"Well," thought Beauchamp, "I certainly did calculate upon being at Dorchester to-night, as firmly as if I had never read the Rambler. Oh, Seged, Seged, emperor of Ethiopia! But never mind! to-morrow, at all events, nothing shall stop me; and by that time this leg of mine will be nearly well; so that some advantage at least will be gained by the disappointment."
The following morning the son, instead of the father, was accordingly despatched to the post-town of ----, to order down a chaise immediately to the nearest point of the high-road; and he was, moreover, directed to take advantage of the conveyance, to return so far upon his way, in order to give Beauchamp notice of its arrival. This precaution was not unnecessary, for the boy was a lout, who might very probably have suffered the chaise to go on without him; but having taken these measures, Beauchamp very confidently expected to hear that his vehicle was in waiting, at or about the hour of two.
His lameness had by this time so far worn off, that he could move from place to place with tolerable ease; and he spent the morning principally on the sea-shore, partly in thoughts which were all the busier from the forced inactivity of his body, partly in removing any remaining traces of apprehension from the mind of the old smuggler, who continued working leisurely and lazily at his boat, the damage done to which had evidently been considerable. A little before two o'clock, Beauchamp settled his accounts with his hostess; and all charges being left to his own liberality, and his purse being luckily and miraculously still in his pocket, he presented the worthy dame with a sum so much above either her expectations, or the value of her mackerel and pickled pork, as, in the first place, to make her turn red with surprise and satisfaction, and then run out to tell her husband what the stranger had given them. Two o'clock, however, passed, and old Billy Small began to regret that he had sent young Billy Small, instead of going himself. Three o'clock passed, and Beauchamp joined most sincerely in the regret, especially when he heard the old man exclaim, in the tone of a discovery, "I'd bet a puncheon, now, that Bill has gone and got drunk at the 'lection. I forgot this was the first day of the 'lection for the borough, or I would ha' gone myself to a certainty. He's drunk, no doubt!"
The father, however, did the son injustice; for towards half-past three, the good youth appeared lumbering over the hill, and entered the cottage, wiping his brow, indeed, but with a sober pace. In answer to Beauchamp's enquiries--which were made with more eager haste than he generally indulged in--the young man replied, that all the horses in the town, and for many miles round it, were engaged in the'lection, so that not one was to be got for love or money.
Now, Beauchamp found himself so strongly inclined to be cross, that--instead of either sending all elections to that distinguished personage who has gained more by them and their consequences than any one else--I mean the devil--or vituperating the post-horses, or any of the other things concerned, as some persons would have done when put out of temper by similar mischances--he acted, of course, in a way of his own, and laughed outright, merely exclaiming, "Well, I must buy a shirt of you, Small, if you will sell me one; for at present I certainly do not come within the old beau's definition of a gentleman!"
As Beauchamp now determined to send no more to a town in which the election of a fit and proper person to represent his Majesty's lieges in Parliament was going on, his next questions related to the boat, or rather to the boats. The smaller of the two, old Small assured him, though it served well enough to catch mackerel in the little sheltered bay before the house, would never do to go any distance; but he promised Beauchamp that the other boat should be ready to carry him to the next coast town by three o'clock on the following day.
Beauchamp, from what he had seen in the morning, imagined that the old man's promise might very well be fulfilled; but he little knew what mending an old boat is. Father and son set to work upon it at once, and went on as long as they could see; and, when the young stranger rose next morning, he found them already occupied in the same manner. His ancle being now greatly better, though not well, he walked out to watch their proceedings; and, sitting beside them, and occasionally giving some slight assistance, he saw hour after hour of the fourth day since his arrival wear away, in performing what he had imagined would have been completed in half the time; till at length, while several small things still remained to be done, he beheld the purple mingling with the blue in the sky, and telling that the daystar was going down to the dark pavilion of his rest. "Oh! Seged, Seged, emperor of Ethiopia!" cried Beauchamp, as he returned into the cottage, "I will this night, at all events, resolve upon doing nothing at all to-morrow, in order to see whether fate will for once disappoint me the right way!"
The morrow, however, dawned bright and clear--the boat was at length ready and launched; and Beauchamp--shaved as usual with the smuggler's one universal razor, and covered with the best specimen of his check-shirts--gladly stepped into the yawl, and saw her pushed off from the land by the united efforts of father and son, both of whom accompanied him on his voyage.
The boat was clinker-built, somewhat broad over the beam, and in all respects the very reverse of a long, thin, shadowy thing that was lying high and dry a little farther up the beach, looking both in form and colour just like the shell of a razor-fish.
Old Willy Small, however, shook his head at mention of that craft, saying, "No, no! The preventive had knocked up all that stuff." So that Beauchamp, well content to get off at all, was obliged to rest satisfied with the slow and sure means of progression which the yawl afforded, though, the wind being light and rather baffling, it appeared very plainly that they were not destined to reach their port much before nightfall.
To increase the tediousness of a day's voyage in an open boat, to a man who had the utmost abhorrence of every sort of water-carriage, the fine morning waxed more and more dim; and first a drizzle, and then a deluge, continued to pour from the sky during the whole of the rest of the day. It was five o'clock before they reached the small town, whose white houses, ranged along with their large goggling windows directly opposite the sea, like a score or two of unsophisticated girls, with white frocks and large black eyes, ranged along the side of a country ball-room, afforded a most welcome sight to the eyes of the weary voyager.
