CHAPTER I.

JACK'S GHOST.

IT was nearly two mouths after the battle of Sedgemoor, which was fought on the 6th of July, 1685, between the forces of James the Second, King of England, and those of the Duke of Monmouth, his illegitimate nephew, who laid claim to the crown. Monmouth was without the shadow of right upon his side, and was utterly unsupported, save by a few political exiles and adventurers as reckless as himself. He had hoped that as soon as he landed, the gentry of the western counties would flock to his standard, but in this he was mistaken. Nobody joined him but the country people, and a few prominent dissenters who were misled by their hatred of popery and their dread and dislike of the reigning king.

After some weeks of aimless marching and counter-marching, of foolish proclamations and senseless quarrels among themselves, the forces of Monmouth encountered those of King James upon Sedgemoor, not far from Bridgewater in Somersetshire, and were utterly defeated, though most of his raw, undisciplined troops behaved with the greatest bravery, resisting to the very last, even after they were abandoned by their leader. Monmouth fled, but was soon taken, carried to London, tried, and executed.

No one could blame King James for putting Monmouth to death. He had been guilty of high treason in taking up arms against the government, and had justly forfeited his life. But nothing could excuse the barbarous cruelty exercised toward his followers, almost all of whom were simple country people, who had been influenced chiefly by personal attachment to the duke. In Somersetshire alone two hundred and thirty persons were put to death. Their bodies hung in chains, or their heads and mangled corpses, hoisted upon poles, poisoned the air of every market-place and village-green in the County. One poor half idiot, who had been long supported by charity, was treated in this way. And two aged women, one in Hampshire and one in London, were sentenced to be burned alive, merely for sheltering and assisting with food and money some of the wretched fugitives. Both were persons of the best character, noted for their piety and their active benevolence. By the urgent intercession of certain of the king's own party, the sentence of Alice Lisle was changed from burning to beheading, but Elizabeth Gaunt perished in the flames, meeting her death with a patience and courage worthy of an ancient Christian martyr.

At the time when my story commences, Master David Evans lived near a little hamlet called Holford, about nine or ten miles from Bridgewater. He was a yeoman, that is to say, he farmed his own land, which had belonged to his family for several generations. Master Evans had received more education than most of his neighbors, even those of higher rank than himself, and possessed what in that time and place was esteemed quite a library, that is to say, he had besides his great Bible and Prayer-book, "The Whole Duty of Man," Foxe's "Martyrs," and a couple of odd volumes of Hackluyt's "Voyages." He was not rich, for his land was none of the best, and scientific farming was unknown in those days. But he had always enough and to spare, and no poor person applying to him for help was sent empty away. His principal profits were derived from his orchards and cider presses, for which then as now Somersetshire was famous, and from the horses he raised for the London market.

His elder son had been apprenticed to a shipwright in Bristol, and was now in business for himself. The younger was captain of a fine vessel sailing from the same port, while his wife Magdalen lived with her father-in-law, kept his house, and attended to the dairy and poultry yard.

Magdalen belonged to a good Devonshire family, which had sent more than one confessor to the rack and the stake in the time of Queen Mary, and had borne a good share in the naval exploits by which the men of Devon rendered themselves famous during the next glorious reign. Magdalen herself was a woman of a grave and earnest spirit, scrupulously exact in the performance of all daily duties, kind and considerate to those about her, and thoroughly imbued with that spirit of religious devotion which had sustained her great-grandmother amid the fires of Smithfield. She had two children. Jack was a sturdy boy of twelve, with a great aptitude for fishing, birds'-nesting, and riding on horseback, and an equal disinclination for learning of any sort, together with a marvellous capacity for tearing his clothes, blackening his eyes, and getting into scrapes generally. Winifred was nearly three years older, and very much resembled her mother, both in mind and person.

Master Evans had been in no way concerned in the Rebellion. He was not given to politics at any time, and he looked upon the Duke of Monmouth's adventure with equal dislike and contempt. He was a constant and devout church-goer, and even his great high-tory neighbor, Sir Edward Peckham, could find no other fault with him than that he dispensed his charities to churchman and dissenter alike, which however was equally true of the vicar of the parish and the Bishop of Bath and Wells, the learned and excellent Doctor Ken.

