Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 1 of 3 Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Although Dame Shedlock had fully explained to Zedekiah andAbigail the mystery of Sir Walter Raleigh’s pipe, it must notbe supposed that those two individuals were satisfied, by thisunsupported testimony of their mistress, that the said pipe wasmerely a harmless source of recreation, and no way allied tothe powers and elements of the infernal regions. They forboreto alarm the neighbourhood, and, to the eye of their mistress,appeared to award her explanation implicit credence; but theirbelief that the pipe was Sir Walter’s familiar demon, by meansof which he corresponded with Lucifer, was unshaken, and toofirmly rooted in their minds to be easily removed.

  Zedekiah, indeed, did not care much, after his first fright hadsubsided, whether it were true or not, so long as he was beyondSir Walter’s reach; but Abigail’s horror of the Evil One wasmore inveterate. No sooner had Dame Shedlock retired, than shemade Zedekiah sensible, by a few hurried words, how deeply thishorror was now moving her, and implored him to lend his aidtowards blocking the Enemy out. There was but one way, in heropinion, in which the blocking out could be effected; and thiswas by procuring a horseshoe, and nailing it, with the fore-partupwards, on the outside of the kitchen-door. Without ever havingbeen suspected of sorcery, she had the reputation of being deeplyversed in the science of charms, as her whole life, in private,was one uninterrupted precaution against bad luck and witches;and, therefore, Zedekiah readily believed that this contrivancewould be fully adequate to the purpose in view, and constitute abarrier that the devil could not pass. There was one bar to itssuccess, however, that he thought calculated to cause them someinconvenience; and this was, that they had no horseshoe.

  “Be that all thou canst say?” asked Abigail, in answer to thisobjection of the man-of-all-work. “Doth thy horse run barefoot,then?”

  “Scoff not, woman!” replied Zedekiah; “for the beast hath innothing offended thee. Verily, he is shod complete.”

  “Then, we will straight unshoe him,” returned Abigail. “Bettera lazy beast should go barefoot, than harm should come to anyChristian folk.”

  This, however, was a proposition that Zedekiah would not concurin; and it required all the arguments that Abigail could muster,independent of a forcible and highly-coloured representation ofthe danger that threatened them, and which might be so easilyaverted, before he would engage to carry it into effect. Evenwhen he did give a reluctant consent, he had nearly marred all,in Abigail’s estimation, by setting forward for the stable withhis right foot, instead of taking the first step with his left.This mistake brought them to a stand, and, in order to render itof no effect, it became necessary, according to the rules whichAbigail followed, that they should turn round three times, andthen set forward anew. Having made these gyrations, they preparedto proceed, Zedekiah going first, and Abigail following with thepoker.

  Moving along in this order, they had just gained thekitchen-door, when a loud crack, like the report of a pistol,which came on them from their rear, brought them both to a halt.The report emanated from the fire, and was caused by a largelog of wood, which had been for some time consuming, splittingin twain, and discharging a small fragment into the middle ofthe room. Some people would have considered this a naturalconsequence of the wood splitting, and would have had no notion,in their views of cause and effect, that it could refer to, orforetoken, a coming event; but, fortunately for her design,Abigail was not so simple. She knew well, from a long experienceof such matters, that it portended something of moment, and,therefore, directly she became aware that the noise emanated fromthe fire, and that it had been caused in the manner described,she hastened to gain possession of the small fragment of woodwhich had been shot forth.

  It was lying in the middle of the room, and seemed, on acursory view, to be of a shape perfectly unmeaning, and to haveno resemblance to any one thing in the whole world. Abigail,however, did not view it with ordinary eyes, and she quicklydiscerned that its shape was but too indicant of its melancholyimport.

  “Woe’s me!” she exclaimed: “’tis a coffin!”

  “A coffin!” cried Zedekiah, in ecstasy. “Is’t for me?”

