CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MOAT OF THE KEEP.
Richard left the cottage, and mounted Oliver. To pass the time andindulge a mournful memory, he rode round by Wyfern. When he reachedhome, he found that his father had gone to pay a visit some miles off.He went to his own room, cast himself on his bed, and tried to think.But his birds would not come at his call, or coming would but perch fora moment, and again fly. As he lay thus, his eyes fell on his cousin,old Thomas Heywood's little folio, lying on the window seat where he hadleft it two years ago, and straightway his fluttering birds alightingthere, he thought how the book had been lying unopened all the months,while he had been passing through so many changes and commotions. Howstill had the room been around it, how silent the sunshine and the snow,while he had inhabited tumult--tumult in his heart, tumult in his ears,tumult of sorrows, of vain longings, of tongues and of swords! Where wasthe gain to him? Was he nearer to that centre of peace, which the book,as it lay there so still, seemed to his eyes to typify? The maiden lovedfrom childhood had left him for a foolish king and a phantom-church: hadhe been himself pursuing anything better? He had been fighting for thetruth: had he then gained her? where was she? what was she if not aliving thing in the heart? Would the wielding of the sword in its nameever embody an abstraction, call it from the vasty deep of metaphysicsup into self-conscious existence in the essence of a man's own vitality?Was not the question still, how, of all loves, to grasp the thing hissoul thirsted after?
To many a sermon, cleric and lay, had he listened since he left thatvolume there--in church, in barn, in the open field--but the religionwhich seemed to fill all the horizon of these preachers' vision, was tohim little better than another tumult of words; while, far beyond allthe tumults, hung still, in the vast of thought unarrived, unembodied,that something without a shape, yet bearing a name around which hovereda vague light as of something dimly understood, after which, in everymoment of inbreaking silence, his soul straightway began to thirst. Andif the Truth was not to be found in his own heart, could he think thatthe blows by which he had not gained her had yet given her?--thatthrough means of the tumult he had helped to arouse in her name and forher sake, but in which he had never caught a sight of her beauteousform, she now sat radiantly smiling in any one human soul where she satnot before?
Or should he say it was Freedom for which he had fought? Was he then onewhit more free in the reality of his being than he had been before? Orhad ever a battle wherein he had perilled his own life, striking forliberty, conveyed that liberty into a single human heart? Was there onesoul the freer within, from the nearer presence of that freedom whichwould have a man endure the heaviest wrong, rather than inflict thelightest? He could not tell, but he greatly doubted.
His thought went wandering away, and vision after vision, now of war andnow of love, now of earthly victory and now of what seemed unattainablefelicity, arose and passed before him, filling its place. At length itcame back: he would glance again into his cousin Thomas's book. He hadbut to stretch out his hand to take it, for his bed was close by thewindow. Opening it at random, he came upon this passage:
And as the Mill, that circumgyreth fast, Refuseth nothing that therein is cast, But whatsoever is to it assign'd Gladly receives and willing is to grynd, But if the violence be with nothing fed, It wasts itselfe: e'en so the heart mis-led, Still turning round, unstable as the Ocean, Never at rest, but in continuall Motion, Sleepe or awake, is still in agitation Of some presentment in th' imagination.
If to the Mill-stone you shall cast in Sand, It troubles them, and makes them at a stand; If Pitch, it chokes them; or if Chaffe let fall, They are employ'd, but to no use at all. So, bitter thoughts molest, uncleane thoughts staine And spot the Heart; while those idle and vaine Weare it, and to no purpose. For when 'tis Drowsie and carelesse of the future blisse, And to implore Heav'n's aid, it doth imply How far is it remote from the most High. For whilst our Hearts on Terrhen things we place, There cannot be least hope of Divine grace.
'Just such a mill is my mind,' he said to himself. 'But can I supposethat to sit down and read all day like a monk, would bring me nearer tothe thing I want?'
He turned over the volume half thinking, half brooding.
'I will look again,' he thought, 'at the verses which that day my fathergave me to read. Truly I did not well understand them.'
