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The Buccaneer: A Tale

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Title: The Buccaneer: A Tale

Author: Mrs. S. C. Hall


        
Release date: February 14, 2009 [eBook #28074]

Language: English

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Produced by Robert Cicconetti and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)






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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as
faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at
the end of the text.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BUCCANEER.


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.


LONDON:

 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET:

 BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
 J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.


 London:
 Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE.
 New-Street-Square.


       *       *       *       *       *

    STANDARD NOVELS.

    N^{o} LXXIX.

    "No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction.
    Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more
    eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however
    important these latter may be. Apuleius is better remembered by
    his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic
    writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived the Latin
    Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

       *       *       *       *       *


  [Illustration: THE BUCCANEER.

  The Protector instantly exclaimed "Guards! what ho! without
  there!" Five or six rushed into the room and laid hands upon
  Robin.

   _J. Cowse, pinxt. W. Greatbatch, sc._

  London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1840.]




THE BUCCANEER,

A Tale

BY Mrs S. C. Hall.


  [Illustration: _Kneeling on a high-backed and curiously carved
  chair, which he leaned over pulpit-fashion, was seen the lean,
  lanky figure of Fleetword._]


 LONDON,
 _RICHARD BENTLEY,_
 _NEW BURLINGTON STREET,_
 CUMMING, DUBLIN, BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH,
 1840.



THE

BUCCANEER.

A TALE.

BY

MRS. S. C. HALL.

        Stay! methinks I see
    A person in yond cave. Who should that bee?
    I know her ensignes now--'tis Chivalrie
    Possess'd with sleepe, dead as a lethargie;
    If any charme will wake her, 'tis the name
    Of our Meliadus! I'll use his Fame.

    BEN JONSON.

REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET:
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1840.




THE BUCCANEER.




CHAPTER I.

    With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength,
    Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves,
    Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,
    She seems a sea wasp flying on the waves.

      DRYDEN.


It was between the hours of ten and twelve on a fine night of February,
in the year sixteen hundred and fifty-six, that three men moored a light
skiff in a small bay, overshadowed by the heavy and sombre rocks that
distinguish the Isle of Shepey from other parts along the coast of Kent,
the white cliffs of which present an aspect at once so cheerful and so
peculiar to the shores of Britain. The quiet sea seemed, in the murky
light, like a dense and motionless mass, save when the gathering clouds
passed from the brow of the waning moon, and permitted its beams to
repose in silver lines on its undulating bosom.

It was difficult to account for the motive that could have induced any
mariner to land upon so unpropitious a spot, hemmed in as it was on
every side, and apparently affording no outlet but that by which they
had entered--the trackless and illimitable ocean. Without a moment's
deliberation, however, the steersman, who had guided his boat into the
creek, sprang lightly to the shore: another followed; while the third,
folding himself in the capacious cloak his leader had thrown off,
resumed his place, as if resolved to take his rest, at least for a time.

"Little doubt of our having foul weather, master," observed the younger
of the two, in a half querulous, half positive tone, as standing on a
huge bank of sea-weed, he regarded first the heavens, and then the
earth, with the scrutinising gaze of one accustomed to pry into their
mysteries. His companion made no answer, but commenced unrolling a rich
silk scarf, that had enveloped his throat, and twisting it into loose
folds, passed it several times around his waist--having previously
withdrawn from a wide leathern belt that intervened between his jacket
and trousers a brace of curiously-fashioned pistols, which he now handed
to the young sailor, while he elevated the hilt of his dagger, so that,
without removing or disturbing the silken sash, he could use it in an
instant. Having fully ascertained this point, by drawing the weapon more
than once from its sheath, he again deposited the pistols in his belt,
and buttoned his vest nearly to the throat; then drew the ends of his
sash still more tightly, and placing a hand on either side, turned
towards the cliffs, measuring their altitude with an eye, which, though
deficient in dignity, was acute, and peculiarly fierce in expression.

The seaman, for such was his calling, was about five feet eight or nine
inches in height. His hair, as it appeared from beneath a cap singularly
at variance with the fashion of the time, curled darkly round a face,
the marked features of which were sufficiently prominent, even in that
uncertain light, to denote a person of no ordinary mind or character.
His figure was firm and well-proportioned, and, though he might have
numbered fifty years, it had lost neither strength nor elasticity. His
whole bearing was that of a man whom nothing could have turned from a
cherished purpose, were it for good or evil: though his eye was, as we
have described it, fierce and acute, it was also restless and impatient
as the waves upon which he had toiled from his earliest years.

Again he surveyed the cliff, and, stepping close to its base, applied
the point of a boat-spear to remove the sea-weed that spring and high
tides had heaped against it; he then summoned the youth to his
assistance: after a few moments' search, the lad exclaimed,--

"Here it is, master--here is one--here another--but, my eyes! are we to
trust our necks to such footing as this? I'd rather mount the
top-gallant of the good ship Providence in the fiercest Nor-wester that
ever blow'd, than follow such a lubberly tack."

"Then go back to the boat, sir," replied the elder, as he began, with
cautious yet steady daring, to ascend--a course attended with evident
danger, "Go back to the boat, sir--and, here, Jeromio! you have not
been taught your duty on board the Providence, and, I presume, have no
scruples, like our friend Oba Springall. Jeromio! I say, hither and up
with me!"

"I am ready, sir," replied the youth, whose momentary dread had been
dispelled by this attempt to promote a rival to the post of honour; "I
am ready, sir:" muttering, however, soon afterwards to himself, as the
difficulties of the way increased, "He thinks no more of his life than
if he were a sprat or a spawn." No other word was breathed by either of
the adventurers, as they threaded the giddy path, until about midway,
when the elder paused and exclaimed, "A-hoy there, boy! there are two
steps wanting; you had better indeed go back. To me, the track has been
long familiar; not so to you."

The youth thought of his master's taunt, and Jeromio, and resolved to
take his chance. "Ay, ay, sir, no danger when I follow you." But the
peril was, in truth, appalling, though its duration was brief. Below,
the sea that was now rapidly covering the small creek, rudely agitated
and opposed by a rising breeze, dashed and foamed against the rocks. To
fall from such a height was inevitable destruction. There was scarcely
sufficient light to mark the inequality of the ascending cliffs; and a
spectator, gazing on the scene, must have imagined that those who clung
to such a spot were supported by supernatural agency. The Skipper,
nothing daunted, struck the spear, that had served as a climbing-stick,
firmly into the surface of mingled clay and stone, and then, by a
violent effort, flung himself upwards, catching with his left hand at a
slight projection that was hardly visible; thus, hanging between earth
and heaven, he coolly disengaged the staff, and placed it under the
extended arm, so as to form another prop; and feeling, as it were, his
way, he burrowed with his foot a resting in the cliff, from which he
sprang on a narrow ledge, and was in safety. He then turned to look for
his young companion, to whom he extended the boat-spear that had been of
such service. Animated by his master's success and example, Springall's
self-possession was confirmed; and both soon stood on the brow of the
precipice.

"Sharp sailing that, boy," observed the elder, as the youth panted at
his side.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Springall, wiping his face with the sleeve of his
jacket. "Take a drop, master," he continued, drawing a tin bottle from
his bosom, "'twill warm ye after such a cursed cruise."

The Skipper nodded as he accepted the flask, "I hope you are as well
armed on all points as on this; but don't take in too great a reef, or
it will make you a heavy sailor before your time: drop anchor now, and
keep watch here till further orders."

"Keep watch here, sir!" said Springall, in a mournful tone. "And did ye
bring me ashore, and up that devil's rope-ladder, to leave me to watch
here?"

The Captain looked upon him angrily for a moment. "I am rightly served
for taking man or boy out of the canting hulks that lag on the water.
Did ye ever chance to hear such a sound on board the ship Providence as
'Silence, and obey orders?' Let not your walk, youngster, extend beyond
that point, from which, at daybreak, you can catch a view of the court
tree, where, if ancient habits are not all put off, there will be
revelries ere long: the old church at Minster will be also within your
sight, while the sea between us and the Essex coast, and for miles along
the Northern ocean, can scarcely bear a sail that your young eyes will
not distinguish. Watch as if your life--as if a thousand lives hung upon
the caution of a moment; and remember, while the blue light revolves,
which you now see in the vessel's bow, all things abroad go on well. You
also know the pass-word for our friends, and the reception for our
enemies. If you should be at all afraid, three loud notes on your
whistle will summon Jeromio, and a single flash of your pistol will
bring the long-boat off, and into the creek in five minutes. You can
then tumble down the devil's rope-ladder, as you call it, and send the
less timid Italian to keep watch till my return--you understand me." So
saying he strode onwards, leaving the youth, who had not yet passed
eighteen summers, to his discontented solitude and ill-temper.

"Understand you! I wonder who does, ever did, or ever will; perched up
here like a sea-mew, and not having touched land for five weeks! 'Beyond
that point!' I'll be even with him, for I wo'n't walk to that point:
I'll just stay in the one spot." With this resolution, he flung himself
upon a bank of early wild thyme, that filled the air with its
refreshing odour. Long after his master was out of sight, he continued
pulling up tufts of the perfumed herb, and flinging them over the cliff.

"Now, by my faith," he mentally exclaimed, "I have a mind to pelt that
Jeromio with some of these clay lumps: he is enjoying a sound nap down
there, like an overgrown seal, as he is; and I am everlastingly taunted
with Jeromio! Jeromio! Jeromio! at every hand's turn. Here goes, to
rouse his slumbers." He drew himself gradually forward, and raised his
hand to fling a fragment of stone at his fellow-seaman: the arm was
seized in its uplifted position, by a figure enveloped in a dark cloak,
that, muffled closely round the face, and surmounted by a slouched hat,
worn at the time by both Cavalier and Roundhead, effectually concealed
the person from recognition. He held the youth in so iron a grasp, that
motion was almost impossible; and while the moon came forth and shone
upon them in all her majesty, the two who contended beneath her light
might have been aptly compared, in their strength and weakness, to the
mighty eagle overcoming the feeble leveret.

The stranger was the first to speak, as motioning with his disengaged
hand towards the revolving light that hung in the vessel's bow, he
inquired,--

"What colours does that ship carry?"

"Her master's, I suppose."

"And who is her master?"

"The man she belongs to."

"She's a free-trader then?"

"The sea is as free to a free ship, as the land to a free man, I take
it."

"Reptile! dare you barter words with me?--Your commander's name?"

The boy made no answer.

"Dost hear me? Your commander's name?" and as the question was repeated,
the mailed glove of the interrogator pressed painfully into Springall's
flesh, without, however, eliciting a reply.

"He has a name, I suppose?"

"That you, or any cowardly night-walker, would as soon not hear; for it
is the name of a brave man," replied the youth at last, struggling
violently, but ineffectually, to reach the whistle that was suspended
round his neck.

"Fool!" exclaimed the stranger, "dost bandy strength as well as words?
Learn that in an instant I could drop thee into the rolling ocean, like
the egg of the unwise bird." He raised the youth from the earth, and
held him over the precipice, whose base was now buried in the wild waste
of waters, that foamed and howled, as if demanding from the unyielding
rock a tribute or a sacrifice.

"Tell me thy master's name."

The heroic boy, though with certain death before him, made no reply. The
man held him for about the space of a minute and a half in the same
position: at first he struggled fiercely and silently, as a young wolf
caught in the hunter's toils; yet fear gradually palsied the body of the
unconquered mind, and his efforts became so feeble, that the stranger
placed him on his feet, saying,--

"I wish not to hurt thee, child!" adding, in a low and broken voice,
"Would that the Lord had given unto me sons endowed with the same
spirit! Wilt tell me thy own name?"

"No! If you are a friend, you know our pass-word; if a foe, you shall
not know it from me. You can go down the cliff, and ask our commander's
name from yon sleepy Orson; his tongue goes fast enough at all seasons."

The stranger entirely withdrew his hold from Springall, while he moved
towards the summit of the rock. Quick as lightning, the whistle was
applied to the youth's mouth, and three rapid, distinct notes cut
through the night air, and were echoed by the surrounding caverns.

"I thank thee, boy," said the mysterious being, calmly; "that tells of
Hugh Dalton and the Fire-fly."

And he disappeared so instantaneously from the spot, that Springall
rubbed first his eyes, and then his arm, to be assured whether the
events of the last few minutes were not the effects of a distempered
imagination. He had, however, more certain proof of its reality: for,
upon peering closely through the darkness into the thick wood that
skirted the east, he distinctly noted the glitter of steel in two or
three points at the same moment; and apprehensive that their landing
must have been witnessed by more than one person--the hostile intentions
of whom he could scarcely doubt--he examined the priming of his
pistols, called to Jeromio to look out, for that danger was at hand, and
resumed his watch, fearful, not for his own safety, but for that of his
absent commander.

In the mean time, the Skipper, who was known in the Isle of Shepey, and
upon other parts of the coast, by the name of Hugh Dalton, proceeded
uninterruptedly on his way, up and down the small luxuriant hills, and
along the fair valleys of as fertile and beautiful a district as any of
which our England can boast, until a sudden turn brought him close upon
a dwelling of large proportions and disjointed architecture, that
evidently belonged to two distinct eras. The portion of the house
fronting the place on which he stood was built of red brick, and
regularly elevated to three stories in height; the windows were long and
narrow; and the entire of that division was in strict accordance with
the taste of the times, as patronised and adopted by the rulers of the
Commonwealth. Behind, rose several square turrets, and straggling
buildings, the carved and many-paned windows of which were of very
remote date, and evidently formed from the relics of some monastery or
religious house. Here and there, the fancy or interest of the owner had
induced him to remodel the structure; and an ill-designed and ungraceful
mixture of the modern with the ancient gave to the whole somewhat of a
grotesque appearance, that was heightened by the noble trees, which had
once towered in majesty and beauty, being in many places lopped and
docked, as if even the exuberance of nature was a crime in the eyes of
the present lord of the mansion.

"Sir Robert," muttered Dalton, "may well change the name of his dwelling
from Cecil Abbey to Cecil Place. Why, the very trees are manufactured
into Roundheads. But there is something more than ordinary a-foot, for
the lights are floating through the house as if it were haunted. The
sooner I make harbour, the better."

He paced rapidly forward, and stood before a small building that was
then called a porter's lodge, but which had formerly been designated the
Abbey Gate, and which, perhaps in consideration of its simple, but
singular, beauty, had been spared all modern alteration. The ivy that
clustered and climbed to its loftiest pinnacles added a wild and
peculiar interest to this remnant of ancient architecture. It contained
a high carriage archway, and a lateral passage beneath it, both
decorated with numerous ornamental mouldings and columns, flanked at
the angles by octagonal turrets of surpassing elegance. An apartment
over the arch, which, during the reign of monastic power, had been used
as a small oratory, for the celebration of early mass to the servants
and labourers of the convent, was now appropriated to the accommodation
of the porter and his family.

The Skipper applied his hand to the bell, and rang long and loudly. For
some time no answer was returned. Again he rang, and after much delay,
an old man was seen approaching from the house, bearing a torch, which
he carefully shaded from the night wind.

"My good friend," inquired the sailor in no gentle tone, "is it Sir
Robert's wish that those who come on business should be thus kept
waiting?"

"You know little of the affliction with which it has pleased the Lord to
visit Sir Robert, or you would not have rung so loudly: our good lady is
dying!" and the old man's voice faltered as he spoke the tidings.

"Indeed!" was the only reply of Dalton, as he passed under the archway;
but the word was spoken in a tone that evinced strong feeling. The
porter requested him to walk into the lodge.

"The place is in confusion; and as to seeing my master, it is a clear
impossibility; he has not left our lady's bedside these three days, and
the doctor says she will be gathered to her kindred before morning."

"He will leave even her to attend to me; and therefore, my friend, on
your own head be the responsibility if you fail to deliver to him this
token. I tell you," added Dalton, "death could hardly keep him from me!"

The porter took the offered signet in silence, and only shook his head
in reply, as they passed together towards the house.

"You can tell me, I suppose, if Master Roland is still with his
Highness's army?"

"Alack and well-a-day! God is just and merciful; but, I take it, the
death of that noble boy has gone nigher to break my lady's heart than
any other sorrow: the flesh will war against the spirit. Had he died in
honourable combat at Marston or at Naseby, when first it was given him
to raise his arm in the Lord's cause!--but to fall in a drunken frolic,
not befitting a holy Christian to engage in--it was far more than my
poor lady could bear."

"Oliver promised to be a fine fellow."

"Do not talk of him, do not talk of him, I entreat you," replied the
domestic, placing his hand on his face to conceal his emotion; "he was,
indeed, my heart's darling. Long before Sir Robert succeeded to his
brother's property, and when we lived with my lady's father, I was the
old gentleman's huntsman, and that dear child was ever at my heels. The
Lord be praised! the Lord be praised! but I little thought the blue
waves would be his bier before he had seen his twentieth year. They are
all gone, sir: five such boys!--the girl, the lamb of the flock, only
left. You do not know her, do ye?" inquired the old man, peering with
much curiosity into the Skipper's face, as if recognising it as one he
had seen in former days.

The sailor made no answer.

They had now entered a small postern-door, which led to the hall by a
narrow passage; and the porter proceeded until they stood in one of
those vaulted entrances that usually convey an idea of the wealth and
power of the possessor.

"You can sit here till I return," observed the guide, again casting an
inquiring look upon the form and features of the guest.

"I sit in no man's hall," was the stern reply.

The porter withdrew, and the seaman, folding his arms, paced up and down
the paved vestibule, which showed evident tokens of the confusion that
sickness and death never fail to create. He paused occasionally before
the huge and gaping chimney, and extended his sinewy hands over the
flickering embers of the expiring fire: the lurid glare of the departing
flames only rendered the darkness of the farthermost portion of the hail
more deep and fearful. The clock chimed eleven: it was, as ever, the
voice of Time giving warning of eternity!

A light gleamed at the most distant end of the apartment, and a slight
but graceful girl approached the stranger. She was habited in a close
vest of grey cloth: her head covered with a linen cap, devoid of any
ornament; from under the plain border of which, a stream of hair
appeared, tightly drawn across a forehead of beautiful colour and
proportions.

"Will you please to follow, sir, to my master's study?"

Dalton turned suddenly round; the entire expression of his countenance
softened, and his firm-set lips opened, as if a word laboured to come
forth, and was retained only by an effort.

"Will you not follow, good sir?" repeated the girl, anxiously but
mildly. "My master is ill at ease, and wishes to return to my lady's
room: it may be----"

The sentence remained unfinished, and tears streamed afresh down cheeks
already swollen with weeping.

"Your name, girl?" inquired the stranger, eagerly.

"Barbara Iverk," she replied, evidently astonished at the question. He
seized her arm, and, while gazing earnestly in her face, murmured in a
tone of positive tenderness,--

"Are you happy?"

"I praise the Lord for his goodness! ever since I have been here, I have
been most happy; but my dear lady, who was so kind to me----" Again her
tears returned.

"You do not know me?--But you could not." Hugh Dalton gradually relaxed
his hold, and pulled from his bosom a purse heavy with Spanish
pieces--he presented it to the girl, but she drew back her hand and
shook her head.

"Take it, child, and buy thee a riding-hood, or a farthingale, or some
such trumpery, which thy vain sex delight in."

"I lack nothing, good sir, I thank ye; and, as to the coined silver, it
is only a tempter to the destruction of body and soul."

"As it may be used--as it may be used," repeated the sailor quickly;
"one so young would not abuse it."

"Wisdom might be needed in the expenditure; and I have heard that want
of knowledge is the forerunner of sin. Besides, I ask your pardon, good
sir, but strangers do not give to strangers, unless for charity; and I
lack nothing."

She dropped so modest a courtesy, and looked so perfectly and purely
innocent, that moisture, as unusual as it might be unwelcome, dimmed the
eyes of the stern man of ocean; and as he replaced the dollars, he
muttered something that sounded like, "I thank God she is
uncontaminated!" He then followed the gentle girl through many passages,
and up and down more than one flight of stairs: they both at length
stopped before a door that was thickly plated with iron.

"You need not wait," said Dalton, laying his hand on the latch. Barbara
paused a moment, to look on the wild being, so different from the staid
persons she was in the daily habit of seeing at the hall; and then her
light, even step, faded on the sailor's ear.

Sir Robert Cecil was standing, or rather leaning, with folded arms,
against a column of the dark marble chimney-piece, which, enriched by
various carvings and mouldings, rose nearly to the ceiling. The
Baronet's hair, of mingled grey and black, had been cropped according to
the approved fashion of the time; so that his features had not the
advantage of either shadow or relief from the most beautiful of nature's
ornaments. He might have been a few years older or younger than the
sailor who had just entered; but his figure seemed weak and bending as a
willow-wand, as he moved slowly round to receive his visiter. The
usually polite expression of his countenance deepened into the
insidious, and a faint smile rested for a moment on his lip. This
outward show of welcome contrasted strangely with the visible tremor
that agitated his frame: he did not speak; either from inability to coin
an appropriate sentence, or the more subtle motive of waiting until the
communication of the stranger was first made.

