Of all the good men that Lincolnshire
gave to England to make her proud, strong and handsome,
none was stronger, prouder and more handsome than
John Enderby, whom King Charles made a knight against
his will.
“Your gracious Majesty,”
said John Enderby, when the King was come to Boston
town on the business of draining the Holland fen and
other matters more important and more secret, “the
honour your Majesty would confer is well beyond a
poor man like myself, for all Lincolnshire knows that
I am driven to many shifts to keep myself above water.
Times have been hard these many years, and, craving
your Majesty’s pardon, our taxes have been heavy.”
“Do you refuse knighthood of
his Majesty?” asked Lord Rippingdale, with a
sneer, patting the neck of his black stallion with
a gloved hand.
“The King may command my life,
my Lord Rippingdale,” was Enderby’s reply,
“he may take me, body and bones and blood, for
his service, but my poor name must remain as it is
when his Majesty demands a price for honouring it.”
“Treason,” said Lord Rippingdale
just so much above his breath as the King might hear.
“This in our presence!”
said the King, tapping his foot upon the ground, his
brows contracting, and the narrow dignity of the divine
right lifting his nostrils scornfully.
“No treason, may it please your
Majesty,” said Enderby, “and it were better
to speak boldly to the King’s face than to be
disloyal behind his back. My estates will not
bear the tax which the patent of this knighthood involves.
I can serve the country no better as Sir John Enderby
than as plain John Enderby, and I can serve my children
best by shepherding my shattered fortunes for their
sakes.”
For a moment Charles seemed thoughtful,
as though Enderby’s reasons appealed to him,
but Lord Rippingdale had now the chance which for ten
years he had invited, and he would not let it pass.
“The honour which his Majesty
offers, my good Lincolnshire squire, is more to your
children than the few loaves and fishes which you might
leave them. We all know how miserly John Enderby
has grown.”
Lord Rippingdale had touched the tenderest
spot in the King’s mind. His vanity was
no less than his impecuniosity, and this was the third
time in one day he had been defeated in his efforts
to confer an honour, and exact a price beyond all
reason for that honour. The gentlemen he had
sought had found business elsewhere, and were not to
be seen when his messengers called at their estates.
It was not the King’s way to give anything for
nothing. Some of these gentlemen had been benefited
by the draining of the Holland fens, which the King
had undertaken, reserving a stout portion of the land
for himself; but John Enderby benefited nothing, for
his estates lay further north, and near the sea, not
far from the town of Mablethorpe. He had paid
all the taxes which the King had levied and had not
murmured beyond his own threshold.
He spoke his mind with candour, and
to him the King was still a man to whom the truth
was to be told with directness, which was the highest
honour one man might show another.
“Rank treason!” repeated
Lord Rippingdale, loudly. “Enderby has been
in bad company, your Majesty. If you are not
wholly with the King, you are against him. ’He
that is not with me is against me, and he that gathereth
not with me scattereth abroad.’”
A sudden anger seized the King, and
turning, he set foot in the stirrup, muttering something
to himself, which boded no good for John Enderby.
A gentleman held the stirrup while he mounted, and,
with Lord Rippingdale beside him in the saddle, he
turned and spoke to Enderby. Self-will and resentment
were in his tone. “Knight of Enderby we
have made you,” he said, “and Knight of
Enderby you shall remain. Look to it that you
pay the fees for the accolade.”
“Your Majesty,” said Enderby,
reaching out his hand in protest, “I will not
have this greatness you would thrust upon me.
Did your Majesty need, and speak to me as one gentleman
to another in his need, then would I part with the
last inch of my land; but to barter my estate for a
gift that I have no heart nor use for your
Majesty, I cannot do it.”
The hand of the King twisted in his
bridle-rein, and his body stiffened in anger.
“See to it, my Lord Rippingdale,”
he said, “that our knight here pays to the last
penny for the courtesy of the accolade. You shall
levy upon his estate.”
“We are both gentlemen, your
Majesty, and my rights within the law are no less
than your Majesty’s,” said Enderby stoutly.
“The gentleman forgets that
the King is the fountain of all law,” said Lord
Rippingdale obliquely to the King.
“We will make one new statute
for this stubborn knight,” said Charles; “even
a writ of outlawry. His estates shall be confiscate
to the Crown. Go seek a King and country better
suited to your tastes, our rebel Knight of Enderby.”
