Jointure, portion, gold, estate,Houses, household-stuff, or land,(The low conveniences of fate,)Are Greek no lovers understand.Cowley.
Jointure, portion, gold, estate,Houses, household-stuff, or land,(The low conveniences of fate,)Are Greek no lovers understand.Cowley.
Jointure, portion, gold, estate,Houses, household-stuff, or land,(The low conveniences of fate,)Are Greek no lovers understand.
Cowley.
"Verily the Lord scattereth!" was the exclamation of the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, as he passed from one to another of the apartments of Cecil Place, seeking for some one with whom to hold converse, yet finding none. Sir Willmott Burrell was abroad, even at an hour so early; Lady Frances Cromwell closeted with Constantia; Sir Robert Cecil particularly engaged; even Barbara Iverk was not to be found—and the poor preacher had but little chance of either a breakfast or a gossip, or, as he termed it, "a commune." In the course of his wanderings, however, he at length encountered Solomon Grundy, puffing and courtesying under the weight of a huge pasty he was conveying, by a prodigious effort, to the buttery.
"Ah, Solomon, my friend," said Fleetword, "of a truth it is a pleasant thing to see thee."
"You mean that you behold something pleasant with me," retorted the cook; "and of a verity, your reverence——"
"You must not call me reverence; it is one of the designations of the beast;—my voice is raised against it—against the horned beast."
"This was a horned beast once," again replied Solomon, observing that the preacher's eye was fixed upon the pasty; "nature may be changed by cookery. It hath lost all the sinful qualities that you talk about, and hath become most savoury and nourishing food: doth it resemble the change that, you say, takes place in the spirit?"
"Wemust not so mingle profane and sacred things," murmured Fleetword, placing his forefinger upon the tempting dish, with a longing and eager look; for he had walked far and was fasting. "Is this one of the baked meats thou art preparing for the coming festival?"
"What festival?" inquired the cook, surlily: "I know ofno festival. Of a surety, have I laboured in my calling, to furnish forth something worthy of this house; yet, from what I hear, there will be few at this wedding to profit by my skill. I little thought to see our dear young lady so wedded."
"Solomon, feasting is foolishness; it savoureth of the mammon of unrighteousness: yet was Nimrod a mighty hunter before the Lord, and Isaac loved seethed kid. Couldst thou extract a morsel of meat from that compound, for of a truth I am an hungered?"
"What! spoil my garnishing!" exclaimedGrundy,"look at the frosting of that horn, and the device, the two doves—see'st thou not the doves?"
"Yea; but methinks thou mightest take away a portion, without injury to the goodly fabric.—Behold!" and the Reverend Jonas lifted, with the cook's long knife (which he snatched in unbecoming haste from the girdle), the paste of the edge of the gigantic pie, and stole a weighty slice of the venison from beneath.
"Ah, ah!" grinned Solomon, evidently pleased at the distinction bestowed upon his compost. "Is it not passing good? But you taste not of the gravy—the gravy!"
"It is unseemly to dispose one's heart towards such luxuries; though the saints stand in need of food no less than the young ravens—only it should be in moderation."
The preacher gulped down a ladleful of the pottage, and gasped for another, unmindful of his own precept, while the gravy lingered on his lips.
"Such as that would soon make you another man," said Solomon, glancing at Fleetword's slender and spindle shanks; "there's nourishment in it."
"We all stand in need of regeneration, Solomon, and should desire improvement, even as the hart panteth for the water-brooks; be it improvement of body, or improvement of mind. There was a wise King of Israel of thy name."
"What! Grundy, sir? the Grundys were of Lancashire," said the gratified compounder of kitchen-stuff.
"Not Grundy; heard ye ever in Scripture of a name like that?" retorted the preacher. "It was Solomon the wise."
"I remember him now; he had a many wives. But youcan call to mind, sir, when I only wanted to put away old Joan, and marry Phœbe Graceful, you, sir, wouldn't let me. But them old Christians had a deal more liberty."
"Peace, fool!" exclaimed Fleetword, somewhat in anger. "Solomon was a Jew."
"A Jew!" repeated the cook—"I wonder at your holy reverence to think of such wickedness; surely your reverence does not want me to be like a Jew?"
"Solomon, thou art a fool—in bone, in flesh, in marrow, and in spirit. Have I not told thee of the ungodliness of these thoughts?" replied the preacher, as he finished his last morsel. "But, unless I answer thee according to thine own foolishness, I cannot make thee understand. Get me a flagon of double-dub."
"With a toast in it?" demanded Grundy, slily peering out at the corner of his eye.
"Thou canst comprehendthat," replied Fleetword: "truly—truly, the creature comforts have absorbed thy whole stock of ideas. Thou art like a sponge, Solomon—a mere fungus. Thou may'st put in the toast. And hark ye! if ye see Barbara, tell her I would speak with her; not here—not here—that would be unseemly—but in the oak parlour, or the library, I care not which."
"Now do I wish for Robin Hays," muttered the shrewd yet ignorant cook; "for he would expoundiate, which signifies, make clear—why a parson must not meet a maid in the buttery.—But he is not a parson—Then he is a man—But not only a man, he must be something else, methinks. But why not Barbara go to the buttery? Just in time, here comes Robin; so I'll e'en ask him.—Give you good day, my Kentish man; it was a pity you were not here last night, as you so love a fray. The handsome youth, who had been staying on a visit, was cooped up, because he and Sir Willmott fought about my Lady Constance. And then the Major—he has been here two or three times, and they call him Wellmore—although worthy Jabez Tippet, the boatman, swears—no, not swears—declares, that no such person ever crosses the ferry:—yet is he dumb as a tortoise as to who does. Well, the Major and the young gentleman went off in a flash of lightning, or something of the sort; for Sir Willmott and my master could not find him. And I asked Barbara aboutit! but marry, she knows nothing, and therefore says nothing——"
"Which proves her different from the other sex; for they sometimes know next to nothing, yet say a great deal," retorted Robin, sarcastically.
"Humph!" replied Grundy; "you look chuffish this morning, Master Robin: have you got any thing ready for the bridal?"
"Don't worry me," exclaimed Robin; "what care I for bridals, or bridles either, unless I could fix one in your mouth? Where's Barbara?"
