CHAPTER XIV.
Having already changed the venue once in the same chapter, I have judged it best to finish one of those fragments into which the caprice of authorship induces men to divide romances, before I return to Henry Smeaton and his companion in the passage. We must now, however, leave the party in the house, and once more place ourselves by the side of the well where, soon after the last words spoken by Smeaton, the moving away of the soldiers towards the beach could plainly be distinguished; and the path without seemed to be left to solitude and silence.
"They are gone, my good friend," said Smeaton, at length, still speaking in a whisper, lest any lingerer should be remaining behind. "They are gone; but we must still be very cautious, if we would escape danger. In Fortune's name, what brought you over here, Van Noost? If I had not seen you in the morning and recognized your voice to-night, you would still have been in the hands of the Philistines, my good friend."
"Thanks, great Samson, thanks!" cried Van Noost. "The very next figure that I cast--if I live to cast any more--shall be the Hebrew giant, with his friend's jawbone in his hand. I beg your Lordship's pardon for joking; but it is an evil habit of mine from times of old; and I shall jest at my last gasp. You asked me why I came here. Odds life, I do not know where I am; but, if you mean, what brought me towards Ale Manor, all I can tell you is, that it was zeal--zeal, which, like a bad huntsman, is always overrunning the good dog, Discretion."
"Hush!" said Smeaton. "Do not speak so loud. But tell me in a whisper what road your zeal ran this time."
"Good faith," replied Van Noost, "it was in the road of your service, as I thought; but the truth is this; ever since you left me in the morning, till towards the close of day, I have been helping the good old sexton, Mattocks, to clean the monuments in the church, breaking hard jests upon each other's jests, all the time. I borrowed a blacksmith's apron, twisted myself up a paper cap, and stripped off my coat to keep it clean. Your Lordship would not have known me, I looked so much like a journeyman. Just, however, as we were leaving off our work, what should I see, to my horror and consternation, but a troop of horse coming down the hill. There was no time to get my pony, or wash my hands and face, and escape. You know that side of the hill. It is as bare and as round as a baby's cheek. So there was nothing for it but to go down to the little ale-house, keep on the garb I had, which was disguise enough, and persuade the good people to pass me off for a tapster. Well, the soldiers came down, swept all the oats of the hamlet for their horses, called for ale in the true dragoon style, and sat down to boose round the door, while their captain and a certain Justice who was with them demanded punch, in a magisterial tone. Didn't I make the punch strong for them! I paid for an additional bottle of rum out of my own pocket to fuddle their worships; and, if I had dared, I would have treated the whole regiment. A minute after, however, in came Sir John Newark; and he called for punch too. Sharp words enough passed between him and the others; and suddenly, as I brought him in his bowl, I found out from what was said that it was your Lordship these people were going after, and not your poor humble servant. I argued the matter with myself for a minute. Zeal said, 'Go and warn the noble Lord.' Discretion said, 'Take care you don't get caught yourself, Van Noost.' 'A fico for Discretion,' cried Zeal. 'It is quite dark; the soldiers are all drinking; the pony is at the back of the house; there is a good piece of green turf which will do as well to silence his feet as felt to shoe a troop of horses; up into the saddle, Van Noost, and away. Do as you would be done by, man!' So I listened to the last speaker, and got off. To say sooth, though I had some directions, I was not quite clear of the road, and strongly suspect I trotted fifteen miles instead of five. However, I reached the place at last, tied my pony under a clump of trees some way off, and was walking round the house to find a private way in, when I began to perceive that other people had come straighter than myself. I heard horses and voices, and saw men and lights; and my wits got into such a tangle with fright that I could not make out where I was. I ran up one path and down another, and did not know which way to go, till at length a fellow got me hold by the throat, half strangled me, and was dragging me away, when all of a sudden I heard his cheeks give a squelch just like the sound of a lump of cold lead dropping into a furnace, then another tap, somewhat harder than one from a lady's fan; and away he went rolling down the hill. Somebody got me by the paw at the same moment, pulled me along, through a horse-pond I believe, for my feet are all wet; and here I am, your Lordship's most devoted servant; but where, who can say?"
