The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Dame Placida Paston had a short plump (perhaps a little too plump, and yet it is difficult to conceive how that can well be) figure; a round rosy face, the very picture of amiability and good humor; a smooth chin, dimpling cheeks, and the brightest and merriest black eyes imaginable. Her dress was neatness itself, and her dwelling as neat as her dress. With attractions like these, no wonder she captivated many a heart, and among others that of Magog, who had long nourished a secret passion for her, but could not muster courage to declare it — for, with a bluff and burly demeanour towards his own sex, the giant was as bashful as a shamefaced stripling in the presence of any of womankind.

  With the tact peculiarly belonging to widows, Dame Placida had discovered the state of affairs, and perhaps being not altogether unwilling to discourage him, having

  accidentally met him on the Tower Green on the day in question, had invited him to visit her in the evening. It was this invitation which had so completely upset the love-sick giant. The same bashfulness that prevented him from making known his attachment to the object of it, kept him silent towards his brethren, as he feared to excite their ridicule.

  On his arrival at her abode, Dame Placida received him with the utmost cordiality, and tried to engage him in conversation. But all without effect.

  “I see how it is,” she thought; “there is nothing like a little strong liquor to unloose a man’s tongue.” And she forthwith proceeded to a cupboard to draw a pot of ale. It was at this juncture that she was discovered by the observers outside.

  Magog received the proffered jug, and fixing a tender look on the fair donor, pressed his huge hand to his heart, and drained it to the last drop. The widow took back the empty vessel, and smilingly inquired if he would have it replenished. The giant replied faintly in the negative — so faintly, that she was about to return to the cupboard for a fresh supply, when Magog caught her hand, and flung himself on his knees before her. In this posture he was still considerably the taller of the two; but bending himself as near to the ground as possible, he was about to make his proposal in due form, when he was arrested by a tremendous peal of laughter from without, and looking up, beheld Xit seated on the window-sill, while behind him appeared the grinning countenances of his brethren.

  Ashamed and enraged at being thus detected, Magog sprang to his feet, and seizing Xit by the nape of the neck, would have inflicted some severe chastisement upon him, if Dame Placida had not interfered to prevent it. At her solicitation, the mannikin was released; and he no sooner found himself at liberty, than, throwing himself at her feet, he protested he was dying for her. Perhaps it might be from a certain love of teasing, inherent even in the best-tempered of her sex, or, perhaps, she thought such a course might induce Magog more fully to declare himself; but whatever motive influenced her, certain it is that Dame Placida appeared by no means displeased with her diminutive suitor, but suffered him, after a decent show of reluctance, to take her hand.

  Thus encouraged, the dwarf was so elated, that springing upon a chair, he endeavoured to snatch a kiss. But the widow, having no idea of allowing such a liberty, gave him a smart box on the ear, which immediately brought him to the ground.

  Notwithstanding this rebuff, Xit would have persevered, had not Magog, whose feelings were really interested, begun to appear seriously angry. Seeing this, he judged it prudent to desist, and contented himself with entreating the widow to declare which of the two she preferred. Dame Placida replied, that she must take a few hours to consider upon it, but invited them both to supper on the following evening, when she would deliver her answer. Having given a similar invitation to the two giants outside, she dismissed the whole party.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  OF THE STRATAGEM PRACTISED BY CUTHBERT CHOLMONDE- LEY ON THE JAILER.

  SEVERAL days had now elapsed since Cholmondeley was thrown into the dungeon, and during that time he had been visited only at long intervals by Nightgall. To all his menaces, reproaches, and entreaties, the jailer turned a deaf ear. He smiled grimly as be set down the scanty provisions — a loaf and a pitcher of water — with which he supplied his captive; but he could not be induced to speak. When questioned about Cicely and upbraided with his perfidy, his countenance assumed an exulting expression which Cholmondeley found so intolerable that he never again repeated his inquiries. Left to himself, his whole time was passed in devising some means of escape. He tried, but ineffectually, to break his bonds, and at last, satisfied of its futility, gave up the attempt.

