University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

In a sequestered vale of merry England, not many miles from the county town of
Worcester, there stands, in excellent preservation, even to the present day, one of those
many mansions scattered through the land, which—formerly the manor houses of a
race, now, like their dwellings, becoming rapidly extinct, the good old English squires—
have, for the most part, been converted into farm-houses; since their old-time proprietors
have, simultaneously with the growth of vaster fortunes, and the rise of loftier
dignities, declined into a humbler sphere. In the days of which we write, however,
Woolverton Hall was in the hands of the same family, which had dwelt there, father
and son, for ages. It was a tall, irregular edifice, of bright red brick, composed of two
long buildings, with steep flagged roofs and pointed gables, meeting exactly at right
angles so as to form a letter L; the longer limb running due east and west, the shorter
abutting on the eastern end, and pointing with its gable, southerly. In this south gable,
near the top, was a tall, gothic, lanceolated window, its mullions and casings wrought
of a yellowish sand-stone, to match the corner stones of all the angles, which were
faced with the same material; beneath this window, which, as seen from without,
appeared to reach nearly from the floor to the ceiling of the second story, was the date,
1559—the numerals, several feet in length, composed of rusty iron; and above it, on
the summit of the gable, a tall weather-cock, surmounted by a vane shaped like a dolphin,
which had once been fairly gilded, but now was all dim and tarnished by long
exposure to the seasons. To this part of the house there were no chimneys, which
was the more remarkable, that the rest of the building was somewhat superfluously
adorned with these appendages, rising like columns, quaintly wrought of brickwork in
the old Elizabethan style. Corresponding to the gothic window in position, though by
no means so lofty, a range of five large square-topped latticed windows, divided each
into four compartments by a cross-shaped stone transom, ran all along that front of the
other wing, which, with the abutting chapel—for such it seemed to be—formed the
interior angle of the L. From the point of the western roof, to match, as it were, the
weathercock which crowned the other gable, projected a long beam or horn of stone,
at an angle of about ninety degrees, curiously wreathed with a deep spiral groove,
not much unlike the tusk of that singular animal, the sword-fish.

This was all that could be seen of the main building from without, by a spectator
looking at its southern front—for it stood in a court surrounded by a heavy wall of
brick, with a projecting parapet and battlement of stone, flanked by short towers, with
roofs shaped like extinguishers, and having its base washed by a broad rapid rivulet,
which, rushing through a narrow artificial channel, along the eastern wall, expanded
in front of the house into a wider bed; and after falling over a steep dam, swept off
down the lone valley to the left, in a south-westerly direction. In the outer wall, close
to the base of a flanking tower, crenelled and looped for musketry and ordnance, was
a low water-gate, well closed with a portcullis of stout iron bars; and, some ten feet

within, by a strong second door of oak, studded with massive nails. Toward the
west, the courtyard wall rose higher, for there a smooth and velvet lawn, with no impediment
of fosse or ditch, swept, with a light ascent, up to its very foot; and in the
centre of its length, seen, in perspective, by one standing as above, was an embattled
gate-house. It should be added that from within this wall, the tops of many ornamental
trees might be discovered, now slightly tinged by the first hues of autumn. The northern
and eastern faces of the house, which could not, of course, be seen from the position
indicated, displayed no entrances, nor aught save narrow loops and shot-holes on the
ground floor, while, even on the upper stories, the apertures for air and light were
small, and guarded against escalade by heavy iron gratings.

The whole had evidently been originally meant, no less for a defensible position
than for a peaceful dwelling, in those stern days, when every man's house was, in
truth, his castle; but easier times had followed, and many of the sterner points had
been concealed, and that not casually, by graces and embellishments of milder nature.
Fruit-trees and many flowering creepers were trained along the landward fronts of the
main building; a mass of dense and tangled ivy covered the turrets of the gate-house,
and on the moat—little designed for such use by its makers—floated two stately swans,
their graceful necks and snow-white plumage reflected to the life, on its transparent
bosom, with a whole host of smaller water-fowl, teal, widgeon, golden-eyes, and others
of rare foreign species, diving and revelling, half-reclaimed, in pursuit of their prey or
pleasure.

