University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It was not altogether without some trepidation, if not positive alarm, that Marian
Rainsford hurried homeward; for, in spite of her strong natural sense, and her conviction
that no evil was intended toward herself by the man she had seen in the park; it
was still a position quite sufficiently alarming to be at the mercy of an unknown individual,
whose motives, to judge from his demeanor, could scarcely be compatible with
uprightness or honor. That portion of the park, too, was very solitary; and indeed
was but rarely visited, except by the forester on his appointed rounds, as had been
proved by the boldness of the late attack on Alice Selby—a boldness well-nigh justified

by that gilder of all human actions, ultimate success. The youthful widow was,
however, of a temperament which, naturally calm and self-restrained, had been yet
further schooled by hard and sad experience; she had thought on many subjects, and
rarely indeed acted now on impulse; the same cool foresight, therefore, which had
made her determined to return homeward by the same path which she had taken in
going out, the better to deceive the lurking spy—who, if he were indeed a spy, must be
presumed acquainted with her person and her dwelling-place—taught her, that to avoid
the danger, she must avoid showing fear of it; so with a quiet easy air, and with a
step slower, if anything, than common—though it must be admitted that her heart
thrilled painfully, and that her ear marked every trivial sound—she neared the brink of
the old sandpit. Nothing occurred, however, to disturb her self-possession; nor did she
see or hear aught which could be held to betoken the presence of a living being; if it
were not a thin blue wreath of vapor, which curled up lazily out of the tangled brush
wood that fringed the verge and all the steep sides of the little quarry; and which when
she had seen it from a distance, her eye, unpracticed to such accidents—as a painter
might have termed the effect—had confounded with the evening mists already floating
up all gray and ghastly around the damp and marshy woodland. As she passed by,
however, she instantly detected its true character, and yet she misinterpreted its
meaning; for as she could not catch—although she listened with her every sense on
the alert—the slightest sound of conversation, she came to the conclusion, that those
who had lighted the fire for their own purposes had ere now left the spot; the rather
that a robin perched in full sight upon a leafless bough, was warbling his simple tune
within ten paces of the place whence the blue smoke was rising into the evening air,
and that two large and lazy hares were pasturing quite fearlessly beside the pathway.
This error, for error it was, had well-nigh led her into very serious peril; for she was
on the point of going forward to examine the ground, when suddenly, she scarce knew
why, a sense of terror fell upon her, and she moved onward at her wonted pace till she
had passed the nearest clump of trees, and then she fairly took to her heels, and never
ceased from running until she reached home, breathless, but uninjured. Lucky it was,
indeed, for her, that she did not leave the beaten track—lucky, that she did not even
pause—for the song of the bird, and the lazy tameness of the hare indicated not that
that there were no human beings near at hand, for such was not the case, but only that
they had made no movement recently—it being characteristic of such animals to entertain
no fears, even of the great tyrant man, so long as he sits or stands motionless and
silent. Lucky it was indeed—if that may be called lucky, which was the result of
forethought more than of any accident or chance—since at that very moment, sheltered
from view by the precipitous banks of sandy gravel and the thick bushes overhanging
them, three strong and ruffian-looking men were seated round the fire which sent up
the thin smoke that had caught Marian's notice.

It was a singular and exceedingly well-chosen spot for an ambuscade or post of espial,
for you might pass within ten feet of its brink, without imagining that there was anything
more than a small shallow basin full of brushwood; while in reality it was a deep
and abrupt pit, with sheer-cut sides of nearly twenty feet, whence at some distant period
the sand-stone had been quarried for purposes of rural architecture. It was indeed
quite small, not above fifteen yards in length by half that width, and so luxuriantly had
the broom and evergreen furze shot forth from the brink of its banks, that they almost
entirely overcanopied it. The ground in this quarter of the park was broken into
abrupt rounded hillocks, and this pit had been sunk in one of these, close to the crest
of the knoll; so that when it had attained its utmost depth, an irregular and narrow
cart-track had been cut through the slope into the nearest hollow; this track, however,
having been long disused and half choked by the earth and stones which had rolled
from above, and overrun completely with every species of tangled underwood, was
quite forgotten, and would doubtless have been quite obliterated too, but that a little
thread of running water, the offspring of a tiny well-head which had been opened as the
stony strata were cut through, found its way down the narrow gorge to join the neigh,

