Mercury. “I permit thee to be Sosia again.”Dryden,
We must leave the two adventurers winding their way among the broken piles, and venturing boldly beneath the tottering arches of the ruin, to accompany the reader, at the same hour, within the more comfortable walls of the abbey; where, it will be remembered, Borroughcliffe was left in a condition of very equivocal ease. As the earth had, however, in the interval, nearly run its daily round, circumstances had intervened to release the soldier from his confinement—and no one, ignorant of the fact, would suppose that the gentleman who was now seated at the hospitable board of Colonel Howard, directing, with so much discretion, the energies of his masticators to the delicacies of the feast, could read, in his careless air and smiling visage, that those foragers of nature had been so recently condemned, for four long hours, to the mortification of discussing the barren subject of his own sword-hilt. Borroughcliffe, however, maintained not only his usual post, but his well-earned reputation at the table, with his ordinary coolness of demeanor; though at times there were fleeting smiles that crossed his military aspect, which sufficiently indicated that he considered the matter of his reflection to be of a particularly ludicrous character. In the young man who sat by his side, dressed in the deep-blue jacket of a seaman, with the fine white linen of his collar contrasting strongly with the black silk handkerchief that was tied with studied negligence around his neck, and whose easy air and manner contrasted still more strongly with this attire, the reader will discover Griffith. The captive paid much less devotion to the viands than his neighbor, though he affected more attention to the business of the table than he actually be stowed, with a sort of consciousness that it would relieve the blushing maiden who presided. The laughing eyes of Katherine Plowden were glittering by the side of the mild countenance of Alice Dunscombe, and, at times, were fastened in droll interest on the rigid and upright exterior that Captain Manual maintained, directly opposite to where she was seated. A chair had, also, been placed for Dillon—of course it was vacant.
“And so, Borroughcliffe,” cried Colonel Howard, with a freedom of voice, and a vivacity in his air, that announced the increasing harmony of the repast, “the sea-dog left you nothing to chew but the cud of your resentment!”
“That and my sword-hilt,” returned the immovable recruiting officer. “Gentlemen, I know not how your Congress rewards military achievements; but if that worthy fellow were in my company, he should have a halberd within a week—spurs I would not offer him, for he affects to spurn their use.”
Griffith smiled, and bowed in silence to the liberal compliment of Borroughcliffe; but Manual took on himself the task of replying:
“Considering the drilling the man has received, the conduct has been well enough, sir; though a well-trained soldier would not only have made prisoners, but he would have secured them.”
“I perceive, my good comrade, that your thoughts are running on the exchange,” said Borroughcliffe, good-humoredly; “we will fill, sir, and, by permission of the ladies, drink to a speedy restoration of rights to both parties—the status quo ante bellum!”
“With all my heart!” cried the colonel; “and Cicely and Miss Katherine will pledge the sentiment in a woman's sip; will ye not, my fair wards?—Mr. Griffith, I honor this proposition of yours, which will not only liberate yourself, but restore to us my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon. Kit had imagined the thing well; ha! Borroughcliffe! 'twas ingeniously contrived, but the fortune of war interposed itself to his success; and yet it is a deep and inexplicable mystery to me, how Kit should have been conveyed from the abbey with so little noise, and without raising the alarm.”
“Christopher is a man who understands the philosophy of silence, as well as that of rhetoric,” returned Borroughcliffe, “and must have learned in his legal studies, that it is sometimes necessary to conduct matters sub silentio. You smile at my Latin, Miss Plowden; but really, since I have become an inhabitant of this monkish abode, my little learning is stimulated to unwonted efforts—nay, you are pleased to be yet more merry! I used the language, because silence is a theme in which you ladies take but little pleasure.”
Katherine, however, disregarded the slight pique that was apparent in the soldier's manner; but, after following the train of her own thoughts in silent enjoyment for a moment longer, she seemed to yield to their drollery, and laughed until her dark eyes flashed with merriment. Cecilia did not assume the severe gravity with which she sometimes endeavored to repress, what she thought, the unseasonable mirth of her cousin; and the wondering Griffith fancied, as he glanced his eye from one to the other, that he could discern a suppressed smile playing among the composed features of Alice Dunscombe. Katherine, however, soon succeeded in repressing the paroxysm, and, with an air of infinitely comic gravity, she replied to the remark of the soldier:
“I think I have heard of such a process in nautical affairs as towing; but I must appeal to Mr. Griffith for the correctness of the term.”
“You could not speak with more accuracy,” returned the young sailor, with a look that sent the conscious blood to the temples of the lady, “though you had made marine terms your study.”
“The profession requires less thought, perhaps, than you imagine, sir; but is this towing often done, as Captain Borroughcliffe—I beg his pardon—as the monks have it, sub silentio?”
“Spare me, fair lady,” cried the captain, “and we will establish a compact of mutual grace; you to forgive my learning, and I to suppress my suspicions.”
“Suspicions, sir, is a word that a lady must defy.”
“And defiance a challenge that a soldier can never receive; so I must submit to talk English, though the fathers of the church were my companions. I suspect that Miss Plowden has it in her power to explain the manner of Mr. Christopher Dillon's departure.”
The lady did not reply, but a second burst of merriment succeeded, of a liveliness and duration quite equal to the former.
“How's this?” exclaimed the colonel; “permit me to say, Miss Plowden, your mirth is very extraordinary! I trust no disrespect has been offered to my kinsman? Mr. Griffith, our terms are, that the exchange shall only be made on condition that equally good treatment has been extended to the parties!”