Such was the aspect of the hall, on the day following the desperate fight of Worcester,
the sounds of which—the dull deep bellowing of the cannon, blent with the harsh discordant
rattle of the volleying arquebus—had been distinctly heard by its dismayed inhabitants.
Some symptoms of fresh preparation were there, though, for the most part,
slight and ineffective—the creepers had been cut away in places where they had entirely
obscured the crenelles; fresh loopholes had been broken in the western wall; a few
small cannon, falcons and culverins, were mounted on the parapet; and from an embrasure,
which flanked the water gate, the muzzle of a heavy gun was run out, grinning
its stern defiance. There was no flag, however, displayed from the walls; no show of
any garrison, not so much even as a solitary sentinel—so that there was no reason to
believe the inmates partisans of either of those factions which had so long disturbed
the country; or to suppose them capable of any more prolonged defence, than might
suffice to beat off the marauders, who, ever profiting by times of civil discord, levied
their contributions equally on friend or foe or neutral.

South of the moat, the bank of which was fringed with a low shrubby coppice, mostly
of ornamental plants and bushes, a park-like meadow dotted with clumps of trees, and
full of sunny slopes and cool deep hollows, extended, half a mile perhaps in width, to
the high road, from which it was divided by a broad sunk fence and ragged paling; and
was flanked by the stream, which, strong and deep and rapid, had cut itself a deep gorge
through the rich alluvial soil, the sides thickset with broom and furze and brachens, and
many a polished holly-bush, and many an ash and alder, forming a dense and seemingly
impervious brake. Beyond the river, which the road traversed on an old one-arched
bridge of brick, lay a wide tract of low and swampy woodland; and at the angle of
the park, formed by the meeting of the highway and the brook, stood a small fishing-house,
much overgrown with ivy, but kept in good repair; as might be seen by the neat
painted lattices, one of which, standing open, showed a white muslin curtain gracefully
looped up, and a small table with a vase of flowers arranged there, evidently by a
woman's hand.

This scene, with all its details, has not been thus particularly and closely drawn, from
the mere wish of laying a picture before the eyes of the reader—although it is a picture,
and a true one—but from a desire of impressing on the mind localities, without a full
and distinct perception of which much of the melancholy tale to be related would be
obscure, to such a degree, as to lose one half of its interest.

It was, as has been said, on the day following Worcester fight—the crowning mercy

of that remarkable man who swayed so skilfully the destinies of the great kingdom,
which he so strangely won—that Woolverton Hall looked, in the level rays of the declining
sun, as it is here described. The morning had been raw and gusty, and though
toward sunset the chilly clouds had opened, and let out a few faint beams to gild the
melancholy hues of autumn, which were encroaching fast upon the cheerful greenery
of the woods, it was but a gray and gloomy evening. A few small birds had, indeed,
mustered courage to chirrup some short notes to the brief sunbeams, and a single throstle
was pouring out his liquid song from the thick foliage on the river bank; but the wind
whistled dolefully, although not high, among the tree tops, whirling away the sere leaves
with its every breath; and a thin ghostly mist seethed upward from the surface of the
brook, like the steam of a caldron, and through its smoky wreaths flapped the broad pinions
of that aquatic hermit, the gray heronshaw, meet habitant of such a spot.

