Bladys of the Stewponey - Sabine Baring-Gould (top 100 novels txt) 📗

he would not hearken. His blood was boiling, his brain on fire. He flung himself with his full weight against the oak door; he drove the point of the bar in at the joint, that he might work the hinges out of their sockets in the solid stone into which they were soldered.

Then suddenly the alarm bell that hung above the gate rang out its summons fast and vehement.

Instantly every glass was set down on the table. Onion lowered the bar and fell back. A look of dismay spread over his face.

“She will rouse the town!”

“She will bring the mob on us again!”

“They will murder us all, this time!”

Then Nicodemus, in an agitated voice, said:

“Make her cease. Promise anything.”

Luke leaned on his crowbar, panting for breath, his eyes flaring as with summer lightnings.

Then Nicodemus himself went to the door, and called:

“Mrs Onion!”

Still the bell continued to peal.

Jarrock laughed and said:

“She will not respond to that name.”

“Then how shall I call her? By—we must stay the bell.”

Thereupon Abraham Jarrock took his place against the door and shouted:

“Stewponey Bladys! Name your own terms and you shall go free.”

At once the bell ceased, and in the lull that ensued was heard a hubbub of voices without.

“The people are gathering!” whispered Mother Onion.

“They will break in the door!” gasped Ap Rice.

Then Bladys said distinctly in reply:

“Let the head gaoler in the name of all swear to let me depart untouched, not to suffer a finger to be laid upon me.”

“I swear!” answered the turnkey.

At once the bolt was withdrawn, the door was thrown open, and Bladys came forth, self-possessed and white as snow.

The men were standing at the table, some with their hands on it. Luke made an attempt to strike at her with the crowbar, but Abraham fell upon him, dashed him against the wall, and wrenched the weapon from his hands.

“You fool!” he said, “will you give the mob an excuse for tearing us to pieces?”

Then Nicodemus stood forward and said;

“Go your way; none shall molest you.”

He stepped back to the table, took up his glass, raised it, and said:

“Here is to you! A brave wench! I honour you—but your place is not here. Drink to her, lads.”

His command was silently obeyed.

“Now,” said he, “Mother Onion, attend her to the door. My lads, let not that mad fellow touch her.”

Mrs Onion grasped the shoulder of Bladys and thrust her before her through the doorway and down the stone steps, opened the door of the house, and with a push sent her into the street with such precipitation as would have thrown her to the pavement had she not been caught.

The street was filling. Windows were thrown open and heads appeared at them. Cries were audible—more people were hurrying to the gate in answer to the call of the bell.

“Stewponey Bla!” exclaimed a cheerful voice. Bladys found herself in the arms of Nancy Norris.

Chapter 16.

DRIE

In the obscurity, rendered doubly obscure by contrast with the lighted room she had left, Bladys might not have recognised the person who received her in her arms and with a kiss, but there was no mistaking the fresh voice of Nan.

“So, we have got you!” exclaimed the latter. “We have found out about you. But what is the meaning of that bell? Did you ring it? Folks are running from all the town.”

“Yes, Nan, I did sound it.”

“What is the matter? Is there a fire anywhere?”

“There is no fire. I rang to oblige them to release me.”

“Them! Whom dost mean? Then you are free?”

“Yes, I will never return to them.”

“That is brave. Now that we have recovered you, we will carry you away. It was cowardly of the fellow to take you to church and marry you, without letting you know to whom and to what manner of man you were wed.”

“Let us go from this place; a crowd is collecting.”

“It is so. By Goles! It is you who have summoned it, and they desire to be told what is amiss. That is, they say, the fire-bell; and the people think that some house burns.”

There rose on all sides shouts, and a general clamour about the Gate.

The window of the chamber lately occupied by Bladys, that immediately over the gate, was thrown open, and a man appeared at it—Nicodemus, the turnkey.

“Good people of Shrewsbury,” he called, “have no further concern. There threatened to be a conflagration here, in the County executioner’s apartments, but the danger is past. The fire has been extinguished. Return to your homes.”

Then one in the throng shouted:

“If the Gate House had burnt, with the hangman and his dam, and with the rest of you in it, we would have been well rid of the crew.”

“Ay,” vociferated another, “and not one of us would have put forth a finger to save you.”

“Mates,” called a third, “what say you? Shall we kindle the fire again, and stir it well, that this time it shall not go out?”

“Where’s the good attempting it?” answered another, “when they can escape into the Castle?”

“Here arrive the constables,” said another.

“Come from hence,” said Nan to Bladys; and linking her arm within that of the girl from Stewponey, she forced a passage through the crowd.

