The great house at Chad was wrapped in sleep. The brilliant beams
of a June moon illuminated the fine pile of gray masonry with a
strong white light. Every castellated turret and twisted chimney
stood out in bold relief from the heavy background of the pine wood
behind, and the great courtyard lay white and still, lined by a
dark rim of ebon shadow.
Chad, without being exactly a baronial hall of the first magnitude,
was nevertheless a very fine old house. It had been somewhat shorn
of its pristine glories during the Wars of the Roses. One out of
its original two quadrangles had then been laid in ruins, and had
never been rebuilt. But the old inner quadrangle still remained
standing, and made an ample and commodious dwelling house for the
family of the Chadgroves who inhabited it; whilst the ground which
had once been occupied by the larger outer quadrangle, with its
fortifications and battlements, was now laid out in terraces and
garden walks, which made a pleasant addition to the family
residence.
The seventh Henry was on the throne. The battle of Bosworth Field
had put an end to the long-drawn strife betwixt the houses of York
and Lancaster. The exhausted country was beginning to look forward
to a long period of prosperity and peace; and the household at Chad
was one of the many that were rejoicing in the change which had
come upon the public outlook, and was making the most of the
peaceful years which all trusted lay before the nation.
Several changes of some importance had passed over Chad during the
previous century. The wars had made gaps in the ranks of the family
to whom it had always belonged. There had been sundry edicts of
confiscation--as speedily repealed by the next change in the fate
of the day; and more than once the head had been struck down by
death, and the house and lands had passed either to a minor or to
some other branch of the family. There had been the confusion and
strife betwixt the various branches of the family which was a
characteristic of that age of upheaval and strife; but the present
owner of the estate, Sir Oliver Chadgrove, seemed firmly settled in
his place. He had fought on Henry's side at Bosworth, and had been
confirmed by that monarch in the possession of the estate of Chad;
and since that day none had tried to dispute his claim; nor,
indeed, would it have been very easy to do so, as he was
undoubtedly the rightful representative of the older branch of the
family.
A just and kindly man, he was beloved of those about him, and would
have been staunchly supported by his retainers had any adversary
arisen against him. His only enemy was the Lord of Mortimer, who
owned Mortimer's Keep, the adjoining property, and had cast
covetous eyes on Chad during the stormy days of the late wars, more
than once trying unsuccessfully to step in between the disputing
parties and claim it as his own, not by the power of right, but by
that of might alone. However, he had not been successful in this
attempt; and for the past few years there had been a semblance of
friendliness between Sir Oliver and his proud and powerful
neighbour.
The knight was well aware that the friendliness was more a seeming
than a reality. He was perfectly well acquainted with the rapacious
character of the owner of Mortimer's Keep, and with his covetous
designs upon Chad. He knew he was a secret foe, always on the watch
for any cause of complaint against him; and he could often feel
that it would take very little to stir up the old jealous strife
and hostility. Still, for the present an armed truce was the order
of the day, and Sir Oliver, knowing his own loyalty, the cleanness
of his hands, and the uprightness of his dealings, was not much
afraid that his enemy would ever succeed in ousting him from his
lands, or in gaining possession of the fair park and house of Chad
for himself.
Sir Oliver was personally liked by the king, which was another
point in his favour. Without being a brilliant ruler like his
successors, the seventh Henry had the faculty of choosing men of
parts to place about him, and he had recognized in Sir Oliver
Chadgrove certain qualities which he approved, and of which he
wished to avail himself from time to time. So the knight was
frequently summoned to attend the king, and occasionally his wife
went with him and appeared at court. On this particular bright June
night, both the master and the mistress were absent, being at
Windsor with the king's court; and the three boys--the children
with whom Providence had blessed them--were the only members of the
family sleeping beneath the roof of the great house.
The bedchamber of the three boys was a large, bare room looking out
across the wooded park and ridge of hills, through which the little
river of Chad meandered leisurely. The boys would have preferred
the courtyard for their lookout; but a lover of nature could not
but be struck by the exceeding beauty of the view from this row of
latticed casements. And indeed the green expanse of home-like
country had its charm even for high-spirited boys; and Edred, the
second child of the house, often sat for hours together on the wide
window ledge, gazing his fill at the shifting lights and shadows,
and dreaming dreams of his own about what he saw.
