The Writing On The Window Pane

The Writing on the Window Pane.


It was an evening in the glad month of June, of the year 1644, and the
children of Longdendale were playing games on the smooth green plots
before the cottage doors. At one spot not far distant from the site of
the old Roman station, Melandra Castle, a group of merry little ones,
lads and lassies, were swinging round hand in hand, their sweet young
voices chanting an old-time rhyme.

Suddenly there was a shrill cry from one of the girls, and following
the direction of her gaze, the children beheld a sight that at first
set their young hearts beating sharp with fear. A company of horsemen,
wearing wide-brimmed and much befeathered hats, with long hair hanging
about their shoulders, rode jauntily past the greensward in the
direction of the Carr House Farm. The horsemen were well armed,
carrying swords and pistols, and bright steel armour shone dazzling
upon their breasts. As the cavalcade moved on, the jingling of
stirrups, bits, and harness, made a merry music that was well adapted
to the martial scene. The children, though startled at first, soon
recovered from their fright, and ran gaily to see the squadron pass
by. Curiosity, in their case, got the mastery of fear. For those were
what the historians term "stirring times,"--days of war and tumult, of
peril and death, of bloodshed and ruin, of suffering and horror; and
well the children of Longdendale knew that the quarrel between King
Charles and his Parliament had already made sad hearts and weeping
eyes, widowed women and orphaned children, even in their own
neighbourhood. But the great battles of which they had heard had all
been fought at a distance, and, as is well known in the case of war,
"distance lends enchantment to the view." There was something wildly
romantic and fascinating to the minds of the children in those great
events which were daily transpiring, and about the men who fought in
the battles; and so, on the June evening of this story, the children
flocked curiously about the horsemen, who were a band of gentlemen
cavaliers on their way from Lancashire to join the army of King
Charles at York.

Accompanied by the children, the cavaliers rode up to the Carr House
Farm, and, at a sign from their leader, dismounted, and, without
troubling to ask consent, proceeded to stable their horses, and take
possession of the best rooms for their own accommodation. It was not
altogether a good mannered proceeding, but then, the people who lived
in those days when war was rife, grew accustomed to such violations of
the rights of property, and submitted to the indignities with as good
a grace as they could assume. They knew full well that if they had not
placed upon the table of their very best, the soldiers would have
raided the larder and confiscated all the contents. So, in the
language of modern days, "they made the best of a bad job."

One stalwart trooper, throwing the reins of his steed to a comrade,
was the first to stride through the farm door, and, as he came, the
farmer went bareheaded to greet him,--not altogether without some
qualms of doubt and fear.

"Come, good man," cried the trooper merrily, "show me the way to thy
best room, for our leader, Captain Oldfield, rests there this night.
And if thou art of the King's party, set thy wife to work at once, and
prepare him a feast right merrily, or if thou be'st of the roundhead
faction, why, do the same unwillingly, and be damned to thee."

History does not tell us which side of the quarrel the farmer
favoured, and it does not really matter which, for in any case a visit
from the Royalists would be alike unwelcome. If he was a Roundhead,
then, as a matter of course, the billeting of a force of Cavaliers was
bound to be distasteful; if he were loyal to the King, then against
the satisfaction of providing for the King's troops, must be set the
knowledge that the next force of Roundheads that came into the
neighbourhood would pay him a visit and demand satisfaction for the
favour he had shown their enemies. The farmer made a discreet remark.

"If ye are true men, ye are welcome to such hospitality as I can
afford."

And then he and his servants set about doing with as good a grace as
possible that which they knew themselves compelled to do.

But although the soldiers might be unwelcome guests to the farmer and
his wife, their coming was by no means received with a bad grace by
other members of the household. The maids, in particular, seemed quite
glad as they beheld the Cavaliers enter the yard, and what was more
remarkable, they made scarcely any attempt to prevent the arms of the
fighting-men stealing around their trim-set waists with the coming of
the gloaming and the shadows. There were shy giggles and blushes and
many a stolen kiss in and about the Carr House Farm that night, before
the bugle sounded the hour of rest.

When all the men were inside save the sentries, whose duty it was to
give notice of the approach of Roundheads--if any such rebel gentlemen
should chance to put in an appearance--the officer in command gathered
his soldiers around the oak table in the best room, and seated himself
at their head. Captain Oldfield, of Spalding (for such was his name
and title), first addressed the company, which included the master and
mistress of the farm, and all the pretty maids whose lips so readily
lent themselves to a soldier's kiss. He reminded his hearers of the
great sin of fighting against the "Lord's anointed."

