University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Throughout that day every thing went
on well for the conspirators; Spencer had
reconnoitered the ground thoroughly, as
he rode out with his friend in the morn
ing; had found his lieutenant with the
men, as he expected, at Barnsley; and
had given them his instructions so skilfully
that he felt well assured no suspicion
could in any case fall upon him as the perpetrator
of the meditated outrage, until he
should himself choose to reveal his agency
in the matter.

Meanwhile, Sir Edward Hale had galloped
onward, without giving his mind
time to cool from the turmoil of fierce passion
which was still raging there, to Kingston
castle, the seat of the Earl of Rochefort;
and there, too, every thing had happened
to his liking, for shortly after his arrival a
furious thunder-storm arose, and lasted so
long that he was pressed, as he desired to
to be, to stay for dinner, and no plea was
left him for refusing the kindly and oft
urged invitation.

Thus passed the day, unmarked by any
thing of moment, and night came on untimely
for the season, and boisterous, and
unpleasant, and in all respects suited to
the purposes of the conspirators. Few
men were likely to be abroad on such a
night, if it were not on urgent business;
for it had been a dim gray misty evening
since the thunder-storm, with every now
and then a violent burst of cold and wintry
rain; the wind howled fearfully among the
tree-tops, and the chimneys of the manor,
and it was withal so dark and black, that
long before midnight a man could not
have seen his hand at a yard before his
face.

This storm had afforded Spencer a fair
excuse for dining at the little Inn at Barnsley;
while his men went off singly, or in
small parties, so as to pass unnoticed, to
rendezvous at a well known and conspicuous
landmark, the Battle Pillar, as it was
called, a large block of gray granite, commemorative
of some event long since forgotten,
standing by the wayside, on a large
waste common, covered with fern and
bushes, and interspersed with pools and pits
full of water, where they were to be joined
by their officers in the course of the night,
and receive further orders.

Hale had, however, some difficulty in
escaping from the hospitalities of the castle,
in consequence of the unusual inclemency
of the night; and it was only by
alleging the presence of his guests at
home, as an insurmountable obstacle to his
remaining all night, that he was enabled
to avoid the well meant persecutions of the
old lord.

After that, he had another struggle to
undergo, before he could get away without
accepting the escort of half a dozen of the
earl's blue-coated serving men, whom it
would have very illy suited him to take
along with him that night; but finally,
when it was nearly ten o'clock, he succeeded
in making good his retreat, and began
to ride rapidly toward the place appointed.

Eleven o'clock struck from many a village
steeple, and quarter elapsed after
quarter, and now it was almost on the
stroke of twelve, and all things were prepared
for action—a carriage, one of the
lightest of the ponderous vehicles of that
day, with four strong horses harnessed to
it, stood in a hollow way close to the postern
gate in the park wall, sheltered from
observation by the dense shadows of the
overhanging trees, ready to bear off Rose
to London so soon as she should be seized
by the ruffians appointed for that task under
the orders of Lord Henry St. Maur.
Meantime the gang of sailors, well armed,
with bludgeons, pistols, and cutlasses, lay
hid in the dark thickets by the side of the
Alresford road, with Captain Spencer and
his first lieutenant; while guarded by three
men, in a low charcoal burner's shed, long
since deserted, on the skirts of the forest-land,
and scarcely half a mile distant, a
light taxed cart, with two swift horses attached
to it, tandem-fashion, was in waiting
to bear the captured yeoman to his
floating prison.

The times had been calculated closely—
and all, so far, had gone successfully.
Frank Hunter was even now jogging homeward,
as the leaders of the press-gang anticipated,
with a full purse and happy
heart, from the distant market-town; and
now Lord Henry, with his ruffians, was actually
at his post by the lonely farm, and
consulting his repeater ere he should give
the word to plant the ladder against the
chamber window of the innocent girl, who
slept, all unsuspicious and unconscious, the
calm, soft sleep of youthful happiness.

Sir Edward Hale, however, was ill at
ease and anxious he was too young in
evil—he had too much of actual goodness
in his composition—was too unhardeued in
the road of sin, not to feel many a twinge
of conscience, many a keen compunctious
visitation. He, too, was now near the place
of action—he had already ridden many
miles since leaving the castle, where he
had spent the day; and his heart, fearfully
agitated, began to turn almost sick within
him, as he was now rapidly approaching
the point on the great London road whereat,
an hour or two later, he was to meet the
carriage bearing his destined mistress from
her terrified and grieving family.

He had, as I have said already, felt full
many a prick of conscience, full many a
touch of half repentant sorrow; but still,
whenever he made up his mind to turn from
the evil of the way in which he was going,
as he did many times that night, dread—
that false dread which so often drives frail
man to crime and sorrow—dread, I mean,
of the mockery and laughter of his more
hardened comrades, prevailed, and hindered
him from turning his head homeward, and
countermanding the perpetration of those
base outrages.

