7. CHAPTER VII.
The mind of Henry Chaloner was one of those unquestionably, which are so well
and accurately balanced by nature in the first instance, and so well schooled in the
second, by experience and Christian philosophy, that of all they are the least likely to be
thrown into violent perturbation by the pressure of any external circumstances. He
had, moreover, that fixed and tranquil self-reliance, common to men of great parts who
have seen much, and suffered much in the world, which enables its possessors to meet
the most difficult contingencies with a quiet resolute front—and, better yet, he had that
immovable faith and confidence in God's power and mercy, which supports the Christian,
dauntless and invincible, through all extremities of toil and trial. Still, there is no
combination of natural and acquired parts—no innate hardihood of heart, no practice
in the world's warfare—no sternness of philosophy, no support of Christianity—nothing,
indeed, short of apathetic dullness and deadness of the soul—that can at all times master
grief, and bid the foul fiends, doubt, despondency, and anxious penetrating care,
avaunt in the first moment of their onslaught; and in the present instance, well-regulated
as was the mind of the young officer, and well-disciplined to suppress its feelings
in consideration to the necessities of others, it were entirely useless to deny that for
some cause or other he was exceedingly restless and uneasy. The meal which was set
before him remained almost untasted, although it consisted of every delicacy that the
time and place could furnish. Though the red-spotted trout were fresh from the neighboring
brooklet; though the eggs, which accompanied the bubbling rasher, were new-laid
that morning; though the buttock of cold powdered beef was of the fattest, and
the mustard genuine Tewksbury—and though all was served with that appetizing and
rare cleanliness which will do more to tempt a fastidious palate, than the most luxurious
dishes—still there was something at work within, which would not suffer him to swallow
a mouthful—he made, indeed, several efforts to conquer his reluctance, but still the
meat would not down; and he gave up the point, after a second long draught from the
spiced tankard, which the fever and heat of his mind rendered very grateful.
Throwing himself back in the arm-chair, he remained for some time in deep thought
with his hand tightly pressed upon his eyes—then he rose up restlessly, and leaning out
of the window, seemed to listen whether he might hear anything of his man's return,
although there had scarcely elapsed time enough for him to reach the Hall; and then,
as if recollecting himself, turned away from the casement, and began walking to and fro
the room, with slow and measured paces, which showed that if he was disturbed, it
was the disturbance of a regular self-governing spirit, not the headlong rashness of a
violent and passionate nature, excited beyond all control by any casual irritation.
“I much fear—I very much fear that it is so,” he at length muttered to himself,
thinking as it were aloud; “and if so, it will be in truth a difficult bad business. I know
not what will come of it.”
The fact was, that holding a situation of vast importance in the country, the office
of major-general of a district under the parliament, being tantamount to that which
is now termed lord lieutenant of a county, he had received dispatches which gave
him no slight uneasiness; and imposed on him duties, the propriety of which he half
doubted, and the performance of which could not but be most painful to all his better
feelings. After the attempt of the cavaliers, seconded by a great part of the Scottish
people, to elevate Charles the Second to the throne of the Martyr, as they fondly persisted
in calling the weak man who had fallen a victim to his own obstinate and selfish
insincerity—after this attempt—checked by the daring energy of Cromwell in the battle
of Dunbar of the preceding year, and now completely overthrown and prostrated by
the crowning mercy of Worcester fight—a spirit of persecution broke out, or at least
manifested itself far more generally than at any previous period of the war, among the
Presbyterians and Independents, toward the scattered fugitives of the defeated party.
The king himself was hunted with a vindictive pertinacity, from which men augured
easily that his capture would lead to a repetition of the tragedy of the thirtieth of January—while
his adherents were cut down, or shot like dogs, wherever they were taken;
many days after the entire dispersion, and, as it might almost be termed, dissolution
of the party.
