University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Months had elapsed since Marmaduke effected his escape, and everything at Woolverton,
except the thoughts of Alice Selby, had fallen back into their customary old
routine. Winter, with its keen frosts and driving snow storms, diversified by long, slow,
sloppy thaws and dark gray fogs, had come and gone; and spring had clothed the woods
with fresh green foliage, and called the wild flowers into life, and waked the wild birds
into song; and summer had succeeded, with its mature and glaring flush of noonday
beauty: yet no news arrived of Marmaduke, his whereabout, or his well-doing; nor
had the peddler Bertram been seen or heard of in the neighborhood, since the tempestuous
night whereon he accompanied the cavalier in his flight toward the sea-shore.
One thing had occurred only, that could be supposed to have any reference to the subject
which, it may be believed, was ever uppermost in the disturbed and anxious mind
of Alice. A few days after Christmas, a strolling mercer had left a little parcel at the
lodge, addressed to Mistress Alice Selby, Woolverton Hall, near Worcester, accompanied
by a mere verbal message, “That it contained the goods which had been paid for
in the autumn.” This, when it was opened—not without many a surmise as to its
contents, for no one could remember that anything had been ordered, much less paid
for in advance—was found to inclose a dozen pair of French kid gloves, superbly fringed
with silver and embroidered with rare skill, according to the fashion of the day. No
note, however, accompanied the gift, for such it evidently was, nor was there any clue
by which so much as to guess the giver; but on a close examination, Alice discovered
that, contrary to what was usual, every glove bore the same device—a bird folding its
wings as if just alighted under the shelter of a tuft of lilies, with this refrain, or posy,
as it was vulgarly denominated:

It flashed upon her mind, therefore, instantly, that this must be intended as an intimation
that her lover had made good his escape, and was now in security under the protention

of France, as indicated by the chosen emblem of its ruling race. There could,
indeed, be but little doubt that this was the case; and while the vigilant and jealous
system of espionage, continually exercised in everything regarding intercourse with
France, under the present government, was taken into consideration, the delicacy and
skill by which this morsel of intelligence was transmitted in such a manner that it
should not awaken the most remote suspicion, could hardly be enough admired. For
a short time the heart of Alice was relived of care, and she lived, as it might be said,
from day to day in the hope and confidence that she should ere long have the pleasure
of receiving full and sufficient information of him whom she almost regarded as her
husband. But when month after month lagged on, and no news came, although she
learned at times that other persons throughout England received tidings from their royalist
friends in the neighboring kingdom, a cold and heavy feeling of despondency mingled
with apprehension settled down, a fixed and grievous weight on her young spirits.
She could not—though she strove against the thought, which still, as often as she repressed
it, rose spectre-like before her—she could not but believe that she was deserted
—that she had never been loved, as she loved herself, with the whole, deep, interminable
fondness of a sincere and single heart; and that now, in the first brief absence,
the first small separation, which, even with the most fanciful and fickle liking, is wont
rather to add than to deduct something of deeper interest and romance; she was already
overlooked, forgotten, and betrayed. Brighter days would indeed at times break in,
and with that beautiful and holy trustfulness which forms so exquisite a feature in the
pure love of woman, she would frame many an excuse, and fancy many a reason, for
her lover's silence; and at times would reproach herself for doubting, even momentarily,
the faith and honor of him she so devotedly adored. Yet still, month after month, the
adverse feeling grew more palpably and strongly on her reason; until at length it was
so firmly rooted, that she would almost have been more surprised to hear that he was
faithful, than that he had already broken his plighted faith and violated his allegiance.

