CHAPTER XI
“This murderous shaft that’s shot,
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse,
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking.” -— Macbeth
THE GREEKS AND ROMANS had their lucky and unlucky days; and what- ever name we give to the alternations of life, we believe that the experience of every family, and individual, will attest the clustering of joys or woes at marked periods. The day of Magawisca’s trial was eventful, and long remembered in the annals of the Fletcher family. Indeed, every one in any way associated with them, seems to have participated in the influences of their ruling star. Each member of Governor Winthrop’s household ap- peared to be moving in a world of his own, and to be utterly absorbed in his own projects and hopes.
Miss Downing was for a long time closeted with her uncle and aunt; then a great bustle ensued, and emissaries went to and fro, from Madam Winthrop’s apartment; Madam Winthrop herself forgot her usual stateli- ness and dignified composure, and hurried from one apartment to another with quick footsteps and a disturbed countenance. The Governor was heard pacing up and down his study, in earnest conversation with the elder Fletcher. Everell had gone out, leaving directions with a servant to say to his father, or any one who should inquire for him, that he should not return till the next day. Hope Leslie resisted all her aunt’s efforts to interest her in a string of pearls, which she intended for a wedding gift for Esther; “but,” Mrs. Grafton said, wreathing them into Hope’s hair, “her heart misgave her, they looked so much prettier peeping out from among Hope’s wavy locks, than they would on Esther’s sleek hair.” The agitation of
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Hope’s spirits was manifest, but (we grieve to unveil her infirmities) that, in her, excited no more attention than a change of weather in an April dav. She read one moment — worked the next — and the next, was devoting herself with earnest affection to the amusement of her pining sister; then she would suddenly break off from her, and take a few turns in the garden: in short, confusion had suddenly intruded within the dominion of order, and usurped the government of all his subjects.
In the evening the surface of affairs, at least, bore a more tranquil aspect. The family all assembled in the parlour as usual, excepting Miss Leslie and Cradock, who had retired to the study, to look over a translation from the Italian, which Hope just recollected her tutor had never revised.
Faith Leslie sat on a cushion beside the door, in a state of vacancy and listlessness, into which she seemed to have hopelessly sunk, after the first violent emotions that succeeded her return. The ladies were plying their needles at the table: Miss Downing, pale as a statue, moved her hand mechanically, and Mrs. Grafton had just remarked, that she had seen her put her needle twelve times in the same place, when fortunately for her, any further notice of her abstraction was averted by a rap at the outer door, and a servant admitted a stranger who, without heeding a request that he would remain in the portico till the Governor should be summoned, advanced to the parlour door. He sent a keen scrutinizing glance around the room, and on every' individual in it, and then fixing his eye on the Governor, he bent his head low, with an expression of deferential supplication.
His appearance was that of extreme wretchedness, and, as all who saw him thought, indicated a shipwrecked sailor. His face and figure were youthful, and his eye bright, but his skin was of a sickly ashen hue. He had on his head a sailor’s woollen cap, drawn down to his eyes in part, as it seemed, to defend a wound he had received on his temple, and about which, and to the rim of his cap that covered it, there adhered clotted blood. His dress was an over-coat of coarse frieze cloth, much tom and weather beaten, and strapped around his waist with a leathern girdle; his throat was covered with a cotton handkerchief, knotted in sailor-fashion, and his legs and feet were bare.
To the Governor’s inquiry of “who are you, friend?” and “w hat do you want?” he replied, in an unknown language, and with a low' rapid
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enunciation. At the first sound of his voice, Faith Leslie sprang to her feet, but instantly sunk back again on the cushion, and apparently returned to her former abstraction.
Governor Winthrop eyed the stranger narrowly. “I think, brother Fletcher,” he said, “this man has the Italian lineaments; perhaps. Master Cradock may understand his language, as he is well versed in all the dialects of the kingdoms of Italy. Robin,” he added, “bid Master Cradock come hither.”
“Master Cradock has gone out, sir, an please you, some minutes since, with Miss Leslie.”
“Gone out — with Miss Leslie — whither?”