  “By cock and pie, I think it be!” answered Abigail, very willingto take the impending calamity off herself.

  Zedekiah, far from being dejected, was quite elated by theprospect thus opened, and received the reputed coffin fromAbigail with the greatest eagerness.

  “I am to be at Cummer Griffin’s burying to-day,” he said. “What agoodly corpse the cummer makes!”

  And here, to explain this morbid disposition of Zedekiah, it maybe observed, that that worthy considered everything that relatedto coffins and funerals, in what shape soever it might presentitself, as one of the most fruitful sources of human enjoyment.Some people might think a bridal, or a christening, in whichall is life and festivity, worthy of attention; but Zedekiah’sobject of desire was a burial. Many would have preferred to passthe summer evenings in the green fields, where, if the weatherserved, every object looked fresh and cheerful, and the air wasladen with fragrance; but Zedekiah, with a singular constancy,took his walks in the churchyard, and recreated himself among thetombs. He could tell the date of every death in the neighbourhoodfor a whole age; and could repeat literally, at a moment’swarning, the epitaph and inscription on any given tomb. Heattended every funeral for miles round; and though, by his ownaccount, he had never yet had the happiness to officiate as chiefmourner, he always held a conspicuous and prominent place inthe procession, and was considered as indispensable at a decentinterment as the undertaker himself.

  These circumstances being borne in mind, it will be readilyimagined, on a closer glance at his character, that Zedekiahlooked forward to the funeral of Cummer Griffin with no smalldegree of pleasure. Abigail, however, having a mortal horror ofdeath, did not participate in this feeling, and she replied toZedekiah’s remarks in a tone of some asperity.

  “What a pestilent din dost thou make o’ this burying!” she said.“Thou’dst like all the world to die, so thou mightst but see themburied. But let us to our work, or the Evil One, mayhap, will beupon us anon, and lead us some other dance.”

  “Art advised that the horseshoe will keep him out?” inquiredZedekiah.

  “Ay, and conjure him into the Red Sea, too,” answered Abigail.“But, go to! Let us about it!”

  Zedekiah acquiesced, and, without more ado, they set forward,taking care to put out the left foot first. They passedalong unmolested, and, in due time, reached the stable, whereDobbin--by which humble name the Rosinante-looking steeddescribed in a former chapter was known--was lodged.

  Abigail, pursuant to a concerted understanding, stood onsentry without, with the poker clutched tightly in her hand,while Zedekiah proceeded to bring Dobbin forth. That patientbeast passively submitted to his hand, and he was brought out,unconscious of his doom, to undergo the operation that Abigailhad suggested.

  “Be wary now, Zedekiah,” remarked Abigail, at this juncture; “forthe demon, thou mayst be sure, will be well on his guard. Do thoulook to Dobbin, and I will keep watch against harm.”

  “I begin to be marvellously afeard,” replied Zedekiah, in atremulous voice. “I would the demon were well in the Red Sea.”

  But there was, he knew, no hope of the demon absconding, orbeing transported to the remote locality alluded to, until thehorseshoe should be fixed on the kitchen-door; and therefore,trusting that Abigail would not fail to keep a good watch, heproceeded to take the preliminary and foremost step in this greatundertaking.

  Turning his face towards the back of Abigail, a pace or two inher rear, he lowered his head to a level with her waist; and,drawing one of the hind legs of Dobbin between his own legs,raised it up, with the foot uppermost, so as to view the shoe.Meantime, Abigail, with commendable caution, swung her pokerround, on either side, as far as her arm would reach, and thisrendered any intrusion of the demon almost an impossibility. Buthow can mortals, however skilled in charms, expect to be able tocope with demons? The very precaution which, in the simp
licity ofher nature, Abigail considered inductive to success, and a barto every demoniacal approach, was destined to be the engine oftheir overthrow. While the trembling Zedekiah was yet surveyingDobbin’s shoe, preparatory to commencing operations, Abigail,in swinging round the poker, dealt the poor horse a tremendousblow in the ribs, and let the poker rebound from her hand. Dobbinstruck out instantly, and, with a spirit which seemed scarcelyhis own, kicked Zedekiah bodily forward, knocking down bothhim and Abigail at one and the same time. This done, he gaveutterance to a neigh of triumph, and cantered gaily into hisstable.