After a lengthened pause, during which Dalton slowly advanced, so as to
stand opposite Sir Robert Cecil, he commenced the conversation, without
any of that show of courtesy, which the consciousness of their relative
situations might have called for: even his cap was unremoved.

"I am sorry, Sir Robert, to have come at such a time; nor would I now
remain, were it not that my business----"

"I am not aware," interrupted the Baronet, "of any matters of
'_business_' pending between us. I imagine, on reflection, you will find
that all such have been long since concluded. If there is any way,
indeed, in which I can oblige you, for the sake of an old servant----"

"_Servant!_" in his turn interrupted Dalton, with emphasis, "we have
been companions, Sir Robert--_companions_ in more than one act; and, by
the dark heavens above us, will be so in another--if necessary."

The haughty Baronet writhed under this familiarity; yet was there an
expression of triumphant quietude in his eye, as if he despised the
insinuation of the seaman. "I think, considering all things, you have
been pretty well paid for such acts, Master Dalton; I have never taken
any man's labour for nothing."

"Labour!" again echoed the sailor, "labour may be paid for; but what can
stand in lieu of innocence, purity of heart, and rectitude of conduct?"

"Gold--which you have had, in all its gorgeous and glowing abundance."

"'Two'n't do," retorted the other, in a painfully subdued tone; "there
is much it cannot purchase. Am I not at this moment a banned and a
blighted man--scouted alike from the board of the profligate Cavalier,
and the psalm-singing Puritan of this most change-loving country? And
one day or another I may be hung up at the yard-arm of a
Commonwealth--Heaven bless the mark!--a Commonwealth cruiser!--or scare
crows from a gibbet off Sheerness or Queenborough, or be made an example
of for some act of piracy committed on the high seas!"

"But why commit such acts? You have wherewithal to live
respectably--quietly."

"Quietly!" repeated the Skipper; "look ye, Master--I crave your
pardon--_Sir_ Robert Cecil; as soon could one of Mother Carey's chickens
mount a hen-roost, or bring up a brood of lubberly turkies, as I, Hugh
Dalton, master and owner of the good brigantine, that sits the waters
like a swan, and cuts them like an arrow--live quietly, quietly, on
shore! Santa Maria! have I not panted under the hot sun off the
Caribbees? Have I not closed my ears to the cry of mercy? Have I not
sacked, and sunk, and burnt without acknowledging claim or country? Has
not the mother clasped her child more closely to her bosom at the
mention of my name? In one word, for years have I not been a BUCCANEER?
And yet you talk to me of quietness!--Sir, sir, the soul so steeped in
sin has but two resources--madness, or the grave; the last even I shrink
from; so give me war, war, and its insanity."

"Cannot you learn to fear the Lord, and trade as an honest man?"

Dalton cast a look of such mingled scorn and contempt on his companion,
that a deep red colour mounted to his cheek as he repeated, "Yes! I ask,
cannot you trade as an honest man?"

"No! a curse on trade: and I'm _not_ honest," he replied fiercely.

"May I beg you briefly to explain the object of your visit?" said the
Baronet at last, after a perplexing pause, during which the arms of the
Buccaneer were folded on his breast, and his restless and vigilant eyes
wandered round the apartment, flashing with an indefinable expression,
when they encountered the blue retreating orbs of Sir Robert.

"This, then: I require a free pardon from Old Noll, not not only for
myself, but for my crew. The brave men, who would have died, shall live,
with me. As a return for his Highness's civility, I will give up all
free trade, and take the command of a frigate, if it so please him."

"Or a revenue cutter, I presume," observed the Baronet, sarcastically.

"Curse me if I do!" replied Dalton, contemptuously--"the sharks! No, no,
I'm not come to that yet; nor would I ever think of hoisting any flag
but mine own, were it not for the sake of a small craft, as belonging
to--no matter what."

"You have seen but little of the girl."

"Too little: and why? Because I was _ashamed_ to see her--but now--not
ten minutes ago--I was glad she did not know me. Sir Robert, when your
own daughter hangs upon your arm, or looks with her innocent eyes into
your face, how do you feel?"

Sir Robert Cecil had been too well schooled in Puritanism to suffer the
emotions of his mind to affect his features. He did not reply to the
question, but skilfully turning the conversation, brought the intruder
back to his old subject.

"How do you purpose procuring this free pardon?"

"I! I know not how to procure it; I only wish it procured: the means are
in your power, not mine."

"In mine!" ejaculated the Baronet with well-feigned astonishment; "you
mistake, good Dalton, I have no interest at Whitehall; I would not ask a
favour for myself."

"That is likely; but you must ask one for me."

"_Must!_" repeated Sir Robert, "is a strange word to use to me, Dalton."

"I'm not scholar enough to find a better," replied the other insolently.

"I cannot if I would," persisted the Baronet.

"One word more, then. The Protector's plans render it impracticable for
me to continue, as I have done, on the seas: I know that I am a marked
man, and unless something be determined on, and speedily, I shall be
exposed to that ignominy which, for my child's sake, I would avoid.
Don't talk to me of impossibilities; you _can_ obtain the pardon I
desire, and, in one word, Sir Robert Cecil, you _must_!"

Sir Robert shook his head.

"At your pleasure, then, at your pleasure; but at your peril also. Mark
me! I am not one to be thrown overboard, and make no struggle--I am not
a baby to be strangled without crying! If I perish, facts shall arise
from my grave--ay, if I were sunk a thousand fathoms in my own blue
sea--facts that would---- You may well tremble and turn pale! The secret
is still in our keeping; only remember, I fall not singly!"

"Insulting villain!" said Sir Robert, regaining his self-command; "you
have now no facts, no proofs; the evidence is destroyed."

"It is _not_ destroyed, Robert Cecil," observed Dalton, calmly pulling a
bundle of papers from his vest: "look here--and here--and here--do you
not know your own hand-writing? you practised me first in deception: I
had not forgotten your kind lessons, when in your presence I committed
forged letters to the flames!"

The man laughed the laugh of contempt and bitter scorn as he held
forward the documents. For a few moments Sir Robert seemed petrified;
his eyes glared on the papers, as if their frozen lids had not the power
of shutting out the horrid proofs of his iniquity. Suddenly he made a
desperate effort to secure them; but the steady eye and muscular arm of
the smuggler prevented it.

"Hands off!" he exclaimed, whirling the Baronet from him, as if he had
been a thing of straw; "you know my power, and you know my terms: there
needs no more palaver about it."

"Will not gold serve your purpose?"

"No, I have enough of that: I want distinction and fame, a free pardon,
and the command of one of your registered and acknowledged plunderers;
or, mayhap, baptism for my own bright little Fire-fly, as the 'Babe of
Grace;' or--But, hang it, no--I'd sink the vessel first, and let her
die, as she has lived, free, free, free! _I_ belong to a civilised set
of beings, and must therefore be a slave, a slave to something or some
one. Noll knows my talents well, knows that I am as good a commander,
ay, and for the matter of that, would be as honest a one as the best."

He paused: the Baronet groaned audibly.

"We have one or two little jobs upon the coasts here of Kent and Essex,
trifles that must, nevertheless, be attended to; but this day month, Sir
Robert Cecil, we meet again. I will not longer keep you from your wife.
Gracious Heaven! where was I when mine expired! But farewell! I would
not detain you for her sweet and gentle sake: she will be rewarded for
her goodness to my child! Remember," he added, closing the door,
"remember--one month, and Hugh Dalton!"




CHAPTER II.

    Death! be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poor Death----
    *     *     *     *     *
    ----Why swell'st thou, then?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally';
    And Death shall be no more:--Death! thou shalt die.

      DR. DONNE.


When Sir Robert Cecil returned to his wife's chamber, all within was
silent as the grave. He approached the bed; his daughter rose from the
seat she had occupied by its side, and motioned him to be still,
pointing at the same time to her mother, and intimating that she slept.
"Thank God for that!" he murmured, and drew his hand across his brow,
while his chest heaved as if a heavy weight had been removed from it.
The attendants had left the room to obtain some necessary refreshment
and repose, and father and daughter were alone with the sleeper in the
chamber of death. The brow of Lady Cecil was calm, smooth, and
unclouded, white as alabaster, and rendered still more beautiful by the
few tresses of pale auburn hair that escaped from under the head-tire.
The features were of a noble yet softened character, although painfully
emaciated; and not a shadow of colour tinged her upturned lip. Her
sleep, though occasionally sound, was restless, and the long shadowy
fingers, that lay on the embroidered coverlet, were now and then
stirred, as if by bodily or mental suffering. There was an atmosphere of
silence, not of repose, within the apartment, at once awful and
oppressive; and Sir Robert breathed as if his breathings were but a
continuation of suppressed sobs.

Constance Cecil, never in earlier life, never in after years, gracious
and beautiful as she ever was, appeared half so interesting to her
unhappy father as at that moment. There was at all times about her a
majesty of mind and feeling that lent to her simplest word and action a
dignity and power, which, though universally felt, it would have been
impossible to define. If one could have procured for her a kingdom to
reign over, or have chosen from the galaxy of heaven a region worthy her
command, it must have been that pale and holy star, which, splendid and
alone in the firmament, heralds the approach of day; so unfitted might
she have been deemed to mingle with a world less pure, so completely
placed by nature above all the littleness of ordinary life. Her noble
and majestic form was the casket of a rich and holy treasure, and her
father's conscience had often quailed, when contemplating the severity
of her youthful virtue. Dearly as he loved his wife, he respected his
daughter more, and the bare idea that certain occurrences of former
years might be known to her was as a poisoned dagger in his heart. He
had been a daring, and was still an ambitious man--successful in all
that men aim to succeed in; wealthy, honoured, and powerful, and--what
is frequently more ardently sought for than all--feared; yet would he
rather have sacrificed every advantage he had gained--every desire for
which he had unhesitatingly bartered his own self-esteem--every
distinction he had considered cheaply purchased at the price of
conscience, than have lost the good opinion, the confiding love of his
only child. Even now he looked upon her with mingled feelings of dread
and affection, though her bearing was subdued and her lofty spirit bowed
by sorrow, as she stood before him, the thick folds of her dressing-gown
falling with classic elegance to her feet, her fine hair pushed back
from her forehead and carelessly twisted round her head, and her
countenance deepened into an expression of the most intense anxiety:
while, assured that the invalid slept on, she whispered into his ear
words of consolation, if not of hope.

Lady Cecil had existed for some days in a state of frightful delirium,
and, during that time, her ravings had been so loud and continued, that
her present repose was elysium to those who loved her. Constance bent
her knees, and prayed in silence, long and fervently, for support. Sir
Robert, leaning back in the richly-cushioned chair, covered his face
with his hands, withdrawing them only when the sleeper groaned or
breathed more heavily. At length both felt as if death had indeed
entered the chamber, so motionless lay the object of their love: they
continued gazing from each other to the couch, until the misty light of
morning streamed coldly through the open shutters. Another hour of sad
watching passed, and, with a long and deeply drawn sigh, the sufferer
opened her eyes: they were no longer wild and wandering, but rested with
calm intelligence on her husband and her child.

"It is long since I have seen you, except in strange dreams," she said,
or rather murmured; "and now I shall be with you but for a very little
time!"

Constance put to her lips a silver cup containing some refreshment,
while Sir Robert supported her head on his arm.

"Call no one in. Constance--Cecil--my moments now are numbered:--draw
back the curtains, that I may once more look upon the light of morning!"
Constance obeyed; and the full beams of day entered the room. "How
beautiful! how glorious!" repeated the dying woman, as her sight drank
in the reviving light; "it heralds me to immortality--where there is no
darkness--no disappointment--no evil! How pale are the rays of that
lamp, Cecil! How feeble man's inventions, contrasted with the works of
the Almighty!" Constance rose to extinguish it. "Let it be," she
continued, feebly; "let it be, dearest; it has illumined my last night,
and we will expire together." The affectionate daughter turned away to
hide her tears; but when did the emotion of a beloved child escape a
mother's notice?--"Alas! my noble Constance weeping! I thought she, at
all events, could have spared me this trial:--leave us for a few
moments; let me not see you weep, Constance--let me not see it--tears
enough have fallen in these halls;--do not mourn, my child, that your
mother will find rest at last."

How often did Constantia remember these words! How often, when the heart
that dictated such gentle chiding, had ceased to beat, did Constantia
Cecil, gazing into the depths of the blue and mysterious sky, think upon
her mother in heaven!

Lady Cecil had much to say to her husband during the remaining moments
of her existence; but her breathing became so feeble, that he was
obliged to lean over the couch to catch her words.

"We part, my own, and only beloved husband, for ever in this
world;--fain would I linger yet a little, to recount how much I have
loved you--in our more humble state--in this--oh! how falsely termed our
prosperity. My heart has shared your feelings. In our late bitter
trials, more than half my grief was, that you should suffer. Oh, Robert!
Robert! now, when I am about to leave you and all, for ever--how my
heart clings--I fear, sinfully clings--to the remembrance of our earlier
and purer happiness! My father's house! The noble oak, where the
ring-doves built, and under whose shadow we first met! The stream--where
you and Herbert--wild, but affectionate brother!--Oh! Robert, do not
blame me, nor start so at his name;--his only fault was his devotion to
a most kind master!--but who, that lived under the gentle influence of
Charles Stuart's virtues, could have been aught but devoted?--And yet
what deadly feuds came forth from this affection! Alas! his rich
heritage has brought no blessing with it. I never could look upon these
broad lands as ours--Would that his child had lived--and then--But they
are all gone now--all gone!--Alas! what had we to do with courts, or
courts with us?--Our domestic comforts have been blighted--our hearth
left desolate--the children for whom you toiled, and hoped, and planned,
have been removed from us--nipped in the bud, or the first
blossoming!--And oh, Cecil! take the words of a dying woman to heart,
when she tells you, that you will go down childless to your grave, if
you do not absolve our beloved Constance from her promise to him whom
she can neither respect nor love. She will complete the contract, though
it should be her death-warrant, rather than let it be said a daughter of
the house of Cecil acted dishonourably--she will complete it,
Robert--she will complete it--and then die!"

Lady Cecil, overcome by emotion and exertion, fell back fainting and
exhausted on her pillow. Recovering herself, however, after a brief
pause she added, in a broken whispering voice, "Forgive me, my dear,
dear husband;--my mind is wandering--my thoughts are unconnected--but my
affection for you--for Constance--is strong in death. I mean not to pain
you, but to warn--for the sake of our only child--of the only thing that
remains to tell you of your wife. My breath trembles on my lips--there
is a mist before mine eyes--call her in, that my spirit may depart--may
ascend heavenward on the wings of prayer!--"

Sir Robert was moving towards the door, when her hand motioned him back.

"Promise--promise that you will never force her to wed that
man!--more--that you yourself will break the contract!"

"Truly, and solemnly do I swear, that I will never force her to
fulfil--nay, that I will never even urge her to its fulfilment."

The dying lady looked unsatisfied, and some unpronounced words agitated
her lips, as Constance entered unbidden, but most welcome. She knelt by
her mother's side, and took the hand so feebly but affectionately
extended towards her. The fearful change that had occurred during her
short absence was but too visible. The breath that touched her cheek was
cold as the morning mist. The sufferer would have folded her hands in
prayer, but the strength had departed before the spirit was gone.
Constance, seeing that the fine expression of life with which her
upturned eyes had glittered was gradually passing away, clasped her
mother's hands within her own: suddenly they struggled for freedom, and
as her eye followed the pointing of her parent's finger, she saw the
lamp's last beam flicker for a moment, and then expire!--Her mother,
too, was dead!

       *       *       *       *       *

It is ill to break upon the solitude of the dying, though it is good to
enter into the solemn temple of death; it is a sad but a useful lesson
to lift the pall; to raise the coffin-lid; to gaze upon all we loved,
upon all that was bright, and pure, and beautiful, changing with a slow
but certain change to decay and corruption. The most careless cannot
move along the chamber of death without being affected by the awful
presence of the King of Terrors. The holy quiet that ought to
characterise a funeral procession is too frequently destroyed by the
empty pomp and heartlessness which attend it; but in the death-chamber
there is nothing of this; the very atmosphere seems impregnated with the
stillness of the time when there was no life in the broad earth, and
when only "God moved on the face of the waters." Our breath comes slowly
and heavily to our lips, and we murmur forth our words as if the spirit
watched to record them in the unchanging book of immortality.

In due time, the funeral train of Lady Cecil prepared to escort the
corpse to its final home. Sir Robert was too ill, and too deeply
afflicted to be present at the ceremony; and as he had no near relative,
Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell, the knight to whom his daughter's hand
was plighted, was expected to take his station as chief mourner. The
people waited for some hours with untiring patience; the old steward
paced backwards and forwards from the great gate, and at last took his
stand there, looking out from between its bars, hoping that, wild and
reckless as Burrell really was, he would not put so great an affront
upon the Cecil family, as to suffer its late mistress to go thus
unhonoured to the grave.

The day advanced, and as neither the gentleman, nor any one to show
cause for his absence, appeared, strange whisperings and surmises arose
amongst the crowd, which had assembled from all the villages on the
island, as to the probable motive of this most ill-advised delay. More
than one messenger was despatched to the top of Minster Church to look
out and see if any person like Sir Willmott was crossing the King's
Ferry, the only outlet in general use from the island to the main land:
but though the passage-boat, conducted (as it was termed) by Jabez
Tippet, was evidently employed as much as usual, there was no token to
justify farther waiting. The Rev. Jonas Fleetword, one of the soundest
of Puritan divines, stood like a statue of cast iron in the doorway, his
arms folded on his breast, and his brow contracting into a narrow and
fretted arch, as the minute-hand moved round and round the dial of the
old clock. At length assuming to himself the command, which in those
times was as willingly ceded to the Reformed minister as it had formerly
been to the not more arbitrary Catholic priest, he ordered the
procession "to tarry no longer the coming of him whose feet were shod
with heaviness, but to depart forthwith in the name of the Lord."

The place of interment was at East Church, a distance of about four
miles from Cecil Place; and as they paced it but slowly, the increasing
chill of the gathering clouds gave intimation that the prime of day was
sinking into the eventide before the spire was in sight. As they at
length ascended the hill, upon the summit of which was the vault of the
Cecils, a young gentleman, mounted on a grey and noble charger, met the
funeral train so suddenly, that those who preceded halted, and for a
moment it was rumoured, that Sir Willmott Burrell, though late and last,
had taken the lower road from King's Ferry, and so arrived in time to
behold the remains of her who was to have been his mother, deposited in
the tomb.

When the people observed, however, that the salutation of respect made
by the youth to the Rev. Jonas Fleetword was followed by no sign of
recognition, they moved silently onward, marvelling amongst themselves
at the young gentleman's keeping a little in advance of the clergyman,
so as to take the exact station which belonged to the chief mourner. He
was habited in a suit of the deepest black; and though the cloak which
fell in ample folds from his throat concealed his figure, yet his
movements indicated that it was slight and graceful. His broad hat
completely shaded his face, but the luxuriant curls of light air, which,
moistened by the misty atmosphere, fell negligently beneath its brim,
intimated that he was more akin to the Cavalier than the Roundhead.

By the time the ceremony was concluded, and the divine had finished one
of those energetic and powerful appeals to the feelings which so
effectually roused or subdued, as it pleased him to desire, darkness had
nearly shrouded the surrounding landscape; and the multitude, whom
respect or curiosity had assembled, retired from the churchyard, and
wended to their homes. The year was in its third month, and the weather,
which, when Hugh Dalton landed, had been clear and fine, was now foggy
and cold:--

    "The dewy night had with her frosty shade
    Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground
    Sparkled in ice----"

Yet the steed of the youth, who had so unceremoniously joined Lady
Cecil's funeral, was cropping the withered grass from the churchyard
graves, while his master, apparently unconscious of the deepening night,
leaned against one of the richly ornamented stone slabs that marked the
entrance to the vault.

Suddenly the clatter of horses' hoofs sounded on the crisp road, the
cavalier involuntarily placed his hand on his sword, and his horse
lifted his head from the earth, bent back his ears, and whinnied in the
low and peculiar tone that serves to intimate the approach of strangers.
The travellers (for there were two) halted at the churchyard gate.

"What ho there!" exclaimed the foremost--"you, sir, who are pondering in
graveyards at this hour, canst tell me if Lady Cecil's funeral took
place this morning?"

"Her ladyship was buried this evening," replied the other, at the same
time fairly drawing his sword out of its scabbard, though the movement
was concealed by his cloak.

"They waited then?"

"They did, for one whose presence was not needed."

"And pray, how know you that? or knowing, think you it wisdom, Sir
Dolorous, to give forth such knowledge, when it might be him they
tarried for who questioneth?"

"It is because I know you, Sir Willmott Burrell, that I am so free of
speech," replied the youth, vaulting into his saddle; "and I repeat it,
your presence was not needed. The lady, as you truly know, loved you not
while living; it was well, therefore, that you profaned not her burial
by a show of false grief."

