 | CHAPTER IX The pilot |  |
9. CHAPTER IX
Merchant of Venice.
Cecilia and Katherine separated from Alice
Dunscombe in the lower gallery of the cloisters;
and the cousins ascended to the apartment which
was assigned them as a dressing-room. The intensity
of feeling that was gradually accumulating
in the breasts of these ladies, as circumstances
brought those in whom their deepest interests
were centered, into situations of extreme delicacy,
if not of actual danger, perhaps, in some
measure, prevented them from experiencing all
that concern which the detection and arrest of
Merrry might be suppose to excite. The boy,
like themselves, was an only child of one of those
three sisters, who caused the close connexion between
so many of our characters, and his tender
years had led his cousins to regard him with an
affection that exceeded the ordinary interest of
such an affinity; but they knew, that in the
hands of Colonel Howard his person was safe,
though his liberty might be endangered. When
the first emotions, therefore, were created
had subsided, their thoughts were rather occupied
by the consideration of what consequences, to
others, might proceed from his arrest, than by any
reflections on the midshipman's actual condition.
Secluded from the observations of any strange
eyes, the two maidens indulged their feelings,
without restraint, according to their several temperaments.
Katherine moved to and fro, in the
apartment, with feverish anxiety, while Miss
Howard, by concealing her countenance under
the ringlets of her luxuriant, dark hair, and shading
her eyes with a fair hand, seemed to be
willing to commune with her thoughts more
quietly.
“Barnstable cannot be far distant,” said the
former, after a few minutes had passed; “for he
never would have sent that child on such an errand,
by himself!”
Cecilia raised her mild, blue eyes to the countenance
of her cousin, as she answered—
“All thoughts of an exchange must now be
abandoned; and perhaps the persons of the prisoners
will be held as pledges, to answer for the
life of Dillon.”
“Can the wretch be dead! or is it merely a
threat, or some device of that urchin? he is a
forward child, and would not hesitate to speak
and act boldly, on emergency.”
“He is dead!” returned Cecilia, veiling her
face again, in horror; “the eyes of the boy, his
whole countenance, confirmed his words! I fear,
Katherine, that Mr. Barnstable has suffered his
resentment to overcome his discretion, when
he learned the treachery of Dillon; surely,
surely, though the hard usages of war may justify
so dreadful a revenge on an enemy, it was unkind
to forget the condition of his own friends!”
“Mr. Barnstable has done neither, Miss Howard,”
said Katherine, checking her uneasy footsteps,
her light form swelling with pride; “Mr.
Barnstable is equally incapable of murdering an
enemy, or of deserting a friend!”
“But retaliation is neither deemed nor called
murder, by men in arms.”
“Think it what you will, call it what you will,
Cecilia Howard, I will pledge my life, that Richard
Barnstable has the blood of none but the open
enemies of his country to answer for.”
“The miserable man may have fallen a sacrifice
to the anger of that terrific seaman, who led
him hence as a captive!”
“That terrific seaman, Miss Howard, has a
heart as tender as your own. He is—”
“Nay, Katherine,” interrupted Cecilia, “you
chide me unkindly; let us not add to our unavoidable
misery, by such harsh contention.”
“I do not contend with you, Cecilia! I merely
defend the absent and the innocent from your unkind
suspicions, my cousin.”
“Say, rather, your sister,” returned Miss Howard,
as their hands involuntarily closed upon each
other, “for we are surely sisters! But let us strive
to think of something less horrible. Poor, poor
Dillon! now that he has met a fate so terrible, I
can even fancy him less artful and more upright
than we had thought him! You agree with me,
Katherine, I see by your countenance, and we will
dwell no longer on the subject.—Katherine! my
cousin Kate, what see you?”