Still, though he dared not halt in the
career of sin—though he felt that he could
not, even though he would, repent—he was
sad, moody and reluctant; and he rode onward
slowly, guiding his horse with an
irresolute and feeble hand through the blind
darkness. He was now two or three miles
only distant from the station at the cross-roads,
which had been fixed upon as the
spot where he was to overtake the carriage,
and enact the part of Rose's rescuer from
St. Maur and his myrmidons. He was just
in the act of crossing the bridle-road which

led from the market-town, whence Hunter
was returning, past the wild forest-land
skirting his own park, wherein the press-gang
was patiently awaiting the appearance
of the young yeoman.

The London road, after it crossed the
narrow track in question, mounted the brow
of a short bold hill, and dived at once into
a deep and shadowy dingle, with a large
brook, which had been swollen by that
night's rain into a wild and foaming torrent,
threading the bottom of the dell. The brook,
which lay between rocky banks, was spanned
at this place by a rude wooden bridge,
that had, for some time past, been gradually
falling into ruin; and scarce two hours before
the time at which Sir Edward reached
the spot, the whole of the weak fabric
had been swept away by the swollen torrent.

At the cross-road the youthful baronet
paused, even longer than before, and doubted
—yes, greatly doubted—whether he should
not alter, even now, his purpose; but, as
he did so, the distant clatter of a hoof came
down the house-road from the direction of
Alresford—and, instantly suspecting that
the traveller could be no other than Frank
Hunter, he dashed his spurs into his horse's
side, and gallopped furiously across the hill,
and down the steep descent, toward the
yawning chasm, fearful of being seen, under
these circumstances, by the man on whom
he was preparing to inflict an injury so
fearful.

Down the steep track he drove furiously
—headlong—spurring his noble hunter—
on! on! as if he were careering in full flight
—flight from that fearful fury, a self-tormenting
conscience; which, to borrow the imagery
of the Latin lyrist—“Climbs to the
deck of the brazen galley, and mounts on
the croupe of the flying horseman!”

“On he came! on! Now he was at the
brink of the dread precipice! One other
bound would have precipitated horse and
man together into the dark abyss! But the
horse bounded not! he saw, almost too late,
the frightful space, and stood with his feet
rooted to the verge, stock still, even as a
sculptured image! stock still from his furious
gallop, even at the chasm's brink!

Headlong was Edward Hale launched by
the shock into the flooded stream; and well
was it for him that the stream was so wildly
flooded; for had he fallen on the rocks,
which in ordinary weather lay bare and
black in the channel, he had been dashed
to atoms.

Deep! deep he sunk into the wheeling
eddies—but he rose instantly to the surface,
and struck out lightly for his life! for he
was both a bold and active swimmer. At
the same instant he shouted loudly—wildly
—so as no man can shout who is not in
such desperate extremity—again and again
for succor!

Just at this moment the moon came out
bright from the scattered clouds, and showed
him all the perils of his state, but showed
him no way to escape them, so steeply did
the rocks tower above his head—so wildly
did the torrent whirl him upon its mad and
foaming waters.

Again he shouted—and again—and once
he thought his shout was answered; fainter
he waxed and fainter; he sunk—rose—
sunk, and rose again; a deadlier and more
desperate struggle—a wilder yell for help,
and the water rushed into his mouth, and a
flash reeled across his eyes, and he was
floating helplessly—hopelessly down the
gulf, when a strong arm seized him, and
dragged him to the bank; for he had drifted
through the gorge, and the stream flowed
here through low and level meadows. A
little space he lay there senseless, and then,
by the kind and attentive energies of his
rescuer, he was brought back to life—and
his first glance, as his soul returned to him,
fell on the frank face of the man who had
preserved him! That man was Frank Hunter!
All Edward Hale's best feelings
rushed back in a flood upon him—he started
to his knee!

“I thank thee!” he cried fervently—
“with all my soul I thank thee, mighty,
Almighty Lord! that thou hast saved me—
not from this death alone, but from this
deadly sin!”

And, seizing Hunter's hand, he poured
into his half incredulous and all bewildered
ear the story—the confession—of his dark
meditated crime.

“But there is time—there is yet time,”
he cried—“the horses! where are the
horses?”

“Here! here, Sir Edward,” cried the
stout yeoman; “I caught your hunter as I
came along, and tied him with my hackney
to a tree here at the hill foot.”

A moment, and they were both in the
saddle, furiously spurring toward a cross-road,
which led directly to the place where
we have seen the carriage, and leaving the
press-gang far behind them; for Hunter
had quitted his homeward track on hearing
Sir Edward's cry for help, and so avoided
that danger. A second bridge, a little
lower down the river, soon gave them the
means of crossing it and regaining the high
road; and they were nearing the lane by
which the carriage must come up, at every
stride of their horses; and there was now
no longer any doubt but they were in good
time. Just as they were about to turn,
however, down the oft mentioned lane,
they were arrested by the clang of several
horses at a gallop, coming down the great
road from London, so as to meet them, and
by a shout—

“Stand! stand! and tell us the road to
Arrington!”

