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 Chapter 07
Cardiovascular Fitness

Multiple Choice Questions

1. (p. 118) Cardiovascular fitness is considered the most important aspect of physical fitness
because
A. it can be achieved with modest effort.
B. it is the most modifiable.
C. it reduces risks for chronic disease.
D. it increases performance in sports.

2. (p. 118) Which of the following is true of the cardiovascular system?

A. Blood in veins has less oxygen than blood in arteries.
B. Arteries carry oxygenated blood back to the heart.
C. The lungs pump blood around the body.
D. Arteries only provide oxygen to the heart muscle.

3. (p. 118) Which is true of the heart?

A. A healthy heart pumps more blood with each beat.
B. A healthy heart has a faster heart rate.
C. The heart is inefficient compared to an automobile engine.
D. Vigorous exercise harms the heart.

4. (p. 118) Cardiovascular fitness has been referred to as "cardiorespiratory fitness" because
A. the heart and vessels promote good circulation.
B. the vascular systems perform respiratory functions.
C. the respiratory system is regulated by the circulatory system.
D. the circulatory and respiratory systems are required to deliver and utilize oxygen.
5. (p. 118) The sequence of blood flow is
A. arteriesàcapillariesàveins.
B. arteriesàveinsàcapillaries.
C. capillariesàarteriesàveins.
D. veinsàcapillariesàarteries.

6. (p. 118-119) Good coronary circulation

A. strengthens heart valves by moving more blood through the heart.
B. nourishes the heart and reduces the risk of a heart attack.
C. helps to prevent blood pooling in the lower extremities.
D. increases blood pressure in the heart.

7. (p. 119) Veins contain small valves in order to

A. remove waste products from the blood.
B. aid in circulation.
C. pump blood to the heart.
D. prevent the backward flow of blood.

8. (p. 119) A condition caused by a lack of hemoglobin is known as

A. hypothermia.
B. hypertension.
C. anemia.
D. aerobic inadequacy.

9. (p. 121) Which of the following best summarizes the relationship between cardiovascular
fitness and cardiovascular risk?
A. As cardiovascular fitness increases, risk increases.
B. As cardiovascular fitness increases, risk decreases.
C. Fitness does not influence heart disease risk.
D. Only very high levels of fitness have been shown to reduce risk.
10. (p. 119) The oxygen-carrying part of the blood is called
A. alveoli.
B. fibrin.
C. platelets.
D. hemoglobin.

11. (p. 121) Measurement of maximal oxygen uptake is a good indicator of overall
cardiovascular fitness because
A. it determines how fast you can walk and/or run without breathing too hard.
B. you cannot take in and use a lot of oxygen without good cardiovascular fitness.
C. it evaluates the rate of breathing and lung function.
D. good lung function ensures that you have a healthy heart.

12. (p. 124) Which is an accepted and recommended formula for determining max heart rate?
A. maxHR = 208 - (.7 x age)
B. maxHR = Resting HR + age
C. max HR = 220 + age
D. maxHR = 50 + (2 x age)

13. (p. 127) RPE is an indicator of

A. training.
B. volume.
C. intensity.
D. endurance.

14. (p. 121,128) Which of the following is NOT true?

A. maximal heart rate decreases with age
B. resting heart rate increases with training
C. stroke volume increases during exercise
D. cardiac output increases during exercise
15. (p. 121) VO2 max refers to maximum
A. air ventilation.
B. cardiac pulse.
C. oxygen consumption.
D. exercise intensity.

16. (p. 121) The most accurate measure of cardiovascular fitness is a

A. 12-minute walk or run.
B. step test.
C. 6-minute bicycle ride test.
D. maximal oxygen uptake test.

17. (p. 123, Figure 4) The best example of an "aerobic activity" is a

A. 30-minute jog.
B. 1500-meter running race.
C. timed 1-mile bike ride.
D. 100-yard dash.

18. (p. 122, 123) Which of the following would be least likely to improve cardiovascular fitness?
A. using an elliptical machine for 20 minutes, 3 days per week
B. walking for 15 minutes, 2 days per week
C. jogging for 20 minutes, 4 days per week
D. hiking for 45 minutes, 3 days per week

19. (p. 123) Mary wants to improve her fitness enough to run a 10K race. What is probably the
best exercise program for her to maintain her fitness?
A. walk 45 minutes a day
B. run 10 40-yard sprints with short rest in between
C. run 4 to 5 times a week for 30 to 40 minutes at a time
D. walk 20 minutes a day and lift weights to improve leg strength
20. (p. 123, Table 2) What frequency recommendation is most appropriate for a low fit person
beginning exercise?
A. 5 days a week of moderate activity
B. 2 days of vigorous and 2 days of moderate
C. 2 days of moderate and 2 days of light
D. 3 days of light activity

21. (p. 127) Which arterial site for pulse counting is the most popular?
A. radial
B. brachial
C. carotid
D. femoral

22. (p. 128) Which of the following is good advice for checking your heart rate?
A. press the fingers firmly against the Adam's apple
B. find the radial pulse on the outside of an upturned elbow
C. count for 15 seconds after exercise and multiply by 6
D. avoid 6-second pulse counts because the chance of errors increases

23. (p. 128) Which of the following is a good guideline for measuring heart rate during
exercise?
A. sprint faster during the last few yards
B. count radial pulse for 1 minute immediately after exercise stops
C. keep moving while locating the pulse, then stop, and count the pulse
D. stop exercise, find pulse, and count for 15 seconds

24. (p. 126) Target zones for cardiovascular exercise intensity are most accurate if they are based
on a percentage of
A. metabolic rate.
B. heart rate reserve.
C. maximal heart rate.
D. maximal speed.
25. (p. 128) To obtain accurate exercise heart rate values it is best to count heartbeats while
A. standing still.
B. sitting down.
C. moving.
D. talking.

26. (p. 128) The most practical method to count the pulse is
A. during exercise.
B. before exercise.
C. in partners.
D. immediately after exercise.

27. (p. 125, 126) What is the target heart rate range for a 22 year old in good cardiovascular fitness
that participates in regular to moderate activities with a resting of heart rate of 68?
A. 65%-80%
B. 50%-85%
C. 60%-90%
D. 80%-90%

28. (p. 125-126, Figure 5) Which is true for heart rate?

A. fit individuals will have a higher resting heart rate
B. young individuals will have a higher resting heart rate
C. old individuals will have a higher maximal heart rate
D. old individuals will have a lower maximal heart rate

29. (p. 127) Rates of Perceived Exertion have been shown to

A. correlate with max HR.
B. correlate with 1 RM.
C. correlate with HRR.
D. all the above
30. (p. 125, Table 3) Using the max HR formula endorsed in the book, what is the max HR for a 24-
year-old?
A. 169
B. 184
C. 191
D. 196

31. (p. 122) Which is the most accurate statement about the relationship between fitness and
fatness?
A. fitness is important only if you are overweight
B. fitness doesn't improve health if you are overweight
C. being overweight counteracts the benefits of fitness
D. being fit counteracts the risks of being fat

32. (p. 129) What is the primary benefit of wearing a heart rate monitor?
A. knowledge of response to exercise
B. immediate feedback of exercise heart rate
C. detection of arrhythmias
D. prevention of heart attacks

33. (p. 127-128) The ranges that result from the methods to calculate target heart rates should be
used as general guidelines because
A. more research is needed to confirm the validity of the values.
B. higher heart rate values can occur with higher fitness levels.
C. there are several possible sources of error that can influence the values.
D. there is an indirect relationship between intensity and heart rate.

