“I would it were in my grave,” said the Countess; “but that mortal feelings shiver at the idea of soul and body parting.”
“You, I guess, have no chance to shiver at that,” replied Foster. “My lord comes hither to-morrow, and doubtless you will make your own ways good with him.”
“But does he come hither?—does he indeed, good Foster?”
“Oh, ay, good Foster!” replied the other. “But what Foster shall I be to-morrow when you speak of me to my lord—though all I have done was to obey his own orders?”
“You shall be my protector—a rough one indeed—but still a protector,” answered the Countess. “Oh that Janet were but here!”
“She is better where she is,” answered Foster—“one of you is enough to perplex a plain head. But will you taste any refreshment?”
“Oh no, no—my chamber—my chamber! I trust,” she said apprehensively, “I may secure it on the inside?”
“With all my heart,” answered Foster, “so I may secure it on the outside;” and taking a light, he led the way to a part of the building where Amy had never been, and conducted her up a stair of great height, preceded by one of the old women with a lamp. At the head of the stair, which seemed of almost immeasurable height, they crossed a short wooden gallery, formed of black oak, and very narrow, at the farther end of which was a strong oaken door, which opened and admitted them into the miser's apartment, homely in its accommodations in the very last degree, and, except in name, little different from a prison-room.
Foster stopped at the door, and gave the lamp to the Countess, without either offering or permitting the attendance of the old woman who had carried it. The lady stood not on ceremony, but taking it hastily, barred the door, and secured it with the ample means provided on the inside for that purpose.
Varney, meanwhile, had lurked behind on the stairs; but hearing the door barred, he now came up on tiptoe, and Foster, winking to him, pointed with self-complacence to a piece of concealed machinery in the wall, which, playing with much ease and little noise, dropped a part of the wooden gallery, after the manner of a drawbridge, so as to cut off all communication between the door of the bedroom, which he usually inhabited, and the landing-place of the high, winding stair which ascended to it. The rope by which this machinery was wrought was generally carried within the bedchamber, it being Foster's object to provide against invasion from without; but now that it was intended to secure the prisoner within, the cord had been brought over to the landing-place, and was there made fast, when Foster with much complacency had dropped the unsuspected trap-door.