But the woman gave no answer, seeming rather ashamed to have said so much; and after another silence Lady Eleanor asked another question or two which was answered very shortly, and said something about calling in a doctor.

"Doctor, no!" answered the woman fiercely. "They never do nought but bleed a man to death."

"Are you sure?" said Colonel George. "I know there were army-doctors who used to bleed men disgracefully. You remember," he added, turning for a moment to Lady Eleanor, "what Charlie Napier of the Fiftieth wrote from Hythe, that the doctors thought bleeding to death the best way of recovering sick soldiers. But I don't suppose, my good woman, that you have ever had to do with such."

"What! not I?" said the woman scornfully, but instantly restrained herself and stopped.

"I should give him a drop more wine from time to time, mistress," said Colonel George, as if taking no notice of what she had said; and hitching the reins of the horses round the poles of the hut he took a spoon, and poured a little between the sick man's lips himself. "The poor fellow's dreadfully weak," he went on. "Was he ever sick or hurt as a boy, mistress? Did you ever see him taken like this before? If you could tell us, we might know better how to treat him." And as he asked the question he looked straight into the woman's face, very keenly but very kindly, and she dropped her eyes with a half sigh. "You see," he went on, "my Lady's little son came home and told us of a coat that you had put on him, which sounded to me like a drummer's coat; though of course as I haven't seen it I may be quite wrong; but I was wondering if he had ever been a soldier, as I am myself, and been wounded at some time."

"No, he wasn't never a soldier," said the woman hastily.

"Ah," said Colonel George; "it was his knowing how to drum that made me think so. And so you had to carry the poor fellow all this way the other day? Well, it's more than many a strong man could have done. Many's the man I've seen break down from the weight of his pack, and many's the wife I've seen take the load off her husband's back and carry it for him like a brave soul." He looked up at the woman and saw her eyes glisten. "Ay," he said, "you've seen it too, maybe? Now, my good mistress, just tell me what the serjeant did to your son here, or what has happened to him to bring him to this state."

The woman hesitated long. "'Tis a long story," she said at last, "but maybe it's time that it was told; for I'm thinking that before long there may be none to tell it. You've been kind to my boy, the both of 'ee, and you've a promised to keep my secret. So if you have a mind to hear, I'll tell 'ee."

So Colonel George stood in the doorway holding the horses, while Lady Eleanor sat on the turfen table by the sick man; and the woman began her story.



CHAPTER XIII

"Years agone, long afore you ever come this way, my Lady, my father lived not above seven or eight mile herefrom, up to Loudacott; you must surely have heard the name of the place. Well, there he lived with his own bit of land, for he was a yeoman, he was, and the Clatworthys had lived up to Loudacott hundreds of years, as he used to tell me. There wasn't but the three of us, my father—Jeremiah Clatworthy was his name—my mother and myself; for I was the only child they had a-living. It's a lonely place, is Loudacott, and it wasn't many folks that we saw there when I was a child; but when I growed up into a comely maid, and men seed me now and again to market or fairing time, they began to come a-courting; for 'twasn't me only that they would get, but forty acre of land with me, if father liked mun well. There was more came than you'd a think for, plenty enough to turn the head of a silly maid; and there was one that father favoured particular, for he had land close nigh by Loudacott, but I didn't like he—never could. There wasn't but one that pleased me, and that was Jan Dart. You know his old mother that lives to Ashacombe, or used to live, for they tell me that she's a-dying. She couldn't never abide the name of me, Jan's mother couldn't; and father, he couldn't abide Jan. For his father hadn't been more than a servant with the old squire, nor his mother neither, and Jan, he'd a been bound 'prentice to a shoemaker, and wasn't long out of his time; while we was the Clatworthys to Loudacott.

"Well, the men come, and I was well enough pleased to keep mun dancing round me, and poor Jan with the rest of mun, for you may depend that I wasn't going to let he go. I'd a-been a bit spoiled, for my mother had had a boy and another maid besides me, and fine children too, as I've been told; but she'd a-lost the both of them o' smallpox, so that there wasn't but me left. So I couldn't tell what to do, for I know'd but one thing for sartain, that the man that father wanted for me wasn't the man that I wanted for myself. But there was a wise woman—Betsy Lavacombe her name was, I mind well, but what use to tell you that?—that I used to see; and terrible afeared of her the folks was. It was she that built this house, and no one knew where she lived except myself, nor knoweth till this day. But I wasn't afeared of her, for I had a-helped her more than once, and used to put out a bit of mate for her now and again when I could; and she would always carry any message from me to Jan or from Jan to me. And I asked her many times which of mun I should marry, but she wouldn't never tell me more than that I should cross the sea and come back with gold. 'That's enough for 'ee,' she would say, 'don't ask no more. You shall cross the sea and there will be lords and gentlemen with 'ee, and your bed shall be so good as theirs, and you shall come back with gold.'

