There were lights in many of the windows of Ale Manor House when
Thomas Higham approached by the back way. The gates of the great court
behind, however, were bolted, and the bloodhound bayed loud and deep
at the man's approach; but after he had rung the bell, and the animal
had snuffed under the gates for a moment, his hoarse bark was
silenced; he recognized a friend. Higham soon obtained admission, and
found the household in much commotion from the rumours which had
reached Ale during the evening. Various was the aspect of the
different servants whom he encountered as he was led to the presence
of Sir John Newark. Those who had been but a short time in the family
were full of wonder and amazement at all the events which rumour had
detailed and magnified, and did not scruple to show their surprise and
curiosity. The elder servants, who knew their master and his affairs
better, were calm and silent, and asked no questions whatsoever. They
had observed that Sir John Newark; though he had affected much
surprise at the news of his guest's apprehension, had been in reality
but little affected thereby; and, when a rumour of his escape had been
carried to Sir John, a glance of angry disappointment had crossed the
knight's countenance, which did not escape notice. They understood him
pretty well, and read such slight indications aright. We seldom
reflect that we are a constant object of study to our servants; that
we are, as it were, a model set up for them to draw in their own
minds, and that, walking round us in every position of life, they have
full opportunity of completing the sketch.
Led on by the butler, Higham was conducted through the great stone
hall to the room in which the knight usually sat. He found him alone;
for he had sent both Emmeline and his son away, in order to reflect
upon his course more at leisure. Something had gone wrong in his
plans; and they required to be rectified. He had announced, on the
very first intelligence of the young Earl's capture, that he should
ride in the early morning of the following day to Exeter, in order to
see what could be done for him; in truth, to see what could be done
for himself in regard to Keanton. In prison and in danger, Sir John
thought, Smeaton would not be very difficult to deal with; and, if he
were, it would be easy to tighten his bonds a little. Moreover,
another object had been gained by his apprehension. The vague fears
regarding Emmeline, which had taken possession of the knight's mind as
soon as he discovered that his guest was unmarried, had been
increasing lately with a sort of instinct, and he rejoiced to have his
guest removed.
Though a bold man, as we have seen, Sir John Newark was also a timid
one. It seems a paradox, yet it is true, and similar cases are not
unfrequent. He was bold in devising, bold even in executing, schemes
for his own aggrandizement; but he was timid in fruition. He never
fancied himself safe. He was always taking precautions. The only
imagination he had was for difficulties and dangers; and one bold
scheme for the attainment of a particular object was continually
succeeded by another for the purpose of securing what had been
obtained. It is strange, but true, that most of the cruel acts and
many of the rash ones found on the page of history had their source in
cowardice.
Smeaton's escape was therefore doubly disagreeable to him; and, when
he heard the bell of the great court ring, and imagined that his noble
guest might have returned to seek shelter in his house, he instantly
set to work to hold a somewhat tumultuous counsel in his own breast as
to how he should demean himself to attain his double object. The
entrance of the servant instead of the master, however, put a stop to
these considerations; and he asked impatiently--
"Well--well, where is your Lord?"
"Really, sir, I don't know," replied the man, who, having received but
vague directions from the young Earl, thought himself privileged to
lie at liberty. "I did not know that I should not find him here; but
they say he has not come; and he took the road towards Keanton, sure
enough. Perhaps, I had better set out to seek him."
Sir John thought before he replied.
"Then this rumour of his having been rescued is true?" he said, at
length.
Higham nodded, and added to that mute mode of assent the words,
"A great pack of country fellows did it. Most of the soldiers were
drunk, and were overpowered in a minute. I had no hand in it,
however."
"Sir John leaned his head upon his hand, and mused.
"Then you positively do not know where he is?" he inquired.
"No, really, I cannot say, Sir John," answered Higham. "I dare say, at
Keanton, hiding amongst his tenants."
"Not unlikely," said the knight. "I think you had better not go just
at present. Wait here to-night, and get some refreshments. To-morrow,
perhaps, your Lord may send for you; and, if not, and you go to seek
for him, you shall bear him a message from me."
"Would it not be better for him to come here, sir?" asked Higham, ever
willing to probe the minds of those with whom he was brought in
contact. "I think he would be safer in this out-of-the-way place than
anywhere."
"On no account, on no account," exclaimed the knight, caught in the
trap laid for him. "Of course," he added, after a moment's reflection,
"suspicion will be directed towards this house, from the fact of my
intimacy with your Lord. The place will be searched, probably more
than once; and his own safety requires that he should avoid the
neighbourhood. His tenantry at Keanton, probably, can conceal him for
the time; and, as soon as pursuit has somewhat abated, it will be well
for him to get out of the county, if not out of the kingdom. I speak
against my own wishes and my own views," he continued, seeing an
expression on the man's face which he did not clearly understand.
