Mistress Spitfire E-Book

Joseph Smith Fletcher

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Fletcher’s understanding of human nature is evident in his writing, where his characters embody every facet of human existence in very well-written prose and dialogue. Mistress Spitfire is a simple account of some of the episodes in the history of Richard Coop, Ghent, and his cousin Mistress Alison French during the Revolution of 1642-1644.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter I

I

II

III

IV

Chapter II

I

II

III

IV

Chapter III

I

III

Chapter IV

I

II

III

IV

Chapter V

I

II

III

Chapter VI

I

II

III

Chapter VII

I

II

III

Chapter VIII

I

II

III

IV

Chapter I

Of certain Events which happened at East Hardwick Manor House, August 27-28, 1642.

I

At seven of the clock I turned away from the window, where, for a full hour, I had stood flattening my nose against the pane in a vain attempt to see something of interest in the dripping garden or the dank meadows outside. Sir Nicholas moved in his deep chair by the fire and then groaned, his old enemy catching him afresh and tweaking his great toe. Seeing that his pain had awakened him I went over and stood at his side. I saw the firelight glint on his frosted hair, and it woke in me some sleeping memory of a by gone winter. Yet then it was August, and had been a bright one, but that day we had suffered from a heavy rain which came with the dawn and kept pouring itself upon us without ceasing, so that no man putting his nose out o’ doors could have said with certainty whether he sniffed April or November in the air. As for me, I was heartily sick of it and everything, and when my uncle’s silvery hair reminded me of winter I thought regretfully of the previous Christmas and of Mistress Catherine and the mistletoe that then hung over the very spot where I now stood watching Sir Nicholas making wry faces at his foot.

“Plague!” says he, “Plague on this toe of mine! Let me counsel thee, nephew–but what o’clock is it? God’s body! I must ha’ slept, gout or no gout, why, I must ha’ slept an hour.”

“An hour and a half, sir, by the clock,” says I. “But, by the time that I have watched at the window, a year, at the least.”

“Ha! Dull, eh? Why, nephew, I make little doubt that thou hast employed thyself in some fashion that was not altogether–the devil fly away with my toe!–not altogether without amusement. Thy thoughts, now–what, when I was thy age I could ha’ mused by the day together on something pleasant. Ha! I mind me of a day that I passed under a beech tree–I was then in love–I cut her name and mine–they were enclosed in a heart, and through the thicker part of it I carved an arrow. Cupid, eh, nephew?–and–and–”

“But I, sir,” says I, “have no maiden to think of, seeing that none thinks of me.”

“Why,” says he, with an arch look in his eyes, “that’s but a poor reason, Dick, for God’s faith, there are many men think of maidens that never think of them! Is there–plague take it, nephew! sit thee down like a Christian rather than stand lolling there on one leg like a dancing Frenchman. Is there, I say, no little pastry-cook’s wench in all Oxford that thou hast not set eyes on since Easter, and thought softly of? Ha, Dick, I mind me–”

But in the midst of his memories the pain in his toe seized him so violently that he screamed to me to fetch Barbara, who came leisurely from the housekeeper’s room, and bade me go forth and leave her with him, which I was not loth to do. And being heartily wearied and sick of the rain, and my poor uncle’s gout, and the house, which I had kept all day, I threw my cloak about me and lounged into the porch, and stood there, one shoulder against the wall, staring at the raindrops which pattered in the courtyard, and made a musical tinkle in every pool.

