Besides Zedekiah Truman and the maiden Abigail (for Abigail had never been married), the establishment at Bethlehem Hall, of which we have been recently treating, embraced another individual, who, being Master Shedlock’s wife, might with propriety be considered its mistress. But if Dame Shedlock was such in name, or, to take a higher ground, by right, a very limited acquaintance with the economy of the Hall, on occasions of a general nature, would show that she was not so in fact. So far, indeed, from governing others, she was scarcely mistress of herself, but was held responsible by her lord for whatever she did, and was continually being subjected, according to the turn of his capricious temper, to all those mortifications and trials, which too often form the portion of the uncomplaining wife.

Few women could have borne this treatment with the meekness and patience that were manifested by Dame Shedlock. Her equanimity was, to all appearance, above the reach of those circumstances which influence most tempers, and was founded on qualities too sterling to be corrupted, and too solid to be undermined. She met insult, however gratuitous, with the most calm endurance; she submitted to degradation, without a murmur; and, what was stranger still, as opposed to the strongest principles of our nature, she repaid the tyranny of her husband with the deepest and most absolute love.

It is a difficult thing to tear the affections from one who, in times past, has been their stay and centre; and it may be doubted whether the heart can ever wholly alienate a once-cherished object; but that love, which comprehends the softest feelings of our nature, bound together by the most tender memories, should be proof to a continuous succession of outrageous assaults, and survive all fellowship and reciprocity, seems almost impossible. Yet Dame Shedlock, in her attachment to her husband, realised this seeming anomaly. After a life of ill-usage, she still clung to him as fondly, as devotedly, and even as passionately, as on the day that, glowing with maidenly confusion, she first surrendered to him her hand and heart. He might be a bad man; she might know that, in his dealings with the world, he often committed very unscrupulous acts; but yet her bosom found him an excuse, or awarded him a justification. Such a deed might appear evil in her eye, but it had, no doubt, a sanction in the practice of the world, or was called for and justified by the circumstances of the times. She would not acknowledge that the absolute possessor of her most precious sympathies, on whom she reposed her happiness here, and her wishes of hereafter, was stained and defiled with the hideous colours of guilt: even if he were so, it was not by her, the wife and partner of his bosom, that his actions were to be questioned, or his conduct condemned. In short, despite his ill-usage, and the groveling selfishness of his nature, which he seemed to pride himself in making apparent, she loved him; and this explains, in one word, every trait in her conduct that appears singular or unnatural.

If Dame Shedlock had been a mother, her love for her husband might, from the division of her affections, have been less stable, and more alive to those slights and provocations, which fall on the heart with a depressing influence. Less possessed by her love, she would have viewed his character more closely: she would have deemed his affectation of sanctity, which she now considered pure and genuine, sheer hypocrisy, and his violations of right, oppressive and sinful. His selfishness, dissimulation, and avarice, however disguised, would have deprived him of her respect; and his tyrannical disposition would probably have provoked her contempt. But, secluded from all society, having no channel but him for the sweetest effusions of her amiable and gentle nature, her love was without restraint, and she could see in his heart no shade of evil, or trace of blemish.

It is not always that an individual’s temper, as far as regards its principal characteristics, may be seen in the face; but in Dame Shedlock’s, it was written distinctly. Her complexion was dark, and, though she might be in her fiftieth year, her hair, where it was visible, was still dark also, yet not unmingled with grey. Her eyes were of a deep brown, and amply answered, by their quiet and subdued light, for the evenness of her disposition, and the docility of her nature. The impression they created was confirmed, on a closer survey, by her other features, which, though not of a classic mould, were regular and harmonious, and were more charming from their sweet melancholy, chastened by the soft light of resignation and endurance, than they would have been in the full glow of mere youth and beauty.

Such was the person who, a few minutes previous to the period that closed our last chapter, while Shedlock and Sir Walter Raleigh were yet in the avenue, passed into the pleasure-ground that surrounded Bethleham Hall, and proceeded down a secluded side-walk. For some few minutes she walked leisurely along, without sustaining any interruption, or, indeed, encountering or seeing a single individual. But after a while, she came to a spot where, pushed out by a small shrubbery, the path swept close up to the park-fence, in which there was a blind gate, communicating with the lane beyond. Though she was within a pace or two of the gate, she did not observe that it was slightly ajar; and it was not till she came abreast of it, and, thinking she heard a rustling noise in that quarter, turned an inquiring gaze thitherwards, that the fact incurred her notice. Her gaze was still turned on the door, when it was suddenly pushed open, and a man, whom it had served as a place of ambush, presented himself at the aperture.