“I do not know, sir. The young lady bid me say she had gone to a friend’s, and should not return till late. She begged Mrs. Jennet might be in waiting for her.”
“This is somewhat unseasonable,” said the Governor, looking at his watch; “it is now almost nine; but I believe,” he added, in kind considera- tion of Mr. Fletcher’s feelings, “we may trust your wild-wood bird; her flights are somewhat devious, but her instincts are safer than I once thought them.”
“Trust her — yes, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Grafton, catching the word that implied distrust. “But I wonder,” she added, going to the window, and looking anxiously abroad, “that she should venture out this dark night, with nobody but that blind beetle of a Cradock to attend her; however, I suppose she is safe, if she but keep on the main land, as I think you say the wolves come no more over the neck.”
“They certainly will not come any where within the bounds that our lamb is likely to stray,” said Mr. Fletcher.
The Governor’s care again recurred to the mendicant stranger, who now signified, by intelligible gestures, that he both wanted food and sleep. Every apartment in the Governor’s house was occupied; but it was a rule with him, that admitted of no exception, that his shelter should never be denied to the wanderer, nor his charities to the poor; and, accordingly, after some consultation with the executive department of his domestic government, a flock-bed was ordered to be spread on the kitchen floor, and a meal provided, on which, we observe en passant, the stranger did extraordinary execution.
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When the result of these charitable deliberations was signified to him, he expressed his gratitude by the most animated gestures, and, seeming involuntarily to recur to the natural organ of communication, he uttered, in his low and rapid manner, several sentences, which appeared, from the direction of his eye, and his repeated bows, to be addressed to his benefactor.
“Enough, enough,” said the Governor, interpreting his words by a wave of his hand, which signified to the mendicant that he was to follow Robin to the kitchen. There we must leave him to achieve, in due time, an object involving most momentous consequences, while we follow on the trail of our heroine, whose excursive habits have so often compelled us to deviate from the straight line of narration.
Hope had retired to the study with Master Cradock, where she delighted her tutor with her seemingly profound attention to his criticisms on her Italian author. “You see, Miss Hope Leslie,” he said, intent on illustrating a difficult passage, “the point here lies in this, that Orlando hesitates whether to go to the rescue of Beatrice.”
“Ah, stop there, Master Cradock, you speak an admonition to me. You have yourself told me, the Romans believed that words spoken by those ignorant of their affairs, but applicable to them, were good or bad omens.”
“True, true — you do honour your tutor beyond his deserts, in treasuring these little classical notices, that it hath been my rare privilege to plant in your mind. But how were my words an admonition to you, Miss Hope Leslie?”
“By reminding me of a duty to a friend who sadly needs my help — and thine too, my good tutor.”
“My help! — your friend! It shall be as freely granted as Jonathan’s was to David, or Orpheus’ to Eurydice.”
“The task to be done,” said Hope, while she could not forbear laugh- ing at Cradock’s comparing himself to the master of music, “is not very unlike that of Orpheus. But We have no time to lose — put on your cloak, Master Cradock, while I tell Robin what to say if we are inquired for.”
“My cloak! you forget we are in the summer solstice; and the evening is somewhat over sultry, so that even now, with my common habiliments, I am in a drip.”
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“So much the more need to guard against the evening air,” said Hope, who had her own secret and urgent reasons for insisting on the cloak; “put on the cloak, Master Cradock, and move quick, and softly, for I would pass out without notice from the family.”
A Moslem would as soon have thought of resisting fate, as Cradock of opposing a wish of his young mistress, which only involved his own comfort, so he cloaked himself, while Hope flew to the kitchen, gave her orders, and threw on her hat and shawl, which she had taken care to have at hand. They then passed through the hall, and beyond the court, without attracting observation.
Cradock was so absorbed in the extraordinary happiness of being selected as the confidential aid and companion of his favourite, that he would have followed her to the world’s end, without question, if she had not herself turned the direction of his thoughts.
“It is like yourself,” she said, “my good tutor, to obey the call of humanity, without inquiring in whose behalf it comes; and I think you will not be the less prompt to follow the dictates of your own heart, and my wishes, when I tell you that I am leading you to poor Magawisca’s prison.”
