                        TOM TUFTON'S TRAVELS;

by Evelyn Everett-Green.

  CHAPTER I. AN ONLY SON.

  CHAPTER II. OUT INTO THE WORLD.

  CHAPTER III. IN GAY LONDON TOWN.

  CHAPTER IV. THE FOLLY.

  CHAPTER V. WITH LORD CLAUD.

  CHAPTER VI. BARNS ELMS.

  CHAPTER VII. MASTER GALE'S DAUGHTER.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT DUKE.

  CHAPTER IX. FARE WELL TO HOME.

  CHAPTER X. IN PERIL.

  CHAPTER XI. THE PIOUS MONKS OF ST. BERNARD.

  CHAPTER XII. BACK IN LONDON.

  CHAPTER XIII. ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.

  CHAPTER XIV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

  CHAPTER XV. AWAY TO THE FOREST.



CHAPTER I. AN ONLY SON.


Good Squire Tufton of Gablehurst lay dying. He had been ailing for
many months, knowing his end to be near; and yet, as is so often
the case in lingering declines, death was long in coming, so that
those about him had grown used to the sight of the strong figure
wasted to a shadow, and the face shadowed by the wings of the
hovering messenger.

Some members of the household, indeed, had begun to cherish the
hope that the master might yet recover, and be seen amongst them
once more; but that hope was not shared by the patient himself, nor
by the two devoted women who nursed him with tender love.

His wife and daughter were always with him, relieving each other in
turn, and occasionally both yielding place to one of the many
faithful servants, who were all eager to do what they could for the
master they loved; but in his waking hours the squire seldom missed
the best-loved faces about him. Rachel and her mother seemed to
live their lives about his sick bed, soothing his weariness and
pain, and striving with patient resignation to school themselves to
submission to the will of God, who was about to take their loved
one from them.

And yet they had kept him with them longer than once seemed
possible. The bright days of summer were doubtless favourable to
the patient. When he could lie with open windows, breathing the
pure soft air from woodland and field, he seemed able to make a
stand against the grim enemy of human nature. But the summer was
now upon the wane; the golden sunshine was obscured by the first
driving rains of the approaching equinox; and it seemed to those
who watched at the sufferer's bedside that his life was ebbing away
as slowly and as steadily as the hours of sunshine in the
shortening day.

Today there was a look upon his face which caused Rachel many times
to turn anxious and beseeching eyes upon her mother, and yet what
she read in the expression of that worn and gentle countenance only
confirmed her own impressions.

The Squire lay very still and quiet, dozing as it seemed, whilst
the fire crackled cheerfully up the wide chimney, and the rain
dashed ceaselessly against the windows. He had not spoken for many
hours. There had come into Rachel's heart a terrible fear lest he
should never speak again. The shadow on his face looked so gray;
the features had taken so strange and pinched a look.

Rachel had seen death before in many humble homes, although it had,
so far, not touched any of her own nearest and dearest. She had
watched that creeping shadow before now, for her heart always went
out to the sick and the suffering, and her feet led her to the
homes of those who stood in need of tender sympathy and womanly
aid. But when the shadow gathered upon the face of her own loved
father, the pressure upon her heart seemed almost more than she
could bear. The tears stole down her cheeks, and her eyes sought
those of her mother with a glance of almost pitiful appeal.

The leech had stolen into the room, had stood beside the patient,
had shaken his head, and stolen away. He knew that his skill, such
as it was, could avail nothing now; it was but the question of a
few hours.

All day that stupor had continued. Rachel had feared they would
never hear his voice, or see the loving glance of his eyes again.
She had passed the time between a study of that wasted face, and an
eager and restless looking forth from the casement, as though in
search of something or somebody who came not.

Often she saw servants and messengers hastening this way and that,
exchanging words with each other, and starting off afresh; but the
one stalwart figure, for which she gazed with aching eyes, appeared
not, and often a sigh would break from her lips, whilst from time
to time a tear forced its way to her eyes.

Dusk was falling now. She could no longer see across the expanse of
park land which surrounded Gablehurst. She drew the curtains at
last with gentle hands, and piled up the logs upon the hearth.
There was a glint of something in her eyes not altogether accounted
for by the tears in them. It was a sparkle which bespoke wounded
sensibility--something approaching to anger.

"O brother, brother," she whispered, with dry lips, "how can you
treat him so? Have you a heart? How terrible a judgment you seem to
be seeking to draw down upon yourself! What will the end be like,
if this is the beginning?"

The flames leapt up with a sudden ruddy glow. The room had been
dark before; now it was suddenly flooded with a brilliant
palpitating light. As Rachel turned back to the bed, she saw that
her father's eyes had opened. The mists of weakness no longer
seemed to cloud his sight. He was looking round him with
comprehension and observation.

"Where is Tom?"

It was the question they had been expecting all day. It was in
anticipation of this that messengers had been scouring the
neighbourhood in search of that young ne'er-do-well, Tom Tufton,
the good Squire's unworthy son.

And yet, unworthy as he was--idle, reckless, dissipated, a source
of pain and anxiety to father, mother, and sister--young Tom was
beloved by the people in and about his home, albeit they all shook
their heads over his follies and wildness, and wondered with bated
breath what would befall Gablehurst when the young master should be
lord of all.

"Where is Tom?" asked the Squire, in a firmer voice than they had
thought to hear again.

"Dear father, we have sent for him," answered Rachel soothingly;
"he will be here anon."

"I would speak with Tom," said the Squire. "There are things I
needs must say to him ere I close my eyes for ever. Perchance I
have already delayed too long. Yet I have waited and waited, hoping
for signs of seriousness in one so soon to lose a parent. But
seriousness and Tom have no dealings together, it would seem. God
forgive us if it be any lack on our part that has made our son the
wild young blade that he seems like to be!"

A little sob broke from the mother's lips. It was the bitterest
thought of all to the parents; and yet they could not see wherein
they had erred. They had striven to bring up the boy well. He had
had the same training as his father before him. There had been no
lack of firmness, and no lack of love, but the result, as at
present seen, was terrible to the father and mother.

The squire heard the stifled sound of grief, and put out his hand
to clasp that of his wife.

"Remember he is the child of many prayers," he said. "We must
believe that those prayers will be answered. We must have faith in
God."

"I will try--I will try," answered the poor mother; "but oh, my
husband, how shall I hope to cope with that wild spirit when you
are gone?"

It was a hard question to answer, for the Squire himself had found
his son more than a match for him many a time. It was true that he
had done all that man can do to protect wife and daughter from the
reckless extravagance of an ungoverned nature; but he knew well
that Tom was not one to see himself tamely set aside. There were
difficulties ahead for these two women, and the future of his son
lay like a load upon his spirit.

"I would speak with Tom," he said, after a brief pause, during
which Rachel administered a draught of the cordial which did most
to support the failing strength of the dying man. Just at this
moment the lamp of life seemed to be glowing with fresh strength.
It was but the last flicker before extinction, and the wife knew
it, but Rachel experienced a glow of hope that perhaps it might
mean a temporary improvement.

"I will go and see if he has come," she said. "Perchance they have
found and brought him by now."

She glided from the room, just giving one backward glance in so
doing, when the expression on her mother's face brought a quick
spasm of pain to her heart. There was a strange conflict of feeling
going on within her, as she trod the corridor with swift steps, and
passed rapidly down into the hall beneath.

This hall was a great square place, with a glowing fire
illuminating it, the dancing shadows falling grotesquely upon the
pictured Tuftons that lined the walls, and upon the weapons which
hung, together with trophies of game, between them. In the centre
of the hall was an oak table, heavily carved about the legs, and at
this table stood a tall, broad-shouldered young man, clad in the
stout leathern breeches and full coat of the period, tossing off a
steaming tankard of some spirituous liquor, although the flush on
his face, and the slightly unsteady way in which he held the
vessel, seemed to indicate that he stood in no further need of
strong drink.

Rachel came swiftly down the staircase, her footfall making
scarcely any sound upon the shallow polished steps.

"Tom!" she exclaimed, in a voice full of repressed feeling, "how
can you delay drinking here, when your father upstairs is dying,
and is asking for you?"

"Dying, quotha!" returned the young man, with a foolish laugh;
"methinks I have heard that tale somewhat too often to be scared by
it now, sweet sister!" and he patted her shoulder with a gesture
from which she instinctively recoiled.

"Tom, have you no heart? He will not last the night through. Got
you not our messages, sent hours ago? How can you show yourself so
careless--so cruel? But tarry no longer now you are here. He has
asked for you twice. Take care lest you dally too long!"

Something in Rachel's face and in her manner of speaking seemed to
make an impression upon the young roisterer. Tom was not drunk,
although he had been spending the day with comrades who seasoned
every sentence with an oath, and flavoured every pastime with
strong drink. A man with a weaker head might have been overcome by
the libations in which he had indulged, but Tom was a seasoned
vessel by that time, and he could stand a good deal.

He was in a noisy and reckless mood, but he had the command of his
faculties. He saw that his sister was speaking with conviction, and
he prepared to do her bidding.

At the same time, Tom was not seriously alarmed about his father.
The Squire's long illness had bred in him a sort of disbelief in
any fatal termination. He had made up his mind that women and
doctors were all fools together, and frightened themselves for
nothing. He had resolved against letting himself be scared by their
long faces and doleful prognostications, and had gone on in his
wonted courses with reckless bravado. He was not altogether an
undutiful son. He had some affection for both father and mother.
But his affection was not strong enough to keep him from following
out his own wishes. He had long been a sort of leader amongst the
young men of the place and neighbourhood, and he enjoyed the
reputation he held of being a daring young blade, not far inferior
in prowess and recklessness to those young bloods about town,
reports of whose doings sometimes reached the wilds of Essex,
stirring up Tom Tufton's ambition to follow in their wake.

He always declared that he meant no harm, and did no harm, to any.
The natives of the place were certainly proud of him, even if they
sometimes fell to rating and crying shame upon him. He knew his
popularity; he knew that he had a fine figure and a handsome face;
he knew that he had the sort of address which carried him through
his scrapes and adventures with flying colours. He found the world
a pleasant place, and saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself
in his own way whilst he was young. Some day he would marry and
sober down, and live as his fathers had done before him; but,
meantime, he meant to have his fling.

There were other Tuftons who had done the like before him, as his
father knew to his cost. Several times had the estate been sadly
impoverished by the demands made upon it by some of the wild
younger brothers, who had bequeathed (as it seemed) their
characteristics to this young scion, Tom. The Squire himself had
been living with great economy, that he might pay off a mortgage
which had been contracted by his own father, in order to save the
honour of the family, which had been imperilled by the extravagance
of his brother.

Tom never troubled himself about these things. He cared little how
his father scraped and saved, if he had but money in his pockets
sufficient for the needs of the day. Extravagance in money was less
Tom's foible than recklessness in his exploits, and a daring
disregard of authority. No doubt he would have made away with money
had he possessed it; but as everybody knew that he did not possess
a long purse, and that the Squire would not be likely to pay his
son's debts of honour, he was saved from the temptation of plunging
deeply into debt. People did not care to trust him too far.

So, as he climbed the shallow stairs three at once, he told himself
that his father had no need to speak severely to him. He had only
been as other young men, and had not got into serious debt or
trouble. Tom had almost persuaded himself, in fact, that he had
been on the whole a very estimable sort of youth, and he entered
the sick room with something of a swaggering air, as much as to say
that he had no cause for shame.

But at the sight which greeted his eyes, as they met those of the
sick man, a sobering change came over him. He had seen death
sometimes, and the sight of it had always painfully affected him.
He hated to be brought up short, as it were, and forced to see the
serious, the solemn, the awe inspiring in life. He wanted to live
in the present; he did not want to be forced to face the inevitable
future.

"Tom," said his father's voice, in weak but distinct accents, "you
have come, and it is well. I have things to say to you which may
not longer be delayed. Take that chair beside me. I would see your
face once again."

Tom would far rather have lingered in the shadows of the
background; but his mother had risen and motioned him to take her
place. He sat down rather awkwardly; and mother and daughter,
without leaving the room, retired to the background, and sat
together upon a distant settle, holding each other by the hand.

"Tom," said the dying man, "I have sent for you because there are
things which I would rather you should hear from my lips than learn
from others after my death."

"Oh, you will not die yet, father; you will be better soon," said
Tom uneasily, letting his glance wander restlessly round the room
to avoid the searching gaze of those luminous eyes.

"Life and death are in God's hands, boy; and I think my summons has
come. Tom, have you been counting upon being master here when I am
gone?"

"I don't know that I ever thought much about it," answered Tom,
rather taken aback; "but I suppose I come after you."

"Yes, Tom, you come after me; but not immediately. I have so
settled my affairs that your mother remains here and administers
the estate until you are five and twenty--that will be three years
hence. By that time the burdens will be cleared away--and I fear
you would never clear them off were you in power. By that time it
will be possible for you to come and live here (I trust a wiser and
a better man), whilst the estate can bear the charge upon it of a
sufficient income to be paid to your mother and sister to live in
comfort at Little Gables, which has been willed absolutely to your
mother and to Rachel after her. At present the estate could not
bear that drain--unless only to get into fresh difficulties; but
three more years will put things right. During those three years,
Tom, you will not be master of Gablehurst. You will have no more
power than you have had in my lifetime. But I hope and trust you
will be a dutiful son to your mother, and will cause her no
heart-breaking anxieties, and oppose no vexatious obstacles to her
management of the estate."

It cannot be denied that Tom was taken aback at this. He had
naturally supposed that he would succeed to his father's position
as squire of Gablehurst without let or hindrance; and it was a
decided blow to him to feel that he was still to occupy a
subordinate position, squire only in name. It was all very well
when his father lived--that was right and natural enough--but to
see his mother ruling, and himself submitting to her rule!--that
was a thing he had not bargained for. He felt as though he would be
the laughing-stock of all his friends.

The father saw the look upon his face, and it pained him.

"You do not like the arrangement, Tom; and yet I know it is the
best which can be made."

"Oh yes, in a way. I see what you mean. I don't understand scraping
and paring myself; yet, of course, it will be best to get the
mortgage paid off once and for all. I can see that well enough. But
I confess it will be poor fun living at Gablehurst as a little boy
tied to his mother's apron strings. I would rather go away
altogether, and see the world for myself."

"Well, Tom," answered the father in the same low, even tones, "your
mother and I have sometimes asked ourselves seriously whether you
might not do better away from home; whether it might not be the
best thing we could do for you to sever you from your present
companions, and see if you could not find better ones elsewhere."

"I have no fault to find with my friends," said Tom quickly.

"No, my son, I fear not. But we have much to complain of."

"I don't see what!" cried young Tom rather hotly.

"That is the worst of it. Did you see greater harm, our anxieties
would be less. But what are we to think of these cruel sports in
which you indulge, these scenes of vice and drunkenness where you
are constantly found? Even the Sabbath is not sacred to you. What
is this story we hear of you--that no girl may even go to church
without paying 'Tom Tufton's toll' at the lych gate?"

Tom broke into a sudden laugh.

"They like that toll well enough, father, I can tell you; else they
could go round the other way. Why, you yourself salute the farmers'
little wenches on the cheek sometimes--I have seen you do it; and
why not I the older ones?"

The Squire looked at his son with mournful intensity of gaze.

"Tom, Tom, I think sometimes that thou dost err more from
thoughtlessness than from wickedness; but, my son, thoughtlessness,
if carried to excess, may become wickedness, and may breed vice. I
verily believe that in half thy pranks thou dost mean no great
harm; but thou art growing to man's estate, Tom. It is time that
thou didst put away childish things. What is pardoned to youth, may
not so easily be pardoned to manhood. Have a care, Tom, have a
care! Oh, my son, remember that the day will come when thou too
must lie face to face with death, even as I do tonight. Let not the
record upon which thou wilt then look be one of vice and
profligacy. It needs must be that in such a moment our lives seem
deeply stained by sin; but strive so to live that thou mayest at
least be able to say, 'I have striven to do my duty--the Lord
pardon all my imperfections!' For, Tom, if thou dost persevere in
careless and evil courses, it may be that the power to ask the
Lord's forgiveness may pass from thee; and if it comes to such a
pass, may the Lord have mercy upon thy wretched soul!"

The dying man stopped short, a spasm of suffering passing over his
face. The thought had been a terrible one to him. Yet he had been
bred up in the somewhat stern Puritan tenets, and it was not in his
creed to speak so much of the everlasting mercy as the everlasting
judgment.

Tom put the cup of cordial to his father's lips, himself somewhat
sobered by the words heard and the visions called up. He was
neither callous nor hard-hearted; and his father was dying. In that
moment he really longed to turn over a new leaf, and cut adrift
from former temptations.

"Then, father, let me go," he said; "let me try afresh in a new
place. I could not do it here perhaps; but I think I could
elsewhere."

"If that be so, my son, then thou hadst better go," said the dying
man. "I would that thou couldst have remained to be the stay and
support of thy mother; but if not, then it may be thou wilt be
better elsewhere. I have thought often of this. I and thy mother
have talked it over many times. I have even made provision for it,
as she will tell thee and show thee. But, Tom, if thou go hence,
linger not in London, where, I fear me, thou wouldst soon be ruined
body and soul. There be stirring things passing in the great world
beyond the seas. Take ship, and go and see some of these things.
Linger not in idleness in the haunts of vice. The world is a bigger
place than thou canst know. Go forth and see it, and learn and find
thy manhood's strength."

Tom's eyes glistened at the thought. It had never occurred to him
as possible to leave his native place. Now it suddenly seemed as
though a new life were opening out before him.

"Where shall I go, father?" he asked.

The Squire was silent for a while. He had exhausted himself by the
energy with which he had spoken hitherto. When next he opened his
lips his words came more slowly and languidly.

"If I were in your place, boy, I should go forth and see what is
doing at the seat of war. I love not war for its own sake. It is a
cruel and terrible thing. Yet there be times when it becomes a
righteous thing; and methinks England is doing right to ally
herself with the foes of France to crush the tyranny of that proud
nation, whose king would fain be monarch of all Europe if he could.
I know not whether men untrained to arms may enlist themselves in
the ranks of the great Duke of Marlborough, whose genius is winning
renown for England's sons. But were I young, methinks I would go
forth and see some of the great things that are doing in the world;
and it might well be that a fine grown young fellow, with stalwart
limbs, a firm seat on a horse, and a knowledge of sword play and
the use of firearms, might even find a place in the ranks of the
great general. Whether or not, he would see life as he had never
seen it before, and learn lessons which might make a man of him all
his life."

The prospect was attractive and exciting for Tom, who loved a fight
as he loved nothing else, and who had a very exalted idea of his
own prowess and skill in arms. He could wrestle and throw better
than any antagonist he had ever met, and was no novice with pistol
or sword. He had the good opinion of his powers which naturally
came to one who had seldom or never found his match in his native
place; and already in imagination he saw himself riding at the head
of a troop of soldiers, and winning laurels on all sides by his
bravery and address.

The Squire's voice had sunk into the silence of exhaustion. He had
closed his eyes, and only opened them again after a long interval.
Their glance met that of young Tom, and the father seemed to read
something of what was passing in his mind.

"Tom, lad," he said feebly, reaching forth his hand and trying to
grasp the great horny fist of his son, "strive to be humble. Think
not too well of thyself. Seek counsel from God in all things. Be
not wise in thine own eyes. If thou art self willed, vain, and
headstrong, grief and pain will be thy lot. Seek first the kingdom
of heaven and its righteousness--"

But here the voice failed; and Tom, his quick nature touched and
sobered, rose hastily, and, with a muttered promise of quick
return, threw himself out of the room, as though afraid to trust
himself there longer. He was such a stranger to keen emotion, that
he fled from before it with a sense of dread.

The wife came back to her husband's bedside. He looked into her
face and said, faintly:

"The lad hath yet a warm heart."

"I have always felt that," she answered quickly. "But oh, my
husband, why send him forth to the perils of war?"

"In the hope that the stern discipline of a soldier's life may fit
him for the duties which will be his at home. The lad needs above
all things to learn to obey. Till he has mastered the lesson of
submission, he can never be fit to hold the reins of government.
That lesson he will learn most quickly in the life of the camp.
There he will be no great man, but an overgrown boy to be taught
and drilled. Young Tom needs to find his own level. That is what he
never will do at home. He has lorded it over the neighbourhood too
long already."

"But if he leaves us and goes forth into the world, who will care
for his immortal soul?" asked the mother, with tears in her eyes.

"Has he listened to our words of admonition and warning at home?"
asked the Squire, with a strange look in his glazing eyes. "Nay,
wife, I feel as I lie here dying, that the life of the soul is
something we poor frail human creatures must not try too much to
touch. The Spirit of God will work in His own time. We may pray and
weep and plead before God for an erring son, and we believe our
prayers will be answered; but it will be in His time, not in our
own. And time and place are no barriers with Him. He will do for
Tom, I will not doubt it, what we have failed to do with all our
pains and care."

The mother wept silently--for the husband whose life was ebbing
away; for the son over whose heart she seemed to have so little
control; for herself, soon to be left alone in the world, with only
her daughter for her prop and stay. She was not a weak or helpless
creature. She had been in her husband's confidence, and had been
his helpmeet throughout their married life. She was well able to
carry on single-handed the course of action he had pursued through
his long rule at Gablehurst; yet not the less for this did she feel
the desolation of her approaching widowhood; and it seemed an
additional sorrow (although she recognized its necessity) that Tom
was also to be taken from her.

A mother's love for her only son is a very sacred and compelling
thing. Tom had not been a comfort or support to his parents; he was
likely, if he remained, to be a source of endless trouble to his
mother during her reign at the old house; yet none the less did it
seem to her a heart-breaking thing to have to part from him.

The light about them grew more dim as the fire burned with a steady
glow instead of with dancing flames. Rachel had lighted a lamp, yet
it did little to illumine the great room. The sick man lay as
though asleep.

Presently the mother spoke in a whisper to her daughter.

"Fetch Tom," she said.

Rachel knew what that meant, and her heart beat to suffocation. She
crept from the room, and returned with her brother, and they stood
side by side at one side of the bed, whilst their mother knelt at
the other.

Once the dying man opened his eyes, and looked from one to another
of those about him, though whether he saw them they did not know.
Then his eyes closed, he gave a sigh, and turned upon his pillows.

The Squire of Gablehurst had passed to his last account.



CHAPTER II. OUT INTO THE WORLD.


"You had better let me go, mother. I shall do no good here."

Tom stood before his mother with a flush upon his handsome face--a
flush that was one partly of shame, partly of anger, with a dash of
excitement and eagerness thrown in.

His mother was in tears. She had been uttering words of reproach
and sorrow; for after a period of wonderful steadiness immediately
succeeding his father's death, young Tom had broken out into his
wild ways again, and her fond hopes of seeing him grow into her
comfort and stay were dashed ruthlessly to the ground again. The
impression made upon him by the death of the Squire was growing dim
now. His old companions were tempting him back to their ranks, and
he had neither strength of purpose nor the resolute desire to
resist their overtures.

"You had better let me go. You know my father said it. I have never
done any good here, and I never shall. I want to see the world, and
I see nothing here. Gablehurst and Gablethorpe are too narrow for
me. I will go to foreign lands, and come back to you with a better
record to show. I think I could make a fine soldier, but in this
miserable little place a man has no scope."

"A man has scope to become a good landlord, a kind master, a
God-fearing head of his household," said the mother, with a sigh in
her voice.

But Tom interrupted impatiently:

"That is all very well when one is the master. Perhaps when I come
back I can be all that myself; but now I am a dummy--a nobody, and
they all make game of me for being a mock squire! My father himself
knew that no man of spirit would stand such a humiliating
arrangement. If he could not trust me to succeed him, he did well
to arrange for me to go elsewhere. He said you would tell me what
provision he had made for me to do so."

The moment had come that the mother had so long dreaded. She had to
face the separation from her son, and to send him forth into the
world alone. But the experiences of the past weeks had taught her
that perhaps this was the best thing that could happen to young
Tom. In Gablethorpe he had no chance of getting away from evil
associates. In a different place he might find friends of a
different stamp.

She rose and silently unlocked a great oaken press, clamped with
iron, a place where the Squire kept all his valuable papers, and
some of the heirlooms which had come down to him from his
forefathers. Tom looked on with curious eyes. He had always
experienced, from childhood upwards, a certain sense of awe when
that press was unlocked and thrown open. He now observed his
mother's actions with great curiosity.

"Come, Tom, and lift down that box, for it is heavy," she said; and
Tom came forward and carefully lifted down a small iron-bound
chest, which, for its size, was in truth remarkably heavy. This box
was placed upon the table, whilst the mother locked up the safe
once more.

Then she selected a small key from a number in a bag at her girdle,
and offered it to her son.

"There, Tom, the box and its contents are yours. You will find
within five hundred golden pieces--guineas every one of them,
bright and new from the mint. Your father saved them up for you for
many long years, in case it should ever become needful that you
should leave home to see the world. Always it was his hope that you
would remain at home to be his comfort and stay; but if that could
not be, then would he wish to send forth his only son in such a
manner as beseemed his condition in life."

Tom's eyes sparkled. A flush mounted to his cheek, and his hand
shook a little as he put the key into the lock.

It was all true. There lay, in neat rolls, more money than he had
ever seen in all his life--a fortune for a prince, as it seemed to
him in his youthful inexperience. The admonitions and counsel of
his mother fell on deaf ears. Tom's busy brain was planning a
thousand ways in which his wealth might be expended. He would go
forth. He would see the world. He would win fame and fortune. He
would never return to Gablehurst until he brought with him a name
which should cause the ears of those who knew him to tingle by
reason of the fame he had won!

"Nay, but boast not of the future, my son," pleaded the mother,
with a note of anxiety in her voice; "and be not over confident.
The times are perilous, and you are but an untried youth. Boasting
is not well."

But Tom could not listen. He laughingly repeated his boast, and was
off to the stables forthwith, to pick for himself the best horses
for his ride to London. For, of course, he must first go there, to
fit himself out for his journey beyond seas, and find out where the
army of the Duke was at present to be found.

Vague rumours of the great victory had penetrated to the wilds of
Essex; but where Blenheim was, and what the victory was all about,
the rustics knew as little as "Old Kaspar" of the immortal ballad
of later days. The squires were little less vague in their ideas as
to the scope and purpose of the war. It was to abase the power of
France--so much they knew, and was unpopular with the Tories of
Jacobite leanings, for the reason that the French king was
sheltering the dethroned monarch of the Stuart line. But then the
great Duke who was winning all these victories was said to be a
stanch Tory himself; so that it was all rather confusing, and Tom
was just as ignorant and ill-informed on all these topics as the
hinds who tilled his fields. He had never cared to inform himself
of what was passing in the world, and the newspapers had always
seemed to him very dull reading.

Now, however, he wished he knew a little more; but he told himself
that he should quickly pick up everything in London. His heart beat
at the thought of seeing that wonderful city; and although he
carelessly promised his mother not to linger there long, he was by
no means sure that he would not make a good stay, and learn the
fashions of the gay world before he crossed the sea.

He was quite of the opinion that, clad in a new suit of fashionable
make, he could ruffle it with the best of the young bloods about
town. He was now all in a fever to be off. He selected for his
attendant a young groom, with whom he had long been more intimate
than his father approved. His mother in vain besought him to take
faithful old John, or at least Peter, whom they had known from
boyhood; but Tom would have nobody but young Robin, and declared
that he and Robin, mounted upon Wildfire and Wildgoose--two of the
best and fleetest horses ever reared in the meadows round
Gablehurst--could distance any highwaymen who might try to stop
them, or shoot them down if they could not shake them off.

For these were days when travelling was none too safe, and the
transit of the heavy bag of golden guineas made an additional
source of danger. For there were highway robbers and footpads, who
seemed to have a seventh sense for the scenting of gold. It was
probable that they had spies and confederates in all sorts of
places, and that they were warned beforehand when travellers rode
with money and valuables upon their persons.

It was, therefore, small wonder that mother and sister looked with
somewhat sinking hearts at the handsome young fellow, in his
workman-like, if rustic, riding dress, as he sat upon his horse at
the hall door, giving a last look round him at the little crowd
gathered to see him ride away.

"You will write and tell us of your safe arrival in London; and be
very careful how you cross Epping Forest," said the mother.

And young Tom answered gaily,--"Oh, never fear for me. Wildfire and
I can ride through and ride down anything! I will send a letter
from London, but after that you must not look for anything but
silence. When men cross the seas, and live amid battles and
marches, letters can scarce be written, still less safely carried."

He stooped from his saddle, and once more kissed both mother and
sister. Then the servants and tenants crowded round, full of good
wishes for a prosperous journey and a happy return; and Tom
answered them with gay words of promise. He would come back again,
covered with fame and glory. They would hear of his doings before
they saw him again, and when he came back he would "take toll again
of all his old playmates;" and so saying, he looked laughingly
round upon the blushing girls, who had paid Tom Tufton's toll many
a time, between jest and earnest, by the lych gate.

They all admired and liked the handsome lad, even though his ways
were more wild and reckless than the elders could approve. But all
declared that it would do him all the good in the world to go out
and see life in other places. It would cool his hot blood, and
teach him wisdom; and, after all, lads always would be lads till
manhood's cares and lessons had tamed them.

So Tom rode away in high spirits, Robin following on Wildgoose,
with the saddlebags strapped in front of him. They did not take
much with them, as Tom meant to equip himself in town, and was
wearing his finest home-made suit upon the journey. He had his
precious guineas carefully secured about his person. They were
heavy, it is true, but he liked to feel the weight of them, and to
know that they were safe.

For many miles he was constantly receiving hails from friends and
comrades; sometimes a band of young men would ride with him for a
few miles, and then, wishing him good luck, return home again. At
some houses which he passed, bright eyes would look out from the
windows, and kerchiefs would be waved in greeting and farewell.

Tom may perhaps be forgiven for regarding himself somewhat in the
light of a young prince riding forth to see the world. Everything
in his past life had combined to give him a good opinion of
himself, and make him fancy himself irresistible alike with men and
women. For he was undoubtedly the strongest and handsomest youth in
his own small world.

He sang and whistled as he rode along in the crisp morning air.
October had dashed the trees with vivid tints of red and gold. A
crisp touch of frost was in the air, and though the noonday sun was
bright and hot, there were indications of approaching winter plain
to be seen.

They baited their horses for an hour at a little inn where Tom was
slightly known; but when he spoke of pressing on, and asked where
the next halting place was, mine host advised his remaining where
he was till morning, as he was now close to the forest boundaries,
and not only were the paths somewhat intricate, but there were
always footpads, if not worse, lurking in the recesses of the wood,
ready to pounce upon unwary travellers, especially after sundown.

"And the light goes quickly beneath the trees. For my part, I would
rather travel by the waxing light of early morn than by the fading
glow of an autumn evening."

Tom had meant to arrive at this inn full two hours before he did;
for he had allowed his friends to hinder him on his way, and had
stopped all too often to exchange a word with some maiden watching
from a window or by a gate. He had intended reaching a little
village known to Robin, situated in the forest itself, before night
fell; and even as it was, he was by no means prepared to abandon
the hope of getting there.

Robin was not afraid of darkness or of footpads. He had a very good
knowledge of the forest, and was eager to press on. It was still
quite light, and Tom was in all the fervour of his first
impetuosity. So, as soon as the horses were baited and themselves
refreshed, they mounted once more, and pushed gaily along, feeling
themselves quite equal to repel any wretched footpads who might try
to assault them.

As for the regular highway robbers, well armed and well mounted,
they favoured better-frequented routes than this. Open heaths were
their favourite hunting grounds, though they liked well enough to
lie in hiding in the forests when they had brought too much
notoriety upon themselves. These unfrequented forest paths did not
offer them sufficient hope of booty to attract them in large
numbers, and Tom had no fear of meeting an enemy too strong for
him.

But security is not always safety, as Tom was destined to find to
his cost. In spite of their best efforts, and the gallant response
made by their good horses, dusk fell whilst they were still
threading the tortuous forest paths, and Robin was fain to admit
that he would be puzzled to find the way in the dark; indeed, he
was not certain that he was on the right track now.

It was impossible to ride fast in the gathering darkness, and upon
so rough a way; and Tom had more than once suggested that they
should make their bed in some hollow tree, and wait for daylight
before pursuing their journey.

They had halted in an open place, and were just discussing the
matter, when--whiz!--a bullet grazed the flank of Wildgoose, and
the mettlesome creature reared straight into the air, threatening
to fall backwards over his rider.

"Mark ho!" cried a loud voice, and there was a crackling of the
underwood all round.

"It is the footpads!" cried Robin. "I have beard that call before;"
and in a moment the travellers had their pistols out, and were
warily awaiting the first sign of attack.

It was not long in coming. Three men with blackened faces sprang
out from different places, and the crackling of the underwood
showed that more were lurking out of sight.

Tom took steady aim, and brought down the foremost villain at the
first shot; but Robin was not so lucky. He winged his man, but did
not drop him, and the next moment four stalwart figures had sprung
out to the aid of their comrades, and the travellers were
surrounded.

Tom set his teeth hard, a great fury in his heart. He took aim
again, and another of his assailants dropped as he pulled the
trigger; then, setting spurs to Wildfire, who was well-nigh
distracted with terror at the noise and the flash in the darkness,
he rode clean over the man who had sprung at his bridle rein, and
calling to Robin to follow him, he sped away in the darkness at a
pace which was risk to life and limb.

The footpads seemed taken aback by this move, for they had reckoned
that a headlong flight into the recesses of the forest would be too
great a peril to be risked; and indeed it was a headstrong course
to take. But Tom was in a headstrong mood, and his horse was beside
himself with fear. Both man and beast were well used to reckless
riding, and Tom had eyes like a cat, whilst Wildfire had both the
wonderful sight and wonderful instinct of his race. Tom lay along
the horse's back, now on this side, now on that, dodging, swaying,
manoeuvring, in a fashion which showed marvellous horsemanship, and
all the while listening eagerly for the sound of Wildgoose's
following steps.

But he heard nothing. The silence of the forest was unbroken save
for the noise he made himself. It became plain at last that he was
alone. Robin and Wildgoose had either lost his track, or had not
followed him.

And a sudden doubt surged into Tom's brain as to whether or not
Robin had betrayed him to the footpads. Was it not Robin who had
connived at all the halts upon the way in the morning, Robin who
had advised pushing on, and had undertaken to find the way by day
or night? Robin was a son of the forest himself. Might he not have
friends amongst these very outlaws? Had not his father warned him
before this that he did not trust Robin, and did not like his son's
intimacy with the young man?

All these thoughts came surging into Tom's brain as he rode on
through the dark forest. He was loath to harbour doubts of his
servant and friend; but he could not lay them to rest, do what he
would.

But for these doubts he would have ridden back in search of his
comrade. As it was, he set his teeth somewhat grimly, and rode
onwards. Robin had no money about him. He would escape with the
loss of his horse, and could follow his master on foot to London if
he chose. It was not worth while to risk life and fortune in
attempting the rescue of a fellow who might be a villain and a
traitor.

It seemed a heartless thing to do to leave Robin to his fate, but
for all that Tom could not make up his mind to turn back and search
for him; for he felt it was quite probable he would only fall into
a cunningly-devised ambush. But he could not ride all night through
the forest. He might fetch a circuit all unknowingly, and find
himself in the midst of the footpads again. The moon had now risen,
and was giving a faint light. By its aid Tom was able to examine
the nature of the ground about him, and presently saw at a short
distance a dark, arched cavity in the face of a mass of gravelly
rock which rose up on his left hand. It had the appearance of a
cave, and Tom got off and carefully examined the loose shale round
the mouth of it for the trace of recent footsteps. He did not want
to fall into the hands of a band of marauders.

But he could not see any trace of footmarks, either of man or
beast; and the cave was tempting to one who had ridden since early
morning. There was a pool of water close at hand, where his horse
eagerly stooped to quench his thirst; and Tom loosed the girths,
and left the creature to browse at will; for Wildfire was as tame
as a dog, and knew his master's voice well. He could be trusted not
to wander far away, and to come back at the sound of whistle or
call. Indeed, it was probable that he would presently find his way
into the cave, and lie by his master's side.

Tom found that he could make himself comfortable enough in the
little cavern. It was not very deep, but it afforded protection
from the cold night wind; and a great heap of leaves at the end
bespoke the fact that other travellers had utilized the place
before. Tom had a little food in his wallet, which he munched in
silence, feeling his spirits somewhat damped by the events of the
last hour, and yet he was as fully resolved as ever to see life and
taste of adventure before he returned home again.

His adventures had begun rather before he had bargained; but, after
all, that was the way of life. He would learn in future to trust
nobody and to believe in nobody. All men were liars--did not the
Scriptures say as much? It was as well to learn that lesson soon as
late. He would not waste a regret upon Robin. His horse was the one
friend in whom he would trust. He at least would never betray or
desert him.

Presently Wildfire, having eaten his fill of herbage, came and
snuffed at the cave's mouth with a whinny of inquiry. On hearing
Tom's voice, he stepped lightly in, and after standing for a while
beside his master, lay down between him and the opening to the
cave, so that Tom was well shielded from the keen night air, and
could sleep as snugly as in his bed at home.

Sleep he did, and soundly too; for the day's ride had wearied him,
and he was of the age and temperament when slumber is seldom wooed
in vain. How long he slept he knew not; but he was aroused at
length by a movement of Wildfire. The horse had lifted his head,
and was snorting slightly as if in anxiety or fear.

Tom looked out. The gray of dawn was in the sky, and between him
and the light stood a tall, motionless figure, outlined clearly in
the cave's mouth by the coming glow in the east. It was the figure
of a man. He held in his hand a great horse pistol, and was
evidently studying with some curiosity the sleeping figures whose
slumbers he had disturbed.

Tom would have sprung to his feet, but the man called out in a
clear, sharp voice:

"Keep where you are, or I fire!"

The hot blood surged into Tom's cheeks; but for once prudence took
the upper hand of valour, and he remained sitting upright behind
the still recumbent figure of Wildfire. He had restrained the horse
from rising by the pressure of his hand. He knew by hearsay that
robbers seldom fired upon a good horse if there were a chance of
making a capture of so valuable an acquisition. He might find
shelter behind the body of the good steed yet.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, speaking as calmly as he
could, but bitterly regretting the carelessness which had omitted
to load again his pistol after the brush with the footpads of the
previous night. He had meant to do it before falling asleep, but
drowsiness had come quickly upon him, and he was now practically at
the mercy of the man who stood in the cave's mouth, for there was
no way of escape save past him.

"I only want your money, my young friend," answered the man, whose
face was becoming more visible every moment in the growing light.
"I doubt not you have a bag of gold pieces somewhere upon your
person. Give them up to me, and you shall go your way in peace."

The veins on Tom's forehead swelled with rage and impotent fury. He
set his teeth, and his voice sounded hoarse and choked.

"You will have to take my life first," he said.

"Nay, but that is folly," remonstrated the elder man, who had a
rather fine face, and much of the air and manner of a gentleman, as
Tom was quick to perceive. "I desire no man's death; I only ask for
his gold, which is, after all, but the dross of the earth; and life
for a fine young fellow like yourself is full of joyous promise,
even though he carry no purse with him."

"I tell you," answered Tom, in the same stubborn way, "that if you
take my money, you will have first to take my life. Here have I
been leading the life of a dog or of a boor all these years--squire's
son though men call me. I have seen nothing, I have learned nothing;
I have consorted with low hinds; I have been no better than the swine
in the fields. Now at last I have my liberty and a bag of gold given
to me. I am sent out to see the world, and to enjoy life. Take my
gold from me, and I must perforce go back to the old life. I would
choose death sooner. Therefore, sir, let us fight like men for this
same bag of gold; for I will defend it with every drop of my blood!"

And in spite of the peril of so doing, Tom sprang to his feet and
stood facing his antagonist with the air of a man whose blood is
up, and who will prove no mean adversary.

"Come now, I like that spirit," said the other. "In these days of
dandies and ruffled courtiers, stuffed with fine-sounding words but
puling cowards at heart, it refreshes the spirit to meet a
youngster of your sort. Tell me your name, young master, and let us
talk this matter over together. I have ever sought to mingle mercy
and discretion with the need for making a livelihood out of my
fellowmen."

Tom was surprised into a short laugh at this unexpected address.

"I am Tom Tufton of Gablehurst," he began, but was quickly
interrupted.

"What! the son of the good Squire of Gablehurst! Lad, is this the
truth?"

