THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE.
“’Tis sure some dream, some vision wild!
What, _I_, of rank and wealth the child,
Am _I_ the wretch that bears this shame,
Deprived of freedom, friends and fame?”
The chamber in which Lady Leaton had died, and where Eudora was
imprisoned, had, in the olden time, been the abbot’s apartment. It was a
vast, dark, gloomy room, now dimly lighted by a lamp that stood upon the
mantelshelf.
For a long time after Malcolm Montrose, Dr. Watkins and the constables
had withdrawn from the chamber, Eudora remained, crushed back in the
depths of the large chair, with her head bowed upon her bosom, her black
ringlets falling forward, and half veiling her beautiful dark face, her
left hand, that Malcolm had resigned, falling listlessly down by her
side, and her right hand still clasped in that of Tabitha, who continued
to stand by her side. No word was spoken between them as yet. Eudora was
buried in profound, agonizing and bewildering thought, such as always
overwhelms the sensitive victim of any sudden and crushing misfortune.
The shock of the thunderbolt that had just fallen upon her, devastating
her inner life, and leaving the outer so still, and black, and
threatening: the vast, dark, sombre room; the dead silence around
her—all combined to shake her reason to its centre. In the confusion
wrought among nerves, head and brain by this inner storm of sensation,
thought and suffering, she was fast losing confidence in heaven, trust
in the reality of external circumstances, and even faith in her own
identity.
Suddenly she threw herself forward, and tightened her clasp upon
Tabitha’s hand, with convulsive tone, exclaiming:
“Wake me! wake me, Tabitha! I have the nightmare, and cannot rouse
myself. Oh, wake me! wake me, for the love of Heaven!”
Tabitha, whom respect for her mistress’s sorrow had hitherto kept
silent, now became alarmed for her sanity.
Bending over her with an almost reverential tenderness, she whispered:
“Dear young lady, try to be composed and collect your thoughts, and
remember yourself.”
“Oh, Heaven! I remember too well! too well!” cried Eudora, in a piercing
voice, dropping her face into her hands, and shuddering through her
whole frame. “It is no horrible illusion! It is an awful reality! My
aunt and cousin are really dead, and I am arrested upon the charge of
poisoning them! Oh, horrible! most horrible! Oh, I shall go mad! I shall
go mad!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair, casting up her arms,
and throwing herself forward upon the floor.
For a moment Tabitha gazed in dismay upon this exhibition of violent
emotion in one whom she loved and honored almost to adoration, and then
kneeling down beside her, she gently put her arms around her waist to
raise her up, whispering in a low, respectful voice:
“Dear young lady, try to recollect yourself, your dignity, your rank,
and, above all, your innocence, and put your trust in God!”
Put your trust in God. It was the best advice the simple country-girl
could give, but the Archbishop of Canterbury could not have given any
better.
Eudora suffered herself to be lifted up and replaced in the deep chair,
into which she sank helplessly, and where she remained, with her head
propped upon her breast, and her arms fallen upon her lap, in the stupor
of despair to which the violence of her anguish had yielded.
Tabitha kneeled at her feet, took her hands, and gazing pleadingly up
into her face, said:
“Dear Miss Eudora, look up and hope; all is not lost that is in danger!
Have faith in Him who delivered the three innocent children from the
fires of the furnace seven times heated. Come, now, let me undress you
and help you to bed.”
“Into that bed—into that bed whence _her_ corpse has just been removed?
Oh, never, never! Besides, I could not sleep with the prospect of
to-morrow before me, when I shall be taken to the common gaol. How could
I sleep? I shall never sleep again! Good girl, leave me to my own
thoughts,” said Eudora, with a trembling voice and quivering face.
Tabitha spoke no more, but drawing a footstool, she sat down at her
mistress’s feet, and silently held one of her listless hands.
Some time they sat thus: the heavy minutes seemed drawn out to the
length of hours. The house was still as death, and the mantle clock was
on the stroke of eleven when the quick ears of Tabitha caught a slight,
cautious, grating sound in the wainscoted wall on the left of the
fire-place. She raised her head, and turned her eyes quickly in the
direction of the sound, and with a half-suppressed shriek and a
throbbing heart, she saw one of the oak panels slide away, and an
anxious face and a warning hand appear at the opening.
The smothered cry of her woman had attracted Eudora’s attention; and
with the apathy of one plunged so deeply in wretchedness as to fear no
farther evil, the unhappy girl followed, with her listless glance, the
frightened gaze of her attendant.
At this moment the hand at the opening was extended in an encouraging
gesture, and a familiar voice murmured, quickly and softly:
“Hist! hist, Tabitha! Don’t be afraid! It is I.”
And the next instant the man came through the opening, and Malcolm
Montrose stood within the room. He extended his hand in a warning manner
as he approached, saying:
“Hist! hist! for Heaven’s love, control yourselves! be composed, and all
will be well!”