But there was naught in the courtyard or in the land beyond it likely to rouse me out of that dullness of spirit into which I was fast falling. The walls were dripping wet, there were rivulets of shiny water in the road outside, and across that lay the fields, as befogged and gray with the long day’s weeping as ever I saw them in autumn. ’Twas still early in the evening–the previous night I had seen the top of Pomfret church as I leaned against that door at the same hour–but already there was in the air a misty darkness accompanied by a chilling cold that searched its way through my thick cloak. I half regretted that I had not set out that morning for Doncaster, where I had promised to spend a day or two with my college friend, Matthew Richardson. ‘Twould have been a wet ride thither, certainly, but what matter when I should have had good company and profitable conversation at the end of it? When Sir Nicholas had a touch of the gout he was neither company nor conversation for any man save in the way of quarrelling, and therefore I had kept away from him most of that day, striving to amuse myself with such books as he possessed in his justice room, or with the old guns and muskets that stood in racks on his walls. I never could abide a wet day in a country house–in a town house it makes little difference, I think, for there are diversions and amusements of one sort and another, let alone a man’s occupation, but in the country I am minded to be abroad, on foot or on horseback, and to be kept inside by a day’s rain is exceeding irksome to me. So I stood in the porch feeling in no very good humour that August evening, and still the rain continued to fall.

There were, perhaps, more matters than one to trouble me that night. Here was I, Richard Coope, a young man of one-and-twenty years, at that time a scholar of Pembroke College in the University of Oxford, destined by my uncle, Sir Nicholas, to be one thing, while I myself mightily desired to be another. Because my father, John Coope, died young, leaving me no fortune, Sir Nicholas had taken me in hand, kindly enough, and had charged himself with my up-bringing and education. He was minded to send me to the bar, for something had persuaded him that I should at least become Lord High Chancellor, and add new glory to the family name. And that had been well enow, had I myself possessed the least liking for the quips and quiddities of the law, which, as a matter of fact, I hated like poison. My taste was for other matters–wholly and first of all for the finer things in literature, such as a rare book or tract, a copy of elegant rhymes, or a page or so of prose that was worth the third reading. I had made verses myself in hours which should have been devoted to what the folk called serious business; and though there were often great law-books propped before me, my eyes took in little of their contents, so long as a broadsheet of ballads or such-like intercepted their gaze. After that–and ’twas a taste that no man need be ashamed of, I take it–I cared for naught so much as the sights and sounds of country life, and the peaceful occupations that are their accompaniment. What I desired for myself was that Sir Nicholas should let me live my own life in his old house, and leave me his estate when he died, so that I, like him, might be a country gentleman, and want for naught. I never could see any objection to that notion–it was not as if I cared for great riches, or had any desire to rise to perilous heights in the world. My uncle, ’tis true, was not a rich man, as some would count riches; but there was his Manor House, with its comfortable surroundings and a thousand pounds a year wherewith to maintain it in quiet dignity; and there was none to whom he could leave it but me and my cousin, Mistress Alison French, who was already provided for, seeing that her own father was alive and a well-to-do man. To my thinking, the life of a country gentleman would suit me well–I should breed cattle and sheep, and occasionally compose a set of well-turned verses after the fashion of Sidney, whom I admired greatly, and more than all, I should have the scent of hawthorn blossoms and of the brown soil, instead of the stink of those musty parchments which I never could abide.

Now, Sir Nicholas and I had talked these matters over that morning, and we had differed, as we always did–at least, upon this particular question. He was all for what he called my advancement–I was for a quiet life after my own fashion.

“’Slife!” said he, after hearing my notions for the twentieth time; “to hear thee talk, boy, one would think that all the life and energy had gone out of us Coopes. And, beshrew me, so it has, for thou and I are the last of the lot, and I am too old to lift finger again.”

“I am willing enough to lift finger, sir,” I answered. “You would not find me wanting if occasion arose to fasten up the doors and stand a siege–”

“Why, faith,” said he, “and that may come ere long, in these times.”

“But in the law, to which you destined me, there is precious little lifting of fingers save with a goose’s quill in them,” said I. “Every man to his taste, sir; ’tis a saying that I learnt from yourself.”

He looked at me meditatively.

“First and last,” said he, “I have laid out as much as a thousand pound upon thee, Dick.”

“Sir,” I said, “you have never doubted my gratitude.”