"Ay, verily," answered Tom, somewhat taken aback. "Did you know my
father? Alas! he is dead."

"Dead! What! Is that so? Then the world is the poorer by one good
man. And you are his son, and called by his name! What are you
doing away from home? Are you not master there?"

"No," answered Tom, with a flush on his cheek. "I am to see the
world first. My mother will rule for me till I be five and twenty.
I have money given me, and I am to seek fame and fortune afar. That
is what I said to you. Take my money from me, and I must needs
return to the life I have left--and I would sooner die!"

"Tut, tut, boy. Speak not so wildly; nor think that I will touch a
penny of your good father's gold. I am not sunk so low as that. Did
he ever speak to you of Captain Jack, whom he once saved from the
gallows?"

Tom shook his head. His father had not been a talking man.

"It was years ago now," said the man thoughtfully, "and I did try
for long after that to lead a different life; but in the end I came
back to the one I love the best--the free life of the road. But
believe me, Tom Tufton, your father's act of clemency has never
been forgotten. I too have shown mercy many a time and oft. I have
my own code of honour and chivalry. I want money badly enough; but
I will touch none of yours. I want a good horse; but I will lay no
finger on yours. Go your way in peace, and drink your fill of the
world's pleasures; but remember that if the time should come when
you want a friend and a place of refuge, ask at The Three Ravens
tavern on the skirts of this forest for news of Captain Jack, and
whensoever you may come to me, I will share my last penny and my
last crust with you, for love of the good man your father, who
saved my unworthy life."

The man spoke with visible emotion and Tom was moved also, he
scarce knew why. A sudden sense of liking--almost of love--sprang
up in his heart towards this freebooter. He laid a hand upon his
arm.

"Take me clear of this forest," he said, "and I will leave Wildfire
in your hands as a token of gratitude. I have bethought me often
that in London town he would pine his heart away. He loves the
green glades of the woodland, and the free air of the fields and
forests. Methinks you would be a kind master; and he is a loving
and faithful creature. I might even lose him in London, where, they
tell me, rogues abound. I would sooner leave him in your hands; and
if I want him back some day, I will ask him of Captain Jack."

The bargain was struck. Captain Jack accompanied Tom to the
farthest limits of the forest, giving him meantime much information
about life in London, and astonishing him by the intimate knowledge
he possessed of life in every grade of society.

Tom listened in wonder and amaze; but Captain Jack answered his
questions in such a way as to leave him little the wiser. He
managed, however, to make friends with Wildfire almost as quickly
as with his master; for the two men rode by turns, and Captain
Jack's horsemanship was of that finished kind which every horse
understands and responds to.

"You are right not to take such a creature into London," said
Captain Jack, after trying the paces of Wildfire over a stretch of
springy turf. "Some sharper would soon make away with him; but it
will be a clever man who filches him from me! I will guard him as
my greatest treasure, and he will be worth more to me than the
guineas you carry in your bag."

"And his brother is somewhere in the forest," said Tom; and he told
the story of Robin and Wildgoose, to which Captain Jack listened
with a look of amusement.

"Clever fellow! clever fellow!" he muttered, "he will make one of
the brotherhood one of these days!"

Tom began to realize, with a grim sense of humour, that he was
aiding and abetting the mischievous schemes of some notorious
highwayman, and that his father's two favourite young horses, by
which he set such store, were destined to become the property of
the gentlemen of the road!

At the limits of the forest Tom and his companion parted. He had
been put upon the highroad, and given careful instructions as to
the way he must take. Moreover, Captain Jack had given him a
password, which, he said, would protect him from molestation;
although a traveller on foot was not in the same danger as one who
rode a fine horse.

It cost Tom a pang to turn his back on Wildfire; but he felt so
certain that the horse would pine in London, or be stolen away,
that he preferred to leave him in the hands of a kind master who
would treat him well.

"Take your fill of life. Keep open eyes, and believe every man to
be a rogue till he prove himself an honest fellow," was the parting
advice of his companion, for whom he had already taken rather a
strong liking; "and if ever town becomes too hot, come and join
Captain Jack; and if ever you should chance to knock up against
Lord Claud, tell him that his old master sends him greeting and
felicitations, and is watching his career with admiration and
delight."

With that the captain turned and galloped away; and Tom was left
looking after him, wondering what the meaning of this last charge
could be.



CHAPTER III. IN GAY LONDON TOWN.


Tom Tufton walked through Bishopsgate, and along the crowded dirty
thoroughfare towards the Poultry, with a jaunty air of unconcern
that did credit to his powers of dissimulation.

It was Captain Jack's parting word to him to dissemble all outward
signs of astonishment at what he might see when he entered the
city; to walk on without stopping to stare or gape, to look as
though such sights were of everyday occurrence in his life, and to
bear himself with a bold and self-sufficient air, as much as to
tell the world at large that he was very well able to take care of
himself, and that roisterers and bullies had better let him alone.

Tom acted his part with considerable acumen; but within he was
consumed by astonished bewilderment, which increased as he turned
westward towards Cheapside, and approached the still fashionable
regions of Holborn and its environments.

The streets appeared to the country-bred youth to teem with life.
Everything he set eyes on was strange and wonderful. The shops with
their wares displayed, and noisy apprentices crying out to buyers,
or exchanging fisticuffs with each other by way of interlude; the
coaches carrying fine ladies hither and thither, tightly laced,
swelled out with hoops, their hair so towering in its lace and
powder as to provoke the query as to how it had ever attained such
gigantic proportions; the gay gallants in their enormous perukes of
powdered hair, and their wonderful flowered vests and gold-laced
coats--all these things provoked the keenest wonder and amazement
in Tom's breast; albeit he walked on without pausing to examine one
more than another, or to exchange a word with any save some
honest-looking shopman, of whom he would ask the way to Master
Cale's shop just off Holborn.

If Tom had lost on the way to London his servant and both his
horses, he had at least gained some information which might be of
more value to him than all the rest of his possessions; for Captain
Jack had told him to go to Master Cale's and lodge with him,
telling him who had sent him, and had added that he would put him
in the way of becoming a proper gentleman of fashion, without
fleecing him and rooking him, as would inevitably be the case if he
fell into the clutches of those birds of prey always on the lookout
for young squires from the country coming up to learn the ways of
the world, with a plentiful supply of guineas and inexperience.

Master Cale seemed to be well known, and he was directed to his
house in almost the same words by each person he asked. Master Cale
was a perruquier of no small popularity, who had risen through
honesty and ingenuity to be one of the most fashionable tradesmen
of the day. He also sold vests or waistcoats, lace-edged neck
cloths, gloves, sword scarfs and girdles, generally of his own
design; yet though his shop was regularly crowded with gallants and
courtiers, the man himself managed to preserve much of the honesty
and simplicity which had been his making in the days gone by.
Everybody liked and trusted Master Cale, and he was said to be the
best-informed man in London town on matters connected with the
court and its fashionable throng of hangers on.

As Tom walked onwards he realized for the first time in his life
what a rustic-looking fellow he must appear. He had felt himself
smart enough at home in his leather breeches, brown frieze
double-breasted coat, scarlet vest, and riding boots, his hair tied
behind with a scarlet riband to match the vest. But as he beheld
the fine gentlemen lounging arm in arm along the streets in their
huge curled wigs, gorgeous waistcoats reaching sometimes to the
knees, gold embroidered coats, with huge cuffs turned back almost
to the elbows, and scarfs of every hue of the rainbow supporting
their swords, he felt himself a mere boor and bumpkin, and wondered
much whether Master Cale would ever be able to turn him out a fine
gentleman, fit to associate with those he saw in the streets.

As he pursued his way westward, he met parties of young rakes and
roisterers setting out for the theatres, the play being then an
earlier function than it has become of late years.

These men were swaggering along arm in arm, exchanging ribald jests
with each other, and insulting the inoffensive passers by with
coarse remarks interlarded with oaths, and, whenever occasion
offered, tripping them up with their swords or canes and landing
them in the gutter.

Some of these worthies wore cockades or badges, and later on Tom
learned to know them as Darby captains, Tash captains, or
Cock-and-bottle captains, according to the special sort of
marauding which they favoured. He met one party of the dreaded
Mohocks, or Mohawks, reeling along half intoxicated already, and
ripe for any offensive mischief, which later in the day they were
certain to perpetrate. They eyed the young rustic askance as it
was, and Tom heard a whisper go through their ranks:

"Pity 'tis so early i' the day, or we'd sweat him rarely."

But he held his head high, and swaggered along as though he felt
himself a match for all and any who might attack him. Yet inwardly
he felt that he would never go abroad in town without a sword at
his girdle. What the "sweating" might be, he knew not; but he was
assured that it was some sort of assault upon his person.

At length he reached his destination, which was a shop of fine
appearance in Drury Lane, just off the main thoroughfare of
Holborn. It was then a street of some pretensions, albeit a narrow
one, and Tom's eyes soon espied the name he was in search of over
the door of a shop round which a score or more of gallants were
lounging. In the doorway itself stood a very fine youth, at least
he was fine as to his raiment, although he wore no wig and was but
an apprentice of better figure and deportment than most. He was
displaying to the admiring crowd a mighty fine waistcoat of
embroidered satin, worked in gold and colours very cunningly, and
trimmed with a frosted-gold cord of new design and workmanship. It
was this waistcoat, which the young man called the Blenheim vest,
that had attracted the crowd, and Tom could not at first get near
the door, so much chaffering and laughing and rough play was going
on round it.

So he filled up the time by seeking to understand the extraordinary
jargon which was spoken by the young dandies, in which he was not
particularly successful (for in addition to a marvellous assortment
of oaths, they talked a mixture of bad English, worse French, and
vilest Latin), and in examining the signboard which hung out over
the doorway of Master Cale's abode.

This sign had been painted to the perruquier's own design, at a
time when there threatened to be a reaction in favour of natural
hair in place of the monstrous perukes so long worn. The picture
represented a young man clad in all the finery of a fop of Charles
the Second's court, save only the peruke, hanging by his hair from
the limb of a giant oak, with three javelins in his heart, whilst
below sat weeping a man in royal crown and robes; and below this
picture there ran the following legend:

"O Absalom! O Absalom!
O Absalom! my son,
If thou hadst worn a periwig
Thou hadst not been undone."

In the window of the shop was set out an array of the most
wonderfully curled wigs, perfect marvels of the perruquier's art;
and, indeed, the size of the young dandies' heads was a study in
extravagance quite as wonderful in its way as the towers upon the
heads of the ladies.

When presently the group had moved away, and the apprentice in the
fine vest had a moment's leisure, Tom came forward and asked if
Master Cale were within.

The youth regarded him with some insolence of manner, but as he
might be addressing a future customer from the country, he replied
with a show of civility that Master Cale was in the room behind the
shop, curling the perukes of some gentlemen, but that Tom could go
inside and wait if he liked. This he accordingly did, and soon the
apprentice was surrounded by another crowd, and was taking orders
thick and fast for the Blenheim vest.

The talk bewildered Tom, who, however, needs must listen, and
presently he was attracted towards the inner room, where half a
dozen young men, with heads almost as bald as those of infants,
were arguing and laughing about the curl and fashion and set of
their wigs, which were all standing in a row upon the blocks, and
being cleverly and carefully manipulated by the deft hands of a
small and dapper man, in a neat but not inelegant suit of brown
cloth, ornamented by rather large silver buttons, whom Tom saw at a
glance must be Master Cale the perruquier, although all his
customers called him "Curley."

Heads were turned upon Tom's entrance, but the gentlemen only
vouchsafed him a haughty stare, whilst the perruquier bid him be
seated till he had leisure to attend to him. He then adjusted upon
each head its own wig, amid much jesting and gossiping that was all
Greek to Tom; after which the gallants filed out with much noise
and laughter, and the little man turned to his unknown customer.

"What can I do for you, young sir?" and his eyes instinctively
sought the head of the rustic youth, which was crowned with his own
fairly abundant locks of dark brown.

"I come to you, Master Cale, with a few words in writing from one
calling himself Captain Jack, whom I met in Epping Forest, and who
told me I should be fleeced and beggared in a week if I fell into
the hands of the sharpers of London town; but that if I sought
lodging and counsel from you, I might learn my lesson without being
ruined thereby. Here is the note he sent to you."

The shrewd face of the little perruquier had taken an almost eager
look as the name of Captain Jack passed Tom's lips. His eyes
scanned the youth from head to foot, and when Tom took out and
handed him the note which had been given him, he seized it and read
it eagerly, after which he turned to his new client, and said:

"This billet, young sir, would be enough to secure you a welcome
from me. Tell me of my good friend Captain Jack. Ah! if he could
have but stuck to honest trade, he and I might have made our
fortunes together ere now. Never was such a figure for showing off
coat or vest or sash, or a head upon which a peruke sat with a
daintier grace. But come, let us sit down together and quaff a cup
of wine, and you shall tell me all your history."

Dusk was falling between the high walls of the houses, and business
was over for the day. Cale led his guest into a room on the
basement floor, where a simple but substantial refection had been
laid out. He called out to his apprentice to get his supper in the
kitchen; and when the door was shut upon the pair, he listened with
interest whilst Tom gave a very fairly accurate history of his own
life up till the present moment.

Then the little man shook his head with an air of wisdom.

"The best advice I could give you, my young friend, is that you
should go home to your mother and your friends in Essex, and seek
to learn no more of the wickedness of the world than you know
already. But I suppose no words of mine would induce you to take
that course."

"Certes no," answered Tom with a short laugh. "I am sick of the
country. I have come forth to see the world, and see it I will, or
know the reason why."

"Ah yes, so says every moth that flutters round the candle, till
his wings be burnt away, and he left the shattered remnant of what
he erstwhile was," responded Cale, with a wise shake of the head.
"But no man ever yet was found wise enough to take experience at
second hand. So if you are bent on seeing the world--which, let me
tell you, is an evil thing at best--I will try, for the love I bear
to Captain Jack, and indeed to all honest youths, to put you in the
way of seeing it with as little hurt to yourself as may be. And so
you are thinking of foreign travel?"

"I was, till I saw what London was like," answered Tom; "but, i'
faith, I am in no haste to quit it till I have seen its sights and
tasted of its pleasures. Methinks I might go far, and spend much
good gold, and not find the half of the diversion which the streets
of London afford."

"Oh, if it be diversion you seek--"

"It is," answered Tom frankly; "diversion, and the game of life as
it is played elsewhere than in the lanes of Essex. I have seen
enough in one afternoon to excite a thirst which can only be
allayed by drinking from the same fountain. So no more talk of
Essex, or even of lands beyond the seas. I will e'en get you to
write a letter to my mother, telling her that I am safely arrived
in London town; and knowing that, she must make herself easy, for I
was never one who could easily wield a pen. I was always readier
with the sword or the quarterstaff."

"There will be fine doings in London town, too," remarked Cale,
rubbing his nose reflectively, "when the Duke lands, and is
welcomed by all the town as the great victor of Blenheim. Yes,
certainly, you should stay to witness that sight. Afterwards we can
talk of what you had better do. They are always wanting fine-grown
young fellows for the army. Perhaps when your store of guineas is
gone, London will not hold you so fast."

"My store will last a long while," answered Tom, confidently
slapping his inner pocket where the bag of gold rested. "I have
five hundred golden guineas, the legacy of my father; and to that
my mother added another hundred, to fit me out with all things
needful for my travels, which things could not well be purchased in
Essex. Now Captain Jack bid me at once hand over to you my money,
which, he said, would melt in my pocket like snow, if it were not
filched away by thieves and rogues. He bid me place one hundred
guineas with you for my board and outfit, and trust that you would
do honestly by me; and the rest was to be put into your keeping, to
be doled out to me as I should have need. It seems a strange thing
to be taking the counsel of a highway robber in such matters. But I
like you, Master Cale; and I am just wise enough to know that my
guineas would not long remain mine were I to walk the streets with
them. So here I give them into your keeping; I trust you with my
all."

"I will give you a receipt for the amount, my friend. Many men have
made me their banker before now, and have not regretted it. You
shall have a comfortable room above stairs, and you can either be
served with your meals there, or take them with me, or at some
coffee house, as best pleases you; and as for the outfit--why, it
will be a pleasure to clothe a pretty fellow of your inches in
fitting raiment. But be advised by me; seek not to be too fine.
Quiet elegance will better befit your figure. I would have you
avoid equally the foppery of the court beaux and the swaggering
self-importance of those they call the bully beaux, with whom you
are certain to make acquaintance ere long."

Tom was willing to listen to advice in these matters, and the
little perruquier soon threw himself almost with enthusiasm into
the subject of the young man's outfit. They spent above two hours
looking over cloths and satins and scarfs, trying effects, and
fitting on perukes. Tom had never before imagined how important and
engrossing a matter dress could be, nor how many articles of attire
were necessary to a man who wished to cut a good figure.

But at last he grew weary of the subject, and said he would fain
take a stroll in the streets, and breathe the outer air again. He
felt the stifling presence of encircling walls, and longed to get
out into the starlit night.

"The streets are none too safe at night for peaceful citizens,"
remarked Master Cale, with a shake of the head. "But I have a
peruke to take to a client who lives hard by Snowe Hill. If you
needs must go, let us go together; and gird on yonder sword ere you
start. For if men walk unarmed in the streets of a night, they are
thought fair game for all the rogues and bullies who prowl from
tavern to tavern seeking for diversion. They do not often attack an
armed man; but a quiet citizen who has left his sword behind him
seldom escapes without a sweating, if nothing worse befall him."

"And what is this sweating?" asked Tom, as the pair sallied forth
into the darkness of the streets.

Here and there an oil lamp shed a sickly glow for a short distance;
but, for the most part, the streets were very dim and dark. Lights
gleamed in a good many upper windows still; but below--where the
shutters were all up--darkness and silence reigned.

"Sweating," answered Cale, "is a favourite pastime with the bullies
of London streets. A dozen or more with drawn swords surround a
hapless and unarmed passer by. They will close upon him in a
circle, the points of their swords towards him, and then one will
prick him in the rear, causing him to turn quickly round, whereupon
another will give him a dig in the same region, and again he will
jump and face about; and so they will keep the poor fellow spinning
round and round, like a cockchafer on a pin, until the sweat pours
off him, and they themselves are weary of the sport. But, hist! I
hear a band of them coming. Slip we into this archway, and let them
pass by. I would not have my wig box snatched away; and there is no
limit to the audacity of those bully beaux when they have drunk
enough to give them Dutch courage. Discretion is sometimes better
than valour."

So saying, he pulled Tom into a dark recess, and in a few minutes
more there swaggered past about six or eight young roisterers--
singing, swearing, joking, threatening--more or less intoxicated
every one of them, and boasting themselves loudly of the valiant
deeds they could and would do.

They did not see the two figures in the archway. Indeed, the
greatest safety of the belated citizen was that these bullies were
generally too drunk to be very observant, and that a person in
hiding could generally escape notice. After they had passed by,
Cale continued his way quietly enough, following the noisy party at
a safe distance, as they too seemed bound towards Snowe Hill.

They were approaching the top of the hill when a sudden sound of
shrieking met their ears, mixed with the loud laughter and
half-drunken shouts of the roisterers. Tom caught his companion's
arm and pulled him along.

"That is a woman's voice!" he cried quickly. "She is crying for
help. Come!"

"Beshrew me if I ever again walk abroad with a peruke at night!"
grumbled Cale, as he let himself be hurried along by the eager Tom.
"I am not a watchman. Why should I risk my goods for every silly
wench who should know better than to be abroad of a night alone?
Come, come, my young friend, my legs are not as long as yours; I
shall have no wind for fighting if you drag me along at this pace!"

It was the urgency of the cries that spurred Tom to the top of his
speed. The laughter was loud and ceaseless, but the shrieks were
becoming faint and stifled. Tom's blood was boiling. He pictured to
himself a foul murder done. A few seconds before they reached the
spot a new sound greeted their ears--a sort of rattling, bounding
noise--which provoked another peal of uncontrollable laughter.

Then a voice was heard shouting:

"The watch! the watch! or some fellows with swords!"

Immediately the whole band broke up and rushed helter-skelter in
all directions. Not that the bullies feared the watch one whit. The
watchmen were mostly poor, old, worn-out men, who could do little
or nothing to impose order upon these young braggarts. Indeed, they
were so often maltreated themselves, that they just as often as not
kept carefully away when cries were raised for help. But, having
had their fun, the roisterers were ready to disperse themselves;
for some of the citizens would rise in a white heat of rage, and
take law into their own hands, in which case it happened that the
disturbers of the peace came off second best. One of them had seen
Tom's tall figure and the sword in his hand as he ran beneath a
lamp, and had fancied that some more determined rescue than that
afforded by the watch was to be given. So the band dispersed
shouting and hooting; and Tom and Cale found them scattered ere
they came up to them.

"But where is the woman?" asked Tom, looking round; "they have not
surely carried her off?"

"Oh no--only sent her rolling down the hill in a barrel!" panted
Cale; "it is a favourite pastime with the youths of London town.
One party will put a barrel ready in yon doorway on purpose, and if
it be not removed, it will like enough be used ere morning. We had
best go in search of the poor creature; for ofttimes they are sore
put to it to get free from the cask--if they be stout in person at
least."

And, indeed, as they neared the foot of the hill, they heard a
groaning and stifled crying for help; and, sure enough, they found
a buxom woman, the wife of a respectable citizen, tightly wedged
into the cask, and much shaken and bruised by her rapid transit
down the hill, although, when released with some difficulty, she
was able to walk home, escorted by her rescuers, and bitterly
inveighing against the wickedness of the world in general and
London's young bullies in particular.

"The best thing, good dame, is not to be abroad at such an hour
alone," advised Cale.

"Yes, truly; and yet it was but the matter of a few streets; and it
seems hard a woman may not sit beside a sick neighbour for a while
without being served so on her way back. My husband was to have
come for me; but must have been detained. Pray heaven he has not
fallen in with a band of Mohocks, and had the nose of him split
open--to say nothing of worse!"

"Are men really served so bad as that?" asked Tom, as the two
turned back from the citizen's house whither they had escorted
their grateful protegee.

"Worse sometimes," answered Cale, with a shake of the head. "Those
Mohocks should be wiped out without mercy by the arm of the law;
for mercy they show none. They have read of the horrid cruelties
practised by the Indians whose name they bear, and they seek to do
the like to the hapless victims whom ill-fortune casts in their
way. There be men whose eyes they have gouged out, and whose noses
have been cut off, whose brains have been turned by the terror and
agony they have been through. And yet these men go free; and
law-abiding citizens are allowed to quake in their beds at the
sound of their voices in the street, or the sight of their badges
even in broad daylight. I call it a sin and a shame that such
things can be. Well, well, well, let us hope that, when the great
Duke comes home, he may be able to put a stop to these things. Even
in warfare, men say, he is merciful, and will permit no extortion
and no cruelty. We citizens of London will give him a right royal
welcome; perchance we may be able to crave a boon of him in return.
He--or, rather, his wife--is all-powerful with our good Queen Anne;
and she would not wish a hair of a man's head hurt could she but
have her way."

"By the Duke you mean the great Duke of Marlborough, who has done
such great things in the war? But what is the war about? Can you
tell me that, for I have never rightly understood?"

Cale was a great politician in his own eyes, and was well versed in
the politics of the day. He strove hard to make Tom understand the
intricacies of the Spanish succession, the danger of allowing Spain
to be ruled by one of the Bourbons, and the fear of the
all-powerful French king, who seemed like to rule Europe, if the
allied powers could not make head against him. Tom did his best to
understand, and got a rather clearer view of the situation than he
had before; but what interested him most was the information that
the Duke would come over to England shortly, and that a magnificent
reception was to be given to him.

Whigs and Tories had alike grown proud of the victorious general,
and the war had become popular from success, though the drain on
the country was great. The Queen was personally liked, although she
was but a small power in the kingdom; and for the time being
Jacobite plots were in abeyance. So long as she lived, nobody was
likely seriously to desire the return of the banished Stuarts; but,
of course, there was the future to think for. Anne had no child to
succeed her; and the thought of the Hanoverian succession was by no
means universally approved. Still for the moment the Jacobite
agitation was in abeyance, and all England rejoiced in the
humiliation of so dangerous a foe as the great monarch of France.

Cale was full of stories of court gossip respecting the Queen and
the Duchess of Marlborough, whose affection for one another was a
byword throughout the realm. The Duke and Duchess were also most
tenderly attached; and the private lives of Anne and her Prince
George, and of the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, presented a
bright contrast to the general laxity of morals prevailing at the
time. The rather austere rule of William and Mary had not really
purged the court of vicious habits, though such had been steadily
discouraged. Anne had not the force of character to impose her will
upon her subjects; and extravagance, frivolity, and foppery
flourished amazingly.

Tom felt his head in a perfect whirl as Cale chatted on of this
thing and that, passing from politics to court life, and then to
the doings of the wealthy classes, of which he had an intimate
knowledge.

"By my faith, London must be a marvellous place to live in!" quoth
Tom, when at last he had been shown to the chamber prepared for his
reception. "I feel as though I had been a year away from
Gablehurst. Prithee, bestir to get my clothes ready, good Master
Cale; for I shall know no rest till I have been abroad myself, and
have seen these gay doings with mine own eyes!"



CHAPTER IV. THE FOLLY.


A very fine fellow did Tom Tufton feel a few days later, when,
arrayed in all his new finery, he surveyed himself from head to
foot in Master Cale's long mirror, kept in the best light afforded
by the back room, for the benefit of the fops and dandies who
desired to see the effect of the finery purchased from the
fashionable perruquier.

Cale had used discretion, and urged the same upon Tom, in the selection
and fashion of his garments, and had sternly discountenanced anything
like undue extravagance and foppery. Tom had insisted upon the Blenheim
vest, with its rich flowering on the white satin ground, and its
trimming of golden cord; but for the rest he had permitted Cale to
select what he would, and was perfectly satisfied with the long coat
of claret-coloured cloth, with a modest trimming of gold cord, and
turned-back cuffs (showing the white lawn full shirt sleeve beneath),
which set off his tall and well-made figure to advantage. The breeches
were of the same cloth, but showed little, as silk stockings were drawn
high up over them, almost meeting the vest or waistcoat, which was
always long.  He had shoes with high though not extravagant heels, and
gilt buckles; a gold cord with tassels adorned his jaunty three-cornered
hat; and his girdle and sword belt were of gold silk and cord.

But perhaps Tom was most proud of his periwig--an addition to his
outfit which he had insisted upon rather against the advice of
Cale, who had offered to curl and powder his own hair in an
imitation of the prevailing mode. But Tom would not be denied the
fashionable peruke. He had spent the best part of each day seated
behind a screen in Cale's inner shop, listening in a species of
fascination and amaze to the talk of the young dandies who daily
resorted thither. Cale told him that he would thus best learn
something of the language and gossip of the day, and be better able
to hold his own when he went abroad; and Tom already felt that he
possessed command of a thousand new epithets and words, to say
nothing of the meaningless oaths and blasphemies, which made a part
of the stock in trade of every fashionable man's vocabulary.

And now he stood regarding himself with complaisant satisfaction,
feeling that he could ruffle it with the best of them. He had heard
too much talk of periwigs not to feel resolved to wear one himself.
Unless he did so, he felt he should never take his place in the
world of fashion. His natural hair had therefore been cut close to
his head, the peruke was fitted on, and fell in bushy curls to his
shoulders.

Tom could not forbear a smile as he turned his head this way and
that to judge of the effect. He felt indeed a pretty fellow,
prepared to take his share in the drama of life going on about him.

"Harry Gay shall be your companion," said Cale, who had assisted at
the toilet with the interest of a connoisseur, and who did not
attempt to disguise his satisfaction at the result. "Harry is as
gay as his name, but he is a well-meaning youth, and will neither
rob you himself, nor suffer others to do so without warning you. He
knows London well, and the life has hurt him less than it hurts
most. He is brave without being a bully; he can play, and knows
when to stop. He is afraid of no man, and so he is left alone. He
has a good heart, and is to be trusted; and here he comes in good
time to take you under his care."

The young man who now lounged in with a smiling face and a nod of
recognition to Cale, was not unknown to Tom. He had seen him
several times, and had taken a liking for him, which the other
reciprocated. Harry Gay was the son of a leading merchant citizen,
a man of some importance and mark, who was able to give his son
every advantage that money could purchase, and the means to enter
almost any circle short of that of the court itself.

But he had also transmitted to his son a certain hard-headed
shrewdness, which stood him in good stead in the gay life he was
now leading. Harry had the sense not to try to push himself amongst
the high-born dames and gallants, where he would be regarded as an
interloper, and only admitted to be fleeced of his gold; but
contented himself with a more modest sphere, where he was a man of
some little mark, and could lead as well as follow, if he had the
mind.

Entering the back shop, Harry cast an approving glance at Tom, and
nodded his head towards Cale, at the same time taking a pinch of
snuff from his box, and handing it to the perruquier.

"Does you credit, Curley, does you great credit. A chaste and
simple costume, but elegant withal--uncommon elegant, i' faith.
Shouldn't mind a suit of the same myself, if I had our young
friend's inches.

"Well, friend Tom, and how do you feel? Learned to take snuff yet?
No! Ah, well, 'twill come by degrees.

"Put some more scent upon his person, Curley; he must smell like a
perfumer's shop; and so--give him his gold-tasselled cane, and the
gloves with the golden fringe. A muff? No! Well, perchance those
great fists would look something strange in one, and the day is
fine and mild.

"So, if you are ready, friend Tom, we will sally forth. To the
coffee house first, and afterwards, an it please you, to the play.

"Farewell, Curley; I will bring you back your nursling safe and
sound. He shall not be rooked or robbed today. But how long I shall
be able to hold the cub in leading strings remains yet to be
proved!"

Tom was in far too good spirits to take umbrage at this name. He
felt anything but a cub as he walked down the street beside his
scented and curled and daintily-arrayed companion, unconsciously
striving to copy his jaunty step, and the little airs and graces of
his manner.

"We will to the Folly," said Harry, as they stepped out into
Holborn and turned their faces westward. "You have not yet seen the
river, and the Folly is a floating structure moored in the water on
the farther shore opposite to Somerset House, of which you may have
heard. It is not the most fashionable resort; but, for my part, I
like it well. There is always good company to be had there, and we
are not interrupted every moment by the incursions of drunken
roisterers, who spend their day in reeling from tavern to tavern,
or coffee house to coffee house, in search of some new story to
tell, or some fresh encounter to provoke."

Tom listened eagerly to all his friend told him as they went their
way towards the river. So far he had not cared to show himself in
the streets till after dusk, as he had become foolishly ashamed of
his rustic garb. He was immensely interested in all that he beheld,
and in the stories his companion told him about the places they
passed, the persons they met, and the occupants of the coaches
which were now rolling to and fro through the streets, taking
ladies and their fine gentlemen friends either to the park, or some
fashionable rendezvous.

Great indeed was his interest and amazement as they reached the
steps beside the river, and Harry signalled to a waterman to bring
up a wherry alongside to take them to the Folly. He had never
imagined anything so wide and grand as this great flowing river,
lined with its stately buildings, and bearing on its bosom more
vessels than he imagined that the world held! Had it not been for
his fear of betraying undue ignorance, he would have broken into a
torrent of questions; as it was, he sat in wide-eyed silence,
gazing about him like a savage suddenly transported into the world
of civilization--not a little to the amusement of his cicerone.

The Folly was a floating structure not unlike a large houseboat of
the present day. Its guests could walk to and fro upon the roof, or
find warmth and entertainment within its walls, as did Harry and
his friend; for although the sun shone, the wind blew cold upon the
water, and it was pleasanter within the warmed interior, where
already a sprinkling of guests had assembled.

The place was divided into two rooms for the public accommodation.
The first of these was a bar and gaming room. A buxom and
rosy-cheeked damsel was presiding at the bar, and several young
dandies leaned their elbows upon it, and strove to engage her in
conversation. Some others were already seated at a table, and were
throwing the dice, laughing and swearing ceaselessly over their
game. The second room was quieter at present, and upon the table
there lay strewn about the various newspapers and pamphlets of the
day. Two or three men were reading them, and discussing the news of
the hour as they sipped their coffee or chocolate.

Harry led the way into this place, ordered coffee for himself and
his friend, and, whilst nodding familiarly to the occupants of the
room, possessed himself of a few papers, and pushed some of them
across to Tom.

"A new pamphlet by Jonathan Swift, I see," he remarked carelessly,
with a wink at his pupil. "You know his Tale of a Tub, Tom?
Monstrous clever thing that! It tickles one to death reading it. So
do his pamphlets--sharpest things out. Some talk of Defoe as his
rival; but, for my part, I never read anything that rivals Swift's
writings! Pity he has such a sharp edge to his temper. They say he
will never get promotion."

Tom took up the pamphlet, and tried to look as though he were
reading it with appreciation; but he had never been much of a
student, and the comings and goings of a constant stream of
visitors engrossed him far more than the printed words, the meaning
of which he understood no whit.

It was much more interesting to him to listen to what the
frequenters of the coffee house were saying amongst themselves; and
greatly did he admire the ease and readiness with which Harry took
his share in the conversation.

"Has my Lord Godolphin found a worthy pen to sing the praise of the
victor of Blenheim yet?" he asked of a man who appeared to be a
referee on matters literary. "The last I heard was that he was
scouring London, tearing his periwig in pieces in despair that the
race of poets was extinct, and he could only find the most wretched
doggerel mongers, whose productions were too vile to be tolerated.
Has the noble lord found a better rhymster? Or will the victory of
the great Duke have to go unsung by the Muse?"

"What! have you not heard the end of that matter? Why, my Lord
Halifax declared that he knew the man worthy of the occasion; but
he would not reveal the name unless it was promised that he should
be excellently well treated. And this man is none other than Joseph
Addison, a fellow of the University of Oxford, and a man well
thought of and pensioned, too, by the late King William. But since
the death of His Majesty, the poet has been living in poverty and
obscurity in a humble lodging hard by the Haymarket. There it was
that he received a visit one day from the two noble lords; and it
hath since been whispered that a poem is a-preparing so fine in
quality and so finished in style, that my Lord Godolphin is now fit
to dance a hornpipe for joy, and has promised a bountiful reward to
the genius whose brain has devised and whose hand has penned the
lines. They say that the poem is to be called 'The Campaign,' and
that it is one of the finest the world has ever seen."

Whilst this sort of talk was going on in one corner, there were
counter-conversations, more interesting to Tom, being carried on in
other parts of the room. One band of bully beaux, somewhat the
worse for drink already, were telling stories of scandal and
duelling, to which Tom could not but listen with ill-concealed
interest. Others were discussing the last new play, or the last new
toast. A few fine dandies sat combing their periwigs as they talked
of the latest fashions, taking snuff freely, and sprinkling
themselves with perfume from a small pocket flask, if they were
ever too nearly approached by some commoner person.

As time passed by the quieter men, who had come early to read and
talk politics and literature, withdrew themselves and took their
departure. Harry Gay was claimed by a party of dashing-looking
young rakes, who insisted that he should come and play a game of
tic-tac with them in the outer room; and as Tom made no move to
accompany him, he left him in his seat in the corner to look on and
learn all he could.

Tom, indeed, was quite fascinated by the scene around him, and had
no desire to tear himself away. Presently one of the men from the
group of bully beaux (as Tom had dubbed them, not by any means
incorrectly) moved nearer to him, and took the chair vacated by
Harry; and gradually the group reformed, with Tom as one of its
members. The others addressed him, asking his name and his history.
Tom was reserved as to this last, but spoke in a frank and easy way
which seemed to win upon his comrades. There were four of them, and
whatever might be their real names, Tom found out that they were
known amongst themselves, and by the world of the tavern, by the
following cognomens: "Slippery Seal," "Bully Bullen," "Thirsty
Thring," and "Dicing Dick."

Tom was not sure that he liked or approved these new comrades, but
at least their conversation interested and excited him. They told
of duels fought in the ring at Hyde Park, or at the back of
Montague House; of the exploits of highwaymen, and the executions
at Newgate, which were plainly favourite spectacles with them. They
told of the doings of themselves and other marauders in the streets
of London, and roared with laughter over their exploits. Tom,
ashamed of his real disgust, strove to laugh too, for he dreaded
above everything to be thought a man lacking in spirit; but perhaps
his face betrayed more than he meant, for his comrades began to
gibe him in a fashion which made his hot blood rise; and he might
have got into trouble before Harry could come to the rescue, had it
not been that a sudden hush fell upon the room, whilst the word
went round, spoken in every intonation of curiosity, respect, and
admiration:

"'Tis Lord Claud himself! Hither he comes! Certes, but he is a fine
figure of a man! So he has not grown too fine for his old haunts,
though men did say that he was the pet and the favourite of all the
court ladies!"

At that name, heard once before from the lips of Captain Jack, Tom
looked round in great curiosity and eagerness. Immediately he was
gratified by the sight of the entrance into the inner room of the
person who was the cause of all this subdued commotion.

The newcomer was a very handsome man, of slender and graceful
proportions, tall and elegant, and dressed in the extreme of
fashion, yet with a taste that robbed foppery itself of any
appearance of absurdity in his case. He looked quite young at the
first glance; but a keen and practised eye could detect lines in
that gay and handsome face which only time could trace. Probably he
was past thirty by some years, yet many men of five and twenty
looked older. The only thing in which he differed materially from
his brother dandies was that he wore his own hair in lieu of the
wig; but so abundant and beautiful was it, lying upon his shoulders
in large curls of tawny golden hue, and clustering with a grace
about his temples that no wig ever yet attained, that not the most
ardent upholder of the peruke could wish him to change the fashion
of his coiffure, which, in fact, gave to his outer man a touch of
distinction which was well borne out by the elegance of his
deportment and costume.

Tom stared his fill at the newcomer, who was attended by several of
the habitues of the coffee house, and received their welcome with a
languid grace and indifferent goodwill. He was speedily
accommodated with the best seat in the room. Conversation was
hushed to listen to his words; the most fragrant cup of coffee was
brought to him by the beauty of the bar herself, and his orders
were dispatched with a celerity which was lacking to any other
customer.

Small wonder was it that Tom, gazing and marvelling, asked in a
whisper of the man next him:

"Who is it?"

"Lord Claud, of course, you rustic cub," was the scornful reply,
for politeness did not distinguish Tom's new friends. "Any fool
about town could tell you that much."

"I know it is Lord Claud," answered Tom, somewhat nettled; "but who
is Lord Claud? That is what I meant by my question."

Another laugh, not a whit less scornful, was the reply to this
second query.

"He'll be a clever fellow who tells you that, young greengoose from
the country!" was the answer, only that the words used were more
offensive, and were followed by the usual garnishing of oaths and
by blasphemous allusions to Melchisedec, from which Tom gathered
that nothing was known to the world at large as to the parentage or
descent of the man they called Lord Claud, and that this title had
been bestowed upon him rather as a nickname than because it was his
by right.

The babble of talk, hushed at the entrance of the newcomer, began
to rise again when he took up one of the journals, and appeared
disposed for reading rather than conversation. Tom, unable to take
his eyes off the elegant figure, still continued to ask questions
respecting him, but was more puzzled than enlightened by the nature
of the replies.

"There had been other Clauds before him," one of the men remarked.

Another added that it was easy to be rich when the king was made to
pay toll.

Slippery Seal wished, with a laugh and an oath, that he were half
as slippery as the great Lord Claud; and Bully Bullen remarked that
if he could but get such a reputation for duelling, he would play
the bully to better purpose than he did now.

This band of four were getting noisy and quarrelsome. They had been
drinking steadily ever since they came in, and their cups of coffee
had been tinctured by something much stronger. They were getting up
their energies for their nightly prowls about the city, and thought
it no bad start to bait young Tom first. Of course he had betrayed
his ignorance and rusticity in a hundred little ways. Although he
began to understand a little of what passed around him in the
interlarded speech of the day, he could not frame his tongue to any
adequate imitation of it yet. He had learnt, alas, to swear in his
old life; but there is a fashion even in oaths, and his were too
rustic in form to pass muster here.

As the bully beaux got deeper in their cups, so did their baiting
of young Tom increase in offensiveness and coarseness. The hot
flush of anger kept rising in the young man's face, and there were
moments when a fight was imminent, which was perhaps what the
aggressors desired. Harry was still in the outer room, or he would
have interposed, for it was not a nice thing to be the butt of a
set of braggarts and bullies, and this fashion of drawing a young
man into their clutches was by no means unusual.