“Ah! the Indian woman, concerning whom I have heard much collo- quy. I would, in truth, be fain to see her, and speak to her such comfortable words and counsels, as may, with a blessing, touch the heathen’s heart. You have, doubtless. Miss Hope, provided yourself with a passport from the Governor,” he added, for almost the first time in his life looking at the business part of a transaction.
“Master Cradock, I did not esteem that essential.”
“Oh! but it is; and if you will abide here one moment, I will hasten back and procure it,” he said, in his simplicity never suspecting that Miss Leslie’s omission was any thing other than an oversight.
“Nay, nay, Master Cradock,” she replied, laying her hand on his arm, “it is too late now: my heart is set on this visit to the unhappy prisoner — and if you were to go back, Madam Winthrop, or my aunt, or somebody else, might deem the hour unseasonable. Leave it all to me — I will manage with Bamaby Tuttle; and when we return, be assured, I will take all the blame, if there is any, on myself.”
“No, that you shall not — it shall fall on my grey head, where there
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should be wisdom, and not on your youth, which lacketh discretion” — ‘and lacketh nought else,’ he murmured to himself; and, without any further hesitation, he acquiesced in proceeding onward.
They arrived, without hindrance, at the jail, and knocked a long time for admittance at that part of the tenement occupied by our friend Bamaby, without his appearing. Hope became impatient, and bidding Cradock follow her, she passed through the passage, and opened the door of Barnaby’s apartment.
He was engaged in what he still called his ‘family exercise;’ though, by the death of his wife, and the marriage of his only child, he was the sole remnant of that corporation. On seeing our heroine, he gave her a familiar nod of recognition, and by an equally intelligible sign, he demonstrated his desire that she should seat herself, and join in his devotions, which he was just closing, by singing a psalm, versified by himself; for honest Bamaby, after his own humble fashion, was a disciple of the tuneful Nine. Hope assented, and, with the best grace she could command, accompanied him through twelve stanzas of long, and very irregular metre, which he, obligingly, gave out, line by line. When this, on Hope’s part, extempore worship was finished, “Welcome here, and many thanks, Miss Leslie,” said Bamaby, “it’s a good sign to find a prepared heart and ready voice. Service to you, Master Cradock, you are not gifted in psalmody, 1 see.”
“Not in the outward manifestation, but the inward feeling is, I trust, vouchsafed to me. My heart hath taken part in the fag end of your feast.”
“A pretty similitude truly. Master Cradock, and a token for good is it when the appetite is always sharp set for such a feast. But come, Miss Leslie,” raking open the embers, “draw up your chair, and warm your dear little feet. She looks pale yet after her sickness, ha, Master Cradock? You should not have come forth in the evening air — not but what I am right glad to see you — the sight of you always brings to mind your kindness to the dead and the living. You have not been here, 1 think, since the night of Ruthy’s wedding — that puts me in mind that I got a letter from Ruthy to- day. I’ll read it to you,” he continued, taking off his spectacles, and giving them a preparatory wipe — “Ruthy is quite handy with her pen — takes after the Tuttles in that: you know, Miss Leslie, my great-grandfather wrote a book.”
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“Yes,” said Hope, interrupting him, and rising, “and I trust his great- grandson will live to write another.”
“Sit down. Miss Leslie — it may be — those of as humble a degree as Bamaby Tuttle have written books; and writing runs in families, like the king’s evil” — and Barnaby laughed at his own witty illustration — “but sit down, Miss Leslie, I must read Ruthy’s letter to you.”
“Not now, good Barnaby; let me take it home with me; it is getting late, and 1 have a favour to ask of you.”
“A favour to ask of me! — ask any thing, my pretty mistress, that’s in the power of Bamaby Tuttle to grant. Ah! Mr. Cradock, there’s nobody knows what I owe her — what she did for my wife when she laid on her death-bed, and all for nothing but our thanks and prayers.”
“Oh, you forget that your wife had once been a servant to my dear mother.”