Well was it then for Alice Selby, that though her whole soft nature was imbued with
even more than all a woman's tenderness, and delicate and retiring trustfulness, there
was yet in her untried soul a deep spring of resolved and patient firmness, a never-failing
source of self-sustaining, humble, pure religion. It was well for her that she had
learned, even in the young days of her all-joyous unmixed happiness, to raise her
thoughts and hopes above these transitory scenes, and fix her heart on those fair mansions,
where sorrow never comes, nor sin, nor suffering. It was well for her! for by
that patient firmness, and in that high religious hope, that longing after something happier
far, and holier and more exalted than can be looked for here, she was enabled to
endure her trials, nor to endure them only—but to smile, even when her pangs were
keenest; and to be herself happy in the performance of her duties, and in diffusing
happiness around her. There were not, it is true, so many, nor so radiant smiles on
her bright face. There was not such a mirthful and continual sunshine as had been
wont to beam from all her sparkling features. There was not such a bounding and
elastic joy, as used to manifest itself in every motion of her light fairy frame. She fed
her birds as fondly, tended her flowers as sedulously as of old; but there was something
in her every act and movement, as if her feelings, those even which were the
most pleasurable, had lost a part of their intensity—as if for her the earth had lost its
glory. One pleasure, one alone, not only seemed to have remained unblighted amid
the desolation of the rest, but to have gained a fresh zest and vigor. The pleasure of
administering to the wants, and comforting the sorrows of the poor, the aged, and the
sick. Always, even from childhood upward, the eyes of many a sad bed-ridden sufferer
had brightened at the gentle sound of her light footsteps! Always the needy and the
woful had been accustomed to look, not in vain, for the aid of her bounteous hand, the
comfort of her low, soft voice! Always, for miles around her quiet and unostentatious
home, the prayers of the grateful peasantry had been wont to call down blessings
on her out-comings and in-goings. But now, more frequently than ever, her footsteps
might be traced among the sad and sordid haunts of rustic want and wo—more fre,

quently might she have been found sitting by the bedside of the fevered cottagers!
Assuaging by her kind promises the parting agonies of some sad, dying mother of
fatherless and helpless babes, or soothing the impatient griefs of wayward orphans!
There was a deeper pathos in the tense of her most musical voice, as she read out,
beside the death-bed of some penitent sinner! A sadder, yet a holier meaning in her
smile, as she wiped off the tear-drops from the check of some forsaken maid, and
pointed as her surest consolation, to the comforts of the day-spring from on high! It
was not, that she entertained so vain a thought, as that these things should be imputed
unto her for righteousness above.

It was not that she nursed a hope so ruinous or so delusive, as that, by this mere
exercise of actual duties, she could bribe Heaven to favor her weak wishes! Oh, no!
she was too well taught in the truths of that which is indeed the Book of Life; she
knew too well the imperfection of all human virtue; the inutility of aught save faith,
and humbleness of heart, and deep contrition, to fall even for a moment into so wild an
error. No! it was rather, that as she came herself to learn the fickleness of every
human fortune, the fallacy of every human hope, her bosom yearned the more toward
those who sorrowed; and there was none to comfort them. Her father, buried although
he was in his beloved classics, with almost all his mind abstracted and engrossed on
bookish meditations, was not so perfectly inapprehensive, as to notice nothing of what
was passing in his sweet child's mind; nor yet so ignorant of the world's wisdom, as
to deny the justice of her solicitudes and fears: but though he saw and understood the
whole, and sympathized with all her sorrows, and trembled for her fate, there could not
perhaps have been chosen a less fitting, or a less apt consoler, than Mark Selby. Himself,
originally a man of deep and overflowing passions, yet at the same time even from
his youth a secluded scholar, having set all his happiness upon a single cast, and in the
death of his beloved wife having lost that all by a single blow; despite his wisdom,
his philosophy, his Christian fortitude, he had been able to discover no better remedy
for his incessant grief, than to shut himself up apart from all his friends, among the
very scenes that most recalled it to his spirit; than to brood over it in solitude and
silence, till it had come to be the sole companion of his life, unfitting him for all exertion,
and setting as it were a great gulf between him and the ordinary cares and pleasures
of mankind.

