{185}
“This murderous shaft that’s shot
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse,
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking.”
_Macbeth_.
The Greeks and Romans had their lucky and unlucky days; and,
whatever name we give to the alternations of life, we believe that the
experience of every family and individual will attest the clustering
of joys or woes at marked periods. The day of Magawisca’s trial was
eventful, and long remembered in the annals of the Fletcher family.
Indeed, every one in any way associated with them seems to have
participated in the influences of their ruling star. Each member of
Governor Winthrop’s household appeared to be moving in a world of his
own, and to be utterly absorbed in his own projects and hopes.
Miss Downing was for a long time closeted with her uncle and aunt;
then a great bustle ensued, and emissaries went to and fro from Madam
Winthrop’s apartment. Madam Winthrop herself forgot her usual
stateliness and dignified composure, and hurried from one apartment to
another with quick footsteps and a disturbed countenance. The governor
was heard pacing up and down his study, in earnest conversation with
the elder Fletcher. Everell had {186} gone out, leaving directions
with a servant to say to his father, or any one who should inquire for
him, that he should not return till the next day. Hope Leslie resisted
all her aunt’s efforts to interest her in a string of pearls which she
intended for a wedding gift for Esther; “but,” Mrs. Grafton said,
wreathing them into Hope’s hair, “her heart misgave her, they looked
so much prettier peeping out from among Hope’s wavy locks than they
would on Esther’s sleek hair.” The agitation of Hope’s spirits was
manifest, but (we grieve to unveil her infirmities) that, in her,
excited no more attention than a change of weather in an April day.
She read one moment--worked the next--and the next was devoting
herself with earnest affection to the amusement of her pining sister;
then she would suddenly break off from her, and take a few turns in
the garden: in short, confusion had suddenly intruded within the
dominion of order, and usurped the government of all his subjects.
In the evening, the surface of affairs, at least, bore a more tranquil
aspect. The family all assembled in the parlour as usual, excepting
Miss Leslie and Cradock, who had retired to the study to look over a
translation from the Italian, which Hope just recollected her tutor
had never revised.
Faith Leslie sat on a cushion beside the door, in a state of vacancy
and listlessness, into which she seemed to have hopelessly sunk after
the first violent emotions that succeeded her return. The ladies were
plying their needles at the table: Miss Downing, {187} pale as a
statue, moved her hand mechanically, and Mrs. Grafton had just
remarked that she had seen her put her needle twelve times in the same
place, when, fortunately for her, any farther notice of her
abstraction was averted by a rap at the outer door, and a servant
admitted a stranger, who, without heeding a request that he would
remain in the portico till the governor should be summoned, advanced
to the parlour door. He sent a keen, scrutinizing glance around the
room, and on every individual in it; and then, fixing his eye on the
governor, he bent his head low, with an expression of deferential
supplication.
His appearance was that of extreme wretchedness, and, as all who saw
him thought, indicated a shipwrecked sailor. His face and figure were
youthful, and his eye bright, but his skin was of a sickly, ashen hue.
He had on his head a sailor’s woollen cap, drawn down to his eyes, in
part, as it seemed, to defend a wound he had received on his temple,
and about which, and to the rim of the cap which covered it, there
adhered clotted blood. His dress was an overcoat of coarse frieze
cloth, much torn and weather-beaten, and strapped around the waist
with a leathern girdle; his throat was covered with a cotton
handkerchief, knotted in sailor fashion, and his legs and feet were
bare.
To the governor’s inquiry of “Who are you, friend?” and “what do you
want?” he replied in an unknown language, and with a low, rapid
enunciation. At the first sound of his voice Faith Leslie {188} sprang
to her feet, but instantly sunk back again on the cushion, and
apparently returned to her former abstraction.
Governor Winthrop eyed the stranger narrowly. “I think, Brother
Fletcher,” he said, “this man has the Italian lineaments; perhaps
Master Cradock may understand his language, as he is well versed in
all the dialects of the kingdoms of Italy. Robin,” he added, “bid
Master Cradock come hither.”
“Master Cradock has gone out, sir, an please you, some minutes since,
with Miss Leslie.”
“Gone out--with Miss Leslie! Whither?”
