University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

It was long after the departure of the Ironsides, before the excited feelings of the fair
girl were in the least degree composed; but gradually, when the harsh clank of their
march, and the shrill clangor of their trumpet had subsided into absolute stillness, or
rather into that soft and soothing mixture of natural and accustomed sounds, which, after
the home car has grown acquainted with their never-ending murmur, pass for entire
silence—the violent fits of half-convulsive sobbing which had at first shaken her whole
frame, ceased, and the tears flowed in a quiet and unpainful stream. These, too, by
slow degrees, diminished, and at last flowed no longer. It was not grief, however,
nor even sorrow that had called forth so strange and passionate emotions from that calm
bosom; for the whole heart was full of deep and tranquil gratitude to Him, by whose
good providence the stranger had been preserved from his bloodthirsty enemies—much
less was it all joy, for though there was a sense of happiness, or of relief at least from
terrible anxiety, springing up from the depths of her pure soul, yet there was nothing
strong or passionate, nothing tumultuous in the character of that pure stilly pleasure. No,
it was merely the reaction of a mind over-tensely strung during the late dread scenes.
It had been only by an exertion almost too great for female powers, that she had crushed
down into her inmost soul all semblance of anxiety or interest during the search of
the rude Puritans; yet so completely had she crushed it down while in the presence of
those stern inquisitors, that not only had she compelled her steps to be equal, and her
hand steady, but she had actually forced her cheek and lip to retain their wonted color—
her eye its quiet undisturbed expression. And well was it for that young stranger that
she did so. For it was even less, the grave unmoved demeanor of the aged gentleman—less,
the unconsciousness of the alarmed domestics—than the perfect tranquility
of that sweet and lovely maiden, which had convinced them that their searching longer
would be but a vain labor.

It had been some suspicion—vague indeed and indefinite—that she might have concealed
the cavalier, without the knowledge of the household, by which the leaders of
the party had been induced to search the boat-house; and therefore had they caused her
to accompany them; that, if their doubts were true, some terror or expression of alarm
might, as they judged, inevitable betray the secret of his hiding-place. And so far were
they right, that it had only been by dint of almost superhuman fortitude that she forebore
to scream aloud in the intensity of her excitement, when they persisted in examining
the sail-loft, wherein, scarcely six inches from the torch of his pursuer, the object of her
care lay hidden.

Excitement, such as this, must end in a revulsion; and it was fortunate that there
was cause enough apparent, to have disturbed the equilibrium of her mind, in the events
which had transpired in the full sight of all—so that the outbreak of hysterical passion
called forth no more alarm, than a mere fit of feminine terror, from the assiduous attendants
who crowded round their beloved mistress, with all the remedies of essences, strong
waters and the like, which their ignorant but kindly zeal could dictate.

Gradually, as we have said, however, her tears ceased to flow; and, as her mind
regained its usual serene and balanced tenor, she recollected that there was yet much
more to do, and much more cause than ever to avoid wakening suspicion. With her to
see the right, and to perform it, were scarcely the results of a two-fold operation; and
bidding her tirewoman await her coming in her own chamber, she dismissed all the
rest; her father adding his injunction, that as the hour of bedtime was long passed, they
should not linger in the hall with idle gossipings, else there would be late rising in the
morn. No more was said; but in those good old days, and in that orderly and peaceful
household, there was no doubt that his words would be obeyed even to the letter. In a
few moments the old gray-headed porter brought in the keys of the great gate and water-port,
and laid them on the table by his master's hand, and before half an hour, except
in old Mark's library, and in the chamber of his sweet child, there was not a light
burning, nor an eye unclosed, through the whole building.

Hours were early in those days, so that the clock had barely stricken ten when all
the fires were quenched and lights extinguished. Eleven—twelve—one, followed—the
deep sounds of the stable clock-house, solemnly booming through the lonely night; and
still the lamp burned steadily in the small library; and the two lighted windows might
be seen above the courtyard wall, and through the foliage of the park plantations, even
as far as the high road, had any one been watching them.

And one was watching them. The younger of the Puritan officers, wrapped in his
scarlet watch-cloak, was standing on the platform of the fish-house, with a neighboring
farmer, dressed in his usual toil-worn garb beside him, and a stout trooper holding some
five or six saddled chargers on the bridge.

Just as the clock struck one, the soldier stamped impatiently. “Doth the old hoary
dotard keep watch thus always, till 'tis morning?” he exclaimed, turning toward the
rustic.