"Here's a ruffler!" exclaimed the other, turning to his follower. "And
pray who are you?"

"You shall know that, good sir, when you least desire it," answered he
of the black cloak, reining up his horse, that pawed and pranced
impatiently: he then loosened the bridle, and would have crossed Burrell
to pass into the highway; but the other shouted to his associate, "Hold,
stop him, Robin! stop him in the name of the Lord! 'tis doubtless one of
the fellows who have assailed his Highness's life--a leveller--a
leveller! a friend of Miles Syndercomb, or some such ruffian, who is
tarrying in this remote part of the island for some opportunity of
escape. If you are an innocent man, you will remain; if guilty, this
shall be my warrant."

He attempted to pull forth a pistol from his belt, but, before his
purpose could be accomplished, the point of his adversary's rapier
rested on his throat, which, at the same instant, was grasped with more
strength than so slight a person could be supposed to possess. Burrell
cried to his comrade for help, but he was already out of hearing, having
set spurs to his horse the moment he had seen the assault; he then
entreated for quarter in an altered and humbled tone.

"I am neither a robber nor a murderer," replied the youth; "but, not
having pistols, I hold my own safety of too much value to relax my
grasp, till you pledge your honour not to attack me but with the same
weapon I can use in my defence."

Burrell pledged his word "as a Christian and a soldier:" the stranger
withdrew his sword.

"And now," said he, fixing himself firmly in his seat, and rolling his
cloak around his left arm, "if you wish for honourable combat, I am at
your service; if not, sir, I take my way, and you can proceed on yours."
He drew up to his full height, and awaited Burrell's answer, who sat as
if undetermined what course to pursue. He did not long hesitate; the
villain's ready friend--treachery--was at his elbow; in an instant the
pistol was presented to the head of his confiding antagonist, who,
though unprepared for such an act, bent forward previous to the effort
of raising himself in the saddle to give more strength to his good
steel. At the very instant that he bowed himself the ruffian fired! The
ball passed over him--he swayed in his saddle; the next moment, reining
up his horse, he prepared to punish such dastardly conduct as it
deserved; but, as worthless purposes are sometimes accomplished by
worthy instruments, the fleet steed that Burrell rode was far on its way
towards Minster, its track marked by fire-sparks, which glittered in the
thickening darkness.

The youth remained on the same spot until the sound of the horse's hoofs
were lost in the distance, and then, setting spurs to his own gallant
grey, proceeded on his course.




CHAPTER III.

    "Now is the time when rakes their revels keep;
    Kindlers of riot, enemies of sleep."

      GAY.


  "A brewer may be like a fox or a cub,
  And teach a lecture out of a tub,
  And give the wicked world a rub,
                  Which nobody can deny.

  A brewer may be as bold as Hector,
  When he had drunk his cup of nectar;
  And a brewer may be a Lord Protector,
                  Which nobody can deny.

  But here remains the strangest thing,
  How this brewer about his liquor did bring
  To be an Emperor or King,
                  Which nobody can deny.

  Then push the brewer's liquor about,
  And loudly let each true man shout--
  Shout--"

"Shout not, I pray you, but rather keep silence," exclaimed an old
woman, cautiously opening the door of a room in which the revellers were
assembled, and thus interrupting their rude, but animated harmony;
"shout not: you may hear a horse's tramp without; and Crisp grumbles so
hard, that sure I am 'tis no friend's footstep."

"Why, mother," cried one of the company, winking on the rest, "you say
it was a horse you heard?"

"Well! and I say so still, good Master Roupall."

"Sure you do not make friends of horses?"

"Better make them of horses than of asses," replied the crone, bitterly;
and the laugh was raised against Roupall, who, as with all jesters,
could ill brook the jest that was at his own expense.

"I hear no tramp, and see no reason why you should interrupt us thus
with your hooting, you ill-favoured owl," he exclaimed fiercely.

"Hush!" she replied, placing her finger on her lip, while the little
terrier that stood at her feet, as if comprehending the signal, crept
stealthily to the door, and laying his nose on the floor, drew in his
breath; and then erecting his ears, and stiffening his short tail,
uttered a low determined growl.

"There are strangers, and near us too," observed an older man, who had
hitherto remained silent; "there is little doubt of their being
unfriendly: we had therefore better, seeing it would be imprudent to
fight, retreat."

"Retreat! and why, I wonder?" inquired Roupall, the most reckless and
daring of the set; and whose efforts were invariably directed towards
meriting the soubriquet of "Jack the Rover," by which he was usually
designated among his associates; "what care we, whether they be friends
or foes! let them enter. Old Noll has too much to do abroad, to heed a
few noisy troopers in an obscure hostelry in the Isle of Shepey."

"You are always heedless," observed the other; "and would sell your soul
for an hour's mirth."

"My soul thanks you for the compliment, truly, Master Grimstone, and my
body would repay you for it, if there was time, which, I take it, there
lacks just now, for it is past eleven. Observe, gentlemen, Jack Roupall
retreats not--he only retires." As he spoke, he pushed from a corner of
the apartment, a huge settle of black oak, that apparently required the
strength of six men to displace, but which the trooper handled as easily
as if it had been a child's cradle. He then slid aside a panel, that
fitted most accurately into the wall, of which it appeared a part; and
in a few moments the party, consisting of some five or six, had entered
the aperture, carrying with them the remnants of their feast, at the
particular request of the old woman, who exhibited great alarm lest any
symptom of revelling should remain. The last had hardly made good his
retreat, when a loud knock at the door confirmed the dame in her
apprehensions.

"In the devil's name!" she growled, "how am I to shove this mountain
into its place? One of you must remain here; I might as well attempt to
throw Blackburn cliff into the sea."

"I'll stay then, if you'll wait a minute," replied Roupall; "I defy the
devil and all his works; and old Noll himself, the worst of them:--so
here goes."

Another and a louder noise testified the traveller's impatience; but the
summons was repeated a third time before the settle was replaced, and
the room restored to its usually desolate and inhospitable appearance.
Roupall ascended a narrow ladder, that led to the loft of the
cottage-like dwelling, carrying with him a pack resembling those used by
itinerant venders of goods; and Mother Hays (for such was her cognomen)
holding the flickering candle in one hand, unfastened the door with the
other, while Crisp crouched and snarled at her feet.

"You could not have been all asleep, dame," said the stranger, as he
threw off his horseman's cloak, and hung his rapier on the back of the
nearest seat, "for I distinctly saw lights. Is your son within?"

"No, marry, good sir; he is far away, in London, with his master, Sir
Willmott Burrell, who was looked for home to-day, but came not, as I
hear from some neighbours, belonging to East Church and Warden, who were
at Lady Cecil's funeral."

"Do you expect me to believe there is no one in the house but yourself?"

"One other kind gentleman, a pedlar-man, a simple body, who lies above;
he's weary travelling, and sleeps soundly."

The stranger took off his hat; and as he shook his head, throwing
completely back the hair that had in some degree overshadowed his face,
the old woman started, and an undefined expression of astonishment and
doubt burst from her lips. The gentleman either did not, or appeared not
to notice the effect he produced; but carefully drew from his bosom a
small book or tablet, and read in it for some minutes with much
attention, turning over and over the one or two leaves upon which his
eyes were fixed.

"And are you sure, good woman, that no other persons are in your house
save this same pedlar?" he inquired, now fixing his gaze steadily on the
withered countenance of Mother Hays.

"Alack! yes, sir, few travellers come to the lone widow's door, and it's
an out o' the way place: wouldn't your honour like some supper, or a
stoop of wine, or, mayhap, a glass of brandy?--it is useful these raw
nights; or a rasher and eggs?"

"Are you quite certain there is no other in the house, and that your son
is really not returned?" he again inquired, heedless of her invitation.

"Why should I deceive your honour?--am I not old, and would you that I
should so sin against the Lord?"

"You were not always thus piously given," replied the youth, smiling.
"Know you aught of this token?" and he united his hands after a
particular fashion: "heard you never the words----" and he whispered a
short sentence into her ear: upon which she dropped a reverential
courtesy, and, without reply, ascended, as quickly as her age and
infirmities permitted, the ladder that led to Roupall's place of
retreat. Ere she returned, however, accompanied by the trooper, another
person had entered the dwelling. It was no other than her son Robin, for
whom the gentleman had first inquired, and they were both engaged in
such deep and earnest conversation, that neither noticed the addition to
the party, until the old woman had thrown her arms around her son's
neck, so as almost to stifle him with her caresses, seeming to lose all
sense of the stranger's presence in the fulness of joy at the youth's
return.

"There, mother, that will do; why, you forget I have been in London
lately, and 'tis not the court fashion to rejoice and be glad. Besides,
I have seen his Highness, and his Highness's daughters, and his
Highness's sons, and drank, in moderation, with his Highness's servants:
so, stand off, good mother, stand off!----'honour to whom honour.'" And
Robin laid his finger on his nose, while a remarkable expression of
cunning and shrewdness passed along his sharp and peculiar features.

As he busied himself with preparations for the guest's supper, it was
impossible to avoid observing his quick and energetic movements, spare
body, dwarfish stature, and long apish arms, that appeared in greater
disproportion when viewed beside the now sedate and elevated carriage,
the muscular and finely-developed form of the bulky trooper. And, in
good sooth, it seemed that Roupall little relished the extraordinary
civility shown to the new comer, both by mother and son. Had the
stranger been disposed to hold any converse with him, matters might have
been different; but he neither asked nor required information--sitting,
after his return from the shed in which he had seen his horse sheltered,
with his legs stretched out in front of the warm fire, his arms folded
on his bosom, and his eyes fixed on the blazing wood that lent a
brilliant light to the surrounding objects--giving a simple, though not
uncourteous reply of "Yea," or "Nay," to the leading questions
occasionally put to him by his rough, yet inquisitive companion. At
length, when the rashers were dressed and deposited on the table,
flanked on either side with a flagon of Canary and of Gascoigne, and the
traveller had done ample justice to his cheer, he, with a conciliating
smile and bow, wished the widow and Roupall "Good night," and followed
Robin up the ladder, observing that his rest must be very brief, as he
had occasion to start early next morning, and begging the good widow and
her friend to finish the draught of her own excellent wine, to which he
feared to render farther justice. Some time elapsed ere Robin returned;
and when he did, he perceived that Roupall was in no gentle humour.

"Have you warmed the chicken's nest, and taken good and tender care of
the gentle bird, according to orders, Robin? Gadzooks! I see so many
cocks with hens' feathers now-a-days--sweet-scented Cavaliers, who could
no more draw a trigger than they could mount the moon, that I think Hugh
Dalton must line the Fire-fly with miniver to bring them safely over. A
murrain take such fellows! say I--close-mouthed, long-eared scoundrels.
D--n it! I love a frank heart----"

"And a bloody hand, Master Roupall."

"Stuff! stuff! Robin; few of either party can show clean hands these
times; but does yon gallant come from over sea?"

"It might be that he dropped from the sky, for that is over the sea, you
know."

"Faugh! you are as snappish as a cur whelp. I mean, what is he about?"

"Sleeping. Zooks! I'm sure he sleeps."

"Is he of good credit?"

"Faith, Roupall, I know not his banker."

"Good again, Master Robin; upon what grinding-stone were your wits
sharpened?"

"Right loyally, good trooper; even upon King Log," replied Robin,
grinning maliciously; and then, as if fearful that the gathering storm
would forthwith burst, he continued: "Come, let's have a carouse, and
wake the sleepers in that snug nest between walls; let's welcome in the
morning, like gay gallants, while I tell you the court news, and exhibit
the last court fashion, as it graces my own beautiful form!"

The man looked at him and smiled, soothed into something resembling
good-nature by the odd humour and appearance of his old companion, who
was tricked out, with much precision, in a blue doublet and yellow hose,
while a large bow of sad-coloured riband, with fringed ends, dangled
from either knee. He then glanced a look of complacency on his own
proper person, and replied,--

"No, let them sleep, Robin; they are better off than I. That maidenlike
friend of yours has taken possession of my bed, after your mother's
routing me up as if I had been a stoat or a dormouse. Of course he is a
Cavalier: I suppose he has a name; but is that, too, a secret?"

"Master Roupall," replied the other, with a look of great sagacity, "as
to the person, it's hard to say who's who, these times; and as to the
name, why, as you say, I suppose he has a name, and doubtless a good
one, though I cannot exactly now call to mind what it is; for at
court----"

"D--n court!" interrupted the other--"you're all court-smitten, I'm
thinking. In plain English, I want to know who this youngster is? When
Hugh is in one of his romances, he cares not who or what he sends us,
either here, or, what is of more consequence, on the main-land--and we
are to receive them and 'tend them, and all the time, mayhap, are
hazarding our own heads; for I'd bet an even wager that one of the
ferrymen is a spy in the pay of old red-nose; and it's little we get for
such hazards--it's many a day since even a keg of brandy has been run
ashore."

"You have sworn an oath, for which I should exact, I think, the sum of
three shillings and four-pence, Jack the Rover; but, I fear me, thou
hast not wherewithal to satisfy the law, even in a small thing, until
thou offerest thy neck unto the halter as a sacrifice. But did Hugh
Dalton ever bring you, or any man, into trouble yet?" continued Robin,
composing his comic features into a grave and quiet character.

"I can't say that he did."

"I am sure he has had opportunities enough."

"I'm not going to deny that Hugh's a fine fellow, Robin; but I remember,
long ago, ay, thirteen or fourteen years past, before he entered on the
regular buccaneering trade, there wasn't a firmer Cavalier amongst the
whole of us Kentish men. Blazes! how he fought at Marston! But a few
years' sunning off the hot Havannah either scorches the spirit out of a
man, or burns it in."

"And what reason have you to think that Hugh is not now a good
Cavalier?"

"Pshaw! he grows old, and it's no good trying to pull Oliver down. He's
charmed. Ay, you may laugh; but no one of us could have escaped the
bullet of Miles Syndercomb, to say nothing of dark John Talbot:--I tell
ye, he is spell-guarded. Hugh is a knowing one, and has some plan
a-foot, or he wouldn't keep beating about this coast as he does, after
being so long from it, and using every county but Sussex and Kent. I
wonder, too, what placed you, Master Robin, in Burrell of Burrell's
service: I thought you were a man of taste till then."

Robin again grinned; and, as his wide mouth literally extended from ear
to ear, his face looked, as it were, divided by some accident; so
separate did the chin appear from the upper portion of the countenance.

"If you wo'n't talk," growled out the trooper, "I hope you will pay
those who do so for your amusement."

"Thou wouldst have me believe, then, thou art no genuine disinterested
talker. Ah! Roupall, Roupall! acquaintance with courts has taught me,
that nature in the first place, and society in the second, have imposed
upon us mortals two most disagreeable necessities: the one is that of
eating; the other, that of talking. Now nature is a tyrant, and society
is a tyrant; and I, being a tyrant-hater----"

"'Slife, man--or mongrel--or whatever you choose to call your twisted
carcass," interrupted Roupall, angrily, "hold your jibber. I wonder Joan
Cromwell did not seize upon you, and keep you as her chief ape, while
you were making your courtly acquaintance. A pretty figure for courts,
truly!--ah! ah! ah!" As he laughed, he pointed his finger scornfully
towards Robin Hays, who, however little he might care to jest upon his
own deformity, was but ill inclined to tolerate those who even hinted at
his defects. As the trooper persevered, his victim grew pale and
trembled with suppressed rage. The man perceived the effect his cruel
mockery produced, and continued to revile and take to pieces the
mis-shapen portions of his body with most merciless anatomy. Robin
offered, in return, neither observation nor reproach;--at first
trembling and change of colour were the only indications of his
feelings--then he moved restlessly on his seat, and his bright and
deeply sunken eyes gleamed with untamable malignity; but, as Roupall
followed one jeer more brutal than the rest, with a still more
boisterous laugh, and, in the very rapture of his success, threw himself
back in his chair, the tiger spirit of Robin burst forth to its full
extent: he sprang upon the trooper so suddenly, that the Goliath was
perfectly conquered, and lay upon the floor helpless as an overgrown and
overfed Newfoundland dog, upon whose throat a sharp and bitter terrier
has fastened. At length, after much exertion, he succeeded in standing
erect against the wall of the apartment, though still unable to
disengage Robin's long arms and bony fingers from his throat, where he
hung like a mill-stone: it was some minutes ere the gigantic man had
power to throw from him the attenuated being whom, on ordinary
occasions, he could have lifted between his finger and thumb.

Robin gathered himself up on the spot to which Roupall had flung him;
his chin resting on his knees, round which his arms were clasped; his
narrow chest and shoulders heaving with the exertion of the conflict;
his eyes wild and glittering, yet fixed upon his adversary, like those
of some fierce animal eager to dart upon its prey. The trooper shook
himself, and passed his hand once or twice over his throat, as if to
ascertain whether or not he were really strangled; then returning
Robin's gaze as steadily, though with a far different expression, he
said,--

"Upon my soul, you are as strong a hand at a grapple as I would care to
meet; nor would I believe, did I not know it, that Roupall the Rover,
who has borne more blows upon his thick head than there are days in
February, and rises six feet two without boots, could be half choked by
little Robin the Ranger, who stands forty inches in his shoes;--but I
beg pardon for offending a man of your mettle. I warrant you safe from
any future jests of mine; I like not quarrelling with old friends--when
there is nothing to be got by it. Tut, man! leave off your moping, and
shake hands, like a Christian. You wo'n't! why you are not going to
convert your body into a nursery for bad blood, are you? What would
pretty Barbara Iverk say to that?"

Robin laughed a laugh so loud, so shrill, so unearthly, that it echoed
like a death-howl along the walls; then stretched out and looked on his
ill-formed limbs, extended his long and grappling fingers, and muttered
bitterly, "Curse!--curse!--curses on myself! I am a dainty morsel for a
fair girl's love! Ah! ah! ah! a dainty morsel!" he repeated, and covered
his face with his broad palms. Thus, shutting out the sight of his own
deformities, and rocking himself backwards and forwards, moaning and
jibbering like one distraught, he remained for several minutes. At
length poor Crisp, who had been a most anxious spectator of the scene,
ran timidly to his master, and, standing on his hind legs, began licking
his fingers with an affectionate earnestness, more soothing to his
agitated feelings than all the sincere apologies of the trooper, whose
rough good-nature was really moved at what had taken place. Slowly
uncovering his face, Robin pressed the little animal to his bosom,
bending his head over it, and muttering in a tone the dog seemed fully
to understand, by the low whine with which he returned the caress. After
a time his eyes met those of Roupall's, but their meaning was totally
changed: they no longer sparkled with fury, but were as quiet and
subdued as if nothing had occurred.

"You'll shake hands now," exclaimed the trooper, "and make the child's
bargain."

Robin, rising, extended his hand; and it was cordially taken by his
adversary, who soon after removed the settle, and entered the concealed
room to join his slumbering companions.

Whatever were Robin's plans, reflections, or feelings, time alone can
develope; for, laying himself before the yet burning embers of the fire,
he appropriated the stranger's cloak as a coverlet, in which to enshroud
himself and Crisp; and, if oral demonstrations are to be credited, was
soon in a profound sleep.




CHAPTER IV.

                        Yet not the more
    Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt
    Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
    Smit with the love of sacred song.
    *     *     *     *     *
    Great things, and full of wonder, in our ears,
    Far differing from the world, thou hast revealed,
    Divine Interpreter.

      MILTON.


The morning that followed was rife with the sweet and balmy air and the
gay sunshine, so duly prized in our variable climate, because of the
rarity of their occurrence; more especially when the year is yet too
young to assist with vigour the energies of all-industrious nature. The
trees, in their faint greenery, looked cheerful as the face of
childhood: the merry birds were busied after their own gentle fashion
forming their dwellings in the covert and solitude of the wooded slopes
which effectually sheltered Cecil Place from the chill blast of the
neighbouring sea. The freshened breeze came so kindly through the thick
underwood, as to be scarcely felt by the early wanderers of the upland
hill or valley green. Even the rough trooper, Roupall, yielded to the
salutary influence of the morn; and as he toiled in his pedlar's guise
across the downs, which were mottled with many hundred sheep, and
pointed the pathway to King's Ferry, his heart softened within him.
Visions of his once happy home in Cumberland--of the aged parents who
fostered his infancy--of the companions of his youth, before he had
lived in sin, or dwelt with sorrow--of the innocent girl, who had loved,
though she had forsaken him--all passed before him; the retrospect
became the present; and his heart swelled painfully within him; for he
thought on what he had been, and on what he was, until, drawing his
coarse hand across his brows, he gave forth a dissolute song, seeking,
like many who ought to be wiser, to stifle conscience by tumultuous
noise.