  Zedekiah was on his feet in a moment. He had no doubt, fromwhat had passed, that the demon had baffled the precaution ofAbigail, and was about to visit them with summary vengeance. Histerror was excessive; but it did not blind him to the fact, as hethought it, that his safety lay in flight; and, therefore, ongaining his feet, he made off at his last speed.

  He kept on his course till he came to the outer boundary of thefront garden, where a gate, which had formerly been protectedby a porter’s lodge, but at this time was wholly unguarded,opened into the high-road. Here, as it was some distance fromthe stable, he ventured to halt, and sought to recover hisinterrupted breath.

  Zedekiah’s mind was not very retentive, and though, on thepresent occasion, his memory of the demon was kept alive for atime by his terror, he gradually began to recede from this fixedidea, and to fall back on such fancies as, from their giddy andfleeting character, were more natural to his mind, and moreconsonant with his temper. A few minutes after he had come toa halt, the first cause of his flight, having made no settledimpression upon him, had passed from his recollection, and lefthim to wander at will over the various and disordered imagesof an unbridled mind. While he was thus engaged, a sprinkle ofrain fell around, and this--so easy is it always to call theimagination to its leading theme--reminded him that he had aninterest in the weather for the passing day, as it was to witnessthe celebration of Cummer Griffin’s funeral. His countenance,which hitherto had been sad and gloomy, brightened as the rainincreased, and, after a while, he gave utterance to his feelingsin an old distich:--

  “Happy is the bridal that glistens in the sun, And blessed is the corpse that the rain rains on.”

  “Whose burying comes off to-day?” asked a voice behind him,apparently speaking through the gate.

  Zedekiah, with the view of facing the quarter from which he mightexpect any danger, had his back to the gate, and his face turnedin the direction of the stable; but on being thus accosted, healtered his position, and, with fear and trembling, turnedhis face round to the gate. His fear, however, was not of longcontinuance; for, on effecting this evolution, he perceived thatthe individual who had accosted him was no more than a mortalman, and one, moreover, whom he well knew.

  “Old Cummer Griffin’s, Master Gray,” he answered.

  Bernard Gray--for the person addressed was no other--appeared tobe somewhat downcast by his intelligence.

  “So, the old cummer is dead,” he said. “Well, she was a roundage, I ween; and led an indifferent good life.”

  “She was fifty odd when Gaffer Wiggins was buried,” remarkedZedekiah, “and that is twenty years agone, come Martinmas.”

  “So long?” said Bernard, “Ah! life fleets fast. But how comes it,Zedekiah, thou art not at the cummer’s now? Thou art not wont tobe thus tardy.”

  “The Lord required me elsewhere,” answered Zedekiah. “We havebeen at the Grange all the morning.”

  “How?” inquired Bernard. “Had ye aught to do at Sir Edgar deNeville’s?”

  “Ay, ay, we have chained down the arch-malignant,” repliedZedekiah. “The Pope may deliver him now, an’ he can.”

  His information, though full of weight and meaning, was notvery explicit, or calculated to give Bernard a correct ideaof the momentous event it referred to. Still it let him knowthat something strange had happened, in which, if it shouldany way have affected Hildebrand Clifford, he might himself beinterested; and he applied himself diligently to learn fromZedekiah the full particulars. Some time elapsed before he couldbring matters to such a satisfactory issue; but, in the end,he accomplished his purpose, and thus became acquainted, amongother things, with the exact position of affairs at the Grange,excepting only the solitary circumstance of the disappearance ofHildebrand.

