Of my Remarkable Adventures with Gregory and our Fortunate
Discovery, of Sir Nicholas’s Burial in his own House, and of my
Flight with Mistress Alison.
I.
Alison was in the death chamber, where Sir Nicholas’s body lay
stiff and stark in its shroud. They had prepared him for his
burial, Alison and old Barbara, with as much care as if he had been
like to be buried with all the pomp and ceremony that is the due of
a man of rank. The good old knight lay in his finest night clothes,
the best linen the house afforded was spread on his bed, and they
had lighted candles on either side of him, and hung the walls with
black cloth. And since everything in that room was so mournful I
would not talk there, but took my cousin down the stairs to the
hall, where I made her sit near the fire while I addressed myself
to her on the business then troubling me. She was looking pale
and wearied, which was no matter of surprise, seeing that there
had been precious little rest for anybody in that house since the
investment began.
“Now, cousin,” says I, “there is need for some counsel ’twixt you
and me. We are come to a sharp pass, cousin,” I says, “and unless
we use our wits we are like to be undone.”
“What is it?” she says. “Has aught of moment happened to us?”
“Why,” says I, “’tis difficult to say what is and what is not of
moment--one thing so leads to another. But I fear that the worst
will happen to us in the morning.”
“The worst?” she says. “And what is that?”
“We killed their captain this afternoon,” says I. “As pleasant a
fellow as e’er I spoke to, poor gentleman! And now I hear from that
knave Wiggleskirk--though, indeed, he has done us more than one
good turn--that another commander is coming with the dawn, and will
bring cannon with him.”
She raised her head and looked at me steadily.
“So we shall have the old house tumbling about our ears?”
“We shall,” says I.
“Well?” says she, after regarding me again at some length.
“Well?” says I.
“Is that all you had to say?” she asks.
“Nay,” says I, not seeing aught of her meaning, “I wanted to speak
with you of our escape.”
She lifted her head somewhat, and stared at me for a full minute
ere she broke into a shrill laughter.
“Escape?” she said. “Escape? Did you say escape, Master Richard?
So you would flee the old house, eh, and leave”--she turned and
pointed her hand towards the stair--“and leave his body to--come, I
think you did not mean escape?” she says, with a searching look at
me.
“Faith!” says I, not taking her at all, “but I did, cousin. Bethink
you--what can we do against cannon? The old walls will be shattered
to pieces with half a score discharges. ’Tis our duty, I take it,
to think of our own lives--and besides, there are those in the
house,” I says, “that we must needs consider, for we’ve no right to
peril their lives for the sake of ours.”
“Let them begone, then,” says she. “Did I ever ask them to come
here? Escape? We might be rats that have crept to the very bottom
o’ the stack!” she says, with a flash of the old temper.
“Egad!” says I, laughing in spite of myself. “And that’s a
marvellous neat comparison, cousin. Rats we are, and prettily
caged, too, and so----”
“And so keep your comparisons to yourself, Master Richard,” says
she, rising with a mighty fine air of dignity and marching across
the hall. “And your escape, too,” she says, with a glance over her
shoulder. “As for me,” she says, pausing with one foot on the stair
and looking me steadily in the face, “here I am, and here I stay
while one stone stands on another,” and she went up the staircase
and vanished, leaving me there full of wonder. “What the devil am
I to do?” says I, biting my nails with vexation. “Was ever such a
contrary piece of woman flesh? And I thought she was beginning to
show me some softness--Lord!” I says, with a sigh that seemed to
come from my boots, “the vagaries of these women----”
However, there was no good to be got in standing there, so I went
out into the kitchen and sent for old Gregory, whom I presently led
into a quiet corner. “Gregory,” says I, “set your wits to work,
for, faith, there’s need!” And I told him of the news that I had
received from Merciful Wiggleskirk and of my cousin’s attitude.
“Was ever such a coil?” says I. “You see, Gregory, I swore to my
uncle that I would defend and protect her, and how can I do that if
she won’t listen to reason? I must get her out of this house and
across country to her father’s, and there might be some manner of
doing it if only she were not so averse to the notion.”
“True,” says he, “but I would not trouble myself over much with
that, Master Richard. The best way with women,” says he, “is to
make ’em do a thing without argument about it.”
“Humph!” says I, feeling somewhat doubtful on that score.
“What we want to find out,” says he, “is whether there is some
manner of escape that we can avail ourselves of. Is there any
chance of leaving the house during the night?” says he.
