University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

For many days after the second search of the Ironsides, the family at Woolverton
pursued, as it would seem, untroubled the wonted round of their calm quiet daily avocations.
No visitor disturbed the even tenor of their way; no stranger came within
their gates. The good old man, whose age, and the well known seclusion of his habits,
should have exempted him, in the opinion even of his few Puritan neighbors, from any
such suspicion as would have justified a search, returned, apparently scarce conscious
of their violent interruption, to his old bookworm customs; and read, and pondered,
and dreamed days away; and wrote huge volumes on abstruse and crabbed points of

classical lore—volumes, which it would glad the heart of many a Regius professor now
to discover, but which were never destined to see the light of any broader sun, than
that which stole in through the shadowed casements of their perhaps too unambitious
author's study. Never, except at meal-times, or when some message of slight moment
summoned a servant to his library, was he seen even by his own household, saving that
once or twice, when the clear radiance of some brighter morning than was common at
that season, invited her forth to inhale the fresh breezy air of autumn, Alice persuaded
him to don his sad-colored riding cloak and broad-leafed beaver, and lend her the support—mere
nominal support indeed, and worse than useless, had any need occurred to
make it requisite—of his frail arm. Then for an hour or two at a time, he might have
been seen loitering by the side of his fair daughter beneath the shade of his old elm-trees,
or sitting on a bench of stone, under the southern wall, to solace himself with
the faint beams of the September sun; while she, not far aloof, tended in her parterres
some bright late-flowering survivor of the summer, and stripped away its withered
leaves, or fitted it by her neat-handed preparations to meet the coming winter.

At times too, though less often than before her perilous adventure in the park, she
went her rounds among the village poor, dispensing comforts, and working that sweet
gratitude which ever greets calm and unostentatious charity, through every cottage, how
poor and sad soever it might be, of which she crossed the threshold—but now instead of the
old superannuated servant, who had been used to follow her steps—as he had done her
mother's, many a year before—on all her merciful errands, the treasures of her laboratory
were carried by an athletic broad-shouldered young fellow, whose broadsword girded
on his thigh, with the small buckler swinging from his left shoulder, would have proved
a far more efficient guard against marauders, than the oak staff and feeble hand of poor
old Jeremy. Two or three times, indeed, she took wing, as it were, for a longer flight;
and then the country people looked on with an admiring eye, a smile on every lip, and
a blessing on every tongue, as she swept through the soft green lanes on her dapple-gray
palfry, with two grooms galloping behind her, and a whole host of dogs—Talbot the
mighty bloodhound, and Cynthia the soft silky setter, and Romp and Rupert, thorough-bred
Blenheims both, and half a dozen others, sporting about her pony's feet, as she
rode forth to visit, at rare intervals, the ladies of some neighboring family—the Foleys,
or the Fairfaxes, which last, although strict Presbyterians, had ever been close friends,
while she was yet alive, of her lost mother. Still these were but exceptions, for it was
very seldom, comparatively speaking, that Alice left at all the precinets of the park; and
even within these, it began to be noticed by the old servants—licensed gossips of the
household—that she was less often visible than of yore; and that a far greater portion
of her time was passed in the seclusion of her father's study—strange choice for a young
lively girl! for, heretofore, she had been very lively, and even mirthful; but now, it
could not fail to be observed that she was greatly changed; that her young lip was
seldom visited by smiles; that a subdued and conscious expression pervaded her bright
eyes, and sunny lineaments—an expression, not of grief at all, nor of thought altogether,
but of deep pensive feeling. It might be of hope tremulous and deferred; it might be
of that half-real, half-ideal melancholy, which is not all unusual to spirits of an imaginative
and poetic temperament; or it might be perhaps the dawning of deeper thoughts,
and warmer passions, that cast like coming events, their dim prescient shadow over the
tablets of her virgin mind, reflected thence on eye, and brow, and lip, and every speaking
feature.

Much of her time was, indeed, passed now within the library, so far at least as the
domestics had the means of knowing; but she and her old father alone knew where
and how it was consumed. For his years, and disinclination to taking any active
exercise, had speedily induced Mark Selby to delegate to his sweet daughter the task
of daily visiting their concealed guest, nor did he in truth again seek the crypt after the
Ironsides had searched it. From that time forth, then, it became the task of Alice to
see him each succeeding day, ministering to his wants, soothing his sorrows, cherishing
his high hopes of brighter fortunes in the future, and forming, as it were, the sole connecting