34. (p. 128) Which is true about the FIT formula for exercise?
A. People with low fitness should exercise at a higher RPE than people with high fitness.
B. Target zones based on HRR are higher than target zones based on MaxHR.
C. Intensity of exercise should be the same regardless of fitness level.
D. HR ranges are only useful for people with low or moderate levels of fitness.
35. (p. 130) The bicycle and step tests are less influenced by motivation because
A. one must exercise at a specified workload and at a regular pace.
B. they are easier to perform alone.
C. they require relatively little equipment.
D. they are less stressful on the cardiovascular system.

36. (p. 118) Cardiovascular fitness has been referred to as

A. cardiovascular endurance.
B. aerobic fitness.
C. muscular endurance.
D. both A and B

37. (p. 118) Veins carry blood in which direction?

A. from the left ventricle to the systemic system
B. back to the aorta
C. back to the heart
D. none of the above

38. (p. 123, Table 2) Someone with low fitness levels should exercise at which of the following
levels?
A. 40-50% of their heart rate reserve
B. 55-65% of their maximum heart rate
C. 12-13 Rate of Perceived Exertion
D. all the above

39. (p. 121, 129, Figure 8) Which of the following is true regarding the cardiovascular system?
A. stroke volume decreases during exercise
B. stroke volume is another term for heart rate
C. fit people will have a lower maximal heart rate
D. fit people will have a lower resting heart rate
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striving to forget that he had ever shared those moorland walks to
Rigstones Chapel. His father had learned gradually that it was
absurd to credit a score of people, assembled in a wayside chapel,
with the certainty that, out of the world’s millions, they alone were
saved; and afterwards this same father had bought a fine house,
because the squire who owned it had gambled credit and all else
away. And the son had found a gift for riding horses, had learned
from women’s faces that they liked the look of him; and, from small
and crude beginnings, he had grown to be Wild Will, the hunter who
never shirked his fences, the gay lover who had gathered about
himself a certain fugitive romance that had not been tested yet in
full daylight.
Eli watched his master’s face. The hour was late. The wind was shrill
and busy here, as it was at Windyhough. The world of the open
moor, with its tempests and its downrightness, intruded into this
snug house of Underwood. Will was shut off from his intimates, from
the easy, heedless life, that had grown to be second nature to him.
He was aware of a great loneliness, a solitude that his bailiff’s
company seemed, not to lessen, but to deepen. In some odd way he
was standing face to face with the realities of this Stuart love that
had been a pastime to him, a becoming coat to wear when he dined
or hunted with his friends. There was no pastime now about the
matter. He thought of Sir Jasper Royd, of Squire Demaine, of others
he could name who were ready to go out into the wilderness
because the time for words was over and the time for deeds had
come.
“You’re not just pleased, like, with all this moonshine about the lad
wi’ yellow hair,” said Eli guardedly. “Now, there, maister! I allus said
ye had your grandfather’s stark common sense.”
Will Underwood did not heed him. He began to pace up and down
the floor with the fury that Squire Demaine, not long ago, had
likened to that of a wild cat caught in a trap. It was so plain to him,
in this moment of enlightenment, how great a price these friends of
his were ready to pay without murmur or question of reward. They
had schooled themselves to discipline; they were trained soldiers, in
fact, ready for blows or sacrifice, whichever chanced; their passing
of the loyal toast across the water had been a comely, vital ritual,
following each day’s simple prayer for restoration of the Stuart
Monarchy.
And he? Will listened to the gale that hammered at the window, saw
Eli’s inquisitive, hard face, fancied himself pacing again the moorland
road that led to Rigstones Chapel and its gospel of negation. His
frippery was stripped from him. He felt himself a liar among honest
men. He could find no sneer to aim at the high, romantic daring of
these folk who were about to follow a Prince they had not seen; for
he knew that he was utterly untrained to such sacrifice as was asked
of him. To give up this house of his, the pleasant meetings at the
hunt or by the covert-side; to put his neck on the block, most likely,
for the sake of a most unbusiness-like transaction—it was all so
remote from the play-actor’s comedy in which he had been a prime
figure all these years. He had not dreamed that Prince Charles
Edward, in sober earnest, would ever bring an army into pleasant
England to disturb its peace.
Eli watched the irresolution in his face. He, at least, was business-
like. He had none of the spirit that takes men out on the forlorn
hope, and he measured each moment of his life as a chance for
immediate and successful barter.
“Maister,” he said quietly, “you’ve not heard, may be, the rumour
that’s going up and down the countryside?”
“Bad news?” snapped Underwood. “You were always ready to pass
on that sort of rumour.”
“Well, I call it good news. They say Marshal Wade has men enough
under him to kill half Lancashire—and he’s marching down this way
from Newcastle to cut off these pesty Scotchmen.”
Will Underwood turned sharply. “Is your news sure, Eli?”
“Sure as judgment. I had it from one of Wade’s own riders, who’s
been busy hereabouts these last days, trying to keep silly country-
folk from leaving their homes for sake o’ moonshine. He laughed at
this pretty-boy Prince, I tell ye, saying he was no more than a lad
who tries to rob an orchard with the big farmer looking on.”
Underwood questioned him in detail about this messenger of
Marshal Wade’s, and from the bailiff’s answers, knowing the man’s
shrewdness, he grew sure that the odds were ludicrously against the
Prince.
“I’m pledged to the Stuart Cause. You may go, Eli,” he said, with the
curtness he mistook for strength.
“Ay, you’re pledged, maister. But is it down in black and white? As a
plain man o’ business, I tell ye no contract need be kept unless it’s
signed and sealed.”
“And honour, you old fool?” snapped Underwood, afraid of his own
conscience.
“Honour? That’s for gentry-folk to play with. You and me, maister,
were reared at Rigstones Chapel, where there was no slippery talk o’
that kind. It’s each for his own hand, to rive his way through to the
Mercy Throne. It’s a matter o’ business, surely—we just creep and
clamber up, knowing we’ve to die one day—and we’ve to keep sharp
wits about us, if we’re to best our neighbour at the job. It would be
a poor do, I reckon, if ye lost your chance by letting some other
body squeeze past ye, and get in just as th’ Gates were shutting,
leaving ye behind.”
The whole bleak past returned to Will Underwood. He saw, as if it
stood before him harsh against the rough hillocks of the moor, the
squat face of Rigstones Chapel. He heard again the gospel of self-
help, crude, arid, and unwashed, that had thundered about his
boyhood’s ears when his father took him to the desolation that was
known as Sabbath to the sect that worshipped there. It had been all
self-help there, in this world’s business or the next—all a talk of gain
and barter—and never, by any chance, a hint of the over-glory that
counts sacrifice a pleasant matter, leading to the starry heights.
“Eli, I washed my hands of all that years ago,” he said.
“Ay, and, later on try to wash ’em of burning brimstone, maister—it
sticks, and it burns, does the hell-fire you used to know.”
There is something in a man deeper than his own schooling of
himself—a something stubborn, not to be denied, that springs from
the graves where his forefathers lie. To-night, as he watched Eli’s
grim mouth, the clean-shaven upper lip standing out above his
stubby beard, as he listened to his talk of brimstone, he was no
longer Underwood, debonair and glib of tongue. He was among his
own people again—so much among them that he seemed now, not
only to see Rigstones Chapel, but to be living the old life once more,
in the little house, near the watermill that had earned the beginnings
of his grandfather’s riches. Thought by thought, impulse by impulse,
he was divided from these folk of later years—the men and women
who hunted, dined, and danced, with the single purpose behind it all
—the single hope that one day they would be privileged to give up
all, on the instant call, for loyalty to the King who reigned in fact, if
not in name. To-night, with Eli’s ledger-like, hard face before him,
Underwood yielded to the narrower and more barren teaching that
had done duty for faith’s discipline at Rigstones Chapel. And yet he
would not admit as much.
“You’re a sly old sinner, Eli,” he said, with a make-believe of the
large, rollicking air which he affected.
The bailiff, glancing at his master’s face, knew that he had prevailed.
“Ay, just thereby,” he said, his face inscrutable and hard. “But one
way or another, I mean to keep free o’ brimstone i’ the next world.
It’s all a matter o’ business, and I tell ye so.”
Underwood went out into the frosty, moonlit night, and paced up
and down the house-front. His forebears had given him one cleanly
gift, at least—he needed always, when in the thick of trouble, to get
away from house-walls, out into the open. The night was clear,
between one storm and the next, and the seven lamps of Charlie’s
Wain swung high above his head. He had to make his choice, once
for all, and knew it—the choice between the gospel of self-help and
the wider creed that sends men out to a simple, catholic sacrifice of
houseroom and good living.
He looked at the matter from every side, business-like as his father
before him. There were many pledges he had given that he would
join his intimates when the summons came. If they returned from
setting a Stuart on the throne, the place he had won among them
would be valueless. But, on the other hand, Eli’s news made it sure
that they would not return, that, if they kept whole skins at all, they
would be driven into exile overseas. He knew, too, that there were
many lukewarm men, prudent doubters, even among the gentry
here whose every instinct had been trained to the Stuart’s service.
The few hot-headed folk—the dreamers—were riding out to disaster
certain and foreknown—but there would be practical, cool men
enough left here in Lancashire to keep him company.
And there was Nance. He was on ground less sure now. It lay
deeper than he guessed, deeper than his love of hunting and good-
living, his passion for Nance Demaine. She was at once his good and
evil angel, and to-night he had to choose his road. All that was best
in his regard for her pointed to the strict, narrow road of honour.
And she had promised him her kerchief when he returned from
following that road. And yet—to lose life and lands, may be—at best,
to be a fugitive in foreign countries—would that help him nearer to
the wooing? If he stayed here, she would be derelict at Windyhough,
would need his help. He could ride down to the house each day, be
at hand to tempt her with the little flatteries that mean much when
women are left in a house empty of all men-folk. And, if danger
came up the moors after the Rising was crushed at birth by Marshal
Wade, he would be at hand to protect her.
To protect her. He knew, down under all subterfuge, that such as
Nance find the surest protection when their men are riding straight,
and he was not riding straight to-night; and finer impulses were
stirring in him than he had felt through five-and-thirty years of self-
indulgence.
He glanced at the moors, saw again the squat, practical face of
Rigstones Chapel, heard Eli Fletcher’s east-wind, calculating voice.
He was true to his breed to-night, as he surrendered to the bleak,
unlovely past.
“Fools must gang their gait,” he muttered, “but wise men stay at
home.”
Eli Fletcher was crossing the hall as he went in, and glanced at the
master’s face. “Shall we get forrard wi’ the building?” he asked,
needing no answer.
“Ay, Eli. And we’ll dance at Christmas, after this ill-guided Rising is
ended.”
“You’re your father over again,” said Eli, with grim approval.
 CHAPTER III
THE HURRIED DAYS