But it did not follow of course that Master Evans was in no danger during the bloody proscription which followed the battle of Sedgemoor. A great many persons as innocent as himself had been put to death by the monster Jeffreys and the almost equally wicked soldiers Kirke and Faversham. He could not go to the parish church on Sunday without seeing over the porch the ghastly head of his kind old neighbor and friend Master Oldmixon, who had been hung for no other crime than that of having been in Bridgewater bargaining for the sale of his cheese on the day before the battle, and taking off his hat to the Duke of Monmouth as he passed by. Another neighbor had sold eggs and cider to certain of the duke's officers, and for this offence he was hung in chains at his own house-door. But Master Evans had thus far escaped persecution, and as he was not rich enough to excite the covetousness of the king's officers, he began to hope he should go entirely free.

It was about two weeks after the conclusion of the Bloody Assizes, as they have ever since been called, that Jack Evans was going across the field with a basket in his hand, containing some meal, a large piece of cheese, and sundry other provisions which his mother had sent him to carry to a poor widow. Old Dame Sprat lived in a hovel on the edge of a waste, swampy plain, partly overgrown with bushes and reeds; and to reach her hut, it was necessary to pass through a certain thicket called the Black Copse, which bore no good name. Strange sounds had been heard, and strange lights seen glancing among the trees. Nay, it was solemnly declared that the place was haunted by a black horse without a head, which spoke with a human voice.

All country people were superstitious at that time, and Jack was no wiser than his neighbors in this respect, while the terrible incidents and horrible sights of the last few weeks had filled the country with ghost stories. However, his mother had commanded, and there was nothing for it but to obey. The afternoon was warm and sunny, and the hazel-nuts were ripening in the hedges. And besides, Jack, who was really a kind-hearted boy, pitied the poor lonely old woman who had no one to care for her. So he went along cheerily enough, sometimes whistling, sometimes singing an old ballad or some sea-song which he had learned from his father. He was passing through his grandfather's barley field, and had nearly reached the stile at the further end, when he noticed with surprise that two or three of the barley sheaves had fallen down, and were lying partly unbound and scattered upon the ground.

"Who has done that?" said he to himself. "I wonder if the gypsies have been turning their asses into the field again? However, the sheaves must not be left like that, for I think it is coming on to rain, and they will all be spoiled."

So saying, he put down his basket and set himself seriously to the business of restoring the fallen barley to its place. It was not an easy task to accomplish alone, but Jack was both strong and skilful for a boy of his age, and he knew how important it was that not a grain of this precious barley should be lost: so he persevered, and at last succeeded in putting matters to rights.

He was just fastening the band of the last sheaf, when he heard a sound which made him spring to his feet, with hair bristling and eyes almost starting from his head. It was a deep groan, as of a person in great distress. He listened, trembling in every limb. Presently, he heard it again, and then a faint, hollow voice, speaking, as it were, out of the ground.

"My good lad!" it said.

Jack waited to hear no more. If truth must be told, he was at all times an arrant coward, and the horrible events of the summer had made him afraid of his own shadow. He thought no more of basket, barley, or Widow Sprat. Terror lent him wings, and he never paused to look round or breathe till he burst into the kitchen, where his mother and grandfather were sitting, and fell flat on the floor. It was some time before he could speak so as to be understood, and then he told a terrible tale of groans, and voices speaking out of the ground, of clattering hoofs pursuing him, and a white spectre as tall as a chimney which waved its arms over his head. He could give no account of the basket, and he declared, in his distress, that he would not go to the Black Copse again, no, not if they killed him. Indeed it was plain enough that to send him back would be to endanger his reason if not his life.

"I cannot tell what to do!" said Dame Magdalen, very much perplexed. "Your grandfather is ill with rheumatism, and the men are all away. My ankle is so lame with the sprain I got yesterday, that I can hardly make shift to go about house, and Jenny and Priscy would either of them be as bad as Jack himself. I fear the poor old dame will suffer for want of food."

