Anonymous

The following morning found Evaline de Neville, according to her usual custom, astir at an early hour. Early as it was, however, she was sensible that the other members of the household had been up for some time previous, and that a bustle prevailed in the mansion, which, to say the least of it, was not customary, and might indicate an event of some importance. She longed for the arrival of her waiting-woman, in order that she might draw from her, before she left her chamber, what it was that had so disturbed the general tranquillity of the Grange. But the gentle Martha Follet, as her attendant was named, was not at hand, and Evaline was obliged to restrain her impatience, and so to hurry her toilet, with her own unaided hands, that she might descend at once to the breakfast-room, and acquire the desired information from a more direct source.

She had scarcely entered on her toilet, however, when the fair Martha made her appearance. She was a pretty and modest-looking girl, and, whether from nature, or merely from the habits of her office, of a bearing and presence superior to her station, and to which one might, without risk of contradiction, apply the explicit phrase of “genteel.” She had, to all appearance, scarcely seen sixteen summers, yet her countenance was sad and mournful, and wore a look of anxiety that, if it had been permanent, would have sat ill on a much older person. But although she was now dejected, there was in her large blue eyes, under a dash of tears, a flow of radiance and animation that bespoke anything but melancholy, and, under a propitious influence, it could no doubt be expanded, with more charming effect, into that attractive expression denominated “archness.”

A smile rose to the maiden’s lips as she approached her mistress, but it was a mournful one, and could not conceal the uneasiness, not to say anxiety, that was manifested by her other features. Evaline, surveying her earnestly, observed her dejection at a glance.

“Why, Martha, what is amiss?” she inquired, somewhat anxiously.

“I hope, nothing of moment, dear lady,” replied Martha. “Master Shedlock, the sheriff, is here, and some other strangers; but they can do no hurt to Sir Edgar, I should ween.”

As she spoke, a tear rose to her eyes, and, breaking over the long, silken lashes, trickled down her pale cheeks.

“Master Shedlock here?” cried Evaline, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm. “What dost thou mean, Martha?”

“Oh, my lady,” answered Martha, fairly bursting into tears, “they have accused Sir Edgar of murder, and he is now a prisoner, in the dining-hall.”

“This almost passes belief,” said Evaline, turning very pale. “Art thou sure they have done this?”

“I heard Master Shedlock affirm it to Sir Edgar himself,” answered Martha. “The crowner’s quest, that sat on the body of the dead robber, have averred that he was murderously slain; and Master Shedlock hath seized Sir Edgar as the murderer.”

“The malignant upstart!” exclaimed Evaline. “But his project, whatever it be, can be easily frustrated, and made to recoil upon himself. Quick, Martha! I must not be absent from my father when he is thus abused.”

Martha, who only waited her mistress’s directions to begin, readily entered on her duties, and Evaline was soon engaged in the various details of the toilet. These arranged, she sprang to her feet, and, bidding Martha attend her, quitted the chamber, and repaired to the dining-hall.

She found the whole household collected in this apartment. These, however, were not the only inmates, nor was it on them that she bestowed her notice. At the head of the long dining-table, which passed down the centre of the room, stood a group of persons who first attracted her eye, and immediately engaged her undivided attention.

The group consisted of her father, her cousin, Don Felix di Corva, and three strangers. Of these last, the principal was one who, even while the spectator was ignorant of his name and worth, inspired respect by his mere presence. His height was full six feet, and thus, by its marked pre-eminence, distinguished him from those around at the very first glance. His manly and vigorous limbs, which his erect posture exhibited to advantage, corresponded with his stature, and were all fitted with exact proportion, and turned with the most perfect grace. But what most prepossessed the spectator in his favour was his countenance, which seemed to claim for him, through the medium of its various features, not only the respect which should be paid to the best qualities of the heart, but the veneration which is due to loftiness of intellect. He was attired in costly habits, fitted to his person with great care, and indicating, by the harmony of their colours, and the simple elegance of their design, the nicest and most refined taste.

By his side stood a person who appeared to greater disadvantage, perhaps, from his proximity to so much excellence. He was a short, spare man; but, for his years—which were somewhat beyond fifty—looked hale and healthy. If the countenance of his companion, the cavalier just described, was his greatest recommendation, that of this individual embraced his most prominent defects. His forehead was low; and, from his wearing his scanty locks closely cropped, looked much lower than it really was: his eyes were small and piercing, and, when they were raised from the table (which was not often), were continually twisting about, like a ferret’s; his nose was long, and sharp, and turned up at the end; and his mouth, especially when compressed, seemed to stretch right across his face, and to form a sort of pitfall, if one may so speak, beneath his high cheek-bones. Unlike his companion, he was attired in grave garments, which were cut with great formality; but, whether from haste, or from habit, had been put on in the most careless manner, and evidently by a hand, whatever actuated it, that deemed any labour of the toilet irksome and unprofitable.

