Marston Moor1 was fought and ended. A mortal blow had been struck at the King's cause in the North; and yet the Metcalfs, rallying round Lady Ingilby at Ripley, would not admit as much. The King must come to his own, they held, and Marston was just an unlucky skirmish that mattered little either way.
York capitulated, and Squire2 Metcalf, when the news was brought at supper-time, shrugged3 his shoulders.
"It's a pity," he said. "We must get on without the good town of York—that is all."
Lady Ingilby glanced across at him. For the first time since Marston Moor she smiled. "And if all is lost, will you still believe that the world goes very well?"
A great sob4 broke from the Squire, against his will or knowledge. "Lady Ingilby, there are fewer Metcalfs than there were," he explained shame-facedly. "I went through Marston Fight, moreover. It is not my faith that weakens—it is just that I am human, and my courage fails."
None spoke5 for a while. The mistress of Ripley, on her knees in the chapelry, or busying herself about her men's needs, had learned what the Squire had learned. Those who had gone through the stress and anguish6 of the late battle, and the women who had waited here between closed walls for news to come, all caught the wonder of this moment. It was as if some Presence were among them, interpreting the rough strife7 of sword and pike.
"If there were two Metcalfs left of us all," said the Squire, his big voice humorous in its gentleness, "we should still believe that all was well with King Charles. And, if one fell, t'other would be glad to be the last to die for His Majesty8."
The moment passed. It was too intimate, too filled with knowledge of the over-world, for long continuance. Metcalf filled his glass afresh. The men were glad to follow his good example.
"Your health, Lady Ingilby—your good health," said the Squire.
While they were drinking the toast, the outer door was opened hurriedly, and a little, wiry man came in. His face was tired, and his clothes were stained with rain and mud.
"Gad10, here's Blake!" laughed Kit11 Metcalf. "Blake, the rider—I saw him bring the Metcalfs into Oxford12."
Blake nodded cheerily. "Life has its compensations. I shall remember that ride down Oxford High Street until I die, I think. Lady Ingilby, I've a message from your husband, for your private ear."
A great stillness had come to Lady Ingilby, a certainty of herself and of the men about her. "He was always a good lover. You can give his message to the public ear."
"He escaped from Marston with twenty men, and hid in Wilstrop Wood. There was carnage there, but your lord escaped. And afterwards he fell in with Prince Rupert, returning with volunteers from the garrison13 at York. He bids me tell you he is safe."
"Was that all his message, Mr. Blake?"
"No, it was not all, but—but the rest is for your private ear, believe me."
"I—am very tired. My courage needs some open praise. What was my lord's message?"
Blake stooped to whisper in her ear, and Lady Ingilby laughed. Keen youth was in her face. "Gentlemen, it was a vastly tender message. I am proud, and—and a woman again, I think, after all this discipline of war. My husband bids me hold Ripley Castle for as long as may be, if the Metcalfs come."
"There never was much 'if' about a Metcalf," said the old Squire. "Our word was pledged before ever Marston Fight began."
"Oh, he knew as much, but you forget, sir, that many hindrances14 might have come between your pledged word and yourselves. You might have died to a man, as the Whitecoats did—God rest them."
The Squire's bluntness softened15. The tenderness that is in the heart of every Yorkshireman showed plainly in his face. "True. We might all have died. As it is, there are many gaps that will have to be explained to the goodwife up in Yoredale."
And again there was a wonder and a stillness in the hall, none knowing why, till Lady Ingilby broke silence. "Such gaps need no explaining. They are filled by a golden light, and in the midst of it a rude wooden cross, and over it the words 'For Valour.' There, gentlemen, I weary you with dreams. Lest you think me fanciful, let me fill your glasses for you. It will do you no harm to drink deep to-night, and the sentries16 are ready at their posts."
They could make nothing of her. Gay, alert, she went about the board, the wine-jug in her hands. The message from her lord that Blake had whispered seemed to have taken a score years from her life, as strong sun eats up a rimy frost. When she bade them good-night and passed out, it was as if a spirit of great charm and well-being17 had gone and left them dull.
On the morrow there was work enough to keep them busy. The fall of York had sent Cromwell's men like a swarm18 of bees about the land. Dour19 and unimaginative in battle, they ran wild when victory was theirs. Men who had been plough-boys and farm-hinds a year since were filled with heady glee that they had helped to bring the great ones low. Some of their officers could not believe—honestly, each man to his conscience—that there was any good or usefulness in gentlemen of the King's who wore love-locks because it was the habit of their class, and who chanced to carry a fine courage under frivolous20 wearing-gear.
The Squire of Nappa was roused, somewhere about five of the clock, by a din21 and shouting from the courtyard underneath22 his bed-chamber23. At first he fancied he was back on Marston Field again, and raised a sleepy challenge. Then, as the uproar24 increased, he got out of bed, stretched himself with one big, satisfying yawn, and threw the casement25 open.
The summer's dawn was moist and fragrant26. His eyes, by instinct, sought the sky-line where, in Yoredale, hills would be. Here he saw only rolling country that billowed into misty27 spaces, with a blurred28 and ruddy sun above it all. The fragrance29 of wet earth and field flowers came in with the warm morning breeze. He was a countryman again, glad to be alive on a June day.
Then he returned to soldiery, looked down on the press of men below, and his face hardened. "Give you good-morrow, Cropheads," he said gently.
"And who may you be?" asked the leader of the troop.
"A Mecca for the King. Ah, you've heard that rally-call before, I fancy. Your own name, sir?"
"Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Be pleased to be serious. That is a nickname, surely."
A storm of protest came from the soldiery, and Elihu took heart of grace again.
"Idolaters and wine-bibbers, all of you," he said, vindictiveness30 and martyrdom struggling for the mastery. "Since I forswore brown ale and kept the narrow track, men know me as Elihu Give-the-Praise."
"Then, as one who relishes31 brown ale, I ask you what your business is, disturbing a Riding Metcalf when he needs his sleep?"
"Our business is short and sharp—to bid you surrender, or we sack the Castle."
"Your business is like to be long and tedious," laughed the Squire, and shut the casement.
He crossed to the landing and lifted a hale cry of "Rouse yourself, Meccas! What lads you are for sleeping!" And there was a sudden tumult32 within doors louder than the din of Puritans outside. It was then, for the first time, that Lady Ingilby, running from her chamber with a loose wrap thrown about her disarray33, understood the full meaning of clan34 discipline.
The men who answered the rally-call were heavy with sleep and in no good temper; but they stood waiting for their orders without protest. When the Squire told them what was in the doing, their faces cleared. Sleep went by them like a dream forgotten. The Roundheads underneath fired some random35 shots, as a token of what would follow if there were no surrender; and, in reply, spits of flame ran out from every loophole of the Castle front. They were not idle shots. Elihu Give-the-Praise, with a stiff courage of his own, tried to rally his men, in spite of a splintered arm; but a second flight of bullets rained about them, and panic followed.
"A thrifty36 dawn," said the Squire of Nappa, as if he danced at a wedding.
For that day, and for three days thereafter, there was little sleep within the Ripley walls. Parliament men, in
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