Part 15 (1/2)

Mrs. Dorothy, with a due regard for her dainty lace kerchief and ruffles, and her cherry silk petticoat, had avoided these loathly places, the abode of darkness, haunted by the fear of rats.

Fareham tramped the house from cellar to garret, Denzil alone accompanying him.

”We want no posse comitatus,” he had said, somewhat discourteously. ”You, Squire, had best go and mend your cracked head in the eating-parlour with a brimmer or two of clary wine; and you, Mrs. Dorothy, can go and keep her ladys.h.i.+p company. But not a word of our fright. Swoons and screaming would only hinder us.”

He took Mrs. Lettsome's arm, and led her to the staircase, pus.h.i.+ng the Squire after her, and then turned his anxious countenance to Denzil.

”If they are not to be found in the house, they must be found outside the house. Oh, the folly, the madness of it! A December night-snow on the ground-a rising wind-another fall of snow, perhaps-and those two afoot and alone!”

”I do not believe they are out-of-doors,” Denzil answered. ”Your daughter promised that they would not leave the house.”

”My daughter tells the truth. It is her chief virtue.”

”And yet we have hunted in every hole and corner,” said Denzil, dejectedly.

”Hole!” cried Fareham, almost in a shout. ”Thou hast hit it, man! That one word is a flash of lightning. The Priest's Hole! Come this way. Bring your candle!” s.n.a.t.c.hing up that which he had himself set down on a table, when he stood still to deliberate. ”The Priest's Hole? The child knew the secret of it-fool that I was ever to show her. G.o.d! what a place to hide in on a winter night!”

He was halfway up the staircase to the second story before he had uttered the last of these exclamations, Denzil following him.

Suddenly, through the stillness of the house, there sounded a faint far-off cry, the shrill thin sound of a child's voice. Fareham and Warner would hardly have heard it had they not been sportsmen, with ears trained to listen for distant sounds. No view-hallo sounding across miles of wood and valley was ever fainter or more ethereal.

”You hear them?” cried Fareham. ”Quick, quick!”

He led the way along a narrow gallery, about eight feet high, where people had danced in Elizabeth's time, when the house was newly converted to secular uses; and then into a room in which there were several iron chests, the muniment room, where a sliding panel, of which the master of the house knew the trick, revealed an opening in the wall. Fareham squeezed himself through the gap, still carrying the tall iron candlestick, with flaring candle, and vanished. Denzil followed, and found himself descending a narrow stone staircase, very steep, built into an angle of the great chimney, while as if from the bowels of the earth there came, louder at every step, that shrill cry of distress, in a voice he could not doubt was Henriette's.

”The other is mute,” groaned Fareham; ”scared to death, perhaps, like a frightened bird.” And then he called, ”I am coming. You are safe, love; safe, safe!” And then he groaned aloud, ”Oh, the madness, the folly of it!”

Halfway down the staircase there was a sudden gap of six feet, down which Fareham dropped with his hands on the lowest stair, Denzil following; a break in the continuity of the descent planned for the discomfiture of strangers and the protection of the family hiding-place.

Fareham and Denzil were on a narrow stone landing at the bottom of the house; and the child's wail of anguish changed to a joyous shriek, ”Father, father!” close in their ears. Fareham set his shoulder against the heavy oak door, and it burst inwards. There had been no question of secret spring or complicated machinery; but the great, clumsy door dragged upon its rusty hinges, and the united strength of the two girls had not served to pull it open, though Papillon, in her eagerness for concealment in the first fever of hiding, had been strong enough to push the door till she had jammed it, and thus made all after efforts vain.

”Father!” she cried, leaping into his arms, as he came into the room, large enough to hold six-men standing upright; but a hideous den in which to perish alone in the dark. ”Oh, father! I thought no one would ever find us. I was afraid we should have died like the Italian lady-and people would have found our skeletons and wondered about us. I never was afraid before. Not when the great horse reared as high as a house-and her ladys.h.i.+p screamed. I only laughed then-but to-night I have been afraid.”

Fareham put her aside without looking at her.

”Angela! Great G.o.d! She is dead!”

No, she was not dead, only in a half swoon, leaning against the angle of the wall, ghastly white in the flare of the candles. She was not quite unconscious. She knew whose strong arms were holding her, whose lips were so near her own, whose head bent suddenly upon her breast, leaning against the lace kerchief, to listen for the beating of her heart.

She made a great effort to relieve his fear, understanding dimly that he thought her dead; but could only murmur broken syllables, till he carried her up three or four stairs, to a secret door that opened into the garden. There in the wintry air, under the steely light of wintry stars, her senses came back to her. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

”I am sorry I have not Papillon's courage,” she said.

”Tu m'as donne une affreuse peur-je te croyais morte,” muttered Fareham, letting his arms drop like lead as she released herself from their support.

Denzil and Henriette were close to them. They had come to the open door for fresh air, after the charnel-like chill and closeness of the small underground chamber.

”Father is angry with me,” said the girl; ”he won't speak to me.”

”Angry! no, no;” and he bent to kiss her. ”But oh, child, the folly of it!