“Ay, ay, sir;” he replied—“I'll warrant him. Master Mark's a great scholar,
I've heard tell, and speaks all sorts of untold old-time tongues. And so you see he
keeps a poring over a sight o' musty books night after night. Many's the time and often,
when I've been kept from home past common, at Worcester market or the like, I've
seen yon light in yon two selfsame windows, while three o'clock o' the morning. And
yet the old man's astir with the cock, too—that's what does bother me like—”

“See! see!” the other interrupted him, “it has gone out.”

“Ay, ay. Now we shall see it cross the next three windows to the right, then if any
one were watching the west end, he might see it a little while in the west gable. The
old man's chamber's there, next to young mistress's bower.”

While he yet spoke, the light, as of a candle or a lamp in motion, flitted across the
three tall casements to the right, and disappearing, the southern front of the old Hall was
left in absolute darkness.

“Well! there it does go, of a surety,” replied the Puritan, “and there is one to watch
on the West end. Do they burn tapers all night through in their bed-chambers?”

“No, not a light is burnt in all the house, when the old master's lamp is out; that's
the last always—ever since I was a boy!”

“Peradventure, then, we shall know more anon,” returned the other, and then relapsed
into silence, awaiting the arrival of his subordinate watchers. Nor had he very long to
wait; for scarcely half an hour had gone by since the removal of the lamp, when nearly
simultaneously three came up, though from different directions; and made their several
reports all to the same effect, that not a mouse had stirred about the Hall for three hours;
and that now every candle was extinguished, and every soul abed for certain.”

“Well, then, we have but lost our time; and they know nought about this same malignant,
who 'scaped us here so strangely,” muttered the officer between his clenched
teeth. “Mount, men, mount, and away; we'll beat these woods for many a mile tomorrow.”

“Had you known the folks at the Hall, as I do, master,” the farmer interposed,
“you never would have dreamed o' thinking that they did. Lord! sir, they are the
scariest, timidest, ease-lovingest people—they never trouble their heads with no politics,
nor parties!”

“Well, well, good friend, it is no harm to be assured! and so good night to thee,”
the soldier answered, striking his spurs into his horse's flank, and galloping off, followed
by his men, at a rate that soon left the quiet woods of Woolverton many a mile behind
him.

“Good devil go with thee!” muttered the countryman, as they rode off, “and with
all like to thee, thou cheat and hypocrite! I trow now, thou may be mistaken yet, for
all thy cunning! If Mistress Alice had fallen in with the poor youth, I warrant me she
would a hid him somewhere, in spite all danger! So I'll away up to the Hall to-morrow,
and see about it, for if so be there be aught i' the wind, I'll have a finger in't, or my
name is not John Sherlock.”

Times of great peril and emergency have not unfrequently been known to impart a
species of instinctive and instantaneous shrewdness to minds not previously remarkable
for any such quality. Bookmen, and grave secluded scholars, intuitively, as it were,
under the pressure of great present peril or necessity, have been known to attain the
skill of practiced generals, the craftiness of the most subtle partisans. So in this instance
was it with Mark Selby. Born of an old and honorable family, a second son, he
had been educated many long years before with a view to taking orders; and the grave
tastes and habits which he had then acquired, clung to him afterwards, when, by his
brother's death—who fell at Zutphen, fighting by Philip Sidney's side—he became heir
of Woolverton; and, of course, with his altered fortunes, abandoned the profession to
which he had before been destined. Never, during his earliest and gayest youth, had
he been a frequenter of courts, or even an associate in the daring field-sports or jovial
festivities of the neighboring gentry. Long after his succession to the family estates,
when he was far advanced already in the vale of years, he had taken to wife the daughter
of a baronet, whose estates paired with Woolverton—a fair and lovely creature, whose
living type we have beheld in Alice. Her he lost young, after having followed to the
grave two sons, his first born; the infant Alice being left alone to his paternal care.
Thus situate, more gloomy every day had waxed the aged widower's abode—more ineradicably
were those bookworm habits fixed—till Alice, from a sweet prattling child,
the licenced interruptor of the father's musings, had grown up to be the pure and lovely
thing she was, when the occurrences fell out which it is ours to narrate. Rarely was
old Mark Selby seen abroad by any—rarely at home, save by the members of his own
quiet household—no scenes of broil or riot or warfare had ever been beheld by him,
much less had he been an actor in any such. Yet had he read, and mused, and dreamed
—that he could have performed the deeds, and undergone the woes, and braved the
terrors which his loved heroes of historic lore had done, and borne, and braved, undaunted—and
now in his old age was he tried—tried, and not then found wanting.