Both the maids declared that they could not and would not go near the Black Copse that night for all the world. And Jenny added, "Not for King Monmouth himself, God bless him!"

"Hush, fool!" said Master Evans, sternly. "There is more danger in one such speech as that than in all the ghosts in Somersetshire. Let me never hear the name of that unhappy man spoken under my roof!"

Jenny was careful to put the dairy door between herself and her master before she muttered that King Monmouth would come to his own yet, in spite of them all.

"As for you, Jack, you had better take your supper, and then go to bed and sleep off your fright, which I dare say has not taken away your appetite," said Master Evans. "I do not know what you will do, Magdalen. I fear the poor woman must go supperless to bed."

"I will carry the basket to Dame Sprat!" said Winifred, who had sat all this time in the chimney-corner without speaking a word.

"You, Winifred!" said her mother, surprised. "But will you not be afraid?"

"No, mother, I do not think there is any danger," replied Winifred.

"Oh, you are wondrous brave, Miss Winifred!" said Jack, not very well pleased. "Just wait till you hear the headless horse speaking to you—that's all!"

"It would be so strange to hear a horse speak at all that I do not think his not having a head would make much difference," replied Winifred, slyly. "Are you sure it was a horse which followed you, Jack, or did you only hear the clattering of your own shoes?"

Jack muttered something about girls thinking they knew more than any one else, and followed Jenny into the dairy, that he might enlarge upon his adventure to a more credulous listener.

"Then you do not believe in Jack's goblins, Winifred?"

"No, mother. I have noticed before that when Jack is frightened, he can never see anything as it really is. I suppose the ghost was the old dead tree in the copse, which he has seen a hundred times before, and the groans he heard were the creaking of the branches, or perhaps the old red cow who is always grumbling to herself. I remember when I had the fever, how the dame sat up with me and told me tales all night when I could not sleep, and how she made cool drinks for me, and baskets of rushes. I always thought I should like to do something for her in return."

"But if you should meet any of the soldiers, Winifred?"

"There are no soldiers in the neighborhood now, mother," said Winifred. "Dame Hodges has just come from Bridgewater this morning, whither she has been to see her poor son, and she tells me the soldiers have all gone away to some other place, with the chief-justice. She went to bid poor Simeon farewell, but she was not allowed even to see him."

"Lord have mercy on him, poor creature!" said Dame Evans. "He had hardly sense to tell his right hand from his left. I do not believe he even knew upon which side he was fighting. But, daughter, if you are frightened, what will you do? It is a long way from any house."

"I will say my prayers or sing a psalm, mother," replied Winifred, simply. "I think I ought to go," she added. "I think it would be but right. None of us have been near the dame for some days, and she may be starving."

"Give her the basket and let her go, Magdalen," said the old man. "She has the spirit of thy great-grandmother the martyr. May the blessing of God go with thee, child!" he added, laying his hand upon her head. "I will trust Him to bring thee safe back again, but make no further delay, for it is waxing late, and the days are shorter than they were."

"And, Winifred, you may take this bottle of milk for the old dame, and give a look for the other basket as you pass the white elm. It will doubtless be standing somewhere about."

Winifred was soon on her way with her bottle and a second basket well filled. It may seem strange that she was so ready to undertake the task, but Winifred Evans was no common child. She came of a race of heroes and confessors, and it seemed as if she had inherited her character from them. Quiet and retiring as she ordinarily was, hardly ever speaking unless when spoken to, and preferring her book or her own thoughts to any kind of play, she was never known to show a particle of fear. Gentle, patient, and ever ready to yield to the wishes and opinions of others, in matters where right and wrong were concerned she was inflexible.

Winifred's library was not a large one. There was no Sunday-school library in those times with its weekly supply of story-books—no magazine or illustrated newspaper. Her books were few, and those of a character which I fear would hardly attract many of my young readers. Her favorite volumes were the Bible, the "Book of Martyrs," and an odd volume of Mr. Edmund Spenser's "Faerie Queene," which her father had bought for her in Bristol. Besides which she read aloud now and then to Mrs. Alwright in Hall's "Chronicle" and Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia." But the very fact that Winifred had access to so few books made her prize more dearly and study more attentively those she had. Over the first of these especially she pondered for hours in the intervals of her daily tasks, strengthening her spirit and feeding her imagination with the glorious truths of the one and the beautiful tales of heroism and virtue in the others.