Uneasy days had come to Lancashire. The men had grown used to
security, save for the risk of a broken neck on hunting-days, their
wives pampered and extravagant; for peace, of the unhealthy sort,
saps half their vigour from men and women both. They had nothing
to fear, it seemed. There had been wars overseas, and others
threatened; but their battles had been fought for them by foreign
mercenaries of King George’s. For the rest, Lancashire hunted and
dined and diced, secure in the beauty of her women, the strength of
her men who rode to hounds and made love in the sleepy intervals.
And now the trumpet-call had sounded. None spoke abroad of the
news that Oliphant of Muirhouse and other messengers were
bringing constantly; but, when doors were closed, there was eager
talk of what was in the doing. And the elders of the company were
aware that, for every man who held loyalty fast in his two hands,
there were five at least who were guarded in devotion, five who
spoke with their lips, but whose hearts were set on safety and the
longing to enjoy more hunting days.
It was this lukewarmness that harassed and exasperated men like
Sir Jasper and Squire Demaine. Better open enemies, they felt—
those who were frankly ranged against the Old Faith, the Old
Monarchy, the old traditions—than easy-going friends who would talk
but would not act. Here on the windy heights of Lancashire they
were learning already what the stalwarts farther north were feeling—
an intolerable sickness, an impatience of those who wished for the
return of the old order, but had not faith enough to strike a blow for
it.
Yet there were others; and day by day, as news of the Prince’s
march drifted down to Windyhough, Sir Jasper was heartened to find
that after all, he would bring a decent company to join the Rising.
Meanwhile, the lives they were living day by day seemed odd to
thinking men who, like Sir Jasper, understood how imminent was
civil war, and what the horrors of it were. The farmers rode to
market, sold their sheep and cattle, returned sober or otherwise
according to force of habit, just as at usual times. In the village
bordering Windyhough the smith worked at his bellows, the cobbler
was busy as ever with making boots and scandal, the labourers’
wives—the shiftless sort—scolded their husbands into the ale-house,
while the more prudent ones made cheery hearths for them at
home. It seemed incredible that before the year was out there would
be such a fire kindled in this peaceful corner of the world as might
burn homesteads down, and leave children fatherless, if things went
amiss with Prince Charles Edward.
But Sir Jasper let no doubts stay long with him. Things would go
well. If the risks were great, so was the recompense. A Stuart safely
on the throne again; English gentlemen filling high places where
foreigners were now in favour; the English tongue heard frequently
at Court; a return of the days when Church and King meant more
than an idle toast—surely the prize was worth the hazard.
He carried a sore heart on his own account these days. He had a
wife and sons at Windyhough; he loved the house that had grown
old in company with his race; he had no personal gain in this
adventure of the Prince’s, no need of recompense nor wish for it;
and sometimes, when he was tired-out or when he had found the
younger gentry irresolute in face of the instant call to arms, he grew
weak and foolish, as if he needed to learn from the everlasting hills
about him that he was human after all. And at these times his faith
shone low and smoky, like a fire that needs a keen breath of wind to
kindle it afresh.
On one of these days, near dusk, as he rode home across the moor,
dispirited because no news had followed Oliphant’s message of a
week ago, a rider overtook him at a spurring gallop, checked
suddenly, and turned in saddle.
“I was for Windyhough,” he panted. “You’ve saved me three miles,
sir—and, gad! my horse will bless you.”
“The news, Oliphant? The news? I’m wearying for it.”
“Be ready within the week. The Prince is into Annan—Carlisle will fall
—get your men and arms together. Pass on the word to Squire
Demaine.”
“And the signal?”
“Wait till I bring it, or another. Be ready, and—God save the King!”
Here on the hilltops, while Oliphant of Muirhouse breathed his horse
for a moment, the two men looked, as honest folk do, straight into
each other’s eyes. Sir Jasper saw that Oliphant was weary in the
cause of well-doing; that was his trade in life, and he pursued it
diligently; but the older man was not prepared for the sudden break
and tenderness in the rider’s voice as he broke off to cry “God save
the King!” There was no bravado possible up here, where sleety,
austere hills were the only onlookers; the world’s applause was far
off, and in any case Oliphant was too saddle-sore and hungry to care
for such light diet; yet that cry of his—resolute, gay almost—told Sir
Jasper that two men, here on the uplands, were sharing the same
faith.
“God save the King!” said Sir Jasper, uncovering; “and—Oliphant,
you’ll take a pinch of snuff with me.”
Oliphant laughed—the tired man’s laugh that had great pluck behind
it—and dusted his nostrils with the air of one who had known courts
and gallantry. “They say it guards a man against chills, Sir Jasper—
and one needs protection of that sort in Lancashire. Your men are
warm and Catholic—but your weather and your roads—de’il take
them!”
“Our weather bred us, Oliphant. We’ll not complain.”
Oliphant of Muirhouse glanced at him. “By gad! you’re tough, sir,” he
said, with that rare smile of his which folk likened to sun in
midwinter frost.
“By grace o’ God, I’m tough; but I never learned your trick of
hunting up tired folk along the roads and putting new heart into
them. How did you learn the trick, Oliphant?”
It was cold up here, and the messenger had need to get about his
business; but two men, sharing a faith bigger than the hills about
them, were occupied with this new intimacy that lay between them,
an intimacy that was tried enough to let them speak of what lay
nearest to their hearts. Oliphant looked back along the years—saw
the weakness of body, the tired distrust of himself that had hindered
him, the groping forward to the light that glimmered faint ahead.
“Oh, by misadventure and by sorrow—how else? I’ll take another
pinch of snuff, Sir Jasper, and ride forward.”
“If they but knew, Oliphant!” The older man’s glance was no less
direct, but it was wistful and shadowed by some doubt that had
taken him unawares. “We’ve all to gain, we loyalists, and George has
left us little enough to lose. And yet our men hang back. Cannot
they see this Rising as I see it? Prosperity and kingship back again—
no need to have a jug of water ready when you drink the loyal toast
—the Maypole reared again in this sour, yellow-livered England.
Oliphant, we’ve the old, happy view of things, and yet our
gentlemen hang back.”
A cloud crossed Oliphant’s persistent optimism, too. In experience of
men’s littleness, their shams and subterfuges when they were asked
to put bodily ease aside for sake of battle, he was older than Sir
Jasper. The night-riders of this Rising saw the dark side, not only of
the hilly roads they crossed, but of human character; and in this
corner of Lancashire alone Oliphant knew to a nicety the few who
would rise, sanguine at the call of honour, and the many who would
add up gain and loss like figures in a tradesman’s ledger.
“Sir Jasper,” he said, breaking an uneasy silence, “the Prince will
come to his own with few or many. If it were you and I alone, I think
we’d still ride out.”
