moment had speech 
 of the man. He is yet willing, he saith, to carry out 
 his bargain, an he can be rid of his wife, but the tide 
 will not serve for a week." 
 
 " A week ! " echoed the three eager listeners. 
 
 "A week I 'tis impossible," said Wentworth. "In 
 three days time, sir, you must be quit of this ungrateful 
 country." 
 
 " A week will not help us, father," said Charles, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 " Ay, so I thought, my liege, and therefore I took 
 upon me to tell him the bargain was at an end, and he 
 poorer by a round sum of money than he might have 
 been. Whereat he grumbled and cursed his wife. And 
 hither have I come as fast as feet would carry me, to 
 advise with you all touching the grave peril wherein the 
 King doth stand."
 
 191 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 IT was now plain that nothing but instant flight 
 would save the whole party. Suspicion against them 
 was evidently rife throughout the town, and Master 
 Burroughs' visit was rather the outcome, than the cause 
 of it. It was impossible to tell from what quarter the 
 danger would come. At any moment the house might 
 be invaded by a search party of soldiers, or by what was 
 still more alarming, a fanatical Puritan mob. There 
 was a moment's hasty consultation, whether it might not 
 be well for the fugitives to remain in the house, and 
 conceal themselves in the secret chamber, rather than 
 risk a flight in broad daylight across the open country. 
 The hiding place was large enough to contain two. 
 
 " And for myself I do not fear," said Walter, who had 
 suggested the plan. " My brother's name, and mine own, 
 will shelter me. We have been here so long ; the towns- 
 folk will not dare to attack a Sparowe, even though he 
 be one of the Malignants, as they call us. And your 
 Majesty and Ralph will be safe in the secret chamber." 
 
 "Ay, but the food," objected Ralph. "If they occupy 
 the house, as they may do for a time, they will starve 
 us out. The open country, methinks, is safer." 
 
 "The open country it shall be," decided Charles. 
 " Walter, your noble spirit doth honour to your ancient 
 name and lineage, but your courage shall not be thus 
 severely tested. And as touching your brother's hospi- 
 tality, which I made free to take unasked, methinks I 
 have used it longer than befits a gentleman. He shall 
 not shelter us another day at such imminent risk." 
 
 "Walter raised Charles' hand to his lips. "Would 
 Roger could hear you, my liege ! Albeit he is a Puritan, 
 'twould be the proudest moment of his life. But for any
 
 192 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 poor service I may have done you, I beseech you, speak 
 not of it. My heart's blood were not too heavy a price 
 to pay for your Majesty's safety. And I have done 
 little ; Ralph hath borne the burden of the flight." 
 
 "I am greatly beholden to you both," said Charles, 
 graciously. " Ye have acted as true and loyal servants 
 of the Crown. Though, methinks, 'tis small service to 
 save so worthless a neck from the block to which, after 
 all, it may chance to come at last." 
 
 " Prithee, sir," quoth Wentworth, almost impatiently, 
 " cease this talk, and consider, I beseech you, our means 
 of flight. And thou, Walter, shouldest know better than 
 to fool away the precious time in idle speeches. Every 
 moment's delay may cost us our lives. Since your 
 Majesty desires to escape across the country, and I 
 think myself that 'tis the safer course, while the way is 
 open how shall we leave the house ? " 
 
 It was quickly decided that they should start by the 
 small postern gate leading from the alcove, the same 
 which should have witnessed their flight last night. 
 They agreed to take nothing with them but their arms, 
 and such provisions as they could carry, and Mistress 
 Margaret could provide at a moment's notice. The 
 preparations for the journey were soon made. Charles 
 had long since parted with all his ornaments, his watch, 
 and the jewelled George bequeathed him by his father. 
 The clothes in which he had come had hitherto proved 
 a sufficient disguise, and in order to carry out effectually 
 the character of humble serving man, he thrust his 
 delicate hands up the chimney of the attic, and blackened 
 his face with the soot. 
 
 " And which am I now, father, so please you to tell 
 me, king or groom ? " he asked, gaily, catching sight of 
 Father Martin's horror-stricken face at the moment of 
 transformation. " Did ever your eyes behold so unkingly 
 a spectacle ? An the villains take me, they will let me 
 go again, as scarce worth the killing." 
 
 " To see your Majesty thus, I who have been in your 
 royal father's service, and have known you from a 
 child ! " wept Father Martin, throwing himself on his
 
 THE ESCAPE. 193 
 
 knees and trying to seize Charles' hand, and kiss it ; 
 but Wentworth put him roughly back. 
 
 " Stand up, sir priest, and show your love for the King 
 by helping, not by hindering his flight. Now, if you are 
 ready, sir ... your cloak . . . your cap "... 
 
 As he spoke, Walter flung a short cloak, stained with 
 grease and dust, over the King's doublet, and fastened 
 it at the throat with a ragged string. 
 
 " Oh, if Wilmot could but see me ! " said Charles, 
 laughing till the tears ran down his grimy cheeks. 
 " But no, he were too fine a gentleman to recognise me 
 now. Know you, Father, that he will not consent to 
 wear any disguise ? " 
 
 Meanwhile Roger downstairs was making a sorry feint 
 to eat his breakfast, and to parry Mistress Margaret's 
 ceaseless questions about the cause of his pale face and 
 agitated looks. So difficult was the task, that he hailed, 
 as a positive relief, the news that the fugitives were 
 making preparations to start immediately. Longer 
 concealment being now impossible, the announcement 
 was openly made, and Roger was able to explain the 
 cause of his anxiety. Mistress Margaret's astonishment 
 and dismay were unbounded. 
 
 " But oh, Roger ! " she exclaimed, cutting him suddenly 
 short, "they will not surely take Walter with them. 
 There is no need that the boy should go, when he is but 
 just returned. He hath had fatigue enough since the 
 battle, and needeth rest." 
 
 " Rest, mother," said Roger, with a sad smile, " and 
 what rest, thinkest thou, will he have here ? Nay, 
 Walter goeth too, as I have understood. In sooth, this 
 house is no place for him. 'Tis safer far that he should 
 leave England." 
 
 Mistress Margaret raised her hands in horror. 
 11 Leave England ? Thou wilt send him into a foreign 
 land ? Never, Roger, never ! Thou shalt not part us 
 in this manner. Thou canst shelter him here, if thou 
 wilt ; thine own good name, and mine, will avail. They 
 cannot lay a finger on him." 
 
 " Mother, thou dost forget," said Roger, shaking his 
 
 o
 
 194 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 head sorrowfully, "Thou art thyself a Royalist, and 
 therefore suspect. I shall have some ado, I fear me, to 
 keep thee scatheless 1 " 
 
 " Me ! " exclaimed Mistress Margaret, indignantly. 
 " Dost think they will dare to touch me, who have lived 
 here so long without a word spoken against me ? 
 Roger, trouble hath turned thy brain." 
 
 " The Lord grant thy words be true ! Meanwhile 
 thou must consent to part from Walter for a time, until 
 these troubles be past. And then I pledge thee my 
 word thou shalt have him back in safety, and we will 
 all live together in peace." 
 
 At this moment a serving man brought Roger word 
 that a woman desired to speak with him in the great 
 hall. In his official capacity Roger was constantly liable 
 to these interruptions. He was too well used to them 
 to be alarmed at the present summons. He hailed it 
 rather as a diversion, and pushing away his untasted 
 breakfast, he went out at once into the hall. At the 
 foot of the great oaken staircase, where she seemed to 
 have dropped through sheer weariness, lay a woman 
 huddled in an old cloak. Her breath came in great 
 laboured sobs, and she seemed so utterly exhausted, 
 that she did not move, when the door swung behind 
 Roger. He came towards her and touched her gently. 
 
 " What is there I can do for thee, my good woman ? " 
 he asked at last. 
 
 The woman sprang to her feet, and as her cloak fell 
 back, Roger saw the coarse handsome features, and 
 buxom figure, which had haunted him ever since his 
 first sight of them in the inn at Colchester. But the 
 rounded cheeks were now sunken and pale, the red lips 
 trembled, and the woman's bold black eyes had such a 
 look of terror in them, that Roger shrank back appalled. 
 Involuntarily he put out his hand. 
 
 " Thou here, thou ill-fated woman ! " he exclaimed. 
 " What evil destiny hath brought thee hither ? How 
 hast thou dared to come, and thrust thyself under the 
 same roof as my mother ? She will be here anon, she 
 will see thee ! Get thee gone at once."
 
 THE ESCAPE. 195 
 
 The woman sank on the ground, and clasped Roger's 
 knees. " Hear me, sweet, sir, for the love of heaven, ere 
 you drive me away. I have come from Colchester since 
 break of day, running well nigh every step of the way " . . 
 
 " And wherefore ? " asked Roger, coldly, as the 
 woman paused to take breath. 
 