“If Mr. Dillon can complain of no greater evil than that of being laughed at by Miss Plowden, sir, he has reason to call himself a happy fellow.”
“I know not, sir; God forbid that I should forget what is due to my guests, gentlemen!—but ye have entered my dwelling as foes to my prince.”
“But not to Colonel Howard, sir.”
“I know no difference, Mr. Griffith. King George or Colonel Howard—Colonel Howard or King George. Our feelings, our fortunes, and our fate, are as one; with the mighty odds that Providence has established between the prince and his people! I wish no other fortune than to share, at an humble distance, the weal or woe of my sovereign!”
“You are not called upon, dear sir, to do either, by the thoughtlessness of us ladies,” said Cecilia, rising; “but here comes one who should turn our thoughts to a more important subject—our dress.”
Politeness induced Colonel Howard, who both loved and respected his niece, to defer his remarks to another time: and Katherine, springing from her chair with childish eagerness, flew to the side of her cousin, who was directing a servant that had announced the arrival of one of those erratic venders of small articles, who supply, in remote districts of the country, the places of more regular traders, to show the lad into the dining-parlor. The repast was so far ended as to render this interruption less objectionable; and as all felt the object of Cecilia to be the restoration of harmony, the boy was ushered into the room without further delay. The contents of his small basket, consisting chiefly of essences, and the smaller articles of female economy, were playfully displayed on the table by Katherine, who declared herself the patroness of the itinerant youth, and who laughingly appealed to the liberality of the gentlemen in behalf of her protégé.
“You perceive, my dear guardian, that the boy must be loyal; for he offers, here, perfume, that is patronized by no less than two royal dukes: do suffer me to place a box aside, for your especial use: you consent; I see it in your eye. And, Captain Borroughcliffe, as you appear to be forgetting the use of your own language, here is even a hornbook for you! How admirably provided he seems to be. You must have had St. Ruth in view, when you laid in your stock, child?”
“Yes, my lady,” the boy replied, with a bow that was studiously awkward; “I have often heard of the grand ladies that dwell in the old abbey, and I have journeyed a few miles beyond my rounds, to gain their custom.”
“And surely they cannot disappoint you. Miss Howard, that is a palpable hint to your purse; and I know not that even Miss Alice can escape contribution, in these troublesome times. Come, aid me, child; what have you to recommend, in particular, to the favor of these ladies?”
The lad approached the basket, and rummaged its contents, for a moment, with the appearance of deep mercenary interest; and then, without lifting his hand from the confusion he had caused, he said, while he exhibited something within the basket to the view of his smiling observer:
“This, my lady.”
Katherine started, and glanced her eyes, with a piercing look, at the countenance of the boy, and then turned them uneasily from face to face, with conscious timidity. Cecilia had effected her object, and had resumed her seat in silent abstraction—Alice was listening to the remarks of Captain Manual and the host, as they discussed the propriety of certain military usages—Griffith seemed to hold communion with his mistress, by imitating her silence; but Katherine, in her stolen glances, met the keen look of Borroughcliffe, fastened on her face, in a manner that did not fail instantly to suspend the scrutiny.
“Come, Cecilia,” she cried, after a pause of a moment, “we trespass too long on the patience of the gentlemen; not only to keep possession of our seats, ten minutes after the cloth has been drawn! but even to introduce our essences, and tapes, and needles, among the Madeira, and—shall I add, cigars, colonel?”
“Not while we are favored with the company of Miss Plowden, certainly.”
“Come, my coz; I perceive the colonel is growing particularly polite, which is a never-failing sign that he tires of our presence.”
Cecilia rose, and was leading the way to the door, when Katherine turned to the lad, and added:
“You can follow us to the drawing-room, child, where we can make our purchases, without exposing the mystery of our toilets.”
“Miss Plowden has forgotten my hornbook, I believe,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing from the standing group who surrounded the table; “possibly I can find some work in the basket of the boy, better fitted for the improvement of a grown-up young gentleman than this elementary treatise.”
Cecilia, observing him to take the basket from the lad, resumed her seat, and her example was necessarily followed by Katherine; though not without some manifest indications of vexation.
“Come hither, boy, and explain the uses of your wares. This is soap, and this a penknife, I know; but what name do you affix to this?”
“That? that is tape,” returned the lad, with an impatience that might very naturally be attributed to the interruption that was thus given to his trade.
“And this?”
“That?” repeated the stripling, pausing, with a hesitation between sulkiness and doubt; “that?—”
“Come, this is a little ungallant!” cried Katherine; “to keep three ladies dying with impatience to possess themselves of their finery, while you detain the boy, to ask the name of a tambouring-needle!”
“I should apologize for asking questions that are so easily answered; but perhaps he will find the next more difficult to solve,” returned Borroughcliffe, placing the subject of his inquiries in the palm of his hand, in such a manner as to conceal it from all but the boy and himself, “This has a name too; what is it?”
“That?—that—is sometimes called—white-line.”
“Perhaps you mean a white lie?”
“How, sir!” exclaimed the lad, a little fiercely, “a lie!”
“Only a white one,” returned the captain. “What do you call this. Miss Dunscombe?”
“We call it bobbin, sir, generally, in the north,” said the placid Alice.
“Ay, bobbin, or white-line; they are the same thing,” added the young trader.