"Nothing would give me so much pleasure as to see your master, and to
offer him every assistance in my power; but to persuade him to come
here, would be leading him to destruction. If I knew where to find
him, I would go and visit him; for I have no personal fears in the
matter, my good friend, whatever you may think."
"Oh, dear no, sir," answered Higham. "I don't think at all. I dare
say, however, I shall very soon hear where my Lord is to be found; for
he told me, when last I saw him, to come to Ale Manor; and, whenever I
hear, I will let your worship know."
"Do so--do so," said Sir John Newark; "and now go and get yourself
some supper. I dare say you are hungry after all this bad work."
"As a fox-hunter," rejoined Higham, and turned towards the door; but
Sir John thought he might as well add a stroke or two to the picture
of danger he had been drawing; and he called to the man, just as he
was quitting the room--
"Tell my people, if any party should come to search the house during
the night, not to open the doors till they have my orders."
"I won't fail, sir," replied Higham; and then, closing the door, he
threaded his way through the passages towards the servants' part of
the house, saying to himself, "Now for the old housekeeper. I wonder
my Lord trusts that sly old hunks. But I must do as he has told me.
She must be playing double somewhere, that is clear enough; but
whether with my Lord and the young lady, or with worshipful Sir John,
I cannot tell."
Quietly tapping at good Mrs. Culpepper's door, he went in; and the
eagerness with which she looked towards him showed at once that his
visit was not altogether unexpected, She made him a sign to shut the
door, and then said, abruptly--
"Have you any news from your master? And is he safe?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied the man. "He is quite safe, and told me to tell
you--"
"Hush!" interrupted the old woman, putting her finger to her lips.
"Not now go and get yourself some refreshment in the servants' hall.
There are not more than two or three up. Pretend to fall asleep in
your chair. They will soon leave you; and I will come when I am
certain that all is quiet. Stay, I will order your supper." Then,
approaching close to him, she asked, in a whisper, "Where is your
Lord?"
"Here, in Ale village," returned Higham, in the same low tone; and,
opening the door, the old housekeeper passed out.
Crossing the end of the passage at the very moment, as if going
towards his own bed-room, was Sir John Newark himself; and, raising her
voice, without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Culpepper said, in a
somewhat sharp tone--
"Pray, Sir John, is this man to have supper at this time of night?"
"Certainly," replied her master. "He has had a very fatiguing day; and
it is not _his_ fault that he is late."
"Well then, fellow, come with me," said the housekeeper, walking away
with him to the servants' hall. There she ordered him some supper, in
a cold and commanding tone, and left him to enjoy it.
Higham played his part well. He ate and thank, nodded, took another
cup of ale, and then seemed to fall fast asleep. The three servants
who were still up dropped off one by one, and left him, with a kitchen
lamp on the table, to follow when he thought fit to wake. He remained
for half an hour longer, however, undisturbed, and had nearly fallen
asleep in reality, when Mrs. Culpepper again appeared, and quietly
closed the door behind her.
"Now, what says your lord?" she demanded, speaking very low.
"He bade me tell you, ma'am," replied the servant, "that he is quite
well and in safety, and begs you to let those know who may be
anxious."
The old housekeeper slowly nodded her head, to show that she
comprehended, and then said--
"What more?"
"Why, only that he is here, in Ale, I was to say," answered the man,
"at the house of a fisherman, named Grayling, and that he hopes, in
spite of all that has happened, to be able to carry out what was
proposed, with your good help."
Again Mrs. Culpepper nodded her head, and merely asked--
"Is that all?"
"He told me to ask you, ma'am," said Higham, "if it would be safe for
him to venture here; for he much wishes to speak with you and somebody
else, whose name he did not mention--perhaps he means Master Richard."
"Perfectly safe, if he could come in private," replied Mrs. Culpepper;
"but most dangerous if he were to be seen. Yet stay. He is quite
secure at Grayling's for two or three days. Now, mark what you must
do. Rise early to-morrow, before daylight; go quietly down to him at
the cottage, and tell him what I say--he will understand you. Tell
him, the means of coming in, in private, he shall have by you
to-morrow night. I cannot get the key at present. As soon as you have
delivered the message, come back here, and mind you close and lock the
doors behind you just as you found them. Take care, likewise, to make
no noise."
"If I am to go early in the morning," observed the man, "I had better
stay where I am. I will put the edge of the tankard under my head, and
then my nodding will wake me, from time to time."
"Don't put it too often to your lips," retorted Mrs. Culpepper,
gravely; "for your master's safety and happiness depend on your
carefulness just now."
"Lord bless you, ma'am, I've been accustomed to these things," said
Higham, "and could sit with a tankard of strong waters under my nose
for a month without ever touching a drop, if there was any business to
be done at the end of it."