Edward Hale answered in a moment, for
he knew the voice. “Good God! Lord
Arthur, is that you?”

“Hale! Heaven be praised,” cried the
new comer; “then I am in luck. But
what the deuce are you doing here? and
who is this with you?” Where are St.
Maur and Spencer?”

“I will tell you another time—I will tell
you another time, Arthur Asterly,” replied
Sir Edward; for it was Lady Fanny's
brother—an officer in the Life Guards—
who, at his sister's entreaty, had ridden
down post-haste. “Come with me, quick!
come with me, and see me repair a great
intended wrong!”

“One minute—for I must tell you now
what I have ridden post from town to tell
you. I was just off guard at Windsor
when Fan sent for me, and I have not had
time to take off my uniform! You are the
dupe of a set of scoundrels! Spencer and
St. Maur have been urging you to a great
offence, for their own evil ends! and,
grieved I am to say it, with my mother's
cognizance. They thought themselves very
cunning with their anonymous letters, and
base schemes to make Fan think you a villain;
but Fan and I detected them in no
time; and, I thank God! it has been the
means of bringing my poor father to his
senses; and he would have thrown up the
cursed marquisate, which was the price of
all this knavery—but the king, for all the
ill they speak of him, has acted nobly—
nobly! I saw him myself, and told him
the whole story, and he wrote a manly and
generous letter, in his own hand, restoring
the pledge he had given to that scoundrel,
Davenant! and I have come down here,
post-haste, to save you—and I am time
enough to do so—am I not, dear Ned?”

“Sir Edward was saved ere you came,
my lord—if I may be so bold as to speak to
you, who are a great gentleman. His own
good heart and good feelings saved him,”
cried the bold yeoman, half crying with
the violence of his emotions.

“I am afraid not,” said Sir Edward, unwilling
to take any credit he did not deserve;
“it was chance only, or rather
Providence—a blessed accident—and gratitude
to this good man for his timely
service! But for him, Arthur, I should be
dead now—dead in the perpetration of a
cowardly base crime!”

“Well, God be praised that you are
saved by any means,” cried Lord Arthur,
“but let us gallop on, if there is any thing
to do!”

“Much, much! there is much to do,”
answered Hale; “follow, follow!”—and,
putting spurs to his horse, he dashed
down the lane toward the brick farm-house.

They reached it in time; reached it just
as Rose Castleton, fainting between surprise
and terror—for the girl's head and

not her heart had been led astray, and her
repentance had been real—was thrust into
the carriage by the hand of Henry St.
Maur.

“St. Maur!” cried Edward, springing
from his horse, as he arrived on the spot,
“St. Maur, you are a villain! You drove
me into this for your own evil ends—but
all your villanies are discovered—and you
may thank God, if you believe that there is
a God, that no more harm has come of it.”

And, lifting Rose respectfully out of the
carriage, he placed her in the arms of her
chosen bridegroom, saying, “Here, take
her, Hunter—take her! I give her to
you, and will give you her dowry to-morrow—take
her, God bless you, and be
happy!”

“Sir Edward Hale, you shall answer me
for this, by heaven!” cried St. Maur furiously.

“When you will, my lord, when you
will!”

“Then now, now!” exclaimed St. Maur,
“I say now!”—and he unsheathed his rapier
ere the words were out of his mouth.
Sir Edward Hale followed his example on
the instant; and before any one could interpose,
their blades were crossed. It was
almost too dark for sword play, but the
lamps of the carriage were lighted, and the
inmates of the farm had by this time run
out, with several torches and lanterns, so
that the gleam of their weapons could be
distinguished in this glimmering light.”

The young baronet fought only on the
defensive, St. Maur thrusting at him with
insane and revengeful rashness, so that
Edward might have killed him two or three
times, had he been so minded. But, at the
fourth or fifth pass, the young lord's foot
slipped on the wet greenward, and he fell
his full length, breaking his small sword as
he did so.

“Take your life. Take your life, my
lord, and mend it,” said Edward, putting
up his sword.

Sullenly the young nobleman arose, and
shook the hilt of his broken blade at the
victor.

“You will repent of this!” he said; and,
snatching the rein of one of the servants'
horses, which stood near, he sprung to its
back, and galloping off toward the Hall was
quickly lost in the swart darkness.

But Edward Hale never did repent it.