boring rivulet. So insignificant, indeed, was the whole surface occupied, and so completely
was it sheltered, that there were not perhaps five people in the country who
knew of its existence, although it lay, as has been stated, within ten paces of a regular
footpath—some two or three of the old servants, had they been questioned, would
probably have recollected that they had seen or heard of it, and the game-keeper knew
the gully well, for it was a favorite haunt of woodcock when all the marshy woods
were frozen hard, though it is scarcely probable that he had ever followed the streamlet
upward to its source. No fitter den could, therefore, have been chosen by any person,
whose object it might be to join seclusion with the ability of keeping watch over the
dwellers of the Hall; since its steep banks concealed it from all observation, and sheltered
it from every wind of heaven; while its pure spring afforded an unfailing antidote
to thirst, and heavy must have been the storm, which should beat down upon its inmates
between the tangled branches of the thicket overhead.

In this sequestered nook, around a fire which evidently was but just kindled, of dried
leaves and such broken branches as would give forth but little smoke, three men were
seated, silently superintending the preparation of their evening meal—for which there
lay ample provision on the dry mossy greensward, in the shape of a hare already
stripped of his furry coat and trussed for cooking, and a brace of superb cock-pheasants—when
they were interrupted by the crackling sound of a dry branch, several of
which they had disposed, for that very purpose, across the path; so that it would have
been no easy matter for any one to have avoided treading on them, even had he been
desirous of so doing. As no such thought had entered Marian's mind, she trod on one
or two quite unsuspiciously, and the sharp crackle with which they yielded to her light
springy tread, reached ears, as we have seen, keenly awake to every passing token.
One of the party rose immediately, making a sign of caution to the others, and scaling
the bank easily by the aid of steps cut into its hard strata, and stakes set firmly in the
looser portions, brought his eye just above the surface; and speedily discovering who
was the passer-by, and seeing that she walked straight on, quite fearlessly, descended
again to his comrades, and resumbed his seat, saying in answer to their inquiring glances—

“Nay; it was but the young wench of the inn, who passed an hour ago, or better,
when I was on the watch.”

“It was but right,” answered one of the others, with an appalling oath; “to strip off
her duds if she has nothing more about her, and give her a walk home in cuerpo, as
the Spaniard has it, this fine fresh afternoon.”

“No, no; that would not do at all;” returned the first speaker, a sullen, dogged
puritanical-looking youth, dressed in a strong new doublet of buff leather, such as was
worn by the Ironsides when off duty, and a slouched gray felt hat; “I do profess, that
you would ruin the best scheme that ever wit hatched by your rash rakehelly marauding.
I almost do regret I have consorted with you; I do, as my soul hopes to see salvation.”

“As your soul hopes to see hell-fire!” replied the other man, a tall, rawboned and
tawdrily-dressed soldier, with huge mustaches and a peaked beard upon his chin; the
very caricature in fact, of a debauched and roistering cavalier, as was the other of a
fanatical independent—“to see hell fire, you should say rather—for as the courses you
run here lead not that way, the road is very different, I trow, from what the preachers
tell us. But if you are so sorry you have joined with us, what keeps you here with us?
Too much of honor is it for a d—d scurry roundhead to be admitted to go shares with
gentlemen who have fought for the king. Why do you consort with us, Master Despard?
I trow we never sought your company.”

“Because he cannot help it;” said the third man, who had not spoken before—
“because he cannot help it, Beverly. Why do you ask such silly questions—seeing
you know as well as he does, that since he was broken and dismissed the Ironsides, he
has no help for it, but to take toll as we do?”