It is true, that at times, under the sudden stimulus of some exciting circumstance,
he could be roused fom his stupor, and even spurred to energetic action and quiet
thought! but with the emergency, the brief spirit to which it had given birth passed
away likewise, and left him as before, the listless and unworthy student. This present
grief was not, however, in any sort one of those which could operate to arouse him—
lacking as it did any of that suddenness which seemed alone to stir him; caused as it
was, rather by the cumulative evidence of many slight and almost imperceptible circumstances,
than by any one striking or important incident. Then, though the old man
would sometimes wonder that no tidings should arrive from Wyvil, and sometimes in
his secret soul doubt the sincerity of his affection for his child, he would relapse almost
immediately into forgetfulness, and hardly seem to recollect that the events had taken
place at all, which had exerted such strong influences on the peace of his domestic
circle. Sometimes, indeed, he would observe the unwonted silence, not to say solemnity,
of his sweet daughter's manner. Sometimes he would gaze at her wistfully as
she sat by his side, engaged in some graceful feminine occupation, with downcast
eyes, and an unusual air of placid calmness shadowing her expressive features; and as
the sorrowful conviction would steal upon him that the same fatal blight had smitten
that young heart which had converted his own prime to ruined desolation, a tear would
steel to his withered cheek, and he would shake his thin white locks in hopeless resignation.
Yet he dreamed not of altering his mode of life; of interrupting his secluded
habits; of seeking for a change of associations by a change of scene, in her case more
than he had done in his own. It may be, that he knew not the efficacy of so slight
causes to “raze from the brain a rooted sorrow;” or, if he knew it, he had lost the

energy to practice it. So he left her to brood over her sorrows, even as he done himself;
and if the result did not prove the same, it was that the girl's mind was framed
of sterner stuff than the philosopher's, and the girl's love derived from a far deeper
source of wisdom than the schools of the stoic or the stagyrite.

Months had elapsed, and it was now the very height of summer; the birds, which
had filled all the woods with joyful song a few weeks earlier in the season, were now
all hushed and voiceless: but, as if to compensate for this, the air was vocal with the
hum of myriads of bright insects, and perfumed by the odors of unnumbered flowers.
It was a glorious morning in the first week of August: the heavy dew, which had fallen
nightly for some weeks indicating by its presence the very loveliest of summer weather,
was hardly yet exhaled from herb and flower, when, tempted by the fresh coolness of
the time, Alice was wandering among her parterres, now one rich blush of many-colored
roses, when she was disturbed from her pleasant task by the light sound of an
approaching footstep. Looking up quickly from the bush which she was trimming,
she recognized at once the form and features of Marian Rainsford, the gentle widow of
the village inn, and advancing a step or two to meet her—

“Ah! Marian,” she exclaimed, “I am glad to see you; but I hope nothing is amiss
at the Stag's-Head to bring you abroad so early. How is your mother these two days?”

“Better, I thank your kindness, Mistress Alice,” replied the fair pale widow, in
answer to Alice's last words, “I think she is something better; though it is true there
is very little change in her since our poor Martin was taken from us. She felt it as a
sad shock, and never has been able to look on it as I do, in the light of a most merciful
and blessed release—for surely he had nothing to enjoy but the mere sense of existence;
and, as you know, dear lady, after that terrible night when the young cavalier escaped,
he never was himself at all; but relapsed ever from one wild fit into another. Oh!
lady, I am certain there was some dark mystery befell that night, of which nor you,
nor I, know anything at all. And if I ask Frank Norman, or honest Master Sherlock,
they only shake their heads, and make no answer. But I am wasting time, and forgetting
that I came for. I much fear there is something wrong, though I cannot tell
what—last night a peddler man put up at the Stag's-Head, whom I once saw a year or
two ago with Master Bartram, and all the evening long he seemed uneasy and desirous
to speak with me apart; but, knowing nothing of the man, I kept aloof from him, and
I am sorry for it now—for this morning early a dragoon stopped on his way from London
to take breakfast and refresh his horse, on his way, as he let fall, with dispatches for
Major-General Henry from the Lord General Cromwell; and when the peddler saw him
coming down the lane, in the uniform of the Ironsides, he was quite awe-stricken, and
besought me to let him out by the little door in the end of the house, and would have
left his pack behind if I had not reminded him of it. Well, Mistress Alice, just as I
let him out, he told me that he had come down hither to warn you; for that Bartram
had been caught at last, and that he bade him come down hither. And he said something
more about a letter, but I could not distinctly understand, for he spoke very hurriedly
and low; but I made out this much, that there was danger to your house somehow
impending; and that his purpose was to warn you. But then he pointed toward the
front door by which the soldier was just entering, and said it was too late, and fled as
quickly as he could up the road, and I saw nothing of him more. But when the trooper
had gone on his way, which he did very soon and seemingly in much haste likewise,
I came up hither to tell you all that I know; but grieved I am, to say that it is all too
little.”