"In a safe place for the present, Van Noost," replied the young nobleman; "and I must care for your security as best I can.--Hush! I think I hear them coming past again."
Advancing to the door, he put his ear close to it, and listened. A moment or two after, the men returned from the beach, some of them at least passing along the same path and talking as they went. Smeaton listened with deep attention; but Van Noost continued fidgeting about, notwithstanding an impatient gesture from his companion, who, as soon as the soldiers had passed by, turned sharply round, demanding--"What are you doing with the key? You are stopping up the wards."
"No, no," replied Van Noost, "only taking a model. I always carry some putty in my pocket for the express purpose."
"That is not right," said Smeaton, sharply. "Cease, sir, cease. You have no business with the key."
"Oh, very well, my lord," assented the sculptor, withdrawing the putty from the key, wrapping it up carefully in his handkerchief, and putting it in his breeches pocket. "It is a curious-shaped key too; and I should like to have a model of it--very old--Queen Elizabeth or King Edward, I should think."
Smeaton made no reply, but again turned his ear to the door. All remained silent for some minutes, and then came the blast of a trumpet above.
"I think they are gone or going," said the young nobleman. "I fancy I could distinguish the sound of the horses' feet marching away. Listen, Van Noost!"
"Oh, yes. Praised be God for all things!" ejaculated Van Noost, after he had listened for a moment. "The vagabonds are gone. Let us get out of this burrow."
"Stay a minute," said Smeaton; "we had better get more information first. Wait here for me a short time; and I will go above for intelligence. They will not leave me long without news if the men are really gone."
As he spoke, he took up the light, somewhat it would appear to Van Noost's consternation. "But, my lord, my lord," he said. "I shall not be able to see if you take away the candle."
"What, are you afraid of the dark?" asked Smeaton, laughing. "Well, you shall keep it. Only light me along to the foot of the first flight of stairs. And then, remember, whatever you hear, remain below. If need should be, and you should ascertain that any of these men have remained behind to search the place, you can take your chance of escape by that door; only remember it opens over a well on the hill-side; and, if you do not leap more lightly than you did just now, you will go down like one of your own leaden figures, and be drowned; for the water is up to the brim, and it is deep."
"You forget, my lord," returned Van Noost, "that you were pulling me along head foremost; and I knew not where I was going. I can leap as well as any man, with a clear space before me; but one feels some trepidation in jumping into a dark pit's mouth."
"Well, well, take the candle and light me," said the young nobleman.
Walking quickly on, he reached the foot of the first flight of steps. Then, leaving Van Noost below, he ascended to the priest's chamber to wait in darkness for some intelligence. As he stood and listened--vainly, for some minutes--for any sound in the adjoining chamber, he had time to ask himself whether he had acted altogether rightly in bringing Van Noost into that secret part of Sir John Newark's house; and he concluded that he had no title to do so.
"And yet," he said, to himself, "it is not in reality his house at all."
But that did not quite satisfy him; and he determined, if he found that the neighbourhood was clear of the soldiery, to send the good sculptor forth by the same way he entered, so as to let him see as little of the secrets of the place as possible.
He was becoming somewhat impatient of the oppressive silence, and felt half inclined to open the door and look out, when he heard sounds not far off. A door was opened, closed, and locked, and then the large bed was rolled round upon its castors. The next instant the light shone in, and good Mrs. Culpepper appeared, with a candle in her hand. Her face bore greater traces of agitation than it displayed on any ordinary occasion, and Smeaton began to fear that he had considered himself safe too soon; but the old lady's first words dispelled alarm on that head.
"They are gone, sir," she said, entering the room; "they are gone." And, with trembling hands, she set the candle on the table.
