Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if consoling himself, “He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue, whom hanging is too good for.”
“Don’t let us spend our whole night in abusing him,” said Edmund; “I want to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other.”
“O, Edmund! you don’t mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is there no way out of this room?” cried Walter, running round it like one distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it down.
“Hush! this is of no use, Walter,” said his brother. “The window is, I see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape.”
Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.
“For one thing I am thankful to them,” continued Edmund; “I thought they might have shot me down before my mother’s door, and so filled the place with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time for preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me.”
“Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!”
“I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert’s.”
Walter squeezed his hands fast together. “And how—how can you? Don’t think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—”
“Never, I am sure,” repeated Edmund.
“But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolish to believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought of dying, then—”
“You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter,” said Edmund; “nor have you led so wandering and weary a life.”
“I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die,” said Walter.
“Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge we must meet,” said Edmund; “but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows that it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. We may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grant us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late, Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow.”
Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowful and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following what he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and at the same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all he had hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had been of very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm, and added to his mother’s distress; he had been nothing but a boy throughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such an agony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in the room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother. Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!
The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, both occupying Walter’s bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep, and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who was giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, should Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely to become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly to protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding all compromise with the enemies of the Church.
CHAPTER VII
Forest Lea that night was a house of sorrow: the mother and two sons were prisoners in their separate rooms, and the anxieties for the future were dreadful. Rose longed to see and help her mother, dreading the effect of such misery, to be borne in loneliness, by the weak frame, shattered by so many previous sufferings. How was she to undergo all that might yet be in store for her—imprisonment, ill-treatment, above all, the loss of her eldest son? For there was little hope for Edmund. As a friend and follower of Prince Rupert, he was a marked man; and besides, Algernon Sydney, the commander of the nearest body of forces, was known to be a good deal under the influence of the present owner of Woodley, who was likely to be glad to see the rightful heir removed from his path.
Rose perceived all this, and her heart failed her, but she had no time to pause on the thought. The children must be soothed and put to bed, and a hard matter it was to comfort poor little Lucy, perhaps the most of all to be pitied. She relieved herself by pouring out the whole confession to Rose, crying bitterly, while Eleanor hurried on distressing questions whether they would take mamma away, and what they would do to Edmund. Now it came back to Lucy, “O if I had but minded what mamma said about keeping my tongue in order; but now it is too late!”
Rose, after doing her best to comfort them, and listening as near to her mother’s door as she dared, to hear if she were weeping, went to her own room. It adjoined Walter’s, though the doors did not open into the same passage; and she shut that which closed in the long gallery, where her room and that of her sisters were, so that the Roundhead sentry might not be able to look down it.
As soon as she was in her own room, she threw herself on her knees, and prayed fervently for help and support in their dire distress. In the stillness, as she knelt, she heard an interchange of voices, which she knew must be those of her brothers in the next room. She went nearer to that side, and heard them more distinctly. She was even able to distinguish when Edmund spoke, and when Walter broke forth in impatient exclamations. A sudden thought struck her. She might be able to join in the conversation. There had once been a door between the two rooms, but it had long since been stopped up, and the recess of the doorway was occupied by a great oaken cupboard, in which were preserved all the old stores of rich farthingales of brocade, and velvet mantles, which had been heirlooms from one Dame of Mowbray to another, till poverty had caused them to be cut up and adapted into garments for the little Woodleys.
Rose looked anxiously at the carved doors of the old wardrobe. Had she the key? She felt in her pouch. Yes, she had not given it back to her mother since taking out the sheets for Mr. Enderby. She unlocked the folding doors, and, pushing aside some of the piles of old garments, saw a narrow line of light between the boards, and heard the tones almost as clearly as if she was in the same room.
Eager to tell Edmund how near she was, she stretched herself out, almost crept between the shelves, leant her head against the board on the opposite side, and was about to speak, when she found that it yielded in some degree to her touch. A gleam of hope darted across her, she drew back, fetched her light, tried with her hand, and found that the back of the cupboard was in fact a door, secured on her side by a wooden bolt, which there was no difficulty in undoing. Another push, and the door yielded below, but only so as to show that there must be another fastening above. Rose clambered up the shelves, and sought. Here it was! It was one of the secret communications that were by no means uncommon in old halls in those times of insecurity. Edmund might yet be saved! Trembling with the excess of her delight in her new-found hope, she forced out the second bolt, and pushed again. The door gave way, the light widened upon her, and she saw into the room! Edmund was lying on the bed, Walter sitting at his feet.
Both started as what had seemed to be part of the wainscoted wall opened, but Edmund prevented Walter’s exclamation by a sign to be silent, and the next moment Rose’s face was seen squeezing between the shelves.