"The very thing I want to know; for that holy man, the preacher Fleetword, having communed with the pasty, would fain commune with the maid—not in the buttery though. And now, methinks, I had a question to put to you—Why is it unseemly for a man to——" The cook held up his hand in his usual oratorical style, so that it stood out like a substantial fan before his face, and touching the second finger of his left with the forefinger of his right, was proceeding with his inquiry, when he perceived that Robin had vanished! "Robin! Robin Hays! oh! thou heedless, and most faithless person! thou Jacky Lantern!" he exclaimed, and then followed, as he thought, the passage that Robin had taken. It happened, however, to be the opposite one, so that he received not the required information.
Robin sought Barbara in every place where it was likely she might be found, but without success; being unable to enter the more private apartments of the dwelling, he applied to one of the damsels of Lady Frances' suite.
"Oh, you seek Mistress Barbara, do you, young man?" and she cast her eyes over Robin's mis-shapen figure with an expression of contempt that could not be mistaken; then passed her finger along the braid of hair that bounded the border of a plain cap, made of the richest lace; pulled down her stomacher, and apparently waited for the Ranger's reply. Robin reddened to the eyes, for he could but impatiently brook such personal scrutiny; and his annoyance increased when he saw that his embarrassment was noticed by his courtly companion.
"We do not call her mistress here," he said at length; "but I pray you tell me where she is—I mean the Lady Constantia's attendant, little Barbara Iverk."
"I know who you mean perfectly well," replied the pert woman in authority; "we of the court are not thick-headed, as you of the country may be, so I will explain fully to your——" she tittered rudely and loudly; but Robin's pride was nettled, and he heeded it not; "to your——but I wouldn't laugh, if I could help it. Barbara wished to know how the attendants were dressed when my Lady Mary was married so very lately to my Lord Fauconberg; and, as we of the court always carry our wardrobes with us, and the simple girl being my size—she hath a marvellously fine person for one country-bred—I dressed her as was fitting in my robes: a white striped silk petticoat, and a white body made of foreign taffeta, the sleeves looped up with white pearls, no cap upon her head, but a satin hood just edged with Paris lace. 'Od's Gemini! young man, if you had but seen her. Then all of a sudden her lady wanted her to get some flowers, and she had only time to throw on her cardinal and run forthem."
"Then she is in the garden?"
"By the Fairy Ring, I take it; for there the best flowers grow."
Robin did not tarry to thank the court damsel for her information, but bounded right away to the garden, cursing the rude laugh that again insulted him.
As he drew near the Ring, he heard a faint shriek. His quick ear knew at once that it came from the lips of Barbara; and bursting through the trees, he was in an instant by her side.
It will take many words to describe what had passed in a single moment.
Barbara, dressed as Lady Frances' woman had described, was on her knees before a slight, sallow youth, who held an unsheathed dagger in one hand, and spoke in a language that was a mixture of some foreign tongue and most imperfect English. Barbara, pale and trembling, evidently did not understand a word the other said, yet knelt with hands and face upturned, while the boy brandished the weapon, as if in the act of striking. As his dark eye flashed upon his victim, it caught sight of the Ranger, who rushed from the thicket to her side. With a piercing cry, the boy sprang away into an almost impenetrable underwood, that skirted the portion of the Fairy Ring most distant from the house. Barbara no soonersaw Robin than she attempted to rise; but she was unequal to any further exertion, and sank fainting on the grass.
When she recovered, she found herself in the same spot, with her head on Robin's shoulder. Her spirits were relieved by a burst of tears; and, withdrawing her head, she wept plentifully in her hands, heedless of the drops that crept through her small fingers, and fell abundantly on the white silk petticoat the waiting-maid so highly prized. Robin had always thought her beautiful, but he had never avowed it to himself so decidedly as now. Her long, luxuriant hair, no longer twisted and flattened under her Puritan cap, flowed over the simple, but, to Robin's eyes, superb dress in which she was arrayed; the drapery rather added to, than lessened, the pure and holy look which is the soul and essence of virgin loveliness; and he never felt his own worthlessness so much, as while thus contemplating Barbara at the very moment when she was a thousand times dearer to him than ever.
She was the first to speak, as passing her hand over her eyes, then looking up between their long silken lashes, smiling as a young child at the danger that was past, and retaining only the remembrance of it, because it brought to her gentle and affectionate mind another proof of Robin's attachment and protecting care, she stretched out her hand, all gemmed as it was, and sobbed, even while smiling,—
"Dear, good Robin! he would have killed me. Are you quite sure he is gone? Come near me, Robin; he will not come back while you are here. I am sure he mistook me for some one else, for—" she spoke in a low tone, "I saw him once before, Robin Hays," still lower, "at the Gull's Nest Crag, only last night."
"I knew the little rascal was after no good; and to pretend dumbness too!"
"Dumbness!" repeated Barbara. "Did he pretend to be dumb?—and do you know him?"
"I do know that he, in some degree, stole his passage over in —— But no matter; I'll clip his wings, and blunt his dagger, I warrant me; he shall play no more such pranks. To frightenyou, my Barbara!—what could be the motive? serious injury he could not intend."
"Ah, Robin!" said Barbara, shuddering, "you did not see his eyes as I did, or you would not say so; such eyes!Ah, I should have been bitterly frightened had I not prayed this morning. Dear Robin, why do you not pray?"
Robin looked at her and sighed—"Could you understand nothing of what he said?" inquired he.
"I heard him repeat the name of Burrell, and that of my dear lady, two or three times; but what he meant I cannot fathom. Oh, but he had a wild and terrible look! Why should he seek to harm me?"
"Why, indeed!" echoed Robin; "it must be seen into, and that immediately. I'll speak anon of it to Dalton."
"To Dalton!" in her turn echoed the girl—"Oh! that fearful man——"
"There is no one under the sun who has more love for you than he has—than Hugh Dalton."
"I am sure he knew my father."
"He did, indeed: but question me no farther now, sweet Barbara; make your mind quite easy, the outrage shall not be repeated. Perhaps the boy is crazed. Let's think no more of it, my gentle girl. I must bid you farewell."