After his daughter had retired to rest, he had conceived it very likely that some—as
indeed was the case—of the Puritans might yet linger on the watch without, and that

any deviation from the wonted customs of his household, would certainly create suspicion.
Before she went, he had promised Alice, himself to rouse her from her slumbers, if any
slumber she might take, when the time should arrive for admitting the young Royalist
to a more safe retreat than that which he now occupied; and after she was gone, though
anxious and excited, he sat down to his books, not at the first without an effort; but
after he had sat some time, he returned to his ordinary frame of mind, and read, and
pondered, and made notes, until the period should arrive; apparently, and indeed really,
as fully engrossed in his subject, as though no graver matter than the full force of the
particle had occupied his meditations.

It would, however, have been worthy of remark—to those who make the human
mind their study—that while his understanding was devoted altogether to the unravelling
of an obscure passage in one of Pindar's darkest Pythian odes, to which he had
turned in the hopes of gleaning thence some light whereby to to see into the depths of
some yet deeper classic mystery, he was still quite awake to all the exigencies and the
perils of his immediate position. Had he not been indeed fully aware of the necessity
of being tranquil, it had not, perhaps, been within his power so calmly to have followed
his accustomed studies. Had he not been a student, it would, perhaps, have frustrated
his utmost coolness so to have waited the event. Yet was the result of the strange
mixture—the blending of the feelings of the scholar and the man—simple although they
were, untaught and natural—the most complete and perfect skill, and craft and subtlety,
that ever graced the wariest and most wily partisan.

When the lamp was extinguished in the library, and the hand-taper cast its flickering
light, as witnessed by the wakeful Puritans, across the lattices of the less frequented
apartments, the old man, indeed, retired to his chamber; and when there, had at once
cast himself into a large arm-chair, where he reclined for many minutes absorbed in the
deepest mental meditation.

After a while he started up, and for a moment it was in his thoughts to pass directly
to his daughter's chamber, but in an instant—and he scarce knew why—his mind was
altered; for he had little thought that any were still in ambuscade without, watching
his every movement—and he stood quietly before the casements, with the bright lamp
behind him, casting his shadow on the wide illuminated panes. He threw his dress
aside, put out the light, and cast himself down heavily upon the bed. And there were
those upon the watch who saw all this, albeit he knew it not, and testified thereto in
after days; and it was well for him he did so.

After a space of deep and almost painful meditation, he once again arose. The moon
was shining clearly, as she waded with uncertain gleams among the scattered clouds,
through the tall latticed casements; and there was light enough, that the old man could
find his scattered garments, and attire himself without the need of kindling any lamp.
Once dressed, he opened his door carefully, but without any fear, for the domestics slept
far from the inhabited apartments of the Hall, and took his way through the old well-known
passages, directly to his daughter's chamber. The rays fell misty and dim through
the stained windows as he passed, and many an indistinct and fleeting shadow wavered
across his path, as he went onward; but in too deep a school of philosophic thought had
he been trained, to cast a single thought to superstitious tremors; and student though he
was, he had too deeply proved life's stern realities to blench for any shadow.

He reached the fair girl's chamber, and entered all unsummoned—and the same
bright pure lustre, which had enabled him to don his dress without the aid of lamp or
taper, was pouring upon her virgin couch, as she lay all disrobed and tranquil, but
thoughtful, and awake, and full of her high purpose, as she awaited the appointed time.

“Father!” she whispered, in soft but untrembling accents, as his hand touched the
latch. “Father! is't thou? then tarry but for a little moment's space without, and I
will join thee;” and with the words, she, too, arose. And hastily, but yet completely,
she attired herself in plain dark garments of simple country fashion; and ere ten minutes
had elapsed she stood beside him, silent, in the dark corridor.

“Now to the library!” he whispered, and with slow faltering steps they groped their

wav through the large, vacant, lonely rooms; and reached it at last, breathless and
panting—not from the speed at which they had advanced, but that they had scarce
drawn a full breath since they left her chamber. Once there, a feeble glimmering light
shone in, transversely and reflected—for the moon's rays touched not the southern front
—and they were able to distinguish things, though indistinctly.

