The Children of the New Forest - Frederick Marryat (book recommendations based on other books TXT) 📗

soul perished. It was one of the colonel’s swords, I am sure, as there is E. B. on a silver plate engraved on it. I have a bill owing me for work done at Arnwood, and I have no chance of its being paid now; so, whether I am to sell the sword, or what to do, I hardly know.”

Edward remained silent for some little while, for he could not trust himself to speak; at last he replied: “To be candid with you, I am, and all my family have been, followers of the Beverley family, and I should be sorry if the colonel’s sword was to fall into any other hands. I think, therefore, if I pay the bill which is due, you may safely let me hold the sword as a security for the money, with the express understanding that if it is ever claimed by the Beverley family I am to give it up.”

“Certainly,” said Oswald; “nothing can be fairer or more clearly put.”

“I think so, too, young man,” replied the shopkeeper. “Of course you will leave your name and address?”

“Yes; and my friend here will vouch for its being correct,” replied Edward.

The shopkeeper then produced the account, which Edward paid; and giving on the paper the name of Edward Armitage, he took possession of the sword. He then paid for the powder and lead, which Oswald took charge of, and, hardly able to conceal his joy, hastened out of the shop.

“Oswald,” cried Edward, “I would not part with it for thousands of pounds. I never will part with it but with my life.”

“I believe so,” replied Oswald; “and I believe more, that it will never be disgraced in your hands; but do not talk so loud, for there are listeners and spies everywhere. Is there any thing else that you require?”

“No, I think not; the fact is, that this sword has put every thing out of my head. If there was anything else, I have forgotten it. Let us go back to the inn, and we will harness the pony, and call for the flour and oatmeal.”

When they arrived at the inn, Oswald went out to the yard to get the cart ready, while Edward went into the landlord’s room to make inquiries as to the quantity of venison he would be able to take off his hands at a time. Oswald had taken the sword from Edward, and had put it in the cart while he was fastening the harness, when a man came up to the cart and looked earnestly at the sword. He then examined it, and said to Oswald,

“Why that was Colonel Beverley’s, my old master’s sword. I knowed it again directly. I took it to Phillips, the gun maker, to be cleaned.”

“Indeed!” replied Oswald; “I pray, what may be your name?”

“Benjamin White,” replied the man; “I served at Arnwood till the night it was burned down; and I have been here ever since.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“I’m tapster at the ‘Commonwealth,’ in Fish-street—not much of a place.”

“Well, well, you stand by the pony, and look that nobody takes any thing out of the cart, while I go in for some parcels.”

“Yes, to be sure I will; but, I say, forester, how came you by that sword?’

“I will tell you when I come out again,” replied Oswald.

Oswald then went in to Edward, and told him what had occurred.

“He will certainly know you, sir, and you must not come out till I can get him away,” said he.

“You are right, Oswald; but before he goes, ask him what became of my aunt, and where she was buried; and also ask him where the other servants are—perhaps they are at Lymington as well as he.”

“I will find it all out,” replied Oswald, who then left Edward, and returned to the landlord and recommenced conversation.

Oswald on his return, told Benjamin in what manner the sword had been procured from the shopman, by the grandson of old Armitage.

“I never knew that he had one,” replied Benjamin; “nor did I know that old Jacob was dead.”

“What became of all the women who were at Arnwood?” inquired Oswald.

“Why, Agatha married one of the troopers, and went away to London.”

“And the others?”

“Why, cook went home to her friends, who live about ten miles from here, and I have never heard of her since.”

“But there were three of them,” said Oswald.

“Oh, yes; there was Phoebe,” relied Benjamin, looking rather confused. “She married a trooper—the jilt!—and went off to London when Agatha did. If I’d have thought that she would have done so, I would not have earned her away from Arnwood behind me, on a pillion, as I did; she might have been burned with the poor children, for all as I cared.”

“Was not the old lady killed?”

“Yes; that is to say, she killed herself, rather than not kill Southwold.”

“Where was she buried?”

“In the church-yard at St. Faith’s, by the mayor and the corporation; for there was not money enough found upon her person to pay the expenses of her burial.”

“And so you are tapster at the Commonwealth. Is it a good inn?”

“Can’t say much for it. I shan’t stay longer than I can help, I can tell you.”

“Well, but you must have an easy place, if you can stay away as long as you do now.”