“I am still an Enderby of Enderby,
and a man of Lincolnshire, your Majesty,” answered
the squire, as the King rode towards Boston church,
where presently he should pray after this fashion with
his subjects there assembled:
“Most heartily we beseech Thee
with Thy favour to behold our most gracious sovereign
King Charles. Endue him plenteously with Heavenly
gifts; grant him in health and wealth long to live;
strengthen him that he may vanquish and overcome
all his enemies; and, finally, after this life,
he may attain everlasting joy and felicity.”
With a heavy heart Enderby turned
homewards; that is, towards Mablethorpe upon the coast,
which lies between Saltfleet Haven and Skegness, two
ports that are places of mark in the history of the
kingdom, as all the world knows.
He had never been so vexed in his
life. It was not so much anger against the King,
for he had great reverence for the monarchy of England;
but against Lord Rippingdale his mind was violent.
Years before, in a quarrel between the Earl of Lindsey
and Lord Rippingdale, upon a public matter which Parliament
settled afterwards, he had sided with the Earl of
Lindsey. The two Earls had been reconciled afterwards,
but Lord Rippingdale had never forgiven Enderby.
In Enderby’s brain ideas worked
somewhat heavily; but to-day his slumberous strength
was infused with a spirit of action and the warmth
of a pervasive idea. There was no darkness in
his thoughts, but his pulse beat heavily and he could
hear the veins throbbing under his ear impetuously.
Once or twice as he rode on in the declining afternoon
he muttered to himself. Now it was: “My
Lord Rippingdale, indeed!” or “Not even
for a King!” or “Sir John Enderby, forsooth!
Sir John Enderby, forsooth!” Once again he spoke,
reining in his horse beside a tall cross at four corners,
near Stickford by the East Fen. Taking off his
hat he prayed:
“Thou just God, do Thou judge
between my King and myself. Thou knowest that
I have striven as an honest gentleman to do right before
all men. When I have seen my sin, oh, Lord, I
have repented! Now I have come upon perilous
times, the gins are set for my feet. Oh, Lord,
establish me in true strength! Not for my sake
do I ask that Thou wilt be with me and Thy wisdom
comfort me, but for the sake of my good children.
Wilt Thou spare my life in these troubles until they
be well formed; till the lad have the bones of a man,
and the girl the wise thought of a woman for
she hath no mother to shield and teach her. And
if this be a wrong prayer, my God, forgive it:
for I am but a blundering squire, whose tongue tells
lamely what his heart feels.”
His head was bowed over his horse’s
neck, his face turned to the cross, his eyes were
shut, and he did not notice the strange and grotesque
figure that suddenly appeared from among the low bushes
by the fen near by.
It was an odd creature perched upon
stilts; one of those persons called the stilt-walkers.
They were no friends of the King, nor of the Earl of
Lindsey, nor of my Lord Rippingdale, for the draining
of these fens took from them their means of living.
They were messengers, postmen and carriers across
the wide stretch of country from Spilsby, even down
to the river Witham, and from Boston Deep down to
Market Deeping and over to the sea. Since these
fens were drained one might travel from Market Deeping
to the Wolds without wetting a foot.
“Aw’ll trooble thee a
moment, maister,” said the peasant. “A
stilt-walker beant nowt i’ the woorld. Howsome’er,
aw’ve a worrd to speak i’ thy ear.”
Enderby reined in his horse, and with
a nod of complaisance (for he was a man ever kind
to the poor, and patient with those who fared ill in
the world) he waited for the other to speak.
“Thoo’rt the great Enderby
of Enderby, maister,” said the peasant, ducking
his head and then putting on his cap; “aw’ve
known thee sin tha wast no bigger nor a bit grass’opper
i’ the field. Wilt tha ride long, Sir John
Enderby, and aw’ll walk aside thee, ma grey nag
with thy sorrel.” He glanced down humorously
at his own long wooden legs.
Enderby turned his horse round and
proceeded on his way slowly, the old man striding
along beside him like a stork.
“Why do you dub me Knight?”
he asked, his eyes searching the face of the old man.