The long room contained three small narrow beds, and very little
furniture besides, In each of these beds a boy lay sleeping. The
moonlight streaming in through the uncurtained windows illuminated
the whole room, and showed the curly heads, two dark and one fair,
lying on the hard pillows, and shone so straight into the face of
the eldest boy, that he stirred a little in his sleep, and half
turned round.
He was a handsome lad of some eight or nine summers, with regular,
strongly-marked features, and dark hair and eyes. The brown hand
and arm which lay exposed to view showed a muscular development
that betokened great strength to come when the boy should be grown
to manhood, and the face exhibited a like promise of strength of
will and character.
Bertram Chadgrove, half aroused by the strong light of the moon in
his face, opened his dark eyes sleepily for a few minutes, and then
turned over towards the wall, and prepared to slumber again. But
before he had sunk to sleep he became further aroused by a very
peculiar sound in the wall (as it seemed), close to which his bed
was stationed; and instead of drowsing off again, he woke up with
all his faculties on the alert, much as a watchdog does, and
sitting up in bed he listened with all his ears.
Yes; there could be no mistaking it! There was certainly a sound--a
muffled, curious sound--within the very wall itself. He pressed his
ear against the panel, and his eyes shone brightly in the
moonlight.
"It is some living thing," he whispered to himself. "Methinks it is
surely some human thing. Rats can make strange sounds, I know, but
not such sounds as these. A human being, and within the thickness
of the wall! How can such a thing be? I never heard the like
before. It comes nearer--I hear the groping of hands close beside
mine ear. Heaven send it be not a spirit from the other world! I
fear no mortal arm, of flesh and blood, but I desire not to see a
visitor from the land of shadows."
For a moment the boy's flesh crept on his bones, and the hair of
his head seemed to rise up from his scalp. The groping of those
phantom hands against the wall just beside him was enough to fill
the stoutest heart with terror, in an age when superstition was
always rife. He strove to call to his brothers; but his voice was
no more than a whisper, and his throat felt dry and parched.
Failing in making himself heard by his companions, he cowered down
and drew the clothes right over his head, shivering with fear; and
it was several minutes before his native courage came to his aid,
and he felt ashamed of this paroxysm of terror.
"Fie upon me for a white-livered poltroon!" he cried, as the chill
sweat of fear ceased to break out upon him, and he rallied his
courage and his determination.
"I am no better than a maid! Shame upon me for a coward! I will not
call to Edred and Julian. It shall not be said of me, even by mine
own self, that I dared not face even a spirit from the lower world
alone. I will find out what this sound is, and that without the
help of any other living soul, else shall I despise myself
forever!"
And with that resolve hot within him, Bertram threw back his
coverings and prepared to rise from his bed, when his attention was
arrested by some strange stealthy sounds close against the great
carved chimney piece, on the same side of the room as his own bed.
His brothers slept on the opposite side of the big room. None of
the sounds which were so astonishing Bertram would penetrate to
their sleeping senses. Had the eldest boy not been awake at the
beginning, he would scarce have heard the sound, so cautious and
soft it was. But this noise was something new. It was like hands
fumbling and groping in search of something. Bertram held his
breath to listen, growing hot and cold by turns. But he drew some
of his clothes cautiously towards him, and silently slipped into
his nether garments. He felt that if there were some unseen enemy
striving in mysterious fashion to penetrate into this room, he
could better meet him if he were clothed, however scantily, than he
could do as he was; and he had ample time to put on even his
doublet and hose, and to cover himself up again in bed, with his
small poniard closely held in his hand, before there was any
further development of that strange night's drama which he was so
breathlessly watching.
That something or somebody was seeking to find entrance into the
room, he could not doubt for a moment; but, on the other hand, it
seemed an incredible surmise, because the wall along which the
unknown visitor had plainly felt his way was an outside wall, and
if there really were any person thus moving, he must be walking
along some secret passage in the thickness of the wall itself.