"Farewell, Robin! Why—wherefore? Tell me, where are you going? When do you return? How long do you stay?"
"Now, if I were a king, and one that woman could look upon and love, I would give the half, the whole of my kingdom, to be sure she feels as earnestly as she speaks," thought Robin. She perceived the coldness of his look, and continued, though with a changed expression,—
"What ails you? Have I angered you? Will you be thus wayward with your poor Barbara?"
"My Barbara!" he repeated bitterly, and he touched the Frenchified hood that hung over her shoulders: "my Barbara! would these trappings become any one that belonged to such a thing as me? Rare contrasts we should be! Methinks such bravery does ill adorn a simple Puritan; one professing such principles should don a plainer robe. Gems, too, upon your sleeves!—is not a bright, but modest eye, a far more precious jewel? If it can be outshone by any other ornament, it is worth nothing."
He turned from her as he spoke, and tears again gathered in her eyes.
"Robin," she said in a broken voice, "it was MistressAlice put them on, to show me the proper tiring for a bower-maiden at a great festival—such as my lady's ought to be.—But I will take them off—all off, if you like them not."
"Nor sigh for them again?"
"Sigh for such as these!" she repeated, looking on her finery with disdain. "No, Robin, young as I am, I have learned better things. The linnet would look ill tricked out in parrot's feathers. Not but I think the bravery becoming, though, perhaps, not to me;—surely no, if you like it not! But whither are you going? only tell me that. Alas! that dark and black-browed boy has so confounded me, that I know not what I say. The last night's fray has sore distressed me too:—you know it all."
"Hush, Barbara! 'Tis of that I would speak; it is that which takes me from you—but only for a few days—it cannot be very long;—yet I must find out where he is. I know the hands his wilfulness has thrown him into, but I think they will save him from worse treachery. Nevertheless, I must to London, and, if I cannot find him there, I must elsewhere seek him out. If any ask for me, you will remain silent; and, dear girl, if chance should throw you in Dalton's way, (it is likely he may be here in a few days, perhaps before I return,) speak him kindly and gently; bear with him, as you have borne with me."
"That is impossible," interrupted Barbara, "for there is no reason why I should do so. He was never kind to me."
"But the time is coming when he will be kind. And now adieu, Barbara. I desired much to remain; but I cannot. I imagined I might be useful to Mistress Constance, but I could not; it rests not with me."
"I am very sorry you are going, Robin; for now, when I think of it, my heart is heavy within my bosom; I know not why it should be so. You are sure you can prevent that wild bad boy from frightening me again?"
"Quite sure. I'll lock him up within the Crag till my return."
"Thank you, Robin; but he will be kindly treated."
"To be sure he will."
"Thank you again;—but still the weight is here—hereon my heart. Do you think it would be very wrong to wear this dress at my lady's bridal?"
Robin smiled at the earnestness and simplicity that characterised this child of nature.
"Oh, no; but if you love such, I can get you far finer garments."
"Can you indeed?" she exclaimed joyfully:—"But no," she added in a sadder voice, "no bravery for me after this bridal. I dreamed a dream last night. Do you believe in dreams, Robin? Listen: I thought we were all standing at an altar in the ruined chapel."
"Who? All?" inquired the Ranger, eagerly.
"My lady and that man, and——" she paused.
"Who?" again inquired Robin.
"Why you: 'twas but a dream, you know," she added, blushing to the temples. Then, as the colour faded from her calm face, even more quickly than it came, she continued, "And we all looked so beautiful! and I thought you so like the Cavalier Walter, and I felt so peaceful and happy. But just as you touched my hand, there came a mist between us—a dense and chilling mist, that made the marrow curdle in my bones, and my joints stiff and iron-bound; and a voice, a low mournful voice, like the wail of a dying bird, said, 'Come!'—and I attempted to answer, 'Not yet;' but my tongue felt frozen to my teeth, and my teeth were as icicles within my lips; and I was enshrouded in the mist. Then suddenly a pang shot through my heart, as if it were the dart of death, and I would have screamed, such was its agony; but still my tongue was frozen! And I suffered, I cannot tell you what: when suddenly a soft breath breathed upon my cheek, and it felt warm and soothing, and a voice—sounding—I may as well tell it all, Robin—so like yours, said, 'Pray.' And as I prayed—not in words, but in spirit, the pain departed from me, and the blood flowed again through my veins; and gazing upwards, I found that I was not in the ruined chapel, but in the presence of the blessed Saviour! He looked upon us—upon us both——"
"Stop, Barbara!" exclaimed Robin, whose imagination, at all times easily worked upon, now became absolute torture, "for mercy, stop! It was but the dream of a weak girl."
For the first time since she had grown to woman's estate,he pressed her to his bosom, and then silently walked with her to the little gate that led to the garden.
"Let Crisp stay with me. Bright-eye and he agree better than usual," said Barbara with a quiet smile.
"I will," replied Robin, adding, as he turned away, "Trust in the God you worship, and put no faith in dreams."
Tell men of high conditionThat rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition,Their practice only hate;And if they once reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn tickle points of niceness—Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in over-wiseness;And when they do reply,Straight give them both the lie.Joshua Silvester.
Tell men of high conditionThat rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition,Their practice only hate;And if they once reply,Then give them all the lie.Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn tickle points of niceness—Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in over-wiseness;And when they do reply,Straight give them both the lie.Joshua Silvester.
Tell men of high conditionThat rule affairs of state,Their purpose is ambition,Their practice only hate;And if they once reply,Then give them all the lie.
Tell Wit how much it wranglesIn tickle points of niceness—Tell Wisdom she entanglesHerself in over-wiseness;And when they do reply,Straight give them both the lie.
Joshua Silvester.
