“Come along, then—the boat is ready,” he said, as a piercing whistle was heard from the shore. “Follow me, closely; the path, though short, is difficult even in daylight to a stranger.”
Entering the copse and pushing through thick underwood, we reached a sandy beach, where a gig, with four rowers seated on the thwarts, was waiting. I was ceremoniously handed in and accommodated with a boat cloak; while the unknown took the yoke-ropes of the rudder, and desired the men to “give way.” The crew “flung from their oars the spray,” and broke the water with a regular stroke, which showed them to be practised pullers. Away we shot across the lake,—and, to my infinite satisfaction, left “the lonely isle,” which, even under an assurance that it possessed another Calypso, I should not have been tempted to revisit.
The night was dark and still, but through the haze the outline of the shore was seen ahead. I looked towards the island we were leaving; but, excepting a feeble glow of red still visible upon the dusky sky, there was nothing to betray its secret, or intimate that this solitary place had been chosen for “lawless intent.”
We neared the shore, and entered a narrow inlet that penetrated, as it seemed, by an opening in the hill side, into a wood of full-grown forest timber. Gradually the passage became more confined, until the oars had scarcely space to pull between the banks, while branches of oak and beech uniting above our heads, gave an additional darkness to the evening. In a few moments we reached its termination,—a small natural basin with a jetty of rough masonry. The steersman ran the boat alongside, landed on the wharf, and desired me to follow. I willingly obeyed, and the unknown led the way in silence, until we were beyond the hearing of the boatmen, when, suddenly stopping, he thus addressed me:
“I am not a resident here—this country is not my own, but although I cannot offer you hospitality myself, I shall yet manage to obtain it. Scarcely a gun-shot distance from this place there stands a solitary mansion-house, embosomed in this oak wood. That road will conduct you to it. Go, knock at the door, and ask for Mr. Hartley. Tell him simply that you are a stranger,—that you need food and lodging,—and, if I be not deceived, you will have little occasion to urge the request a second time. Of what has occurred, say little; of what may occur, say less. I shall have your mare attended to, and your property recovered and restored; ay, were its value ten times greater. We may meet under more agreeable circumstances than we did this evening. Farewell. Stay—one word more. You will probably be introduced to a lady at Mr. Hartley’s, some two or three years younger than yourself. She is an only daughter, educated in retirement, unacquainted with the world, and her existence, beyond the inmates of yonder mansion, actually unknown. Gentlemen of the sword, deal, I am told, extensively in gallantry. If this be so, reserve yours; for Mr. Hartley, as I have heard, wishes that his daughter shall continue ‘of worldly things in happy ignorance;’ and any pointed attention on your part to his ward, would prove any thing but acceptable. You understand me?”
“Indeed I do; and believe me, my good Mentor, that your friend’s fair daughter has little to fear from one who has had death in expectancy for two hours.”
“So much the better,” said the stranger. “Proceed; and you have but to tell your wants at the house, and have them attended to. You will however require a guide, for probably Mr. Hartley’s dogs might annoy you.”
He whistled; and the same boatman again obeyed the signal. To him he gave orders to attend me; bade me good night; and turned into an opening in the copse, leaving me with my guide, and with the pleasant necessity of presenting myself to Mr. Hartley,—an unexpected, an unbidden, and, not improbably, an unwelcome guest.