Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (247 page)

“You must convince me of that, before I unfasten this door.”

What other arguments the Prior might use are unknown, but they answered his purpose so far, that the poor prisoner, at last, gave up his fears, and admitted him to the chamber. Having thus entered, the Prior fastened the door again, and, holding up the lamp to examine whether any one was concealed in the room, the full light fell upon his forehead, and showed a deep scar, that seemed to remain from a sword wound.

While the merchant stood observing his face, under this peculiar light, the scar suddenly engrossed his attention; and he thought he had seen the same countenance, at some former period of his life. He had little time for recollection; but he thought this was at an inn, between Tarnworth and the Chase, as he was travelling with his kinsman from Worcester; the latter having landed at Milford, on his return from beyond the sea: but the recollection was indistinct; and he checked the fear, which was beginning to return upon him.

The Prior, after his survey of the chamber, met one glance of the scrutinizing eyes, that were directed upon him, and immediately withdrew his own; and, sitting down on the low pallet, he thus addressed his prisoner:— “Now shall you know me for your friend; for, here I tell you, that, if you wish to escape this night the trial that threatens you, I have in my power the means of assisting you; and am ready to use them, on one condition!”

The prisoner, surprised and distrusting the motive of this offer, answered, “You said but now, that you came hither by the King’s order! Is it also by his order, that you bring me this offer of escape? He has only to will my freedom! and I shall go forth from these walls without any contrivance, or secret methods of my own.”

“Yes: and then you may, without further let, or hindrance, again sound forth your accusations against an innocent man! It is on one condition only, that his Highness consents to your escape. As to your going openly forth, with his known consent, free of punishment for your accusation against the Baron de Blondeville, that cannot be, and he preserve his honour: liberty, granted to you on such terms, would be the Baron’s condemnation. This you must acknowledge. There is but one way, that can secure both his honour and your safety — only one!”

“Name it!” said the merchant.

“It is, that you set your name to this paper, containing a recantation of all, of which you have accused the Baron before the King; and that you leave it behind you ere you take your secret flight, in sure testimony of his innocence.”

The prisoner, rising up with indignation, exclaimed, “Never! I was witness to the crime, of which I have accused him, and never will I cease to demand justice for it! Nor will I believe King Henry would, in this way, shelter a man, whose honour he would fear to bring to trial!”

While he said this, the countenance of the Prior darkened; and, after a short silence, he replied slowly: “I cannot doubt your knowledge of the crime; but I as little doubt the innocence of him you have accused. You err not as to the deed, but as to the criminal; and your crime lies in this, that you have rashly, and with unmeet confidence, charged a man with a dreadful offence, whom, even if he were guilty, you could have small means of knowing to be so. Your obstinacy, too, in persisting in this charge, when you have found who the accused is, takes away from you all claim to mercy; and, understand from me, that, on your trial tomorrow, you are not likely to find any. At this hour, tomorrow night, if you shall be then still amongst the living, you will remember, in despair, the opportunity, now offered you and now passing away.

Scarcely had the Prior ended, when the bell of Saint Mary’s sounded, and his visage altered, while he faintly uttered the latter words. He was mute awhile, and then he said, “If you have resolved to proceed with this denunciation, I must leave you: if you doubt, mercy is still open to you; but no time is to be lost — I must be gone!”

“Could I doubt, for an instant, as to the person of the murderer,” said the agitated prisoner, “I should, indeed, be infamous, in accusing the Baron de Blondeville, and equally foolish in hesitating to accept your offer; but my memory is faithful; I never can forget the countenance of him, who murdered my kinsman, in my sight.”

“It is extraordinary your memory should have received so false an impression, if, indeed, you speak according to your conviction; it is extraordinary, that, considering the short opportunity you had observing the robber’s face, you should be so confident in that impression; you saw him only for a moment, and then by a torch lying on the ground. A light, so placed, might give a false appearance to any countenance.” He ceased, and the merchant remained thoughtful and silent.

“It is extraordinary, too,” said the Prior, “that, recollecting so clearly, the countenance of one of the robbers, you should have no remembrance of the others.”

“I saw not the faces of the others. You were present, when I related this matter to the King; can you have forgotten, that I said the other robbers were masked during the whole outrage?”

“I recollect you said so. And you say so now again? You are sure they were masked?” said the Prior.

“Yes, I am sure,” replied the merchant.

“Yet is it strange, that the man, who committed the murder, should be the only man of the four, who exposed his face.”

“The four! I saw but three,” said Woodreeve, eagerly. He looked at the Prior, who was, for a moment, silent. “You must remember, I told the King, the assassin’s
visor
fell off in the struggle with my brave kinsman.”

At this close recollection of the very manner of the deed, the prisoner was much moved; he groaned heavily, and threw himself again on the pallet, saying, “Talk no more of this cruel transaction, I beseech you; it goes to my heart.” His visitor made no answer, and the merchant remained for a short time, with his face hid in his hands, as if in an ecstasy of grief. When he raised himself and turned, he found the Prior standing close beside him, with an expression, which he did not, at the moment, understand.

“I must begone,” said the intruder; “you will repent that you have neglected the opportunity; another will certainly not occur; and you deserve not that it should, since you can persist, on such slight grounds, in accusing a stranger of what would affect his life. I know the Baron de Blondeville to be innocent.”

Woodreeve was struck both with the emphasis and with the tone, in which this was uttered; it was not the usual voice of the Prior; yet did it seem the natural one, and not wholly unknown to him. Looking earnestly upon him, he said, “Who is with me?”

His visitor, turning quickly at the question, answered not the scrutiny of the merchant’s eye, but scornfully asked, “Know you not the Prior of Saint Mary’s?”