Suddenly, as matters seemed to be getting ripe for some outbreak of
fury on Tom's part, which might well lead to disastrous results, a
sudden clear, resonant voice rose above the hubbub, and dominated
all other tones by a peculiar property impossible to describe.

"Let that lad alone, you cowards!" spoke the voice, in tones of
unmistakable authority. "Get out of this place, you swaggering
bullies! Are we to have no peace even in this inner room, for your
filibustering ways? Go and bluster out yonder, if bluster you must.
Speak a single word of insolence to me--" and here the blue eyes
seemed to flash fire--"and I will have every one of you ducked in
the Thames three times ere you take a step from hence! Now, will
you go quietly?"

It was strange to see the change which came over these young rakes
the moment that the clear, cold tones of Lord Claud's voice fell
upon their ears. They stopped, they cringed, they looked one at the
other, and then back at him, as a whipped dog looks at the master
who rates him. Thirsty Thring, who had drunk the most deeply, and
who was in consequence most filled with Dutch courage, ventured
once to look as though he were about to resist, or to dispute the
mandate of Lord Claud; but no sooner had he provoked that flash of
the eyes, than he too was cringing more humbly than his fellows.

To the great amazement of Tom, they took up their hats, and slunk
from the room like so many whipped curs. He heard them the next
minute chartering a wherry to take them to the shore once more.

Lord Claud had taken up his paper again, but meeting Tom's bashful
glance of mingled gratitude and admiration, he remarked to him with
a quiet smile:

"You are a stranger to London and its sons, lad; take this bit of
advice from one who knows both well: Never let any man badger and
insult you. Take no word from any; but return it with a blow or a
sword thrust. Make your name feared--it is the surest road to
success. Tavern and street brawls are taken little note of by the
administrators of the law; but better a few weeks' discipline in
Newgate, than to be the butt and victim of a set of vulgar street
swaggerers and swashbucklers such as those worthies we have just
seen depart."

Tom had risen and had slowly approached Lord Claud. Now that the
hour for the play had all but come, the room was thinning of its
guests. He felt more courage to speak to this strange being, who
seemed so great a personage.

"I thank you, sir, for sending them away. I will seek to follow
your good counsel in the future."

And then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "Sir, are there
more than one Lord Claud in this great city of London?"

"Not that I am aware of," answered the other, with a lighting of
the eyes. "Some would tell you that one was enough even for so vast
a city and realm as this!"

"Because," continued Tom, "I was charged with a message for one
Lord Claud, and I marvel that it can be your worshipful self, for
he that sent it was a strange man to speak of himself as your
master."

A laugh shone in the dark blue eyes of the other.

"In sooth I call no man my master," he answered lightly; "but tell
me the name of him who sent this message, and I shall know if it be
for me or not."

"He called himself Captain Jack," answered Tom, "and I met with him
betwixt my home in Essex and this city. He was dwelling in the
heart of the great Forest of Epping."

Upon Lord Claud's face there had come a look of vivid interest and
pleasure; yet he laid a finger upon his lips, as though to caution
Tom, who, indeed, had spoken in a tone too low to be heard by any
one else.

"Any news of or from Captain Jack is right welcome in mine ears,"
he said; "but this is not the time or place in which to speak of
such things. Come tomorrow morning early to my lodgings in the
Mall--any man will direct you to them--and there we will speak at
ease. Forget not--tomorrow morning by ten o' the clock, ere my
levee has begun. I shall expect you. Farewell, good youth, and keep
your distance with those gentlemen you have just left. They would
like to spit you as a goose is spitted, but I would see you again
ere that consummation be achieved!"

He nodded to Tom, and took up his paper again; and Tom, turning
round, encountered the amazed glance of Harry, who had come in to
find him, and discovered him in friendly converse with the greatest
man of all the company.

"How now, Tom! But you have a mettlesome spirit after all, if you
can scrape acquaintance with Lord Claud. I have been in his company
many a time, but never a word has he vouchsafed to me. And are you
invited to his lodgings? Surely my ears must have deceived me!"

"In sooth he asked me, but it is only to hear a message I chance to
bear from an old friend of his. Harry, tell me who is this Lord
Claud? Men seem to worship the ground he treads upon, and yet to
fear him, too, more than a little."

It was after they had reached the streets again that Tom put this
question, and Harry answered it by a knowing shake of the head.

"I should have the makings of a fortune in me," he answered, "if I
could tell who Lord Claud was. There be many fine ladies, and
curled darlings of fashion, who would give much to know that
secret."

"But if he be a lord--"

"Ah, indeed--a wise 'if'! He is no more a lord than I am! That much
I can tell you. But the name fits, and he wears it with a grace.
There be ladies in high places, too, who would not be averse to
share it with him, and be my Lady Claud, even though no other name
might be hers."

"But he is very rich; and rich men--"

"Rich!--ay, verily; and so should I be rich, if every time my purse
was empty I helped myself to Her Majesty's gold, as it traversed
the road from place to place!"

Tom stopped short as though he had been shot.

"A highwayman!" he gasped.

Harry bestowed upon him a sage glance and a mocking laugh.

"That is your word, not mine, my friend. Breathe it not before his
lordship! But there be many who swear that he is none other than a
grandson of the famous Claud Duval of olden days, and that he rolls
in the wealth he has filched from royalty itself."

"And yet he lives like a prince, and all the world pays him court!"

"Oh yes--it is the way of the world; a successful villain is as
much an idol as a successful general. The tide may turn. All high
positions have their dangers. Remember nothing has ever been proved
against him; but men think and whisper, though not in his presence.
Town talk may or may not be true; and the ladies like him none the
less for the tales that circulate about him. But come now, no more
questions, or we shall be late for the play!"



CHAPTER V. WITH LORD CLAUD.


Cale shook his head; but Tom was resolute. He had fallen under the
spell of the so-called Lord Claud's personality--like many another
before him--and whatever the upshot of the matter might be, he was
going to accept the invitation accorded him, and visit that
personage in his lodgings.

"Have a care, lad, have a care," advised the little perruquier.
"All is not gold that glitters; and many a fine lad has been led to
his ruin ere now by following some headlong fancy of his own."

"I will be careful," answered Tom, with the careless confidence of
inexperience. "Did I not come back last night with nothing spent
save the price of the theatre and my coffee and supper? You said
yourself I had done well. So give me now ten guineas, and I will be
gone; for I was told to be early."

Tom had no difficulty, once he had reached the Mall, in finding
Lord Claud's rooms; for everybody knew where they were situated,
and looked with some respect upon Tom for inquiring. He was
received at the door by a very fine lackey, and taken up a wide
staircase, so richly carpeted that the footfall could not be heard
upon it. Everywhere his eyes rested upon strange and costly
products of foreign lands, such as he had never dreamed of
heretofore. Later on he learned that Lord Claud had won this
sumptuous suite of rooms from a rich young nobleman at the gaming
table, and had stepped into its luxury and collected treasures with
never an effort on his part. It was the fashion of the day to stake
house and lands, wealth, and even honour, upon the cast of the dice
or the fall of the cards; but that Tom did not yet know.

He followed the servant into a large and lofty bedchamber, the like
of which he had never seen before. He could have spent an hour in
examining all the rich and curious things it contained; but a voice
hailed him from the bed, and there lay Lord Claud, in a nest of
snowy pillows, his golden head and fair complexion giving him an
almost girlish aspect, albeit the square set of the jaw and the
peculiarly penetrating glance of the dark-blue eyes robbed the face
of any charge of effeminacy.

He was clad in a sort of dressing jacket of silk and lace, fine
enough for any lady; and the bed was draped in silk from the
Indies, worked in a fashion that set Tom agape. A few volumes of
poetry, half a dozen letters, scented and delicately twisted, and a
silver salver bearing an empty cup stood beside him. His servant
removed this latter, and at a sign from his master withdrew; and
Tom was motioned to take the lounging chair which stood beside the
bed, and from the recesses of which he could watch Lord Claud, as
he did, with a sense of fascination.

"Early afoot, in sooth, my young spark from the country! Ah, it is
a fine habit, that of early rising. I practised it once myself, so
I speak with authority. But what would you in this Babylon? And, i'
faith, what is there to do before the afternoon to tempt a man from
his couch? I have scarce had four hours' sleep as it is. There was
no getting away from my Lady Betty's reception last night. Egad, I
believe that fair votary of the Graces ruins more young bloods than
any sharper in the town! Have a care of your guineas, my young
friend, if ever you find yourself sitting down to the card table
with her!"

"That is not likely," answered Tom modestly. "I am but the son of a
country squire. I have come to London to see somewhat of the life
there; but I look not to consort with the fashionable ones of the
earth."

"We shall see, we shall see. A golden key opens all doors--at
least, nearly all. And you have not come empty-handed from home, I
warrant. And that reminds me of your words of yesterday. You bring
me a message from my quondam friend, Captain Jack. I would hear
news of him; so tell me all the tale."

Tom told the tale simply enough, and Lord Claud listened with
unaffected interest, nodding his head once or twice at hearing the
terms of the message delivered for himself.

"Ah, good Captain Jack! So he is still in the free forest! Well,
well, well, perhaps he has chosen the better part. There be times
when I look back at the old free life of peril and adventure, and
my soul sickens at the weary round I see day by day. Who knows but
the time may come when I will break these gossamer bonds! Ah, I
might do worse--I might do worse--ere my youth and courage are
fooled and squandered away."

He seemed almost to have forgotten that he had a listener, and to
be musing aloud; but, catching the wondering glance of Tom's eyes,
he recollected himself with a smile, and stretching out a white yet
muscular hand, he said, with an air of winning grace:

"My young friend, I have taken a liking to you. I like you because
you bring to my jaded senses a whiff of the free air of field and
forest, as well as a message from one to whom I owe much. I am sick
to death of the inanities of the dandies and fops of the town.
Shall we be friends and comrades, good Tom? I trow you might do
worse than make your Mentor of me--little though I look the part of
the preceptor of Telemachus!"

Tom could scarce believe his ears at this proposition; he blushed
and stammered almost as though it were some fair lady wooing him to
friendship. Lord Claud laughed at his embarrassment, and presently,
taking up one of the notes beside him, threw it across to Tom,
saying:

"Read that, my young friend; I have a reason just at this moment
why I would fain have a trusty friend beside me. What! thou canst
not make sense of the jargon! Well, it is jargon; in that thou art
right, honest Tom. Men talk in a fashion which fools might gibe at.
But 'tis the fashion, the fashion, and what would you? Be i' the
fashion--or perish! That is the choice before us."

"But how can I serve you, my lord?" asked Tom eagerly.

"Hast ever taken part in a duel, good fellow?" asked Lord Claud,
with a keen glance at the stalwart youth.

"I have fought many a battle in play and in earnest," answered Tom,
"with my fists, with the sword, and with the quarterstaff. I have
no knowledge of the ways of town fights, such as I heard talk of in
the Folly yesterday; but--"

"But you have a stout arm, an honest heart, and a tongue that will
not wag when it is bidden to be silent? Is that so, honest friend
Tom?"

"My lord, I would not speak a word to living soul if you bid me be
silent; and I would stand by you to the death!"

"'Tis a sudden liking you have taken for my unworthy self."

"Prove me, my lord, if it be not as sound as it be sudden."

Lord Claud stretched out his hand, and Tom's great fist met it.

"This liking on sight is a strange matter; yet I seldom mistake my
man. Tom, I am going to trust you to act as my second in a little
affair I have with another gentleman tomorrow morning, in a certain
spot of which I have knowledge. Another man was to have acted for
me--he has, indeed, made all the arrangements; but, as yon note
informs me, he was mixed up in a brawl last evening at the gaming
house, and lies abed with a broken arm. 'Tis not a matter I would
have get wind, else there be a dozen men who would serve my turn. I
had rather one silent, steady comrade than a score of chattering
jays. So you shall be my friend, Tom, and see what duelling is
like."

"You are not in danger of death, my lord, or grievous bodily hurt?
Else I fear I should break the rules of the game and dash to your
succour!"

"Tush, boy!" answered the other, with a gleam in his eyes, "I have
yet to find my match with the rapier; I shall get off without a
scratch, you will see. Whether or not I kill my man will depend
upon his behaviour. I love not slaughter for its own sake, but
there be those whose jaunty insolence rouses the devil within me;
and then I strike and spare not."

"And for what cause do men fight duels?" asked Tom.

"The question is a wide one, and smacks of innocence on your part,
Tom. Generally a woman is the cause; but there be other matters
too--wounded self-esteem or vanity, revenge, envy, evil passions of
all sorts. But, egad, in these days it takes little to provoke the
combat! Why, it is but a few months ago that two young sparks met
in mortal conflict because, forsooth, one of them had declared that
Venus was the goddess of love and beauty, whilst the other affirmed
that it was Aphrodite!" and Lord Claud leaned back upon his pillows
and laughed aloud; laughing still more when he found that he had to
explain to Tom the nature of the confusion which had prompted the
duel.

Time was fast flying as the two oddly-assorted comrades talked, and
soon the valet appeared at the door with the perruquier in his
wake, informing his master that several gentlemen waited below, and
that all was in readiness for the morning toilet.

"Heigh-ho!" sighed the young exquisite. "Why can we not rise from
our couches like the beast of the field, give ourselves a shake,
and be ready for the day's work? These levees are the bane of my
life. But fashion, fashion, fashion! She is the goddess of the
hour. Tom, sit over yonder, and watch the follies of thy kind. Keep
a quiet tongue, and I'll see you are not baited.

"And now, let in the popinjays and chattering monkeys; for the
sooner we begin, the sooner comes the end!"

The next two hours presented a marvellous spectacle to Tom. There
were perhaps some eight to twelve young sparks about town coming
and going during that time, some remaining the whole toilet
through, others roving off to other similar scenes. Whilst the
perruquier plied his skilful hands in the curling, powdering, and
arranging of Lord Claud's abundant golden hair, which some days was
powdered and some days left as nature had ordered, they sat beside
him in a row upon the bed and chattered of all the latest bits of
scandal, the wittiest retorts of this or that sprightly dame, the
on dit of the town, the quarrels of the gaming houses, and the
doings of the court.

When Lord Claud left his bed and began arraying himself in the soft
and costly array provided by his valet, his friends amused
themselves by joining with him in the perfuming of his person;
borrowing his essences to sprinkle upon their own fine clothes,
washing their hands in milk and perfume to make them white and
delicate; and calling to his valet to re-tie and arrange their
lace-edged cravats in imitation of the style affected by Lord
Claud.

Some of them removed their wigs, and asked the perruquier to give
them an extra powdering; others got at the cosmetic boxes upon the
toilet table, and gave a touch of carmine to cheeks which the
night's revel had left wan. Some gave infinite pains to the
arrangement of a patch to resemble a dimple; and all desired to dip
their handkerchiefs in the silver bowl of rare scent which was
offered almost the last thing to the master of all these luxuries.

Tom sat in his corner and looked on in amaze. He had felt himself a
very pretty dandy whilst being arrayed in his new clothes in Cale's
shop, but he felt like a raven amongst peacocks in this company;
and it would have taken nothing short of the testimony of his own
eyes to convince him that these were men and not women engaged in
all this pranking and personal adornment.

Many curious glances had been thrown in his direction at the first;
and a few of the guests sauntered up from time to time, and entered
into conversation with him. Tom observed, with some satisfaction,
that there was respect, if not admiration, in their manner, and he
wondered what had caused this; for yesterday he had received
mockery and taunts as his portion from men of much less distinction
than Lord Claud's friends.

He had not heard the words Lord Claud had spoken to his guests on
their arrival--or, rather, he had not understood them, since they
were spoken in the French tongue.

"A friend of mine--a fine young fellow--a son of the forest--best
let alone, gentlemen, by those who value a sound skin," Lord Claud
had said, with a careless laugh.

His friends drew their own conclusions, and looked at Tom with
respect. Lord Claud knew exactly what they were thinking, and
laughed in his sleeve.

The valet was now perfuming the gloves, and giving just the jaunty
cock to his master's hat which best suited its shape.

"Now, gentlemen, I will bid you farewell for the present," said
Lord Claud. "I and my friend have business of our own. We may meet
again at the play ere long. Off with you each to his own favourite
tavern. For my part, I have other fish to fry today."

With that he swept them a fine bow, and the room cleared as if by
magic. It was one of this man's arts that he could rid himself of
the buzzing crowd by one look or gesture when he had the mind.
Valet and perruquier followed the retreating guests, and Lord Claud
drew a breath of relief.

"There, honest Tom; we are well rid of the chattering
magpies--screaming peacocks were the better word, or painted
popinjays. Now to business; for I must keep a steady head and quiet
hours today. Are you anything of a swordsman, my friend?"

"I was accounted a good enough fighter in my own village," answered
Tom; "but everything here is so different. My methods may be
useless against the skill of men trained in a different school."

"We will put that to the test, and that quickly," said Lord Claud;
and forthwith he led his companion out of the house and through
several unfamiliar streets, till he reached a building rather
larger than its surrounding neighbours, into which he walked with
the air of one well used to the place.

First they passed through a large hall, the floor of which was
thickly sprinkled with sawdust; but, without pausing, Lord Claud
mounted a staircase in the corner, and led Tom into a large upper
room, the walls of which were adorned by rapiers with buttons at
the end, where a man was sitting polishing the foils and humming a
tune to himself. He rose instantly upon seeing Lord Claud, and made
a deep bow.

"I have come to try a bout at sword play with a friend of mine,"
explained the latter, stripping off his coat, and signing to Tom to
do the same. "Give us two well-matched weapons; for we have none
too much time to spare measuring and comparing."

Tom's blood quickened at the feel of the rapier in his hand. He had
always loved these encounters with the sword, whether in play or
earnest. He had not lacked training of a certain rude sort, and his
wrist was strong and supple, his eye wary and keen; moreover, he
had length of reach and strength of muscle. After the first bout
Lord Claud gave him an approving nod, and, looking at the man who
stood by, remarked:

"There is the making of a fine swordsman in the lad, is there not,
when he has learnt more finesse and quickness?"

"The gentleman does well," answered the man, with a shrewd glance
at Tom's tall and well-knit frame. "He may be worsted in a sham
fight, but, methinks, in sober earnest he would be an ugly customer
to meet."

In the next bout Lord Claud showed his antagonist some of the
dexterous feats of rapid sword play, with the result that Tom was
rather hard pressed; but for all that he did not lose his head, and
soon began to master the tricks of attack and defence, the quick
lunge and the quick recovery which perplexed him at first; and in
the next bout he showed so much skill and address that his opponent
and the onlooker alike applauded.

"Very good, Tom, very good," said Lord Claud. "You will make a
notable swordsman one of these days. Now I shall leave you here for
an hour with worthy Captain Raikes, and he will give you a lesson
in fencing which you will not fail to profit by. After that I will
come back for you, and take you elsewhere.

"Captain Raikes, I have a little affair on hand tomorrow morning. I
would fain try a pass with you, to see that my hand has lost
nothing of its cunning."

"Not much fear of that, my lord," answered the master of the place,
as he took the rapier from Tom; and the next minute the youth from
the country stood in silent admiration and amaze, whilst the two
blades crossed and flashed, and twined and clashed, with a
precision and masterly deftness which aroused his keen delight and
envy. To become a proficient like that would be something worth
living for; and his quick eyes studied the movements and methods of
the two adversaries, till he felt he had begun to have some little
notion of the tricks by which such results were attained.

When Lord Claud came back to fetch him, at the end of the
stipulated hour, it was to find young Tom without coat, vest, or
peruke, and bathed in perspiration; but so keenly interested in the
new science, that it was all his comrade could do to drag him away.

"Egad, Tom, but you will make a pretty swordsman one of these days!
Captain Raikes says he has never had a more promising pupil. You
have winded him as well as yourself. But all that exertion must
have given you an appetite. We will to Pontac's and refresh
ourselves; and when you have cooled down, I will take you to see a
man as great in his way as Captain Raikes with the foils. Oh yes,
you can come again at your leisure for another lesson. But I have
no fears for you, tomorrow, even now. Whatever may betide, you are
no child with the sword."

The coffee house to which Lord Claud now conducted him was a much
finer and more select place than the Folly, and Tom was much
interested in the fine company there, all of whom welcomed Lord
Claud heartily, and seemed to desire to draw him into talk.

Although dressed in the height of the fashion, and not without
their fopperies and extravagances, the company here interested
itself less with private scandal than with public affairs, and
there was much talk of the war abroad, and of the return of the
Duke of Marlborough, which it was now thought would take place
before long.

"But he has first to go to Berlin, to cajole the King of Prussia to
send help to Italy, to the Duke of Savoy," cried one of the
company, who seemed best informed on military matters. "It will
take a good one to wring eight thousand soldiers out of His Majesty
of Prussia, but if any man can do it, it will be Johnny Churchill!
I remember him even when we were boys together. He had a tongue
that would flatter the nose off your face, if you did but listen to
him! A voice of silver, and a hand of iron--those are the gifts
which have made the fortunes of my Lord of Marlborough."

"Ay, an iron hand for keeping money when once the fingers have
closed upon it!" laughed one.

"And a wife who rules the Queen, and is bent upon making her
husband the greatest man in the kingdom--though she will always
keep the upper hand of her lord, you will see. Marlborough, whom no
combination of military prowess can daunt, trembles and turns pale
before the frown of his wife!"

"Yet it is not fear but love which makes him tremble," said
another. "Although their children are grown to adolescence, he
loves her yet as dotingly as ever youthful swain loves the Phyllis
of his boyhood's amours!"

"That is nothing to sneer at," remarked Lord Claud, speaking for
the first time. "Rather should we thank Heaven, in these days of
profligacy and vice, that we have a Queen upon the throne who loves
her husband faithfully and well, and a general, victorious in arms,
who would gladly lay down his victor's laurels for the joy of
living in peaceful obscurity at the side of his wife!"

Nobody laughed at Lord Claud's speech, though it would have
provoked mirth if another had given utterance to the sentiment. The
talk went on, however, in the same vein, and Tom listened in
silence, trying to digest as much as he could of the news of the
day.

Lord Claud did not remain long; and when they were in the street
together, Tom asked him of the great Duke, and what had been said
of him. Was he really treacherous and false, loving money above all
else, and careless of the good of the realm, so long as he built up
his own fortunes securely?

"The Duke's career is not without its black spots," answered Lord
Claud. "It is known by all that he deserted the late King James the
Second; but there were reasons solid and sound for that. The
darkest passage in his life is his intrigues against His Majesty
King William, for which he was disgraced for some time. But for all
that his genius is marvellous, and I am very sure he is loyal to
the core to good Queen Anne; albeit a man who will not openly ally
himself with either Whig or Tory faction must expect to make
enemies in many quarters."

"And does he indeed love money so well?"

"Second to his wife, or men do him great injustice. But though they
laugh and sneer at him, I misdoubt me if he loves wealth better
than his traducers; only he keeps a firmer grip upon it, having
indeed no taste for vulgar dissipation. Why, even as a youth he was
mighty prudent."

Here Lord Claud began to laugh, as though tickled by some memory;
and on being questioned further, he told Tom the tale.

"You must know that John Churchill was a marvellous pretty fellow,
with just the same languid grace of bearing that he has kept all
his life; and of which you may judge the effect yourself, good Tom,
ere many weeks be passed. He was a youth about the court of Charles
the Second, and the Duchess of Cleveland took notice of the
handsome, witty lad, and sometimes had him in her rooms to amuse
her. Once they so chanced to be there together, when the steps of
the King were heard approaching; and as His Majesty was like to
think evil of a matter where no evil was, the Duchess was sore put
to it, and looked so affrighted, that young Churchill gallantly
sprang from the window, at the risk of breaking his leg if not his
neck. The Duchess sent him a present of five thousand pounds the
next day; and what does the lad do? Most of his sort would have
squandered it at play in a week; but Johnny Churchill was of a
different kidney. He goes and purchases with it an annuity; so that
come what may, he may never be left quite destitute in his old
age!"

And Lord Claud again burst into a hearty laugh, in which Tom now
joined.

They were now approaching a narrow street hard by the Haymarket,
and his companion knocked at a lowly door, which was opened by a
sombre-looking man in a shabby suit of clothes.

"Is your master within?" asked Lord Claud, who seemed known to all
the world; and the next minute he was striding up the stairs, two
steps at a time; Tom following, and marvelling much at the darkness
of the humble abode, and at Lord Claud's purpose in coming.

A door on the second floor was thrown open, and Lord Claud stepped
gaily in.

"Ha, Master Addison," he cried, "I have come to offer to you my
tardy congratulations for that yet more tardy recognition of merit
which has been your portion at last! And so the great ones of the
land have been forced to come beseeching in person? Ha! ha! that is
very good. And may my friend here--young Esquire Tufton, of
Gablethorpe, in the county of Essex--have the privilege of hearing
some of those wonderful lines which are to take the country by
storm? Come, Master Addison, you know that I am a lover of good
metre and fine sentiment. The words must needs be tingling in your
ears, and lying hot upon your tongue. Let us hear the roll of them,
and I warrant that all London town shall soon be in a ferment to
hear them, too!"

The man of letters was attired in a neat but poor suit of clothes,
and his surroundings were humble and even sordid; but his face was
neither peevish nor careworn, but wore an expression of dignified
contentment and scholarly repose. The walls of his lodging were
lined with bookcases, upon which many a volume was stacked. Poor he
had been for long, but he had not been in the straits that many men
of letters were reduced to in those days. On his desk were strewn
pages of manuscript verse which caught the eyes of the visitors at
once.

"By my halidome! if that be not the poem itself!"

"The rough copy alone, the rough copy," said Addison, who was
walking up and down the narrow room, his eyes aglow, his face a
little flushed. "The fair one is in the hands of the printers. My
Lord Godolphin came himself to hear it read but a few short days
ago, and took it off with him then and there."

"Delighted with it, and vowing that you should be the first poet of
the times, if report be true!" cried Lord Claud.

"He did express his satisfaction," answered the poet quietly. "And
I doubt not I shall receive some mark of favour at no distant date.
But not all the favour of Queen or courtier can give me the title
to poet. That lies in a sphere which not the most powerful
potentate can aspire to touch. The voice of posterity alone can
make or mar that title!"

"But let us hear something of this great poem," cried Lord Claud.
"As I say, it must be burning upon your tongue. Prithee do us the
grace to recite us portions of it."

It was a request palatable to the eager soul of the poet, all on
fire with the work which had occupied his thoughts and pen for so
many long weeks. He still kept up his pacing to and fro; but as he
walked he gave utterance to the well-conned passages of his work,
throwing into the words a fire and a spirit which kindled the spark
in Lord Claud's eyes, and even made young Tom's heart glow with
admiration and wonder, albeit he had never been the votary of
letters.

If high-flown, the language of the day kept it in countenance.
Nothing simple would have found favour at that date. And no one
called the sentiments forced, even though there seemed to be slight
confusion sometimes between Marlborough and the Deity. The
well-known lines upon the battle of Blenheim itself were given with
a wonderful fire and force:

"'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
That in the shock of charging hosts, unmoved
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war,
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So, when an angel by divine command
With rising tempest shakes a guilty land--
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed--
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm."

"Excellent! excellent!" cried Lord Claud, when the poet at last
flung himself into his chair, exhausted by his own flow of
eloquence. "That will take them! That will hit them! My good
friend, your fortune is made.

"Capital, was it not, Tom? Why, it has raised a sparkle in your
calm bucolic eyes!

"'Tis a fine poem i' sooth, Master Addison; as fine a piece of work
as any man of this day ever produced. You might have seen it all
yourself. You have had information, one can see, from high
quarters. Now tell me, I pray, something in detail of this great
battle;" and forthwith poet and gallant fell to discussing the
campaign in such a fashion as filled Tom with wonder at his
companion, such as he was always feeling.

Lord Claud seemed to have such a masterly knowledge of military
detail, that it was hard to believe he had not at some time been a
soldier himself; and his knowledge of public affairs, and of the
intricacies of foreign and home politics, struck the country-bred
youth as something little short of marvellous.

For hard upon two hours did the two men sit talking, with papers
and diagrams before them; and when at last Lord Claud rose, Addison
gripped him hard by the hand, and declared he was the best company
he had seen for many a long day.

"We are too late for the play, Tom, my lad," said Lord Claud, as
they reached the street. "But, for my part, I have been better
entertained; and if I have wearied you, I crave pardon."

"I am no whit wearied," answered Tom promptly; "but I marvel much
at your knowledge of men and things."

Lord Claud laughed slightly and lightly.

"Keep open eyes and ears as you go along in life, Tom, and you will
learn many things in your turn. And now, methinks, we will take
horse to Earns, and lie there tonight. It will be better for us
than the long ride in the cold of the early morning."



CHAPTER VI. BARNS ELMS.


"You can ride, Tom?" Lord Claud had said, as they sauntered
homewards from the poet's lodgings.

Tom replied that whatever else he was lacking in, he might
certainly lay claim to horsemanship; and the pair walked on
together, Lord Claud sunk in thoughtful silence, his companion
always ready to give his attention to the sights of the streets,
which had lost none of the attraction of novelty as yet.

"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed a voice behind them; "Master Tom the
greengoose has found fine company!"

"A fine comrade, truly, will he find he has got! What becomes of
all the strapping young fellows whom my Lord Claud takes pains to
notice and befriend?"

"They are like the butterflies--flutter for a season and are no
more seen after!"

"Or like the buzzing fly who is lured within the spider's web! 'Tis
easy fluttering in, but there is no getting out!"

"Ay, ay, the gallows noose must feel mightily like the strand of
the spider's web to the silly fly. And as the spider pounces upon
his victim ere it be dead, and sucks away its life blood, so does
the hangman cut down his victim alive and cut out his living heart!
Oh, 'tis a fine sight! a fine sight! Young Tom must e'en go and see
the next execution at Tyburn!"

These words were spoken with caution, and yet every one of them
fell full upon Tom's ears. These ears, be it noted, were very keen
ones, as is often the case with those who have tracked game and
hunted the fallow deer in the free forest. Moreover, Tom had not
yet grown callous to the sounds of talk and laughter in the
streets. He must needs listen to all he heard, and these phrases
were plainly meant to meet his ear.

He glanced at Lord Claud to see if he had heard, but there was no
change in the thoughtful face. His companion appeared lost in his
own reflections, and Tom, dropping a pace behind, looked back to
see who had spoken.

As he had surmised, it was the four bully beaux whom he had met at
the Folly the previous day. So much had happened in the interim,
that Tom could have believed it a week ago. At his look they all
burst into jeering laughter, but it did not appear as though they
desired speech of him, or any sort of encounter, for they plunged
hastily down a side street, and Tom saw that Lord Claud had just
turned his head to see what hindered his companion.

"Pay no heed to drunken roisterers i' the streets, Tom," advised
his mentor; "a quarrel is quicker provoked than mended, except at
the sword's point, and unseemly is brawling at street corners. Yon
fellows bear you some ill will for my threat yesterday. They will
do you a bad turn if the chance offers. They are an evil crew, and
my Lord Mayor has been warned against them ere now; but it is
difficult in these days to give every man his deserts. London would
be depopulated if all who merited it were transported to the
plantations of Virginia."

A little later they met Harry Gay sauntering from one playhouse to
another. He looked with a sort of amused surprise at Tom, who
paused to send a message to Master Cale, to tell him that he would
not be at home that night, and was not to be troubled after in any
wise.

"Do you lodge with Lord Claud?" asked Harry, with a curious glance
towards the elegant figure sauntering on, and exchanging bows with
the fine ladies in the coaches.

"I know not; but I ride forth with him ere long on some errand I
wot not of. Have no fears for me, good Harry, I can take care of
myself well enow."

"You have good confidence, my young friend. I trust it is not the
pride which goes before a fall. It savours of peril to steer one's
bark over unknown waters, or to follow a road which leads no man
knows whither;" and Harry nodded his head in the direction of Lord
Claud, with a gesture that was as eloquent as any words could be.

"Tush!" answered Tom, with something of the careless indifference
he had caught from Lord Claud and his associates; "I have come to
see the world, and see it I will. If there be peril, why, so much
the better. I am sick to death of sitting at ease in the safe
shelter of home. A man can die but once, and he had better live
first."

"Just so, just so," answered Harry with some emphasis; "that is
exactly the sentiment I would most impress upon your inexperience.
A man should live to drink the cup of life, ere it be snatched from
his grasp."

Tom nodded and passed on, not pausing to ponder upon the meaning of
the words he had heard. Indeed, he had small time to ponder, for
his comrade was quickening his steps, and he had to hasten to reach
his side.

"My stables lie this way. We will go and look at the hackneys, and
make choice of one fit to carry those great limbs of yours, my
worthy friend. As for me, a light-made barb will suffice; but it
takes bone and muscle to carry all that bone," and he clapped his
hand upon Tom's shoulder with a little laugh.

The stables were neither very bright nor savoury according to
modern ideas, but for the times they were thought a marvel of
perfection. Tom's eyes soon got used to the dimness, and he was
quickly in a high state of rapture at the evidences of breeding and
pace in the horses stabled there.

That they knew their master well was plain, for all heads were
turned at the sound of his voice, and each animal gave a low whinny
of pleasure at the approach of Lord Claud. He took carrots from a
basket and dispensed them with impartiality to his stud; and,
meantime, he and his head groom talked together in low tones, and
presently Tom was called to the conclave.

"Nell Gwynne will carry you best, Tom. But she may give you a
little trouble. It is not every rider she will brook upon her back;
yet if you can master her, she will bear you to the world's end
faithfully."

Tom approached the mare indicated, who looked at him, laying back
her ears and showing the whites of her eyes, sidling a little over
in her stall with the evident intention of trying to get a kick at
the stranger. But Tom coolly walked up to her head, and began
caressing her with a perfect fearlessness which presently disarmed
her suspicion. She was accustomed to see men flinch and quail
before her, and despised the race accordingly. But the few who bad
no fear of her she recognized as her masters, and she gave them the
love of her heart and the best of her powers.

"That will do, Tom," said Lord Claud's voice from behind; "you have
won my lady's capricious fancy.

"Bring up the mare and Lucifer in an hour's time, saddled and
bridled, and fed for the evening," he added, speaking to the
servant; "you will probably have them back some time tomorrow, but
of that I cannot speak with certainty."

He took Tom's arm as he left the yard, saying in his nonchalant
fashion:

"Sometimes after one of these affairs of honour it is well to take
oneself off for a while. Her Majesty is as much against the
settlement of private quarrels by the appeal to the sword as ever
King William was. However, fashion is too strong even for good
Queen Anne. But it is better not to do more than wing your man. If
you kill him, you run a risk of getting into trouble. But I have no
intention of doing so, unless he provokes me beyond endurance."

"Is he a man of note?" asked Tom, with pardonable curiosity.

"In his way he is; you probably would not know the name; but he has
friends in high places: He and I have never loved each other. He
has balked me more than once, and I have had my revenge at the
gaming table and in other places, which he is not likely to forgive
or forget. The other day he sought to provoke me by almost open
insult. It was not a woman, Tom. I have enough on my hands without
embroiling myself in affairs of gallantry. There are women,
doubtless, who are worth the championship of honest men; but in our
world of London town they are few and far between. Let them and
their quarrels alone, Tom, if you would keep out of trouble."

Lord Claud was speaking now with a sarcastic intonation rather
unusual with him. He was more thoughtful and grave than Tom had
ever seen him, but the youth did not dare to ask the cause. Indeed,
it seemed to him that a man who had a duel to fight upon the morrow
with a dangerous adversary had reason enough for gravity and
thought.

"Tom," said Lord Claud suddenly, breaking a rather long silence, "I
feel sometimes that I have had enough for once of the trammels of
town life. I am weary of the slavery of levee, and gaming table,
and playhouse. There are better things in life than foppery and
idle dissipation. What do you think of it all, my honest Tom?"

"I find it vastly entertaining," answered Tom truthfully; "but I
feel me something out of place amongst all the fine fops I meet
everywhere."

"You would like to travel and see the world? There is another world
besides that of London town."

"I would see more of London town ere I leave it," answered Tom
frankly; "but I would fain see other things and places, too."

"Wilt come farther afield with me, if I go?" asked Lord Claud, with
a quick sidelong glance at the tall figure of his companion. "A man
of thews and sinews, who knows not fear, is the comrade in whom my
heart delights; but there be so few of them amid yon crowd of
painted popinjays."

The compliment tickled Tom's vanity, just as the preference shown
him from the first by so great a man as Lord Claud touched his
naturally quick affections.

"Let me but see this wonderful city first, my lord, and I will
follow you to the world's end!" he cried impulsively.

"You shall have your wish, trusty Tom," answered Lord Claud, his
face clearing and his brilliant smile shining forth. "In sooth, I
have no desire to quit it just yet. I would fain be one of those to
welcome back the great Duke, who will be here ere the year closes;
and you should not miss seeing the pageant which will greet the
victor of Blenheim. It may even be that the Duke himself will find
employment for his poor servants.

"Hast ever heard of the secret service, Tom? No? Well, there be
openings enow for men of courage and resource. It may be that you
and I may find work for us to do. When all Europe is at war,
country with country, and kingdom with kingdom, there is work and
to spare for trusty messengers, stout of heart and strong of arm.
Who knows but that such luck as that may come in our way?"

Tom listened agape, feeling as though his horizon were growing
wider every hour. He had been scarce more than a week in town, and,
behold, all life seemed changed about him. Already he had been
plunged into an adventure which would probably end in the spilling
of blood; and now the prospect was opening out before him of travel
and adventure of a kind of which he had never dreamed. It seemed
impossible that he could be the same raw rustic youth who, a few
short months ago, was accounted the greatest roisterer of his own
county. His doings in the past seemed just the outcome of boyish
spirits. He had been nothing but a great boy in those days; now he
felt that his manhood was coming upon him by leaps and bounds.

At Lord Claud's lodging a repast was awaiting them which was in
itself a further revelation to Tom. He was mightily hungry, too,
and fell upon the good cheer with an appetite that entertained his
host. The food he found most excellent, though seasoned something
too strongly for his palate. But the wines were less to his taste,
and he presently made bold to ask for a tankard of homely ale,
which was brought to him from the servants' quarters; Lord Claud
leaning back with his glass in his hand, and smiling to see the
relish with which Tom enjoyed the simple beverage.

"Ah, the time was when I could quaff a tankard of ale with any man,
and it may well be that I will do the same again in the future. But
now, Tom, we must come and don riding gear, for the horses will be
round ere long. Oh, have no concern as to that. My man will have
ready all that you will need. But those silken hose and that
broidered vest are little suited to the saddle."

And, in very sooth, Tom found himself quickly fitted with a pair of
stout leathern breeches, a cloth waistcoat, and a pair of riding
boots adorned with silver spurs. A riding switch was put in his
hand, and he stood flicking his boots at the top of the staircase
till Lord Claud joined him, dressed in a quiet and most
irreproachable riding suit, which became the elegance of his figure
almost better than the frippery of the first toilet.

The horses stood at the door. Tom walked up to the great mare and
renewed acquaintance with her before swinging himself lightly to
the saddle. She made an instinctive dart with her head, as though
to seek to bite his foot; but he patted her neck, touched her
lightly with the spur, and sat like a Centaur as she made a quick
curvet that had unseated riders before now.

The next minute the pair had started forth in the murky twilight of
the autumn evening; but the moon was rising and the mists were
dispersing. Before they had left the houses behind they could see
the road clear before them, and were able to give their impatient
steeds their heads, and travel at a steady hand gallop.

Tom had approached London from the north, so that all this country
was new to him. He delighted in the feel of a horse betwixt his
knees again; and the vagaries of the high-bred mare, who shied and
danced at every flickering shadow, kept his pulses tingling and his
heart aglow during the whole of that moonlight ride.

Lord Claud said little. He too had need of some horsemanship, for
the black barb he rode was full of fire and spirit. Both riders
kept a sharp lookout as they rode along, for there was never any
security from footpads and highway robbers once they were clear of
the houses. However, there was no indication that any such
light-heeled gentry were abroad that night, and the travellers
reached the little hostelry whither they were bound without any
adventure.

Here they were evidently expected. The host came out with an air of
great respect, and took their horses. Within, a plentiful supper
was prepared for them, to which Tom was ready to do justice after
his ride, though Lord Claud ate little and drank less. Upstairs a
commodious chamber with two beds had been prepared. A fire of logs
burnt cheerily on the hearth; and it was plain that some valet had
been there earlier in the day, for night clothes and toilet
accessories lay about in profusion, to say nothing of a pair of
shining rapiers carefully laid upon the mantel shelf.