“I know not, Marian, I know not,” answered Alice thoughtfully, “nor can I even
guess what it should mean. Sorry I am to learn that Master Bartram has been taken,
but I cannot imagine what evil should arise to us from his arrest—but this man, my good
Marian, this peddler, do you know his name? did Bartram ever say that you might
trust him? nay, do you even know who Bartram is himself?”

“No, lady,” replied Marian—“no, I never heard this fellow's name; nor ever saw
him except once, as I have told you; and what is more, so far from Master Bartram

telling me to put trust in him, I have no certainty that he himself yielded him any confidence.
I have seen Bartram oftentimes consort with men of all conditions, and all
politics; and when he came in with a stranger, none of us ever seemed to know him,
unless he spoke the first. I cannot recollect now, were it for my life, how he behaved
that night this man was in his company. I think, however, that they seemed friends;
or I should else have thought more deeply of the matter and so remembered it.”

“He might, however, well be a trapan or wily spy of Cromwell,” said Alice, after a
moment's musing; “I have heard tell of such things—was it not the young Cholmondeley
of Chonandeley Royals, who was arrested after he had been concealed quite safely
for half a year or more, all through discoveries made by a spy pretending to be a confidential
agent? I should not wonder if this were something of the kind. I am almost
glad that I did not see him. But, Marian, you have not told me what you know of
Bartram.”

“No, Mistress Alice,” replied Marian, her whole face covered by a deep crimson
blush. “I have not told you; and I must not, though I know very well. He is not
what he seems, however, but a gentleman of birth and breeding. You may be just as
certain of his faith as if you knew him, as I have done, for years.”

“Well, Marian,” Alice answered, “I do not see that there is anything to do, or
even to consider of, thus far—if there be evil coming, we have no means of judging
what it is, much less of averting it, at present. All that is left to us is to be patient.
If ill there be, sure am I we shall not wait long before we hear of it; and to hear nothing
will bo to learn that nothing is amiss. One thing, I would urge on you, Marian,
should this man by and by return, beware of letting him discover that you at all comprehend—but
ha! what have we here?” she said, interrupting herself, as the clattering
sound of several horses' feet made itself heard upon the gravel road. “Upon my word,
it is our cousin Chaloner; he has not been here for these many weeks; and he looks
grave, I think, even at this distance. Nay, Marian, now I fear that you are right, and
that some danger is abroad.”

“That do not I, Mistress Alice,” answered Marian; “General Henry is not the man
to bring ill tidings to his friends; unless he brought withal their remedy.”

“Well, we shall soon see. Come Marian, I will go meet him, as he passes by the
wicket;” and, with the words, she turned into a long alley bordered by shrubbery and
flowers, across the end of which Chaloner was obliged to pass, in order to reach the
gates of the Hall. But, as if he had anticipated her intention, and was desirous of frustrating
it, he put spurs to his horse the moment he saw her turn; and passed the head
of the walk at a rapid trot, bowing very low, but wearing no smile on his handsome
features, before she had accomplished half the distance.”

“There! see you not that, see you not that, Marian? Be sure that he bears some ill
news, which he would break to my father ere he reveal it to me. I will return to the
Hall; and, riding at that pace, he will be there long ere I reach it. So farewell—farewell
for the present, and pray believe me that I thank you much for your kind services.
Should anything occur, wherein you can assist me, depend on it, I will send for you.”

“I pray you do so, lady,” answered the gentle widow, “for we owe you a very
heavy debt of gratitude, and I would fain do something, if it were possible, to prove to
you that we are not insensible to your great goodness—not for a moment dreaming of
repaying you: for that I could not, nor would wish to do, if I could; but that it is
sweet to serve those we love, however humbly. But I will not detain you, Mistress
Alice; for I can see, by your eye, that you are anxious. God bless and keep you, lady,
and may all good go with you, as do the prayers of all the poor and sorrowful. Heaven
only knows what would come of them should aught befall the house of Woolverton!”

