Traitor or patriot? : $b A tale of the Rye-House PlotRowsell, Mary C. (Mary Catherine)
History
Traitor or patriot? : $b A tale of the Rye-House Plot
Rowsell, Mary C. (Mary Catherine)
Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Fiction; Rye House Plot, 1683 -- Fiction
"Something of the sort," answered Lee, carefully drawing the little
King Charles from his snug hiding-place, and exhibiting its roly-poly
body to the public gaze; but the shrieks of delight greeting its
appearance, so startled its unaccustomed ears, that terror got the
better of Master Médor's courtly breeding, and sent him scuffling
back into the recesses of his friend's riding-coat; and amidst a
general groan at this disappointing man[oe]uvre, Lee ambled on at a
good round trot, which quickly brought him within sight of the
grass-grown broken tower tops of Nether Hall. It was now close upon
mid-day, and the sun shone hotly, so that the deserted look of the
meadows where the haymakers had just commenced work would have
occasioned their young proprietor small surprise, even could his
preoccupied mind have spared the matter a thought. Just a day it was
for creeping away into the shade of the hedges, or of the alders
overhanging the cool water shallows, to munch your rye-bread and
bacon, and drink your draught of milk or small-beer out of your old
tin can; and one or two old crippled men and women seemed the only
folks in the way to give the master a welcome home.
[Sidenote: A posse comitatus.]
Eager to relieve the anxiety he felt his long and unexpected absence
must be causing his mother, Lawrence Lee had no eyes for the strange
stares full of wonderment and suspicion the old gaffers and goodies
threw after him; but he was startled out of himself as he reached the
last field skirting the lane which led to the house, by a confused
hubbub of voices and angry discussion, as if the whole parish had
collected between its lofty hedgerows. The spot, ordinarily so
peaceful and so silent, save for the singing of the birds in the big
elm boughs overhead, was now a veritable Babel; and breaking through
a gap in the hedge, fresh made by the trampling of a hundred
hobnailed shoes, he leaped the intervening ditch, and alighting in
their very midst, demanded in imperative tones, what they did there?
For one instant, all stood as if confounded by his apparition. A
thunderbolt fallen among them would have startled them less. Here
had they been scouring the country pretty well since daybreak, north,
south, east, west, and all points of the compass between, among
Epping glades, along Hainhault hedgerows, away over Amwell,
Hoddesdon, Wideford, Ware, Waltham--far and wide, the hue and cry had
gone. Deep into oozing ditches, and hollow tree trunks, and
pigsties, and barns, and farmhouse cellars, and gable roofs, and
canal barges, and river craft, pitchforks, and sticks, and cudgels of
all sorts and sizes had prodded and poked in search of farmer
Lawrence Lee.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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