“Thou art a good lad,” he answered. “I have not. But a thousand pound–‘tis a great sum to be thrown away. I think, Dick, the law must occupy thee. What man, a Coope can achieve aught that he sets his mind to! Thy father, now, was Registrar to the Archbishop–I make no doubt he would have been Vicar-General and Chancellor of the Diocese if death had not removed him. As for thee, with all the advantages I have given thee, thou should’st at least become Lord Chief-Justice. “Lord Chief-Justice Coope’–‘tis a high-sounding title, though I see no reason why not Lord Chancellor Coope. However, when that comes I shall be dead and gone. In the days of thy greatness, Dick, forget not to come here at times. The old place will make a country house for thee–thou canst turn aside to it in journeying ‘twixt London and York–‘twill be but poor lodging for a Lord Chancellor, but–”

As I stood watching the rain patter on the flags I remembered this, and laughed for the first time that day. Sir Nicholas was so certain of the things of which I was filled with doubt that his assurance gave me vast entertainment. He had regarded me as a future Lord Chancellor from my boyhood, and now it was too late to persuade him that such dignity was beyond my reach and capabilities. I began to wonder whether it was worth while to attempt persuasion upon him. In the very nature of things he could not live many years, being then much beyond three-score: it would therefore become me to follow his behests while he lived, and study my own inclinations when he was dead. I think it was the laughter which woke in me on remembering his prophecies as to my great state that moved me to this sensible reflection–howbeit, some of my gloom shifted itself, and I turned inside to make enquiry after my good relative and see if I could do aught to entertain him until his bed-time.

II

Because of the rainy night Barbara had caused a rousing fire to be lighted in the great kitchen, and near this as I passed through were grouped the half-dozen serving men and lads whom Sir Nicholas kept in his employ. Two of them were ancient retainers; the remainder, lads that helped in the stables and with the cattle, and led an easy life under the old knight’s rule. Of the two elder men, one, Gregory, stood behind his master’s chair at meals, and kept the key of the cellar; the other, Jasper, was half-hind and half-steward. These two, as I turned into the kitchen, stood a little apart from the rest, conversing with Barbara. Gregory, holding in one hand his great bunch of keys and in the other a flask which he had just brought from the cellar, stood open-mouthed listening to Jasper; Barbara, her hands on her plump sides, stood by him, wide-eyed and eager. The lads at the fire watched these three, and from the scullery door two kitchen wenches peeped wonderingly at Jasper’s nodding head.

Gregory brought me to a stand with an appealing look.

“Master Richard,” says he, in a whisper, “if so be you’ll pause a moment, sir–Sir Nicholas is comfortable, thank God–there’s a little matter–”

“What is it?” says I.

“Jasper has come in from Pomfret, Master Richard,” he says, still whispering; “with the seven load of wheat a’ went, and has returned with great news.”

“Exceeding great news,” says Jasper, shaking his head. “And the wheat, Master Richard, sir–”

“Come,” says I, impatient, “what’s your news, Jasper–out with it, and let the wheat rest.”

“We were afraid to let the master hear it, Master Richard,” says Gregory. “’Tis of an upsetting nature–”

“’Tis news of war, Master Richard,” says Jasper, interrupting him. “The King and the Parliament is going to fight. I heard it talked of in Pomfret market. They do say that the fighting has begun–somewhere in the south country, I think–but I was that put about over the wheat that I didn’t rightly catch all particulars. But they were certain that it’s war at last, and the castle is to be garrisoned for the king.”

Now there was naught much to be surprised at in this, for it was what we had expected for many a long day. We had heard rumours of it all that month, and it was well known that the country gentlemen all over the riding were making themselves ready against such time as the fight ‘twixt King and Commons should come to a head. But now that the final news came to me I felt some little shock, one reason of which you shall presently understand. Also I felt some debate within my own mind as to my uncle’s position and safety. His Manor House of East Hardwick stood within three miles of the Castle of Pomfret, and I had little doubt that the latter would eventually become a centre of active operations, in which case the neighbouring houses of any importance were not unlikely to suffer at the hands of beleaguering troops. These things I thought of as I listened to Jasper’s news.

