University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

It was at about the same hour of the same day at which the rustic party were interrupted
by the arrival of the Ironsides at the Stag's Head, that the squire of Woolverton
—the morning meal being finished, and all the household busied about their wonted

avocations—gave orders to the steward that he should not on any account be disturbed
for a couple of hours; and, locking the library door with jealous care behind him, proceeded
through the secret passage to the hiding-place of his concealed guest. It was
perhaps fortunate that the habits of the old man, secluded, sedentary, and averse to
much intercourse with man, were such as to prevent any speculation or surprise at such
an order, it being his almost daily practice to shut himself up in the pursuit of some
abstruse and difficult study; so that no one of the servants entertained the least suspicion
on the subject. The greatest risk that Selby had discovered in the case was the
providing food for the stranger without attracting notice; and this he was in fact only
able to manage by robbing his own buttery nightly, after the people had retired to rest,
much to the wonder and disquiet of the old housekeeper, who was continually missing
corners of venison pasties, cold larded capons, remnants of neats' tongues, and whole
loaves of bread; for the disappearance of which she could in no wise account, and concerning
which she was perpetually worrying and fidgetting her fellow-servants to no
end or purpose.

It was then with a basketful of cold provisions, two or three long-necked flasks of
Bordeaux wine, a fresh supply of oil, a change of linen, and sundry volumes of the
long-winded cumbersome romances of that day, that the old squire now sought his
visitor. With a noiseless step, and a suppressed breathing, the good old man traversed
the long and darksome corridors, now climbing steep and narrow stairways, now winding
downward by deep gradual descents, turning short angles, and passing through
trap-doors almost innumerable, until he reached the safe and distant crypt wherein he
had left Wyvil to his slumbers on the preceding night. So deep had been those slumbers,
and so completely had the young man been over-wrought by the toil, the exertions,
and the tremendous excitement of the previous days, that he lay buried still in profound
and dreamless stupor; and it was well that Selby had brought a master-key by means
of which he gained admittance to the cell, since not by any signal that he dared make
could he attract his guest's attention. Unlocking the door quietly, he entered, and setting
down his load stepped lightly to the bedside; the brazen lamp was burning steadily
upon the table, filling the whole of the small room with a smoky yellow light, and
pouring full upon the uncurtained features of the sleeper. His clothes, cast off in negligent
disarray, were heaped upon the stools and table; his rich buff coat, all laced with
tawney silk and looped with gold, hung on the back of the armed chair, moist and discolored
by the waters of the moat, through which the wearer had swam on the previous
evening; his cuirass of bright steel, inlaid with arabesques of gold, lay on the table,
sending back the rays of the dull lamp in strong and dancing gleams of brighter lustre;
his vest and trunk-hose of murray-colored velvet, his russet buskins with their long
gilded spurs, and his embroidered slouched beaver with its black drooping plume, lay
in confusion on the stone-paved floor; but the blue baldric of his rapier was twined
round one of the posts of his pallet bed, so that the hilt was ready to his hand at a moment's
notice; while, as a further precaution, he had thrust the point of his naked
poniard into a crevice of the headboard, so that it could be griped with his left hand,
as readily as the sword hilt with his right, on the least emergency. Little, however,
would either weapon have availed him now, had the intruder been an enemy; for he
still slept so deeply that he might have been slain easily, without the possibility of
making any adequate resistance.

For a few moments Mark Selby would not arouse him from his state, as it appeared,
of absolute insensibility; but stood gazing steadfastly upon the tranquil lineaments of
the young sleeper. Those lineaments, which the old man had seen but imperfectly the
night before, were certainly and eminently handsome: he had a profusion of soft, silky,
light-brown hair, falling back from his brow in long straight masses, waved slightly on
the temples, and curled as it would seem artifically at the extremity; his forehead was
very high and prominent, but rather narrower at the temples than below, which detracted
somewhat from the beauty of the feature; it was, however, singularly white and smooth,
and perfectly unwrinkled, except that there was a deep indentation, as if of an habitual

frown, at the inner point of the eyebrows, which were straight and well defined, of a
color several degrees darker than his hair. His eyes, as could be seen even while he
slept by the form and dimensions of the lids, were large and well opened, and fringed
with long black lashes; his nose was thin and somewhat sharply, though not highly,
aquiline; his mouth, which by its firm compression and set downward curve, bespoke
docision of character and absolute hardihood, had yet an expression of voluptuousness in
the full prominent under lip, and in the fleshy curvature of the projecting chin; and the
combination of the whole was, as has been already said, sufficient to constitute a face of
decided and unusual attractiveness. The coloring was rich and manly; a complexion,
which had been naturally very fair and florid, having been darkened by exposure to the
weather into a ripe and mellow brown, which suited well the narrow dark mustache
which he wore on the upper lip, and the small vandyke beard trimmed into the fashion
of a fleur-de-lis, with two small upward curls and long point between; giving a soldier-like
and manly air to a countenance, which without it might have been termed effeminate,
from the smallness and delicacy of all the separate features, rather than from any
real want of energy or character in the expression.