"So time went on and Jan kept courting o' me and I kept a playing with Jan, as foolish maids will, till at last one day, I forget what it was I said to mun, but he flinged away like a mazed man. 'I'll never come nigh 'ee again,' he said, 'you'll have to find me if you want to see me more; and till you find me you won't never find a man as loves you so well as I do.' And I laughed so as he could hear as he walked away, for I made no doubt but he'd come again so soon as I called mun. And I mind well then that the old Betsy comed out of a hedge soon afterward—she'd a been listening, I reckon—and saith she, 'Shall I call mun back to 'ee now? Best lose no time,' she saith. But I let mun go, for I depended that he'd come back, though I don't deny that I wasn't easy.

"And it wasn't above a week afterward that the old Betsy cometh back and saith, 'You'd best have let me call mun back when I told 'ee'; and then she told me that a serjeant was come to Ashacombe and that Jan was listed for a sojer and was agone. It was evening then and I heard mother calling, so I went into house like a dumb thing, for I couldn't think what I should do without Jan; and I minded the words that he had said, that I must come and find mun if I wanted to see him more; and I lay awake all night a-crying to think that I couldn't tell where to seek for mun, for find mun I must. But next day when I went out I glimpsed the old Betsy on the road not far away and whistled to her (for she never showed herself about Loudacott if she could help, but watched for me and whistled), and when she saw my face, 'Where's your rosy cheeks gone, my dear?' she saith. 'A red coat's red enough without they to dye mun, I reckon.' But she wouldn't tell me where he was agone, till I said that if she did not I would go out to find mun for myself. 'Do you mane that?' she saith—I mind it as if 'twas yesterday—'Then I'll take 'ee to mun. 'Ere, look 'ee! I'll give 'ee time to think about it, and if you mane to go sarch for mun, do you meet me here with your clothes o' this day fortnight when the moon rises.'

"And with that she went away and showed herself down Ashacombe ways 'most every day, to make folks think she was busy thereabouts—that false and artful she was. But when the days was gone, and mortal long days they was to me, she was waiting for me as she said, for I wasn't agoing to change my mind; and then it was that she brought me to this house and told me to mark the way well. We stayed here till night, and then we started off walking across the moor, the both of us, until morning, for she wasn't going to let a maid like me walk by myself, she said. We took a bit of mate with us and flint and steel, and many was the things that she taught to me on the road for a body to make herself nighly as comfortable in the open air as in ever a house.

"We walked night-times only till we was fifty miles away from home, and then we could keep the road middling well, though I kept my bonnet tied across my face. And so we drew nigh to Gloucester town, and then the old Betsy told me that Jan was there with his ridgment, and that I must find he by myself. And she wished me good-bye, and then the poor soul fell a-crying, for she said that there was no one left now to be kind to her. 'And there's hard times before 'ee, my tender,' she saith—I mind the words well—'but not yet. Good luck will be with 'ee first along. There's a man loves 'ee, and a man he is; make the most of mun. You shall cross the sea and come back with gold, but don't 'ee forget my little house, and if I bean't there, dig under the table, and think kindly of the old Betsy.'

"So she went back and I walked into the town alone, feeling terrible fluttered; but I hadn't a-gone very far before I meets with a man in a red coat and his hair a-powdered, a-walking along by hisself, for it was evening. I looked at mun and hardly knowed mun at first; but Jan it was, and beautiful he looked in his ridgmentals sure enough. The old Betsy had a-promised me good luck first along, and yet I was most afraid to speak to mun, though nobody was by. And when he saw me he turned so white as death, and saith quite hoarse like, 'Lucy, what do you here?' And I couldn't say no more than 'I've a come to find you, Jan.' And the blood come back into his face, and we didn't want to say no more, not then. Dear Lord! That was a day!

