Chapter Forty Three.
Through the Fire.
That fight within the Hall was more desperate than Fred had imagined, for until overpowered by numbers, Sir Godfrey, his son, and the brave and reckless Cavaliers by whom he had been surrounded, had fought in a manner that kept their enemies at bay.
In the rush and noise and confusion of the struggle, Sir Godfrey had not at first noticed the smoke, and when he did he was under the impression that it was merely the result of the firing, and caused by the heavy powder of the period. It was not until the flames had gained a hold on either side that he realised the truth; and when it did come home to him, he had staggered forward to strike at a couple of the many enemies by whom he was surrounded, and whose swords had wounded him severely in four places.
That blow was the last he could give, for, faint from loss of blood, the effort was too great; he overreached himself, stumbled and fell prone upon the polished floor. The moment before, his enemies were retiring, but at the sight of the fallen officer one of the men raised a joyous shout, and half a dozen charged back to make him prisoner.
It was at that moment Scarlett saw the great danger, and boy as he was, rushed to the rescue, striking out boldly as he leaped across his father, and keeping the enemy at bay.
The odds were absurd, and the men were only kept back by the suddenness and dash of the youth’s attack. Then, with a laugh of derision, they were about to seize both, when a warning shout reached them, and they rushed away to avoid the onslaught of the terrible enemy against which their weapons were of no avail.
Scarlett saw the danger, and cowered down over his father as a wave of flame was wafted above their heads, fortunately for them a current of air keeping off the next just long enough for him to seize Sir Godfrey by the wrists and drag him back into the centre of the hall, the polished boards rendering the task an easy one.
“Escape, Scarlett. I am spent,” said Sir Godfrey, faintly.
“What! and leave you, father?” cried Scarlett, excitedly.
“Yes. You cannot get away here for the fire. Run upstairs, my boy, quick—leap from one of the windows.”
“If you will come with me, father,” said Scarlett.
“No, no, my boy; I am helpless. Make haste. The fire—for Heaven’s sake, make haste!”
The flames and their accompanying suffocating fumes advanced so fast that for the moment the terrible peril unnerved Scarlett. The natural inclination was to flee, and he received an additional impulse from his father’s words, which in their tone of urgent command made him dash half-way up the broad staircase before he checked himself, turned sharply, with one bound leaped down again to the floor, and ran to Sir Godfrey’s side.
“Father, I can’t leave you to be burned to death,” he cried. “It is too horrible.”
“Horrible? Yes,” panted the wounded man; “but I can do nothing, my boy; and you—you are so young. The poor old Hall—the poor old Hall!”
For a few moments Scarlett knelt beside his father, suffocating in the gathering smoke, and looking about wildly for a way of escape, but finding none; for the defenders had taken such precautions to keep the enemy out, that in this time of peril, they had kept themselves in. Even now Scarlett felt that, by making a bold rush through the fire and smoke gathering in force to right and left, he might escape, singed and scorched, perhaps, but with life. To attempt this, however, with a wounded man, was impossible; and, with the strong desire for life thrilling every fibre, he uttered a despairing groan.
As the mournful sound escaped his lips, he caught tightly hold of his father’s hands, to cling to them as if seeking strength, and asking him to keep his weak nature from repeating its former act and taking refuge in so cowardly a flight.
The hands he grasped felt wet and cold, and in the misty choking gloom Scarlett could see that his father’s eyes were nearly closed, and that there was in them a fixed and glassy stare.
“He’s dying!” he groaned; “he’s dying!”
His son’s cry seemed to rouse Sir Godfrey to a knowledge of his danger, for his eyes opened wildly, and he gazed before him, and then struggled to rise, but sank back against his son’s arm.
“You have not gone!” he groaned. “Scarlett, my boy, escape!”
“I cannot leave you, father. Let me try and help you. If we could get to the upper windows!”
“And ask our enemy to take us prisoners! No, no; my poor old home is crumbling around me—where could I die better?”
“Oh, father!”
“But you, my boy, with all your young life before you! There is yet time. God bless you, Scar! Good-bye!”
He made a faint effort to thrust his son away, but Scarlett still held his hands, while the fire crackled and roared in the rooms on either side, and kept on narrowing the space they occupied, as the great smoke wreaths, pierced by ruddy tongues, rolled heavily overhead.
Scarlett set his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment, as a feeling of horror ran through him, and there before him, beyond the smoke of the burning woodwork, he saw in a instant the bright sunshiny paths of life inviting him on and on for a long career, such as youth may look forward to in its growing vigour; but he made a desperate effort to crush out the temptation, clinging frantically to his father’s hands as he groaned despairingly—
“I cannot leave him. It would be too base.”
Till that moment the shock of their position had robbed him of energy, but no sooner had he come to the brave determination to stop and die that horrible death by his father’s side, than the strong current of life seemed to bound again in his veins, and, with a feeling of wonder that he could have been so supine—
“Father!” he cried; but there was no reply. “Father!”
Still no response, and he could just make out that the wounded man’s eyes were closed. But Scarlett was full of energy now, and, leaping up, he seized Sir Godfrey by the arm, and dragged him by main force to the foot of the great staircase.
“I must get him to the corridor somehow,” he thought; and, stooping down, he clasped his arms about him, terribly impeded by the breastplate and backpiece he wore, and then, panting and suffocating, he dragged him up step by step, every one being into a more stifling atmosphere. The increasing heat bathed him with perspiration, and a growing sense of languor made him feel as if each step would be the last.
But, raging and grinding his teeth in his efforts, he toiled on till the topmost step was reached, and there he paused, chilled now by a terrible and despairing sense of his position. The fire had eaten its way upwards, and to drag his insensible burden to the right through the door leading to the servants’ apartments, or to the left along the corridor, was on either hand into a burning furnace.