“I do not know, sir. The young lady bid me say she had gone to a
friend’s, and should not return till late. She begged Mrs. Jennet
might be in waiting for her.”
“This is somewhat unseasonable,” said the governor, looking at his
watch; “it is now almost nine; but I believe,” he added, in kind
consideration of Mr. Fletcher’s feelings, “we may trust your wild
wood-bird; her flights are somewhat devious, but her instincts are
safer than I once thought them.”
“Trust her! yes, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Grafton, catching the word
that implied distrust. “But I wonder,” she added, going to the window
and looking anxiously abroad, “that she should venture out this dark
night, with nobody but that blind beetle of a Cradock to attend her;
however, I suppose she is safe if she but keep on the mainland, as I
think you say the wolves come no more over the neck.”
{189}
“They certainly will not come anywhere within the bounds that our lamb
is likely to stray,” said Mr. Fletcher.
The governor’s care again recurred to the mendicant stranger, who now
signified, by intelligible gestures, that he both wanted food and
sleep. Every apartment in the governor’s house was occupied; but it
was a rule with him that admitted of no exception, that his shelter
should never be denied to the wanderer, nor his charities to the poor;
and, accordingly, after some consultation with the executive
department of his domestic government, a flock-bed was ordered to be
spread on the kitchen floor, and a meal provided, on which the
stranger did extraordinary execution.
When the result of these charitable deliberations were signified to
him, he expressed his gratitude by the most animated gestures, and
seeming involuntarily to recur to the natural organ of communication,
he uttered, in his low and rapid manner, several sentences, which
appeared, from the direction of his eye and his repeated bows, to be
addressed to his benefactor.
“Enough, enough,” said the governor, interpreting his words by a wave
of his hand, which signified to the mendicant that he was to follow
Robin to the kitchen. There we must leave him to achieve, in due time,
an object involving most momentous consequences, while we follow on
the trail of our heroine, whose excursive habits have so often
compelled us to deviate from the straight line of narration.
{190}
Hope had retired to the study with Master Cradock, where she delighted
her tutor with her seemingly profound attention to his criticisms on
her Italian author. “You see, Miss Hope Leslie,” he said, intent on
illustrating a difficult passage, “the point here lies in this, that
Orlando hesitates whether to go to the rescue of Beatrice.”
“Ah, stop there, Master Cradock; you speak an admonition to me. You
have yourself told me, the Romans believed that words spoken by those
ignorant of their affairs, but applicable to them, were good or bad
omens.”
“True, true; you do honour your tutor beyond his deserts, in
treasuring these little classical notices, that it hath been my rare
privilege to plant in your mind. But how were my words an admonition
to you, Miss Hope Leslie?”
“By reminding me of a duty to a friend who sadly needs my help--and
thine too, my good tutor.”
“My help! your friend! It shall be as freely granted as Jonathan’s was
to David, or Orpheus’s to Eurydice.”
“The task to be done,” said Hope, while she could not forbear laughing
at Cradock’s comparing himself to the master of music, “is not very
unlike that of Orpheus. But we have no time to lose: put on your
cloak, Master Cradock, while I tell Robin what to say if we are
inquired for.”
“My cloak! you forget we are in the summer solstice; and the evening
is somewhat over sultry, so that even now, with my common habiliments,
I am in a drip.”
{191}
“So much the more need to guard against the evening air,” said Hope,
who had her own secret and urgent reasons for insisting on the cloak;
“put on the cloak, Master Cradock, and move quick and softly, for I
would pass out without notice from the family.”
A Moslem would as soon have thought of resisting fate, as Cradock of
opposing a wish of his young mistress, which only involved his own
comfort; so he cloaked himself, while Hope flew to the kitchen, gave
her orders, and threw on her hat, which she had taken care to have at
hand. They then passed through the hall and beyond the court without
attracting observation.
Cradock was so absorbed in the extraordinary happiness of being
selected as the confidential aid and companion of his favourite, that
he would have followed her to the world’s end, without question, if
she had not herself turned the direction of his thoughts.