“Not the least,” says I. “They have patrols on every side, and our
doors and windows are so barricaded that we could not remove the
barricades without attracting the enemy’s notice.”
“Then what was it that you had in your mind, Master Richard?” says
he.
“Faith!” says I, “I don’t know, Gregory. We’re in as pretty a trap
as e’er I heard of. Now I come to think on it,” I says, “I don’t
see how we are to escape.”
He sat silent for a time, stroking his chin, which was his habit
when he thought hard. “Master Dick,” says he at last, “did you
ever hear of that old passage that leads from our cellar to Farmer
Wood’s house?”
“A passage?” says I. “Do you mean that there’s an underground
passage betwixt our house and Farmer Wood’s? No,” I says, “I never
heard of it that I know of, Gregory.”
“But there is one,” says he, nodding his head. “When I first came
here--and that’s nigh on to sixty years since, Master Richard--it
was open at one end, and I’ve been in it. Sir Nicholas’s father
had it closed up. ’Twas a relic of the Popish days,” he says, “and
there was some old woman’s tale about it that I ha’ forgotten.”
“But if it’s closed up?” says I.
“It was only a matter o’ stout boarding put over the mouth,” says
he. “I make no doubt that it’s open all the rest of the way,
though I say naught as to Wood’s end on’t. If we could get a clear
passage,” he says, looking at me, “there’s an easy deliverance out
of our present difficulties, Master Richard.”
“Marry, so there is!” says I. And indeed there was naught that
could be easier. I sat thinking the matter over for a moment.
“Egad, Gregory!” I says, “if only this passage is open we can
circumvent the enemy and put Mistress Alison in safety with no
trouble beyond a trifling discomfort. Come,” I says, starting up,
“let’s down into the cellars and examine things for ourselves.”
Now, I am a bit slow at taking some things in, as for instance, a
woman’s meaning, which always seems to me to be the exact opposite
of what it really is, but at contrivances and strategies I am, I
think, as sharp as any, and I lost no time in making up my mind
as to what I would do supposing this passage proved open to us.
Our position was this--the Manor House stood at the west side of
East Hardwick village, some one hundred and twenty yards away
from Wood’s farmstead, which was the only considerable house in
the place beside our own. Between the two houses stood certain
cottages, tenanted by labourers that worked in the fields. Beyond
Wood’s house the land dropped away to the foot of Went Hill, a long
low range of hillside extending from Darrington Mill to the village
of Wentbridge. If Alison and I could escape by the passage and make
our way across the fields to Wentbridge, we should there come into
the Great North Road which ran thence in a straight course, through
Barnsdale, to Francis French’s house, where I could deliver her
in safety. It was possible that we might find horses or some
conveyance at the “Blue Bell,” on Wentbridge Hill, but if that plan
failed we were neither of us unfitted to walk some twelve miles in
the darkness.
But as we went down the steep steps into the cellar my thoughts
turned back to Mistress Alison. If it was her pleasure to stand by
the old house, how on earth was I going to persuade or oblige her
to leave it? It was all very well for Gregory to say that a woman
must be commanded and not argued with, but there was something
in me that whispered grave doubts as to the wisdom of trying his
advice on my cousin. “But I’ll leave that till last,” thinks I;
“the passage comes first,” and I hastened to join Gregory, who was
fumbling at the cellar door.
II.
The cellar lay in a thick darkness on which the light of our
lanthorn made but a little impression. It was a great dismal hole,
hewn deep into the rock, and was damp as a garden wall in February.
I could never remember that it was used for aught in my time,
save that one corner of it had been set apart and prepared for a
wine-cellar. It was too cold or too damp for the keeping of ale--a
hogshead of October kept down there would have come out more dead
than it went in. Then there was nobody but Gregory ever descended
the steps, though in bygone times there must have been considerable
wear of them seeing that they were hollowed out in the middle to
such an extent that it was dangerous to walk down them without
exceeding care.
“A dismal hole, Gregory,” says I, holding up the lanthorn and
gazing round me at the damp walls, up the chiselled face of which
crawled a multitude of slugs and snails that left a slimy silver
track behind them. “I should not care to spend much time down here.”
“I ha’ spent many a merry hour here,” says he, glancing at the door
of the wine-cellar. “’Tis a quietish spot enow, but a man gets used
to that. Give me the lanthorn, Master Richard,” he says, “and look
to your footing as you come after me, for the floor’s ill-paved and
as slippery as mud can make it.”
