They left the weir very early the next morning, after a breakfast from the cold ham which Mrs.Avory had bought them at Stratford.On their way through the village they stopped at Salford Hall, because Hester and Gregory had had an argument as to whether or not it was possible to hear the breathing of the person in the hiding-hole.The farmer allowed them to go upstairs and try, and, as it happened, Hester was right, and you could hear it, if you had patience.Gregory came out again as purple as a plum through holding it in so long.
Then they said good-bye to the farmer and strode on through Harrington and Norton, and a little beyond this Robert took those that cared about it to see the obelisk on the site of the Battle of Evesham, at which Simon de Montfort was killed in 1265.And so they came through the orchards of plum-trees, on which the fruit was now forming, to Evesham itself.
It was while they were walking through Evesham, beside or behind the Slowcoach, in the middle of the road, that Janet felt a hand on her arm, and, looking round, perceived a very small and very neat and very anxious little servant maid.
"Please," she said, "Miss Redstone, my mistress says, will you all step into her house and partake of refreshment, and do her a very great favour?"Janet could hardly believe her ears.
"All of us!" she exclaimed.
"Yes," said the little servant, "all, please."Janet thought very hard for a moment or two.Who was this Miss Redstone?
What would Mrs.Avory do under the same circumstances? she was asking herself."Which house?" she inquired at last.
"That one," said the little anxious servant, pointing to the neatest and brightest little house you ever saw, with dazzling steps and a shining knocker, and a poor little pathetic face peering hopefully over the blind.
The pathetic little face settled it."All right," Janet said at once, and, calling the others together and telling Kink to wait for them outside the town, she led them in.
They were shown into a tiny and spotless parlour, with woolwork footstools, where after a moment or so they were joined by Miss Redstone, the little old lady whom Janet had seen at the window, but whose face was now smiling and contented.
"You must think me very strange, my dears," she said, "but I will explain.
I am Godfrey Fairfax."
A dreadful silence fell on the room.The children looked at each other shamefacedly, and almost in fear, for they thought the little old lady must be mad.
As for her, she again looked the picture of woe."O dear," she said, "is it possible that none of you have ever even heard of me! Surely one of my stories must have found its way to your house?""Do you write stories?" Janet asked.
"Yes, I have written lots, but I'm afraid they don't sell as they ought to.
Of course, Godfrey Fairfax is not my real name; it is just the name I take as a writer, because people prefer that books should be written by a man rather than by a woman.I am really Miss Redstone.Why I called you in was to ask if you would be so very kind as to sit down and have some cake and milk while I read you my last story--quite a short one--and you can tell me what you think of it.There are so few children that I know here, and it makes such a difference to get some real criticism.Do you mind?"They all said they didn't mind at all, and after the cake and milk had been brought in by the little servant, Godfrey Fairfax cleared her throat and began.
"It is a story," she said, "of Roundheads and Cavaliers--a very suitable story to write here, so close to the battlefields of Tewkesbury and Marston Moor.It is called 'Barbara's Fugitive.' Now listen, my dears."BARBARA S FUGITIVE
On a bright June morning, early in the Protectorate, Colonel Myddelton, followed by a groom, rode through the gates of the old Hall and turned his horse's head towards London.At the bend in the road, halfway up Sheringham Hill, he stopped a moment and waved his hand in the direction of the house.
A white handkerchief fluttered at an upper window in reply.
"My poor lonely Barbara!" said the Colonel, smiling tenderly as he passed again out of sight of his daughter.
"Dear father!" said Barbara, as the Colonel disappeared from view.She did not, however, at once leave the window, but remained leaning out, with the warm touch of the sun on her head, drinking in the morning sounds.
The village, half a mile distant, was just visible to Barbara through the trees--red-roofed, compact, the cottages gathering about the church like chickens round the mother hen.On a summer day like this anyone listening at the Hall could hear the busy noises, the hum of this little hive of humanity, with perfect clearness; the beat of the hammer on the anvil in Matthew Hale's smithy, the "Gee, whoa!" of the carter on the distant road, the scrunching of the wagon-wheels, the crowing cocks, and now and then the shouts of boys and the laughter of children.These audible tokens of active life were a comfort to Barbara.A moment before, on parting with her father, she was aware of a new and disturbing loneliness, but now she felt no longer with the same melancholy that she was solitary, apart from her fellows.
It was the time when the country was divided between the followers of the Throne and the followers of Cromwell; the time when sour visages, who were for the moment in the places of authority, glowered beneath black hats, and the village games were forbidden; the time when Royalist gentlemen dropped a crumb into their wineglasses after dinner, and, looking meaningly at each other, tossed off the red liquor, saying fervently as they did so, "God send this CRUMB WELL down." But actual fighting was over, and the country on the surface peaceable again, although a word often was sufficient to draw forth steel among the high folks or set an inn full of villagers to fisticuffs.There was not a Royalist in the country but awaited the moment when he could strike another blow to avenge his dead master and reinstate his young Prince.Among these loyal gentlemen Colonel Myddelton was not the least.
