University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Whilst the burial of the fisherman, and the topics
to which it gave rise, engrossed the attention of
young and old in the town, Albert Verheyden, dressed
in a riding suit with a winter surcoat or horseman's
cassock loosely thrown around his person, made his
appearance on horseback at the Rose Croft. He had
engaged to ride towards the Chesapeake with Colonel
Talbot and a troop of followers, to explore the country
as far down as Point Look-out, where rumour had
already affirmed certain Indians of suspicious bearing
to have recently landed from the opposite shore of
the Chesapeake. Talbot himself had projected this
expedition mainly with a view to sift out and expose
the calumny which imputed the recent murder to
the friends of the Proprietary; and he was the more
whetted in his purpose by a secret expectation that a
vigorous endeavour would enable him not only to refute
the slander, but to furnish evidence of the agency
of the opposite party in the perpetration of the crime.
It is one of the base arts of unprincipled politicians,
he argued, ever to be among the first in charging
upon the innocent the wicked devices by which they

accomplish their own designs. He had resolved,
therefore, to take the matter in hand himself, and, at
the head of a party of the townspeople, ransack the
country around the scene of the murder, for every
item of proof which might bring to light its authors.
There was, in addition to this motive, an undefined
and misty connexion in his mind, of the murder with
the stories told of the goblins of the haunted Chapel,
—a conviction of some wicked influence—active, he
did not exactly know how, in stimulating the crime.
He was no disbeliever in sorcery and witchcraft,
and a vague thought hovered over his meditation
that the fisherman's death might be traced to persons
holding relations with the spirits of the Chapel. He
set forth, therefore, on his adventure with a presentiment
that some startling disclosure would soon be
made, which should still more awaken the thoughts
of the government to the mischievous character of
the beings who infested the region bordering on
the bay.

His purpose being made known in the family of
the Proprietary, it was with a modest yet eager
petition that Albert Verheyden asked leave to accompany
him on the expedition,—a request which was
granted with even more alacrity than that with which
it was made. The hour appointed for setting out
was delayed only until a sufficient party should be
collected; and this was retarded by the ceremony of
the funeral and the common anxiety to await the
tidings expected by the coroner and his attendants.
In the meantime, the Secretary, feeling more concern
in the affairs at the Rose Croft than in the gossip of

the town, repaired thither to await the moment of
departure, having commissioned the young Benedict
Leonard to ride as far as the Collector's and give
him warning when the troop should take the road—
a service which the heir apparent promised to perform
with the greater satisfaction, as it assigned him
some show of duty in the general engrossment of the
household, and therefore conferred upon him an importance
interesting to his vanity.

The Secretary had been seated for sometime in
the parlour with Blanche, where he related to her the
story of the fisherman's murder with a touching sadness;
and when he told her of his purposed adventure,
it was with a prouder tone than he had ever
assumed before; there was even perceptible in it a
trace of self-exaltation altogether unusual in his
speech. He was now a bolder and more assured
man, and his character began to assume a more confident
development. Blanche listened with maidenly
reserve, as if she was almost ashamed to confess the
interest she took in Master Albert's communication.
She was solicitous for his health and comfort in the
dreary ride through the woods he was about to undertake,
and which might be prolonged until late at
night; and she was fain almost to advise him against
such an exposure,—but she feared to tell him so much,
lest it might be thought taking too great a freedom.
Thus engrossed, the hours flew by unheeded and,
in truth, forgotten, until the afternoon had reached
nearly four o'clock, when suddenly Benedict Leonard,
without announcement or even premonitory
rap at the door, entered the parlour.

“Goodness, Master Albert!” he exclaimed, “think
of me—such a crack-noddle! You will never trust
me again, I may make sure of that. Would you believe
it, I rode full two miles past the Rose Croft here,
with my uncle Talbot and John Alward, and all the
people on their way to hunt the murderers, without
so much as ever once thinking of you? I said, when
we started, I would ride as far as St. Inigoe's mill,
and then come back; and I as clear forgot you till I
stopped at the mill, as if there was no such person as
you or Blanche Warden in the wide world: and I
might have thought of Mistress Blanche too, because
my Aunt Maria gave me a message for her—now
what is it? Oh, it is gone,—it is gone! a plague on it!
that's got out of my head too. No matter, Master
Albert, my uncle Talbot told me to say, when we
parted, that he would be on the path which leads
down to Point Look Out, and that you must follow as
fast as you can.”