Miss Plowden, as she relinquished her pressure
of the hand of Cecilia, had renewed her walk
with a more regulated step; but she was yet making
her first turn across the room, when her eyes
became keenly set on the opposite window, and her
attention. The rays of the setting sun fell bright
upon her dark glances, which seemed fastened on
some distant object, and gave an additional glow
to the mantling colour that was slowly stealing,
across her cheeks, to her temples. Such a sudden
alteration in the manner and appearance of her
companion, had not failed to catch the attention of
Cecilia, who, in consequence, interrupted herself by
the agitated question we have related. Katherine
slowly beckoned her companion to her side, and,
pointing in the direction of the wood that lay in
view, she said—
“See you tower, in the ruin! Do you observe
those small spots of pink and yellow that are fluttering
above its walls?”
“I do. They are the lingering remnants of the
foliage of some tree; but they want the vivid tints
which grace the autumn of our own dear America!”
“One is the work of God, and the other has
been produced by the art of man. Cecilia, those
are no leaves, but they are my own childish signals,
and without doubt Barnstable himself is on
that ruined tower. Merry, cannot, will not, betray
him!”
“My life should be a pledge for the honour of
our little cousin,” said Cecilia. “But you have the
telescope of my uncle at hand, ready for such an
event! one look through it will ascertain the
truth—”
Katherine sprang to the spot where the instrument
stood, and with eager hands she prepared it
for the necessary observation.
“It is he!” she cried the instant her eye was put
to the glass. “I even see his head above the stones.
How unthinking to expose himself so unnecessarily!”
“But what says he, Katherine!” exclaimed Cecilia;
“you alone can interpret his meaning.”
The little book which contained the explanations
of Miss Plowden's signals was now hastily
produced, and its leaves rapidly run over in quest
of the necessary number.
“ 'Tis only a question to gain my attention. I
must let him know he is observed.”
When Katherine, as much to indulge her secret
propensities, as with any hope of its usefulness,
had devised this plan for communicating with
Barnstable, she had, luckily, not forgotten to arrange
the necessary means to reply to his interrogatories.
A very simple arrangement of some
of the ornamental cords of the window-curtains,
enabled her to effect this purpose; and her nimble
fingers soon fastened the pieces of silk to the
lines, which were now thrown into the air, when
these signals in miniature were instantly displayed
in the breeze.
“He sees them!” cried Cecilia, “and is preparing
to change his flags.”
“Keep then your eye on him, my cousin, and
tell me the colours that he shows, with their order,
and I will endeavour to read his meaning.”
“He is as expert as yourself! There are two
more of them fluttering above the stones again: the
upper is white, and the lower black.”
“White over black,” repeated Katherine, rapidly,
to herself, as she turned the leaves of her
book.—“ `My messenger: has he been seen?'—To
that we must answer the unhappy truth. Here it
is—yellow, white, and red—`he is a prisoner.'
How fortunate that I should have prepared such a
question and answer. What says he, Cecilia, to
this news?”
“He is busy making his changes, dear. Nay,
glass! Now he is done; 'tis yellow over black,
this time.”
“ `Griffith, or who?' He does not understand
us; but I had thought of the poor boy, in making
out the numbers—ah! here it is; yellow,
green, and red—`my cousin Merry.'—He cannot
fail to understand us now.”
“He has already taken in his flags. The news
seems to alarm him, for he is less expert than before.
He shows them now—they are green, red
and yellow.”
“The question is, `Am I safe?' 'Tis that
which made him tardy, Miss Howard,” continued
Katherine. “Barnstable is ever slow to consult
his safety. But how shall I answer him? should
we mislead him now, how could we ever forgive
ourselves!”
“Of Andrew Merry there is no fear,” returned
Cecilia; “and I think if Captain Borroughcliffe
had any intimation of the proximity of his
enemies, he would not continue at the table.”
“He will stay there while wine will sparkle, and
man can swallow,” said Katherine; “but we know,
by sad experience, that he is a soldier on an emergency;
and yet, I'll trust to his ignorance this
time—here, I have an answer: `you are yet safe,
but be wary.' ”
“He reads your meaning with a quick eye,
Katherine; and he is ready with his answer too:
he shows green over white this time. Well! do
you not hear me? 'tis green over white. Why, you
are dumb—what says he, dear?”