  One night he was disturbed by the horrible and heartrending shrieks of the female prisoner, who had contrived to gain access to his cell. There was something about this mysterious person that inspired him with unaccountable dread; and though he was satisfied she was a being of this world, the conviction did not serve to lessen his fears. After making the dungeon ring with her cries for some time, she became silent, and as he heard no sound and could distinguish nothing, he concluded she must have departed. Just then the unlocking of a distant door and a gleam of sickly light on the walls of the stone passage announced the approach of Nightgall, and the next moment he entered the cell. The light fell upon a crouching female figure in one corner. The jailer started; and his angry ejaculations caused the poor creature to raise her head.

  Cholmondeley had never beheld anything so ghastly as her countenance, and he half doubted whether he did not look upon a tenant of the grave. Her eyes were sunken and lustreless; her cheeks thin and rigid, and covered with skin of that deadly paleness which is seen in plants deprived of light; her flesh shrunken to the bone, and her hands like those of a skeleton. But in spite of all this emaciation, there was something in her features that seemed to denote that she had once been beautiful, and her condition in life exalted. The terror she exhibited at the approach of the jailer proved the dreadful usage she had experienced. In answer to his savage ejaculations to her to follow him, she flung herself on her knees, and raised her hands in the most piteous supplication. Nothing moved by this, Nightgall was about to seize her and drag her away, when with a piercing scream she darted from him, and took refuge behind Cholmondeley.

  “Save me! — save me from him!” she shrieked; “he will kill me.”

  “Pshaw!” cried the jailer. “Come with me quietly, Alexia, and you shall have a warmer cell and better food.”

  “I will not go,” she replied. “I will not answer to that name. Give me my rightful title and I will follow you,”

  “What is your title?” asked Cholmondeley eagerly.

  “Beware!” interposed Nightgall, raising his hand menacingly. “Beware!”

  “Heed him not!” cried Cholmondeley; “he shall not harm you. Tell me how you are called?”

  “I have forgotten,” replied the terrified woman evasively. “I had another name once. But I am called Alexia now.”

  “What has become of your child?” asked Cholmondeley.

  “My child!” she echoed, with a frightful scream. “I have lost her in these dungeons. I sometimes see her before me running and clapping her little hands. Ah! there she is — coming towards us. She has long fair hair — light blue eyes — blue as the skies I shall never behold again. Do you not see her?”

  “No,” replied Cholmondeley, trembling. « How is she named?”

  “She died unbaptized,” replied the female. “But I meant to call her Angela. Ah! see! she answers to the name — she approaches. Angela! my child! — my child!” And the miserable creature extended her arms, and seemed to clasp a phantom to her bosom.

  “Alexia!” roared the jailer fiercely, “follow me, or I will have you scourged by the tormentor.”

  “He dare not — he will not,” cried Cholmondeley, to whom the wretched woman clung convulsively. “Do not go with him.”

  “Alexia,” reiterated the jailer in a tone of increased fury.

  “I must go,” she cried, breaking from the esquire, “or he will kill me.” And with a noiseless step she glided after Nightgall.

  Cholmondeley listened intentl
y, and as upon a former occasion, heard stifled groans succeeded by the clangor of a closing door, and then all was hushed. The jailer returned no more that night. When he appeared again, it was with a moodier aspect than ever. He set down the provisions, and instantly departed.

  While meditating upon various means of escape, an idea at length occurred to the young esquire upon which he resolved to act. He determined to feign death. Accordingly, though half famished, he left his provisions untouched; and when Nightgall next visited the cell, he found him stretched on the ground, apparently lifeless. Uttering a savage laugh, the jailer held the light over the supposed corpse, and exclaimed, “At last I am fairly rid of him. Cicely will now be mine. I will fling him into the burial vault near the moat. But first to unfasten this chain.”