“It is like yourself,” she said, “my good tutor, to obey the call of
humanity, without inquiring in whose behalf it comes; and I think you
will not be the less prompt to follow the dictates of your own heart
and my wishes, when I tell you that I am leading you to poor
Magawisca’s prison.”
“Ah! the Indian woman, concerning whom I have heard much colloquy. I
would, in truth, be fain to see her, and speak to her such comfortable
words and counsels as may, with a blessing, touch the heathen’s heart.
You have doubtless, Miss Hope, {192} provided yourself with a passport
from the governor,” he added, for almost the first time in his life
looking at the business part of a transaction.
“Master Cradock, I did not esteem that essential.”
“Oh! but it is; and if you will abide here one moment, I will hasten
back and procure it,” he said, in his simplicity never suspecting that
Miss Leslie’s omission was anything other than an oversight.
“Nay, nay, Master Cradock,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, “it
is too late now: my heart is set on this visit to the unhappy
prisoner; and if you were to go back, Madam Winthrop, or my aunt, or
somebody else, might deem the hour unseasonable. Leave it all to me: I
will manage with Barnaby Tuttle; and when we return, be assured I will
take all the blame, if there is any, on myself.”
“No, that you shall not; it shall fall on my gray head, where there
should be wisdom, and not on your youth, which lacketh discretion--and
lacketh naught else,” he murmured to himself; and, without any farther
hesitation, he acquiesced in proceeding onward.
They arrived without hinderance at the jail, and knocked a long time
for admittance at that part of the tenement occupied by our friend
Barnaby, without his appearing. Hope became impatient; and, bidding
Cradock follow her, she passed through the passage, and opened the
door of Barnaby’s apartment.
He was engaged in what he still called “his family {193} exercise;”
though, by the death of his wife and the marriage of his only child,
he was the sole remnant of that corporation. On seeing our heroine, he
gave her a familiar nod of recognition, and, by an equally
intelligible sign, he demonstrated his desire that she should seat
herself, and join in his devotions, which he was just closing, by
singing a psalm, versified by himself; for honest Barnaby, after his
own humble fashion, was a disciple of the tuneful Nine. Hope assented;
and, with the best grace she could command, accompanied him through
twelve stanzas of long and very uncommon metre, which he obligingly
gave out line by line. When this, on Hope’s part, extempore worship
was finished, “Welcome here, and many thanks, Miss Leslie,” said
Barnaby; “it’s a good sign to find a prepared heart and a ready voice.
Service to you, Master Cradock; you are not gifted in psalmody, I
see.”
“Not in the outward manifestation; but the inward feeling is, I trust,
vouchsafed to me. My heart hath taken part in the fag end of your
feast.”
“A pretty similitude, truly, Master Cradock, and a token for good is
it when the appetite is always sharp-set for such a feast. But come,
Miss Leslie,” raking open the embers, “draw up your chair, and warm
your dear little feet. She looks pale yet after her sickness--ha,
Master Cradock? You should not have come forth in the evening air--not
but what I am right glad to see you; the sight of you always brings to
mind your kindness to the dead and the living. You have not been here,
I think, since {194} the night of Ruthy’s wedding: that puts me in
mind that I got a letter from Ruthy to-day. I’ll read it to you,” he
continued, taking off his spectacles and giving them a preparatory
wipe; “Ruthy is quite handy with her pen--takes after the Tuttles in
that: you know, Miss Leslie, my great-grandfather wrote a book.”
“Yes,” said Hope, interrupting him, and rising, “and I trust his
great-grandson will live to write another.”
“Sit down, Miss Leslie; it may be those of as humble a degree as
Barnaby Tuttle have written books; and writing runs in families, like
the king’s evil”--and Barnaby laughed at his own witty
illustration--“but sit down, Miss Leslie; I must read Ruthy’s letter
to you.”
“Not now, good Barnaby; let me take it home with me; it is getting
late, and I have a favour to ask of you.”
“A favour to ask of me! ask anything, my pretty mistress, that’s in
the power of Barnaby Tuttle to grant. Ah! Mr. Cradock, there’s nobody
knows what I owe her--what she did for my wife when she laid on her
deathbed--and all for nothing but our thanks and prayers.”
“Oh, you forget that your wife had once been a servant to my dear
mother.”