In other circumstances she might have become a mere luxurious dreamer and castle-builder, living in a world of her own fancies, to the neglect of real duties, but no such result was possible under the sensible and energetic training of Dame Magdalen Evans. Ever since Winifred had been able to run alone, she had had a regular round of daily duties laid upon her, for the performance of which she had been held strictly accountable. The chickens must be fed, the eggs collected, the daily task of spinning and knitting duly performed. And the little girl was taught to hallow these daily and commonplace toils by a spirit of religious consecration.

Dame Magdalen early made her daughter her assistant in those works of charity and mercy which were the delight of her own heart, and Winifred was at all times a welcome-visitor in the cottages of their poor neighbors, who looked upon her as a kind of saint. She shrank from no toil, however disagreeable, which would benefit others, and she sometimes undertook tasks from which elder people shrank in dismay.

It was she who first gained access to Dame Oldmixon, as she sat alone in her darkened cottage, distracted with grief and terror after the horrible death of her husband, and at first by tears and caresses, and then by whispered prayers and verses of Scripture, had quieted the poor creature and persuaded her to take some food and try to sleep. It was she who by long and careful searching had recovered little Willie Higgins' silver sixpence, just as the child had given up the quest in despair, and was going home to the whipping he was pretty certain to receive.

It was Winifred who penetrated to the awful presence of Sir Edward Peckham himself, to beg off the herd-boy who was about to be sent to jail for robbing the heron's nest of eggs and feathers; in which enterprise she succeeded so well that she not only saved the lad from punishment, but was presented with a new silver piece by Sir Edward himself, and regaled with sweetmeats by my lady, besides obtaining the inestimate privilege of coming twice in every week, and sometimes oftener, to take lessons in fine work and confectionery of Lady Peckham's waiting gentlewoman, Mistress Alwright. Finally, it was Winifred who read the delinquent herd-boy such a lecture on the enormity of his guilt in robbing the herons, that he blubbered over it for an hour, and promised never again to take what did not belong to him.

This very day she had been to visit poor Dame Hodges in her affliction, and had thus heard the news of the departure of the soldiers from Bridgewater.

Winifred walked briskly along, now watching the rooks, which were beginning to return to their nests in Holford Avenue, and the robin redbreasts in the hedges; now musing upon something she had read, or repeating aloud her favorite verses and ballads. As she drew near the place where the dead elm stood white and gaunt in the copse, she began to look about for the basket which Jack had left behind in his terror. Presently she espied it not far from a tall, upright stone near the dead tree I have mentioned.

This stone stood close to the edge of the copse, amid a number of similar ones which had fallen across each other in wild confusion, and which were believed to have once formed part of some old heathen temple. The ruin, if such it was, was nearly overgrown with rank weeds and brambles, and was looked upon with peculiar disfavor by the country folks, as being the favorite haunt of the headless steed before mentioned.

"Why, there is the basket!" said Winifred, surprised. "I would not have believed Jack would go so near the standing stones alone for all the blackberries in Somersetshire."

She went to the place, and as she stooped to take up the basket, she heard distinctly the same sound which had scared Jack—a faint, hollow groan.

"Jack did hear something, after all!" was her first thought. "It is some poor creature who has been wounded, and is perhaps starving!" was her second thought. She looked carefully around, and seeing nobody near, she said in a low voice, "Who is here?"

Another fainter groan was the only reply. Winifred drew nearer. Stretched upon the ground, in a little hollow among the fallen stones, lay a young gentleman—so Winifred judged him to be by his dress—apparently just at the point of death. His once gay doublet was soiled and ragged, his eyes were sunken and closed, and there was a half-healed scar upon his cheek. Winifred spoke to him, but there was no answer except a deep, tremulous sigh.