“It is late in the evening for so long a ride, Master
Albert,” said Blanche, as with a look of alarm she
involuntarily laid her hand upon his shoulder; “you
will not venture alone so near night-fall?”

“I should be accounted a most faithless laggard, if
I staid behind now,” replied the Secretary. “There
is a broad road for some four miles, and I will go at
speed till I overtake the riders. At the greatest
mischance,” he added, smiling, whilst he buttoned his
over-coat closely across his breast, “'tis but a night
in the woods. I will keep this vigil of Hallow Mass
like a hermit—or rather like a squire of chivalry

undergoing the ordinance of knighthood, by watching
over his sword. The holy saints be with you,
mistress! I must set good store by the day-light and
turn it to account: farewell, till we meet again!”

“Farewell!” faintly echoed the maiden; “Master
Albert, let us see you to-morrow.”

“If I was Master Albert,” said Benedict Leonard to
Blanche, when the Secretary left the room, “I would
court favour with Mistress Coldcale to get a slice of
something from the larder; oh, this riding gives an
appetite, I warrant you, that a man will eat his sleeve
for want of better provender! There, Master Albert
is gone,” added the youth, as the Secretary was seen
to pass the window, “and I must back to the mansion
before sunset; my mother will be making me a
pretty discourse about rheums and catarrhs and all
her other ailments, if I be caught abroad after candle
light this time o' year—especially, too, as it looks
like rain: so, good even, Mistress Blanche!” and with
this speech, the heir apparent took his leave, abandoning
the maiden to her meditations.

When Albert Verheyden turned out upon the highroad
he put spurs to his horse and raised his speed to
a gallop, until he found himself immersed in the
hills and ravines which lay about the head of St.
Inigoe's. One or two wayfarers whom he had
chanced to meet, had answered his inquiry after his
companions, by informing him that a troop of townspeople,
consisting of some eight or ten, had passed
along the road at a pretty brisk motion, not less than
three or four miles ahead of him. The broken country

into which he had plunged, (the road winding
through narrow dells and surmounting short and
steep acclivities,) the thickets that tangled his path,
and the occasional swamps of the low grounds,
forced him to slacken his pace and proceed with
greater caution on his route. The prints of horses'
hoofs upon the damp soil, in places, were fresh and
showed him that he was not only on the right track,
but also that he was at no great distance behind his
company. The sky was overcast, and the clouds,
as the sun came nearer to the horizon, assumed by
degrees still more and more of that misty, dun-coloured
hue which indicated the approach of a settled rain.
A sombre, dark grey tint, unrelieved by light and
shade, fell over the whole landscape and gave a cheerless
and sullen aspect to the woods. Once or twice
the Secretary reined up his horse and directed his
eyes toward the heavens, as he meditated an abandonment
of his expedition and a return home before
night-fall, but as often his pride forbade a retreat
whilst his comrades were afield, and he resumed his
journey. He was in momentary expectation of overtaking
the party in advance, and made sure of doing
so when he should reach the fisherman's hut upon the
river beach, towards which it was his purpose to direct
his way. Occasionally, a farm-house opened
upon his view across a distant field; but he was unwilling
to lose the time which a digression from his
road to visit it would have required, only for the sake
of assuring himself of his road, with which he believed
himself to be sufficiently acquainted. At length,
night began to fall around him and his path to become
sadly perplexed. At times, he could scarce make
out its traces in the obscurity of the wood; at times,
it broke upon his view with fresh distinctness, as it
traversed a region of white sand, and thus served
only to lure him forward with more alacrity, in the
hope of soon reaching the margin of the river, from
whence, even in the dark, he knew he could find his
way back—at least, as far as the house of St. Inigoe's,
where he could get shelter for the night. Now and
then, his hopes were dashed by finding himself involved
in those thickets of alder and bay which denote
the presence of a marsh, and he was obliged to
thread his difficult track around the head of some
inlet from the river. It grew at last to be dark night,
and, to add to his discomfort, the rain began to fall.
The Secretary dismounted from his horse and stood,
with suppressed breath, endeavouring to catch the
sound of distant waves, hoping to find himself near
enough to the river to obtain this guide to his footstep;
but all was silent, except the pattering of rain upon
the dry leaves of the forest, and the impatient pawing
of his horse upon the sod. He shouted aloud for his
lost companions, but his voice echoed, without a response,
through the lonesome wood. “I jested with
thee,” he muttered to himself, in a jocular tone, referring
to the maiden who was ever uppermost in
his thoughts, “I jested with thee, but a few hours
ago, upon my keeping a vigil of Hallow Mass in the
woods. Dear Blanche, I thought nothing farther
away than that jest should be true; but here my
evil destiny hath brought me, for a punishment, to
make it real. Well, I can endure. Heart of grace,—
I will confront it manfully! I would I could but raise
a fire. I can fast upon my vigil and think nothing
of it,—if it were not that my limbs are chilled and my
joints growing stiff with cold.”