“Yes, yes, but only in the common way, and there’s few that would have thought of it again. It’s not my way to speak with flattering lips, but truly, Miss Hope Leslie, you seem to be one of those that does not to others that it may be done to you again.”
“Oh, my good friend Bamaby, you speak this praise in the wrong time, for I have even now come, as 1 told you, to beg a favour on the score of old friendship.”
“It shall be done — it shall be done,” said Bamaby, snapping his fingers, his most energetic gesture; “be it what it may, it shall be done.”
“Oh, it is not so very much, but only, Barnaby, I wish it quickly done, that we may return. I want you to conduct Master Cradock and myself to your Indian prisoner, and leave us in her cell for a short time.”
“Is that all! certainly — certainly,” and anxious to make up for the smallness of the service by the avidity of his compliance, Bamaby prepared his lamp with unwonted activity. “Now we are ready,” he said, “just show me your permit, and we’ll go without delay.”
Hope had flattered herself, that her old friend in his eagerness to serve her, would dispense with the ceremony of a passport from the Governor. Agitated by this new and alarming obstacle, she commanded her voice with difficulty to reply in her usual tone. “How could I think it necessary to bring a permit to you, who know me so well, Bamaby?”
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“Not necessary! that was an odd thought for such an all-witted damsel as thou art, Miss Hope Leslie. Not necessary, indeed! why I could not let in the king if he were to come from his throne — the king truly, he is but as his subjects now; but if the first parliament man were to come here, I could not let him in without a permit from the Governor.”
Hope walked up and down the room, biting her lips with vexation and disappointment. Every moment’s delay hazarded the final success of her project. Poor Cradock now interposed with one of his awkward movements which, though made with the best will in the world, was sure to overturn the burden he essayed to bear. “Be comforted, Miss Hope Leslie,” he said, “I am not so nimble as I was in years past, but it is scarce fifteen minutes walk to the Governor’s, and I will hasten thither, and get the needful paper.”
“Ay, ay, so do,” said Bamaby, “that will set all right.”
“No,” cried Hope; “no, Master Cradock, you shall not go. If Bamabv cannot render me this little kindness, there is an end of it. I will give it up. I shall never ask another favour of you, Bamaby,” and she sat down, anxious and disappointed, and burst into tears. Honest Bamaby could not stand this. To see one so much his superior — one who had been an angel of mercy to his habitation — one who had a right to command him in all permitted service, thrown into such deep distress by his refusal of a favour which, after all, there could be no harm in granting, he could not endure.
“Well, well,” he said, after hestitating and jingling his keys for a moment, “dry up your tears, my young lady; a ‘wayward child,’ they say, ‘will have its way;’ and they say too, ‘men’s hearts melt in women’s tears,’ and I believe it; come, come along, you shall have your way.”
Hope now passed to the extreme of joy and gratitude. “Bless you — bless you, Bamaby,” she said, “I was sure you would not be cross to me.”
“Lord help us, child, no, there’s no denying you; but I do wish you was as thoughtful as Miss Esther Downing; she never came without a permit — a good thing is consideration — you have made me to do that which I trust not to do again — step aside from known duty — but we’re erring creatures.”
Hope had the grace to pause one instant, and to meditate a retreat before she had involved others in sinning against their consciences; but she
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had the end to be attained so much at heart, and the faults to be committed by her agents were of so light a dye, that the scale of her inclinations soon preponderated, and she proceeded. When they came to the door of the dungeon, — “Hark to her,” said Bamaby; “is not that a voice for psalmody?” Magawisca was singing in her own language, in the most thrilling and plaintive tones. Hope thought there could not be darkness or imprisonment to such a spirit. “It is in truth, Barnaby,” she replied, “a voice fit to sing the praises of God.” Barnaby now turned the bolts and opened the door, and as the feeble ray of his lamp fell athwart the dun- geon’s gloom, Hope perceived Magawisca sitting on her flock-bed, with a blanket wrapped around her. On hearing their voices she had ceased her singing, but she gave no other sign of her consciousness of the presence of her visitors.