She gave a slight start as she glanced in the man’s face, and then turned an anxious gaze around her, as if to ascertain, by this hasty survey, whether any other person was within sight. But the view was, from the curve in the walk, very limited, and in neither direction extended more than a dozen yards, when it was lost in the sweep of the adjacent shrubbery. So far as her glance reached, however, there was no person in view, and, satisfied of this, she turned her eye on the man again.

“Bernard Gray, what wouldst thou?” she inquired.

“I knew thou wouldst come this way,” answered the person addressed, and who, it will be inferred, was no other than our friend Bernard, “and I waited here to see thee. Since I was with thee last, I have been in talk with young Clifford, and warned him to be wary.”

“And he has gone?” said Dame Shedlock.

“That has he not,” replied Bernard, “though he is to go, an’ no ill happen him, this even.”

Dame Shedlock turned pale on hearing these words. “An’ he be not gone already,” she said, “he may not go at all. Thou shouldst have urged him to depart incontinently.”

“He gave my warning no heed,” returned Bernard. “He hath no fear of peril.”

“Is he so valiant?” inquired the dame.

“Faith, there be none more so,” answered Bernard. “’Twould do thy heart good, lady, to see what a brave cavalier is he now. I prithee, take pity upon him, and lend him thy countenance.”

“What wouldst thou have me do?” demanded Dame Shedlock.

“Though knowest, lady,” replied Bernard, “that these broad lands, though they be vested in thy husband, be his rightfully; and——”

“’Tis false!” cried Dame Shedlock, with much passion. “But begone! begone! I’ll no more with thee!”

“But one moment!” implored Bernard.

“Hush, for thy life!” said the dame: “some one comes, and the step, methinks, is his.”

“I’ll seek thee again to-morrow, then,” said Bernard, in a low tone.

Thus speaking, he stepped into the lane, closing the door behind him. Almost at the same moment, Shedlock—for the dame was right in her conjecture—made his appearance in the walk, within a few paces of where they had been conversing.

This was a dilemma of which the dame had had no expectation. Already disturbed by her conversation with Bernard, the sudden approach of her husband, who looked on Bernard as an enemy, took her perfectly aback, and her generally-serene face presented the most lively traces of embarrassment and confusion.

Shedlock observed her discomposure instantly, and its inconsistency with her usual demeanour, which was so uniformly placid, invoked in his mind the most singular suspicions.

“Who hath been here?” he demanded, on coming up with her.

Before the dame could reply, he turned to the contiguous gate, and, drawing it open, looked out on the lane. There was no one there, and, stepping back, he pushed the gate close again, and turned to the dame once more.

The latter person had by this time recovered herself; but her present composure, though almost perfect, and quite relieved of every trace of confusion, did not lead him to forget her previous bearing. Indeed, it rather served, from the breadth and prominence of the contrast, to attach to his suspicions some shade of confirmation.

“Woman!” he cried, in a voice husky with rage, “what doth this mean? Who hath been here, I say?”

“Dost think I would wrong thee, then?” answered the dame. “No! no!—not for my life!”

“Who hath been here?” demanded Shedlock, seizing her by the collar of her bodice.

“Nay, never hurt me, husband!” replied the dame, shrinking a little. “Only say thou wilt forgive me—say thou wilt not be angered, and I will tell thee.”

“Woman! I have a mind to dash thee down,” rejoined Shedlock, giving her a slight shake, “and to trample thee under foot, as the angels of darkness trample on Judas. But I will forbear, and the Spirit, through the mercy of the Lord, shall hold me back. Who hath been here?”

His small ferret-like eyes glared fearfully on her face, and there was a red flush on his brow, just beneath the brim of his hat, that made the dame tremble. Still she resolved to tell him the truth, though she knew that, in his present mood, it would draw down upon her head the full fury of his anger.

“Do me no harm, husband!” she said. “’Twas the man Bernard Gray.”

“Ah!” cried Shedlock.

“Indeed, dear, I sought him not,” said the dame, earnestly. “He was standing here, as I came up; and I gave him but a cold welcome.”

“What sought he here?” demanded Shedlock.

“That know I not,” answered the dame, “for, while he was yet speaking, we heard thy step approach, and he broke away.”