  Satisfied that he had learned from Zedekiah all he knew, he badethat worthy a hasty adieu, and took his departure. It was nowapproaching the hour at which, according to their appointment ofthe previous day, he was to have an interview with Hildebrand,and, with an anxious and troubled spirit, he hastened towards thespot where they had agreed to meet.

  He did not expect that Hildebrand would keep his appointment. Hefelt that, in the existing state of things, it would be difficultfor him to absent himself from the Grange, though it were onlyfor a few moments, without showing disrespect to his host; andfrom what he had seen of Hildebrand, and the views he entertainedof his character, he thought it unlikely that he would incuran imputation of that sort. Indeed, he was not without someapprehension, from all that he had heard, that Hildebrand mightbe threatened with danger himself, and, perhaps, be involvedin the charge which had been brought against Sir Edgar. It wastrue, he argued, when this apprehension first occurred to him,that Hildebrand had not been mentioned by Zedekiah, but thatmight arise from his supposing that he did not know Hildebrand,and therefore, in the ordinary course of things, could feel nocuriosity about what should happen to him. He knew that Shedlock,if he found any opportunity, would strive his utmost to make awaywith Hildebrand, and his proceedings against Sir Edgar might be amere feint, designed, with a Satanic cunning, to cover an attackon Hildebrand. As he mused on these possibilities, he was almostinclined, at one time, to turn back to Zedekiah, and see if hecould glean anything more from him; but ultimately, thinking thiswould be a fruitless mission, he changed his mind, and pursuedhis original intention of proceeding straight to his appointmentwith Hildebrand.

  It may speak little in Bernard’s favour, on a first view, thatthe unhappy consequences of the attack on Sir Edgar’s carriage,though they now caused him some anxiety of themselves, awakenedin him no remorse or compunction for his share in the attack.The outrage had been attended with the loss of two lives, andhad since, through the interference of Shedlock, involved theinnocent family against whom it had been levelled in the deepestaffliction; but, for all this, the enthusiast, amidst his concernfor these evils, had not one prick of repentance. Was he, then,void of every sense of humanity? was his heart insensible to themost urgent calls of feeling and affection? No! It was stored, tothe very brim, with choice and noble sympathies; it was naturallymelting and pitiful as a child’s; but the remembrance of horrorsthat it would curdle the blood to mention, and which no intervalof time could soften or deface, locked up his gentle qualities,and mailed his nature in revenge.

  Walking at a quick pace, he soon arrived at Neville Park, andpursued his way, without meeting any interruption, to the spotwhere his appointment with Hildebrand was to come off. It wassome time past noon, the hour agreed on: but though he lookedround, as far as he could see, in every direction, there wasno sign of Hildebrand coming. He lingered about for an hour,walking to and fro; but, at the expiration of that period, hewas no nearer his object than at first. Although, in the main,this was no more than he had expected, it greatly increased hisanxiety, and tended to confirm his doubts of Hildebrand’s safety.He remembered that Hildebrand was to take his departure from theGrange to-day, on business which, at their last interview, he hadalleged to be extremely urgent; and he was assured, therefore,as they could not meet again for some time, that, if he were atliberty, he would make an effort to keep his appointment. Butanother hour passed, and Bernard, now grown impatient, was stillpacing the park-walk, and still utterly alone. Wearied with hiswatch, he began to grow angry, and, as he came to a sudden pause,he gave utterance to his feelings in a passionate exclamation.

  “The scornful boy neglects me!” he said. “I will even t
ake mehomewards.”

  The idea of home reminded him that Hildebrand had inquired afterhis residence, and suggested, on a second thought, that, as hemight be unable to meet him in the park, it was not improbablethat he would seek him there. Meditating on this probability, hedetermined to repair to his lodgings at once.