“Then I should rather ask,” retorted Beverly, “why we, two cavaliers of honor,
allow this canting palm-singer to hang upon our skirts, and carry it so high as if he
were our leader?”

“That can I tell you,” said Despard, for it was no other than the tyrannical and
brutal cornet, who had been cashiered and disgraced at Henry Chaloner's instance—
“that can I tell you very shortly. Because five words of mine, just five! of mine
would send you to the gallows at Low Barnsley Moor; first, as proclaimed malignants
—second, as common pads and michers—and third, as the assaulters of sweet Mistress
Alice Selby; five words of mine would do this piece of very notable justice. I do not
know, 'fore heaven, why I dont speak them.”

“Then will I make sure that you don't,” replied the taller ruffan, starting to his feet, and
laying his hand where the hilt of his sword should have been, but where there only
swung an empty scabbard. Despard, however, did not quit his seat, nor indeed moved
at all, though his dark, jealous eye watched every movement of his man with eager scrutiny;
but when he saw him clutch the useless scabbard, he uttered a low sneering laugh.

“Pity,” he said—“'tis pity thou didst throw away a weapon thou seemest so prompt
to handle, and all in empty terror for an unloaded pistol, when, had you but possessed
half a man's courage, you might have pinked that straight-laced idiot Chaloner,
and clodded the knave farmer into the deepest hole of the river, and turned the girl to
your own uses afterwards. Tush man, you cavaliers and kingsmen, for all your braggart
ruffling, are fit but to rob hen-roosts, and frighten country cullions. Tush! I say,
tush! Hugh Beverly—we are not here to wrangle or to fight, but to be well revenged
upon our enemies, and to amend our fortunes, as thou knowest!”

“Curse Chaloner, and you too!” answered the other gruffly, resuming his seat, however,
as he spoke; “for had he not thrust himself into that which concerned him nothing,
we had won gold enough to carry as to merry France long since—and then must you
come in with your confounded schemes and plots. Hung! by the Lord! if we were
hung at all it should be for what we are planning now—to yield up an old kingsman,
and a comrade too, to the filthy roundhead butchers. But if we do 'scape hanging for't
we shall not 'scape the stings of our conscience. For my part I do not like it half!”

“But recollect,” put in the other cavalier—“recollect, Beverly, how he set you in the
bilboes and swore that you should taste of the strapado.”

“And if he did—if he did, Paul, I cannot say but I deserved it,” the tall man interrupted
him—“but plague upon the bilboes! If Captain Wyvil could see us as we are,
he would right freely share his last crown with us—and not to save his own life ten
times over would he betray our hiding-place or yield us to the hangman.”

“Well, Beverly,” returned the other, “if you think thus of it, you were best bridge,
and seek your fortune elsewhere; Master Despard and I will do the job without you.
But as it must be done, whether you will or no, it seems to me you were best share
the deed, and go thirds in the guerdon—think, man, a hundred crowns to each of us, and
a free pardon!”

“Damn the crowns!” Beverly replied—“I would not do it for ten thousand, if I could
only get myself quietly away to France.”

“But that thou canst not do, friend,” said Despard, who thought it full time to strike
in now that his comrade's virtue was yielding fast to the temptation—“but that thou
canst not do—were it to save thy soul from sure perdition. Here thou art, many miles
from sea, with all the roads patrolled on every side, and not a tester in your pouch!
Thou hast no choice but to join with us, or to perish. Besides, it may not go so hard
with this malignant Wyvil after all. For of a verity I owe him no grudge—and, for me,
he might go safe where'er he listed were it not for the price upon his head, and for the
certainty of proving Chaloner guilty of treacherous connivance, and bringing down his
cool, proud insolence of bearing to infamy and ruin—for all he lords it now so fairly!
Come, pluck up heart man—thou must needs on with us.”