 " To warn you, you and your brother, and those whom 
 ye shelter here, that ye are all in danger of death," 
 she cried. " Oh, if your honour would but give heed to 
 what I say. They must fly at once, this very hour, for 
 their lives." 
 
 Roger paused. Left to himself, he would not have 
 hesitated an instant to put the woman out of the house. 
 The news she brought might be merely a device to gain 
 admission. But suddenly he remembered that Went- 
 worth, the day before, had confessed that this woman 
 brought them secret intelligence, and had been trusted 
 with the delicate negotiations about the boat. Shrinking 
 involuntarily from contact with her, he nevertheless 
 forced himself to look her steadily in the face as he 
 asked : " From whence hast thou this news ? And who 
 hath told thee that I shelter any here ? " 
 
 " I have been sent hither, and have had speech of your 
 honour's friend, and of Master Sturges," she answered. 
 " I had thought your honour knew thereof. And, oh, 
 sir," she continued, clasping her hands, " an you will 
 not believe me yourself, let me go to them, I beseech 
 you. They will give credence to my words." 
 
 " Tell me first from whence thou hast the news." 
 
 " Roger," interrupted Mistress Margaret's silvery 
 voice, from the door of the sitting room, " bid the poor 
 creature come in here. She is breathless and weary, 
 and will be glad to rest. And speak gently to her, my 
 son. Thou art not wont to be so rough and churlish." 
 
 " Mother, go back, I beseech thee, I command thee ! " 
 cried Roger, imperiously. " The hall is good enough 
 for her. She shall not come in thither. That which 
 she hath to say, she shall say it here." 
 
 The woman wrung her hands. " Good sir, sweet 
 madam, so you do but hear, I care not where I speak.
 
 196 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 For while we parley, the soldiers are already on the 
 road." 
 
 " The soldiers ! " shrieked Mistress Margaret. 
 
 " Ay, the soldiers. For the love of the dear Christ, 
 listen to me. A party of the Parliament men lay at our 
 inn last night, and as I served them, I marked how they 
 let fall the name of Sparowe. Whereat I gave good 
 heed, as your honour may conceive, and heard them 
 presently say that they would come here at six of the 
 clock this morning, would surround the house that none 
 might escape, and seize the King of Scots, having 
 certain intelligence that he is in hiding here. I sought 
 to get from the house and come hither last night, but 
 could not do it, the men not suffering me to depart. 
 But this morning I slipped away before break of day." 
 
 During this speech Mistress Margaret had stood gazing 
 at the woman with a look of growing horror. Suddenly 
 she sprang forward, and seized Roger by the arm. 
 
 " Roger, come from her," she cried. "Thou dost well 
 not to have her in the house. She is distraught, the 
 poor creature, and raveth of the King. Neither King 
 of Scots nor King of England is in hiding here." 
 
 Roger shook off his mother's hand, and pointed up 
 the stairs. " Thou knowest where they are," he said, 
 hastily, to the woman. " Up thither as fast as feet can 
 carry thee, and bid them come at once. There is no 
 other way of escape now, save through the passage." 
 
 As the woman sped up to the attic, Roger turned to 
 his mother, and taking both her hands in his, he said, 
 gently : " Mother, be calm. Make not the work harder 
 for us all, I beseech thee. We thought to have spared 
 thee, but now thou must hear all. The Lord grant thee 
 strength to bear it ! " 
 
 Mistress Margaret looked at him in terror, and tried 
 to withdraw her hands. 
 
 " What is there to know, Roger?" she asked. "What 
 further secrets hast thou kept from me ? Here is thy 
 friend, Ralph Wentworth, whom I have small cause to 
 love, and his serving man. Saving these, and thine 
 own brother, there are none in the house, I will take
 
 THE ESCAPE. 197 
 
 my oath on't. Or are there others," she added, fiercely, 
 " of whom I know not ? " 
 
 " None others," answered Roger. " Thou hast seen 
 and spoken with him they call the King of Scots. Tis 
 the young serving man, Will Somers. For his sake, 
 Walter, and Ralph Wentworth, and I also, it may be, 
 have risked our lives." 
 
 Roger tried to speak quietly, hoping to calm his 
 mother by his own composure. Mistress Margaret 
 looked doubtfully at him for a moment, then burst into 
 an hysterical laugh. 
 
 " Fie upon thee, Roger, to make such a fool of me ! 
 Dost hope to trick me thus ? Or hast thou so mean an 
 opinion of his Majesty the King, as to think he would 
 demean himself after such a fashion ? Will Somers, 
 forsooth, with his cropped hair and dirty clothes ! Will 
 Somers, the King ! " 
 
 " The same, fair lady. Charles Stuart and Will 
 Somers are one and the same person, and at your 
 service, madam," said a voice behind her. "'Tis a 
 small matter that you know me not ; i' faith, sometimes 
 I scarce know myself. As witness in this present guise, 
 for the which I pray you to excuse me." 
 
 Mistress Margaret turned, and beheld a tattered 
 figure, dirty beyond recognition. The eyes alone, 
 bright, sparkling, and even at this moment of supreme 
 peril, dancing with momentary amusement, betrayed the 
 speaker. She shrank back in consternation. 
 
 " Sir ... Will Somers ! ... His Majesty ! " . . . she 
 stammered. 
 
 "Any or all of them," replied Charles, urbanely. 
 " Nay, madam," for Mistress Margaret burst into tears, 
 and flinging herself on her knees, tried to seize his hand 
 and kiss it, " I entreat you, forbear. This hand hath 
 lately made too intimate acquaintance with the chimney, 
 to be worthy of a lady's fair lips. When a man's neck 
 is in danger, he is not over nice concerning his appear- 
 ance. It is I rather who should kneel and kiss your 
 hand, and thank you for the generous shelter granted 
 to poor Will Somers."
 
 198 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 While this little scene was in progress, the Reverend 
 Mr. Sturges glided down the stairs in the rear of the 
 party. Amid the turmoil and confusion, the sight of his 
 black cassock, and broad, stiffly-starched collar and 
 band, his solemn gait and imperturbable face, was 
 absolutely soothing. Nothing could be more admirably 
 in keeping than his low greeting, half whine, half snuffle, 
 as he passed Roger on his way to the door : " Good day 
 to you, my son. The Lord be with you ! " For the 
 first time in his life, Roger felt a movement towards the 
 man which was not wholly hatred. No one could tell 
 what dangers might lie beyond the threshold he now 
 crossed so sedately. At such a crisis, with death staring 
 them all in the face, the young man could not sufficiently 
 admire Master Sturges' invincible self-possession. And 
 the priest's strength seemed to be communicated to 
 others, by a kind of subtle sympathy. Roger tried 
 to emulate him in the calmness with which he turned to 
 the group in the hall, and joined in the hurried discussion. 
 
 Wentworth was as prompt as ever with his counsel. 
 
 " We must escape at once by the postern door. We 
 thought to stay for such food as Mistress Margaret 
 might be able to give us, but now we dare not wait. I 
 beseech your Majesty to come at once. If we delay 
 longer we may endanger the lives of all in the house." 
 
 " I come, Ralph, I come," returned Charles. " Master 
 Sparowe, farewell. I dare not speak of that I owe you, 
 but if ever "... 
 
 At this moment Roger held up his hand. Outside, 
 in the street, they could hear the sound of many voices, 
 and the tramp of feet, like the roar of a great multitude. 
 The front door swung open, and Joan entered, a market 
 basket on her arm. Pale and terrified, her kerchief 
 ruffled, her dress in disorder, she rushed to Roger, and 
 clutched his arm. 
 
 " Master, save me, save me," she cried. " The people 
 be all coming hither, and they caught me, and hustled 
 me, and broke mine eggs for me see here ! And they 
 swore deep oaths that one named Charles Stuart, I 
 think they called him, was here, and that he should
 
 THE ESCAPE. 199 
 
 escape them no longer, but they would pull the house 
 down about our ears to have him "... 
 
 Joan broke off with a shriek, as the great hall door 
 swung to with a terrible clash behind her. Wentworth 
 had sprung forward at her first words, closed the door, 
 and hastily made it fast. 
 
 " That will give us five minutes' breathing time," he 
 said, shortly. " Now sir, for our lives ! There is nought 
 but that door between us and destruction." 
 
 " By the secret way ! " cried Roger. " There is none 
 other now. The house is surrounded, and the postern 
 gate will be watched." 
 
 " By that mouldy passage ! " answered Charles. 
 " Well, since there is no help, the saints grant we be 
 not stifled in it." 
 
 " And wilt thou come and open to us, Roger ? " said 
 Walter, as they hurried off towards the wainscotted 
 room, " or shall I stay behind to do it ? " 
 
 " Nay, I will come," answered Roger, briefly. " Ho, 
 you men there ! Guard this door for five minutes for 
 your lives. Let none pass save across your bodies. 
 Here, Jock Ben Will Jones ! Ye have been faithful 
 to me, and to my father before me. Prove yourselves 
 true men now, and stand by your master. 'Tis life and 
 death with us." 
 