Robin had, doubtless, good reasons for the hint he had given Barbara, that she might soon again see the Buccaneer, and that she would do well to use that forbearance towards him which she had so kindly and so invariably practised towards the Ranger. After leaving her, as we have stated, in safety at one of the entrances to Cecil Place, he proceeded to the Gull's Nest. His first inquiries were concerning the boy who had contrived to steal a passage on board the Fire-fly from France to England, and who had pretended dumbness. How the youth got on board his vessel, Dalton could not imagine; although, when the discovery was made, his feigning the infirmity we have mentioned succeeded so well, that the Buccaneer absolutely believed he could neither hear nor speak, and sympathised with him accordingly. The indignation of Dalton was quickly roused by the outrage described by Robin Hays: he was, moreover, much exasperated that such a deception should have been successfully practised on himself. Nothing is so sure to anger those who duly value their penetration, as the knowledge that they have been duped by those they consider inferior to themselves: indeed, the best of us are more ready to pardon bare-faced wickedness than designing cunning;—we may reconcile ourselves to the being overpowered by the one, but scarcely ever to the being over-reached by the other.
Springall had quitted Cecil Place the morning after his encounter with Major Wellmore, of whom he persisted in speaking as "the strong spectre-man;" and neither Robin's entreaties nor Dalton's commands could prevail on or force him again to take up his abode within the house.
"I know not why I should remain," he said; "the girls flout and laugh at my 'sea-saw ways,' as they call them; and though Barbara is a trim craft, well-built and rigged too, yet her quiet smile is worse to me than the grinning of the others. I'll stay nowhere to be both frightened and scouted: the Captain engaged me to weather the sea, not the land, and I'd rather bear the cat a-board the Fire-fly, or even a lecture in the good ship Providence, than be land-lagged any longer."
He was present in the room at the Gull's Nest when Robin recounted to the Buccaneer the peril in which Barbara had been placed; and the young sailor speedily forgot the meek jesting of the maiden in the magnitude of her danger.
"The black-eyed boy has not been near the house all day," added Springall, "and my own belief is, that he's no he, but a woman in disguise. My faith on it, Jeromio's in the secret, as sure as my name is Obey Springall! Jeromio understands all manner of lingoes, and would be likely to consort with any foreigners for filthy lucre: he has ever ventures of his own, and this is one."
"There may be wisdom in thy giddy pate," observed the Buccaneer thoughtfully. "God help me! dangers and plots gather thickly around, and my wits are not brightening with my years."
"Marry, it's no woman," observed Mother Hays; "I could not be deceived—it's a dark-browed boy," lowering her voice, "very like what Prince Charlie was, as I remember him, but with rather a Jewish look for a Christian prince."
"Robin," said Dalton, taking the Ranger aside, "if this most loathsome marriage cannot be stayed—if what I mean to do should fail—my daughter must seek another home and another protector. Were Miss Cecil to become the wife ofSir Willmott Burrell, undertheirroof Barbara should not bide—the kite's nest is a bad shelter for the ring-dove."
"Where would you take her?—who would protect her?" inquired Robin earnestly.
"Faith, I know not. I'll to Sir Robert Cecil this day—speak to him about some matters of our own, and then be guided by circumstances as to the disposal of my daughter.—My daughter! that word sends the blood to and from my heart in cold and then in hot gushing streams! But, Robin, you must not tarry; close watch shall be set for this dangerous imp, to prevent farther mischief; and if Springall's conjecture should be right—yet it is most wild, and most improbable!—What disguise will you adopt in this pursuit of our heedless friend?"
"As yet, I know not; I must suit it to the times and to the persons I encounter; a pedlar's will do me best at present; a pack is a fitting nook for concealment. Dear Captain, look well to Jeromio; he never meant you honest."
"I believe you are right, Robin; and yet why should I quarrel with men's honesty? they have as good a right to label mine with the foul word 'spurious.' This damning thing within my breast, that saints call conscience, how it has worked me lately! Poison is nothing to it: but it will soon be over, if the boy were safe, and my own Barbara would but pray for me, after the fashion of her mother." He paused, then striking his forehead violently, as if to banish thought, continued, "You go to London straight?"
"Ay, sure, and have secreted the invoices you spoke of, for the good merchant beyond St. Paul's, who ordered the rich velvets, counting, perhaps, upon a coronation."
"I hope he has a better chance of selling them than that affords. Noll will hardly dare it; his name—Protector—gives as much power, and 'tis as a fencing-master's guard, ever at hand to turn aside the sneers against his ambition. Thought'st thou of the pearls for my Lord Fauconberg's rich jeweller?"
"Ay, master, they are safe; those I will myself deliver; though, from what the journals say, his Lordship has small need of new trimming. 'Twas the public talk, when you made me act the respectable character of spy in Sir Willmott Burrell's service—at the court, sir, they talked of nothing else—how the King of France, with his own hands, made him a present of a gold box, inlaid with diamonds, that had upon the lid, on the outside, the arms of France, composed of three large jewels, and, in the inside, the monarch's own picture;—the Cardinal Mazarine, too, gave him a dozen pieces of the richest Genoese velvet; and then his Lordship, not to be outdone, made him a gift of equal value;—and then, I forget me what was the next—and the next—and the next—and the next; but it was mighty fine trafficking, that I know."
"Ay, Robin, 'nothing for nothing' is the statesman's motto. Now, give you good speed and success! You can send to me almost from any part of the kingdom in a few hours. Spare no efforts forhisfreedom—Jack Roupall's confession proves but too truly, that Sir Willmott is sworn against his life; and, till that ruffian is done for, or quieted, there is no safety for Walter. I have sent Jack on private work to the West; so he is out of the way—that's one comfort. Great interest have I in the boy; next to my own child, there is nothing I love so much. And now, Robin, farewell!"
When Robin bade adieu to his mother, she began to weep and wail, after the natural custom of mothers, high and low. "Ah! you are ever on the rove; ever on the wander! You will be on your ranges, some of these odd days, when I depart this life; and then you'll never know what I have to tell you."
"If it were any thing worth telling, you would have told it long ago; for a woman cannot keep a secret, that we all know."
"Ah, boy! boy! God bless you, and good-by! I wonder will that wench, Barbara, think to send me a bit of the bride-cake? I warrant I have a sweet tooth in my head still, albeit I have but two." And after some more idle talk, and much caressing, they parted.
"My poor old mother!" thought Robin Hays, "she does excellently well as a mother for me; but think of such as Barbara calling her by such a title!" And he whistled on his way, though not "for want of thought;" his feelings and affections were divided between Barbara Iverk and Walter De Guerre.
