CHAPTER XXVI.

  Mercury. “I permit thee to be Sosia again.”
   Dryden,

We must leave the two adventurers winding their way among the broken piles, and venturing boldly beneath the tottering arches of the ruin, to accompany the reader, at the same hour, within the more comfortable walls of the abbey; where, it will be remembered, Borroughcliffe was left in a condition of very equivocal ease. As the earth had, however, in the interval, nearly run its daily round, circumstances had intervened to release the soldier from his confinement—and no one, ignorant of the fact, would suppose that the gentleman who was now seated at the hospitable board of Colonel Howard, directing, with so much discretion, the energies of his masticators to the delicacies of the feast, could read, in his careless air and smiling visage, that those foragers of nature had been so recently condemned, for four long hours, to the mortification of discussing the barren subject of his own sword-hilt. Borroughcliffe, however, maintained not only his usual post, but his well-earned reputation at the table, with his ordinary coolness of demeanor; though at times there were fleeting smiles that crossed his military aspect, which sufficiently indicated that he considered the matter of his reflection to be of a particularly ludicrous character. In the young man who sat by his side, dressed in the deep-blue jacket of a seaman, with the fine white linen of his collar contrasting strongly with the black silk handkerchief that was tied with studied negligence around his neck, and whose easy air and manner contrasted still more strongly with this attire, the reader will discover Griffith. The captive paid much less devotion to the viands than his neighbor, though he affected more attention to the business of the table than he actually be stowed, with a sort of consciousness that it would relieve the blushing maiden who presided. The laughing eyes of Katherine Plowden were glittering by the side of the mild countenance of Alice Dunscombe, and, at times, were fastened in droll interest on the rigid and upright exterior that Captain Manual maintained, directly opposite to where she was seated. A chair had, also, been placed for Dillon—of course it was vacant.

“And so, Borroughcliffe,” cried Colonel Howard, with a freedom of voice, and a vivacity in his air, that announced the increasing harmony of the repast, “the sea-dog left you nothing to chew but the cud of your resentment!”

“That and my sword-hilt,” returned the immovable recruiting officer. “Gentlemen, I know not how your Congress rewards military achievements; but if that worthy fellow were in my company, he should have a halberd within a week—spurs I would not offer him, for he affects to spurn their use.”

Griffith smiled, and bowed in silence to the liberal compliment of Borroughcliffe; but Manual took on himself the task of replying:

“Considering the drilling the man has received, the conduct has been well enough, sir; though a well-trained soldier would not only have made prisoners, but he would have secured them.”

“I perceive, my good comrade, that your thoughts are running on the exchange,” said Borroughcliffe, good-humoredly; “we will fill, sir, and, by permission of the ladies, drink to a speedy restoration of rights to both parties—the status quo ante bellum!”

“With all my heart!” cried the colonel; “and Cicely and Miss Katherine will pledge the sentiment in a woman's sip; will ye not, my fair wards?—Mr. Griffith, I honor this proposition of yours, which will not only liberate yourself, but restore to us my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon. Kit had imagined the thing well; ha! Borroughcliffe! 'twas ingeniously contrived, but the fortune of war interposed itself to his success; and yet it is a deep and inexplicable mystery to me, how Kit should have been conveyed from the abbey with so little noise, and without raising the alarm.”

“Christopher is a man who understands the philosophy of silence, as well as that of rhetoric,” returned Borroughcliffe, “and must have learned in his legal studies, that it is sometimes necessary to conduct matters sub silentio. You smile at my Latin, Miss Plowden; but really, since I have become an inhabitant of this monkish abode, my little learning is stimulated to unwonted efforts—nay, you are pleased to be yet more merry! I used the language, because silence is a theme in which you ladies take but little pleasure.”

Katherine, however, disregarded the slight pique that was apparent in the soldier's manner; but, after following the train of her own thoughts in silent enjoyment for a moment longer, she seemed to yield to their drollery, and laughed until her dark eyes flashed with merriment. Cecilia did not assume the severe gravity with which she sometimes endeavored to repress, what she thought, the unseasonable mirth of her cousin; and the wondering Griffith fancied, as he glanced his eye from one to the other, that he could discern a suppressed smile playing among the composed features of Alice Dunscombe. Katherine, however, soon succeeded in repressing the paroxysm, and, with an air of infinitely comic gravity, she replied to the remark of the soldier:

“I think I have heard of such a process in nautical affairs as towing; but I must appeal to Mr. Griffith for the correctness of the term.”