"We was married so soon as could be, though a sojer's pay is little enough, as you know, your honour; for the half of what is given is took away again, so far as I can see. But Jan could always make something with his shoe-making, while I could wash, and get many a little job besides from the officers' ladies. So we did middling well, and Jan got one of the men that was a bit of a scollard to write to his mother, and got a hawker to take the letter along for the mending of his shoes. And in six months the hawker came back to say that mother was dead and that father had sold Loudacott and was gone to live in the town, where he was drinking and doing no good. I reckon 'twas the old Betsy had told mun; and I suppose that really 'twas all o' my account, but 'twas too late to think of that. And it was less than six months after this news come that my boy was a-born—"

She stopped a minute to pass her hand over the sick man's head, and went on:

"A beautiful boy he was, sure enough, and glad I was, when he was about a twelvemonth old, that the peace came and there was no chance for Jan to be sent to the war. Scores of men was discharged, but Jan said we should do better to stay, for there wasn't nowhere for us to go to if we went, and he'd a got fond of the sojer's life, as I had, so long as I was with he; and they was glad to keep so fine a man. But then the war come again, and a terrible way I was in, for they said the ridgment was sure to be sent soon to the Injies or some place. But it chanced that another ridgment was raising a new battalion in Gloucester, and there was a young chap that was got into trouble and wanted to cross the sea as soon as might be, so wished, if he could, to change with Jan. And by good luck 'twas done, and we was sent to the new battalion. So there we stayed to Gloucester nighly four year. Those was the days when they said that Boney was a-coming over, but he never come, as you know very well, for he didn't dare.

"And at Gloucester it was that I had a little maid born to me, so sweet a little maid as ever was seen, with blue eyes and golden hair like your own little lady's. But there was a terrible lot of sickness among the men. Whether it was that our other battalion brought it back from Egypt, I can't tell, but so it was. The men died fast, for all that the doctors would do was to bleed mun like pigs; and whether it was that, or what it was, I couldn't say, but the little maid sickened and died, when she was fifteen months old. Jan was terrible distressed, I mind, and so was I; but since then I've a-thought often that it was better so.

"But Jan and the boy kept well and strong, and as the boy growed bigger, he got mazed with soldiering. Nothing would sarve mun but he must be a drummer; and one of the drummers took up with mun and taught mun almost so soon as he was big enough to hold the sticks, and it was wonderful to see how quick he learned. It was pretty, too, to see his little hands a-twinkling, for very soon he could beat so well as any of mun. So he became a bit of a favourite, for he was a sweet pretty boy, and the officers took notice of mun, and the tailor he made mun a little coat and breeches and dressed mun out for all the world like a riglar drummer. For the tailor's wife hadn't no children you see, my Lady, and was wonderful took up with my boy; and Jan he made her a beautiful pair of shoes in return, I mind. And it was a saying that our ridgment had the smallest drummer in the army, and the best. Look 'ee, I've a kept the very coat."

And she pulled the outer clothes off the sick man's chest, and showed the little coat which Dick had worn, tied by the sleeves about his neck. He moved slightly and his mother poured a few drops of wine between his lips; but he made no further sign of revival, and she went on with her story.

"Well, it was in the year seven, I mind well, that the other battalion of the ridgment was sent to the war in Denmark and then on to Portingale. I didn't like that, for it seemed that the war was coming nigh home to us, and our good luck had lasted long; and I couldn't never get the old Betsy's words out of my head, that I must cross the sea. And at last in the autumn of the next year, the year eight that was, the day come. Our battalion was ordered to find men to fill up the place of those that was dead in the other battalion, and Jan was a-chosen for one. There was only six women to every company allowed to go with them, and they was drawed by lot. Ah, well I mind the drawing of they lots. It was pity to see the poor wives a-screeching and crying, as one after another was told that she must bide home. Many a one was on her knees to the officer begging mun to take her, and the officer hisself oftentimes was near crying as he was forced to say No. My turn came at last, and I was drawn to go; and then I couldn't help a-crying so loud as any of mun for joy.

"So we was put a board ship with Jan, the boy and I was, and away we went to sea; and the poor things that was left behind stood crying, and the men aboard cheered and cheered again. Many's the time I've a-thought of that day. I reckon you've a knowed what it is yourself, my Lady, to see the ships sail away; but I was happy enough, for I was with Jan.

