 | CHAPTER VIII. The pilot |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
—“I permit thee to be Sosia again.”
Dryden.
We must leave the two adventurers winding
their way among the broken piles, and venturing
boldly beneath the tottering arches of the ruin, to
conduct the reader, at the same hour, within the
more comfortable walls of the Abbey; where, it
will be remembered, Borroughcliffe was left, in a
condition of very equivocal ease. As the earth
had, however, in the interval, nearly run its daily
round, circumstances had intervened to release
the soldier from his confinement—and no one,
ignorant of the fact, would suppose, that the gentleman
who was now seated at the hospitable
board of Colonel Howard, directing, with so
much discretion, the energies of his masticators
to the delicacies of the feast, could read, in his
careless air and smiling visage, that those foragers
of nature had been so recently condemned,
for four long hours, to the mortification of discussing
the barren subject of his own sword-hilt.
Borroughcliffe, however, maintained not only his
usual post, but his well-earned reputation at the
table, with his ordinary coolness of demeanour;
though, at times, there were passing smiles, that
that he considered the matter of his reflection
to be of a particularly ludicrous character.
In the young man, who sat by his side, dressed
in the deep blue jacket of a seaman, with the fine,
clean linen of his collar contrasting strongly
with the black silk handkerchief, that was tied,
with studied negligence, around his neck, and
whose easy air and manner contrasted still more
strongly with this attire, the reader will discover
Griffith. The captive paid much less devotion
to the viands than his neighbour, though he affected
more attention to the business of the table
than he actually bestowed, with a sort of consciousness
that it would relieve the blushing maiden
who presided. The laughing eyes of Katherine
Plowden were glittering by the side of the
mild countenance of Alice Dunscombe, and, at
times, were fastened, in droll interest, on the rigid
and upright exterior that Captain Manual maintained,
directly opposite to where she was seated.
A chair had, also, been placed for Dillon—of
course, it was vacant.
“And so, Borroughcliffe,” cried Colonel Howard,
with a freedom of voice, and a vivacity
in his air, that announced the increasing harmony
of the repast, “the sea-dog left you nothing
to chew but the cud of your resentment!”
“That and my sword-hilt!” returned the immoveable
recruiting officer; “gentlemen, I know
not how your Congress rewards military achievements;
but if that worthy fellow were in my company,
he should have a halbert within a week—
spurs I would not offer him, for he affects to spurn
their use.”
Griffith smiled, and bowed in silence to the
liberal compliment of Borroughcliffe; but Manual
took on himself the task of replying—
“Considering the drilling the man has received,
his conduct has been well enough, sir; though
a well-trained soldier would not only have made
prisoners, but he would have secured them.”
“I perceive, my good comrade, that your
thoughts are running on the exchange,” said Borroughcliffe,
good humouredly; “we will fill, sir,
and, by permission of the ladies, drink to a speedy
restoration of rights to both parties—the statu
quo ante bellum.”
“With all my heart,” cried the colonel; “and
Cicily and Miss Katherine will pledge the sentiment
in a woman's sip; will ye not, my fair
wards?—Mr. Griffith, I honour this proposition
of yours, which will not only liberate yourself,
but restore to us my kinsman, Mr. Christopher
Dillon. Kit had imagined the thing well; ha!
Borroughcliffe! 'twas ingeniously contrived, but
the fortune of war interposed itself to his success;
and yet, it is a deep and inexplicable mystery to
me, how Kit should have been conducted from
the Abbey with so little noise, and without raising
the alarm.”
“Christopher is a man who understands the
philosophy of silence, as well as that of rhetoric,”
returned Borroughcliffe, “and must have
learned, in his legal studies, that it is, sometimes,
necessary to conduct matters sub silentio. You
smile at my Latin, Miss Plowden; but, really,
since I have become an inhabitant of this Monkish
abode, my little learning is stimulated to unwonted
efforts—nay, you are pleased to be yet
more merry! I used the language, because silence
is a theme in which you ladies take but little pleasure.”
Katherine, however, disregarded the slight
pique that was apparent in the soldier's manner;
but, after following the train of her own thoughts
seemed to yield to their drollery, and laughed,
until her dark eyes flashed with merriment. Cecilia
did not assume the severe gravity with which
she sometimes endeavoured to repress, what she
thought, the unseasonable mirth of her cousin,
and the wondering Griffith fancied, as he glanced
his eye from one to the other, that he could discern
a suppressed smile playing among the composed
features of Alice Dunscombe. Katherine,
however, soon succeeded in repressing the paroxysm,
and, with an air of infinitely comic gravity,
she replied to the remark of the soldier—
“I think I have heard of such a process in
nautical affairs as towing; but I must appeal to
Mr. Griffith for the correctness of the term?”
“You could not speak with more accuracy,”
returned the young sailor, with a look that sent
the conscious blood to the temples of the lady,
“though you had made marine terms your
study.”