Such a thing was not impossible. Bertram knew of more than one such
passage contrived in the thickness of the wall in his ancient home,
and all the family were acquainted with a certain secret hiding
place that existed, cleverly contrived in the rambling old
building, which, with its various levels and its wilderness of
chimneys, might well defy detection, even with the most skilled
search. But the boy knew of no such passage or chamber in
connection with their sleeping room, and he was sure his parents
did not know of one either, or any member of the household.
Therefore it was immensely surprising to hear these uncanny sounds,
and it was small wonder if they did give rise to a wave of
supernatural terror, of which the boy was man enough to feel
ashamed the moment reason had time to assert her sway.
"I have done no wrong; I confessed but three days since, and
received blessing and absolution. If any spirit were to come to
visit this room, it could do me no hurt. Besides, methinks a spirit
would pass easily along the straightest place, and would not need
to fumble thus as if in search of hidden bolts.
"Ha! what is that! Methought some spring shot back. Hist! here IT
comes!"
The boy lay back upon his bed, drawing the clothes silently up to
his very eyes. The moonlight had shifted just a little, and no
longer illumined his face. That was now in shadow, and would scarce
reveal the fact that he was awake. He lay perfectly still, scarce
daring to draw his breath, and the next moment a strange thing
happened.
The whole of one of the great carved pillars that supported the
high mantle shelf swung noiselessly forward, and stood out at right
angles to the wall. From where he lay Bertram could not see, but he
could well understand that when this was done a narrow doorway had
been revealed, and the next moment a shadowy figure glided with
noiseless steps into the room.
The figure was poorly clad in a doublet of serge much the worse for
wear, and the moonlight showed a strangely haggard face and soiled
and torn raiment. Yet there was an air of dignity about the
mysterious visitor which showed to the astonished boy that he must
at some time have been in better circumstances, and lying quite
still Bertram watched his movements with breathless attention.
With a quick, scared glance round him, as though afraid that even
the silence might be the silence of treachery, the gaunt figure
advanced with covert eagerness across the floor, leaving the door
wide open behind him, as if to be ready for him should he desire to
fly; and precipitating himself upon a ewer of cold water standing
upon the floor, he drank and drank and drank as though he would
never cease.
Plainly he was consumed by the most raging thirst. Bertram had
never seen anything but an exhausted horse after a burning summer's
chase in the forest drink in such a fashion. And as he watched, all
fear left him in a moment, for certainly no phantom could drink dry
this great ewer of spring water; and if he had only a creature of
flesh and blood to deal with, why, then there was certainly no
cause for fear.
In place of dread and terror, a great pity welled up in the
generous heart of the boy. He had all the hatred for oppression and
the chivalrous desire to help the oppressed that seem born in the
hearts of the sons of British birth. Who and what manner of man
this was he did not know; but he was evidently some poor hunted
creature, going in very fear of his life, and as such the boy
pitied him from the very ground of his heart, and would gladly have
helped him had he known how.
He lay for a few moments wondering and pondering. Certainly his
father was no foe to any man. He could not be hiding from his
displeasure. The fugitive had rather taken refuge in his house; and
if so, who better could be found to help him than the son of the
owner?
"Our father and our mother alike have always taught us to befriend
the stranger and the oppressed," said the boy to himself. "I will
ask this stranger of himself, and see if I may befriend him. I
would gladly learn the trick of yon door. It would be a goodly
secret to have for our very own."
It was plain that the fugitive, though aware that the room was
tenanted, had satisfied himself that the occupants were all asleep.
He had ceased his frightened, furtive looks around him, and was
quaffing the last of the water with an air of relish and relief
that was good to see, pausing from time to time to stretch his
limbs and to draw in great gulps of fresh air through the open
window by which he stood, as a prisoner might do who had just been
released from harsh captivity.
The moonlight shining upon his face showed it haggard, unkempt, and
unshorn. Plainly he had been several days in hiding; and by the
gauntness of his figure, and the wolfish gleam in his eye as it
roved quickly round the apartment, as if in search of food, it was
plain that he was suffering keenly from hunger, too.