“Won’t I be mobbed when I go back! but that’s always the case, make haste or not, so it’s all one. However, I do think I must be agoing now, so good-by, Mr. Forester; and tell Jacob Armitage’s grandson that I shall be glad to see him, for old Jacob’s sake; and it’s hard, but I’ll find him something to drink when he calls.”

“I will: I shall see him tomorrow.” replied Oswald, getting into the cart; “so good-by, Benjamin,” much to the satisfaction of Oswald, who thought that he would never go.

They went away at a rapid pace to make up for lost time, and soon disappeared around the corner of the street. Oswald then got out again, summoned Edward, and having called for the flour and other heavy articles, they set off on their return.

During the drive, Oswald made known to Edward the information which he had gained from Benjamin, and at a late hour they arrived safely at the cottage.

They staid up but a short time, as they were tired; and Oswald had resolved upon setting off before daylight on the following morning, which he did without disturbing any one; for Humphrey was up and dressed as soon as Oswald was and gave him something to eat as he went along. All the others remained fast asleep. Humphrey walked about a mile with Oswald, and was returning to the farm when he thought, as he had not examined his pitfall for many days, that he might as well look at it before he went back. He therefore struck out in the direction in which it lay, and arrived there just as the day began to dawn.

It was the end of March, and the weather was mild for the season. Humphrey arrived at the pit, and it was sufficiently light for him to perceive that the covering had been broken in, and therefore, in all probability, something must have been trapped. He sat down and waited for daylight, but at times he thought he heard a heavy breathing, and once a low groan. This made him more anxious, and he again and again peered into the pit, but could not for a long while discover any thing, until at last he thought that he could make out a human figure lying at the bottom. Humphrey called out, asking if there was any one there. A groan was the reply, and now Humphrey was horrified with the idea that somebody had fallen into the pit, and had perished, or was perishing for want of succor. Recollecting that the rough ladder which he had made to take the soil up out of the pit was against an oak-tree, close at hand, he ran for it, and put it down the pit, and then cautiously descended. On his arrival at the bottom, his fears were found to be verified, for he saw the body of a lad, half clothed, lying there. He turned it up as it was lying with its face to the ground, and attempted to remove it, and to ascertain if there was life in it, which he was delighted to find was the case. The lad groaned several times, and opened his eyes. Humphrey was afraid that he was not strong enough to lift him on his shoulders and carry him up the ladder; but, on making the attempt he found out, from exhaustion, the poor lad was light enough for him to carry him, which he did, and safely landed him by the side of the pit.

Recollecting that the watering-place of the herd of cattle was not far off, Humphrey then hastened to it, and filled his hat half full of water. The lad, although he could not speak, drank eagerly, and in a few minutes appeared much recovered. Humphrey gave him some more, and bathed his face and temples. The sun had now risen, and it was broad daylight. The lad attempted to speak, but what he did say was in so low a tone, and evidently in a foreign language, that Humphrey could not make him out. He, therefore, made signs to the lad that he was going away, and would be back soon; and having, as he thought, made the lad comprehend this, Humphrey ran away to the cottage as fast as he could; and as soon as he arrived he called for Edward, who came out, and when Humphrey told him in few words what had happened, Edward went into the cottage again for some milk and some cake, while Humphrey put the pony into the cart.

In a few moments they were off again, and soon arrived at the pitfall, where they found the lad, still lying where Humphrey had left him. They soaked the cake in the milk, and as soon as it was soft gave him some; after a time, he swallowed pretty freely, and was so much recovered as to be able to sit up. They then lifted him into the cart, and drove gently home to their cottage.

“What do you think he is, Edward?” said Humphrey.

“Some poor beggar lad, who has been crossing the forest.”

“No, not exactly: he appears to me to be one of the Zingaros or Gipsies, as they call them: he is very dark, and has black eyes and white teeth, just like those I saw once near Arnwood, when I was out with Jacob. Jacob said that no one knew where they came from, but that they were all over the country, and that they were great thieves, and told fortunes, and played all manner of tricks.”

“Perhaps it may be so; I do not think that he can speak English.”

“I am most thankful to Heaven that I chanced this morning to visit the pitfall. Only suppose that I had found the poor boy starved and dead! I should have been very unhappy, and never should have had any pleasure in looking at the cows, as they would always have reminded me of such a melancholy accident.”

“Very true, Humphrey; but you have been saved that misfortune, and ought to be grateful to Heaven that such is the case. What shall we do with him now we have him?”

“Why if he chooses to remain with us, he will be very useful in the cow-yard,” said Humphrey.

“Of course,” replied Edward, laughing, “as he was taken in the pitfall, he