It may as well be stated here, although Mark Selby saw them not at present, that his
eyes were of a full dark blue, and that his mouth was filled by a set of teeth as regular
and white and pearly as were ever set off by the coral lips of the loveliest woman. As
the old man gazed on the comely features, he certainly thought that he had never seen a
handsomer man, nor one with a more bland and beautiful expression; yet much of this
last appearance was factitious merely, and depended on the present situation of the
sleeper, who, completely overcome with toil, was sunk in the voluptuous and calm tranquility
of the deepest and most dreamless sleep. Had he been awake, however, while
he would have admitted the beauty even perhaps more fully than at present, the squire
would not have discovered by any means the same attraction in his aspect, nor drawn
the same conclusions with regard to his character. He would then have perceived—as
did all persons who thought upon the subject, until their judgment was overpowered by
the fascinations of the young cavalier's demeanor—that there was an unpleasant look,
a look of extreme audacious boldness, in the bright sparkling eye, and moreover a wavering,
changeful, vacillating glance, indicative of a fickleness if not feebleness of purpose,
and remarkably at variance with the resolved and even obstinate expression of the
mouth; and he would moreover have detected something hollow and almost mocking
in the style of the smooth dulcet smile which was continually playing about the half
open lips, and revealing the pearly teeth within. None of these drawbacks to the appearance
of Wyvil were at this time perceptible, nor were they indeed ever discovered
in their true light by Selby; for he was now so strongly prepossessed by the features
of the sleeper, wrapt as they were in soft and placid languor, that he retained the first
favorable impression afterwards, and, becoming very soon habituated to the man, thought
no more of his appearance. While he looked on, however, the character of his guest's
repose was altered; a shadow flitted over the fair tranquil lineaments—a dark, frowning
shadow—and anon the sweat broke out upon his brow in large and beaded bubbles;
he writhed his limbs to and fro with a convulsive motion, and grinded his set teeth with
a fierce energy.

Short inarticulate sounds came struggling from his lips, and at last the listener heard
him mutter: “Over! it is all over!” and again, after another violent struggle, flinging
his right hand abroad violently, and clutching the bed-clothes with a stern savage gripe,
“I have thee by the throat, dog! damned dog! Plead not—plead not to me for mercy!
thou did'st stab Musgrave in cold blood, when he had yielded him a prisoner! Ha,
ha! plead not to me!” He fumbled with his left hand impotently in the bed, as if he
were grappling for a weapon, and then, still maintaining the death gripe, as he thought,
with his right, “How the dog struggles!” he continued. “Plague on't, I've lost my
dagger. Here, Edgar—Edgar Beavan—run me thy rapier through this hound, or blow
his brains out, while I hold him! Ha! ha!” he added furiously, h,s whole face kindled
with a wild fiery glare—“ha! down with thee to hell! and there boast of his murder!

Ha! ha! ha! ha-ha!” and he burst into a fit of convulsive savage laughter, which
gradually died away, and left him again all relaxed and dreamless.

“Poor youth! alack, poor youth!” murmured the good old man; “how fearfully the
dread strife and the death-grapple darkens his fresh unhardened spirit. God pardon
him the sin of blood-shedding—since surely he did strike for the right cause! Lo! he
frowns now again, and the cold sweat wells out at every pore.”

“Charge! charge!” muttered the sleeper, interrupting the tenor of his meditations.
“Charge once more—kill! kill! kill! no quarter to the rebel dogs! the damned blood-drinking
roundheads!”

“Ay! he is in the very agony of the hot heady fight. I will awake him;” and suiting,
as he spoke, the action to the word, he laid his hand lightly on the arm of the
sleeper. It was like the work of magic; for scarcely did the old man's finger touch
the wrist of Wyvil before he started up, unsheathing his rapier with one hand, and
snatching the poniard with the other; and stood erect upon the floor, with eye, hand,
foot on the alert in posture of defence. It was scarcely a second since he was struggling
in the visions of his tortured sleep upon the bloody banks of the Team, and now
he was in the full possession of his senses, cool, self-collected—armed in mind and
body, prepared for any fortune.