About the same hour, our friend Robin Hays was more than usually active
in his mother's house, which we have already described, and which was
known by the name of the "Gull's Nest." The old woman had experienced
continued kindness from the few families of rank and wealth who at that
time resided in Shepey. With a good deal of tact, she managed outwardly
to steer clear of all party feuds; though people said she was by no
means so simple as she pretended; but the universal sympathy of her
neighbours was excited by her widowed and almost childless state--three
fine sons having been slain during the civil wars--and the fourth, our
acquaintance Robin, being singularly undervalued, on the ordinary
principle, we may presume, that "a prophet hath no honour in his own
country." This feeling of depreciation Robin certainly returned with
interest, indulging a most bitter, and, occasionally, biting contempt
for all the high and low in his vicinity, the family at Cecil Place
forming the only exception. Despite his defects natural and acquired, he
had, however, managed to gain the good opinion of Burrell of Burrell,
who, though, frequently on the island, possessed only a small portion of
land within its boundary. Into his service he entered for the purpose of
accompanying the knight to London as travelling-groom; and he had
rendered himself so useful while sojourning in the metropolis, that
Burrell would fain have retained him in his employ--a project, however,
to which Robin strenuously objected, the moment it was communicated to
him. "Nature," he said, "had doubtless made him a bond-slave; but he
liked her fetters so little, that he never would be slave to any one or
any thing beside." He therefore returned to the "Gull's Nest" on the
night his late master arrived at Cecil Place, from which his mother's
home was distant about three miles.

Never was there a dwelling more appropriately named than the cottage of
Mother Hays. It stood on either a real or artificial eminence between
Sheerness and Warden, facing what is called "The Cant," and very near
the small village of East Church. The clay and shingle of which it was
composed would have ill encountered the whirlwind that in tempestuous
weather fiercely yelled around the cliffs, had it not been for the firm
support afforded to it by the remains of an ancient watchtower, against
which the "Gull's Nest" leaned. Perched on this remarkable spot, and
nestling close to the mouldering but still sturdy walls, the very stones
of which disputed with the blast, the hut formed no inappropriate
dwelling for withered age, and, if we may be allowed the term,
picturesque deformity. Robin could run up and down every cliff in the
neighbourhood like a monkey--could lie on the waters, and sport amid
the breakers, with the activity of a cub-seal--dive like an otter; and,
as nature generally makes up in some way or other for defects similar to
those so conspicuous in the widow's son, she had gifted him with so
sweet a voice, that the fishermen frequently rested on their oars
beneath "Gull's Nest" crag, to listen to Robin's wild and mournful
ballads, which full often mingled with the murmur of the small waves as
they rippled on the strand. But the manikin, Robin, had higher and
better qualities than those we have endeavoured to describe--qualities
which Hugh Dalton, with the ready wisdom that discovers at once what is
excellent, and then moulds that excellence to its own purpose, had
assiduously cultivated. Many years before the period of which we treat,
Robin had accompanied the Buccaneer on one or two piratical cruises; and
though it cannot be denied that Hugh was a better sailor than scholar,
yet he generously sought to secure for little Robin the advantages he
did not himself possess; Robin, accordingly, received daily instruction
in penmanship from a run-away merchant's clerk, the clerk and
bookkeeper, the lubber and idler of the crew.

Robin laboured to reward this kindness by unshaken fidelity, unceasing
watchfulness, and a wild enthusiasm which endeared him to the rude
captain, as if he were something that belonged exclusively to himself.
The Buccaneer knew that secrets, where life and property were at stake,
were safe in his keeping; and as the renowned Dalton had often worked in
the service of both Cavaliers and Roundheads, a person of ready wit and
true heart was most invaluable as an auxiliary on the coast.

If the Buccaneer entertained any political creed, it was certainly in
favour of the exiled Charles: a bold and intrepid spirit like his felt
something most galling and repulsive in the stern and unyielding
government of the Protector. A ruler who not only framed acts, but saw
those acts enforced, whether they regarded a "Declaration for a day of
Publique Thanksgiving," or "A Licence for transporting Fish in Foreign
Bottoms," was not likely to be much after the taste of one who had the
essence of lawgiving only within himself, and who perceived clearly
enough that the royal but thoughtless Stuarts would be more easily
managed--more prone, if not from feeling, at all events from indolence,
to overlook the peccadilloes of such as Dalton, than the unflinching
Oliver, who felt that every evil he redressed was a fresh jewel in his
sceptre. Nevertheless, as we have seen, the Buccaneer had decided on
offering his services to the Commonwealth: he believed that Cromwell
knew his talents and valued his courage; but he also knew that the
Protector piqued himself upon consistency, and that, consequently, there
would be vast difficulties to overcome, as a price had more than once
been set upon his head.

We must, however, conduct our readers back into the fresh morning we
have instanced as one of the favourites of spring. Leaving Robin to his
preparations for the stranger's breakfast, and premising that he had
previously dismissed the midnight revellers on their respective errands,
we will roam for a while amid the sheltered walks of Cecil Place.

It was situated on the slope of the hill, leading to the old monastery
of Minster. Although nothing now exists except the church, a few broken
walls, and a modernised house, formed out of one of the principal
entrances to what was once an extensive range of monastic buildings; yet
at the time of which we treat, the ruins of the nunnery, founded by
Sexburga, the widow of Ercombert, King of Kent, extended down the rising
ground, presenting many picturesque points of view from the small but
highly-cultivated pleasure grounds of Cecil Place. Nothing could be more
beautiful than the prospect from a rude terrace which had been the
favourite walk of Lady Cecil. The small luxuriant hills, folding one
over the other, and terminating in the most exquisite valleys and bosky
glades the imagination can conceive--the rich mixture of pasture and
meadow land--the Downs, stretching to King's Ferry, whitened by
thousands of sheep, whose bleatings and whose bells made the isle
musical--while, beyond, the narrow Swale, widening into the open sea,
shone like a silver girdle in the rays of the glorious sun--were
objects, indeed, delicious to gaze upon.

Although, during the Protectorate, some pains had been taken to render
Sheerness, then a very inconsiderable village, a place of strength and
safety, and the ancient castle of Queenborough had been pulled down by
the Parliamentarians, as deficient in strength and utility, no one
visiting only the southern and western parts of the island could for a
moment imagine that the interior contained spots of such positive and
cultivated beauty.

It was yet early, when Constantia Cecil, accompanied by a female friend,
entered her favourite flower-garden by a private door, and strolled
towards a small Gothic temple overshadowed by wide-spreading oaks,
which, sheltered by the surrounding hills, had numbered more than a
century of unscathed and undiminished beauty, and had as yet escaped the
rude pruning of the woodman's axe. The morning habit of the noble
Constance fitted tightly to the throat, where it was terminated by a
full ruff of starched muslin, and the waist was encircled by a wide band
of black crape, from which the drapery descended in massive folds to her
feet. She pressed the soft green turf with a more measured step than was
her wont, as if the body shared the mind's sad heaviness. Her head was
uncovered, save that, as she passed into the garden, she had carelessly
thrown on a veil of black muslin, through which her bright hair shone
with the lustre and richness of the finest satin: her throat and
forehead appeared most dazzlingly white in contrast with her sable
dress.

The lady by whom she was accompanied was not so tall, and of a much
slighter form; her limbs delicately moulded, and her features more
attractive than beautiful. There was that about her whole demeanour
which is expressively termed coquetry, not the coquetry of action, but
of feeling: her eyes were dark and brilliant, her mouth full and
pouting; and the nose was only saved from vulgarity by that turn, to
describe which we are compelled to use a foreign term--it was _un peu
retrousse_: her complexion was of a clear olive, through which the blood
glowed warmly whenever called to her cheek by any particular emotion.
The dress she wore, without being gay, was costly: the full skirt of
crimson grogram descended not so low as to prevent her small and
beautifully-turned ankle from being distinctly seen, and the cardinal of
wrought purple velvet, which had been hastily flung over her shoulders,
was lined and bordered with the finest ermine. Nor did the contrast
between the ladies end here: the full and rich-toned voice of Constance
Cecil was the perfection of harmony, while the light and gay speech of
her companion might be called melody--the sweet playful melody of an
untaught bird.

"You must not mourn so unceasingly, my dear Constance," she said,
looking kindly into the sorrowing face of her friend: "I could give you
counsel--but counsel to the distressed is like chains thrown upon
troubled waters."

"Say not so, Frances; rather like oil upon a stormy sea is the sweet
counsel of a friend; and truly none but a friend would have turned from
the crowded and joyous court to sojourn in this lonely isle; and, above
all, in the house of mourning."

"I do not deny to you, Constance, that I love the gaiety, the pomp, and
the homage of our courts; that both Hampton and Whitehall have many
charms for me; but there are some things--some things I love far more. I
loved your mother," she continued, in a tone of deeper feeling than was
usual with so gay a spirit; "and I love the friend who, while she
reproves my follies, can estimate my virtues: for even my sombre sister
Elizabeth, your grave god-mother, admits that I have virtues, though she
denies them to be of an exalted nature."

"Were the Lady Claypole to judge of others according to the standard of
her own exceeding excellence, Frances, we should, indeed, fall far below
what we are disposed to believe is our real value; but, like the rose,
instead of robbing less worthy flowers of their fragrance, she imparts
to them a portion of her own."

"Now should I like to call that a most courtly compliment, but for my
life I cannot--it is so true."

"You pronounce a severe satire on your father's court, my friend; and
one that I hope it merits not."

"Merits! Perhaps not--for, though the youngest and least rational of my
father's children, I can perceive there are some about him who hit upon
truth occasionally, either by chance or intention. There's that rugged
bear, Sir Thomas Pride, whom, I have heard say, my father knighted with
a mopstick--he, I do believe, speaks truth, and of a truth follows one
scriptural virtue, being no respecter of persons. As to General George
Monk, my father trusts him--and so--yet have I observed, at any mention
of Charles Stuart's name, a cunning twinkling of the eye that may yet
kindle into loyalty.--I would as soon believe in his honesty as in his
lady's gentleness. Did you hear, by the way, what Jerry, my poor
disgraced beau, Jerry White, said of her? Why, that if her husband could
raise and command a regiment endowed with his wife's spirit, he might
storm the stronghold of sin, and make Satan a state prisoner. Then our
Irish Lord Chancellor--we call him the true Steele; and, indeed, any one
who ventures to tell my father he errs, deserves credit. Yes, Sir
William Steele may certainly be called a truth-teller. Not so our last
court novelty, Griffeth Williams of Carnarvon, Esq., who though he
affects to despise all modern titles, and boasts of his blood-ties with
the Princes of Wales, Kings of France, Arragon, Castile, and Man, with
the sovereigns of Englefield and Provence to boot, yet moves every
secret engine he can find to gain a paltry baronetcy! Even you, dear
Constance, would have smiled to see the grave and courtly salutations
that passed between him and the Earl of Warwick--the haughty Earl, who
refused to sit in the same house with Pride and Hewson--a circumstance,
by the way, that caused Jerry White to say, 'he had too much _Pride_ to
attend to the mending of his _soul_.' The jest is lost unless you
remember that Hewson had been a cobbler. As to John Milton----"

"Touch him not," interrupted Constance; "let not your thoughtless mirth
light upon John Milton; there is that about the poet, which made me feel
the very first time I saw him, that--

    'Something holy lodges in that breast.'

I remember the day well, now more than three years ago, while staying at
Hampton Court, (whither your gracious mother had commanded me,) and
reading to the Lady Claypole, near the small window of her
dressing-room, which opened into the conservatory, one sultry July
evening, when the last rays of the golden sun disturbed the sober and to
me more touching beauty of the silver night--at last I could no longer
see, and closed the volume; your sister, in sweet and gentle voice,
stayed me to repeat some passages from the 'Masque of Comus.' How
accurately I can call to mind her every tone, as it mingled with the
perfume of the myrtle and orange trees, impregnating the air at once
with harmony and fragrance.

    'So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity,
    That, when a soul is found sincerely so,
    A thousand liveried angels lackey her,
    Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt;
    And in clear dream and solemn vision
    Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,
    Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
    Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape,
    The unpolluted temple of the mind.
    And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,
    Till all be made immortal.'

I was so absorbed by the beauty of the poetry, and the exquisite grace
and feeling with which it was repeated, that my eyes were riveted on
your sister; nor could I withdraw them, even when she ceased to speak.
Thus abstracted, I was perfectly unconscious that a gentleman was
standing close to the great orange-tree, so that the rays of the full
moon rested on his uncovered head: his hair was parted in the centre,
and fell on his shoulders at either side, and his deportment was of
mingled dignity and sweetness. 'John Milton!' exclaimed Lady Claypole,
rising; 'I knew not,' she continued, 'that you had been so near
us.'--'The temptation was great, indeed, madam: a poet never feels that
he has true fame, until lips such as yours give utterance to his lines.'
He bowed low, and I thought coldly, over Lady Claypole's extended hand.
She walked into the conservatory, and called on me to follow. How my
heart throbbed! how I trembled! I felt in the almost divine presence of
one whose genius I had worshipped with a devotion which, enthusiastic as
it was, I am not even now ashamed of. I longed to fall at his feet, and
implore his blessing; to kiss the hem of his garment; and thought, in my
foolishness, that inspiration might be communicated by his touch. I
pushed back my hair, so that I might not lose a word he uttered, or the
least look he gave. 'His sight was so impaired,' he said, 'that the
light of day occasioned him much pain; and of late he had been so
useless to his Highness, that he feared to intrude too often into his
presence.' Lady Claypole made some remark, which in truth I little
heeded, for I longed again to hear the poet speak; nor did I remain
ungratified. In answer to some observation, he stated, 'he was well
aware that much of what he had written would not meet with the
indulgence she had graciously bestowed upon his verse; for, though they
both valued freedom, they widely differed as to the mode of its
attainment.' To this the Lady Claypole made no reply; and presently we
had issued from the conservatory, and stood for a few moments on the
terrace. 'How beautiful!' said your sister, as she raised her eyes to
the glorious heavens, sparkling with countless stars, whose brilliancy
was showered on the now sleeping earth--'Yes, beautiful!' repeated
Milton; and his voice, so musical, yet melancholy, thrilled to my inmost
soul: 'Beautiful!' he said again, as if the word was pleasant in his
ears; 'and yet the time is coming fast when I shall behold that beauty
no more--when I shall be more humbled than the poor insects upon which I
may now heedlessly tread--they creep, but see; I shall be a thing of
darkness in the midst of light--irrevocably dark!--total
eclipse!--without the hope of day! Your pardon, Lady; but is it not
strange, that life's chiefest blessing should be enthroned in such a
tender ball, when feeling is diffused all over us?'--'The Maker must be
the best judge,' replied your sister.--''Tis true,' he said; 'and the
same hand that wounds can heal. I will not sorrow, if I can refrain from
grief, though it is hard to bear; yet often, when I look upon my
daughters, I think how sad 'twill be when I no more can trace their
change of form and feature. And this deep affliction comes upon me in my
manhood's prime:--life in captivity--all around me grows darker each
fair day I live. A bunch of violets was given me this morning; their
fragrance was delicious, yet I could not discern the little yellow germ
that I knew dwelt within their dark blue petals, and I put them from me
because I could not see as well as smell:--'twas foolish, but 'twas
natural. The moon at this very moment looks so sallow--pale--and you,'
he bowed to us as he spoke, 'and you, even you, ladies, appear both dim
and cold!' I thought he laid more emphasis on the word _cold_ than on
the other words, perhaps in allusion to the political differences
between Lady Claypole and himself: your sister thought so too.--'You do
us wrong,' she observed warmly; 'never, never cold to John Milton!
never, indeed never! This sad affliction, if it should continue, (which
the Almighty in his mercy forbid!) will create for you new worlds; when
all its treasures are destroyed, you will but close your eyes on earth
that you may look through heaven.' What would I not have given for such
a rewarding smile as played upon without disturbing his features! Your
sister, surprised into an enthusiasm that was not in keeping with her
usually subdued deportment, turned aside, and taking me by the hand,
presented me to him, saying, 'Here, sir, is a little girl, who, though
she has only numbered sixteen summers, has learned to value Milton!'
What do you think I said, Frances? Nothing:--that might have
passed--but what do you think I did? I fell on my knees, and kissed his
hand! I am almost ashamed to repeat such frowardness, though done in all
the purity of truth;--not that I think he was displeased."

"Displeased!" interrupted the Lady Frances, who had kept silence
marvellously long; "oh! no, it is not in man to be displeased with the
devotedness, the love of woman----"

"I prithee, peace," interrupted Constance in her turn: for the word
'love' had called the flush into her pale cheek; "thou art ever placing
earth on a level with heaven."

"And thou, my saintly friend, wouldst bring heaven down to earth. I
remember my sister Claypole treating of this before, saying that Milton
laid his fingers on thy forehead, and that thou didst clip off the
particular ringlet pressed by them, and enshrine it in a jewelled
cross."

"I confess----"

"To the folly of despoiling thy tresses?"

"Dearest Frances, you are cruel in your gaiety. How I watched his
retreating footsteps as he passed under the archway, after bidding us
good night! His gait was measured, but, though his sight was so
impaired, I observed that his head was thrown upward, and that he walked
as one having no fear."

"Well, give me Milton in the morn, but the gay Lovelace when the
twilight shades come down. I know a fair gentleman who sings his ballads
most sweetly. You, too, had you heard him, would have listened a second
tune:--

    'True, a new mistress now I chase,
      The first foe in the field,
    And with a stronger faith embrace
      A sword--a horse--a shield.

    'Yet this inconstancy is such
      As you, too, shall adore--
    I could not love thee, dear, so much,
      Loved I not honour more!'

But I forget, the theme is a forbidden one; and I see, Constance, you do
not like my poet, and I have a mind not to admire yours! Ah! poor
Lovelace! he might have been my laureate."

"I thought the Lady Frances sighed no longer for a thorny crown."

"I may surely love the poetry of a Cavalier without wishing to be the
bride of Prince Charlie. My father's fiat has gone forth against my
royal lover's offer, and so I shall be the wife of some staid sober
Covenanter, I suppose; that is, if I follow my father's wishes, and
marry Will Dulton."

"Better than be the wedded mistress of a dissolute man," said Constance,
firmly. "Believe me, Charles Stuart has all his father's weakness
without his father's virtues."

"Well, be it so," replied Frances Cromwell: "I did not care; but
methinks I should have liked the garniture of a crown and the grasp of a
sceptre. You should have been my first maid of honour.--But your pardon,
lady fair--you will be the first married, if I can judge from Sir
Willmott Burrell's earnestness of late." As she spoke, Constance Cecil
grew deadly pale; and, to conceal her emotion, sat upon the step of the
Gothic temple before which they had been standing for some minutes.
Frances did not observe the change, but heedlessly continued:--"Ah! it
is happy for those who can marry as they will, and him they love; to
whom the odious Sound of 'state necessity' is utterly unknown."

"And think you," said Constance, in a voice struggling for composure,
"think you so poorly of me, that I can _will_ to marry such as Burrell,
of my own free choice! Oh! Frances, Frances! would to Heaven the same
grave had closed over me that closed over my mother!" She clasped her
hands with an earnestness amounting to agony, and there came an
expression over her features which forbade all trifling. Frances
Cromwell was a warm, cheerful, and affectionate girl; but to her it was
not given to understand the depth or the refinement of minds such as
that of her friend. Her own home was not a peaceful one, for party
spirit, that hydra of disunion, raged and ravaged there, without regard
to years or sex. The Protector's most beloved child was known to be
faithfully attached to the Stuart cause; while his eldest daughter was
so staunch a republican, that she only blamed her father for accepting
power bordering so closely upon royalty. This difference occasioned sad
and terrible domestic trouble; and the man, feared, honoured, courted by
the whole world, ruling the dynasties of kingdoms, could not insure an
hour's tranquillity within his own palace walls! Frances, the youngest,
interfered the least in their most grievous feuds. She had so many
flirtations, both romantic and anti-romantic, to attend to, that, like
all women who flirt much, she thought little. The perfect misery so
fearfully, yet so strongly painted upon the countenance of Constance,
was to her utterly incomprehensible. Had it been the overboiling of
passion, the suppressed but determined rage, or the murmuring of
discontent, Frances could have understood it, because it would have
resembled what she had full often witnessed; but she had never before
beheld the struggles of a firm and elevated mind against a cruel and
oppressive destiny. Frances Cromwell looked upon her friend for some
moments, uncertain what course to pursue. She knelt down and took her
hands within her own; they were cold as death, rigid as marble. She bent
over her!--

"Constance! Constance! speak! Merciful Providence!" she exclaimed aloud,
"What can I do? what shall I do? Barbara! Alas! alas! she hears me
not--Dear Constance! This is worse than faintness," she continued, as
exertions to restore her proved ineffectual; for Constantia, exhausted
by her efforts to appear tranquil, and to chime in with the temper of
her guest, until tortured at the very mention of Burrell's name,
remained still insensible.

