CHAPTER IV.

The tenth evening after this exploit closed in heavily, and the wind blew chill and gusty, loaded with drizzling rain. Oakley felt little inconvenience from the night as, wrapped in a large cloak, and with an unusually broad-brimmed hat, he cautiously approached the low-roofed dwelling of Holgrave, in the forest of Dean. He had little difficulty in distinguishing it, Harvey having a few days previously, though without the least intimation of the reason, watched Holgrave from the foundry to his home. The blaze of a bright wood fire was streaming through the casement. Black Jack stept near enough to obtain a view of the interior, in order to assure himself that he was not mistaken, although, from the description he had received, he had little doubt; and a single glance convinced him it was the dwelling he sought. Holgrave was lying along a bench in the opposite chimney corner, his right elbow resting on the form, and his right cheek reposing on the upraised palm. He was looking with a smile at Margaret, who was sitting with her back to the window, and, by the motion of her right hand, was apparently engaged in sewing. The gazer conjectured that Holgrave had been asking her to sing, for, as he stood, she commenced a strain of such sweet and touching melody, that even Oakley (who, spite of his being so admirably "fit for treason," had "music in his soul,") listened with such breathless attention that one would have been tempted to conclude he might "be trusted." The ballad concluded, and Oakley still looked on, until Holgrave, after a few moments of apparently cheerful conversation, arose from the bench, in all probability with the intention of preparing for rest.

Oakley stepped back from the window, and stood an instant apparently irresolute. "Plague on this Holgrave!" he muttered—"I wish I had sent Harvey; he could have managed it as well as I; but one don't like giving these fellows half the profit, besides making them as wise as one's self;—but what is the knave to me?" And then, as if his slight scruples were dissipated by the consideration of the little sympathy that ought to exist between one circumstanced like Holgrave and himself, he drew his hat more over his brow, and folding his cloak closer around him, approached, although, it must be admitted, with rather an indecisive step, the door of the cottage, and gave a slight tap. "I will go to the door, Stephen," he heard Margaret say, with a quickness which seemed to imply that the simple circumstance of a summons to the door at a somewhat late hour was sufficient to awaken her fears.

No reply was given, but the door was instantly unclosed by Holgrave. Black Jack stood in the shade, just beyond the light that streamed from within, but so close that Holgrave, without crossing the threshold, merely leant his head forward, and heard him say, "Stephen Holgrave, do you remember the cross-roads and Hailes church-yard?"

Holgrave started. "Hailes church-yard!" he repeated, bending nearer to the speaker.

"Aye; and do you remember what you promised the men in the vizors, when the craven fled, leaving his ear where perhaps his carcase may not find a resting place, and when the abbey folk were rushing on with torch and cudgel?"

"Yes," replied Holgrave, in a voice which told that the abrupt questions had called up all the painful events of that night—"yes, I remember well, I said that if any of those who helped me then ever wanted a friend, they were not to forget Stephen Holgrave."

"You did; and do you not recognize me, as he who gave the alarm when the fellows had peeped above the wall at the cross-roads, and whose hat was pierced by an arrow as he stood beneath the tree that overshadowed the grave at Hailes?"

"Yes, yes," said Holgrave, grasping his hand, "I remember all"—convinced, not by the voice, for on both occasions the voice had been disguised, but by the presumptive proofs.

"Stephen Holgrave," continued the foreman, still speaking in a low tone, but slowly and distinctly, "you can now return the service of that night. I want your aid immediately;—it is not in a matter that will hazard your life. I have given a promise, and you are the only man that can aid me to keep it. Will you assist me?"

"I will," replied Holgrave, firmly—"Do you want me now?"

"Yes, instantly. You shall know the business in less than half an hour."

"Stop one moment," returned Holgrave, and stepping into the cottage, he took a warm frieze cloak from a peg in the wall, and throwing it over his shoulders, was reaching for a kind of short-handled spear that lay on a shelf above the fire-place, when Margaret, clasping his left hand, looked up in his face, and asked with a pale and trembling lip, "Stephen, where are you going? Who is that man?"

"Do not be alarmed, Margaret. I must go with the man who spoke to me, but I shall not be long."

"Go with him! Who is he? His purpose cannot be an honest one, or he would not conceal himself. Who is he, Stephen?" she repeated in a loud voice, and clinging more closely to the hand he was striving to disengage.

"He is an honest man, Margaret," replied Holgrave, snatching away his hand, vexed that one who had befriended him should hear his wife's suspicions. But, as he fastened his cloak, he added, in a more soothing tone, "Do not fear. It is one of those who helped to give my poor mother a christian's grave, and he wants me to do some little turn for him now."

"Are you sure, Stephen?—are you quite sure it is the same man?" "Yes, yes, Margaret, quite sure," replied Holgrave in a tone that told her all further remonstrance would be useless. "Did I not return safe from Gloucester?" asked he, lingering an instant, as he saw her heart was sinking with dread.