  So saying, he took a small key from the bunch at his girdle, and unlocked the massive fetters that bound Cholmondeley to the wall. During this operation the esquire held his breath, and endeavoured to give his limbs the semblance of death. But the jailer’s suspicions were aroused.

  “He cannot have been long dead,” he muttered, “perhaps he is only in a trance. This shall make all secure.” And drawing his dagger, he was about to plunge it in the bosom of the esquire, when the latter, being now freed from his bondage, suddenly started to his feet, and flung himself upon him.

  The suddenness of the action favoured its success. Before Nightgall recovered from his surprise, the poniard was wrested from his grasp and held at his throat. In the struggle that ensued, he received a wound which brought him senseless to the ground; and Cholmondeley, thinking it needless to despatch him, contented himself with chaining him to the wall.

  Possessing himself of the jailer’s keys, he was about to depart, when Nightgall, who at that moment regained his consciousness, and with it all his ferocity, strove to intercept him. On discovering his situation, he uttered a torrent of impotent threats and execrations. The only reply deigned by the esquire to his menaces, was an assurance that he was about to set free the miserable Alexia.

  Quitting the cell, Cholmondeley turned off on the left, in the direction whence he imagined the shrieks had proceeded. Here he beheld a range of low strong doors, the first of which he unlocked with one of the jailer’s keys. The prison was unoccupied. He opened the next, but with no better success. It contained nothing except a few rusty links of chain attached to an iron staple driven into the floor. In the third he found a few mouldering bones; and the fourth was totally empty. He then knocked at the doors of others, and called the miserable captive by her name in a loud voice. But no answer was returned.

  At the extremity of the passage he found an open door, leading to a small circular chamber, in the centre of which stood a heavy stone pillar. From this pillar projected a long iron bar, sustaining a coil of rope, terminated by a hook. On the ground lay an immense pair of pincers, a curiously-shaped saw, and a brasier. In one corner stood a large oaken frame, about three feet high, moved by rollers. At the other was a ponderous wooden machine, like a pair of stocks. Against the wall hung a broad hoop of iron, opening in the middle with a hinge — a horrible instrument of torture, termed “The Scavenger’s Daughter.” Near it were a pair of iron gauntlets, which could be contracted by screws till they crushed the fingers of the wearer. On the wall also hung a small brush to sprinkle the wretched victims who fainted from excess of agony, with vinegar; while on a table beneath it were placed writing materials and an open volume, in which were taken down the confessions of the sufferers.

  Cholmondeley saw at once that he had entered the torture-chamber, and hastily surveying these horrible contrivances, was about to withdraw, when he noticed a trap-door in one corner. Advancing towards it, he perceived a flight of steps, and thinking they might lead him to the cell he was in search of, he descended, and came to a passage still narrower and gloomier than that he had quitted. As he proceeded along it he thought he heard a low groan, and hurrying in the direction of the sound, arrived at a small door, and knocking against it, called “Alexia,” but was answered in the feeble voice of a man “I am not Alexia, but whoever you are, liberate me from this horrible torture, or put me to death, and so free me from misery.”

  After some search, Cholmondeley discovered the key of the dungeon, and unlocking it, beheld an old man in a strange stooping posture, with his head upon his breast, and his back bent almost double. The walls of the cell, which was called the Little Ease, were so low and so contrived, that the wretched inmate could neither stand, walk, sit, nor lie at full length within them.

  With difficulty — for the poor wretch’s limbs were too much cramped by his long and terrible confinement to allow him to move — Cholmondeley succeeded in dragging him forth.

  “How long have you been immured here?” he inquired. “I know not,” replied the old man. “Not many weeks perhaps — but to me it seems an eternity. Support me — oh! support me! I am sinking fast!”

  “A draught of water will revive you,” cried Cholmondeley. “I will bring you some in a moment.”

  And he was about to hurry to his cell for the pitcher, when the old man checked him.