Lord Claud took these down and examined them with care. Then he
handed one to Tom.

"Just a few passes, trusty Tom, as is my habit ere sleeping the
night before a duel. I like to make test of the weapon with which I
shall meet my antagonist in the morning."

Tom was delighted to show off his newly-learned skill, and was
complimented by Lord Claud on his progress.

"My adversary's second may desire to cross swords with you, Tom,"
remarked Lord Claud as he began to undress. "'Tis a foolish habit;
but you must not seem to shrink. Show him that you care nothing for
his sword, and I will then interpose to stop the second fight. It
may not be offered; but, again, it may."

And, as the pair prepared for bed, the elder man instructed his
companion in all the details of duelling, that he might be prepared
to play his part on the morrow with confidence and aplomb.

"I have a few excellent rules of my own, Tom, and I have never been
worsted once, and only once wounded. I neither drink, nor dice, nor
dance, nor weary myself the previous day. I go overnight to the
place of meeting, and I retire to bed early and sleep sound. I take
a modest breakfast, without wine or spirit, an hour before the
meeting; and I come to the ground with a head as cool and a hand as
steady as though no such thing as danger or death existed in the
world. Some men pride themselves on sitting up and dicing and
drinking away the night, to show their own courage and their
contempt for their adversary. I prefer to show mine by leaving him
prostrate on the field!"

It certainly seemed as though Lord Claud's methods were good, for
he slept like a child all night, better than Tom did, who had been
greatly excited by the events of the day and the prospect of the
morrow; and when he was dressed upon the following morning, still
in his sober riding suit that became him so well, Tom thought he
had never seen anybody looking so thoroughly master of himself and
his circumstances. The very glance of the eye seemed to bespeak
victory, as did the quiet resolution of the grave mouth.

Breakfast over--an early meal taken by the light of candles, yet
excellent of its kind--and the pair went forth together, Tom
carrying the two rapiers, as it was his duty to do.

The sun was just about to rise, and the mists lying over the river
and fields were growing silver in the light, as they came in sight
of the group of elms which had seen so many foolish and bloody
contests between angry men, some of whom scarce knew why they
fought at all, save that it was the fashion.

From the opposite direction three other figures were
approaching--two tall men and one little one.

"They bring a surgeon," quoth Lord Claud, with a smile on his face;
"perchance they are wise. For myself, I never trouble to do so. I
count a leech a needless encumbrance."

Tom looked curiously at the two foremost men as they drew near. One
of them struck him in particular. He was very tall and very
strongly made, though clumsy in figure and swarthy in face. He had
the look almost of a foreigner, Tom thought, with black eyes that
twinkled with an evil and sinister expression, and never showed
more than as a slit between half-shut lids. He was marked with
smallpox, and had taken no pains, today at any rate, to disguise
the ravages of that malady. He walked a little in advance of his
companions, and when he got near to Lord Claud he stopped and made
a sweeping bow, his eyes the while scanning Tom's face and figure
most closely.

"This is not the gentleman who waited on me," he said in a rasping
voice.

"No; that gentleman is laid up in his bed, and cannot keep his
appointment; but this one will do the business equally well.

"Mr. Tufton of Gablehurst; let me present him to you, Sir James."

The swarthy man looked Tom over from head to foot with an insolent
stare.

"A fine young cub," he said at length, "and well grown for his
years. One of the gang, I suppose?" and there was an ugly sneer
upon his thick lips.

Tom looked at Lord Claud, wondering what the meaning of those words
could be; but the quiet face looked as if carved in marble, save
only that the eyes glowed like fire in their sockets.

He signed to Tom to produce the rapiers; and the second man came
forward and examined and tested them, selecting that which his
principal should use. Then the ground was stepped, the most level
place selected, and the two combatants stripped off coat and
waistcoat, and prepared for the fray.

Tom drew his breath hard as he watched the commencement of the
fight, and his face was full of anxiety, as he felt that the man
addressed as Sir James had weight and length of reach beyond
anything that Lord Claud could command. But for a while both the
men fought warily and without attempting to get to close quarters,
and Tom began to lose his first breathless excitement, and to watch
the play of shining blades with more coolness and observation.

Two rounds had been fought, and neither man was wounded. But whilst
Lord Claud looked just as cool and steady as at the start, the dark
adversary was flushed and inclined to pant, and the beads of sweat
stood upon his forehead notwithstanding the briskness of the
morning air.

Then Tom began to understand where Lord Claud's advantage lay. If
he could tire out his adversary by keeping on the defensive, then
at the last he might get his chance, and lunge at him when he would
scarce be able to parry the thrust.

It was easy to see that his weak point was slowness of recovery.
His thrusts were quick and well planted, he had an excellent guard
and mastery of the weapon; but he was slow in recovering after
making a lunge, and the longer the fight continued the more evident
did this defect become. And it was plain that he was aware of it,
for though he pressed upon his antagonist with great determination
and with much dexterity of sword play, he was afraid to take
advantage of his longer reach and lunge at him boldly; for he knew
that if Lord Claud avoided the thrust, he would almost certainly
have at him with a counter lunge before he had time to parry.

And, in fact, that was what did at the last happen, after the fight
had lasted so long that Tom thought half an hour must surely have
gone by. Both antagonists showed signs of weariness. It had even
been suggested that enough had been done to satisfy the claims of
honour; but to that suggestion neither principal would listen.

Sir James was much distressed. Sweat poured from his brow, his
breath came in deep gasps, his face was growing purple. Lord Claud
looked white, but otherwise had not changed in aspect, and the
deadly battle light in his eyes was growing brighter and keener.

His heavy antagonist now saw that nothing could serve his purpose
but an exercise of sheer weight and brute force, and he pressed on
and on with such fury that Tom almost cried aloud in his fear. But
Lord Claud was wary and watchful; he gave way for a while, only
parrying the thrusts, and that with not so much force as before;
then suddenly Sir James made a furious lunge, and calling out in a
strangled voice, "Have at you now!" he all but buried his rapier in
his adversary's body.

All but--yet not quite; for just at the moment when it seemed
impossible to parry the furious stroke, Lord Claud made a curious
upward twist of the wrist, caught his adversary's blade and turned
it so that it glanced aside and passed him, whilst he sprang
towards him at the same instant, and saying quite coolly, "Sir,
methinks your physician would recommend blood letting in your
heated condition," he thrust straight and true at his burly
adversary, running the shining blade into his shoulder in such a
fashion that the tip of the rapier reappeared red with blood behind
him, and he fell forwards with a smothered bellow like that of a
bull who is ringed, so that Lord Claud had need of all his
quickness to withdraw his rapier in time.

Second and surgeon sprang to the side of the wounded man; but Lord
Claud said quite quietly:

"'Tis no mortal wound. He has not got his deserts this time. Are
you satisfied, gentlemen, or do you want more with us?"

The second looked up at Tom's stalwart figure, hesitated a moment,
and then professed that he desired to carry matters no further.

Lord Claud handed the rapiers to Tom, coolly resumed his discarded
garments, took off his hat with a courtly bow, and walked off with
his customary air of easy grace.

"Come, Tom," he said, "we have managed that well. The brute will
not die, but will only keep his bed a while, and doubtless rise to
trouble us again in days to come. They say he has never felt a
wound before, and boasts himself invulnerable. He will little
relish the lesson he has had today. But he will never forget or
forgive; so have a caution when he is your neighbour in any
company. He will rail at his second for not pinking you; but 'twas
his own words that daunted the man. He thought he saw in you a
veritable son of the forest, terrible in wrath, invincible in
skill--" and Lord Claud suddenly threw back his head and began to
laugh unrestrainedly.

"I did not understand him," quoth Tom.

"Marry, no--and no need you should! You had better not understand
too much of the things you see and hear in the world, honest Tom.
And now let us to a more hearty breakfast, and back again to town.
I must show myself today with a lordly grace, and prove to all the
world that I need shrink from no man's gaze. As for yon black bull,
be sure he will breathe no word of this thing. It would ill mate
with his pride for the world to know that he had been spitted like
a capon by one whom he has dared to gibe at as the white hind of
the forest!"

Lord Claud's mood had completely changed. He was gay and merry, and
eager after pleasure. He took Tom hither and thither to half a
dozen fine houses, where the ladies gazed with a certain awestruck
admiration at this "untamed son of the woods," as it pleased Lord
Claud to call him, whilst they loaded with favours the brilliant
young spark, who seemed, when in the mood, to have power to win all
hearts.

He was a "dear tormenting devil," or a "mad fellow, but withal a
true Prince Charming;" and just as he talked sound sense and
politics with the poet yesterday, so now he beat even the finest of
the ladies and their beaux at high-flown nonsense about goddesses
and heroes, and the Arcadian bowers where they made a pretence of
living and moving.

At the play, to which they went later, he moved from box to box,
from tier to tier, taking snuff with the men, saying charming
nothings to the ladies; the centre always of a laughing throng,
whose proximity must surely have been distressful to any persons so
unfashionable as to desire to listen to what the actors were
saying. He even went behind and upon the stage, as spectators were
still permitted to do, although there was less of this confusion
than a few years before; and he was eagerly welcomed wherever he
appeared.

From the play they repaired to more gay houses, where Tom speedily
lost his ten guineas at basset, but was too excited to care, and
paid over his stakes with a lordly indifference that did credit to
his powers of observation and imitation.

It was long past midnight ere they bent their steps homewards, and
then, as it was far too late to seek the shelter of Master Cale's
abode, Tom betook himself once more to Lord Claud's lodgings, and
was speedily sound asleep in the most soft and sumptuous bed it had
ever been his lot to lie upon.



CHAPTER VII. MASTER GALE'S DAUGHTER.


It was Sunday morning, and Tom was making his way, towards the hour
of noon, to the house of the perruquier, which he had quitted some
four days past, with no intention of so long an absence.

The streets were unwontedly quiet, and the cries of the apprentices
at the doors of the shops were pleasantly missed. The shops were
most of them shuttered up, and the apprentices, clad in their best,
were all away to some sport of their own selection in byways and
alleys, or lingering about the parks with a knot of footmen and
lackeys, watching the fine folk walk in and out. For the common
sort were not admitted as yet within the precincts of the parks,
and even the gentlefolks had to leave their servants behind; so
that it may well be guessed there was plenty of gossiping and
hustling to be had at the gates, if any had a taste for it.

Tom was a far finer figure coming home than he had been in going
out. He wore a coat of azure velvet, and his vest was a perfect
cataract of fine point de Venise. His shoes were of white leather
with red heels, and his stockings of the finest white silk. He had
felt ashamed of his plain claret cloth, which had seemed so fine at
first, when taken to the houses of the fine hooped and powdered
ladies; and Lord Claud had had him fitted with this suit at his own
costumiers, bidding Tom regard it as a small token of friendship
and gratitude.

Tom had delighted in his fine appearance as he was taken the round
of the fashionable houses; but now, as he neared his former
lodgings, he found himself wishing he had put on the more sober
suit. He felt that Master Cale's eyes would rest upon him with a
grave disapproval, and he had not yet grown indifferent to the
opinion of the man who had so befriended him.

The perruquier's shop was close shut up, the sign swinging idly
overhead. But the door in the rear stood ajar, and Tom softly
pushed it open and entered.

He paused on the threshold, surprised by an unfamiliar sound--the
sound of a fresh young voice singing a gay little snatch of song in
some upper chamber. He mounted the stairs softly, the sound of the
voice growing clearer, and at last he knew that the singer must be
in the upper parlour, where, when the day's work was all finished,
the perruquier and any lodger he might chance to have spent the
evening hours if they did not go abroad.

This parlour was free to Tom, who, however, had not so far troubled
it much with his presence; but now he pushed open the door with
pardonable curiosity, and beheld at once the singer of the quaint
little refrain.

A slim young maiden was standing at the window, looking down into
the street below. She wore the simple dress of the citizen class, a
rather full skirt of cloth--of a finer texture perhaps than some,
and of a dark crimson colour which well became her--and the laced
bodice and full sleeves of the day. Round her throat she had a fine
white muslin kerchief edged with lace, and her apron was of the
same. She had plainly been wearing a hood of cloth like her dress,
but this was now lying on the table; and her pretty dark brown
hair, rather ruffled, was bound by nothing save a snood of crimson
riband. Her profile was turned to Tom, and he saw a sweet, little,
merry face, with a nose a trifle tip-tilted, and a cheek the colour
of a damask rose.

It seemed as though the opening of the door had been heard, for the
maid exclaimed in a merry voice:

"O father dear, I do love your picture of Absalom and David! I
think the king's great periwig is most beautifully depicted. But I
would like a companion picture on the other side--the mule running
away with Absalom, and the periwig left hanging on the tree!"

Then turning full round a laughing rosy face and a pair of roguish
hazel eyes, the maid suddenly found herself face to face with this
very fine young gentleman, and in a moment the smile died away,
although there was no displeasure in the glance of curiosity and
admiration which she bestowed upon him.

Tom made his best bow, and the maiden dropped him a pretty
courtesy, saying with frank fearlessness:

"You are surely my father's lodger, of whom he spoke to me. I crave
your pardon for not sooner seeing you. But I knew not that you were
in the house, and thought it must needs be my father at the door."

Tom advanced and stood beside her in the window. The pair regarded
each other with a frank and friendly curiosity.

"Are you Master Cale's daughter, pretty maiden?" asked Tom.

She nodded her head archly, whilst Tom hastened to ask:

"But how comes it then that I have never seen you before? I thought
he lived alone, with only his housekeeper, shopman, and apprentice
in the house."

"And so he does," answered the maid. "He will not have me to dwell
here. As soon as my mother died, when I was but eight years old, he
sent me away to my aunt in Highgate, with whom I have remained ever
since. Fain would I come back and keep house for him, but he will
none of it. He says that his house is no place for me, and he will
never let me visit him even of a week day. But upon most Sundays he
either comes forth to fetch me, or my aunt brings me hither to him.
Last Sunday the rain poured down so lustily that we were e'en
forced to bide at home; but whenever it is possible we spend the
day together, and I love to come into the town and walk abroad with
him there, and see such sights as may be seen upon the Sabbath
day."

"And is your aunt with you today?" asked Tom.

"She brought me hither after we had attended service at St. Paul's,
which I love to do. But now she has gone to visit some gossip of
her own. Father and I will have the afternoon together and alone,
and this we love best of all. He always gives holiday to apprentice
and shopman, so that we can have the house to ourselves, and enjoy
ourselves after our own fashion."

"I trust I shall not mar your happiness if I ask to share your
noontide meal," said Tom humbly.

"Oh no, sir, we shall be proud of your company," answered the girl;
"if you are not too fine a gentleman to sit at board with humble
citizens.

"Ah, there is my father's step! Doubtless he comes to say that
dinner is ready. He will not let me soil my fingers with cooking
when I come; but I can cook right well for all that--" and there
she stopped short, for Cale was already entering, and he gave quite
a start as his glance fell upon the resplendent figure standing
beside his daughter, though his face cleared and put on a slightly
quizzical look as he recognized who the young spark was.

"Ho! ho! my young friend, so I see you back at last! It is plain
that you have been with mighty fine company since you left my
humble roof. I almost marvel that Curley Cale's lodging is
accounted fine enough to hold your worshipful self longer!"

Tom suddenly felt a qualm of shame and disgust at his finery. It
was all very well for men like Lord Claud, but he felt that it made
him ridiculous to be tricked out like a peacock, in lieu of wearing
the more sober and becoming raiment chosen for him with such care
by Master Cale himself. His cheek glowed as he made reply:

"It is but a suit that was given me to appear at the house of some
fine lady last evening. I would gladly be rid of it now, and, with
your leave, will don more sober raiment. I love not to be pranked
out like this; but what would you, when all the world does the
like?"

Cale smiled his shrewd little smile, the maiden's eyes expressed
open admiration for the costly frippery, but Tom hastened away and
chose for himself one of the seemly but well-cut and fashionable
suits that had been left for him since he quitted the house a few
days before; and when he descended to join the party of two at the
board, as he had been invited, he felt much more like himself, and
looked much more suited to his surroundings, than he had done when
he first appeared there.

Father and daughter received him kindly, and Rosamund's eyes were
full of eagerness as she turned them upon him. He had learned by
this time that her name was Rosamund, though her father generally
called her Rosy.

"I pray you, fair sir," she said, with a pretty imperiousness of
manner, "tell us some of the things that you have seen and heard
these last days. My father says you have been keeping fine company,
and I would learn what that is like; for I am but a humble
citizen's daughter, and I live my life away in the country, so all
I know of the gay doings in the town I must needs hear from my
father, who tells me as little as ever he can!"

And she looked towards him with a charming pout upon her lips,
though her eyes were full of love beneath their merry sparkle.

"I am but a country-bred youth myself, Mistress Rosamund," answered
Tom, who had laid aside all his fine gentleman airs, and felt a
deal more comfortable in consequence, "and this town and its gay
doings are as strange to me as they can be to you. I am all agape
at what I see and hear; but a man must needs keep his astonishment
to himself, else he becomes the butt and the gibe of all the
company."

And forthwith, by no means reluctantly, Master Tom began to give
account of his doings of the past days, only keeping quite silent
on the subject of the duel, for he had learned that that was a
matter which Lord Claud wished to remain secret.

Rosamund listened as Desdemona might have done to Othello, and Cale
himself was considerably interested, though he shook his head when
he heard that already Tom had lost all the money he had about him,
and was even in debt to Lord Claud for losses he had been unable to
meet at the moment, and which his patron had settled for him.

"Keep away from the gaming tables, Tom; keep away from the gaming
tables," he said. "Did I not warn you that you would be fleeced and
rooked if you tried that sort of thing on?"

Tom laughed a little, and said he knew beforehand he should lose,
as though that were an excuse. But Cale only shook his head; and
Rosamund asked eagerly:

"But who is this great Lord Claud, fair sir? He seems a wonderful
person, and fain would I see him with mine own eyes. He seems a
kind and generous man, and wondrous clever and beautiful. Pray tell
me who he is?"

Tom looked across at Cale, and made answer:

"I' sooth, Mistress Rosamund, I know not. Perchance your father may
be better instructed."

Cale shook his head. His face was very grave.

"That is a question which I doubt if any man in London town can
answer. Every man knows Lord Claud by name and fame, but none can
tell who he is, nor whence come his wealth and power. Mark me, Tom,
it behoves you to have a care how you fall beneath the spell of his
beauty and his kindliness. He has made friends before this of
handsome, powerful lads, not long from the country, and amongst
these many have disappeared and never been heard of more, whilst
others have fallen into crime, and have languished in Newgate, or
paid the forfeit of their lives upon the gallows."

Rosamund shrank and grew pale; whilst Tom looked the perruquier
full in the face, and said:

"Truly I can believe that many men who plunge into dissipation and
vice may come in time to a bad end. But why charge that upon Lord
Claud? He can only be held responsible for his own life, and he
lives and thrives in favour with all."

"Like a green bay tree," answered the perruquier thoughtfully. "I
have often seen the wicked in great prosperity; but their downfall
comes at last."

"Do you call Lord Claud wicked?" asked Tom rather hotly.

"No," was the quiet reply; "I judge no man; but I do say that
worldly prosperity is no test of true merit. The wicked may be fat
and flourishing for long; but the Lord will avenge at the last."

"But, father," cried pretty Rosamund eagerly, "for what crimes were
the poor young men hanged of whom you spoke just now?"

"Most of them suffered for the crime of robbery on the king's
highway."

Tom again flushed rather deeply. He had heard hints and innuendoes
before this, and his wits were beginning now to piece things
together. He was angry, yet he scarce knew why.

"Do you mean to say, Master Cale," he asked, "that men accuse Lord
Claud of being the accomplice of highwaymen and footpads?"

And then he himself remembered the words of the message with which
Captain Jack had entrusted him, and a strange thrill seemed to run
down his spine.

"Men say nought of him openly," answered Cale, "but they whisper
among themselves. For my part, I know nothing of Lord Claud and his
doings. But I know that there have been marvellous clever and
daring deeds done upon the road; that the king's money chests have
been rifled again and again of gold, transmitted by the Treasury
for the pay of the soldiers in foreign lands, and that none of the
gold has ever been recovered. Now and again an obscure person has
been captured, and has suffered death for complicity in such a
crime; and it has been told me that several of such have been
stalwart and stanch youths, who had at one time been seen
frequenting Lord Claud's lodgings, much noticed and petted by him.
What truth there be in such talk I know not. Nor have I any desire
to know. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing; and the voice
of rumour is but little to be trusted."

"Very little, I should think," answered Tom quickly; for he had
already conceived a great attachment towards Lord Claud, and it
irked him to think that men should speak of him as one who was a
false friend, and the accomplice in crimes for which others
suffered whilst he reaped the spoil.

A man, especially in his hot-headed youth, seldom believes what he
has no mind to; and Tom certainly had no disposition to believe any
harm of Lord Claud.

So the talk drifted to other channels, and when presently Rosamund
declared with pretty insistence that she must not be cheated of her
walk abroad in the streets. Tom asked if he might make one of the
party without intruding; and the bright eyes of the girl gave
eloquent answer.

So they sallied forth together, and Master Cale played cicerone,
and showed Tom many strange and wonderful things, telling him
absorbing stories the while. He showed him the limits of the
ravages of the Great Fire, which he could remember well, as he was
ten years old at the time. He took them into many of the churches
afterwards built by Wren, and Tom stood lost in amaze at the
magnificent proportions of the great St. Paul's, the inside of
which he had not seen till today. He was shown also the site of one
of the Great Plague pits; and Rosamund clung trembling, yet
fascinated, to her father's arm whilst he spoke of the things that
had happened in those gruesome days.

He himself had been sent away into the country during the terrible
visitation; but his father had remained and had survived, and from
him he had learned all manner of strange tales, which Rosamund
loved to hear him tell, though they always blanched her cheek, and
brought a look of terror into her pretty eyes.

Tom thought this was a pleasanter way of spending the afternoon
than listening to the braggings of the coffee house bullies, or
watching the mummery of the play, when scarce a word could be heard
from the actors, owing to the laughter and talk that buzzed all
round the house. The clamour from the footmen's gallery alone
almost sufficed to drown the sound from the stage; and, indeed, a
short time later on, the disgraceful behaviour of the servants who
attended their masters and mistresses to the play became so
intolerable that the free gallery was closed to them, causing
regular riots every night, till military aid had to be summoned.

But Rosamund thought it must be delightful to see a play, and
wanted to hear all he could tell her about it; and so well pleased
were the pair with their conversation, that Master Cale, bethinking
him of an old friend hard by, with whom he liked to exchange a
friendly word from time to time, bid them walk up and down the
street together for a brief time, until he should pay his visit and
join them again.

This suited the young people very well, and they exchanged a good
many confidences together. Tom told her of his home at Gablehurst,
and of his mother and sister, and the father who was gone; and she
told him of her quiet life in her aunt's house, and how she would
so greatly like to remain always with her father, and watch the
life of this wonderful city.

But Tom could well understand how the perruquier would shrink from
permitting his innocent and pretty daughter to dwell beneath his
roof. His trade brought thither all manner of fine dandies and
young bloods, and if it were known that there was a pretty maiden
within doors, there would be no end to their attempts to get sight
of or speech with her; and any girl's head might be turned by the
flowery nonsense that would be spoken and written to her.

"Believe me, you are better where you are, Mistress Rosy," answered
Tom. "I would not have my sister Rachel here, now that I have seen
what London is like. It is a place for men to see at least once in
their lives; but women are better away from it. I looked about at
the painted faces, the towering heads, and the huge hoops the other
night, and I said to myself, that if my mother or sister were to
make of themselves such objects as that, I should be ready to sink
into the ground for shame--to say nothing of the ogling, and fan
tapping, and silly jargon of talk which would put a chattering
monkey to shame!"

If Tom was quoting Lord Claud's moralizings, he quoted them in all
good faith; for he had been honestly disgusted by the glimpses he
had had of the goings on of fine ladies in their houses, and could
better appreciate the simplicity and true affection of his own
womankind than he had ever done before.

At this moment there smote upon his ears the unwelcome sound of
mocking laughter that seemed familiar to him.

"Ho, ho, ho! So the country bumpkin has found a mistress already!
So he has had to leave the fine ladies, and mate with one of his
own sort after all! Ho, ho, ho! She has a neat foot and ankle, at
any rate! Let us see what sort of a face there is under the crimson
hood!"

Tom felt the girl's hand clutch fast hold of his arm, and his blood
began to tingle in his veins. He was mightily glad that he had
buckled on his sword before coming out; although, as he had put on
a heavy cloak, it was possible the bullies were not aware of that.

"Which house did your father enter, Mistress Rosamund?" he asked
quickly.

"I did not note," she answered, looking round with frightened eyes;
"but methinks it was the one with the steps and the little recess."

Tom, making a few rapid strides, whisked her quickly within the
shelter of the doorway, saying, as coolly as might be:

"Knock, and ask to join your father, if he be within. I will soon
settle these impudent fellows behind."

Then he faced about quickly, just as the four bullies he had met
before came swaggering up, ready for any mischief and fighting that
might be afoot.

"Come, Master Greengoose, let's see what sort of taste you have in
faces! You are a fine hand at making friends! Let's see how you
fare with the ladies!

"Nay, mistress, do not turn so coyly away and draw your hood over
those bright eyes--"

But the speaker got no further, for Tom's sword bad come flashing
from its sheath, and with a quick turn of the wrist he hit the
fellow full on the mouth with the hilt, so that he fell back
spluttering and swearing, the blood starting from his lips.

"Is that enough," said Tom sternly, "or will you have more?"

It was Thirsty Thring who had received the buffet, and he was the
least disposed of all that worthy quartette to show fight to a
resolute adversary; but Bully Bullen came swaggering up, drawing
his sword with a great air of assurance. He had been the hero of
many a tavern brawl before, and reckoned his skill as something to
be feared.

"So, young rooster! Wouldst crow so lustily on your dung heap? D'ye
think you're to be cock o' the walk in all London town? Are honest
citizens to be set upon, and their teeth knocked out, to please
your lusty humours? Take that, you young cub, and learn manners to
your betters!"

He made a fierce and sudden lunge at Tom as he spoke, expecting
that he had an untrained and inexperienced adversary to deal with.
But Tom had had three lessons already from Captain Raikes, as well
as bouts with Lord Claud by way of amusement; and with hardly a
perceptible effort he parried the thrust, and making his keen blade
twine round the clumsier one of his opponent, he jerked the weapon
clean out of his hand, and sent it flying half across the road.

"A fig for your boasting!" he cried contemptuously. "You had best
get out of my sight, lest I run you through for your impudence!"

Slippery Seal, seeing how matters were going, now raised a cry for
help.

"Help! help! Watchmen, to the rescue! Here is a desperate young
ruffian seeking to murder the Queen's subjects in broad daylight!
Help, I say, and take the young braggart before the magistrates!
Cannot peaceable citizens walk the streets without being set upon
by such bullies as that yonder?"

Two watchmen at that moment came hastening up, and looked at the
combatants with questioning eyes. Tom was flushed, and his sword
was still in his hand; but Rosamund had been admitted to the house,
and was going hot-foot in search of her father, to come and put a
stop to the fight; for she bad perfect faith in his power to do
anything he had a mind to.

"We four can testify," said Slippery Seal, with a voice of great
unction, "that as we were peaceably passing down the street, this
young fellow, of whom we know no good, made a sudden and unprovoked
attack upon honest Master Thring there, whose mouth is still
bleeding from the blow. Thereupon Master Bullen drew his sword to
protect him; but he was set upon so furiously, that had he not been
a notable swordsman he must needs have been killed. As it was, his
sword was dashed from his band, and there it lies in the roadway
before your eyes. I say, how long are pious and peaceable citizens
to be treated thus? Do your duty, my good fellows, and take this
young man into custody. A taste of the stocks will do him a vast
deal of good, and we will bear testimony against him with right
good will. 'In the mouth of two or three witnesses--' you know what
says the Scripture."

"Ay, you blasphemer and liar, we know well what says the Scripture:
'Thou shalt not bear false witness;' and again, 'The mouth that
speaketh lies shall be stopped.'"

Looking round quickly, Tom saw Master Cale, with his daughter
clinging to his arm, standing in the doorway of the house, and
sternly regarding the scene.

"Watchmen," he said, "if you make any prisoners today, take you
those four bullies, who are but too well known in these streets
already. It is they who delight to set upon strangers, and insult
and frighten innocent maidens. Take you them, and I will bear
witness against them; for I saw the scene with my own eyes. Would
to heaven that honest citizens could rid their streets of such
spawn!

"But I tell you, you mischievous scum, the day will come when we
will no longer stand this swaggering and bullying. We are a patient
people; but you can provoke us too far. I know you four right well.
I would sit you in the stocks in a row, or have you whipped at the
cart's tail from Newgate to Tyburn; and perchance the day may come
when--"

But the miscreants did not wait to hear the end of this harangue.
They well knew that no tale of theirs could stand for a moment
before the witness of a man respected as Master Cale the
perruquier. Fearful lest the watch, who had let go their hold of
Tom, should in turn lay hands on them, they fled helter-skelter,
but as they went they breathed out threats of being even with Tom
another time, and he knew well that this encounter had changed them
from the merely jeering enemies they had shown themselves at first
into real antagonists full of bitter animosity and hatred.

The watch were never too eager to take up evildoers who were
possessed of swords and were strong of body. They were glad enough
that Master Cale had vouched for Tom's honesty, and that the other
four had betaken themselves away. Hard knocks and sometimes fatal
injury were often the portion of these old men, so incapable of
keeping order in the streets; and thankful were they when any fray
ended in the manner of this one.

But Cale's face was rather grave as he turned homewards, his
daughter clinging to his arm, and Tom marching upon her other side
with his head high in the air.

"I thank you, my good lad, for being so stout a champion to my
little girl," he said; "and yet I would it had not happened; for it
is ill work making enemies in these days of lawlessness and
duelling."

But Tom gave a little laugh. He had no desire to make boast of his
prowess; yet he felt that he could settle a score of quarrels with
such besotted creatures as the four he had put to rout so lately,
and be no manner the worse for it himself. He was not at all sorry
for the adventure. He felt a flutter of pride and pleasure in the
shy glances shot at him from the dark eyes beneath the crimson
hood. He had made of himself a hero in the eyes of pretty Rosamund,
and he liked that experience well enough.

"Fear not for me, my good friend," he answered, in a tone that had
caught a little of the lofty ring of Lord Claud's.

"A man cannot go through life without making enemies as well as
friends. But as for such creatures as we have just quitted, why,
they are not worth a thought! I heed them no more than the wasp
that buzzes round my head. They are the scum and off scouring of
the earth--all brag and boast, but ready to run at the first hint
of danger!"

Rosamund's eyes shot forth another look of admiration; but Cale
said quietly:

"Yet it is this very scum and off scouring of the earth who have
before now kidnapped and shipped off to the plantations of Virginia
honest men of stout heart and stalwart frame; for there is great
demand for able-bodied men there, and good prices are paid for bone
and muscle. So again I say, have a care, Tom, have a care. I would
not have you entertain one coward fear, yet I would have you
careful not to provoke needless animosity; for we live in perilous
and evil days."

The colour had faded from Rosamund's cheeks at these words, and she
timidly laid a hand upon Tom's arm as he marched beside her.

"Fair sir, you will be careful," she said, in a soft and pleading
voice. "If hurt were to come to you for having so gallantly
befriended me, I should know no peace or happiness again!"

Tom looked with a smile into the face of the speaker; and Cale
heard the words, and saw the look. He gave a little sigh, and
walked on in deep thought.

It was Tom and Rosamund who did the greater part of the talking,
even after they got home and partook of the dish of tea. This then
costly beverage was reckoned by Rosamund as a Sunday treat, and
sipped with great relish; and Tom took it for the first time,
saying he would e'en make shift to like it, since Mistress Rose
vouched that it was good, although he had hitherto refused it when
offered at the houses of the fine folks he had visited.

So in talk and tea drinking an hour slipped away; and then the
perruquier rose and bid Rosamund get her hood and come; for it was
high time to fetch her aunt, and go back to Highgate.

Tom would have liked to accompany them once more, but some instinct
restrained him from making the offer. He bade adieu to Rosamund at
her own door, and went back to sit by the fire and muse of all the
things that had happened to him during this momentous week.



CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT DUKE.


"Now, Tom, keep your eyes well open. He is about to appear!"

Tom was standing, tall and silent, feeling singularly out of place
in that gorgeous company, in a magnificent reception room,
brilliantly lighted, and crowded from one end to the other with a
throng of highly-born and fashionable persons.

He had been introduced by Lord Claud into this gay assembly, and
was already half disposed to wish himself away.

Tom had been several weeks in town now; and after his first
encounter with Lord Claud, which had led to such close intimacy for
a few days, he had seen nothing of that remarkable personage for
the space of two or three weeks.

Although perhaps a little piqued that his patron had not sent him
so much as a line of invitation, or seemed to remember his
existence, Tom was not sure that he regretted his lack of memory.
Lord Claud had certainly fascinated his imagination, and won his
affections; but he seemed to be a mysterious character, whose
friendship might not prove too desirable a possession. It was not
his place, he thought, with the simple pride of the countryman, to
seek to thrust himself upon a man so much greater than himself. So
he had gone about seeing the sights of the town with Harry Gay,
spending his money with some freedom, and indulging in a little
play and dicing at various houses of entertainment. But he kept
within moderate bounds in his pleasures, both because he desired to
eke out his funds as far as possible, and because he did not wish
to fall under the displeasure of his kind host, Master Cale, the
father of pretty Rosamund.

Tom thought a good deal about Rosamund during the week, and
regarded Sunday as the red-letter day of his calendar. Master Cale
did not forbid him to be of their company upon the afternoons when
they walked abroad, and he and the maid were excellent friends by
this time, and exchanged many gay quips and sallies together.
Rosamund always made him tell the story of his past week in some
detail; and Tom had therefore another motive for keeping free from
scenes and company which would have made his story unfit hearing
for her pretty ears.

Already he had begun to think that when he had travelled and seen
the world, and was ready to go home and take up the duties which at
five and twenty would devolve upon him, he would return with far
greater contentment and pleasure if he could take back Rosamund as
his wife. He could not fancy that any life would be dull and
monotonous shared with her, nor any home dreary that was lightened
by the sunshine of her presence.

The image of Rosamund had begun almost to obliterate that of Lord
Claud in his imagination, when suddenly one day he found himself
again in company of that gentleman at the coffee house he generally
frequented.

Lord Claud laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder, saying, with a
light laugh:

"O Tom, Tom, whom I called so trusty, I fear me you are as fickle
as any maid! But what does the prophet when the mountain will not
come to him? He even puts his pride in his pocket and goes to the
mountain. You are a solid mountain in your way, good Tom; and here
is the prophet come after you!"

Tom looked up, half ashamed, half flattered, the charm of Lord
Claud's presence beginning at once to make itself felt.

"My lord, I could not think you wanted such a humble person as
myself! And you had but to send me a line to Master Cale's if you
did," he stammered.

Lord Claud dropped into the seat next him, laughing a light,
low-toned laugh.

"I like your simplicity, my honest Tom. Keep it as long as you can;
for it is a quality rarely met with in these days, and smells as
sweet as lavender in country gardens. I have not been wont to need
to ask my friends to visit me. They swarm about my rooms like bees
round honey, so long as there be honey to gather from my hive. How
do you think you are going to live, my young friend, when your
store of guineas is melted, if you have not learned that noble art
of picking and stealing, which our young blades of fashion practise
with such success and grace?"

So the acquaintance was renewed, Tom quickly falling again beneath
the spell of the strong personality of Lord Claud. He had not
entirely ceased his sword practice with Captain Raikes during the
past weeks, and now was to be found at his hall almost every day.
Lord Claud himself would sometimes come and watch and applaud; and
more than once, as the two had walked away together, linked arm in
arm, his patron had said:

"Good swordsmanship is an art to be greatly prized. It makes a man
respected and feared. It gives him distinction with his fellows.
Besides, one never knows when it may be useful for the saving of
one's skin. A man who can wield the rapier with skill, master his
horse as you can, honest Tom, and shoot fair and true with pistol
and musket, may go through life to a merry tune, and even die at
last in his bed, if he has a mind for so respectable an end!"

The days were shortening to their darkest by now. Snow fell in the
streets, and made walking disagreeable. Tom found it pleasant to
ride along beside Lord Claud, mounted upon the mettlesome mare,
Nell Gwynne, who appeared kept just now for his especial use and
behoof. He still spent his Sundays at his lodgings; but pretty
Rosamund was not always able to come across when the snow lay deep
along the country roads. Tom began to think less of her again, and
more of his patron and friend; being, as may have already been
gleaned, a youth of impressionable nature, easily moulded by the
character of his associates, although not without a latent firmness
of will which might develop into sterling metal in time, though,
perhaps, not until the admixture of dross had been purged away by
the action of the furnace of trial.

All London was now agog over the return of the victor of Blenheim.
The great Duke of Marlborough had been upon his way home for some
time. In the middle of December he reached London, and took his
seat in the House of Lords; and it was said that early in the next
year there would be a monstrous fine procession from the Tower to
Westminster, in which all the trophies of war would be solemnly
paraded.

Tom was as excited as anybody over all this, and as eager to obtain
sight of the great Duke. Lord Claud had promised that he should not
only see him, but be one of the same company at some fine house
where he would show himself. Tom had often been to grand enough
houses already with his friend; but it seemed to him overmuch to
suppose that he could be introduced into any company of which the
Duke of Marlborough was to be a member.

Lord Claud, however, was not given to vain boasting. The open-house
festivities of Christmas were approaching. He himself had won the
entree to an extraordinary number of fashionable houses; and this
evening here was Tom, come with his patron to a nobleman's
dwelling, standing in the crowd of fashionable grandees, all in a
flutter of excitement to see the hero of the hour at close
quarters.

"Keep your eyes open, Tom; you cannot fail to see him as he passes
through the room. You are lucky in being able to look over the
heads of all the crowd. No tiptoeing lady can intercept your view
even with her towering headdress!"

This was hardly true; for there were ladies whose headdresses were
of such monstrous proportions that the dame of five feet stood
seven feet high, taking the heels of her shoes and the tower on her
head into consideration! But luckily these extravagant follies were
confined only to the few, the majority of the ladies being content
with a headdress of more moderate dimensions.

There was a great buzz of talk going on as it became known that the
Duke was approaching--some eager to know if the Duchess would be
with him; others laughing at the name, and vowing that Mrs. Morley
could never bear to part with her dear Mrs. Freeman even for an
hour!

The doors at the end of the room were thrown suddenly open. The
master of the house appeared, leading with great distinction of
manner a little knot of guests, who passed through the crowded
outer reception room at a slow pace, returning the many salutations
of the company with great show of goodwill, disappearing presently
behind the curtains which shut off the innermost room where the
lady of the house was awaiting them, with some of the more select
and high-born guests.

"That is the Duke," said Lord Claud to Tom, indicating a tall and
elegant man, who looked to him hardly old enough for the general of
so many victorious battles. He was singularly handsome, with a
languid grace of bearing that seemed strange in a soldier. He spoke
in a peculiarly modulated and refined voice, and plainly possessed
the art of saying the right thing to the right person, and that at
the right moment. His silver tongue had done as much good service
in keeping the Allies in harmony, as his military genius in forming
combinations and defeating the ends of the enemy.

At his side was the Duchess, a fine-looking woman of commanding
presence, not beautiful, but with a very elegant figure and
remarkably abundant hair, which she wore in a more tasteful way
than most of the company. A few paces behind came another notable
figure, that of Marshal Tallard, the French general whom
Marlborough had taken prisoner at Blenheim, and whom he had brought
with him to England; but whom he treated with every courtesy, and
with whom he bad formed something very like a real friendship.

Lord Claud whispered to Tom that Marshal Tallard had been the one
French general whose genius was in the least able to cope with that
of Marlborough; and to have him in safe keeping in this country was
a most excellent thing for the Grand Alliance.