  It was in an obscure alehouse, distinguished by the sign ofthe “Angel,” and situated at the further extremity of theneighbouring village of Lantwell, that Bernard had fixed hisresidence. Although an alehouse, however, it was a retiredtenement; and old Cummer Fisher, who was its proprietress, andonly resident beside himself, was rarely invaded by any greatinflux of guests. Being at the other side of Lantwell, it wastwo good miles, if not more, from the spot he started from; but,after he had once determined what course he would pursue, he setoff at a smart pace, and shortly arrived before the hostel-door.

  But a brief greeting passed between Bernard and his hostess, and,this despatched, he proceeded to his own room, which was on theupper floor. Here, secure from interruption, he revolved overagain all those reflections and conjectures that he had startedin Neville Park, and impatiently waited for whatever might be theissue.

  But no tidings reached him that night. The next morning,meditating as before, he made certain that he would that dayreceive some communication from Hildebrand; but, as on theprevious day, hour after hour passed, and the morning graduallyelapsed, without bringing him any intelligence of his friend’ssituation. His worst apprehensions were now becoming confirmed,and he began to have no doubt, on mature and deliberatereflection, that Shedlock had involved Hildebrand in the chargewhich he had brought against Sir Edgar de Neville, and hadcommitted them both to prison.

  Directly this conjecture took full possession of Bernard’s mind,he formed a resolution to ascertain, by immediate and personalinquiries, how far it could be borne out by the facts. The onlyway of prosecuting such a purpose, in his situation--which,from his participation in the outrage that all these troubleshad sprung from, prevented him from making any inquiries at theGrange--was by repairing to Exeter, and there learning who hadbeen arrested; and the course thus open to him, though it wasnot unattended with some risk to himself, he resolved to pursue.Accordingly, having saddled and mounted his horse, he set out,and pushed forward for Exeter.

  It was night when he entered the city; and he thought itadvisable, before he advanced his mission any further, to providehimself a lodging, and procure bait for his horse. Both theseobjects being effected, he sallied forth on foot, determined toleave no means untried of finding out Hildebrand.

  It was at the countinghouse of Shedlock and Craftall, in theHigh-street, that Bernard first paused in his excursion. Thehouse was shut up; but in the part which might be more properlycalled the countinghouse, there was some trace of a light,peeping through the outlines of the window-shutters, which showedthat one of the inmates was yet astir. The room in question, likethe generality of commercial offices, opened into the street,and, consequently, Bernard was able to approach the door, andthere listen a while before he solicited admittance.

  All was still within; and it suddenly occurred to Bernard, onmeditating how he should proceed, that it would be well to tryif the door were unfastened before he knocked, and, should theresult be favourable, enter without notice. In pursuance of thisdesign, he cautiously raised the latch, and, pushing forward, thedoor flew open.

  Hastily glancing in, Bernard perceived a man at a contiguousdesk, immediately in front of a lighted lamp, whom he recognisedas Craftall. He was leaning forward, with his elbows fixed on thedesk, and his hands, which were raised to a level with his lips,clasped together before him, as if he were engaged in prayer.Hearing Bernard’s step, he snatched up some article that, whilehe was in the posture described, had been standing on the deskbefore him, and hastily slipped it into one of the drawers; andthen, with the same precipitation, turned to see who was hisvisiter.

  His face was deadly pale, and his thin, shrivelled lips, onhis turning fully round, were agitated by a nervous quiver,which could only be caused by a very stirring emotion. Whateverit might be that thus discomposed him, the discovery that hisvisiter was Bernard Gray, whom he well knew, by no means tendedto inspire and embolden him with new spirit. It was, however, nopart of Bernard’s design, on the present occasion, to suffer himto see that he was sensible of his confusion, and, with the viewof soothing and diverting his suspicions, he at once proceeded todraw him into discourse.

  “The good time of the night to thee, Master Craftall,” he said.“Hath Master Shedlock been here of late?”

