“A Scymel! a Scymel!” shouted the Knight, forgetting in this momentary enthusiasm of the sportsman, the anxieties which tormented him, “a better shot, trust me, I have not seen, since Soy Hetmel, my father’s ranger, won the prize of shooting on my own birth-day. And thou, too, — the fastidious scholar — the scornful Walter Scymel, to excel in an art that pertains to men of rough jerkin, and ready hand — by the mermaid, I would not have thought it.”
“In my younger days,” said the physician, “I took delight in these toys.” (Did the tone of indifference, with which he spoke betray that, even in the skill which he affected to despise, there was room for the subtle sin of vanity — powerful in the strongest and weakest minds — to shew its workings?) “But whether is the more merciful, the hawk’s beak, or the bow’s bullet?”
“Well, well,” replied the Knight impatiently, “have it as thou list. I would sooner seek to reclaim a bald-headed kite from his rakings, than thee from thy opinions. But it is idle to talk — I am in the path, and may not, nay, will not turn aside. Fears, I have none — a Chiverton cannot feel them.” He drew himself up as he spake in proud and desperate defiance of the thoughts that visibly tortured and oppressed him. Absorbed in his own emotions, he perceived not the smiles that severally passed over the countenances of his companions. The cold suppressed sneer of the physician, and the sullen contortion half smile, half grin, of the Moor’s features, denoted them apt at appreciating the mental state of their lord.
The sudden splash of oars in the water of the river arrested Scymel’s attention. “Here,” he exclaimed as he cast a glance through the casement, “come news, good or bad — what can have caused Niel Jaggar to quit his cave?”
“Niel Jaggar, say’st thou?” asked the Knight.
“Even so, my lord, as you may yourself see; he comes with speed, he will be here anon.”
“I marvel, too, what brings him hither,” said Chiverton; “though, in truth, I have a light guess. Some detected villany, carried with too open a hand, brings him to seek shelter here till the storm blows over, or he needs somewhat to furnish his larder. It is rarely that aught pertaining to my affairs turns his course this way.”
“We shall know the cause ere long,” said the physician; “he has already landed, and has gone round. I presume, to the front gate. Is it your pleasure to admit him, if he seeks your presence?”
“Aye,” returned the Knight, “let him in, my state council will then be complete. A goodly fellowship, I trow — I would fain find one more to add to the number.”
“It were needless, my lord,” returned the physician drily, “so long as the firmness and daring resolve of the chief supply the deficiencies of his counsellors.”
The Knight turned abruptly upon the speaker; indignation at the sarcasm thus flung upon him inflamed his features, and almost deprived him of self-possession. The cold gaze of the physician’s eye underwent no change; it might be, that an added expression of scorn augmented the customary appearance of his features, shadowed under an assumed bearing of deep respect. The rising fury of Chiverton sank before it; he turned away, but addressing himself to Scymel as he passed him, said in a low and half stifled voice, “Thou art said to be prudent; thy best prudence will be to stop in time — I bear not mockery.”
The answer of the physician, if he designed any, was prevented by the knocking at the door of the chamber of one seeking admittance. The Knight himself drew back the bolt, and the door again opening, gave entrance to Niel Jagger, the same dark, gross, ruffian-stamped object, with whom the reader is already acquainted as the inhabitant of the cave, whither Prestwyche bore his rescued mistress.
The savage made some such obeisance to Chiverton as a bear pays to his keeper, when under the immediate dread of torture; and passing on, seated his unwieldy and misshapen form on the first stool within his reach. A sullen stare was all the notice he deigned to the other inmates of the apartment; and taking from his girdle a leathern flask, he applied it with a voracious eagerness to his lips. Probably the quantity of the contents was less than he had contemplated, from the speed with which he withdrew the vessel, and the demeanour of mortification with which he cast it on the floor. The Knight motioned to Scymel, who unlocking a small door in a pannel of the wainscotting, brought forth a silver goblet of antique workmanship, and of tolerable capacity. Into this he emptied an earthen bottle, and placed the cup within the reach of Jaggar, who seized it without speaking, and drained it at a single draught.