Still Katherine answered not, and her cousin
raised her eyes from the glass, and beheld her
companion gazing earnestly at the open page,
while the glow which excitement had before
deeper bloom.
“I hope your blushes and his signals are not
ominous, Kate,” added Cecilia; “can green imply
his jealousy, as white does your purity? what
says he, coz?”
“He talks, like yourself, much nonsense,” said
Katherine, turning to her flags, with a pettish air,
that was singularly contradicted by her gratified
countenance; “but the situation of things requires
that I should talk to Barnstable more freely.”
“I can retire,” said Cecilia, rising from her
chair with a grave manner.
“Nay, Cecilia, I do not deserve these looks—
'tis you who exhibit levity now! But you can perceive,
for yourself, that evening is closing in, and
that some other medium for conversation, besides
the eyes, may be adopted.—Here is a signal,
which will answer: `When the Abbey clock strikes
nine, come with care to the wicket, which opens, at
the east side of the Paddock, on the road: until
then, keep secret.' I had prepared this very signal,
in case an interview should be necessary.”
“Well, he sees it,” returned Cecilia, who had
resumed her place by the telescope, “and seems
disposed to obey you, for I no longer discern his
flags or his person.”
Miss Howard now arose from before the glass,
her observations being ended; but Katherine did
not return the instrument to its corner, without fastening
one long and anxious look through it, on
what now appeared to be the deserted tower. The
interest and anxiety produced by this short and
imperfect communication between Miss Plowden
and her lover, did not fail to excite reflections in
both of the ladies, that furnished materials to hold
Alice Dunscombe announced that their presence
was expected below. Even the unsuspecting Alice,
on entering, observed a change in the countenances
and demeanor of the two cousins, which betrayed
that their secret conference had not been entirely
without contention. The features of Cecilia were
disturbed and anxious, and their expression not
unlike melancholy; while the dark flashing eye,
flushed temples, and proud, determined step of
Katherine exhihited in an equal, if not a greater
degree, a very different emotion. As no reference
to the subject of their conversation was, however,
made by either of the young ladies, after the endance
of Alice, she led the way, in silence, to the
drawing room.
The ladies were received, by Col. Howard and
Borroughcliffe, with marked attention. In the
former there were moments when a deep gloom
would, in spite of his very obvious exertions to the
contrary, steal over his open, generous countenance;
but the recruiting officer maintained an air
of immovable coolness and composure. Twenty
times did he detect the piercing looks of Katherine
fastened on him, with an intentness, that a
less deliberative man might have had the vanity
to misinterpret; but even this flattering testimonial
of his power to attract, failed to disturb
his self-possession. It was in vain that Katherine
endeavoured to read his countenance, where
every thing was fixed in military rigidity, though
his deportment appeared more than usually easy
and natural. Tired at length with her fruitless
scrutiny, the excited girl turned her gaze
upon the clock: to her amazement, she discovered
that it was on the stroke of nine, and, disregarding
a deprecating glance from her cousin, she arose
the door for her exit, and, while the lady civilly
bowed her head in acknowledgment of his attention,
their eyes once more met; but she glided quickly
by him, and found herself alone in the gallery. Katherine
hesitated, more than a minute, to proceed, for
she thought in that glance she had detected a
lurking expression, that manifested conscious security
mingled with secret design. It was not her
nature, however, to hesitate, when circumstances
required that she should be both prompt and alert;
and, throwing over her slight person a large cloak,
that was in readiness for the occasion, she stole
warily from the building.