"For," said he, "did not God appoint kings and princes and governors,
and if they are not to rule their people, wherefore are they created?
Therefore it stands to reason that they who oppose the will, and set
themselves in array against the authority of good King Charles, are
fighting against God, and are likely ere long to suffer grievously
from the displeasure of God. And I would especially urge upon ye good
people of Longdendale that ye remain loyal and true to His Majesty,
and have nothing to do with traitorous rebels who are prompted of the
devil. So shall ye escape a felon's death here and damnation
hereafter."

Then, drawing from his finger a ring set with a large diamond, he
continued--

"My stay will doubtless be short, yet would I leave behind a loyal
sentiment which shall serve to remind you of your duty toward your
royal master."

Whereupon he advanced to the window, and on one of the little
diamond-shaped panes, he scratched the following words in the Latin
tongue:--

"May King Charles live and conquer.
Thus prays
John Oldfield,
of Spalding,
1644."

The task of writing being ended, he then called on all present to fill
their cups with the farmer's best country wine, and drink deep to the
sentiment which he had just inscribed.

The men filled their cups and drained them to the dregs, after which
they cheered for King Charles. And then the band broke up, the
troopers seeking their hard couches, while Captain Oldfield retired to
his room with the officers, to discuss their future movements, and to
question and gossip with the farmer and such of the loyal gentry of
the neighbourhood as had come to greet him on hearing of the arrival
of his force.

"And whither march ye, Captain Oldfield?" asked one of the gentlemen
of Longdendale, as the talk went on.

"Toward York, Sir Squire," replied the officer; "To join the King."

"And how will the fight go? Think you the rebels will attack the
city?"

"That I doubt. For Rupert is there, he of the Rhine, a Prince of fire,
whose hot blood can never wait in patience for an assault. Rather
should I think he will sweep down on the Roundheads before they muster
in force sufficient to attack the city. As for the end of the fight,
why, look you, I am no prophet. Being in the struggle I do my best,
and I take the outcome, be it what it may, as becomes a true soldier.
There be some who pretend the seer's gift of sight so that they can
foresee what is to happen, but on such things I set little importance.
If the end is evil, why, then, the knowledge of it comes soon enough.
And if good, why the joy is all the greater for the waiting."

The farmer now raised his voice:

"If it please you," he said, "there is a neighbour woman who possesses
the gift of sight. She foretells events in a manner right wonderful.
If your worships like, I will e'en summon her before you."

"Well," quoth the Cavalier, "I have no objection to witnessing her
antics, though I set no store by what she may say. So bring her
within; 'twill help the time to pass."

The farmer left the room, and presently returned, leading in an old
beldame, whose withered and bent form seemed scarcely able to stand
upright. She leaned heavily upon an old crutch, and her breath came in
loud gasps as though she were a prey to asthma.

"What is your will?" she asked, in a fit of coughing. "I am old; could
ye not let me rest a'nights without summoning me to make sport at your
revels."

"Come, granny," said one of the gentlemen, "be not ill-tempered; we
would let these good Cavaliers witness a sample of your skill. They
ride to York to join the King, and would know what fate awaits them
there."

The old dame laughed shrilly.

"Better had they wait. Evil comes soon enough. Why not drink and be
merry while ye may?"

"Why, granny, whence this croaking? What ill-fate seest thou?"

"I see what ye in your pride deem impossible. Ye have just now drunk
to the King. Ye have inscribed on the window-pane of this dwelling a
prayer for his triumph. And a bonny sentiment it is that ye have
written, ye bloody murderers of Englishmen. Upholders of a tyrant,
think ye that the powers of the other world will ever smile upon your
cause? Not so. Your cause is accursed. Never shall the words of the
writing come to pass. King Charles shall perish. So shall ye, his
myrmidons. Lo! I see a field of battle. Rupert is there and the army
of King Charles--a glorious array without the walls of York. But there
cometh Cromwell, the man of iron, his horsemen charge once twice,
thrice, and lo! the army of the King is scattered, and the earth is
red with blood. I see faces, cold and dead, turned upwards towards the
sky. The faces of men slain in the battle. And behold, some of the
faces are your faces, For such is your doom. And in the end your King
shall perish, and old England shall be free."

The frame of the old beldame shook as she delivered herself of this
tirade, and when she had ended she moved feebly to the door. The
company remained still, too awestruck to stay her, and presently she
had disappeared. The soldiers soon recovered their spirits, and joked
gaily over the occurrence.

But it was destined that the words should come true.

With the first streak of dawn, Captain Oldfield led his men on their
long march to the city of York. There on the second day of July, they
fought in the Battle of Marston Moor, and, even as the woman had
prophesied, most of the band perished in the battle, and Cromwell beat
back the King's army, and England was one step nearer being free.