"You will not lose your reward if you are faithful," said the old
woman; "and so, good night."
As soon as she was gone, Higham murmured to himself--
"She is, on the right side, I _do_ think. She must be a wonderful
cunning old woman."
With this reflection, he folded his arms on the table, laid his head
upon them, and in a few minutes was fast asleep: Every time the
house-clock struck, however, he looked up and counted; and, at the
hour of four, shook off his drowsiness, took a tolerable draught from
the flagon, and then crept quietly out of the servants'-hall. He had
the choice of three doors by which to make his exit. That of the great
hall, however, had, to his knowledge, a very bad habit of creaking on
its hinges. That which led into the court led also to the bloodhound;
and, though he was not at all afraid of the animal's bite, he was
afraid of his bark. There was a little door, however, which led into a
lesser Court, formed expressly, it would seem, for the entertainment
of the men and maid servants of the family; and by this convenient
passage Higham took his way out, with little difficulty and no noise.
Nothing interrupted him on his way to the village; and there, by the
lights he saw in several of the cottages, he perceived that many of
the inmates were up, preparing for some of their lawful or unlawful
occupations. A light was in old Grayling's house also; and, looking
through the window, which had no shutters but plenty of bars, he saw
the old man with a short pipe in his mouth, lighting the fire in the
kitchen.
Tapping at the window, Higham soon brought the fisherman to his door;
and, with one accustomed to somewhat perilous enterprises, very little
explanation was needful.
The young Earl was soon wakened, and the message delivered. That
message threw Smeaton into a fit of thought, which lasted, however,
not long. Impulse, impulse! It is always getting the better of us,
till it is worn out and has lost its spring with years. It was very
powerful, I fear, in Smeaton's case, when, rising and dressing himself
as rapidly as possible, he said to the man:
"You must go back. Get speech of Mrs. Culpepper as soon as possible,
and tell her that she will find me in the priest's chamber. Say that I
am sure I can get back unobserved by passing through the trees, and
that, as speed is everything, it will be better to form our plans
quickly. If she cannot come this morning, I will be there again at
night. You must come with me, however, in the first instance. Now,
lock that door."
The man obeyed, with some surprise; but was more surprised still when
he saw his master descend from the window as he had done on the
preceding night. Being a great deal shorter, he had some difficulty,
to say the truth, in following, but, with Smeaton's assistance,
succeeded at length, and reached the ground in safety.
"Now go on before me," said the Earl; "and, if you meet any persons
coming down this way, say something to them in a loud tone. Keep
straight on that path."
"Oh, sir, I know it very well," returned the man. "Many a time I have
been down here since we came."
"Hush!" said Smeaton. "Go on, and keep silence."
Doing as he was bid, with the darkness rapidly giving way to twilight,
the man walked up towards Ale Manor, taking a quick furtive glance
behind him from time to time to see whither his master was going.
Suddenly, however, when he turned round to look the young nobleman had
disappeared; and it is unnecessary to inform the reader which way he
had bent his steps.
The moment the stone door beyond the well was closed, Smeaton found
himself in utter darkness; but, feeling his way with his hands, he
reached the steps upwards, and soon after began to gain air and light.
Nobody came near him for somewhat more than a quarter of an hour; and
Smeaton's spirit grew impatient of the restraint. The moments were
passing quickly, on which so much depended, and yet no progress was
made.
"The sun must have risen," he thought; "and perhaps Emmeline is
already up. It is strange I hear nothing of my old nurse! Perhaps that
foolish fellow has forgotten his errand, or missed his opportunity, or
committed some other blunder. I must speak with her at once, if at
all; and we shall soon have the whole household up."
As he thus thought, impatience overcame all other considerations; and
he approached the door which led into the state bed-room beyond. No
great difficulty presented itself in pushing back the panel; and,
making as little noise as he could, he issued forth from the
hiding-place. The room was vacant. After pausing a moment and
listening for a step, he quietly opened the door and went out into the
passage. Nobody was there; but the door of Emmeline's room was close
beside him; and he thought he heard the sound of some one moving
within. The temptation was too great to be resisted, and he tapped
gently at the door. At first there was no reply; she did not hear the
tap; but again a sound was audible within like the quiet opening of a
window; and he tapped once more.
The next instant he heard a light step near the door, and it opened.
Surprise, which was the first expression on Emmeline's beautiful face,
changed in a moment to joy; and, forgetting all things in the
untutored wildness of her delight, she cast herself upon his bosom and
wept. Smeaton held her to his heart and kissed her tenderly, drawing
her in silence towards the state chamber; but Emmeline whispered:
"No. Come in here. It will be safer. This is my own sitting-room. No
one will come hither." And she led him into that large, airy chamber
in which she was first introduced to the sight of the reader.