“So you have deserted him. That is as it should be. I’d fancy Abraham before him—and he is currish, and a hangman’s assistant, and will be head executioner some day. By Goles! When the gentlemen stayed the carriage on the heath, had they known who was there, they would not have contented themselves with taking his silver and kissing his wife.”

“That was not done,” interrupted Bladys.

“What odds? They danced with you; and any wench would be proud to be kissed by—by a gentleman of the road, and a captain to boot. But, as I was saying, had they suspected who this Luke Francis was, then, I protest, they would not have suffered him to run, but they would have strung him to the first tree, and let him taste of the medicine he has administered to so many good boys.”

Nan continued working her way forward, drawing Bladys along with her.

“What do you think, now? My old mother is in Shrewsbury. She swore she could not die happy without having seen a woman burnt, and she laid it upon George Stracey to take her, as he had planned to drive me up to the execution; and he was good enough to consent to take her also. So we came all three together to Shrewsbury. He drove, and mother has enjoyed herself vastly.”

When they had reached a portion of the High Street that was clear she turned to Bladys and said:

“And now tell me all about it. You compelled them to send you out?”

“Yes, with the tolling of the alarm bell. My chamber was over the gate, and the rope was in my room. I had no other resource. I knew it would draw together a crowd, and I was also confident that it would frighten them into yielding to what I asked.”

“And that was?”

“To be let go.”

“You did bravely. And whither are you now going?”

“That is what I cannot say.”

“Will you come with us to Kinver?”

“I have no longer a home there.”

“Your father is not yet married.”

“But he shortly will be; and he does not wish to have me there.”

“You shall stay at the Rock Tavern till some chance arrives. George will take you back with mother and me. There is room for all. He will not refuse me that.”

“I cannot go yet awhile. I have a commission to perform.”

“For whom?”

“For the woman that was burnt. She laid an injunction on me.”

“Will that hold you for long?”

“I cannot say. I have to go somewhere, and how far distant that place is I know not.”

“Whither must you go?”

“To Nesscliffe.”

“I have heard tell of the place. That is where Wild Kynaston had his cave. He was a mighty outlaw, long ago, but when—how many years are gone by since then—that is past my saying. His horse fed in a meadow under the rocks, and Wild Humphrey whistled, then his horse ran up the stair in the rock into his cave, as nimble as a squirrel. There are many stories told about that man.”

“I never heard any of them. I am obliged to go to that place.”

“Then I will desire George to drive us over tomorrow. Mother is a morsel tired with the excitement of to-day and the long drive from the Rock, and will be glad of a day’s rest. George is certain to delight in seeing where Wild Humphrey lay hid, and whence he rode forth to rob travellers on the King’s highway. Come with me. We are lodged at the Wool Pack—mother, George, and I. We are now close to the tavern. Mother is toasting her knees at the fire, laughing and crying; she has enjoyed herself prodigiously. I cannot understand it. My heart jumped towards you when you kissed the poor creature, and I felt then that I would go through fire and water to serve you. But, mother—well, she always was a strange cast of woman. I reckon there be others feel a pleasure in these executions just as does she, or they would not have come in from all the villages round. I’ve a knowledge some came from Bridgenorth, and we—as you see—from farther still. You should have seen how the road was covered with sightseers, walking, riding, driving, all to witness the death of one poor weak woman. Holy Austin was right. The sight of these things makes folks hard-hearted.”

Quickly Nan conducted Bladys down an open passage, and through a door into a small room, in which the atmosphere was charged with fumes of tobacco and gin. A coal fire was burning in the grate, and before it, crouched in the glow, sat the hostess of the Rock Tavern. To save her holiday gown from being singed, she had turned it over her lap, and then, because her red petticoat was also too precious to be allowed to scorch, this also had been treated in like manner.

On the table stood a tumbler of spirits and water, and on the hob was a short clay pipe.

The old woman took a sip at one, and then a whiff at the other. She wore a white cap, the frills standing out as a halo about her withered yellow face, that was inflamed with spirits and the heat of the fire.

She greeted Bladys with effusion, caught her hand, patted the back of it, and then kissed her palm.

“Ha! ha! my pretty one, my mealy-face! You have seen a sight to-day. Old as I am, I have never had the chance before. Have you used the drie, as I taught you? No? When will you give it him? Have no fear. There can be no danger to you. That woman who was executed to-day was a sorry botcher. That was a bungle—giving her husband nightshade. That came of her not applying to one of us knowing ones. You were wiser. Go, my dear, and let him have a pinch in his pudding or his posset. No one will ever discover that he came by his death by foul means. If I had known who Luke Francis was he would never have left the Rock Tavern without some of it down his throat. But there, there, there,” she patted the hand of Bladys again; “you have it, and will make good use of it. They will not burn you. There is no