 " Ay, ay, your honour." And half-a-dozen men came 
 rushing up from the buttery, and raised a shout as they 
 gathered round Roger, hearing which the fast thickening 
 crowd outside wavered for a moment. 
 
 " Now, mother "... but Mistress Margaret had 
 swooned at all the horrors round her, the meaning of 
 which she only half understood, and Joan rushed 
 forward, barely in time to receive her in her arms, as 
 she reeled and fell. 
 
 It was the work of a minute with Roger to loosen the 
 wedge-shaped projection in the wainscotted room, which 
 concealed the secret on which so many precious lives 
 were hanging. But as he laid his hand on the spring, 
 and tried to snap it, he became instantly aware that 
 something was wrong. No whirring sound, no noiseless
 
 200 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 sliding of well greased panels answered to his touch. 
 He pressed the spring again and again with frantic 
 efforts, but in vain ; it refused to move. 
 
 " Walter's white face appeared at the cupboard door. 
 " Brother, the panel ; it opens not. Make haste with 
 the spring there. Delay not, when every moment is 
 precious." 
 
 " 'Tis not I who delay, Walter," answered Roger, 
 looking up, breathless and crimson with agitation, from 
 the recess. "The spring is set fast. Some one hath 
 tampered with it. Christ ! it will not act ! " 
 
 It was true. All their efforts to work the spring were 
 unavailing, and when the young men tried by sheer force 
 to thrust the panel back, without the spring to set it 
 in motion, they found the task beyond their strength. 
 So thoroughly had the artificer done his work, that the 
 panel was as immovable as the rest of the wall, when 
 the machinery to push it aside failed. 
 
 " By the postern gate, then, since the saints will have 
 it so ! " said Charles at last, as they desisted breathlessly 
 from their efforts, and gathered round him with despair 
 in their faces. " Marry, sirs, if we save our necks this 
 time, we shall do well." 
 
 At this moment there was an awful roar from the 
 front of the house. The great entrance had been burst 
 open at last ; and they could hear the tramp of 
 many feet as the crowd rushed into the hall. Roger 
 sprang up. 
 
 " I will go to them," he exclaimed. " My name hath 
 still some weight. Peradventure they will listen to me 
 for a few moments. I can at least hold them in check 
 while ye escape through the postern." 
 
 And drawing his slight figure to its full height, he 
 walked across the room, his head erect, his pale face 
 calm and resolute, to face a mob ready, for aught he 
 knew, to tear him to pieces. 
 
 Roger was not alone in his courage. Years after, he 
 remembered how, as he left the room, he heard Walter 
 say, in a strangely exulting voice : " Now, Ralph, speed. 
 Our plan, our plan ! " and for a moment Roger wondered
 
 THE ESCAPE. 201 
 
 how his brother could speak cheerfully, or think of any 
 plan at that supreme crisis. 
 
 The great hall was filled with people. Half of them 
 scarcely knew what they had come for ; but as they had 
 joined the crowd rushing to " Sparowe's house," they 
 had caught up some vague notion that Malignants were 
 in hiding there. Among a few of the more sober 
 minded the report had circulated that the Man of Sin, 
 Charles Stuart himself, was verily concealed in the 
 house. These acted as guides to the mob, and contrived 
 to press to the front ; and each zealous Puritan, as he 
 felt for his pistol or stout bludgeon, determined to strike 
 a blow for the Lord, and this time to put an end to 
 the Mystery of Iniquity. 
 
 There was a moment's silence when Roger appeared, 
 and asked in his usual quiet voice : " What would ye, 
 my good sirs ? " 
 
 " 'Tis Master Sparowe himself. We mean not to 
 harm your honour. We know you for one of the godly." 
 
 " We come to deliver you from these Malignants, who 
 have thrust themselves upon you at unawares," said 
 another. " Give them up to us, or 'twill be the worse 
 for you." 
 
 " Nay, he shall not be threatened," said one of the 
 men, who spoke with an air of authority. " Hath he 
 not served the good cause, and his father before him ? 
 Look you, Master Sparowe, we seek not to do you 
 mischief. Deliver up unto us the Man of Sin, Charles 
 Stuart, who is in hiding here, perchance without your 
 knowledge, and not a hair of your head shall be hurt." 
 
 " Firstly, good sirs, I desire to know your warrant for 
 entering a peaceable man's house in this riotous manner. 
 Know ye not that I have power to commit everyone of 
 you for breach of the peace ? " 
 
 There was a pause. The foremost men in the crowd 
 looked at each other, and seemed to hesitate. Roger 
 took instant advantage of the opportunity. " Disperse 
 yourselves quietly," he continued, "and go to your 
 homes. Let some of your number come to me, and 
 whatsoever ye ask in reason it shall be granted."
 
 202 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 For one moment it appeared as if Roger's authority 
 alone would be sufficient to avert the danger, when a 
 voice at the back cried : " The sword of the Lord, and 
 of Gideon ! Brethren, this is the Lord's work. We 
 have put our hands to the plough. Let us not draw 
 back unto perdition." 
 
 " Down with the Man of Sin ! " shouted half-a-dozen 
 men. "Down with the Stuarts! Death to Charles 
 Stuart!" 
 
 It was enough. The crowd rushed furiously forward 
 again, and Roger was forced back to the foot of the stairs. 
 Here he tried to make a stand, and raised his hand to 
 entreat a hearing, but a respectably-dressed man close to 
 him sprang on one of the steps, and pulled his arm down. 
 
 " Twere better to yield him at once, sir," he said in 
 his ear. " Give the Stuart up to us, and we will do you 
 no violence. When our fellows here have him, they will 
 disperse quietly. Otherwise your blood be on your 
 own head ! " 
 
 " How know ye that he is here ? " asked Roger, trying 
 to parley. 
 
 " We have certain intelligence of it," answered the 
 man. " Deny it not, at your peril." 
 
 " He is here," roared some of the crowd, catching a 
 few words of the conversation. " He was here half-an- 
 hour since, and he hath not escaped the house is 
 watched trifle with us no longer. The Stuart ! We 
 will have the Stuart ! " There was a horrible silence, 
 as the dense mass surged resistlessly forward towards 
 the inner door. 
 
 " Master Sparowe," cried a man in the crowd. " You 
 were a Puritan until this day. Swear to us now that 
 Charles Stuart is not here, and hath not been here, and 
 we will believe you." 
 
 " Fool," interrupted another, " the godly swear not. 
 Tell us, master, as thou art one of us, and hopest for 
 salvation hereafter, that he is not with thee, and it will 
 suffice us. In the name of the Lord, is Charles Stuart 
 here or no ? " 
 
 The speaker snatched a dagger from his belt, sprang
 
 THE ESCAPE. 203 
 
 up the staircase, and held it over Roger's head as he 
 spoke. Roger glanced up at the bright weapon, and at 
 the face of deadly hatred above it. 
 
 " He is here ! " 
 
 But before the knife could fall, Roger heard the door 
 behind him swiftly unbolted, and someone came forward 
 from the inner room. 
 
 " Good people all," said a voice, which, though it was 
 feigned, made Roger start with surprise, " my master 
 hath sent me to learn the cause of this uproar, and to 
 pray you not to molest his trusty friend here, Master 
 Sparowe. Whatsoever you desire, my master and I are 
 ready to give you satisfaction." 
 
 A dead silence succeeded to the uproar. The crowd 
 retreated in astonishment, and an open space was left 
 between Roger and the new comer. Roger turned, and 
 lo ! at his elbow stood Will Somers himself, in his 
 greasy jerkin and torn hose, his dirty steeple-crowned 
 hat slouched over his face, in a vain attempt to conceal 
 his features. But to escape detection was now im- 
 possible. The fugitive had deliberately walked into the 
 very jaws of death. 
 
 " I pray you, good sir," he continued, addressing a 
 man near him, "tell me the cause of this tumult. 
 Whom have these people come hither to seek ? " 
 
 " Why, thyself, young man, as it seemeth to me," 
 answered the other shortly. " Art thou not serving man 
 to a Cavalier who is in hiding here, and is not thy name 
 Will Somers ? " 
 
 " The same, at your service." 
 
 Roger's brain reeled. Had Wentworth and Walter 
 lost their wits in this terrible crisis ? Had they given up 
 all hope of escape, and tamely allowed their carefully- 
 guarded charge to thrust himself upon certain destruc- 
 tion ? Or or was it not Charles at all ? This man 
 was taller by two or three inches than Will Somers, 
 and his voice, disguise it as he would, sounded strangely 
 familiar. That trick of the broad, shapely shoulders 
 Roger had never seen it in any man before save his 
 brother Walter.
 
 204 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 No sooner had the speaker announced himself as Will 
 Somers than there was an awful shout of execration. 
 " 'Tis he 1 Tis the very man ! The Lord hath delivered 
 him into our hands. Praised be the name of the Lord." 
 
