The Cavaliers, etc

Front matter

Bb tbe same Hutbor. THE CRIMSON SIGN A STORY OF THE SIEGE OF DERRY. Third and Popular Edition in cloth gilt, with Illustrations by G. H. Edwards and S. H. Vedder, 3s. 6d. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Literary World. " Recounts in an able manner the terrible scenes which culminated in the siege and relief of Londonderry, giving his readers a personal interest in the characters he has created, and many and pathetic are the resulting pictures. Mr. KEIGHTLEY with a few deft touches of his pen brings them home to the reader with a force that enables him to realise what such warfare really means. The French soldier is a strange character, strikingly conceived." Times. "An exciting story told with great animation .... reads like a bit of Alexandre Dumas .... an interesting and well written story." National Observer.

" The book is interesting and well written, and will be appreciated by all who love an honest and wholesome story, written in pure EngUsh. Its author writes clearly and simply. 'The Crimson Sign 'is much above the ordinary run of library fiction. " Vanity Fair. ' We can cordially commend ' The Crimson Sign ' ; it does not contain a dull page." Horse Guards Gazette. ' A delightful piece of literary work. From the start of the story down to the closing chapter the interest never flags. FuU of stirring incident, humour, interest, and seldom descending to the commonplace, we have no hesitation in predicting ' The Crimson Sign ' a great success, and shall wait with interest future work from the same pen." St- James's Budget. ' Mr. S. R. Keightley has written a story of thrilling interest. He tells his tale with charming quaintness of language.

It is one which makes the blood to flow with increased celerity, and the pulses to beat more rapidly than Is their wont." Yorkshire Post. Of adventure stories, nothing published this season is likely to surpass in interest and in value * The Crimson Sign.' The whole story is admirable, full of exciting situations and cleverly conceived portraiture. Glasgow Herald. If this be Mr. Keightley's first excursion into the realms of historical romance, he is to be congratulated on the success which he has achieved. It is a powerful story, and holds the interest of the reader from first to last ; the descriptions are extremely graphic .... narrated with great, though unstrained, dramatic force. His portrayal of Macpherson is little short of a creation." Dundee Advertiser. The author has woven a tale of fascinating interest.

Chapter I. On The Threshold

: THE STORY OF MY YOUTH. An old man's memory is like a sea in the glow of sunset ; the distant horizon is brilliant with light and filled with the joy of colour, and far-off objects loom larger and out of proportion to those which are nearer and more familiar. The great adventures and gallant exploits of manhood run in an old man's mind like a tale told in a dream, but the bitter sweet ness of youth — its innocent joys, its junketings and merrymakings, its childish sorrows and tragedies — the memory of these things grows more distinct and certain as the gliding years go by. For myself I can still hear the thunder of the ordnance, and catch the gleam of swords that rallied round a falling king, but the uneventful history of my boyhood in country scenes and sylvan paths is fresher and clearer than the manlier tale.

I can still see the look in kind eyes that are long since dust ; I can hear the tones of voices that are long since silent for ever — nay, I can see the very roses by the doorway, the moss upon the thatch, the lowing kine under the beech trees, and the buttons on John Oliver's fustian jacket. Nor do I think my boyhood was happier and more eventful than that of most ; 'twas but a little gleam of quiet lying sunlighted in an angry and agitated sea of struggle and of action. A I was sixteen years of age on the day of the peace of Prague. News travelled slowly in those days, but I had good reason to remember it, as the reader will presently learn, for a certain flogging had an edge to it that bit deep into my memory. I was the eldest of four, and caused more trouble to my loving mother's patient heart than all the others together.

I would fain believe that this did not arise from any inherent viciousness, but rather from restlessness and levity that time has now abated. In justice to my father's memory I must set down that he did his best to correct the faults of my youth, but 'twas in his own way, and a hard one for a high-spirited boy to suffer patiently. His panacea was an oaken cudgel that hung from a leathern thong by the stable door, and the remedy was applied with abundant goodwill. My father was a proud man in his own way, proud of his strength, his loyalty, and his ancient lineage. For though the Duncombes of Duncombe had somewhat narrowed their acres and straitened their fortunes in these later days, a Duncombe had fallen by Harold's side at Hastings, and others of the race had been found in the stubborn English ranks at Crecy and at Agincourt.

