The House of Arden, E. Nesbit [best historical fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

The horses, frightened by the sudden check, were dancing and prancing all across the road: the maidservants were shouting that it was true; he had the child, and better lose a few jewels than all their lives, and Cousin Bet was sobbing and wailing inside the dark coach.

Well, the jewels were handed out⁠—that was how it ended⁠—handed out slowly and grudgingly, and the hand that reached for them through the dusk was very white, Cousin Bet said afterwards.

Elfrida, held by the highwayman’s arm, kept very still. Suddenly he stooped and whispered in her ear.

“Are you afraid that I shall do you any harm?”

“No,” whispered Elfrida. And to this day she does not know why she was not afraid.

“Then⁠—” said he. “Oh, the brave little lady⁠—”

And on that suddenly set spurs to his horse, leapt the low hedge, and reined up sharply.

“Go on home, my brave fellows,” he shouted, “and keep your mouths shut on this night’s work. I shall be at Arden before you⁠—”

“The child!” shrieked the maids; “oh, the child!” and even Cousin Bet interrupted her hysterics, now quite strong and overwhelming, to say, “The child⁠—”

“Shall I order supper for you at Arden?” he shouted back mockingly, and rode on across country, with Elfrida, breathlessly frightened and consciously brave, leaning back against his shoulder. It is a very wonderful feeling, riding on a great strong, dark horse, through a deepening night in a strange country, held fast by an arm you can trust, and with the muscles of a horse’s great shoulder rippling against your legs as they hang helplessly down. Elfrida ceased to think of Mouldiwarps or try to be a poet.

And quite soon they were at the top of Arden Hill, and the lights of the castle gleamed and blinked below them.

“Now, sweetheart,” said the highwayman, “I shall set you down in sight of the door and wait till the door opens. You can tell them all that has chanced, save this that I tell you now. You will see me again. They will not know me, but you will. Keep a still tongue till tomorrow, and I swear Miss Arden shall have all her jewels again, and you shall have a gold locket to put your true love’s hair in when you’re seventeen and I’m two hundred and thirty. And leave the parlour window open. And when I tap, come to it. Is it a bargain?”

“Then you’re not really a highwayman?”

“What should you say,” he asked, “if I told you that I was the third James, the rightful King of England, come to claim my own?”

“Oh!” said Elfrida, and he set her down, and she walked to the door of the castle and thumped on it with her fists.

Her tale had been told to the servants, and again to Cousin Bet and the maids, and the chorus of lament and astonishment was settling down to a desire to have something to eat; anyhow, the servants had gone to the kitchen to hurry the supper. Cousin Bet and Elfrida were alone in the parlour, where Elfrida had dutifully set the window ajar.

The laurel that was trained all up that side of the house stirred in the breeze and tapped at the window. Elfrida crossed to the window-seat. No, it was only the laurel. But next moment a hand tapped⁠—a hand with rings on it, and a white square showed in the window⁠—a letter.

“For Miss Betty Arden,” said a whispering voice.

Elfrida carried the letter to where her cousin sat, and laid it on her flowered silk lap.

“For me, child? Where did you get it?”

“Read it,” said Elfrida, “it’s from a gentleman.”

“Lud!” said Cousin Bet. “What a day!⁠—a highwayman and the jewels lost, and now a love-letter.”

She opened it, read it⁠—read it again and let her hand flutter out with it in a helpless sort of way towards Elfrida, who, very brisk and businesslike, took it and read it. It was clearly and beautifully written.

“The Chevalier St. George,” it said, “visiting his kingdom in secret on pressing affairs of State, asks housing and hiding beneath the roof of the loyal Ardens.”

“Now, don’t scream,” said Elfrida sharply; “who’s the Chevalier St. George?”

“Our King,” said Betty in a whisper⁠—“our King over the water⁠—King James the Third. Oh, why isn’t my uncle at home? They’ll kill the King if they find him. What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Do?” said Elfrida. “Why don’t be so silly. That’s what you’ve got to do. Why, it’s a glorious chance. Think how everyone will say how brave you were. Is he Bonnie Prince Charlie? Will he be King some day?”

“No, not Charles⁠—James; uncle wants him to be King.”

“Then let’s help him,” said Elfrida, “and perhaps it’ll be your doing that he is King.” Her history had never got beyond Edward the Fourth on account of having to go back to 1066 on account of new girls, and she had only heard of Prince Charlie in ballads and story books. “And when he’s King he’ll make you dowager-duchess of somewhere and give you his portrait set in diamonds. Now don’t scream. He’s outside. I’ll call him in. Where can we hide him?”

VI The Secret Panel

“Where shall we hide him?” Elfrida asked impatiently.

Cousin Bet, fired by Elfrida’s enthusiasm, jumped up and began to finger the carved flowers above the chimneypiece.

“The secret room,” she said; “but slip the bolt to and turn the key in the lock.”

Elfrida locked the room door, and turned to see the carved mantelpiece open like a cupboard.

Then Elfrida flew to the window and set back the casement very wide, and in climbed the beautiful gentleman and stood there, very handsome and tall, bowing to Miss Betty, who sank on her knees and kissed the white, jewelled hand he held out.

“Quick!” said Elfrida. “Get into the hole.”

“There are stairs,” said Betty, snatching a candle in its silver candlestick and holding it high.

The Chevalier St. George sprang to a chair, got his knee on the mantelpiece, and went into the