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Heiress of Haddon by William E. Doubleday

W >> William E. Doubleday >> Heiress of Haddon







CHAPTER XVI.

A NIGHT ADVENTURE.

But whatsoe'er his crime, than such a cave
A worse imprisonment he could not have.
* * * * *
But here a roaring torrent bids you stand.
Forcing you climb a rock on the right hand,
Which, hanging penthouse-like, does overlook
The dreadful channel of the rapid brook.
Over this dangerous precipice you crawl,
Lost if you slip, for if you slip you fall.

WONDERS OF THE PEAK, 1725.


Elated by their success, the two noblemen at once left London and
hastened on towards Haddon, and leaving the city behind them with
few regrets, they arrived at Derby late in the afternoon of the day
following the trial.

It was Sir Thomas Stanley's time to be impatient now He was anxious
to behold Margaret again, and leaving the baron behind him to settle
a few matters of business he rode off upon a fresh horse to carry the
good news to the Hall, and to herald the approach of the knight.

John Manners was keeping Dorothy company on the top of the Eagle Tower
when Sir Thomas appeared in sight. A "look out" had been on the watch
for the last three days, waiting to announce the approach of the
expected messenger from London, and each night a beacon fire had been
lighted, that in the darkness he might not pass by. But no messenger
came, and anxiety was beginning to make itself apparent on more faces
than one when the two lovers espied the fast-approaching rider, and
proclaimed the news to the household below.

Margaret soon joined them company. She was burning with impatience to
read the long-expected missive and she eagerly watched the horseman
draw nearer who was bringing her tidings from her betrothed.

"See Meg," exclaimed the overjoyed Dorothy, "thither he comes!" and
she pointed to a cloud of dust in the far distance, in the midst of
which might be seen every now and again the indistinct form of a horse
and its rider.

"Maybe he will pass by," exclaimed Manners.

"Not he!" scornfully replied Margaret, "he will none pass by. None
other than a messenger to Haddon would ride like that. The steed is
hard put to it; surely it is near its journey's end."

"Well, we shall soon see," interposed Doll, "he is making good speed."

It was as Dorothy said. Even while they had been talking, the rider
had considerably lessened the distance which separated him from the
Hall, and, had it not been for the dim twilight which was then slowly
deepening, they would have been enabled to distinguish more than they
had already done.

"He rides well," said Margaret, more to herself than to either of the
others. "Methinks I know that ride."

"'Tis like Crowleigh's," said Manners.

"But Sir Everard is with Father Philip. It cannot be him," returned
Dorothy.

"There is but one man who bestrides a saddle in such a fashion,"
exclaimed Margaret, as she carefully scanned the horseman. "But no! it
cannot be so. I thought it was Sir----"

"Sir Thomas Stanley," exclaimed Dorothy, taking the words out of her
sister's mouth.

"I thought it was he," she confessed; "and see," she added, raising
her voice, "it is Sir Thomas; I thought it was," and she left the
lovers as she had found them, and hastened down, greatly excited,
to meet her own beloved, and not without some feelings of dismay at
seeing him return alone.

Leaving the succeeding scene to be imagined rather than described, we
will hark back to Sir George at Derby.

He accomplished his business more expeditiously than he had
anticipated, and in a very brief space of time started out of
the town, hoping with a hope soon to be dispelled that he might,
perchance, overtake Sir Thomas.

Without a halt he arrived at Matlock at just about the same time as
his companion reached Haddon, and reining up his steed at the village
inn close by the churchyard, he alighted for a short rest and some
refreshment ere he finished what remained of his journey.

He was well known here, and his peremptory commands were obeyed with
the utmost alacrity.

His first enquiry was about Sir Thomas Stanley, and he learned to his
satisfaction that he had passed safely through there a good hour or so
before.

"In good sooth, your lordship is surely going no further to-night,"
exclaimed the host, as Sir George made the preliminary preparation for
resuming his journey.

"Tut, man, why not? Of course I shall."

"Your horse is stabled," responded the landlord; "surely you will not
attempt to ride further to-night."

"My horse stabled," thundered the baron, "I said not so; 'tis fresh
from Derby. Out with it, man, and let me away."

The horse was quickly unstabled, and brought round to the tavern door,
but the innkeeper was loth to let the good knight depart. It was a
thing he would not do for a trifle, and he feared for the safety of
the baron.