The tears rose to the eyes of Alice, as the fair widow spoke; but she made no reply,
for of a truth her heart was too full; and, not that only, but a presentiment of evil near
at hand hung over her, depressing for the moment all her fine energies, and high elastic
spirit, so that she dared not speak, lest she should lose her self-control entirely, and
burst into a flood of weeping; waving a mute answer, she turned and walked rapidly,

though with a faltering and uncertain pace, toward the Hall, before the doors of which
she found the horses of Henry Chaloner in waiting; and many of the servants of the
household collected in a blustering, and as it seemed half-apprehensive group, talking
in fast low whispers, and seeming by that strange instinctive intuition which is so often
possessed by servants, to have discovered that matters were not going well with their
masters.

“Oh! Mistress Alice,” exclaimed the old butler, Jeremy, coming up as fast as he
could, to meet her the moment she came into sight; “here is Major General Henry
Chaloner closeted with the master, this half hour, and they have asked for you thrice,
Mistress Alice; the park keeper has gene to seek you at the fish-house, and Abraham
was sent into the garden.”

“Never mind, never mind, good Jeremy;” she answered quickly, as she hurried past
him, fearful of being detained by the old man's garrulity; “I am here now, and Abraham,
and John the park keeper, will not begrudge the trouble.”

“Not they, not they, I warrant them”—but long before he had concluded his prolix
assurances of the men's willingness to incur every trouble in her behalf, Alice had
vanished up the staircase, and was already at the door of her father's study. There
she paused for a moment, to collect her agitated thoughts; for her heart beat fast and
painfully, and her limbs almost refused to do their office, so certainly did she connect
this unexpected visit of her cousin with the arrival of ill news, which, though she knew
not why, she never for a moment doubted to be in some sort identified with Wyvil.
She opened the door with a noiseless hand and entered, and as she saw the countenances
of the pair, who sat with many papers scattered before them on the table, she was
assured that her mind had been but too prophetic; for the fine face of Henry Chaloner,
so passionless for the most part and calm, bore now strong tokens of vast care and
perturbation, flushing at one time, and the next moment pale as ashes; his voice too
was husky, choked, and indistinct; and his eyes swam with tears, which he brushed
away every now and then with his gloved hand, as if he were ashamed to be seen
weeping. The features of the old man on the contrary, were much excited. The air
of cold and careless abstraction which commonly possessed them, had given way to a
high and spirited expression, and there was a quick and lively glance in his clear eye,
a hectic color on his pale cheek, which Alice had not witnessed there for years. So
quietly had she come in, that neither was aware of her presence and her father went
on speaking quite unconscious that he was overheard.

“So, as it seems that no choice else is left to us, we were better set off on the instant.”

“I fear so,” answered Henry, gloomily: “indeed I fear it must be so; for though
this pass of the lord general will secure you from all trouble or annoyance on the route,
I cannot but be apprehensive that should the parliament commissioners arrive, and find
you still here, it might be construed into an act of contumelious malignancy.”

“Well, if it must be so,” replied the old man; “but it is hard, that one so old as I
am—so old in honorable years and blameless studies—should be forced to fly from his
country, like a thief or a murderer; and that for no harm done! But, it is not for myself,
Henry! for I have but a little while, a few months, more or less, to wear away in
this mortality; and what matters it where one, so useless and worn-out as I, draw his
last breath? It is not for myself that I feel, Henry: although I had hoped to see my
last sun set over these peaceful trees, and to lie, when this vain world should be lost to
me for ever, by her side in the long home of my fathers. But, Alice, Alice! oh! it
will be difficult to leave her—as leave her I soon must—far from her native home,
among mere hirelings, without a friend or guardian, and in a foreign land. Besides,
she loves so dearly this old place, and all its memories, that it will break her heart to
leave it!”

“No, father!” the sweet girl interposed, taking a forward step that brought her fully
into view—“no, no! believe it not! There is not anything in the wide world that it
would break my heart to leave, unless it were to leave you! Oh no! I am quite ready
to set forth at once, if it be needful—but whither must we go, and wherefore? tell me,
I pray you, cousin Henry.”