The third stranger was almost equal in stature to the one first described. In all other respects, however, he was decidedly singular, and bore no resemblance to any one person present. His figure was so lean, and, at the same time, so tall, that he looked like a shadow, and scarcely appeared to possess sufficient strength to maintain his own balance. His face was small, and emaciated, and was by no means improved, if it were not greatly disfigured, by the manner in which he wore his long red hair, which was combed down over his forehead, and made his face look little larger than a good-sized boy’s. Like the cavalier before named, he was clad in grave habits, of a close and formal cut, and a fashion long defunct; but, to judge from their scanty dimensions, they were not his own, and he seemed to have been driven into them by main force.

Evaline, after a first glance at his face, recognised this individual as the sheriff’s clerk, and the short, puritanical person at his side, whom we have described at some length before, as Master Shedlock, the sheriff. Who the third person was, or whether he was associated with Shedlock, or was a friend of her father, she could not conceive. But she had not time to form many conjectures on this point; for, just as she gained the head of the table, a few words from Shedlock, addressed to the cavalier in question, made her understand his exact position.

“I am right glad, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock, in a whining tone, “that thou didst happen to be present when this paper was brought to me. See here!” and he unrolled a scrap of paper which he had in his hand: “the poor murdered Samaritan, whom the sons of Belial call a robber, was held trustworthy by my Lord Treasurer, the light and horn of Israel. This paper was found in his pouch, and is a warranty, beyond all question, of his perfect honesty. Read it, sirrah!” and he handed the paper to his clerk.

The clerk, with a humble reverence, caught up the paper, and, in the same whining tone as his master, read from it these words:—

“The bearer is in my employ.

“W. Burleigh.”

As Evaline heard this announcement, she turned her eyes on her father, and observed that, though strongly marked with indignation, his face betrayed considerable anxiety. She felt her own heart quake, but, in her concern for her parent, she suppressed her personal fears, and affected to appear composed. She then stepped forward to the side of Sir Edgar, and, laying her hand on his arm, made him aware of her presence and vicinity.

“Be under no fear, my child,” said Sir Edgar, perceiving her. “Our innocence, I thank Heaven, can be clearly established, and these worthy gentlemen will then depart satisfied.”

“I hope it may so turn out, Sir,” observed the cavalier called Sir Walter. “But where is the person who, according to thy report, did this man to death?”

“Hast thou sought him, Adam?” demanded Sir Edgar of a servant who stood behind him.

The servant, with some savour of embarrassment, glanced anxiously at Don Felix di Corva, and made no reply. Don Felix, however, came to his rescue.

“He has not been seen since last even,” he said.

“’Tis strange,” remarked Sir Walter, “that he should thus absent himself, at a time when his evidence was sure to be called for, without communicating with his host. But who is he?”

“Thou wilt hardly believe, Sir, that I cannot tell thee,” answered Sir Edgar, with an appearance of confusion; “but I do not even know his name.”

The person called Sir Walter, who had hitherto seemed to regard the investigation with scarcely any concern, looked graver on receiving this answer, and apparently began to think the matter somewhat important. There was a brief pause before he spoke again.

“I fear me,” he then said, addressing Sir Edgar, “we must issue our warrant for thine arrest.”

“Surely, this cannot be!” exclaimed Sir Edgar, indignantly. “The law, be it ever so cruel, durst not sanction such violence as this.”

“Forbear! forbear, malignant!” cried Shedlock. “Art thou not a murderer?”

“Peace, Sir Sheriff!” said Sir Walter. “’Tis not for us to decide on the gentleman’s guilt. He must to prison; but ’tis on mere suspicion.”

“To prison, Sir?” cried Sir Edgar. “This must be jest. An English justice, methinks, durst not commit such a stretch of authority.”

“God forbid I should exceed the law,” answered Sir Walter; “but it bears on thee, as a Papist, with terrible severity. I speak not to offend; but the last bull of the Bishop of Rome, wherein our gracious Queen is termed a usurper, and her Popish subjects, to whom she hath been so gentle a mistress, urged to assail her sacred life, makes us view all Papists with notable jealousy. An emissary of my Lord Treasurer is found dead on the road, and, thou sayest, was slain in attacking thy litter; but even if thy tale be true, he may have attacked thee, not from a desire of spoil (which is anent to all reason and likelihood), but to seize thee in some act of treason. The very person who slew him, for aught we know, may have been a seminary priest, and so already condemned to the gibbet.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Sir Edgar, passionately.