"Well, we got to Lisbon, where Sir John Moore was a-waiting for us; and the army marched away from Portingale into Spain. The women was all told that they might sail back to England if they would; but 'twasn't likely that any would leave their husbands, let alone me who was only just come. So we marched with the army, and long marches it was, they winter days, nighly five hundred mile in six weeks as I've been told. But Jan kept up brave, for he was a strong man, and I was always hearty, while the boy tramped along wonderful too; and when he was a-tired there was always Jan or others of the men would carry mun, or I would carry mun for a time myself. And what I had learned from the old Betsy 'bout walking and camping sarved me well, for I was nigh so handy as any of mun.

"Well, after six weeks we come to a place—I forget the name—something like sago I think it was."

"Sahagun," said Colonel George.

"Ay, that was it; and there we was told we women must bide while the men went vor against the French. And then I began to think that the bad luck of which the old Betsy had a-spoke was come at last. It was two days before Christmas, I mind well, and we wondered what ever Christmas Day would bring. But the very next day the news come that the French was stronger than we, and that we must go back; and many ridgments turned back that very day. But we waited, for Jan's ridgment was gone farther on, expecting mun all through the night, and in the morning sure enough they came; and out we ran through the snow, for the snow was on the ground, and there was Jan alive and well, but a bit tired. But there wasn't no time for rest; and we had to go on to once. The rain came down, the snow began to thaw, and the roads was so slushy and heavy that it was miserable travelling. The men was angry too at turning away from the French, and they kept asking if the time wasn't never coming to halt: but on they had to go.

"My boy soon began to tire, for the way was terrible soggy, and Jan carried mun for a bit: but he hadn't had but little to ate and had marched a long ways already. So before very long Jan was obliged to give mun to me, and I carried mun along as best I could. But I couldn't help dropping behind a bit, for Jan said that I could catch mun up first halt, and that the boy would be able to get along better after being carried a bit. I couldn't get no help, for all the men that I saw was so tired as I was, and worse. Now and again one would fall down not able to go no furder, and it's my belief that every one of mun would have done the like if it hadn't been for the General (Craufurd was the name of mun) who rode up and down, driving mun on as if they'd a-been sheep. But he wouldn't let mun go like sheep, not he. 'Kape your ranks and move on. No straggling,' he kept saying. And you'd see the men a-looking up and scowling at mun: but he was a-scowling worse than they, and if they didn't mind he'd break out at them like a mad thing; and then look out! I never see a man fly into such passions as he, swearing and cursing in his strange Scotch tongue. You'd have thought he was going to kill the men, and sometimes I believe he would, for he talked of hanging mun often enough.

"It was late at night before we got to the town where we was to rest; and the boy was so bate that it was all I could do to bring mun in. 'Twas raining so heavy that we couldn't light a fire out of doors, so there was little to eat; but I got a bit for the boy, and Jan tried to mend my shoes, which was in a sad way; but there was many crying out to have their shoes mended, and he was that tired that he couldn't do naught, but falled asleep over his awl and bristles. The next morning it was march again, tired as we was. The boy was fresher after a bit of sleep and could walk for a bit, and Jan and me managed to get mun along so well as we could; but we growed weaker and he growed weaker every day. How many days and nights it was I can't tell, for there was no rest, and the French was said to be close by; so days and nights we tramped on, through the wind and the rain and the sleet; and every day there was more men dropped down. There was hardly a pair of shoes among the lot, officers nor men, and our feet was cut and bleeding; but still that General Craufurd kept driving of us on. He was always the first ready to start, and there he would stand waiting, his beard all white with frost on the bitter mornings, looking to the men with their clothes all in rags, so cold and stiff and faint that they was hardly able to move; and this I will say, that he favoured hisself no more than he favoured the men. It was terrible to see mun looking them over, for you could see that he feeled for them; but then he would open his mouth and give the word to march in a voice that made you jump to hear. And when once they was a-moving, if ever a man dropped behind, a sarjint went at mun for all the world like a sheep-dog, and a dog that knowed how to use his teeth too. My boy got terrible 'feared of they sarjints, for he heard mun use rough words, ay, and more than words, to our men, and more than once he thought the sarjint was speaking to he, and clinged to me tight, poor little soul; and night-times he would wake and cry that the sarjint was come for mun.