It was only when he was raised with wine that my father spoke of these things. Otherwise he was a God-fearing, gallant gentleman who stood by Church and King, and strove to bring up his family in a pious regard and reverence for both. In later times I have met men whose religion was of so fine texture that it could be worn only on Sundays and holidays, but his was a plain, wholesome homespun that served him every day in the week. Precisian and Puritan he hated with as much goodwill as myself, though perhaps he had less reason for his enmity. I can see him now as I write, with his red, cheerful face, and his blue eyes brimming with a certain merry humour that would set your heart dancing, a tall man like his descendant, but of far greater strength and endurance. But for the most part my father's strength went to the peaceful husbandry of his fields, where the red poppies in the corn and the golden wheat moving like a sea of water in the wind, were the first sights I remember.

Afoot in the early morning with his hazel switch in his hand, he saw to all the work with his own eyes, and dealt with his servants like an English gentleman who has good blood in his veins, and must live accordingly. These looked upon him as a prince of the blood in his own demesne, and would willingly have laid down their lives in his service, as some of them did for his son afterwards. My father's great friend was Sir Austin Leigh of Beauchamp Hall, from whose estate Duncombe lay at no great distance. I never knew by what bond of secret sympathy they were drawn together, for Sir Austin was but a scholar whose eyes had grown dim pouring over his books, and in whom excessive study had weakened the strong pulse of self-reliant action. But there was no affair of moment in which he did not consult my father, and act upon his judgment.

Sometimes, too, my lady, his wife, would call upon my mother, laying down the law upon the curing of cheeses, the management of children, and the training of servants, in such way that my sweet little mother would have willingly had the strenuous lady safe back at Beauchamp Hall again. At this distance of time, through long years that are filled with crowded life, and the incidents of a great and memorable struggle, I cannot think or write of my mother without tears rising to my eyes. Oh, the wealth of love that lies deep in the mother's heart — love so untiring, love so full of sympathy, and rest, and perfect understanding, that there is nothing else like it in the world. Even after many years the world cannot drive its memory from the heart, but it follows us, when the gentle eyes we loved are long since closed, with a solemn benediction that brings back our lost youth again.

I think the soldier's harness is not so hard, the politician's mind is not so full of affairs, nay, even the debauchee's heart is not so cankered that each has not in the quiet hours of his life drunk from the shadowy chalice that Memory holds out to him, of that sweet and precious affection once more. To my mother's memory I owe this, that but think ing of her has upheld me in many temptations where I had perhaps otherwise fallen, at a time when my blood was hot, and my will undisciplined. It grieves me much to remember how I plagued her with my boyish mischief, for we lads led a noisy and ungovernable household. As the eldest, it befitted me to set an example, but when followed it led most generally to flagellation and reprimand. Philip came next to me, a quiet, shy lad with a scholar's face and spirit.

Alas ! the promise of his young life closed in the onset at Newbury, where he fell almost in his first youth, like a loyal gentleman fighting for his king. After him came Marjorie, who lived and died a spinster ; and, lastly, my favourite Nance, who in after days married my friend, Sir Robert Hawkes of Ashworth, in the county of Hert ford. She is a stately, white-haired lady now, but in the days of which I write she was a rosy-cheeked hoyden who delighted to ride Dobbin barebacked, and join with us boys in our boisterous sports. Ours, as you can well guess, was a happy house hold, in which our youthful spirits had free play and scope, and our affections grew strong and tender under the fine discipline of love and trust. The great world lay far away ; the dark shadow of coming times did not fall across our path.

The pro spects of the harvest, the festivities of Christmas, the news of the latest wrestling match, had far more inter est for us than the doings of the King of Spain, or His Most Christian Majesty. My brother and myself were sent early to school, for my father, though himself no lover of books, had a strong belief in the power of letters, and the strict discipline of the master's birch. Though I have since learned the quiet charm that lies in books, in those days I hated them very devoutly. I have often sat by my desk on the long summer days hungering for the green woods, and the cool springs where the speckled trout were leaping. My dog-eared Gradus lay open before me, but my mind was far away with Towzer and the rabbits in Seven Tree Bottom, or the swan's nest that I nursed as a precious secret.

I have often been rudely awakened from my day-dreams by the unwelcome swish of the ferula, and the nasal drawl of Master Twycroft. " Thy swinish English brains will not bear the ad mixture of the generous Latin tongue, Tom Duncombe. Thou must live by thy hands, not thy head, honest Tom. For thine own good, and thy neighbours', I must flagel late thee, lest thou come to an untimely end.'' And flagellated I was accordingly. That I endured as an incident natural to boyhood, a penalty that one must pay for being young, and I bore the burden of the rod with a good-humoured bravado that came in part from temperament and in part from habit. I lay down my pen and watch, through the vista of all these years, Master Twycroft standing by his desk as the sunlight comes through the low windows us the schoolhouse, and the door lies open to the village green outside, where the pigeons are circling round the May pole, and the beadle is driving Harry Doolittle's dun cow to the pound.

