Cruel as the grave
"No, that I hadn't! And a good thing I hadn't too! for if I'd a known
that lady had a been kept a prisoner here in my house, I'd a pitched her
jailers neck and heels out o' the windows, and then set the dogs on
'em!"
"But that would have been very unjust to them, and injurious to the lady
you wish to befriend. And especially it would have been the very
greatest injustice to the younger officer, who has been our partisan
from the first."
"Eh! what? One of them jailers your partisan?"
"Yes; let me explain," said Mr. Berners. And he commenced and detailed
all the circumstances of their acquaintance and relations with Robert
Munson.
"And so, out of gratitude for the kindness this lady showed him in his
childhood, he got himself put on this service o' purpose to watch his
opportunity of reskying her."
"Just so."
"Well, he's an honest fellow, that he is!" said the farmer, approvingly.
"Now, Mr. Nye, all you have to do, if you wish to help us, is just to
let us go free. When we are gone, keep the house quiet, and let the
elder officer sleep as long as possible, for the longer he sleeps the
farther we shall get away from pursuit."
"I'll lock him up and keep him prisoner for a month, if necessary."
"But it is not necessary. A day's start is all that we shall need, and
that, I think, you can secure to us, by simply letting the man sleep as
long as he will. And furthermore, I may ask you to be cautious and not
to betray our friend Robert Munson's agency in our escape."
"I'll protect Robert Munson with my life."
"A thousand thanks! And now, as we understand each other, let us go on
to my wife, who is anxiously waiting the issue of this interview," said
Lyon Berners, turning and leading the way towards the stables.
"Now, squire, you may rely upon me, and rest easy in your mind. You
sha'n't be followed in less than twenty-four hours," said the farmer, as
they went along.
"Again I thank you from my heart. And now I have something else to say
to you," began Lyon Berners
Then he paused, as finding a real difficulty in saying what he wished;
for the truth is, that when Mr. Berners had called Mr. Nye aside for a
private interview, he had intended to offer him a heavy bribe to connive
at the escape of Sybil.
Now, however, he found the farmer not exactly the sort of man to affront
with the proffer of a bribe, or even scarcely of a reward; and yet he
was a poor man who evidently needed money, and would probably always
need it; for Farmer Nye, as has been shown in his championship of Sybil,
was a man of impetuous emotions, hasty judgments, and reckless actions,
and was always sure to be in troubles, social, domestic, and pecuniary.
So Mr. Berners, while wishing to reward his services, felt a difficulty
as to the manner of doing so.
At length, however, he continued:
"Mr. Nye, I said at the beginning of our talk, that I could tell you
something to your advantage."
"Well, and, bless my soul alive, haven't you done it? I wonder if I
could hear of anything more to my advantage than the chance of helping
to resky that lady as I have felt for so much?" warmly inquired the
farmer.
"You have a generous and noble nature to look upon it in that light."
"No, I haven't; but I'm a man, I reckon, and not a beast nor a devil,
and that's all about it."
"Well, farmer, I confess that when I first spoke to you, I thought of
offering you a heavy bribe to allow us to go free, and that was what I
meant when I said I had something to propose to your advantage."
"Then I'm glad you didn't do it--that's all."
"I am glad too, for now I know your magnanimous heart would have led you
to serve us without reward, and even at great loss."
"Yes, that it would," naively assented the farmer.
"And even so we accept and shall ever be grateful for your services,"
added Lyon Berners, gravely. And all the while he was slily examining
the contents of his pocketbook. At length he drew a five hundred dollar
note from the compartment in which he knew he kept notes of that
denomination, and he slipped it into a blank envelope, and held it ready
in his hand.
In another moment they were at the stable door, before which Sybil
stood, leaning on the bowed neck of her own horse, while Robert Munson
held the other horse.
Before Lyon Berners could speak, Farmer Nye impetuously pushed past him,
and rushed up to Sybil, pulled off his hat and put out his hand,
exclaiming:
"Give me your hand, lady. I beg your pardon ten thousand times over for
all I said and did to affront you, not knowing who you was. But now,
lady, here is a man who don't _believe_ you to be innocent, because he
_knows_ that you are so, and who will fight for you as long as he has
got a whole bone left in his body, and shed his blood for you as long as
he has got a drop left in his veins."
Overcome by this ardent testimonial to her innocence, Sybil burst into
tears, and took the rough hand that had been held out to her, and wept
over it, and pressed it warmly to her lips, and then to her heart.
"Yes, that I will. I'll die before a hair of your head shall be hurt,"
exclaimed the farmer, utterly overwhelmed and blubbering.
Meanwhile Lyon Berners was explaining to Robert Munson that they had
found a friend and helper in Farmer Nye; but advising Munson to try to
infuse enough of discretion into the impetuous mind of Nye to modify his
reckless actions.
"And now, dear boy," added Mr. Berners, "I will not speak to you of
reward for this great service; but this I _will_ say, that henceforth
you shall be to me as a younger brother, and I shall take charge of your
future fortunes even as though you were the son of my mother."