He leaned from the saddle, gripped the other’s hand, and spurred
forward into the grey haze that was creeping up the moor across the
ruddy sundown.
Sir Jasper followed him, at an easier pace. For a while he captured
something of Oliphant’s zeal—a zeal that had not been won lightly—
and then again doubt settled on him, cold as the mist that grew
thicker and more frosty as he gained the lower lands. He knew that
the call had come which could not be disobeyed, and he was sick
with longing for the things that had been endeared to him by long-
continued peace. There was Rupert, needing a father’s guidance, a
father’s help at every turn, because he was a weakling; he had not
known till now how utterly he loved the lad. There was his wife, who
was wayward and discontented these days; but he had not forgotten
the beauty of his wooing-time. There was all to lose, it seemed, in
spite of his brave words not long ago.
Resolute men feel these things no less—nay, more, perhaps—than
the easy-going. Their very hatred of weakness, of swerving from the
straight, loyal path, reacts on them, and they find temptation doubly
strong. Sir Jasper, as he rode down into the nipping frost that hung
misty about the chimney-stacks below him, had never seen this
house of his so comely, so likeable. Temptation has a knack of
rubbing out all harsher lines, of showing a stark, midwinter
landscape as a land of plenty and of summer. There were the well
ordered life, the cheery greetings with farmer-folk and hinds who
loved their squire. There was his wife—she was young again, as on
her bridal-day, asking him if he dared leave her—and there was his
heir. Maurice, the younger-born, would go out with the Rising; but
Rupert must be left behind.
Sir Jasper winced, as if in bodily pain. Every impulse was bidding
him stay. Every tie, of home and lands and tenantry, was pulling him
away from strict allegiance to the greater Cause. He had but to bide
at home, to let the Rising sweep by him and leave him safe in his
secluded corner of the moors; it was urgent that he should stay, to
guard his wife against the licence that might follow civil war; it was
his duty to protect his own.
The strength of many yesterdays returned to help Sir Jasper.
Because he was turned sixty, a light thinker might have said that he
might take his ease; but, because he was turned sixty, he had more
yesterdays behind him than younger men—days of striving toward a
goal as fixed as the pole-star, nights of doubt and disillusion that had
yielded to the dawn of each succeeding sunrise. He had pluck and
faith in God behind him; and his trust was keen and bright, like the
sword-blade that old Andrew Ferrara had forged in Italy for Prince
Charles Edward.
“The Prince needs me,” he muttered stubbornly. “That should be
praise enough for any man.”
He rode down the bridle-track to Windyhough; and the nearer he
got to the chimneys that were smoking gustily in the shrewd east
wind, the more he loved his homestead. It was as if a man, living in
a green oasis, were asked to go out across the desert sands,
because a barren, thirsty duty called him.
Again the patient yesterdays rallied to his aid. He shook himself free
of doubts, as a dog does when he comes out of cold waters; and he
took a pinch of snuff, and laughed. “After all, I was growing fat and
sleepy,” he thought, stooping to pat the tired horse that carried him.
“One can sleep and eat too much.”
He found Lady Royd in the hall, waiting for him, and a glance at her
face chilled all desire to tell her the good Rising news.
“What is the trouble, wife?” he asked, with sudden foreboding. “Is
Rupert ill?”
She stamped her foot, and her face, comely at usual times, was not
good to see. “Oh, it is Rupert with you—and always Rupert—till I
lose patience. He is—why, just the scholar. He does not hunt; he
scarce dares to ride—we’ll have to make a priest of him.”
“There are worse callings,” broke in Sir Jasper, with the squared jaw
that she knew by heart, but would not understand. “If my soul were
clean enough for priesthood, I should no way be ashamed.”
“Yes, but the lands? Will you not understand that he is the heir—and
there must be heirs to follow? We have but two, and you’re taking
Maurice to this mad rising that can only end on Tower Hill.”
“That is as God wills, wife o’ mine.”
Again she stamped her foot. “You’re in league together, you and he.”
“We share the same Faith,” he put in dryly, “if that is to be in league
together.”
“Only to-day—an hour before you came—I found him mooning in the
library, when he should have been out of doors. ‘Best join the priests
at once, and have done with it,’ said I. And ‘No,’ he answered
stubbornly, ‘I’ve been reading what the Royds did once. They fought
for Charles the First, and afterwards—they died gladly, some of
them. I come of a soldier-stock, and I need to fight.’ The scholar
dreamed of soldiery! I tapped him on the cheek—and he a grown
man of five-and-twenty—and”—she halted, some hidden instinct
shaming her for the moment—“and he only answered that he knew
the way of it all—by books—dear heart, by books he knew how
strong men go to battle!”
“Rupert said that?” asked Sir Jasper gently. “Gad! I’m proud of him.
He’ll come to soldiery one day.”
“By mooning in the library—by roaming the moors at all hours of the
day and night—is that the way men learn to fight?”
Sir Jasper was cool and debonair again. “Men learn to fight as the
good God teaches them, my lady. We have no part in that. As for
Rupert—I tell you the lad is staunch and leal. He was bred a
Christian gentleman, after all, and breed tells—it tells in the long
run, Agnes, though all the fools in Lancashire go making mouths at
Rupert.”
He strode up and down the hall, with the orderly impatience that she
knew. And then he told the Rising news; and she ran towards him,
and could not come too close into his arms, and made confession,
girlish in its simplicity, that she, who cared little for her son, loved
her husband better than her pride.
“You’ll not go? It is a mad Rising—here with the Georges safe upon
the throne. You need not go, at your age. Let younger men bear the
brunt of it, if they’ve a mind for forlorn hopes.”
He put her arms away from him, though it helped and heartened
him to know that, in some queer way, she loved him.
“At any age one serves the Prince, wife. I’m bidden—that is all.”
Lady Royd glanced keenly at her husband. She had been spoilt and
wilful, counting wealth and ease as her goal in life; but she was
sobered now. Sir Jasper had said so little; but in his voice, in the
look of his strong, well-favoured face, there was something that
overrode the shams of this world. He was a simple-minded
gentleman, prepared for simple duty; and, because she knew that
he was unbreakable, her old wilfulness returned.
“For my sake, stay!” she pleaded. “You are—my dear, you do not
know how much you are to me.”
He held her at arm’s length, looking into her face. Her eyes were
pixie-like—radiant, full of sudden lights and fugitive, light-falling
tears. So had he seen her, six-and-twenty years before, when he
brought her as a bride to Windyhough. For the moment he was
unnerved. She was so young in her blandishment, so swift and eager
a temptation. It seemed that, by some miracle, they two were lad
and lass again, needing each other only, and seeing the world as a
vague and sunlit background to their happiness.
“Ah, you’ll not go!” she said softly. “I knew you would not.”
“Not go?” He stood away from her, crossed to the window that gave
him a sight of the last sunset-red above the heath. “You are childish,