Scarlett Markham sank upon his knees beside his father on the polished oaken floor of the gallery, and giddy now with the heat and exhaustion, his lips cracking, and every breath he drew laden with the poisonous fumes, he felt that all was over, and, with a prayer coming confusedly to his mind, he made a snatch at his father’s hand, missed it, and fell sidewise.
But even then there was the natural involuntary effort to save himself from falling headlong backwards from top to bottom of the stairs, and one hand grasped at the balustrade, caught one of the carved oaken pilasters; there was a sharp cracking sound, the stair by his shoulder shot back an inch or two, and a draught of cold revivifying air literally rushed whistling through the orifice.
It was life, energy, hope, renewed courage, all in one, as he gasped and panted and wildly thrust back the loose stair till the way was open; and, gathering strength as the fresh air rushed up into his nostrils on its way to fan the growing flames, he seized his father where he lay on the top of the staircase, drew him towards his breast, and let him drop right into the opening, whose sloping floor made the rest comparatively easy.
But Scarlett worked manfully, lying down beside his father, and edging him along a few feet, before going back to close the opening in the stairs.
He paused for a few moments, feeling now that he was safe, and gazed upon the ruddy smoke clouds, listened to the roar and crackle of the flames, which were now within a few feet; and as he gazed, he could see that the sharp draught rushing by him drove the flame and smoke back, and fanned the former till it glowed more brightly.
But there was no time to lose. Seizing the woodwork, he drew it over his head, to find to his horror that already the heat had warped the wood so that it was hard to move; and, feeling that no time was to be lost, he rolled himself along, forced his father on and on, till the horizontal shallow passage was at an end—a passage already growing heated above where the fire licked the boards, and then, standing upright and breathing freely, he paused to think of his next proceeding.
Chapter Forty Four.
In Utter Darkness.
It was not easy to think and lay plans in such a position as that in which Scarlett Markham found himself. His temples throbbed painfully, his head swam, and at every exertion it seemed to him as if hot molten lead were rolling from side to side of his head. But the cool damp air came by him in a continuous draught, and feeling now that before long the narrow passages and the little chamber beyond must certainly grow heated in the conflagration, perhaps be swept away in the general destruction, he set himself the task of getting Sir Godfrey upon his back, and, after several failures, found that his first step in that direction must be to unbuckle and cast aside the defensive armour his father wore.
This done, the steel falling on the stone floor of the passage with a heavy clang, he once more tried, successfully, and, bending beneath the weight of his load, traversed the narrow passage, with a dull low roar sounding in a muffled way on his left.
The air came fresher and fresher as he pressed on in the intense darkness, till, recalling by an effort of memory every step he and Fred had formerly taken, he felt his way into the little chamber, having drawn his sword and used it for a staff, and to guide his way.
How well he recalled the shape of that little hiding-place, with its dust and cobwebs, and the colourless strands of ivy hanging down! And as he paused here, asking himself whether he should stay for the present, a silent answer was given to his question, for the hand which rested upon the wall felt that the stones were, growing sensibly warm, sufficiently so to suggest that the fire was raging on the other side.
Taking a long breath of the cool fresh air, he had no difficulty in telling which way to turn for the further door, whose half-open edge the extended sword touched directly. Then, grasping it with his hand, it grated heavily as he drew it towards him, passed through the low opening, and knew that he he was at the top of the long narrow descending stairs.
What a terrible depth it seemed as he went down very slowly step by step, but heartened each minute by the feeling that every step took them more out of the reach of the fire, while the steady current of air drawn in from the wilderness and the lake side by the fire within the building, rendered it certain that no flame or suffocating fume could reach them there.
The bottom at last! and Scarlett paused to rest. He was bathed in perspiration, and a curious dull feeling of exhaustion was setting in, but he did not speak; he had set for himself the goal which he must reach, and at which they would rest for the present. After he had bound up his father’s wounds, he might recover somewhat, so as to walk a little with assistance; and then the opening at the end of the passage was there, and freedom for them both, if the enemy had gone.
But he had not reached that vault-like refuge yet, and the way seemed to be interminable. The excitement and effort had produced a dull, half stupefying effect upon his senses, and this was growing rapidly now, so much so, that with legs bending beneath him, he dropped his sword, which fell with an echoing clamour upon the stones, and supported himself by the wall.
And now in that pitchy darkness he crept slowly along, with a singular nightmare-like sensation growing upon him; he ceased to have any command of the power of thought, and went on and on, inch by inch, ever ready to sink beneath his burden, but always at the last moment making a desperate effort, and regaining enough strength to go on.
How long it took, how he ever got through his terrible task, he never knew. All that he could ever recall was a feeling of journeying on and on beneath an ever-increasing load, till suddenly the support on either side ceased; he made a desperate effort to save himself, but went down upon his hands and knees, felt that the burden he bore had suddenly rolled from his back, and that his face was resting on the cool damp stones.
Then all was darkness, mental as well as visual, and he sank into a stupor, which lasted he could not tell how long.
The awaking was strange.
Scarlett opened his eyes involuntarily, and looked above him and to right and left. He closed his eyes, and the effect was the same. Then he lay for a time thinking that he must be asleep, and that this was some portion of a dream.
But the sensation of faintness, his aching head, and the sore stiffness of every muscle—so painful that he could hardly move—soon warned him that he was awake, and he set himself to battle with his confused brain, to try and make out where he was, and what it all meant. For, as far as the past was concerned, it was as if a dense black curtain were drawn across his mind, and this great veil he could not thrust aside.
He was cold—he was stiff and sore—he was hungry and feverishly thirsty,—he could realise all these things, but that was all, and he lay thinking and asking himself again and again, “What does it all mean?”
The first hint which his brain seemed to seize upon was given by a low deep sigh which came from close at hand.
Scarlett started up, staring wildly in the direction from which the sound came, while his hands and brow grew moist with terror—a terror which passed away, as a flash of mental light illumined his obscured brain, and he cried aloud—
“Father!”