"The roads are very bad," he exclaimed, as they stepped into the
little passage together, "and it will be dark ere you reach the Hall,
my lord. Had you not better change your mind?"

The knight declined the request in the most emphatic manner, and
placed his foot upon the stirrup to mount.

"There be many rogues and footpads in the neighbourhood of late, and
especially to-day," pursued the other. "I have had as ill-looking a
crew in my house to-day as I ever clapt eyes upon; I am sure they bode
no good."

Nothing, however, could persuade Sir George to stay, and seeing that
his guest was obdurate, the host continued,

"Stay awhile, Sir George, an' thou wilt, thou shalt at least have a
man of mine to accompany thee. The neighbourhood is full of knaves of
late, and I like it not that thou should'st go alone."

But the offer was lightly refused; and fearing nothing for his own
safety, the old knight spurred his horse forward, and in a few moments
was lost to sight in the fast-settling gloom.

Little time as he and Sir Thomas had lost in leaving London, and quick
as they had been in reaching Derby, there had yet been those who had
been more expeditious than they.

Upon the receipt of the unwelcome news which the ostler had brought to
them, Edmund Wynne's confederates at once departed from the city, and
under the leadership of Sir Ronald Bury hastened on, with few rests,
to the wilds of Derbyshire, to perform the deed, still enshrouded in
mystery, which they had been hired, if necessary, to perform.

Blissfully unconscious of the trap into which he was rushing, and
wholly contemptuous of the idea of being benighted, the lord of Haddon
rode fearlessly on. The way was dark to be sure, but he knew it well,
and what added to his confidence was the fact that he was right in the
very heart of his own possessions.

He had barely ridden a couple of furlongs, though, before his horse
became restive, and in response to a free application of both whip and
spur only pricked up its ears and advanced in a more unsatisfactory
manner than before.

Still suspecting nothing, the baron applied the whip more vigorously.
He perceived, clearly enough, that his charger was frightened at
something or other, and to inspire it with a little of his own courage
he started to whistle a lively tune which he had heard Dorothy play
upon the spinet till he got it well by heart.

The tune was never finished, for barely had he begun it when the
branch of a tree, which was hurled at him from the side of the road,
completely unhorsed him and sent him rolling into the ditch on the
other side.

Before he could rise or place himself in any posture of defence he
was roughly seized, and in spite of his struggles was carried away as
helpless as a child, whilst to aggravate his position his eyes were
tightly blindfolded.

"What does this mean?" he shouted out in desperation; but no one
deigned to answer.

"I am Sir George Vernon," he added stoutly, but if he had thought that
this was information, or that his captors would be inclined to
quake before this declaration of his rank and person, he was sorely
mistaken, and the brief answer they returned soon convinced him on the
point.

"We know it," they laughed; "we are no fools."

"Nathan Grene," he passionately shouted, "you shall rue this day." He
no longer wondered now at the non-appearance of his adversary; he felt
confident that the recreant smith was there, and the thought of being
thus within his power goaded him into a frenzy of passion.

"Thou shalt live to rue this bitterly," he repeated, but before he
could say anything further his mouth was filled with grass, and in
spite of his attempts to speak he could no longer succeed in making
himself heard.

How far he was being carried he knew not, nor yet did he know the way;
and beyond making a few desultory attempts to disengage his nether
limbs from the vice-like grasp in which they were enclosed, the baron
made no further attempts to free himself.

It was quite dark before they stopped, and when his bandages were
taken off he had only sufficient time to discover that they had halted
at the mouth of a cave before his captors seized hold of his
person and unceremoniously pushed him in, sending, after a brief
consultation, one of their number after him to see that he made no
effort to escape.

"Where is Nathan Grene?" inquired the outraged nobleman, as soon as he
found himself at liberty; "I want to see him."

"Happen you do!" replied his keeper, who was none other than the
ostler; "then, maybe, you will find him at London. You were near
enough to him in the stable loft; maybe he is out of the stocks again
now."

"Don't talk with him," commanded an imperious voice from the exterior,
"or he will be taking you unawares."

The order was literally complied with, and to all his queries
thenceforward the baron could gain no reply. At length he gave up the
attempt, and watched in sullen silence his captors kindle a fire just
within the cavern mouth.