We must now proceed with Hugh Dalton a second time to Cecil Place. His interview with the baronet was of a naturevery different from that with which our narrative commenced. Sir Robert seemed as if the weight of a hundred years had been pressed upon his brow; indeed, Time could not have so altered any man. It was not the deed of Time that made the eye vigilant, even in its dimness—the hand, though trembling almost to palsy, fumble with the sword-handle—that racked the poor, withering, and shrinking brain, within its multiplied cabinets, by a thousand terrors—such was not the work of Time. How different was his, from the hoary, but holy age, that ushers an aged, and it may be a worn, but godly and grateful spirit, to an eternity of happiness!—when the records of a good man's life may be traced by the gentle furrows that nature, and not crime, has ploughed upon the brow—the voice, sweet, though feeble, giving a benison to all the living things of this fair earth—the eye, gentle and subdued, sleeping calmly within its socket—the heart, trusting in the present, and hoping in the future; judging by itself of others, and so judging kindly (despite experience) of all mankind, until time may have chimed out his warning notes!
A thousand and a thousand times had Sir Robert cursed the evil destiny that prompted him to confess his crime to his daughter; and his curses were more bitter, and more deep, when he found that Sir Willmott Burrell had played so treacherous a part, and inveigled him under total subjection.
"And is it Sir Willmott Burrell who is to procure me a free pardon and an acknowledged ship? Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" growled Dalton, as he sat opposite the enfeebled baronet: his hands clenched, his brows knit, and his heart swelling in his bosom with contending feelings. "Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" he repeated. "And so, Sir Robert Cecil, you have sold your soul to the devil for a mess of pottage, a mess of poisoned pottage! You have not, you say, the poor power of obtaining the most trifling favour for yourself. But I say again, Look to it; for, by the God in heaven, I will have my suit or my revenge."
"Revenge has come!" groaned forth the unfortunate man. "Is it not enough that my child, that high-souled, noble creature, knows of my guilt! All this day, and yesterday too, she would not see me. I know how it is—I am as a leper in her eyes."
"Your daughter!—your daughter know your crime!" saidthe Buccaneer: "How, how was that?—Who told, who could have told her such a thing?—who had the heart?—But stay!" he continued, with his rude but natural energy, the better feelings of his nature coming out at once, when he understood what the baronet must have endured under such circumstances:—"stay, you need not tell me; there is but one man upon earth who could so act, and that man is Sir Willmott Burrell.—The villain made a shrewd guess, and fooled ye into a confession. I see through it all!—And are you so mean a coward?" he continued, turning upon Sir Robert a look of ineffable contempt—"are you cowardly enough to sacrifice your daughter to save yourself? I see it now; the secret that Burrell has wormed from you is the spear that pushes her to the altar; and you—yousuffer this, and sell her and her lands to stay his tongue! Man, man, is there no feeling at your heart? Have ye a heart? I—I—a rude, untaught savage, whose hands are stained with blood, even to the very bone; who have been as a whirlwind, scattering desolation; over the deck of whose vessel has floated the pennon of every land, working destruction as a pastime; I, myself, would brand myself as a brigand and a Buccaneer—scorch the words, in letters of fire, on my brow, and stand to be gazed upon by the vile rabble at every market-cross in England, sooner than suffermyhumble child to sacrifice the least portion of herself for me!"
Dalton paused for breath; Sir Robert Cecil hid his face from the flashing of his angry eye.
"Dalton!" he said at length, "I cannot do it, honoured as I have been, bearing so long an unspotted name, venerated at the court, praised by the people! Besides, I am sure Sir Willmott loves her; his whole conduct proves——"
"—Him to be what I have often declared him, and will again once more—a double-distilled villain!" interrupted the Buccaneer with renewed energy. "But what is this to me?" he added, stopping abruptly in the midst of his sentence—"What have I to do with it? My revenge upon you both is certain, unless my own purpose be accomplished—and it shall be accomplished for my child's sake. I will find out Sir Willmott, and tell him so to his teeth. Sir Robert Cecil, farewell! You, I suppose, are a courtly, a gentlemanly father! Pity that such should ever have children!" andgathering his cloak around him, he left the room without uttering another word.
We may omit our account of the interview between the Buccaneer and SirWillmottBurrell; merely observing that it had the effect of chafing both in no ordinary degree.
"If I did but dare show myself at Whitehall," muttered Dalton, as he quitted the room in which he had conversed with his base opponent, "how I should be revenged! Nay, the delight I should feel in giving their deserts to both would make me risk my life, were it not for my girl's sake; but my pardon once obtained, sets me at liberty in England—Let them look to it, then."
As he loitered in one of the passages leading to the back entrance, Barbara crossed his path. At first she did not recognise him, for in the day-time he wore many disguises; and his present one was, a Geneva band and gown, covered with a long cloak of black serge. Having coldly returned his salutation, she turned into a closet to avoid further parley; but he followed, and shut the door. Barbara, who on all occasions was as timid and as helpless as a hare, trembled from head to foot, and sank on the nearest seat, her eyes fixed upon the Skipper and her quivering lip as pale as ashes.
"Barbara," he said, "you are afraid of me—you are afraid of me, child," he repeated, almost angry with her at the moment, although the feeling was so perfectly natural.
"Robin told me not to be afraid," she replied, at last; and then looking about for a chair, pointed to one at the farthest corner of the small room. "There is a seat, sir!"
"I see you want me to be as far away from you as possible, Barbara," he replied, smiling mournfully.
"Not now," she said, rising, and moving nearer, until she stood at his side and looked into his face, pleased at the softened expression of his features; "I am not, indeed, afraid of you now, sir. The first thing I did not like you for, was for offering me money; the second—but I beg your pardon" (bowing her head)—"I make too free, perhaps?" Dalton, gratified at any mark of confidence, encouraged her to go on—"The second was—your name;—I heard of a daring man called Hugh Dalton—a ruthless, cruel man—a man of——"
"Speak out, Barbara; you cannot anger me."
"A man of blood!" and she shuddered at her own words. "But I am sure one thing Mistress Cecil said was true— 'that we are not to put faith in all we hear.' Now, I believe all she says, and all Robin Hays says; and he speaks so kindly of you. And another thing, sir, makes me think so well of you is—that you knew my father—Nay, I am sure you did," she continued, laying her hand on his arm and looking into his countenance, which he turned away to conceal his emotion. "I am certain you did, Robin told me as much, and Mistress Constance did not deny it; and now that you are here, so gentle, and so kind, I am sure you will tell me. Do, dear, good sir. Did you not know my father? my poor dear, dear father!"