There was no reply, and Scarlett’s horror and dread grew more intense, not from weak foolish imagination, but from the feeling that his father was lying wounded there, perhaps at the point of death, while he, who ought to have been aiding him in every way, must have been selfishly asleep.
The self-shame was not deserved, for nature had been too strong for Scarlett Markham, and it was more the stupor of utter exhaustion to which he had succumbed than sleep.
He crept to where Sir Godfrey lay, and felt for his face, which was cold and clammy, sending a shudder through the fingers which touched the icy brow, and then sought for the region of the heart.
Incongruous ideas of a trivial nature occur to people even in the most terrible times, and it was so here, for as Scarlett’s hand sought for his father’s breast, he found himself thinking of how good a thing it was that he removed the armour when he took him upon his back.
The heart was beating faintly, but the pulsations could be plainly felt, and this gave Scarlett some little hope, such as was badly needed at this crucial time. But what was he to do? How could he help him? For aught he could tell, they must have been there many hours, and once more a terrible chill ran through the youth, as the thought struck him that his father might be bleeding to death.
And what could he do? He was in utter darkness, and could not tell where the wounds might be.
There was comfort once more in the fresh thought which came, suggested by his experience in the skirmishes in which he had been engaged, and by his duties in tending the wounded.
For he recalled how, in the majority of cases, unless some important vessel was divided, Nature interposed as the great surgeon for the preservation of her children’s lives, causing the veins to chill and contract, and the bleeding to cease; and as Scarlett Markham knelt beside his father, and pressed his lips to the icy brow, he prayed that it might be so now, and that his life might be spared.
“Now, what is to be done?” he said to himself, half rising, as if the act he had done had given him refreshment and a new access of thought.
He stood for a few moments thinking, and then, feeling his way about the place, he satisfied himself where the openings out of the little vault lay, his doubt as to which led to the lake being solved by the steps down to where it was formerly water, but which on testing he now found to be firm floor, and by the little heap of rusty arms over which he nearly fell as he crept about.
His first need was light and help for his father, and to obtain these he felt that perhaps it would be best to surrender.
With this aim in view, he made his way back along the passage, kicking against and recovering his sword, and up the flight of narrow stone steps, becoming conscious that the air was growing warmer as he proceeded, and finally that the walls were hot, while straight before him, as he reached the top and tried to penetrate into the chamber, there was a confused pile of heavy stones leaning towards him, as if some party wall or portion of the roof had fallen in that direction, and blocked the way.
He could not stay to investigate, the heat was too great; but the freedom with which he breathed taught him that the ruins had not completely stopped all the chamber, for a steady current of air was flowing past him from below.
He felt instinctively that the fire must have done its work, and that the greater part of the secret passage had been obliterated by the falling ruins, so that he must not look for help from that direction.
Retracing his steps, then, he once more reached the vault, whose coolness was pleasant after the stifling heat above. Then, crossing the dark place, he slowly descended the steps, and went onward with extended hands, feeling his way toward the two entries—the original, and that which had been broken through by the fallen tree.
He had not far to go before a faint light stole down to guide his way, and he reached the spot where the passage was roofed in with dead branches and twigs, and as he reached it, just faintly heard, came the shrill cry of a blackbird—Pink-pink-pink!—from somewhere in the wood above.
A trifle that he would not have heeded at another time, but which now sent a thrill of hope through him, for it told of light and liberty, and help for the sufferer lying in that gloomy vault.
But he wasted no time, passing over the crackling refuse of broken wood and stones which here impeded his way, till almost directly after he had cleared all this, and made a turn, catching sight of the bright star-like light low down by the floor of the passage—the opening that he had made, and by which the water which had been gathering probably for generations had been drained away.
He was soon at the rough wall which stopped the arch, and, going down on one knee, he listened, for peril had made him cautious, besides which the lessons of life he was receiving in his regimental work taught the necessity for being prepared for enemies at every turn.
All seemed to be perfectly still, and as far as he could judge it was early morning, soon after daybreak. The first rays of the sun appeared to be brightening the surface of the lake as he tried to peer through the orifice, and every now and then the cry of the water-fowl and the splash of water endorsed his belief in there being no danger near.
Feeling satisfied that there was no danger, he returned to the broken opening and stopped short as he heard a sharp rustling, followed by a sound that was evidently the sharp utterance of some one impatient at his position, or because one expected did not come.
Did whoever it was know of the existence of the hole through which the faint light streamed down, showing the configuration of the rough branches which covered the broken place? It seemed only probable, and, feeling the necessity for the greater caution, Scarlett stepped slowly and carefully among the broken fragments till he had passed the risky spot, and then hurried on as rapidly as he could till he reached the steps, and, mounting them cautiously, he stood once more in the chamber.
Feeling rapidly about, he uttered a cry of joy, for his hand touched his father’s brow; and as it did so, he felt it raised by the burning fingers of the sufferer, who began talking quickly.
“Quick! Which way did they go—Lady Markham—my child Lilian? Why do you not speak? Tell me; they are not in the burning house?”
“Father! don’t you know my voice?” whispered Scarlett.
“Know your voice—know you? Yes, yes, my boy. Scar, lad, help me. They must be somewhere here. I am looking for them. Yes, somewhere in the house.”
“No, no, father; they are in safety down at the Manor.”
“Here, I tell you, sir. Help me to find them. Quick! They are in the burning house and Scar, my boy, is that you?”
Then, seeming to drop off to sleep as his son knelt by him, there was a sigh or two, and then he was breathing regularly, although the inspirations sounded faint and low.
Scarlett could contain himself no longer, but, rising from his knees, he hurried down the few steps and along the lower passage, pausing for a moment before stealing carefully beneath the broken portion of the arched tunnel. For there could be no doubt about the matter: there was a rustling sound somewhere above that did not seem such as would be made by any wild animals likely to haunt the forest, and a certainty was given to his ideas by a low-muttering arising, followed by a hasty ejaculation as of impatience or pain.