"I must leave her and seek assistance from within," repeated Frances,
rapidly unclasping her jewelled mantle, throwing it over her friend, and
flying, rather than running, along the shaven path they had so recently
paced in gentle converse. No very long time elapsed before the lady
returned, followed by Barbara Iverk and another faithful attendant.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Frances, "she must be recovered, for her position
is changed." And so it was--the veil of black had entirely fallen off,
and her unconfined hair reposed in rich shadowy masses on her bosom and
shoulders: one arm rested on her knee, while the extended hand supported
her head; the other was open on her lap, and upon its small and
transparent palm lay a large locket of peculiar workmanship, set round
with brilliants. On this her eyes were fixed; and when her bower-maid,
Barbara, endeavoured to rouse her mistress's attention, the first
symptom of returning consciousness she gave, was to hide the jewel
within her bosom. She appeared like one waking from a long dream.
Frances spoke to her in a tone of gentle cheerfulness,--

"Come, dearest, it is cold; we will in: you must be better presently.
One moment; let me bind up this hair; it keeps back the cloak from
covering your throat, and you shiver like an aspen." Frances was
gathering the large tresses eagerly in her hand, when she stopped, and
letting them suddenly fall, exclaimed,--

"What's here to do! One of the finest of your lady's braids severed more
than mid-way, and by no scissors, truly; absolutely butchered! Do but
look, Barbara; I am sure 'twas not so this morning!"

The young tire-woman lifted up her hands in horror and amazement; for
she very properly regarded her mistress's beautiful hair as under her
own especial control, and was about to make some inquiry touching the
mysterious incident, when Constance drew the cardinal completely over
her head, and, leaning her arm on Barbara's shoulder, proceeded towards
the house.

Notwithstanding the great anxiety of Lady Frances on the score of her
friend's indisposition, and it is but justice to admit she loved her
with all the constancy of which her volatile nature was capable, her
affection was nearly overpowered by her curiosity--curiosity to discover
how Constance obtained the locket, and how she lost her most admired
tress. Yet, to neither of these perplexities had she the slightest clue.
Intimate as they had been from childhood; superior as was her rank to
that of Sir Robert Cecil's daughter; yet was there no one of her
acquaintance with whom she would not sooner have taken a liberty than
with Constance Cecil. In the course of the day she tried every little
art that female ingenuity could devise, short of saying, "How came you
by that locket?" to induce her to talk on the subject--and in vain.
Constance made no assertion--offered no explanation; but, when Frances
appeared to come too near the subject, she silenced all farther approach
to confidential communication, simply by raising her clear, calm, and
holy eye, letting it fall upon the animated, restless face of her
companion, and then shading its glory by the long silken lashes that
almost rested on the exquisitely moulded cheek. It was this peculiar
look that made her lively friend usually designate her "the awful
beauty."

Still curiosity, that most busy and feminine sprite, tortured the Lady
Frances with extraordinary perseverance; and, in the end, it suddenly
occurred to her that Barbara might know or conjecture something about
the matter: accordingly, at night, she dismissed her own women, under
some pretext or other, to their chambers, and summoned the pretty
Puritan to wait at her toilet. Poor Barbara was as neat and as docile a
maid as any country gentlewoman could desire; but, as she had never
accompanied her ladies to court, to which, because of Lady Cecil's
illness, they had been rare visiters of late, she felt somewhat nervous
on being called into active duty by so great a personage as the Lady
Frances Cromwell. With trembling hands she unlaced the velvet bodice,
released the tiny feet from their thraldom, set loose the diamond clasps
of the sparkling stomacher; and, after arraying the lady in a wrapping
robe of fringed linen, with point-lace collar, commenced the
disentangling of her raven hair: this was a task that required skill and
patience. Nature had been so bountiful to her own fair mistress, that
her hair needed no art to increase either its quality or quantity: the
simple Barbara consequently stood aghast when a vast portion of the
fabric fell to the ground the moment a little dark band had been
separated from the pretty head of the more courtly maiden. Frances
laughed as the girl's astonished features were reflected in the polished
mirror before which she sat: so evident was her dismay, as she held it
forth, exclaiming, "I did not pull it off, my lady----"

"Ah, wicked wench! so you would rob _my_ head as well as your lady's.
Now, Barbara, tell me truly, what didst do with that same lock I missed
this morning?"

"I, my lady?"

"Yes, you. No one else, I suppose, dresses your lady's hair."

"That may be; but I assure your ladyship I never cut off that curl:--it
is quite wonderful!"

"So it is, as you say, like a very sensible girl, 'quite wonderful;'
but, Barbara, do you think you could find out who did cut it off?"

"Not unless my lady would tell me."

"But is there no way?"

"Only by asking my lady, and that I could not presume to do."

"Nor I either," thought Lady Frances: "but, Barbara, you might
think--or--or--see perhaps----"

"Please you, my lady, I do think a great deal, and the Rev. Mr.
Fleetword said to me only this morning, that I grew in grace as much as
in stature. And, as to seeing, please your ladyship----"

"Pshaw, child! it is not that I mean. Could you not discover?
Besides--the locket! did you ever see that locket in your lady's
possession till this morning?"

"No, madam."

"Perhaps," continued Frances, blushing and stammering at her curiosity,
"it might be well to ascertain something about both mysteries, for your
lady's good."

"I am sure, my lady, I can't tell; but my mistress is very wise, and if
she wished me to know any thing of such like, would direct me herself.
Shall I put any of this ambergris in your ladyship's hair, or do you
better like the musk-rose?"--How perplexing to the cunning is
straightforward simplicity! "Now," thought Lady Frances, "one of the
court waiting-maids would have comprehended my meaning in a moment; and
this wench, with ten times their zeal and real sense, thinks it
downright wicked to pry into her lady's secrets. I wonder my women have
not taught her the court fashions.--You may go to bed, Barbara; light my
night lamp, and give me a book; I do not feel at all sleepy."

Barbara, with great _naivete_, presented to Lady Frances a small Bible
that lay on the dressing-table:--something resembling a smile passed
over the lady's face as she took the volume, but she only observed,
"Give me also that book with the golden clasps; I would fain peruse my
cousin Waller's last hymn.--What an utterly useless thing is that which
is called simplicity!" she said, half aloud, as Barbara closed the door.
"And yet I would sooner trust my life in the hands of that country
damsel, than with the fine ones, who, though arrayed in plain gowns,
flatter corrupt fancies at Whitehall or Hampton!"




CHAPTER V.

    By holy Mary! Butts, there's knavery.

      SHAKSPEARE.


Having consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her perfumed couch, and
the companionship of Waller's sweet and sonorous strains, we leave her
to determine whether the high and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the
Poet's Saccharissa, or the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous
Amoret of his idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously
bestowed on both. Waller, the most specious flatterer of flattering
courts--the early worshipper of Charles the First--the pusillanimous
betrayer of his friends--the adulator of Cromwell--the wit and the
jester of the second Charles--the devotional whiner of the bigot
James--had not, however, sufficient power to keep the lady from her
slumbers long. She was soon in the refreshing sleep, known only to the
light-hearted.

Constance Cecil was more wakeful. After Barbara's dismissal from the
presence of Lady Frances, she crept with slow and stealthy space to the
chamber of her dear mistress, and softly turning the bolt, displaced the
curtains of silver damask with so light a touch, that her entrance was
unnoticed. The girl perceived at once that her lady was not asleep. She
had evidently been reading, for the holy volume was still open, and one
hand rested amid its leaves: but even Barbara was astonished when she
saw that her attention was spell-bound to the mysterious locket she held
in the other hand. The excellent servant, with that true honesty of mind
which no education can teach, knowing that her lady had not heard her
enter, and feeling, rather than reasoning upon, the indelicacy of prying
into what she believed was secret, purposely let fall a chalice, which
effectually roused Constance, who, placing the trinket under the pillow,
called upon her attendant for her night drink, and then pointed out a
particular psalm she wished her to read aloud. It was a holy and a
beautiful sight in that quiet chamber: the young and high born maiden,
her head resting on pillows of the finest cambric; her arms crossed
meekly on her bosom, whose gentle breathings moved, without disturbing
the folds of her night-tire; her eyes elevated; her lips sufficiently
apart to show the small, pearly teeth, glittering in whiteness within
their coral nest;--then, as promises of hope and happiness beyond the
control of mortality, found voice from Barbara's mouth, a tear would
steal down her cheek, unbidden and unnoticed, but not unregistered by
that God who knows our griefs, and whose balm is ever for the heavy at
heart.

Barbara sat on a writing stool by the bed-side, supporting the Bible on
her knees, while the beams of a golden lamp, placed on a lofty tripod
near the foot of the bed, fell directly on the book: the light, however,
was not sufficiently powerful to illume the farthermore parts of the
chamber, whose walls were hung with figured tapestry, the gloom of which
contrasted strongly with the bright blue and silver that canopied
Constantia's bed.

The next chamber was occupied by her father: it was lofty, but not
spacious. The inside of the door was guarded by many bolts; and at the
moment his daughter was seeking commune with, and counsel from, the
Almighty, he was employed in examining and securing them with evident
anxiety. First one, and then another, was pushed to its rest; then he
turned the key in the lock--once, twice. Having shaken, or rather
attempted to shake, the massive door, to determine if it were really
secure, Sir Robert Cecil proceeded to inspect the window fastenings; and
being convinced they were in their places, he turned to the table where
the light burnt brightly, examined a brace of pistols, which he placed
under his pillow, and then, took down a huge heavy sword from a shelf
where it lay concealed, pulled it forth from its scabbard, and applied
his thumb along the edge, to be satisfied of its sharpness. Having laid
the weapon by his bed-side, he commenced, unaided, to undress. This did
not occupy him long, though he stopped occasionally, his eye glancing
round the apartment, his ear bent, as if some unhallowed noise had
struck upon it suddenly. As he moved to his lonely couch, he passed
before an immense glass, in a heavy oaken frame: his own reflection met
his eye; he started as if a spectre had crossed his path--his cheek
blanched--his knees smote one against the other--his respiration was
impeded. At last, waving his hand, as if to dispel the phantom his
imagination had conjured up, he sprang into the bed, and buried his head
under its pillows.

At the end of the corridor which led to the sleeping-chambers, was the
apartment appropriated to Burrell of Burrell, whenever he was a guest at
Cecil Place; his visits, however, were not so frequent, or of such long
duration, as might have been expected in the lover of Lady Constance
Cecil. He was fast approaching the meridian of life, and his youth had
been spent chiefly at court:--at both courts, in fact, for he had been a
partisan of the unhappy Charles, and afterwards, at heart, as complete
a regicide as any who took a more active part in the terrible
transactions of the times. He joined the army of the Parliament,
nevertheless, but for a short time, pleading, as an excuse, the
necessity there was for remaining amongst his own tenants and thralls to
keep them in subjection. Sir Willmott Burrell may well be designated a
man of two characters--one for public, one for private life. His manners
to his superiors, and generally to his equals, were bland and
insinuating; to his inferiors he was overbearing, haughty, and severe,
except when he had some particular point to carry, and then he could
cringe to and fawn upon the vilest. He had a peculiar method of entering
into men's hearts, and worming from each whatever best suited his
purpose; but the principle upon which he invariably acted, was, to
extract the honey from the rose, and then scatter its leaves to the
whirlwind and the blast. Devoid of every thing like moral or religious
feeling, he used Puritanism as a cloak for selfishness and sin; and
though he had often cursed his good character when it stood in the way
of his pleasures, yet it was too needful to be cast off as a worthless
garment. A plotting mind united to a graceful exterior, is as dangerous
to the interests of society as a secret mine to a besieged city,
inasmuch as it is impossible to calculate upon the evils that may
suddenly arise either from the one or the other.

Sir Willmott Burrell, of Burrell, had managed to make himself acquainted
with many of Sir Robert Cecil's secrets; and even those he had not
heard, he guessed at, with that naturally acute knowledge which is
rarely in the wrong. He was too great a sensualist to be indifferent to
the beauty of Constance, which, like all sensualists, he considered the
sole excellence of woman; but he arraigned the wisdom of Nature in
endowing aught so fair with mind, or enriching it with soul; and the
dignity and purity of his destined bride, instead of making him proud,
made him angry and abashed.

Constance heard of Burrell's grace, of Burrell's wit, and
sometimes--though even amongst ladies it was a disputed point--of his
beauty, without ever being able to discover any thing approaching to
these qualities in her future husband; and certainly he never appeared
to so little advantage as when in her presence: her eye kept him under a
subjection, the force of which he was ashamed to acknowledge; and
although there could be no question that his chief desire for the
approaching alliance proceeded from a cherished affection for the broad
acres and dark woods of the heiress of Cecil, yet he bitterly regretted
that the only feeling the lady manifested towards him was one of decided
coldness--he almost feared of contempt. The day after her mother's
funeral, she had refused to see him, although he knew that she had been
abroad with Lady Frances in the gardens of the Place; and though Sir
Robert urged indisposition as the cause, yet his pride was deeply
mortified. A weighty communication from France, where he had been a
resident for some months, as an _attache_ to the English embassy,
appeared to have increased the discontent of his already ruffled temper.
He retired early to his chamber, and his moody and disturbed countenance
looked angered and mysterious by the light of an untrimmed lamp, as he
inspected various documents and papers that lay scattered before him on
a table of carved oak, inlaid with silver. One letter, which he read and
re-read with much attention, seemed to excite him more than all the
rest: he turned it over and over--examined the seal--laid it down--took
it up--put it aside again--folded his arms over his chest, and, with his
eyes fixed on the ceiling, appeared for a time absorbed in the
remembrance of past events. Finally, he committed the letter to the
flames, and then paced up and down the room with unequal steps, his head
bent forward, and his arms folded, as before, over his bosom. He was
evidently ill at ease with himself, and there gleamed "a lurking devil
in his eye," that augured peril to some one, and bespoke a man who was
neither "infirm of purpose," nor slow in the execution of whatever
mischief was designed. He did not retire to his bed until the lamp gave
token that its oil was expended, when, flinging himself on the coverlet
without removing any portion of his dress, he sought rest.

Nor were Sir Willmott's slumbers of long duration; before the sun had
risen, he was up and a-foot. Having let himself down from his window and
out at the postern-gate, he took the path that led in the direction of
Gull's Nest Crag.

The night had been wild and stormy; the freshness and freedom of the air
now compensated for the turmoil that had passed; but the ocean's
wrathfulness was still unappeased, and Burrell listened to its roarings
while it lashed the beach with its receding waves, like a war-horse
pawing and foaming when the battle din has sunk into the silence that
succeeds the shout of victory, as if eager again to meet the shock of
death.

Suddenly he struck out of the usual track, across a portion of waste
land, the utmost verge of which skirted the toppling cliffs; and making
for himself a way through tangled fern, long grass, and prickly furze,
he strode on in a more direct line towards the dwelling of Robin Hays,
pursuing his course, heedless of the petty annoyances he encountered,
although his feet were frequently entangled among the stunts and stubs
that opposed his progress, with the air of one whose mind was evidently
bent on the fulfilment of some hazardous but important purpose. It was
so early that not a shepherd had unpenned his fold, nor a girl gone
forth to the milking: such cattle as remained at liberty during the
night, still slumbered on the sward; and the wily fox roamed with less
caution than was his wont, under the knowledge that no enemy was by to
watch his progress.

"I may reach Gull's Nest, and return," thought Burrell, "and that before
any in the house are astir." But, at the moment, a tall, lank figure,
moving with measured pace, yet nevertheless approaching rapidly, from
the very point towards which his steps were bent, arrested his
attention; and as it came nearer and nearer, he was much disconcerted at
the discovery that no other than the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, from whom
he anticipated a sharp rebuke for his absence from Lady Cecil's funeral,
was about to cross his path. He would have gladly hailed the approach of
Birnam wood, so it could have settled down between him and the reverend
Jonas; but as no place of refuge was at hand, he bethought himself of
the shield of patience, drew his cloak as closely as if he were about to
encounter a fierce north wind, and finally returned with much courtesy
the salutation of the preacher, whose apt and ready eloquence had
obtained for him the significant appellation of Fleetword. The locks of
the divine, according to the approved fashion, had been cropped closely
round his head, and his thin sharp visage looked of most vinegar-like
tinge and character, peering, as it now did, from beneath a
steeple-crowned hat of formal cut. He wore a black cloth cloak and
doublet, his Flemish breeches and hose were of the same sombre hue, and
his square-toed shoes were surmounted by large crape roses. Contrary,
as it would seem, to the custom of a disciple of the peace-loving
Saviour, he also wore a basket-handled sword, girded round his loins by
a broad strap of black leather. In truth, face, figure, and all
included, he was as harsh and ill-favoured a person as could have been
encountered even at that day,--one whose lips would have seemed to taint
the blessing to which he might have given utterance; and graceless as
Burrell undoubtedly was, there was excuse for the impatience he felt at
such an unlucky rencontre.

"It augurs well to see one whom the Lord hath blessed with all the
creature-comforts of life, thus early aroused from sluggish sloth, and
abroad, doubtless, on business of the faithful-minded?"

Burrell made the best reply he could, without confirming or denying the
inference drawn from his early rising.

"Why tarried ye from the gathering of God's people on account of the
Lady Cecil's funeral? I pray that the fleshpots of Egypt may not lure ye
to perdition; or fine gold from Ophir, or the vain glories of sinful
men, pilot ye unto destruction!"

"It was business connected with the state--commands from his Highness's
own lips, that detained me."

"All praise to the Providence that has given his chosen people into such
keeping as the Lord Oliver's! Truly may he be likened to the chariots
and horsemen of Israel--to the blessed Zerubbabel, who restored the true
worship, which the Jews in their blindness had cast from them; to
Joshua, whom the Lord appointed as a scourge to the wicked Canaanites;
to Moses, who gave both spiritual help and carnal food to those that
needed; to Gideon; to Elijah; to David; to Hezekiah; to the most wise
Solomon; to all the holy of the earth!" and, exhausted by the rapidity
with which he had uttered the names of the kings and prophets of old,
the worthy Jonas made a full stop; not with any intention of concluding
his harangue, but to take breath for its continuation. As time, however,
was exceedingly precious to Burrell, he endeavoured to give such a turn
to the conversation, as would enable him to escape from the preacher's
companionship; and therefore expressed a very deep regret that he had
not been edified by the discourse which Mr. Fleetword so ably
delivered, and inquired when and where it was likely he would next give
his holy lessons, so that he might be comforted by the oil and honey
that flowed from his lips.

"Thou sayest truly," replied the energetic preacher; "truly sayest thou:
oil and honey for the faithful, the holy, the just, in our New
Jerusalem! But what, what for the unbelievers?--what for the wise in
their own conceit?--what for the dwellers in Kedar? Even this--to them,
my words signify bitterness, a scourge, a pestilence, an uprooting, and
a scattering by the four winds of heaven! on them shall the seventh
phial be poured out; for verily the Lord is weary of showing mercy to
the backsliders from the congregation: they shall all perish--their
limbs shall be broken asunder--yea, I will smite the uncircumcised
Philistines--yea, I will smite----"

"Even as did Sampson of old," interrupted Burrell--"even as Sampson of
old smote them--with the jawbone of an ass."

"Even so," replied Jonas, who, with all his bitterness, was nothing
worse than a simple-minded enthusiast, and never imagined that Sir
Willmott's words could convey aught than approbation of his zeal, and
the right spirit that dwelt within him;--"even so; and it rejoiceth me
to find thee apt and prompt in scriptural passages. Verily, I am glad of
thy company; and as thou regrettest that the world's business prevented
thy attendance on the lamented dead, I care not if I bestow this my
present leisure unto thy edification, and repeat, nay, even enlarge
upon, the words I then delivered; which exercise will be finished before
mid-day--it is right that we labour unceasingly in the vineyard." So
saying he drew from his bosom a clasped Bible, and, to Burrell's dismay,
actually gave out the text, before he could resolve upon any plan to rid
himself of the intruder, whom he heartily wished at Tophet, if not
farther.

"My worthy friend, I would postpone the instruction you would give until
a more convenient season; I have urgent business to attend, and must
hasten its performance."

"Then will I gird up my loins, and accompany thee unto the very
threshold of the house where thou wouldst enter; and as we walk, I can
still convey the precious ointment of grace unto thy soul."

"The merciless old scoundrel!" muttered Burrell between his teeth; then
adding aloud, "Not so; your words are too costly to be given unto the
winds; and I cannot tarry so as to drink in the full draught of
satisfaction; let be, I pray you, and come down to Cecil Place to-night,
or on the morrow, and then many can worship with thee."

Fleetword paused, still holding the volume in his hand:--"Besides,"
continued Burrell, "what I have to accomplish is the Lord's work."

"The Lord's work--the Lord's work!" repeated Fleetword,--"then go forth;
why didst thou not confirm me that before? and I would have hastened,
not retarded thee; for, of a verity, my outward man warreth with the
inward, and these supporters of the flesh," pointing with his forefinger
to the thin and meagre limbs that scarcely merited the compliment, "grow
weary in well doing."

Burrell needed not a second hint to hasten, but proceeded on his way,
after receiving Fleetword's benediction with all due humility.

The preacher remained some time on the spot, and his thin upright
figure, seen from a distance, its outline so strongly marked against the
cold grey morning sky, had a singular effect. Burrell had plunged into a
dell or hollow, so that he was no longer visible.