link between the bright external world, and the dull prison-house of the proscribed
and hapless cavalier. For several days, at first, it needed a strong effort, ere she could
task herself to the performance of a duty, which, if she did not feel it altogether irksome,
to say the least was both embarrassing and painful; but gradually, as the restraint of a
recent and irregular acquaintance faded away and was forgotten—and this occurred the
sooner, that on no subsequent occasion did Marmaduke discover any of that affected
and half-flippant gallantry which had almost offended her in their first interview—and
as she learned to look upon it as a thing of course, she began slowly and, as it were,
half reluctantly to take a lively interest in her imprisoned guest; looking forward when
she must seek his cell with a sort of excitement, and regarding the young man himself
—as women ever regard anything, whether it be the tame bird, or the pet spaniel,
or beloved infant, to the safety of which their care is essential—with an uncertain half-affectionate
solicitude; which, while she could not altogether affect even in the depths
of her own secret heart to misunderstand or deny it, she could neither discard from her
bosom, nor confess to her inquiring conscience.

It became, moreover, so very soon unquestionably evident that Wyvil looked upon
those brief hours, stolen as it were from solitude, as constituting his whole day, all the
rest being one dull dreary blank; and so respectful and considerate was the tone of his
admiration, so delicately gentle his attention, so proudly humble the earnestness with
which he supplicated her to bestow upon him, in mere charity, as many of her leisure
moments as she could spare from more pleasurable occupations; that it was not in
woman's nature but to feel gratified and pleased by evidences of his esteem and gratitude,
so natural and unforced in their development. There could not have been, in
fact devised—had it been the aim of any social Macchiavelli to frame wily schemes for
that purpose—any more dangerous artifice for ensnaring the affections of a young ardent
and romantic girl, than this entire abandonment of her whole time, her thoughts, her
fancy, to the discretion, as it were, of a brave, dashing, captivating gallant; and that
too, under circumstances beyond all others calculated to work on the imagination, to
rouse the dormant sensibilities, and through the blended influences of pity and protection
to reach the heart of woman. It would perhaps at first sight, seem a paradoxical
remark, and one susceptible of easy refutation, to say that all men, and yet more, all
women, are readier to attach themselves to those whom they have aided, than to persons
who have claims upon their love or gratitude from benefits conferred, or onerous
obligations; but we are certain that the more fully this shall be considered, the more
it will be found that it is true and natural. Why this should be, it is not for us to
investigate at present; but throughout the whole range of human nature, the same
strange contradiction, as it seems, will be found prevalent. The children of her agony
and sorrow are dearer—dearer a thousand fold to the young nursing wife, than the
mother who brought her forth in suffering, and watched her infancy with tearful eagerness
of hope, and cherished her fair youth with tender and solicitous affection. In this,
perchance, may lie the germ of all the matter; from this instinctive natural devotion of
woman to those who are dependent, and whom they love, as it would seem, the more
from the very helplessness of that dependence, perchance may spring that tendency in
all our race to love, we will not say their benefactors less, but those whom they have
benefited more. Be this, however, as it may, the fact will be found to be as we have
stated it; and for one girl who gives her whole heart up to one whose claims to her
regard are based on gratitude for services performed, nine yield their love to men whom
they have heard maligned, and so defended—whom they have succored in distress, or
what is the same thing, whom they imagine they have succored.

And so at last did it fall out with Alice Selby—predisposed, from the share she had
already taken in his fortunes, from the very perils she had incurred, and from the uncertainty
of his final destinies, to feel an interest in the young cavalier whom she had
saved from death—when she found him afterwards intrusted wholly to her care, depending
on her discretion for his life, on her attentive ministering for his subsistence
day by day, on her society for his sole intercourse with the fair world—that interest

was naturally increased tenfold! And then his eloquence, his bravery, his gratitude
expressed in words of living fire—his noble person and high intellectual features—all
the advantages which nature gave him, and sedulous accomplishment had carried forward
to their utmost limit—all these things, cast as it were before her feet, witnessed
by her alone, called forth as it appeared for her sole use, profusely lavished for her
pleasure; had, as they needs must have, their due and full effect. It must not be supposed,
however, that Alice was won easily, or that she was indeed won at all; for not
a word of love had ever passed between the pair, nor is it in the least probable that so
much as a thought of it had as yet crossed her innocent mind; since it may be deemed
certain that if anything of the kind had once suggested itself, her jealous bashfulness
would have at once taken the alarm, and by rendering her aware of danger, would
simultaneously have rendered that danger quite innocuous. It is true that she thought
Wyvil, as indeed he was, the most accomplished and high-toned gentleman she had
ever yet encountered; she admitted to herself that he was the most agreeable; that his
conversation, enriched as it was with anecdote, sparkling with brilliant humor, pervaded
by a rich vein of feeling, strong and poetical and tinged not slightly with romance, was
the most captivating to the senses of any she had ever listened. Then, too, his feelings
were conveyed to her ear through the medium of perhaps the most perfect voice that
ever breathed its fascination into a woman's soul—it was rich, deep, well-timed, yet
soft as summer music, and it had too that peculiar spell of music which caused its every
tone to haunt the hearer's brain, like a remembered tune heard suddenly after long years of
absence—and there is certainly no fascination so vast as that embodied in a sweet
powerful cultivated voice. She saw that he was handsome, likewise—but that, as is
ever the case with women of that class and station in the world whose love is in the
least worth having, had scarce availed him anything with Alice, unless he had been
gifted eminently, as in good truth he was, with all the noble treasures of intellectual
manhood. And from all these things it resulted, by a most natural consequence, that—
although she had never yet thought of the man at all, except as feeling that in some
degree his presence and society, which in the beginning she had so much dreaded, had
even now become a pleasure; and pitying his endangered fortunes—the beautiful
young woman was half in love already, and quite prepared to wake at once into the
consciousness of passion, when any casual word, or trifling accident should break her
day-dream of security.