“Peace, malignant!” exclaimed Shedlock.

“Peace thou, Sir Sheriff!” answered Sir Edgar; “and remember, though power may abet thee now, a day of reckoning will come, when thou shalt be called to account.”

“Aha! dost thou threaten me?” replied Shedlock. “Thou thinkest to see the day, then, when the Papist faction shall hold the powers of the state? But surely the Lord will protect his people! O! my trust is in the Lord, and he is mighty to deliver his saints!”

“Enough, Master Shedlock,” observed Sir Walter, impatiently. “’Tis our duty, from what we have heard, to send this gentleman to prison; but we have no warrant to give him any offence.”

Evaline, who had listened anxiously to the whole of the preceding dialogue, heard these last words with a mingled sense of dejection and hope—dejection that her father should be dragged so ignominiously from his home; and hope, abetted by what had passed, that Sir Walter might still be their friend, and leave him at large. Though of a timorous temper, this hope emboldened her, in the pressure and excitement of the crisis, to step somewhat forward, and by a timely intercession, seek to secure Sir Walter’s good offices.

“Is there no resource, Sir,” she said, in a tone of deep anguish, “but my father must go to prison? He is innocent—indeed, indeed, he is!”

Sir Walter looked on her so intently, that he seemed, for the first moment or two, to be reading her very heart; but the fair girl, whom such a gaze would have confounded at another time, was affected too deeply by her sorrow to be moved by his survey. Her dark eyes, which were wont to beam with tranquil joy, were still turned imploringly on his, and her face remained deadly pale, as if the mournful expression that hung over it braced and locked up every feature.

“I do believe thee, lady,” answered Sir Walter, in a kind tone; “but there is, unhappily, no resource. Thy father must to prison, but, if it please thee, thou mayst bear him company to Exeter, and there, at thy convenience, have free access to his presence.”

There was little mitigation of the first sentence in this; but the assurance that she might bear her father company, and, whenever she felt inclined, share the discomforts of his prison, was not without a soothing influence. She thanked Sir Walter for his urbanity; and, Sir Edgar, seeing that he was not actuated by a spirit of persecution, but solely by a sense of duty, which the extraordinary circumstances of the times pressed with particular severity on Roman Catholics, also tendered him his acknowledgments. It was then arranged, that Sir Edgar should immediately repair, under an escort of two constables, to the county gaol, at Exeter; and that instructions should be forwarded to the gaoler, on the responsibility of Sir Walter, to allow him to be freely visited by his daughter and cousin, and to treat him with the utmost respect. This arrangement, so much more lenient than the accused party had been disposed to expect, was not effected with the concurrence of Shedlock; but Sir Walter overruled his opposition, and induced him, by a few peremptory words, to yield acquiescence. Matters having been thus settled, Sir Walter dropped a courteous bow to Sir Edgar and his family, and, breaking through the group around him, passed out of the mansion, followed reluctantly by Shedlock.

Sir Walter did not address a word to his companion till they had mounted their horses, which, on emerging from the mansion, they found waiting them at the door. On setting forward, however, in their way down the avenue to the road, he broke the silence.

“This matter is somewhat serious,” he remarked; “for, besides that Sir Edgar de Neville, by his own acknowledgment, is a Papist, I perceive that he hath some family connections with Spain. These will be greatly to his detriment, I fear me, in the mind of the Queen’s Highness.”

“Ay, verily, her Highness is wise,” answered Shedlock, “and righteous to judge the earth—even as Deborah, with whom was the sword of the Lord, and who was as a scourge to the Philistines.”

“Even so,” rejoined Sir Walter; “and her Highness hath good reason, since the beheading of the Queen of Scots, to regard all Papists with unsleeping jealousy. Nevertheless, I would wager a round sum, an’ I had it idle, that this Sir Edgar will approve himself innocent.”

“Fie on thee now, Sir Walter Raleigh!” exclaimed Shedlock. “Wouldst thou abet Amalek, and lend a buckler to the disturbers of Israel?”

Sir Walter Raleigh—for it was indeed that great man—smiled as he replied: “I’faith, thou art over-zealous, Sir Sheriff. But ’tis a good fault! ’tis a good fault!”