 " Have at him ! Tear him down ! The sword of the 
 Lord and of Gideon ! " 
 
 But Roger flung himself between the crowd and their 
 victim. " Sirs, stand back ! Ye touch him not, save 
 over my dead body. Hold back there. I love him not, 
 this Charles Stuart. I am a Puritan as ye all know. 
 But never shall it be said that Roger Sparowe suffered 
 one to whom he had given shelter to be cut in pieces 
 before his eyes." 
 
 A fearful struggle ensued. Half-a-dozen men flung 
 themselves upon Roger, and tried, without actually 
 injuring him, to drag him away. Behind them the 
 surging, yelling crowd was fighting to get at the young 
 serving man. Roger stood his ground with the strength 
 of ten men, but inch by inch he was forced aside. 
 
 Suddenly someone in the press drew a pistol, aimed it 
 deliberately at the false Will Somers, and fired. There 
 was a loud report, a groan, and the sound of some one 
 staggering back. With one mighty effort, Roger 
 wrenched himself from the men's grasp, and flew to the 
 wounded man, who was leaning against the door. 
 
 " Who is it ? " he cried. " Art hurt, man ? much 
 hurt ? Look up and speak. Oh, merciful God 1 'tis 
 thou, Walter ! " 
 
 For at this moment the grey felt hat fell off, and 
 Roger, in spite of his hastily cropped hair and ghastly 
 features, recognized his brother. Walter put his hand 
 to his side. 
 
 " Roger, 'tis all over with me," he whispered. " That 
 shot went home. But call me Will Somers still. Let 
 not the knaves know that they have not killed the King. 
 Oh, God, the pain I Mother, oh, mother! " 
 
 Stupified with astonishment and horror, Roger forgot 
 the crowd, which had subsided in an instant into ghastly 
 silence. Scarcely knowing what he did, he burst open 
 the door before him, and with superhuman strength half
 
 THE ESCAPE. 205 
 
 led, half dragged Walter into the inner room, a track of 
 blood marking the way. 
 
 "My brain reels," murmured the wounded man. 
 " But go back, brother, and tell them I am hurt to death. 
 They will disperse then. And, oh ! say it is the King. 
 If only none heard thee call me Walter." 
 
 Roger obeyed mechanically. He went back into the 
 hall, and confronted the angry mob once more. 
 
 " Ye have done your work well," he said. " He that 
 fired that shot had a true aim. The man who is 
 wounded hath not an hour to live. Go your way, and 
 rejoice that the Lord hath delivered him into your 
 hands." 
 
 And therewith he turned from them into the room, 
 and locked and doubly barred the door. Nevertheless 
 there entered One with him, an awful unseen Presence, 
 whom no bar or bolt could keep out.
 
 206 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 
 
 WITH the help of three or four men of the household, 
 Walter was brought into the wainscotted room, being 
 quieter and cooler than the outer parlour. Here, 
 swooning from loss of blood, he was laid on a huge 
 settee, opposite the chimney corner and immediately 
 facing the fatal recess, which was still open, no one 
 having had time to close it. 
 
 Roger, who like many other gentlemen, had acquired 
 a slight knowledge of surgery during the Civil War, 
 bound up the wound and tried to staunch the blood. 
 The first shock over, his nerves grew steady. He thought 
 of everything. He eased his brother's position with 
 cushions, applied restoratives, and hastily dispatched a 
 servant for a doctor, half wondering at himself the while 
 that, surrounded by such horrors, he could act in a 
 calm and composed manner. Then he remembered his 
 mother, and his hand shook as he was tying a bandage, 
 at the thought that the fearful news must be broken to 
 her. For the first time his courage failed him ; he felt 
 that he dared not do it himself. 
 
 Ill news travels fast, and Roger was not long kept in 
 suspense. Suddenly, without a sound to announce her 
 coming, Mistress Margaret glided into the room, and 
 took her place beside Walter's couch. She did not 
 speak, and her face, as she bent over her son, was 
 almost as ghastly as his. Her eyes were bright and dry, 
 and Roger was terrified at the strange, wild look in 
 them ; while her hand, when he touched it, was cold as 
 marble. 
 
 The physician came at last, and made a careful 
 examination of the wound. Mistress Margaret sat by 
 in silence, helping him mechanically, and looking from
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 207 
 
 time to time piteously in his face, to read the verdict. 
 Roger, who knew from the first what it must be, threw 
 his arm round her to support her, but she put it gently 
 back. 
 
 "Tell me," she said at last, in a low hollow voice, 
 " will my son die ? " 
 
 " Madam," answered the physician, " I grieve to say 
 it, but man's skill avails not here. This poor gentleman 
 hath not an hour to live. Is it verily Master Walter 
 Sparowe, who hath come by his death in this strange 
 fashion ? " 
 
 Mistress Margaret shuddered, but did not speak. 
 Roger laid his hand on the leech's arm, and said in a 
 tone of agonized earnestness : " It is in truth, my 
 brother, sir, whom you have known from a child. Can 
 nothing be done ? Beseech you to give us hope, if it 
 be possible." 
 
 " It is not possible," returned the physician, " I can 
 do nought for him. " If he hath anything on his mind, 
 or there be any one he desires to see, it should be seen 
 to forthwith." 
 
 At this moment there was a slight movement, and the 
 sufferer slowly opened his eyes. " The King ! Hath the 
 King escaped ? " he murmured, faintly ; then perceiving 
 that a stranger was beside him, he closed his eyes with 
 a groan, muttering " Alone ! Have they left me then ? 
 Oh, mother! Roger ! " 
 
 " We are here, brother," answered Roger, gently, 
 laying his cool hand on Walter's burning forehead ; and 
 Mistress Margaret leant forward, and tried to murmur a 
 few soothing words. " This is the physician," continued 
 Roger, " who hath come to ease thee of thy pain." 
 
 Walter opened his eyes again, and looked up at his 
 brother. " Heard he what I said ? " he asked, anxiously. 
 " Good sir, I did but rave. In the anguish of my wound, 
 I scarce know what I say." 
 
 " I doubt not but that you will be easier presently," 
 said the physician, and at the words two tears trickled 
 slowly down Mistress Margaret's cheeks, and fell on 
 Walter's hand. He turned feebly to the doctor.
 
 208 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 "I am hurt to death, then?" he asked. "Tell me 
 truly, sir, I beseech you, how long I have to live." 
 
 There was a moment's silence before the physician 
 answered, gravely : " Young sir, it is my duty to bid you 
 prepare for death. I trust your peace hath been already 
 made with God. If Christ be your stay and your con- 
 fidence, you have nought to fear." 
 
 " Good sir, spare your exhortations," said the wounded 
 man, feebly. " Roger," he continued, " by the brotherly 
 love which was formerly between us, I crave two boons 
 of thee. Deny me not." 
 
 Roger bent over the couch, and a great sob half 
 choked his words. " Whatsoever thou wilt, brother, if 
 it lie in my power, I will do it for thee. But oh, sir, the 
 time is so short ! An hour since he was lusty and well ; 
 is there no hope ? " 
 
 " None in this world, Master Sparowe" answered the 
 other, coldly. " As touching the world to come, your 
 brother must make his own peace with it. If report 
 saith true, he hath much whereof to unburden his 
 conscience." 
 
 " I pray you, sir, to leave the charge of that to me," 
 said Roger, with dignity. 
 
 " Good," replied the physician. " 'Twas laid on me 
 to bear my testimony. But since there lie now none 
 but family matters between ye, suffer me to take my 
 leave for this time. I will be here again." 
 
 He bowed to Mistress Margaret, but she did not look 
 up. She seemed to be stunned, and oblivious of every- 
 thing save her son. It was Joan who mixed the draught, 
 and shifted the cushions, and shaded the light from the 
 sick man's eyes, weeping piteously the while. 
 
 Roger came back, and knelt beside the couch. "What 
 wouldest thou of me, Walter ? " he asked, gently. " Is 
 there aught I can do ? " 
 
 " Brother," whispered Walter, eagerly, trying to clasp 
 Roger's hand, " wilt thou forgive me now ? " 
 
 " Oh, Walter, speak not of it. My hardness of heart 
 hath shamed me. I sought occasion before to tell thee 
 thou wast freely forgiven, and now it hath come to this."
 
 THE PRICE OP THE RANSOM. 209 
 
 " Better so," answered Walter, " an I do but die at 
 peace with thee. Thou wilt not think bitterly of me 
 when I am gone?" 
 
 " Never never. Walter, thy words break my heart. 
 Tis I to ask pardon of thee. I was the greater sinner. 
 The Scripture saith, ' Until seventy times seven,' and I 
 would not forgive thee once." 
 
 " Nay, all is now well between us. Peradventure 
 thou wast harsh with me, but I deserved it. There is 
 yet more "... 
 