Bertram's decision was quickly taken. Whilst the man's face was
turned the other way, he quickly rose from his bed, and crossing
the room with noiseless steps, laid a hand upon his arm.
"Hist, friend!" he whispered whilst the start given by the other,
and the hoarse exclamation that broke from his lips, might have
wakened sleepers who were not healthy, tired boys. "Fear not; I am
no foe to betray thee. Tell me who and what thou art, and I will
help thee all I may."
The frightened eyes bent upon him bespoke a great terror. The man's
voice died away as he tried to speak. The only word Bertram could
catch seemed to be a prayer that he would not betray him.
"Betray thee! Never! Why, good fellow, dost not know that the
Chadgroves never betray those who trust in them? Hence sometimes
has trouble come upon them. But before we talk, let me get thee
food. Methinks thou art well-nigh starved."
"Food! food! Ah, if thou wouldst give me that, young master, I
would bless thee forever! I have well-nigh perished with hunger and
thirst. Heaven be thanked that I have tasted water once again!"
"Come hither," said Bertram cautiously. "First close this narrow
doorway, the secret of which thou must teach me in return for what
I will do for thee, and then I will take thee to another chamber,
where our voices will not disturb my brothers, and we can talk, and
thou canst eat at ease. I must know thy story, and I pledge myself
to help thee. Show me now the trick of this door. I swear I will
make no treacherous use of the secret."
"I will trust thee, young sir. I must needs do so, for without
human help I must surely die.
"Seest thou this bunch of grapes so cunningly carved here? This
middle grape of the cluster will turn round in the fingers that
know how to find and grasp it, and so turning and turning slowly,
unlooses a bolt within--here--and so the whole woodwork swings out
upon hinges and reveals the doorway. Where that doorway leads I
will show thee anon, if thou wouldst know the trick of the secret
chamber at Chad that all men have now forgotten. It may be that it
will some day shelter thee or thine, for thou hast enemies abroad,
even as I have."
Bertram was intensely interested as he examined and mastered the
simple yet clever contrivance of this masked door; but quickly
remembering the starved condition of his companion, he led him
cautiously into an adjoining room, where were a table and some
scant furniture, and gliding down the staircase and along dim
corridors just made visible by the reflected radiance of the moon,
he reached the buttery, and armed himself with a venison pasty, a
loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. Hurrying back with these, he
soon had the satisfaction to see the stranger fall upon them with
the keen relish of a man who has fasted to the last limits of
endurance; and only after he had seen that the keen edge of his
hunger had been satisfied did he try to learn more of him and his
concerns.
"Now tell me, my good friend, who and what thou art," said the boy,
"and how comes it that thou seekest shelter here, and that thou
knowest more of Chad than we its owners do. That is the thing which
has been perplexing me this long while. I would fain hear from thy
story how it comes about."
"That is soon told, young sir. Thou dost not, probably, remember
the name of Warbel as that of some of the retainers of thy
grandsire, but--"
"I have heard the name," said the boy. "I have heard my father
speak of them. But I knew not that there were any of that name now
living."
"I am a Warbel--I trow the last of my race. I was born beyond the
seas; but I was early brought to England, and I heard munch of the
strife that encompassed Chad, because my father and grandfather
both knew the place well, and would fain have gone back and lived
in the old country had not fortune otherwise decreed it. To make a
long story short, they never returned to the place. But when I was
grown to man's estate, I was offered a post in the household of the
Lord of Mortimer, and as it was the best thing that had fallen in
my way, I accepted it very gladly; for I knew that name, too, and I
knew naught against the haughty lord, albeit my father and
grandsire had not loved the lords of that name who lived before
him.
"For many years I have been in his service, and for a while all
went well with me. I was made one of his gentlemen, and he seemed
to favour me. But of late there has been a change towards me--I
know not how or why. I have offended him without intending it, and
he has sometimes provoked me almost beyond endurance by his proud
insolence. But that I might have borne, for he was my master, had
it not been for the insolence and insults I had to bear from others
amongst his servants, and from one youth in particular, who seemed
to me to be trying to oust me from my place, and to get himself the
foremost place in his master's favour. That made my hot blood boil
again and again, until at last the thing I believe they had long
planned happened, and I had to fly for my life."