“Why shouldna aw call thee Knight
if the King calls thee Knight? It is the dooty
of a common man to call thee Sir John, and tak off
his hat at saying o’ it.” His hat
came off, and he nodded in such an odd way that Enderby
burst out into a good honest laugh. “Dooth
tha rememba little Tom Dowsby that went hoonting wi’
thee when tha wert not yet come to age?” continued
the stilt-walker. “Doost tha rememba when,
for a jest, thee and me stopped the lord bishop, tha
own uncle, in the highway at midnight, and took his
poorse from him, and the rich gold chain from his
neck? And doost tha rememba that tha would have
his apron too, for tha said that if it kept a bishop
clean, wouldna it keep highwaymen clean, whose work
was not so clean as a bishop’s? Sir John
Enderby, aw loove thee better than the King, an’
aw loove thee better than my Lord Rippin’dale-ay,
theere’s a sour heart in a goodly body!”
John Enderby reined up his horse and
looked the stilt-walker in the face.
“Are you little Tom Dowsby?”
exclaimed he. “Are you that scamp?”
He laughed all at once as though he had not a trouble
in the world. “And do you keep up your
evil practices? Do you still waylay bishops?”
“If aw confessed to Heaven or
man, aw would confess to thee, Sir John Enderby; but
aw’ll confess nowt.”
“And how know you that I am Sir John Enderby?”
“Even in Sleaford town aw kem
to know it. Aw stood no further from his Majesty
and Lord Rippin’dale than aw stand from you,
when the pair talked by the Great Boar inn. Where
doos tha sleep to-night?”
“At Spilsby.”
“To-night the King sleeps at
Sutterby on the Wolds. ’Tis well for thee
tha doost not bide wi’ his Majesty. Theer,
aw’ve done thee a service.”
“What service have you done me?”
“Aw’ve told thee that
tha moost sleep by Spilsby when the King sleeps at
Sutterby. Fare-thee-well, maister.”
Doffing his cap once more, the stilt-walker
suddenly stopped, and, turning aside, made his way
with an almost incredible swiftness across the fen,
taking the ditches with huge grotesque strides.
Enderby looked back and watched him for a moment curiously.
Suddenly the man’s words began to repeat themselves
in Enderby’s head: “To-night the King
sleeps at Sutterby on the Wolds. ‘Tis well
for thee tha doost not bide wi’ his Majesty.”
Presently a dozen vague ideas began to take form.
The man had come to warn him not to join the King
at Sutterby.
There was some plot against Charles!
These stiltwalkers were tools in the hands of the
King’s foes, who were growing more powerful every
day. He would sleep to-night, not at Spilsby,
but at Sutterby. He was a loyal subject; no harm
that he could prevent should come to the King.
Before you come to Sutterby on the
Wolds, as you travel north to the fenland, there is
a combe through which the highway passes, and a stream
which has on one side many rocks and boulders, and
on the other a sort of hedge of trees and shrubs.
It was here that the enemies of the King, that is,
some stilt-walkers, with two dishonourable gentlemen
who had suffered from the King’s oppressions,
placed themselves to way lay his Majesty. Lord
Rippingdale had published it abroad that the King’s
route was towards Horncastle, but at Stickney by the
fens the royal party separated, most of the company
passing on to Horncastle, while Charles, Lord Rippingdale
and two other cavaliers proceeded on a secret visit
to a gentleman at Louth.
It was dark when the King and his
company came to the combe. Lord Rippingdale suggested
to his Majesty that one of the gentlemen should ride
ahead to guard against surprise or ambush, but the
King laughed, and said that his shire of Lincoln bred
no brigands, and he rode on. He was in the coach
with a gentleman beside him, and Lord Rippingdale rode
upon the right. Almost as the hoofs of the leaders
plunged into the stream there came the whinny of a
horse from among the boulders. Alarmed, the coachman
whipped up his team and Lord Rippingdale clapped his
hand upon his sword.
Even as he did it two men sprang out
from among the rocks, seized the horses’ heads,
and a dozen others swarmed round, all masked and armed,
and calling upon the King’s party to surrender,
and to deliver up their valuables. One ruffian
made to seize the bridle of Lord Rippingdale’s
horse, but my lord’s sword severed the fellow’s
hand at the wrist.
“Villain,” he shouted, “do you know
whom you attack?”