The master was a tall man, angular and full of many points. His legs were very long and thin, and his feet so large that they seemed to carry his body by their weight alone — that was my boyish fancy. His lean and sallow jaws moved visibly when he spoke, which he did slowly and with a slight drawl that used to move me exceedingly. I was ever im patient that he should make an end. His head was thatched with the lankest and blackest hair in the world, which fell at that time upon his shoulders, though afterwards he cut it quite closely. His nose was too obsequious for a schoolmaster, ill-sitting the instans tyrannies of the Delectus. A manner cringing towards his superiors, overbearing towards his pupils, and ever pious and self-righteous, ill reconciled me to the stern discipline by which he had resolved to break my wilful spirit.

By what means I am unfitted at this distance of time to speak, he had gained a very great reputation as a scholar, and in consequence his school was much frequented by lads as well from distant parishes as from those that lay ajacent. On the whole, I incline to think he deserved his reputation, and had it not been for an inordinate love of strong ale he had not so long filled a situation so humble, and carrying with it remuneration so meagre. That love was (so to speak) the rock he split upon ; it was the joint in his harness. I have seen him seated at his desk with his spectacles on his nose, his ferula lying ha*mless by his open book, sleeping off the effects of his morning potations, while we wilder spirits avenged our griev ances by imaginary castigations of his person. In these interludes I scar I bore a chief part.

I loved to imitate his tipsy gravity, his aggressive drawl, his measured walk. As I have said, I had to pay dearly for these frolics, but as I grew older and began to take on me the dignity of sixteen or thereabouts, I bore these too frequent castigations with an ill grace, and finally resented them in an unmistakable manner. The episode was memorable in that it terminated my servitude under Master Twycroft and left me to perfect my education in the great world. My old friend and gossip (a friendship pregnant with honest love and respect), Percival Leigh, was the cause of this, as indeed he was of much else in my life. As the world knows, he was the only son and heir of the Sir Austin Leigh of whom I have written, and being of my own age, or something younger, was sent to the grammar school a little later than myself.

To those who have since watched his career I need not say he has not followed his father in the retired paths of meditation, or the pursuit of the abstract sciences which win a man from action. Already in his early youth he showed signs of those qualities which have since distinguished him in the great world. Courageous, frank (here my old friend may have abated somewhat), dexterous, and full of swift enter prize, even as a lad 1 remember him a ringleader in our youthful exploits. In these days he was a bright eyed lad with brown ringlets clustering round his head, and at times a look in his eyes that in my old memory brings back the softer glances of his sister Melody. It is certain that Master Twycroft spared him no more than he spared myself, and it may be that we were first lovingly drawn together by the common misfortune of inordinate flogging.

But while I bore my punishment without complaint — even some what cheerfully — my less patient companion groaned bitterly, and as he grew out of his boyhood resented it mightily. Then it came about that I ended it altogether and my education with it, for which I was heartily thankful at the time. It fell out in this way : Hard by the grammar-school was the village church, with its tall spire lifting clear into the sky above the elms and sycamores that grew thick in the quiet churchyard. Three counties, we lads used to say, a man might see from the summit of the steeple — three counties, and it might be a faint glimpse of silver sea across many a mile of wood and corn-land, though this, as I soon learned, was but fable. I had stolen once and again upon the platform of the tower and gazed wonderingly up the rough masonry, tracing an adventurous path to the giddy pinnacle.

To climb where none had climbed before grew with me into a passion that I kept locked up in my own heart, till one June day, prompted by I know not what instinct, I de termined to put my wild project into instant execution. I had been watching from the windows of the schoolhouse the vagrant rooks holding their par liament about the steeple, watching them a half hour or more with eyes that turned in spite of me from the Terentius lying open upon my desk. The spirit of revolt was busy within me ; revolt and disdain, for I had that morning, following ancient custom, submitted to a thrashing more than ordinary for an offence of which I stood guiltless, videlicet— the draw ing of an effigy of Master Twycroft in the act of draining a quart measure, with some opprobrious words written underneath.