“Give him more, give him more,” whispered the Knight to Scymel after a short pause, “we shall never get him to speak else, or communicate his tidings if he has any.”
“It were well, my lord to wait a little,” returned the physician, in the same suppressed tone; “the aqua mirabilis will work speedily, and loosen his tongue. A repetition of it would defeat our object — even his brutal brain could not resist such another draught.”
Accordingly, the lapse of a few minutes verified the physician’s expectations. The sullen being seemed aroused from his lethargy, and staring around him, said, though without addressing any one in particular, “Well now, what want ye with me?’
“Nay,” returned the physician, “thine own will brought thee hither. No one invited thee — no one, I will venture to affirm, wants thee here.”
“By your leave, quick Master Doctor, you do want me.”
“And wherefore, prithee, may we be in such need of thy co-operation, which thou hast vouchsafed to come from thy pleasant dwelling to offer to us? Is it thy advice thou deemest we lack, or thy sleight of hand?”
“Both, Master Scymel, an you ask. But I will not speak with you, Master Doctor: you are a wise man, and reckon too much of your wit and learning; and you’re a knowing man — but there be other cunning coves beside you and old Satan, if there be such a body. And black Bali, too, yonder, he thinks himself, and you think him, a clean hand at a pinch, when a lad happens to have a windpipe more than you suppose he’s need for. And yet—”
“Now may the fiend whose bondsman thou art, seize thee — can’st not make an end of thy foolery, and tell thy tale if thou hast one; — if not get thee to the butler, drink thy drink and begone,” said Chiverton, impatient at the unwonted length to which Niel seemed disposed to extend his speech.
“I have that to tell,” returned the other, “you would not miss the hearing of, for as much drink as would set all the crew of the Jolly Rover, an they were alive, asking where were their heads and where their feet, and none be able to give a word of answer.”
“Were all the members of the goodly fellowship thou speakest of, gifted with such a short winded manner of tale-telling as thyself,” inquired the physician, “if so, a dull evening, in a dead calm, must needs have passed pleasantly.”
“I guess, Master Doctor,” returned he of the cave, “from a mark on your neck, you’ll be glad some of these days to be longer winded than you’re like to be.”
“Now evil betide thee with thy prating folly,” exclaimed the Knight, “if thou tells’t not instantly what thou hast to inform us, thou shalt be silenced for ever. Speak, villain, or—”
“An you be so hasty,” interrupted Niel, “e’en take the news — but it might be as well you put that blade of yours into its house again. I may like get my head split for my tidings else.”
The Knight hurled the sword to the farther end of the room, and compressing his rage, stood in gloomy expectation of the promised tidings.”
“A good blade by St. Margery,” muttered Jaggar, “how it leapt when it fell.” A look from Chiverton, reminded him that the Knight was in no mood for trifling.
“Well then,” continued he, “what I have to tell is, that Mahmood Bali is not the same deft hand at aiming a fire-piece, as at driving a five inch steel.”
“How now — what means this?” said the Knight hastily, “speak to the point — we need no riddles — this is no child’s play.”
“Answer me this then — went not Mahmood Bali, yester morn, w
ith some slight message for him you call Reginald Prestwyche.”
“What of him? — speak quickly.”
“Nay an you wish to hear of him, he is alive and well, and may likely come himself e’er long to tell you so much.”
“It cannot be,” said the knight, gazing with a bewildered astonishment at the physician, who cast a look of equal surprise upon the Moor. The last stood unmoved.
“It cannot be,” repeated Chiverton, “it is not possible. Thou ravest, Niel Jaggar, or liest — I know not whether.”
“E’en as you list,” replied Niel, suddenly; “I have said my say, you are welcome to believe or not — my business is done. I reckon old Sym Harvins, the butler you call him, has a stoup of the old aquavita left to fill my bottle?”
“Stay where thou art — thou shalt see Harvins presently — I am astounded at this tale.”
“What says Mahmood to this mishap?” asked the physician.