"I am sorry you have suffered such a fright on my account, Mrs. Culpepper," said Smeaton, in a kindly tone; "but I can assure you now, as I did before, that there was nothing to fear on my account."
The old lady seemed hardly to attend to him; and the state of agitation displayed by so very calm and demure a person set Smeaton's fancy busy with fears for Emmeline.
"I dare say not, sir--I dare say not," she said, with quick but faltering accents. "They came looking for the Earl of Eskdale, and your name is Smeaton. And yet," she continued, gazing in his face, "and yet--Will you be kind enough, sir, to let me look at your wrist?"
"I have no objection at all," returned Smeaton, a good deal surprised. "But what can my wrist have to do with this business?"
"I will tell you in a minute, sir; I will tell you in a minute," replied the old woman. "Your right wrist, if you please."
Smeaton drew up the sleeve of his coat as far as it would go, unfastened the studs which held it together just above the ruffles, and, baring his arm, held it out to her. The old woman took his hand in hers, and, holding his arm near to the candle, leaned her head over it. A large irregular scar appeared some two or three inches above the hand. The young nobleman had often remarked it, but had no recollection how it came there; and now, to his great surprise, he found warm drops falling upon it from the old woman's eyes. The next instant she kissed them away, with an eagerness quite extraordinary; and then, looking up in his face, with the tears still upon her cheeks, she exclaimed--
"Oh, yes, Henry, oh, yes, my lord! I know you now. That mark cost me the bitterest hours that ever I knew in my life."
"Pray explain," said Smeaton. "I do not at all understand what you mean, nor know how the scar came there."
"I will--I will," she sobbed, wiping her eyes. "Often have you sat on these old knees. Often have you clung with your arms round this old neck. I was your nurse, my lord, from the time you were taken from the breast till you were five years old. You were my nursling, my pet, my darling. It seemed as if God had sent you to me to console me for my own child I had lost; and I loved you as few mothers ever loved a child.
"I recollect my nurse Nanny, very well," said Smeaton. "Can you be she?"
"Oh, yes! Nanny Culpepper--poor Culpepper, the serjeant's wife, who was killed," she answered. "But let me tell you, Henry, about that scar. When you were just about four, you were a dear rash boy, and I left you only for a minute in a room where there was a fire. In playing about, you tripped over something, and fell with your arm upon the burning wood. I heard you cry, and ran back in haste; but I found you burnt all across the wrist there. I dared not tell my lord or my lady; for I knew they would be very angry at my having left you; and I thought I should have a hard matter to quiet you. But the moment I told you that, if you made a noise, and they found out what had been done, Nanny would be sent away, and you would never see her again, you dried your eyes and ceased crying altogether. I never saw a child do the like; and, though the wound was very painful and I had not much skill, you suffered me to go on dressing it for you, and doing my best to heal it, till it was well, without ever letting any one see that you were in pain. Fortune favoured me, or I could not have concealed it so long; for those were troublous times. My lord was moving about, and a great deal in London. My lady was often away, too, anxious for his safety; and the wound got quite well before they ever remarked it Then, however, my lord questioned me sharply. I made a sullen answer, and he would have discharged me on the spot; for he was a strong-spirited man, and had much to grieve him. But my lady interceded for me, and I was kept on till he was forced to fly beyond seas. Then, when she was about to join him, he wrote to tell her what servants should accompany her. I was pointedly left out, and I know he had not forgotten me. But how you cried when you left me, I shall not forget. Oh, sir, you do not know what deep root is taken by the feelings of our hearts in those early years. Though you have not altogether forgotten your poor nurse, you have forgotten a great deal of what passed then; but there is not one thing--no, not one of your looks, or any of your little prattle--that I do not remember even now. I love Miss Emmeline very much, too, though she does not know it; but I can never love any one again as I loved you."
"I am sure I loved you well too," replied Smeaton; "for the recollection of my poor nurse is the only thing referring to those days that still remains upon my mind."