A pause ensued of some moments after
his departure, which was at length broken
by Lord Arthur Asterly, who said, “Well,
we had better all go quietly home to our
beds now; and to-morrow we can talk over
these things at our leisure; that is to
say, if it be not the better plan to bury
them all in oblivion; for, by the blessing of
Providence, there has no harm befallen any
one, and I think the adventures of this
night are over. So send away the carriage,
Ned, and your people; and let us
two trot to the Hall together, for I have a
good many private explanations for your
ear; and we will not hurry, for it is just
as well to let those scoundrels have time
to evacuate the premises. I do not think
they will have the impudence to wait for
our coming.”

But the adventures of the evening were
not over. For, unhappily, Spencer having
grown weary of waiting with his men, left
them in charge of the lieutenant, and came
galloping up to the entrance of the hall in
one direction, just as St. Maur arrived there
from another, bareheaded, his dress covered
with clay, and his scabbard empty by his
side.

“Ho! St. Maur,” said the captain, as he
saw him, “what does all this mean?
Whence do you come in this array?
Where is Sir Edward?”

“It means, sir,” replied St. Maur furiously,
for he was in the mood to wreak his
spite on any one who happened to be near
him, “that Arthur Asterly has come down
post from London, and all is discovered,
and we are a brace of fools and villains!”

“Speak for yourself, pray, my good lord!
With regard to yourself I have no doubt
you are perfectly right—you must know
best,” said Spencer, in the most coolly irritating
manner. “But I allow no man to
apply such words to me.”

“You will have to fight half the world,
then, captain,” answered St. Maur, seeing
the folly of quarreling with his own confederate,
“for every thing is blown—blown
to the four winds!”

“Then Hale has given up the wench?”

“Given her up! to be sure he has! given
her to the farmer fellow! and called me a
villain to my teeth! We fought, and but
that I fell and broke my sword, I would
have—”

“Done wonders, doubtless!” interrupted
Spencer. “But see here, if I understand
you aright, I win a cool thousand of you!
You bet me that Hale would have this
cursed wench, within a fortnight, for his
mistress. Now, as I mean to make myself
scarce, and to keep myself on board my
frigate until this blows over, you may as
well book up.”

“Why, Spencer,” exclaimed St. Maur,
“you forget—”

“Indeed, I forget nothing! did you not
make the bet?”

Just at this moment Harbottle, who
knew not a word of what had been passing,
disturbed by their loud voices, came out
upon the terrace, with several servants
bearing lights, and every word that followed
was heard by all of them.

“I did; but did we not understand that
it was to be drawn in case?—”

“Not I, my lord—not I, my lord; I never
play child's play. When I bet, I bet; and
when I win, I expect to be paid. Now the
question is, will you pay me?”

“No, sir, I will not, for you have not
won it. You are cheating me.”

“My lord!”

“Yes, sir, you are cheating me,” exclaimed
St. Maur fiercely. “You are
cheating me, or trying to do so! You are—”

“Quite enough said, my lord,” answered
Spencer, perfectly composed. “You
heard him, Harbottle; you heard what he
said. Now, my Lord Henry St. Maur, in
my mind the quicker these things are settled
the better. My pistols are in my holsters
loaded; your are doubtless the same
—if not, take your choice of mine!”

It was in vain that Harbottle, that the
servants, would have interposed—both were
determined, obstinate, unyielding!

Ten paces were stepped off upon the
terrace—the reluctant servants were compelled
to advance the torches—each took a
weapon in his hand, and to prevent worse
horror—for they swore that if balked they
would fight muzzle to the breast, and give
the word themselves—Harbottle gave the
signal.

The pistols flashed at once—but one report
was heard—and, ere that reached the
ears of the spectators, St. Maur sprung up
a yard into the air, and fell to the ground
dead, with the bullet in his brain!

At this moment the approaching sounds
of Sir Edward and his friend were heard,
quickened by the pistol shots. Speneer's
keen ear first caught them; and, as he
sprung to his horse, he took a sealed
package, undirected, out of the bosom of
his coat, and threw it to Harbottle, exclaiming,
“Give that to Edward Hale—it
is his—and say I am sorry for what has
passed; for to him, at least, I owe no ill
will.”

It was the order to arrest Frank Hunter,
under Sir Edward's hand and seal; but
before Harbottle had raised it from the
ground, the homicide was out of sight, and
the young baronet came upon the ground
with Lord Arthur Asterly.

The fall of the guilty and unhappy St.
Maur, was the catastrophe of this romance
—for a romance it was of domestic life!—
and, like all other romances, it ended in a
marriage!

From that day forth Sir Edward Hale
was a better and a wiser man!—from that
day forth sin had no more any permanent
dominion over him! No obstacle now opposed
his union, in due season, with charming
Fanny Asterly—and with his sweet
wife and a fair and noble family—for God
smiled upon his marriage—he lived long
and happily among his happy tenants;
and when he died the country people
mourned him, as “the good Lord of the
Manor!”