Sadly, however, as the scene, beautiful in ordinary aspects, and romantically wild,
showed, under such a sky, it was yet gazed upon by soft and lovely eyes; for, from
the open lattice of the fishing-house, nearest to the highway, a young girl, surely not
past her twentieth summer, looking forth half listlessly half mournfully over the bridge,
and up the sandy road, which, skirting the dank woodlands wound over a small hill, the
verge of which cut clear against the ruddy sky at a mile's distance. She was a genuine
English beauty, with a fair and oval face, a bright, delicate complexion, shaded by a
profusion of rich nut-brown hair, falling in ample curls from off her lustrous brow, and
sweeping, in thick clusters, down her neck. Her eyes were of a full bright blue, with
long dark lashes; and they, and all her features spoke volumes of soft gentle girlish
feelings—of tenderness and pity; and of love, latent—but ready to leap forth a giant
from his birth. Her figure was below, rather than above, the middle height of woman;
but exquisitely shaped, and far more full and rounded, although her waist was very
slender, than usual at her years. Her arm, which was a good deal displayed by the
open falling sleeve of the period, was symmetry itself; and her whole person, and its
every movement full of that graceful ease, which goes yet farther to win hearts than the
most regal beauty. A book or two lay scattered on the table at her side, and an old-fashioned
lute; while at her feet, stretched out at his full length, was an enormous bloodhound,
his lithe and sinewy limbs now all relaxed and easy, his huge black-muzzled
head quietly couched between his paws, and his smooth tawny hide glancing like copper
in the last lurid sunbeam. But now that sunbeam vanished; a deeper shade sank
down over the landscape, a dull gray hue swallowed up all the glimmering tints that
gemmed the fleecy clouds with light, and all was dim and dark—woodland and mead
and sky and river, except one pale bright streak far in the west, against which the brow
of the hill, with the road winding over it, stood out in clear relief.

The girl, who had been gazing so long on the darkening scene, evidently half unconscious
that she did so, suddenly seemed to recollect herself, and gathering her cloak
about her, drew its hood over her rich tresses, and rose as if to go—the bloodhound,
wakened from his doze by her light tread, lifted his head, yawned lazily, and stretched
himself; and then arising to his full height, looked wistfully into her face, as if he were
aware of the importance of his trust.

But at that very moment a dull flat report, as of a distant gunshot, broke the silence;
and the dog pricked his pendulous ears, and stalked with a low growl to the doorway;
while the lady turned her head quickly toward the window whence she had just withdrawn.
Her first glance was toward the road; and, where it crossed the hill-top, she
saw clearly the head of a man, and then his whole figure, with his horse, rise rapidly
against the brilliant gleam of the western sky—so instantaneous was his transit, however,
that she would almost have distrusted her eyesight, had not the clatter of hoofs
dashing fiercely down the hill-side, assured her of its accuracy—for now the slope and
base of the hill were all in misty and uncertain shadow. Before she had well thought
on what she had scarce seen, another and another and another head topped the steep
verge; and, as they crossed it, were discovered, by the bright glitter, to be covered with
steel caps, the well-known head-dress of the Puritan troopers—another second sufficed

to bring into full view a party of some twenty horse, who halted for a moment on the
summit—a dozen of quick flashes ran along the front, and the sharp rattle of a volley
followed—again a minute—and they, too, had galloped down the slope, and were
enveloped in thick gloom. All this passed in less time than it has taken to describe it,
but still the lady had marked and understood it all; and acted on the instant, as a kind
heart, instigated by woman's natural sympathy with the oppressed, dictated. With a
quick step she left the fishing-house, and stood upon a little flight of steps which ran
down from a platform level with the bridge, to the stream's brink. And scarcely had
she reached her stand, before the single horseman wheeled round the angle of the wood,
and crossed the bridge at as fast a rate as his drooping steed could compass. The pursuers,
scarcely five hundred yards behind him, were still beyond the woodland, which
alone hindered them from seeing him.

“Hist!” she cried—“hist! Sir Cavalier,” in clear low tones, which made themselves
distinctly audible to him whom she addressed, though they could scarcely have
been heard at three yards' distance. “Halt, as you love your life. Halt, for Godsake!”

Almost instinctively the rider drew his rein; and the wearied horse obeyed so readily,
that he stood statue-like upon the instant. The horseman was a tall slight figure, with
a slouched hat and drooping feather, a cuirass of bright steel, crossed by a broad blue
baldric, and all his buff coat slashed with satin, and fringed with Flanders' lace—thus
much she saw at half a glance, and it confirmed all she supposed and dreaded.

“You have but one chance for your life!” she said—“but one! but one! There is
another troop of Cromwell's horse not half a league before you. 'Light down! 'light
down! for Godsake, while yet they are behind the wood—nay! speak not, but 'light
down,” she continued, even more vehemently, seeing him now about to answer. “Do
it with the speed of light—cross the bridge back again, fasten your horse there in the
wood, and join me instantly—I can—I can—and I will save you, so you delay not!”