He now groped around to gather some dry wood,
hoping, by the aid of his pistol, to kindle a blaze by
which he might warm himself and prepare to spend
the night in more comfort than on his horse. He
laboured in vain, for every thing he could lay his
hand on was saturated with moisture. At length, he
mounted again into his saddle, determined to ride
onward until he should chance to find some place of
shelter. He had now not only lost his path, but also
all perception of his course: the darkness confused
him, and he therefore plodded on at a slow pace, unconscious
to what quarter of the compass his footsteps
tended, and discouraged with the thought that
every moment, perhaps, carried him still further from
the home he was anxious to seek.

For a while his spirits sustained him without drooping.
A man in such a situation sometimes finds motives
of cheerfulness in the very desperation of his circumstances.
Under some such ludicrous impulse our
wanderer, as he plied his uneasy journey through the
dark, broke forth in song, and in succession poured
out nearly the full treasures of his musical memory;
but wearying of this at last, his note changed to whispered
sighs of self-reproof for the folly of venturing
alone into such a wilderness at such an hour. His
mind then ran upon the images which the creed of

that day supplied to the imagination of our progenitors,—the
“swart fairy,” “blue, meagre hag,” the
spirit of the wood, the wizard and the spectre; then
came dreams of banditti and outlaws, prowling
savages, and thoughts of some accidental coming
alone upon the den of the murderers, whose recent
doings had occasioned his present ride. With these
fancies swaying his mind, he grew apprehensive and
distrustful at every step. There are moments when
the stoutest heart will quail before the conjurations
of the imagination: and it is no disparagement of
the bravery of the Secretary to say, that, on this
night, he sometimes felt a shudder creeping over
him, at the fictions of his own excited fancy. The
rustle of leaves, or the short snap of a rotten bough,
as the fox prowled along his stealthy path, more than
once caused him to put his hand upon his sword and
to ride cautiously forward, as if in certain expectation
of a foe; and not until he had thrice challenged
the imaginary comer, did he relax his grasp of his
weapon.

In this state of mind, for full four hours after dark,
did he wander, uncertain of his way, through wood
and over plain, mid brush and brier, over fen and
field. At length, his ear could plainly distinguish the
beat of waves upon a strand, and it was with a joyfull
change of feeling that he believed himself, after
so weary a circuit, approaching the margin of the
river, along which he was aware he should have a
plainer ride, with the certainty, in the course of a
mile or two, of finding some human habitation. As
the sound of the waters grew stronger, whilst he advanced

to the beach, his eye was, all at once, greeted
with the welcome sight of a taper glimmering through
the glade, and, by its steady light, assuring him that
no Will-o'-the-wisp, as sometimes he feared, had risen
to bewilder his journey.

With new courage and reviving strength he shaped
his course towards the friendly ray;—on which pursuit
we must now leave him, to attend to other personages
in our story.