So near did this sound, that Scarlett remained motionless in the obscurity of the tunnel arch, afraid to stir for quite an hour, during which he listened, feeling assured that this opening had been discovered by the enemy, and that they had placed a sentry there to trap any one who attempted to escape.
“Oh!” ejaculated Scarlett at last, softly, as what he believed to be enlightenment flashed across his brain. “Why did I not think of that before? Fred Forrester, of course! He remembered our discovery, and he has explained all to his father, with the result that there are sentinels all about, waiting to take every poor wounded wretch who seeks to escape.”
It was a painful thought, for it troubled him to think that Fred had been so unprincipled as to betray their old boyish secret.
“He might have been content to fight with his party against ours, and not make use of his knowledge to do his old friends an evil turn.”
The feeling of bitter anger mingled with scorn increased as he stood there in weary inactivity, longing to rejoin Sir Godfrey, but dreading to stir, for fear he should bring danger upon his father’s head.
And all this time he might be awake, and in grievous suffering; perhaps dying, and feebly stretching out his hands for help, even believing that his son had left him there to die.
Scarlett could bear the agony of his thoughts no longer; at any cost he must pass beneath that opening, and rejoin his father, and to this end he stepped forward softly, to find that he had planted his foot upon a rotten stick fallen from above, and lightly as he trod, the dry, decayed piece of wood parted with a loud noise.
Scarlett turned cold, and the chilly moisture gathered upon his brow and within the palms of his hands.
“It is all over!” he muttered, as his hand went involuntarily to the hilt of his sword; and then he dragged it from its sheath, and raised the point, thinking of how strong his position was, and how few men would dare to descend with that sharp point awaiting the first enemy who came.
Then, half stifled by holding his breath, he began to breathe freely once more, for there came a low sigh from above, then a faint rustling, and then the regular, low breathing of some man asleep.
Scarlett stayed no longer, but stepped quickly across the wood-strewn patch of the floor, and then hastened along the passage, and up the few steps in the total darkness; and after a very little groping about, found himself beside his father, who was sleeping peacefully, while his head was cool, telling how the fever of his wounds had gone down.
Chapter Forty Five.
Companions in Misfortune.
Scarlett Markham passed some hours by his father’s side, listening to his breathing in the darkness, and from time to time taking his hand as a low moan was uttered, accompanied by a restless movement; but as the time passed on, in spite of anxiety and his own weariness and pain, an intense desire for food of some kind kept on attacking him, and each time with more force.
What was he to do?
Had he been alone the task would have been simple. He would have gone at once to the broken archway, waited his opportunity, and crept out. Then he would have done his best to escape, and the worst that could have happened to him would have been seizure by the enemy, who, in spite of party hatred, would have given their prisoner food.
But he felt that he could not take this course, and risk capture, which would mean imprisonment to his father as well.
The difficulty was solved at last by an uneasy movement on Sir Godfrey’s part. He seemed to start suddenly from sleep, and, after listening for a few moments, Scarlett said gently—
“Are you in pain, father?”
“Ah, my boy, you there?” said Sir Godfrey, feebly. “I was puzzled and confused. I recollect now. Have I been asleep long?”
“Yes, father, I think so. I cannot tell, for I have been asleep too.”
“Where are we?”
Scarlett explained, and from time to time Sir Godfrey uttered a few words of surprise and wonder, till his son had finished.
“I could hardly have thought it possible,” he said, as Scarlett ceased. “Then we are so far safe?”
“Yes; but your wounds, father? What am I to do about getting help?”
Sir Godfrey remained silent for a few minutes, and then said quietly—
“I am terribly weak, boy, and in a good deal of pain; but from what I know of such things, I do not think my wounds are either deep or dangerous, and if this is so, nature is the best chirurgeon. But you say there is a way out?”
“Yes, father; and I am afraid that Fred Forrester has given notice, and that it is watched.”
“The young villain!” muttered Sir Godfrey, and somehow those words seemed to send a sting through Scarlett’s brain.
After a silence, Sir Godfrey went on.
“Well, my boy,” he said, “I shall not be able to escape for days to come. You must go and try and make your way to our friends.”
“And leave you?”
“Only for a time, my boy, of course. You must find some of our men, and come and get me away.”
“I cannot leave you, father;” said Scarlett, firmly; and Sir Godfrey remained silent for a time.
“Thank you, Scar,” he said at last; “and of course I do not want to be left. Can you propose any better way, for my thinking powers are very weak?”
Scarlett was silent in turn, and then he said quietly—
“Yes, father; I will wait my chance, steal out, and then contrive to make my way to some cottage where I can get food. I can bring it back, and we can continue to remain here in hiding till you are strong enough to go.”
“Not a very pleasant prospect, Scar,” said Sir Godfrey, “but I can propose no better.”
“I might be able to make my way to the Manor.”
“No, no; you must not get help from there, my boy,” said Sir Godfrey, hastily.
“Why not, father? My mother and Lilian are there.”
“True, Scarlett, but—”
“Mrs Forrester would be only too eager to help us.”
“Her husband’s enemies?”
“She is affording protection to my mother. Yes,” added the lad, after a pause, “I must go there.”
Sir Godfrey remained silent.
“Father.”
“Yes.”
“You frightened me by being so still.”
“I was only thinking, Scarlett,” replied Sir Godfrey, sadly—“thinking I was wrong to speak as I did. There, I have fought my best, and it is my turn to lie down. I would we were both prisoners in such good hands.”
“Then you consent to my going, father?”
There was another pause before Sir Godfrey said in a low, weary voice—
“Yes, my boy; you must throw yourself upon their mercy. This is no time to nurse one’s hatred against one’s foes. When shall you start?”
“Directly I can get unseen from the opening, for you must have refreshment, father, and it is absolutely necessary that I should be back to-night.”
“Heaven’s will be done,” said Sir Godfrey, softly; and, after a long firm pressure of the hand, he added, “Be careful, my boy; keep your liberty if you can. The king wants the help of every loyal hand.”