“The profession requires less thought, perhaps,
than you imagine, sir; but is this towing often
done, as Captain Borroughcliffe—I beg his pardon—as
the Monks have it, sub silentio?”
“Spare me, fair lady,” cried the captain, “and
we will establish a compact of mutual grace; you
to forgive my learning, and I to suppress my
suspicions.”
“Suspicions, sir, is a word that a lady must
defy.”
“And defiance a challenge that a soldier can
never receive; so, I must submit to talk English,
though the fathers of the church were my companions.
I suspect that Miss Plowden has it in
her power to explain the manner of Mr. Christopher
Dillon's departure.”
The lady did not reply, but a second burst of
quite equal to the former.
“How's this!” exclaimed the colonel; “permit
me to say, Miss Plowden, your mirth is very
extraordinary! I trust no disrespect has been
offered to my kinsman? Mr. Griffith, our terms
are, that the exchange shall only be made on
condition that equally good treatment has been
extended to the parties!”
“If Mr. Dillon can complain of no greater
evil than that of being laughed at by Miss Plowden,
sir, he has reason to call himself a happy
fellow.”
“I know not, sir; God forbid that I should
forget what is due to my guests, gentlemen—
but ye have entered my dwelling as foes to my
prince.”
“But not to Colonel Howard, sir.”
“I know no difference, Mr. Griffith. King
George or Colonel Howard—Colonel Howard
or King George. Our feelings, our fortunes,
and our fate, is as one; with the mighty odds that
Providence has established between the prince
and his people! I wish no other fortune, than to
share, at a humble distance, the weal or wo of
my sovereign!”
“You are not called upon, dear sir, to do
either, by the thoughtlessness of us ladies,” said
Cecilia, rising; “but here comes one who should
turn our thoughts to a more important subject—
our dress.”
Politeness induced Colonel Howard, who both
loved and respected his niece, to defer his remarks
to another time; and Katherine, springing
from her chair, with childish eagerness, flew to
the side of her cousin, who was directing a
servant that had announced to her the arrival of
one of those erratic vendors of small articles, who
places of more regular traders, to show the lad
into the dining-parlour. The repast was so far
ended, as to render this interruption less objectionable,
and as all felt the object of Cecilia to
be the restoration of harmony, the boy was ushered
into the room, without further delay. The
contents of his small basket, consisting, chiefly,
of essences, and the smaller articles of female
economy, were playfully displayed on the table,
by Katherine, who declared herself the patroness
of the itinerant youth, and who laughingly appealed
to the liberality of the gentlemen in behalf
of her protegée.
“You perceive, my dear guardian, that the
boy must be loyal; for he offers, here, perfume,
that is patronized by no less than two royal
dukes! do suffer me to place a box aside, for
your especial use? you consent; I see it in your
eye. And, Captain Borroughcliffe, as you appear
to be forgetting the use of your own language,
here is even a horn-book for you! How
admirably provided he seems to be! You must
have had St. Ruth in view, when you laid in
your stock, child?”
“Yes, my lady,” the boy replied, with a bow
that was studiously awkward; “I have often
heard of the grand ladies that dwell in the old
Abbey, and I have journeyed a few miles beyond
my rounds, to gain their custom.”
“And surely they cannot disappoint you.
Miss Howard, that is a palpable hint to your
purse; and I know not that even Miss Alice
can escape contribution, in these troublesome
times. Come, aid me, child; what have you to
recommend, in particular, to the favour of these
ladies?”
The lad approached the basket, and rummaged
of deep, mercenary interest; and then, without
lifting his hand from the confusion he had caused,
he said, while he exhibited something to the view
of his smiling observer—
“This, my lady.”
Katherine started, and glanced her eye, with a
piercing look, at the countenance of the boy, and
then turned them, uneasily, from face to face,
with conscious timidity. Cecilia had effected
her object, and had resumed her seat, in silent
abstraction—Alice was listening to the remarks
of Captain Manual and the host, as they discussed
the propriety of certain military usages—
Griffith seemed to hold communion with his
mistress, by imitating her silence; but Katherine,
in her stolen glances, met the keen look of Borroughcliffe,
fastened on her face, in a manner
that did not fail to suspend the scrutiny.
“Come, Cecilia,” she cried, after a pause of
a moment, “we trespass too long on the patience
of the gentlemen; not only to keep possession of
our seats, ten minutes after the cloth has been
drawn! but even to introduce our essences, and
tapes, and needles, among the Madeira, and—shall
I add, segars, colonel?”
“Not while we are favoured with the company
of Miss Plowden, certainly.”
“Come, my coz; I perceive the colonel is
growing particularly polite, which is a never-failing
sign that he tires of our presence.”
Cecilia rose, and was leading the way to the
door, when Katherine turned to the lad, and
added—
“You can follow us to the drawing-room,
child, where we can make our purchases, without
exposing the mystery of our good looks.”