 Roger thought the sick man was wandering, and 
 checked him. " Tell me how thou earnest to do this 
 thing ? " he asked, gently. " Thou didst not fling thy 
 life away, because of the difference betwixt us ? " 
 
 " No, 'twas contrived long since, planned with Ralph 
 when we came hither. We thought but to gain time for 
 the King, and not that it would lead to this. But it 
 may be, I had not done it at the last save that I was 
 desperate." 
 
 For a few moments there was no sound in the room, 
 but Mistress Margaret's low moans and Roger's sobs. 
 
 " Wouldest thou nothing more, Walter," he asked, at 
 last. " Let me do something for thee while I may." 
 
 The sick man roused himself. " If thou wouldest send 
 for Master Sturges," he murmured, " and bid him come 
 forthwith. Thou knowest him. He is one of us. There 
 needs no concealment with him ; tell him all. And, oh, 
 Roger," he tried to raise himself on his elbow, but sank 
 back with a groan, " I cannot die in peace till I know how 
 it hath fared with the King. For the sake of the love 
 that is renewed between us, send and have news of him." 
 
 Roger's brow darkened. " Small cause have we any 
 of us to love him," he answered. " He hath cost us 
 dear. Nevertheless," as Walter looked up imploring at 
 him, " I will send as thou desirest, and thou shalt know 
 whatever can be known. And Master Sturges shall be 
 presently here." 
 
 As Roger left the room, and went across the great 
 hall, now absolutely deserted, he felt himself plucked by 
 the coat. Huddled against the door- way, and scarcely 
 
 p
 
 210 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 to be distinguished in the deep shadow from the wall 
 behind her, crouched the unhappy woman who had first 
 given the alarm. Roger looked down, but he could see 
 little more in this dark corner than a pair of fierce, 
 bright eyes, and the gleam of a white arm. 
 
 " Master Sparowe ! " she said, in a hoarse whisper, as 
 he tried impatiently to free himself. " Master Sparowe, 
 for the love of heaven, tell me how it fares with him. 
 Will he live or die ? " 
 
 " Woman, let me go," said Roger, roughly. " It is 
 thou who hast worked all the mischief between us. But 
 for thee, this terrible evil, perchance, had never befallen 
 our house. Begone, I say, or my knaves shall chase 
 thee hence." 
 
 " I cannot go until I know how it is with him," she 
 answered, weeping. " If I have wronged him or thee, I 
 beseech you pardon me. Wrong hath been done to me 
 too but no more of that. For the sake of the dear 
 Christ, drive me not away. I will not enter. I will but 
 stay here on the threshold, that I may have news of him 
 from them that come and go. Sweet master, suffer me 
 to remain." 
 
 Roger looked gloomily at her. " If he die and he 
 must die thou wilt have caused his death as much as 
 any of us. We have all done wrong sore wrong. The 
 Lord be merciful to us sinners. Remain, didst thou 
 say ? Yea, thou canst remain, if thou come no further." 
 
 Within the room the two, mother and son, were alone 
 together for the last time. There was a moment yet for 
 tender leaves-taking, and for a last heart-broken farewell. 
 But Mistress Margaret said never a word. Only she 
 gazed into her boy's dim eyes and ashen face, as if her 
 strong love could bid defiance to death itself. And then 
 such little things attract our notice at a moment of 
 supreme anguish as she passed her hand tenderly over 
 his fevered forehead, she missed the long brown curls. 
 
 " All gone, mother," said Walter, with a faint smile. 
 " Ralph cut them with his dagger. Thou wilt never 
 play with my curls any more. The King's head was 
 cropped, and my curls had betrayed me."
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 211 
 
 Then he began to wander, and fancied himself a child 
 at her knee, and prayed her not to be wroth with him, 
 and cut his curls off, because he had been impatient over 
 the dressing of them. And as his poor mind strayed 
 further and further, the idea of the curls was always 
 uppermost. In a fevered, fantastic way he took no 
 count of the life he had given, but thought only of the 
 bonny brown love locks he had sacrificed for his master. 
 And Mistress Margaret knelt beside him, and though she 
 had never seen anyone in delirium before, and shrank 
 from the sight, she was calm and composed, and 
 humoured him about the curls, and soothed him with 
 prayers and tender words, as he was able to bear them. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sound of hasty footsteps in the 
 outer room. Mistress Margaret, glancing up, with her 
 finger on her lips, saw Roger and Master Sturges, and 
 beyond them, through the open door, a woman, with a 
 white face and wolfish eyes, peering into the room. The 
 face gave her a thrill of nameless horror. She turned 
 to Joan, who had entered with the men, and pointed to 
 the door. 
 
 " 'Tis a poor demented creature, mistress, who will 
 not stir from thence. She saith she hath the master's 
 leave to stay, and we cannot force her away." 
 
 Joan spoke between her sobs. She had never ceased 
 sobbing since Walter was first carried in from the hall, 
 but her grief did not prevent her from going about the 
 business of the sick room with imperturable steadiness. 
 
 As soon as he entered the room, and Roger had 
 bolted the door behind him, Master Sturges advanced, 
 deliberately took off his black velvet cap, and raising his 
 hand said, solemnly : " Peace be to thee, my son, and to 
 this house ! " 
 
 Roused by the voice, Walter opened his eyes, but 
 there was no answering look of recognition in them. 
 His lips moved, and he began to babble feebly a few 
 incoherent sentences. Master Sturges, or Father 
 Martin rather, looked with a kind of horror at Mistress 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Is it too late ? " he asked. " Doth he not know me ?
 
 212 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 For, doubtless, he had a special purpose in sending for 
 me, and I dare do nothing without his free consent." 
 
 " Walter, lad, dost thou not know us ? " cried Roger, 
 desperately. " Rouse thee, brother. See, here is 
 Master Sturges, whom thou didst ask for, and I have 
 brought at much risk through the streets. He doth not 
 hear me I Mother, canst thou do nothing ? " 
 
 " He will revive," said Mistress Sparowe, quietly. 
 " Patience, all of you. Stand back, and give him air. 
 See now, my son, dost thou not remember good Master 
 Sturges ? " 
 
 Walter opened his eyes, and clasped his mother's 
 hand. The priest stooped down and whispered : " Tis 
 I, Father Martin, Walter. Thou knowest me ? " 
 
 " Surely, I know you," answered Walter, in a steadier 
 voice. " Did I wander ? My head groweth confused, 
 but 'tis only for a moment. Oh, father, sav, is the King 
 safe ? " 
 
 " I know not, my son, but we have sent a trusty 
 messenger, who will bring us news of him. We shall 
 presently have tidings. Meanwhile, hast thou nothing 
 further to say to me ? " 
 
 " An the King were safe ! " murmured Walter. " Oh, 
 if they have pursued him. Roger, thou hast not 
 betrayed me ? Thou hast not revealed that they shot 
 at another, and not the King ? " 
 
 " I have revealed nothing, brother," answered Roger. 
 " But think no more of him thou callest the King. 
 Consider thyself and the salvation of thy soul." 
 
 " Yea, my son," exhorted the Priest. " The time hath 
 come for thee to put away all earthly thoughts. The 
 care of thy soul is more precious now than even the 
 King's life. Is, there nought thou desirest of me ? " 
 
 Walter gazed wistfully at him. " Father, thou 
 knowest what I would have, if thou deem me worthy" . . . 
 
 The priest drew a crucifix from under his gown, and 
 held it to the dying man's lips. " Swear upon this holy 
 sign that thou dost repent thee of thy sins, and art in 
 true union with our Holy Mother Church, and the last 
 rites for the departing soul shall not be denied thee."
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 213 
 
 Roger sprang indignantly to his feet, and laid his hand 
 roughly upon the priest's arm, but Father Martin shook 
 it off. With a strength of which he had seemed 
 incapable a moment before, Walter took the crucifix, 
 and pressed it to his lips, then fixing his failing eyes 
 upon the priest he said : " I swear, father. Grant me 
 now absolution, that I may depart in peace." 
 
 " First declare thyself once more a member of our 
 Holy Catholic Church, that none may think I take 
 advantage of thy weakness." 
 
 " Oh, Walter, not that ! " Roger burst out, with a cry 
 of irrepressible pain. " Anything but that, brother. 
 We are but newly reconciled, and wouldest thou put 
 afresh a great gulf betwixt us ? Thou art a Protestant, 
 born and bred in our reformed faith. I beseech thee 
 let me put this knavish priest from the room." 
 
 Father Martin turned to Roger, and held up his hand. 
 " Sir, I pray you to leave Master Walter in peace. 
 You have now no further concern with him. He hath 
 been received into the communion of our Holy Church, 
 and henceforth no heretic hath a right to intermeddle." 
 