Although Katherine suspected, most painfully,
that Borroughcliffe had received intelligence that
might prove dangerous to her lover, she looked
around her in vain, on gaining the open air,
to discover any alteration in the arrangements for
the defence of the Abbey, which might confirm
her suspicions, or the knowledge of which might
enable her to instruct Barnstable how to avoid
the secret danger. Every disposition remained as
it had been since the capture of Griffith and
his companion. She heard the heavy, quick
steps of the sentinel, who was posted beneath their
windows, endeavouring to warm himself, on his
confined post; and as she paused to listen, she
also detected the rattling of arms from the soldier,
who, as usual, guarded the approach to that part
of the building where his comrades were quartered.
The night had set in cloudy and dark, although
the gale had greatly subsided towards the close of
the day; still the wind swept heavily, and, at moments,
with a rushing noise, among the irregular
walls of the edifice; and it required the utmost
nicety of ear, to distinguish even these well known
Katherine, however, was satisfied that her organs
had not deceived her, she turned an anxious eye in
the direction of what Borroughcliffe called his
“barracks.” Every thing in that direction appeared
so dark and still as to create a sensation
of uneasiness, by its very quiet. It might be
the silence of sleep that now pervaded the ordinarily
gay and mirthful apartment! or it might
be the stillness of a fearful preparation! There
was no time, however, for further hesitation, and
Katherine drew her cloak more closely about her
form, and proceeded, with light and guarded steps,
to the appointed spot. As she approached the wicket
the clock struck the hour, and she again paused,
while the mournful sounds were borne by her
on the wind, as if expecting that each stroke on
the bell, would prove a signal to unmask some
secret design of Burroughcliffe. As the last vibration
melted away, she opened the little gate, and
issued on the highway. The figure of a man
sprung forward from behind an angle of the wall,
as she appeared; and, while her heart was still
throbbing with the suddenness of the alarm, she
found herself in the arms of Barnstable. After
the first few words of recognition and pleasure
which the young sailor uttered, he acquainted his
mistress with the loss of his schooner, and the situation
of the survivors.
“And now, Katherine,” he concluded, “you
have come, I trust, never to quit me; or, at most,
to return no more to that old Abbey, unless it be
to aid in liberating Griffith, and then to join me
again for ever.”
“Why, truly, there is so much to tempt a young
woman to renounce her home and friends, in the
description you have just given of your condition,
Barnstable. You are very tolerably provided with
a dwelling in the ruin; and I suppose certain predatory
schemes are to be adopted to make it habitable!
St. Ruth is certainly well supplied with
the necessary articles, but whether we should not
be shortly removed to the Castle at York, or the
gaol at Newcastle, is a question that I put to your
discretion.”
“Why yield your thoughts to such silly subjects,
lovely trifler!” said Barnstable, “when
the time and the occasion both urge us to be in
earnest?”
“It is a woman's province to be thrifty, and to
look after the comforts of domestic life,” returned
his mistress; “and I would discharge my functions
with credit. But I feel you are vexed, for, to
see your dark countenance is out of the question,
on such a night. When do you propose to commence
housekeeping, if I should yield to your
proposals?”
“I have not concluded, and your provoking wit
annoys me! The vessel I have taken, will, unquestionably,
come into the land, as the gale dies; and
I intend making my escape in her, after beating
this Englishman, and securing the liberty of Miss
Howard and yourself. I could see the Frigate in
the offing, even before we left the cliffs.”
“This certainly sounds better!” rejoined Katherine,
in a manner that indicated she was musing
on their prospects; “and yet there may exist some
difficulties in the way that you little suspect.”
“Difficulties! there are none—there can be
none.”
“Speak not irreverently of the mazes of love,
Mr. Barnstable. When was it ever known to exist
unfettered or unembarrassed? even I have an explanation
let alone.”
“Of me! ask what you will, or how you will;
I am a careless, unthinking fellow, Miss Plowden;
but to you I have little to answer for—unless a
foolish sort of adoration be an offence against your
merits.” Barnstable felt the little hand that was
supported on his arm, pressing the limb, as Katherine
continued, in a tone so changed from its former
forced levity, that he started as the first sounds
reached his ears. “Merry has brought in a horrid
report!” she said; “I would I could believe it
untrue! but the looks of the boy, and the absence
of Dillon, both confirm it.”
