The Children of the New Forest, Frederick Marryat [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

force their way where the snow was deeper, many of them stuck fast altogether, and attempted to clear themselves in vain. Humphrey and Pablo, who had followed them as fast as they could run, now came up with them and threw the lasso over the neck of one, and ropes with slip-nooses over two more, which were floundering in the snow there together. The remainder of the herd, after great exertions, got clear of the snow by turning round and galloping back through the avenue. The three ponies captured made a furious struggle, but by drawing the ropes tight round their necks they were choked, and soon unable to move. They then tied their fore-legs, and loosed the ropes round their necks, that they might recover their breath.

“Got them now, Massa Humphrey,” said Pablo.

“Yes; but our work is not yet over, Pablo; we must get them home; how shall we manage that?”

“Suppose they no eat to-day and tomorrow, get very tame.” “I believe that will be the best way; they can not get loose again, do all they can.”

“No, sir; but get one home to-day. This very fine pony; suppose we try him.”

Pablo then put the halter on, and tied the end short to the fore-leg of the pony, so that it could not walk without keeping its head close to the ground—if it raised its head, it was obliged to lift up its leg. Then he put the lasso round its neck, to choke it if it was too unruly, and having done that, he cast loose the ropes which had tied its fore-legs together.

“Now, Massa Humphrey, we get him home somehow. First I go loose the dogs; he ‘fraid of the dogs, and run t’other way.”

The pony, which was an iron-gray and very handsome, plunged furiously and kicked behind, but it could not do so without falling down, which it did several times before Pablo returned with the dogs. Humphrey held one part of the lasso on one side, and Pablo on the other, keeping the pony between them; and with the dogs barking at it behind, they contrived, with a great deal of exertion and trouble, to get the pony to the cottage. The poor animal, driven in this way on three legs, and every now and then choked with the lasso, was covered with foam before they arrived. Billy was turned out of his stable to make room for the new-comer, who was fastened securely to the manger and then left without food, that he might become tame. It was too late then, and they were too tired themselves to go for the other two ponies; so they were left lying on the snow all night, and the next morning they found they were much tamer than the first; and during the day, following the same plan, they were both brought to the stable and secured alongside of the other. One was a bay pony with black legs, and the other a brown one. The bay pony was a mare, and the other two horses. Alice and Edith were delighted with the new ponies, and Humphrey was not a little pleased that he had succeeded in capturing them, after what had passed between Edward and him. After two days’ fasting, the poor animals were so tame that they ate out of Pablo’s hand, and submitted to be stroked and caressed; and before they were a fortnight in the stable, Alice and Edith could go up to them without danger. They were soon broken in; for the yard being full of muck, Pablo took them into it and mounted them. They plunged and kicked at first, and tried all they could to get rid of him, but they sunk so deep into the muck that they were soon tired out; and after a month, they were all three tolerably quiet to ride.

The snow was so deep all over the country that there was little communication with the metropolis. The intendant’s letters spoke of King Charles raising another army in Holland, and that his adherents in England were preparing to join him as soon at he marched southward.

“I think, Edward,” said the intendant, “that the king’s affairs do now wear a more promising aspect; but there is plenty of time yet. I know your anxiety to serve your king, and I can not blame it. I shall not prevent your going, although, of course, I must not appear to be cognizant of your having so done. When the winter breaks up I shall send you to London. You will then be better able to judge of what is going on, and your absence will not create any suspicion; but you must be guided by me.”

“I certainly will, sir,” replied Edward. “I should, indeed, like to strike one blow for the king, come what will.”

“All depends upon whether they manage affairs well in Scotland; but there is so much jealousy and pride, and, I fear, treachery also, that it is hard to say how matters may end.”

It was soon after this conversation that a messenger arrived from London with letters, announcing that King Charles had been crowned in Scotland, with great solemnity and magnificence.

“The plot thickens,” said the intendant; “and by this letter from my correspondent, Ashley Cooper, I find that the king’s army is well appointed, and that David Lesley is lieutenant-general; Middleton commands the horse, and Wemyss the artillery. That Wemyss is certainly a good officer, but was not true to the late king: may he behave better to the present! Now, Edward, I shall send you to London, and I will give you letters to those who will advise you how to proceed. You may take the black horse; he will bear you well. You will of course write to me, for Sampson will go with you, and you can send him back when you consider that you do not require or wish for his presence: there is no time to be lost, for, depend upon it, Cromwell, who is still at Edinburgh, will take the field as soon as he can. Are you ready to start tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir, quite ready.”