“And you will not mind my leaving you?”
“No, my boy. I dare say, in my weak state, I shall pass many hours in sleep.”
Even then Scarlett felt that he could not go, and it was not until long after, when he felt the absolute necessity of obtaining food and help, that he at last tore himself away, but with the one satisfaction of knowing that Sir Godfrey had dropped into a heavy sleep.
It was while he was once more making his way to the opening that Scarlett realised how faint and weak he, too, was. But, summoning all his energy, he stood at last beneath the opening, trying to make out where the sentinel or sentinels might be.
He drew his sword ready for action, and then, with an impatient movement, restored the weapon to its sheath, realising fully that if he was to succeed, it must be by cunning stratagem, not by blows.
All was silent, but the occasional twitter of some bird. If a watcher was there, he gave no sign of his presence, and quite a couple of hours must have passed away before, utterly tired out, and hearing not the slightest sound, Scarlett determined to venture so far as to get his head above the top of the opening.
No; he felt that would be only to court seizure, for his position would be so disadvantageous that he could not defend himself if he were seized. Besides, he would be betraying his father into the enemies’ hands.
In spite of his trouble and anxiety, a smile came upon his lip, as he thought of a plan by which he might make the watcher or watchers discover their presence. He believed thoroughly that he had not so far been heard, and, under that impression, he took hold of one of the hazels above his head, and, trusting to old forest recollections in the days when he had hunted rabbits with Fred Forrester, he shook the bough above him so as to make a sharp rustling noise, and uttered with his compressed lips a sharp screeching sound such as is made by the little white-tailed furry denizen of the wood when trapped or chased by a stoat.
“That will bring him to see,” thought Scarlett, as he felt that such a sound would suggest to a foraging soldier a capital addition to his camp-fire supper.
But there was not a sound in reply, and, beginning to doubt his belief that there was a sentry watching, he uttered the shrill squeal again. Then his heart gave a bound, for there was a movement close at hand, as of some one trying to pass through the bushes, but it was not continued; and, while the lad was wondering, there came a low groan.
“No sentinel! Some poor wounded fellow who has crept into the old wilderness for safety,” thought Scarlett.
“But will it be an enemy?” he asked himself.
“No; one of ours,” his heart replied. “An enemy would have called for help.”
“Ah, if I was only as I used to be!” came in a low-muttering tone. “Is he in agin?”
“Nat!” cried Scarlett, the word starting from his lips involuntarily, and without his seeming to have the power to stay it.
“Eh!” came from close by, “who called? Master Scar, that you?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Scarlett; and, leaping up, he caught at a bough, which snapped in two, and he dropped down again. But his next attempt was more successful, for he drew himself out, and the next minute was kneeling by his old follower, as Nat lay nearly hidden among the undergrowth.
“I say, don’t play tricks, sir,” said Nat, feebly. “I aren’t dreaming, are I?”
“Dreaming, Nat?”
“I mean, I’ve been all in a squabble, with things mixed up in my head, and people talking to me, and rabbits squealing, and Master Scar shouting ‘Nat,’ I aren’t asleep now, are I?”
“Asleep now, Nat? No, no, my dear old fellow,” cried Scarlett, whose voice sounded thick with emotion. “But you are badly hurt eh?”
“Well, tidy, Master Scar, tidy. They give it to me pretty well. But I’m better now, dear lad; I’m better now. Oh, oh, I say, Master Scar, lad, hit me in both eyes hard. I’m so weak I’m going to blubber like a gal.”
“No, no, my dear old Nat,” whispered Scarlett. “Keep up, man, keep up. I want you to help me.”
“Help you, Master Scarlett? Why, I don’t believe I could even pull my sword out of its sheath!”
“But you will soon, Nat,” whispered Scarlett, eagerly. “I want your help. My father is wounded, and in hiding close by here.”
“The master?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Sir Godfrey?”
“Yes, yes, Nat; badly wounded. We were nearly burned in the fire, when the Hall was in a blaze; but we got out, and he is badly wounded, and I was going to try and get food.”
“Oh, if that’s it,” said Nat, feebly, “it’s time there was an end to all this nonsense. Here, give’s a hand, Master Scar. I must get up.”
The poor fellow made an effort, then sank back with a groan.
“Pitchforks and skewers!” he muttered. “Didn’t that go through one.”
“Lie still, Nat.”
“Needn’t be afraid, Master Scar,” groaned the poor fellow, with a comical look in his young master’s face. “I don’t think I shall get up yet.”
“No; lie still. I’m going to try and steal away to the Manor.”
“Eh? Then if you come across my brother Samson, you knock him down, sir. Don’t you hesitate a moment. Knock him down.”
“Nonsense! Now look here.”
“Oh yes, sir, I’m a-looking,” said Nat, dismally; “and a pretty dirty face you’ve got.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, it’s all black, as if you’d been—”
“Why, Master Scar, what yer been a-doing to your hair?”
“Hair? My hair?”
“Yes, sir. Them Roundhead vagabonds cut it all off before, but now it’s all scorched and singed away.”
“Eh? Yes. I suppose so,” said Scarlett, sadly. “I did not know, Nat. I suppose it was in the fire.”
“And your face all scorched too.”
“Is it, Nat? I did feel that it smarted and was sore.”
“Why, my poor dear lad, what have you been a-doing of? And me not with you, but lying here like a pig in a sunny hole, pretending I was bad!”
“Hush! not so loud. Never mind the singeing, Nat. There, keep quiet till I come back with some food. Do you want a drink of water?”
“Food? What did you say about some food?”
“I’m going to try and get some, Nat. I am starving.”
“Think of that now!” cried Nat, feebly. “Why, I’ve got some here. Master Scar! Now, let me think. I’m all in a muddle like in the head, and can’t tell what’s been dreaming and what isn’t; but I’ve got a sort o’ notion that some one come in the dark, and talked to me or talked about me, and then said they’d leave me something to eat.”