Once more he read the poem through. It closed with these lines:
So far this LIGHT the Raies extends, As that no place IT comprehends. So deepe this SOUND, that though it speake, It cannot by a Sence so weake Be entertain'd. A REDOLENT GRACE The Aire blowes not from place to place. A pleasant TASTE, of that delight It doth confound all appetite. A strict EMBRACE, not felt, yet leaves That vertue, where it takes it cleaves. This LIGHT, this SOUND, this SAVOURING GRACE, This TASTEFULL SWEET, this STRICT EMBRACE, No PLACE containes, no EYE can see, My GOD is; and there's none but Hee.
'I HAVE gained something,' he crie aloud. 'I understand it now--at leastI think I do. What if, in fighting for the truth as men say, the doorsof a man's own heart should at length fly open for her entrance! What ifthe understanding of that which is uttered concerning her, be a signthat she herself draweth nigh! Then I will go on.--And that I may go on,I must recover my mare.'
Honestly, however, he could not quite justify the scheme. All theefforts of his imagination, as he rode home, to bring his judgment tothe same side with itself, had failed, and he had been driven to confessthe project a foolhardy one. But, on the other hand, had he not had aleading thitherward? Whence else the sudden conviction that Scudamorehad taken her, and the burning desire to seek her in Raglan stables? Andhad he not heard mighty arguments from the lips of the most favouredpreachers in the army for an unquestioning compliance with leadings?Nay, had he not had more than a leading? Was it not a sign to encouragehim, even a pledge of happy result, that, within an hour of it, and inconsequence of his first step in partial compliance with it, he had comeupon the only creature capable of conducting him into the robber's hold?And had he not at the same time learned the Raglan password?--He WOULDgo.
He rose, and descending the little creaking stair of black oak that ledfrom his room to the next storey, sought his father's study, where hewrote a letter informing him of his intended attempt, and the means toits accomplishment that had been already vouchsafed him. The rest of histime, after eating his dinner, he spent in making overshoes for his mareout of an old buff jerkin. As soon as the twilight began to fall, he setout on foot for the witch's cottage.
When he arrived, he found her expecting him, but prepared with no heartywelcome.
'I had liefer by much thee had not come so pat upon thy promise, masterHeywood. Then I might have looked to move thee from thy purpose, fortruly I like it not. But thou will never bring an old woman intotrouble, master Richard?'
'Or a young one either, if I can help it Mother Rees,' answered Richard.'But come now, thou must trust me, and tell me all I want to know.'
He drew from his pocket paper and pencil, and began to put to herquestion after question as to the courts and the various buildingsforming them, with their chief doors and windows, and ever as she gavehim an answer, he added its purport to the rough plan he was drawing ofthe place.
'Listen to me, Master Heywood,' said the old woman at length after along, silence, during which he had been pondering over his paper. 'An'thou get once into the fountain court thou will know where thee is bythe marble horse that stands in the middle of it. Turn then thy back tothe horse, with the yellow tower above thee upon thy right hand, andthee will be facing the great hall. On the other side of the hall is thepitched court with its great gate and double portcullis and drawbridge.Nearly at thy back, but to thy right hand, will lie the gate to thebowling-green. At which of these gates does thee think to lead out thymare?'
'An' I pass at all, mother, it will be on her back, not at her head.'
Richard heard her as though he heard her not.
'At what hour doth the moon rise, mistress Rees?' he asked.
'What would thou with the moon?" she returned. "Is not she the enemy ofhim who roves for plunder? Shines she not that the thief may be shakenout of the earth?'
'I am not thief enough to steal in the dark, mother. How shall I tellwithout her help where I am or whither I go?'
'She will be half way to the top of her hill by midnight.'
'An' thou speak by the card, then is it time that Marquis and I weregoing.'
'Here, take thee some fern-seed in thy pouch, that thou may walkinvisible,' said the old woman. 'If thee chance to be an hungred, theneat thereof,' she added, as she transferred something from her pocket tohis.
She called the dog and opened the chamber door. Out came Marquis, walkedto Richard, and stood looking up in his face as if he knew perfectlythat his business was to accompany him. Richard bade the old woman goodnight, and stepped from the cottage.
No sooner was he in the darkness with the dog, than, fearing he mightlose sight of him, he tied his handkerchief round the dog's neck, andfastened to it the thong of his riding whip--the sole weapon he hadbrought with him--and so they walked together, Marquis pulling Richardon. Ere long the moon rose, and the country dawned into the dim creationof the light.