“You could not speak with more accuracy,” returned the young sailor, with a look that sent the conscious blood to the temples of the lady, “though you had made marine terms your study.”

“The profession requires less thought, perhaps, than you imagine, sir; but is this towing often done, as Captain Borroughcliffe—I beg his pardon—as the monks have it, sub silentio?”

“Spare me, fair lady,” cried the captain, “and we will establish a compact of mutual grace; you to forgive my learning, and I to suppress my suspicions.”

“Suspicions, sir, is a word that a lady must defy.”

“And defiance a challenge that a soldier can never receive; so I must submit to talk English, though the fathers of the church were my companions. I suspect that Miss Plowden has it in her power to explain the manner of Mr. Christopher Dillon's departure.”

The lady did not reply, but a second burst of merriment succeeded, of a liveliness and duration quite equal to the former.

“How's this?” exclaimed the colonel; “permit me to say, Miss Plowden, your mirth is very extraordinary! I trust no disrespect has been offered to my kinsman? Mr. Griffith, our terms are, that the exchange shall only be made on condition that equally good treatment has been extended to the parties!”

“If Mr. Dillon can complain of no greater evil than that of being laughed at by Miss Plowden, sir, he has reason to call himself a happy fellow.”

“I know not, sir; God forbid that I should forget what is due to my guests, gentlemen!—but ye have entered my dwelling as foes to my prince.”

“But not to Colonel Howard, sir.”

“I know no difference, Mr. Griffith. King George or Colonel Howard—Colonel Howard or King George. Our feelings, our fortunes, and our fate, are as one; with the mighty odds that Providence has established between the prince and his people! I wish no other fortune than to share, at an humble distance, the weal or woe of my sovereign!”

“You are not called upon, dear sir, to do either, by the thoughtlessness of us ladies,” said Cecilia, rising; “but here comes one who should turn our thoughts to a more important subject—our dress.”

Politeness induced Colonel Howard, who both loved and respected his niece, to defer his remarks to another time: and Katherine, springing from her chair with childish eagerness, flew to the side of her cousin, who was directing a servant that had announced the arrival of one of those erratic venders of small articles, who supply, in remote districts of the country, the places of more regular traders, to show the lad into the dining-parlor. The repast was so far ended as to render this interruption less objectionable; and as all felt the object of Cecilia to be the restoration of harmony, the boy was ushered into the room without further delay. The contents of his small basket, consisting chiefly of essences, and the smaller articles of female economy, were playfully displayed on the table by Katherine, who declared herself the patroness of the itinerant youth, and who laughingly appealed to the liberality of the gentlemen in behalf of her protégé.

“You perceive, my dear guardian, that the boy must be loyal; for he offers, here, perfume, that is patronized by no less than two royal dukes: do suffer me to place a box aside, for your especial use: you consent; I see it in your eye. And, Captain Borroughcliffe, as you appear to be forgetting the use of your own language, here is even a hornbook for you! How admirably provided he seems to be. You must have had St. Ruth in view, when you laid in your stock, child?”

“Yes, my lady,” the boy replied, with a bow that was studiously awkward; “I have often heard of the grand ladies that dwell in the old abbey, and I have journeyed a few miles beyond my rounds, to gain their custom.”

“And surely they cannot disappoint you. Miss Howard, that is a palpable hint to your purse; and I know not that even Miss Alice can escape contribution, in these troublesome times. Come, aid me, child; what have you to recommend, in particular, to the favor of these ladies?”

The lad approached the basket, and rummaged its contents, for a moment, with the appearance of deep mercenary interest; and then, without lifting his hand from the confusion he had caused, he said, while he exhibited something within the basket to the view of his smiling observer:

“This, my lady.”

Katherine started, and glanced her eyes, with a piercing look, at the countenance of the boy, and then turned them uneasily from face to face, with conscious timidity. Cecilia had effected her object, and had resumed her seat in silent abstraction—Alice was listening to the remarks of Captain Manual and the host, as they discussed the propriety of certain military usages—Griffith seemed to hold communion with his mistress, by imitating her silence; but Katherine, in her stolen glances, met the keen look of Borroughcliffe, fastened on her face, in a manner that did not fail instantly to suspend the scrutiny.