For answer, shots rang out; and as
the King’s gentlemen gathered close to the coach
to defend him, the King himself opened the door and
stepped out. As he did so a stilt struck him
on the head. Its owner had aimed it at Lord Rippingdale;
but as my lord’s horse plunged, it missed him,
and struck the King fair upon the crown of the head.
He swayed, groaned and fell back into the open door
of the coach. Lord Rippingdale was at once beside
him, sword drawn, and fighting gallantly.
“Scoundrels,” he cried, “will you
kill your King?”
“We will have the money which
the King carries,” cried one of his assailants.
“The price of three knighthoods and the taxes
of two shires we will have.”
One of the King’s gentlemen
had fallen, and another was wounded. Lord Rippingdale
was hard pressed, but in what seemed the last extremity
of the King and his party there came a shout from
the other side of the stream:
“God save the King! For the King!
For the King!”
A dozen horsemen splashed their way
across the stream, and with swords and pistols drove
through the King’s assailants and surrounded
his coach. The ruffians made an attempt to rally
and resist the onset, but presently broke and ran,
pursued by a half-dozen of his Majesty’s defenders.
Five of the assailants were killed and several were
wounded.
As Lord Rippingdale turned to Charles
to raise him, the coach-door was opened upon the other
side, a light was thrust in, and over the unconscious
body of the King my lord recognised John Enderby.
“His Majesty” began John Enderby.
“His Majesty is better,”
replied Lord Rippingdale, as the King’s eyes
half opened. “You lead these gentlemen?
This should bring you a barony, Sir John,”
my lord added, half graciously, half satirically;
for the honest truth of this man’s nature vexed
him. “The King will thank you.”
“John Enderby wants no reward
for being a loyal subject, my lord,” answered
Enderby.
Then with another glance at the King,
in which he knew that his Majesty was recovered, he
took off his hat, bowed, and, mounting his horse, rode
away without a word.
At Sutterby the gentlemen received
gracious thanks of the King who had been here delivered
from the first act of violence made against him in
his reign.
Of the part which Enderby had played
Lord Rippingdale said no more to the King than this:
“Sir John Enderby was of these
gentlemen who saved your Majesty’s life.
Might it not seem to your Majesty that ”
“Was he of them?” interrupted
the King kindly; then, all at once, out of his hurt
vanity and narrow self-will, he added petulantly:
“When he hath paid for the accolade of his knighthood,
then will we welcome him to us, and make him Baron
of Enderby.”
Next day when Enderby entered the
great iron gates of the grounds of Enderby House the
bell was ringing for noon. The house was long
and low, with a fine tower in the centre, and two
wings ran back, forming the court-yard, which would
have been entirely inclosed had the stables moved
up to complete the square.
When Enderby came out into the broad
sweep of grass and lawn, flanked on either side by
commendable trees, the sun shining brightly, the rooks
flying overhead, and the smell of ripe summer in the
air, he drew up his horse and sat looking before him.
“To lose it! To lose it!”
he said, and a frown gathered upon his forehead.
Even as he looked, the figure of a
girl appeared in the great doorway. Catching
sight of the horseman, she clapped her hands and waved
them delightedly.
Enderby’s face cleared, as the
sun breaks through a mass of clouds and lightens all
the landscape. The slumberous eyes glowed, the
square head came up. In five minutes he had dismounted
at the great stone steps and was clasping his daughter
in his arms.
“Felicity, my dear daughter!”
he said, tenderly and gravely.
She threw back her head with a gaiety
which bespoke the bubbling laughter in her heart,
and said:
“Booh! to thy solemn voice.
Oh, thou great bear, dost thou love me with tears
in thine eyes?”
She took his hand and drew him inside
the house, where, laying aside his hat and gloves
and sword, they passed into the great library.
“Come, now, tell me all the
places thou hast visited,” she said, perching
herself on his arm-chair.
He told her, and she counted them
off one by one upon her fingers.
“That is ninety miles of travel
thou hast had. What is the most pleasing thing
thou hast seen?”
“It was in Stickford by the
fen,” he answered, after a perplexed pause.
“There was an old man upon the roadside with
his head bowed in his hands. Some lads were making
sport of him, for he seemed so woe-begone and old.
Two cavaliers of the King came by. One of them
stopped and drove the lads away, then going to the
old man, he said: ’Friend, what is thy
trouble?’ The old man raised his melancholy face
and answered: ‘Aw’m afeared, sir.’