As he went before me in the gloom and I followed, keeping a strict
watch over my ways, I saw and heard things that made me turn cold
and shiver with a nauseous dread. There was the scatter of rats
amongst the old timber that lay strewn here and there, there were
slimy creeping things that seemed to writhe and quiver in helpless
silence under one’s foot, and more than once a foul, cold shape
that had hung or crawled on the roof detached itself and fell on my
face or neck.
“This cellar of yours is like to give me the horrors, Gregory,”
says I. “Egad, it seems to be the home of all that’s foul--I should
not wonder to see ghouls and afrites in it!”
“I never heard of them,” says he, “but, faith, Master Dick, there
be things here that pass a christened man’s understanding. Look
here,” says he, going a little way aside and holding his lanthorn
to the floor. “What do you make of that?” says he.
I looked and saw that which turned me sick. There was a pool of
black water in the floor, and on the edge of it, their staring eyes
and wide mouths turned upward to the glimmer of the light, sat a
row of great toads, fat and slimy, that stretched their webbed feet
along the damp brink of the rock. “In with you!” says Gregory,
swinging the lanthorn towards them, and they plunged in, sending
the foul water in brimming beads about our feet. “They feed on the
slugs,” says he, with a chuckle, “faith, there’s some nice picking
down here! But that’s naught, toads and slugs is common enough,
Master Dick. Now, here’s something that’s of a vast difference.
Look at it, Master Richard--faith, I never can make it out!”
He turned away in another direction and swung his lanthorn over a
little basin in the rock, full of clear water, that came bubbling
to the surface. “It looks like a spring,” says I. “Aye, but look
closer,” says he, whereupon I bent my head and saw a hundred little
fishes that darted hither and thither, turning their heads towards
the light. “Why, that’s curious!” says I. “But not half so curious
as you shall find,” says Gregory, and bends down to scoop up a
palmful of water. “Look thee there, lad,” says he, holding the
light over his hand. “The Lord have mercy!” says I, as I stared;
and faith, there was excuse for my fear. For the fish that he
had taken up, smaller than the minnows that lads draw out o’ the
streams, was blind as a bat, having a thin white skin drawn over
its eyes, and ’twas pitiful to see its head dart this way and that,
and the white scale that blinded it turn to the glint of the
candle. “For God’s sake, Gregory!” says I, “No more o’ thy horrors.
Let us to this passage, ere I go crazy. Why, man, this is the very
infernal pit--to think there is a gentleman’s house above it!”
“We are a good way from the house, Master Richard,” says he; “Hark,
that’s the horses stamping in the stable over us. But the passage
should be here under this heap o’ timber, which we must remove.”
There was a pile of logs leaned up against the corner of the
cellar, damp, rotten, falling to pieces, and giving harbour to more
foul things that crept about the scaling bark. “This is a very
palace of vermin!” says I, as I helped Gregory to shift the logs.
“God send the passage have less of horrors than its porch!”
“You can soon find out about that,” says he, as we laid bare the
boards that covered the entrance. “’Twas dry enough when I was last
in it, nigh on to sixty year ago.”
The boards were damp and rotten. They came down with small effort
on our part, and we were presently gazing into the mouth of the
passage. It presented itself as a low-roofed tunnel of some five
feet in height and four in width, hewn out of a sandstone bed
which there separated itself from the rock. It was carpeted with a
fine thick sand and seemed dry, though its looks were belied by a
breath of foul moisture that came from it as we stood peering into
its darkness. The entrance was strengthened by rude masonry that
extended for some yards along the passage: it was evident that in
days gone by there had been constant use of it for some purpose or
other.
“There it is, master,” says Gregory, swinging his lanthorn along
the walls.
“Aye,” says I, not half-liking the task that I knew I must needs
undertake, “and the next thing is to find out, if ’tis possible,
how far it is from this spot to Wood’s house?” I says.
“Let’s see,” says he, scratching his head. “Why, come, we are
under our own stable now, and that’s a good twenty yards from our
scullery window. We must be,” says he, “a hundred yards from Wood’s
cellar.”
“Ah, it runs into Wood’s cellar, does it?” says I. “And how on
earth are we to get out o’ that, I wonder, even if we get through
the passage? You were never through it yourself, eh, Gregory?”
“No,” says he, prompt enough. “I never went along more than a dozen
yards on’t, and wouldn’t now if t’were not for the fix we’re in,”
he says, shaking his head.
