16. XVI.
A FRIEND IN NEED, AND INDEED.
There are some scenes, reader, which the most eloquent
chronicler shrinks from describing, feeling that
words have not yet been invented adequate to convey
his emotion.
My brother whom I thought dead was thus alive,
and I clasped him in my arms! The dear laughing
face was there again before me,—the warm hand pressed
my own: it was Harry,—Harry! and, holding him
close to me, I laughed and cried like a child.
The history of this marvel was given me in few
words. Harry had been fearfully but not mortally
wounded on the day of Naseby. With the wounded
of both sides, he had been conveyed to an obscure hospital
in London, and only after long confinement to
his bed had he been able to rise again. He was then
conducted to prison: his obscure existence was unrecorded.
At last his prison-door had opened; and here
he was again at home.
“That's the whole, Ned,” he laughed,—“except
something else. Shall I tell that too?”
“Speak, Harry.”
“No; I'll think I'll let madam tell you in person.”
“Madam!”
“Certainly. Do you remember our visit to my lord
Falkland's house `Great Tew'?”
“Yes! yes!”
“And his handsome and most agreeable niece
Alice?”
I started, gazing at him with wide eyes.
“She has come to see us, now!”
And, opening an inner door, Harry called out,
laughing,—
“Alice!”
The beautiful girl hastened in, bright-eyed, laughing,
and holding up her red cheek.
“Welcome, brother Edmund!” she said.
I pressed my lips to the red cheek, lost in a maze of
wonder. As I did so, I felt two arms around my neck,
and Cicely's lips close pressed to my own.
“Oh, brother! God be thanked—!”
The child began to cry then, and only held me
closer.
“My little Cicely!” I exclaimed, returning her embrace.
Then I added, laughing,—
“You at least are not married?”
Harry burst into laughter.
“Ask Frank Villiers there if she's not!” he cried.
I turned, feeling as though I were in a dream. Before
me stood young Frank Villiers, with his chestnut
curls, blue eyes, and joyous smile, enjoying plainly my
astonishment, my dumb stupor.
“Let me explain all, my son, in a very few words,”
said my father, in his mild sweet voice. “Harry and
Cicely have just been married, and are about to leave
me. They go beyond seas until the troubles of England
have blown over. God has mercifully returned
my dear Harry to me back from the grave, and now
sends you too to add to the joy of my old heart!”
My father had scarce uttered these words, when hoofstrokes
clattered up the avenue.
“Who comes so fast?” he said, going to the door,
and opening it.
A moment afterwards I saw rush in the figure of
young Jervas Ireton. He was covered with dust, and
held a paper in his hand.
“Make haste, Mr. Harry, and Mr. Ned, and all!”
he exclaimed. “They are coming to arrest you!—
from Keynton!—the troopers!”
“To arrest us?” I said, coldly. “Doubtless 'tis
your good father, sir.”
“Father? Why, he's dead!” exclaimed the young
hopeful, without any exhibition of feeling. “Died of
the quinsy,—furious because I'd married the gamekeeper's
daughter! Her name was Cicely,—she's a
beauty! But hurry, Mr. Ned and Harry! I'm your
friend; not one of the godly. I have no opinions of
any consequence! Order your coach, quick, and horses
too, and get to Charlecote with the ladies! Stay! the
troopers are coming. See, yonder on the hill!”
A glance indicated that the warning was judicious.
On the summit of a hill about half a mile from the
house was seen a party of troopers approaching at a
round trot.
“I'll see to the coach without a moment's delay!”
Harry exclaimed; “and you, young ladies, gather up
your jewels and laces and be ready! Ned, you and I
will go on horseback. Your horse will await you in
the shrubbery near the coach.”
Cicely and the fair Alice were hastening out, when
young Ireton caught the hand of the former.
“Do you remember old times, Cicely?”
“Yes,—oh, thank you, Jervas; but don't keep me.”
“You are going away now, and I won't see you
again, Cicely.”
“Good-by, Jervas.”
“One moment, Cicely. I am not of much consequence;
but I'm not a bad fellow, and I will try to
show you that.”
He unfolded the paper in his hand.
“I loved you, Cicely,” he went on, “and married
the gamekeeper's daughter because she's named
Cicely too! I love you still, and Mr. Ned, and Harry,
and Mr. Cecil, and all of you. My father's dead, and
I'm the master, and this deed is mine. It is the deed
to my father for Cecil Court, which they confiscated.
Here, Cicely! that is my wedding-present. Now give
me a kiss!”
He tore the deed in pieces, and presented it to her.
“Good, good Jervas! You are a true friend! Oh,
thank you! you shall have a good kiss, indeed!”
And Cicely held up her lips quickly; the youth bestowed
a resounding salute thereon: a moment afterwards,
Cicely had disappeared, and the troopers were
seen rapidly approaching.
“Go, my son,” said my father. “I have seen you,
and you must not run the risk of prison! God be
thanked, my old eyes have looked again upon my children!
Embrace me! God bless you!”
I threw myself into my father's arms, shook hands
with Jervas, and ran to my horse, which stood in the
shrubbery.
As the troopers thundered up to the door, the coach
containing Cicely, Alice, and Frank Villiers disappeared
in the wood behind the house.
Harry and I followed on horseback; and we gained
Charlecote in safety.
On the next morning the coach with its gentlemen
outriders set out for the coast. Fortune served us. We
obtained passage on a vessel bound for Holland.
Three days afterwards our feet pressed the soil of
the continent. We were beyond the reach of all our
enemies.