“Over-zealous!” cried the Puritan, raising his small, piercing eyes till only the white was visible; “who can be over-zealous for the Lord? Shall the sword of Gideon, which hath scared the Antichrist in his den, be cast aside, and the ungodly sons of Belial yet muster for the battle?”

“No, no, not so,” answered Sir Walter. “But let us speak of it no more. Thou knowest, Master Shedlock, I sought thee this morning on other business. The matter of the Popish knight was forced on me by thee.”

“And thou hast therein thwarted me,” remarked Shedlock, “to thy very utmost. The Lord forgive thee, Sir Walter Raleigh!”

“I did but put a drag on thy hot zeal,” answered Sir Walter; “and who could do a less thing, Sir Sheriff, for so fair a lady? But I see thy skeleton clerk is coming up with us,” he continued, as, casting a glance in his rear, he discovered the individual specified, mounted on a lean and Rosinante-looking steed, riding after them. “Let us put forward a space, and I will then tell thee, with my customed brevity, what is the project I would engage thee in.”

Shedlock silently complied with this request, and, without further words, he and Sir Walter clapped spurs to their steeds, and rode smartly on. They had now gained the high-road, and, as they passed along, Sir Walter unfolded to his companion, with his promised brevity, the project to which he had alluded, and in which he sought to engage his pecuniary support.

The project referred to was to send out two ships, which were now lying in Topsham harbour, to Sir Walter’s plantations in Carolina, with some labourers and necessaries for the colonists, and a few bales of merchandise, of various descriptions, to traffic with the Indians. On their homeward voyage, the two vessels were to endeavour, by a slight deviation from the direct track, to fall in with the homeward-bound Mexican galleons of Spain, and, in virtue of the letters of marque which they would carry, attack such of them as they could detach from the fleet, and strive to effect their capture. As one of these vessels would be an inestimable prize, Sir Walter had made great exertions to raise means to fit out the expedition, but a considerable sum was still wanting, after all his resources were exhausted, to render the outfit complete. In this dilemma, he proposed to Shedlock, who had advanced money on several of his past adventures, that he should have one half of the profits of the expedition, conditionally that he paid one fifth of the expense; and this was to be secured to him, whatever the profits might be, free of all charge or deduction.

Shedlock did not hesitate long over this proposal.

“An’ I were assured that thy cruizers would capture a galleon, thine offer were not amiss,” he said; “but how know I, if they were to come to quarters, that these ungodly Popish Spaniards will not baffle thee?”

“Have they baffled me aforetime?” demanded Sir Walter.

“No,” replied the Puritan; “but thy cruizers, now left to a deputy, were then led by thyself; and, like David, thy hast been a man of war from thy youth up. Howbeit, an’ thou wilt secure me on thy two ships, by making them mine in case of failure, I will advance thee the money.”

“I will secure thee on one ship,” returned Sir Walter; “and the worth of that is more, in its bare outfit, than the whole sum I require.”

After some bickering, Shedlock, with affected reluctance, but really with much inward satisfaction—for the proposal was more advantageous than he had expected—accepted the offer. He suggested that the conditions of their agreement, with the security agreed on, should at once be transferred to paper, and signed and sealed by each of them, in the presence of an attorney; and he promised, on this being done, that the sum Sir Walter wanted should be immediately forthcoming.

By the time these particulars were arranged, the two horsemen had arrived at Bethlehem Hall, the Puritan sheriff’s residence. On their drawing nigh the mansion, a short, squat woman, who had been aroused by the sound of the horses’ feet, and had come forth from mere curiosity, made her appearance at the abutting porch, for the purpose of ascertaining, by a survey of their persons, who and what they were. Having satisfied her curiosity, she was about to turn into the house again, but Shedlock, happening to glance that way, discerned her retreating figure, and shouted to her to stop.

“Ho, Abigail!” he cried.

“Who calls Abigail?” demanded the woman, turning sharply round.

“Hither, hussey, and see!” returned Shedlock, drawing up before the porch. “Verily thou art a stubborn stock, and stiff-necked, as was Israel of old. Thou must be bent to obedience, woman, by a strong hand, and an outstretched arm. Surely, the spirit shall make me strong to prove thee.”

The woman to whom his rebuke was addressed, and whom the last moment had brought close up with them, was about fifty years of age, and had the appearance of an inferior domestic, or, to use a modern phrase, servant-of-all-work. She was, as has been remarked, a short, squat figure, which time appeared to have strengthened and braced up, rather than impaired. Her features were harsh and rigid, and marked, just below the mouth, on the ball of the chin, with distinct traces of a beard, partly sandy-colour, and partly grey. Her appearance was rendered doubly unprepossessing, on a closer survey, by her mean and slovenly attire; which, not only from its cut, but in its materials, was unsightly in the extreme, and was no way improved by its sundry varied patches of grease and grime.