“They are? I think, now, for a professional man, you know but little of the terms of your art,” observed Borroughcliffe, with an affectation of irony; “I never have seen a youth of your years who knew less. What names, now, would you affix to this, and this, and this?”
While the captain was speaking he drew from his pockets the several instruments that the cockswain had made use of the preceding night to secure his prisoner.
“That,” exclaimed the lad, with the eagerness of one who would vindicate his reputation, “is rattlin-stuff; and this is marline; and that is sennit.”
“Enough, enough,” said Borroughcliffe; “you have exhibited sufficient knowledge to convince me that youdoknow something of yourtrade, and nothing of these articles. Mr. Griffith, do you claim this boy?”
“I believe I must, sir,” said the young sea-officer, who had been intently listening to the examination. “On whatever errand you have now ventured here, Mr. Merry, it is useless to affect further concealment.”
“Merry!” exclaimed Cecilia Howard; “is it you, then, my cousin? Are you, too, fallen into the power of your enemies! was it not enough that—”
The young lady recovered her recollection in time to suppress the remainder of the sentence, though the grateful expression of Griffith's eye sufficiently indicated that he had, in his thoughts, filled the sentence with expressions abundantly flattering to his own feelings.
“How's this, again!” cried the colonel; “my two wards embracing and fondling a vagrant, vagabond peddler, before my eyes! Is this treason, Mr. Griffith? Or what means the extraordinary visit of this young gentleman?”
“Is it extraordinary, sir,” said Merry himself, losing his assumed awkwardness in the ease and confidence of one whose faculties had been early exercised, “that a boy like myself, destitute of mother and sisters, should take a like risk on himself, to visit the only two female relatives he has in the world?”
“Why this disguise, then? surely, young gentleman, it was unnecessary to enter the dwelling of old George Howard on such an errand clandestinely, even though your tender years have been practised on, to lead you astray from your allegiance. Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual must pardon me, if I express sentiments, at my own table, that they may find unpleasant; but this business requires us to be explicit.”
“The hospitality of Colonel Howard is unquestionable,” returned the boy; “but he has a great reputation for his loyalty to the crown.”
“Ay, young gentleman; and, I trust, with some justice.”
“Would it, then, be safe, to entrust my person in the hands of one who might think it his duty to detain me?”
“This is plausible enough, Captain Borroughcliffe, and I doubt not the boy speaks with candor. I would, now, that my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon, were here, that I might learn if it would be misprision of treason to permit this youth to depart, unmolested, and without exchange?”
“Inquire of the young gentleman, after the Cacique,” returned the recruiting officer, who, apparently satisfied in producing the exposure of Merry, had resumed his seat at the table; “perhaps he is, in verity, an ambassador, empowered to treat on behalf of his highness.”
“How say you?” demanded the colonel; “do you know anything of my kinsman?”
The anxious eyes of the whole party were fastened on the boy for many moments, witnessing the sudden change from careless freedom to deep horror expressed in his countenance. At length he uttered in an undertone the secret of Dillon's fate.
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated every voice in the room.
“Yes, dead!” said the boy, gazing at the pallid faces of those who surrounded him.
A long and fearful silence succeeded the announcement of this intelligence, which was only interrupted by Griffith, who said:
“Explain the manner of his death, sir, and where his body lies.”
“His body lies interred in the sands,” returned Merry, with a deliberation that proceeded from an opening perception that, if he uttered too much, he might betray the loss of the Ariel, and, consequently, endanger the liberty of Barnstable.
“In the sands?” was echoed from every part of the room.
“Ay, in the sands; but how he died, I cannot explain.”
“He has been murdered!” exclaimed Colonel Howard, whose command of utterance was now amply restored to him; “he has been treacherously, and dastardly, and basely murdered!”
“He hasnotbeen murdered,” said the boy, firmly; “nor did he meet his death among those who deserve the name either of traitors or of dastards.”
“Said you not that he was dead? that my kinsman was buried in the sands of the seashore?”
“Both are true, sir—”
“And you refuse to explain how he met his death, and why he has been thus ignominiously interred?”
“He received his interment by my orders, sir; and if there be ignominy about his grave, his own acts have heaped it on him. As to the manner of his death, I cannot, and will not speak.”
“Be calm, my cousin,” said Cecilia, in an imploring voice; “respect the age of my uncle, and remember his strong attachment to Mr. Dillon.”
The veteran had, however, so far mastered his feelings, as to continue the dialogue with more recollection.
“Mr. Griffith,” he said, “I shall not act hastily—you and your companions will be pleased to retire to your several apartments. I will so far respect the son of my brother Harry's friend as to believe your parole will be sacred. Go, gentlemen; you are unguarded.”
The two prisoners bowed low to the ladies and their host, and retired. Griffith, however, lingered a moment on the threshold, to say:
“Colonel Howard, I leave the boy to your kindness and consideration. I know you will not forget that his blood mingles with that of one who is most dear to you.”
“Enough, enough, sir,” said the veteran, waving his hand to him to retire: “and you, ladies; this is not a place for you, either.”
“Never will I quit this child,” said Katherine, “while such a horrid imputation lies on him. Colonel Howard, act your pleasure on us both, for I suppose you have the power; but his fate shall be my fate.”
“There is, I trust, some misconception in this melancholy affair,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing into the centre of the agitated group; “and I should hope, by calmness and moderation, all may yet be explained; young gentleman, you have borne arms, and must know, notwithstanding your youth, what it is to be in the power of your enemies?”