“So far,” the old man whispered—“so far all's well; no living ear has heard that we
are stirring, and if you lack not courage to finish out what you have well begun, there
is no more of danger. But look you, we have need of caution. No door must be
unlocked—no foot must tread the staircase. I have a silken ladder here, framed long
ago against emergency of fire; it will I let down from this casement under the shadow
of yon pine; by it you must descend—creep through the garden greens, avoiding the
bright court—enter the water-tower, and making there your signal, admit your guest
with your own hands. By the same path you must return together; I will await you
here; hence opens, as you know, the passage. Have you the courage, girl?”

“Lower the ladder, father,” she answered in a whisper—“lower the ladder, and give
me the keys!”

“So brave,” he said, half musingly—“so brave, and yet so young!” and he paused
long, and shook his hoary head, and seemed to hesitate; but then, “Well! well!” he
said. “Well! well! God's hand, I trow, is in it—and on it be his benison;” and
without further words, after a little groping in the dark, he drew out the rope ladder he
had mentioned, and lowered it from the extreme west window, across which fell the
broad and massy shadow cast by the largest of the giant pines which we have named
above. He handed her the key, pressed her with a long lingering pressure to his bosom,
and printed one kiss on her brow.

“The God of mercy go with thee,” he said, “my child—for that thine errand is of
mercy.”

Another moment and she had passed the window-sill, and with a firm step, and untrembling
though delicate hold, she trod the shaking rungs, and stood in safety at the
bottom. For one short second more, the old man's eye could follow her threading the
mazes of the labyrinthine shrubs; then she was lost, and in a moment more had entered
the untenanted and lonely water-tower. It was all dark as a wolf's mouth, save where
one faint and broken ray fell through the embrasure, half intercepted by the breech of
the huge gun; yet cool in every movement, and collected, she felt her way down the
rude steps, unlocked the inner gate, and half raised the portcullis by aid of the complicated
winch, which moved it in the groove of stone wherein it traversed. Retracing
instantly her steps, after some minutes spent in search, she found the porter's tinder-box
and link. She struck a light, and for a second's space the red glare shot out through
the lattice; yet so low did it strike, that a spectator, standing ten yards beyond the
moat's south bank, could have seen nought of it. She blew it out, and counted ten,
and lit it once again, and so on till the third time; and as she blew it out, a slight splash
reached her ears, and in a moment after a waving movement of the water, and a deep
panting breath—and she received him at the steps, and led him upward to the embrasure,
and lowered the portcullis once again, and locked the gate, and thrust the key into
her girdle.

“Be silent for your life,” she whispered, as speedily she led him through the low
postern gate; but when she reached the open air, it flashed upon her mind that she had
not replaced the half burned flambeau with its appropriate flint and steel, in the same
niche where it lay when she found it; and laying her finger on her lip, as they two
stood in the half shadow of the twilight garden, she tripped back, and placed it rightly
—so to avoid suspicion. Quickly they traced the shrubbery paths, and reached the
pendent ladder; one signal and he climbed it, and scarcely was he well landed in the
library, before she too was in the room.

“Not a word, sir, not a word!” exclaimed Marc Selby, in one of those sharp whispers
which fill the ear far more than the deep roar of ordnance. “Not a word, if you would
not betray your rescuer!”

And they three stood there silent, in the prevading hush of deep awe, and yet deeper
feeling; while the old man drew in the ladder, and laid it by in its accustomed place,
and closed the latticed window. Then, after searching about yet another while, he
drew forth from a drawer in an old cabinet, a small old-fashioned lamp, with flint and
steel and matches—a flask of wine or cordial, and a strangely-shaped brazen key.
Giving all these to the young cavalier, he turned to a compartment of the library wall,
covered by shelves well stored with ponderous books; drew out one folio volume, and
turned an iron button, replaced it, pressed a spring this way, and turned a screw-head
that, and the whole bookcase, with its load, from floor to ceiling, revolved upon a pivot,
disclosing the bare plastered wall, with a low-browed arch, descending, as it seemed,
into the outer wall, and full of black impenetrable darkness.

“Alice,” the old man said, “to-bed! we will speak more to-morrow. Pass in, sir!”
and the girl left the room, and hurried to her chamber with a glad but quick-throbbing
heart; and the stranger entered the dark passage, and old Mark Selby followed him,
and drew the concealed door, masked by the ponderous book-shelves, after him; and
the old library was tenantless again, and not a soul could have suspected, though he had
searched it for a month, that private passage. But when they stood within it, the old
man struck a light, and lit the lamp, and raised it to the face of his new guest, and
gazed into his features as though he would have read his soul.