“Yes, yes, but only in the common way, and there’s few that would have
thought of it again. It’s not my way to speak with flattering lips,
but truly, Miss Hope Leslie, you seem to be one of those {195} that do
not to others that it may be done to you again.”
“Oh, my good friend Barnaby, you speak this praise in the wrong time,
for I have even now come, as I told you, to beg a favour on the score
of old friendship.”
“It shall be done! it shall be done!” said Barnaby, snapping his
fingers, his most energetic gesture; “be it what it may, it shall be
done.”
“Oh, it is not so very much, but only, Barnaby, I wish it quickly
done, that we may return. I want you to conduct Master Cradock and
myself to your Indian prisoner, and leave us in her cell for a short
time.”
“Is that all? Certainly--certainly;” and, anxious to make up for the
smallness of the service by the avidity of his compliance, Barnaby
prepared his lamp with unwonted activity. “Now we are ready,” he said,
“just show me your permit, and we’ll go without delay.”
Hope had flattered herself that her old friend, in his eagerness to
serve her, would dispense with the ceremony of a passport from the
governor. Agitated by this new and alarming obstacle, she commanded
her voice with difficulty to reply in her usual tone. “How could I
think it necessary to bring a permit to you, who know me so well,
Barnaby?”
“Not _necessary_! that was an odd thought for such an all-witted
damsel as thou art, Miss Hope Leslie. Not _necessary_, indeed! Why, I
could not let in the king, if he were to come from his throne; the
king! {196} truly, he is but as his subjects now; but if the first
Parliament man were to come here, I could not let him in without a
permit from the governor.”
Hope walked up and down the room, biting her lips with vexation and
disappointment. Every moment’s delay hazarded the final success of her
project. Poor Cradock now interposed with one of his awkward
movements, which, though made with the best will in the world, was
sure to overturn the burden he essayed to bear. “Be comforted, Miss
Hope Leslie,” he said; “I am not so nimble as I was in years past, but
it is scarce fifteen minutes’ walk to the governor’s, and I will
hasten thither and get the needful paper.”
“Ay, ay, so do,” said Barnaby; “that will set all right.”
“No,” cried Hope; “no, Master Cradock, you shall not go. If Barnaby
cannot render me this little kindness, there is an end of it. I will
give it up. I shall never ask another favour of you, Barnaby;” and she
sat down, anxious and disappointed, and burst into tears. Honest
Barnaby could not stand this. To see one so much his superior--one who
had been an angel of mercy to his habitation--one who had a right to
command him in all permitted service, thrown into such deep distress
by his refusal of a favour, which, after all, there could be no harm
in granting, he could not endure.
“Well, well,” he said, after hesitating and jingling his keys for a
moment, “dry up your tears, my young lady; a ‘wayward child,’ they
say, ‘will have {197} its way;’ and they say, too, ‘men’s hearts melt
in women’s tears,’ and I believe it; come, come along, you shall have
your way.”
Hope now passed to the extreme of joy and gratitude. “Bless you--bless
you, Barnaby,” she said, “I was sure you would not be cross to me.”
“Lord help us, child, no--there’s no denying you; but I do wish you
was as thoughtful as Miss Esther Downing; she never came without a
permit--a good thing is consideration; you have made me to do that
which I trust not to do again--step aside from known duties; but we’re
erring creatures.”
Hope had the grace to pause one instant, and to meditate a retreat
before she had involved others in sinning against their consciences;
but she had the end to be attained so much at heart, and the faults to
be committed by her agents were of so light a dye, that the scale of
her inclinations soon preponderated, and she proceeded. When they came
to the door of the dungeon, “Hark to her,” said Barnaby; “is not that
a voice for psalmody?” Magawisca was singing in her own language, in
the most thrilling and plaintive tones. Hope thought there could not
be darkness or imprisonment to such a spirit. “It is, in truth,
Barnaby,” she replied, “a voice fit to sing the praises of God.”
Barnaby now turned the bolts and opened the door, and as the feeble
ray of his lamp fell athwart the dungeon’s gloom, Hope perceived
Magawisca sitting on her flock bed, with a blanket wrapped around her.