“Say naught to the lads and maidens,” says I. “They’ll only blab it over the village within the hour. I will mention it to Sir Nicholas myself–”

“Pray God it bring not another fit of his complaint!” says Barbara. “’A suffered a terrible twinge after you was gone out, Master Dick.”

“’Twill be more likely to make him forget it,” I answers, going towards the door which led into the great hall. But before I could lay hands on the latch, there came a great stamping of feet in the porch outside and a loud voice calling for a groom. The lads tumbled out, with Jasper in their rear, and presently there came blustering in a great man of loud voice, demanding Sir Nicholas, and protesting that the night was not fit for a dog to be out in. He caught sight of me and stared, and came stamping across the kitchen with a wet hand outstretched.

“That should be young Dick,” says he. “’Tis a long time since I saw thee, youngster–wast then a lad the height o’ my knee. Art grown a man now, and hast sinews of thy own, I warrant me.”

“’Tis Sir Jarvis Cutler,” whispered Gregory, as I took the man’s hand.

“Thou art right, old cock!” says Sir Jarvis. “Gad! I like the look of thy nose and of the bottle thou carriest. And how does my old friend Sir Nicholas, young Dick–well and hearty, I hope–for there’s need of him now, i’faith.”

“I fear that need must still be needy, then, sir,” says I. “My uncle suffers much at present, and stirs only from his couch to his chair.”

“’Sdeath!” says he. “’Tis bad news, that–but, what, he will find a substitute in thee, I doubt not. Hark thee, Dick, I have ridden hither from Stainborough, and my horse, poor beast, ’tis hard put to it–we will not to Pomfret to-night–there’s no hurry–see to it that my horse is cared for–Sir Nicholas, I am sure, will grudge neither it nor me a night’s lodging. And help me to some dry gear, lad, that I may go in and see thy uncle–‘od’s body, as bad a night as ever I was out in!”

So I sent Gregory to tell Sir Nicholas of Sir Jarvis Cutler’s arrival and to prepare food and drink, and I had Sir Jarvis to my own chamber in order to provide him with dry clothes.

“We are much of a build, thou and I,” says he. “Faith, thou hast grown mightily o’ late, lad. But thou art more for books than swords, eh, Dick? Why, so Sir Nicholas gave me to understand, but in these times there’ll be more sword-work than book-work, boy–aye, marry!”

“Then the war has broke out, sir?” says I. “We heard something of it, but our news was scanty.”

“’Tis true enough,” he says, struggling somewhat with his garments. “Faith, I can give thee an inch or maybe two in the shoulders, Master Dick. Yes, lad, true enough–His sacred Majesty hath set up his flag against the rebels and traitors.”

“His Majesty hath set up his flag?” I says. “When and where, sir, might that be?”

“At Nottingham, lad, five days ago. I myself was there at the time, and came north with charges and messages enow to fill better heads than mine. But let us to Sir Nicholas, Dick. I have much to say to him.”

We found my uncle greatly excited over the arrival of Sir Jarvis, and giving orders as to food and drink to Gregory, who was laying a table close to the hearth. He made an effort to rise from his chair as we entered, but the gout tweaked his toe, and he sat there, groaning and making wry faces as he stretched out his hand to the knight.

“Plague on this gout!” says he. “It prevents me from playing my part, Sir Jarvis, as I should; but you are welcome, indeed. Gregory, a flask of my Tokay–fine stuff, Sir Jarvis, on such a night as this. Draw near to the fire, Sir Jarvis. Dick, thy manners, boy–give Sir Jarvis a seat near me–‘tis parlous weather, Sir Jarvis, and must needs have its effect on them that have crops out.”

“There are other matters than crops to think of, neighbour,” says Sir Jarvis. “If crops were all–”

“Ah, you bring us news? We hear rumours o’ things in this quarter, but unless a neighbour visits us–”

“The King hath declared war against the rebels,” says Sir Jarvis. “His Majesty set up the Royal Standard at Nottingham five days ago. I marvel you have not heard it sooner.”