The man paused, and Bertram, who was drinking in this story, asked
eagerly: "And what was that?"
"It was four days ago now, in the hall where we had supped. We had
drunk much wine in honour of our master's birthday, and then we
began playing and dicing to pass the time till we retired to bed.
My adversary was this youth whom I so greatly distrust. As we
played I detected him in unfair practices. He vowed I lied, and
called upon me to prove my words at the sword's point; but in my
fury and rage I sprang upon him with my bare hands, and would have
wrung his neck--the insolent popinjay--had I been able. As it was,
we struggled and swayed together till my greater weight caused him
to fall over backwards against one of the tables, and I verily
believe his back is broken. I know not whether he is living yet.
But as he is not only a great favourite with the Lord of Mortimer,
but a distant kinsman to boot, no sooner was the deed done than all
in the hall called to me to save myself by flight, for that the
master would revenge such a death upon the perpetrator of it
without mercy, and that if I wished to spare my neck I must fly
without an instant's delay.
"I knew this but too well myself. The baron was a fearful man to
meet in his rage. Where to fly I knew not, but stay I could not. I
had bare time to rush to my room, don a dress that would not excite
inquiry if I had to lie hid in the forest a few days. I did not
think flight would be so difficult a matter, but I knew that every
moment spent in Mortimer's Keep was at peril of my life; and I had
but just made my escape through a small postern door before I heard
the alarm bell ring, the drawbridge go up, and knew that the edict
had gone forth for my instant apprehension."
He paused with a slight shudder, and seemed to be listening
intently.
"There is naught to fear here," said Bertram. "Tell me more of thy
flight."
"It was terrible," answered the man. "I had not looked to be hunted
like the wild beasts of the forest; and yet an hour had not gone by
before I heard, by the baying of the fierce hounds that are kept at
Mortimer, that a hunting party had sallied forth; and I knew that I
was the quarry. I doubled and ran like any hare. I knew the tricks
of the wild things that have skill in baffling the dogs, and at
last I reached the shelter of these walls, and ran there for
protection. I had thrown off the dogs at the last piece of water;
and in the marshy ground the scent did not lie, and could not be
picked up. For a brief moment I was safe; but I was exhausted
almost to death. I could go no further. I lay down beneath the
shadow of some arbour within the sheltering precincts of Chad, and
wondered what would become of me."
"Yes, yes! and then--?"
"Then I remembered a story told me by my grandsire, years and years
gone by, of a secret chamber at Chad, which had sheltered many a
fugitive in the hour of peril. Lying out in the soft night air, I
recalled bit by bit all that I had been told--the very drawings the
old man had made to amuse me in a childish sickness, how the door
opened, and how access was had to the chamber. I knew that the
country round would be hunted for days, and that I could never
escape the malice of the Lord of Mortimer if I pursued my way to
the sea. He would overtake and kill me before I could make shift to
gain that place of refuge. But I bethought me of the secret chamber
and its story, and methought I might slip in unseen did I but watch
my opportunity, find my way up the winding stair to this room, and
so to the secret chamber beyond."
"And thou didst?"
"Ay, I did, the very next morning. I saw thee and thy brothers
sally forth a-hunting. I saw the men follow in thy train. I had
heard that the knight and his lady with their retinue were absent
at Windsor. It needed no great skill to slip in unseen and gain the
longed-for hiding place. I had some food in my wallet. I fondly
hoped it would prove enough; but the sounds of hunting day by day
all around have told me too well that I must not venture forth; and
as this room was slept in by night, I feared to sally forth after
food, lest I should be found and betrayed. I had heard of the
merciful nature of the master of Chad; but in his absence I knew
not what his servants might say or do. Doubtless there is a reward
offered for my apprehension; and if that be so, how could I help
fearing that any hired servant would betray me to my lord?"
"And thou thoughtest that servants slept in this room, and dared
not show thyself either by day or night for fear thou mightest be
betrayed! And only hunger and thirst drove thee forth at length?"
"Ay. And from my heart do I thank thee for thy kindness, young sir;
and gladly will I show thee in return the trick of yon chamber. If
thou canst kindle a torch it will light us better, for the way
thither is wondrous tortuous and narrow."
