king, if no son of his old age should be born to him. The Squire did not insist on waiting for them: but he must learn more before he marched under Monmouth’s flag.
Christopher believed on high authority, as he declared, that the contents of the Black Box which they had all heard of would prove the Duke the legitimate heir of the late king. If this were so, there could be no doubt how any Protestant should act. But, though there was no need of further self-defence, Christopher had willing and delighted hearers to something more. When he told how many devoted ministers of the Gospel were hoping in their dreary prisons that Monmouth would set them free; when he told how friends of his, old and young, were holding themselves ready to rush to Monmouth’s standard at the risk of their lives; when he told how the poor people throughout the kingdom considered this a holy year because it had been revealed that King Monmouth should come; when he told how he and his comrades in the Temple had secretly practised drill for many weeks past, and how they had studied the right way for fresh officers to command raw soldiers, and how he hoped to train for himself a troop worthy of the Commonwealth,—father and mother were almost as much carried away as Elizabeth. All regarded Christopher as a young soldier of the Lord, who might be honoured with a commission to reconquer the kingdom for the Reformation,—the first among an army of Christian heroes who should flock in to the strife when it was seen what one such man could do.
“It may be that such is my son’s commission,” said the Squire, recovering his deliberate mood with an effort; “but the risks—we must keep the risks in full view.”
“No question but Christopher has done that,” Elizabeth answered. “He is no child to be caught by the glitter of honour, nor wilful in forgetting what may be behind. There is no heroism in making a choice like his without a full study of the risks.”
“I bless God,” said the hitherto silent mother, “that my son’s chosen wife speaks so worthily, according to her knowledge. But she cannot know fully what the risks are.”
“She does,” Christopher answered proudly and fondly.
“I believe she does,” his father said solemnly.
“I do,” declared Elizabeth, in the tone in which she might have spoken her marriage vows. Silence followed for some moments. Then the father said:
“Where so much is perilled, it may seem a small matter to think of our repute in regard to worldliness. When we risk the ill-fame of treason, we might be indifferent to blame for self-seeking: but, Christopher, men will say that you and I take different sides as a politic course—to save the property, and to make interest for one another’s life, when it is seen who fails.”
“Yes, it will surely be said, father; but ours is not a name which can be long clouded by such a slander.”
“My dear son!” remonstrated his mother. “Let not these things breed pride in you already. How many better than ourselves have been reviled and cast out—”
She stopped, as her husband was saying, as to himself,
“Despised and rejected—”
“You are right, mother!” said Christopher. “The pride of my words was unseemly. But we cannot govern ourselves by the low thoughts of the watchers for evil.”
“Better confound them by your acts,” Elizabeth observed. “If you joined in bestowing the property on the Cause, keeping back nothing, spiteful tongues would be silenced.”
“And how should we live, dear child?” asked the Squire. “How are my children to be provided for?”
“We shall see at the time,” she replied. “Perhaps we can work: at any rate we could starve: but none who can work need starve, I believe. I am sure this is the time, if ever, for devoting ourselves and all we have.”
“It is so!” “It is so!” all were agreed. During the silence which followed, their thoughts were the same; and they all knew it. There had never before been such a season of deadly risk, nor of such temptation from passion and delusion, nor, therefore, of such need of supreme guidance. When the silence was broken, it was by the father’s voice, saying:
“Now, let us pray!”
CHAPTER VI. FROM LYME TO THE CAMP.
The next morning the dispersion of the household was more complete. Before he slept, Christopher wished to make all arrangements for Elizabeth’s return home; and he went out to give his orders to Reuben. But Reuben could not be found. He was certainly not on the premises. Christopher was vexed; but he was confident the man had merely gone down to the beach cottages, to spend the night with his relations;—unless indeed he had started off after Monmouth’s force, impelled thereto by the strength of Hickes’s exhortations, which still reverberated through the town. He would doubtless account for his absence when he next met his master: but he must learn that he must remain strictly under orders.
By sunrise, an escort arrived for Elizabeth. A note from her brother required her instant return, while the road was comparatively safe. In a day or two, the whole county might be overrun.
Did this mean by insurgents, or by soldiers from London?
Nobody could tell; or, if the confidential person who headed the escort could have told the Sheriff’s meaning, he would not.
Elizabeth would not allow her lover to attend her one step beyond his father’s gate. He must go now where his duty led him. The time and his Prince needed him; and when they met in some great future day The rest could not be put into words.
In a few minutes after she was out of sight, Christopher was on his road westwards, cheered that his parents could give him their blessing, and respect his proper liberty, while doubting his wisdom in his course. He turned aside to Farmer Dunn’s, which was not more than a mile away from his