In vain I had (as I very well remember) protested that I was innocent — Percival Leigh being the culprit — and then bent my back to the storm. As I sat at my desk gazing furtively from the window, I still tingled with the strokes of the ferula — what boy of spirit has not ? — and burned with a sense of injustice that was new to me, for hitherto, I am fain to confess, I had merited all, and more than all I suffered. Then in a moment my resolve took form and body — no longer to submit to a servitude so idle and so harsh, as I then deemed it, but to take my manhood upon me, and to testify its taking up by an act that should be remembered while Beau champ School had boys to flog. Almost before the thought was conceived I had closed my hated books, risen from my desk, and amid a hush of expectation and fear, walked soberly up the room to where Master Twycroft was solemnly watching the untrussing of the real culprit, for whose offence I had borne punishment.

He eyed me very sourly. "Thou hast not come to reason yet, Tom Dun combe," he said; "reason and thou wert ever strangers; but, peradventure — " " Peradventure, sir," I cried, interrupting him rudely, " will never come to pass ! You have flogged me with reason and without reason, but with or without you will never flog me again. I am come with very good will to take my leave of you, for I wish you no evil. Nay ! " I continued, for I could perceive he meditated an attack, "if you move but a foot I will break you like a hazel twig. I have born*? too much and will bear no more." We stood face to face, as if measuring the strength the one of the other, but my old master showed no sign of fear or indecision, though he must have known I was twice the stronger and full of spirit. Perhaps I should have yielded from habit, and got me peacefully out of the encounter, but for the laughter and whispering of the lads, who forgot their terrors in the excitement of the great moment ; for an event had happened in Beauchamp School.

The fumes of popularity rose in my brain ; I cared for nothing save the applause of the hour. Then Master Twycroft advanced and took me by the shoulder. Hardly knowing or caring what I did, for my blood was up, I threw off his grasp, and with a good stout blow felled the poor dominie to the ground. He uttered no sound as he fell, and I verily believed that I had killed him ; but at the moment I hardly cared for the consequences. I was, as it were, caput lupinis. By this act I had placed myself beyond the pale, and, in my young imagination, felt for the moment as though I had shaken off the trammels of all restraint. None dared to stay me. I made my way with a fine bravado through my admiring schoolfellows, who, however, fell away from me, as though unwilling to approve the deed, or abet me by their countenance.

I cared not for that, or seemed not to care, but went whistling across the village green towards the church that stood on a little gentle hill hardly a gunshot off. The churchyard was an ancient haunt of mine ; the only book of history that at that time — strange as it may seem — I cared to read, and the historian who writ its gruesome pages— the parish grave-digger, I mean — was my familiar gossip. But Jeremy was not compiling his calendar on this fair June day, and the church door lay open. Outlawed as I was by my late rash act, and like to suffer grievous punishment, I had made up my mind to the adventure whereof I have spoken, and do, as I conceived, a great and memorable deed. There was no one to stay or question me. Invitingly the door lay open ; I knew my way up the winding belfry stair, past the tomb of old Sir Marmaduke, who had fought at Stamford Town and now lay frowning in his marble shroud.

Standing on the tower, the village lay still beneatli me. Only the barking of a stray dog and the angry chatter of the rooks, broke the pleasant stillness. Far away I could see across the woods and beyond the silver waters of the Axe, the red roofs of Duncombe, and the cattle — mere specks they seemed — in the meadow by the mill. How quiet was that pastoral scene ! how still that summer air ! but within my young bosom what a raging storm of passionate insurrection ! Between myself and that quiet world had grown a great gulf, which it seemed to me would never again be bridged. Ah me ! how real are the tragedies of youth ; how dark, if transient, is the gloom, how hopeless is the grief, how bitter the despair ! The sorrows of our riper days are borne with a calm and equal mind ; experience teaches there is no trial the heart cannot bear, nor any night that morning does not follow with healing, and perhaps with happiness.

To me, then, the world was wholly dark, dark and lonely, for I felt that I stood alone in my lawless solitude, outlawed and aliened by one hasty blow, born of idleness and vanity. I say that I set the world at defiance— my little world that was bounded by Duncombe and Beauchamp School — and from one heedless folly proceeded to another that had long been premeditated. Placing my jacket on the parapet, and casting one defiant look upon the rough stonework, round which the ivy had wreathed itself with strong and pliant arms, I set out upon my upward journey. As I write in this the peaceful autumn of my life, I can feel again the emotions that shook my young heart, the passions that drove me, the spirit of defiance that nerved my hands and braced my sinews to my perilous and foolish task. With every step that I ascended I left my grief behind ; atra cura loosened her hold upon me, vanishing into that blue air where never a cloud was sailing.