"It must have been nighly a week after we started that General Craufurd tooked a different road from we; and we went on without mun. And then we found what it was to have such a man, hard though he was in driving us 'vor and keeping the men in order. For we came to a town where there was stores and stores of wine; and there the sojers, that had marched on before us, was lying in the gutter by scores, or staggering about the streets more like to pigs than Christian men. I seed General Moore that night. Ah! that was a man. The handsomest man in the army they said he was, for all that one of his cheeks was scarred where a bullet had gone through it years before; and sure enough I never see a finer man 'cepting my Jan. But he was terrible stern too, and I never saw man look so dark and angry as he did then. I seed mun many times afterward, for he was always a-looking to the rear where our ridgment was, a-helping and encouraging so well as he could. Well, I got a drop of wine for the boy—it was the morning of New Year's day I mind—which did mun good, and next morning we started again.

"But worse was avore us than we had left behind, for till now the cavalry had been behind us and had kept away the French; but now the cavalry was sent forward, and there was nothing betwixt us and the enemy. Two days afterward the French came upon us sure enough, and the muskets was going all night. I couldn't sleep, for I knowed that Jan was there, but sat with the boy, who was lying by me, tossing and tumbling, for he was ill with the wet, and the cold, and the long ways. Some women that was with me told me to go to sleep and not be a fule, for 'twas naught but a scrimmage; but I couldn't do that. Ah, the night was long; but a bit before dawn the boy grew quiet, and as the light come in I heard our men was a-coming back, and runned out to see Jan. And there was Jan's company a-standing in line and the sarjint calling the roll. I heard mun call Jan Dart, but couldn't hear Jan's voice answer; but there was a chance that he might be carrying a wounded man or something or another, so I called 'Jan Dart, can anyone say where Jan Dart is?' but no one answered; and then the captain asked the same, and a man stepped out and said that he had seen mun fall. And I cried out, 'Oh take me to mun,' and the captain (a kind gentleman he always was) told the man to show me where he seed mun last; but he saith, 'You mustn't stay long, my poor woman, for the French will be here again directly;' and I knowed what that meant. So the man showed me the way and there was Jan, sure enough, a-lying on his face. I turned mun over, and, as I did, his hand fell across my knees, and his face was so quiet that I thought for a minute that he was only a-dropped asleep from weariness; but it wasn't of no use, for he was dead—shot through the heart.

"And there I reckon I should have stayed, spite of all that the officer said; but the man took me by the arm and told me to come on. 'The saints rock his soul to rest in glory,' he saith, crossing hisself, for he was an Irishman, 'and have mercy on us that is still living;' and then I remembered the boy, and I left Jan and come away. The boy was terrible weak and ailing, but we set off to walk, though very soon I had to carry mun; and so I dropped behind. The road lay through the mountains now, and was terrible rough and steep, while the snow come down and made the ways so slippy that it was hard to move without falling. But on I went, I can't tell how, though there was many that dropped behind me and never come up again. That march was terrible long, and the boy kept crying to be put down; but when I laid mun down for a minute or two he couldn't rest for long, but would cry out again that the sarjint was after mun, so I had to pick mun up and go on again.

"I reckon that it must have been the next day—but I can't tell, for days turns to years at such times—that as I was a tramping on I seed a crowd of women a-stooping down to the ground to gather up something or another, and scrambling, and fighting, and squabbling like a lot of fowls when they'm fed. It was money they was a-fighting for. The oxen a-drawing the carts with the money was foundered, and the Gineral had gived orders to throw the money away. I picked up some few pieces myself, thinking it might buy something for the boy, but there was one woman that loaded herself like a bee with dollars, and said she would be a lady when she got home.

"After that, she and I was a good bit together, she carrying her dollars and I carrying the boy; but the way grew worse and worse, and but for the boy I think that I should have gived out myself as so many did. Once I remember I saw a sojer and his wife a-lying down by the wayside; they couldn't go no farther and had lain down to die together; and I wished that it had been Jan and me; but I had the boy on my back and I went on. Well, I won't tell you what terrible sights we saw on the road; but I'll tell 'ee this, that I have seen grown men a-sobbing like children for pain and cold and hunger. It was enough to turn the head of a grown man, let alone a child. And so it was that after a time the boy stopped crying and complaining and went quite quiet. I couldn't think what was come to mun, that he was always a-staring and never speaking nor taking no notice; but I reckoned that if I could carry mun on to the end, he would recover hisself. And I did carry mun on to the end to—what was the name of the place again?—something like currants it was."

"Corunna?" said Colonel George.