The Moor advanced towards them, until he arrived within three paces of Chiverton: he fixed his eyes slowly and successively, upon each of the three, and then assuming the attitude and motions of one aiming and firing an arquebuss, he instantly followed that action by darting down his hand violently, as denoting the rapid fall of some object to the earth. This done, he resumed his accustomed posture, save that his look was more direct than was wont, and his eyes, fixed on Niel Jaggar, seemed to challenge denial to the asseveration conveyed by his gestures.
“You see, my lord,” said the physician, “Mahmood denies the account which Jaggar has so aptly and concisely delivered to us. When, and where was it,” addressing himself to Niel, “that thou sawest Reginald Prestwvche?”
“Repeat not his name,” said Chiverton to the last speaker, in a suppressed and painful tone,—” it jars on my ears too harshly.”
“I told you not,” replied Jaggar to the query of the physician, “that I had seen that youth.”
“Whence then comes thy information?” exclaimed the Knight. “I will no more endure this trifling.”
“Gilbert Brandreth met this Prestwyche, with a serving man, this morning, an hour after sunrise, to the west of the Abbey Cleugh.”
“How were they coming?” asked the physician.
“They were on foot when Gilbert saw them.”
“And how did he know Prestwyche? he has been away from these parts — how long is it, Scymel? — These things distract me — do thou question him.”
“Gilbert knew him long ere he went abroad — he was at Derby when—”
A vengeful look from Chiverton, directed towards the speaker, interrupted his discourse, and indicated, at the same time, that the allusion to the bye past times awakened in the Knight’s breast, emotions of no grateful nature.
“’Tis strange,” said the physician; “I would this were unravelled. — Need you longer the attendance of Niel Jaggar, my lord?”
“No — thou may’st be gone — the butler will give thee aught thou lackest. And warn Brandreth, that he be secret; and keep a keen look out both of ye.”
“And if his luck cast him in our way, this may be serviceable mayhap.” As Jaggar spoke, he exhibited the handle and part of the blade of a weapon, of the shape, but exceeding the size, of an ordinary knife, which, concealed under the rude garment of its owner, was ready for any purpose he might apply it to.
“No — on thy life, thou knave, harm him not; but be sure thou bring intelligence of his motions.”
“Well, well,” growled the savage, as he departed, “e’en as you list; it’s all one to Niel Jaggar.”
“Get thee gone,” exclaimed the Knight, as the door of the apartment closed after Niel; “brute as thou art, and dull to all save villany, I marvel, Scymel, where, and to what end, thou did’st pick up this fellow — he is in truth a goodly looking retainer.”
“My lord,” answered the physician, “savage as he is — a midway thing between beast and humanity, there is in him what may be useful, and what at a pinch we might find elsewhere with difficulty. He hath no reason to examine, and may therefore more aptly exert the cunning which he possesses to execute. His habits, too, fit him for a serviceable instrument.”
“But can’st thou expect,” asked the Knight, “to find fidelity in this animal? Would not a slight cause make the wind change, that now blows him to our commands?”
Grant, Sir, that it did; what then? — Let him prove false — and what is more, let him escape an he could from your domains, which, did a doubt arise of his steadiness, were not a trifling task — and what were you the worse? Let him fly, there is not a town he would approach, but every varlet of the law would scent him — the noose hangs round his neck, and every step would but draw the knot the tighter. Who would believe his words? even the few he might utter, whilst breath was left him to vent his tales. And trust me, my lord, there is no retainer who inhabits these walls, whose every motion — nay, whose very thoughts I know not too well, for them to possess the power to do you ill, even so long as while their purpose were maturing.”
“Stay,” exclaimed the Knight hastily, “I hear the trampling of horses — listen, the sound is yet distant.”
“Sir Gamelyn de Vancouver, doubtless, with the lady your bride.”
“Would she were — yet I fear me much — this cursed mishap of Mahmood’s—”
“Does that trouble you, my lord? — you seemed but now to regret that the design were, as we then thought it, accomplished.”