Agnes,” he said sharply.
“So are all women, when—when they care. I need you here—need
you—and you will not understand.”
Sir Jasper laughed, with a gentleness, a command of himself, that
did not date from yesterday. “And a man, when he cares—he cares
for his honour first—because it is his wife’s. Agnes, you did not hear
me, surely. I said that the Prince commands me.”
“And I command you. Choose between us.”
Her tone was harsh. She had not known how frankly and without
stint she loved this man. She was looking ahead, seeing the
forlornness of the waiting-time while he was absent on a desperate
venture.
He came and patted her cheek, as if she were a baby to be soothed.
“I choose both,” he said. “Honour and you—dear heart, I cannot
disentangle them.”
She felt dwarfed by the breadth and simplicity of his appeal. The
world thought her devout, a leal daughter of the Church; but she
had not caught his gift of seeing each day whole, complete, without
fear or favour from the morrow. And, because she was a spoilt child,
she could not check her words.
“You’ve not seen the Prince. He’s a name only, while I—I am your
wife.”
Sir Jasper was tired with the long day’s hunting, the news that had
met him by the way; but his voice was quiet and resolute. “He is
more than a name, child. He’s my Prince—and one day, if I live to
see it, his father will be crowned in London. And you’ll be there, and
I shall tell them that it was you, Agnes, who helped me fasten on my
sword-belt.”
And still she would not heed. Her temperament was of the kind that
afterwards was to render the whole Rising barren. She had no
patience and little trust.
“Why should I give you God-speed to Tower Hill?” she snapped. “You
think the name of Stuart is one to conjure with. You think all
Lancashire will rise, when this wizard Prince brings the Stuart Rose
to them. Trust me—I know how Lancashire will wait, and wait; they
are cautious first and loyal afterwards.”
“Lancashire will rise,” broke in Sir Jasper; “but, either way, I go—and
all my tenantry.”
“And your heir? He will go, too, will he not?”
She did not know how deep her blow struck. He had resisted her,
her passionate need of him. He would leave her for a Rising that had
no hope of success, because the name of Stuart was magical to him.
In her pain and loneliness she struck blindly.
He went to the door, threw it open, and stood looking at the grey,
tranquil hills. There was the sharp answer ready on his tongue. He
checked it. This was no time to yield to anger; for the Prince’s men,
if they were to win home to London, had need of courage and
restraint.
“My son”—he turned at last, and his voice was low and tired—“our
son, Agnes—he is not trained for warfare. I tell you, he’ll eat his
heart out, waiting here and knowing he cannot strike a blow. His
heart is big enough, if only the body of him would give it room.”
She was desperate. All the years of selfishness, with Sir Jasper
following every whim for love of her, were prompting her to keep
him at her apron-strings. Her own persuasion had failed; she would
try another way, though it hurt her pride.
“He’ll eat his heart out, as you say. Then stay for the boy’s sake,”
she put in hurriedly. “He will feel the shame of being left behind—he
will miss you at every turn—it is cruel to leave him fatherless.”
She had tempted him in earnest now. He stood moodily at the door,
watching the hills grow dark beneath a sky of velvet grey. He knew
the peril of this Rising—knew that the odds were heavy against his
safe return—and the pity of that one word “fatherless” came home
to him. This weakling of his race had not touched compassion in the
mother, as the way of weaklings is; but he had moved his father to
extreme and delicate regard for him, had threaded the man’s
hardihood and courage with some divine and silver streak.
He turned at last. There was something harsh, repellent in his anger,
for already he was fighting against dreary odds.
“Get to your bed, wife! Fatherless? He’d be worse than that if I sat
by the fireside after the Prince had bidden me take the open. He’d
live to hear men say I was a coward—he’d live to wish the hills
would tumble down and hide him, for shame of his own father. God
forgive you, Agnes, but you’re possessed of a devil to-night—just to-
night, when the wives of other men are fastening sword-belts on.”
It was the stormy prelude to a fast and hurrying week. Messengers
rode in, by night and day, with news from Scotland. They rode with
hazard; but so did the gentlemen of Lancashire, whenever they went
to fair or market, and listened to the rider’s message, and glanced
about to see if George’s spies were lingering close to them.
Men took hazards, these days, as unconcernedly as they swallowed
breakfast before getting into saddle. Peril was part of the day’s
routine, and custom endeared it to them, till love of wife and home
grew like a garden-herb, that smells the sweetest when you crush it
down.
Lady Royd watched her husband’s face, and saw him grow more full
of cheeriness as the week went on. Oliphant’s news had been true
enough, it seemed, for Scotland had proved more than loyal, and
had risen at the Stuart’s call as a lass comes to her lover. The
Highlanders had sunk their quarrels with the Lowlanders, and the
ragged beginning of an army was already nearing Carlisle. Then
there came a morning when Sir Jasper rode into the nearest town on
market-day, and moved innocent and farmer-like among the thick-
thewed men who sold their pigs and cattle, and halted now and then
to snatch news of the Rising from some passer-by who did not
seem, in garb or bearing, to be concerned with Royal business; and
he returned to Windyhough with the air of one who has already
come into his kingdom.
“They are at Carlisle, wife,” he said. “They’ve taken the Castle there
——”
“It’s no news to Carlisle Castle, that,” she broke in—shrewishly,
because she loved him and feared to let him go. “It stands there to
be taken, if you’ve taught me my history—first by the Scots, and the
next day by the English. Carlisle is a wanton, by your leave, that
welcomes any man’s attack.”
He had come home to meet east wind and littleness—the spoilt
woman’s littleness, that measures faith by present and immediate
gains. He was chilled for the moment; but the loyalty that had kept
him hale and merry through sixty years was anchored safe.
“The Prince comes south, God bless him!” he said gravely. “We shall
go out at dawn one of these near days, Agnes. We shall not wait for
his coming—we shall ride out to meet him, and give him welcome
into loyal Lancashire.”
She was not shrewish now. Within the narrow walls she had built
about her life she loved him, as a garden-flower loves the sun, not
asking more than ease and shelter. And her sun was telling her that
he must be absent for awhile, leaving her in the cold, grey twilight
that women know when their men ride out to battle.
“You shall not go,” she said, between her tears. “Dear, the need I
have of you—the need——”
He stooped suddenly and kissed her on the cheek. “I should love
you less, my dear, if I put slippers on at home and feared to take the
open.”
And still she would not answer him, or look him in the eyes with the
strength that husbands covet when they are bent on sacrifice and
need a staff to help them on the road.
“You’re not the lover that you were—say, more years ago than I
remember,” she said with a last, soft appeal.
He laughed, and touched her hand as a wooer might. “I love you
twice as well, little wife. You’ve taught me how to die, if need be.”