“Come, Cecilia,” she cried, after a pause of a moment, “we trespass too long on the patience of the gentlemen; not only to keep possession of our seats, ten minutes after the cloth has been drawn! but even to introduce our essences, and tapes, and needles, among the Madeira, and—shall I add, cigars, colonel?”

“Not while we are favored with the company of Miss Plowden, certainly.”

“Come, my coz; I perceive the colonel is growing particularly polite, which is a never-failing sign that he tires of our presence.”

Cecilia rose, and was leading the way to the door, when Katherine turned to the lad, and added:

“You can follow us to the drawing-room, child, where we can make our purchases, without exposing the mystery of our toilets.”

“Miss Plowden has forgotten my hornbook, I believe,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing from the standing group who surrounded the table; “possibly I can find some work in the basket of the boy, better fitted for the improvement of a grown-up young gentleman than this elementary treatise.”

Cecilia, observing him to take the basket from the lad, resumed her seat, and her example was necessarily followed by Katherine; though not without some manifest indications of vexation.

“Come hither, boy, and explain the uses of your wares. This is soap, and this a penknife, I know; but what name do you affix to this?”

“That? that is tape,” returned the lad, with an impatience that might very naturally be attributed to the interruption that was thus given to his trade.

“And this?”

“That?” repeated the stripling, pausing, with a hesitation between sulkiness and doubt; “that?—”

“Come, this is a little ungallant!” cried Katherine; “to keep three ladies dying with impatience to possess themselves of their finery, while you detain the boy, to ask the name of a tambouring-needle!”

“I should apologize for asking questions that are so easily answered; but perhaps he will find the next more difficult to solve,” returned Borroughcliffe, placing the subject of his inquiries in the palm of his hand, in such a manner as to conceal it from all but the boy and himself, “This has a name too; what is it?”

“That?—that—is sometimes called—white-line.”

“Perhaps you mean a white lie?”

“How, sir!” exclaimed the lad, a little fiercely, “a lie!”

“Only a white one,” returned the captain. “What do you call this. Miss Dunscombe?”

“We call it bobbin, sir, generally, in the north,” said the placid Alice.

“Ay, bobbin, or white-line; they are the same thing,” added the young trader.

“They are? I think, now, for a professional man, you know but little of the terms of your art,” observed Borroughcliffe, with an affectation of irony; “I never have seen a youth of your years who knew less. What names, now, would you affix to this, and this, and this?”

While the captain was speaking he drew from his pockets the several instruments that the cockswain had made use of the preceding night to secure his prisoner.

“That,” exclaimed the lad, with the eagerness of one who would vindicate his reputation, “is rattlin-stuff; and this is marline; and that is sennit.”

“Enough, enough,” said Borroughcliffe; “you have exhibited sufficient knowledge to convince me that you do know something of your trade, and nothing of these articles. Mr. Griffith, do you claim this boy?”

“I believe I must, sir,” said the young sea-officer, who had been intently listening to the examination. “On whatever errand you have now ventured here, Mr. Merry, it is useless to affect further concealment.”

“Merry!” exclaimed Cecilia Howard; “is it you, then, my cousin? Are you, too, fallen into the power of your enemies! was it not enough that—”

The young lady recovered her recollection in time to suppress the remainder of the sentence, though the grateful expression of Griffith's eye sufficiently indicated that he had, in his thoughts, filled the sentence with expressions abundantly flattering to his own feelings.

“How's this, again!” cried the colonel; “my two wards embracing and fondling a vagrant, vagabond peddler, before my eyes! Is this treason, Mr. Griffith? Or what means the extraordinary visit of this young gentleman?”

“Is it extraordinary, sir,” said Merry himself, losing his assumed awkwardness in the ease and confidence of one whose faculties had been early exercised, “that a boy like myself, destitute of mother and sisters, should take a like risk on himself, to visit the only two female relatives he has in the world?”