“Dreaming, Nat, my poor fellow! Your loss of blood has made you a little off your head.”
“Well, then, if I was dreaming, there aren’t nothing to eat, Master Scar. But if I warn’t dreaming, there’s something close by me here, and— There, Master Scar, it warn’t a dream!”
“Nat!” cried Scarlett, joyfully, as the poor fellow feebly brought forth the food Fred and Samson had left. “May—may I take some?” he faltered.
“Take it all, my dear lad, take it all, and yeat it. I couldn’t yeat anything now. Shouldn’t mind a big mug o’ water. That’s about my tune.”
In spite of himself, Scarlett broke off a piece of the bread cake, and began to eat ravenously.
But he recollected himself directly, and placed some to the wounded man’s lips.
“Thank ye, lad, no,” said Nat, sadly; “but if you could get me a drop o’ water, I’d be ’bliged, for I feel just like a flower a-drying up in the sun.”
Poor Nat did not look it, whatever he might feel; but almost before he had ceased speaking, Scarlett had slipped through the hole as the safest way, gone to the opening by the lake, dipped his hat three-parts full of water, and borne it back, placing it safely between two boughs at the side of the top, while he climbed out; and the next minute he was holding the dripping felt to Nat’s lips.
“Hah!” ejaculated the poor fellow, feebly; “it’s worth being chopped a bit and lying here for the sake of the appetite it gives you.”
“Appetite, Nat?” said Scarlett, taking up the bread.
“’Tite for water, lad. That’s the sweetest drop I ever did taste, I will say.”
“Drink again?”
“Ay, that I will, hearty,” whispered Nat; and he partook of another long draught. “There,” he said, “now you give me one bit o’ that cake to nibble, and you may go. To get food, didn’t you say, sir, just now?”
“I want some—for my father, Nat, but—if—I can have some of this?”
“Take it all, my dear lad, take it all. Where is the master, sir?”
Scarlett told him in as few words as possible, and Nat stared at him.
“No, it’s of not a bit o’ good, Master Scar,” he said sadly. “I know you’re telling me something, but I bled all the sense out of me, and I can’t understand what you mean. Never mind me. I dare say it’s all right.”
“But, Nat,” cried Scarlett, eagerly, as a thought struck him, and he realised that it was useless to try and impress upon the poor fellow about the secret passage, “you are lying out here.”
“Yes, sir; not a nice place, but cool and fresh.”
“Could you, if I helped you, get down that hole, where my father lies?”
“Sir Godfrey?”
“Yes.”
“But you said you were going away somewhere, sir.”
“Only to get some food, and you have enough for the day. To-night I’ll go out and get more. Do you think you could crawl down?”
“I think I could try, sir, if it comes to that.”
“And trying is half the battle, Nat.”
“Right, sir; I’ll try. That drop o’ water seemed to put life in me.”
“But—”
Scarlett stopped short, thinking. Some one had been and brought Nat food, for there it was in solid reality, tempting him to eat; and if he took the poor fellow down into the secret passage, it would no longer prove to be a secure hiding-place, for those who missed the wounded man would search perhaps and find.
That did not follow, though. They might think that he had crept away; and besides, the case was desperate, and he must risk it.
“You said, ‘But,’ Master Scar,” said Nat, feebly, after waiting for his young master to go on.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Scarlett, hastily, for his mind was made up. “Now then, pass your arms round my neck, clasp your hands together, and hold tightly. I’ll draw you out of that place.”
“Take the food first, Master Scar. There, stuff it in your wallet, lad.”
Scarlett did not hesitate, but placed the precious treasure in the receptacle, and then bent down. Nat obeyed his instructions, and by a strong effort he was drawn out.
“Have I hurt you much, Nat?” said Scarlett, as he gazed through the dim light at the pallid face so close to his.
“Well, sir, not to make much bones about it, tidy, pretty tidy. What next, sir?”
“I want to lower you down through the branches into that hole.”
“Eh?” ejaculated Nat, forgetting his weakness and the aching pain he suffered, as he gave quite a start. “No, no, Master Scar, don’t do that.”
“But you will be safe there for the present, Nat.”
“Safe enough, I suppose, sir,” groaned the poor fellow.
“Well, let me lay your legs here, and I can slide you down.”
“But I aren’t dead yet, dear lad. Don’t hurry it so fast as that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Going to bury me, aren’t you, sir?”
“What nonsense, man! There’s a long passage there leading to a vault.”
“Yes, sir; that’s what I thought. Don’t do it till I’m quite gone.”
In spite of hunger, misery, anxiety, and pain, Scarlett Markham could not refrain from laughing at Nat’s perplexed countenance, with so reassuring an effect that the poor fellow smiled feebly in return, took heart, and allowed himself to be slid down through the opening, the task being so well managed that Nat sank on the stone floor, and when Scarlett loosened his hands, he subsided gently against the wall.
Then, after removing a few of the tracks of his passage, the elasticity of the undergrowth and its springing up helping the concealment, Scarlett descended to his henchman’s side, and after a pause helped him along the passage right to the vault, where, as soon as he had got rid of his burthen, the lad found his father sleeping calmly.
“Aren’t it a bit dark, Master Scar, or be it my eyes?” said Nat, feebly.
“Dark, Nat, quite dark. But you will, I hope, be safe here till we can escape.”
“Right, sir. I’ll do what you tell me, for I feel just like a big babby now with no legs, and my head all of a wobble, ’cause there’s no bone in the neck. Yes, sir, thank ye, sir. Ease my head down gently. That’s it. That’s it. That’s it. That’s it. Ah!” the poor fellow kept on repeating to himself, and ended with a low sigh of relief; and when spoken to again there was no reply.
Scarlett’s heart seemed to cease beating, and then it gave a leap.
Had he done wrong in getting the poor fellow down there, exhausted as he was? How did he know but that he might have caused the wounds to bleed again?