As soon as the distinguished guests had disappeared, the buzz of
talk rose louder than before. Tom asked, in puzzled tones, what all
this chatter about Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman meant; and Lord
Claud laughed, as he replied:

"Have you never heard of the whim of the Queen to call herself Mrs.
Morley in her letters to the Duchess, who in her turn is Mrs.
Freeman? And very well is she so named, for never was subject more
free with sovereign than is Duchess Sarah with good Queen Anne.
Indeed, there be not those lacking who say that such freedom cannot
go on for ever. However fondly the Queen may love the Duchess now,
she cannot for ever submit to be the subject of her subject. Some
day there will be a storm, and then it will behove Mrs. Freeman to
sing to a different tune! For the Queen has a will of her own when
once it is roused, and can show a stubborn front when she
chooses--as some of her ministers have already found to their
discomfiture!"

Lord Claud strolled away presently, leaving Tom to look about him
and listen to the idle chatter of the shifting throng. He made out
that though the Duke of Marlborough was in great popular esteem,
his Duchess was little liked; and spiteful things were circulated
to her disfavour all round the room. It was plain that she had a
very overbearing temper, and made many enemies; but her affection
for her husband and children was never disputed, nor his for her,
though there were many who marvelled what a man of his parts could
see in such a shrew to be so devoted to her as had always been the
case.

"For she belabours him sorely with her tongue times and again, and
ofttimes writes him fiery letters, which discompose him more than a
reverse in arms. When she smiles, he is filled with an extraordinary
joy; and when she frowns, he knows no peace till he has conciliated
her. 'Tis the strangest thing in a man such as he; and the Queen is
just as bad. In old days the woman would have been burned as a witch,
for she has certainly bewitched that pair, though no one else can
see wherein her wondrous charm lies."

Later on in the evening, when the company had somewhat thinned, and
when the card rooms had drawn off a number of those who yet
remained, the Duke was seen strolling by himself through the suite
of rooms, exchanging friendly nods and words with the many eager
acquaintances he met there.

Marlborough had that recollection of faces which is so often the
prerogative of royalty; and he had none of the pride which hinders
a man from greeting an old friend, even though his station in life
was humble. The Duke had been but the son of a country gentleman,
when he came to court as plain John Churchill. He had climbed the
ladder of fame and fortune fast; but he remembered his former
friends, and never forgot to salute them in company. His charm of
manner was felt by all who came in contact with him. However
worried or hard pressed, he never let his irritation be seen, and
he never appeared in haste. He was as suave and gentle in manner
amongst the humbler sort of company as in the presence of royalty
itself; and his clear glance passed quickly from face to face as he
talked, as though he were secretly taking the measure of men,
although his languor of manner never varied.

More than once, as he walked hither and thither through the rooms,
had Tom's glance crossed his. Possibly it was the young man's great
height which took the eye of the soldier in the midst of this
crowd, where smirking fops and bending courtiers predominated. Tom
could not be accused of bowing or smirking. He remained the whole
time leaning back against the wall in the same place; his face
grave; his eyes following the movements of this or that person; his
lips silent, because he could not frame them to the jargon of
tongues and the stilted phrases of the day, and besides he had no
acquaintances in this gay throng, save only Lord Claud himself.

Tom was looking in some curiosity to see if Lord Claud was
acquainted with the Duke. He had never said so; but then Lord Claud
was not given to boasting, and had already surprised Tom by the
number of his notable acquaintances. The Duke was walking along,
skirting the wall of the room. Everybody gave way for him to pass.
He was now very near to Lord Claud, and not far from Tom himself,
for his patron had been strolling idly in his direction.

Tom saw the eyes of the two men cross, and Lord Claud make his
courtly bow, to which the Duke responded gracefully. Lord Claud
took one step forward, and said in a low tone, every syllable of
which, however, was audible to Tom:

"I have never before had the honour of speaking with your Grace;
but there is one word that I crave to speak in your ear. If there
be some secret mission of danger which the Duke of Marlborough
desires to intrust to two men, stout of heart, cool of head, and
skilled in the use of the sword, then I can promise that the
services of myself and my trusty comrade here are at your Grace's
disposal; and I think I can promise that, whether we succeed or
not, we can be true to the death."

And Lord Claud, as he spoke, laid a hand upon the arm of the
astonished Tom, who had certainly not understood his words of
former days to mean anything quite so definite as this.

At the same time the heart of the youth leaped within him as he
heard, and he felt a thrill run through his veins. As the soft yet
searching gaze of the Duke fell upon him, he felt himself flush to
the temples like a girl; and yet at that moment he felt that he
could willingly lay down his life to serve so great a man as this.

"And who may have told you, sir, that I have need of trusty men for
the secret service?" asked Marlborough, in his even tone.

"My knowledge of men and of warfare have told me," answered Lord
Claud, with his accustomed serenity of manner. "True men are not to
be plucked from every tree, as I have found to mine own cost. A man
may prove but a treacherous reed, upon whom if one leans it goes
into his hand. Therefore, your Grace, have I made bold to tell you
of two trusty servants, something wearied with the hollow life of
this great city, who are willing and ready to travel farther
afield, and to whom peril or danger adds but zest to any quest."

Marlborough stood thoughtfully regarding the two men before him.
Lord Claud returned his gaze by one full and calm; Tom's eyes
glowed and kindled by reason of the keenness of the surging
thoughts within.

"You are he whom men call Lord Claud," said the Duke thoughtfully.
"You know that there are strange whispers afloat about you, my
lord?"

"I know it well."

"And you have never denied those whispers?"

Lord Claud smiled slightly.

"My sword has answered a few taunts. For the rest, I heed them not
overmuch. If we began to take cognizance of the chatterings of this
world of magpies, we might have a duel to fight every day of our
lives."

Marlborough smiled slightly at the nonchalance of the reply.

"That is all you have to say to me, Lord Claud?"

"That is all, your Grace."

For a moment there was silence, whilst the Duke bent his eyes upon
the ground; then he looked straight at Tom.

"And who are you, young sir?"

Tom glanced at Lord Claud, but seeing that he was to answer for
himself, he did so frankly and candidly. He was not ashamed of his
humble birth, and made no secret of it; nor did he deny that he
should never have found himself in such fine company save for the
introduction and good offices of Lord Claud.

"And you desire to see foreign parts?"

"I was sent from home that I might do so. My father thought I might
find room in your Grace's army to fight for my country. I was
smitten so with the wonders of London that I have lingered here
long. But I begin to weary of the life. I would gladly go forth and
see new lands, the more so if I could travel with a comrade who
knew to frame his tongue to foreign speech;" and here he glanced at
Lord Claud, who seemed to him a notable linguist.

"You know no tongue but your own, Mr. Tufton?"

"Never a word; and even that I cannot speak as men speak it in
London town, so that I am fain to keep silence in a crowd like
this, lest men laugh me to scorn, and anger me till I say or do
something unseemly;" and the lad's face flushed, for he had been
sorely provoked before this, and had need of all his patience to
quell the tempest of his soul.

The Duke smiled at this boyish frankness of speech; but then his
face grew grave again, and he stood a while in thought. Then he
looked at Lord Claud, and said with some significance:

"I will think more of this matter, sir. I have used strange tools
before this, and ofttimes with success. The secret service has its
secrets and its surprises; and I have my own methods of winning the
fidelity of the messengers I employ."

"So I have heard, your Grace."

The two men looked full at each other, and the glance was neither
unfriendly nor suspicious. It appeared to Tom as though there were
mutual liking, and a disposition to confidence; but this was
neither the time nor the place to indulge it.

"Till all this feasting and pageantry be over, I am not mine own
master, and I can scarce find time for the needful business of the
hour," said Marlborough; "but later on I hope to be free to spend a
short spell of well-earned rest in mine own house of Holywell, hard
by St. Albans. If you should receive a summons to visit me there,
come privately, and bring your friend with you. It may be I shall
make use of your services ere long."

With a slight bow, which was respectfully returned by Tom, and more
gracefully by Lord Claud, the Duke moved away; and Tom's eyes were
alight with excitement as he asked eagerly:

"What does it mean? What have you offered? What will he use us
for?"

Lord Claud led his pupil away through the crowded rooms, out into
the cold night air; but neither of them felt the cold. A keen
excitement filled their veins as with molten fire.

"He rose to it!" quoth Lord Claud exultantly; "I saw it ever
growing in favour as he turned it over. I have heard of his methods
in the secret service. He spends more money, and gets greater
results than any general has ever yet done. He says truth when he
speaks of employing strange tools. Well, let him employ this
strange tool--and it shall not play him false!

"My coffers are almost bare, Tom. And I am sick of crowds and
foppery and the follies of the city. I would fain away on the back
of my good steed, and feel what freedom is like once more. Gold I
must have; and the King's gold is my fancy. Let me win it this time
by my services, which shall be true and faithful; but if not--well,
let them not say the fault is mine!"

"The Queen's, you mean," said Tom. "We serve our Queen now."

Lord Claud gave a short laugh.

"You speak sooth, honest Tom; we have a Queen now, and I would not
do despite to our good Queen Anne! I was thinking of the last time
I had won royal gold--then it was the King's money that replenished
my empty exchequer!"

He laughed again, and Tom looked at him half uneasily; which
perceiving, he changed his tone, and in a short time the youth had
forgotten everything save the glorious prospect of adventure and
peril, and the handling thereafter of golden treasure; for if the
Duke was accounted a lover of money, no man ever accused him of
showing meanness in rewarding the services of others.

The next weeks flew by almost like a dream for Tom; and truly he
felt he must surely be dreaming when he watched the gorgeous
pageant of the third of January, and witnessed from a commanding
situation the grand procession of the trophies of war as it wound
its way from the Tower to Westminster Hall.

Companies of horse and foot made a brave and gallant show; row
after row of pikemen with the captured standards; a goodly number
of the nobles of the land; and the great Duke himself, at whose'
appearance the populace shouted till they were hoarse, ladies waved
handkerchiefs, and the city seemed to go mad with joy and applause.

Almost grander still was the pageant three days later, when the
victor of Blenheim went in state to the Goldsmiths' Hall, to a
banquet given in his honour by the Lord Mayor and Town Council. He
was conveyed there in one of the royal carriages; the greatest men
in the kingdom, and some princely guests, accompanied him; and
again the whole city turned out to give him welcome. At Temple Bar
the city marshals received him in state, garlands were flung, and
trumpets proclaimed the idol of the hour. The Commons were
petitioning the Queen to suggest some fitting tribute for the
services of so great a man; and the gift of the royal manor of
Woodstock, and the erection by royal bounty of the palace of
Blenheim (although after his fall and disgrace Marlborough had to
finish the palace at his own cost) were the results of this appeal.

Tom witnessed all these brave sights, and had his head well-nigh
turned by all the rejoicings in which the city took part. Even
Master Cale scarcely chid him for the way in which his guineas were
flying; although he warned Tom that they would not last long at
such a pace. But Tom laughed now, and said he had the prospect of
earning more when these were gone; and Lord Claud laughed lightly
when the subject came up, and told Tom that the pleasantest way
with money was to spend it freely whilst it lasted, and then turn
to and get more. There were a hundred ways of doing this, he
assured him; and Torn half believed him, and found it mighty
pleasant to throw about his gold as the young bloods of fashion
did, and have a pretty costly trinket to offer to Rosamund whenever
they chanced to meet.

Master Cale would rather the child had not had these gay gewgaws
forced upon her; but he could not chide overmuch when he saw the
brightness of her eyes and the eagerness upon her face. Besides,
Tom had already spoken of his speedy departure for foreign lands;
and although Rosamund pouted, and professed that it was very unkind
of him to go just when they had grown to be friends, her father saw
no indications of deeper feeling. And, indeed, the maid had as yet
no real love for any but her father. Tom had taken her fancy, as
being the finest and handsomest youth she had ever come across, but
she regarded him as a being quite out of her sphere; and though her
heart fluttered a little at first sight of him, she could look
forward to the thought of his absence with great equanimity.

"You will come back and tell us all your adventures," she said, as
though that would make up for much; and Tom faithfully promised,
although he fancied there might be many reservations in the tale he
would tell.

One day before the month of January had fled Tom received a summons
to Lord Claud's lodging. There he found everything in confusion,
servants hurrying hither and thither, and the valet packing up some
sober clothing in a small valise that could be strapped across a
saddle.

When Tom came face to face with Lord Claud he saw a new expression
in the eyes of his patron. All the languor and indifference had
fled. His whole aspect was of a man bound upon some stern errand.

"Tom," he said briefly, "the time has come. Go home and don your
stoutest riding dress. Take a second with you in saddlebag or
valise; and hide such money as you have left somewhere upon your
person. Then come back hither, and we will dine together. We are to
start upon our journey this very day; and our first stage is
Holywell House, near St. Albans."



CHAPTER IX. FARE WELL TO HOME.


"My lord," said Tom, "I am but a country squire's son. I am no fit
guest for the house of a duke. I pray you let me turn aside, and go
visit mine own home, and say farewell to mine own people. If, as
you say, we shall speedily be sent forth upon some errand of peril,
I would fain kiss my mother once again before parting. I have not
been to her as good a son as I should wish. Let me ask her pardon,
and show her that I have not forgotten her, ere we fare forth on
our mission."

Tom and his companion were drawing near to the Duke's property of
Holywell, when Tom suddenly burst out with these words. He had
begun to feel a sort of proud, shy shrinking from thrusting
himself, even as invited guest, into the house of the great
Marlborough. Moreover, the sight of the familiar country--for he
had been wont to pay visits afore times to St. Albans--had awakened
in him memories of the life which now seemed so very far distant,
together with more tender thoughts of mother and sister than he had
ever felt towards them in the days of old.

"I would meet you in three days' time wherever you would appoint
me," he added, as Lord Claud remained silent and thoughtful; and
there was a note of pleading in his voice which showed how much
bent he was upon this visit of farewell. "You have said you do not
look to be less than three days at Holywell. I pray you spare me
for this last farewell."

Lord Claud's face softened, as though he felt sympathy for Tom's
eager desire. He spoke kindly and thoughtfully.

"In sooth, I see no objection," he replied. "It is to me that the
Duke must impart his wishes, as you know nought of foreign lands or
tongues. A stout and trusty comrade I need to take with me; but it
is not necessary, so far as I see, for us both to wait upon the
Duke. Belike, too, he may be busy, and it may be I shall have to
wait his leisure; or he may himself have to wait for despatches
from abroad ere he can give me mine. So do you take your ease at
your home of Gablehurst; and when I have received instruction, I
will, by your leave, join you there. We shall certainly cross the
sea to Holland; for we must not adventure ourselves in the hostile
ports of France. So 'twill all be in my way for the coast; and
perchance your good mother will afford me the shelter of her
friendly roof for one night."

Tom's face lighted up as though a sunbeam had touched it.

"For a dozen, my lord, if you will thus far favour us! In sooth, I
thank you heartily for this grace. The village of Gablethorpe is
well known to some persons even in these parts; and Gablehurst is
the largest house in the place. A hearty welcome will be yours, my
lord, whenever you arrive there."

"Thanks, good Tom. I doubt it not if thy folks are of thine own
trusting kidney. And hark ye, look well to the mare Nell Gwynne;
let her be well fed and well tended, for it may well be that she
has hard times before her. If we have to cross the sea on urgent
business, I shall do my best to take our good steeds with us. Dutch
nags may be strong, but I would sooner feel the English blood
stirring beneath me. Besides, in matters where despatch and caution
are needed, it is half the battle to have a horse who has been
trained under one's own eye. They have ways with them that can be
of vast use in moments of peril, and will brook no strange riders
on their backs. See to the mare, Tom, and do well by her; for it
may be that thy very life may hang one day upon her speed and
strength!"

Tom felt the blood tingling in his veins.

"I will not forget your charge, my lord."

"And now, what will you do, Tom? Will you sleep one night at
Holywell? For I would not have you adventure yourself alone in the
forest at dark; and you must needs pass through a part of it to
reach your destination."

"No, my lord, nor I either, after what I experienced there before.
But hard by here is the house of a friend. I would gladly turn in
thither; and tomorrow he will certainly ride with me through the
forest and homewards. Doubtless, too, when you have to pass that
way, the Duke will give you escort till you near our friendly
village."

So the matter was thus arranged to the satisfaction of Tom; and
almost immediately the two companions parted company, the country
here being safe and fairly populated. Before long Tom found himself
knocking at the gate of an old friend of his, who gave him hearty
and boisterous welcome.

It was with strange feelings next day that he found himself riding
along the familiar track which led straight to the village of
Gablethorpe! It was only three months since he had left the place,
but he felt as though full as many years had passed over his head.

He was not very finely dressed; but there was a style about his
London-made riding suit which his country clothes had lacked, and
the peruke upon his head gave him the air of a fine gentleman. He
noted with amusement that some of the rustics who gaped at him as
he passed did not recognize him, although he knew them well. If he
had been riding Wildfire they would have known the horse; but now
both steed and rider seemed strange to them.

Then as he rode at a foot pace through the village, smiling at
sight of the familiar places and faces (his friend had turned back
when they had passed the limits of the forest, and had ridden home
with his servant, not to be belated), one of the women at the
cottage doors smote her hands together and cried:

"Bless us all! if it bean't Master Tom hisself!"

"Golly! and so it be!" cried her husband, who was just coming in
from the fields; and the next minute Tom was surrounded by a
gaping, admiring crowd, all eager to give him welcome, and wonder
at the fine figure he cut amongst them.

The restiveness of the mare shortened the greetings of the rustics;
for Nell Gwynne was not accustomed to being so surrounded, and
showed a disposition to lay about her with her heels, or to rear
and strike out with her forefeet. These manoeuvres soon scattered
the crowd, and Tom rode on, laughing and waving his hand; whilst
the fleet-footed of the village urchins started in a beeline across
the meadows for Gablehurst, knowing that the lady there would
certainly bestow a silver groat upon him who first brought the news
that Master Tom was at hand!

So when Tom rode up the avenue towards the fine old gabled house,
which had never looked so pleasant to him as in the evening glow of
this January afternoon, mother and sister were out upon the steps
waiting for him; and the servants were assembling from within and
without to give him a hearty cheer, and receive his kindly smile
and greeting in reply.

His mother folded him in her arms, with the tears running down her
cheeks. She had only heard once from him all these months; for the
letter he had sent at Christmas time had never found its way
through the snow drifts of the forest. Tom kissed mother and sister
with real feeling, and then turned aside to give minute
instructions and warnings with regard to the mare, who was put into
the care of the old servant who had most experience in the matter
of horse flesh, and felt no uneasiness at the vagaries and tantrums
of her ladyship.

Then Tom turned to enter the familiar hall, his hand upon his
mother's shoulder, Rachel clinging to his other arm.

"O Tom!" she cried, "have you come back to us for good? Have you
had enough of gay London town?"

There was already a traveller's meal set out in the warm south
parlour, and the servants were hurrying to and fro with eager zeal
and excitement. Tom was pushed into a seat by his sister, and
helped with no unsparing hand; whilst the mother hung over him,
eager not to lose a single word.

"Yes, truly, for the time being I have had enough of London town,"
answered Tom; "although it is a monstrous fine city, and I should
well like to see it again, as indeed I may. But for the moment I am
on my way to foreign lands, as my father wished. I am like to have
work to do there for my lord of Marlborough, whose coming to this
country has set all the town in a commotion, as perchance you have
heard."

They had heard something of it even at Gablehurst; and Rachel
eagerly asked Tom if he had seen the great Duke.

"Oh, many times," answered Tom, with the complacency of one who
feels himself a great man in his present surroundings. "I witnessed
many pageants in which he took part; and I was of the same company
at the house of my Lord Craven, and was presented to him, and had
speech with him!"

Mother and sister were impressed and surprised; but yet Tom was so
great a personage in their estimation that perhaps they took this
piece of news more quietly than more enlightened dames would have
done. They made him tell his story from end to end, sitting with
his feet towards the hearth, the cheery glow of the fire warming
his limbs and imparting a sense of well-being and homelike comfort.

"And who is this Lord Claud, who has shown you so much kindness?"
asked the mother, when the outlines of the story at least had
become known to them.

"That I cannot rightly tell you," answered Tom; "there is some
mystery about his birth and name. He goes everywhere, and is
received by the best and finest people of the town, short of the
court circle. And even my lord of Marlborough exchanged civilities
with him, and let him present me as his friend. But more than that
I cannot tell you, nor can any man in town. If it be a secret, it
is mightily well kept. All have heard of Lord Claud; but none know
more of him than his name."

"That seems a strange thing," said Rachel.

"Not more strange than half the things one sees and hears in the
world," answered Tom, with the air of a man of vast experiences, as
indeed he felt himself to be in this company.

Nor did the pleasant feeling wear off with the rapid flight of
days. He was courted, and feted, and made much of by rich and poor
alike. All the gentry of the neighbourhood came flocking to see
him; and his old companions, hanging about the stable yard, not
daring to present themselves at the house, would beg for a word
with Master Tom, and feel themselves quite uplifted and glorified
when he came out to them, and stood in their midst, smiling and
jovial, but with a something now in his appearance and bearing
which seemed to put a great gulf betwixt him and them.

All this was mighty pleasant for Master Tom, though perhaps not the
most salutary experience for him. He had felt qualms of penitence
and remorse as he rode homewards, thinking of his follies and
weaknesses in the past, ashamed of the class of comrades he had
affected then, ashamed of the fashion in which he had spent his
days, and of the indifference he had shown to his parents.

But the reception accorded him had dimmed these healthy sentiments,
and given him the idea that he was a mighty fine fellow and a great
man in his way. He no longer craved the rule at Gablehurst; he had
ambitions of another sort. He must see the world first, and drink
the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Gablehurst was all very well as a
resting place for him when he had had enough of travel, of
adventure, of the gay and rollicking life of the town; but for the
present let his mother reign there undisturbed. He had no wish to
do so.

Therefore he found it easy to be loving and gentle and kindly
towards her and Rachel. Indeed, Rachel seemed to him a more
attractive maiden than she had ever been before. She had smiles for
him, where once she had only grave looks of disapproval; and she
delighted in his stories almost as much as Rosamund Cale had done.
Altogether, this visit was a mighty pleasant one for Tom; and it
lasted for ten whole days before the news was brought to him that a
strange gentleman had ridden up and was asking for him, and he knew
that Lord Claud had come to fetch him.

Tom had had the prudence to say very little about their purpose in
going abroad. His mother and sister knew that it had some
connection with the war, and that the Duke of Marlborough was going
to send some despatches by them; but he told them not to name even
this fact to the neighbours, and he had not mentioned to them the
mysterious words "secret service."

When he reached the hall door, there was Lord Claud mounted upon
the black horse Lucifer, who looked in tip-top condition. Mrs.
Tufton and Rachel had come out to welcome Tom's friend, and the
rider was sitting bare headed in the afternoon sunlight, looking
mightily handsome and gallant.

"Ah, good Tom, so you are e'en at hand when wanted. I have been
detained somewhat longer than I thought; but all is in readiness
now for a start for the port of Harwich. Have you got yourself and
Nell into first-class condition? for we have work before us, my
lad."

"But, sir, you will not surely start today, with the shades of
evening drawing on so fast?" pleaded Mrs. Tufton, who felt a
sinking at heart in the thought of parting from her son again. "You
will lie here for one night at least, and start forth with the day
before instead of behind you?"

"If you will favour me with so much hospitality, gracious madam, I
should be glad to do so," answered Lord Claud with a courtly bow;
and in another minute his horse was being led away to the stables,
and he was following the ladies into the house, speaking so many
words of well-chosen admiration for the quaint old manor and the
fine meadowland and timber trees about it, that Tom was prouder of
his home than he had ever been before, and even of the mother and
sister who dwelt there. For Lord Claud paid them as much attention,
and gave them as courtly treatment, as though they had been the
highest ladies in the land; and it seemed as though their native
refinement and tact enabled them to make fitting reply to him, and
to show a certain simple dignity of mien which Tom had never
troubled himself to observe in them before.

He observed now that Rachel was a very handsome girl, rather like
himself in feature, but with more refinement of aspect and more
thoughtfulness of disposition. This thoughtfulness gave a depth to
her eyes and a piquancy to her talk which Tom noted with surprise
and admiration; and he was well pleased that both his home and his
womenfolk pleased his friend so well.

Mrs. Tufton would fain have learned something of the nature of the
errand upon which her son was to start upon the morrow; but Lord
Claud fenced cleverly with her questions, and, whilst seeming to
reply to them, left her little the wiser. They were going to take
ship for Holland, and thence make their way with despatches to one
of the allies of the Duke; so much he let them freely know. And
when she asked if there were peril to face, he laughed lightly as
he replied:

"Madam, there is always peril to be faced whether we bide at home
or travel beyond seas. Your son Tom met more peril in the forest
only a few short miles from home, than he has encountered in that
great Babylon of London. It is so with us all. Ofttimes those that
stay snug and safe at home meet with some mishap, whilst the rovers
come back safe and sound. No life can be without its perils; but I
have come through so many unscathed, that I have learned not to
fear them beforehand."

"And Tom at least will be serving his country," said Rachel; "and
that is a thousand times better than receiving hurt when in search
after idle pleasures."

Lord Claud bowed to her across the table as he replied:

"You speak a great truth, fair lady. We do indeed go forth upon the
service of our country, and of the great Duke, who is a master to
be trusted and obeyed. He is never reckless. He never throws away
lives needlessly. Never was general in battle so tender for the
wounded as he. His first thought after a fight is for his injured
soldiers; and he looks personally after the arrangements for their
comfort. This fact should be enough to show you that he is careful
of human life, and would not intrust men with missions that are too
perilous to be successfully carried out."

Mother and sister took heart at this, and trusted to see Tom return
safe and sound from his present journey.

This farewell was more easily gone through than the last, although
Tom felt a keener sense of affection for his relatives than he had
done on the first occasion, and a greater affection for his home.
But he had made trial of a new life now, and was full of hopeful
confidence; and both mother and sister had begun to believe in him,
and had shown pride and satisfaction in his career.

So they rode forth in the first sunshine of a bright February
morning, with three stout serving men from Gablehurst to attend
them as far as Harwich. Lord Claude was willing to accept the
escort, as the road was unfamiliar to him, and he wanted no
needless delays along the route.

Rachel brought the stirrup cup, and the household assembled to
cheer the travellers as they rode away. There were tears in the
mother's eyes, but she smiled and waved her hand bravely. The
horses were in first-rate condition, and full of life and spirit.
They were delighted to find themselves travelling side by side
again; and the riders were pretty well occupied for the first few
miles of the road in curbing their gay spirits.

They had plenty of time to get to Harwich before the light failed
them, and the servants knew the road and the best inns to bait at.
The journey was performed without misadventure; and Tom dismissed
his retainers when he and his companion were safely installed in a
good inn upon the quay, as the servants intended making one or two
stages on the homeward road before stopping for the night.

Lord Claud had gone straight down to the harbour so soon as they
arrived, leaving Tom to make arrangements for the night. So far he
had said almost nothing as to the errand upon which they were bent,
and Tom had asked no questions, knowing he should be told what was
needful in due time. So when he had ordered a plentiful supper, he
strolled out upon the quay, and presently saw his comrade returning
with a satisfied look upon his face.

"Well, Tom, we are in luck's way. There is a skipper in harbour who
has unshipped his cargo, and is going back almost empty by the
morning's tide. He is glad enough to take us and our good horses
safely across to Rotterdam; and, with the light, favouring breeze
that has been blowing steadily these last three days, he declares
we ought to make the anchorage there before nightfall. With the sea
as smooth as this, too, I am not afraid to adventure the horses;
which I should be were a gale to blow."

"Do they suffer from seasickness?" asked Tom.

"Ay, from the nausea of it," answered Lord Claud; "but the relief
that we can gain by sickness is impossible to them, and therefore
they must needs die if things be too bad with them. But if the
weather change not--and there looks no fear of that--we shall have
a swift and prosperous voyage; so now let us to supper, and I will
tell you more of what lies before us."

But as it turned out, there were too many other guests at the table
for private talk to be possible; and only when on board the good
sloop Marlborough did Tom hear anything of the details of the
projected expedition.

It was a clear, promising morning, a light breeze blowing from the
west, but the sea still and smooth, only dimpling with the puffs of
wind. Tom stood on board beside the horses, soothing their fears at
the strange sights and sounds about them, his own heart beating
somewhat high with excitement at the thought of putting to sea for
the first time.

The sailors were busy hauling in ropes, singing and shouting. The
vessel gave a little start and shiver, there was a rattle of canvas
overhead, and a gentle lurching movement. Then the shore seemed
suddenly to be slipping away; and Tom knew, with a start of
surprise and exhilaration, that they were off upon their voyage to
unknown lands.

Presently the horses grew calm and quiet, used to their strange
surroundings, and willing to nibble at the heap of fragrant hay put
down at their feet. Tom was able to leave them with a clear
conscience, and came over to where Lord Claud was standing in the
fore part of the vessel, watching the sheets of green water that
fell away from the prow as the sloop cut her way through the waves.

"Well, friend Tom, so we are off at last."

"Yes, my lord; but I have not heard yet whither."

"No; and, like a wise and prudent fellow, have not desired to know
too much. You are a model of patience, Tom--an excellent companion
to have. But the time has come when I can safely enlighten you as
far as you need be enlightened. I shall not tell you all I know;
for, in truth, you would not understand it."

"That may very well be," answered Tom humbly.

"But I will tell you this much, Tom; we are bound upon an errand of
peril. We have some difficult journeyings to make, and there will
be certain persons lying in wait for messengers from Marlborough;
and we may be sore beset to avoid them. Tom, do you remember the
tall dark man with whom my duel was fought?"

"Sir James?"

"That is the name by which he goes in England. He passes there as
one Sir James Montacute, a man of bravery and wealth. But there is
another side to the picture. That man, Tom, is a spy, and in the
pay of the King of France. If I had known as much that day as I
have since learned from his Grace the Duke, methinks I should not
have left him alive upon the field. Tom, we shall probably have to
measure our wits against his in a duel of another sort ere long."

Tom threw back his head with a defiant gesture.

"Well, my lord; and I am ready!" he said.

"Very good, Tom; I thought as much. You did not love our
dark-skinned friend much better than I did. I think we shall find
him lurking in wait for us somewhere amid the snows of the St.
Bernard Pass. Hast ever heard of the St. Bernard, Tom, and the good
monks there?"

"I think I have," answered Tom, who had heard so many new things of
late that he could not be expected to keep them all in mind
together.

"Well, it may be we shall have to seek their hospitality yet;
although our way lies across the Little St. Bernard, as it is
called, that ancient pass which Hannibal and his host crossed when
they marched through the snows of Switzerland to pour themselves
upon the fertile plains of Italy. It is to this very day the only
route by which those snowy Alps may be crossed; and we must find
our way thither, Tom, and go down to the fair city of Turin."

"Is that where we are going?"

"Ay; hast heard of Victor Amadeus, Duke of Savoy?"

"Is he not one of the Allies?"

"Yes; albeit for a while he sided with the French King, who did
much to hold his fidelity. But now he is one of the Allies, and he
is sore beset by the armies of Louis. The King of Prussia is about
to send relief; but His Majesty is tardy, and the snows of winter
lie thick in his land, hindering rapid action. It is our part to
take the Duke news of the welcome aid, and of other matters I need
not be particular to name; and we shall need all our wits about us
to carry this matter to a successful issue."

"You mean that the pass will be watched?"

"Yes; we shall be certain to fall in with spies of the French King,
perhaps with Sir James himself. He has left England, so much is
known; and though he may be at the court of France, yet it may be
our hap to light upon him at any time. He is a man of cunning and
resource and ferocity. We shall want our best wits and our best
swordsmanship if we are to cope with him."

Tom's eyes sparkled with excitement and joy.

"And is the mountain pass the only way of getting into Italy, for I
have heard that Savoy lies in that land?" said Tom.

"Ay; Italy has had its strange vicissitudes of fortune, and has
been divided and redivided into duchies and kingdoms, till it needs
a clever scholar to tell her history aright. But it is enough for
our purpose that Savoy lies just beneath those grim mountains which
we must scale; and that for the present no other entrance is
possible."

"But there are other ways then?"

"Why, yes, we could at other times go by sea; but now that the
Spaniards are seeking to win back the rock of Gibraltar, which we
have lately reft from them, and which Marlborough says must never
be yielded up again, we cannot safely try that way; for we might
well fall into the hands of some Spanish vessel, and languish,
unknown and uncared for, in Spanish dungeons. We cannot travel
through France, and reach it from the shores of Genoa; because it
were too great peril for Englishmen to ride through the dominions
of the French monarch. So we must needs land at some friendly Dutch
port, and ride through their country, and so into Westphalia, and
thence to these mountain regions which cut us off from our
destination.

"Have you ever seen snow mountains, Tom, towering to the very skies
in virgin whiteness, with the rivers of ice, miles in width,
flowing silently down their rocky sides? It is a strange and
marvellous sight when viewed for the first time. I could find it in
my heart to wish I stood in your shoes, that all these new things
might be seen and heard for the first time!"

"And I would that I knew more of these strange lands, and the ways
of the people there," answered Tom; "for I fear me lest mine
ignorance may lead us into peril. But if such a thing as that were
to befall, I would lay down my life to save yours, my lord."

"I believe you, Tom," answered the other very gravely. He was
silent a while, and then he said slowly, "Tom, I am going to say a
strange thing to yon--at least it would sound strange to some; and,
indeed, I should not dare to say it to every companion in peril.
But I believe you to be stanch and true."

"I trust you will ever find me so, my lord."

"Well, Tom, this is the word that I would say to you. It may chance
that things come to this pass with us, that one of us twain must
needs fall into the hands of the enemy, and die; for there is
little hope of any other end when that befalls. And if we know and
can so arrange matters, it must be you and not I who will fall into
that peril."

Tom looked back without flinching.

"You speak well, my lord," he said. "It must be my lot to die. You
will not find me hold back when the moment comes."

Lord Claud took his hand and held it in both of his.

"It must be you, Tom; and yet I would rather it were myself. But I
have that intrusted to me which I must speak in the Duke's ear. The
despatches are as little compared with what I have had from
Marlborough's own lips--what may not be trusted upon paper.
Moreover, I could find my way through the countries, where you
would be lost for lack of words to ask your way. If one of us has
to be delivered over to death, it must be you."

"It must. I see it well."

"Yet we may both succeed in getting through, or we may both leave
our bones lying amid the eternal snows. Perhaps in years to come it
will matter little enough. Just now it seems a matter of more
importance. But I have told you this to show my trust in you, Tom.
There are not many comrades to whom I could have thus unburdened
myself. I should have had to use subtlety where now I use truth and
openness."

"You shall not find me fail you, my lord," answered Tom.



CHAPTER X. IN PERIL.


"Halt! and declare yourselves!" cried a hoarse voice speaking in
the French tongue.

"Now for it, Tom," said Lord Claud quietly, speaking between his
shut teeth. "Remember what I have told you. Be wary, be ready. We
shall get through all right. There are but two or three score, and
none of them mounted."

The travellers were passing now through the narrow territory of the
Margrave of Baden, with the Rhine upon their right, the only
protection from the frontier of France with all its hostile hosts.

The slow and inactive policy of the Margrave of Baden naturally
encouraged the enemy to send small parties of soldiers across to
harry his country; and already Tom and his master had had to dodge
and hide, or go out of their way, to avoid meeting with these bands
of inimical marauders. They were not the class of opponents whom
Lord Claud most dreaded, still they might well fall upon and make
prisoner the two English travellers; and if despatches were found
upon the person of either, they would almost certainly be shot as
spies. Indeed, so bitter was the feeling on the part of the French
after their defeat at Blenheim, that any travellers belonging to
the hated English nation went in danger of their lives.

For some time now Tom had been wearing the garb of a serving man.
His peruke had disappeared, and he wore a little dark wig that
looked like his natural hair. It excited less comment for master
and servant to travel from town to town together than for two
English gentlemen to be riding unattended through such a disturbed
country; and as they pursued their way, Lord Claud would give
minute and precise directions to Tom how to act in the event of
their falling in with one of these scouting or marauding parties,
showing such a wonderful knowledge of the tactics of forest warfare
that Tom was often astonished at him, and would have liked to ask
where he had obtained his experience.

And now, for the first time, Tom was face to face with a real
foe--no mere antagonist of the hour, with whom he had exchanged
some angry word, and was ready to follow it up with blows, but with
armed foes of a hostile race, whose blood was stirred by the hatred
bred of long-continued warfare, and who would think as little of
taking the lives of two Englishmen as Tom would of shooting a fat
buck in his native woodlands.

Again came the word of command in the hoarse voice.

"Halt! and declare yourselves, or--"

But the threat remained unspoken, for Lord Claud had drawn rein,
and was looking at the speaker with eyes of mild inquiry.

"What is your will, monsieur?" he asked, in his easy and excellent
French.

At this seeming show of submission the face of the officer relaxed,
and the men in his company lowered their carbines and stood more at
ease pending the result of the dialogue.

"Monsieur is not a Frenchman?" questioned the officer, with a look
from one face to the other.

Tom sat gazing before him with a stolid expression of countenance,
which greatly belied the tingling which he felt through every vein
in his body. It seemed as though this tingling sensation was in
some way communicated to the mare he rode, for she began fidgeting
in a fashion which plainly told Tom that she was ready to do her
part when the tussle should come.

"How know you that, sir?" asked Lord Claud with a smile. "If you
can tell me my nationality I shall be grateful, for I am ignorant
upon the point myself."

The man's face clouded a little; he felt a certain suspicion of the
handsome stranger, and yet he must not do despite to one of His
Majesty's subjects, and Lord Claud had the air of a man of no mean
status.

"Your servant is English," he said with a touch of sullenness, "and
I take it your horses are, too. The army of His Majesty of France
is badly in need of strong horses. If you are good subjects of his
you will be willing to part with them. My horse was killed but a
little way back; that one of yours would suit me right well," and
he made a step forward as though to lay a hand on Lucifer's rein.

"Now, Tom, my boy!" said Lord Claud in a clear, low tone.

In a moment he had whipped out his pistols and fired straight at
the officer, who fell face downwards almost without a groan. Tom
had meanwhile marked his man--the foremost in the rank behind; and
he rolled over like a log.

With a yell of rage and amaze the men were upon them; but Lucifer
and Nell Gwynne had already reared almost upright, and now were
fighting so wildly with their iron-shod hoofs that in fear and
dismay the assailants fell back, whilst a second report from each
pistol dropped another man dead upon the field.

"Forward! before they can take aim!" cried Lord Claud in a voice of
thunder; and the horses obeyed the word without any touch of spur
from their riders.

They bounded forward with an impetus which must have unseated any
but an experienced horseman, and then laying themselves along the
ground, they fled onwards at a gallop which astonished even Tom by
its wild velocity.

A shower of bullets fell round them, but none touched either steeds
or riders; the yells of the infuriated soldiers died away on their
ears; the horses sped on and on as though they had wings to their
feet, and only after some few miles had been traversed did the
riders draw rein.

"That is always the best plan of action," said Lord Claud, as
though such an occurrence as this was a matter of everyday
experience with him. "Always appear ready to pause and parley. It
invariably disarms suspicion. At the first every pistol or musket
is levelled at your head; but if you stop to talk, these are
lowered. Then, when you have put the enemy a little off guard, make
a dash for it; take them by surprise, drop a few, and confuse the
rest, and you almost invariably escape with a sound skin."

Then Lord Claud coolly proceeded to wipe and recharge his pistols,
as though the escape of half an hour back had been a mere detail
hardly worth discussion.

But Tom knew well that both his master and the horses they rode
must have been through many such perils before this, or they could
never (at any rate the horses) have shown such aptitude in playing
their parts. He had felt that the mare he rode was prepared to
fight furiously with hoofs and teeth; and, as it was, she had
struck down two men who had been preparing to spring at her.

"Ah, my lady had always a temper of her own," replied Lord Claud
with a smile, as Tom said something of this. "Yes; I have taken
some pains with my horses to teach them to help in a fight.
Travelling even in one's own land is none too safe, as you found to
your cost, honest Tom. Nell Gwynne comes of a fighting stock, and
showed an early aptitude for the fray. Trust to her, Tom, if ever
you are hard pressed; she will bring you safely through, if it can
be achieved at any price."

And, indeed, as the travellers pursued their long ride through a
disturbed and often half-hostile country, they had frequently to
depend as much upon the fleetness, fidelity, and strength of their
horses as upon the strength of their own right arms.

Well did Tom now understand why Lord Claud had made such a point of
having their own horses with them. Had they been jogging along upon
some beast hired or purchased in the country, they would never have
got through the divers perils of the way.