“Why this disguise, then? surely, young gentleman, it was unnecessary to enter the dwelling of old George Howard on such an errand clandestinely, even though your tender years have been practised on, to lead you astray from your allegiance. Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual must pardon me, if I express sentiments, at my own table, that they may find unpleasant; but this business requires us to be explicit.”

“The hospitality of Colonel Howard is unquestionable,” returned the boy; “but he has a great reputation for his loyalty to the crown.”

“Ay, young gentleman; and, I trust, with some justice.”

“Would it, then, be safe, to entrust my person in the hands of one who might think it his duty to detain me?”

“This is plausible enough, Captain Borroughcliffe, and I doubt not the boy speaks with candor. I would, now, that my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon, were here, that I might learn if it would be misprision of treason to permit this youth to depart, unmolested, and without exchange?”

“Inquire of the young gentleman, after the Cacique,” returned the recruiting officer, who, apparently satisfied in producing the exposure of Merry, had resumed his seat at the table; “perhaps he is, in verity, an ambassador, empowered to treat on behalf of his highness.”

“How say you?” demanded the colonel; “do you know anything of my kinsman?”

The anxious eyes of the whole party were fastened on the boy for many moments, witnessing the sudden change from careless freedom to deep horror expressed in his countenance. At length he uttered in an undertone the secret of Dillon's fate.

“He is dead.”

“Dead!” repeated every voice in the room.

“Yes, dead!” said the boy, gazing at the pallid faces of those who surrounded him.

A long and fearful silence succeeded the announcement of this intelligence, which was only interrupted by Griffith, who said:

“Explain the manner of his death, sir, and where his body lies.”

“His body lies interred in the sands,” returned Merry, with a deliberation that proceeded from an opening perception that, if he uttered too much, he might betray the loss of the Ariel, and, consequently, endanger the liberty of Barnstable.

“In the sands?” was echoed from every part of the room.

“Ay, in the sands; but how he died, I cannot explain.”

“He has been murdered!” exclaimed Colonel Howard, whose command of utterance was now amply restored to him; “he has been treacherously, and dastardly, and basely murdered!”

“He has not been murdered,” said the boy, firmly; “nor did he meet his death among those who deserve the name either of traitors or of dastards.”

“Said you not that he was dead? that my kinsman was buried in the sands of the seashore?”

“Both are true, sir—”

“And you refuse to explain how he met his death, and why he has been thus ignominiously interred?”

“He received his interment by my orders, sir; and if there be ignominy about his grave, his own acts have heaped it on him. As to the manner of his death, I cannot, and will not speak.”

“Be calm, my cousin,” said Cecilia, in an imploring voice; “respect the age of my uncle, and remember his strong attachment to Mr. Dillon.”

The veteran had, however, so far mastered his feelings, as to continue the dialogue with more recollection.

“Mr. Griffith,” he said, “I shall not act hastily—you and your companions will be pleased to retire to your several apartments. I will so far respect the son of my brother Harry's friend as to believe your parole will be sacred. Go, gentlemen; you are unguarded.”

The two prisoners bowed low to the ladies and their host, and retired. Griffith, however, lingered a moment on the threshold, to say:

“Colonel Howard, I leave the boy to your kindness and consideration. I know you will not forget that his blood mingles with that of one who is most dear to you.”

“Enough, enough, sir,” said the veteran, waving his hand to him to retire: “and you, ladies; this is not a place for you, either.”

“Never will I quit this child,” said Katherine, “while such a horrid imputation lies on him. Colonel Howard, act your pleasure on us both, for I suppose you have the power; but his fate shall be my fate.”

“There is, I trust, some misconception in this melancholy affair,” said Borroughcliffe, advancing into the centre of the agitated group; “and I should hope, by calmness and moderation, all may yet be explained; young gentleman, you have borne arms, and must know, notwithstanding your youth, what it is to be in the power of your enemies?”

“Never,” returned the proud boy; “I am a captive for the first time.”

“I speak, sir, in reference to our power.”

“You may order me to a dungeon; or, as I have entered the abbey in disguise, possibly to a gibbet.”

“And is that a fate to be met so calmly by one so young?”

“You dare not do it, Captain Borroughcliffe,” cried Katherine, involuntarily throwing an arm around the boy, as if to shield him from harm; “you would blush to think of such a cold-blooded act of vengeance, Colonel Howard.”