On hearing their voices she had ceased her singing, but she gave no
{198} other sign of her consciousness of the presence of her visiters.
Miss Leslie took the lamp from Barnaby. “How much time will you allow
us?” she asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes! oh, more than that, I pray you, good Barnaby.”
“Not one second more,” replied Barnaby, resolute not to concede
another inch of ground. “There may be question of this matter--you
must consider, my dear young lady.”
“I will--always in future, I will, Barnaby; now you may leave me.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Barnaby, giving a knowing nod. “You
mind the Scripture rule about the right and the left hand--some
creature comfort to be given to the prisoner. I marvel that ye bring
Master Cradock with you; but, in truth, he hath no more eye nor ear
than the wall.”
“Marvel not at anything, Barnaby, but leave me, and let my ten minutes
be as long as the last ten minutes before dinner.”
Hope, quick as she was in invention and action, felt that she had a
very brief space to effect her purposed arrangements; and while she
hesitated as to the best mode of beginning, Cradock, who nothing
doubted he had been brought hither as a ghostly teacher, asked whether
“he should commence with prayer or exhortation.”
“Neither--neither, Master Cradock; do just as I bid you; you will not
hesitate to help a fellow-creature {199} out of deep, unmerited
distress?” This was uttered in a tone of half inquiry and half
assertion, that, enforced by Hope’s earnest, imploring manner,
quickened Cradock’s slow apprehension. She perceived the light was
dawning on his mind, and she turned from him to Magawisca:
“Magawisca,” she said, stooping over her, “rouse yourself--trust me--I
have come to release you.” She made no reply nor movement. “Oh! there
is not a moment to lose. Magawisca, listen to me--speak to me.”
“Thou didst once deceive and betray me, Hope Leslie,” she replied,
without raising her head.
Hope concisely explained the secret machinations of Sir Philip, by
which she had been made the unconscious and innocent means of
betraying her. “Then, Hope Leslie,” she exclaimed, rising from her
abject seat and throwing off her blanket, “thy soul is unstained, and
Everell Fletcher’s truth will not be linked to falsehood.”
Hope would have explained that her destiny and Everell’s were not to
be interwoven, but she had neither time nor heart for it. “You are too
generous, Magawisca,” she said, in a tremulous tone, “to think of any
one but yourself, now--we have not a breath to lose--take this
riband,” and she untied her sash; “bind your hair tight with it, so
that you can draw Master Cradock’s wig over your head; you must
exchange dresses with him.”
“Nay, Hope Leslie, I cannot leave another in my net.”
“You must not hesitate, Magawisca--you will be {200} freed--he runs no
risk, will suffer no harm--Everell awaits you--speed, I pray you.” She
turned to Cradock: “Now, my good tutor,” she said, in her most
persuasive tones, “lend me your aid, quickly. Magawisca must have the
loan of your wig, hat, boots, and cloak; and you must sit down there
on her bed, and let me wrap you in her blanket.”
Cradock retreated to the wall, planted himself against it, shut his
eyes, and covered his ears with his hands, that temptation might, at
every entrance, be quite shut out. “Oh! I scruple--I scruple,” he
articulated, in a voice of the deepest distress.
“Scruple not, dear Master Cradock,” replied Hope, pulling down one of
his hands, and holding it between both hers; “no harm can--no harm
shall befall you.”
“Think not, sweet Miss Hope, it’s for the perishing body I am
thoughtful; for thy sake I would bare my neck to the slayer; to thy
least wish I would give the remnant of my days; but I scruple if it be
lawful for a Christian man to lend this aid to an idolator.”
“Oh! is that all? We have no time to answer such scruples now, but
to-morrow, Master Cradock, I will show you that you greatly err;” and,
as she said this, she proceeded, without any farther ceremony, to
divest the old man of his wig, which she carefully adjusted on
Magawisca’s head. Both parties were passive in her hands, Magawisca
not seeming to relish, much better than Cradock, the false character
she was assuming. Such was Cradock’s habitual {201} deference to his
young mistress, that it was morally impossible for him to make any
physical resistance to her movements; but neither his conscience nor
his apprehensions for her would permit him to be silent when he felt a
conviction that she was doing, and he was suffering, an act that was a
plain transgression of a holy law.