He meditated a dash out, but the venture seemed to promise little
hope, and seeing, after a time, that the man had fallen asleep, he
proceeded to explore his prison.

It was a long cave, and there were many fissures and passages
branching out on either side, but he found to his intense disgust that
instead of leading out into the open they all terminated after a few
yards in a solid wall of rock.

Nothing daunted by his successive disappointments, the lord of Haddon
carefully wound his way round the circuitous cavern path. He found it
difficult work, however, to walk in darkness in an unknown way, and he
made little progress until, suddenly remembering that the ostler had
charge of the tinder and flint which his associates had thrown in
after kindling their fire, he stole back as quickly as he could to
fetch it.

He found everything exactly as it was when he left it. The ostler was
still asleep and loudly snoring; the noisy gang beyond were cooking
their evening meal, and without attracting their attention he
succeeded in gaining the coveted articles, and rapidly retreated with
them in his possession.

He waited before obtaining a light, until a sharp bend in the cave
secured his position, and then, stooping down, he struck the flint
and steel together and made a torch of his cravat. He was now able to
hasten forward, and fearful lest his torch should burn away ere he
had effected his escape, he pushed quickly on, and soon reached the
farthest end.

The cave, which had been gradually narrowing as Sir George advanced,
instead of suddenly rising up into the ground above, or ending in a
narrow opening, as the good knight had fervently hoped, terminated
in a deep chasm, and far down below there rushed a tumultuous stream.
Even as he stopped short, startled by the discovery, a stone rolled
over the brink, and after a pause of several seconds' duration the
forlorn explorer was suddenly recalled to a sense of his position by
hearing a faint splash in the deep waters far below.

He turned round regretfully, and commenced to return, fully decided,
unless he quickly discovered a way of escape, to attempt to surprise
his captors by rushing through their midst, trusting to the darkness
of the night to favour his escape.

He had not gone far before he discovered that his absence had been
noticed. The ostler must have awaked; the echoing cavern resounded
with the imprecations of his companions, and their approaching
footsteps warned him that they were coming in search of him. Not a
moment was to be lost, and espying a large shelving rock which jutted
out from a side passage, Sir George Vernon hastily clambered up and
extinguished his light. The mass of rock upon which he had taken
refuge was fairly flat, and he was able to maintain his position upon
it; but he soon discovered that it would not be big enough to screen
him from view were the searchers to look in that direction. It was too
late to think of moving now, for his pursuers were close at hand; he
could even distinguish the reflection of their torches; there was only
one course open for him, and that was to endeavour to squeeze through
the narrow fissure at the end of the ledge on which he lay.

A squeeze and a cut or two, a tug and a stifled groan; another squeeze
more violent by far than the former one, and the portly baron rolled
panting through the jagged briar-covered little crevice, just as the
light of the searchers illuminated the place from which he had only a
moment before released himself.

Some painful moments elapsed ere he stopped rolling, and then it
was not until he found himself entangled in the strong but friendly
embrace of one of the tough blackberry bushes which were growing
in profusion, and still continue to do so, on the hill sides of
Derbyshire. He had, in fact, found out a way of escape just as he had
abandoned all hope of doing so, and carefully extricating himself from
his uncomfortable position, he pursued his way by Masson's shadowy
heights, boiling over with rage against his ruffianly captors, and
made the best of his way to the nearest inn to secure a horse to carry
him home.




CHAPTER XVII.

A DALE ABBEY HERMIT.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age, a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from man, with God he passed his days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

PARNELL.


Sir George's first care upon his arrival at Haddon was to send off a
number of his retainers to capture, if possible, the gang which had
entrapped him; but after searching for nearly a couple of days they
were obliged to return and communicate their failure to their lord.
The villains had all made off and left not a clue behind them.

His next care was to calm the overwrought feelings of Lady Maude and
his daughters, to whom the suspense of the last few hours had been
painful in the extreme; and then after he had refreshed his inner man,
he retired to seek that repose for which he was so well prepared.

Time sped on; the days soon passed into weeks, and the lovely spring
had merged into a still more lovely summer. John Manners' visit had
come to a close, and he was longing for an invitation for another
visit and seeking to find some decent excuse for becoming a
self-invited guest.

At last, much to his relief, he received the long-wished-for
invitation. He and Crowleigh were invited together to one of the
numerous feasts of Haddon's hospitable Hall, and De la Zouch, whose
wounds were now fast healing, was wishful that a reconciliation should
take place between them, and professed himself even anxious to make
some advances towards his late adversary.