“Poor Merry! he too has fallen into the trap!
but they shall yet find one who is too cunning for
them. Is it to the fate of that wretched Dillon
that you allude?”
“He was a wretch,” continued Katherine, in the
same voice,” and he deserved much punishment at
your hands, Barnstable; but life is the gift of God,
and is not to be taken whenever human vengeance
would appear to require a victim.”
“His life was taken by him who bestowed it,” said
the sailor. “Is it Katherine Plowden who would
suspect me of the deed of a dastard!”
“I do not suspect you—I did not suspect you,”
cried Katherine; “I will never suspect any evil of
you again. You are not, you cannot be angry
with me, Barnstable? had you heard the cruel
suspicions of my cousin Cecilia, and had your
imagination been busy in portraying your wrongs
and the temptations to forget mercy, like mine, even
while my tongue denied your agency in the suspected
deed, you would—you would at least have
learned, how much easier it is to defend those we
against our own jealous feelings.”
“Those words, love and jealousy, will obtain
your acquittal,” cried Barnstable, in his natural
voice; and, after uttering a few more consoling
assurances to Katherine, whose excited feelings
found vent in tears, he briefly related the manner
of Dillon's death.
“I had hoped I stood higher in the estimation
of Miss Howard, than to be subjected to even her
suspicions,” he said, when he had ended his explanation.
“Griffith has been but a sorry representative
of our trade, if he has left such an opinion
of its pursuits.
“I do not know that Mr. Griffith would altogether
have escaped my conjectures, had he been the disappointed
commander, and you the prisoner,” returned
Katherine; “you know not how much we
have both studied the usages of war, and with
what dreadful pictures of hostages, retaliations,
and military executions, our minds are stored!
but a mountain is raised off my spirits, and I
could almost say, that I am now ready to descend
the valley of life in your company.”
“It is a discreet determination, my good Katherine,
and God bless you for it; the companion
may not be so good as you deserve, but you will
find him ambitious of your praise. Now let us devise
means to effect our object.”
“Therein lies another of my difficulties. Griffith,
I much fear, will not urge Cecilia to another flight,
against her—her—what shall I call it, Barnstable?
her caprice, or her judgment? Cecilia will
never consent to desert her uncle, and I cannot
muster the courage to abandon my poor cousin, in
the face of the world, in order to take shelter with
even Mr. Richard Barnstable!”
“Speak you from the heart now, Katherine?”
“Very nearly—if not exactly.”
“Then have I been cruelly deceived! It is easier
to find a path in the trackless ocean, without
chart or compass, than to know the windings of a
woman's heart!”
“Nay, nay, foolish man; you forget that I am
but small, and how very near my head is to my
heart; too nigh, I fear, for the discretion of their
mistress! but is there no method of forcing Griffith
and Cecilia to their own good, without undue
violence?”
“It cannot be done; he is my senior in rank,
and the instant I release him he will claim the
command. A question might be raised, at a leisure
moment, on the merits of such a claim—but
even my own men are, as you know, nothing but
a draft from the frigate, and they would not hesitate
to obey the orders of the first lieutenant, who
is not a man to trifle on matters of duty.”
“'Tis vexatious, truly,” said Katherine, “that
all my well concerted schemes in behalf of this
wayward pair, should be frustrated by their own
wilful conduct! But, after all, have you justly
estimated your strength, Barnstable? are you certain
that you would be successful, and that without
hazard, too, if you should make the attempt?”
“Morally, and what is better, physically certain.