“Never,” returned the proud boy; “I am a captive for the first time.”
“I speak, sir, in reference to our power.”
“You may order me to a dungeon; or, as I have entered the abbey in disguise, possibly to a gibbet.”
“And is that a fate to be met so calmly by one so young?”
“You dare not do it, Captain Borroughcliffe,” cried Katherine, involuntarily throwing an arm around the boy, as if to shield him from harm; “you would blush to think of such a cold-blooded act of vengeance, Colonel Howard.”
“If we could examine the young man, where the warmth of feeling which these ladies exhibit might not be excited,” said the captain, apart to his host, “we should gain important intelligence.”
“Miss Howard, and you, Miss Plowden,” said the veteran, in a manner that long habit had taught his wards to respect, “your young kinsman is not in the keeping of savages, and you can safely confide him to my custody. I am sorry that we have so long kept Miss Alice standing, but she will find relief on the couches of your drawing-room, Cecilia.”
Cecilia and Katherine permitted themselves to be conducted to the door by their polite but determined guardian, where he bowed to their retiring persons, with the exceeding courtesy that he never failed to use, when in the least excited.
“You appear to know your danger, Mr. Merry,” said Borroughcliffe, after the door was closed; “I trust you also know what duty would dictate to one in my situation.”
“Do it, sir,” returned the boy; “you have a king to render an account to, and I have a country.”
“I may have a country also,” said Borroughcliffe, with a calmness that was not in the least disturbed by the taunting air with which the youth delivered himself. “It is possible for me, however, to be lenient, even merciful, when the interests of that prince, to whom you allude, are served—you came not on this enterprise alone, sir?”
“Had I come better attended, Captain Borroughcliffe might have heard these questions, instead of putting them.”
“I am happy, sir, that your retinue has been so small: and yet even the rebel schooner called the Ariel might have furnished you with a more becoming attendance. I cannot but think that you are not far distant from your friends.”
“He is near his enemies, your honor,” said Sergeant Drill, who had entered the room unobserved; “for here is a boy who says he has been seized in the old ruin, and robbed of his goods and clothes; and, by his description, this lad should be the thief.”
Borroughcliffe signed to the boy, who stood in the background, to advance; and he was instantly obeyed, with all that eagerness which a sense of injury on the part of the sufferer could excite. The tale of this unexpected intruder was soon told, and was briefly this:
He had been assaulted by a man and a boy (the latter was in presence), while arranging his effects, in the ruin, preparatory to exhibiting them to the ladies of the abbey, and had been robbed of such part of his attire as the boy had found necessary for his disguise, together with his basket of valuables. He had been put into an apartment of an old tower, by the man, for safe keeping; but as the latter frequently ascended to its turret, to survey the country, he had availed himself of this remissness, to escape; and, to conclude, he demanded a restoration of his property, and vengeance for his wrongs.
Merry heard his loud and angry details with scornful composure, and before the offended peddler was through his narrative, he had divested himself of the borrowed garments, which he threw to the other with singular disdain.
“We are beleaguered, mine host! beset! besieged!” cried Borroughcliffe, when the other had ended. “Here is a rare plan to rob us of our laurels! ay, and of our rewards! but, hark ye, Drill! they have old soldiers to deal with, and we shall look into the matter. One would wish to triumph on foot; you understand me?—there was no horse in the battle. Go, fellow, I see you grow wiser; take this young gentleman—and rememberhe isa young gentleman—put him in safe keeping, but see him supplied with all he wants.”
Borroughcliffe bowed politely to the haughty bend of the body with which Merry, who now began to think himself a martyr to his country, followed the orderly from the room.
“There is mettle in the lad!” exclaimed the captain; “and if he live to get a beard, 'twill be a hardy dog who ventures to pluck it. I am glad, mine host, that this 'wandering Jew' has arrived, to save the poor fellow's feelings, for I detest tampering with such a noble spirit. I saw, by his eye, that he had squinted oftener over a gun than through a needle!”
“But they have murdered my kinsman!—the loyal, the learned, the ingenious Mr. Christopher Dillon!”
“If they have done so, they shall be made to answer it,” said Borroughcliffe, reseating himself at the table, with a coolness that furnished an ample pledge of the impartiality of his judgment; “but let us learn the facts, before we do aught hastily.”
Colonel Howard was fain to comply with so reasonable a proposition, and he resumed his chair, while his companion proceeded to institute a close examination of the peddler boy.
We shall defer, until the proper time may arrive, recording the result of his inquiries; but shall so satisfy the curiosity of our readers, as to tell them that the captain learned sufficient to convince him a very serious attempt was meditated on the abbey; and, as he thought, enough also to enable him to avert the danger.
—“I have not seenSo likely an ambassador of love.”Merchant of Venice.