“Ha!” he said—“ha!” and paused again a little while, and then—“be it so. I will
trust you!” and no word passed between them more, for the old man almost angrily
imposed strict silence when the stranger would have spoken. And far he led him, by
long and winding corridors, delved through the thickness of the wall, up stairs and down,
till he had brought him to a low dark vault, scarce six feet perpendicular height, by
twelve in circuit; in which there stood a table of dark oak, an old armed chair, two or
three stools of the same plain material, and a low pallet bed heaped high with blankets,
and soft coverlets, and sheets of snowy whiteness. Besides these articles of furniture,
the gloomy chamber contained nothing but a few shelves in one corner, whereon were
piled two or three pewter platters, an earthen bowl and pitcher, a salt-cellar, a knife
case, a cruise of oil, and four tall Venice wine-glasses. There was no carpet on the
floor, nor any hangings on the bare plastered walls; nor was there any window or even
shot-hole, whereat a single ray of blessed daylight could pass in to cheer the sad soul
of the inmate. As if to compensate, however, for this want, there were no less than
three doors besides that which had admitted them, massy and steel-clenched, and
secured by bolts of singular device, and bars, and chains of iron.

“This is a poor abode, young sir,” said Selby, as he sat down the lamp upon the
table; “but it is safe at least, and that to one in your condition is something always.
No person now alive, save Alice and myself, knows the existence of this hiding-place,
much less the ways which lead to it; and you, before you quit it, must swear by all that
men hold holy, never by word or deed, by sign or hint or writing, to reveal it. Meantime,
here will we shelter you, until such time as we may send you forth in safety.
Food shall be brought you daily, and lights, and change of raiment, and, if you wish it,
books; but on society you must not count—not even on ours—for carefully we must
eschew suspicion. Before I leave you to repose, one other secret of your abode I must
disclose to you.” He opened, as he spoke, another door, and showed a narrow stairway
winding, as it seemed, downward into interminable gloom.

“At the foot of those steps,” he said, pointing through the opening, “you will find
what appears a square well of water, and by it a trap-door; the first will furnish you
the means of cleanliness and comfort, and by the latter you may cast into the moat
nightly the remnants of your food, and aught else that, if discovered here in case of any
search, might cause suspicion. On no account, however, enter the well to bathe; for
it were certain death, unless you knew the secret. Be careful, when you pass these
stairs, to do so very silently; here you cannot be heard, though you should sing or
whistle—there it were perilous indeed! The other doors lead elsewhere, and are
locked. Let me know now, who is my guest; and pledge me, as a soldier and a gentleman,

your word of honor not to leave this apartment, except by the door I have
shown you leading to the water; you would risk all our lives by wandering about the
corridors.”

“My name is Wyvil—Marmaduke Wyvil, of Allerton Mauleverer in Yorkshire,
serving till yesterday as captain in my good friend and kinsman Sir Philip Musgrave's
regiment of horse, not ten of whom now hold together—not fifty of whom now are
numbered with the living. Alas! for thee, my friend, my more than brother—good,
gallant, murdered Musgrave! Alas! for the good cause, that is a cause no longer!”
and as he said the words, he wrung his hands till the blood started from the finger-nails,
and burst into a paroxysm of violent sobs and weeping. In a few minutes, however,
he recovered himself somewhat, and mastering his passion, as it seemed, by a strong
effort, “Pardon me,” he said; “this is unmanly, very weak and trivial; but I am weak
from weariness and watching, and from the want of food; pardon me, I beseech you,
my kind friend and preserver.”

“That can I not do, my young friend,” returned the other, “seeing that there is nought
to pardon. The cause you speak of, I respect and love; and had there been less years
upon my head, should have armed for it. Your feelings for your lost friend I honor—
we will talk more to-morrow! meantime throw off your dripping garments, drink a cup
or two of this sovereign cordial, stretch yourself on your humble bed—and after one
night's safe and peaceful sleep, I warrant me I find you a new man in the morning.”
He had already trimmed and lighted a brazen lamp which stood upon the board, and
now reached down two glasses, filling them to the brim from the long-necked flask he
had brought with him. “I drink,” he then said—“I drink Captain Wyvil, to your good
repose, and leave you to it straightway. Lock the door after me when I go forth; and
open it not, save for my voice or that of Alice—no thanks, my friend, no thanks! Now
God be with you, and farewell!” and without suffering him to answer, he shook his
young guest warmly by the hand, and left him.