She came through the door of the garden that had sheltered her. For
the first time in her life she met the open winds; and Sir Jasper’s
trust in her was not misplaced.
“Is that the love you’ve hidden all these years?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear. It’s the love you had always at command, if you had
known it. Men are shy of talking of such matters.”
She ran to get his sword, docile as a child, and laid it on the table. “I
shall buckle it on for you, never fear,” she said, with the light in her
eyes at last—the light he had sought and hungered for.
“Sweetheart, you—you care, then, after all?” He kissed her on the
lips this time. “We shall go far together, you and I, in the Prince’s
cause. Women sit at home, and pray—and their men fight the better
for it. My dear, believe me, they fight the better for it.”
They faced each other, searching, as wind-driven folk do, for the
larger air that cleanses human troubles. And suddenly she
understood how secure was the bond that intimacy had tied about
them. She had not guessed it till she came from her sheltered
garden and faced the breezy hills of Lancashire at last.
And her husband, seeing her resolute, allowed himself a moment’s
sickness, such as he had felt not long ago after saying good-bye to
Oliphant high up the moor. He might not return. The odds were all
against it. He was bidding a last farewell, perhaps, to the ordered
life here, the lover’s zeal which his wife commanded from him still—
to the son whom he had watched from babyhood, waiting always,
with a father’s dogged hope, for signs of latent strength. In some
queer way he thought most of his boy just now; the lad was lonely,
and needed him.
Then he crushed the sickness down. The night’s road was dark and
troublesome; but, whether he returned or no, there must needs be a
golden end to it.
“What does it matter, wife?” he said, his voice quivering a little. “A
little loneliness—in any case it would not be for long, sweetheart—
and then—why, just that the Prince had called me, and we had
answered, you and I——”
She swept round on him in a storm of misery and doubt. “Oh, Faith’s
good enough in time of Peace. Women cherish it when days go
easily, and chide their men for slackness. And the call comes—and
then, God help us! we cling about your knees while you are resolute.
It is the men who have true faith—the faith that matters and that
helps them.”
He took her face into his two hands. She remembered that he had
worn just this look, far off in the days of lavender and rosemary,
when he had brought her home a bride to Windyhough and had
kissed her loneliness away.
“What’s to fear? War or peace—what’s to fear? We’re not children,
wife o’ mine.”
And “No!” she said, with brave submissiveness. And then again her
face clouded with woe, and tenderness, and longing, as when hill-
mists gather round the sun. “Ah, but yes!” she added petulantly. “We
are like children—like children straying in the dark. You see the
Prince taking London, with skirl of the pipes and swinging Highland
kilts. I see you kneeling, husband, with your head upon the block.”
Sir Jasper laughed quietly, standing to his full, brave height. “And
either way it does not matter, wife—so long as the Prince has need
of me. You’ll find me kneeling, one way or the other.”
From the shadowed hall, with the candles flickering in the sconces,
their son came out into the open—their son, who could not go to
war because he was untrained. He had been listening to them.
“Father,” he said, “I must ride with you. Indeed, I cannot stay at
home.”
Sir Jasper answered hastily, as men will when they stand in the thick
of trouble. “What, you? You cannot, lad. Your place is here, as I told
you—to guard your mother and Windyhough.”
The lad winced, and turned to seek the shadows again, after one
long, searching glance at the other’s unrelenting face. And Lady
Royd forgot the past. She followed him, brought him back again into
the candlelight. One sharp word from the father had bidden her
protect this son who was bone of her bone. Rupert looked at her in
wonder. She had been his enemy till now; yet suddenly she was his
friend.
He looked gravely at her—a man of five-and-twenty, who should
have known better than to blurt out the deeper thoughts that in
prudent folk lie hidden. “Mother,” he said, striving to keep the
listless, care-naught air that was his refuge against the day’s
intrusions—“mother——”
She had not heard the word before—not as it reached her now—
because she had not asked for it. It was as if she had lived between
four stuffy walls, fearing to go out into the gladness and the pain of
motherhood.
“Yes, boy?” she asked, with lover-like impatience for the answer.
“You are kind to—to pity me. But it seems to make it harder,” he said
with extreme simpleness. “I’m no son to be proud of, mother.” His
voice was low, uncertain, as he looked from one to the other of
these two who had brought him into a troubled world.
Then he glanced shyly at his father. “I could die, sir, for the Prince,”
he added, with a touch of humour. “But they say I cannot live for
him.”
The wife looked at the husband. And pain crossed between them like
a fire. He was so big of heart, this lad, and yet he was left stranded
here in the backwater of life.
Sir Jasper laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re no fool, Rupert,” he
said, fierce in his desire to protect the lad from his own shame. “I
give you the post of honour, after all—to guard your mother. We
cannot all ride afield, and I’m leaving some of our men with you.”
“Yes,” said Rupert; “you leave the lamesters, father—the men who
are past service, whose joints are crazy.”
He was bitter. This Rising had fired his chivalry, his dreams of high
adventure, his race-instinct for a Stuart and the Cause. He had
dreamed of it during these last, eager nights, had freed himself from
day-time weakness, and had ridden out, a leader, along the road
that led through Lancashire to London. And the end of it was this—
he was to be left at home, because straight-riding men were
hindered by the company of an untrained comrade.
The father saw it all. He had not watched this son of his for naught
through five-and-twenty years of hope that he would yet grow
strong enough to prove himself the fitting heir. It was late, and Sir
Jasper had to make preparation for a ride to market at dawn; but he
found time to spare for Rupert’s needs.
“Come with me, Rupert,” he said, putting an arm through his son’s.
“It was always in my mind that Windyhough might be besieged, and
I leave you here—in command, you understand.”
“In command?” Rupert was alert, incredulous. “That was the way my
dreams went, father.”
“Dreams come true, just time and time. You should count it a
privilege, my lad, to stay at home. It is easier to ride out.”
Lady Royd, as she watched them go arm-in-arm together through
the hall, was in agreement with her husband. It was easier to ride
out than to sit at home, as scholars and women did, waiting emptily
for news that, when it came, was seldom pleasant. Already, though
her husband had not got to saddle, she was counting the hazards
that were sure to meet him on the road to London. And yet some
sense of comfort whispered at her ear. Her son was left behind to
guard her. She lingered on the thought, and with twenty womanish
devices she hedged it round, until at last she half believed it. This
boy of hers was to guard her. In her heart she knew that the storm
of battle would break far away from Windyhough, that in the event
of peril Rupert must prove a slender reed; but she was yielding to