By this time he stood before the mistress and the maid, who gazed upon
him in astonishment indeed, but not in alarm.
“Let us speak in whispers, and then, thanks to the thickness of these
walls and doors, we shall not be heard by the policemen on guard.
Listen—there are bolts on this side of the chamber doors. Are they drawn
fast?”
“No, sir,” replied Tabitha, in a hushed voice.
With a sign that they should remain silent and motionless, Malcolm
glided on tip-toe, first to one door and then to the other, and
cautiously slid the bolts into their sockets, making them both as fast
on the inside as they were on the outside.
He then returned to the side of Eudora, and stood for a moment listening
intently, and then apparently satisfied that all was well, he murmured:
“Peace be with the worthy king or bishop who built these walls so
solidly! The sentinels without have heard nothing.”
Then turning to the curious, anxious, and expectant waiting-maid he
whispered:
“Tabitha, my good girl, I can depend upon you to aid me in freeing your
young lady?”
“Depend upon me? Oh, sir, don’t you know and doesn’t she know that I
would throw myself between her and all that threatens her, and meet it
in her stead, if so be I could?” said the brave and devoted girl, in a
vehement whisper.
“Indeed it will be but little less than that which will be required of
you, my good Tabitha.”
“Don’t doubt me, sir, but try me!” said the young woman, stoutly.
“Well, then, Tabitha, you have first to prepare your young lady for a
hasty journey—thanks to the secret passage leading from the abbot’s
apartments—to the ruins of the neighboring nunnery, which scandal
declares to have been once put to a less worthy use. I have been able to
provide the means for her escape. But you, my good girl, will have to
remain here to cover her retreat, to face those who will come to seek
her in the morning, and to withstand all questions as to how or with
whom she left her prison. Are you firm enough for the duty, Tabitha?”
“Let ’em try me, that’s all, sir; and if they don’t find out as they’re
met their match this time, I’m not a woman, but a muff. They may send me
to prison, or they may hang me if they like. But I defy them to make me
speak when I don’t want to speak!”
“They can do you no real harm, my girl, be sure of that. They would only
threaten and frighten you at most.”
“Frighten who? Lawks, sir, you don’t know me; I aint made of
frightenable stuff. But, sir, how we talk! won’t they know at once that
my young lady got off through that secret passage of which you speak?”
“No; for its very existence is unknown or forgotten. It was only
accident that discovered it to me some years ago, when I was delving
among the ruins of the convent, and found in one of the cellars its
other terminus. I entered it to thread its mazes; I should have been
smothered but for the many crooked crevices in its rocky roof that let
in the air. I found that it led to a steep narrow staircase; ascending
it, I found myself opposite a panel, the character of which I could see
by means of the narrow lines of light around its old and shrunken frame,
light that evidently came from the opposite side. Curiosity got the
better of discretion, and I worked away at the panel and slipped it
aside, when, to my dismay, I found myself looking in upon the privacy of
Lady Leaton’s sleeping-chamber, which was fortunately then empty. It was
this, which was in the olden time the apartment of the Abbot. I was but
a boy then, and being frightened at what I had done, I hastily replaced
the panel and retreated, and never mentioned my adventure to any one.
Afterwards, consulting the guidebook, I found that there was a mere
tradition of a secret passage leading from the Abbey to the Convent,
which scandal asserted to have been used by the master here when going
to rendezvous with some fair nun; but of the precise locality of this
secret passage, or even of its actual existence, the book did not
pretend to speak with authority. Once I mentioned the tradition to my
uncle and aunt, but they disregarded it as mere romance, and I kept my
own counsel, and deferred the mention of my discovery to some future
occasion. But to-night I have turned my knowledge of the secret passage
to some account; to-night, once more I have threaded its mazes, and find
myself in this chamber. I shall conduct Miss Leaton through this passage
to the other outlet in the cellars of the ruined convent; there I have a
chaise to carry her off. Farther than this, I need not tell you. And I
have told you this much, first, because I believe you fully worthy of
the confidence, and secondly, that being possessed of the real facts,
you may be on your guard against cross-questioning as well as against
threats, and so be able to baffle inquiry as well as to withstand
browbeating,” said Malcolm Montrose.
“Oh, never you fear me, sir; I will never give Miss Leaton’s enemies the
satisfaction of knowing as much as I know,” said Tabitha, firmly.
The young man had addressed himself first to the maid, not only to
secure her immediate sympathy and co-operation, but also to afford Miss
Leaton time to recover from her surprise, compose her spirits and
collect her thoughts.
Now he turned to Eudora, who had been much agitated by the infusion of
new hope into her despair, but who now controlling herself, sat quietly,
though intently listening, and addressing her with reverential
tenderness, he said:
“And now, dearest Eudora, rouse yourself; collect all your energies, and
prepare for your immediate flight.”