A quiet smile crossed the fine face of the old squire, and fading away instantly, left
a grave and even sad expression in its place, as he addressed the youthful cavalier.

“Nay, nay! it is no foe; nor have you any need of weapons—”

“Ha! my kind host,” the other interrupted him, lowering the point of his sword as
he spoke. “I crave your pardon: I saw not that it was you.”

“You slept in truth heavily,” replied Selby; “and your slumbers were so disturbed
and restless, that I had the less hesitation in arousing you. Besides, I have much to
say to you. In the first place, I have brought you food, and wine, and raiment, and
all appliances to make your toilet; some books, moreover, and oil for your lamp. Here
is a little charcoal likewise, and there should be a brazier somewhere—ay! here it is
in the corner; best make yourself a fire forthwith, and dry your dripping garments.
But first I must require you to plight me your sacred oath of honor, never by any means
to publish or divulge to any living creature the secret of your biding-place!”

“I were ungrateful else, and base indeed,” replied Wyvil; and laying his hand on
his heart, he continued: “Most solemnly I plight my sacred honor, never by word or
deed, by sign or hint or writing, to reveal aught that you shall show to me in furtherance
of my escape and safety; and should I ever, or by any chance, forget this pledge
hereafter, so may God forget me even at my utmost need!”

“No more!” said Selby, taking him by the hand—“no more! nor had I asked even
this, but that it is enjoined on me to do so. Never must these things be revealed to
any, save the head of the house and his next heir, but in the case of extreme peril, and
then under the sanction of an oath. This then sufficeth. Now tell me, sir, what hopes
you have of aid from without?”

“None, presently!” answered the youth. “If I could but reach France, I might do
well; for on the outbreak of the war, and since at many times, I have remitted thither
much jewelry and gold. But how to reach the coast, or when there to get shipping,
in truth I know not.”

“And have you no friends anywhere, whom you might trust—nor any faithful agent?
We may conceal you here, it is true, for a time; but every hour, nay, minute, will
increase the hazard. Suspicion is awake already, and I might say peril is around us!”

“No friends—no friends, at least, who could assist me! but there is one, a secret
agent of the king's partisans, though deemed a spy in the pay of Cromwell—known as
the peddler Bertram; if I could make him know my case, if any man could do it, he
would effect—”

“I know the man,” interrupted Selby—“I know the man, but only as a travelling
trader. I know him, and it may be can discover him ere many days; but are you sure
he may be trusted?”

“No man in these times can be sure of any one!” Wyvil answered, after a moment's
thought, “but I dare trust myself with him. He has been often tried and trusted, and
so far has proved always faithful.”

“I will proceed straightway to have him sought out—as far as may be, we will
secure his faith—not paying him a crown till you are safe on shipboard.”

“That will not avail anything; Bartram, as he is called—for that is not his name in
sooth—takes no reward from cavaliers.”

“That speaks well for his trust at least! I'll see to it—now, mark me; I do not doubt,
but that search will be made again to-morrow—or to-day—nor do I very much doubt
but that, if one I know conducts the search, this chamber will be readily discovered.
So many of the old houses have similar contrivances, which have by chance or treachery
or acute wit of the searchers, been discovered, that they have got the trick of them—
and this, although not altogether easy, is by no means to be considered as impregnable;
it hath, however, further secrets. First let me tell you, there is no lack of fresh air here,
although there be no windows—for everywhere throughout the thickness of the walls
there have been framed long winding spiracles, else were it unsafe to burn charcoal.
Now, Captain Wyvil, mark every word I say, for it may be your life depends on your
clear memory. There is a strange contrivance here; a long metallic tube framed like a
trumpet, but with ten times the power—one whisper at the farther end fills all this
chamber with a reverberating din, that would awake the soundest sleeper though he
were drugged with opium. By this tube notice shall be given you ere any search commences—an
hour, at the least, must elapse, ere any one except myself or Alice could
reach this central hold; but notwithstanding, when you shall hear that sound, make no
delay—for be assured there will be desperate peril. If, when they search this spot, they
shall find any signs of recent occupation, be sure that you are lost! with you it rests, to
keep all things so ordered, that they shall be in place as though not touched for months.
Pile all the furniture together: leave not a scrap of food, nor a drop of wine, to tell
tales, in any drinking glass—heap the books on the highest shelf—and lo! here is a bag
of dust and rubbish and old feathers—shake this out freely over all—tie the wine-flasks
and lamps, and all else that might create surmise, to the leaden weight and hook which
lie by the trap-door I showed you, and sink them in the water—do this as speedily as
may be, and then fly! And, now I think of it, keep no fire any more in the brazier,
when you have dried your raiment—so, I doubt not, we may frustrate their expectations
that would work us evil.”