“Stay thy hand,” he said, in a beseeching voice, “and let not thy feet
move so swiftly to destruction.”
“Just raise your foot while I draw off this boot, Master Cradock.”
He mechanically obeyed, but at the same time continued his admonition:
“Was not Jehoshaphat reproved of Micaiah the prophet for going down to
the help of Ahab?”
“Now the other foot, Master Cradock; there, that will do. Draw them
on, Magawisca, right over your moccasins; quick, I beseech you.”
“Was not the good King Josiah reproved in the matter of Pharaoh
Necho?”
“Oh, Magawisca! how shall I ever make your slender shoulders and
straight back look anything like Master Cradock’s broad, round
shoulders? One glance of Barnaby’s dim old eyes will detect you. Ah!
this will do; I will bind the pillow on with the sheet.” While she was
uttering the device, she accomplished it. She then threw Magawisca’s
mantle over her expanded shoulders, and Cradock’s cloak over all; and,
finally, the wig was surmounted by the old man’s steeple-crowned hat.
“Now,” she said, {202} almost screaming with joy at the transformation
so suddenly effected, “now, Magawisca, all depends on yourself; if you
will but contrive to screen your face, and shuffle a little in your
gait, all will go well.”
The hope of liberty--of deliverance from her galling imprisonment--of
escape beyond the power and dominion of her enemies, had now taken
full possession of Magawisca; and the thought that she should owe her
release to Everell and to Hope, who, in her imagination, was
identified with him, filled her with emotions of joy resembling those
a saint may feel when she sees in vision the ministering angels sent
to set her free from her earthly prison: “I will do all thou shalt
command me, Hope Leslie; thou art indeed a spirit of light, and love,
and beauty.”
“True, true, true,” cried Cradock, losing, in the instincts of his
affection, the opposition he had so valorously maintained, and his
feelings flowing back into their accustomed channel; “thou woman in
man’s attire, it is given to thee to utter truth, even as of old lying
oracles were wont to speak words of prophecy.”
Hope had not, as may be imagined, stood still to listen to this long
sentence, uttered in her tutor’s deliberate, broken manner, but in the
mean while she had, with an almost supernatural celerity of movement,
arranged everything to present the same aspect as when Barnaby first
opened the door of the dungeon. She drew Cradock to the bed, seated
him there, and wrapped the blanket about him as it had {203} enveloped
Magawisca. “Oh! I hear Barnaby!” she exclaimed; “dear Master Cradock,
sit a little straighter; there, that will do; turn a little more
sideways--you will not look so broad; there, that’s better.”
“Miss Hope Leslie, ye have perverted the simple-minded.”
“Say not another word, Master Cradock; pray do not breathe so like a
trumpet--ah, I see it is my fault.” She readjusted the blanket, which
she had drawn so close over the unresisting creature’s face as almost
to suffocate him. “Now, Magawisca, sit down on this stool--your back
to the door, close to Master Cradock, as if you were talking with
him.” All was now arranged to her mind, and she spent the remaining
half instant in whispering consolations to Cradock: “Do not let your
heart fail you, my good, kind tutor; in one hour you shall be
relieved.” Cradock would have again explained that he was regardless
of any personal risk, but she interrupted him: “Nay, you need not
speak; I know that is not your present care, but do not be troubled;
we are commanded to do good to all; the rain falleth on the just and
the unjust; and if we are to help our enemy’s ox out of the pit, much
more our enemy. This best of all thy kind services shall be requited.
I will be a child to thy old age--hush! there’s Barnaby!”
She moved a few steps from the parties, and when the jailer opened the
door, she appeared to be awaiting him. “Just in season, good Master
Tuttle; my {204} tutor has nothing more to say, and I am as impatient
to go as you are to have me gone.”
“It is only for your own sake that I am impatient, Miss Hope; let us
make all haste out.” He took up the lamp which he had left in the
cell, trimmed it, and raised the wick, that it might better serve to
guide them through the dark passage.
Hope was alarmed by the sudden increase of light: “Lend me your lamp,
Barnaby,” she said, “to look for my glove; where can I have dropped
it? It must be somewhere about here. I shall find it in a minute,
Master Cradock; you had best go on while I am looking.”