“I fear you say true, and I must,” Beverly answered; “but I would not, by all the
fiends in hell! I would not, could I at all do otherwise! Pass me the bottle, Paul, pass
me the bottle:” and grasping, with the words, a huge black leathern flagon half filled
with spirits, he gulped down his qualms of conscience in a deep draught of the liquid
fire; and dropping it again folded his arms upon his breast, and frowning, fixed his eyes

doggedly on the ground, as one resolved to act against the dictates of his better reason.
For a minute or two no further words were interchanged, but Despard screwed his features
into a hideously acute grimace, and winked at the ruffian who had been called
Paul, pointing as he did so with his thumb over his shoulder to the lesser villain, Beverly;
and then a grim smile kindled both their visages, as they exulted over the last vanquished
glimpse of their companion's nobler nature. After a little pause, however, Paul addressed
the Puritan in a subdued voice, not necessarily to attract attention from the other.

“But are you sure,” he said—“are you so very sure after all, that Wyvil is concealed
up here at the manor? I cannot see, for my part, how he can well be there, after such
thorough searching—nor if he be, how you can know it.”

“I tell you, man, he must be here—did we not chase him down to the very bridge in
full sight of our party, and when we turned the corner, lo! he was vanished away—and
was not his horse found close beside the river, where he had tied him in the woodland—
and did not our first squadron see this girl at the fish-house, who had departed thence,
when we came thither—and is not this good proof?”

“It may be good suspicion, but hardly proof, I think. It were the devil's own hash,
to be foiled in this matter, after we have been loitering hereabout so long.”

“I tell you, we will not be foiled—keep thou but sharp watch. For while I lay
watching the forester under the old park wall, I heard that peddler knave, that Bartram—
I never miss a voice I have heard once before! chatting with the quean, Marian, of
the inn. I could not catch all that they said; but I am sure I heard the peddler send
her to fix some time and place where he might speak with Mistress Alice—doubtless
to scheme this Marmaduke's escape; and I doubt not it was to that end she visited the
Hall. As soon as it grows dark, we will part company—you, Paul, shall watch the
lane and the park gates; Beverly here shall hang about the fish-house; while I will
take my old post by the wall.”

“But are you certain,” Paul again inquired, “that when we have found out the time,
we shall be able to entrap him—are you assured you have discovered all the outlets of
that same hiding-place of which the soldiers told you?”

“I tell you, yes; fool, yes!” returned the other; “there be but two, and I have
found them both, one in a drain that opens out beneath the park wall eastward of the
gates, into the old green lane—the other has its mouth in the stream's bank, not bigger
much than a foxearth—I had not found it, had I not well known from the troopers the
true direction of each passage.”

“But after all is done,” said Beverly, who had been listening all the time, although
they knew it not, “we shall be in the dark as much as ever. We cannot possibly learn
by which of the two gates they mean to let him out, and we are not sufficiently strong-handed
to beset both.”

“Oh, for that I have taken thought,” said Despard; “we will force them to take
which we choose. That in the river bank will be the easier of the two whereat to
seize him. And I will so arrange it, that there shall be a troop of horse posted before
the entrance of the drain that night. I have some old friends yet among the soldiers,
and it is but the sending a false letter.”

“Ay! that will do—that will do bravely! and we can seize him meanwhile, and
carry him at once to head-quarters,” cried Paul exultingly, rubbing his hands as he
spoke. “But come,” he added in a moment afterwards—“come, let us roast the hare,
and get our supper; the fire has burned bright, and it will cook him quickly. We
must put out the embers too before the keeper takes his round, and it is getting dark
already. It was a wonder the wench saw not the smoke as she passed by. Art sure
she did not, Despard?”

“Trust me for that; she never lifted once her eyelids from the ground,” the Puritan
replied, “else had I twisted her head round, before she could have called for succor,
had there been any near.”

And then, without more words, they all three set to work in earnest about the cookery
of the game; and in less than half an hour—just as the night was closing in, and objects

were but indistinctly visible at a few paces distance—they had not only prepared,
but discussed their supper, flung a few handfuls of sand upon the embers, and gathering
up their weapons, gone off in different directions into the growing darkness.