‘What fear you?’ inquired the young gentleman.
’I fear ma wife, sir,’ replied the old
man. At that the other cavalier sat back in his
saddle and guffawed merrily. ‘Well, Dick,’
said he to his friend, ’that is the worst fear
in this world. Ah, Dick, thou hast ne’er
been married!’ ‘Why do you fear your wife?’
asked Dick. ’Aw’ve been robbed of
ma horse and saddle and twelve skeins o’ wool.
Aw’m lost, aw’m ruined and shall raise
ma head nevermore. To ma wife aw shall ne’er
return.’ ‘Tut tut, man,’ said
Dick, ’get back to your wife. You are master
of your own house; you rule the roost. What is
a wife? A wife’s a woman. You are
a man. You are bigger and stronger, your bones
are harder. Get home and wear a furious face
and batter in the door and say: “What,
ho, thou huzzy!” Why, man, fear you the wife
of your bosom?’ The old man raised his head
and said: ’Tha doost not know ma wife or
tha wouldst not speak like that.’ At that
Dick laughed and said: ’Fellow, I do pity
thee;’ and taking the old man by the shoulders,
he lifted him on his own horse and took him to the
village fair. There he bought him twelve skeins
of wool and sent him on his way rejoicing, with a horse
worth five times his own.”
With her chin in her hands the girl
had listened intently to the story. When it was
finished she said: “What didst thou say
was the gentleman’s name?”
“His friend called him Dick.
He is a poor knight, one Sir Richard Mowbray, of Leicester,
called at Court and elsewhere Happy Dick Mowbray,
for they do say a happier and braver heart never wore
the King’s uniform.”
“Indeed I should like to know
that Sir Richard Mowbray. And, tell me now, who
is the greatest person thou hast seen in thy absence?”
“I saw the King at Boston town.”
“The King! The King!”
Her eyes lightened, her hands clapped merrily.
“What did he say to thee? Now, now, there
is that dark light in thine eyes again. I will
not have it so!” With her thumbs she daintily
drew down the eyelids and opened them again.
“There, that’s better. Now what did
the King say to thee?”
“He said to me that I should
be Sir John Enderby, of Enderby.”
“A knight! A knight!
He made thee a knight?” she asked gaily.
She slipped from his knee and courtesied before him,
then seeing the heaviness of his look, she added:
“Booh, Sir John Enderby, why dost thou look
so grave? Is knighthood so big a burden thou dost
groan under it?”
“Come here, my lass,”
he said gently. “Thou art young, but day
by day thy wisdom grows, and I can trust thee.
It is better thou shouldst know from my own lips the
peril this knighthood brings, than that trouble should
suddenly fall and thou be unprepared.”
Drawing her closely to him he told
her the story of his meeting with the King; of Lord
Rippingdale; of the King’s threat to levy upon
his estates and to issue a writ of outlawry against
him.
For a moment the girl trembled, and
Enderby felt her hands grow cold in his own, for she
had a quick and sensitive nature and passionate intelligence
and imagination.
“Father,” she cried pantingly,
indignantly, “the King would make thee an outlaw,
would seize upon thy estates, because thou wouldst
not pay the price of a paltry knighthood!” Suddenly
her face flushed, the blood came back with a rush,
and she stood upon her feet. “I would follow
thee to the world’s end rather than that thou
shouldst pay one penny for that honour. The King
offered thee knighthood? Why, two hundred years
before the King was born, an Enderby was promised
an earldom. Why shouldst thou take a knighthood
now? Thou didst right, thou didst right.”
Her fingers clasped in eager emphasis.
“Dost thou not see, my child,”
said he, “that any hour the King’s troops
may surround our house and take me prisoner and separate
thee from me? I see but one thing to do; even
to take thee at once from here and place thee with
thy aunt, Mistress Falkingham, in Shrewsbury.”
“Father,” the girl said,
“thou shalt not put me away from thee. Let
the King’s men surround Enderby House and the
soldiers and my Lord Rippingdale levy upon the estates
of Enderby. Neither his Majesty nor my Lord Rippingdale
dare put a finger upon me I would tear their
eyes out.”
Enderby smiled half sadly at her,
and answered “The fear of a woman is one of
the worst fears in this world. Booh!”