On and on they trudged, Marquis pulling at his leash as if he had been ablind man's dog, and on and on beside them crept their shadows,flattened out into strange distortion upon the road. But when they hadcome within about two miles of Raglan, whether it was that the sense ofproximity to his mistress grew strong in him, or that he scented theGreat Mogul, as the horse the battle from afar, Marquis began to growrestless, and to sniff about on one side of the way. When at length theyhad by a narrow bridge crossed a brook, the dog insisted on leaving theroad and going down into the meadow to the left. Richard made smallresistance, and that only for experiment upon the animal'sdetermination. Across field after field his guide led him, until, butfor the great keep towering dimly up into the moonlit sky, he couldhardly have even conjectured where he was. But he was well satisfied,for, ever as they came out of copse or hollow, there was the huge thingin the sky, nearer than before.
At last he was able to descry a short stretch of the castle rampart,past which, away to the westward, the dog was pulling, along a roughcart-track through a field. This he presently found to be a quarry road,and straight into the quarry the dog went, pulling eagerly; but Richardwas compelled to follow with caution, for the ground was rough andbroken, and the moon cast black misleading shadows. Towards the blackestof these the dog led, and entered a hollow way. Richard went straightafter him, guarding his head with his arm, lest he might meet a suddendescent of the roof, and lengthening his leash to the utmost, that hemight have timely warning of any descent of the floor.
It was a very rough tunnel, the intent of which will afterwards appear,forming part of one of lord Herbert's later contrivances for the safetyof the castle; but so well had Mr. Salisbury, the surveyor, managed,that not one of the men employed upon it had an idea that they weredoing more than working the quarry for the repair of the fortifications.
From the darkness, and the cautious rate at which he had to proceed,holding back the dog who tugged hard at the whip, Richard could not evenhazard a conjecture as to the distance they had advanced, when he heardthe noise of a small runnel of water, which seemed from the sound tomake abrupt descent from some little height. He had gone but a few pacesfurther when the handle of the whip received a great upward pull and wasleft loose in his grasp: the dog was away, leaving his handkerchief atthe end of the thong. So now he had to guide himself, and began to feelabout him. He seemed at first to have come to the end of the passage,for he could touch both sides of it by stretching out his arms, and infront a tiny stream of water came down the face of the rough rock; butwhat then had become of Marquis? The answer seemed plain: the water mustcome from somewhere, and doubtless its channel had spare room enough forthe dog to pass thither. He felt up the rock, and found that, at aboutthe height of his head, the water came over an obtuse angle. Climbing afoot or two, he discovered that the opening whence it issued was largeenough for him to enter.
Only one who has at some time passed where lengthened creeping wasnecessary, will know how Richard felt, with water under him,pitch-darkness about him, and the rock within an inch or two of his bodyall round. By and by the slope became steeper and the ascent moredifficult. The air grew very close, and he began to fear he should bestifled. Then came a hot breath, and a pair of eyes gleamed a foot ortwo from his face. Had he then followed into the den of the animal bywhich poor Marquis had been so frightfully torn? But no: it was Marquishimself waiting for him!
'Go on, Marquis,' he said, with a sigh of relief.
The dog obeyed, and in another moment a waft of cool air came in.Presently a glimmer of light appeared. The opening through which itentered was a little higher than his horizontally posed head, and lookedalarmingly narrow.
But as he crept nearer it grew wider, and when he came under it he foundit large enough to let him through. When cautiously he poked up hishead, there was the huge mass of the keep towering blank above him! On alevel with his eyes, the broad, lilied waters of the moat lay betwixthim and the citadel.
Marquis had brought him to the one neglected, therefore forgotten, andthence undefended spot of the whole building. Before the well was sunkin the keep, the supply of water to the moat had been far morebountiful, and provision for a free overflow was necessary. For somereason, probably for the mere sake of facility in the construction, thepassage for the superfluous water had been made larger than needful atthe end next the moat. About midway to its outlet, however--a meredrain-mouth in a swampy hollow in the middle of a field--it had narrowedto a third of the compass. But the quarriers had cut across it above thepoint of contraction; and no danger of access occurring to lord Herbertor Mr. Salisbury, while they found a certain service in the tinywaterfall, they had left it as it was.
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