Impossible would it be to attempt any detailed account of the brief
conversation which ensued--so much was to be told, so much to be
spoken of, so many words of tenderness and affection to be uttered.
Emmeline poured forth her whole heart. She knew not, she could not
conceive, any motive, when once that heart was given, and its love
acknowledged, for concealing, from him she loved, anything that passed
within it. She spoke of all she had suffered since the moment when she
heard of his arrest; of all the grief, of all the anxiety, of all the
sleepless thought. She spoke, too, of her joy to see him safe and
free. But the voice of happiness is still and low, and Smeaton had to
read one half of her sensations in her eyes.
As but very little time could be spared, however, he told her as
speedily as possible all that he proposed. He explained that his
purpose of returning at once to France was unaltered, if she would
still consent to go with him, but thought it would be far better that
she should give him her hand before they took their departure; adding,
he had but little doubt that he could so arrange that the ceremony
should be duly and irrevocably performed.
She replied at once, without hesitation or reluctance--
"Whatever you tell me, Henry, I will do; and it will be much better
that I should go as your wife. I am yours altogether; and, if
occasionally, since I promised to go with you, feelings of
doubt--perhaps, I might almost say, of self-reproach--have come across
me, for so joyfully consenting to quit the protector of my childhood,
those feelings have all passed. His conduct towards you, his betrayal
of you, would remove all scruples. All was explained to me last night,
and I never heard of darker baseness. To me, too, he has behaved very
ill, and to my parents worse. What I looked upon as kindness and
protection have been, in reality, policy and imprisonment; and I have
every right to leave him who has no right to detain me. Hark!"
Her exclamation was caused by a sound at the lock of the door. The
next instant the door was opened, and Mrs. Culpepper appeared. She
showed no surprise, but much agitation; and, without closing the door,
she beckoned to Smeaton, saying, in a low tone--
"This is madness, Henry. Indeed, my lord, you must fly this instant.
You can return at night; but do not come out of the priest's chamber
till I knock for you. Come, my lord, come. Sir John is already moving
in his room."
With one more embrace, Smeaton and Emmeline parted; and, holding up
her finger to enjoin silence, Mrs. Culpepper led the young nobleman
back to the priest's chamber, closing the aperture behind him. She
then returned, at once, to Emmeline's apartment, and, having shut the
door, said--
"Run into your bed-room, dear lady, and answer me aloud through the
door."
Emmeline did as she was asked, and then the old housekeeper put
several questions as to her night's rest, and several matters of
ordinary interest, receiving somewhat wondering replies. But the old
woman was politic; and she was still speaking, when Sir John Newark
knocked at the door, saying--
"Who are you talking to, Emmeline?"
Mrs. Culpepper instantly opened the door, and replied--
"It is I, Sir John."
Her voice was as calm and quiet, her manner as unruffled and staid as
usual; but Sir John Newark beckoned her out of the room, and then
said, in a low tone--
"I heard a noise as if the entrance to the priest's room had been
rolled backward and forward."
"Yes, Sir John," replied the old lady. "By your own orders, I go
frequently to see that it opens and shuts easily. I always go early or
late; but I thought I heard the young lady moving in her room, and I
went to see what could have got her up so early."
Sir John Newark did not speak for a minute, but looked at the
housekeeper quietly from under his eyebrows, and she saw at once that
he doubted her. She was too much accustomed, however, to meet and
frustrate his suspicions to be at all alarmed, though she felt some
degree of apprehension, from various causes, when he said, at length--
"I have not been in that priest's room for two or three years. I
should like to look round it again."
"Very well, sir," replied Mrs. Culpepper, adding internally--"Pray God
the dear boy be gone!"
Sir John Newark moved into the stateroom, with a certain quickness of
step which showed how little satisfied he was; but the old proverb.
"The more haste the worse speed," was verified in his case. He walked
at once up to the head of the bed to move it back; but he had either
forgotten the trick, or he mismanaged it in his hurry; so that after
one or two efforts he was obliged to have recourse to Mrs. Culpepper,
who, in order to avoid all suspicion, opened the entrance at once. Sir
John Newark instantly stepped in, gave a quick glance round the room,
and then advanced to the door leading to the passages below. Finding
himself surrounded by darkness, however, he stopped at the end of the
first two or three steps, and said, somewhat sharply, "Bring me a
light."
The old housekeeper retired to obey; and, during her absence, which
was as short as possible, her master remained with his head bent and
his ear intently listening. When he had obtained the light, he walked
quickly forward, followed by Mrs. Culpepper, and did not pause till he
reached the stone door which led out upon the hill-side. He put his
hand upon the lock; but it was fastened, and then, holding the candle
to the little niche at the side, he looked in. The key was in its
place, and he retired satisfied.