Miss Leslie took the lamp from Bamaby. “How much time will you allow us?” she asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes! oh, more than that I pray you, good Bamaby.”
“Not one second more,” replied Barnaby, resolute not to concede another inch of ground. “There may be question of this matter — you must consider, my dear young lady.”
“I will — always in future, 1 will, Bamaby; now you may leave me.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Bamaby, giving a knowing nod. “You mind the scripture rule about the right and the left hand — some creature comfort to be given to the prisoner. I marvel that ye bring Master Cradock with you, but in truth, he hath no more eye nor ear than the wall.”
“Marvel not at any thing, Barnaby, but leave me, and let my ten minutes be as long as the last ten minutes before dinner.”
Hope, quick as she was in invention and action, felt that she had a very brief space to effect her purposed arrangements, and while she hesitated as to the best mode of beginning, Cradock, who nothing doubted he had been brought hither as a ghostly teacher, asked whether “he should commence with prayer or exhortation?”
“Neither — neither, Master Cradock — do just as 1 bid you; you will not hesitate to help a fellow creature out of deep, unmerited distress?” this was uttered in a tone of half inquiry and half-assertion, that enforced by Hope’s earnest imploring manner, quickened Cradock’s slow apprehen-
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sion. She perceived the light was dawning on his mind, and she turned from him to Magawisca: “Magawisca,” she said, stooping over her, “rouse yourself — trust me — I have come to release you.” She made no reply, nor movement: “Oh! there is not a moment to lose. Magawisca, listen to me — speak to me.”
“Thou didst once deceive and betray me, Hope Leslie,” she replied, without raising her head.
Hope concisely explained the secret machinations of Sir Philip, by which she had been made the unconscious and innocent instrument of betraying her. “Then, Hope Leslie,” she exclaimed, rising from her abject seat, and throwing off her blanket, “thy soul is unstained, and Everell Fletcher’s truth will not be linked to falsehood.”
Hope would have explained that her destiny and Everell’s were not to be interwoven, but she had neither time nor heart for it. “You are too generous, Magawisca,” she said, in a tremulous tone, “to think of anv one but yourself, now — we have not a breath to lose — take this ribbon,” and she untied her sash; “bind your hair tight with it, so that you can draw Master Cradock’s wig over your head — you must exchange dresses with him.”
“Nay, Hope Leslie, I cannot leave another in my net.”
“You must not hesitate, Magawisca — you will be freed — he runs no risk, will suffer no harm — Everell awaits you — speed, I pray you.” She turned to Cradock, “now, my good tutor,” she said, in her most persuasive tones, “lend me your aid, quickly— Magawisca must have the loan of your wig, hat, boots, and cloak, and you must sit dow n there on her bed, and let me wrap you in her blanket.”
Cradock retreated to the wall, planted himself against it, shut his eyes, and covered his ears with his hands, that temptation might, at every entrance, be quite shut out. “Oh! I scruple, I scruple,” he articulated in a voice of the deepest distress.
“Scruple not, dear Master Cradock,” replied Hope, pulling down one of his hands, and holding it between both hers, “no harm can, no harm shall befall you.”
“Think not, sweet Miss Hope, it’s for the perishing body I am thoughtful; for thy sake 1 would bare my neck to the slayer; to thy least
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wish 1 would give the remnant of my days; but I scruple if it be lawful for a Christian man to lend this aid to an idolater.”
“Oh! is that all? we have no time to answer such scruples now, but to- morrow, Master Cradock, I will show you that you greatly err;” and as she said this, she proceeded, without any further ceremony, to divest the old man of his wig, which she very carefully adjusted on Magawisca’s head. Both parties were passive in her hands, Magawisca not seeming to relish much better than Cradock, the false character she was assuming. Such was Cradock’s habitual deference to his young mistress, that it was morally impossible for him to make any physical resistance to her movements: but neither his conscience, nor his apprehensions for her, would permit him to be silent when he felt a conviction that she was doing, and he was suffering, an act that was a plain transgression of a holy law.
“Stay thy hand,” he said, in a beseeching voice, “and let not thy feet move so swiftly to destruction.”
