O us at the Moat Farm, that day, the 2nd of July in the year of our Lord 1644, had been one of as great anxiety as ever I spent in my life. That I can say with knowledge, for I shall be an old woman of three and seventy years come St. Thomas's Day.
To begin with, my father was so ailing in his body that he was obliged to take to his bed ere noon, and Martha Thorpe had a sad time with him before he got some ease. My brother Francis had gone away on business into the Westmorland Fells, and my younger brother, John, was at the wars, fighting for the king. The only man we had about the place, therefore, was Simon Trippett.
Not a very strong garrison, you will say, for a great rambling house like ours—an old woman of sixty, though hale and strong, a young maiden of seventeen, and a man of forty, who, if I must tell the truth of him, was scarce worth his meat at any time. He was the only man we had to live in the house. Our other laborers lived in the village, some distance off.
At nine o'clock that night, my father being then asleep in his chamber upstairs, Martha Thorpe and I were sitting on the settee in the great kitchen, knitting peacefully and diligently, when the door was suddenly opened, and in came Simon Trippett, looking as if he had seen a hundred ghosts. Behind him, through the open door, you could see glimpses of as fair a summer's evening as ever was like to make a man's spirit strong and glad; but Simon's heart had evidently gone down to his shoes and carried all his strength there. His knees knocked together, his head shook, his fingers could not keep still.
“What the good year?” cries Martha Thorpe, staring at him as if she, too, had seen a ghost. “Is aught the matter, man?”
Simon wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Matter?” he said. “Matter? We shall all be murdered!”
“Then get thy supper and go to bed, and be murdered there,” says Martha, pointing to his supper, which had been ready for him a good half hour. “'Tis the best place to die in.”
“Bed?” said Simon, staring about him. “There will be no beds for any one, gentle or simple, to-night, methinks. We are all to be murdered, or worse!”
“Now, may the Lord lend thee sense, thou—” began Martha; but I stopped her from further scolding of poor Simon, whose wits, it was easy to see, were all distraught.
“What is it, Simon?” I said gently. “Tell us.”
Simon fumbled with his cap.
“Mistress Marjorie,” says he, “'tis this, i' faith—I ha' been to Boroughbridge with the brown mare, and there I did hear that king's men and Parliament men have been gathering 'twixt there and York for days, and to-night they are fighting. I heard the cannon with these ears, as I live, Dame Martha; and there was a man rode post-haste through Boroughbridge, while I stood at the blacksmith's shop, who had come away from Marston village at eight of the clock. He said the moor was black with smoke and red with blood, and that every king's man was dead, and the Parliament men were sweeping the land to kill every mother's son of us, and advising all to make for-the west country; and so I jumped on the mare's back and rode for home.”
“Sit down and eat thy supper, man,” said Martha. “It 'll put some heart in thy belly. Art the faintest-hearted poor that ever I made bread for!”
Now it chanced that while poor Simon was hesitating—and indeed he had drawn nearer to his supper—two gamekeepers who were out on the land near by chanced to discharge their fowling pieces. At the sound thereof he uttered a great cry of—
“They are at hand—they are at hand!”
Then, leaping through the door, he made off across the garth without, as fast as his trembling legs could carry him.
“The Lord help thee for a poor weak mortal!” said Martha. “And here's a pretty to-do if the master chances to be seized with another of his complaints in the night. Not a man about the place to send for the 'pothecary! And—hush!”
In the silence we heard my father's stick, that we had left by his bedside, knocking on the floor of his chamber.
“I warrant me the poor man is took again!” sighed Martha.
Going up to the chamber, we found that she had guessed rightly. My poor father was once more in pain, and for another hour we were busily engaged in endeavoring to give him some ease. At last, as it neared midnight, he fell again into a restful sleep.
It was soon after that, as Martha Thorpe and I tiptoed down the stair, that we heard a low tapping on the door of the stone hall which opened into the apple orchard.