“But how, or whither must I fly? I see no means at all, nor any—”

“We will waste no time, Captain Wyvil,” answered Selby, “but you will follow me,
so please you;” and with these words he unlocked both doors, which had remained unopened
the preceding night; and entering that nearest to the stairs, by which lay the
descent to the well and trap, was followed closely by the young cavalier, whose attention
had been firmly rivetted on every syllable the old man uttered.

The greater part of an hour had elapsed, before they returned; and when they did so
it was by the other passage, so that it was apparent that Marmaduke had now been made
acquainted with all the different modes of egress from his friendly prison-house. They
were both somewhat pale, and the lamps which they bore burned very blue and dim,
and all their clothes were soiled in many places, and besmirched with much green
mould—the old man was moreover so much exhausted, that he set down for a while in
the arm-chair, panting and seemingly quite overwrought by the fatigue, and the bad
atmosphere he had imbibed in traversing the gloomy vaults and corridors of that dark
labyrinth.

After a few moments' rest, however, he filled himself a beaker of the generous wine
of Bordeaux, and pushing the flask across the board to Wyvil, motioned him to fill up,
and emptied his glass at a single draught.

“Well now,” he said, “remember, I beseech you, the clue in the right hand passage
is the number three! to the right throughout—every third turning to the right!—those to
the left, and all the others are but false turnings and deceptions. In the left hand it is

five; now, if the alarm be by day, neither of these are very safe! both opening as they
do in the clear country! by night it matters not much which you take, but be careful
that there be no one watching, ere you issue out. If then the alarm be by day, you
were best try the other, and tarry there until you hear the signal. Now then, give me
your hand—farewell. I may not now wait longer, lest I be missed. Alice or I will
visit you this evening—and now, young man consider—I would have you—and weigh
well the vast trust I repose in you—a very stranger—all for pure charity and my own
sense of duty! my own and daughter's life! my own and daughter's honor! no more, sir
—one word is enough! no answer, I beseech you—and above all, no protestation!
Deeds, my good friend—deeds done hereafter will outstrip a whole ton of words at the
present. God bless you, and farewell!” and saying thus, he left him quite abruptly;
and, locking the door after him, hurried away with all speed to his own private study.

Well was it that he did make haste; for he had not been there ten minutes, and had
but just replaced the volumes which concealed the spring upon the bookshelves, adjusted
his disordered dress, and seated himself, pen in hand, at his desk, when a quick footstep
without followed immediately the slamming of a distant door; and was succeeded by
a tap on the panel, and the voice of a domestic announcing the arrival of a messenger
bearing a letter with dispatch from Major General Henry Chaloner.

Rising instantly, with his pen still in his fingers wet with the ink into which he had
the presence of mind to dip it for the purpose; Selby unlocked the door, and received
the note with an explanation that the bearer had been detained an hour or better, no
servant having ventured to disturb him until the time should arrive which he himself had
specified.

“It is well,” answered he, when he had read the hasty scroll; “then will I not delay
him any longer. Bid him say to his master, Launcelot, that Master Selby greets him,
and will rejoice to see him at his own good convenience!” The man bowed, and withdrew;
and the old man seated himself again quietly, and after a moment's thought—
“He!” he said, “ha!—now comes the trial!” and without any further meditation, or
any sign of care, he took up the Eumenides of æschylus, turned to the difficult and
obscure chorus at the 876th line; and read, and methodized, and made notes as he went on,
some in the margin of the volume itself, and some in a large brass-bound vellum-covered
book, labelled “Ephemeris Classica Variorum,” as tranquilly as though he had nothing
of more immediate or pressing urgency upon his mind, than the emendation of a corrupt
reading, or the restoration of the true text. It was not affectation—it was not even the
result of an effort—he yielded to the force of ancient habit, and in five minutes after the
man had left him, was completely wrapped up in his subject, mindful of archæology
alone, and utterly forgetful of all sublunary matters; and so remained, until he was again
aroused to consideration of earthly things, by the announcement of his cousin Chaloner.
Of a truth was it said, that we are fearfully and wonderfully made!