All Dalton's resolutions of silence, all his resolves melted into airy nothings at the sound of that sweet soft voice. Tears, the only tears of pleasure that had for years moistened the cheek of the reckless Buccaneer, burst from his eyes: he could not speak; he felt weak as a new-born infant; his limbs trembled; he would have fallen to the ground, had not the feeble girl supported him. In a moment she perceived and understood the whole truth, and exclaimed,—
"You—you are my father!"
"And you do not shrink? Do not turn away from me," he said fondly. "How like your mother you are, now that your eyes are filled with love, not fear!"
"And my mother loved you?" she inquired.
"Ay, girl. Why do you ask?"
"Because," replied Barbara, laying her head on his bosom, as, if, like a young bird, she had found a home and peace within the parent nest, "because, if my mother loved you, you cannot be a bad man; and I am satisfied."
The most beautiful feature in Barbara's character was, as we have said, her trustfulness; she had no idea of guilt. She heard of crime as a thing abroad in the world, but she could never identify it with persons: her mind was a compound of feeling and affection; and with the beautiful and earnest simplicity of truth, she perfectly believed that her father could not be wicked.
"I will tell my lady how my mother loved you, and then she will know you cannot be the wild man we took you for."
"Tell her nothing, sweet, about me. In a little time Ishall be able to take you to a proper home; only mark this, you must never go to the home of Sir Willmott Burrell."
"Ah! he is very wicked, I have heard; and yet you see how wrong it is to believe evil of any one; but I know that he is evil, if ever man was," was the maid's reply, reverting almost unconsciously to her father's situation.
"Let us talk of nothing evil, Barbara, during the few moments I can remain with you now. Remember, you are to tell your lady nothing about me."
"I do not see how I can help it."
"Why?"
"Because she has ever told me to tell her all things, and I have obeyed. Ah, sir—father, you know not how good she is to me, and how she cries, dear lady! Ever since this marriage has been fixed upon, she has wept unceasingly."
The Buccaneer felt at the moment as all parents must feel who desire to preserve their children in innocence, and yet themselves lead vicious lives. To the wicked, lies are as necessary as the air they breathe, as common for use as household stuff. Had Barbara been what is now termed a clever girl, the Buccaneer might have employed her, not as an agent of falsehood—thathis delicate love of his child would have prevented—but as an instrument, perhaps, to work some delay in a wedding that humanity, independent of one or two new and latent causes, called upon him to prevent; but in any plot where finesse was necessary, he saw that Barbara would be perfectly useless; and before taking his departure, he only told her she might, if she pleased, inform Mistress Cecil, but at the same time begged of her not to repeat to any one else that he had been there. This Barbara promised to do; and on the assurance that he would soon return, and enable her to show her lady that, instead of being the wild man they both took him for, he was a very peaceable (how the Buccaneer smiled at the word!) person, she suffered him to depart, and then went into her little room, to arrange her ideas, and mingle thanksgivings that she had found a father, with prayers for his safety.
But now, no star can shine, no hope be got,Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot,And yet more wretched far because he knows it not.* * * * *The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves,And smites the earth that dares the traitors nourish.Giles Fletcher.
But now, no star can shine, no hope be got,Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot,And yet more wretched far because he knows it not.* * * * *The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves,And smites the earth that dares the traitors nourish.Giles Fletcher.
But now, no star can shine, no hope be got,Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot,And yet more wretched far because he knows it not.* * * * *The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves,And smites the earth that dares the traitors nourish.
Giles Fletcher.
The Buccaneer failed not to inquire relative to the pretended dumb boy, but without success: he appeared to have vanished suddenly from before their eyes, and had left no trace behind. After despatching one or two trusty messengers on some particular embassies, Dalton concealed himself in the secret recesses of the crag until the evening fell sufficiently to enable him to get off to the Fire-fly without attracting the observation of any stragglers, or persons who might be on the watch for him or his vessel, which he had left, as before, under the superintendence of Jeromio, with strict orders to move about off Shelness Point, and the strand at Leysdown, and to be ready, on a particular signal, to heave-to and cast anchor nearly opposite the Gull's Nest. Three times had Dalton lighted his beacon on the top of the ruined tower, and three times extinguished it: the signal was at length answered, although not according to his directions, which were light for light. The Buccaneer was, however, satisfied; descended by the private stair to the shore, and pushed off his little boat, having called in vain for Springall, whom he had left at Gull's Nest in the morning.
The motion of the oars was but a mechanical accompaniment to his thoughts, which wandered back to his child, to his next beloved, Walter, and to the events through which his chequered life had passed during the last year. Strong as was now Hugh Dalton's affection for his daughter, it is doubtful if it would have had force enough to make him relinquish so completely his wandering and ruthless habits, and adopt the design of serving for a little time under the banner of the Commonwealth, before he completely gave up the sea, had not his declining constitution warned him that at fifty-five he was older than at thirty. He had grown a wiser and a better man than when, in middle age, he ran full tilt with his passions at all things that impeded his progress or his views. A long and dangerous illness, off the Caribbees, had sobered him morein one little month, than any other event could have done in years. Away from bustle and excitement, he had time for reflection, and when he arose from his couch, he felt that he was no longer the firm, strong man he had been. The impressions of early life, too, returned: he longed for his child, and for England; but when he remembered her mother, he could not support the idea that Barbara should know him as he really was. Still his restless mind suggested that occupation would be necessary, and his busy brain soon fixed upon the only way by which honourable employment could be obtained. England had been, for a long series of years in a perturbed and restless state, and Dalton had made himself well known, both by his ingenuity, energy, and bravery: he had been useful as a smuggler, and imported many things of rich value to the Cavaliers—trafficking, however, as we have seen, in more than mere contraband articles.
Sir Robert Cecil, as we have shown, was not always the possessor of Cecil Place; and the secret of whatever course he had adopted, or crime he had committed, to obtain such large possessions, was in the keeping of Hugh Dalton.
