Hugh Gwyeth: A Roundhead CavalierDix, Beulah Marie
History
Hugh Gwyeth: A Roundhead Cavalier
Dix, Beulah Marie
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
“Ay. But not as you think, sir, on my honor.” Ridydale strode at Hugh’s
side while he poured out the story: “I had taken me to the stables and
dragged the truth from the knaves there. Well, I’ll settle that score
with Jeff Hardwyn. I was hot with it all when I came to the colonel, and
he bespeaks me very careless and cool, if ’twas his son indeed, belike
in time, and so on. I might ha’ known ’twas but the way of him and he
would yet make it right, but I blurted out he’d best move quickly for
his son’s sake, not leave him to be buffeted by every cullion in his
stables. Well, he got the whole story of me then, sir, and off he goes
into one of his fine Gwyeth rages, and packs off Rodes after you, and
rates every one in the house on whom he can put hands until you come.
And I left him in such another rage. Why in Heaven’s name did you go
about to defy him so, sir?”
“Because he drove me to it,” Hugh retorted, and pressed on with his face
set to the front.
“Well, no one is driving you now that you keep such a pace. Whither are
you going, an’t like you?”
“Shrewsbury. To seek in all the troop stables till I find those who will
employ me.”
“Nay, nay, lad, come back with me, if you have it in heart to forgive
me. On my soul, I meant not so to dash your fortunes. By the Lord, I’ve
a liking for you, sir, in spite of your meek bearing. And I doubt not
your father would see there was some good in you, in time. Only come
back, and mayhap he—”
“Before I’d beg of Colonel Gwyeth now, I’d go carry a musket for a
common foot soldier,” Hugh answered.
“Well, you’ve not your father’s spirit,” Ridydale jerked out
impatiently.
Hugh turned on him: “I trust I’ve not. I trust I’ll never live to cast
off a son of my own.”
At that Ridydale stared blankly, then stopped short and burst out
laughing. “By the Lord, you are the colonel over again, sir, whether it
like you or not! My faith, and he does not realize it even now, no more
than I did. Why, there’s mettle in you, sir, after all. Now come back.”
But Hugh very plainly showed his whole intent was turned to Shrewsbury,
so at length Ridydale abruptly yielded. “I’ll come along with you,” he
offered. “Very like I can find employment for you there, sir. If you
care to trust unto me—”
“Ay, and I thank you too,” Hugh answered, touched for the moment, till
he remembered that Ridydale cared for him only as he would have cared
for a dog, had it borne the name of Gwyeth.
After that they trudged on in silence, past the huddled, outlying
houses, through the west gate of Shrewsbury, and so into the crowd and
confusion of the garrison streets. It was somewhat past noon, Hugh
judged by the position of the sun, and then the sun was shut out, as
they turned into a narrow byway where the mud was deep in the shadow of
the tall houses. “This has not much the look of a troop stable,” Hugh
suggested, as Ridydale halted and knocked at the dark rear door of what
seemed a considerable mansion.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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