“If we could examine the young man, where the warmth of feeling which these ladies exhibit might not be excited,” said the captain, apart to his host, “we should gain important intelligence.”

“Miss Howard, and you, Miss Plowden,” said the veteran, in a manner that long habit had taught his wards to respect, “your young kinsman is not in the keeping of savages, and you can safely confide him to my custody. I am sorry that we have so long kept Miss Alice standing, but she will find relief on the couches of your drawing-room, Cecilia.”

Cecilia and Katherine permitted themselves to be conducted to the door by their polite but determined guardian, where he bowed to their retiring persons, with the exceeding courtesy that he never failed to use, when in the least excited.

“You appear to know your danger, Mr. Merry,” said Borroughcliffe, after the door was closed; “I trust you also know what duty would dictate to one in my situation.”

“Do it, sir,” returned the boy; “you have a king to render an account to, and I have a country.”

“I may have a country also,” said Borroughcliffe, with a calmness that was not in the least disturbed by the taunting air with which the youth delivered himself. “It is possible for me, however, to be lenient, even merciful, when the interests of that prince, to whom you allude, are served—you came not on this enterprise alone, sir?”

“Had I come better attended, Captain Borroughcliffe might have heard these questions, instead of putting them.”

“I am happy, sir, that your retinue has been so small: and yet even the rebel schooner called the Ariel might have furnished you with a more becoming attendance. I cannot but think that you are not far distant from your friends.”

“He is near his enemies, your honor,” said Sergeant Drill, who had entered the room unobserved; “for here is a boy who says he has been seized in the old ruin, and robbed of his goods and clothes; and, by his description, this lad should be the thief.”

Borroughcliffe signed to the boy, who stood in the background, to advance; and he was instantly obeyed, with all that eagerness which a sense of injury on the part of the sufferer could excite. The tale of this unexpected intruder was soon told, and was briefly this:

He had been assaulted by a man and a boy (the latter was in presence), while arranging his effects, in the ruin, preparatory to exhibiting them to the ladies of the abbey, and had been robbed of such part of his attire as the boy had found necessary for his disguise, together with his basket of valuables. He had been put into an apartment of an old tower, by the man, for safe keeping; but as the latter frequently ascended to its turret, to survey the country, he had availed himself of this remissness, to escape; and, to conclude, he demanded a restoration of his property, and vengeance for his wrongs.

Merry heard his loud and angry details with scornful composure, and before the offended peddler was through his narrative, he had divested himself of the borrowed garments, which he threw to the other with singular disdain.

“We are beleaguered, mine host! beset! besieged!” cried Borroughcliffe, when the other had ended. “Here is a rare plan to rob us of our laurels! ay, and of our rewards! but, hark ye, Drill! they have old soldiers to deal with, and we shall look into the matter. One would wish to triumph on foot; you understand me?—there was no horse in the battle. Go, fellow, I see you grow wiser; take this young gentleman—and remember he is a young gentleman—put him in safe keeping, but see him supplied with all he wants.”

Borroughcliffe bowed politely to the haughty bend of the body with which Merry, who now began to think himself a martyr to his country, followed the orderly from the room.

“There is mettle in the lad!” exclaimed the captain; “and if he live to get a beard, 'twill be a hardy dog who ventures to pluck it. I am glad, mine host, that this 'wandering Jew' has arrived, to save the poor fellow's feelings, for I detest tampering with such a noble spirit. I saw, by his eye, that he had squinted oftener over a gun than through a needle!”

“But they have murdered my kinsman!—the loyal, the learned, the ingenious Mr. Christopher Dillon!”

“If they have done so, they shall be made to answer it,” said Borroughcliffe, reseating himself at the table, with a coolness that furnished an ample pledge of the impartiality of his judgment; “but let us learn the facts, before we do aught hastily.”

Colonel Howard was fain to comply with so reasonable a proposition, and he resumed his chair, while his companion proceeded to institute a close examination of the peddler boy.

We shall defer, until the proper time may arrive, recording the result of his inquiries; but shall so satisfy the curiosity of our readers, as to tell them that the captain learned sufficient to convince him a very serious attempt was meditated on the abbey; and, as he thought, enough also to enable him to avert the danger.