“Miss Plowden has forgotten my horn-book,
the standing group who surrounded the table;
“possibly I can find some work, better fitted
for the improvement of a grown-up young gentleman,
than this elementary treatise, in the basket
of the boy.”
Cecilia, observing him to take the basket from
the lad, resumed her seat, and her example was
necessarily followed by Katherine; though not
without some manifest indications of vexation.
“Come hither, boy, and explain the uses of
your wares. This is soap, and this a penknife,
I know; but what name do you affix to this?”
“That? that is tape,” returned the lad, with
an impatience that might very naturally be attributed
to the interruption that was thus given to
his trade.
“And this?”
“That?” repeated the stripling, pausing, with a
hesitation between sulkiness and doubt; “that?—”
“Come, this is a little ungallant!” cried Katherine;
“to keep three ladies dying with impatience
to possess themselves of their finery, while
you detain the boy, to ask the name of a tambouring-needle!”
“I should apologize for asking questions that
are so easily answered; but perhaps he will find
the next more difficult to solve,” returned Borroughcliffe,
placing the subject of his inquiries
in the palm of his hand, in such a manner as to
conceal it from all but the boy and himself.
“This has a name, too; what is it?”
“That?—that—is sometimes called—white-line.”
“Perhaps you mean a white lie?”
“How, sir!” exclaimed the lad, a little fiercely.
“a lie!”
flattering to his own feelings.
“How's this, again!” cried the colonel; “my
two wards embracing and fondling a vagrant,
vagabond pedler, before my eyes! is this treason,
Mr. Griffith? or what means the extraordinary
visit of this young gentleman?”
“Is it extraordinary, sir,” said Merry himself,
losing his assumed awkwardness, in the ease and
confidence of one whose faculties had been early
exercised, “that a boy, like myself, destitute of
mother and sisters, should take a little risk on
himself, to visit the only two female relatives he
has in the world?”
“Why this disguise, then? surely, young gentleman,
it was unnecessary to enter the dwelling
of old George Howard, on such an errand,
clandestinely, even though your tender years have
been practised on, to lead you astray from your
allegiance. Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual
must pardon me, if I express sentiments, at my
own table, that they may find unpleasant; but
this business requires us to be explicit.”
“The hospitality of Colonel Howard is unquestionable,”
returned the boy; “but he has a
great reputation for his loyalty to the crown.”
“Ay, young gentleman; and, I trust, with
some justice.”
“Would it, then, be safe, to intrust my person
in the hands of one who might think it his duty
to detain me?”
“This is plausible enough, Captain Borroughcliffe,
and I doubt not the boy speaks with candour.
I would, now, that my kinsman, Mr.
Christopher Dillon, were here, that I might learn
if it would be misprision of treason, to permit
this youth to depart, unmolested, and without
exchange?”
“Said you not that he was dead? that my
kinsman was buried in the sands of the seashore?”
“Both are true, sir—”
“And you refuse to explain how he met his
death, and why he has been thus ignominiously
interred?”
“He received his interment by my orders, sir;
and if there be ignominy about his grave, his own
acts have heaped it on him. As to the manner
of his death, I cannot, and will not speak.”
“Be calm, my cousin,” said Cecilia, in an imploring
voice; “respect the age of my uncle,
and remember his strong attachment to Mr.
Dillon.”
The veteran had, however, so far mastered his
feelings, as to continue the dialogue with more
recollection.
“Mr. Griffith,” he said, “I shall not act hastily—you
and your companion will be pleased to
retire to your several apartments. I will so far
respect the son of my brother Harry's friend, as
to believe your parole will be sacred. Go, gentlemen;
you are unguarded.”
The two prisoners bowed low to the ladies and
their host, and retired. Griffith, however, lingered
a moment on the threshold, to say—
“Colonel Howard, I leave the boy to your
kindness and consideration. I know you will
not forget that his blood mingles with that of one
who is most dear to you.”
“Enough, enough, sir,” said the veteran, waving
his hand to him to retire; “and you, ladies;
this is not a place for you, either.”
“Never will I quit this child,” said Katherine,
“while such a horrid imputation lies on him.
detest tampering with such a noble spirit. I saw,
by his eye, that he had squinted oftener over a
gun, than through a needle!”
“But they have murdered my kinsman!—the
loyal, the learned, the ingenious Mr. Christopher
Dillon!”
“If they have done so, they shall be made to
answer it,” said Borroughcliffe, re-seating himself
at the table, with a coolness that furnished a
pledge of the impartiality of his judgment;
“but let us learn the facts, before we do aught
hastily.”
Colonel Howard was fain to comply with so
reasonable a proposition, and he resumed his
chair, while his companion proceeded to institute
a close examination of the pedler boy.
We shall defer, until the proper time may arrive,
recording the result of his inquiries; but
shall so far satisfy the curiosity of our readers, as
to tell them, that the captain learned sufficient to
convince him, a very serious attempt was meditated
on the Abbey; and, as he thought, enough,
also, to enable him to avert the danger.
| CHAPTER VIII. The pilot | |