“Jasper heard it in Pomfret this afternoon,” I says. “I was coming to tell you of it, sir, just as Sir Jarvis arrived.”

“God save His Majesty!” says my uncle. He sat staring at the blazing logs in the hearth. “It vexes me sore that I cannot lift sword in his honour. Once upon a time–”

“Aye,” says Sir Jarvis, “the dog cannot always run, neighbour! Howbeit–”

He addressed himself to the good things which Gregory set before him. While he ate and drank I slipped away and went to my own chamber to think over the news which he had brought. For me it bore a significance which I was not able to explain to either Sir Jarvis Cutler or my uncle, nor indeed to any one in the Manor House. I have said that when I heard definite rumour of it from Jasper it gave me some sort of shock. And the reason was that I now knew the time for action was at hand. I and others of my way of thinking had banded ourselves together at Oxford, and had taken oath that when the moment came for striking a blow for the rights and liberties of Englishmen we would give in our open adherence to the Parliamentarians, and do our best to bring to an end the tyrannical rule under which good men and true citizens had long suffered. There was scarce one of our society that did not spring from a Royalist family, even as I myself did, and for that reason we had been obliged to keep our tongues strictly guarded; saying naught, though we heard much. We were all young men of a certain turn of thought, that is to say, our philosophical studies, prosecuted for the most part according to our own tastes, had led us to favour republicanism rather than monarchy, and this in spite of the fact that we were surrounded by every influence likely to make our opinion tend in the opposite direction. Now, we had resolved that whenever war should break out, as we felt it must, our theories should find their practical outcome in taking arms in defence of the popular cause, and so as soon as I heard the definite news brought by Sir Jarvis Cutler I knew that ere long there must be open breach between my uncle and myself. I had hoped that this might never be, for I knew Sir Nicholas would bitterly resent what he would term my treachery to the King. However, I could not take my hand from the plough even had I wished, for I was bound by a solemn oath. And, indeed, save for Sir Nicholas’s sake I had no wish to do so, I, like many a young man of those times, being heartily sick of the cruelties and oppressions under which so many of my countrymen suffered.

I was now sorry that I had not ridden over to Doncaster that day to my friend Matthew Richardson, who was one of our society, and acted as a kind of centre round which the rest of us revolved. I should have been glad of his counsel–besides which I knew that he would be in possession of full information as to all that was going on. It was apparent to me that I should shortly have to declare myself, for Sir Nicholas would certainly design my assistance for the King, and that, let come what might, I knew could never be given. So I sat there some time, wondering what would next happen, and wishing that things might be so ordered that no breach should occur between me and my worthy relative. But presently there came a tapping at my chamber door, and Gregory pushed in his head to inform me that a man waited my coming in the porch below.

“’A seems to have ridden hard and far,” said Gregory, as we went down the stair together. “Pray God he ask not a night’s lodging, Master Dick, for Sir Jarvis’s beast has got our only empty stall, and the night is too wild to turn one of our own horses into the fold.”

“’Twill but be some post that brings me a letter,” I answered. “I shall not invite him to tarry.”

“A mug of ale, sir,” said Gregory. “Maybe he would stay long enough for that. If you–”

I nodded, and crossing the kitchen shut the door behind me. There was a lamp hanging in the porch, and by its light I saw the messenger–a thick-set fellow–standing in the doorway, muffled to the eyes in his cloak, and holding his horse’s bridle over his arm, across which the brute thrust a wet nose that sniffed at the light.

“Good-even, friend,” says I, standing before him.

“Good-even, master,” he answers, scanning me very close. “A wet night and foul ways.”

“Aye,” says I.

“Master Richard Coope, I think?” says he.

“The same, friend,” says I.

He fumbled at his reins and drew the horse nearer to him with a movement of his hand.

“The sword of the Lord,” he says in a low voice, looking full at me.

“And of Gideon!” says I.