Cromwell had not at all times watched as carefully over the private transactions of individuals, as he was disposed to do during the later years of his Protectorate. Persons obnoxious to the Commonwealth had frequently disappeared; and though Oliver's system of espionage was never surpassed, not even by Napoleon, the Cromwell of modern years, yet it had been his policy to take little or no note of such matters: uniting in himself the most extraordinary mixture of craft and heroism that ever either disfigured or adorned the page of history.
Dalton and such men were no longer necessary to bear from the shores of England the excrescences of royalty. Time, the sword, or stratagem had greatly thinned their numbers; yet many recent events proved that loyalists were imported, and assassins hired, and let loose in the country by contraband ships; until, at length, the Protector was roused, and resolved to check the pirates and smugglers of our English strands, as effectually as the gallant and right noble Blake had exterminated them on the open sea.
No one was better acquainted with the character, the deeds, and misdeeds of Hugh Dalton, than the all-seeing Cromwell; and so firm a heart as the Protector's could not but marvel atand admire, even though he could neither approve nor sanction, the bravery of the Fire-fly's commander. Dalton knew this, and, in endeavouring to obtain an authorised ship, acted according to such knowledge. He felt that Cromwell would never pardon him, unless he could make him useful; a few cruises in a registered vessel, and then peace and Barbara, was his concluding thought, whilst, resting on his oars, he looked upon his beautiful brigantine, as she rode upon the waters at a long distance yet, the heavens spangled with innumerable stars for her canopy, and the ocean, the wide unfathomable ocean, spreading from pole to pole, circling the round earth as with a girdle, for her dominion.
It was one of those evenings that seem "breathless with adoration;" the gentleness of heaven was on the sea; there was not a line, not a ripple on the wide waste of waters; "the winds," to use again the poet's eloquent words, "were up, gathered like sleeping flowers." There was no light in the vessel's bow—no twinkle from the shore—no ship in sight—nothing that told of existence but his own Fire-fly, couching on the ocean like a sleeping bird.
"There is a demon spirit within her," whispered Dalton to himself; "the sight of her sends me wild again. Devil that she is! so beautiful! so well proportioned! Talk of the beauty of woman!—But I'll look to her no more—I'll think of her no more!"
He again applied himself to the oar, and was pulling steadily towards the ship, when his eye rested upon something black and round in the water. Again he paused in his exertions, and lay-to: the substance floated towards him. He would have shouted, but—no sailor is ever free from superstitious qualms of one sort or another—he remained silent, fixing his eye steadily upon the object. At last it came close, quite close to the boat; and in another instant, Springall was seated in the prow.
"Good God! Spring, what's the matter? are you mad? Has anything occurred yonder?" exclaimed Dalton, somewhat alarmed.
"Hush!" replied the panting youth; "I can hardly breathe yet." The Skipper was going to pull towards the ship; but the youth laid his hand on that of his master, and ejaculated, "Wait!"
Dalton complied, and when Springall could speak, he communicated what astonished the Buccaneer in no small degree:—He said that, having hunted about for the strange blade to no purpose, he tacked off towards the ship, and told Jeromio his master had found that the boy was no boy, but a girl in disguise; that he therefore desired Jeromio to tell him who she really was, as he had secreted her on ship-board, knowing perfectly well she was neither deaf nor dumb:—That Jeromio said, as the master had fished it up, there was no use in making any bones about the matter; for how it happened was, that when they were lying off St. Vallery, this girl, whom he believed to be a Jewess, offered him a large sum of money if he would secrete her on board, at all events until the ship sailed, and if—after concealment was impossible—he would not betray her. She stipulated to be landed upon the Kentish coast; and Jeromio added, that he was sure she had a design upon the life of somebody, and it might be easily guessed who, as she prevailed on him to show her the use and management of fire-arms, and had, besides, a dagger, which she usually carried in her bosom:—That, as she wrote English very imperfectly, she had bribed him to write a letter to Mistress Cecil, saying that, before God, she was the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell, and that if she (Mistress Cecil) persisted in marrying him, she would be revenged!—That he (Jeromio) kept back this letter, because he feared his hand-writing might eventually lead to a discovery that he had been the means of bringing her to England.—Springall detailed this intelligence in much less time than it has occupied us to repeat it; and then pausing, added,—
"But the worst is yet to come. Jeromio—Master, I was right about that fellow!—had hardly finished this account, when a boat hove out, and, at first, we thought it was you, but presently who should come on board but Sir Willmott Burrell, as large as life! Well, Jeromio was precious frightened, as you may suppose, and said it was to inquire after the Jewess; but he took the Italian into your cabin, and—I can't but own I was vastly anxious to know what they were saying——"
The greatest villain in the world dislikes to be thought a listener, on the same principle that men would rather be accused of crime than cowardice—of vice than folly; poor Springall stopped and stammered until commanded to go on.
"It was a fine day, and, thinking I should like a bath, I let myself down close by the cabin window with a rope. The window was open, and as I hung half in and half out of the water, I could hear every syllable they said, the sea was so calm. Not a word about the Jewess; but that precious villain was listening to a proposal made by the other villain to seize you, this very night, in your own ship, and murder you outright! It's true, master, as I'm alive! Then Jeromio said it would be better to deliver you up, as a rover, to the government; but Sir Willmott made reply,thatmight answerhispurpose, but it would not do forhim. Then he promised him a free pardon, and tempted him with the riches of the Crag, and other things;—and, as well as I could understand, they fully agreed upon it. And then, for fear of discovery, I was mounting up, when the rope, as ill-luck would have it, broke, and I went tilt splash into the water! Well, Jeromio looked out, and swore at me; but it mattered not: I scrambled up, resolving, as you may suppose, to keep a good look-out; but that double devil, Sir Willmott, was at it again, and would have it that I was listening, and so I was clapped under hatches; and hard enough I found it to steal off to you."
"The villain!" exclaimed the Buccaneer. "But the thing is impracticable; there are not more than ten or a dozen of her crew ashore: my brave fellows would never see their captain murdered!"