So ludicrously did he imitate her
own manner of a few moments before that humour drove
away the flush of anger from her face, and she sat
upon his chair-arm and said:
“But we will not part; we will
stand here till the King and Lord Rippingdale do their
worst is it not so, father?”
He patted her head caressingly.
“Thou sayest right, my lass;
we will remain at Enderby. Where is thy brother
Garrett?”
“He has ridden over to Mablethorpe,
but will return within the hour,” she replied.
At that moment there was a sound of
hoofs in the court-yard. Running to a rear window
of the library Mistress Felicity clapped her hands
and said:
“It is he Garrett.”
Ten minutes afterwards the young man
entered. He was about two years older than his
sister; that is, seventeen. He was very tall for
his age, with dark hair and a pale dry face, and of
distinguished bearing. Unlike his father, he
was slim and gracefully built, with no breadth or power
to his shoulders, but with an athletic suppleness and
a refinement almost womanlike. He was tenacious,
overbearing, self-willed, somewhat silent and also
somewhat bad-tempered.
There was excitement in his eye as
he entered. He came straight to his father, giving
only a nod to Mistress Felicity, who twisted her head
in a demure little way, as though in mockery of his
important manner.
“Booh! my lord duke!” she said
almost under her breath.
“Well, my son,” said Enderby,
giving him his hand, “your face has none so
cheerful a look. Hast thou no welcome for thy
father?”
“I am glad you are home again,
sir,” said young Enderby, more dutifully than
cordially.
There was silence for a moment.
“You do not ask my news,” said his father,
eyeing him debatingly.
“I have your news, sir,” was the young
man’s half sullen reply.
His sister came near her father, where
she could look her brother straight in the face, and
her deep blue eyes fixed upon him intently. The
smile almost faded from her lips, and her square chin
seemed suddenly to take on an air of seriousness and
strength.
“Well, sir?” asked his father.
“That you, sir, have refused
a knighthood of the King; that he insists upon your
keeping it; that he is about to levy upon your estates:
and that you are outlawed from England.”
“And what think you about the matter?”
asked his father.
“I think it is a gentleman’s
duty to take the King’s gifts without question,”
answered the young man.
“Whether the King be just or
not, eh? Where would England have been, my son,
if the barons had submitted to King John? Where
would the Enderbys have been had they not withstood
the purposes of Queen Mary? Come, come, the King
has a chance to prove himself as John Enderby has proven
himself. Midst other news, heard you not that
last night I led a dozen gentlemen to the rescue of
the King?”
“’Twas said in the village
that his Majesty would remove his interdict and make
you a baron, sir, if you met his levy for the knighthood.”
“That I shall never do.
Answer me, my son, do you stand with the King or with
your father in this?”
“I am an Enderby,” answered
the youth, moodily, “and I stand with the head
of our house.”
That night as candles were being lighted,
three score of the King’s men, headed by Lord
Rippingdale, placed themselves before the house, and
an officer was sent forward to summon forth John Enderby.
Enderby had gathered his men together,
and they were posted for defence at the doorways and
entrances, and along the battlements. The windows
were all heavily shuttered and barred.
The young officer commissioned to
demand an interview with Enderby came forward and
knocked at the great entrance door. It opened
presently and showed within the hallway a dozen men
well armed. Enderby came forward to meet him.
“I am Sir Richard Mowbray,”
said the newcomer. “I am sent by Lord Rippingdale,
who arrives on a mission from his Majesty.”
Enderby, recognising his visitor, was mild in his
reply.
“Sir Richard Mowbray, I pray
you tell Lord Rippingdale that he is welcome as
commissioner of the King.”
Mowbray smiled and bowed.
“My lord begs me to ask that
you will come forth and speak with him, Sir John?”
“My compliments to Lord Rippingdale,
Sir Richard, and say that I can better entertain his
Majesty’s commissioner within my own house.”
“And all who wait with him?”
asked the young officer, with a dry sort of smile.
“My lord, and his officers and
gentlemen, but not his troopers.”
Mowbray bowed, and as he lifted his
head again he saw the face of Mistress Felicity looking
through the doorway of the library. Their eyes
met. On a sudden a new impulse came to his thoughts.
“Sir John Enderby,” said
he, “I know how honourable a man you are, and
I think I know the way you feel. But, as one
gentleman to another, permit me a word of counsel.