The fears, however, or the hatred of the parliament remained unsatisfied; and instructions
were issued, throughout all the country, to all the major-generals in command,
to omit no precautions for the preventing the assemblage of small armed bodies,
which might serve as the nuclei of future risings; and to spare no pains for the apprehension
of sundry—the most eminent leaders of the late rebellion, whom they were
directed, as fast as captured, to send up to London; where it was intended that they
should be left for trial on indictments of high treason. A general amnesty was indeed
talked of; but unquestionably, if any such measure were in contemplation, so many exceptions
would be made as would render it such in name only—and this was rendered
evident, by the long list of persons forwarded to the governors of districts for immediate
proclamation, whom men were forbidden on pain of forfeiture, imprisonment, and—
in some cases—death, from “resetting, harboring, or comforting with food or fire or
raiment.”
All this tended to render Henry Chaloner uneasy; for though he had, as we have
seen, systematically opposed the usurpations of the king, from the first to the last—
though he had considered Charles the First unfit to reign, and his son even more unqualified
to succeed him—though he had exerted all his powers of mind and body to
banish the obnoxious issue from the throne and the country—and though he was prepared
to resist to the utmost all efforts to reinstate them—he had yet nothing in his
nature of the bigot or persecutor; and he would now have instantly extended, not only
full indemnity from any personal harm, but all political and civil privileges to all men
of all parties and opinions, who should thereafter be contented to keep the sword at
rest within its scabbard, and vex the land no longer.
But this was not all that troubled him, nor would this have sufficed to trouble him so
far, had there been no more reason for anxiety—since, in the first place, by virtue of
his office, he possessed some discretionary power; and so great was the attention which
had been ever paid to his opinions by the great man who swayed the destinies of England,
that he had little fear of winning from his calmer judgment, a sanction to more
merciful proceedings than were at present contemplated.
At a late hour of the preceding night, he had been roused from sleep by the arrival of
an orderly, bearing to him from the colonel of the Ironsides quartered at Barnsley moor,
a full narrative of the pursuit by a patrolling party of the proclaimed malignant, Captain
Wyvil—of his extraordinary escape, when escape seemed impossible—of the fruitless
search of Woolverton Hall—and of the strong grounds which still existed for believing
him to be harbored on those premises. The narrative was drawn up with technical
nicety, and therein it was certified that several of the brigade, which had first passed
the place—both officers and privates—had seen a young and beautiful woman at the
window of the fish-house! It was shown further, that when the second party came up,
scarce twenty minutes later, and actually searched the place, it was vacant! Again it
was proved, that during that brief interval the fugitive must have passed within a gunshot
of the window where she sat; and that there was not any lane or by-road, between
the angle of the road leading directly to the bridge—which he had been seen to turn by
his pursuers—and the spot where the patrol had overtaken Gettes's brigade, by which
he could have turned off to the right or left, and so eluded the close chase.
The effect of this evidence, although by no means really conclusive, went far to convince
Henry Chaloner, who well knew the secret predilections of his cousin Selby, and
the romantic high-minded generosity of his lovely daughter, that by some means or
other one or both were concerned in the escape of Wyvil. In this opinion he was confirmed
yet further by a note which he had received, before he left his chamber in the
morning, from Mark Selby, informing him of the search which had been instituted on
his premises, complaining of the rudeness of the soldiery, and requesting to see him at
his early leisure on business of some import. The receipt it was of this note which
caused him to hasten a measure, on which he had already determined; and he accordingly
ordered his horses to be saddled and a suitable train prepared; and set forth on his
ride before the cocks had crowed their matin song. The occurrences which befell him
afterwards, and especially the discovery of Wyvil's horse by John Sherlock, close, as it
was represented, to the place where the fugitive was first missed, and within a few
yards of the fishing-house, scarce left a doubt in his mind of the secret agency of Alice
in the young cavalier's escape. It is, of course, unnecessary to say, that to Chaloner
this agency—however much inconvenience it might produce to himself, or peril to the
fair young girl—did not appear in the light of an offence against any laws, either human
or divine; and it is scarcely to be doubted, that had he himself been situated as she
was, despite his official duties, he would have acted as she did, and facilitated the
evasion of a fugitive, whom he certainly regarded as unfortunate and perhaps mistaken,
rather than criminal or guilty.