“Grieved to the heart I am to tell you, Alice; but told it must be, pain us however
much it may; so nerve yourself, dear cousin, for the worst; for this indeed is very sad
and difficult to bear. It seems the peddler Bartrand, or Colonel George Penruddock
rather—for such is his real name and station—for whom the government has been long
strictly watching, as an emissary of the exiled family, was taken six nights since, after a
desperate resistance, at a small obscure tavern in the borough; and when he came to
be searched, there was found on his person, concealed within the hollow of a staff, a
letter, among sundry treasonable papers, from Captain Wyvil to his friend and kinsman
in the north, Vavasour; detailing accurately his escape from Worcester, his lying hid
here in this house, and even going so far as to describe the very mode by which he was
enabled to elude our search by diving through an opening in the wall of the well into a
subterranean chamber. Your name and Master Selby's were mentioned at full length,
so that there is not any room for denial or disproval, if you had been disposed to make
such, which I am sure you are not. Unhappily, the papers, some of them having reference
to an intended rising in the West, were deemed of such immediate interest, that,
Cromwell being absent from town at Hampton court, they were laid instantly before
the council and by them referred to the parliament, who proceeded without delay to
take action on them. Had they been shown to the lord general in the first instance,
no evil should have come of it; for though he may esteem it necessary to punish heavily
seditious plotters, or those who would disturb the constituted powers, he is the last man
living to act vindictively, or to wage war on those who are now living peaceably in the
land, whatever may be their opinions. A dispatch was forwarded to me from him this
very morning, by relays from the military stations; for he has often heard me speak of
you, and knows our kindred, and how dearly I regard your welfare. Warrants, he tells
me, have been issued for your and your father's apprehension—the penalty, you know,
for the harboring and resetting proclaimed traitors is death, Alice—but that he has himself
taken means to delay the messengers. He has sent his sign manual, by which you
may pass everywhere throughout the realm, and sail from any port unquestioned; he
urges upon me to prevail on you to set off instantly for France. He tells me in so many
words, that had he learned these matters in due season, no peril should have come of
them to you or any of your kindred; but if you be once taken, he cannot for state
reasons, which it is needless now to name, well interfere to save you. Farther than
this, all will go well. Sequestrated your estates must be; but Cromwell has given me
his written promise that they shall be made over to me in perpetuity, and in my own
power. I need not therefore say, that I shall hold them as your steward, remitting the
rents to you wherever you may be, and looking to the welfare of your tenants and poor
pensioners, as you would were you present. For the rest there is little doubt, or I might
well say more—that the whole of this trouble will be reduced at least to a few months
sojourn in France; for a free pardon will be granted to you easily after the first excitement
of the business shall have died away, you living quietly in the mean time, as you
will doubtless do, and taking no part in the angry politics of the day.”

“Is that all, cousin Henry?” replied Alice, feigning a pleasure which she was very
far from feeling, and mastering her own feelings so as to induce her father to more
self-control—“is that all that has made you and my father look so gravely? a few
month's absence only on the continent? I have longed ever to visit la belle France;
and here, it seems, is a self-made opportunity; a little hurried, it is true, but the more
haste the more excitement. You were best order the coach round at once, dear father.
My girl will pack up a few things in half an hour. We will take Margaret along with
us, and Charles and Gregory on horseback, and two or three of the other men can ride
on the road before us and lead relays! so we can drive to Bristol with our own horses—
that will be the best way—will it not, cousin?”

“I think it will,” he answered, smiling sadly. “You are quite a general, Alice, for
that is just the plan I had myself laid down for you. There is a vessel too at Bristol,
to sail in three days for Boulogne.”

“I am glad of it, Henry,” she replied—“I am glad; when we have anything to do

not altogether pleasant, it is the happiest always where it can be done at once. Now,
dearest father, will you not go and speak with Jeremy, and tell him simply that we are
going to France for a little while, and that our cousin Henry will remain in charge
while we are absent, and bid him order out the coach, with two relays of led horses.”