“I fear that you can not go over to the cottage to bid farewell to your sisters; but, perhaps, it is better that you should not.”

“I think so too, sir,” replied Edward; “now that the snow has nearly disappeared, I did think of going over, having been so long absent, but I must send Oswald over instead.”

“Well, then, leave me to write my letters, and do you prepare your saddlebags. Patience and Clara will assist you. Tell Sampson to come to me.”

Edward went to Patience and Clara, and told them that he was to set off for London on the following morning, and was about to make his preparations.

“How long do you remain, Edward?” inquired Patience.

“I can not tell; Sampson goes with me, and I must, of course, be guided by your father. Do you know where the saddlebags are, Patience?”

“Yes; Phoebe shall bring them to your room.”

“And you and Clara must come and give me your assistance.”

“Certainly we will, if you require it; but I did not know that your wardrobe was so extensive.”

“You know that it is any thing but extensive, Patience; but that is the reason why your assistance is more required. A small wardrobe ought at least to be in good order; and what I would require is, that you would look over the linen, and where it requires a little repair, you will bestow upon it your charity.”

“That we will do, Clara;” replied Patience; “so get your needles and thread, and let us send him to London with whole linen. We will come when we are ready, sir.”

“I don’t like his going to London at all,” said Clara, “we shall be so lonely when he is gone.”

Edward had left the room, and having obtained the saddlebags from Phoebe had gone up to his chamber. The first thing that he laid hold of was his father’s sword; he took it down, and having wiped it carefully, he kissed it, saying, “God grant that I may do credit to it, and prove as worthy to wield it as was my brave father!” He had uttered these words aloud; and again taking the sword, and laying it down on the bed, turned round, and perceived that Patience had, unknown to him, entered the room, and was standing close to him. Edward was not conscious that he had spoken aloud, and therefore merely said, “I was not aware of your presence, Patience. Your foot is so light.”

“Whose sword is that, Edward”?

“It is mine; I bought it at Lymington.”

“But what makes you have such an affection for that sword?”

“Affection for it?”

“Yes; as I came into the room you kissed it as fervently as—”

“As a lover would his mistress, I presume you would say,” replied Edward.

“Nay, I meant not to use such vain words. I was about to say, as a devout Catholic would a relic. I ask you again, Why so? A sword is but a sword. You are about to leave this on a mission of my father’s. You are not a soldier, about to engage in strife and war; if you were, why kiss your sword?”

“I will tell you. I do love this sword. I purchased it, as I told you, at Lymington, and they told me that it belonged to Colonel Beverley. It is for his sake that I love it. You know what obligations our family were under to him.”

“This sword was then wielded by Colonel Beverley, the celebrated Cavalier, was it?” said Patience, taking it off the bed, and examining it.

“Yes, it was; and here, you see, are his initials upon the hilt.”

“And why do you take it to London with you? Surely it is not the weapon which should be worn by a secretary, Edward; it is too large and cumbrous, and out of character.”

“Recollect, that till these last few months I have been a forester, Patience, and not a secretary. Indeed, I feel that I am more fit for active life than the situation which your father’s kindness has bestowed upon me. I was brought up, as you have heard, to follow to the wars, had my patron lived.”

Patience made no reply. Clara now joined them, and they commenced the task of examining the linen; and Edward left the room, as he wished to speak with Oswald. They did not meet again till dinner time. Edward’s sudden departure had spread a gloom over them all—even the intendant was silent and thoughtful. In the evening he gave Edward the letters which he had written, and a considerable sum of money, telling him where he was to apply if he required more for his expenses. The intendant cautioned him on his behavior in many points, and also relative to his dress and carriage during his stay in the metropolis.

“If you should leave London, there will be no occasion—nay, it would be dangerous to write to me. I shall take it for granted that you will retain Sampson till your departure, and when he returns here I shall presume that you have gone north. I will not detain you longer, Edward: may Heaven bless and protect you!”

So saying, the intendant went away to his own room.

“Kind and generous man!” thought Edward; “how much did I mistake you when we first met!”

Taking up the letters and bag of money, which still remained on the table, Edward went to his room, and having placed the letters and money in the saddlebag, he commended himself to the Divine Protector, and retired to rest.

Before daylight, the sound of Sampson’s heavy traveling-boots below roused up Edward, and he was soon dressed.