Winifred was not long in deciding what to do. She put down her burden and raised the poor gentleman's head upon her lap. She then moistened his lips with milk from the bottle, and with great difficulty forced a few drops into his mouth. In a few moments, the sick man opened his eyes.

"Who is this?" he asked, faintly.

"A friend!" answered Winifred, who was now moistening some bits of bread with milk. "Try to swallow this."

The poor sufferer eagerly took the food offered him, and presently was able to sit up and feed himself.

"May God bless you, my maid!" said he. "I thought all was over with me, but I seem already to feel new strength. I believe you have saved my life. How did you find me out?"

Winifred related the story of Jack's adventure.

The gentleman smiled faintly.

"It was I who frightened your brother and robbed him of his basket as well," said he. "I had managed to crawl to the barley field in the hope of carrying off a little straw to add to my bedding, when I was surprised by his approach, and shrank behind the sheaves. At that moment I felt such a deadly faintness and hunger come over me that I could not resist the impulse to call upon him for aid—an impulse I bitterly regretted when I saw how frightened he was. I expected no less than that he would bring back a crowd with him, and crept to my hiding-place, carrying the basket with me. I was, however, too far exhausted to profit by its contents, and I believe should soon have died but for your timely aid. I have been hiding in this den for a week, in all which time I have eaten nothing but wild fruits and berries and the remains of a loaf which a poor woman gave me. But, my maid, can you tell me what has become of the Duke of Monmouth?"

"He and my Lord Grey were taken alive, and carried to London," replied Winifred. "We do not know what is become of them, but I heard my Lady Peckham say they would doubtless be put to death."

"Aye, doubtless!" said the stranger, with much bitterness. "He has fallen into hands which know not mercy. Are the soldiers of the king still in the neighborhood?"

"They have mostly gone from Bridgewater," replied Winifred; "though there are still a few scattered about the country—too many for any of the duke's men to be safe."

"I see you have guessed my secret," the stranger began, but Winifred interrupted him.

"I think, if you please, sir, you had better not tell me who you are, and then if any one questions me, I shall have nothing to say."

"You are a wise little, maid. You will never betray me, I am sure!"

"Never!" said Winifred, firmly. "They should sooner cut off my head. But I must tell my mother and grandfather. You need have no fear," she added, seeing his countenance change at her words. "They are good Christian people, and would never betray a poor wanderer. I must tell them, that we may know what to do for your relief and escape. I will leave you the cheese and part of the loaf, but I must go now, or my mother will be frightened at my stay."

As Winifred walked away, her head was fuller than ever of serious thoughts. She knew that the deed she had just done was one which might bring destruction not only upon herself but her whole family, if ever it were known that she had helped one of Monmouth's men. She had heard, like every one else, of Lady Alice Lisle, who had been put to death for no other offence than that of giving food and shelter to the two fugitives Hickes and Nelthorpe. She had heard from Mrs. Alwright of little Miss Linwood, only ten years old, who was a member of the girls' school which had presented the Duke of Monmouth with a standard at Tawton. The poor child knew nothing of what she was about, and only did as she was bid. Nevertheless she was thrown into jail, and only released to die of jail fever, after her father and uncle had paid for her a fine of twelve hundred pounds, a great part of which sum, it was said, went to fill the purses of the queen's maids of honor.

All these and many other things made Winifred shudder at the thought of what she had done, and yet she did not see how she could possibly have acted in any other way. She felt that she could no more have gone away and left the poor gentleman to die, than she could have killed him with her own hands. Nay, it would have been murder in the sight of God—Winifred was sure of it. No, she could not have done otherwise! There was no use in speculating about that. The only course which now remained was to tell her mother and grandfather, with all secrecy, what she had done, and leave them to act as they saw best.

Another thing troubled her. She had given away at least half Dame Sprat's bread and milk. True, there still remained enough for the old woman's supper and breakfast, but she would at once see that the loaf had been broken, and what would Winifred say? She had passed the dreaded Black Copse, and reached the widow's door before she had quite made up her mind.