  Though his faculties were somewhat disordered, Craftall’scharacteristic caution, far from being asleep, was more promptand lively under the pressure of his embarrassment, and he wasless open to a surprise than at a moment of composure. Theinquiry of Bernard, though deliberately and readily propounded,might signify nothing, and he believed that such was the case;but, however this might be, it was his laudable and discreetpractice ever to be on his guard. Being obliged, however, onthe passing occasion, to speak on the instant, and withoutforethought, it was difficult to frame an answer that would notsome way commit him; and for once the man of craft hesitated.But his hesitation was so transient, that it could hardly bedetected; and, after a moment’s interval, he was prepared with areply.

  “By dad, I don’t know,” he said.

  Bernard smiled as he rejoined, “Doth he purpose to come hereshortly?”

  “In faith, Master Bernard, I cannot say,” answered Craftall.

  Whether he sought to entangle him in talk, or merely to amusehimself, Bernard did not give over his inquiries with theserebuffs, but continued to push the cautious merchant for astraightforward answer.

  “He still lives at New Bethlehem, I ween?” he said.

  “By my troth, ’tis not unlikely,” returned Craftall.

  It was clear that, say what he might, Bernard would be able todraw but little information from the wily trader; but, for allthis, he was not inclined to let his project fall to the ground.He saw that Craftall was in momentary expectation of anothervisiter, and he thought that, if hard pressed, he might yieldhim some information, in order to induce him to retire. It wasthe fact of Craftall glancing repeatedly at a contiguous door,leading to an inner apartment, in the rear of Bernard, thatinduced him to lend this conjecture credit; and, from the anxietyof his glances, Bernard judged rightly, that he would regardhis departure as a deliverance. For the reason stated, however,he determined to remain, and still sought to keep Craftall indiscourse.

  “Be the report true, Master Craftall,” he pursued, “that certainPapists have been lately hatching a new plot?”

  Craftall, from whatever cause, was quite disconcerted bythis inquiry, and again exhibited the liveliest confusion.Nevertheless, he rendered his watchful interrogator a promptreply.

  “Worthy Master Jenkins, the city-bailiff, hath told me there wassuch a report abroad,” he said. “Gentle Master Pry--”

  At this moment, some person within, as it seemed, inflicted onthe door behind Bernard, before alluded to, three distinct taps;and the speaker abruptly paused.

  “Some one calls,” said Bernard, turning towards the door; “I hadbest see who it be.”

  “No, no! I will see to that myself!” cried Craftall, springingnimbly before him.

  Bernard, without objecting a word, suffered him to pass him, andhe pushed on to the door. While he was yet on his way thither,Bernard stepped softly round the desk, and, with a quick andsteady hand, drew open the topmost drawer. It was in this drawerthat, on his first entry, he had observed Craftall place somearticle which he snatched from the desk, and which he evidentlywished to conceal. Anxious to discover his secret, Bernard lookedeagerly into the drawer, and found that the object of his searchwas its sole contents. With a trembling grasp, he raised it tothe light; and his eyes lit up with a sparkling frenzy, strangelyat variance with their previous serenity, as he discerned that itwas a crucifix.

  Craftall had by this time reached the
door. Instead of drawing itopen, however, he proceeded to lock it, and then, with a quietsmile on his face, turned to meet Bernard again. As he did so,Bernard held up the crucifix, and his smile, which had risen inexultation, passed into a quick spasm.

  “I hold thee mine!” cried Bernard. “But the Spirit is upon me!The fire thou wot’st of, that makes saints, is blistering my veryheart. I might do thee harm: so I’ll leave thee now.”

  Thus speaking, he made towards the outer door. Before he couldreach it, however, Craftall, nerved by despair, sprang after him,and fastened on his arm.

  “Mercy! mercy!” he said.

  “Mercy to a Papist!” cried Bernard. “Ha! ha!”

  And, with a slight effort, he threw the supplicant from him, anddashed into the street.