She looked at him intently for a moment, and then in a faltering voice
said:
“But oh, is it right? Ought I, who am as innocent as a child of that
which they charge me with, ought I, like a guilty creature, to fly from
justice? Think of it well, and then answer me, for I can rely upon your
wisdom as well as upon your honor.”
“Eudora,” said the young man in a solemn voice, “it is not from
_justice_ that I counsel you to fly, for you are innocent as you say,
and the innocent have nothing to fear from justice; if there was a
shadow of a hope that you would meet justice, my tongue should be the
last to advise, my hand the last to assist your escape. No, Eudora, it
is not from _justice_, but from the cruelest injustice—from murder, from
martyrdom that I would snatch you!”
“Yet still think once more. You grant that I am innocent. Conscious of
that innocence, ought I not to have courage enough to meet the trial,
and faith enough to trust in God for deliverance?” inquired the girl
gravely.
“Trust in God, by all means, through all things, and to any extent: but
exercise that trust by wisely embracing the means He has provided for
your escape rather than by madly remaining to meet swift and certain
destruction.”
“But yet—but yet it seems weak and wrong for the innocent to fly like
the guilty!” said Eudora, hesitatingly.
“Does it? Then I will give you Scripture warrant and example for the
course! When Herod sent forth and slew the infants in Galilee, did the
parents of the child Jesus tarry in Bethlehem because he was innocent
and even Divine? No; warned by the angel, they fled into Egypt. In after
years, when Jesus went about preaching and teaching through Jerusalem,
and when the high priests sought Him to kill Him, did He tarry in deadly
peril because He was innocent, holy, and Divine? No! He withdrew into
the Mount of Olives, or entered a ship, and put off from the land,
because His hour had not yet come! Oh, Eudora! it is not faith but
presumption that tempts you to remain and face sure and sudden ruin,”
urged the young man, in impassioned earnestness, while he gazed in an
agony of anxiety upon her countenance.
Eudora shuddered through her whole frame, but remained silent.
“Oh, Heaven, Eudora!” he continued, “why do you still hesitate? Must I
set the truth before you in all its ghastly realities? I must, I must,
for time presses, and the danger is imminent! Listen, most unhappy girl!
You are here a prisoner, charged with the most atrocious crime that ever
cursed humanity; that charge is supported by a mass of evidence that
would crush an archangel! To-morrow morning you will be removed from
this room to the common gaol. Next week the assizes will be held; you
will be brought to trial; you will be overwhelmed beneath an avalanche
of evidence! and then—oh, Heaven, Eudora! but two short weeks will
elapse between the sentence of the judge and the execution of the
prisoner! In less than one little month from this you will be
murdered—martyred!” exclaimed the young man in thrilling, vehement,
impassioned whispers, while the agitation of his whole frame, and the
perspiration that streamed from his flushed brow, exhibited the agony of
his anxiety.
With a smothered shriek, the unhappy girl fell back in her chair, and
covered her face with her hands, as though to shut out the scene of
horror that had been called up before her imagination.
“Fly, Eudora! fly at once! fly with me, and I will place you in safety,
where you may remain until Providence shall bring the truth to light,
the guilty to justice, and your innocence to a perfect vindication! Fly!
fly, Eudora! It would be madness to stay!”
“I will! I will fly!” she exclaimed, in a hurried whisper, as she
started up.
Tabitha snatched up the black bonnet and shawl that had been brought in
on the preceding evening for a far different purpose, and hastily
assisted her mistress to put them on. She tied the little bonnet strings
under her chin, and tied the black crape veil over her face. Then she
wrapped the shawl carefully around her form, doubling its folds twice
over her chest to protect it from the chill of the night air, for
Eudora’s Asiatic temperament would ill bear exposure in this climate of
cold mists, and pronounced her ready for her journey.
As Malcolm looked anxiously upon her, he saw that her simple, plain
dress of deep mourning was admirably well calculated for her escape and
her journey, for it revealed nothing of her social position, since the
wearer of such a dress might be the daughter of a tradesman or the child
of an earl.
“And now, my good girl, we must take leave of you at once. Remember that
no one can harm you; therefore be firm in refusing to give any clue to
the manner of Miss Leaton’s escape,” said Malcolm Montrose, shaking
hands with the faithful attendant.
“Never you doubt, sir; they shall draw me apart with wild horses before
they draw any information from me,” said Tabitha, firmly.
“Good-bye, dear girl; I hope, and trust, and pray that you may come to
no evil through your devotion to me,” said Eudora, kissing her humble
friend.
“Never you fear, Miss; if any body comes to grief in this chase, it
won’t be her as is hunted, but them as hunts, which is as much as to say
it won’t be Tabitha Tabs!” said the latter, valiantly.
After once more pressing the hand of her faithful maid, Eudora followed
Malcolm through the secret opening, leaving the brave Tabitha alone in
the chamber.