Once Tom was aroused from slumber in a little, ill-smelling inn by
the sound of kicking and stamping proceeding from the stable; and
when he had aroused his companion, and they had hastily dressed
themselves and descended, it was to find that a desperate fight was
going on between the two horses and a handful of French soldiers,
who had followed after the fine animals, and were seeking to steal
them whilst the travellers slept.

They had paid dearly for their temerity, however, for Nell Gwynne
was stamping the life out of one wretched fellow; whilst Lucifer
had broken the leg of a second, and had pinned his companion by the
arm, so that he was yelling aloud in his agony.

Lord Claud sprang in, and at the sound of his voice the horse
loosened his grip, and the man reeled hack against the wall, white
and bleeding, and cursing beneath his breath. Tom was too late to
save the life of the victim of the mare's anger, but he was in time
to strike up the pistol which another of the soldiers had pointed
at her, in the trembling hope of saving his comrade.

"If you fire you will drive her to madness, and she will kill every
man of you," said Lord Claud coolly. "She has a devil in her, and
is bullet proof; you had better leave meddling with both the
beasts."

The men crossed themselves in pious horror, and were glad enough to
back out of the place, carrying their dead and maimed companions
with them. Tom and Lord Claud did not linger longer than the time
needful for saddling the horses. They knew that the people of the
inn must be in collusion with the soldiers, and the sooner they
quitted the place the better.

They had long since left behind them the level plains, and were now
in a country that became increasingly mountainous and difficult.
After the long, flat plains of Holland, Tom had thought the Baden
territory sufficiently mountainous; but now he was to make
acquaintance with the snow-topped peaks and ranges of Switzerland,
and his eyes dilated with awe and wonder when first he beheld the
dazzling white peaks standing out clear against a sunny sky.

He was not a youth of much imagination or poetry, but he did feel a
strange thrilling of the pulses as he looked upon this wonderful
sight.

But Lord Claud's face was cool and impassive as usual, and his
remark was:

"Very fine to look at, good Tom, but ugly customers to tackle. A
snowstorm up amongst those mountain peaks may well be the death of
either or both of us, and the snow will be our winding sheet."

"Have we to cross those snows, my lord? to scale those lofty
peaks?"

"We shall have plenty of snow, Tom, without scaling the peaks. At
this season the passes will be deep in snow. We shall have to trust
to a guide to take us safely over; and the very guide may be a spy
and a traitor himself."

"But, my lord, I thought you knew the way? I thought you had
crossed the pass once?"

"So I have, Tom; but these snow fields are treacherous places, and
the track shifts and changes with every winter's snow. You will
see, when you get amongst them, what a savage scene they present.
In summer it is none so bad; but we are yet in the grip of winter,
and though the foothold is harder and better on the ice slopes, the
cold is keen and cruel, and the snowfalls frequent and dangerous."

"And the horses, my lord?"

"Those we must needs leave behind us for a while, Tom. I do not say
that we could not get them over, for, methinks, Hannibal must needs
have brought his horsemen across in days of yore, and where any
other horse has been, there could Lucifer and Nell Gwynne travel.
But I fear the poor beasts would suffer sorely; and I misdoubt me
if they would not be more care than use to us. They have done their
work gallantly, so far; and they will take us back as gallantly, I
doubt not, when our task is done. Meantime, I know a pleasant and
sheltered valley, where dwell some honest folk with whom I tarried
in bygone days, to heal me of a fever I had caught in the hot
Italian plains. There we will leave them; and there, Tom, if we
lose sight of each other, will we meet when our appointed tasks be
done.

"There are two places where we may find a safe asylum in this wild
land. One is the valley to which we are now bending our steps,
which nestles not far from the foot of the great mountain men call
the St. Bernard; the other is at the hospice upon the Great St.
Bernard itself, where is a colony of devout and kindly monks, who
give their succour to travellers of every nationality and creed,
and where a safe shelter may always be found. Moreover, the monks
have a certain intercourse with the inhabitants of the valleys
round and about, and we could thus have news of each other were one
of us there and the other here below.

"But we will not part company save for urgent need; yet 'tis well
always to be prepared."

Travelling was becoming increasingly difficult and trying as they
mounted into higher regions, and the roads became mere bridle
paths, often encumbered with snow drifts, and difficult to
traverse.

Fortunately it was fine overhead, and the season was a favourable
one. The sun had already attained some height in the sky, and could
shine with power at midday, for February was well advanced by this
time. But the cold at nights was intense, and the state of the
roads often made travelling difficult for the horses. The mountain
torrents were swelled to brawling rivers, and the ordinary bridges
broken down, so that the travellers had much ado to get across
them.

It seemed a savage country to Tom, although the excitement and
peril made travelling a delight. Moreover, the people were kind and
friendly, although they spoke such a barbarous patois that it was
difficult to hold communication with them.

At last they reached the sheltered little valley of which Tom had
heard, and here they found friends of a kind; for at the little inn
Lord Claud was remembered and hailed with joy. He had plainly won
the affections of the simple folks whilst lying there sick, and
they were ready and willing to give the travellers of their best,
and furnish them with guides for the passage of the mountain range,
which seemed now to tower above their heads into the clouds.

Travellers and horses were alike pretty well worn out by this time,
and the thought of spending a few days in this hospitable valley
was grateful even to Tom's stalwart frame. As for the horses, they
testified their satisfaction in many ways. They even made friends
with the goatherd who was told off to attend to them, and attempted
none of their tricks upon him; which was a source of considerable
satisfaction to Tom, who had been afraid the people might decline
to be left alone with such charges.

After seeing them safely stabled, bedded, and fed, Tom was glad
enough of a good meal himself; after which he retired to bed, and
slept for hard upon thirty-six hours, as he found to his amaze upon
awakening. And, indeed, it was small wonder that he did so; for he
had not been used to such strenuous exercise so constantly
continued, nor to the clear, bracing air of the mountains.

He woke as hungry as a hunter; and it was only after he had
satisfied the cravings of nature that he had time to observe the
thoughtful shadow which had gathered upon the face of his comrade.

"Is aught amiss?" he asked presently, leaning his elbows on the
table, and heaving a sigh of satisfaction.

"Well, Tom, that is as you like to think it; but what I feared
might be the case has come to pass. We shall not reach the plains
of Italy without being sore beset by danger."

Tom's eyes flashed keenly under their dark brows.

"What have you learned, my lord?"

"That the pass is being closely watched, Tom, by spies, or whatever
you choose to call them, from the French army. The Duke of Savoy
is, as I have told you before, completely hemmed in by the armies
of the great Vendome, one of the ablest generals France possesses.
His capital is in danger, and it is of the first importance that he
should receive the despatches and messages with which I am charged
by Marlborough, and which will give him heart and courage to
prolong the contest till the promised help, which is now on its
way, shall reach him. Doubtless it is equally the policy of the
enemy to keep him in ignorance of what they themselves now know or
fear, so that he may surrender to the French arms before he hears
what is being done for his succour.

"That, in brief, is the situation we have to grapple with. I
suspect that Sir James is one of those who are watching for
messengers from England, and that we shall have to measure our wits
against his. Tom, I must get through the pass. I must carry my
despatches into Turin. I am not one whit afraid of the French
lines. I can disguise myself, and pass through them if needs be
without a qualm of fear. I can speak French against any Frenchman
living, for I was cradled in that land. But the first problem we
have to face is this--how can we cross the pass unseen? How can we
put the spies on a false scent?"

Tom drew his brows together and scratched his head in the effort to
think matters out.

"Do they know that strangers are here in this valley? Are we
watched?"

"I suspect so," answered Lord Claud. "It is not easy to be certain,
because the people here are friendly to us, and distrust the
French, who have given them small cause to love them. But I am
convinced that so astute a man as Sir James Montacute would cause a
close watch to be kept upon this valley. Most likely our presence
here is known, and we are being watched for."

"And is there no other way of crossing the mountains into Italy?"

"Yes, there is one other route; for historians disagree as to the
one taken by Hannibal, albeit most believe that it was this of the
Little St. Bernard. There is another way, which doubtless could be
found; but if we were to strike aside after it, the spies would be
upon our heels at once."

"I was thinking," said Tom slowly, "that we might perchance part
company, one take one route and the other the other, and so arrange
matters that the spies should follow hot-foot upon the scent of the
wrong man."

A gleam came into Lord Claud's eyes. He spoke very quietly.

"In truth, Tom, some such thought has come into mine own head; but
it is not easy to make up one's mind to act upon it, for I fear it
means certain death to the wrong man who must be followed."

Tom's face set itself in grim lines. There was a vein of reckless
bravery and hardihood about him which imparted to the situation a
species of stern delight, and sent the blood tingling once more
through his veins.

"I will take the risk of that," he said; "I shall take some
killing, I think. And killing is a game that more than one can play
at! If I have to sell my life, I will make it cost the French King
dear."

"Right, Tom; but that will not give back a gallant servant to Her
Majesty of England!"

"I am not dead yet," answered Tom, with a grim laugh. "Tell me the
plan which you have worked out in your head, my lord; for your wits
are seven-fold keener than mine."

Then Lord Claud unfolded the plan which had been working in his
busy brain during the day that Tom had been sleeping, after he had
heard news which made him sure that his mission was suspected, and
that he would be stopped and robbed if possible.

Higher up the mountain side, just where the snow line lay, above
which there was everlasting ice and snow, was a little rough
hostel, where travellers rested and slept before they tried the
pass itself. An old half-witted man and his goitred wife kept the
place, and provided rough food and bedding for travellers, though
interesting themselves in no wise with their concerns. In that rude
place several men were now stopping, and had been stopping for some
days.

That fact in itself was almost sufficient for Lord Claud; but
somebody had found a scrap of torn paper with some French words
upon it, and this had made assurance doubly sure. Moreover, Lord
Claud believed it to be the writing of the man he had duelled with
beneath Barns Elms.

To this inn (if such it could be called) he and Tom must journey,
with a peasant for a guide to take them across the pass. Upon
reaching the place, his idea now was that he should appear sorely
smitten by the cold, as some travellers were; so ill and unfit for
further journeying, that he should have perforce to send Tom on
alone with the guide, whilst he returned to the valley. All this
they should discuss in their room at night, assured that they would
be overlooked and overheard; and when quite certain that eyes were
watching them, Lord Claud was to unrip his doublet and take thence
a packet of papers, sealed with the signet of the Duke of
Marlborough, and sew this same packet firmly into Tom's coat.

In reality this tempting-looking packet with the Duke's seal
contained nothing but a sheet of blank parchment. The real missive
for the Duke Victor Amadeus was written on a thin paper, and was
concealed between the soles of Lord Claud's boots--though even Tom
did not know that. The packet was arranged as a blind, if need
should be; and now it seemed as though the need had come.

Then on the following morning Tom and the guide would start forth
across the pass; whilst Lord Claud should creep feebly down to the
valley, watched, perhaps, but probably unmolested. The majority of
the men, at any rate, would most certainly follow Tom.

"There are but four," said Lord Claud; "and if one be Montacute
himself, I doubt if he will stir from the inn. He will try to keep
an eye upon both, being a man full of cunning himself. I reckon
that he will send two men after you, Tom, and one after me. I
shall, after a while, pause, lie in wait, and kill that man. Then I
shall flee to the valley, get a guide who can show me the other
pass, and make such way from the seat of peril that I shall be
well-nigh across the frontier before Sir James knows that one of
his quarry has escaped him.

"As for you, my boy, you may like enough escape with a sound skin,
unless Montacute himself pursues, making three to one--for one
cannot trust these peasants to show fight. But be the issue what it
may, that is the plan I have thought out which gives the best
chance of winning through. If you escape, flee either back here, or
perhaps, better still, to the protection of the monks. For here
these unwarlike peasants could perhaps give you little aid if hard
pressed; but the Church will afford you sanctuary, and not even the
wrath of Sir James himself will avail to wrest you from the hands
of the monks, if you claim their protection."

"It seems to me," said Tom, throwing back his head, "that the peril
is, after all, not so great--not so great, indeed, as what we have
faced many times before. Let us carry out the plan, and whether
good or evil follow, we shall have done our best--and no man can do
more!"

The two men gripped hands upon it, and the compact was sealed. Tom
rather exulted in the post of peril that was accorded to himself.
Perhaps in days to come the Duke would hear of it, and might reward
him by some words of praise or thanks.

That same afternoon Tom felt his veins tingling again as they
neared the lone little hut amid the whiteness of the low-lying
winter snow. He was about to launch forth upon the first solitary
adventure of his life, and one which might be fraught with dire
perils; but his heart quailed not.

Almost at once he was lost in admiration and amaze at the power
displayed by Lord Claud in acting a part. He began to draw his
breath with apparent difficulty; his face looked drawn and ghastly;
he clung to Tom's arm as if for support; and it was difficult
indeed to believe that he was not feeling really terribly ill.

They reached the hut and knocked. The door was instantly opened,
and Tom was certain he saw a gleam of malicious satisfaction upon
the faces of the men, who welcomed them in with a show of rude
cordiality.

There were but two rooms that could be called sleeping apartments,
they said, and one was already occupied; but they would give up the
other to the use of the sick traveller. Lord Claud was speedily
assisted thither, and the fire in the stove replenished. He lay
down upon the bed with a groan, and looked as if nigh to death. The
peasant chattered with the old couple, and it was plain that this
sort of seizure was not very uncommon in those altitudes.

The men tried to make Tom understand that his companion should go
back to the valley; but that could not be done till the morrow, and
presently the pair were left alone in their room.

This room was only separated from the next by some rude split pine
trunks. Tom had seen upon entering that a light had been quickly
extinguished, otherwise he would have seen clearly through the
chinks who the occupant was. He knew perfectly that every word they
spoke could be overheard, and every action they performed duly
watched; and he entered into the game of play acting with a zeal
that gave him greater aptitude than he had thought to possess.

He strove to get his master to take the broth that one of the men
brought up; he entreated him not to give way; and finally he agreed
that it would be impossible for the sick man to attempt further
travel, and offered himself to bear the packet of letters into
Italy.

Then came the projected piece of play acting--the ripping up of the
doublet, the sewing of the sealed packet into Tom's clothes,
promises, directions, warnings, all given with apparent feeble
energy, and received with faithful eagerness.

And all the while Tom was aware that close to them, just behind the
thin partition, other eyes were watching, other ears listening to
all that passed. He could even hear the short breathings of
repressed excitement, and almost feel the keen gaze which he knew
was constantly bent upon him.

When all was done to the satisfaction of the sick man, Tom
extinguished the light, and lay down beside him on the rude bed.
After his long sleep of the previous day, he cared little whether
he slumbered or not--indeed, it seemed better that he should keep
awake. His head was full of the adventure which lay before him, and
he was almost certain that he heard whispering voices either in the
next room or below; by which he guessed that their enemies, having
discovered all they wanted to know, were now laying their plans how
best they might carry out their own designs.



CHAPTER XI. THE PIOUS MONKS OF ST. BERNARD.


Tom knew quite well that he was being followed. He had been aware
of it almost from the first. He felt an exultant triumph in the
thought that they had outwitted the astute Sir James, and that his
emissaries were following the wrong man, falling into the trap
which had been laid for them.

Tom's business was to lead them as long a dance as possible. He had
no other object in view. He had no intention of pushing onwards
into Italy. In a strange country, surrounded by people of a strange
tongue, he would be perfectly helpless. He had picked up just a few
words of French, and of the patois of these mountain regions,
enough to enable him to obtain the necessaries of life on this side
the Alps. And on this side he meant to remain, doubling back, if
possible, and eluding his pursuers; hoping to find shelter at the
monastery of the Great St. Bernard, and await there the return of
Lord Claud.

He had watched, before starting himself, the start made by Lord
Claud upon the arm of the landlord. He had again admired the
marvellous powers of his master in simulating sickness. It was
difficult even for him to believe that he was not the victim of
some grave malady; and he had noted with satisfaction the covert
eagerness with which the other travellers in the hut urged upon him
the descent into the valley as the only chance of recovery.

Plainly they desired that the two should part company; nor could
Tom trace that any of their number went after Lord Claud. But on
that point he could not be certain, as he himself had to take his
departure almost immediately.

The other travellers professed to be waiting for the recovery of
one of their number from a strain to the ankle before proceeding in
an opposite direction. This they explained to Lord Claud,
regretting they could not accompany him to the valley, as they had
to wait for their own master. They professed to have crossed
recently from the Italian side, and gave Tom some hints and
instructions as to his route; which he heeded no whit, being in
fact only able to understand a word here and there.

He trusted to his guide to take him safely through the pass, though
he reckoned upon having to give him the slip, too, if he could not
explain to him that he was going to make his way to the monastery.
For it was not safe for Lord Claud to explain this to the guide
beforehand. Although to all appearances an honest and simple
fellow, there was never any knowing how the enemy might seek to
tamper with him; and a bribe might be sufficient to open the
fellow's lips if he had anything to tell.

Now Tom was on his way upwards amid the snow, stepping out boldly,
and rather urging on his guide than detaining him by lagging; and
all the while he was conscious that he was being followed and
watched, although it was only from time to time that he was
successful in catching sight of the forms of his pursuers, who at
present kept a good way behind.

Tom guessed for one thing that his own rapid pace gave him the
advantage, and he also suspected that they would prefer to wait
until his first energy had abated before trying conclusions with
him. He was in splendid condition from his long journey, which had
braced all his muscles, and had given him back all that vigour
which his London life had slightly impaired.

So he stepped along gaily in the clear morning air, calculating as
well as he could what Lord Claud's movements would be, and how far
he would have progressed upon his way with the real despatches.

Lord Claud never let grass grow under his feet. If he once obtained
a fair start, he would not easily lose it. The route by which he
was going was a little longer and more circuitous; but let him have
a day's clear start, and it would be odd if any pursuer caught him
after that.

So Tom walked on in high spirits, feeling well equipped for the
coming struggle, and fearing little the peril which might lie
before him. In the pride of his manhood's strength, he laughed at
the thought of danger. He had faced too many perils of late to
begin to turn coward now. So long as he felt that he was leading
these followers away from the other pass to be taken by his
comrade, he cared for nothing else--not even for the discovery he
once made that they were three in number, though Lord Claud had
calculated that they would only be two.

Sometimes Tom noted that his guide would look back, and more than
once he fancied that he detected him signalling to those below.
This aroused in his mind a doubt of the fellow's fidelity; but
there was nothing to be done now. They were in the midst of
trackless snow plains, ice slopes, and precipices. He must perforce
trust to the leading of the guide, albeit, if he had been tampered
with by those in pursuit, things might look ugly when it came to
the moment of attack.

As the hours wore away, Tom began to wish that the situation might
declare itself. The drear wildness of the mountain height oppressed
him with a sense of personal insignificance which was rather
overwhelming. The great white mountains seemed to stare down upon
him as though pitilessly indifferent to his fate. How could they
care what became of one solitary son of earth? Did they not stand
fast for ever more, from century to century? It was a thought that
he found oppressive and rather terrible.

At one point the guide insisted upon leaving what looked like the
better track, and led him round a sort of shoulder of piled up snow
and rock, where walking was very laborious. Tom began to feel the
need of food, and would have stopped and opened his wallet; but the
man shook his head and gesticulated, and seemed to urge him onwards
at some speed. Tom supposed he must obey, as the man pointed
warningly to the rocks above, as though to hint that danger might
be expected from them.

So on they trudged, Tom feeling a slight unaccustomed giddiness in
the head, as many persons do who first try walking for some hours
in the glare of sun and snow and at a high altitude. Then the path
suddenly turned again under the frowning wall of rock, which rose
black and stern through the covering of snow. The guide disappeared
round the angle of the path; Tom followed with quick steps, and the
next moment was almost felled to the earth by the terrific blow of
a cudgel upon his head.

Almost, but not quite. He had been on his guard. He felt that the
crisis was coming, and he was certain that the guide had betrayed
him at this pre-arranged spot into the hands of his enemies. In one
second Tom's rapier was out (he had carried that in spite of the
hindrance it had sometimes been to him), and although he was
half-blinded and half-stunned by the force of the blow received, he
lunged fiercely forward, and heard a yell of pain which told him
that his blade had found its billet.

But the blade could not at once be disentangled. For two seconds,
perhaps, was Tom struggling with it; and in those two seconds one
of his adversaries sprang behind him, and seized him round the
waist with the hug of a bear.

In a second Tom had whipped out his pistols, and fired full at a
dark figure in front of him; but his eyes were full of blood, and a
taunting laugh told him that his shot had missed its mark. With a
quick movement of his strong arm backwards he dealt the man who was
holding him a terrific blow with the butt of the pistol, and
discharged the other full at another dark figure looming in front.

This time there was an answering yell; but the odds were still
tremendous, and Tom felt himself growing faint and giddy, and
though he hit out lustily on all sides, he had no confidence that
his blows told.

Every moment he expected to hear the sound of a report, and to know
that his quietus had come; but at last he was aware that it was his
captors' wish to take him prisoner, and not to kill him. They had
closed in upon him now that he was disarmed, and were using every
artifice to overpower him without further injury.

Tom felt his own struggles becoming weaker each moment, and at last
he was conscious that somebody had crawled towards his feet and was
passing a cord about them. In vain he sought to kick out and
release himself; the next minute the cord was pulled tight. His
feet were jerked from beneath him, he fell backwards heavily, and
for some time he knew no more.

When he opened his eyes once again, he found himself sitting
propped up against the rocks, his arms tightly pinioned to his
sides, and his feet still encumbered by cords; whilst at a little
distance sat his assailants in a ring, eating and drinking, and
making merry together.

One had a bandaged head, and another had his arm in a rude sling.
But the guide had come in for the worst of Tom's blows, and lay all
his length along the ground, stiff and dead.

Tom smiled a grim sort of smile. He suspected that the same fate
would shortly be his, but nevertheless he did not pity the
unfaithful peasant. If he had acted loyally by the man he professed
to serve, this ill would scarcely have befallen him. He had met his
punishment somewhat more swiftly than is usual.

The men talked in French, and too fast for Tom to catch a word of
their meaning; but when they saw that his eyes were open, and that
he was watching them, they laughed and nodded at him, and by-and-by
one brought him food and a cup of wine, and Tom felt mightily
refreshed thereby.

Then they looked up at the sky, and at the sun which had some time
since passed its meridian, and began to make ready to depart. Tom
was half afraid at first that they, having robbed him of his
despatches, were going to leave him helplessly bound here amongst
the snow, to perish of cold and starvation. But when they were all
in readiness they unbound his feet, and bid him rise and come with
them. Indeed, he had no option in this matter, for one of them held
the end of the cord which bound his arms, and drove him on in front
as men drive unruly cattle.

Tom felt giddy and stiff, but he scorned to show weakness; and it
was less trying to descend the pass than to ascend it, although the
rough walking with tightly-bound arms was more difficult than he
had fancied, and several times he tripped and fell heavily, unable
to save himself.

He was, therefore, very bruised and sore and weary when at last he
found that they were approaching the little hut he had left early
that same morning. But amid all his weariness and pain, and the
peril of his position, he felt, with a thrill of proud satisfaction,
that he had at least played the part which had been allotted to him,
and had drawn off the forces of the enemy whilst Lord Claud made
good his escape with the real despatches. Whatever vials of fury
might quickly be poured upon his head, he would always know that
he had done his duty--and who can do more than that?

A light was twinkling in the hut. Tom was pushed and hustled
within. A voice, that he remembered as having heard once before,
called out from above:

"Bring the prisoner up here to me."

The next minute Tom entered the very room where he and Lord Claud
had slept the previous night; but it was now tenanted by a new
occupant--a dark-skinned man of huge frame and malignant
aspect--who regarded Tom from beneath the penthouse of his frowning
brows, and plainly remembered him as well as he was himself
remembered.

"So we meet again, my young buck of the forest! You seem to serve a
master who takes pleasure in bringing you into peril and doubtful
adventure! So you are the bearer of despatches to the Duke of
Savoy? I fear, my good friend, Victor Amadeus will be disappointed
of his news for once. And I say in good sooth, that if his grace of
Marlborough chooses to intrust the matters of the secret service to
unfledged lads, he deserves to find himself outwitted."

Tom compressed his lips to hide the smile that might have told too
much. He preserved a stolid appearance, and remained mute.

Sir James gave a quick order in French, and at once some of the
cords about Tom's person were cut, and the packet sewed up in his
coat was duly brought forth. As it was handed to Sir James and he
saw the signet of the Duke, a sardonic smile played over his
features, and Tom's eyes gleamed in their sockets.

The dark-browed man eagerly undid the packet, and drew forth the
parchment sheet. He scanned it over and over; he turned it this way
and that. His face betrayed nothing, but Tom saw that his fingers
trembled slightly as with ill-veiled excitement or anger.

He gave one fierce, searching look at Tom, who preserved an air of
indifference, and then he took the paper across to the stove, and
held it in the heat of the glow which stole thence.

Back he came with it to the table; but there was nothing revealed
by the application of heat. He called sharply for something to one
of his men, and a small phial was brought to him. He applied a drop
of the liquid it contained to the parchment; and eagerly awaited
the result; but no lettering was revealed upon it, and his face
grew dark and stern.

How many tests he applied Tom scarcely knew; but he saw that this
man was master of all the arts of secret penmanship, and that no
matter would have been kept from him had it been intrusted to the
paper.

At last Sir James became satisfied of this himself. The veins on
his forehead swelled with anger. He saw that he had been tricked,
and his fury was hotly aroused.

Smiting his great hand upon the table, he cried in a voice of
thunder:

"This despatch is a trick and a fraud. There is nothing but a sheet
of blank paper. Men do not risk their lives in carrying dummy
packets.

"Where is the true despatch, knave? Out with it, or 'twill he the
worse for you!"

"That is all I have," answered Tom quietly; "I know nothing of any
other. Search me if you will. You will find naught else."

"Search him! search him well!" said Sir James to his servants,
almost panting in his ire. "The knave was never sent to the Duke
with nothing hut this in his keeping. Find it instantly! I love not
these delays!"

Instantly Tom was laid on his back upon the floor, and such a
search was made of his dress and person as was a matter of
curiosity and amaze to himself. Even his nose and ears and mouth
were explored by rough fingers, in a fashion none too gentle;
whilst his clothing was well-nigh ripped to pieces, and he wondered
how he should ever make it fit for wear again. Certainly if he had
had any missive to carry it would not have escaped the scrutiny of
his captors, and their oaths and kicks bespoke their baffled
disappointment.

"Then he has messages intrusted to him," said Montacute, first in
French, and then in English. "Set the fellow upon his feet, and
bind fast his hands to yon rafter. If he will not speak the truth,
it shall he flogged out of him!"

The swarthy man was growing very angry at his failure. He may have
begun to suspect that he had been duped by a wit keener than his
own, and the thought raised within him the demon of cruelty and
lust of blood. He hated Lord Claud with a deadly hatred, having
been worsted by him in encounters of many kinds. If unable to wreak
his vengeance upon the man himself, to do so upon his follower was
the next best thing.

"Tell me with what messages to the Duke of Savoy you are charged!"
he cried, standing before Tom with flaming eyes. "You are not sent
upon this quest with neither letter nor word. Speak, or you shall
be made to find your tongue!"

"I will speak as much as you like," answered Tom, with haughty
disdain in his tone, though his flesh crept at the sight of the men
knotting the ends of rope in their hands; "but I am charged with no
message. I know nothing of what you would wish to know. You can
flog till you are weary, but you can't get out of me what I do not
know. That at least is one satisfaction."

Montacute waved his hand. The next moment the ropes descended upon
Tom's bare back. He set his teeth, and made no cry, though the
blood came surging to his head, and the room seemed to swim in
blood. Again and again they descended; but the keen pain awoke
within Tom that ferocity of strength which comes to men in their
extremity, so that, like Samson, they can turn the tables upon
their foes.

The hut was but a rude affair, somewhat loosely put together. The
beam to which Tom's arms had been bound was not too strongly
jointed to its fellow.

A sudden madness seemed to come upon this man of thews and sinews.
He gave a sudden bound and wrench; he felt the beam give, and
redoubled his efforts; the next moment the whole rafter came bodily
down upon their heads. Tom ducked, and escaped its fall; but it
pinned one of his foes to the ground, and his own hands were
immediately free.

With a bound like that of a tiger, and a roar like that of a
wounded lion, he sprang, or rather flew, at Montacute, flung him
over backwards upon the floor, and pinned him by the throat,
uttering all the while a savage sort of growling sound, like a wild
beast in its fury.

The light was thrown over in this strange melee; the room was
plunged in darkness. The two men upon the floor lay struggling
together in a terrible silence, only broken by Tom's fierce
snarlings, that seemed scarce human. So terrified were the
remaining two men, that they could do nothing for the assistance of
their master; indeed, they hardly knew what was happening to him.
They set up a shouting for aid, half afraid to stir lest the whole
house should come falling about their ears.

There were steps in the room below. Footsteps mounted the stairs.
The door was thrown open, a shaft of light streamed in, and a calm,
full voice demanded in the French tongue:

"What, in the name of all the saints, is this?"

"Holy father, he is murdering our master!" suddenly cried one of
the men, recovering from his stupor of terror, and seeing now how
Tom's great hands were gripping the throat of Sir James.

Montacute's face was purple. His eyes seemed to be starting from
their sockets. It was hard to say which was the more terrible face,
his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of
ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.

In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long
white robe and black cloak of his order. Behind him was another,
similarly attired, holding the light above his head.

The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's
shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his
head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.

"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked,
however, no contradiction. "Let the man go."

Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force,
Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm;
but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold,
and stood upright before the monk.

"He drove me to it--his blood be upon his own head! He would have
scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the
rafter gave way."

Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and
so knew that he should be understood. The monk bent his head, as
though he grasped the entire situation.

"I would we had come in time to spare you what you have already
suffered, my son. But we did only enter the doors as the fall of
the rafter announced that some catastrophe had happened. I feared
to find you already a corpse."

"You came after me, good father?" asked Tom in amaze.

"Yes, truly. Your companion, who is safe over the other pass by
this time, caused the message to reach us that you were like to
fall into the hands of Montacute, and be hanged or shot. He begged
that if we could we would save you; and as our work lies in
succouring those who are in peril upon these heights, be that peril
what it may, we have been seeking you ever since. I would we had
arrived a few minutes earlier."

Tom's eyes gleamed; it seemed to him as though the madness was not
yet out of his blood.

"I can scarce echo that wish, reverend father," he said; "for I
have had my taste of joy! If my back be torn and scored, I have had
my fingers on yon miscreant's throat. I think he will carry the
marks of them as long as I shall carry my scars. I have had my
recompense!"

"Peace, my son," said the monk, lifting his hand. "The heart of the
natural man lusts after vengeance; but these passions are terrible,
and contrary to the will of God. Especially in these savage
solitudes, with the strange and awful handiwork of the Almighty
Creator about us, should we bow in humblest adoration of His
infinite power, and draw near and close, in bonds of brotherhood,
to our fellow men. But I know that the sin was not yours. You were
sinned against sorely first. Nevertheless, we must needs learn to
forgive our enemies, and do good to those that persecute us. So
alone can we follow in the steps of Him who is set as the light of
the world."

Tom hung his head. He was a little abashed at the fury he had
shown, and yet the savage joy of it was still tingling in his
veins. He looked at the other monk, who was kneeling upon the floor
beside Montacute, and he perceived that the latter was slowly
recovering, and was able to sit up, propped against the wall.

As soon as he was able to understand what was said to him, the
elder monk addressed him in stern tones.

"Montacute--thou man of blood--be warned by the fate which thy
cruelty well-nigh drew down upon thy head this day! If God in His
mercy had not sent us, in the very nick of time, to save this youth
out of thy murderous hands, thou wouldst have passed ere now to the
scathing fires of purgatory, whence there be few to offer prayers
for thy release. Be warned by this escape. Repent of thy
bloodthirstiness and cruelty. Seek to make atonement. Go and sin no
more, lest a worse thing happen unto thee."

Then turning from him with a slight gesture of repulsion, he said
to Tom:

"My son, we would take you to the safe shelter of our monastery
home, till your comrade comes for you. The way is something hard
and long, but the moon and frost will help us. Have you the
strength to walk with us?--for we would not leave you here, and it
would be safer for all to travel without delay; albeit there be few
so vile as to seek to do hurt to those who wear the habit of the
servants of the Lord."

The fire yet burned in Tom's veins. He felt no abatement of his
powers. He declared himself well able for the march, and was soon
helped into his torn garments, with wet rags to protect his
bleeding back from rough contact. The monks gave him to drink from
a flask that contained some cordial, which was marvellous in
subduing his natural fatigue; and there was a mess of broth
awaiting him below, of which both he and the monks partook, ere
setting forth upon their moonlight march.

As for Montacute and his followers, they remained in the room
above, and made no effort to delay the travellers. They had been
worsted at every point, and seemed to be aware of it.

It was a strange experience for Tom, this trudge over the hard,
frozen snow, with his two cowled and gowned companions. It seemed
to him afterwards like a vision of the night, full of a strange
oppression and pain. He started forth with undiminished strength,
as he thought; but ere long he felt as though leaden weights were
fastened to his feet, as though some strange, uncanny beast were
seated upon his chest, impeding his breathing, and paralyzing his
heart. The smart of his raw back became more and more intolerable
with every mile, and the awful whiteness of the moon upon the
limitless plains of snow seemed to make the whole expanse reel and
dance before his giddy eyes.

How the last part of the journey was performed, and what befell him
when he reached the monastery, he never afterwards remembered. As a
matter of fact, he was already in the grip of a burning fever; and
for weeks he lay sick upon his pallet bed, tended by the kindly
monks. Indeed, the spring had penetrated even to those rugged
heights ere he had recovered strength enough to think of travelling
once more; and Lord Claud had come to seek him, and bring him word
of his own successful journey with the despatches of the Duke.

When Lord Claud had gone stumbling down the hillside, in affected
illness, he soon found, rather to his dismay, that Montacute
himself was following him. He therefore abandoned his intention of
seeking battle with his foe, knowing that in brute strength and
weight and muscle his adversary was his superior; and he had gone
to the inn and put himself to bed, letting all around him believe
thoroughly in his illness. Montacute had remained on the watch for
a time; but finding, as he supposed, that there was no feigning in
the matter, he had gone back to his appointed meeting place with
the men sent after Tom. He had paid a fellow to keep watch upon
Lord Claud, and send immediate word if he recovered and left his
bed; but this man was one of those whose hearts had been won by
Lord Claud's pleasant manners, and he at once reported the matter
to him, and asked what he should do.

Between them it was arranged that they should change clothing, and,
with the connivance of the landlord, should exchange identities.
The young peasant should lie in bed, and be tended as the sick
stranger; and Claud, in peasant's dress, should flee over the other
pass, leave word with the monks as to the peril of his friend, and
make his way to Savoy with all the speed he could.

This had been done with wonderful ease and celerity. And now,
having accomplished all with unlooked-for success, he had returned
to find Tom not only alive, but in good condition; for the latter,
having once got rid of the persistent fever which had brought him
so low, was getting back his strength and vigour every day. The
mountain air was now acting like a tonic upon him, and the kindly
ministrations of the brothers of the monastery gave him every help
his condition needed. Even the scars upon his back had ceased to
smart, and he was all but fit for the road and the saddle ere Lord
Claud joined him again.

His lordship had heard good tidings of the horses in the valley
below. And when rested from his rapid journey in search of Tom, he
went to visit them, and reported them abundantly fit for the road.

But the war had now been resumed, and the countries were all in
commotion. Travelling was a risky thing, save in numbers; and the
good monks warned them that they might easily lose their lives by
falling in with some bands of hostile soldiers, who were sure to
fall upon travellers in ferocious fashion, and rob them of arms and
horses, if not of life itself.

Soon, however, some of the monks themselves were to take a journey
into France, and if the travellers would habit themselves in the
cowl and gown, and travel with them, they could do so in almost
certain safety. Tom's shaven head lent itself excellently to the
tonsure; and though Lord Claud objected to part with his golden
tresses, he quickly manufactured himself a tonsured wig which
almost defied detection. As the monks, too, were to travel on
horseback for greater speed, they had but to teach their steeds to
amble along at a gentle pace, and none would be likely to suspect
them.

So the day came when the parting was made, the travellers leaving
behind their earnest thanks for kindness received, and taking with
them the blessings of their hosts, who had come to love the two
gallant young men right well.

They turned their backs upon the monastery, and wound their way
down into the green valley, where horses were awaiting all the
party; and then they turned their backs upon the ice and snow, and
set their faces towards sunny England and home.



CHAPTER XII. BACK IN LONDON.


"Why, Tom, my lad! Now this is a welcome sight in sooth! Verily it
is you yourself, else should I think I must sure be dreaming! Come
in, come in, lad, and a hearty welcome to you! Faith, we had almost
begun to give you up for lost! There be so many who go to foreign
parts, but return thence no more, and of whom nothing more is ever
heard. The Lord be praised that that has not been your fate!"

Cale had taken Tom by both hands, and was drawing him eagerly into
the house. The young man had entered the doorway just as the
shutters were being put up at dusk. The light lasted long now that
May had come, and Cale was about to step forth to take the air for
a while himself, when he beheld the tall figure darkening the
doorway, and saw that it was indeed Tom who was entering.

"Why, methinks you are taller than ever! and have gotten the air of
a man of travel! This will be news for my little Rosy tomorrow.
Why, it was but last Sunday, as we sat and talked of you, that the
tears came into her eyes, and she said she feared we should never
see you more! How she will laugh and skip tomorrow when she sees
you in your accustomed place!"

"It was kind of Mistress Rosamund to spare a thought for me," said
Tom, feeling that it was good to be welcomed home again so warmly.

Other home welcome had he not yet received, for they had not
returned by Holland and the port of Harwich. The good monks had
taken them the shorter way through France, and had seen them safe
upon a vessel bound for Southampton, where they had safely
disembarked a few days ago. They had spent their last money in
getting themselves clothing other than a monkish habit, and had
then ridden merrily to London in quick time. Tom had left his good
mare in Lord Claud's stable, and had marched off forthwith to
Master Cale's shop; whilst his companion had declared his intention
of making speedy application for the payment due to them for their
recent enterprise, which had now been successfully carried through.

"I would I could have seen the Duke himself," said Lord Claud; "but
he is gone back to the Hague, men say, and may be anywhere now. But
I shall lay my case before some of the ministers of the realm, and
claim our reward. The Duke of Savoy knows the value of the news I
brought him, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. You shall have
your share, Tom, when I get the gold; for you took your share of
peril boldly, and were a stanch comrade in all moments of danger.
You suffered more than I, and that shall not be forgotten."

So Tom felt light and happy of heart. He was back again in the old
country, hearing his native tongue once more around him, the
satisfaction of success in his heart, the experiences of a man of
travel giving him added dignity in his own eyes. If his purse was
light, he would soon replenish it; and in the welcome accorded to
him by the honest perruquier he felt the earnest of other welcomes
in store for him.

As they sat at table together the traveller told his adventures to
his host, Cale listening with eager attention, and rubbing his
hands softly together as he heard how Montacute had been outwitted,
and how he had been well-nigh throttled by Tom, as well as rebuked
by the pious monks.

"I have seen the fellow," he said thoughtfully--"he came here once
for a peruke--and a more evil countenance I have seldom seen. They
say he is half an Italian, though he passes here for an Englishman;
and that he is in the pay of the King of France is a thing commonly
reported. He has an evil face, and I hope we shall see it no more
in this land. You must have a care, Tom, if ever he crosses your
path again. He will not forget that grip on his throat in a hurry!"

"Nor I those lashes upon my back!" answered Tom between his shut
teeth. "He will find me ready for him whenever he wants! I am
sometimes fain to regret that I did not squeeze the life out of him
as he lay in my grasp, even as--well, others I know have regretted
that they did not run him through the heart in a duelling bout."

"It is not many who get that chance, if report speaks truth," said
Cale; "Sir James Montacute is reckoned a notable swordsman."

"He is no mean antagonist, truly," answered Tom, with a slight
smile; "yet I have seen a better."

The day following was Sunday, and eagerly did Tom await the arrival
of Rosamund, whom her father had set out betimes to fetch. But he
had promised to keep the secret of Tom's return for a surprise to
meet her on her arrival; and so, when she turned the corner of the
street upon her father's arm, laughing and chattering to him in her
brightest fashion, there was Tom standing in the doorway, clad in
one of his finest suits (left behind in the care of Cale), smiling
bravely, hat in hand, and looking altogether so grand and finished
a gentleman that at the first moment Rosamund could scarce make
sure if it was he himself.