 " He is no Catholic ! " cried Roger, desperately. 
 " We are no Papists, any of us. You shall not do him 
 this deadly harm, and drag his soul to perdition, when 
 he hath no strength to resist you. I will see justice 
 done. Begone, sir priest, from this house ! " 
 
 Roger might as well have spent his passion against a 
 rock. Father Martin looked at him absolutely unmoved, 
 with a faint smile on his lips. 
 
 " Your words come too late by a whole year, Master 
 Sparowe. I drag no soul to perdition. Rather hath it 
 been granted me to be the lowly instrument of snatching 
 this soul from destruction. This is no thing of yesterday. 
 Speak, my son, and tell him how it is with thee, and 
 that thou art not a death-bed convert to our Holy 
 Catholic faith." 
 
 Walter looked up at his brother, and even in this 
 supreme moment he flinched from the wrath he saw in 
 Roger's eyes. 
 
 " Roger, forgive me this last deceit," he murmured.
 
 214 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " I dared not tell thee. Thou wast so stern, so strict. 
 Thou wouldest have driven me from the house, hadst 
 thou known. And now . . . Brother, look not at me in 
 anger. Let me die at peace with thee and all men." 
 
 Roger turned away, and covering his face with his 
 hands groaned aloud. " Oh, Walter, what hast thou 
 done ? Thou hast deceived me, poor lad, but thou hast 
 deceived thyself also. Now art thou doomed to eternal 
 perdition, through the machinations of this crafty priest. 
 Brother, aught else I could have borne, but this, that 
 thou hast joined thyself to the enemies of the Lord, to 
 the scarlet woman, to anti-Christ "... 
 
 Father Martin touched his arm. " Pardon me, 
 Master Sparowe," he said with dignity, " but I cannot 
 suffer you in my presence to speak thus of our Holy 
 Mother, the Church. Nor hath any craft been used in 
 this matter. Master Walter joined us of his own free 
 will a twelve month since, as I have told you." 
 
 " Ye are all in league, everyone of you, to deceive me," 
 cried Roger, with a burst of uncontrollable passion. 
 "Thou too, mother" . . . 
 
 " Your pardon again," returned the priest. " Mistress 
 Margaret knew nought of this business. I gave her to 
 understand that I was a priest of the reformed faith, 
 and as such she welcomed me here. Our Holy Church 
 bids us wear many disguises, but the end justifieth 
 the means. Enough of these worldly matters. Master 
 Sparowe, your brother hath not many minutes to live. 
 I pray you, nay, I desire you to withdraw, that^I may 
 administer the last ghostly consolations to him. The 
 Church suffers none to depart out of this world un- 
 shriven and unabsolved. Even you, I take it, would 
 scarce wish him to die without spiritual comfort." 
 
 Roger turned upon the priest a look full of rage and 
 hatred. Father Martin answered it with the same deadly 
 composure he had maintained throughout. Bending 
 over Walter, Roger asked : " Dost thou wish it, Walter ? 
 Shall I leave thee for this priest to work his will on 
 thee ? I will not go unless thou bid me." 
 
 " Go," whispered Walter, feebly. " For a few minutes,
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 215 
 
 brother, I would be alone with him. And, oh ! bring me 
 news of the King when thou hast it." 
 
 With a sigh wrung from the very depths of his heart, 
 Roger left the room, so absorbed in his grief, that for the 
 moment he did not even think of his mother. During 
 the scene Mistress Margaret had sat with her hand in 
 Walter's, a passive, perhaps an unconscious spectator. 
 She betrayed no surprise when Walter announced him- 
 self a Catholic, and Father Martin was obliged to raise 
 her gently from her chair, before he could make her 
 understand that she, too, must leave the room. 
 
 In the outer hall the woman still crouched by the 
 threshold of the door. She looked up wistfully at mother 
 and son as they passed her, but she dared not speak. 
 And indeed there was no need to ask for tidings from 
 the sick room ; hopelessness was written on every face. 
 
 Mistress Margaret sank into the chair Joan placed 
 for her and sat motionless, as she had sat all the 
 morning, only now and then making a feeble movement 
 with her hand, as if she was still caressing Walter's 
 sunny curls. Joan stood beside her mistress, and 
 murmured over and over again, as if she were repeating 
 a kind of charm : " I knew 'twould be thus ; I knew it 
 from the moment he crossed the threshold left foot 
 first. Ah, my bonny lad ! and he to go left foot first. 
 The next time 'twill be in his coffin." 
 
 Roger leant against the lattice window, idly watching 
 the scene before him. He was half-maddened with 
 grief. Within there, Walter, his only brother Walter, 
 lay a dying. Dying a hero's death, but dying in com- 
 munion with a church which Roger held to be worse 
 than atheism. Terrible as had been the constraint he 
 had put upon himself the last few days, nothing equalled 
 the horror of the discovery that his own brother was a 
 Papist. 
 
 The pause did not last long. The door was soon 
 thrown open again, and Father Martin beckoned Roger 
 forward. 
 
 " He hath something more on his mind, poor boy, 
 which he would fain say to you," he whispered. " And
 
 216 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 his mother," for Mistress Margaret had looked up at 
 sight of the priest, " she must come, too, He will not 
 last long now, I fear." 
 
 The priest was right. The moment he reached his 
 brother, Roger saw that ashen look on his face which 
 none can ever mistake. And at the sight all his anger 
 at Walter's perfidy, his idle life, his unrepented sins, 
 vanished, and a mighty tide of love and sorrow filled his 
 heart. He took his brother's cold hand, and tried once 
 more to bring a look of recollection into his dim eyes. 
 
 " Walter, what is it ? " he asked gently. " Hast ought 
 more to speak of to me ? Is there anything further 
 whereof thou wouldest ease thy mind ? " 
 
 " The woman," answered Walter, speaking with diffi- 
 culty, " She whom thou wottest of. They must not 
 starve, Roger, she and hers. I have money money 
 which thou wilt now inherit of me. Let her have it, as 
 much as is fitting. And oh, brother ! 'tis my last prayer 
 to thee," Walter roused himself for a final effort, " tell 
 not my mother of it. Keep the knowledge from her, as 
 thou canst do. Roger, forgive me." 
 
 " As I hope myself to be forgiven, Walter. The Lord 
 receive us both to His everlasting mercy, though we 
 come to it by ways so diverse. Fear not ! I will do all 
 that thou canst wish. But oh ! to lose thee in such a 
 cause." 
 
 " No man can die in a nobler cause," spoke Father 
 Martin from the foot of the couch. " Walter hath given 
 himself for him who is most precious to all of us our 
 King. My son, thou hast laid down thy life in this 
 sacred cause, and the sacrifice is accepted." 
 
 A faint smile lit up Walter's face. " Ah, if it were 
 so ! " he sighed. But the King ! the King ! I cannot 
 die until I know that the King hath escaped." 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of voices in the 
 next room. Joan hurried to the door, but Roger was 
 before her. Opening, he beckoned to someone who 
 stood without, and the next moment admitted a man 
 booted and spurred, bespattered with mud, and hot with 
 the haste of the journey.
 
 THE PRICE OF THE RANSOM. 217 
 
 " Dost thou bring news ? " asked Roger, cautiously. 
 
 Before the man could answer, there was a cry from 
 the couch, and Walter, raising himself on his elbow, 
 gasped : " Let him come hither. Speak, man. The 
 King ! Hath the King escaped ? " 
 
 " He hath," answered the man. " He is far on his 
 journey to the West. There was no pursuit. Ere now, 
 he hath ridden twenty miles from hence." 
 
 " Now God be praised ! " exclaimed Walter ; then, as 
 he sank back a moment after, he murmured : " Mary, 
 mother of God, have mercy on me ! Brother, thy hand. 
 Kiss me, mother. The King hath escaped ! the King 
 hath escaped ! " 
 
 And before Roger could realise that the end had 
 come, Walter Sparowe, with a smile on his lips, had 
 passed away.
 
 218 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 THE mourners were still standing round the couch, 
 scarcely able to believe that their care was no longer 
 needed, when the silence was rudely broken. There was 
 a sound of noisy wrangling in the great hall, and a voice 
 peremptorily demanding admittance. In terror lest the 
 mistake had been discovered, and the mob had returned 
 to complete their vengeance, Roger tore himself from 
 the room, and went out. Two or three of his men, with 
 white, terrified faces, were standing in front of the 
 entrance door which, already battered, and half-torn 
 from its hinges, they had been unable to keep closed. 
 Upon the threshold stood Master Burroughs, more 
 arrogant, more self important, than Roger had ever seen 
 him before. 
 
 " What meaneth this, Master Sparowe ? " he cried, 
 indignantly, as soon as he caught sight of Roger. " I 
 come to pay you a peaceable visit, and these knaves here 
 assault me, and forbid the way, as though I meant to do 
 you an injury. 'Tis the first time that ever your door 
 was shut against me, and I trow it shall be the last. 
 Marry, I came hither to give you a word of friendly 
 warning, but, an I am thus roughly handled, I will 
 hence, and lodge my complaint in the right quarter." 
 