Cecilia and Katherine separated from Alice Dunscombe in the lower gallery of the cloisters; and the cousins ascended to the apartment which was assigned them as a dressing-room. The intensity of feeling that was gradually accumulating in the breasts of the ladies, as circumstances brought those in whom their deepest interests were centred into situations of extreme delicacy, if not of actual danger, perhaps, in some measure, prevented them from experiencing all that concern which the detection and arrest of Merry might be supposed to excite. The boy, like themselves, was an only child of one of those three sisters, who caused the close connection of so many of our characters; and his tender years had led his cousins to regard him with an affection that exceeded the ordinary interest of such an affinity; but they knew that in the hands of Colonel Howard his person was safe, though his liberty might be endangered. When the first emotions, therefore, which were created by his sudden appearance after so long an absence had subsided, their thoughts were rather occupied by the consideration of what consequences, to others, might proceed from his arrest, than by any reflections on the midshipman's actual condition. Secluded from the observations of any strange eyes, the two maidens indulged their feelings, without restraint, according to their several temperaments. Katherine moved to and fro in the apartment, with feverish anxiety, while Miss Howard, by concealing her countenance under the ringlets of her luxuriant dark hair, and shading her eyes with a fair hand, seemed to be willing to commune with her thoughts more quietly.
“Barnstable cannot be far distant,” said the former, after a few minutes had passed; “for he never would have sent that child on such an errand, by himself!”
Cecilia raised her mild blue eyes to the countenance of her cousin, as she answered:
“All thoughts of an exchange must now be abandoned; and perhaps the persons of the prisoners will be held as pledges, to answer for the life of Dillon.”
“Can the wretch be dead? or is it merely a threat, or some device of that urchin? He is a forward child, and would not hesitate to speak and act boldly, on emergency.”
“He is dead!” returned Cecilia, veiling her face again in horror; “the eyes of the boy, his whole countenance, confirmed his words! I fear, Katherine, that Mr. Barnstable has suffered his resentment to overcome his discretion, when he learned the treachery of Dillon; surely, surely, through the hard usages of war may justify so dreadful a revenge on an enemy, it was unkind to forget the condition of his own friends!”
“Mr. Barnstable has done neither, Miss Howard,” said Katherine, checking her uneasy footsteps, her light form swelling with pride; “Mr. Barnstable is equally incapable of murdering an enemy or of deserting a friend!”
“But retaliation is neither deemed nor called murder, by men in arms.”
“Think it what you will, call it what you will, Cecilia Howard, I will pledge my life, that Richard Barnstable has to answer for the blood of none but the open enemies of his country.”
“The miserable man may have fallen a sacrifice to the anger of that terrific seaman, who led him hence as a captive!”
“That terrific seaman, Miss Howard, has a heart as tender as your own. He is——”
“Nay, Katherine,” interrupted Cecilia, “you chide me unkindly; let us not add to our unavoidable misery, by such harsh contention.”
“I do not contend with you, Cecilia; I merely defend the absent and the innocent from your unkind suspicions, my cousin.”
“Say, rather, your sister,” returned Miss Howard, their hands involuntarily closing upon each other, “for we are surely sisters! But let us strive to think of something less horrible. Poor, poor Dillon! now that he has met a fate so terrible, I can even fancy him less artful and more upright than we had thought him! You agree with me, Katherine, I see by your countenance, and we will dwell no longer on the subject.—Katherine! my cousin Kate, what see you?”
Miss Plowden, as she relinquished her pressure of the hand of Cecilia, had renewed her walk with a more regulated step; but she was yet making her first turn across the room, when her eyes became keenly set on the opposite window, and her whole frame was held in an attitude of absorbed attention. The rays of the setting sun fell bright upon her dark glances, which seemed fastened on some distant object, and gave an additional glow to the mantling color that was slowly stealing, across her cheeks, to her temples. Such a sudden alteration in the manner and appearance of her companion had not failed to catch the attention of Cecilia, who, in consequence, interrupted herself by the agitated question we have related. Katherine slowly beckoned her companion to her side, and, pointing in the direction of the wood that lay in view, she said:
“See yon tower, in the ruin! Do you observe those small spots of pink and yellow that are fluttering above its walls?”
“I do. They are the lingering remnants of the foliage of some tree; but they want the vivid tints which grace the autumn of our own dear America!”
“One is the work of God, and the other has been produced by the art of man. Cecilia, those are no leaves, but they are my own childish signals, and without doubt Barnstable himself is on that ruined tower. Merry cannot, will not, betray him!”
“My life should be a pledge for the honor of our little cousin,” said Cecilia. “But you have the telescope of my uncle at hand, ready for such an event! one look through it will ascertain the truth—”
Katherine sprang to the spot where the instrument stood, and with eager hands she prepared it for the necessary observation.
“It is he!” she cried, the instant her eye was put to the glass. “I even see his head above the stones. How unthinking to expose himself so unnecessarily!”
“But what says he, Katherine?” exclaimed Cecilia; “you alone can interpret his meaning.”
The little book which contained the explanations of Miss Plowden's signals was now hastily produced, and its leaves rapidly run over in quest of the necessary number.
“Tis only a question to gain my attention. I must let him know he is observed.”
When Katherine, as much to indulge her secret propensities as with any hope of its usefulness, had devised this plan for communicating with Barnstable, she had, luckily, not forgotten to arrange the necessary means to reply to his interrogatories. A very simple arrangement of some of the ornamental cords of the window-curtains enabled her to effect this purpose; and her nimble fingers soon fastened the pieces of silk to the lines, which were now thrown into the air, when these signals in miniature were instantly displayed in the breeze.
“He sees them!” cried Cecilia, “and is preparing to change his flags.”
“Keep then your eye on him, my cousin, and tell me the colors that he shows, with their order, and I will endeavor to read his meaning.”
“He is as expert as yourself! There are two more of them fluttering above the stones again: the upper is white, and the lower black.”