She did not make any reply to the reproof of Shedlock, but, raising her small brown eyes, she looked him full in the face, and thus waited whatever he might say further.

“Now I see in thee the iniquity of Jeroboam, which caused Israel to sin,” cried Shedlock. “Wilt thou take these beasts, or not?”

The woman sulkily stepped forward, and, with some show of impatience, caught up the bridles of the two horses, and twisted them round her brawny arm. Sir Walter and Shedlock, without taking any notice of her demeanour, then alighted, and passed through the porch into the house.

Crossing the hall within, Shedlock led Sir Walter to another apartment, less capacious in its dimensions, at its further end. Here he invited him to be seated; and Sir Walter, who did not need a second invitation, threw himself into the only chair in the chamber, and prepared to make himself at home.

“Hast thou ever a draught of water in thy reach, Master Shedlock?” he inquired, on thus disposing himself. “By my lady’s hand, I could now look pleasantly on a flowing spring.”

“’Tis well said, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock. “Water is a good drink; and Jehonidab, the son of Rechab, who drank no wine, shall not want a man before the Lord for ever. I will straight send thee some water, and, if thou wilt wait my return here, I will ride off for Master Hardscrew, the attorney, and have him despatch our business at once.”

“Be it so,” answered Sir Walter. “But I brought a small leather box here this morning, hoping to bear away with me, an’ we came to a settlement, the money thou art to furnish me withal. I would I had it here now.”

“’Tis there,” replied Shedlock, pointing to a leather case, that lay in one corner of the chamber.

Having thus pointed it out, he passed into the hall, and Sir Walter, left to himself, proceeded to possess himself of the leather case. Raising it from the floor, he drew a small key from his vest, and, with a steady hand, applied it to a padlock, which, with the aid of a bolt and small staple, fastened the cover to the body of the case, and unlocked it. The fastenings removed, he opened the case, and drew forth a small pipe, made of cherry-stick, with a bowl at the end, or, rather, at one end, made of burned clay. A little bag, that had been lying under the pipe, in the bottom of the case, furnished him with some tobacco, which he first loosened well with his fingers, and then placed in the bowl of his pipe. This done, he drew a small tinder-box from the case, and, with the aid of its accompanying flint and steel, quickly procured a light. Having ignited his pipe, he shut up the leather case, and returned to his seat.

Meantime, his puritanical host, wholly bent on business, passed quickly across the hall, intending to set off straightway for lawyer Hardscrew. As he drew near the porch, he encountered his clerk, who, having ridden at the utmost speed of his horse, had, at last, after several stumbles, got safe home again.

“Zedekiah,” said Shedlock, looking at him steadfastly, “hie to Abigail for a flagon, and take a draught of water to Sir Walter Raleigh, in the blue room yonder. Shall we not give the stranger a cup of water, that he may gladden his heart withal?”

Zedekiah Truman—for such was the name of the sheriff’s clerk—heard this order with some degree of dismay, but he did not venture to render his hesitation manifest. He looked upon Sir Walter Raleigh, of whose great learning and wondrous ingenuity such wild stories were everywhere current, to be little better than a magician, who, by some unlawful and prohibited means, maintained an intercourse with the spirits of darkness; and as Zedekiah regarded the devil, if not all his works, with an unconquerable aversion, he naturally felt no way inclined to venture alone into his presence. Necessity, however, left him no alternative, and he reluctantly proceeded on the errand intrusted to him.

Having procured the water, he retraced his steps, full of grave reflections on the iniquity of magic, and the danger of holding any intercourse, of whatever nature, with the great source of evil. He was confirmed in this opinion on reaching the hall when a strong smell of burning, emitted by Sir Walter’s pipe, assailed his nostrils. Still he pursued his way, and, though not without hesitation, passed on to Sir Walter’s chamber, and threw open the door.

He cast one glance at the centre of the room, and there, to his utter amazement, he beheld Sir Walter seated quietly in an easy-chair, emitting from his mouth volumes of flame and smoke. Not doubting that this was some devilish enchantment, the terrified Puritan, with a trembling grasp, raised up the large flagon which he had in his hands, and threw the whole of its contents right into Sir Walter’s face. Then, with a cry of despair, he turned hastily about, and made off.