My men are closely hid, where no one suspects
an enemy to lie; they are anxious for the
enterprise, and the suddenness of the attack will
not only make the victory sure, but it will be rendered
bloodless. You will aid us in our entrance, Katherine,
and I shall first secure this recruiting officer,
and his command will then surrender without striking
a blow. Perhaps, after all, Griffith will hear
to a released captive, without a struggle.”
“God send that there shall be no fighting!” murmured
his companion, a little appalled at the
images his language had raised before her imagination;
“and, Barnstable, I enjoin you, most solemnly,
by all your affection for me, and by every
thing you deem most sacred, to protect the person
of Col. Howard at every hazard. There must be no
excuse, no pretence, for even an insult to my passionate,
good, obstinate, but kind old guardian. I
believe I have given him already more trouble than
I am entitled to give any one, and Heaven forbid,
that I should cause him any serious misfortune!”
“He shall be safe, and not only he, but all that
are with him; as you will perceive, Katherine,
when you hear my plan. Three hours shall not
pass over my head before you will see me master
of that old Abbey. Griffith, ay, Griffith must be
content to be my inferior, until we get afloat
again.”
“Attempt nothing unless you feel certain of
being able to maintain your advantage, not only
against your enemies, but also against your
friends,” said Katherine, anxiously; “rely on it,
both Cecilia and Griffith are refining so much on
their feelings, that neither will be your ally.”
“This comes of passing the four best years of
his life within walls of brick, poring over Latin
Grammars and Syntaxes, and such other nonsense,
when he should have been rolling them away in a
good box of live oak, and studying, at the most,
how to sum up his day's work, and tell where his
ship lies after a blow. Your college learning may
answer well enough for a man who has to live by
his wits, but it can be of little use to one who is
never afraid to read human nature, by looking his
as ready as his tongue. I have generally found
the eye that was good at Latin was dull at a compass,
or in a night-squall: and yet, Grif is a seaman;
though I have heard him even read the testament
in Greek! Thank God, I had the wisdom
to run away from school the second day they undertook
to teach me a strange tongue, and I believe
I am the more honest man, and the better seaman,
for my ignorance!”
“There is no telling what you might have been,
Barnstable, under other circumstances,” retorted
his mistress, with a playfulness of manner that she
could not always repress, though it was indulged
at the expense of him she most loved; “I doubt
not but, under proper training, you would have
made a reasonably good priest.”
“If you talk of priests, Katherine, I shall remind
you that we carry one in the ship. But
listen to my plan; we may talk further of that
when an opportunity may offer.”
Barnstable then proceeded to lay before his mistress
a project he had formed for surprising the
Abbey that night, which was so feasible, that Katherine,
notwithstanding her recent suspicions of
Borroughcliffe's designs, came gradually to believe
it would succeed. The young seaman answered
her objections with the readiness of an ardent
mind, bent on executing its purposes, and
with a fertility of resources that proved he was no
contemptible enemy, in matters that required
spirited action. Of Merry's remaining firm and
faithful he had no doubt, and, although he acknowledged
the escape of the pedler boy, he
urged that the lad had seen no other of his party
besides himself, whom he mistook for a common
marauder.
As the disclosure of these plans was frequently
interrupted by little digressions, connected with
the peculiar emotions of the lovers, more than an
hour flew by in the interview, before they separated.
But Katherine, at length, reminded him
how swiftly the time was passing, and how much
remained to be done, when he reluctantly consented
to see her once more enter the wicket,
where they parted.
Miss Plowden adopted the same precaution in
returning to the house, she had used on leaving it;
and she was congratulating herself on its success,
when her eye caught a glimpse of the figure of a
man, who was apparently following at some little
distance, in her footsteps, and dogging her motions.
As the obscure form, however, paused also
when she stopped to give it an alarmed, though
inquiring look, and then slowly retired towards
the boundary of the paddock, Katherine believing
it to be Barnstable watching over her safety, entered
the Abbey, with every idea of alarm entirely
lost in the pleasing reflection of her lover's solicitude.
| CHAPTER IX The pilot | |