 "The warning is not needed, good Master Burroughs," 
 said Roger, in a low voice. " You have not heard then 
 of that which hath befallen us ? " 
 
 " Heard, ay, I have heard enough," answered the 
 angry Puritan. " I have heard that which mine ears 
 can scarce credit, Master Sparowe. That you, whom I 
 took to be a godly servant of the Lord, have here in 
 hiding that arch rebel himself, Charles Stuart. Fie on 
 you for an arrogant hypocrite, I say."
 
 THE END. 219 
 
 " He is here no longer," replied Roger, quietly. 
 " And I pray you, sir, seek some more convenient season 
 for your visit and your reproaches. We can ill bear the 
 presence of any stranger to-day." 
 
 " Doubtless my presence is unwelcome," returned 
 Master Burroughs, with a bitter smile. " But I would 
 have you observe, good sir, that there can never be 
 peace in this house so long as your mother and your 
 brother" . . . 
 
 " Hold ! " cried Roger, peremptorily. " Sir, cease 
 your railings ; they avail no longer. Suffer me, I pray 
 you, to withdraw." 
 
 He turned and would have left the hall, but Master 
 Burroughs, hurrying after him as fast as his portly 
 dignity would allow, laid his hand on his arm, and said : 
 " Softly, my son. You speak in riddles. Hath aught 
 happened that I know not of, to make you so strange 
 of mood to-day ? Methinks I should have been told 
 thereof on entering." 
 
 As Roger did not answer, the old man turned to the 
 servants. "Ho, you knaves! Come hither, one of 
 you, and tell me what hath befallen. Your master 
 seemeth half distraught, and the door is broken, and . . . 
 ah, what is this ? " 
 
 At this moment Master Burroughs' voluble talk was 
 interrupted by the sight of a stain, a hideous, unmistake- 
 able blood stain on the floor. The men crow r ded round 
 to look. Roger leant back over against the wall with a 
 groan, and put his hand over his eyes. 
 
 " 'Twas here they shot him," said one of the men in 
 an awe-struck whisper. " Look you, what a pool it 
 made ! " 
 
 "Ay, 'tis his heart's blood." 
 
 " Shot him ! Shot whom ? " cried Master Burroughs, 
 stamping his foot impatiently. " Speak out, men. Are 
 ye all spell-bound, like your master ?" 
 
 The men looked at each other, and then at Roger. 
 " 'Twas a mob that came hither," said one of them. 
 
 "Ay, and raised a tumult," continued another, "and 
 we held the door until they burst it open."
 
 220 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " A mob ! a tumult 1 and wherefore ? " asked the 
 Puritan. 
 
 "They came to seek some man who was in hiding 
 here, they said," answered two or three at once, " but 
 we knew of none such, save Master Wentworth and his 
 man. And as they were like to have killed his honour, 
 Master Walter came forth in strange clothes "... 
 
 " Like to those the serving lad wore when he came," 
 suggested another, and then there was a long pause. 
 
 " Walter came forth, did he ? " said Master Burroughs 
 nodding his head sagely. " Ha, ha 1 As I had thought. 
 And then . . . and then "... 
 
 "They shot at him," said one of the men, in a tone 
 of horror. 
 
 " Shot at him, man ? Come, look up and speak out. 
 Did they hurt him ? " 
 
 Roger moved to go, but Master Burroughs stopped him 
 again. " Tarry, my son. I must sift this matter to the 
 bottom," he said, pompously. " Mine office demands it. 
 The Council of State will send to inquire concerning it, 
 and I must be ready with the information. How could 
 such a tumult befall, and no notice thereof given to me ? " 
 
 There was a dead silence. Master Burroughs looked 
 at the men, and singling out one of them, said, angrily, 
 " Sirrah, speak and tell me what happened. Who stayed 
 the mob ? And Master Walter, was he wounded ? " 
 
 "He is dead!" 
 
 Master Burroughs looked incredulously at the speaker. 
 " Dead 1 how could that be ? Why I saw him here 
 yesterday, alive and well, had sight of him at a window 
 as I rode off. Roger, lad, speak, and give this foolish 
 knave the lie." 
 
 But Roger did not speak, and even Master Burroughs 
 grew appalled at the ominous silence. 
 
 "Not our handsome Walter!" he cried, suddenly. 
 " Not the merry boy whom I dandled on my knee in his 
 father's time, and played with his pretty curls. My son, 
 say it is not Walter." 
 
 " It is Walter," answered Roger, in a hollow voice. 
 "He hath given his life for him whom he called his
 
 THE END. 221 
 
 King. Whether he were right or wrong God alone 
 knoweth, who hath taken him from us." 
 
 " Oh, lad ! oh, Roger ! and I was harsh with thee when 
 thou wast in such grief. How could it be ? How went 
 the matter ? Tell me, prithee, some of you." 
 
 Now that their master had spoken, the tongues of the 
 men were loosened, and they began to give circum- 
 stantial and sometimes conflicting accounts of the tumult, 
 adding the most extravagant details. Suddenly Roger 
 held up his hand, and said : " Peace, good fellows. Here, 
 at such a time, much talk is unseemly. I thank you for 
 all the good service rendered me this day. It shall not 
 be forgotten. Now let every man get to his work. 
 Master Burroughs," he turned with an effort to the 
 Puritan, " pardon my discourtesy. I scarce know what 
 I say, but 'twould disturb my mother if you came 
 further. Suffer me here to bid you farewell." 
 
 " Hold, my son," said Master Burroughs. " I cannot 
 part thus from thee. Tell me how fares it with thy 
 poor mother. And, oh ! if my sharp words have grieved 
 thee, forgive me. I knew not when I came that the 
 Lord hath laid his hand so heavily on thee." 
 
 " The Lord's hand hath lain heavily on me for many 
 a day," answered Roger, wearily. " Doubtless 'tis for 
 my sins that he hath thus afflicted me. Trouble and 
 sorrow are no new thing to me, but this blow toucheth 
 me nearly." 
 
 " And thy poor mother ? " 
 
 " She hath not moved, nor spoken, nor wept," 
 answered Roger, in a half-frightened tone, " though she 
 wept much when my father died. She is as cold and 
 quiet as "... he stopped, with a shudder. 
 
 " Some one must be with her," said Master Burroughs, 
 shaking his head. " These tender women are not able 
 to bear up alone against such a stress of trouble. I 
 have heard Alice say so many a time. Hath she no 
 friend, no kinswoman, who might be with her ? " 
 
 " Friends hath she in plenty, but not such as would help 
 her at this pass. And her kinsfolk are all far distant, in 
 London and in the North. None of them could come."
 
 222 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 " But some one must thou have, to aid thee with her, 
 my poor lad, and thou art not fit to give much comfort 
 thyself. Women at such a time are more helpful than 
 men. Would she suffer mine Alice, think you ? The 
 girl hath a rare gift for comfort." 
 
 The gleam of almost wild joy which lighted up Roger's 
 haggard face for a moment was answer sufficient that, 
 to one member at least of that grief-stricken household, 
 Alice would be a ministering angel. 
 
 " Oh, if she could come ! " he sighed. " But it is far, 
 and the days grow short. And 'tis no fit house to bring 
 a blythe*young maiden to, like Mistress Alice." 
 
 " Alice taketh no thought for her own comfort when 
 there is trouble in a house," answered Master Burroughs. 
 " Oft have I heard her say that she would sooner go to 
 a house of mourning than of mirth. She shall be here 
 before nightfall ; myself will bring her, and the Lord 
 grant her to help thy poor mother." 
 
 It was not till the close of the day that a true version 
 of what had happened in " Sparowe's house " began to 
 circulate in the town. For some hours Walter's artifice 
 succeeded. It was positively affirmed by all the rioters 
 that Charles Stuart himself, the man of sin, had at last 
 been given over into the hands of his enemies, and was 
 lying dead or dying in the Old House. Roger's declaration 
 that the man was wounded to death, the close quarters 
 at which the fight had occurred, and the sight a few of 
 the rioters had obtained of the wounded man, as he was 
 carried away, were so many convincing proofs that he 
 could not have escaped with his life. No domiciliary 
 visit from a Magistrate or other official was thought 
 necessary under the circumstances, nor was it considered 
 seemly to disturb the dying man's last hours. The 
 corporation contented themselves with setting a close 
 watch round the house, to prevent the body from being 
 carried off, in which they were aided by the soldiers, 
 who had arrived from Colchester too late to be of other 
 use. Satisfied with these precautionary measures, the 
 authorities remained quiet till the evening. No pursuit 
 was made after the real fugitives, and by the time the
 
 THE END. 223 
 
 mistake was discovered, Wentworth and his companion 
 were already many miles on their way westward. 
 
