THE TURRET CHAMBER.
When mistress Watson had, as gently as if she had been his mother, bound
up Richard's wounded head, she gave him a composing draught, and sat
down by his bedside. But as soon as she saw it begin to take effect, she
withdrew, in the certainty that he would not move for some hours at
least. Although he did fall asleep, however, Richard's mind was too
restless and anxious to yield itself to the natural influence of the
potion. He had given his word to his father that he would ride on the
morrow; the morrow had come, and here he was! Hence the condition which
the drug superinduced was rather that of dreaming than sleep, the more
valuable element, repose, having little place in the result.
The key was in the lock, and Tom Fool as he listened softly turned it,
then lifted the latch, peeped in, and entered. Richard started to his
elbow, and stared wildly about him. Tom made him an anxious sign, and,
fevered as he was and but half awake, Richard, whether he understood it
or not, anyhow kept silence, while Tom Fool approached the bed, and
began to talk rapidly in a low voice, trembling with apprehension. It
was some time, however, before Richard began to comprehend even a
fragment here and there of what he was saying. When at length he had
gathered this much, that his visitor was running no small risk in coming
to him, and was in mortal dread of discovery, he needed but the
disclosure of who he was, which presently followed, to spring upon him
and seize him by the throat with a gripe that rendered it impossible for
him to cry out, had he been so minded.
'Master, master!' he gurgled, 'let me go. I will swear any oath you
please--'
'And break it any moment YOU please,' returned Richard through his set
teeth, and caught with his other hand the coverlid, dragged it from the
bed, and, twisting it first round his face, flung the remainder about
his body; then, threatening to knock his brains out if he made the least
noise, proceeded to tie him up in it with his garters and its own
corners. No sound escaped poor Tom beyond a continuous mumbled entreaty
through its folds. Richard laid him on the floor, pulled all the bedding
upon the top of him, and gliding out, closed the door, but, to Tom's
unspeakable relief, as his ears, agonizedly listening, assured him, did
not lock it behind him.
Tom's sole anxiety was now to get back to his garret unseen, and nothing
was farther from his thoughts than giving the alarm. The moment Richard
was out of hearing--out of sight he had been for some stifling
minutes--he devoted his energies to getting clear of his entanglement,
which he did not find very difficult; then stepping softly from the
chamber, he crept with a heavy heart back as he had come through a
labyrinth of by-ways.
About half an hour after, Dorothy came gliding through the house, making
a long circuit of corridors. Gladly would she have avoided passing
Amanda's door, and involuntarily held her breath as she approached it,
stepping as lightly as a thief. But alas! nothing save incorporeity
could have availed her. The moment she had passed, out peeped Amanda and
crept after her barefooted, saw her to her joy enter the chamber and
close the door behind her, then 'like a tiger of the wood,' made one
noiseless bound, turned the key, and sped back to her own chamber--with
the feeling of Mark Antony when he said, 'Now let it work!'
Dorothy was startled by a slight click, but concluded at once that it
was nothing but a further fall of the latch, and was glad it was no
louder. The same moment she saw, by the dim rushlight, the signs of
struggle which the room presented, and discovered that Richard was gone.
Her first emotion was an undefined agony: they had murdered him, or
carried him off to a dungeon! There were the bedclothes in a tumbled
heap upon the floor! And--yes--it was blood with which they were marked!
Sickening at the thought, and forgetting all about her own situation,
she sank on the chair by the bedside.
Knowing the castle as she did, a very little reflection convinced her
that if he had met with violence it must have been in attempting to
escape; and if he had made the attempt, might he not have succeeded?
There had certainly been no fresh alarm given. But upon this consoling
supposition followed instantly the pang of the question: what was now
required of her? The same hard thing as before? Ought she not again to
give the alarm, that the poor wounded boy might be recaptured? Alas! had
not evil enough already befallen him at her hand? And if she
did--horrible thought!--what account could she give this time of her
discovery? What indeed but the truth? And to what vile comments would
not the confession of her secret visit in the first grey of the dawn to
the chamber of the prisoner expose her? Would it not naturally rouse
such suspicion as any modest woman must shudder to face, if but for the
one moment between utterance and refutation. And what refutation could
there be for her, so long as the fact remained? If he had escaped, the
alarm would serve no good end, and her shame could be spared; but he
might be hiding somewhere about the castle, and she must choose between
treachery to the marquis--was it?--on the one hand, and renewed hurt,
wrong, perhaps, to Richard, coupled with the bitterest disgrace to
herself, on the other. To weigh such a question impartially was
impossible; for in the one alternative no hurt would befall the marquis,
while from the other her very soul recoiled sickening. Thus tortured,
she sat motionless in the very den of the dragon, the one moment vainly
endeavouring to rouse up her courage and look her duty in the face that
she might know with certainty what it was; the next, feeling her whole
nature rise rebellious against the fate that demanded such a sacrifice.
Ought she to be thus punished for an intent of the purest humanity?