But when convinced of this, her pleasure was pretty to see. She
made him stand by the window where she could see him; she looked
him all over, clapping her hands, and declaring that he had grown
so grand and handsome that she was quite afraid of him. But her
dancing eyes and laughing lips belied her words, and soon she was
chattering away in the old free style; and Tom sat looking at her,
thinking how pretty she was, and what a pleasant thing it was to be
home again after such a period of peril and adventure.

Of course he had to tell his story over again, whilst Rosamund's
face turned red and pale by turns, and her breath came fitfully
between her lips. She clung to her father's hand in a tremor of
sympathetic fear as she heard of the doings of that memorable night
in the rude hut amid the snows of the Little St. Bernard; but that
Tom was a greater hero than ever in her eyes, after she had heard
all, could not for a moment be doubted, and perhaps that was why
she felt that in him she could safely confide a secret fear which
was troubling her own mind.

She waited till her father had gone down to set the dinner upon the
table; but when once she and Tom were alone together she was not
long in opening her trouble.

"Do you remember those four ill men who set upon you in the street
that day when first you walked abroad with us?"

"Yes, I know them well--a set of cowardly braggarts and bullies!
Sure, Mistress Rose, they are not troubling you yet?"

"I fear me they are," she answered, with a shadow of fear in her
eyes. "I saw nought of them through the dark winter months. Indeed,
I had well-nigh forgotten that any such creatures lived. Then when
the spring days began to come, and the streets of the city became
gayer, I thought once or twice that I saw them in the throngs as we
walked hither and thither; but they never accosted us, and I gave
the matter little heed."

"Until when?"

"Until one evening in March, towards the end of the month, when the
daylight lasts till seven of the clock, and my father let me remain
later than usual with him, and then took me back as was his custom.
The roads were quiet, and there were few abroad as we neared
Highgate; yet I could not help thinking that I always heard steps
behind us, and ever and anon I looked over my shoulder. I did not
always see men following, but sometimes I did, and it seemed always
as though there were four of them together. Once I heard a laugh
that I seemed to remember, and I felt a qualm of fear, I scarce
knew why."

"You spoke no word to your father?"

"No; I thought myself the victim of some foolish fear, and I wanted
not to trouble him. He bade me goodbye at the gate, and saw me run
up to the house and let myself in. I went up straight to my window
to wave my hand to him as was my wont, and just at that moment four
men lounged by arm-in-arm with swaggering mien."

"And you think it was those same men?"

"I was almost sure of it, and hastily withdrew, glad that they did
not follow my father down the hill, but walked slowly on in the
opposite direction, and then turned and paced slowly back two or
three times. For though I did not show myself, I peeped out and
watched to see what they did."

Tom's face was very black. He had a keen personal hatred for the
four bullies, and a very strong interest and affection for Rosamund
herself. He saw she had still something more to say, and she drew a
little nearer as she added:

"And since then I have caught sight of them several times in our
lanes, walking up and down rather near the house, or hanging about
round the tavern at the crossroads where our lane branches from the
wider road. Once I am sure I heard their steps coming after me; but
I fled so fast they could not overtake me, and I dared not look
behind lest I should trip over a stone. I am almost afraid now to
leave the house alone, save in the early morning hours; and until
this happened I came and went freely, and my aunt is used to
sending me visiting to the neighbours. I like not to alarm her by
talking of these men, nor do I wish to cause anxiety to my father.
I have often wished I could tell you the tale, that I might ask you
what I should do."

The childlike appeal in the maiden's face stirred Tom to a
chivalrous desire to help her at all costs.

"Zounds!" he exclaimed, "but we will teach those curs a lesson they
richly need. As it is, they are becoming a byword even in London
streets. Hark you, pretty Rosamund, have no fears. I will get Harry
Gay to join with me, and together we will come to Highgate, and
hang about your house in concealment until these bold swaggerers
show themselves; and then we will set upon them, and give them such
a trouncing as they shall not quickly forget. And we will make them
understand that if ever they are seen there again they will receive
a like chastisement. After that I think you need feel no fear. They
are as cowardly as they are blustering, and love not the feel of
hard blows upon their backs, as we have good reason to know. Two of
us would be equal to vanquishing the four."

"And there is a strapping young farmer, William Long by name, who
would gladly lend you the strength of his right arm," cried
Rosamund, kindling into excitement. "He was lately wedded to my
best friend, Mary Baker, and they live not far from our cottage. I
had thought to speak to him if things went on so; but four to one
is long odds, and moreover he is something stolid in the head, and
might mistake his men, and so get himself into trouble."

The thought of a battle on behalf of his good friend's daughter was
congenial enough to Tom, who had always felt a strong personal
antagonism to these bullies; an antagonism warmly shared by Harry
Gay, who eagerly entered into the plan for freeing Rose of their
unwelcome presence in her neighbourhood. He was also an admirer of
pretty Rosamund, whom he had known from childhood, although they
did not meet very regularly, as Harry did not often intrude upon
Cale on the Sunday, when he knew he liked to have Rosamund to
himself. However, he knew very well the haunts most frequented by
the four bullies who had taken it into their heads to persecute the
perruquier's daughter. They probably bore Cale a grudge for his
action towards them upon the Sunday when there had been the fight
in the street; and certainly if he had had any idea that they were
seeking to touch him through his child, he would have been
exceedingly uneasy, and his business must have suffered.

"I will keep a watch upon them," said Harry Gay, who was quite
pleased to join with so great a man as Tom Tufton had become in
some affair of this sort; "I will have an eye to them, and if I
think they are starting off for the north of the town, I will run
at once and fetch you; and we will follow and outstrip them, for
they must needs stop at every tavern as they go, and we can slip by
and be ready for them at Highgate."

So Tom remained for the most part in and about his lodging for the
next day or two, pleased enough to watch the busy life of the
streets, and hear the gossip of the young dandies in Cale's shop.
No word of any kind came to him from Lord Claud during this time of
waiting; but Tom had no anxieties as to the money he was to receive
for his services, and Master Cale had still a few guineas in hand
from the sum left to pay for his lodging chamber in his absence,
which Tom had desired to continue to rent, that he might leave
there his worldly possessions.

It was on the forenoon of Wednesday that Harry came to seek him,
all eagerness and speed.

"They have started forth towards the north," he said, "and I heard
a few scraps of talk, and am certain that they are bound for
Highgate. We shall quickly overtake and pass them; and, with the
help of honest William, we will give them such a lesson as shall
make them avoid the locality for the rest of their lives, I hope.
So, if you are ready, let us be off."

Tom was ready in a trice, and very soon they found themselves
following in the track of the four young rakes, who were swaggering
along the sunny streets in their usual rolling way, accosting and
insulting the passers by, knocking citizens' hats into the gutter,
singing scraps of ribald songs, and ready to come to blows with any
other bullies who might run up against them.

But it was not long before they swaggered into an alehouse; and
then Tom and Harry went swiftly by, and, taking the straight route
up to Highgate, arrived there long before the others could be
expected.

Rosamund was tending her flowers in the garden when they came up to
the gate, and looked up with a smile and a blush. She was alone in
the house that day, she said, save for the servant woman, who was
very deaf. This suited very well for the present purpose, as they
did not desire that the aunt should be alarmed.

They bade Rose remain in the garden for the next few hours, and
they would hide in a clump of bushes at the corner and watch what
betided. Harry strode off to fetch William Long, who had promised
the help of his sturdy staff right willingly. In a short time the
three men were in their hiding place, whilst Rose went on with her
tasks amid the flowers, her heart beating a little with excitement,
although she felt no fear.

Presently the sound of lurching steps and foolish laughter
approached along the lane. Rose never looked round, but the colour
in her cheeks went and came. The steps presently stopped at the
gate, and those in hiding could see the four bullies, who were
already somewhat the worse for drink, leaning upon it and eyeing
the maiden at work with silly leers and nudgings.

"Pretty Mistress Rosamund," said Slippery Seal, in his most
wheedling voice, "will you favour a thirsty traveller with a cup of
water from your well?"

Rose faced round at that, her face flushed, but her manner quite
calm.

"If you are thirsty, sir, there is water to be had in the brook
yonder. My father would not have me speak with strangers on the
road."

"But, fair maid," said another, "we cannot sure be called
strangers. We have seen your rosy cheeks and bright eyes many times
before, we--"

But before he had finished speaking, Rose had turned her back and
was walking up the path towards the house.

"No, no, no!" cried Dicing Dick; "you do not run away like that,
pretty Rosamund!"

The next moment he had flung the gate wide, and the whole four were
making a dash up the path in pursuit of the girl. They had probably
learned from the servant at the inn that her aunt was out, and had
thought they could terrify her into doing their pleasure, and
setting food and drink before them.

But they did not get far. With a sound like a growl and a
yell--such as he had given when he sprang at Montacute's
throat--Tom dashed out from the thicket, and seized Bully Bullen in
a bear-like clasp. The other two were not many yards behind, and
immediately there was a wholesale scrimmage in the little garden;
the sound of blows and oaths resounded, and many a yell of pain and
rage told that one or another of the bullies had got a well-merited
chastisement.

It was not Tom's wish to use his sword, but he applied his good
cudgel freely to the back of the bully, who was more his own height
and make than any of the others. Bully Bullen swore, and raved, and
threatened, and made ineffectual efforts to draw his rapier and run
his antagonist through the body. But he had been drinking, and
neither hand nor eye were steady; whilst Tom's clutch upon his coat
collar, as he kept swinging him half off his feet, and laying his
stout staff to his back, almost throttled him, and rendered his
efforts abortive.

Once Slippery Seal showed himself worthy of his name, by slipping
through the clutches of Harry, and dashing to get a good blow at
Tom, for whom these four worthies had conceived a powerful hatred;
but Tom saw the advance, and cleverly swerved round, so that the
blow descended upon the luckless Bullen, who roared anew with rage
and pain.

"Let them go now! let them go!" cried Rosamund at last, half
frightened at the scrimmage, and almost ready to pity the ruffians,
who were getting so much the worst of it.

Lusty William had quickly laid Dicing Dick prostrate on mother
earth, and was giving a drubbing to Thirsty Thring, who was
helpless in his stout grasp. This attack, so unexpected and so
resolute, had quite taken the wind out of the sails of the
blustering four; and when, at Rosamund's cry, their antagonists
paused and gave to each a parting kick, they had no desire to do
anything but slink away with bruised shoulders--black rage in their
hearts.

"If ever you come prowling here again, I'll have my men and my dogs
out at you!" bawled William, whose blood was well up. "I live
handily, just behind yon clump of trees. Rosamund has but to lift
up her voice in a good screech, and I'll loose every dog in the
place upon you! You'll not forget the feel of their fangs so soon
as you'll forget the feel of my cudgel!"

That threat was quite enough for the bullies, they almost began to
run; but so soon as they had put the fence between themselves and
their antagonists, they paused and looked back, shaking their fists
in vindictive fury.

They seemed to divine that Tom was in some sort the originator of
this plan, and towards him was their chief malevolence directed.

"We will have our revenge for this, Tom Tufton!" they cried. "It's
your turn today, but it will be ours another. You shall rue the day
you made enemies of us!"

"Do your worst!" cried Tom scornfully. "Do you think I fear any
such ruffians as you?"

"Strike me purple!" raged Bully Bullen, using an oath which had
come into vogue since the terrible days of the Plague, "if I do not
make you bitterly repent this day's work, you insolent young
coxcomb!"

"Get off with you, or I call my dogs!" cried William, who saw that
Rosamund's cheeks were growing pale; and at this hint the bullies
made the best of their way out of sight, never to be seen again in
the neighbourhood where so many perils awaited them.

Rose was rid of her tormentors, but she cast apprehensive glances
in the direction of Tom.

"Can they hurt him?" she asked of Harry.

And he replied, with a light laugh:

"He looks a child that can stand up for himself!"

Nevertheless, after William had taken Rose to his house to pass the
rest of the time of her aunt's absence, and Tom and Harry were
walking southwards again, the latter said to his friend:

"All the same, Tom, I would have you take care of yon braggarts.
They are as evil a set of fellows as walk the streets of this city,
and if they could chance to do you an ill turn, be sure they would
not let it pass."

But Tom only laughed. He had passed through many perils of late,
and he felt that in the heart of this great city he could take care
of himself. A sort of careless self confidence had been his chief
peril through life, and his association with Lord Claud had not
tended to diminish it. In the presence of his patron, indeed, he
often felt of little account; but elsewhere he fancied himself
something of a hero, and was by no means disposed to tremble before
the malevolence of a set of swaggering bullies.

The town was very gay this bright springtide, and Tom was more than
ready to plunge into the vortex of such amusements as were open to
him. His lack of funds did not embarrass him, as Harry was ready to
lend him money, and he had some success at the dicing tables in
those coffee houses which he frequented. Gambling had not any great
attractions for him, but a little excitement did not come amiss,
and the fascination of winning was powerful.

Sometimes he was persuaded to try his luck at basset or ombre, and
here his lack of knowledge of the games often caused him to lose.
But he cared little, telling himself that he should soon have his
share of the reward offered by the Duke to his secret messengers;
and he plunged more and more deeply into debt, rather by way of
passing the time than for any particular delight in play. He had
not yet acquired strength enough to decline to share the amusements
of those about him. He kept up his sword practice in the mornings,
and took long walks with Harry Gay to visit different places of
interest in and about the city; but the afternoon and evening were
usually spent in some place of amusement, and little by little Tom
became impatient for his money. He had borrowed several times from
Harry; but he thought he ought to be hearing something from Lord
Claud.

At last he called at his rooms, and asked for him. He was asked to
wait, as Lord Claud was expected home shortly, and Tom's face was
well known to the valet. He went up to the familiar room, but noted
with surprise how many pictures and curios were missing from their
places. The rooms were comfortable, even luxurious, but they lacked
the costly elegance which had characterized them before. It seemed
to Tom as though Lord Claud must have been in need of money, too,
and have been selling his valuables to keep himself in funds. That
seemed a strange shift for one to whom the state owed so heavy a
debt.

Tom had perhaps sat still waiting for half an hour before the door
opened to admit Lord Claud, who came in with a dark look upon his
face, and threw down his hat and gloves upon the table with a
smothered oath.

Then he saw Tom, and the cloud lightened, although it did not
disappear. He shook the young man warmly by the hand.

"Tom, you are come in a good hour, and an evil one! I was just
wishing I had you to stand by me. What think you is the reply of
those to whom I have proffered my claim on our behalf? They will
have nothing of it. They will scarce give me a hearing. I may go to
the Duke of Marlborough with my tale, they tell me in some scorn,
as though incredulous of my words, but they will have nought to do
with it. And will not even make an advance, whilst they know that
to reach the Duke one must run many a peril and risk much money. It
is a shameful trick! I know they would not have dared treat all men
so, but they think they may put their despite upon me!"

He ground his teeth, and then broke out into strange wild talk
which Tom did not understand, though it inspired him with a sense
of great anger against those in high places.

Moreover, he was not a little disturbed on his own account by the
failure of Lord Claud. How should he pay his debts? How should he
live himself? Had he not risked his life for the sake of his
country? Had he not suffered scourging and sickness on her behalf?
It took very little of Lord Claud's fire to kindle an answering
flame in his own heart. His anger was always readily stirred, and
his appreciation of his own merit caused him to feel the more hot
and aggrieved.

"Tom," said Lord Claud suddenly, "there is one other way. If you
have a clear head, a strong arm, and a stout heart, there is yet a
hope that we may gain our ends."

Tom looked up eagerly. He saw something in Lord Claud's face which
seemed to him strange, and which inspired him with a sense of keen,
quick curiosity and excitement. He felt as though he were on the
verge of some new discovery. His breath came thick and fast, but it
was with eagerness, not fear. He had been so worked upon and played
upon by a master hand, that the thought of fear found no place
within his breast. What was this other way of which his master
spoke?

"The gold is ours, Tom. We have won it with the best that is in
us--with our heart's blood, as men say. It is ours. We have the
right to it. If they withhold it in injustice, have we not the
right to lay hands on it ourselves?"

"Ay, verily!" answered Tom in a whisper, his eyes fixed upon the
burning eyes of Lord Claud, which seemed to fascinate and hold him
as the snake does the bird.

Then Lord Claud approached and laid a hand upon Tom's shoulder, and
standing over him, talked long and earnestly in a low, quiet voice,
which nevertheless sounded trumpet-like in his ears.

Tom sat perfectly still, gazing at him and uttering no word, but
within his heart the fire seemed to glow and kindle; and when Lord
Claud paused and searched his face with his keen glance, he saw no
faltering there.

"Then we are brothers once again, Tom! Brothers now and always!"

"Now and always!" echoed Tom, in a voice almost the echo of Lord
Claud's. "Now and always!"



CHAPTER XIII. ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.


A handsome and remarkably elegant vehicle stood at the door of Lord
Claud's lodgings, with two fine horses harnessed to it.

Tom had never seen any conveyance at once so light and handsome,
the cumbrous coaches of the times being little to his liking. He
had always travelled afoot or on horseback hitherto, and he had
expected to do the same now, when he received his summons from Lord
Claud.

That gentleman stood at the door, leisurely drawing on a pair of
strong gloves. He nodded to Tom as he came up.

"It begins to get hot for saddle work," he remarked in his
negligent tones; "besides, I want to make trial of this
new-fashioned carriage. I won it from my lord of Gratton three days
since; and he boasts that it has been copied from one in the
possession of the King of France, who is said to be a monarch of a
very excellent taste. At least it will carry us to St. Albans, and
bring us safely back three days hence;" and turning to the valet
who was holding his snuff box and cane, he added:

"If any call and ask for me, tell them I have driven into the
country, but look to be home in three days' time.

"Now, Tom, get up, and we will see if we can reach St. Albans ere
the dusk fall upon us."

Lord Claud was dressed in one of his finest suits; all white and
silver, with here and there a dash of azure blue. His hat was set
jauntily upon his golden curls, innocent today of any touch of
powder. His blue eyes were dreamy and soft in expression. He looked
like one who goes forth a-wooing, in all the gay frippery supposed
to be pleasing in a maiden's eyes. He had even discarded his sword,
and only wore a short jewelled rapier, such as he sometimes put on
rather for ornament than use.

He saluted passers by with an air of negligent grace, replying with
a smile to those friends who paused and bandied jests with him,
asking him where the fair lady was with whom he was going to visit.

Tom was also dressed in his best, and looked a fitting comrade for
the young exquisite now leisurely mounting to the seat beside him.
There was no place for a servant upon the carriage, and Tom had
learned by this time that Lord Claud was no more really dependent
than he was himself upon the attentions of a valet. He was rather
in a fog as to what all this was about, whither they were bound,
and what they were to accomplish; but he was willing to be led by
the strong will of his companion, and to follow him wherever he
went.

Tom's irritation and perplexity had not decreased during the past
days. He was at his wits' end for money; and it seemed to him that
if he could not obtain the payment due, he must either trust to his
luck at gambling for funds, or else go home and settle down at
Gablehurst once again.

For the latter course he was not yet ready. His soul revolted from
the thought of the life of the country squire. He had tasted of the
cup of excitement and pleasure, and was not in the least prepared
to relinquish it. He would rather face almost any alternative than
go back to the life of the Essex village, and sink down into the
old routine.

So he had been gaming somewhat recklessly these past days, and with
varying success. There had been moments when he was plunged into
despair; and then again the luck would shift, and he would feel
that fortune was almost at his feet.

Yet at the end of the time matters were with him very much as they
had been at the beginning; save that Tom himself had grown more
reckless an defiant, most lustful of gold, and less scrupulous how
he obtained it, as is always the way with the true gambler, whether
he is aware of it at the outset or not.

Now they were rolling along together through the gay streets of
London, the hot summer sunshine making everything bright and
joyous, filling Tom with a great longing after the good things of
this life, and a sense of bitter indignation at being defrauded of
his due.

Lord Claud handled the reins and drove his pair of fine horses with
a skill which awoke the youth's admiration, and which attracted the
notice also of the passers by. Lord Claud appeared rather to court
observation than to shun it, and often paused to exchange a word
with friends upon the footpath; always telling the same story of
being on his way to St. Albans; always smiling and evading a reply
when asked to what particular house he was bound.

Nobody who saw the light and remarkable-looking carriage speeding
on its way would be likely to forget it, and Tom could not help
rather wondering at the public fashion in which they took their
journey forth.

He had one encounter which he thought little of at the time, and
certainly made no effort to evade. Lord Claud had pulled up the
carriage to exchange a few words with a knot of dandies who had
hailed him from the footway, and Tom was sitting and looking about
him at the passing throng. Presently he was aware of the fixed
stare of several pairs of eyes at an adjacent tavern window; and
looking fixedly through the rather dull glass, he made out for
certain that his friends, the four swaggering bullies, were the
owners of these eyes. A minute or two later Bully Bullen stepped
forth from the door, and accosted him with swaggering insolence of
demeanour.

"So, Master Tom, you make fine friends! And whither away so fast in
that fine carriage? Egad, there be truth in the old adage, 'Set a
beggar on horseback, and he will ride to the devil.' Fine company,
fine company for a country bumpkin to keep! But you'll find it
finer than you think for one of these days! Ho! ho! ho!"

Lord Claud did not appear to hear or heed this newcomer's talk; but
he showed that he had taken all in by just quietly shifting the
long whip into Tom's hands, whilst himself drawing tighter the
reins.

Tom understood him in a moment. He took the whip, and the next
moment it had whistled through the air, and caught the bully a
stinging lash right across the face. At the sound of the crack of
the lash the horses started forward, and in a moment the carriage
was spinning away over the dusty road, followed by roars of
laughter from Lord Claud's friends, and by roars of a different
character from the indignant and outraged bully.

"You will have to shoot those fellows one of these days," remarked
Lord Claud coolly. "They are becoming a nuisance. Men who are a
nuisance ought to be put out of the way. London would be well rid
of them."

"They have been mine enemies from the very outset," said Tom, "from
the day when first we met, and you came to my rescue when they were
baiting me. They have owed me a grudge ever since; but hitherto I
have had the best of our encounters."

"Drunken sots have no chance against sober fellows with thews and
sinews like yours, good Tom; yet they can give trouble in other
ways, and are better under ground than above it. I marvel they have
all escaped so long; for they are well known for a set of ruffianly
vagabonds, and well deserve the hangman's noose."

The carriage spun fast over the ground, and the westering sun threw
long shadows over their path as they rolled farther and farther
through the country lanes, leaving the racket of the streets far
behind. The country was familiar to Tom, who had ridden over the
same ground early in the year; but how different it all looked in
the vivid green of early summer, instead of draped in a mantle of
frost and snow!

He felt a little elation of spirit as they drove through the old
town, the observed of all observers. Some friends of his own hailed
him with eager nods of recognition, looking with a great admiration
and respect at himself and his companion. Tom felt his heart swell
with pride, knowing that in time it would reach Gablethorpe how he
had been seen sitting in such state. He returned the salutations of
old friends with easy good nature, but felt as though he belonged
now to a quite different world; and his heart swelled with that
sort of pride which is apt to be the forerunner of a disastrous
fall.

They did not stop at St. Albans itself, but at a hostelry a little
to the north of it, standing by itself in a pleasant leafy lane.
Lord Claud appeared known to mine host, who made them welcome to
the best his house had at disposal; and promised all care for the
horses, which, as Lord Claud explained, had to make the return
journey upon the third day.

It was now somewhat late, so the travellers took their supper, and
then went to bed; Tom still in a state of subdued excitement and
expectation, scenting coming adventure, but as yet only very
imperfectly acquainted with the nature of it. He had suspicions of
his own, which caused him alternations of dread and excitement; but
he knew he should be told all in Lord Claud's time, and in the
meanwhile silence was the best policy.

The following day they spent in amusement in the town of St.
Albans. Never were two men more active in the pursuit of pleasure
than they. Lord Claud presented himself at the door of many a fine
house, never failing to obtain an eager welcome both for himself
and his friend. They spent the whole day in a round of amusement,
making themselves mightily popular with their companions. They
remained until hard upon ten o'clock in one house, and from thence
returned straight to their inn, which was already shut up and dark,
although the door had been left open for their return.

Up to their room they went, and there Lord Claud's manner suddenly
changed. He seemed to throw off his careless gaiety as if it had
been a garment, and at once the lines of his face began to change
and harden. His eyes gleamed with a steady fire, and his voice lost
all its soft indolence of tone.

He went to a cupboard, which he unlocked, and there Tom saw two
bundles which appeared to contain clothes, and two saddles and
bridles, which he knew had come from Lord Claud's stables.

He looked from them to Lord Claud in questioning wonder.

"How got they there?"

"We brought them with us--secreted in the carriage. Now, Tom, we
must no longer delay. We have stern and quick work to do this
night; and then back to London with the reward that is ours by
right, though they force us to take it by violence. The people here
will swear that we slept this night within doors. You saw the
landlord look out of his window as we entered to make sure who we
were. He will be in bed now, sleeping the sleep of the just. You
may be sure he will wake no more till five of the clock; and long
ere that we shall be back--our work accomplished.

"Off with those fine trappings, and put on these clothes. Then to
saddle the nags, and so steal forth. I know all the tricks of the
locks; we shall have nought to stay us."

Whilst he was speaking Lord Claud was unrolling one of the bundles,
and quickly transforming himself into such a creature as Tom had
never seen before, though he had heard such described many times.
His fine clothes were exchanged for a strong shabby riding suit of
common cut and texture, that presented no distinct features, and
would be most difficult either to describe or identify. He had a
great pair of horse pistols stuck in his belt, and also wore a
dangerous-looking weapon--something between a sword and a cutlass.
His golden hair was tucked away beneath the collar of his coat, and
his head was covered by a frowzy dark wig, that looked like
untrimmed natural hair. He quickly blackened his face with soot
from the chimney, and put on a black crape mask.

A more villainous-looking creature, and one more utterly unlike
Lord Claud, the exquisite, it would be hard to imagine. It appeared
to Tom as though even his figure had shrunk and become smaller. If
he had not seen the metamorphosis with his own eyes, he would not
have believed that it was his comrade who now stood before him.

But the voice was the same, as Lord Claud quickly assisted him to
change his garments, to assume wig and mask, and soot his forehead
over.

Tom had not been unprepared for this denouement, and yet when he
saw himself in the habiliments of a highway robber, his heart
throbbed with a painful sense of wonderment at how it had all come
about. Yet the fascination exercised over him by his companion, and
his own love of adventure and excitement, were so strong, that he
did not know whether he dreaded or desired the coming struggle.

"What are we going to do?" he asked in a low voice.

"To take our due that they will not give us," was the stern reply.
"They had their choice, and must abide by their blindness and
obstinacy. I am not going to be treated with contempt; no one who
has ever tried to do so has done it with impunity. Every man has a
right to his own--is it not so, honest Tom?"

"Yes, truly," answered Tom, with a note of indignation in his
voice. "Those who withhold our due must suffer for it."

"They shall suffer in pocket; and if what we shall obtain this
night be more than our due, the fault is theirs, not ours. Tom, you
are to taste a new experience this night--one which is full of joy
to those who have drunk often of the cup. There be times when I say
that I am happiest dressed as tonight, a good horse beneath me, a
bright moon above, and a booty worth having well in view. It is so
full of rare surprises and delight; and, if a man but have his wits
about him, it is so monstrous easy, too!"

Tom seemed to catch the spirit of his comrade. Those were days when
crime was lightly thought of, though so heavily punished. A strain
of recklessness in Tom's blood made the notion of even robbery on
the king's highway fascinating rather than terrible--at least when
he could say to himself that he was but "taking his own."

It was plain enough now that this was the secret of Lord Claud's
life--hinted at more or less plainly by many before, but never
altogether understood by Tom. Yet Lord Claud was received, feted,
made much of in the society of the gay city, even by those who more
than suspected where his influx of wealth came from. He had even
received instructions, and been intrusted with an important
commission, by one so high in office as the great Duke of
Marlborough. Surely there could be no great stigma resting upon one
who was thus employed in the service of his country. It seemed to
Tom (as it has seemed to others before and since) that if only
success crowned these efforts, there was no disgrace attached to
them.

But it was a significant if--and he knew it!

"And suppose we are taken?" he said tentatively.

"We should be hanged," answered Lord Claud coolly. "But we shall
not be taken. Make your mind quite clear on that point. Do just as
I tell you, and have no fears. The rest will follow of itself."

Tom had come to have that sort of implicit trust in his companion
which some men have the power to inspire. It makes them dangerous
to foes, because they appear to bear charmed lives; and their
companions trust implicitly in their luck, and know no fear. Tom
felt that if Lord Claud told him to ride through fire or water, he
would do it without hesitation, knowing that the thing was
possible, and believing he would accomplish it.

"Come," said Lord Claud, "take your saddle and bridle and walk
softly. It is time we were off now."

They stole through the silent house, and round to the stable, where
the horses were lying on beds of clean straw. They got up at the
sound of their master's voice, but were so quiet in all their
movements that it seemed as though they knew what was in the air.
In five minutes they were free from the buildings, and the
travellers mounted. The road lay before them in dappled lights and
shadows from the brilliant moon overhead. It was as easy to see the
way as though the sun had been up.

Once clear of the inn, and Lord Claud sprang forward at a steady,
swinging hand gallop, a pace to which the horses settled down as
though well habituated to it.

Then he began to speak to Tom of the project on which they were
bent.

"There is gold on its way from the bank to the coast. It is guarded
by four soldiers. They have been instructed to travel fast to catch
a certain sloop. Today they will have met with many hindrances upon
the way. All that has been arranged for. So they will profit by
this clear moonlight night to prosecute their journey, which will
not lie through what is thought to be dangerous country. Forest
land and wild heath make men very careful, but quiet country roads
where villages are frequent give them confidence. And yet it is
just as easy to fall upon the prey in the latter as in the former
locality. In sooth, I think it is easier. The men in charge rush
back for help, thinking the more easily to track and follow us;"
and then Lord Claud broke into a soft laugh, and began to whistle
cheerily as they galloped forward.

These horses were wonderfully strong and fleet. Tom could not but
remark it as they galloped mile after mile with unwearied energy.
Lord Claud smiled in the moonlight as he replied:

"Oh yes, that is necessary. It is well to prove an alibi, if you
know what that is, good Tom. The honest folks where we come from
will swear that we and our steeds were abed all night over yonder;
but even if that should not be enough, there will be many who will
declare that if we did not leave St. Albans till past ten, we could
never be at the spot I am aiming for and back again before break of
day; and I shall take care to call mine host up betimes, so that
there will be plenty of evidence that I have not been abroad this
night."

Tom had heard often enough of the good understanding existing
between innkeepers and the highway robbers who infested the roads,
and now he began to see the workings of it, and to understand how
easy it made some of these excursions, and how difficult it must
afterwards be to obtain evidence against the freebooters. Lord
Claud's handsome person, his freedom of speech, and his
lavishly-spent gold, made him a favourite everywhere; and now he
seemed about to employ his fascinations of mind and body for other
purposes. Tom was to see how they served him in a different sort of
life.

The rapid pace at which they were travelling hindered conversation.
Tom would not easily have believed it possible to travel so fast by
night, but he trusted himself implicitly to the guidance of his
comrade; and the strong, mettlesome, sure-footed horse he rode
seemed to make nothing either of his solid weight, or of the
distance they had to go.

Presently Lord Claud drew rein. They were passing through a little
copse, where the light was but misty and indistinct, and where the
road made a sudden sharp turn almost at right angles, affording
complete shelter to any person or persons lying in ambush.

"Now, Tom," said Lord Claud, "this is the spot I have chosen. There
is a village not half a mile distant. The road is not a dangerous
or lonely one--this is the only little bit of wood for some
distance, and it is very small. No special precautions will
probably be observed. There are two horses laden with gold, under
the escort of two soldiers each. They had a larger guard to pass
through the wilder forest country, but some of the men were to turn
back when the perilous transit was made. Most likely one horse and
the two troopers will be a little in advance of the other. The
moment the leading horse rounds this corner we shoot down the men.
You need not kill your trooper, Tom--indeed, I never kill unless
there is need--it is enough to disable him. In a moment I shall
have possession of the horse and shall gallop off. But I shall only
possess myself of the treasure, and let the beast go. I have no
wish to be tracked by him. Now, if I am right in what I expect, the
second troopers, hearing the shots and their comrades' cries, will
believe themselves in peril of attack from a much larger gang, and
will instantly fly to save their skins. This is what happens in
five cases out of seven. It is seldom that a couple of men will
stay to face what they believe to be a desperate gang of
highwaymen. If this is so, dash you out upon the second horse.
Seize him, and follow me. I know every inch of the country, and
those fellows know nothing but the roads. They will never catch us,
even if they pursue. If, however, the second pair should prove
fellows of a stouter kidney, and instead of fleeing should show
fight, then leave the second prize and follow hard after me. We
will not risk too much, and one load will suffice for present
necessities, albeit I should like well enough to obtain the two. I
would make our ministers smart for their scurvy treatment of me!"

Tom grasped the situation in a moment, and set his teeth hard,
whilst the light of battle leaped into his eyes. The adventure
suited the reckless self-confidence which his recent life had
quickened. Why should he not in time become a second Lord Claud, a
man half feared, half admired by all London town, petted, made much
of, observed and copied wherever he went? That his calling was
suspected, if not actually known, Tom had abundant reason to know.
But it seemed rather to give a lustre to his reputation than to
cover him with shame. Why should he not attain in time to a like
pinnacle of fame and fortune?

Thus he mused, standing there in the softened moonlight, the fierce
and lawless strain in his nature for the moment in the ascendant,
the influence of his strange comrade dominant in his heart.

There was a sound at last. The horses heard it first and pricked
their ears. Next minute the riders heard it, too. It was the tramp,
tramp of horses' feet upon the road, coming on at a leisurely pace,
together with the jingling of arms and the sound of voices.

Tom's heart beat thick and fast, but his hand did not tremble as he
followed Lord Claud's example and got ready his pistol. Like two
figures carved in stone sat the two liers-in-wait, their
well-trained horses as motionless as themselves.

Crack! crack!

The silence of the night was broken by the ominous sound. A yell of
pain and fury arose. Two horses turned back rearing, and dashed
away, but the third was gripped by a strong hand; and before the
party behind could see a vestige of what was happening, two
riderless horses had galloped past them, throwing them into a panic
of confusion and terror.

Lord Claud had judged right in part. Thrown into confusion, the men
turned as if to flee, thinking themselves fallen amongst a large
band of robbers. Tom made a quick rush round the corner, seized the
second pack horse by the bridle, and dashed off in pursuit of Lord
Claud; but even as he did so he became aware that there were more
than the two troopers in the party, and in a moment the sound of
yells and cries behind him told him that he was pursued.

But he had proved the pace of the horse beneath him, and if he
could but possess himself of the bags upon the pack horse, and let
the slower-paced beast go free, he knew he could distance pursuit.
With a mighty effort he lifted the heavy bags and swung them over
his shoulders; but even at that moment he heard the crack of
firearms in the rear, and his good horse reared up perfectly erect,
and Tom had but time to slip off his back before the creature fell
over backwards, and lay still and dead.

Tom had another pistol, and even as he reached the ground he turned
round and fired full at the foremost pursuer. A cry of pain told
him his shot had found a billet in horse or man. But he could stay
for no more. Already his mask and wig had fallen off. The moonlight
struck full upon his face and the fine proportions of his figure.
He saw that there were half a dozen men spurring onwards in
pursuit; but he was full of that fury which gives to men an almost
superhuman strength.

Leaping upon the back of the pack horse, he spurred the maddened
and terrified animal to the wildest gallop, a gallop which he could
never keep up, but which for the time being distanced all pursuit.
Then when he had winded his own beast, and knew that the pursuing
horses must themselves be pretty well blown, he slipped from its
back and began running like a hare across country in the direction
taken by Lord Claud, knowing that however cleverly he might conceal
himself, he would not be far away, and that he would keep an eye
upon Tom's line of flight, and come up with him as soon as it was
safe to do so.

The sounds of pursuit died away. Tom looked back, and found himself
alone in the fields and copses. His quick turnings and doublings,
and the choice of ground difficult for horses, had served his
purpose well. He was safe, and he had his prize with him. His heart
swelled with pride at the success of his achievement.

In a short while up rode Lord Claud, cool and smiling.

"Well done, Tom; that was gallantly done. But we have lost one of
our good steeds, and you have lost your mask. I trust that none saw
your face?"

"It came off when the horse plunged and reared, and I was cumbered
with the moneybags," answered Tom. "Yet I doubt if any who saw me
would know my face again; the soot upon my forehead at least would
make it hard to be sure of the face. And none were very nigh at
hand."

"Give me the bags, and take you my stirrup, and we will wend our
way back as fast as may be. You can run like a hare, Tom, as I have
seen well. Can you run step for step with a trotting horse for some
few miles?"

"Try me and see," answered Tom, who was not a little proud of his
powers in this respect; and side by side through the misty summer's
night stepped man and horse, both unwearied and full of courage.
Once Lord Claud insisted upon dismounting and letting Tom ride for
a few miles; but for the most part it was Tom who trotted along
step for step with the horse, thinking over the events of the
night, and exulting in the triumph they had achieved.

They reached the inn outside St. Albans just as the dawn was
breaking in the east. Not a creature was stirring as they stabled
the horse and made their way into the house. Nor did they do this
until saddle and bridle and moneybags had been safely locked away
in the body of the carriage, which contained a cavity with a secret
door, the trick of which seemed known only to Lord Claud. Then they
went to their room, removed all traces of travel from their
faces--as Tom had removed them from the horse in the stable just
before--tied up their clothes in small compass, and got into bed
just as the first sound of life began to be heard in the house.

Almost immediately then Lord Claud called loudly for the host, and
bade him bring him instantly a hot posset, as he had had a touch of
ague in the night. There was a good deal of bustling to and fro
then, and servants passed in and out of the room, seeing both
travellers lying peacefully in their beds, as though they had slept
there all night.

Lord Claud wrote a short note at once, and handed it to the host
with a few whispered directions, to which the man replied with a
nod and a wink; and then he took his posset, turned round and slept
a while, and rose at the usual hour as though he had no reason for
desiring longer rest.

This day was spent as the previous one had been, in paying visits
and joining in fashionable amusements. The news that there had been
a robbery on the highway of some gold about to be shipped to
Holland for the troops excited a little commotion in the place, and
once or twice Tom fancied that he saw curious glances levelled at
himself and his companion. Lord Claud talked upon the subject with
his usual airy negligence, but without the faintest hint of
personal interest in the matter. Nor did he even "turn a hair" when
rumour reported that there was a very decided clue as to the
identity of one of the band, who had been recognized by some
travellers on the road, who were going in the same direction as the
troopers, and had assisted them in pursuing one of the robbers. The
man had escaped; but it was asserted that he was known and could be
sworn to at any time.

This was not pleasant hearing for Tom, but he showed a cool enough
front at the time. It was only when alone with Lord Claud that he
asked rather anxiously if he thought it could be true.

"I doubt it," was the reply; "it is a common thing for men to make
the boast, but it seldom proves correct. Was it true that there
were others besides the troopers on the road? I thought I saw more
figures than I looked for, but knew not whether all were soldiers
or not."

"There were others," answered Tom; "but I had no time to see what
manner of men they were. There was much shouting and cursing, and I
heard one man give an exultant laugh when I turned and fired; but
more than that I know not."

Lord Claud looked thoughtful.

"Well, Tom, it boots little to meet danger half way. 'Tis always
best to put on a bold front and set it at defiance. But this
remember, that Nell Gwynne shall be kept in readiness for you by
night and day. And if ever you have reason to seek to save yourself
by flight, the horse is yours; there will be money and a few
necessaries strapped to the saddle. Make your way incontinently to
Captain Jack, who may always be heard of at The Three Ravens; and I
will visit you there, and we will talk over the state of affairs."

Tom nodded, and looked a little relieved in mind; but he felt as
though a cloud hung over his spirit despite his attempts at defying
fate.

Next morning they started off in the carriage once more, and, to
Tom's astonishment, with (apparently) the same two horses. He
looked at his comrade for a moment in mingled surprise and
admiration. Lord Claud gave an odd little smile as he replied:

"It is always well to be provided against accident, good Tom. Half
the clever deeds of this world are rendered null and void because
men forget to look ahead. We shall see the same persons driving
back as we saw driving out. We must have the same steeds too, else
would that dead horse lying in the fields tell a tale we would
rather keep to ourselves."



CHAPTER XIV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.


