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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Forty Six.</h3> <h4 class="event">Awaiting War News.</h4> “What a life we’ve been leading, Sab! Shut up in cities as birds in a cage! Now nearly two years of it, with scarce ever a peep at the dear, delightful country. Oh! it’s a wretched existence.” “It’s not the pleasantest, I admit.” “And in this prosaic city, Gloucester.” “Ah, Vag, don’t speak against Gloucester. Think what her citizens have suffered in the good cause. And how well they have borne themselves! But for their bravery and fidelity, where might we be now? Possibly in Bristol. How would you like that?” “Not at all,” returned Vag, with a shrug and grimace, the name of Bristol recalling souvenirs aught but agreeable to her. “Well,” resumed Sabrina, “life there is not prosaic, anyhow—if there be poetry in scandal. Very much the reverse, I should say, supposing half of what’s reported be true. But I wonder how our foolish aunt, and equally foolish cousin, are comporting themselves under the changed circumstances?” “Oh! they’re happy enough, no doubt; everything just as they wished it. Plenty of titled personages flitting and figuring around—at least three princes of the blood royal, with an occasional chance of their seeing the King himself. Won’t Madame open wide the doors of Montserrat House. As for Clarisse, I shouldn’t be surprised at her making a grand marriage of it, becoming baroness duchess, or something of that sort. Well, I won’t envy her.” Vaga Powell could afford to speak thus of her Creole cousin, with light heart now, all envy and jealousy having long since gone out of it. “Let us hope nothing worse,” rejoined the elder sister, with a doubting look, as though some painful thought were in her mind. “Clarisse is very, very imprudent, to say the least of it.” “And very wicked, to say nothing more than the most of it. But what need we care, Sab, since we neither of us ever intend going near the Lalandes again? After the way they behaved to us, well—” “Well, let us cease speaking of them, and turn to some pleasanter subject.” “Ay, if that were possible. Alas! there’s none very pleasant now—every day new anxieties, new fears. I wish this horrid war were at an end, one way or the other, so that we might get back to dear old Hollymead.” “Don’t say one way or the other, Vag. If it should end in the King being conqueror, Hollymead will be no more a home for us. It would even cease to belong to us.” “I almost wish it never had.” “Why that?” “You should know, Sab. But for my father sending him there after those worthless things, he would not now be—” “Dear Vaga!” interrupted the elder sister entreatingly. “For your life do not let father hear you speak in that strain. ’Twould vex him very much, and, as you yourself know, he has grieved over it already.” “Ah, true. I won’t say a word about it again, in his hearing, anyhow—you may trust me. But it’s hard to think of my dear Eustace being in a prison—shut up in a dark dungeon, perhaps hungering, thirsting, and, worse than all, suffering ill-treatment at the hands of some cruel jailer.” She was justified in calling him her “dear Eustace” now, and giving him all her sympathies. Since that night of perverse misconceptions at Montserrat House there had been many an interview between them; the thread of their interrupted dialogue by Ruardean Hill had been taken up again, and spun into a cord which now bound them together by vows of betrothal. Of their engagement Sabrina was aware, and under the like herself, she could well comprehend her sister’s feelings. True, her betrothed was not in a prison, but she knew not how soon he might be—or worse, dead on the battlefield. Invincible as she believed him, war had its adverse fates, was full of perils, every day, as the other had said, fraught with new anxieties and fears. Concealing her own, she essayed to dispel those of her sister, rejoining,— “Nonsense, Vag. Nothing so bad. Why should they treat him with cruelty?” “You forget that they call him renegade. And they on the King’s side are most spiteful against all who turn from them. Think how his own cousin acted towards him; and ’tis said his father disowned him. Besides, other prisoners have been scandalously treated by the Cavaliers, some even tortured. And they may torture him.” “No fear of their doing that. Even if disposed they’re not likely to have the opportunity.” “But they have it now.” “Not quite.” “I don’t comprehend you, Sab.” “It’s very simple. Heartless as many of the Royalists leaders are, and vindictive, they will be restrained by the thought of retaliation. At this time our people hold two prisoners to their one. A large number of these Monmouth men, with their officers, have been taken at Beachley, and that will insure humane treatment to your Eustace. So make you mind easy about him.” It became easier as she listened to the cheering words, almost reassured by others spoken in continuation. “In any case,” pursued Sabrina, “his captors are not likely to have the time for torturing, as you put it. Richard’s last letter says he and his troops were at High Meadow House—the Halls’, near Staunton, you know?” “That Papist family; great friends of Sir John and Lady Wintour. I remember their place. Well?” “He was there in advance, awaiting the Governor to come up, with every hope of their being able to take Monmouth. If they succeed, and they will—I feel sure they will, Vag—then Eustace will be a free man, and all of us go back to Hollymead, with not much