The bleak and unclothed landscape, from which the mist was slowly
rolling; the few giant trees, that dwelling by the sea-side, and grown
wise by experience, ventured not to put forth their leaves till the sun
had chased the north wind to his caves; but, above all, the booming of
the untranquillised ocean, might have chilled a heart within the warmest
bosom;

    "Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
    With dauntless words and high,"

and looked as if he deemed the rolling clouds his listeners. It was by
no means unusual for the preachers in those days to exercise their
voices over the hills and heaths of their native land: valuing, as they
did, power and strength far more than melody and grace, they endeavoured
to acquire them by every possible means--nor were they without hope
that, (to use their own language,) "the Almighty might bless the seed
thus sown, seeing that it was hard to know who might not be within
hearing of the precious word."

Burrell soon gained the sea-shore, though he was still a considerable
distance from Gull's Nest Crag. On arriving at a point that commanded an
unbroken prospect of the far-spread sea, he shaded his eyes with his
hand, and looked long and earnestly along the waste of waters.
Apparently the scrutiny was unsuccessful, for he drew a telescope from
beneath his cloak and gazed through it for some minutes, directing it
towards several points. At length, with an impatience of manner in
which, when with his inferiors or alone, he frequently indulged, he
descended the cliff and pursued his way along the beach. As he drew near
the little public-house, his ears were greeted by the sound of one of
Waller's most popular songs, warbled in a voice so sweet, so pipe-like,
that he paused, and looked round to ascertain from whence it proceeded.
It ceased. Not even his keen eye could rest on aught resembling human
form. He hallooed, but received no answer: yet had he not continued
three steps on his way when the song was renewed, as he thought,
directly over his head; notwithstanding the roaring of the waves, he
even heard the words distinctly--

    "Small is the worth
    Of beauty from the light retired."

Again he shouted, and a loud and elfin laugh, that danced with the
echoes from crag to crag and billow to billow, was sent forth in reply.

"Mermaid--Merman--or Demon! where be ye!" cried Burrell, loudly.

"Even here, master mine," answered Robin Hays, shaking his large head,
over a midway and partly detached portion of the cliff.

"Come down, do, you will-o'-the-wisp! In Heaven's name what takes you
into such breakneck places?"

"The same matter that brings you here, sir," replied Robin, skipping and
crawling alternately, suiting his motions to the inequality of the
place: "the very same matter that brings you here--a woman."

"How know you that, master prate-a-pace? At all events, you have no
woman there."

"Why, master, seeing you were born under the planet Venus, your whole
trouble must be of her making; and, as to there being no woman up here,
that matters nothing, for woman's fancy mounts higher than e'er a cliff
in England; and to gain their favours we must humour their fancy. A
certain damsel that I know, had a curiosity to see a peewit's eggs; so I
thought I'd find her some, and here they are." From a pouch made of
untanned leather, which hung in front like an apron, he took two small
eggs of a greenish hue, spotted with black.

"What a fool you are," exclaimed Burrell, "to risk your neck for such
trumpery! It would be long ere you would risk it for your master."

"I have known many hazard theirs for a less cause--and, to say the
truth, there's a deal to be learned from the wild sea-birds," replied
Robin, as if he had not heard the latter portion of the sentence; "I
have a regard for the creeturs, which are like kings in the air. Many an
hour have I sat up yonder, listening to the noises of earth and the
noises of heaven, while the shrill note of the gull, the chatter of the
guillemot, the heron's bitter scream, the hoarse croaking of the
cormorant, have been all around me: and, indeed, the birds know me well
enough. There's a pair of old gulls----"

"Robin! I came not here to talk of cormorants and gulls; I want to ask
you a question, and I expect an honest answer."

Robin made the nearest approach to a bow he was ever guilty of.

"Honesty, Robin, is a most valuable quality."

"So it is, sir--and, like all valuables, ought to fetch a good price."

"You should be a disciple of Manasseh Ben Israel! Why, you have hardly
left my service two days, and then I had a right to your honesty. You
are as bad as a Jew."

"If so, I have surely a right to extort money from a Christian."

"A truce to your jests, you ill-favoured loon: I want no man's labour
for nothing--there are some broad pieces to stop your mouth; and now,
when saw you Hugh Dalton?"

"Not since I had the honour to wait upon you, sir, to London."

"But he is off the coast."

"Under favour, sir, that accounts for my not seeing him on it."

"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Burrell fiercely; "no such mummery with me, or
I'll soon put you upon salt-water rations. Dalton, I say, is off the
coast; I would speak with him, I _must_ speak with him; and as I have
good reason to know you telegraph each other, manage so that he meet me
under the cavern:--do you understand, you sprat-spawn? Under the cavern;
to-morrow night, at eleven; we can serve each other." Burrell, when he
had retraced his steps about five yards, turned round and added, "You
owe me amends for your base desertion the night before last, which I
have not forgotten."

Robin, cap in hand, watched his receding footsteps with an underlook;
and then, attended by his faithful Crisp, repaired to the cottage, where
a cannikin of porridge, seasoned by the hand of his mother with good
spicery, and more than half composed of double-dub, awaited his arrival.




CHAPTER VI.

    By the pricking of my thumbs,
    Something wicked this way comes.

      SHAKSPEARE.


There is nothing in England so variable as its climate. Before the
succeeding night, the very remembrance of the storm seemed to have
passed away from the placid waters, which now slept in the moonbeams as
tranquilly as a cradled child; the sea-bird's scream no longer whistled
through the air, and the small waves murmured their gentle music along
the strand. Nature was hushed and happy; but the tranquillity of
external objects had little effect upon the mind of Burrell, as he
strode to his trysting with the bold Buccaneer. Yet were there no
outward tokens that he apprehended aught from the meeting; for,
excepting the sword, usually borne by persons of all ranks and
professions during the dynasty of Oliver, he was completely unarmed. The
place appointed was appropriately described as "Under the Cavern." It
was known to Dalton's more intimate associates, and the Cavaliers, who
had from time to time obtained security therein; but, if its bare, bleak
walls had been gifted with speech, they might have rehearsed such tales
of rapine and plunder as few writers would venture to record. The
cavern appeared, to those who might wander along the sea-shore, to be
but a deep and natural excavation into a huge rock, the western
extremity of which ran out into the ocean, and therefore compelled the
traveller to ascend a kind of artificial steps, in order to pass to the
other side: the beach was, consequently, but little frequented, as
leading to no necessary point, and as the inhabitants of the adjoining
cottage, with which our readers are already familiar, had taken especial
care to form several paths in various directions from its door, but none
leading down to this part of the neighbouring cliffs, it was but rarely
that the whiteness of the rocks was defaced by any foot save that of the
daring bird from whom it received its name, and by whom it was regarded
as his own natural and undisputed property.

Whether the cavern into which we are about to enter was originally
framed by some freak of Nature, or was the invention and subsequent
accomplishment of art, we are unable to determine. Like many a structure
better formed to endure for ages, it has been long swept away by the
encroachments of the sea, which, since the period we write of, has been
gradually gaining upon the land. Even at the present moment, there are
old men dwelling in the neighbourhood who can remember houses and
corn-fields where now a proud ship may ride at anchor. From time to
time, without the slightest warning, some immense rock falls, and
mingles with the ocean, which soon dashes aside every trace of its
existence, leaving merely a new surface, to vanish in its turn under the
influence of a power, silent and patient, but inevitable and
unconquerable.

Immediately as the moonlight was left behind, the cavern became high and
arched, as if either Nature, or some skilful workman under her
superintendence, had foreseen to what important purposes it might be
applied. Huge masses of flint, and still larger fragments of granite,
were scattered about as if by giant hands, yet without any seeming
attention to order or regularity. The initiated, however, well knew that
such was not the case. Burrell, immediately on entering, proceeded to
the farther extremity, and kneeling, placed his mouth to the ground, and
gave a loud sharp whistle: he then stood erect, at a little distance
from the spot on which he had knelt. Presently what appeared a lump of
grey stone, moved upwards, then aside, and the head and shoulders of a
man from beneath sprang into its place so suddenly as to have appeared
the work of magic. He leaned a little on one side, to permit Burrell to
descend; and the next minute the cavern seemed as if no human step had
ever disturbed its solitude. Six or eight rugged stairs brought the
knight into a low but spacious apartment, from which there was no
apparent exit except by an arched doorway, where the commencement of a
spiral ascent was visible, leading almost perpendicularly into the
secret room of the widow Hays' small hostelry, in which our acquaintance
Jack Roupall and his friends had been concealed, and which, it may be
here stated, served other purposes than to afford comfort and
entertainment to the wayfarer.

It may also be observed, that, if at any time the widow's house was
suspected of harbouring dangerous or outlawed persons, and consequent
search was made under its roof, those to whom concealment was either
convenient or necessary had a ready sanctuary in the cavern beneath,
where they might either tarry until assured of safety, or whence they
could easily escape on board one of the free traders which rarely passed
a week without a call of inquiry at some point along the coast. The
cavern was, therefore, known to many, for many were they to whom it had
been a shelter and a safeguard. Not so the inner temple (if we may so
apply the term), to which Burrell now sought admission through a door
with the nature of which only some half a dozen were acquainted. To them
the secret had necessarily been confided, but under the most awful oaths
of secrecy, and a terrible pledge that the life of him who might reveal
it, was to be at all times, and in all places, at the disposal of any
one of those who shared with him a knowledge so fearful.

The door before which Burrell paused, was, in its way, a masterpiece of
art: it consisted of a mass of clay and flint, so skilfully put together
that the most acute searcher, even though he possessed the certainty of
its existence somewhere, must have failed to discover it from among the
natural lining of the rude but extensive cave. A low and gentle whistle
was answered by a like signal, and the door was drawn gradually inwards,
until sufficient space was afforded to permit Burrell to pass into a
large space, but less raw and wild than that from which he had just
entered.

In one corner of this singular hall, rose a motley pile of musketry,
rifles, hand-grenades, basket and cross-hilted swords, steel cuirasses,
which, from their rude and sullied condition, appeared to have suffered
much and hard service; buff and other coloured doublets, breast-plates,
shoulder-belts with gilt and plain buckles; manacles, some rusty, others
of glittering brightness: the muzzle of a small brass swivel projected
from beneath a number of flags and emblems of various nations, rolled
together with a degree of amity to which their former owners had long
been strangers. Over these again were heaped cloaks, caps, feathers, and
trappings, enough to form the stock wardrobe of a theatre. Nor were
there wanting thumb-screws and other instruments of torture, often
unsparingly exercised upon those who hid their treasure or retained
secrets they were desired to betray. Near to this miscellaneous
assemblage rose another heap, the base of which appeared to consist of
some half score of elephants' teeth, rough hemp, fragments of huge
cable, cable-yarn, and all manner of cordage; rolls of lewxerns',
martrons', and leopard-skins; wolf-skins, "tawed and untawed;" girdles
of silk, velvet, and leather; and on pegs, immediately over, hung half a
dozen mantles of miniver, and some wide robings of the pure spotted
ermine. Upon a huge sea-chest were heaped bales of costly Brabant,
Overyssels, and other rare linens, mingled with French and Italian lawns
of the finest texture; Turkish camlets, satins of China and Luca, plain
and wrought, and many other expensive and highly-taxed articles.
Delicious odours were diffused through the chamber from various cases of
perfume, musk, ambergris, and the costly attar; while along the north
wall were ranged different sized casks of Nantz brandy, Hollands, and
Jamaica rum; giving to the whole the appearance of a vast storehouse. An
enormous chafing-dish, filled with burning charcoal, stood near the
centre, and in a deep iron pan was placed a keg of oil, a hole having
been driven into its head, through which a sort of hempen wick had been
introduced; it flared and blazed like an overgrown flambeau, throwing a
warm and glowing light over the entire of the wild yet well-filled
apartment.

But the most singular portion of the garniture of this most singular
cave consisted of a number of "Oliver's Acts," pinned or nailed against
the walls. If Dalton had been Lord Chief Justice, he could not have
displayed a more minute attention to the products of legal sittings
than distinguished his private chamber: here was set forth on goodly
parchment, "An Act for the Security of his Highness the Lord Protector,
his Person, and Continuance of the Nation in Peace and Safety;" there,
"An Act for Renouncing and Disannulling the pretended Title of Charles
Stuart, &c. at the Parliament begun at Westminster the 17th day of
September, anno Domini 1656," with the names "Henry Hills" and "John
Field, Printers to his Highness the Lord Protector," in large letters at
the bottom, together with divers others, chiefly however relating to the
excise.

Hugh Dalton rose from his seat, and laid his enormous pipe on a pile of
ebony logs that answered the purpose of a table, when Sir Willmott
Burrell saluted him with more civility than he usually bestowed upon
inferiors: but, despite his outlawry, and the wild course his life had
taken, there was a firm, bold, and manly bearing about the Buccaneer
which might have overawed far stouter hearts than the heart of the
master of Burrell. His vest was open, and his shirt-collar thrown back,
so as to display to advantage the fine proportions of his chest and
neck. His strongly-marked features had at all times an expression of
fierceness which was barely redeemed from utter ferocity by a pleasant
smile that usually played around a well-formed mouth; but when anger was
uppermost, or passion was subdued by contempt, those who came within
reach of his influence, more dreaded the rapid motion or the sarcastic
curl of his lip, than the terrible flashing of eyes that were
proverbial, even among the reckless and desperate men of whom he was the
chief, in name, in courage, and in skill. His forehead was unusually
broad: thick and bushy brows overhung the long lashes of his deeply-set
eyes, around which there was a dark line, apparently less the effect of
nature than of climate. The swarthy hue of his countenance was relieved
by a red tinge on either cheek; but a second glance might have served to
convince the gazer that it was the consequence of unchecked dissipation,
not a token of ruddy health. Indeed, notwithstanding the fine and manly
character of his form and countenance, both conveyed an idea of a mind
ill at ease, of a conscience smitten by the past and apprehensive of the
future, yet seeking consolation in the knowledge of good that had been
effected, and of more that remained to be done. Years of crime had not
altogether obliterated a natural kindness of heart; he appeared as one
who had outraged society and its customs in a thousand forms, yet who
knew there was that within him by which he was entitled to ask and
expect a shelter within her sanctuary; and when a deep flush would pass
over his features, and his blood grow chill at the recollection of
atrocities at which the sufferers in a score of lands had shuddered as
they talked, he endeavoured to still the voice that reproached him, by
placing to the credit of his fearful account some matters to which we
may hereafter more distinctly refer.

It was before such a man that Burrell of Burrell now stood, and by whom
he was addressed.

"My piping-bird, good sir, told me you wanted me; and though somewhat
inconvenient at this present time, here I am. Won't you sit? This is no
lady's lounging-room; yet we can find seats, and costly ones too," he
added, pushing a chest of spices towards his visitor.

"Then, you were not at sea, Captain?" observed Burrell, seating himself,
and unclasping his cloak.

"I did not say so," replied the other, bringing his bushy brows more
closely over his eyes, and glancing suspiciously upon the questioner.

"Oh, no; I only imagined it."

"Well, sir, I was not at sea, and I care not who knows it."

"But, my worthy friend, we have been acquainted too long for you to fear
my 'peaching aught concerning you or your doings."

"And did I talk of fear?" inquired the Buccaneer, with a droll and yet
bitter expression. "Well, if I did, I only follow, as Robin would say,
the example of my betters, by talking about what I don't understand."

"Vastly good, and true!--true as the----"

"Needle to the pole; the finest simile in nature, Sir Willmott Burrell:
you were fishing for a holy one, I saw, which is what these walls don't
often hear, for we've no laggers nor warpes among us."

"You've enlarged this room, and improved it much, Captain, since I last
saw it."

"Humph! ay, that was, I remember, when his Highness----"

"Hush!" interrupted Burrell, changing colour, and looking round the
room cautiously; "you must be very careful, Dalton, how you say any
thing about----"

"Ha! ha! ha! So you look for a troop of old Noll's Ironsides to bounce
from under these packages in this good Isle of Shepey; or, mayhap,
expect to see him start forth from behind his own Acts, which you
perceive garnish my walls--the walls of my secret palace, so splendidly;
but I may talk about his Highness, ay, and about the prisoners you
escorted here, despite the loyal men of Kent, for me to ship to the
Colonies--and--. But no matter, no matter; Noll knew I did it, for he
knows every thing. Well, sir, you seem so alarmed, that I'm dumb as a
sand-bank; only this, his Highness is far enough off to-night, and you
need fear no other Olivers, for England will never see but one."

"True, true--good Dalton!--but tell me, are you often on the French
coast now?"

"Yes, I'm grown old, and, though my little Fire-fly is still bright and
beautiful, and her ivories as biting, her guns, sir, as musical as ever,
yet I'm done with the Colonies; they ruin a man's morals and his health;
but I do a little, just by way of amusement, or practice, with Flanders
and France, and a run now and then to Lisbon."

"How long is it since you've been to St. Vallery?"

"Some time now; I was at Dieppe last month, and that is very near."

"Dalton, you must make St. Vallery before this moon is out, and execute
a little commission for me."

"Very good, sir; we have never disputed about terms. What is it? any
thing in the way of silks, or----"

"It is flesh, human flesh, Dalton."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Buccaneer, rising and recoiling from the knight.
"I've had enough of that, and I'll have no more. Sir Willmott Burrell,
you must seek out another man."

"Now, Dalton," said Burrell, in his most insinuating tone, "you have not
yet heard me, and I take it very unhandsome of an old friend like you to
start off in such a manner without knowing why or wherefore. The matter
is simply this--a girl, a silly girl, somehow or other got attached to
me while I was in France. I have received letter upon letter, talking of
her situation, and so forth, and threatening various things; amongst
others, to come over here, unless--the idiot!--I acknowledge her as my
wife. Now, you know, or perhaps you do not know, that I am betrothed to
the daughter of Sir Robert Cecil; and, if I must enter into the holy
state, why she is a maiden to be proud of. I have arranged it
thus--written to my fair Zillah to get to St. Vallery by a particular
day, the date of which I will give you, and told her that a vessel waits
to convey her to England. You, Dalton, must guide that vessel,
and----but you understand me; words between friends are needless."

"The cargo for exportation; Barbadoes perhaps----"

"Or----" And Burrell pointed with his finger downwards, though, when he
raised his eye to encounter that of the Buccaneer, it was quickly
withdrawn.

"God, Burrell!" exclaimed Dalton, in a tone of abhorrence, "you are a
greater villain than I took you for! Why can't you pay off the
girl--send her somewhere--gild the crime?"

"Gold is no object with her; she desires honour."

The sympathetic chord of the Buccaneer's heart was touched, for the
sentiment echoed his own.

"Then who is she?" he demanded; "I'll not stir in it unless I know all."

Burrell paused for a moment, and then said--

"You have heard of Manasseh Ben Israel, a rabbi, whom it hath pleased a
great personage to distinguish with much kindness: nay, his mercy has
gone so far as to contemplate receiving that unholy people into commune
with us, giving them the right-hand of fellowship, and suffering them to
taste of the waters----"

"Spritsail and rigging!" interrupted the Buccaneer, whose enraged spirit
sought some outlet, "No conventicle lingo here--you forget your company,
Sir Willmott. What of the Jew?"

"You know his highness has strangely favoured this man, and that he is
much thought of. It is now more than six months since I was entrusted
with a commission to Paris, and Ben Israel requested I would take charge
of some packages he desired to forward to his daughter. She resided with
a family whom I knew to be Polish Jews, but who conformed to the
Catholic faith, and quieted the conscience of a certain cardinal by
liberal offerings of silver and of gold. I discharged the commission in
person, and must confess that the little black-eyed maid, seated as I
first saw her, on crimson cushions of rich Genoa velvet, and nearly
enveloped in a veil starred with precious gems, looked more like a houri
than a woman. She pleased me mightily; and, as I had a good deal of time
on my hands, I trifled it with her. This might have done well; we might
have gone on pleasantly enough; but the creature was as jealous as a
she-tiger, and as revengeful too. I made acquaintance with a blue-eyed
Dane at the court, and--can you believe it?--she tracked my footsteps in
disguise, and would have stabbed me to the heart, had I not wrenched the
dagger from her little hand. She pretended to be sorry for it; and,
though I never trusted her, our intimacy was renewed, until I was
recalled. Particular necessities for money pressing upon me, I saw that
no time was to be lost in fulfilling my contract with Sir Robert Cecil's
daughter. My Jewess, however, thinks otherwise; declares she will follow
me here; that if I do her not justice she will brave her father's anger,
avow her intimacy with a Christian (which I believe they invariably
punish by death), and forward, what she calls, proofs of my guilt to the
Lord Protector. You perceive, Dalton, the creature is dangerous."

"But what _can_ she forward to Oliver?"

"Why, she was starch, and--you comprehend me--I was obliged to submit to
a species of marriage ceremony; and there was a certificate and some
letters. In short, Captain, knowing his highness's strictness--knowing
his wish to conciliate this Ben Israel, and feeling the expediency of my
immediate marriage--I tell you it would be certain destruction to suffer
her to appear now."

"Then I must ship her off, so that she may never return," observed the
Buccaneer, with a fierce knitting of his brows.