"Ay, that was it, Corinner—but when we got there, there wasn't no ships, and General Moore had to fight the French and bate mun before he could sail home. And he was a-killed, poor gentleman, he was, as you know, and many other brave men besides. But we and the sick and the wounded was put aboard before the battle was fought, and a strange thing there was that happened. The woman that had taken the dollars come aboard with me, but her hands were so full that she gave me a part of the money to hold, while she climbed from the boat to the ship's side. And as she stepped on the ladder, her foot slipped, and she fell into the sea and sank like a stone; for she had dollars sewn up in her clothes so heavy, that down she went and never come up again. So there was I left with what she give me, and as her husband was killed in the battle and there wasn't no one else belonging to her to take the money, I reckoned I might keep it. And then one day I thought of what the old Betsy had said, that I should cross the sea and bring back gold, though it wasn't gold, but silver.

"Well, on board ship the boy didn't change, though he got a bit stronger in his body. We had a terrible storm on the way home, and for all I could do I couldn't keep mun from being knocked about; the ship rolling and plunging so that the men could hardly save themselves. And when we got home and was set ashore on the beach, I could see that my boy wasn't the only one that was gone wrong. I tell 'ee, my Lady, that some men was even blind with the toil of that march, and hunger and cold and misery.

"So there I was alone with my boy, for hardly a man of Jan's company was left and not many of the whole ridgment, while what there was of them was mostly sick. 'Twas lucky that I had money, or I can't think what I should have done. But the worst was that my boy remained just the same as he was. I showed mun to the doctors, and they took blood from mun once and wanted to take more, but I wouldn't have that, for I'd a-seen what they was with their lancets if they was let alone; and at last they telled me that his mind was gone and wouldn't never come back. But he grew stronger in his body after a bit, and I was able to take mun abroad; and though he liked the sound of the drums he was a bit frightened at the sight of a red coat, for fear that it should be a sarjint, and if it was a sarjint he would run like a rabbit. So I was obliged to move away as soon as I could; but go where I would there was no peace, for he'd a-lost his speech except some few sounds, and I couldn't let mun run with other children, for they always make sport of such poor things as he. So for a long time we wandered from place to place, getting little but hard words, though the boy was happy enough, I believe; for living in the air as we did he took up with every bird and every beast that he could find, and they seem to know mun for a friend. Many was the young one that he took and made so tame as could be.

"Then at last the money began to run short, for all that I was careful, and that now and again we could earn a little bit; so I minded what old Betsy Lavacombe had said, and thought I would go back and find she. It was a long way to go, but we walked on day after day till we got nigh to the moor, when I chose my road very careful and walked night-times only till we come to this house. The old Betsy was agone, and the house was nigh failed to pieces, and I've a-heard since that she was found drowned in a lime-pit some years back. But I digged under the table as the old Betsy had said, and there deep down was a box wrapped up in a sheepskin, full of silver money, and a little gold too. How she got it, I can't tell, unless she took it from her husband, who had been a sailor, as she told me once, though sailors isn't given to saving. So we built up the house again and here I made up my mind to live, where no one couldn't hurt my boy, for he was shy of grown-up folks, and children won't leave mun alone.

"So here we've a-been now these many years, and the boy's been so happy as could be. Jackdaws, hedgehogs, squirrels, deer, naught comes amiss to mun: and he knows the moor and the woods so well as the deer themselves. He growed stronger too, though I wouldn't never take him with me when I went down to the villages to buy meal: but he would always keep out of sight and wait for me. And I suppose that just lately he may have been getting a bit better in his head, for he runned down to join the children that day when I come to Ashacombe, as you remember; and for all that he was a bit frightened then, he was so took up with your little lady that I hadn't the heart to keep mun from going to look at her, though I was always hid not very far from mun. It was me that your servant saw in the woods the day Jan brought the bullfinch; but Lord, Lord, I never thought that it would have come to this."

She stopped, and pulling the clothes aside looked sadly at the sick man's face. "See there," she said in a hard, changed voice, "that's how he looked often when we was marching back to Corinner. I thought that I should never get mun back alive then, but I did hope never to see mun look so again. And though he can't spake I know what he's a-thinking. He thinks that the sarjint's come for mun, and it's a killed the heart within mun."



CHAPTER XIV

There was a long silence when Lucy Dart came to the end of her story. There were parts of it that struck home to Lady Eleanor, for was not she also the widow of a soldier who had been killed in action? But what moved her and Colonel George above all was the change in the woman's face. While she was talking of her young days her features were softer; but as she neared the end of her story they grew harder and harder until they assumed an expression of worn, dogged despair, as though she still felt the stress of those terrible days in the retreat to Corunna. She was ghastly pale also, and seemed quite exhausted when she came to the last word; and both of her visitors recalled her words, that she had carried her son, a grown man, most of the many miles from Bracefort to the hut where he now lay.