There was consolation directly after, for he could hear Nat’s calm, regular breathing, and, satisfied and relieved, Scarlett stepped now to his father’s side to touch him, but found that he too was still sleeping calmly, while for the present it seemed that his duty was to keep guard.
He seated himself on the stone floor, with his back in one of the angles, and listened for a time to the regular breathing; then his ravenous hunger made itself known to such an extent that, after comforting himself with the promise that he would get food that night, he took out and broke a piece off the bread cake, put it back, thought that those by him might require it, and determined to fight down his hunger.
Hunger won the day.
Scarlett made a brave fight, but he was weak; and, try how he would, his hand kept on going to the pocket wallet, and at last he did what was quite necessary under the circumstances—he ate heartily and well; and then, with a guilty feeling; troubling him, he yielded to a second kindly enemy.
The breathing of his two patients was as regular as clockwork, and the silence and darkness seemed to increase, with the result that they acted in a strangely lulling way, and with such potency that, after a time, Scarlett started up, and stared about him at the dense blackness around.
“Have I been to sleep?” he muttered, as he drew himself up a little more tightly, and prepared to keep his black watch firmly and well to the end—that is to say, till the time when he would start at dusk for the Manor.
The next instant he was on his way there, creeping cautiously through the undergrowth, listening to the crackling of the wood he pressed with his feet, and finally making his way to the old house, where he was able to embrace his mother and sister, feeling his cheek wet with their tears, while Mistress Forrester made him up a basket of dainties, such as would invite the appetite of a wounded man.
How delightful it all was! only he had to start back so soon, and as he hurried away, his mother called him back. “Scarlett! Scarlett!” How the words rang in his ears, as he looked back through the darkness—
Scarlett leaped to his feet, with a feeling of shame and contrition.
“I must have been asleep,” he exclaimed; and he listened to the breathing once more. “And what a vivid dream that was! How real it seemed!” he added. “I’ll go along to the opening, and look out. That will keep me from going to sleep again.”
He started down the steps, and climbed out, wondering whether he had slept a minute, an hour, or a day, and to his delight he found and took back with him the provision lately placed there by Fred and Samson.
“Well, we shall not starve,” said Scarlett, thankfully, as he began thinking of his dream; but all the same, the voice which had broken in upon him calling his name sounded wonderfully real.
Chapter Forty Six.
Samson Disobeys Orders.
“Ho! Scar!”
No answer.
“Hoi! Scar Markham!”
The second call was louder, and this time Fred Forrester had thrust his head down the hole, so that his voice went echoing along the passage, and died away in a whisper; but the only effect it had was to produce a low chuckling sound from Samson.
“What are you laughing at, sir?” cried Fred, angrily.
“Only at you, Master Fred, sir.”
“How dare—”
“No, no; don’t be cross with me, sir. I only felt as you’d have felt if you’d been me, and I’d been you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, it seemed so rum for us to have slipped down here again, pretending to fish, so as to be laughed at because we hadn’t caught any, and for you to turn yourself upside down, with your head in the hole, and your legs up in the air, shouting like that!”
“Don’t be a donkey, Samson.”
“No, Master Fred; I’ll promise you that, faithful like; but it do seem rum. ’Tarn’t likely, you know, sir, ’tarn’t likely.”
“What isn’t likely?”
“Why, that aren’t, sir. Even if Master Scar is hiding there.”
“If? He must be. Nobody else knows of the existence of the place.”
“Wouldn’t our Nat, sir?”
“No. How could he?”
“Well, sir, I can’t say how he could; but he always was a nasty hunting-up-things sort of boy. So sure as I hid anything in my box at home, or anywhere else, he’d never rest till he found it; and as he was hiding away here, he may have hunted out this hole, and took possession like a badger.”
“It might be so,” said Fred, thoughtfully; and he approached the hole once more.
“’Tarn’t no good, Master Fred,” said Samson, chuckling. “You might just as well go to a rabbit’s hole, and shout down that, ‘Hoi! bunny, bunny, come out and have your neck broken.’”
“Don’t talk so,” said Fred, angrily.
“No, sir, not a word; but you forget that we’re enemies now, and that it’s of no use to call to Master Scarlett or our Nat to come, because they won’t do it. There’s two ways, sir, and that’s all I can make out, after no end of thinking.”
As Samson spoke, he held up his hand, and went back a few yards to reconnoitre.
“Don’t see nor hear nothing, Master Fred,” he said, as he returned; “but we’re making a regular path through the wilderness, so plain that soon every one will see.”
“Then we must go for the future to the opening by the lake, and try what we can do there.”
“And get wet!”
“What did you mean by your two ways of finding out whether they are there?”
“Well, sir, one’s by putting bread and meat bait afore the hole, and coming to see whether it’s been taken.”
“But we’ve tried that again and again, and it is taken,” said Fred, impatiently. “What’s the other way?”
Samson chuckled, and thrust his hand into his wallet, where he made a rattling noise.
“Don’t be stupid, Samson,” cried Fred, angrily. “What do you mean?”
“These here, sir,” cried Fred’s follower, drawing something out of the wallet.
“Well, what’s that—flint and steel?”
“Tinder box and bit o’ candle, Master Fred. That’s the best way, after all.”
“Samson!” cried Fred, joyously. “I did not think of that. Come along.”
“Stop a moment, my lad; don’t let’s do nothing rash. Just think a bit.”
“I’ve no time to think.”
“Ay, but you must, sir. That there’s a long hole, and you’re thinking of going down it.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Suppose there’s somebody at home?”
“That’s just what I hope to find.”
“But we shall be like a couple of rabbits running into a fox’s hole, and he may bite.”
“Not if he knows that we come as friends.”
“No, Master Fred, p’raps not; but we’re enemies.”
“No, we’re not, Samson, and you are wasting time.”
“Which I don’t want to contradict you, Master Fred; but enemies we are by Act o’ Parliament, and that you know as well as me.”
“Then you are afraid of the adventure?”
“Who says so?” growled Samson.
