CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.
A COURAGEOUS WADER.
The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, whichextended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester.Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which oncewashed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancientbed.
The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses,that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while thecauseways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to adepth of several feet.
This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at HollymeadHouse many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it aprisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth,instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely leftalone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by theobstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassedby the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find hisworst fears realised; himself no longer free.
The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester,it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that samenight a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from thedirection of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of herjourney--for it was a woman.
The great cathedral clock was just tolling nine p.m. as she descendedinto the lowlands near Highnam, and came to a stop by the edge of theinundated district. It was dark, the moon still below the horizon; buther precursory rays, reflected from fleecy clouds above it, threw afaint light over the aqueous surface, sufficient to make objectsdistinguishable at a good hundred yards' distance. Copses that seemedislets, with the tufted heads of pollarded willows rising weirdlike outof the water, were the conspicuous features of the flooded landscape.Rows of the latter marked the boundaries of meadows; but two runningparallel, with a narrower list between, indicated the causeway of theroad.
The woman had approached this point at a rapid pace; and, though broughtto a stand, it was but a momentary pause, without thought of turningback. Her attitude, and the expression upon her features, told of adetermination to continue on, and get inside Gloucester if that werepossible. In all haste, too; for as the strokes of the great clock-bellcame booming over the water, she counted them with evident anxiety, infear of their tolling ten instead of nine. Even the lesser numberseemed scarcely to satisfy her; as if, withal, she might be too late forthe business she was bent upon.
She but waited for the final reverberation; then, drawing her skirtsknee high, walked boldly into the flood, and onward.
Ankle-deep at the first step, she was soon in water that washed aroundher garters. Here and there, with a current too, which threatened tosweep her off her feet. But it did not deter her from advancing; and onwent she, without stop or show of hesitation; no sign of quailing in hereye.
At knee's depth, as ere long she was, still enough of her showed abovethe surface to represent the stature of an ordinary woman. For she wasnot an ordinary woman, in height or otherwise--being Winny, thecadgeress.
On tramped the courageous wader, on plunged, till the water was up tomid thigh. No more then did her face show fear; nor sign of intentionto turn back. She would have gone on, had it come to swimming. Forswim she could; many the time having bathed her body in both Severn andWye. That was not needed now, though very near it. Even over theraised ridge of the causeway the flood was feet deep. But, familiarwith the route, having the landmarks in her memory--for it was not herfirst time to travel that road when submerged--she knew all its turnsand bearings; how to take them; took them; and at length having passedthe deepest depths, saw before her the Severn's bridge, with itselevated _tete-de-pont_; and, beyond, the massive tower of thecathedral, amidst a surrounding of roofs and chimneys.
Her perilous journey was near its end, the toilsome journey nigh over;and she felt happy. For, as through frost some twelve months before,she had approached Bristol with pleasant anticipations, so now was sheabout to enter Gloucester with the same, and from a similar cause.
Her expectancy was realised sooner than she had hoped for; the resultidentical to a degree of oddness. For just as upon that night atBristol, so on this at Gloucester, Rob Wilde chanced to beguard-sergeant of the gate by which she sought admission.
And once again went their great arms around each other; their lipsclosing in kisses loud and fervent as ever.
"God Almighty, Win!" he exclaimed, still holding her in honest, amorousembrace, "what bet now? Why hast thee comed hither through the flood?Dear girl! ye be's wet up to the--"
"No matter how high, Rob," she said, interrupting, "if 'twor up to theneck, there be good reasons for't."
"What reasons?"
"News I ha' brought frae Ruardean; rayther us ought say Hollymead."
"Bad news be they? I needn't axe; I see't in your face."
"Bad enough; though nothin' more than might ha' been expected after theCavalieres bein' back at Monnerth, an' master's theer. Ye ha' heerdthat, I suppose?"
"Oh, certainly! The news got here day afore yesterday, in the night.But fra Hollymead?"
"A troop o' 'em there, numberin' nigh two hundred; horse sodjers inscarlet, wi' all sorts o' grand trappins; the Prince Rupert's they be.Us ha' come wi' a message to Sir Richard. So I needn't tell ye who't befrom."
"No, you needn't. I can guess. Then ye maun see him at once?"
"Wi' not a minute's delay. Us ha' got a letter for him; an' she as sentit sayed the deliverin' be a thing o' life an' death. I knows thatmyself, Rob."
"Come along, love! The colonel be in his quarters, I think. He wor bythe gate here only a short whiles ago, and gied me orders for reportin'to him there. Another kiss, Win dear, fore's we get into company."
The favour was conceded soon as asked; and, after another hug, withmore, than one osculation, the two great figures moved off side by sidethrough the darkness.