"Dalton, you know not what a devil she is: were she gentle, or a fond
idiot, she could be managed; but she has the spirit, the foresight of a
thousand women. Besides, I swore, when her hand was lifted against my
life, that I would be revenged, and I never yet swore in vain."

Dalton looked upon Burrell's really handsome features, contracted and
withered by the pestilence of a demoniac spirit, and loathed him from
his very soul.

"I can't, Sir Willmott, I can't; flesh and blood must rise against the
destruction of a loving woman. I won't, so help me God! and that's
enough."

"Very well--very well--but I'll have blood for blood, breach for breach,
master; the Ironsides, Cromwell's tender pets, would have nice picking
here. The Protector has already a scent of your whereabouts; he is one
who neither slumbers nor sleeps. Let the bold Buccaneer look to it, and
I'll straight seek some less _honest_ man to do my bidding."

"Heave over such jargon," replied Dalton, upon whom Burrell's threats
seemed to have made no impression. "Suppose you did betray me, how many
days' purchase would your life be worth? Think ye there are no true
hearts and brave, who would sacrifice their own lives to avenge the loss
of mine? Avast, Master of Burrell! you are old enough to know better."

"And you ought to know better than to sail against the wind. Why, man,
the little Jewess is freighted with jewels; a very queen of diamonds.
And I care not for them: you may keep them all--so----" The villain's
lip faltered; he feared to speak of the deed his heart had planned.
Dalton made no reply, but covered his face with his hand, leaning his
elbow on the table. Burrell took advantage of his silence to urge the
riches of the rabbi's daughter, the presents he himself would give, and
wound up the discourse with protests loud and earnest of everlasting
gratitude. Dalton let him speak on, but still maintained an inflexible
silence.

"'Sdeath, man!" exclaimed Burrell, hastily, after a pause of some
minutes; "art asleep, or stupid?"

"Neither," replied the Buccaneer. "But I will do your bidding. Now,
write your directions,--here are pens, ink, paper, all that you
require,--and my reward; write, sir, and then good night." Burrell did
so, while Dalton paced up and down his den, as if meditating and
arranging some action of importance. All matters being agreed upon,
apparently to the satisfaction of both, they were about to separate,
when Burrell inquired--

"Did you land any Cavaliers lately?"

"Not I; they are but a bad freight; broad pieces are a scarce commodity
with Charlie's friends."

"Very strange. I met a braggart the other night, but I dare say he was
one of the Syndercomb gang. His highness imagines you conveyed some of
them to their head-quarters."

"Does he?"

"Master Dalton, you are close."

"Master Burrell, I have agreed to do your business."

"Well!"

"I mean it to be well. Consequently, I have not agreed to tell you
mine."

Burrell looked daggers for a moment, and then turned off with a hasty
step and a forced laugh.

"Blasted be my hand for touching his in the way of amity!" exclaimed the
Buccaneer, striking the table with a violence that echoed through the
room. "The cold-blooded, remorseless villain! She is too good for such a
sacrifice--I must be at work. And so, one infamy at a time is not enough
for the sin-dealing land lubber; he wanted to worm out of me---- Robin!
ahoy! Robin!"

Dalton stepped to the outside of the still open door; and on the instant
descended from the communicating stair leading to the Gull's Nest, not
Robin, but him of the grey steed and black cloak, who was so near
falling a victim to Burrell's treachery on a recent occasion.




CHAPTER VII.

    For guilty states do ever bear
    The plagues about them which they have deserved;
    And, till those plagues do get above
    The mountain of our faults, and there do sit,
    We see them not. Thus, still we love
    The evil we do, until we suffer it.

      BEN JONSON.


The Buccaneer welcomed the young man with greater warmth than is usually
displayed, except to near and dear connections. It must be remembered,
also, he had arrived at that period of life when feelings of affection
and friendship stagnate somewhat in the veins, and curdle into apathy.
Few are there who have numbered fifty winters without wondering what
could have set their blood boiling and their hearts beating so warmly
some few years before. A benison upon a smiling lip, a kindly eye, and a
cheerful voice!--whether they belong to the young or to the old--may all
such true graces be long preserved from the blight called "knowledge of
the world!" which, while bestowing information with the one hand, takes
away innocence and hope with the other.--But to the story.

The young Cavalier greeted his associate more as a friend than a
companion: there was evidently between them that good understanding
which, arising from acquaintance with the better points of character,
produces mutual esteem; and although there was a degree of deference
paid to Hugh Dalton by the youth, it seemed a compliment to his age and
experience, gracefully and naturally rendered, and kindly and thankfully
received. It was obvious that Dalton so considered it; receiving
attention far less as his due, than as a voluntary offering for which he
desired to show his gratitude.

There was, nevertheless, something of pity mingled with regard, which
the youth manifested towards his chafed companion, as he took the seat
that had been occupied by Burrell, and, laying his hand upon the
powerful arm of the Buccaneer, inquired, in a touching and anxious tone,
if aught had particularly disturbed him.

"Walter, no--nothing very particular; for knavery and villany are seldom
rare, and I have been long accustomed to treat with both; only it's too
bad to have more unclean spirits than one's own harpying and haunting a
man! God! I can breathe better now that fellow's gone. Ah, Master
Walter! there be two sorts of villains in the world: one with a broad,
bronzed face, a bold loud voice, a drinking look, and an unsheathed
dagger--and him men avoid and point at, and children cling to their
mother's skirts as he passes by:--the other is masked from top to
toe;--his step is slow, his voice harmonised, his eye vigilant, but
well-trained; he wears his dagger in his bosom, and crosses his hands
thereon as if in piety, but it is, in truth, that his hold may be firm
and his stab sure; yet the world know not that, and they trust him, and
he is singled out as a pattern-man for youth to follow; and so--but we
all play parts--all, all! And now for a stave of a song: Hurrah for the
free trade!--a shout for the brave Buccaneers!--a pottle of sack!--and
now, sir, I am myself again! The brimstone smell of that dark ruffian
nearly overpowered me!" So saying, he passed his hand frequently over
his brows, attempting at the same time to laugh away his visible
emotion.

"It will not do!" said the young man, whom Dalton had addressed by the
name of Walter; "something has disturbed you: surely, Captain, I may ask
what it is?"

"Some forty years ago I had a father," replied the Buccaneer, looking
earnestly in the youth's face; "he was an aged man then, for he did not
marry until he was old, and my mother was beautiful, and quitted his
side: but that does not matter; only it shows how, as my poor father had
nothing else to love, he loved me with the full tenderness of a most
affectionate nature. He was a clergyman too, and a firm royalist; one of
those devoted royalists, as regarded both God and king, who would
submit, for their sakes, to the stake or the block with rapture at being
thought worthy to make the sacrifice. Well, I was wild and wilful, and
even then would rather steal a thing than gain it by lawful means: not
that I would have stolen aught to keep it, for I was generous enough;
but I loved the danger and excitement of theft, and, on the occasion I
speak of, I had taken some apples from a neighbouring tree belonging to
a poor woman. It was evening when I took this unlucky fruit; and not
knowing a safe place in which to deposit it, I was restless and
disturbed all night. The next day, from a cause I could not guess at, my
father would not suffer me to go out, and was perpetually, on some
pretext or other, going to and from the cupboard where my treasure had
been placed. I was in agony; and as night again closed in, the agitation
and anxiety I had suffered made me ill and pale. My dear father drew
near him the little oak table that was set apart for the Bible, and,
opening it, said that he had that day composed a sermon for my especial
case. I dreaded that my apple-stealing had been discovered; and I was
right, though he did not say so. He enlarged in sweet and simple
language upon his text: it was this--'There is no peace, saith my God,
to the wicked.' Walter! Walter! the old man has been many years in his
grave, and I have been as many a reckless wanderer over the face of the
wild earth and still wilder sea; but I have never done a deed of blood
and plunder, that those words have not echoed--echoed in my ears, struck
upon my heart like the fiend's curse. Yet," he added in a subdued
accent, "it was no cursing lips pronounced them: I have been the curse
to the holy words, not they to me."

"I never before heard you speak of your father," observed the youth.

"I do not like to speak of him; I ran off to sea when I was about ten
years old, and when I came back he was dead. There was war enough in
England at that time to occupy my active nature: I first joined the
King's party, and had my share of wounds and glory at Gainsborough,
where I fought with and saw poor Cavendish killed by that devil
Cromwell. It was at that same battle his successes began: he had a brave
horse-regiment there of his countrymen, most of them freeholders and
freeholders' sons, who upon matter of conscience engaged in this quarrel
under him. It was there he ousted us with his canting. Gadsooks! they
went as regularly to their psalm-singing as they had been in a
conventicle; and thus, d'ye see, being armed after their own fanatical
fashion within, and without by the best iron armour, they stood as one
man, firmly, and charged as one man, desperately.--But we have other
things to talk of than him or me; so sit down, young gentleman, and
let's hear the news;--or, stay, Robin must first bring us some wine--my
warehouse is full of it; I must wash down the poison that fellow has
crammed into my throat. Ah! ah! ah! what chafes me is, that, from my
cursed reputation, greater villains than myself thrust me forward to do
their work, and think they have a right to storm and stare if I have
conscience in any thing. But I'll be even with them all yet--with one in
particular. That villain!--shall that far greater villain have peace?
'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'"

He summoned Robin, who placed on the table some meat and wine, and other
matters that supplied a pretty substantial supper: a ceremony, the
rendering justice to which affords us sufficient leisure to examine the
form and features of the young Cavalier, who, having laid aside his
enormous cloak, reclined on some piles of foreign cloths with an ease
and grace that belongs only to those of gentle blood. Amid the bustle
and occupation of life, it is a simple matter for people of ordinary
rank to assume the bearing of the well-bred; but repose is the true
criterion of a gentleman or lady, inasmuch as there is then no motion to
take off from an ungraceful attitude or an awkward mien. The features
of the Cavalier were almost too high for beauty; and had it not been for
a playful smile that frequently flitted across his countenance,
elongating his moustache, softening and blending the hard lines that
even at four-and-twenty had deepened into furrows, he would have been
pronounced of severe aspect. Bright golden hair clustered in rich curls
over his forehead, and fell a little on either cheek, giving a
picturesque character to the form of the head. His eyes appeared of a
dark grey; but they were so much sunk, so overshadowed by his forehead,
as to leave one in doubt as to their exact colour. His figure was
unusually tall and well-formed, and his whole bearing was more that of
an accomplished gentleman than of a cut-and-slash cavalier: his manner
was neither reckless nor daring, but it was firm and collected. His
dress was composed of the finest black cloth, with a black velvet
doublet; and his sword-hilt glittered with diamonds.

Robin did not attempt to place himself at the same table, but sat back
on a lower seat and at a little distance, sharing his repast with Crisp,
who had scrambled down the stairs after his master, and looked ugly
enough to be, what he certainly was, an extraordinary canine genius.

Dalton and Walter laboured under no restraint because of the presence of
Robin; on the contrary, he occasionally shared in the conversation, and
his opinion upon various topics was frequently asked; indeed, he was
fond of bestowing it gratuitously, and seemed highly pleased when called
upon to express it.

"Didst hear, Robin, when Blake was expected off Sheerness with the
Spanish prizes?"

"In a few days, it is said, he will either bring or send them; but my
own thought is, that it will be about a week, neither more nor less,
before any ship arrives."

"I must get off for the French coast in a day or two," said Dalton; "and
I do not care to return until Blake with his train go up the river a
bit; for it's foul sailing athwart the brave old boy: he's the only man
living I'd strike flag to."

"And who has the care of the Firefly now you're ashore?" inquired the
Cavalier.

"Why, Jeromio."

"I don't like him," said Robin bluntly: "foreigners are good slaves,
but bad masters to us English: I'd rather trust the ship to little
Spring."

"He is a mere boy, and too bad a sailor; besides, he is grown so
superstitious, swears the devil came to him one night I placed him a
watch on yon cliff. I must leave him ashore with you, Robin, and tell
you what to do with the scapegrace, if I am not back by a particular
day. I must also give you a letter to take to Sir Robert Cecil,
postponing an appointment I had made with him."

"You had better give the letter to that gentleman," exclaimed Robin,
pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to where the Cavalier sat; "he
would do an errand to Cecil Place, especially if it were to the Lady
Constance, right gladly."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Dalton, fixing his quick eye on the youth's
countenance, that betrayed uneasiness but not displeasure. "Sits the
wind in that quarter? But tell us, Robin, how was it?"

"There is nothing to tell, Captain," interrupted Walter, "except that
Robin accompanied me to the Place, as it is called, to show me some
alterations, and point out the excellent order in which the trees are
kept; and in the grounds we encountered Mistress Cecil, and, as I am
informed, the Lady Cromwell."

"I wish you would keep close here though," muttered Dalton; "you'll be
meeting the villain Burrell before----"

"I would fain encounter Sir Willmott Burrell once again, and make him
pay the traitor's forfeit."

"Peace--peace! give Burrell rope enough to hang himself. He'll swing as
high as Haman ere long. Robin told me of the coward's treachery."

"I wish Robin had not accompanied him to London," exclaimed Walter; "I
hate people to carry two faces. But my wonder is that Burrell would
trust him."

"Just because he could not help himself," retorted Robin. "He wanted a
clever lad who had understanding. His own valet was in France on some
business or another mighty mysterious; and a gentleman like him, who has
a good character and a foul conscience, a good head and a bad heart, has
need of a man of talent, not a loon, about his person. To do full
justice, however, to his discretion, he treated me to as few of his
secrets as he could, and I endeavoured to save him trouble by finding
them all out."

The Buccaneer laughed aloud, but the high-souled Cavalier looked
serious.

"Ah! ah!" said Dalton, "you never did relish machinations, and it is
well you are not left to yourself in this plan of mine: honour is not
the coin to take to a villain's market."

"'Tis the only coin I will ever deal in, Captain; and I told you before
I left Cologne, that on no other condition would I accompany you to
England, except that of being held clear of every act unbefitting a
gentleman or a soldier."

"Young sir," replied Dalton, "when you were indeed young, and long
before you took your degree in morality at the rambling court of the
second Charles, did I ever counsel you to do aught that your--that, in
short, you might not do with perfect honour? I know too well what it is
to sacrifice honour to interest ever to wish you to make the trial. As
for me, I am low enough in character----"

"My kind preserver! my brave friend!" interrupted Walter, touched at his
change of manner. "Forgive such unworthy, such unmerited suspicion. This
is not the first time I have had to learn your kindly care for me. But
for you----"

"Well, there, there boy--I love to call you boy still; I can bear my own
shame, but I could never bear yours."

Dalton paused, apparently with a view to change the subject: the
Cavalier observed--

"You quarrel with our young king's morality?"

"I'faith, I do!--though you will say it's ill coming from me to fault
any man's conduct; but I hate your little vices as much as your little
virtues: sickly, puny goods and evils, that are too weak for sun to
ripen, too low for blast to break, but which endure, the same withered,
sapless things, to the death-day--Augh! a bold villain, or a real
downright good man, for my money. How the devil can Charles Stuart do
any thing great, or think of any thing great, with his mistresses and
his dogs, his gaming and---- Why, it is hardly a year since I took off
from Dover that poor Lucy Barton and her brat, after the poor thing
suffering imprisonment in the Tower for his sake!"

"The child's a noble child," said Walter; "but the mother's a sad
reprobate, swears and drinks like a trooper."

"My mother is a woman," exclaimed little Robin, with great gravity,
poising a mutton-bone between his fingers, to arrive at which Crisp was
making extraordinary efforts,--"and I can't deny that I've a sort of
love, though it be a love without hope, for a very pretty girl, a woman
also: now this being the case, I'm not fond of hearing women reflected
on; for when they're young, they're the delight of our eyes; and when
they're old, they're useful, though a trifle crabbed, but still useful;
and a house without a woman would be like--like----"

"Robin at fault!" said Dalton: "you've given me many a comparison, and
now I'll lend you one--a bell without a clapper; won't that do, Robin?"
Robin shook his head.--"Ay, Robin! Robin! you're right, after all. If it
were not for a woman, I'd never set foot on shore again: but I'm proud
of my little Barbara; and all the fine things you tell me of her, Robin,
make me still prouder;--her mother all over. I often think how happy I
shall be to call her daughter, when she won't be ashamed to own me: God
help me!"--and be it noted that Dalton crossed himself as he spoke--"God
help me! I often think that if ever I gain salvation, it will be through
the prayers of that girl. Would that she had been brought up in her
mother's way!"

"What would old Noll say to that papistical sign, master?" inquired
Robin.

"A plague on you and old Noll too! I never get a bit up towards heaven,
that something doesn't pull me back again."

"I'll send you up in a moment," said Robin, in a kind voice. "Your
daughter, Barbara----"

"Ay, that it is, that it is," muttered the Buccaneer; "my own, own
child!--the child of one who, I bless God, never lived to know that she
wedded (for I wedded her in holy church, at Dominica) a wild and wicked
rover. Our love was sudden and hot, as the sun under which we lived; and
I never left her but once from the time we became one. I had arranged
all, given up my ship and cargo,--and it was indeed a cargo of
crimes--at least, I thought so then. It was before the civil wars; or I
had again returned to England, or traded, no matter how. I flew to her
dwelling, with a light heart and a light step. What there? My
wife,--she who had hung so fondly round my neck and implored me not to
leave her,--was stretched on a low bamboo bed--dead, sir--dead! I might
have known it before I entered, had I but remembered that she knew my
step on the smooth walk, fell it ever so lightly, and would have met
me--but for death! And there too sat a black she-devil, stuffing my
infant's mouth with their vile food. I believe the hag thought I was
mad; for I caught the child in my arms, held it to my heart while I bent
over my wife's body, and kissed her cold, unreturning--for the first
time unreturning--lips; then flung myself out of the accursed
place,--ran with my burden to the shipowners, who had parted with me
most grudgingly,--and was scudding before the wind in less than twelve
hours, more at war with my own species than ever, and panting for
something to wreak my hatred on. At first I wished the infant dead, for
I saw her pining away; but at last, when she came to know me, and lift
up her innocent hands to my face--I may confess it here--many and many a
night have I sat in my cabin looking on that sleeping child, till my
eyes swam in a more bitter brine than was ever brewed in the Atlantic.
Particular circumstances obliged me to part with her, and I have never
regretted her being with poor Lady Cecil--only I should have liked her
to pray as her mother did. Not that I suppose it will make any
difference at the wind-up,--if," he added, doubtingly, "there be indeed
any wind-up. Hugh Dalton will never be really himself till he can look
that angel girl straight in the face, and ask her to pray for him, as
her mother used." Dalton was too much affected to continue, and both his
auditors respected his feelings too much to speak. At length he said,
"But this gloom will never do. Come, Robin, give us a song, and let it
not be one of your sad ones."

Robin sung,--

    "Now, while the night-wind loud and chill
      Unheeded raves around the door,
    Let us the wine-cup drain and fill,
      And welcome social joys once more--
        The joys that still remain to cheer
        The gloomiest month of all the year,
                  By our own fire side.

    "What need we care for frost and snow?
      Thus meeting--what have we to fear
    From frost and snow, or winds that blow?
      Such guests can find no entrance here.
        No coldness of the heart or air--
        Our little world of twelve feet square,
                  And our own fire-side.

    "I drink this pledge to thee and thine--
      I fill this cup to thine and thee--
    How long the summer sun might shine,
      Nor fill our souls with half the glee
        A merry winter's night can bring,
        To warm our hearts, while thus we sing
                  By our own fire-side."

The song, however, produced a contrary effect to that the Ranger had
intended. It pictured a fancied scene--one to which both Walter and the
Buccaneer had long been strangers; and a lengthened and painful pause
succeeded to the brief moment of forced merriment. It was broken by the
Cavalier, who inquired--

"How long will it be before you return from this new trip? for remember,
my good friend, that suspense is a----"

"Hell!" interrupted Dalton, in his usual intemperate manner: "but I
cannot help it. It is not wise to pluck unripe fruit--do you understand
me?"

"Perfectly--and I dare say you are right; but tell me, Dalton, how is it
that, till lately, you so completely abandoned this island, and kept to
the Devon and Cornwall coasts? I should have thought this the most
convenient; your storehouse here is so well arranged."

"Ay, ay, sir; but this is over-near London, though it used to be a safe
place enough; but now that Sir Michael Livesey--regicide that he
is!--abides so continually at Little Shurland, what chance is there for
any good to such as I? I tell ye, Cromwell's nose is ever on the scent."

"A great advantage to him, and a disadvantage to his foes," said Robin:
"he has only to put the said nose to the touch-hole of the biggest
cannon, and off it goes; it never costs the army a farthing for matches
when he's with it."

"Pshaw, Robin! but is he indeed so red-nosed? You have often seen him,
Captain."