Colonel George broke the silence by telling Lucy that she must take care to keep up her own strength as well as her son's, and that he would come back the next day with a fresh store of provisions for them both. He begged at the same time to be allowed to bring the doctor with him, but Lucy positively refused. A doctor could do no good, she said; and she begged that the colonel would not come again until the day after to-morrow, as she wished to be left alone.

So with a heavy heart Lady Eleanor bade her good-bye, and they left her bent over the body of her son; Colonel George saying that he could find his way back over the bog without help. And so indeed he did, with a skill which to Lady Eleanor seemed marvellous; but she said not a word to him until they reached the high ridge, on a point of which she had once rested while the searching parties were scouring the moor for her lost children, as weary with watching and misery as the woman from whom she had just parted. And then for the first time there occurred to her the readiness, quickness and foresight with which Colonel George had arranged everything, not only for the finding of the children, but for letting her know by signal what had happened, for better or worse, as early as possible. Involuntarily she quickened her horse's pace a little as she thought of her race home to the children, after they were found; and then came the chilling remembrance that, when she reached home, Dick would not be there. She pulled up, and looked round for Colonel George, who had dropped somewhat behind her, and was gazing at the glorious prospect of moor and valley and woodland that was spread out before him. Instantly he was at her side.

"I am afraid that we have not the same excuse for scampering home to-day," he said, divining her thoughts; "poor old Dick is well on his way by now. Well, the Corporal will be back in a few days to tell us all about him; and I hope to see him myself before long, as he will be close to London."

"Then you are going?" said Lady Eleanor, "for how long?"

"For a long time," he said, "I am going abroad again. Three months is not very long leave after a six months' voyage perhaps, but I am a soldier and must go where I am told. But I don't start for another month," he added, "so I hope to clear up this little trouble for you before I go."

Lady Eleanor stifled a little cry. "Going away again so soon?" she said. "Surely you are not wanted already?" But she checked herself and went on calmly. "Then you think there is nothing very serious the matter with that poor idiot after all?"

Colonel George shook his head. "I am not a doctor," he answered, "but I confess that I think very badly of him, and I believe that the woman is right, and that a doctor would be useless."

They rode on silently for a time, when Colonel George said, "That poor woman looked nearly as ill as her son. She went through terrible things before Corunna, but the last few days must have been almost worse. The strain of carrying him all that distance from Bracefort must have been more than she could really stand. She has no one except him in the world, and if he be taken from her, I cannot think how she will struggle on alone."

"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, as if talking to herself, "it is terrible to be left alone."

Colonel George glanced at her quickly, but she was looking sadly straight in front of her, and he rode on for some way further in silence before he broke out almost fiercely, "When I lost my best friend at Salamanca, my first thought was for her who by his death was left alone. When I came back after the peace I should have asked her, if I had dared, to live alone no longer, but to come and live with me. But I dared not, and went away again, dreading every day lest I might no longer find her alone when I came back. And now I am about accepting an appointment at the Cape and leaving her alone again, when God knows, all I care for in this world is to throw up my commission and stay with her—always, if she will let me. Eleanor, it is true—you are more than all the world to me. Tell me, shall I go or stay?"

Lady Eleanor flushed deeply but rode on in silence; and Colonel George added very gently:

"One word more; whatever your answer, remember that you can count upon me always for your faithful friend."

So they rode on without a word for some way further till they came to two rough tracks, of which one led to Fitzdenys Court and the other to Bracefort, where Colonel George pulled up and looked at her straight in the face.

"Is it go or stay?" he asked.

"Go now," she said with some difficulty; "come back,—not to-morrow, but when you return from visiting the hut on the day after."

"If I come back to you, I shall stay," he answered.

"Come back," she repeated, "but leave me for to-morrow; and now good-bye."

So she gave him her hand, and they went their different ways; but both stopped and looked back after they had gone a hundred yards, to the great surprise and disgust of their horses, who were impatient to get home.

But next morning Colonel George received a hurried note from Lady Eleanor saying she had been disturbed in the night by the sound of footsteps on the gravel by the house; and that, though she could see nothing at the time, the maids on opening the door had found the drummer's coat lying on the step. She therefore feared that something was gone wrong and begged Colonel Fitzdenys, despite his promise, to ride up to the hut on the moor without delay.