“I did know a Prior of St. Mary’s;” said the other sadly, “you are not he. Moreover, your speech was but now changed, I knew it not for yours; not for the same I had heard a few minutes before, though it seemed not unknown to me.”

“That is strange; but your observance of my voice, seems to be about as certain as your recollection of the Baron de Blondeville’s features; and I should not much marvel, if you were to denounce it as a party in the same adventure. But I must leave you, and shall add nothing more, since you had rather remain a prisoner, with death before your eyes, than doubt the correctness of your memory, or recant from an error, when in so doing, you might save the life of yourself, or, perhaps, of an innocent man. Call not that a love of justice, which is blind vengeance in its blackest shape.”

There was something in these latter words, that now struck the harassed mind of the prisoner, with a force, which had not accompanied any similar exhortation from his adviser; a dreadful possibility was once more placed before him, and the moment was passing, in which by acknowledging that possibility, he might put an end to the fearful alternative, in which he stood, of losing his own life, or taking that of another.

“What if there be one possibility,” said he to himself, “out of thousands, that I have accused an innocent person!” and he shuddered with horror.

The Prior instantly perceived the hesitation of his mind, and he waited awhile, that it might end in further doubts, which he knew would be stronger, if his now readier listener should forget them to have proceeded from his promptings, and should mistake them for his own. When he thought they had taken some hold, he threw out hints and argument to confirm his apprehensions; and this with so much success, that the merchant was no longer sufficiently confident in his own recollection, to adhere to a purpose so surrounded with danger, either to his life, or, what was truly more important, and what he always held to be more important — to his conscience. But, although this shade of distrust might influence him, to desist from a further prosecution of the Baron de Blondeville, he was not persuaded to sign the recantation proposed to him, nor any recantation whatsoever. On this point, every suggestion made to him, touching his own security, or advantage, was vain; at this moment, he held it just possible the Baron might be innocent, and, therefore, was he willing to desist from his accusation; but he also thought it far more probable, that he was guilty, and, therefore, would he not affirm that he was innocent.

The Prior, feigning more satisfaction he felt, as to the progress of his suggestions, said, “You think the Baron guiltless; your recantation must therefore follow, when you have had a few minutes further consideration. Else where would be the love of justice, of which you have said so much?”

“I only doubt of his guilt,” said the respondent in this dispute, “and that carries me no farther than a relinquishment of the prosecution.”

“But you certainly do not doubt, that this must be insufficient to satisfy his honour. He has been publicly accused, and it is necessary, that he should be as publickly cleared. It is also necessary” — here the speaker delivered himself with greater emphasis— “it is also necessary, that his accuser, if he be obstinate, should be punished for his attempt. Think you that punishment is likely to be slight? If you remain here, certain destruction awaits you; if you go away, and leave behind this recantation of your error, you will save your own life, and testify so far to the Baron’s innocence, as to render a pursuit of you unnecessary to his reputation.”

“I knew not,” said Woodreeve, “that you were so warmly my friend, as you profess yourself to be; you seem as anxious for my welfare, after I may leave this place, as for the Baron’s reputation.”

The Prior liked not this remark. “I know not,” said he, “why I should be thus anxious, since you are so distrustful of my goodwill, although there be mixed with my wish to save your life, a desire, that you should restore the reputation of an innocent man. I marvel you should hesitate to accept my kindness.”

The merchant still refused to sign a recantation, which went so much beyond his own conviction. “My flight, without this,” said he, “would afford sufficient is presumption of my doubt, and even that is rather a stronger word than ought to applied to my mere admission of a possibility.”

The parties remained for a while in silence, one considering whether he should waive the recantation he had so strongly insisted upon, the other, whether he should trust himself with such a companion, even if he no longer required it. He feared some treachery in the proposal; the offer of an escape might be made, only with a design to draw him into a virtual acknowledgment of guilty motives for his charge, the more certainly to accomplish his destruction. “Suppose I were on the outside of the castle walls,” said he, “how may I proceed, when beyond them, since I have neither horse, nor friend, to expedite me?”

“You consent, then, to sign this?”

“No,” replied the merchant, lifting up his head, with a resolute and indignant countenance. “If you insist on such a condition, here, I entreat you, conclude your visit, and leave me to my rest.”

The Prior now yielded. “There is a place, without the town,” said he, “where you may lie hidden, till the dawn, or, if you fear not to traverse the woods by night, a horse and guide are in readiness for you. I am sufficiently your friend to help you, without insisting on further conditions.”

Still, the prisoner hesitated. He knew no previous goodwill of his adviser towards him, that could account for so much preparation for his safety; he liked not to trust him, with such an opportunity to ruin him. But, while he thus feared treachery, on one hand, he saw destruction threatening him, on the other; if he trusted to the present offer, he might perish; he awaited a doubtful contest with enemies so powerful, and so greatly inflamed by revenge, he felt little hope for his life. To declare in court, his mere admission, that the Baron might be innocent, would not be sufficient for his own release; further his conscience would not let him go, and yet it was apparent, that he should be pressed to go further, and should be treated as a criminal, if he refused; nothing would be sufficient to his own safety, which was not so to the Baron’s views; his admission would be attributed only to fear, and it was not fear in him, which his adversaries wished to prove. After he had weighed these thoughts in his mind, he told the Prior he was ready to depart.

While he yet spoke, he heard the bell of Saint Mary’s strike, for the third time; the Prior heard it too; and he stood still and thoughtful. Then, starting from his mood, he said, “Your determination is, perhaps, too late; let us begone.”

On being asked why he feared this, he answered, “That bell was to serve as the third signal.” On being asked for what purpose it was to serve as a signal, he replied, without explaining, that it concerned the escape, adding, “Not a moment is to be lost; while we are talking, your opportunity is fleeing;” and he arose and unlocked the chamber-door.