“And why not?” says I.
“There were queer tales about it,” he says, looking elsewhere than
at me.
I stood and stared at him for a full minute, during which he
affected not to know that my eyes were on him. “Look here,
Gregory,” says I, at last. “I’m going along this passage. Faith,
queer tales or no, there can’t be more that’s horrible in it than
there is in that cellar o’ yours. So give me the lanthorn,” I says,
“and wait me there.”
“I’m going with thee, lad,” says he, holding the lanthorn away from
me.
I reflected for a while. “Very well,” I says. “But I’ll lead the
way--and here goes,” and I took the light out of his hand and
advanced along the passage. “It’s a low roof for a big man,” I
says. “Keep your head down, Gregory.”
The first twenty yards of the passage yielded naught in the way
of adventure. The sand and dust was a foot thick on the floor,
and there were great cobwebs stretched from side to side along
which the spiders, big as a penny-piece, scattered and hurried as
the light drew near. But there were no obstacles to surmount nor
pitfalls to tumble into, and though the air was thick and musty it
was possible to breathe with some slight discomfort. “If it’s all
like this,” says I, “we shall do, though it’s poor work walking
with your body bent double.” “Why,” says Gregory, “we can crawl on
hands and knees if need be. Master Dick--we must needs expect----”
But there he stopped, for I had started back and thrown out a hand
behind me to keep him off. “God in Heaven!” says I, “Look there,
Gregory--there--there!”
As I swung the lanthorn to the floor he poked his head over my
shoulder and we stared together at the thing that lay in the dust
a yard from our feet. It was the skeleton of a man that had fallen
forward on his face, and now lay with outstretched arms and bony
fingers that clutched the yielding sand. There were bits of ragged
linen here and there, and between his arms, but rolled a little
way out of their reach, lay a coffer, or box, the lid of which had
burst open and revealed a quantity of jewels that sparkled dully in
the light of the lanthorn. As for the bones they shone as white as
if they had been bleached, and I shuddered to think of the rats
in the cellar behind us whose forefathers had no doubt picked them
clean.
“There’s naught to be afeard on, lad,” says Gregory after a while.
“’Tis some poor body that has striven to escape with his treasure
many a generation ago and had fallen here to die. But there’s
matter there, Master Dick,” he says, pointing to the jewels,
“that’s well worth the picking up, and you’ve a right to them, sir,
for this must ha’ been a Coope in bygone days. But let’s on, lad,
and see where this passage ends, for that’s the main thing after
all.”
I stepped over the skeleton with a shudder, being already made
squeamish by the horrible things in the cellars, and we went slowly
along the passage, I half-expectant of discovering some further
horror. But despite an occasional obstacle in the way of a fallen
mass of stone or earth there was little to hinder us, and at last
we came to where the passage narrowed and seemed to end in an
approach no wider than a fox hole.
“It’s useless after all, Gregory,” says I, sore disappointed. “The
tunnel has been blocked at this end. There’s no way out here that I
can see.”
“Softly, lad, softly,” says he. “Let me come by you,” and he
pushed his way along the rapidly narrowing passage until I thought
he must have stuck fast. “By the Lord Harry!” he says, “but there
is an opening here, Master Dick, and ’tis into the open air, too--I
can smell it. And if so be as you’ll put out the light for a
moment, I’ll lay aught we shall see a glimpse of the sky, for the
moon was rising two hours ago.”
But I had no mind to put out the light, though we had flint and
steel with us, so I settled matters by taking off my doublet and
wrapping it about the lanthorn. “There!” says Gregory, “Said I not
so?” and I looked and saw a space of grey light, the size of a
man’s hand, high above us where the passage shot upward.
“What’s to be done now?” says I: “We can’t squeeze through that.”
“No,” says he, “but we can make it bigger. This is naught but soft
earth that’s gradually fallen in to the mouth o’ the passage,
Master Richard. Do you scoop it away at that side,” he says, “and
I’ll scoop at this, and it shall go hard if we don’t make a good
road on’t.”
We set to work at this without more ado and toiled hard for a
good hour. “There,” says Gregory at last, “if I cannot push
my shoulders through what’s left may I never lift sack of corn
again i’ my life!” He gave a mighty heave and the loose soil came
tumbling about him. I saw his neck twisting and turning about “May
I die!” he says, as he drew it within, leaving a good two feet
square of moonlit sky to fill the hole, “if it doesn’t open into
Matthew Wood’s orchard! I ha’ been over this place many a time,”
says he. “From without it looks like an old drain that’s been
filled in long ago. And now, lad,” he says, as we drew back into
the passage beneath, “there’s a free road for us. What’s to be done
next?”