“Perchance I might; but the attempt made, and unsuccessful, is worse than all. He cannot fail to divine to whom he owes his noonday salutation. He may,— ’tis more than probable he has seen Sir Gamelyn, and if it be so,” — he paused.
“And if it be so — what follows? Sir Gamelyn would pay such regard to his words, as your hawk to the call of the hinds that till your grounds. Sir Gamelyn knows him not, save as your enemy, and knowing so much, would treat his story accordingly. He would laugh at the tale, as a springe too poor to catch the tamest woodcock.”
“Still though it were as thou sayest — suspicion might be awakened. I would the deed had been done, though I loathe the thought of so dealing with a foe. But this is not the time for this question; they will presently be here — my sister I fear, will not be able to join me in receiving my guests. Hast thou seen her yet?”
“I left her but to seek you, my lord — questionless, she cannot with safety desert her chamber.”
“Well I, or thou, as her physician, must make her excuses — see’st thou aught of these comers?”
“They are even now emerging from the wood — and, as I live, a goodly company. The ornaments of the riders do glitter in the sun, as gaily as on a royal progress. Sir Gamelyn — a goodly looking — his daughter — your bride — and worthy, as I may judge from her mien, to be the mistress of a noble and ancient house.”
“It is, indeed, an ancient house — I would not, that I should be the last of my name to inherit its honours and its possessions, decayed as they are from their early splendour. I would this marriage were over — that past, Sir Gamelyn’s ample possessions added to mine, the Chiverton shall again be what he has erst been, free and unshackled as the mermaid in her deeps.”
“I know not, my lord, what should bar the completion of your views. Sir Gamelyn is as eager for the union as yourself — the tale that Prestwyche alone could tell him, he has either not heard, or having heard must have disbelieved, or, should a suspicion remain, how easily were it removed. Prestwyche disposed of, the tale will die away, without a chance of revival.”
“It may be — I trust it will be so, Walter. Meanwhile do thou see that our steward hath ordered whatever may be fitting for the reception of our guests — I will prepare me to meet them.” With these words the knight left the apartment The physician lingered. He gazed from the casement upon the party, some of whom had already entered the ferryman’s vessel, which had been dispatched to transport them across the river. A part of the attendants were first conveyed; the lady and her women meanwhile
dismounted from their steeds, and stood, accompanied by Sir Gamelyn, in readiness for the voyage. Their followers were gaily apparelled; light plumes waved in the breezes, and the bright sunbeams sparkled on the decorated trappings of the horses. The physician had before noted the gallant appearance of the company.
“She comes gaily,” said he: “it is well that the light heart should laugh whilst it can; how soon may smiles be turned to tears. They fable that the swan sings but at life’s closing; the hues of the dolphin are most lovely as he dies. The dreams of happiness are worse than vain — the soft heart breaks with them, the stronger lives on, to laugh at, and scorn the delusion.”
He remained a few moments longer in the chamber, watching the motions of the new comers, and then departed to see that all was prepared for their accommodation.
On landing at that side of the river on which the hall stood, Sir Gamelyn and his daughter were received by an assemblage of those gallants, to whom the hall afforded a residence. Their appearance and demeanour had something that imposed on the fancy. All men who had been accustomed to mix in the world, their manners partook of that high strain of courtesy, and that devotion to the female sex, by which the time was distinguished. The arrival of a lady, who both by birth and station was entitled to claim their utmost respect, was an event so rare, that these gentles of the place — the younger part especially — eagerly seized on the opportunity of putting in practice, those nice doctrines of fine breeding, which, except when the presence of Chiverton’s sister graced their excursions, were perforce condemned to lie dormant, to the no small mortification of their real or fancied possessors. Indeed, many of them, who had some years back ruffled it with the bravest in the capital, and whose scanty means alone induced them to leave the scenes where the loveliness and the chivalry of the land were gathered together, and where splendour, and wit and beauty, conspired to shed a halo of imaginative brilliancy around their daily life, cast back internally many a lingering look, and were nigh ready to weep when they thought upon Babylon.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 8