"But you did not go there in the dark night, and with only one man; and even then, where would you have been now only for our good friends in the forest. Oh Stephen!" she continued, starting up and throwing her arms round his neck, as she imagined she saw something of irresolution in his countenance,—"do not go this night."

"I must go," he said, as he disengaged himself, and, without venturing another look or word, rushed from the cottage, and joined Black Jack.

They walked on rapidly through the forest, but neither spoke. Black Jack, hardened as he was, was not altogether at ease in thus betraying a confiding man; and this feeling was not lessened by the suspicions Margaret had expressed, and he endeavoured to deceive even himself into a belief that he should have been better pleased if the yeoman had taken the wife's advice. However, he resolved, as he hurried on, that he would be well paid for so troublesome an affair. Holgrave was not more composed. In despite of what he considered his better judgment, he could not help being, in some measure, imbued with the fears of his wife; and, as he followed his silent conductor, a thousand indistinct apprehensions floated in his mind.

Their route was a lonely one. Scarcely a light was visible in the numerous dwellings they passed, and they reached the verge of the forest without encountering a single human being. They now walked along the high road, which, with a tract of uninclosed pasture-land stretching to the right, and a scanty neglected hedge skirting the left, had a wild and dreary aspect, which however might, perhaps, with more justice be attributed to the darkness and gloom of the night, than to any thing particularly cheerless in the road itself. They had proceeded about a dozen paces beyond a narrow lane, turning to the left, when Oakley, without assigning a reason, stepped back; and, as Holgrave turned to enquire the cause, he saw some men close behind him; and ere, in the surprise of the moment, he could raise his weapon to defend himself in case of need, a blow from a club felled him to the ground. The blow did not deprive him of consciousness, and now, convinced of treachery, he sprang on his feet determined not to yield with life. But it was not possible for one arm, even though that arm was nerved by an indomitable soul, to hold out long in so unequal a strife. It was in vain that he strove to attack or grapple with one—a host appeared to encompass him. Incessant blows from staves and clubs, although more annoying than really dangerous, wearied him out, and one, descending on his already swollen right hand, finally decided the contest. The arm dropped, and the weapon, that had as yet, in some measure, protected him, was easily wrested from his relaxed grasp; and the impotent fury of an almost frantic resistance availed but for a short space. He was gagged, bound hand and foot, and thrown into a cart that drew up for the purpose from the adjacent lane.

Black Jack and his retainers accompanied the vehicle on foot, none choosing to trust himself with one, who, though now to all appearance firmly secured, had shown such an untractable spirit, and in this manner proceeded, without interruption, to Sudley.

On the second morning after Holgrave's capture, the baroness, upon Calverley's entering the room in which she sat, inquired if he had seen the wife of Holgrave? "I hear," continued she, without noticing the surprise which the question created, "that she is in the court-yard, and has had the insolence to ask one of the varlets if she might speak with me! Go, Calverley, and desire her to leave the castle instantly."

Calverley withdrew and repeated the order to a domestic.

"No," said Margaret, as the command was delivered, "I shall not leave this court-yard, except by force, till I have seen my husband. Surely the favour that is granted to the wife of a common drawlatch, will not be denied to me!"

The steward, although vexed at what he considered her obstinacy, yet delayed to enforce her removal until he had tried what his personal remonstrance might effect;—but no man approaches a woman, whom he has once, to the fullest extent of the word, loved, with that calm and business-like feeling with which he can discourse with another. The colour deepened, too, on Margaret's cheek, as she saw him advance, and when, in an authoritative, though somewhat embarrassed tone, he asked why she had not obeyed the order that had been given, she raised her eyes, flashing with a spirit that perhaps had never before animated them, and replied—

"Thomas Calverley, I told him who delivered the message, that I would not quit the castle till I had seen Stephen; and I tell you now, that I shall not go till I know what you have done with him."

"Nothing has been done to him but what he merited," answered Calverley, haughtily, surprised at her firmness, and by a singular feeling annoyed that solicitude for her husband should have called forth such an unusual demonstration.

Margaret felt the falsehood of his reply, but she had not the spirit or language of Edith to reprove it.

"Then you must choose to submit voluntarily to my lady's wishes," he added.

"I do not," returned Margaret; "I shall sit here till the Lady de Boteler thinks better of what she has said, and suffers me to see my husband." Calverley turned away with a frown, but, ere he had retired a dozen steps, he turned again. "Margaret," said he, as he approached, "you are only harming yourself by this obstinacy. The baroness will not grant you permission to visit the dungeon, and, if you persist, there are servitors enough about to compel obedience. But if you go now, I promise to obtain what you ask. Rather than the kernes should lay a rude hand upon you—I would—gratify even him. Come at six," he added, as he turned abruptly away, forgetful, at this moment, of all the evil of which he had been the author, and only remembering, with hate and bitterness, that Holgrave possessed the love which had been denied to him.