“Back to the Manor,” says I, and took my doublet off the lanthorn.
“The road’s there, to be sure,” I says, “but whether we can
persuade Mistress Alison to take it----”
“Why, Master Richard,” says he, “if she wont----”
“Aye, what?” says I.
“We must carry her through,” says he. “But I think she’ll listen to
reason,” he says--and so we made our way back along the passage to
where the skeleton lay white and ghostly. I picked up the coffer
and hurried on--there was no time to remove the bones and inter
them decently. It struck midnight as we came into the kitchen, and
there was much to do before daybreak.
III.
We had no sooner returned to the house than I sent Walter to John
and Humphrey Stirk, bidding them come to me in the hall, where I
went with Gregory to meet them. They reported that all had been
quiet during the evening, save that the lad Peter incautiously
carrying a light past one of the upper windows had been shot at and
hit in the shoulder, though not dangerously.
“He will quickly mend of that,” says I. “We have something more
serious than flesh wounds to think of. Now, John and Humphrey,
listen to me. We are in sore need,” I says, looking on them
earnestly, “and must use desperate remedies. In the morning the
house is to be assaulted with cannon--nay, for aught I know the
cannon may be on its way now. There is naught for us but to escape
before the old place comes tumbling about our ears. What say you?”
says I, looking from one to the other.
John shook his head. “I fear ’tis impossible, Master Richard,” says
Humphrey. “We have observed that they are keeping a strict patrol
round the house, and besides, ’tis a light night--we should be seen
ere we could cross the garden.”
“That’s certain,” says I, “but what if we tell you of another way,
lads?”--and I forthwith recounted to them the recent doings of
Gregory and myself, and informed them of my intentions with regard
to placing Mistress Alison in safety. “What do you think?” I says,
when I had told them all. “Is it a good plan?”
“Naught could be better,” says John.
“And now for the rest of you,” says I, “I have no mind that any
of you should fall into the hands of the enemy, and therefore I
propose that you should all make your escape in the same way. You,
John, and you, Humphrey, will have no difficulty in reaching home,
and faith, since there’s none can prove you have been here, why,
there’s none can injure you for it,” I says. “But what about thee,
Gregory, and the rest?”
“Why, Master Dick,” says he, “I ha’ thought of all that while you
have talked, and it seems to me that the best plan is to let John
and Humphrey here, and yourself and Mistress French, make your
escapes during the night, leaving the rest of us in the house. In
the early morning, Master Dick, ere they begin to torment us with
their cannon, we will put out a flag and submit to them--gog’s
wounds, they will do naught against us serving-men and women!--and
’twill save the old house,” he says, “that would otherwise be blown
to pieces with their artillery.”
“A good plan,” says John Stirk.
“But,” says I, “I don’t like the notion of leaving any of you in
the house, Gregory.”
“I am sure ’tis the best way out o’ present difficulties, Master
Richard,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “then so be it. If I only live and have power,” I
says, looking at all three in turn. “I will see that your devotion
is richly rewarded. But now, lads, there is another matter to
settle. Upstairs lies my uncle’s body--we cannot leave it to be
stared at by the enemy. What shall we do with it?”
We stood looking at each other. “It should be carried to Badsworth
churchyard,” says Gregory, “but that’s impossible, Master Richard.
If we could lay him somewhere until all this trouble is at an
end----?”
“And so we will,” says I, a sudden thought coming to me. “We will
lay him in his own house until such times as we can inter him with
his fathers. Gregory, do you and Jasper take up the pavement here
in the hall and prepare a grave while I see Mistress Alison, and
have him made ready,” and therewith I requested John and Humphrey
to come with me, and went upstairs to my uncle’s chamber.
Faith, it was no easy task that lay before me in making Alison
acquainted with my plans, but I was resolved that she should
obey me in everything--it meant ruin to all of us if she refused
compliance. So I tapped at the chamber door and asked her to come
forth and speak with me and to bring Barbara with her, these two
having kept close watch over Sir Nicholas’s body ever since they
had put it into his grave-clothes. I led them into a neighbouring
room, where I had already bestowed John and Humphrey, and entered
upon the matter at once.