“White over black,” repeated Katherine, rapidly, to herself, as she turned the leaves of her book.—“'My messenger: has he been seen?'—To that we must answer the unhappy truth. Here it is—yellow, white, and red—'He is a prisoner.' How fortunate that I should have prepared such a question and answer. What says he, Cecilia, to this news?”
“He is busy making his changes, dear. Nay, Katherine, you shake so violently as to move the glass! Now he is done; 'tis yellow over black, this time.”
“'Griffith, or who?' He does not understand us; but I had thought of the poor boy, in making out the numbers—ah! here it is; yellow, green, and red—'My cousin Merry'—he cannot fail to understand us now.”
“He has already taken in his flags. The news seems to alarm him, for he is less expert than before. He shows them now—they are green, red, and yellow.”
“The question is, 'Am I safe?' 'Tis that which made him tardy, Miss Howard,” continued Katherine. “Barnstable is ever slow to consult his safety. But how shall I answer him? should we mislead him now, how could we ever forgive ourselves!”
“Of Andrew Merry there is no fear,” returned Cecilia; “and I think if Captain Borroughcliffe had any intimation of the proximity of his enemies, he would not continue at the table.”
“He will stay there while wine will sparkle, and man can swallow,” said Katherine; “but we know, by sad experience, that he is a soldier on an emergency; and yet, I'll trust to his ignorance this time—here, I have an answer: 'You are yet safe, but be wary.'”
“He reads your meaning with a quick eye, Katherine; and he is ready with his answer too: he shows green over white, this time. Well! do you not hear me? 'tis green over white. Why, you are dumb—what says he, dear?”
Still Katherine answered not, and her cousin raised her eyes from the glass, and beheld her companion gazing earnestly at the open page, while the glow which excitement had before brought to her cheek was increased to a still deeper bloom.
“I hope your blushes and his signals are not ominous, Kate,” added Cecilia; “can green imply his jealousy, as white does your purity? what says he, coz?”
“He talks, like yourself, much nonsense,” said Katherine, turning to her flags, with a pettish air, that was singularly contradicted by her gratified countenance; “but the situation of things requires that I should talk to Barnstable more freely.”
“I can retire,” said Cecilia, rising from her chair with a grave manner.
“Nay, Cecilia, I do not deserve these looks—'tis you who exhibit levity now! But you can perceive for yourself that evening is closing in, and that some other medium for conversation, besides the eyes, may be adopted.—Here is a signal, which will answer:'When the abbey clock strikes nine, come with care to the wicket, which opens, at the east side of the paddock, on the road: until then, keep secret.'I had prepared this very signal, in case an interview should be necessary.”
“Well, he sees it,” returned Cecilia, who had resumed her place by the telescope, “and seems disposed to obey you, for I no longer discern his flags or his person.”
Miss Howard now arose from before the glass, her observations being ended; but Katherine did not return the instrument to its corner, without fastening one long and anxious look through it, on what now appeared to be the deserted tower. The interest and anxiety produced by this short and imperfect communication between Miss Plowden and her lover did not fail to excite reflections in both the ladies, that furnished materials to hold them in earnest discourse, until the entrance of Alice Dunscombe announced that their presence was expected below. Even the unsuspecting Alice, on entering, observed a change in the countenances and demeanor of the two cousins, which betrayed that their secret conference had not been entirely without contention. The features of Cecilia were disturbed and anxious, and their expression was not unlike melancholy; while the dark flashing eye, flushed temples, and proud, determined step of Katherine exhibited in an equal, if not a greater degree, a very different emotion. As no reference to the subject of their conversation was, however, made by either of the young ladies after the entrance of Alice, she led the way, in silence, to the drawing-room.
The ladies were received, by Colonel Howard and Borroughcliffe, with marked attention. In the former there were moments when a deep gloom would, in spite of his very obvious exertions to the contrary, steal over his open, generous countenance; but the recruiting officer maintained an air of immovable coolness and composure. Twenty times did he detect the piercing looks of Katherine fastened on him, with an intentness that a less deliberative man might have had the vanity to misinterpret; but even this flattering testimonial of his power to attract failed to disturb his self-possession. It was in vain that Katherine endeavored to read his countenance, where everything was fixed in military rigidity, though his deportment appeared more than usually easy and natural. Tired at length with her fruitless scrutiny, the excited girl turned her gaze upon the clock: to her amazement, she discovered that it was on the stroke of nine, and, disregarding a deprecating glance from her cousin, she arose and quitted the apartment. Borroughcliffe opened the door for her exit, and, while the lady civilly bowed her head in acknowledgment of his attention, their eyes once more met; but she glided quickly by him, and found herself alone in the gallery. Katherine hesitated, more than a minute, to proceed, for she thought she had detected in that glance a lurking expression, that manifested conscious security mingled with secret design. It was not her nature, however, to hesitate, when circumstances required that she should be both prompt and alert; and, throwing over her slight person a large cloak, that was in readiness for the occasion, she stole warily from the building.