Shedlock’s angry eyes ran quickly over her face, but there was nothing there to awake in him, by a want of harmony with the general expression, the least doubt of her sincerity. Her complexion, it is true, had undergone a change, and was very pale, and, moreover, there was a trace of hesitation about her lips; but Shedlock knew her too well to attribute this manifestation to conscious guilt, or aught but her terror. It was clear that she spoke the truth, and that she thought, in the confidence and simplicity of her nature, that he would believe her; for she had never uttered a falsehood yet.

“The Lord deliver me from thy snares,” ejaculated Shedlock, devoutly, and, at the same time, releasing her from his grasp. “Verily, the Lord is strong to deliver me.”

“Of a surety, is he,” answered the dame. “Put thy trust in the Lord, and he shall deliver thee out of thy trouble.”

“Peace, thou Jezebel, and get thee hence!” returned Shedlock. “There is a malignant yonder, in the blue chamber, who will serve thee, mayhap, for this vagrant Bernard. Get thee to him, and hold him there till my return.”

Dame Shedlock made no answer, but, turning silently away, proceeded to obey the injunction of her lord.

A few minutes of brisk walking brought her to the hall, which she entered, intending, though still somewhat agitated, to cross to the blue room without delay. Just as she passed under the porch, however, she was encountered by Zedekiah Truman, who, in his eagerness to retreat, had almost run her down, and now brought her to a stand.

“Zedekiah, what troubleth thee?” she asked, in amaze.

But the terrified Zedekiah, whether from fear, or from want of breath, was quite speechless, and, in reply to her inquiry, could only point to the open door of the blue room. Turning her eye thitherwards, she perceived a cavalier—who, indeed, was no other than Sir Walter Raleigh—standing in the middle of the chamber, and shaking from his locks and face a continuous stream of water. She was wondering what this could mean, when Zedekiah, whom she had seized by the wrist, sought to throw off her hold, and resume his interrupted flight.

“The devil! the devil!” he cried, in tremulous accents. “I saw the devil talking with him.”

Thus speaking, he wrenched his wrist from the dame’s grasp, and, pushing past her, dashed through the hall-door. The dame, though her heart was not quite itself, maintained her ground, and, again glancing at Sir Walter, waited an explanation of this singular incident.

She was not kept in uncertainty long. Sir Walter, aroused by Zedekiah’s exclamation, which revealed to him the spring and motive of that person’s conduct, speedily recovered himself; and though, with all his vexation, he could hardly repress a hearty laugh, proceeded to inform her how he came to be placed in a plight so deplorable.

He soon made the dame sensible, by his comprehensive explanation, that the simple Zedekiah was entirely mistaken, and that the report of his having been in correspondence with Satan was utterly unfounded. Satisfied of this, the dame supplied him with a napkin, in order that he might remove the water from his face and hair. She then hastened, at his request, to explain what had happened to her two domestics, as Sir Walter feared that they might otherwise alarm the neighbourhood, and so put them to great inconvenience.

During her absence, Sir Walter endeavoured, as far as circumstances would permit, to restore his disordered toilet. He accomplished his purpose with ease; for his ruff, or frill, which, according to the fashion of the day, he wore high, was but very slightly wet; and this was the only part of his dress that the water could damage. By the time that he had perfectly effaced all vestige of the water, the dame rejoined him; and the most polished courtier of an age which, by the testimony of both “tale and history,” abounded in polished courtiers, entered on a tÊte-À-tÊte with a Puritan matron.

Though far in advance of the prejudices and confined feelings of his era, Sir Walter was not, on the whole, over pleased with this situation. He was, however, of that felicitous disposition, that he made himself at his ease in whatever society he might happen to be mingled with; and at a time when, as now, he was on the brink of enterprises that involved the most gigantic interests, and were attended by the greatest risks, which no care or foresight could avoid, would bend his mind to the most trifling points of etiquette, and the least significant details of social harmony. Still, he hailed the return of Shedlock, after an interval of about an hour, with some degree of pleasure, and felt that the accession to the company relieved him of an irksome task.

Shedlock was accompanied by the lawyer, Master Hardscrew, whom he had, conformably to his expectations, found at home, and easily induced to return with him to the Hall.

The arrival of these individuals afforded Dame Shedlock an excuse to retire, which, on a signal from her husband, she did forthwith. They were, as they desired, thus left to themselves, and, free from all obstruction, they entered on the business that had brought them together. The particulars of this being already settled, and only the written agreement, in which those particulars were to be embodied, remaining to be done, they shortly brought it to a close.