“God bless you, my beloved child! God bless you, and He will,” replied the old
man, as he rose sadly and slowly to quit the library—“and he will bless you. God's
blessing follows ever such constancy and piety as this. We will dine early, and
depart immediately. Chaloner, you will take your last meal with us—”

“And ride with you to Bristol, and see you safe on board; and then returning hither,
take order here with all things, that you shall find them all, when you return, even as
you left them.”

“When we return! when, Henry?” cried Mark Selby, and his countenance fell, as
he cast his eyes around him, over his loved books, and the quiet study where he had
passed so many years of his secluded peaceable existence. “But go with me, good
Henry. Go with me, and help me in these hurried matters.”

“Nay! father, “answered Alice, “I would speak with him for a moment; go you,
I pray you, and speak with Jeremy, and he shall join you in a minute. Now, Henry,”
she continued, as her father left the room—“now, cousin Henry, show me the general's
letter; tell me the worst at once—for this is not the worst—that you have told me.”

“It is, indeed, Alice,” he answered very firmly.” Nay, it is something more than
the worst; for Cromwell promises distinctly to grant your father a free pardon, if all go
quiet for a year—his letter I would show you, but I cannot. He has gained some intelligence
on matters which he has misapprehended, and drawing false conclusions from
false premises, has written that which you could be only pained to see, speaking with
confidence of things, as soon about to happen, which we know cannot be. On this I
will soon disabuse him; and I feel sure, that I may even promise you a pardon likewise,
when he shall know the truth.”

The eyes of Alice fell, as Chaloner uttered these words, and a deep crimson flush
covered the whole of her pale features, for she understood very clearly what he meant;
and she was not merely pained by seeing that his mind still dwelt upon that which in
bygone times had passed between them, and which she had been accustomed to hope
was now forgotten, but was embarrassed likewise as to another question, which she
was desirous of asking, while it was still in her power to do so. Her cousin seeming,
however, to misapprehend the cause of her agitation, took her affectionately by the hand,
and said—

Do not afflict yourself, I pray, sweet Alice—I would not have alluded to these
things at all, could I have helped it. I would not have you misunderstand me for the
world—it was necessary that you should know exactly how things stood; that, I assure
you, was the only reason why I spoke, not to distress you or myself by waking any
thoughts of what were better far forgotten.”

“Oh, Henry!” answered Alice,” it is you that mistake now; it was not that at all
which made me hesitate, but I was thinking how I should put a question to you, which
it concerns me much to have directly answered.”

Put it directly then,” said Chaloner, “that is the wisest always; and believe me,
Alice, there is not a question in all the world that I would hesitate to answer you in
the same spirit.”

“I believe you, indeed I do Henry; how could I do otherwise,” replied Alice, “than
believe the least asseveration from lips that, like yours, have uttered nothing in a life-time
but what is true and noble? and I think too, that you are right in this. Tell me,
then, in these intercepted papers, was there no letter for my father, or myself?”

“None Alice,” answered the youth, “none at least that I heard of; and I can hardly
doubt that, had there been such, the lord general would have named it in his dispatch,
which is for him unusually long and copious.”

“Strange,” she said—“strange indeed, and cruel;” and as she uttered the words,
overpowered for the moment by her passionate feelings, and half forgetful of her cousin's
presence, a tear or two stole silently down her soft cheek.

“And base, too, beyond measure!” exclaimed Henry Chaloner, yielding to that impulsive
indignation, which it was ever difficult for him to control at the occurrence of
injustice—“base it was in him, to write to a third party, things that, I fear, were
revealed to him only under pledge of secrecy; but which, I am sure, no honorable
man would have disclosed, even if such were not the case.”

“Hush, Henry! hush!” she answered; “I may not hear such things spoken, and it
becomes not you to speak them. Be that all as it may, it becomes not one so noble
as Henry Chaloner, to speak in aught harshly of one who might have, and most likely
has, some good defence to offer were he present. But now, good Henry, go to my
father, and assist him I beseech you; and above all seek to amuse his mind, for I much
fear this shock will fall on him even too heavily. I will make some few brief arrangements,
and meet you at the noontide meal—till then, God bless you and farewell!”