 As the day wore on doubts, originating no one knew 
 whence, began to be whispered about the town, that 
 "mob justice" had not this time been real justice after 
 all. Vague rumours were afloat of a dire tragedy which 
 had befallen the Sparowes. And at last it was judged 
 expedient to clear up these shifting reports, and to set 
 the matter finally at rest. Accordingly a justice of the 
 peace was deputed to go to the " Old House," attended 
 by a physician and a notary, to attest that the body now 
 known to be lying there was actually that of Charles 
 Stuart, the late King of Scots. 
 
 The revulsion of feeling that ensued when the truth 
 was known surprised even Roger himself, little as he 
 was accustomed to take count of such matters. For 
 some time he had been aware of a growing bitterness 
 in the town against him and his family. Mistress 
 Margaret's dainty town-bred ways, and staunch adherence 
 to the proscribed Church, had always been a stumbling 
 block to the godly Puritan dames of Ipswich. And 
 when it was known that her younger son was following 
 in her steps, and was even more popishly inclined than 
 his mother, nothing but respect for the name of Sparowe 
 prevented the virtual ostracism of the whole family. 
 
 Of late, too, it had been darkly hinted that a priest 
 had actually been seen, in broad daylight, standing at 
 one of the upper windows of the house, and old people 
 recalled a dim tradition of their youth that a chapel, in 
 some mysterious way, formed part of the Old House. 
 At the meetings of the town council, Roger had often 
 been obliged to bear angry looks and frowns, sharp 
 words, and threatening hints ; and the knowledge that, 
 through no fault of his own, he was suspected of com- 
 plicity in practices he reprobated as heartily as any 
 Puritan could do, had added another to his many 
 burdens. 
 
 All this was changed in a moment. Each man in the 
 town felt himself, in some way, personally implicated in 
 the riot, and everyone was thrilled with horror at the
 
 224 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 terrible result of it. The tide turned suddenly. The 
 name of Sparowe, but a short time since a bye-word for 
 reproach, was extolled to the skies. People even talked 
 of sending a deputation to Roger to condole with him, 
 and were scarcely to be deterred from it. Perhaps the 
 best way, after all, of showing their sympathy was 
 by respecting, as everyone in the town did, the rigid 
 seclusion in which Roger buried himself. For a whole 
 month after Walter's death, a long time in those stirring, 
 active days, when there was so much to do, and so few 
 to do it, he was allowed to indulge his grief in the quiet 
 of the Old House. 
 
 The matter was of necessity reported to head-quarters, 
 and the Council of State sent down a Commission from 
 London to inquire into it. They had orders, if his guilt 
 could be proved, to commit Master Roger Sparowe to 
 prison, for harbouring Malignants. But the Borough 
 authorities gave so moving an account of the affair that 
 the Commissioners, after much talking and consulting, 
 went back to London without troubling Roger with a 
 single question. And in such wise did they place all 
 the circumstances before the Council of State that the 
 matter was dropped, with the more reason because 
 certain intelligence was soon after received, that Charles 
 had escaped to France from the South Coast. 
 
 All this and much more kind feeling, the very existence 
 of which Roger had never suspected, he began to find 
 out, when he showed himself again in the streets of his 
 native town. And he discovered, to his surprise, that, 
 with the fickle townsfolk, the process of canonizing his 
 brother had already commenced. Poor Walter, in spite 
 of his faults and short-comings, had always been a 
 favourite with them, and they were now disposed to 
 look upon him as a martyr, half against his will, to his 
 erring but heroic principles. The popular indignation 
 fell upon Charles, to whom, now safe in France, it did 
 not matter a jot ; and he was openly stigmatized as a 
 coward and a villain, who had allowed another man to 
 sacrifice his life in his stead. 
 
 It was remarked, however, by those who observed him
 
 THE END. 225 
 
 closely, that Master Sparowe, though he was worn and 
 pale, and more haggard than many a man of double his 
 years, had yet a far more peaceful look, since his 
 brother's death, than anyone had ever seen in him before. 
 His brows were no longer contracted, his lips no longer 
 trembled as they used to do. His face was sad but 
 calm. For the terrible weight which had oppressed 
 Roger for the last year was gone. Never again, so he 
 hoped and believed, would there be any concealment 
 between him and his mother. Never again would he be 
 forced to shrink from the sight of his fellow-citizens, 
 oppressed with the weight of a terrible secret which 
 was none of his choosing. Peace had come, though 
 purchased at a fearful cost, and all the dissembling and 
 equivocation which had tried him more than open 
 warfare, were buried in poor Walter's grave. 
 
 There was another reason for the peace and content 
 which everyone, to their astonishment, read in Roger's 
 face. For the first time in his life, the silent, lonely 
 man, had found some one to understand him. Alice 
 Burroughs had shared this month of seclusion with him 
 and his mother, contenting herself with hasty visits from 
 time to time to Mote End, to look after her poor sick 
 folk. And during this month Roger had entered upon 
 an altogether new experience. He had learnt what help 
 and comfort a true-hearted woman can give to a man. 
 Life without Alice had seemed difficult before ; he knew 
 that from henceforth it would be impossible. All those 
 qualities in which he felt himself to be deficient he 
 found in her. As if so at least he thought her 
 character completed and filled out his own ; as if it was 
 granted to them to realise the perfect harmony of two 
 natures, which poets dream of, but to which so few 
 attain. 
 
 Something approximating very nearly to this perfect 
 union Roger did nevertheless achieve, when, after a year 
 of waiting, insisted on, no one quite knew why, by Kezia 
 and Master Burroughs, he brought Alice at last to the 
 fair and stately house which was henceforth to be her 
 home. There had long ceased to be any question
 
 226 A KING'S RANSOM. 
 
 whether Mistress Margaret should live with them or not. 
 Between her and Alice, between the mother without a 
 daughter, and the girl who had grown to womanhood 
 without a mother, there had sprung up a love so deep 
 and touching, that even Kezia allowed it might be well 
 not to separate them. For Mistress Margaret was never 
 the same after the tragedy of Walter's death. She 
 became suddenly and prematurely old. Her bright 
 spirits, and the singular youthfulness of face and mind 
 which had characterized her vanished when her youngest 
 and best-loved child was laid in his grave. Her hair 
 turned white ; she grew feeble and quiet, and though as 
 sweet tempered as ever, she would sometimes chide her 
 son and daughter if they left her long alone. She clung 
 to Roger, and to the wife who was scarcely less dear to 
 her than he, with a wistful tenderness which was 
 inexpressibly touching. 
 
 Two winters after, when all England was astir with 
 the news that the great General had consented to 
 become Lord Protector of the Commonwealth, there 
 came a stir, too, into the quiet household at Ipswich. 
 Mistress Margaret had been failing sadly of late, but 
 she lived to see that the good old name of Sparowe was 
 not to die out, as she had often feared. And when Alice 
 and Roger's first-born child was put into her arms, she 
 laid down willingly the burden of life, which had grown 
 so heavy for her. 
 
 And with her last breath she prayed her children to 
 call the boy Walter.
 
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 BOOKS of Local Interest. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF OLD IPSWICH. By JOHN 
 WODDERSPOON. Complete with 18 Illustrations 
 and a new Index. Handsomely bound. Price 12/6 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS OF OLD IPSWICH. By JOHN 
 CLYDE. With numerous full-page Photogravures. 
 Handsomely bound. Price 13/6 
 
 CHRISTCHURCH OR WITHEPOLE HOUSE. 
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 AN ILLUSTRATED GUIDE TO THE TOWN AND 
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 With large sheet Map of the Town. 6d. 
 
 CHRISTCHURCH MANSION. A Popular Guide 
 to the Mansion and Park. Illustrated. 3d. 
 
 YE ANCIENT HOUSE AT IPSWICH. A Popular 
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 Illustrations. 3d. 
 
 YE ANCIENT HOUSE SOUVENIR. A charm- 
 ing brochure, containing a brief description and 
 6 Illustrations in colour, l/- 
 
 MARGARET CATCHPOLE, A SUFFOLK GIRL. 
 By the Rev. RICHARD COBBOLD. Paper cover, 6d. 
 cloth, I/- and 1/6 
 
 THE MARTYRS OF THE CORNHILL. A Tale of 
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 A KING'S RANSOM. A Story of the Ancient 
 House and Ipswich in the time of Oliver Cromwell. 
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 East Anglian Literature. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF OLD SUFFOLK. 
 
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 RAVEN'S HISTORY OF SUFFOLK. 
 
 Popular Edition. 3/6 
 
 HIGHWAYS AND BYE-WAYS OF EAST ANGLIA. 
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 THE ANCIENT HOUSE, albeit given over to the 
 purposes of keen commercial utility, has lost none 
 of its sentimental interest, and, if anything, has 
 discovered fresh features to enlist public attention. 
 
 Apart from antiquarian considerations, visitors 
 will find much to interest them in the admirable 
 display of books and artistic wares which dis- 
 tinguishes the Ancient House as the home of 
 spirited commercial enterprise. East Anglian 
 Daily Times.
 
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