“Just raise your foot, while 1 draw off this boot, Master Cradock.”
He mechanically obeyed, but at the same time continued his admoni- tion: “Was not Jehoshaphat reproved of Micaiah the prophet, for going down to the help of Ahab?”
“Now the other foot, Master Cradock — there, that will do. Draw them on, Magawisca, right over your moccasins — quick, 1 beseech you.”
“Was not the good king Josiah reproved in the matter of Pharaoh- nechoh?”
“Oh, Magawisca! how shall I ever make your slender shoulders and straight back look any thing like Master Cradock’s broad, round shoulders? One glance of Barnaby’s dim old eyes will detect you. Ah! this will do — I will bind the pillow on with the sheet.” While she was uttering the device, she accomplished it. She then threw Magawisca’s mantle over her ex- panded shoulders, and Cradock’s cloak over all; and, finally, the wig was surmounted by the old man’s steeple-crowned hat. “Now,” she said, almost screaming with joy at the transformation so suddenly effected, “now, Magawisca, all depends on yourself: if you will but contrive to screen your face, and shuffle a little in your gait, all will go well.”
The hope of liberty — of deliverance from her galling imprison- ment — of escape beyond the power and dominion of her enemies, had
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now taken full possession of Magawisca; and the thought that she should owe her release to Everell and to Hope, who in her imagination was identified with him, filled her with emotions of joy, resembling those a saint may feel, when she sees in vision the ministering angels sent to set her free from her earthly prison: “1 will do all thou shalt command me, Hope Leslie; thou art indeed a spirit of light, and love, and beauty.”
“True, true, true,” cried Cradock, losing, in the instincts of his affection, the opposition he had so valorously maintained, and his feelings flowing back into their accustomed channel, “Thou woman in man’s attire, it is given to thee to utter truth, even as of old, lying oracles were wont to speak words of prophecy.”
Hope had not, as may be imagined, stood still to listen to this long sentence, uttered in her tutor’s deliberate, entrecoupe manner, but in the meanwhile she had, with an almost supernatural celerity of movement, arranged every thing to present the same aspect as when Bamaby first opened the door of the dungeon. She drew Cradock to the bed, seated him there, and wrapped the blanket about him as it had enveloped Magawisca. “Oh! I hear Bamaby,” she exclaimed; “dear Master Cradock, sit a little straighter — there — that will do — turn a little more side ways, you will not look so broad — there — that’s better.”
“Miss Hope Leslie, ye have perverted the simple-minded.”
“Say not another word, Master Cradock; pray do not breathe so like a trumpet; ah, I see it is my fault.” She readjusted the blanket, w hich she had drawn so close over the unresisting creature’s face as almost to suffocate him. “Now, Magawisca, sit dow n on this stool — your back to the door, close to Master Cradock, as if you were talking with him.” All w as now arranged to her mind, and she spent the remaining half instant in whisper- ing consolations to Cradock: “Do not let your heart fail you, my good kind tutgflt — ' n one hour you shall be relieved.” Cradock would have again explained that he was regardless of any personal risk, but she interrupted him: “Nay, you need not speak; I know r that is not your present care, but do not be troubled; we are commanded to do good to all — the rain falleth on the just and the unjust — and if we are to help our enemy’s ox out of the pit, much more our enemy. This best of all thy kind services shall be requited. I will be a child to thy old age — hush — there’s Bamaby.”
She moved a few steps from the parties, and w hen the jailer opened
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the door, she appeared to be awaiting him: “Just in season, good Master Tuttle; my tutor has nothing more to say, and 1 am as impatient to go, as you are to have me gone.”
“It is only for your own sake that 1 am impatient, Miss Hope; let us make all haste out.” He took up the lamp which he had left in the cell, trimmed it, and raised the wick, that it might better serve to guide them through the dark passage.
Hope was alarmed by the sudden increase of light — “lend me the lamp, Barnaby,” she said, “to look for my glove — where can I have dropped it? It must be somewhere about here. 1 shall find it in a minute, Master Cradock, you had best go on while I am looking.”