Although Katherine suspected most painfully that Borroughcliffe had received intelligence that might prove dangerous to her lover, she looked around her in vain, on gaining the open air, to discover any alteration in the arrangements for the defence of the abbey, which might confirm her suspicions, or the knowledge of which might enable her to instruct Barnstable how to avoid the secret danger. Every disposition remained as it had been since the capture of Griffith and his companion. She heard the heavy, quick steps of the sentinel, who was posted beneath their windows, endeavoring to warm himself on his confined post; and as she paused to listen, she also detected the rattling of arms from the soldier who, as usual, guarded the approach of that part of the building where his comrades were quartered. The night had set in cloudy and dark, although the gale had greatly subsided towards the close of the day; still the wind swept heavily, and, at moments, with a rushing noise, among the irregular walls of the edifice; and it required the utmost nicety of ear to distinguish even these well-known sounds, among such accompaniments. When Katherine, however, was satisfied that her organs had not deceived her, she turned an anxious eye in the direction of what Borroughcliffe called his “barracks.” Everything in that direction appeared so dark and still as to create a sensation of uneasiness, by its very quiet. It might be the silence of sleep that now pervaded the ordinarily gay and mirthful apartment! or it might be the stillness of a fearful preparation! There was no time, however, for further hesitation, and Katherine drew her cloak more closely about her form, and proceeded with light and guarded steps to the appointed spot. As she approached the wicket the clock struck the hour, and she again paused, while the mournful sounds were borne by her on the wind, as if expecting that each stroke on the bell would prove a signal to unmask some secret design of Borroughcliffe. As the last vibration melted away, she opened the little gate, and issued on the highway. The figure of a man sprang forward from behind an angle of the wall, as she appeared; and while her heart was still throbbing with the suddenness of the alarm, she found herself in the arms of Barnstable. After the first few words of recognition and pleasure which the young sailor uttered, he acquainted his mistress with the loss of his schooner, and the situation of the survivors.
“And now, Katherine,” he concluded, “you have come, I trust, never to quit me; or, at most, to return no more to that old abbey, unless it be to aid in liberating Griffith, and then to join me again forever.”
“Why, truly, there is so much to tempt a young woman to renounce her home and friends, in the description you have just given of your condition, that I hardly know how to refuse your request, Barnstable. You are very tolerably provided with a dwelling in the ruin; and I suppose certain predatory schemes are to be adopted to make it habitable! St. Ruth is certainly well supplied with the necessary articles, but whether we should not be shortly removed to the Castle at York, or the jail at Newcastle, is a question that I put to your discretion.”
“Why yield your thoughts to such silly subjects, lovely trifler!” said Barnstable, “when the time and the occasion both urge us to be in earnest?”
“It is a woman's province to be thrifty, and to look after the comforts of domestic life,” returned his mistress; “and I would discharge my functions with credit. But I feel you are vexed, for to see your dark countenance is out of the question, on such a night. When do you propose to commence housekeeping, if I should yield to your proposals?”
“I have not concluded relating my plans, and your provoking wit annoys me! The vessel I have taken will unquestionably come into the land, as the gale dies; and I intend making my escape in her, after beating this Englishman, and securing the liberty of Miss Howard and yourself. I could see the frigate in the offing, even before we left the cliffs.”
“This certainly sounds better!” rejoined Katherine, in a manner that indicated she was musing on their prospects; “and yet there may exist some difficulties in the way that you little suspect.”
“Difficulties there are none—there can be none.”
“Speak not irreverently of the mazes of love, Mr. Barnstable. When was it ever known to exist unfettered or unembarrassed? Even I have an explanation to ask of you, that I would much rather let alone.
“Of me! ask what you will, or how you will; I am a careless, unthinking fellow, Miss Plowden; but to you I have little to answer for—unless a foolish sort of adoration be an offence against your merits.”
Barnstable felt the little hand that was supported on his arm, pressing the limb, as Katherine replied, in a tone so changed from its former forced levity, that he started as the first sounds reached his ears. “Merry has brought in a horrid report!” she said; “I would I could believe it untrue! but the looks of the boy, and the absence of Dillon, both confirm it.”
“Poor Merry! he too has fallen into the trap! but they shall yet find one who is too cunning for them. Is it to the fate of that wretched Dillon that you allude?”
“Hewasa wretch,” continued Katherine, in the same voice, “and he deserved much punishment at your hands, Barnstable; but life is the gift of God, and is not to be taken whenever human vengeance would appear to require a victim.”
“His life was taken by Him who bestowed it,” said the sailor. “Is it Katherine Plowden who would suspect me of the deed of a dastard!”
“I do not suspect you—I did not suspect you,” cried Katherine; “I will never suspect any evil of you again. You are not, you cannot be angry with me, Barnstable? Had you heard the cruel suspicions of my cousin Cecilia, and had your imagination been busy in portraying your wrongs and the temptations to forget mercy, like mine, even while my tongue denied your agency in the suspected deed, you would—you would at least have learned how much easier it is to defend those we love against the open attacks of others, than against our own jealous feelings.”
“Those words, love and jealousy, will obtain your acquittal,” cried Barnstable, in his natural voice; and, after uttering a few more consoling assurances to Katherine, whose excited feelings found vent in tears, he briefly related the manner of Dillon's death.
“I had hoped I stood higher in the estimation of Miss Howard than to be subjected to even her suspicions,” he said, when he had ended his explanation. “Griffith has been but a sorry representative of our trade, if he has left such an opinion of its pursuits.”
“I do not know that Mr. Griffith would altogether have escaped my conjectures, had he been the disappointed commander, and you the prisoner,” returned Katherine; “you know not how much we have both studied the usages of war, and with what dreadful pictures of hostages, retaliations, and military executions our minds are stored! but a mountain is raised off my spirits, and I could almost say that I am now ready to descend the valley of life in your company.”