Without loss of time the two guests sped on their way at the appointed
time, and were amongst the very first of the visitors. Disappointment,
however, awaited them. Father Philip was dying. The Derby leech
had done his best to restore the injured man, and although he had
succeeded in prolonging the patient's life for a little while, all
his efforts to save the unfortunate confessor failed, and seeing the
father suddenly begin to sink, he had, the night before John Manners
arrived, given up all hope of saving his life, and announced that the
end was nigh at hand.

Under these circumstances mounted messengers were at once despatched
to inform the invited guests that it had been found necessary to
postpone the feast, and asking them to defer their visit until they
should hear again from Haddon. This, in almost every other instance,
had succeeded in staying the visitors; but Manners and Crowleigh had
started at the break of day, and were well on their way before the
messenger had found his way to stop them.

A little manoeuvring on Dorothy's part gained, to Margaret's qualified
delight, an invitation for them to stay from no less a personage than
the dying man himself. Father Philip had taken kindly to Crowleigh
from the first, and was grateful to him for the skill and patience he
had bestowed upon him on his previous visit, and he was ready enough
to accede to any request, whatever it might be, that his Dorothy, his
beloved Dorothy, thought well to ask.

Not a brother of the cloth could be found to take the father's place,
and this loss proved exceedingly awkward to all at Haddon at this
juncture.

The Reformation had come in with so much vigour; the enactments
against the Roman Catholics were so stringent, that not even another
priest could be found to shrive him. The pendulum of fortune had
indeed swung back again with a vengeance. From one extreme the
religious laws had gone to the other; and so it befell that the
father, to his exceeding great regret, found himself dying with never
a minister of his own persuasion near at hand.

Crowleigh again came to his relief. He had a friend, a staunch
Catholic who had been expelled from Oxford University soon after
Elizabeth's accession on account of his strong religious views. He had
turned monk, and, during the recent pitiless times, it had frequently
fallen to Sir Everard's lot to befriend him. He was at this time in
hiding at no great distance from Crowleigh's estate, and the latter
had sufficient confidence in his friend's willingness to come to
promise Sir George Vernon that he would fetch him.

The offer was gladly accepted. Without any delay the two best horses
in the stable were saddled, and within a very short space of time
both horses and rider were well started on their way towards the
south-western boundary of the shire.

Nicholas Bury had for two years lived the life of a hermit. In his
seclusion he had become happy, and though the reverence was denied him
which the early hermits had accustomed themselves to receive, yet he
was at least unmolested, and thanks to Sir Everard, who ever assisted
him in time of need, he was never left to want for the few necessaries
of life that he required.

Sir Everard Crowleigh rode hard all the morning, and stopping on his
errand but once--to partake of a light meal--he arrived at the abode
of his friend as the twilight put forth its gentle mask of gloom.

Deepdale was an attractive spot, but it was not the natural beauty of
the scene which had first attracted the eyes of Nicholas Bury so much
as the facilities it offered for his purpose. Centuries before a
pious Derby baker had retired to the self-same spot, and besides this
hallowed memory there was the still more substantial cell to hand
which the saintly old recluse had left behind him.

This, cut out of the solid rock, and situated at the summit of a deep
declivity, was overgrown by a curtain of ivy, which not only screened
its tenant from the wintry winds, but also hid his retreat from
the gaze of the innocent passer-by. The Abbey, hard by, had
been dismantled before Nicholas knew it, but it was a source of
gratification to him to be so near so sacred a building, and at
eventide he would wander fondly about its walls and murmur his vespers
to himself.

Sir Everard paused before entering upon the solitude of his friend,
and would fain have rested his weary limbs on the mossy banks of
the slope, but remembering how nearly Father Philip was to death he
overruled his feelings, and, brushing through the ivy covering of the
doorway, he entered quietly into the sanctum of the hermit.

Nicholas was evidently deeply engaged in his devotions, for he was
kneeling before the little altar of his cell, and, catching somewhat
of the spirit of reverence, Everard paused upon the threshold, loth
to penetrate any further. The lamp gave but a fitful flickering light,
hut the devotee heeded not; and, by-and-bye, as the knight stood
spellbound, the wick sputtered in the oil, and making a final effort
the flame shot up for a moment with a brilliant glare and then died
slowly out, leaving nothing but a fragment of smouldering wick and a
sickly odour to attest its presence.