Bertram had a little lantern--a very treasured possession of
his--and after the usual tedious process of lighting had been gone
through, he softly led the way back to the sleeping chamber. With
his own hands he undid the fastening of the door and saw it swing
open, and then the two passed through into a very narrow aperture,
which proved to be a long narrow gallery contrived in the thickness
of the wall, which would only just admit of the passage of one
figure at a time.
As they went in they drew to the door, and the fugitive showed his
young companion how the bolt upon the inner side might be unloosed.
"It is easy enow in the light, but hard to feel in the black
darkness," he remarked; and then they pursued their devious way on
and on through this strange passage, which wound up and down and in
and out, and landed them at last at the foot of a spiral staircase,
so narrow and squeezed in by masonry as to be barely serviceable
for the purpose for which it was contrived. It led them to a small
door, through which they passed, to find themselves in a room of
fair size but very low, and without any window, which seemed to
occupy (as indeed it did) a portion of the house between two of the
other floors, and was so contrived as to absolutely defy detection
be the examination of the structure of the house never so
exhaustive. If the secret door were not found, nothing else would
ever betray this cunning hiding-place. Doubtless that was why,
during the many changes that had prevailed at Chad during the past
fifty years, the knowledge of its very existence had been lost.
"Air comes in freely through many cracks and slits," explained the
prisoner. "It is not an unpleasant place save in the heat of the
middle day, when it becomes like a veritable oven. That is why my
thirst was so unbearable. There is a bed, as thou seest, and a
chair and a few other things. One could be comfortable here were it
not for starvation and thirst."
"I will feed thee so long as thou remainest hid," cried the boy,
with generous ardour. "Thou shalt hide there by day, and by night
shalt wander abroad an thou wilt, to breathe the air and stretch
thy limbs. My brothers and I will be thy friends. Thou needst fear
nothing now. We will find out when it is safe for thee to leave thy
retreat, and then thou shalt go forth without fear; or, if thou
likest it better, thou shalt abide here till our father returns and
take service with him. I doubt not he would be glad enow to number
a Warbel again amongst his trusty servants."
The man's face lighted up wonderfully.
"If he would do that," he cried eagerly, "I should have no wish for
anything better. But my master, the baron--"
"My father fears not the baron!" answered the boy proudly; "and,
besides, his young kinsman is not dead. We heard something of his
side of the tale, and the youth is not even like to die now. My
father could protect thee from his wrath. Stay here, and thou wilt
have naught to fear."
The fugitive took the lad's hand and pressed it to his lips.
"I will serve thee for ever and ever for this boon," he answered;
and Bertram went back to his room, to lie awake and muse over what
had befallen till the dawn broke and his brothers awoke to the new
day.
To keep any secret from his two brothers was a thing impossible to
Bertram, and before they had finished dressing that morning, Edred
and Julian were both made aware of the strange adventure of the
night previous. Looking up to Bertram, as they both did, as the
embodiment of prowess and courage, they did not grudge him his
wonderful discovery, but they were eager to visit the fugitive
themselves, and to carry him food and drink.
The days that followed were days of absolute enchantment to the
boys, who delighted in waiting on Warbel and passing hours in his
company. He told them entrancing stories of adventure and peril. He
was devoted to his three youthful keepers, and wished for nothing
better than to enter service with their father.
Later on, when all hue and cry after the missing man was over, and
when Lord Mortimer's young kinsman was so far recovered that it
would be impossible to summon Warbel for any injury inflicted on
him, Bertram conducted him to the hut of one of his father's
woodmen, who promised to keep him safe till the return of the
knight.
When Sir Oliver came back, Warbel was brought to him, told a part
of his tale, and was admitted readily as a member of the household;
but the story of his incarceration in the secret chamber remained a
secret known only to himself and the three boys. So delightful a
mystery as the existence of this unknown chamber was too precious
to be parted with; and it was a compact between the boys and the
man, who now became their chief attendant and body servant, that
the trick of that door and the existence of that chamber were to be
told to none, but kept as absolutely their own property.