Whatever might be its charms, Bethlehem Hall was not the sort of place, when the choice rested with himself, that Sir Walter Raleigh would find delight in; and therefore, after he had come to a settlement with Shedlock, he lost no time in taking his departure. But he did not carry away with him what had been the chief object of his repairing thither. Shedlock, though immensely wealthy, kept but little money in his house, the greater part of his rents being vested in a mercantile concern, at Exeter, in which he occupied the position of sleeping partner. It was arranged, therefore, on the agreement being signed, that the advance to be made by Shedlock should be paid over to Sir Walter the next morning, at the countinghouse of the aforesaid concern; and, with this appointment, the contracting parties separated.

The countinghouse of Shedlock and Craftall—for such was the designation of the concern alluded to—was situate in the High-street of Exeter; and, though the operations of the firm were by no means limited, was presided over by the individual who, from whatever reason, was named last. It was not, however, in the firm’s designation only, but in everything he engaged in, that this person played second to Shedlock; and not to Shedlock alone, but to every one else. So excessive was his modesty, that he had never been known to act on an opinion of his own, and, if he did so act, he kept the matter a profound secret. To hear him speak, one would imagine, on a first acquaintance, that he was incapable of knowing anything from his own observation, or of doing anything at his own prompture. It was always “worthy Master This,” by his account, that told him so-and-so, and “honest Master That” that suggested such a thing. He carried his modesty so far, in all outward appearance, that he would not exercise his own judgment on the most common occasions. Such a neighbour might pursue his trade unfairly; he could not say: it was true, indeed, that gentle Master Chatter, who was said to have good opportunities of knowing, had told him it was so; but he could form no opinion on the matter himself. Another neighbour was hanged for murder: the place of execution, over the city-gaol, was opposite to his window, and the gibbet and swinging corpse literally stared him in the face; but he only knew of the occurrence from honest Master Pry. He never interfered with any one; he could hardly be said, indeed, to understand his own business, much less be acquainted with that of others; and, by those who esteemed themselves shrewd and knowing, he was looked upon as a harmless but irreclaimable fool.

Notwithstanding this, Master Craftall had raised himself, some way or other, from an obscure station, and very limited means, to be a partner in the chief firm in Exeter. His lean, ungainly figure, and hard features, though the last were hardly ever free from a quiet smile, affecting benevolence and equanimity, might have been a disadvantage to him in another walk of life; but, in that of commerce, they had formed no impediment to his progress, and he plodded his way to wealth unobserved, without exciting enmity, or awaking esteem.

Such was the person who received Sir Walter Raleigh, with one of his blandest smiles, at the door of his countinghouse, on the morning after his visit to Bethlehem Hall. Stepping out from the door, he assisted the knight to dismount, and then, delivering his horse to the care of his groom, invited him to pass to the interior. There Sir Walter found Shedlock, and Hardscrew, the lawyer; and after a brief greeting, these persons proceeded, by paying him over the stipulated sum, to bring their transaction with him to a close.

Their business effected, Sir Walter was about to take his leave, when Craftall, turning round from an adjacent desk, from which he could see and hear all that passed, interposed.

“Doth worthy Master Shedlock guess truly, good Sir Walter,” he said, in a silvery tone, “that thou art sending out a ship to Carolina?”

“That does he, Master Craftall,” answered Sir Walter. “I am sending two ships thither.”

“Wherefore askest thou this?” inquired Shedlock.

“I have it from gentle Master Chatter,” replied Craftall, in the same silvery tone, “that thou hast just apprehended an escaped felon, a runaway from the plantations; and sweet Master Pry, who was by when it was told me, thought the knave should be again sent to the plantations, if occasion should serve.”

“Verily, Master Pry thought well,” observed Shedlock.

“If the man be truly a runaway,” said Sir Walter, “and of an able body, he will be right welcome; for we have but few labourers.”

“The harvest truly is great, but the labourers be few,” remarked Shedlock.

“I know not if he be a runaway,” said Craftall; “but worthy Master Chatter, who is reported to be well informed on such matters, so named him to me.”

“Master Chatter named him aright,” observed Shedlock. “Moreover, he is of an able body, and, in all things fitting, well endowed.”

“We will have him aboard at once,” said Sir Walter. “I purpose to despatch my own ship with the morrow, and she may tarry for the other, which is a hired one, at Carolina.”