The tramp of galloping horses came nearer, and the shouts of the pursuers—he paused,
he doubted, but as if to accelerate his resolve, a distant trumpet tone, and the long hollow
boom of a kettle-drum came down the road from the direction he was following, and
proved the hopelessness of flight. He turned his horse's head—

“Lady,” he said, “I trust you, I obey”—he retraced his steps quickly, and had just
reached the friendly covert, when, at the top of their speed, the Puritans drove round
the corner—a second sooner, and he had perished at her feet.

With instant readiness of mind, she hurried down the steps, bidding the hound, in a
low voice, be still—and from the last low stair, sprang lightly to a small abutment under
the bridge's arch, just level with the water; and scarcely was she there, before, with
clash of harness, and jingling of spur and scabbard, and all the thundering din of charging
horse, the troopers drove above her head. The solid masonry appeared to quake beneath
the fury of their speed. Her heart stood still with awe—then, as the tumult passed,
and died away in the distance, bounded as though it would have burst her bosom.
Timidly, cautiously she crept up the damp mossy steps, and reached the causeway—
and hardly was she there, when a dim shape came crouching toward her from the
woodland.

“Heaven be praised!” she exclaimed—“oh! Heaven be praised!” as he stood safely
by her side. “Follow me swift and silently. Life! life is on our speed!”

Descending once more to the margin of the water, she drew aside the tangled
branches, and entered a small winding footpath, worn by the devious tread of the wild
deer, and widened by the steps of village urchins, nutting or birdnesting among the
matted dingle. So narrow was the track, however, and so abruptly did it twist and
turn round many a doddered ivy bush and stunted oak, now covered, for a few steps,
by the shallow ripples of the stream, now sealing the ravine by sudden zigzags, that
none but a well-practiced eye could have discovered it by that glimmering twilight.
Though well aware that life was on his speed—that the avenger of blood was but a
little way behind—the stranger scarcely could keep up, though muscular, and swift of
foot, and active, with the deer-like speed of his fair guide. At length, after a rapid

walk of perhaps ten minutes, they reached the dam at the moat-head—where was a
low-arched boat-house, with a small light skiff moored beneath it—and stood quietly
facing the south side of the mansion. From the two windows, farthest from the five
in the upper range, a steady light was shining into the quiet night; and from a loop,
beside the water-gate, a long red ray streamed out, casting a wavering line of radiance
over the rippling water. With these exceptions, all was profoundly dark and silent.
By the boat-house she paused a moment, as if in deep reflection.

“They will come here anon!” she said—“they will come here anon, and search the
house from battlement to cellar, before we can bestow you where I would. And I
must blind the servants, and speak, too, with my father. Meanwhile, here must you
tarry—here they will never dream of searching.”

And as she spoke she stooped under the low-browed arch, and tripped along a little
rib of stone-work, scarcely a foot in width, to the extreme end of the boat-house, where
was a small paved landing, with three steps downward to the water, and a slight
wooden ladder upward, leading to a small hole beside the keystone of the arch.

“Up there,” she cried—“up there,” laying her hand upon the ladder, which they
could just distinguish by the reflection of the windows from the moat. “It is a little
sail-loft, not two feet high, under the slated roof, full of old sails and oars. Up there,
and draw the ladder after you, and should they come to search there, which they will
not, I think, roll yourself in the canvas, and lie still. And now attend to me. There
is a little air-hole in the front, toward the house, whence you can see the windows.
Can you swim, sir—you can, I warrant me!” and as she heard his brief affirmative,
she went on rapidly—“well, when you see that red light thrice extinguished, and
thrice re-lighted, with such pause that you may reckon ten between, come down, swim
boldly to the water-gate, and I will be there to admit you. Farewell—God keep you,”
and she stepped into the light boat, unmoored, and pushed it out, while the young
cavalier ascended, and drew up the ladder obedient to her bidding.

The distance was but short, and the light paddle, wielded by her fairy hands, scarcely
had cut the surface six times, ere the boat floated by the portcullis of the water-gate;
and a voice somewhat tremulous from age, hailed from the lighted shot-hole, inquiring
who was there.