Magawisca obeyed the hint, while Hope in her pretended search, so skilfully managed the light, that not a ray of it touched Magawisca ’s face. She had passed Barnaby— Hope thought the worst danger escaped. “Ah, here it is,” she said, and by way of precaution, she added, in the most careless tone she could assume, “1 will carry the lamp for you, Barnaby.”
“No, no, thank you, Miss Leslie, 1 always like to carry the light myself; and besides, I must take a good look at you both before I lock the door. It is a rule 1 always observe in such cases, lest 1 should be left to ‘brood the eggs the fox has sucked.’ It is a prudent rule 1 assure you, always to be sure you take out the same you let in. Here, Master Cradock, turn round, if you please, to the light, just for form’s sake.”
Magawisca had advanced several steps into the passage, and Hope’s first impulse was to scream to her to run, but a second, and happier thought prevailed, and taking her shawl, which was hanging negligently over her arm, she contrived in throwing it over her head, to sweep it across Barnaby ’s lamp, in such a way as to extinguish the light beyond the possibility of recovery, as Barnaby proved, by vainly trying to blow it again into a flame.
“Do not put yourself to any further trouble about it, Barnaby, it was all my fault; but it matters not, you know the way — just give me your arm, and Master Cradock can take hold of my shawl, and we shall grope through this passage without any difficulty.”
Barnaby arranged himself as she suggested, and then hoping her sudden action had broken the chain of his thoughts, and determined he should not have time to resume it, she said, — “When you write to Ruth,
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Bamaby, be sure you commend me kindly to her; and tell her, that I have done the baby linen I promised her, and that I hope little Bamaby will prove as good a man as his grandfather.”
“Oh, thank ye, Miss Hope, 1 trust, by the blessing of the Lord, much better; but they do say,” added the old man, with a natural ancestral complacency, “they do say he favours me; he’s got the true Tuttle chin, the little dog!”
“You cannot tell yet whether he is gifted in psalmody, Bamaby?”
“La, Miss Hope, you must mean to joke. Why little Bamaby is not five weeks old till next Wednesday morning, half past three o’clock. But I’m as sure he will take to psalmody as if I knew'; there never was a Tuttle that did not.”
Our heroine thus happily succeeded in beguiling the way to the top of the staircase, where a passage diverged to the outer door, and there with many thanks, and assurances of future gratitude, she bade Bamaby good night; and anticipating any observation he might make of Cradock’s si- lence, she said, “my tutor seems to have fallen into one of his reveries; but never mind, another time he will remember to greet and thank you.”
Bamaby was turning away from the door, when he recollected that the sudden extinction of the candle had prevented his intended profes- sional inspection. “Miss Hope Leslie,” he cried, “be so good as to stay one moment, while I get a light; the night is so murky that I cannot see, even here, the lineaments of Master Cradock’s complexion.”
“Pshaw, Bamaby, for mercy’s sake do not detain us now for such an idle ceremony; you see the lineaments of that form, I think; we must have been witches indeed, to have transformed Magawisca’s slender person into that enormous bulk; but one sense is as good as another — speak, Master Cradock,” she added, relying on Magawisca’s discretion. “Oh, he is in one of his silent fits, and a stroke of lightning would scarcely bring a sound from him, so good night, Barnaby,” she concluded, gently putting him back and shutting the door.
'It is marvellous,’ thought Bamaby, as he reluctantly acquiesced in relinquishing the letter of his duty, 'how' this young creature spins me round, at her will, like a top. I think she keeps the key to all hearts.’
With this natural reflection he retired to rest, without taking the
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Hope Leslie
trouble to return to the dungeon, which he would have done, if he had really felt one apprehension of the fraud that had been there perpetrated.
At the instant the prison door was closed, Magawisca divested herself of her hideous disguise, and proceeded on with Hope, to the place where Everell was awaiting them, with the necessary means to transport her beyond the danger of pursuit. But while our heroine is hastening onward, with a bounding step and exulting heart, we must acquaint our readers with the cruel conspiracy that was maturing against her.
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