"You are too generous, sir; and indeed I want no recompense whatever,"
answered Robert Munson, sincerely.
Then Mr. Berners went over to his wife and lifted her into her saddle;
and when he had settled her comfortably in her seat, he mounted his own
horse, and once more called Robert Munson to him.
"Good-bye, and God bless you, Robert," he said, warmly shaking hands
with the young man.
"And you too, sir! and you too, sir!" feelingly responded Munson.
And then Sybil called him.
"Good-bye, dear Bob. I will remember you and love you as long as I live
for this," she said.
"And so will I you, ma'am," he answered, and turned away to hide his
tears.
Lastly Lyon Berners rode up to where Farmer Nye stood apart.
"Farewell, Farmer Nye! And may you indeed fare as well as your great
heart deserves all your life," said Lyon.
"The same to you and your dear wife, sir, with all my soul in the
prayer!" responded the farmer.
"And here, Mr. Nye, is a testimonial--I mean a memorandum--that is to
say, something I wish you to take for my sake."
"A keepsake, sir?"
"If you choose to consider it so, yes."
"What might it be sir?" inquired the farmer, receiving from Mr. Berners
the small envelope containing the large note.
"It _might_ be a lock of my wife's hair, or it might be my miniature;
but whatever it is, hold it tight, and do not look at it until you get
back to the house."
"All right, sir; but you have raised my curiosity," replied the farmer,
as he carefully deposited his unsuspected little fortune into the pocket
of his waistcoat.
"Now direct me as to how I shall find the best and most private road
westward," said Lyon, gathering the reins in his hands.
"You are facing east now. Ride straight on for about a hundred yards,
till you come to the cross-roads, then take the road to your left, and
follow it for about an eighth of a mile until you come to another road
still on your left; take that and follow it as far as you please, for it
leads straight west."
"Thank you again and again! We shall do very well now. Good-bye, all;
and God bless you forever!" exclaimed Lyon Berners, waiving his hat in
adieus to the friends he was leaving behind.
Then, the husband and wife rode forth in the night together.
Before we follow them, we will see how it fared with the faithful
friends who had risked so much in their service.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE PURSUIT.
Horse! horse! * * * * and chase!--MARNION.
Farmer Nye and Robert Munson remained standing with their heads
uncovered, looking after the fugitives until the sound of their horses'
hoofs died away in the distance, and then they turned towards each other
and impulsively grasped each the other's hand, and shook hands as
comrades.
Next Farmer Nye turned to the negroes who were squatting about the
stable-yard, wondering, no doubt, at all they had seen and heard; and he
told them to disperse to their quarters, and keep still tongues in their
heads, if they wished to keep their heads on their shoulders.
"And now we'll go back to the house and get a drop of home-brewed, and
go to bed," said the farmer, starting off at a brisk trot, and beckoning
his young companion to follow him.
"I mean to manage so as Old Purley shall be made to believe as the
prisoner escaped through _his_ door," said Munson, as he came up.
"That'll be bully!" said the farmer.
They went back to the house, consulted the tall old-fashioned clock in
the corner of the hall, found it was just eleven, and they took their
drop of "home-brewed," and went to rest.
Robert Munson, with design, threw himself down upon the mattress outside
the carefully locked door of the chamber, from which he had helped his
prisoners to escape. And being very much fatigued, he fell asleep, and
slept long and late.
The first persons up in the house were the farmer's daughter Kitty, and
her old maiden aunt Molly.
They came down from their attic chambers and walked on tiptoes past the
sleeping Munson, so as not to wake him. They went down stairs and had
breakfast got ready, but had to wait very long before either the farmer
or the young man appeared. When they did come down, however, and
apologized for their tardiness, the women inquired for the other guests,
and were told that they must not be disturbed.
The day passed slowly.
It was late in the afternoon before old Purley awoke and finding the
room quite dark, and feeling himself still very drowsy, he merely turned
over and went to sleep again. And still overpowered by the combined
action of the laudanum and the beer-opium and hops, he slept on until a
very late hour of the night, when at length he awoke; but perceiving
that all was quite dark and still, he lay quietly in bed, thinking this
was about the longest night he had ever spent in his life. At last he
got up, and opened the blinds to see if it was near day. And perceiving
by a faint light streak along the horizon that the morning was at hand,
he opened the other blinds, and began to dress himself as well as he
could in the semi-darkness.
By the time he had got on all his clothes, the day was a little lighter,
and he went into the passage to see after the safety of his prisoner.
He found young Munson stretched upon the mattress immediately before
the door.
"Quite correct," he thought; but he resolved to go up to the door to
make a closer examination. First he saw that the key had been taken out
of the lock.
"All right," he said to himself. "Munson has obeyed orders, and put the
key in his pocket."
And then still farther to assure himself of the safety of his charge, he
bent over the sleeping form of Munson and tried the lock, and found it
fast.
"Quite correct! Nothing has been neglected. He is a careful officer, and
shall be well reported at head-quarters," he muttered, with much
satisfaction.
But to reach the lock at all, he had been obliged to bend so far over
the sleeping body, that now, in trying to recover his perpendicular, he