“Cousin,” says I, “I wish to tell you and Barbara what I have
decided upon. Events are now come to a desperate pass, and it is
necessary that you and I, together with John and Humphrey, should
escape the house ere daybreak. Therefore,” I says, “be pleased,
cousin, to hearken attentively to what I have to say, and be sure
that in everything I have taken most careful thought for your own
safety.”
“I must decide matters for myself in spite of all that,” says she.
“Let me tell you what I have decided upon first, cousin,” says I.
“There will be time enough to discuss personal likes and dislikes
when we have got over our present difficulty.” And with that
I set to and told them all that we had decided upon. John and
Humphrey standing by me and nodding their heads in approval. But
while old Barbara showed us that she also approved our plans, my
cousin’s face plainly informed us that she had no liking for them.
However, she heard me to the end, and faith, I spoke as long and as
persuasively as I could, for I could see that she intended telling
me her mind after the old fashion.
“And so that is all you have to say, Master Richard?” says she,
when I had made an end. “’Tis a pretty story to have been put in
such a long-winded fashion. Methinks I can make it shorter. ’Tis
your notion,” says she, looking at me keenly, “to bury Sir Nicholas
Coope like a dog, under the floor, without rite or ceremony, and
then to skulk out of the house which he would have defended as long
as one stone had remained upon another. Am I right?” she cries. “Am
I right, sir?”
“Pray you, mistress,” says old Barbara. “Be guided by Master
Dick--a man knows more o’ these things----”
“Answer me, sir!” says she, disregarding Barbara. “Have I caught
your meaning?”
“Faith!” says I, somewhat nettled at her obstinacy. “I never knew
man or woman who was less apt at apprehending anything. Prithee,
cousin, since you think so badly of my schemes, will you be good
enough to give us some plan of your own? Something,” I says, with
a wave of my hand, “that will savour of more wisdom than aught
my poor brains can invent. I am but a man and think after a slow
fashion. You women, I am told, have a better ingenuity----”
She gave me a look that stayed me from saying aught further.
“I have naught to say,” says she, very quiet and dignified, “save
that I shall do what I believe to be in accordance with my uncle’s
wish and desires.”
“Why, cousin,” says I, sore inclined to lose what little temper I
had left, “do you mean to say that I am not of the same mind?” My
temper went as a bit of thistledown is swept away before the wind.
“By God!” says I, “I am fulfilling my uncle’s last command, and
that was to protect you, cousin, at all cost. And now we’ll talk
no more,” I says, cooling as quick as I had grown hot, “I’m for
action rather than words. Come, lads,” I says, starting for the
door, “we have no time to lose.”
But ere I could lay hands on the sneck she was at my side, and her
fingers held me tight by the arm. I looked into her eyes and saw
them as full of entreaty as a moment before they had been bright
with resentment.
“You will not bury him--where you said?” she cries. For a moment I
stood irresolute, staring at her. “We waste time,” whispers John
Stirk at my elbow. “I must carry out my plans, cousin,” I answers,
roughly.
She drew away her fingers from my arm. “Cruel--cruel!” she says,
and falls a-weeping on Barbara’s shoulder.
“The devil!” says I, under my breath. “Cousin!” I says, approaching
her, “what can we do else? Would you leave my uncle’s body to be
stared at by the fellows outside, and maybe suffer indignity at
their hands? Lord!” I says, well nigh beyond myself, “why wont you
listen to reason?”
But she put out her hand and waved me off. “Do what you please,”
she says. Old Barbara gives me a look. “Come,” says I, and went
out, followed by John and Humphrey. I wiped my forehead when I
got outside--faith, it was warmer work debating with Alison than
fighting a company of troopers!
Gregory and Jasper had made swift work with the grave, which they
had dug under the very spot in the hall where my uncle’s chair used
to stand. There was a rich, soft loam under the pavement, and they
had dug into it some four feet and lined the hole with boards since
there was no time to make a coffin. “All’s ready, Master Richard,”
says old Gregory, and the five of us went softly upstairs. At the
door of the chamber, where I had left Alison, I paused and knocked
ere I went in. She was still weeping on Barbara’s shoulder, and the
old woman talked to her as if she had been a child.
“Cousin,” says I, “we are ready, and there is no time to lose. If
you wish to see him----”
She turned her head and looked at me with a frightened enquiry
in her eyes. “Give me your hand,” I says, and took it in my own.