  “It is useless,” he cried. “I am dying — nothing can save me. Young man,” he continued, fixing his glazing eyes on Cholmondeley. “When I was first brought to the Tower, I was as young as you. I have grown old in captivity. My life has been passed in these dismal places. I was imprisoned by the tyrant Henry VIII. for my adherence to the religion of my fathers — and I have witnessed such dreadful things, that, were I to relate them, it would blanch your hair like mine. Heaven have mercy on my soul!” And sinking backwards, he expired with a hollow groan.

  Satisfied that life was wholly extinct, Cholmondeley continued his search for the scarcely less unfortunate Alexia. Traversing the narrow gallery, he could discover no other door and he therefore returned to the torture-room, and from thence retraced his steps to the cell. As he approached it, Nightgall, who heard his footsteps, called out to him, and entreated to be set at liberty.

  “I will do so, provided you will conduct me to the dungeon of Alexia,” replied the esquire.

  “You have not found her?” rejoined the jailer.

  “I have not,” replied Cholmondeley. “Will you guide me to it?”

  Nightgall eagerly answered in the affirmative.

  The esquire was about to unlock the chain, but as he drew near him, the jailer’s countenance assumed so malignant an expression that he determined not to trust him. Despite his entreaties, he again turned to depart.

  “You will never get out without me,” said Nightgall.

  “I will make the attempt,” rejoined Cholmondeley. And wrapping himself in the jailer’s ample cloak, and putting on his cap, he quitted the dungeon.

  This time he shaped his course differently. Endeavouring to recall the road by which Nightgall had invariably approached, he proceeded for a short time along the onward passage, and presently reaching a spot where two avenues branched off — one to the right and the other to the left — he struck into the latter, and found a second range of dungeons. He opened the doors of several, but they were untenanted; and giving up the idea of rescuing the ill-fated Alexia, he began to think it time to attend to his own safety.

  The passage he had chosen, which, like all those he had previously traversed, was arched and flagged with stone, brought him to a low square chamber, from which a flight of steps ascended. Mounting these he came to two other passages, and without pausing to consider, hurried along the first. In a short time he was stopped by a strong iron door, and examining the lock tried every key, but could find none to fit it. Failing to procure egress in this quarter, he was obliged to return, and choosing his course at random, struck into an avenue on the right.

  Greatly surprised at the extent of the passages he had tracked, he could not help admiring the extraordinary solidity of the masonry, and the freshness of the stone, which looked as if it had just come from the chisel. Arriving at a gate which impeded his farther progress, he a
pplied to his keys, and was fortunately able to open it. This did not set him free as he had anticipated, but admitted him into a spacious vault, surrounded by deep cavernous recesses, filled with stone coffins. Broken statues and tattered escutcheons littered the ground.

  Wondering where he could have penetrated, he paused for a moment to consider whether he should return; but fearful of losing his way in the labyrinth he had just quitted, he determined to go on. A broad flight of stone steps led him to a large folding-door, which he pushed aside, and traversing a sort of corridor with which it communicated, he found himself at the foot of a spiral staircase. Mounting it, he came to an extremely narrow passage, evidently contrived in the thickness of the wall; and threading it, he reached a small stone door, in which neither bolt nor lock could be detected.

  Convinced, however, that there must be some secret spring, he examined it more narrowly, and at length discovered a small plate of iron. Pressing this, the heavy stone turned as upon a pivot, and disclosed a narrow passage, through which he crept, and found himself to his great surprise in the interior of St. John’s Chapel in the White Tower. At first, he thought he must be deceived, but a glance around convinced him he was not mistaken; and when he called to mind the multitude of passages he had traversed, his surprise was greatly diminished.

  While he was thus musing, he heard footsteps approaching, and instantly extinguished the light. The masked door from which he had emerged lay at the extremity of the northern aisle, and the parties (for there were evidently more than one) came from the other end of the chapel. Finding he had been noticed, Cholmondeley advanced towards them.