So stood affairs at Woolverton, when a full fortnight after the visit of the Ironsides,
on a still gleamy afternoon, when all the world was dressed out in its brightest guise of
beauty, and everything on earth, in heaven, was peaceful and at rest; sweet Marian
Rainsford was seen traversing the park, her slight and delicate figure shrouded in a
loose cloak of dark blue woollen, and her soft brown hair covered by a deep gipsy
hat of home-made straw; and asking at the gate for Misstress Alice, was instantly admitted
to her presence, and that without creating any wonder or surmise, for her blind
aged step-mother and the poor idiot were special favorites of the young lady; and
rarely did she pass a second day, without either seeing them or hearing of their welfare.

“Well, Marian,” exclaimed Alice—“well;” how fares your mother, and how poor
helpless Martin? I should have been down one day this week to visit you, but that I
have been so engaged at home, that I have really lacked leisure.”

“They are as well, my dear young lady, as they can ever be this side the grave,”
replied the fair young widow; “but it is not on their account that I have come to seek
you; I know, too, that you have been close engaged at home—and I believe I know
how likewise—or if I do not know, I at least have a shrewd guess as it—nay! lady,
answer me not, I pray you; but listen to my errand, for I have much to tell you, and
you must act as you deem best, when you have heard all I have got to say. The peddler
Bartram, of whom you have bought, I think, wares at sundry times, is at the Stag's
Head since last night, and on his part I come to you.”

“To me, from Master Bartram! but wherefore, wherefore, my good Marian?”
asked Alice, blushing deeply as she spoke, and endeavoring to avoid—she scarce knew
why—the quiet melancholy eye of her young visitor.

“Oh! you may trust me, dearest lady; surely you cannot doubt that you may trust
me! for have not I too suffered in the same cause, and does not that one bond of suffering
link me more closely to my fellows in that sorrow, than any ties that earth has now to
hold me? I would give everything but life, myself, to buy his safety for this young
gallant gentleman—and life itself how joyfully! were there not those yet living to
whom that life is needful. But think not that I wish to pry into your secret, if you
have one—I only speak to let you see my mind, and understand my motives. And
now, this is mine errand. Bartram is at the Stag's Head now, or will be there anon,
and bade me say to you, he has obeyed your father's bidding, and all is well-nigh ready.
But he must see you, lady, either at our poor house, or in the little park beyond the
river, after it is quite dark this very evening—he dare not come up to the Hall upon
this business.”

“Oh, now I understand you,” answered Alice—“I understand you now quite well.
But tell me, Marian, has Bartram explained nothing to you of all this?”

“Not a word, Mistress Alice, though he said he did not doubt I should understand;
and that very likely you would trust me with the whole.”

“But I will not,” said Alice—“I will not, Marian;” then seeing instantly that an expression,
not of vexation or offended pride, but of regret and disappointment was written
legibly on the young widow's speaking features, she added with a smile, “not that
I have the least doubt of your faith and truth, or the least fear of your prudence, but
that such confidences are very dangerous to those who are intrusted; and I would not
involve, without the plea of strong necessity, another in the risk which I run myself
willingly. If need be however, Marian, be quite sure I will trust you. But now, how
to arrange this meeting will be, I fear me, not so easy. Who knows of Bartram's presence
hereabout?”

“No one at all,” Marian replied, “except myself so far, for he tapped at my casement
long past midnight, and hade me let him in quite silently; and I did so at once,
for I guessed partly what he was about; and after he had charged me with this message,
he sat beside the kitchen fire till it was nearly daylight, and then letting himself
out of the back door, locked it after him, and flung the key into my window. He has
gone now, I well believe, to farmer Sherlock's; but he will be back before nightfall,
and I have left the lattice open in the two-story parlor to the rear, that he may climb the
park wall, by the elm trees, and thence mount into the house unseen. Then I will carry
him your answer, and he will meet you where you will.”