He had spoken with an earnestness that induced Margaret to believe him sincere. At all events there seemed no better alternative than to trust him; so she rose and retired from the court-yard. Punctually at six she appeared again at the castle, and the confidence with which she crossed over to the keep, shewed the reliance she had placed on Calverley's word. The keeper had received the order to admit her, and she ascended the spiral steps and entered the prison that had been previously occupied by Edith. As Holgrave raised his head when the door opened, Margaret saw that his face was swollen and livid, and, when he kissed her cheek as she threw herself upon his neck, his lips were parched and burning.

"Do not look on me so wildly, Margaret," said he; "these bruises are nothing. Aye, even that," as she was examining, with the apprehensions of a tender wife, the black and almost shapeless appearance of his right hand and arm; "even that would be as well as ever in less than a month—but it is their triumph and their treachery I feel: it is this that gnaws my very soul—and all because I thought myself too wise to take a woman's counsel,—and in the very prison, too, where they thrust my poor mother! I have not tasted meat or drink since I entered. There stand the water and the bread—though the burning in my throat almost drives me mad: not a drop will I taste, though the leech told me to drink as much as I could—nor a morsel will I eat."

"No, not of theirs," eagerly interrupted Margaret, drawing a bottle from beneath her cloak, and pouring into a wooden cup, which she took from her pocket, some diluted wine; "but drink this, Stephen: do drink it—it will cool your mouth."

"No, Margaret, I have sworn!" and no persuasion could induce him to alter his purpose.

"Steward," said the Lady Isabella on the following morning, "Holgrave rejects his food—I fear I must release him!"

"Pardon me, lady, it is only a stratagem to get free."

"Do you think so, Calverley?—but the varlet has the obstinate spirit of his mother—and you know I do not desire his death!"

"Holgrave," resumed the steward, with an incredulous smile, "has no intention of shortening his life:" and then he strove, with all his eloquence, to persuade her it was a mere feint.

"However," returned Isabella, "I will send the leech to him."

The leech was sent, and reported that the prisoner was in a state of extreme exhaustion, arising, it would seem, from inanition, as there was no evidence of bodily illness sufficient to have reduced him to so low a state.

Calverley's specious arguments availed no longer, and, muttering curses upon the jailor, whose officiousness had prevented the possibility of that consummation he so devoutly wished, he received the command to set Holgrave at liberty.

That evening Calverley summoned every bondman of the barony to assemble in the hall. Innumerable were the conjectures respecting this summons as the villeins hastened to obey the call, and, when all were collected, a strong sensation of sympathy was excited when they beheld Stephen Holgrave led into the midst; his countenance still discoloured, and so pale and attenuated, that it was difficult to recognize the hale, robust yeoman of former days, in the subdued and exhausted bondman who now took his stand among his fellows.

When all were assembled, Calverley stated that Stephen Holgrave, having refused to swear that he would not again take advantage of his liberty to flee from bondage, the baroness not wishing, from a feeling of clemency, to punish his obstinacy farther, had desired him to declare that she should hold each bondman responsible for the appearance of Holgrave, and should consider their moveables and crops forfeited in the event of his absconding.

A murmur ran through the hall as the steward spoke; and Holgrave, exerting a momentary energy, stept forward, and, looking scornfully at his enemy—

"Lead me back to prison!" said he; "no man shall be answerable for me."

But Calverley, without appearing to heed his address, resumed—

"You are all now publicly warned; and it will behove you, at your peril, to look to that bondman!" and then, without deigning farther parley, he left the hall.

There was much discontent among the bondmen as they withdrew from the castle, conversing on the arbitrary decision just pronounced, and on the probability that, before the expiration of three months, that decision would be enforced in consequence of Holgrave's flight; for they could not conceive the idea of the self-sacrifice of a generous spirit, which would rather endure, than that the oppressed should suffer further oppression. Certainly, according to the letter of the law of villeinage, the bondmen of Sudley had no just cause for discontent; but then, because it was unusual, at least on that manor, to exercise the prerogative to its fullest extent, they almost forgot that this threatened appropriation of their effects was nothing more than the assertion of a right. But there was one novel feature in the announcement of which they had some colour for complaining;—their being considered responsible for one of their own class. However, as in all similar cases where power gives the law to weakness, though there might be a little useless murmuring, there was no alternative but to submit.

Holgrave, as his offer to continue a prisoner was not accepted, left Sudley among the bondmen, and walked slowly towards his old abode. Margaret had returned, and been suffered to take possession of the dwelling that had remained unoccupied during their absence—which had stood just as she left it on the night of her departure; and Holgrave, with all the bitterness and gloom of the past, and with considerably more of physical weakness than he had ever experienced, threw himself again in his mother's chair in the chimney-corner, and silently partook of the refreshment that the rejoicing Margaret set before him.