“It is a discreet determination, my good Katherine, and God bless you for it; the companion may not be so good as you deserve, but you will find him ambitious of your praise. Now let us devise means to effect our object.”
“Therein lies another of my difficulties. Griffith, I much fear, will not urge Cecilia to another flight, against her—her—what shall I call it, Barnstable—her caprice, or her judgment? Cecilia will never consent to desert her uncle, and I cannot muster the courage to abandon my poor cousin, in the face of the world, in order to take shelter with even Mr. Richard Barnstable!”
“Speak you from the heart now, Katherine?”
“Very nearly—if not exactly.”
“Then have I been cruelly deceived! It is easier to find a path in the trackless ocean, without chart or compass, than to know the windings of a woman's heart!”
“Nay, nay, foolish man; you forget that I am but small, and how very near my head is to my heart; too nigh, I fear, for the discretion of their mistress! but is there no method of forcing Griffith and Cecilia to their own good, without undue violence?”
“It cannot be done; he is my senior in rank, and the instant I release him he will claim the command. A question might be raised, at a leisure moment, on the merits of such a claim—but even my own men are, as you know, nothing but a draft from the frigate, and they would not hesitate to obey the orders of the first lieutenant, who is not a man to trifle on matters of duty.”
“Tis vexatious, truly,” said Katherine, “that all my well-concerted schemes in behalf of this wayward pair should be frustrated by their own willful conduct! But after all, have you justly estimated your strength, Barnstable? are you certain that you would be successful, and that without hazard, too, if you should make the attempt?”
“Morally, and what is better, physically certain. My men are closely hid, where no one suspects an enemy to lie; they are anxious for the enterprise, and the suddenness of the attack will not only make the victory sure, but it will be rendered bloodless. You will aid us in our entrance, Katherine; I shall first secure this recruiting officer, and his command will then surrender without striking a blow. Perhaps, after all, Griffith will hear reason; if he do not, I will not yield my authority to a released captive, without a struggle.”
“God send that there shall be no fighting!” murmured his companion, a little appalled at the images his language had raised before her imagination; “and, Barnstable, I enjoin you, most solemnly, by all your affection for me, and by everything you deem most sacred, to protect the person of Colonel Howard at every hazard. There must be no excuse, no pretence, for even an insult to my passionate, good, obstinate, but kind old guardian. I believe I have given him already more trouble than I am entitled to give any one, and Heaven forbid that I should cause him any serious misfortune!”
“He shall be safe, and not only he, but all that are with him, as you will perceive, Katherine, when you hear my plan. Three hours shall not pass over my head before you will see me master of that old abbey. Griffith, ay, Griffith, must be content to be my inferior, until we get afloat again.”
“Attempt nothing unless you feel certain of being able to maintain your advantage, not only against your enemies, but also against your friends,” said the anxious Katherine. “Rely on it, both Cecilia and Griffith are refining so much on their feelings, that neither will be your ally.”
“This comes of passing the four best years of his life within walls of brick, poring over Latin grammars and syntaxes, and such other nonsense, when he should have been rolling them away in a good box of live-oak, and studying, at most, how to sum up his day's work, and tell where his ship lies after a blow. Your college learning may answer well enough for a man who has to live by his wits, but it can be of little use to one who is never afraid to read human nature, by looking his fellow-creatures full in the face, and whose hand is as ready as his tongue. I have generally found the eye that was good at Latin was dull at a compass, or in a night squall: and yet, Griff is a seaman; though I have heard him even read the Testament in Greek! Thank God, I had the wisdom to run away from school the second day they undertook to teach me a strange tongue, and I believe I am the more honest man, and the better seaman, for my ignorance!”
“There is no telling what you might have been, Barnstable, under other circumstances,” retorted his mistress, with a playfulness of manner that she could not always repress, though it was indulged at the expense of him she most loved; “I doubt not but, under proper training, you would have made a reasonably good priest.”
“If you talk of priests, Katherine, I shall remind you that we carry one in the ship. But listen to my plan: we may talk further of priestcraft when an opportunity may offer.”
Barnstable then proceeded to lay before his mistress a project he had formed for surprising the abbey that night, which was so feasible that Katherine, notwithstanding her recent suspicions of Borroughcliffe's designs, came gradually to believe it would succeed. The young seaman answered her objections with the readiness of an ardent mind, bent on executing its purposes, and with a fertility of resources that proved he was no contemptible enemy, in matters that required spirited action. Of Merry's remaining firm and faithful he had no doubt; and although he acknowledged the escape of the peddler boy, he urged that the lad had seen no other of his party besides himself, whom he mistook for a common marauder.
As the disclosure of these plans was frequently interrupted by little digressions, connected with the peculiar motions of the lovers, more than an hour flew by, before they separated. But Katherine at length reminded him how swiftly the time was passing, and how much remained to be done, when he reluctantly consented to see her once more through the wicket, where they parted.
Miss Plowden adopted the same precaution in returning to the house she had used on leaving it; and she was congratulating herself on its success, when her eye caught a glimpse of the figure of a man, who was apparently following at some little distance, in her footsteps, and dogging her motions. As the obscure form, however, paused also when she stopped to give it an alarmed, though inquiring look, and then slowly retired towards the boundary of the paddock, Katherine, believing it to be Barnstable watching over her safety, entered the abbey, with every idea of alarm entirely lost in the pleasing reflection of her lover's solicitude.