“I do, sir. So you had better go back, and I’ll make the venture alone.”
“I wish you was somebody else, Master Fred.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I’d know, sir.”
“Give me the flint and steel and the candle.”
“What for, sir?”
“To light,” cried Fred, impatiently.
“Nay, I’m going to light that candle, and I’m going along with you, Master Fred. Why, what would the colonel say if he found out that I’d left you in the lurch?”
“Better leave me than give me a coward for a companion.”
“Well, I do call that cruel to a man as only wanted to tell you what a risk it was. Never know’d me to be a coward yet, Master Fred, never! I only wanted you to understand the worst. Come along, sir.”
Before Fred could interfere, Samson had taken two or three strides, and then made a leap right on to the dead branches which masked the entrance to the hole. The result was as might be expected; he crashed through feet first, and disappeared.
“Samson!” exclaimed Fred, as he dashed to the opening.
“I’m all right, sir, so far,” said the rough fellow, looking up with a grim smile on his face. “That’s the worst of being a coward and afraid. It makes you rush at things, instead of taking ’em coolly. Here, let me help you down.”
“I can manage,” replied Fred, quietly, as he felt annoyed with himself. “Better draw your sword.”
“No, sir,” said Samson, coolly; “if I do they’ll think I’m afraid; and besides, there’s no room to give it a good swing for a cut, and the point’s blunt since I used it for digging up potatoes.”
“No, no; I can get down,” said Fred, quickly, as Samson once more offered his help, and the next moment he was also standing in the old passage, peering before him, and listening.
All was as silent as the grave, and a chilly feeling of dread came over the lad, as he wondered whether poor Nat had, after all, only crawled in there to die, just as some unfortunate wounded creature seeks a hole to be at rest.
“What nonsense! when he took the food we put there,” he muttered the next moment.
“What say, sir? Shall I strike a light?”
Samson did not wait for an answer to his first question before propounding the second.
“Yes. Go a few steps forward out of the light,” whispered Fred, “and then we are not likely to be heard.”
“Not from outside,” grumbled Samson; “but how about them inside? They’ll come down and spit us like black cock on a big skewer.”
“What are you muttering about?” whispered Fred, as his companion went forward and knelt down.
“I was only saying, don’t blame me if they come down on us with swords that hasn’t been used to dig potatoes, Master Fred.”
“Let me come by you, and I’ll stand on guard while you strike a light.”
“No, sir; I shan’t,” said Samson, gruffly.
“What’s that?”
“You heared, sir.”
“Yes, I did hear,” whispered Fred, angrily; “and please remember, sir, that I am your officer.”
“Can’t remember that now, Master Fred, only that you’re to be took care of. I had strict orders to be always ready to shove my big body in front of you when anybody was going to” (nick, nick) “cut at you” (nick, nick, nick)—“Look at that!—with a sword.”
“Who gave you those orders?” said Fred, sharply.
“Your mother, sir, ’fore we” (nick, nick) “started for the wars at first.” (Nick, nick) “I shall never get a light.”
Samson was down upon his knees, striking a piece of flint sharply upon a thin bar of steel turned over at each end, so as to form a double hook, which the operator grasped in his left hand, while Fred stood gazing straight before him, sword drawn, and the point held over his man’s head, ready to receive any attack.
At every stroke with the flint, a number of sparks shone out for a moment, lighting up the striker’s face, but though he kept on nicking away, there was no result.
“Why, Samson,” whispered Fred, as he mastered a curious sensation of emotion at the man’s words, which brought up the memory of a pair of tender, loving eyes gazing into his at the moment of farewell, “you have forgotten the tinder!”
The nicking sound ceased on the instant, and Samson began indignantly—
“Well, I do like that, Master Fred. I mayn’t be a scholar, and I never larnt Latin, and that sort of stuff, but I’ll grow vegetables and make cider with any man in Coombeland.”
“What has making cider to do with tinder, you great oaf!” cried Fred, angrily, so as to hide his emotion.
“Nothing at all, sir; only you seem to think I’m such a bog-walker that I haven’t sense to know how to strike a light.”
“Well, where is the light? and how can you expect to get one without tinder?”
“I don’t. Here’s the tinder in a box, but all the sparks are blown over it by the draught.”
“Then strike lower man.”
“There, then,” cried Samson, viciously, as he nicked harder, with the result that one of the tiny sparks, instead of fading out, seemed to remain motionless on the floor. This spark Samson blew till it increased and glowed more brightly, showing his face close to the light, and the point of something yellow being applied to the red glow.
That something yellow, being a pointed match dipped in brimstone, began to melt, and then boil and burst into a blue fluttering flame, which ignited the match; and the next minute Samson held up the lighted candle close to the arched roof of the passage, exclaiming, “There!” in a triumphant tone; and then, “Why, this is only a big drain, Master Fred!”
“Hist! Give me the light,” said Fred, as he listened intently.
“Going along here, sir?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right, sir; I’m candlestick,” said Samson, making a rattling noise as he replaced the light-engendering apparatus in his pouch.
“No, no; I’ll go first,” said Fred, impatiently.
“Yes, sir; you shall go first after the light.”
“Samson!”
“Yes, sir. What would your mother say, if I let you go straight into danger like this, with me here?”
“Will you recollect that you are a soldier, sir?”
“Of course I will, Master Fred. How is a man to help it, with an iron pot on his head rubbing him bald? Ready, sir?”
“Ready? Yes.”
“Then here goes!” said Samson. “Can’t expect a man to obey orders when he’s underground.”
Samson strode on with the candle in his left hand and his sword now in his right, leading the way, with his young master close behind, and their shadows following and seeming to dance on the floor and walls, which glistened here and there with moisture.
They proceeded slowly, Samson twice over hazarding a remark on the dampness, but only to be sternly told to proceed, till at last the little flight of steps appeared leading into the vault, where they came to a sudden halt, for something suddenly flashed in the light of the candle, and a harsh voice cried—
“Stand!”