CHAPTER XXVIII. BY DOING A LITTLE WRONG, A GREAT GOOD IS ACCOMPLISHED IN THE END.
Frederick Morley's state of mind can better be imagined than described, at finding himself a prisoner in the house which he intended to have entered as the bold deliverer of his beloved Alrina, who was, perhaps, by this time on her voyage to America. The boy continued to attend upon him, and he was beginning, Morley thought, to take an interest in him, and to pity his position; for Frederick, who was now getting strong again, had proposed taking him into his service,—at which he seemed pleased, although he did not say whether he would accept the offer or not. Cunning boy! he knew very well that he was watched closely by Cooper and his wife.
"What the devil were you and that chap whispering about?" said Cooper to the boy, one day, when the latter came down from attending on the invalid.
"If your ears had been long enough you would have heard," replied the boy, in his usual saucy way.
"Come, none of that!" said the man. "I wish 'The Maister' would come and take him off, or give the orders what to do with him; for I don't like this shill-i-shall-i game."
"Nor I," said the boy; "I'm tired too with this work. I'd rather be out than here tending 'pon the sick, like a maid. I tell 'ee what I'd do, ef I wor you, Cap'n,—I'd give'n the run of the cellars."
"What's the good of that, you fool?" replied Cooper, looking as if a bright thought had struck him all at once.
"Why, I'll tell 'ee," said the boy, coming closer to the man, and whispering in his ear,—"he'd be starved to death, or else he'd run his head agen the walls and batter his brains out."
"You young rascal!" exclaimed Cooper, looking at the same time more pleased than he intended to look; "you don't think I'd treat the young fellow like that, do 'ee? He never did any harm to me. If 'The Maister' ha' got a mind to do it, he may, but I sha'n't."
"You're turned chickenhearted all at once," said the boy. "I tell 'ee,—I don't like to be shut in here all day, when a turn of the key in the cellar-door would settle it all, and give me my liberty once more; and I tell 'ee, Cap'n, ef you don't like to do et, give me the key of the cellar, and I'll put 'n in there this very night, and nobody will be the wiser."
This was what Capt. Cooper would like to have done days ago; but he feared a betrayal on the part of the boy; but now that the young rascal, who was the acknowledged protége of Mr. Freeman, had proposed it himself, he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity, and his friend would thank him when it was all over, and he should be very glad himself to get rid of an enemy so formidable. These were his thoughts and reflections. Why he made them, or what reason either of them had for their antipathy to this young man, did not appear. That they had this antipathy was very evident,—and that their wish to get rid of him was about to be accomplished, was now vividly apparent to the mind of Capt. Cooper without the possibility of any blame being attached to him. He had sufficient control over his feelings, however, to prevent his showing the real pleasure it gave him, to the boy; but he stipulated that, to prevent an escape, he should himself be present to unlock the door, and put the prisoner into this safe stronghold.
The boy then went back to the prisoner, and told him that Capt. Cooper had granted permission for him to take a little exercise on the beach that evening; at which Morley was much pleased, for he felt almost suffocated, shut up in a close room for so long a time. Anywhere, he thought, was better than that. So, when the boy came in the evening to let him out, he almost leaped with joy. At the bottom of the stairs they were joined by Cooper, and the three went down another flight of steps, which seemed to Morley dark and dismal. The boy whispered to him that he would soon be in the open air, but that it was necessary they should reach it by a circuitous route. The man also spoke kindly to him; and down they went, till they came to a door, which the man unlocked,—and, in his eagerness to secure his prey, he gave his prisoner a push, which sent him headlong down another flight of steps.
The sudden fall stunned Morley for a few minutes; but he soon recovered himself, and, on looking round, he found that he was in what seemed to him to be a dark dungeon. This was worse than all. The boy had betrayed him! This he was now convinced of, and he should be left there in that dark cold dungeon to perish. He groped his way round the place as well as he could, and felt that the walls were damp. He stumbled over some casks and boxes, as he went cautiously along; and by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see that he was in an underground cellar, not very large nor very high; but in going round by the wall, he found that this small cellar communicated with a large one, which he groped his way into, through a small archway. Here he sank down on the floor from sheer exhaustion, and began to reflect on his situation.
Everything seemed going against him. It was evident, from the way in which the man had pushed him down the stairs, that he was anxious to get rid of him, and would perhaps resort to some speedy way of doing so; and he feared and believed the boy was in league with him. Why Mr. Freeman should have taken such a dislike to him he could not imagine, for he had never seen him that he was aware of. Altogether, it was a mystery which he could not understand; so he gave himself up to despair, and made up his mind that he would never be permitted to leave that place again. Whether his death would be a lingering one of starvation, or whether it would be a quick one by assassination, he could not of course tell;—he almost wished it might be the latter, for the suspense was dreadful.
Hour after hour passed away, and there he sat brooding over his unhappy fate, but no one came to end his woes. Night came on,—he could feel it although he could not see it, for all was cold and dark and dreary around him. The damp was coming out from the walls, and he felt a chill pass through his frame; for he was still weak from his late illness. Exhausted nature was giving way, and sleep was falling on him. He tried to keep awake; for he feared that if he slept in that place he should never wake again. He got up and tried to rouse himself and keep awake by walking to and fro, but it was of no use. His thoughts were terrible. It was better to suffer death than continue in that state of awful suspense. He sat down at last on an empty box, and yielded to that oblivion which soothes and invigorates the frame, while it relieves the mind from harrowing and disagreeable thoughts and feelings.