There came a lull, and with the lull a sense of her position: she sat in
the very, jaws of slander! Any moment mistress Watson or another might
enter and find her there, and what then more natural or irrefutable than
the accusation of having liberated him? She sprang to her feet, and
darted to the door. It was locked!
Her first thought was relief: she had no longer to decide; her second,
that she was a prisoner--till, horror of horrors! the soldiers of the
guard came to seek Richard and found her, or stern mistress Watson
appeared, grim as one of the Fates; or, perhaps, if Richard had been
carried away, until she was compelled by hunger and misery to call aloud
for release. But no! she would rather die. Now in this case, now in
that, her thoughts pursued the horrible possibilities, one or other of
which was inevitable, through all the windings of the torture of
anticipation, until for a time she must have lost consciousness, for she
had no recollection of falling where she found herself--on the heap in
the middle of the floor. The gray heartless dawn had begun to peer in
through the dull green glass that closed the one loophole. It grew and
grew, and its growth was the approach of the grinning demon of shame.
The nearer a man can arrive to the knowledge of such feelings as hers is
the conviction that he never can comprehend them. The cruel light seemed
gathering its strength to publish her shame to the universe. Blameless
as she was, she would have gladly accepted death in escape from the
misery that every moment grew nearer. Now and then a faint glimmer of
comfort reached her in the thought that at least the escape of Richard,
if he had escaped, was thus ensured, and that without any blame to her.
And perhaps mistress Watson would be merciful--only she too had her
obligations, and as housekeeper was severely responsible. And even if
she should prove pitiful, there was the locking of the door! It followed
so quickly, that some one must have seen her enter, and wittingly snared
her, believing most likely that she was not alone in the chamber.
The terrible bolt at length slid back in the lock, gently, yet with
tearing sound; mistress Watson entered, stood, stared. Before her sat
Dorothy by the side of the bedstead, in her dressing-gown, her hair
about her neck, her face like the moon at sunrise, and her eyelids red
and swollen with weeping. She stood speechless, staring first at the
disconsolate maiden, and then at the disorder of the room. The prisoner
was nowhere. What her thoughts were, I must only imagine. That she
should stare and be bewildered, finding Dorothy where she had left
Richard, was at least natural.
The moment Dorothy found herself face to face with her doom, her
presence of mind returned. The blood rushed from her heart to her brain.
She rose, and ere the astonished matron, who stood before her erect,
high-nosed, and open-mouthed like Michael Angelo's Clotho, could find
utterance, said,
'Mistress Watson, I swear to you by the soul of my mother, that although
all seeming is against me, W--'
'Where is the young rebel?' interrupted mistress Watson sternly.
'I know not,' answered Dorothy. 'When first I entered the chamber, he
had already gone.'
'And what then hadst thou to do entering it?' asked the housekeeper, in
a tone that did Dorothy good by angering her.
Mistress Watson was a kind soul in reality, but few natures can resist
the debasing influence of a sudden sense of superiority. Besides, was
not the young gentlewoman in great wrong, and therefore before her must
she not personify an awful Purity?
'That I will tell to none but my lord marquis,' answered Dorothy, with
sudden resolve.
'Oh, by all means, mistress! but an' thou think to lead him by the nose
while I be in Raglan,--'
'Shall I inform his lordship in what high opinion his housekeeper holds
him?' said Dorothy. 'It seems to me he will hardly savour it.'
'It would be an ill turn to do me, but my lord marquis did never heed a
tale-bearer.'
'Then will he not heed the tale thou wouldst yield him concerning me.'
'What tale should I yield him but that I find--thee here and the
prisoner gone?'
'The tale I read in thy face and thy voice. Thou lookest and talkest as
if I were a false woman.'
'Verily to my eyes the thing looketh ill.'
'It would look ill to any eyes, and therefore I need kind eyes to read,
and just ears to hear my tale. I tell thee this is a matter for my lord,
and if thou spread any report in the castle ere his lordship hear it,
whatever evil springs therefrom it will lie at thy door.'
'My life! what dost take me for, mistress Dorothy? My age and holding
deserves some consideration at thy hands! Am I one to go tattling about
the courts forsooth?'
'Pardon me, madam, but a maiden's good name may be as precious to
Dorothy Vaughan as a matron's respectability to mistress Watson. An' you
had left me with that look on your face, and had but spoken my name to
it, some one would have guessed ten times more than you know--or I
either for that gear.'
'I must tell the truth,' said mistress Watson, relenting a little.
'Thou must, or I will tell it for thee--but to the marquis. Thou shalt
be there to hear, and if, after that, thou tell it to another, then hast
thou no mother's heart in thee.'
Dorothy gave way at last and burst into tears. Mistress Watson was
touched.
'Nay, child, I would do thee no wrong,' she rejoined. 'Get thee to bed.
I must rouse the guard to go look for the prisoner, but I will say
nothing of thee to any but my lord marquis. When he is dressed and in
his study, I will come for thee myself.'
Dorothy thanked her warmly, and betook herself to her chamber,
considerably relieved.