Crowleigh roused himself as it died away, and came to the resolution
that it was high time to announce his presence; and failing to
distinguish any signs to intimate that his friend's prayers were
nearing conclusion he advanced towards him.

He had scarcely moved a step when he started back with horror. There
was little enough light entered within this solitary abode, but yet
there was quite enough to enable him to see curled up together upon a
bed of leaves a number of snakes of different kinds. His first impulse
was to rush out and escape, but bethinking himself of the defenceless
position of his friend, he picked up a huge stone and let it fall upon
them.

Still Nicholas did not stir, and heedless of the badger, which
fiercely showed its teeth and looked as if it meditated an attack upon
him, Sir Everard strode softly up to his friend's side and tapped him
lightly on the shoulder.

"Nicholas," he exclaimed.

Nicholas returned no answer, and his friend stood dumbfounded. Surely
that pale face and that emaciated form could not belong to the once
sturdy companion, or--and he noticed that the eyes were closed; or
else--and he trembled at the bare idea--Nicholas Bury must be dead!

He put out his hand and shook it gently, and he was speedily rewarded
by seeing his friend open his eyes.

"Lie still, Leo," he commanded, addressing the badger.

The faithful animal, which had regarded the intruder with marked
disfavour, rolled itself up again in obedience to the command, and
remained in the corner watching the knight with glistening eyes.

"Nicholas," repeated Crowleigh, for he had not yet been noticed.
Nicholas turned slowly round, as if his ears had not deceived him,
but on seeing his friend and benefactor standing by his side, his face
lighted up with pleasure, and he quickly arose.

"My good friend, Everard," he exclaimed, as he warmly shook the
proffered hand, "thou art indeed a stranger here."

"Aye, I have a mission to thee," he replied.

"A mission," the hermit echoed. Art thou, then, the bearer of
ill-tidings to me? Is my safety jeopardised, or what? Tell me,
Everard, let me know it all. I have done no man evil that I wot
of--unless in these evil days it be wrong to visit the sick and the
afflicted; but I am ready for aught, even though it were instant
death."

"Nay, Nicholas," returned his friend, "thou art in a gloomy strain.
I am a messenger of peace; I bear good tidings to thee, not ill-news.
Thou must away with me at once."

"I cannot go; but see! my lamp is out. I must light it again. You
see how indifferent I am," he apologetically exclaimed, "I even fall
asleep over my prayers."

"Ha! I perceive thou art over-weary; take my advice for the once, and
do not rise so soon, nor pray so long."

"Ah, Everard, 'tis not that," replied the holy man; "I have not been
to my poor couch since yester morning. I have been praying through the
night for the speedy restoration of our holy Church."

"And see, whilst thou hast been sleeping I have saved thy life,"
interjected Everard; "but I must tell thee on my journey. I would have
thee accompany me back to Haddon."

"My poor pets!" exclaimed the hermit sorrowfully, as he lifted up the
stone; "they are all killed."

"'Tis a case of death, I fear," pursued Crowleigh, referring to the
father's illness.

"I fear it is," replied the other, looking ruefully at his dead pets.
"Thou hast killed my companions, Everard."

"Ugh! pretty companions, I trow," said the knight, scornfully; "but we
must hasten. I will acquaint thee with the whys and wherefores as
we go. Nay, never mind the lamp, thou can'st say adieu to that. Our
horses are tethered to a tree below, and thou must shrive a friend who
is at death's door--a priest. I have ridden throughout the livelong
day to fetch thee. Art thou ready now?"

"What, so soon? This is sudden indeed."

"Aye, man, so soon. Death tarries for no man, and, beshrew me, it will
not tarry for us either."

"I must take Leo, then."

"Very well, pick him up, but let us be off I pray."

"This is _too_ sudden, Everard, indeed it is. I have many sick to
visit, and I would fain go to the monastery just once again, to
bid----"

"There must be no buts about it, Nicholas," returned his friend
quickly, "the father is dying, and the baron expects you."

"Give me but an hour, then I will go with thee. 'Tis sad to break
away from a spot hallowed by so many sacred memories, and at so short
warning, too. I am loth to go, Everard, even now. There is no other
spot on earth like this to me."

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