“'Tis I—'tis I, good Jeremy,” she answered. “Open to me, quickly, for it is somewhat
late and cold for the season.”

The aged servitor required no second bidding; the grating was drawn up, and the
inner doors thrown open, and—while the old man held his link on high, casting a
smoky light over the steps, and the black water, and several boats moored there of
various sizes—two younger grooms, with badges on the sleeves of their jerkins, ran out
along the platforms on each side, and drew the boat, with its fair freight, up to the
inner landing. The gates were again barred, and the portcullis lowered—the cresset in
the ward-room was extinguished, and Jeremy preceding with the torch, and the grooms
following cap in hand, the lady passed out from the water-tower into the courtyard of
the hall.

The upper portion of the building, as viewed from without the walls, has been described
already; but a new prospect was now shown—the court, from the walls of the
chapel, to the gate-house at its western end, would have measured not less than a hundred
yards, one half of which, toward the gate, was laid out in a formal parterre,
divided from the rest by a stone balustrade, with richly-carved stone vases, and planted
thickly with yew and box and holly, clipped into all fantastic shapes of peacocks, centaurs,
dragons, and the like, according to the taste of that old day, with two time-honored
giants—vast pines—presiding over them, like Samsons, in all the majesty of unshorn
strength and beauty. The remaining space was open, paved with small pebbles, divided
by long rows of granite curb-stones, diverging from a common centre, where, in an ornamental
basin, played a small fountain. The door of the mansion, under a low stone
arch, bearing upon its keystone the same date, 1559, was placed exactly at the extremity
of the main building, where the abutting chapel formed a right angle, and was

flanked by several long crenelles for musketry, which, it would seem, with similar
apertures, had, formerly, been the only means of giving light to the ground floor of the
edifice. Of these, however, only five remained flanking the doorway, while, for the
others, had been substituted good honest latticed casements, four in the front, under
the windows of the upper story, the portal corresponding to the fifth, and two in the
basement of the chapel.

From all of these now shone a bright and cheerful radiance through the transparent
medium of snow-white curtains, against which many a shadow of male and female
forms was cast, as persons hurried to and fro between them and the lights; while ever
and anon the hum of merry voices and light laughter rang out into the night, suggesting
many an image of fireside English comfort. Not long, however, did the lady pause
to note a scene which she had looked upon many times daily from her childhood, but
passed across an angle of the garden, and through the middle of the court, directly to
the door. It was a formidable massy-looking remnant of antiquity—a piece of hard
black oak, six inches thick, all clenched with great nail heads, and crossed with iron
bars—yet it stood on the latch, which gave way readily to the light touch of the lady,
and admitted her to a small neat square hall, with two doors, to the right and left, and
a huge staircase at the back—the steps, and balustrades, and wainscoting, and floor, all
made of beautiful and highly-polished oak. A gothic window, with stained glass, in
the second story—for the hall was the whole height of the building, with a gallery
above—lighted it in the day; but now a brazen lamp, with several blazing branches,
swung by a crimson cord from the roof. Two or three portraits hung upon the wall,
grim-visaged warriors cap-a-pie in steel, with brandished truncheons—and long-waisted
ladies, looking unutterable sweetness at huge nosegays. Upon a large slab table, under
the first turn of the staircase, lay several gloves, a broad-leafed hat and feather, and a
sad-colored riding-cloak of camlet; while, in the corner, stood a miscellaneous assortment
of hand-guns, fishing-rods, crossbows, and hunting-poles—weapons of rural sport
—as on the walls above hung suits of bright plate armor, with arquebus and petronel
and pike, and every implement of veritable warfare.

“There—that will do, Jeremy. I trow I shall find my father in the library above!
that will do—go your way to supper,” said the fair girl, waving her hand to her attendants,
eager to get away from the restraint imposed on her by their presence; and
as they disappeared through the door to the right—whence, as they opened it, proceeded
a most savory smell of supper, and a loud buzz of merriment—bounded with a
light foot but anxious heart, up the broad staircase; hurried through several spacious
rooms, illuminated only by the dim glimmering of the new-risen moon, and entering
the library, stood in a broad glare of light before her father's chair.