impulse just now, and felt the need to see her son a hero.
Sir Jasper, meanwhile, was going from room to room of the old
house, from one half-forgotten stairway to another. He showed
Rupert how each window—old loopholes, most of them, filled in with
glass to fit modern needs—commanded some useful outlook on an
enemy attacking Windyhough. He showed him the cellars, where the
disused muskets and the cannon lay, and the piles of leaden balls,
and the kegs of gunpowder.
“You’re in command, remember,” he said now and then, as they
made their tour of the defences. “You must carry every detail with
you. You must be ready.”
To Sir Jasper all this was a fairy-tale he told—a clumsy tale enough,
but one designed to soften the blow to his heir; to Rupert it was a
trumpet-note that roused his sleeping manhood.
“I have it all by heart, father,” he said eagerly. Then he glanced
sharply at Sir Jasper. “No one ever—ever trusted me till now,” he
said. “It was trust I needed, maybe.”
Sir Jasper was ashamed. Looking at Rupert, with his lean body, the
face that was lit with strength and purpose, he repented of the
nursery-tale he had told him—the tale of leadership, of an attack
upon the house, of the part which one poor scholar was asked to
play in it.
“Get up to bed, dear lad,” he said huskily. “I’ve told you all that need
be. Sleep well, until you’re wanted.”
But Rupert could not sleep. He was possessed by the beauty of this
hope that had wound itself, a silver thread, through the drab pattern
of his life. He let his father go down into the hall, then followed, not
wishing to play eavesdropper again, but needing human
comradeship.
Lady Royd, weaving dreams of her own downstairs, glanced up as
she heard her husband’s step.
“Oh, you were kind to the boy,” she said, comelier since she found
her motherhood.
He put her aside. “I was not kind, wife. I lied to him.”
“In a good cause, my dear.”
“No!” His fierceness shocked her; for until now she had been unused
to vehemence. “Lies never served a good cause yet. I told him—God
forgive me, Agnes!—that he would be needed here. He has pluck,
and this notion of leadership—it went to his head like wine, and I
felt as if I’d offered drink to a lad whose head was too weak for
honest liquor.”
She moved restlessly about the hall. “Yet in the summer you had
kegs of gunpowder brought in,” she said by and by—“under the
loaded hay-wagons, you remember, lest George’s spies were looking
on?”
There would be little room for tenderness in the days that were
coming, and, perhaps for that reason, Sir Jasper drew his wife
toward him now. He was thinking of the haytime, of the last load
brought in by moonlight, of the English strength and fragrance of
this country life to which he was saying good-bye.
“I wooed you in haytime, Agnes, and married you when the men
were bending to their scythes the next year, and we brought the
gunpowder in at the like season. We’ll take it for an omen.”
“And yet,” she murmured, with remembrance of her son—the son
who was the firstfruit of their wooing—“you said that you had lied to
Rupert when you bade him guard the house. Why bring in
gunpowder, except to load your muskets with?”
He sighed impatiently. This parting from the wife and son grew
drearier the closer it approached. “We had other plans in the
summer. It was to be a running fight, we thought, from Carlisle
down through Lancashire. Every manor was to be held as a halting-
place when the Prince’s army needed rest.”
He crossed to the big western window of the hall, and stood looking
up at the moonlit, wintry hills. Then he turned again, not guessing
that his son was standing in the shadows close at his right hand.
“Other counsels have prevailed,” he said, with the snappishness of a
man who sees big deeds awaiting him and doubts his human
strength. “I think the Prince did not know, Agnes, how slow we are
to move in Lancashire—how quick to strike, once we’re sure of the
road ahead. Each manor that held out for the King—it would have
brought a hundred doubters to the Cause; the army would have felt
its way southward, growing like a snowball as it went. They say the
Prince overruled his counsellors. God grant that he was right!”
“So there’s to be no siege of Windyhough?” asked Lady Royd slowly.
“None that I can see. It is to be a flying charge on London. The
fighting will be there, or in the Midlands.”
“That is good hearing, so far as anything these days can be called
good hearing. Suppose your lie had prospered, husband? Suppose
Rupert had had to face a siege in earnest here? Oh, I’ve been blind,
but now I—I understand the shame you would have put on him,
when he was asked to hold the house and could not.”
“He could!” snapped Sir Jasper. “I’ve faith in the lad, I tell you. A
Royd stands facing trouble always when the pinch comes.”
She looked at him wistfully, with a sense that he was years older
than herself in steadiness, years younger in his virile grip on faith. It
was an hour when danger and the coming separation made frank
confession easy. “I share your Faith,” she said quietly, “but I’m not
devout as you are. Oh, miracles—they happened once, but not to-
day. This boy of ours—can you see him holding Windyhough against
trained soldiery? Can you hear him sharp with the word of
command?”
“Yes,” said the other, with the simplicity of trust. “If the need comes,
he will be a Royd.”
“Dear, you cannot believe it! I, who long to, cannot. No leader ever
found his way—suddenly—without preparation——”
“No miracle was ever wrought in that way,” he broke in, with the
quiet impatience of one who knows the road behind, but not the
road ahead. “There are no sudden happenings in this life—and I’ve
trained the lad’s soul to leadership. I would God that I’d not lied to
him to-night—I would that the siege could come in earnest.”
Rupert crept silently away, down the passage, and through the hall,
and out into the night. Through all his troubles he had had one
strength to lean upon—his father’s trust and comradeship. And now
that was gone. He had heard Sir Jasper talk of the siege as of a
dream-toy thrown to him to play with. In attack along the London
road, or in defence at home, he was untrained, and laughable, and
useless.
There was war in his blood as he paced up and down the courtyard.
His one ally had deserted him, had shown him a tender pity that was
worse to bear than ridicule. He stood alone, terribly alone, in a world
that had no need of him.
The wind came chill and fretful from the moor, blowing a light drift
of sleet before it; and out of the lonely land a sudden hope and
strength reached out to him. It was in the breed of him, deep under
his shyness and scholarly aloofness, this instinct to stand at his
stiffest when all seemed lost. He would stay at home. He would
forget that he had overheard his father’s confession of a lie, would
get through each day as it came, looking always for an attack that,
by some unexpected road, might reach the gates of Windyhough.
But there was another task he had—to forgive Sir Jasper for the
make-believe—and this proved harder. Forgiveness is no easy matter
to achieve; it cannot be feigned, or hurried, or find root in shallow
soil; it comes by help of blood and tears, wayfaring together through
the dark night of a man’s soul.
Rupert went indoors at last, and met Sir Jasper at the stairfoot.
“Why, lad, I thought you were in bed long since.”
“I could not rest indoors, sir. I—I needed room.”
“We’re all of the same breed,” laughed his father. “House-walls never
yet helped a man to peace. Good-night, my lad—and remember
you’re on guard here.”
 CHAPTER IV
THE LOYAL MEET