Poor old Dame Sprat lived alone in a hovel, which in this country would hardly be thought good enough for a cow-house. Her husband and children were dead, her property had all been lost in the civil wars and the times which followed them, and she had now no dependence for her daily bread, save the kindness of her neighbors and the faithfulness of that God whom she loved. She had been the wife of an Independent preacher, who was an elderly man at the breaking out of the civil wars. Nevertheless, his age did not prevent him from acting as chaplain to one of Cromwell's regiments, and following its fortunes till just before the Restoration, when he died, full of years and honors. After his death, evil days came upon his widow. She was turned out of the farm upon which her husband's family had lived for many generations, her furniture and goods were wasted and scattered, and herself driven from one place to another till she found a refuge in her present abode. She was now a very aged woman, more than a hundred years old, having been born in the days when Queen Elizabeth sat upon the throne of England: and many a tale had she told Winifred of those stirring times of conquest and adventure, and of the sad and sorrowful days which had followed under the Stuarts.

She now sat by the little window of her hut, with her great Bible, almost the only remaining relic of her wealth, on a rude table before her. Her eyes had failed a good deal during the last few years, but she was still able to follow the sacred text by the help of her spectacles. Indeed she was so well acquainted with its contents that she hardly needed the book.

"Welcome, my child!" said she, as Winifred appeared. "It is long since you have gladdened my eyes. I began to be troubled lest some misfortune had befallen you."

"I should have been here yesterday, but my mother has sprained her ankle and needed me at home," replied Winifred. "She sends you this basket and a bottle of new milk, but, dame," she added, hesitating, "all is not there that mother sent. I have given away part of your bread and milk, but I cannot tell to whom."

"Aye, aye!" said the old dame, nodding her head, sagaciously. "I see how it is! Some poor soul fleeing as a bird from the fowlers. But oh, my dear child, be careful! These are evil times, in which he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey."

"I know!" said Winifred. "But will you give me two or three apples, dame? I see yours are ripe."

"Yes, sweetheart, surely. Take what you please. Here, wait a moment." The old woman hobbled to the place where her bed stood, and after some searching, drew forth an old checked blanket or coverlet.

"I shall not need this, these warm nights," said she, "but if any poor body were hiding in the fields, it might be a great comfort to him."

Winifred could not help being terrified when she saw that the dame had so quickly understood her secret. What if others should penetrate it as easily? Dame Sprat saw her trouble and guessed its cause.

"Have no fear, my maid," she said. "I have lived in troublous times before, and well do I know the ways of the outcast and the wanderer. I am an old woman, and my summons may come at any hour. What then should I gain by betraying any poor creature? I would gladly give such an one shelter under my poor roof if it were thought safe for him."

"I am sure you are very good!" said Winifred. "I must tell the whole to my mother and see what she will say; and now good-night, dame. I must be going, for it grows late, but I will try to come again to-morrow."

Winifred soon reached the standing stones, and first looking carefully around to see that she was not observed, she gave a low signal. The stranger peeped out of the burrow he had made for himself among the fallen masses.

"Have you come so soon again, my little friend?" said he.

"I am on my way home," replied Winifred. "I have brought you some apples and this blanket, but I must not stay."

"Wait only one moment," said the stranger.

He searched in his bosom as he spoke, and produced a very small parcel, wrapped in soft leather, and a watch and seals, such as gentlemen wore in those days. "Do you know my Lady Peckham at the Hall?" he asked. "I think you mentioned her name."

"O yes," replied Winifred. "She has been very kind to me, and I go to the Hall twice a week, and sometimes oftener, to take lessons in fine work and other matters of Mrs. Alwright; my lady's gentlewoman."

"Ah, poor Alwright! Is she still with my lady? Many a saucy trick have I played upon her," said the strange, smiling. "Well, sweetheart, you may carry this parcel and the watch to my lady, and tell her—no, you need tell her nothing. She will understand. But as you value my life, let no one see the packet. Can you put it into Lady Peckham's hands in private?"

"I think I can," replied Winifred, after a moment's consideration. "I think I see the way to manage it. Good-night, sir."