Magawisca obeyed the hint, while Hope, in her pretended search, so
skilfully managed the light that not a ray of it touched Magawisca’s
face. She had passed Barnaby: Hope thought the worst danger escaped.
“Ah, here it is,” she said; and, by way of precaution, she added, in
the most careless tone she could assume, “I will carry the lamp for
you, Barnaby.”
“No, no, thank you, Miss Leslie, I always like to carry the light
myself; and, besides, I must take a good look at you both before I
lock the door. It is a rule I always observe in such cases, lest I
should be left to ‘brood the eggs the fox has sucked.’ It is a prudent
rule, I assure you, always to be sure you take out the same you let
in. Here, Master Cradock, turn round, if you please, to the light,
just for form’s sake.”
Magawisca had advanced several steps into the {205} passage, and
Hope’s first impulse was to scream to her to run; but a second and
happier thought prevailed; and taking her shawl, which was hanging
negligently over her arm, she contrived, in throwing it over her head,
to sweep it across Barnaby’s lamp in such a way as to extinguish the
light beyond the possibility of recovery, as Barnaby proved by vainly
trying to blow it again into a flame.
“Do not put yourself to any farther trouble about it, Barnaby; it was
all my fault; but it matters not--you know the way; just give me your
arm, and Master Cradock can take hold of my shawl, and we shall grope
through this passage without any difficulty.”
Barnaby arranged himself as she suggested, and then, hoping her sudden
action had broken the chain of his thoughts, and determined he should
not have time to resume it, she said, “When you write to Ruth,
Barnaby, be sure you commend me kindly to her; and tell her that I
have done the baby-linen I promised her, and that I hope little
Barnaby will prove as good a man as his grandfather.”
“Oh, thank ye, Miss Hope: I trust, by the blessing of the Lord, much
better; but they do say,” added the old man, with a natural ancestral
complacency, “they do say he favours me; he’s got the true Tuttle
chin, the little dog!”
“You cannot tell yet whether he is gifted in psalmody, Barnaby?”
“La, Miss Hope, you must mean to joke. Why, little Barnaby is not five
weeks old till next Wednesday {206} morning, half past three o’clock.
But I’m as sure he will take to psalmody as if I knew; there never was
a Tuttle that did not.”
Our heroine thus happily succeeded in beguiling the way to the top of
the staircase, where a passage diverged to the outer door, and there,
with many thanks and assurances of future gratitude, she bade Barnaby
good-night; and, anticipating any observation he might make of
Cradock’s silence, she said, “My tutor seems to have fallen into one
of his reveries; but never mind; another time he will remember to
greet and thank you.”
Barnaby was turning away from the door, when he recollected that the
sudden extinction of the candle had prevented his intended
professional inspection. “Miss Hope Leslie,” he cried, “be so good as
to stay one moment, while I get a light; the night is so murky that I
cannot see, even here, the lineaments of Master Cradock’s complexion.”
“Pshaw, Barnaby, for mercy’s sake do not detain us now for such an
idle ceremony; you see the _lineaments_ of that form, I think; we must
have been witches, indeed, to have transformed Magawisca’s slender
person into that enormous bulk; but one sense is as good as another.
Speak, Master Cradock,” she added, relying on Magawisca’s discretion.
“Oh, he is in one of his silent fits, and a stroke of lightning would
scarcely bring a sound from him: so good-night, Barnaby,” she
concluded, gently putting him back and shutting the door.
“It is marvellous,” thought Barnaby, as he reluctantly {207}
acquiesced in relinquishing the letter of his duty, “how this young
creature spins me round, at her will, like a top. I think she keeps
the key to all hearts.”
With this natural reflection he retired to rest, without taking the
trouble to return to the dungeon, which he would have done if he had
really felt one apprehension of the fraud that had been there
perpetrated.
At the instant the prison door was closed, Magawisca divested herself
of her hideous disguise, and proceeded on with Hope to the place where
Everell was awaiting them with the necessary means to transport her
beyond the danger of pursuit. But, while our heroine is hastening
onward with a bounding step and an exulting heart, a cruel conspiracy
is maturing against her.