Shedlock’s small eyes, which hitherto had been bent on the table, were raised up at this moment, and emitted a gleam of intense satisfaction.

“Verily, ’tis the resolve of wisdom,” he said, as if to himself.

“Well, I will leave it to thee, Master Shedlock,” remarked Sir Walter, “to see that the knave be handed over to my captain. And let it be done this even, Sir Sheriff, an’ it please thee.”

“This even, or to-morrow, as thou wilt,” answered Shedlock. “He is in Topsham Gaol, near the Quay; and thy two ships, methinks, lie in Topsham Harbour; so he may be moved at thy convenience.”

“Be it this even, then,” said Sir Walter.

“Verily, I will give thee a note to the gaoler,” returned Shedlock, “directing him, on the receipt thereof, to deliver the knave into thy charge at once.”

Sir Walter, anxious to secure the reputed convict, expressed his approval of such an arrangement, and Shedlock hastened to carry it out. Having written the note, he handed it over to Sir Walter, and that individual, who had now no further business with him, and was heartily weary of his company, thereupon took his leave, and departed.

His groom waited without with his horse, and, quickly mounting, Sir Walter bade him attend him to Topsham.

Topsham, the port of Exeter, was a small straggling town, situate on the estuary of the Exe. It was only five miles distant, and though the road, owing to a recent copious rain, was somewhat heavy, and their horses had that morning been ridden many miles, they passed along at a quick pace, and soon entered the principal street.

At that point of their journey, Sir Walter espied a person approaching, in company with three sailors, whom he recognised as the lieutenant, or chief mariner, of his favourite ship; and he called to him to stop.

“Ho, Master Halyard!” he cried, drawing up his horse.

The person addressed immediately came to a halt, and then, looking round, let his eye fall full on Sir Walter’s face. After he had thus surveyed his features, he raised his hand to the brim of a very broad tarpaulin hat; and the three sailors who were with him, and who, on his coming to a halt, had ranged themselves in his rear, instantly performed the same evolution. Having caught a good hold of the brim of his hat, the lieutenant pulled his head forward, as if he intended to make a bow; and the three sailors, as in the first instance, followed his example.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” cried the lieutenant.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” cried the three sailors.

“Is your captain aboard?” asked Sir Walter, with a smile.

“I’faith, no, Sir,” answered the lieutenant. “About a week agone, when we had set all taught aboard, he started on a cruise inland. He hath not shown his colours here since.”

“When doth he come back?” inquired Sir Walter, somewhat disappointed.

“That know I not, Sir,” replied the lieutenant. “But he hath left a parcel aboard for your honour, and his bearings, no doubt, be therein set down.”

“We will aboard together, then,” said Sir Walter, “and see how we stand. But first, Master Halyard, an’ it suit with thy convenience, we’ll bear down on the town-gaol, and take in charge a prisoner I have there.”

The lieutenant, though he had no wish to be brought in contact with a landsman, such as the prisoner would most probably prove, readily acquiesced in his proposal; and Sir Walter set forward, at a leisurely pace, for the specified locality, followed by his servant and the mariners. On arriving at the gaol, he drew up his horse, and, resigning the rein to his servant, leaped to the ground, and inflicted a loud knock on the gaol-door.

Sir Walter was still knocking when the door was pulled open; and the gaoler, scowling like a thunder-cloud, presented himself in the doorway. Shedlock’s note, and, what he regarded as much, Sir Walter’s evident quality, seemed to propitiate his favour, and his countenance somewhat brightened as he invited the whole party to enter.

The prisoner was confined in an inner cell; and, therefore, it was necessary, before they could proceed thither, to procure a light. This, however, was speedily done, and the gaoler then led the way to the cell.

The door of the cell was low and narrow, and, consequently, they had to enter singly, bending their heads as they passed under the threshold. The gaoler entered first, and, stepping on one side, turned round to the door again, and held up the light to Sir Walter. Thus aided, Sir Walter distinguished the floor of the cell, and ventured to enter.

As he alighted on the hard floor, he took the light from the gaoler, and, holding it out before him, glanced round in quest of the prisoner. The latter, undisturbed by their visit, was sitting on a heap of straw, in the furthest corner; but, from the gloom that hung around, Sir Walter was a full moment before he could make him out. When he did distinguish him, he gave a sudden start.

“What! no! yes!” he exclaimed; “’tis my trusty friend, Hildebrand Clifford.”

And, dropping the light, he made a spring forward, and seized the prisoner by both his hands.