“In the park, then,” said Alice—“in the park, under the large oak tree, beyond the
third foot-bridge; there I will wait for him from seven of the clock.”

“I know not,” answered Marian—“I know not. I do not think the park so over
safe; they say stone walls have ears, and on my word I think green leaves have ears
and eyes too now a-days. For as I came across the little park, just by the very tree you
mention, there is, if you forget not, a small steep hollow place, an old sandpit or quarry,
quite overgrown with weeds and bushes; just as I passed the brink of it, I heard a kind
of scraping sound, as if some person were dragging himself on his breast along the
ground, and then a rustle as if of branches parted by a strong careful hand; so I looked
round quite naturally, not as if I had heard anything, and made believe to call a little
dog; but I saw quite distinctly two full dark eyes gleaming out from among the tangled
thorns and briers. I took no notice then, however, for I perceived at once that I could
not discover any more of the features, but passed on a few paces farther, and then turned
round again and chirruped for the dog, though I had no dog with me; that time I got
rather a fairer view, and saw the whole of the man's face—for a man it was—although
he did not think I saw him! A grim and truculent countenance as I ever beheld, with
a close crop of foxy hair, and the most evil aspect in the eye you can imagine. I am
sure too, that I have seen the face before, though where or when I cannot bring to mind.
It seems to me, though, that it was not long since; and I cannot but think it was connected
with some painful scene or other. I have been tasking myself ever since to try
and recollect, but I cannot do so, were it to save my life. Of this, however, I am assured,

that he lay there in wait for somebody or other! I think the better way would be,
dear Mistress Alice, that I should leave you now, and come back somewhat suddenly
when it is growing dark; then you may take a servant or two armed with you, and
they can wait in the kitchen while I lead you up stairs, as if to see the children or
Martin, who, to say truth, is somewhat ailing.”

“I see,” said Alice, after a moment's thought—“I see, and think as you do. This is
unpleasant news, however, concerning the spy in the park, if spy he be—but might he
not have been a poacher, lying in wait for the deer, think you, Marian?”

“I think not, lady,” she replied; “there was, I know not what, that made me think
of homicide or treason in his eye—he had not the dare-devil look of a deer-stealer. It
was a hypocritical, bad, downcast visage, as ever man wore on his shoulders!”

“Well, 'tis too late to look to this to-day—to-morrow he shall be seen after. In the
mean time do as you have suggested, Marian; come for me about six o'clock, and
Charles and Launcelot shall go with us. You will return by the road, will you not?”

“That would be anwise, lady; and if he be a spy, might lead him to suspect something,
and so to change his ground. Besides, it is quite clear that I have nothing to apprehend;
he had me in his power before, had he thought fit to harm me. No, I will
go back as I came; and see, I brought my empty basket for an excuse, and I will get
it filled with simples by dame Trueman, and go my way, my errand being done.”

“But stay, but stay a moment,” Alice cried; “and tell me what ails Martin?”

“Oh, in good sooth, not much—but he is altered greatly since that bad officer entreated
him so rudely, and since the soldiers killed his mastiff; and he sleeps not so
much in the day time, nor is so quiet, but has become a rambler of late, which he never
was before; wandering off into the woodlands for whole days, starting so soon as the
sun rises, and sometimes not returning until the moon is up; and, though he brings
back poppies and late field-flowers, and sometimes blackberries and hips and haws, I
think it is not after these he roams abroad; for I do fancy that the expression of his eye
is changed too, and that not for the better! he wears a cunning and suspicious glance
at times, and seems for ever as he were seeking to track some one to a hiding place;
but yet it may be nothing but my fancy. We tried at first, when he took up this habit,
to confine him; but then he had such awful fits and paroxysms that we were forced to
let him go his own way, trusting his welfare unto Him `who tempereth the wind to the
shorn lamb.' I hope, however, that I am in the wrong about his change of temper—I
hope it is my fancy.”

“Mere fancy; Marian, be sure of it,” answered Alice, rising; “and now farewell,
and recollect to call for me;” and, as she spoke, she led her out to the stair-head where
the servants might hear what she said, and shaking her warmly by the hand—“well,
good bye,” she continued; “pray get those things you want from Trueman as you go,
and don't forget to come for me, should Martin have another seizure. I will go with
you at a moment's notice:” and then they parted, Alice to seek her father's study and
there request his counsel, and Marian to hurry home, with fearless port but trembling
heart, along the path which she believed waylaid by lurking ruffians.