"I am sure you did--I am sure you did," she repeated. "But, oh, now, tell me, my lord, what do you mean by saying you are safe? Your father was what they call 'attainted,' I think; and that affected all his family. So how can you be safe! They are cruel laws to punish an infant for the fault of his father."
"Make yourself easy, Nanny," replied Smeaton, in a kindly tone. "The attainder was specially reversed, as it affected my mother and myself. She had good friends at the courts both of William and Ann; and you know she is a wise, active, and prudent woman; so that she took every means to secure for her son both safety and competence. It is true, I might be put to much inconvenience by the suspicions of the government--nay, plans and purposes, greatly affecting my happiness, might be frustrated or rendered more difficult of execution than they are already, if I were discovered; but I have nothing else to fear."
"I think I understand," said the old woman. "Does Sir John Newark know who you are?"
"He does," replied Smeaton. "It was very imprudently revealed to him by one who had no business to meddle."
"That is strange--very strange," said the housekeeper, thoughtfully. "You are not married, are you, my lord?"
"No," answered Smeaton; "but I have much reason to believe he thinks I am."
"Ay, I see, I see," rejoined the housekeeper. "Now I understand it. But you must on no account let him know that I have recognised you. He is shrewd and keen. Beware of him, beware of him; for he pursues his objects without fear, or remorse, or hesitation; and few know what those objects are till it is too late to baffle him. He is a kind and good master to me, because I do everything he tells me, and he does not fancy that he can be watched as closely as he watches others; no, nor that a poor creature like me can perhaps make all his schemes prove vain. Well, well, we shall see. But have a care of him."
"I will," replied Smeaton; "and indeed I am upon my guard against him already. He is not aware that I know so much of his history and character as I do."
"He would not suffer you within these doors, if he did," returned the old woman. "But now you can come out in safety; for these people are all gone, and they fancy, from some stupid blunder of their own, that you have got off to sea in a boat, and a fat man with you, whom one of the soldiers vows he got hold of by the neck."
Smeaton laughed.
"I think I can explain one part of their mistake," he said; "and indeed I was going to ask your advice upon a point of some difficulty."
He then related to her all that had occurred with Van Noost and the soldiers, as far as he knew it; but, when he told her that the good statuary was even then waiting below, she shook her head gravely, saying--
"He must not be seen here on any account. Send him away, Henry, send him away, my lord--"
"Nay, nay," said Smeaton. "Call me Henry still, when we are alone; and, at other times, call me, and think of me, as Colonel Smeaton. But this matter puzzles me. I fear that the poor fellow may miss his way, and get into mischief; for I do not think I can describe the road to Keanton so that he can find it, not knowing it too well myself."
"You take him out by the door over the well," replied Mrs. Culpepper; "and I will send round a boy to the path, who shall guide him so far that he can make no mistake. Sir John must never know that he has been in there; and hearken--the moment Sir John comes back, he will make you pledge your honour not to tell the secret of this place to any one. Therefore, if you wish to tell it--and I think, perhaps, you may, if I judge right--do so before he returns."
Smeaton paused thoughtfully, and then said, as if speaking to himself--
"Is it wrong to meet a bad man with his own weapons?"
"No, no," cried the old woman, "quite right. I have been doing so for the last twelve years, and have beat him at them. You look doubtful. I have no doubt; and, perhaps, if you knew as much as I do, you would have none either. But never mind. It shall be done for you. If you have scruples, keep them. Emmeline shall know without your telling. Indeed, I have often thought to let her know, as she has a right, but thought it might be dangerous; for, if he once saw that there was the least secret between her and me, I should not be here an hour after, and then all would be lost. But now, get this man away, and then come back. Tell him to wait upon the path till a boy comes up to him, and says, 'Keanton,' and then to follow him. I will wait here till you return, and will find means to talk to you longer to-morrow."