Back in London, his pockets full of money, fine clothes upon his
back, and fine houses open to him when he went there in company
with Lord Claud, it was small wonder if Tom forgot his fears after
a few days of such a life, and was only rendered uneasy when
whispers reached him from time to time to the effect that the
authorities were hot upon the track of the daring highway robber
who had succeeded in making away with the Queen's gold.

A reward had been offered for the discovery and apprehension of the
miscreants concerned in the affair, and at first Tom had felt half
afraid to show his face in the streets by daylight. But after a few
days had passed by, and nothing had happened to arouse his
anxieties, he had taken heart of grace. Lord Claud's example of
nonchalance gave him coolness and courage; whilst the language and
behaviour of the fine folks with whom he came in contact helped to
dull and deaden any pangs of conscience which the wickedness of the
midnight raid might otherwise have occasioned him.

He saw perfectly well, from the glances of admiration and arch
reproof levelled at Lord Claud by the ladies in the gay company
which he kept, that his patron was suspected in many quarters of
being concerned in this recent robbery. Fine dames would tap him
with their fans, and ask him what he had been doing at St. Albans
on such and such days; and when he replied as to his whereabouts
with that easy grace of bearing which always characterized his
dealings with men and women alike, they would shake their heads,
flirt their fans, and call him by whimsical names incomprehensible
to Tom, but which he knew implied that he was suspected of being
concerned in very wild and lawless deeds.

Yet these suspicions on the part of the ladies raised this handsome
golden-haired Adonis to a higher pinnacle of favour than ever. It
seemed to Tom that so long as a crime was carried out with dash,
and verve, and success, it only brought a man fame and honour. He
shivered sometimes when he thought of his mother and sister, and
what they would think if they suspected that he had been led into
an open act of law breaking and robbery. But he felt a little
flattered in the society of these fine dames, when he saw that they
looked at him with interest and curiosity, and wondered if he had
played the part of lieutenant to their hero in the recent exploit.

He had been growing used to the strange ways of that portion of the
London world in which Lord Claud had his sphere, but even yet it
did seem strange, when he began to think about it, that a man
believed to be a notorious but exceedingly clever criminal, should
be received, courted, flattered, and made much of, as was Lord
Claud, just because of his handsome presence and dashing grace of
bearing, and because he had never been caught.

Tom wondered sometimes how these same faces would look at them,
were they to be carried in irons to Newgate; and he fancied that
under such circumstances they would wear a totally different
aspect.

But for the most part he sought to drown thought and reflection by
plunging into a vortex of gaiety. He was no longer laughed at as a
country bumpkin. He had been quick to pick up the airs of a man
about town. He dressed excellently, having toned down his first
fopperies; and finding that a rich and sober style best suited his
fine proportions, he adopted that, made his mark, and was treated
with respect and courtesy.

He had not learned the jargon of the day, and was a silent man in
company; but that was considered rather a distinguishing trait in
one who could handle the sword and lose his money at the gaming
tables with the aplomb that Tom had acquired. And a fine sum did he
lose, too, during the days that followed upon the escapade; for he
felt a sort of recklessness upon him, and as he had a sense of
being hunted down and tracked, he thought he might make the most of
freedom and wealth so long as they were his.

He was Lord Claud's guest for those days, feeling safer in his
company than elsewhere; and that worthy appeared not to know fear.
Indeed, he had succeeded in covering his tracks so well, that Tom
did not see how anything could be brought home to his door. It made
him think of words he had heard dropped before, to the effect that
to be Lord Claud's confederate was to be also his victim. He
wondered if there had been any truth in these insinuations, and
whether he was trusting in a man who was ready to save himself at
the risk of his friend.

It was difficult to believe this when in the company of his patron.
It was when alone that the doubts would at times assail him, and
therefore he was happier in the company of Lord Claud than in any
other.

He had not been to his old lodgings since his escapade. He felt an
odd sort of reluctance to facing honest Master Cale, and parrying
the questions which might be addressed to him. But he resolved not
to let a second Sunday pass without a visit; and upon the Saturday
he returned thither, dressed in his sober riding suit, and striving
to meet the welcome of his host with an air of unconcerned and
natural gaiety.

"Good Tom, you are welcome indeed!" exclaimed the perruquier
eagerly, taking him by the hand and drawing him within. "I have
been suffering no small anxiety upon your account, my lad. I trust
and hope without any cause."

Tom forced a smile, and hoped it was a natural one, as he asked
gaily:

"And wherefore this fear for me, good mine host?"

"There have been ugly whispers in the air ever since the robbery of
the gold on its way to Holland. Men will talk and wonder, and it
was known to all that Lord Claud had driven forth the day previous
northward from London, and that you were his companion. Men's
tongues have wagged for less than that, Tom, and for less weighty
matters."

The little man was scanning his guest's face somewhat earnestly.
Tom felt a most unwelcome qualm of shame and pain, such as he had
only experienced before when thinking of his mother and sister.

"Why, Master Cale, Lord Claud was but visiting his friends at St.
Albans, far enough away from where they say the robbery took place.
He will have no trouble in proving that he was never two miles from
St. Albans upon that night; and I was with him the whole time,
sharing his room and his company."

"Well, well, well," answered Cale, with a look of some relief, "I
would never willingly believe harm of any man. But there are more
strange tales flying about with regard to yon Lord Claud than about
almost any other man in town; and folks say that many a likely lad,
dashing and brave, has become confederate for a time with him, and
has then vanished no man knows whither. I would not that such a
fate should befall you, Tom."

A slight shiver ran through Tom's frame. He felt that there was an
ugly suggestion in these words. How easily might some disastrous
turn of fortune's wheel that other night have left him a victim
upon those fields instead of the gallant horse who carried him! How
skilfully and easily had Lord Claud played upon him, prompting him
to an act which a few months ago he would have shrunk from in the
greatest horror! There was something almost diabolic in the beauty,
the fascination, the cleverness, of the man. Tom made a resolution,
as these things flashed through his mind, that he would have no
more dealings with him, if this was what they led to. He even began
to doubt now whether it was true that he had applied in vain for
the reward promised them for their secret service expedition. It
might all be a part of a preconcerted plan, in order to cajole Tom
into thinking he had some sort of right to act as they had done
with regard to this money.

He began to feel doubts of everything now, and above all of
himself. Had he been made a tool of and a dupe? And was he walking
blindfold into a net ready for his feet?

He slept but restlessly upon his bed that night, revolving many
things in his mind, and almost resolving to see Lord Claud no more,
but to adopt a new method of life in this wonderful city, albeit he
scarcely knew what that life should be.

Tom's hot blood had been fired by the adventures of the past
months; his vanity had been flattered by the success which he had
met with; his self confidence (always rather too strong) had grown
and increased with great rapidity. He felt that without adventure
and peril of some sort life would be tame and flat. To live as
Master Cale lived, a quiet uneventful life of honest toil, seemed
repugnant to him. Even to do as Harry Gay did, and pass the time in
wandering between coffee houses and the play, or taking a wherry
and rowing hither and thither on the great river, or walking or
riding into the country--all this now seemed to him tame and
tiresome.

He turned and tossed upon his bed, wondering what had come to him,
and what life held in store for him. He thirsted for adventure, for
the excitements and perils which he had experienced of late. His
blood tingled at the memories he conjured up of those things he had
passed through--the strife of arms, the fierce joy of battle, the
breathless gallops from pursuing foes, and the hairbreadth perils
they had come through.

That was life! That was what he longed after! He cared little for
the gay resorts of town, save as an interlude. The life of the
streets soon palled upon him. But there was no attraction in the
thought of home and the peaceful existence there. He must see more
of the world, he must enjoy more of life, before he could ever
dream of going back to Gablehurst to live.

But what could he do? He fell asleep pondering upon this problem,
and when he awoke it was the first thought in his head.

But, as is so often the case when one has gone to sleep pondering
upon a problem, the solution had come to him during the hours of
unconsciousness, and he awoke with a new inspiration.

"Why not offer for the secret service?"

Tom pondered this question all the while that he was dressing.
There were difficulties in the way, of course. The Duke of
Marlborough--the only man to whom he could apply with any hope of
success--was out of the country; Tom knew not where he would be
found just now, though that could easily be ascertained. He himself
was ignorant of foreign tongues, although he had picked up a little
understanding of French, and could speak a few simple phrases. But
he had plenty of confidence in his strength and courage. He felt
that his energies demanded now a wider field of exercise; and if he
could but get his chance, he had full assurance that he would make
a brilliant name for himself in some way or another.

This idea brought back all his high spirits. He saw that it would
be necessary once more to consult Lord Claud, who would probably be
able to give him excellent advice. But after that, Tom told
himself, he would have no more dealings with that mysterious
personage, but would throw himself into the service of the great
Duke with such zealous goodwill as should lead him to fame and
fortune at last.

He had a feeling, also, that he should be happier out of London and
out of the country just at this juncture. Lord Claud's careless
indifference to consequences had had its effect upon him; but he
was not quite comfortable yet, and the feeling of being watched and
hunted for was an exceedingly unpleasant one.

He felt a distinct qualm of uneasiness that very morning as he and
his host sat at breakfast together.

"I am going to fetch Rosamund," said the perruquier, as the meal
drew to its close; "but if you will take my advice, good Tom, you
will not sally forth into the streets today."

"And wherefore not?" asked Tom.

"I misdoubt me that you are watched for here, Tom. It may be my
fancy, but several times during these past days I have seen
ill-looking fellows prowling nigh at hand--one or another of those
four bullies, of whose discomfiture Rosy has told me, and young
Harry also. Once the fellow they call Slippery Seal came boldly to
the shop asking news of you from the apprentice; but the lad had
the wit to reply that he thought you had ceased to lodge here.
Nevertheless I have seen one or another of them skulking about
since then, and it may be they will suspect that you may choose
today for a visit to us."

"And what do they watch me for?" asked Tom, with heightened colour,
but looking at Cale with an air of something almost like defiance,
though his heart misgave him the while.

"Nay, Tom, that is a question you should be able to answer better
than I. If there be no cause of offence against you, why, then, do
as you will, and go where you will. Yet men have ere now been haled
to prison and to the gallows for sins that have been less theirs
than those who set them on."

Tom's face was very grave. He was not afraid of adventure and
peril; but the thought of prison and disgrace--to say nothing of a
felon's death--seemed to paralyze the beating of his heart with a
numb sense of horror. Truly, if this sort of danger dogged his
steps, the sooner he was out of the country the better for himself!

But he would see Rosamund once more, and spend one happy day in her
company. If he went out into the streets, it had better be after
the summer dusk had fallen, when Cale took his daughter home. He
agreed, therefore, to remain within doors all that day; and he was
not sorry he had done so when presently he observed two of his
enemies slowly prowling past the house, scanning the windows
furtively, and talking together in very earnest tones.

Could it be possible that these men had been of the company
travelling with the troopers that night? Could they have got wind
in some mysterious way of what was afoot, and have followed to seek
his ruin? Tom had reason to know that these men bore him a grudge,
and had threatened revenge, and that they hated Lord Claud equally
with himself. Harry Gay had warned him that they were dangerous
fellows; and Tom had not lived all this while in London without
being well aware that there were ways and means of obtaining
information, and that every man had his price. If they suspected
him to be concerned in the robbery, they would take every possible
means to hunt him down.

Tom set his teeth as this thought came to him. To be the victim of
the spite of a party of low villains, who were only fit themselves
for the hangman's halter! The thought was not to be borne. Better,
far better, the life of the forest with Captain Jack! There at
least he would be free of this persecution; and perhaps the day
would come when he should find his foes at his mercy, and take his
revenge upon them!

A very little brooding of this sort sufficed to set Tom's hot blood
boiling. He had no wish to join himself with freebooters and law
breakers; but if they hunted him beyond a certain point, he would
not hesitate to fly to those who would give him safety and a
welcome. He had heard plenty of tales by this time of impoverished
gentlemen, disbanded soldiers, falsely-accused persons of all
sorts, who had been forced to fly to the freedom of the forest, and
live as they could. Since the days of bold Robin Hood there had
always been outlaws of the better, as well as the worse, sort. Tom
had no wish to throw aside his code of morality and honour; but if
men would not let him live as a peaceable citizen, they should
suffer for it!

To be cooped up in dusty streets amid hot brick walls during these
long beautiful summer days, was a thing not to be endured. Go he
would and must; and if he could not find work for himself in the
secret service, why not enter a secret service of another kind, and
teach the authorities not to hound a man too far?

This was Tom's method of reasoning--evading the question of his own
guilt by the excuse that he only took what was his by right. It is
easy to believe what one wishes to believe, and Tom had never found
it hard to persuade himself that what he desired was the best
course of action to pursue.

How cool and fresh the green glades of the forest would look in the
glancing June sunbeams! A good horse beneath him, the free skies
above, a trusty comrade at his side--what could be more pleasant?
Tom drew a deep breath and fell into musing thought. One thing was
very certain: he was in danger from those enemies of his. He would
take care not to be caught like a rat in a trap. He knew a better
way than that!

In musings such as these time swiftly fled away, and soon he heard
the voices of Rosamund and her father in the house below.

Rosamund greeted him with shining eyes, and a glance of keen
curiosity and soft admiration, which he found mighty pleasant. She
at least had not harboured unkind thoughts of him, and it was very
plain that he had become the hero of her girlish dreams. She wanted
him to tell her all that had befallen him since their last meeting.
She listened with eager, breathless attention to what he had to
say; and although he spoke nothing of the one event which was
always in his thoughts, it seemed as though she half suspected that
he had been the witness of, or the partaker in, some strange and
fearsome adventure, for the colour went and came in her cheeks, and
she seemed always waiting for more each time that he paused.

She asked in a low voice if he had heard anything of the bold act
of robbery; and Tom answered that he had heard a good deal. Coming
a pace or two nearer him, she looked wistfully into his face and
asked:

"Have they told you that there was one man of very goodly height,
strong of arm and stout of heart, who dropped his mask in the heat
of the fray, so that the moonbeams smote full upon his face, which
was only blacked above and below? Did you hear that news spoken by
any?"

"I think I heard that something of that sort had befallen,"
answered Tom as carelessly as his beating heart would allow.

"But oh, sir," she asked yet more earnestly, "did any tell you that
the tall bold robber was said to favour yourself? Indeed, some say
that it must surely be you--even though you were so far away!"

Tom looked as he felt, a little startled at that.

"How heard you that, Mistress Rose?"

"Harry Gay heard it in the taverns. It is the talk in some of them.
And he heard these four bad men, who were sworn to vengeance, as
that they have a halter about your neck already, and they only wait
till they have you safe to pull it tight.

"O Tom, Tom, do not let them do you this despite! Have a care, oh,
have a care how you fall into their hands, for they are without
mercy, and full of evil passions, and greedy for the promised gold.
They would swear any man's life away to obtain the reward; and how
much sooner yours, whom they hate!"

Tom felt a strange tremor run through him, half rage, with a dash
of fear, and some emotion sweeter than he had ever experienced
before, and therefore more strange. He suddenly found himself
clasping Rosamund's hands in his, and saying:

"Sweet Rose, would you care if hurt were to befall me?"

Her brimming eyes and quivering lips gave eloquent answer. He stood
very still, holding her hands clasped between his; and when he
released them, he answered with a new note in his voice:

"Have no fears, sweetheart. They shall not have me. I have plans
that will foil them yet. But think not too well of me, Rosamund. I
am not the hero you would make me out. I am a mad fellow, and have
played the fool once too often; but for all that they shall not get
me."

"Keep out of their clutches, and I care for nothing else!" cried
Rosamund, her eyes alight with excitement.

But they could exchange no more confidences, for Cale's voice was
heard summoning them to dinner; and after that meal they sat
together in the cool parlour, and passed the time in talk, having
no fear of being disturbed, for none knew of their being within.
Generally in summer weather Cale took his daughter for a long
ramble, and sometimes did not return to the house till after he had
left her at her aunt's house in Highgate.

The light slowly waned and faded. In the open country the day would
be bright for some while longer, but in narrow streets it went
faster. Down in the basement, where they had taken their supper, it
was growing quite dark, although no lamp had yet been lit. Cale was
just saying that he must take Rosamund home, and was debating
within himself whether it would be wise for Tom to accompany them,
when there was a sharp, determined knocking at the door, which made
Rosamund jump quickly up with blanching cheeks, whilst Cale threw a
startled look at Tom, whose face had grown suddenly set and pale.

"Open in the Queen's name!" cried a loud and authoritative voice
from without.

And Cale rose at that summons, for it was not one he might dare to
disobey.

The moment he was gone Rosamund sprang to her feet.

"Quick, quick! This way! There is a window at the back. I will let
you out, and bar it after you, and throw the key away. Come, I will
show you where!"

Tom sprang after her into a little back kitchen, the door of which
the girl promptly locked and barred behind them. The only other
outlet was a narrow window, fastened by a bar that could be locked
across it with a padlock. This she flung open, and disclosed to
view a narrow court beneath.

"Jump out," she cried; "run across, and you can easily scramble
upon the roof of yon low outbuilding. From thence you can creep
along into the lane at the back; and, if no one be watching, drop
down there and fly for your life. But if there be a spy set, then
climb up by the gutterings upon the roof--Harry Gay has done it
many a time--and you will find a hundred ways of outwitting them
and escaping down some back alley.

"O Tom, make haste! I hear angry voices in parley with my father.
He will detain them as long as may be. But be thou gone quickly.
Oh, do not delay!"

"I will not," answered Tom, with his hands upon the windowsill;
"and I thank you from my heart for your goodwill to me this night.
Give me one kiss, sweetheart, and bid me good speed. Pray Heaven
you have a welcome for me when you see me next!"

She kissed him with the tears standing in her eyes.

"I shall always have a welcome for you, Tom," she answered; "I
shall think of you always till I see you again. But oh, go! go now!
And Heaven prosper and be with you! Oh, they are coming! Delay no
longer!"

Tom was already outside the window, and now sped forth to do her
bidding. She saw him scramble up the rough wall of the building
opposite, and make his rapid way along, as she had said. She craned
out to see what he would do when he reached the corner, and watched
as he made a careful survey, and then dropped into the lane at the
back. She listened with all her ears, but there was no sound of
pursuit or struggle.

It had been as she hoped. No one had thought of that possible way
of escape. No doubt the back door of the yard was watched; but she
would never have sent him out by that.

Instantly she closed and barred the window, throwing the little key
away into the court below. Then she softly unlocked the door and
set it ajar, and began washing her dishes in the dim twilight of
the scullery, singing a little song to herself the while.

In the house above there was the sound of tramping feet and loud
voices. She heard her father say quietly:

"Her Majesty's warrant must be obeyed. Seek what you will, and take
what you will. I know nothing of any criminal. I have none such in
hiding here. I am an honest citizen, and have nothing to fear. Do
your will. I hinder you not."

The next minute Cale had come softly into the back kitchen, and was
exchanging a silent but meaning glance with his daughter.

He saw in a moment by her face that all was well. Tom had made good
his escape. The longer the search continued in the upper rooms, so
much the longer would the fugitive have to put distance between him
and his pursuers.

At last the feet came downstairs, and a lantern was flashed all
round the basement rooms.

"Here is a window!" cried one. "If the bar were down a man could
squeeze himself out. When was this window last opened?"

Rosamund looked up and said quietly:

"The key is lost. We cannot open it. What are you wanting in this
house, gentlemen?"

She spoke in a soft voice, and the rough fellows answered with more
gentleness.

"We are looking for one Thomas Tufton, your father's lodger, for
whose apprehension we hold a warrant. He was seen to enter this
house last night, and has not left it since."

"He left it a short time ago, in the dusk," answered Rosamund
indifferently. "But wherefore is he arrested?"

"We have sworn information that he was seen to be one of the men
concerned in the recent robbery of the Queen's gold. We have
testimony enough to hang him, if we can but lay hold upon him. Did
he say where he was going, mistress?"

"I think he spoke of Rotherhithe," answered Rosamund, after a
moment's reflection; "but I paid no special heed."

At this moment an impatient voice from the open door above cried
out:

"Why do you not bring him forth? He must be there still! What means
the delay? He can be an ugly customer, truly, but sure you have
mastered him by this!"

In a few minutes more Rosamund saw the ugly, shifty face of
Slippery Seal drawing near to them, and he was followed by another
of the same crew, peering eagerly this way and that, as though they
looked to see Tom pinioned in the midst of the group.

"Where is he?" they cried.

"Flown!" answered the others, with a touch of sullenness in their
voices. "You have led us a fine chase, truly; first to be made
fools of by that dashing young spark, whom it is not good to meddle
with, and then disturbing this honest citizen and his daughter!
Zounds! you drunken fellows, if you lead us this sort of dance we
shall believe no word you say again. I trow well that you were all
of you more than half drunk upon the night you professed to see
this thing done. How are we to know you are to be trusted in
swearing it was this young man at all? Master Cale speaks well of
him, and his word is worth twenty oaths from the likes of you.

"Goodnight, master; goodnight, mistress. I am sorry we disturbed
you on the testimony of these ill-living fellows."

Rosamund's heart beat high with joy and triumph. She felt she could
have kissed the burly officer of the law. But her bright colour
paled again as she heard the exclamation of Slippery Seal, prefaced
by a string of horrid oaths.

"He has escaped! These Cales are hiding him! But he shall not
escape us! We will not lose the reward. After him, I say, after
him, all of us! I know the tracks the fellow will make. It will go
hard if we get not up with him ere he has shaken the dust of London
from his feet!"



CHAPTER XV. AWAY TO THE FOREST.


Tom found no trouble in escaping from the house of the perruquier
by the way suggested by Rosamund; and once in the dusky streets, he
made good use of his long legs to carry him out of the vicinity of
danger.

He knew now that there must be a warrant out against him, and that
London was no place for him--that he must fly somewhere beyond the
reach of pursuit. He remembered Lord Claud's promise about the
trusty mare, Nell Gwynne. Well, he would go once more to this
strange friend of his, and see how he would stand by him in
danger's hour.

Tom's blood was up. He felt like a man goaded into recklessness and
crime by the action of others. If they would not let him live as a
peaceable citizen--well, he would give them something to remember
him by!

Quickly he made his way along, running like a hare when the street
was empty, but always observing caution, and only striding along
like a man in haste when there were passers by to note him. He felt
sure that Rosamund's quick wits would do much to gain time and give
him a start; and, sure enough, he reached the stable yard where
Lord Claud's horses were kept without a sign or sound of pursuit.

As luck would have it, there was the master himself standing in the
yard talking to his headman.

Tom strode straight up to him with a strange gleam in his eyes, for
he knew not even now whether this man were friend or foe.

"I am come for the mare," he said briefly; "you remember your
promise?"

Lord Claud gave him a swift, keen glance, as though he heard a new
note in Tom's voice.

"I do. I will not fail you," he said very quietly.

Then to the man standing by, "Bring out Nell Gwynne. You have your
instructions. See that nothing is forgotten."

The man vanished into the dark stable. Lord Claud turned to Tom.

"What has befallen?"

"There is a warrant out against me. They would have taken me in
Master Cale's house half an hour back, but for the shrewdness and
quick wit of his daughter. This is no place for me. My head is in
danger. I must forth with all speed; but whither?"

"I should take to the forest, Tom. Captain Jack will welcome you
gladly," said Lord Claud, as calmly as though discussing some
indifferent project. "It is just the life for you. You will make a
great name there. And that you will never do, my friend, in the gay
world of London."

"I have thought of that," said Tom between his shut teeth; "but it
means the life of an outlaw--and a death on the gallows, perchance,
to end it!"

"Pooh, nonsense! not for a fine strapping young fellow of your
thews and your wits! It means a few gay years of excitement and
peril, a little influence in high places, which can always be
bought with gold, and a free pardon and a return home. Leave that
part of the business to me. I have played the game often enough to
understand the moves. Meantime, you will be free and safe there.
Elsewhere, the gates of a prison may yawn for you at any moment."

Tom shivered in spite of the warm night air.

"Death rather than that! But is it the only way? I had thought the
secret service might find me some task."

Lord Claud shook his head slightly.

"In time, perhaps, in time; but you are too sorely beset at this
moment for that. We will talk of that later. Now you must away with
all speed. My house will be watched next. Indeed, I have had some
ill-looking fellows asking questions and hanging round already. To
the forest with you, good Tom, to the forest. That is the only safe
place for you now. If you fled to Gablehurst, you would only bring
sorrow and shame on all who love you. Lucky for you your mother
still reigns there. Leave it to me to set her mind, and that of
your sister, at rest concerning you. But you must to the forest, my
good comrade, and to the free and merry life there. Egad! I could
wish that I were going with you myself! Indeed, I may perchance
join you there ere long. But we must not vanish together, Tom. We
must use caution and circumspection."

Tom set his teeth, and a fierce wave swept over him, half of rage,
yet half of joy. The longing for freedom, struggle, adventure, was
strong upon him. The restraint of the city, the bare thought of
captivity, put wild thoughts into heart and brain; but the sense of
having been betrayed--made a tool of--befooled by this handsome,
imperious man beside him, set his blood boiling in his veins.

At that moment Nell Gwynne was led out, making sparks fly from her
feet as she plunged in passing beneath the doorway. She looked in
perfect condition--sleek, mettlesome, strong, and beautiful. Tom's
heart leaped at the sight of the splendid creature, who turned a
responsive head at the sound of his voice, and dropped her velvet
nose into his hand.

"She is yours, Tom, from this moment," said Lord Claud, signing
away the servant, and himself holding her head; "take her as the
gift of one who is neither so indifferent nor so callous as you may
think. Here is a purse of gold, too, Tom--all your own, my lad, so
shrink not from taking it. Tom, whatever be the end of this
friendship betwixt us, believe that I have loved you. It is my
luckless lot to bring misfortune at times to those who consort with
me; yet methinks they have their fierce tastes of joy, too. Tom, I
shall not forget you. I shall hear of you. I shall sometimes see
you; and I shall be your friend, whether or not you believe it now.
You shall not always need to dwell in the forest. You shall return
thence with fame and fortune secure.

"But, for the present, farewell. Captain Jack will give you
welcome. He will be looking to see you. He will welcome you gladly.
You will find it no such bad life, believe me. But delay not
longer. Be off!"

Tom was in the saddle, and the mare reared beneath him with a snort
of glad anticipation. She had done no work this many a day, being
kept in readiness for Tom's use, with only the needful modicum of
exercise up and down within hail of her stable.

Lord Claud stretched out his hand, and Tom put his within it. After
all, he loved this man in spite of all his faults and follies, and
the strange reputation which clave to him. He might be false, but
Tom had trusted him, and he desired to trust him to the end.

Then he rode forth in the soft summer darkness, turning the mare's
head westward at first, to get clear of the streets and houses, and
only heading her north and then east as he made a wide circuit of
the city.

To ride through it would have been to court capture; and even as it
was, as he sprang forward upon the better road which lay straight
for the forest to the northeast, he had a suspicion of being
followed, although he could see nothing as he looked back.

The mare bounded beneath him with great, elastic strides. He could
afford to laugh pursuit to scorn. Perhaps this confidence made him
careless, for he noted not two motionless figures, lying as it were
in ambush, one on either side of the road in front, just where a
clump of great trees threw a deep shadow across the road. He had
thought of foes following behind; but he had not thought of their
forestalling his movements and waiting for him in advance.

The mare saw them first, and swerved violently. That swerve most
likely saved her life, if not Tom's, for at that identical moment
two shots rang out, and Bully Bullen with a shout of triumph sprang
forward, certain that his bullet had found its billet, and that Tom
was in his power at last.

The fire long smouldering in Tom's breast burst out now into a
fierce flame. His eyes blazed. A smothered imprecation broke from
his lips. He drew the pistol from his belt, and fired full at the
fellow who had sought to seize the mare's rein.

He might almost have spared his fire, for Nell Gwynne would have
dashed out his brains with her forefeet had he not fallen with a
groan, a lifeless corpse. The other man, who had seemed about to
rush forward, too, now started back in terror and dismay.
Sheltering himself behind a tree, he yelled out in a voice of
trembling fury:

"You shall swing for this, Tom Tufton! you shall feel the halter
about your neck right soon! The highway robber who is a murderer to
boot will never escape the arm of the law! I will bring you to the
gallows ere I have done with you!"

Tom knew the voice, and turned the mare's head towards the fellow,
who, however, decamped so quickly amongst the trees that it was
hopeless to try and follow on horseback. Moreover, Tom did not know
that he was not also pursued from behind; and if so, he must gain
the friendly shelter of the forest ere his enemies came up.

True, he had but slain this fellow in self-defence. He had been
well-nigh the victim himself. But the crime thus forced upon him
seemed to cut the last cable which bound him to the life of the
past. They might not be able to prove upon him the robbery of the
gold, but at least one witness had seen him shoot down Bully
Bullen, and would doubtless swear that there had been no
provocation beyond that of seeking to take into custody a man upon
whose head a reward had been set.

He touched the mare with the spurs, and set her head straight for
the forest. The late moon was beginning to silver the world about
him; Tom saw the ground gliding ghostlike beneath him as the noble
creature sprang forward.

"Away to the forest! away to the forest!" seemed the tune beaten
out by the rhythm of her flying feet. No fear from pursuit now! Tom
sang and shouted in the strange tumult of his feelings, as he
galloped through the soft, scented night.

Lord Claud had been right. The forest was the place for him. He had
tried the life of the rustic, the life of the town exquisite; and
both had palled upon him. The clash of arms, the peril of the road,
adventure, battle, pursuit, victory--these things held him in
thrall. These things meant life to him.

Better that he should not see mother or sister again at present.
Better that Lord Claud should tell them some smooth tale, which
would set their minds at rest for a while. Later, perhaps, when the
hue and cry for him was over, he would seek the shore, would find
his way to other lands, and by the power of his good right arm
would win himself a name amidst the din of battle.

The future seemed to unfold itself before him in glowing colours.
Life held so many golden possibilities even yet. What might not a
man accomplish who had a purse of gold in his belt, a noble horse
beneath him, a trusty sword at his side?

Visions rose before his eyes of the things he would accomplish, the
fame he would acquire, the return home he would finally make with
laurels round his brow! Even here in the forest he would be no
common freebooter. He would show himself merciful to the poor and
oppressed; he would only take toll of the sleek and the fat, whose
wealth was doubtless as ill-gotten as that of those whose lives he
had watched of late.

"Men shall pay toll to Tom Tufton!" he cried, waving his sword
above his head in a fierce gesture of triumph; "but the poor and
the needy shall bless his name, and the oppressed shall find a
haven of refuge with him!"

By which it may be seen that Master Tom's self confidence was in no
way diminished by the vicissitudes through which he had passed, and
that he was looking forward once again to playing a leading part in
some new drama of life.

The border of the great forest loomed up before him. It looked dark
and solemn beneath the shade of the trees. Tom drew rein, and
looked keenly to right and left, for he knew that The Three Ravens
inn could not be far away.

"Who goes there?" asked a voice which Tom's quick ear recognized
instantly; and he cried out in tones of eager welcome:

"It is I, Tom Tufton--and you are Captain Jack!"

There was a movement of the brushwood, and a horseman stepped out,
the horse having given an eager whinny at the sound of Tom's voice.

"It is Wildfire!" cried Tom, bending over to pat the sleek neck of
his old favourite. "Well, good fellow, have you had a luckier
career than your old master? And yet I scarce can say I wish it
undone. I have tasted life; I have had my glorious days.

"Captain Jack, I am come to you for shelter. There is a price on my
head. I am outlawed in effect if not in reality."

"I have heard it. I expected you," answered Captain Jack in the
friendly fashion in which he had spoken before to Tom. "I have had
news from Lord Claud. It is not the first time he has sent his
pupils to me."

"Have I been his pupil?" asked Tom with a half laugh; "in sooth,
methinks I have been rather his dupe!"

"A little of both," was the answer. "But we must all pay the
penalty of friendship with great men. Yet I think the price is
worth the paying. And now, Tom, if that grand horse of yours is as
little weary as she looks, let us forth together to some place
where none may follow us. And let me tell you that it is not to
every one Lord Claud would present his favourite mare, trained like
a human creature for her trade."

"You know her?" asked Tom eagerly.

"Nell Gwynne and I have been acquainted this many a day. There be
some of her fierce tricks that have been learned from my hand. I
have been teaching the same to Wildfire and Wildgoose. We shall not
be taken or overcome through lack of good beasts to bear us, Tom."

"You have Wildgoose, too?"

"Yes, I sent after him shortly. He was too grand a beast to be
wasted upon a varlet of a serving man. If you have more of the same
stock at home, Tom, we might make shift to get at them anon; but
for the present we are well enough mounted."

They rode side by side through the forest tracks, Nell Gwynne and
Wildfire making acquaintance with apparent mutual satisfaction as
they stepped pace for pace together, their riders talking in quiet
fashion over their heads.

Tom told the whole story of his adventures since arriving in London
in October; and hard indeed was it to believe that months and not
years had rolled over his head during that time.

"Not bad, not bad! Well done for a young cockerel! Ah, we shall
make a man of you, Tom! It is in your blood, I can see well!"

Such were the comments of Captain Jack as he heard the tale; and
Tom spoke with an unconscious pride in his own daring, which
plainly betokened an undaunted spirit and a thirst after more
adventure and distinction.

Angry and hot against those who had "driven him forth," as he
called it, reckless of consequences, with boundless self
confidence, he was just the tool fit for the hand of Captain Jack,
who patted him upon the back in a friendly fashion, and said:

"Yes, yes, Tom, you shall learn how to take toll. We will have
another story of Tom Tufton's Toll ere we part company. There are
good men enough amid the bands that infest these forest glades--men
suffering unjustly, men falsely accused, men who have broken from
those noisome prisons, which breed disease and death, and who would
sooner put a bullet through their head than return to the filth and
degradation of such a life. Ah, it is the hardness of the laws
which drives men to be freebooters on the road! The rich may fatten
and batten, rob, cheat, bleed their fellows to death; but let one
of us lesser men dare to lay hands upon their fat purses, full of
other men's gold, and we are branded as felons, and pay the ransom
with our lives! That is not justice. That is not to be borne
patiently. I tell you, Tom, that I have seen enough of the
injustice of the law to turn my heart to molten metal and my blood
to gall. We want fellows of your mould to wage the war and win the
victory. The day may come when you will win for yourself a great
name, and shine forth upon the world admired, courted, feared--even
like Lord Claud!"

A thrill of gratified vanity ran through Tom's frame. He threw to
the winds the last scruple of conscience. He flung back his head
and set his teeth.

"Ride on--I follow!" he cried, in a strange, hoarse voice; "I
follow unto the world's end!"

So side by side the two men vanished into the deep gloom of the
forest; and Captain Jack led his companion to one of those secret
haunts of his own, where no pursuing foot had ever yet penetrated.
Tom drew a long breath as of relief, feeling that here at least he
was safe.

And yet, when he sought to compose himself to rest after all the
excitements of the past four-and-twenty hours, he found himself
unable to sleep. The face of his mother, loving, wistful,
reproachful, seemed ever rising before him. Was it not due to her
that he should see her once again, even though he might be
afterwards obliged to fly back to the forest? Was there not a
chance--just a chance--that his enemies might not follow him to his
own home?--might not even know where that home lay? At least, might
he not see whether he was followed before he abandoned the idea of
seeing once more the mother and sister who loved him so well?

With the first light of dawn he woke up Captain Jack, and put the
case to him; and the elder man sat cogitating deeply, as Tom moved
about making ready the morning meal.

"Tom, lad," he said, "you are safer here; but I understand your
feelings. A man's first duty is to his mother if he have no wife.
And your mother is a good woman. Squire Tufton would never have
married her else.

"Listen to me, my lad. I like you. I would fain have you for a
comrade and friend; and I fear that you will not long be left in
peace at home. But you shall do this thing. You shall go to your
mother--"

"Ah, that is a good word!" cried Tom, now all eagerness. "I shall
at least see her once again!"

"Yes, you shall see her again; you shall make glad her heart. But,
Tom, tell her nothing of all this that has befallen you, nor of the
peril in which you stand. Let her never know, come what will, that
you may be driven to take to the forest, for fear of the unjust
rigour of the law and the machinations of unscrupulous foes."

"I would gladly be spared paining her by such a tale," said Tom
quickly; "but how--"

He paused, and Captain Jack took up the word.

"I know what you would say. How if you have suddenly to fly again?
How if aught should come to her ears? Now listen, Tom, and I will
tell you what I will do. I loved your father. I vowed in my heart
that if ever the day should come that I could serve him, I would do
so; and therefore I will do what I can for his son. Hear me, Tom. I
have means of knowing many things. I can set my scouts to work.
Therefore, go you home to your mother. I will meantime set my men
to the task. I will communicate with Lord Claud. If peril threaten,
you shall have warning. Tell your mother that the Duke of
Marlborough may have need of you again for the secret service, and
that at any moment you may be forced to quit the house suddenly and
secretly. Having made her understand that, enjoy your stay at home
with a free heart. I will undertake that you have four hours' start
of any pursuing foe. If you receive message or token from me--or
from Lord Claud--you will know what to do. Take your horse, set
spurs in her flanks, and draw not rein till you find yourself here
once more. Note the road as you fare forth, and return by it again.
You will find safety here--and a friend. This do, and you shall
meantime be safe."

Captain Jack had some of Lord Claud's power of commanding
confidence; and, indeed, in this case Tom felt a greater sense of
security in the promise of this highway robber than in that of his
mysterious friend and leader in London.

"I will go," he said. "I believe you. I take you at your word. I
will return home to my mother and sister, and rejoice their hearts.
And there will I abide till I receive your message; after which I
will fly back to the forest. Captain Jack, I have that within me
which tells me that I shall come back--that my adventures are not
ended yet. But let me once more go home to those I love, and I ask
nothing more."

"You shall go, Tom Tufton, you shall go. A mother's happiness and
her blessing are not things to be lightly thrown away. Go, and I
will keep watch. Till you hear from me, you are safe."

So Tom rode away in the gray light of dawn, and quickly finding
himself in familiar haunts, put spurs to his good steed, and before
noon found himself close beside the village which had been his home
all his life till this past adventurous year of travel.

As he went clattering up the long avenue to the house, it seemed to
him as though the birds of the air must have been at work; for
there was his mother standing upon the steps to receive him, whilst
Rachel was running towards him with flying feet.

"O Tom, Tom, Tom! we knew it could be no one but you! O dearest
Tom, so you have come home at last!"

He swung himself from the saddle, and put his arm about his sister.

"Yes, I have come home," he said a little huskily, "come home to
see you all once more. The old place never changes--nor you and my
mother!"

"Why should we?" asked Rachel softly.

And he kissed her again, with a strange feeling of the unreality of
everything human.

The servants were flocking out by this time. His mother's arms were
outstretched in welcome. There was something like a sob in Tom's
throat as he felt them clasped about his neck.

"My dear, dear boy--my only son! Thank God that you have come
safely through all threatened perils, and have come home to us
again!"

Tom held her close in his arms. He would not speak a word to dash
from her those fond hopes which she so plainly cherished. He would
not speak of the peril overshadowing him, which might at any moment
become imminent.

"It is good to be home, mother!" he said, and kissed her many
times.

The servants raised a cheer for the young Squire. Tom turned and
smiled at them, and spoke a few words of thanks. How familiar it
all was! How had he ever despised the love of the people round him,
and of those two faithful women who loved him so truly and so well?

"Dear mother," he said tenderly, "you are so much better to me than
ever I deserve; I will try to live to be a comfort to you some day.
I have given you little but sorrow and pain as yet."

"Nay, Tom, you have served your country, and that should satisfy a
mother's pride. Come in, my son, and tell us your adventures. You
have seen foreign lands and fine folks since last we met. Come and
tell us all about it, as you rest and refresh yourself from your
journey."

So Tom gave one last look round at the eager faces grouped about
the door, and turned into the great hall with a smile and a sigh.
It was very like a dream, this eager welcome, and these familiar
sights and sounds. The sense of insecurity which hung over him made
everything seem unreal, and yet in one way dearer to him than ever
before.

"Yes, this is home!" he said to himself, as be turned to follow his
mother; "my travels are ended. I have come home. Whatever may
betide in the future, I am safe at home now!"

If any reader desire to know the sequel to Tom Tufton's story, and
how he took toll on the king's highway, that story shall be told
another day. For the present his travels had terminated, and he was
beneath his own roof tree--a sadder and a wiser man than he had
sallied forth.

THE END.








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