Entertaining these opinions, therefore, the thing in the world which he least wished
at this moment, was that by any casualty he should be forced to discover the hiding-place
of Wyvil. Averse in the first place to cruclty or blood-shedding under all circumstances,
convinced that in the present crisis leniency was the true and politic course for
the restoration of tranquility and peace—and confident, moreover, that within a short
space of time he could bring about a material change in the views of the government,
he dreaded to have this case of Wyvil so brought before his eyes that he should have
no alternative but to arrest him; when his fate, and not his fate alone, but that of all
who had assisted him, would be decided on the instant.
At the same time, he was too rigid in his views of duty and of right, to connive
secretly at any act which he would not avow in public—all personal consequences he
would have discarded instantly, as utterly unworthy his consideration—and had he
with his own hands taken Wyvil in the open country, or found him in the hands of
troopers who had so arrested him, he would have very probably discharged him at his
own peril, if satisfied that he entertained no views against the peace of England. To
do this, however, if he should be detected under the roof of Selby, would be of no
avail to save the old man and his lovely daughter from forfeiture of all their worldly
goods, and from a long imprisonment, ending perhaps in death upon the scaffold. He
felt that, with the information laid before him, he had no course left but to investigate
the case completely, and if it should prove needful, to order a fresh search! And
hating, as he did, to contemplate the possibility of the young man's being brought to
judgment by his means, and dreading—as he did for a thousand reasons—the consequences
to his friends and kindred at the Hall—who shall be moved by wonder if
Henry Chaloner, despite all natural advantages of equanimity and fortitude—all supplemental
aids of discipline, philosophy, religion—was ill at ease, and anxious, and
unhappy?
An hour or more had passed since he dispatched the groom to the Hall, an errand
which should not, as he conceived, at the most have occupied one-half that time; and
after looking out of the window anxiously two or three times within five times as many
minutes, he ordered his horses to be again got ready, and determined to ride down the
road, feeling assured that he should meet his messenger returning, before he could reach
the gates. He had just given these instructions, when the sounds of a slight bustle
reached his ears from the rooms below, and immediately after some words spoken in a
low silvery voice, which fell upon his soul like the memory of some familiar tune heard
in the happy days of boyhood and unforgotten through all the sins, and strifes, and
miseries of manhood, even to remote old age. It was but a few words—or to speak
more correctly, the tones and accents of a few words, which were themselves inaudible,
that reached him—and these too dulled and deadened by the distance and by the obstacles,
through which they were transmitted; yet at the first faint note he started to
his feet listening intently, and apparently recognizing the speaker, in a moment took up
his hat and sword, and hastened down into the kitchen whence the sounds proceeded.
The moment he opened the door from the small turnpike staircase, with the full
morning sunshine pouring in through the open casement on her beautiful features and
graceful figure, Alice Selby stood before him, conversing in tones full of soft considerate
kindness with the old afflicted woman, and the young widow, who were listening to
all she said with an expression not of love only or respect, but of the deepest and most
reverential gratitude. Chaloner's servants, their morning meal concluded, had long
since gone out to attend the horses, and there was no one in the room except the members
of the family, and an old grayheaded serving man in a plain livery of green and
gold, with a stone jug, holding perhaps two quarts, slung in a leathern belt across one
shoulder, and a large wicker basket by his side; who was wiping his forehead, as if
somewhat tired with his load, although there was a cheerful smile upon his weather-beaten
features, showing that he grudged not the easy labor.
Alice was speaking at the moment when her cousin paused at the open door; but as
it was placed in a dark angle of the room, and as her eyes were turned in a direction
somewhat different, she did not see him, but went on in the same low musical accents,
which had so pleasantly affected him: “So when I missed you, Marian,” she said,
“from our little congregation at the Hall on Sunday, I was afraid there was something
amiss with Dame Rainsford or poor Martin, and I should have come over yesterday to
see you all; but I was somewhat occupied in the forenoon within doors—and to say
truly, I forgot all about it after dinner, and went out to walk in the park, and fell
asleep, I believe, in the fish-house; and was frightened a good deal afterwards—which
was certainly very foolish in me, Marian—by some parliament soldiers, who rode by
smoking and laughing, and making a loud rude disturbance. But when I saw this
morning that neither of my little pets, Bella nor my god-daughter Alice, were at school,
I was quite sorry and ashamed of my neglect. So I put on my cloak and hood, and
made old Jeremy bring down a bottle of the choice Canary, which Doctor Trowbridge
thought so good for your mother's ailment, and a few cates and simples from my own
laboratory for poor Martin.”