Of course the colonel started off at once, and when he caught sight of the hut he noticed that the goats were unmilked and bleating pitifully round the door. As he drew nearer, the jackdaw and magpie came hopping out, cawing with mouths wide open; and then he jumped off his horse, tied him up, and knocked with his whip against the pole which formed the door-post. There was no answer, and he went in. The idiot was lying as he had seen him on the previous day, but the troubled look was gone from his face; and across him with her head close to his lay his mother, while the squirrel with his little bright eyes was sitting up by the heads of both. The woman's skirts were dripping wet, as though she had walked through dewy grass, and she lay quite still. The colonel laid his hand on the man's forehead; and it was quite cold. Then he took the woman's hand and that also was cold. He had seen such sights too often in the wars to be dismayed at finding himself alone with the dead. "He must have died at sunset," he said to himself, "and she walked over to Bracefort in the night in distraction and came back to die before sunrise. No wonder, after such a strain as carrying him all those miles." He left the two where they lay, and was about to put the door in its place and go; but the goats clamoured so loud that he stopped to milk them, which he had learned to do in India, and finding the meat that he had brought on the previous day untouched in the basket, he gave some scraps to the magpie and the jackdaw, and ferreted about till he had discovered some nuts in the hut for the squirrel. Then he set the door in its place and rode straight for Bracefort.

When he reached the hill-top he saw some one riding upward; and galloping down soon found himself face to face with Lady Eleanor. In spite of what she had said on the day before she seemed very happy to see him twenty-four hours earlier than she had appointed, and it was not for some minutes that they came to the matter which had brought them together again. Then Colonel George told her what he had seen at the hut, though he found it hard to tell her anything so sad at such a time. She listened with many tears, but when she had recovered herself somewhat, she told Colonel George that there was one person more who must hear the story of Lucy Dart at once.

So when they came to Bracefort they went to see old Sally Dart, who had become weaker again in the last few days, and had taken to her bed. She brightened up as they came in, and before either of them could say a word, bade them, as if she knew for what they were come, to tell them about her Jan. So they told her how he had fallen in fair fight with the French, among the rear-guard, which had covered itself with glory in the retreat; and she said that it was well. And they told her how Lucy his wife had stuck to him faithfully through all the hardship of war, that she had carried his boy to the end, when men were dying all round of fatigue and despair, and had brought him out alive, by her patience and courage, though injured for life; and that she had devoted herself wholly to him in the years that followed and died from grief when he died. They kept back from her any more than this lest they should grieve her, but old Sally was satisfied without asking questions, for which indeed she had little strength, but said that it was well, and that she would now go in peace. Then she wished them both good-bye and hoped they might live long and happily together, though they had told her nothing of what had passed between themselves; and those were the last words that she spoke, for she was stricken for the second time that evening and after lingering for a day and a night departed in peace, as she had said.

So there were three graves dug in the little churchyard; and grandmother, mother and son were buried together, so that the mourners for old Sally did honour also to the two whom they had treated as outcasts. The goats, the old pony, the magpie, the jackdaw and the squirrel were all brought down at the same time and made over to Elsie; and the little drummer's coat still lies in the glass case at Bracefort Hall.

But it was all many, many years ago; and there are few now living in Ashacombe village who remember to have heard from their parents the story of the witch of Cossacombe. There are many more monuments now in the churches both at Ashacombe and Fitzdenys than there were then; but those who read from them of George, Lord Fitzdenys, who fought in the Peninsula, at Waterloo, and at Maheidpore, and of Eleanor his beloved wife, think little or know nothing of the manner in which they were brought together. Still less do they know of the part played in the matter by John Brimacott, sometime of the Light Dragoons, who died in their household after forty years of good and faithful service. Those again who read an inscription to the memory of General Sir Richard Bracefort, Colonel of the 116th Lancers, who fought in the Punjaub, cannot tell that this was once little Dick, who was lost on the moor, nor that Elizabeth his widowed sister, whose memory also is preserved in Ashacombe church, was once little Elsie who was lost with him. But folks still pause to look at the tablet which records the death of Private John Dart in the retreat to Corunna, and of Lucy his wife, who after his fall carried her son of nine years old to the British ships, and having devoted the rest of her life to the care of him, who by God's visitation could take no care for himself, was found dead upon his body when he died.



THE END