’Twere better to humour my Lord Rippingdale,
and to yield up to the King’s demands, than
to lose all. Lack of money and estate that
is hard enough on a single man like me, but with a
gentleman who has the care of a daughter, perhaps” his
look again met the young lady’s face “the
case is harder. A little yielding on your part ”
“I will not yield,” was Enderby’s
reply.
Mowbray bowed once more, and retired without more
speaking.
In a few moments he returned, Lord
Rippingdale with him. The entrance doors were
once more opened, and my lord, in a temper, at once
began:
“You press your courtesies too far, Sir John
Enderby.”
“Less strenuously than the gentlemen
of the road pressed their discourtesies upon his Majesty
and yourself last night, my lord.”
“I am come upon that business.
For your bravery and loyalty, if you will accept the
knighthood, and pay the sum set as the courtesy of
the accolade, his Majesty will welcome you at Court,
and raise you to a barony. But his Majesty must
see that his dignity be not injured.”
“The King may have my life and
all my goods as a gift, but I will not give either
by these indirect means. It does not lie in a
poor squire like me to offend the King’s dignity.”
“You are resolved?”
“I am resolved,” answered
Enderby, stubbornly. “Then you must bear
the consequences, and yield up your estates and person
into my hands. Yourself and your family are under
arrest, to be dealt with hereafter as his Majesty
sees fit.”
“I will not yield up my estates,
nor my person, nor my son and daughter, of my free
will.”
With an incredulous smile, Rippingdale
was about to leave and enter upon a siege of the house,
when he saw young Enderby and caught a strange look
in his face.
“Young gentleman,” said
he, “are you a cipher in this game? A barony
hangs on this. Are you as stubborn and unruly
as the head of your house?”
Garrett Enderby made no reply, but
turned and walked into the library, his father’s
and sister’s eyes following him in doubt and
dismay, for the chance was his at that moment to prove
himself.
A moment afterwards Lord Rippingdale
was placing his men to attack the house, disposing
of some to secure a timber to batter in the door, and
of some to make assaults upon the rear of the building.
Enderby had placed his men advantageously to resist
attack, giving the defence of the rear of the house
to his son. Mistress Felicity he had sent to an
upper room in the care of her aunt.
Presently the King’s men began
the action, firing wherever a figure showed itself,
and carrying a log to batter in the entrance door.
Enderby’s men did good work, bringing down four
of the besiegers at the first volley.
Those who carried the log hesitated
for a moment, and Enderby called encouragingly to
his men.
At this exciting moment, while calling
to his men, he saw what struck him dumb his
son hurrying forward with a flag of truce to Lord
Rippingdale! Instantly my lord commanded his men
to retire.
“Great God!” said Sir
John, with a groan, “my son my only
son a traitor!” Turning to his men
he bade them cease firing.
Throwing open the entrance doors,
he stood upon the steps and waited for Lord Rippingdale.
“You see, Sir John Enderby, your son ”
began my lord.
“It was to maintain my rights,
and for my son’s sake and my daughter’s,
that I resisted the command of the King,” interrupted
the distressed and dishonoured gentleman, “but
now ”
“But now you yield?”
He inclined his head, then looking
down to the place where his son stood, he said:
“My son my only son!” And his
eyes filled with tears.
His distress was so moving that even Rippingdale was
constrained to say:
“He did it for your sake.
His Majesty will ” With a gesture
of despair Enderby turned and entered the house, and
passed into the library, where he found his daughter.
Pale and tearful she threw herself into his arms.
At eleven o’clock that night
as they sat in the same room, while Lord Rippingdale
and his officers supped in the dining-room, Sir Richard
Mowbray hurriedly entered.
“Come quickly,” said he;
“the way is clear here by this window.
The sentinels are drunk. You will find horses
by the gate of the grape-garden, and two of your serving-men
mounted. They will take you to a hiding-place
on the coast I have instructed them.”
As he talked he helped them through
the window, and bade them good-bye hurriedly; but
he did not let Mistress Felicity’s hand drop
till he had kissed it and wished her a whispered God-speed.
When they had gone he listened for
a time, but hearing no sound of surprise or discovery,
he returned to the supper room, where Garrett Enderby
sat drinking with Lord Rippingdale and the cavaliers.