"Ay, dressed in a plain cloth suit, made by an ill country tailor;
his linen coarse and unclean; his band unfashionable, and often
spotted with blood; his hat without a band; his sword close to his
side; his countenance swollen and reddish; and, as to his nose,
it looked to me more purple than aught else. But, sir, to see
Cromwell, see him in battle--he is a right noble horseman; and
the beast (a black one especially he was once so fond of) seemed
to have been tutored by the evil one: its eye was as vigilant as
its rider's. Cromwell sits his saddle not gracefully, but firmly,
just as if he were part and portion of the animal; then, with a
sword in his right hand, and a pistol in his left---- Sir, it was
unlike any thing I ever saw! He must have managed the horse by the
pressure of his heel; for I never could make out, such was the decision
yet rapidity of hism movements, whether he held reins or not: now here,
now there--firing--preaching--shouting--praying--conquering--yet
everything done in its right place and time, never suffering the
excitement of the moment to bear down one of his resolves. Had
he been born a king----"

"He would never have been what he is," said the Cavalier; "for
contention is the school of greatness."

"It's mighty fine to see you two sit there," exclaimed Robin, "praising
up that man in the high place: pretty Cavaliers indeed! Well, my opinion
is, that--but indeed it is rude to give an opinion unasked, so I'll keep
mine to myself. You were talking of the conveniences of this place; why,
bless you, sir, it's nothing to fifty others along St. George's Channel.
'Twould do your heart good to see those our captain has among the
Cornish rocks; such comfortable dwellings, where you could stow away
twenty people, never to chirrup to the sun again; such hiding-holes,
with neat little trains of gunpowder, winding like snakes in summer, so
that, to prevent discovery, one crack of a good flint would send the
caverns and the cliffs high into the air, to tell stories to the stars
of the power of man's skill to destroy the most sublime as well as the
most beautiful works of nature."

"Robin, you ought to have been a preacher."

"No," said Robin mournfully, and shaking his head, as was his custom,
"for I know nothing of your book-holiness; only I can't bear anything
moulded and made by the hand of God to be ruined by that of man."

"What ails ye, lad?" inquired the Buccaneer; "I thought ye had got over
all your shadows, as ye used to call them."

"Not all of them; only they do not come upon me as often as they used,"
he replied gravely; for poor Robin had one time been subject to
periodical fits that bordered on insanity, and during such afflictions
wandered about the country, without seeking repose or speaking word to
any one. Constance Cecil, with her usual kindness, had him frequently
taken care of at Cecil Place; and Barbara's kind attention to him during
such fearful trials was the source of as strong, as unvarying, and
devoted an attachment as ever human being manifested towards another.

By degrees the conversation sunk into low confidential whispers, as if
caution, even there, was necessary. It was near four o'clock in the
morning before the Buccaneer departed for his ship, and then Robin
escorted the Cavalier to his usual chamber in the Gull's Nest.




CHAPTER VIII.

    When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
      When healths and draughts go free,
    Fishes that tipple in the deep
      Know no such liberty.

      LOVELACE.


"A blessing and a salutation, reverend sir! and may the sun, moon, and
stars be sanctified unto you!"

"Ah! Solomon Grundy, would that the Lord had given thee sense to
understand, as he hath bestowed upon thee talent to speak according to
thy understanding! As it is, Solomon, I lament that thou art a fool,
Solomon, a very fool, except in what regardeth the creature-comforts;
and, of a verity, thou art worthy to send up a dinner even unto Hugh
Peters, after he hath delivered a soul-converting oration before the
chosen from among God's people."

"Which refection he would in nowise condemn," observed the cook of Cecil
Place, whose closely-cropped head of foxy hair seemed to throw a
proportionate quantity of glowing colour upon his rubicund countenance.
He had all the outward marks that indicate a _bon vivant_, and words of
piety came as awkwardly from his lips as sighs from the mouth of a seal
or a salmon. His little grey eyes twinkled with affection for the said
"creature-comforts;" and the leathern pouch he now carried over his
shoulder was stocked with sundry good things appropriated from the
larder for his own especial diet. He had received permission from
Mistress Cecil to accompany some of his neighbours to see the grand
company from London visit a first-rate man-of-war that had just arrived
off Sheerness, bringing in a train of prizes which the veteran Blake had
taken and sent home, himself proceeding to Vera Cruz, and which it was
rumoured the Lord Oliver was about to inspect in person. This
intelligence set the country in a ferment, and persons of all classes
hastened to the island to witness the sight. For the English _were_, as
they now _are_, a sight-loving people, who find pleasure in pageants;
and then, as at present, they demanded economy; but when economy came,
they designated it meanness.

The staunch Roundheads exulted at the idea of Cromwell's exhibiting
himself thus openly after the upsetting of the Syndercomb plot; and the
Royalists, depressed and disappointed, were content to let matters take
their course, at least until they saw some prospect of a change; while
the Levellers, the party most dreaded by the Protector, and which had
been most fatal to the Stuarts, remained in that dangerous state of
repose that is but the preparative for renewed activity.

The Reverend Jonas Fleetword had set forth from the sole desire of
"beholding him who was anointed with the oil of the Spirit, and whose
name among the nations was wonderful." Solomon Grundy, and such other of
the servants of Cecil Place as could be spared, were impelled forward by
the wish of hearing or of seeing something new; intelligence not
travelling upon wings of steam in the seventeenth century, and
newspapers being but rare visiters at Shepey. Occasionally, indeed,
there did descend from the breakfast-room of Sir Robert, unto the
servants' hall, a stray number or two of the "Mercurius Politicus," the
"Perfect Diurnal," or the "Parliament Scout;" the contents of which were
eagerly devoured by the several auditors, while one, more gifted than
his fellows, drawled forth, amid ejaculations and thanks unto the Lord,
the doings of the Commonwealth, and especially of him who was a master
in the new Israel. But the information of the underlings of the house
was generally gathered from the pious pedlars, who sought entrance at
the gate, well stocked with wares of every possible description, and
with "gifts" of which they were always abundantly lavish to those who
hungered or were athirst.

The ladies of the family remained at home; the Lady Frances feeling
assured that her father would not be present, as she had received no
intimation to such effect from Whitehall. Constance, however, had heard
too many tales of Oliver's sudden movements to feel satisfied as to the
certainty of any matter in which he was concerned. It was no secret
either that he had been displeased with his daughter for her obstinate
attachment to Mr. Rich; and that he desired her, for the present, to
remain in retirement and away from court.

We have said that Solomon Grundy had received permission to view the
sight; and for a time he proceeded on his way, accompanied by the other
domestics; but, under some sly pretext, he lingered behind them. The
worthy preacher had not left Cecil Place so early, but, notwithstanding
the ambling pace of his favourite jennet, he soon came up to Solomon,
who, seated under a spreading elm by the wayside, was rapidly
demolishing the contents of his wallet, freshened by frequent draughts
from a black bottle of vast rotundity.

"Master Solomon Grundy," he observed, reining up his steed, "could not
your stomach tarry, even for a short while? Ah! worthy cook, you have a
most professional longing after the flesh-pots."

Solomon grinned, and applied himself with renewed diligence to his
viands when the preacher had passed. He was now surrounded by a motley
party, who had crossed from the main land, all bearing towards the same
point. Puritans, whose cloaks were of the most formal cut, and whose
hats emulated the steeple of St. Paul's; Levellers, with firm steps,
wrinkled and over-hanging brows, and hard unchanging features, all
denoting inflexibility of purpose and decision of character; Cavaliers,
whose jaunty gait was sobered, and whose fashionable attire was
curtailed in consideration that such bravery would be noticed and
reproved by the powers that were; women attired in dark hoods and
sad-coloured kirtles; some of demure aspect, others with laughing eyes
and dimpled cheeks, who exchanged glances, and sometimes words, with
youths of serious apparel but joyous countenances; while here and there
might be recognised divines, whose iron physiognomies disdained to be
affected by any of the usual feelings that flesh is heir to; and ladies
on horseback, or in the lumbering heavy carriages, progressing from the
horse ferry, "with stealthy pace and slow," towards the centre of
attraction.

The English even now make a business of enjoyment; but in those days,
what we designate pleasure, was known by no such unholy term; it was
called "recreation," "the refreshment of the creature," "the repose of
the flesh,"--by any name, in fact, except the true one. But in the
particular instance to which we refer, it was considered a sacred duty
to uphold and applaud the Lord Protector whenever there occurred an
opportunity for so doing; and sound-hearted Puritans would make a
pilgrimage for the purpose with as much zeal as ever Roman Catholics
evinced in visiting the shrine of some holy saint. The ships rode
proudly in the harbour, and groups of the gentry were occasionally
conveyed on board by boats, that waited for the purpose both at
Queenborough and Sheerness. It was an animated scene, but the soul of
all was wanting, for neither Cromwell, nor any portion of the court,
made their appearance. When it was noon, the people hoped he would
arrive ere evening; but, as the evening advanced, and he failed to enter
upon the scene, there was a general manifestation of disappointment
throughout the crowd, although some few rejoiced at the occurrence,
holding it a sign of fear on his part, as if he dreaded to be seen among
them.

A party, consisting of ten or twelve persons, at Queenborough, had
gathered round the trunk of a withered and hollow oak, growing in front
of a public-house, that displayed the head of the Lord Protector--a
political lure, that was certain to attract all Commonwealth people to
the receipt of custom. The noble tree had been one of magnificent
growth, but age or accident had severed the trunk, and within its heart
decay had long been revelling. It was now perfectly hollow, and afforded
a free passage; two enormous props had been found necessary, to prevent
its making a last resting-place of the earth it had for ages
triumphantly protected. The cavity that time had created was
sufficiently extensive to afford shelter during a storm to three or
four persons; and it was not unfrequently resorted to by the people of
the inn, as a storehouse for fuel, or farming utensils, when a plentiful
harvest rewarded the toil of the husbandman. Its branches, which had so
often sheltered the wayfarer alike from the tempest and the hot summer's
sun, had been hewn away, to serve the purposes of strife in the shape of
spear-handles, or to the doom of the winter fire; one solitary arm of
the blighted tree alone remained, extending its scraggy and shattered
remnants to a considerable distance over the greensward which had been,
from time immemorial, trodden by the merry morrice dancers, and broken
by the curvetting of the hobby-horse and the Dragon of Wantley, sports
it was now deemed sinful but to name. From a fragment of this
dilapidated branch, hung the sign of mine host of the Oliver's Head; and
right glad would he have been, if rumour had lied with each returning
morn, so that the lie could but fill his dwelling with so many
profitable guests. Thrice had the party, by whom had been appropriated
the seat beneath the oak, emptied the black jack of its double-dub ale;
and the call for a fourth replenishing was speedily answered, as the sun
was setting over the ocean, and tinging the sails and masts of the
distant vessels with hues that might have shamed the ruby and the
sapphire.

"To have our day go for nothing, after a trudge of some twenty miles, to
this out-of-the-way place,--Adad, sirs, it's no joke!" exclaimed a
sturdy, bluff-looking man, to our friend little Robin Hays, who sat upon
the corner of the bench, one leg tucked under (doubtless for the purpose
of enabling him to sit higher than nature had intended,) while the other
swung methodically backward and forward: "Adad, sir, it's no joke!" he
repeated.

"No more it isn't, Master Grimstone; I never heard you joke yet," said
Robin.

"And I aver it is an open and avowed doubting of God's providence,"
chimed in the cook.

"What! what!" exclaimed six or eight voices: "what do you mean by such
blasphemy, Solomon Grundy? A forfeit and a fine!"

"Peace, silly brawlers!" returned he of the kitchen, who had discussed
the good things thereof, until he had no room for more, and who had
also quaffed largely of the forbidden beverage called 'strong
waters;'--"I say peace, silly brawlers! I repeat it _is_ an open and
avowed doubting of Providence, that we should come thus far, and see
nothing but a parcel of people--parcel of sky--parcel of water--parcel
of ships--parcel----"

"Of fools!" grinned little Robin, pointing at the same time towards the
oratorical cook, who so little relished the compliment, as to elevate
the polished remnant of a mutton shoulder-blade, and aim a well-directed
blow at the manikin, which he avoided only by springing with great
agility through the aperture in the tree, so as to alight at some
distance on the other side of the hollow trunk. This harlequinade
excited much boisterous laughter among the crowd; and no one joined in
it more mirthfully than young Springall, who, for some reason known best
to Hugh Dalton, yet sanctioned by Sir Robert Cecil, had spent the last
few days in the kitchens and buttery of Cecil Place. There was another
youth of the same party, who perchance enjoyed the merriment, but who
looked as if he could have still more enjoyed melancholy. He was seated
next to Springall, on the rude bench; and the boy-sailor treated him
with such marks of attention, as manifested that he regarded him more in
the light of a superior, than as an equal. The stranger, however,
remained with his hat so much slouched over his face, that his features
were in complete shadow, while his cloak was muffled over the lower part
of his countenance.

"I say, Robin," exclaimed Springall, "come out of your shell; you have
remained there long enough to tell over a dozen creeds or paters, were
they in fashion--Come out, are you bewitched? Robin the Ranger, I say,
come forth, and give us a taste of your calling--a melody--a melody! But
you should hear our Jeromio sing his lingo songs some night astern: and
though I do hate that cunning rascal, yet, my eyes! how he does sing!"

"Singing," observed Solomon Grundy, whose potations had wonderfully
increased his piety, "singing is an invention of the beast's, yea, of
the horned beast's, of him who knoweth not a turtle from a turtle-dove,
but would incontinently stew them in the same caldron, over brimstone
and pitch; therefore shall my voice bubble and boil over against such
iniquities--yea, and my tongue shall be uplifted against them, even in
the land of Ham!"

"Go to sleep, Solomon, and you, youngster, give us a song yourself,"
growled Grimstone, who had all the outward bearing of a savage; "the
evening is nigh closing, and the birds are gone to their nests.
Nevertheless, the song must be right proper: so tune up, tune up, my
boy!"

Springall, with due modesty, replied, "I could sing you sea songs, and
land songs, but these I leave to Robin Hays, who beats me hollow. The
clerk of our ship has translated one of Jeromio's lilts, so I'll tip you
a bit of sentiment.

    "O'er the clear quiet waters
    My gondola glides,
    And gently it wakens
    The slumbering tides.
    All nature is smiling,
    Beneath and above;
    While earth and while heaven
    Are breathing of love!

    "In vain are they breathing
    Earth, heaven--to me,
    Though their beauty and calmness
    Are whispers of thee:
    For the bright sky must darken,
    The earth must be grey,
    Ere the deep gloom that saddens
    My soul, pass away.

    "But see, the last day-beam
    Grows pale, ere it die;
    And the dark clouds are passing
    All over the sky.
    I hear thy light footstep,
    Thy fair form I see;
    Ah! the twilight has told thee
    Who watches for thee."

Towards the latter part of the ditty, which was but little relished by
the company, it was evident that Solomon had followed Grimstone's
advice, for his snoring formed a loud and most inharmonious bass to the
sweet boy-like melody of Springall's ballad.

Robin had rejoined the party, but his face and lips were of a livid
paleness, and he seemed labouring under evident distress.

"Art hurt, Robin?" inquired the stranger, who is known to us by the name
of Walter, now speaking for the first time. Robin shook his matted head
in reply.

"Something ails thee, man; something must ail thee--speak, good Robin."

"I'm neither sick, sad, nor sorry," he answered, affecting his usual
easy manner; "so here's a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull
altogether at the black jack, to the health--But pardon, I had forgotten
the wickedness of such profane customs." Yet Robin evidently did not
hold it profane to "swill the brown bowl" so eagerly, that but the lees
remained at the bottom, as he laid it down, refreshed and strengthened.

"So you won't give us a toast, Master Robin," said Springall; "well,
I'll not only give ye a toast, but I'll stand the price of a fresh jack
of double-dub for you all to drink it in; and I'll fight any man that
says it nay, besides."

"Hold your profaneness!" exclaimed Robin, with a solemnity so opposed to
his actual character as to be absolutely ludicrous: "Springall, thou
hast had too much already; let us depart in peace."

"A curse on me if I do--peace me no peace."

"I tell you what," interrupted Robin, with resolute spitefulness, "if
you swear, I'll lodge information against you."

"Ah! ah! ah!" shouted several of the party, "Robin Hays turned preacher!
Old Noll has sent the breath of holiness before him to supply his place,
and made a sudden convert of the Ranger!"

"I entreat you most meekly to be silent; if not for my sake, for your
own. My brethren, you know not----"

"That here comes the black jack," interrupted Springall; "and here's to
the health--But Cavaliers----"

"We are _not_ Cavaliers," interrupted Robin, in his turn; "as I hope for
mercy, we are not Cavaliers:--hard--honest--pains-taking Commonwealth
citizens are we; but not, I say not," and he elevated his voice to its
highest pitch, "not Cavaliers."

"The devil's in the cards, and knaves are trumps," exclaimed Springall;
"nevertheless I'll have my toast, and here it is.--Come, up
standing,--'The fairest maid in Shepey, Barbara Iverk! and may she soon
be a wife'----"

"To whom?" inquired Robin bitterly.

"To whoever can win and wear her," replied Springall. "Come, come,
Master Bob, you're mazed by some devilry or other; the wind's in your
teeth; you've been sailing against a norwester, or have met with a witch
on a broomstick the other side of this old oak: Serves an oak right to
wither up--why wasn't it made into a ship? But here's to Barbara Iverk,
the fair maid of Shepey!"

"The fair maid of Shepey!" repeated Grimstone, after drinking the toast.
"That title ought to be given to the mistress, not the maid; and I care
not if I wind up the evening with a cup of Canary to the health of Lady
Constance----"

"Peace, sir!" exclaimed the stranger, who had heretofore taken no note
of their rioting: "I shall offer chastisement to any man who profanes
that Lady's name at a vulgar revel."

"Adad! and adad, young sir, ye're a game one! What's in any woman, that
a man can't name her? Flesh is flesh! and as to distinctions--we are all
members of a Commonwealth! so I say a stoup of Canary to the Lady----"

"By holy Paul! if that Lady's name passes your unworthy lips, my good
rapier shall pass straight through your unhallowed carcase!" exclaimed
the Cavalier fiercely, at the same time throwing back his cloak, and
drawing his sword more than half out of his scabbard.

"Hey ho! two can play at that: I never eat my words; so, the sword in
one hand, and the Canary in the other--to the health of----"

His mouth was stopped by the application of the palm of Robin's broad
hand to his unclosed lips; while he whispered some words into his ear,
that had the magical effect of restoring the weapon to its sheath, and
of inducing the braggart to resume the seat he had so hastily abandoned,
grumbling, in an under tone, words that fell indistinctly upon the ear
of his opposer.

"Let us home; it is a long and a dreary road to Cecil Place, and the
night is upon us already! so up, good Solomon. Here, landlord! this
fatted calf is unable to move: give him house-room till to-morrow; and
mind you put him on his way in time for the dinner-hour," was Robin's
parting speech. He then exchanged rough, but kindly salutations, with
his boon companions; and soon the trio--Walter, Springall, and Robin had
taken a by-path, leading to the part of the island in which Cecil Place
was situated.




CHAPTER IX.

    His rude assault, and rugged handeling
    Straunge seemed to the knight, that aye with foe
    In faire defence, and goodly menaging
    Of arms, was wont to fight.--_The Faerie Queene._


The three young men pursued their way; at first laughing and chatting
merrily upon the events of the morning; but gradually becoming more and
more silent, as persons usually do when the first flush of revelling is
over. The taller of the three, who has of course been recognised as the
mysterious visiter at Lady Cecil's funeral and in the cave of the
Buccaneer, although he bore himself towards them with all the courtesy
of a true-born gentleman, received the deference of his more humble
associates only as his due, and in a manner that showed he had been
accustomed to more than merely respectful treatment. After traversing
much low and marshy ground, they suddenly reached a spot where the road
divided, the one path leading to Cecil Place, the other to Gull's Nest
crag.

"Come with me, Robin; unless, indeed, the master wishes your company. I
ask his pardon for not thinking of that afore," said Springall.

"Not I, good Springall," replied the gentleman. "I think you need a
guide, for you walk the quarter-deck better than the dry land; and, if I
mistake not, there are sundry pit-falls in the way to your present home.
I know my path; and, besides, am a regular land-lubber."

"Save and bless your honour!" exclaimed the young sailor, holding all
land-lubbers in thorough contempt: "that ye're not: land-lubber, indeed!
I'll be at the Nest to-morrow early--if----"

"Hush!" said the more careful Robin, "never speak words of secret,
openly--See ye yonder?"

"Yes," replied Springall, "two horsemen on the other road; too far off
to hear my words, unless they had the ears of a hare."

"I had better go with you, sir," observed Robin earnestly: "I will go
with you, that's the truth of it. Good night, Spring--steer to the left
till you come to the red gap; after that, along the stone fence, on the
right; it will lead you to the orchard, then you know your way."

"Why did you not go with him?" inquired the Cavalier, kindly; "it is a
dark night, poor boy, he has small skill in land-steering."

"He must learn, sir, as I do," answered Robin; "and my duty calls me to
attend on you, particularly when strange people are a-stir."

"You are to be my champion, Robin?"

"Your servant, sir. A serv

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