Here the tendrils of the ivy gave me hold, there a friendly ledge or buttress. I clung to those frail supports with all the strength of my young ungovernable spirit, with no thought of danger and no heed of disaster. The colony of startled daws that had their lodging there flew round me with a mighty fluttering of wings and clangorous cawing; nay, one, the patriarch, I think, of all that volant parish, approached so near that I caught the gleam in his wicked eyes, and felt upon my cheek the stir of air from his passing wings. Once and again I cried aloud in my passionate exultation, like one scarce having full possession of his faculties, a cry of derision and disdain. Upward and still upward, with unabated zeal I crept from point to point, never daring to look beneath, but ever with an upward gaze at the hoped for haven of my desires.

But as I ascended, my footing grew more and more insecure, my arduous task more difficult and dangerous. Then I came upon a ledge, left I know not for what purpose by the builders, and here I rested to recruit my strength. My hands were torn and bleeding, my feet tingled with the pain of climb ing, and but once looking down from that giddy altitude, my head began to swim. Then through the still, sweet air I heard the murmur of many voices from below, and my own name called, as it seemed, by a thousand tongues. I knew now that my perilous ascent was marked by all the world, and had I thought of turning back before, 'twas out of the question now. Tom Duncombe who had fought the calender's man three several times, and at last carried away the spoils of victory ; Tom Duncombe who had robbed more orchards than any dozen lads in the four parishes ; Tom Duncombe, finally, who had broken his master's head, had rather die than turn his back on his half-completed task.

Therefore again onward, honest Tom, though the wall yonder grows smooth and bare, and thou seemest to cling like a fly by very suction. How it was done I do not know, but it was done at last — with a great lump in my throat and my young heart knocking loudly in my bosom. At that moment I experienced such sense of delight and pride as I have not felt in all my life ; nay, not even when the martyred Charles, my king and master, laid his royal sword upon my shoulder and spoke the noble words that will be written in their place. Here I found room to rest and enjoy my short-lived triumph. As yet the first great glow of passion had not died away ; that came afterwards, as bruised and bleed ing I clung to the wall in my descent, and despaired of ever again touching earth alive. Hours, it seemed, I hung there, scarce daring to relax my hold, like one clinging to his last despairing chance, and finding that, too, slipping from his grasp.

But the Providence that watched over me in my ascent vouchsafed the same kindly care as I descended, though then, boy as I was, mcthought I owed it all to my own strong arms and intrepid heart. Certainly there was no prayer of thanksgiving on my lips, nor yet any heroic spirit in my breast, as I again stepped upon the platform of the tower and drew my coat upon my back. When the deed was done I was no longer proud, but only wishful that the past with my late folly might be blotted out, and that I was again at peace with all the world. For I now saw the consequences with a clear and sober mind — my father's wrath, my mother's grief, and the end of all my careless life. The thunder-shower had spent itself; the volcanic light ning had passed palpitating into darkness. I hardly heard the fierce objurgations of Dr. Ring wood when he met me at the churchyard gate ; hardly the greeting of my good Percival Leigh, who in presence of them all threw his arms about my neck and sobbed upon my shoulder.

Meminisse juvat after all these years, my lord of Beauchamp. I would be alone with the dark passions of my young heart, and hurried to the riverside by woodland bypaths, where I laved my hands and face in the sweet running water, and threw myself down, a tired, hopeless lad, among the cowslips on the bank. It was late when I returned home, creeping to the door like another prodigal, though with no expecta tion of any fatted calf. From my mother's parlour I caught the sound of girlish laughter as I hurried swiftly and secretly to my own room, where I flung myself on the bed and turned my face to the wall. There was no part for me in the household joy. To me, lying there alone, that summer evening was of endless length, as the shadows lengthened and the thousand sounds of country life grew hushed and still.

By and by one of the maids brought me some supper, whereof I partook listlessly, though I had not tasted food since noon ; and then I fell asleep. When I awakened it was quite dark, only a candle burned upon the table, and my mother's arms were around my neck. There were tears in her eyes — tears, and a look of unutterable love. Then, no word coming to my lips, I sobbed out my sorrows upon her bosom, and in that sweet, encircling love felt rest and peace stealing by degrees into my tired, agitated heart. A long time she sat there in silence, speaking only with her eyes, and her soft touch upon my sorehead. Ah ! sir, I also have known the intrigues of camp and court, and the stern joy of the hour of battle, but for your very manhood's sake your heart becomes, as mine does after all these years, as the heart of a little child when you think of scenes like this.