"On what pretext I know not, but he has, during the afternoon, sent the long-boat off with the truest hands aboard. I heard the men talking, as they passed backwards and forwards, that Bill o' Dartmouth, Sailing Jack, Mat Collins, and the Fire-fly rovers, as we used to call them—those boys who had been aboard with you in foreign parts—had gone ashore by your orders; and I know there are five or six—those Martinicos and Sagrinios, and the devil's own O's, that are 'fore and aft in all things with Jeromio. There's no putting faith in any of them, seeing they have a natural antipathy towards us English. So, now, let us put back, sir."
"Put back!" repeated Dalton, casting a look of scorn upon poor Springall; "the man's not born who could make me put back!—The ship's my own—and the sea, the broad sea we look upon, is mine, as long as I have strength to dip an oar in its brine, or wit to box a compass! Avast! avast! boy; youknow not what you speak of when you talk to Hugh Dalton of putting back!"
"They'll murder us both!" said Springall, in a mournful, and almost a reproachful tone.
"My poor boy!" replied Dalton looking in his face, and poising on high the oar he had so vigorously dipped in the blue wave—"My true-hearted boy! it would be, indeed, a bad recompense for your devotedness, to lead you into the tiger's den;—for myself, I have no fear;—I will put you on shore, and return."
"Never, master!" exclaimed the lad. "There is no one in the wide world I care for but yourself. To serve you, I would venture all. No, no, master, I may be but a poor weak boy in some things, but in this I am a man. I will never leave you while I have power to serve you."
"And you will not repent it," observed the Buccaneer; the spirit of former days rallying round his heart at the idea of danger, which ever appeared to him the path to glory: "you will not repent it—in a right cause too. What can I have to fear? I know that the instant I show myself among them, they will return as one man to their duty; andIF THEY DO NOT——"
As they neared the vessel, they perceived that not more than five or six of their comrades were, like shadowy things, pacing the deck. Jeromio himself, however, they noted, waiting to receive them.
Dalton, who was vigilant as brave, had previously thrown his boat-cloak over Springall, so that he might not be recognised, and handed him a cutlass and pistol. Whether the appearance of two, when he only expected one, or whether the natural dread with which he always, despite himself, regarded his captain, overpowered Jeromio, we may not guess; but as the Buccaneer strode up the ladder, his penetrating look steadily fixed upon the wily Italian, his quick eye perceived that twice he attempted to level a pistol; while his more cowardly accomplices crowded behind him. Had the villain possessed courage enough to fire as Dalton was ascending, his life would in all probability have been the sacrifice; but once upon the deck of his own ship, he was indeed a sea-king! For an instant he stood proudly before Jeromio; then, presenting his pistol to the head of the Italian, who trembledviolently, he said as calmly as if he were in the midst of friends,—
"One moment's prayer; and thus I punish traitors——"
There was a breathless silence; one might have heard a pin drop upon the deck; the very air seemed to listen within the furled sails. Jeromio's pistol fell from his grasp; he clasped his hands in agony, and falling before the Buccaneer, upon his knees, uttered a brief prayer, for well he knew that Dalton never recalled a doom, and he felt that all had been discovered! In another instant a flash passed along the ship, and danced in garish light over the quiet sea! The bullet shattered a brain ever ready to plot, but never powerful to execute. With unmoved aspect Dalton replaced the weapon, and planting his foot upon the prostrate dead, drew another from his belt. Springall was still by his side, ready to live or die with his commander.
"Come on! come on!" said Dalton, after surveying the small and trembling band of mutineers, as a lion of the Afric deserts gazes upon a herd of hounds by whom he is beset. "Come on!" and the sentence sounded like the tolling of a death-bell over the waters, so firmly yet solemnly was it pronounced, as if the hearts of a thousand men were in it. "Come on! Are ye afraid? We are but two. Or are ye still men; and do ye think upon the time when I led ye on to victory, when I divided the spoil of many lands among ye? Ye are friends—countrymen of this—that was a man; yet if ye will, ye shall judge between us. Did I deserve this treachery at his hands? Can one of ye accuse me of injustice?"
A loud, a reiterated "No," answered this appeal, and the mutineers rushed forward, not to seize on, but to lay down their weapons at the feet of their captain.
"Take up your arms," said Dalton, after casting his eye over them, and perceiving at a single glance that they had truly delivered them all. "Take up your arms: ye were only beguiled; ye are too true to be really treacherous."
This most wise compliment operated as oil on the tumultuous sea: the ship-mob fancied they were acting according to the dictates of reason, when they were really under the influence of fear, and then they aroused the tranquillity of the night,shouting long and loudly for the Fire-fly and the brave Buccaneer!
Although Jeromio had cunningly despatched several of Dalton's most approved friends in the long-boat to the shore on some pretended business, yet others had been secured below; and, when they were liberated, they created great and noisy jubilee at what they jestingly called "the Restoration." Springall had orders to distribute among them, and without distinction, abundance of rum, while Dalton retired to his cabin, still unmoved, to pen some despatches, which he deemed necessary to send to the main land that night.
When he returned on deck, the revellers had retired, and the watch was set. Many of the stars that had witnessed the events we have recorded had sunk, and others had risen in their stead. The midnight air was chill and cold; Jeromio's body lay where it had fallen, stiffening in its gore; for no one cared to meddle with it till the Skipper's pleasure was known as to how it was to be disposed of. Dalton gazed upon it but for an instant, and then ordered that a man named Mudy, the black, and butcher of the ship, should attend him.
"Here, Mudy," he exclaimed, "chop me off that rascal's head—quick, do it!" The brute carelessly performed his task. "Now roll the carcass in a sail, and, being well leaded, throw it overboard. Wrap me the head in a clean napkin; I would fain make a present to Sir Willmott Burrell—a wedding present he may think it, if he will. The head to which he trusted will serve the purpose well. I will not send you, Springall, on this errand," he continued, laying his hand gently on the shoulder of the trembling boy, who sickened at the disgusting sight. "Go to your hammock; you shall not sleep there many nights more. You are too good for such a life as this!"
He then directed two of his men to row to land, and leave the parcel at the gate of Cecil Place. He also gave them other packets to deliver, with orders to those of his crew who were still on shore; and then, his ship being under sail for another division of the coast, like a mighty but perturbed spirit, he paced the deck till morning.