“Come,” says I, and led her out of the room and to the door of Sir
Nicholas’s chamber. The men stood aside and bent their heads. I
opened the door and let her in, and then shut it and waited. It was
some minutes ere she came out, and then she was calm enough and
faced us all with great composure. “Stand thee with her, Dick,”
whispers old Gregory, and he motioned the rest of them to follow
him into the room. And so I stood at Alison’s side, and neither of
us spoke. But when the four men came out carrying my uncle’s body,
closely wrapped in his grave-clothes, she gave a little shudder and
put out her hand and I took it in mine and held it there, and so we
followed them down the wide staircase and into the hall, and as we
came in sight of the staring hole in the floor where his chair used
to stand I felt her fingers close tighter on my own.
There was no more light in the hall than came from the two
lanthorns brought there by Gregory and Jasper, and the grave-clothes
looked ghastly white as we laid the good old knight in the only
resting-place we could give him. As we stood looking down into
his grave a thought came to me, and I stepped across the hall and
took down from its shelf the great prayer-book which he was wont
to use. And coming back, I knelt down by the grave with Alison at
my side and the others about us, and read certain passages out of
the service for the burial of the dead, and when we had all said
the Lord’s Prayer, and Gregory had twice repeated “Amen,” we got up
from our knees, and I led my cousin out of the hall, signing to the
men to do what they had to do with all speed.
Outside the hall I released Alison’s hand. “Now, cousin,” says I,
“you must prepare for your journey. I hope to see you in safety to
your father’s house ere daybreak, but there may be obstacles that I
have not reckoned for, and we must be prepared.”
“So we are to desert the house?” she says, looking at me.
“Let’s have no more of that, cousin,” says I. “We must leave the
house within half-an-hour. Cloak yourself warmly, and cause Barbara
to prepare you a flask of wine and some food in a parcel. In twenty
minutes from now,” I says, “You will meet me in the kitchen.”
I watched her go slowly up the staircase ere I hurried back into
the hall, where the four men were hastily filling up my uncle’s
grave. When they had finished I sent them all to the kitchen,
bidding them refresh themselves, and then shutting myself into the
hall, I proceeded to take up the hearthstone, according to Sir
Nicholas’s directions, and to secure the treasure which he had
spoken of. In a strong box I found three hundred guineas in gold,
together with a casket of jewels, to which I immediately added
those which we had discovered in the passage. When I had replaced
the hearthstone I called Gregory to me, and put in his hands
fifty guineas to be divided amongst the servants for their present
necessities. But John and Humphrey Stirk, whom I approached on the
same subject, would take naught, having done what they had out of
pure neighbourly feeling.
And now all was ready for our flight, and I arranged the last
details with Gregory and the Stirks. Alison and I were to start
at once and make what speed we could towards her father’s house;
John and Humphrey were to follow soon afterwards and return to
their farm at Thorpe (’gad, who could ha’ thought that it was but
three days since I ran in upon them to crave their help!), and at
daybreak Gregory was to surrender the house, craving leave for the
servants to go their ways unmolested. This settled there was naught
for us but to say farewell to each other, and for Alison and myself
to descend into the cellar with Gregory, who was in readiness to
light us to the passage.
Now I had said naught to my cousin of the passage itself, but
had merely told her that I had found a sure means of escape. She
trembled somewhat as we crossed the slimy floor of the great cellar
and came to the entrance to the passage. “We are to pass through
this?” says she, looking at me. “’Tis our only means, cousin,”
says I, and turned to take the light from Gregory. I shook his
hand--faith, it was the last time, for I never saw him again!--and
bade her follow me. Then we turned into the passage, and I heard
Gregory’s voice, calling down God-speed on us, die away as we
advanced.
Within a few minutes the bones of the dead man’s skeleton gleamed
white in the light of the lanthorn. “Cousin,” says I, “take my
hand, and shut your eyes for a while. There is in the path what I
have no mind for you to see.” And so we passed by, and ere long I
put out the light for the patch of grey sky showed at the mouth of
the tunnel. “Would it had been a darker night!” says I, as I went
first and looked about me. But all was still and quiet, and so I
helped her out of the passage, and together we stole across the
land. As we hurried along behind the tall hedgerows an owl hooted
from Matthew Wood’s barn. “An omen!” thinks I, but said naught to
her save to encourage her to press forward. Thus we dipped into the
meadows, wet and marshy with the November fogs and mists, and made
with what speed we could for the foot of Went Hill, that loomed
before us through the night.