He plunged his free hand into his breast and brought out a packet, which he presented to me without loss of time.

“That is my duty, master,” says he; “the rest you know as well as I. I will now go on my ways–there is more to be done to-night, bad as the weather is.”

He backed his horse from the door. I followed him into the still falling rain. He had one foot in the stirrup as I spoke to him.

“This is not my house,” I says, speaking low, “but I could get you food and drink if you have need.”

“None, master,” says he. “At such times as these we must take no risk for the sake of carnal delights.”

“But is there no answer to this packet?” I says. “Did not they that sent you–”

“You will answer the message in person, master, I doubt not,” he says. “Fare you well–the Lord protect you.”

The darkness swallowed him up ere he reached the open door of the courtyard, but I lingered a moment in the porch and listened to the sound of his horse’s feet on the road outside. I heard him ride to the corner. The horse broke into a quick trot: I knew by the sound that the man was making along the road to Pomfret.

I went back into the house. A stable-lad nodded his head by the kitchen fire, and Gregory was coming from the cellar with a mug of ale.

“’Tis for the man without, Master Richard,” says he. “On such a night–”

“The man is gone,” says I. “He would stay for naught–‘tis but a book he has brought me–drink the ale yourself, Gregory.”

I hastened to my own chamber and broke the seal of the packet, which bore my name and address in Matthew Richardson’s hand. There was little writing within for anybody to read, but the lines signified much to my eyes.

“That which you wot of,” it ran, “has come to pass, and it now behoves us to do what we are resolved upon. Within twenty-four hours of your receipt of this, then, you will join me at the third milestone on the road between Doncaster and Sheffield.–M. R.”

As I finished reading this brief epistle for the second time, Gregory came tapping at my door again.

“Your uncle is asking for you, Master Richard,” says he. “Sir Jarvis has finished his supper, and they are talking of the war–Lord help us all!–though, indeed, it seems as if Sir Nicholas forgot his pains in discussing of fights and such-like. But I misdoubt that to-morrow–”

He lighted me down the stair, shaking his grey hair and muttering to himself. In the great kitchen he left me, and I went over to the hearth and placed Matthew Richardson’s letter amidst the glowing cinders. I stood there until I saw it crumble into white ashes.

III

When I went into the hall, my uncle and Sir Jarvis sat in their chairs by the hearth, the great screen protecting them from the draught, and the fire piled up with logs, and glowing so bright that you had fancied it was a winter’s night rather than an August evening. On the table between them stood a second flask of Sir Nicholas’s Tokay, and I observed that in his excitement my good uncle had filled his own glass and sipped largely from it, which was a bad thing for his gout, and to be paid for afterwards. Sir Jarvis Cutler was smoking tobacco from a pipe–a newfangled habit which I knew my uncle could not abide, but which he evidently forgave in a guest so much after his own heart.

“Sit thee down, Dick,” says Sir Nicholas. “Od’s body, I wondered what had got thee. These boys, Sir Jarvis, will for ever be at their books–pour thyself out a glass of wine, Richard: ’tis vastly different stuff, I warrant me, to what you find in your common rooms at Oxford. Sir Jarvis, spare not–there is more where that came from–if it were not for the gout I would help you to crack more bottles than one. Nay, Dick, forget thy books and rhymes, man!–this is no time for a long face.”

“With due respect, neighbour,” says Sir Jarvis, “’tis a time that will bring long faces enow. But as for books, I agree–‘tis rather a time for swords than words. Thou wilt have to lay aside the pen, lad,” he says, turning himself to me, “and take up the sword.”

“I trust not, sir,” says I. “I have no mind to see fighting ‘twixt folk of one speech and blood.”

“Why,” says he, “that’s well said from one point o’ view, but neither here nor there at this present. For fighting there will be, aye, ‘twixt father and son, and brother and cousin.”

“Say, rather,” chimes in Sir Nicholas, “’twixt loyal and disloyal, faithful and unfaithful. A plague on all rebels, say I!”