danger of being again molested.” “Oh?” exclaimed the younger sister, overjoyed by the prospect thus shadowed forth, “wouldn’t that be delightful! Back at the dear old place. Once more our walks and rides through the Forest. Our hawking, too. Bless me! my pretty Pers and your Mer, I suppose they won’t know us! I trust Van Dom hasn’t neglected them, nor my Hector either.” And so she ran on, in the exuberance of her new-sprung hopes seemingly forgetting him around whom they all centred. Only for an instant though. Without Eustace Trevor by her side the Forest walks and rides, with Hollymead and its hawking,—would have less attraction for her now. Wherever he might be, that were the place of her choice, thenceforth and for ever. So soon the thought of his being in a prison, with fears of something worse, came back in all its bitterness. And the shadow of returned anxiety was again visible on the brow of Sabrina. A fortified town to be taken there would needs be fighting of a desperate kind—her lover in the thick of it. A forlorn hope for storming, who so like as her soldier knight to be the leader of it? He had been so at Beachley, and proud was she on hearing of his achievements there. But at the thought of his now again undergoing such risk, with all the uncertainties of war—that he might fall before the ramparts of Monmouth, even at that moment be lying lifeless in its trenches—her heart sank within her. For a time both were silent. Then Sabrina, with another effort to cast-off the gloomy reflections, which she saw were also affecting her sister, said,— “Richard promised to write again last night, or early this morning, if there should be anything worth writing about. He hasn’t written last night, or the letter would have been here now. If this morning, I may soon expect it. His messengers are never slow, and a man on a swift horse should ride from High Meadow House to Gloucester in two hours, or a little over.” From her belt she drew a quaint, three-cornered watch to ascertain the correct time. Correct or not, its hands pointed to 10 a.m. A messenger from the High Meadow could have been there before if sent off at an early hour, and on an errand calling for courier-speed. Perhaps no reason had arisen for such, and consoling herself with this reflection, she resumed speech, saying,— “Anyhow, we may make sure of getting news before noon, some kind or other. The Governor will be sending a despatch to the Committee, and one may have already reached them. We shall know when father returns.” The last remark had reference to the fact of Ambrose Powell being one of the Parliamentary Commissioners for the Gloucester district, and just then in committee. But the anticipated news reached them without being brought by him. As they stood conversing in an embraced window, which, terrace-like, overhung the street, they heard a clattering of hoofs, almost at the same instant to see a horseman coming on at quick pace. When opposite the house in which they were, he halted, flung himself out of the saddle, and disappeared from their sight under the projecting balcony. Long ere this they had recognised Sir Richard’s henchman Hubert. There was a loud rat-tat-tat at the street door, and soon after a gentle tapping against that of their room, which both recognised as from the knuckles of Gwenthian, simultaneously exclaiming, “Come in.” In came she with a letter that seemed terribly soiled and crumpled. “Hubert has brought this, my lady,” she said, holding it towards Sabrina, for whom the sharp-witted Welsh maid knew it was meant. “Poor man! he be wet to the skin, and all over mud, and looks as if just dropped out of a duck pond.” The “poor man” was but a mild, evasive form of expressing her sympathy. Had she put it as she felt, it would have been “dear man,” for long ago had Gwenthian entered into tender relations with the trumpeter. Neither of the sisters gave ear to what she was saying, for the elder had snatched the letter out of her hand, and torn it open on the instant, while the younger stood by in eager, anxious attitude. There was contentment in Sabrina’s eyes as she glanced at the superscription. It became joy on reading the first words written inside, and she cried out, in tone of enthusiastic triumph,— “Glorious news, sister! They’ve taken Monmouth?” “They have! Heaven be praised!” Sabrina was about to read the letter aloud, when some words caught her eye which admonished first running it over to herself hastily, as the other was all impatience. It ran:— <blockquote> “My love,—We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.” </blockquote> The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out,— “There’s something wrong? Ah! it’s Eustace; I know it is!” “Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he’d have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle.” There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed,— “You’ve not told me all. There’s something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I’ll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Let me read it.” Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once. Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying,— “All’s there that interests you, Vag; and don’t let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than—” “Wounded!” came the interrupting cry from Vaga’s lips, intoned with agony. “He’s wounded—it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!” <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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