“Oh! you are kind! God bless you, Mistress Alice—and He will, I doubt not—but
there is nothing much amiss—my mother, it's true, was ailing somewhat on the Sunday
morning, and that was the reason of my not coming up to chapel; but she was quite
well yesterday again—as well that is, as she can hope to be—and in good spirits, God
be thanked! and there is no harm done this morning, though the soldiers were very
rude and brutal, and used Martin so that he got one of his bad fits, and is only better
of it now, and has just dropped asleep!”
“Soldiers!” said Alice, turning very pale; “what soldiers? are they here now—
quick, good Marian?” and as she spoke, she pulled the hood farther over her features
and looked wildly around.
“None, my fair cousin;” answered Henry, before any of the others had time to
reply, advancing into the room with his head uncovered—“none at all, Alice, unless
you count me one; but if you do, I don't believe you'll judge me very formidable!”
“Oh! cousin Henry, is it you?” she answered with a gay smile; “you startled me
at first a little, for I did not dream of meeting you here—No! I don't think you very
formidable, although you are a soldier; but that is more than we can say for all of your
good parliament troopers—since some of them are rude, not to say brutal!”
“Of which I had a very clear proof here but now,” Chaloner answered; “and in
truth, if you will pardon me, I do think you were best confine your walks within the
limits of your father's grounds just now—these Ironsides, flushed with their victory at
Worcester, are scouring the roads all round, and, I fear much, abusing shamefully their
power, and the trust reposed in them. I will see these things righted ere long, if I am
to hold the district as commander; but for a few days, Alice, take my advice, and let
your park walls be the limit of your wanderings.”
“Indeed I will, cousin Henry,” she replied—“indeed, I will take your advice; and
I thank you for it. They came and searched our house last night, for some one whom
they charged us with concealing, and one of them, an officer—a singularly ill ungraciouslooking
youth—was positively rude to me!”
“He will not so offend again, fair Mistress Alice,” answered the young man; “for
if, as I doubt not, your friend was Cornet Despard, I have just sent him to head-quarters
in arrest for most unsoldierly and brutal conduct here this morning; and I will take
care he is duly punished. But come,” he added, “it seems to me your visit of charity
and kindness is concluded. I was about to ride down to the Hall even now, to wait on
your father, who signified to me by letter a wish that I would see him touching this
business you have mentioned—suffer me to send on my horses, and on foot escort you
homeward.”
“No! thank you, cousin,” answered Alice, with a smile; “I am playing Lady
Bountiful this morning, and have to pay two visits more to two of my old pensioners
in the village. Since you have driven these rude discourteous warriors home, like a
fair and gallant knight, an errant damsel may hold herself safe for this time. But, jesting
apart, Henry; I must go a little half mile farther, and Jeremy has the key of the small
postern gate beside the heronry wood, and I shall go in by that entrance. So go your
ways, good cousin, and commune with my father, and then come join me in the park.
You'll tarry dinner with us—surely! nay—I'll have no denial—and now I think of it,
my father means, I fancy, to detain you over night; fare you well for the present—
fare you well, dame—here be the simples, Marian—and give your mother a good cup
of the Canary straightway; poor soul, she needs some comfort—fare you well Bella—
one kiss, my little Alice!” And among the blessings of all, and the fervent thanks of
the old matron, in whose opinion Alice was an absolute angel—too beautiful and good
for aught below—she vanished from the room, leaving it—as Henry Chaloner thought
—lower and darker and more gloomy than it had ever seemed to him before; and after
a little while he too, having paid his reckoning, mounted his horse and rode away slowly
toward the Hall gates; before reaching which he met his servant coming up at full
gallop, the bearer of a verbal message from Master Selby, praying “that Major General
Chaloner would visit his poor house with all convenient speed!”