Two days later Sir Jasper and Maurice sat at breakfast. There was a
meet of hounds that morning, and, because the hour was early,
Lady Royd was not down to share the meal. It was cold enough
after full sunrise, she was wont to say, with her lazy, laughing drawl,
and not the most devoted wife could be expected to break her fast
by candlelight.
Sir Jasper, for his part, ate with appetite this morning. The unrest of
the past weeks had been like a wind from the north to him,
sharpening his vigour, driving out the little weaknesses and doubts
bred of long inaction. And, as he ate, old Simon Foster, his man-of-
all-work, opened the door and put in the grizzled head which
reminded his master always of a stiff broom that had lately swept
the snow.
“Here’s Maister Oliphant,” said Simon gruffly. “Must I let him in?”
“Indeed you must,” laughed Oliphant, putting him aside and
stepping into the room. “My business will not wait, Sir Jasper, though
Simon here is all for saying that it crosses you to be disturbed at
breakfast-time.”
The two men glanced quickly at each other. “You’re looking in need
of a meal yourself, Oliphant. Sit down, man, and help us with this
dish of devilled kidneys.”
Oliphant, long ago, had learned to take opportunity as it came; and
meals, no less than his chances of passing on the messages
entrusted to him, were apt to prove haphazard and to be seized at
once. Old Simon, while they ate, hovered up and down the room,
eager for the news, until his master dismissed him with a curt “You
may leave us, Simon.”
Simon obeyed, but he closed the door with needless violence; and
they could hear him clattering noisily down the passage, as if he
washed his hands of the whole Rising business.
“You may leave us, Simon!” he growled. “That’s all Sir Jasper has to
say, after I’m worn to skin and bone in serving him. And he must
know by this time, surely, that he allus gets into scrapes unless I’m
nigh-handy, like, to advise him what to do. Eh, well, maisters is
maisters, and poor serving-men is serving-men, and so ’twill be till
th’ end o’ the chapter, I reckon. But I wish I knew what Maister
Oliphant rade hither-till to tell Sir Jasper.”
Oliphant looked across at his host, after Simon’s heavy footfalls told
them he was out of earshot. “The hunt comes this way, Sir Jasper,
with hounds in full cry. I see you’re dressed for the chase.”
“And have been since—since I was breeked, I think. When,
Oliphant? It seems too good to be true. All Lancashire is asking
when, and I’m tired of telling them to bide until they hear Tally-ho
go sounding up the moors.”
“You start at dawn to-morrow. Ride into Langton, and wait till you
see the hounds in full view.”
“And the scent—how does it lie, Oliphant?”
“Keen and true, sir. I saw one near the Throne three days ago, and
he said that he had never known a blither hunting-time.”
They had talked in guarded terms till now—the terms of Jacobite
freemasonry; but Sir Jasper’s heart grew too full on the sudden for
tricks of speech. “God bless him!” he cried, rising to the toast.
“There’ll be a second Restoration yet.”
Maurice, his face recovered from traces of the fight with his stubborn
brother, had been abashed a little by Oliphant’s coming, for, like
Rupert, he had the gift of hero-worship. But now he, too, got to his
feet, and his face was full of boyish zeal. “We’ll hunt that fox of
yours, Mr. Oliphant,” he laughed—“ay, as far as the sea. We’ll make
him swim—over the water, where our toasts have gone.”
“He’s bred true to the old stock, Sir Jasper,” laughed Oliphant. “I
wish every loyalist in Lancashire had sons like Maurice here to bring
with him.”
Sir Jasper found no answer. An odd sadness crossed his face,
showing lines that were graven deeper than Oliphant had guessed.
“Come, we shall be late for the meet,” he said gruffly. “Oliphant, do
you stay and rest yourself here, or will you ride with us? The meet is
at Easterfield to-day.”
“As far as the cross-roads, then. My way lies into Langton.”
Oliphant’s tone was curt as his host’s, for he was puzzled by this
sudden coolness following his praise of Maurice. As they crossed the
courtyard to the stables he saw Sir Jasper glance up at the front of
the house, and there, at an upper window, Rupert the heir was
watching stronger men ride out to hunt the fox. He saw the misery
in the lad’s face, the stubborn grief in the father’s, and a new page
was turned for him in that muddled book of life which long night-
riding had taught him to handle with tender and extreme care.
At the cross-ways they parted. All had been arranged months since;
the proven men in Lancashire, as in other counties, were known to
the well-wishers of the Prince. Each had his part allotted to him, and
Sir Jasper’s was to rally all his hunting intimates. So far as
preparation went, this campaign of the Stuart against heavy odds
had been well served. The bigger work—the glad and instant wish of
every King’s man to rally to the call, forgetting ease of body,
forgetting wives and children—was in the making, and none knew
yet what luck would go with it.
“At Langton to-morrow,” said Oliphant, over-shoulder, as he reined
about.
“Yes, God willing—and, after Langton, such a fire lit as will warm
London with its flames.”
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