The custom-house officers satisfied themselves with wonderful ease that there was nothing in the boat which they could count as lawful prey, though the appearance of their well-known acquaintance, Willy Small, excited many a shrewd suspicion; and they looked after Beauchamp, as he was borne off to the inn, with the same prying glance with which the merchants, in the Arabian Nights, might be supposed to have examined the pieces of beef brought up by the eagles from the valley of diamonds. At the inn the dripping traveller, who limped along, leaning on the shoulder of the old smuggler, was examined with scarcely less attention, as soon as it was ascertained that he had no baggage; but, somehow, there was--to use a most fearful periphrasis--an air of, right to respect, and of, the habit of being obeyed, which instantly commanded obedience and attention.
Old Billy Small was immediately rewarded and dismissed; and, with many thanks, he hustled rapidly away, like a hunted hippopotamus, to his own element again; perhaps purposing, as he passed by the quay, to have some short conversation, concerning various professional matters, with some of the sailors of a ship which was lying in the harbour, and about to sail for Cherbourg the next morning.
When he was alone, Beauchamp thanked God--not with the empty idleness of tongue with which those words are so often spoken, but truly, sincerely, and from his heart--for his escape from dangers which he had not suffered himself to estimate fully, till they were over. He then rang, and desired the landlord to be called, feeling heated and weary, and having taken it into his head, that the long period which had elapsed since he had enjoyed anything like gentlemanly neatness of person, was the cause of the dry and thirsty feeling that he experienced.
The landlord appeared and answered his enquiries concerning warm baths, and various other matters which would occupy too much room to enumerate, eyeing him curiously to the end, when he added--"Beg pardon, sir--beg pardon! but is not your name Major Beauchamp?"
"It was some time ago," replied Mr. Beauchamp; "but I have quitted the service, and am now plain Mr. Beauchamp, if you please--but who are you, my good friend?"
"Beg your pardon, sir, for the liberty," replied the landlord; "but I am Frank, the waiter at ----'s Hotel, in St. James's Street--that is to say, I was, sir; but this being my native place, and having got together a little money, and having married, and--you see, sir, I came to set up in a small way for myself."
"Well, I am glad to see you, Frank, and hope you prosper," replied Beauchamp. "Have you many people in your house?"
"No, sir, no! answered the man, with a somewhat grave shake of the head. Not many; the season's over indeed--only an old gentleman and his daughter, and an old lady who seems like the housekeeper; but they are very dismal-like, and do not do so much in the way of our business."
"They might be rueful enough, if they had been kept as I have been for the last five days," replied Beauchamp, "at a little cottage on the sea-shore, with a dislocated ancle, and neither clothes, assistance, nor the means of procuring any. But see about the things I mentioned, Frank, and send the things; and if these warm baths are not far, I will try to walk to them, in the mean time."
"Next door but one, sir! Next door but one!" replied the landlord. "Lord, sir, you walk very lame! Stay, sir, I will get my hat, and help you there;" and accordingly, leaning on the arm of the quondam waiter, Beauchamp made his way to the warm baths, feeling that there was some truth in the old Greek epigram, which describes them as amongst the luxuries without which life were not worth possessing.
Returning to the inn, where his family and fortune, by this time fully known, made the whole house ready to performCow Towhe dined with that sort of moderation which a man feels inclined to practise, when he finds himself extremely feverish, and when every sort of wine, from cool claret to hot sherry, seems like molten lead, within ten minutes after it is swallowed. Immediately after dinner, all the necessary changes of raiment, which he had been so long without, and which could never be so rapidly supplied as at a seaport town, were brought in one by one, by the officious care of the landlord; and, on discovering that the first coach for London set off on the following morning at ten o'clock, he made that fact a good excuse to himself for yielding to the lassitude he felt, and going to bed at nine.
The night past in heated tossing to and fro; and short fitful intervals of sleep, too dreamful and agitated to be called repose. From one of those brief snatches of slumber, he was awakened early the next morning, by some one knocking at the door of the room next to his own, and exclaiming in a loud tone, "Seven o'clock, sir, is the luggage ready?"
Beauchamp certainly wished the luggage and the man who demanded it, at the bottom of the sea together, and tried to go to sleep again; but after rolling from side to side for half an hour, he found that it was in vain. All the infamous noises which announce that some frightful people, in the neighbouring chambers of the same inn, are going to set out upon voyage or journey, at an awfully early hour, were complicated around Beauchamp's unfortunate head; and at length, after the trampling of sailors and porters in the passage had ceased, he heard some one again knock at a door, on the opposite side of the passage, and say, "My love, I must go down to see the luggage passed and put on board; but make haste and be ready, for the ship will sail directly. I will send up and let you know when to come down."
Beauchamp started out of bed, and hurried on his clothes as fast as possible, for the voice was that of Sir Sidney Delaware; but his lameness still retarded him, and every time he took a quick step, his ancle gave way beneath him, and caused him intolerable pain; so that, just as he was tying his cravat, the voice of old Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper, was heard along the passage.
"Miss Blanche! Miss Blanche!" she cried, "Make haste, pray make haste! Your papa says all is ready, and the ship is just going to sail."
Beauchamp pulled on his coat as best he might, and threw open his door; nor was he a moment too soon, for Blanche Delaware was already walking along the passage. She was paler far, but as beautiful as ever, and not the less so that the tears were swimming in her eyes at the thought of quitting her own dear fair native land--perhaps for ever.
"Good God, Miss Delaware!" cried Beauchamp, "What is the meaning of this?"
"Mr. Burrel!" exclaimed Blanche faintly, while the blood mounted quick into her cheek, and then again left it pale as ashes. "Oh, Mr. Burrel, where have you been? Your presence might perhaps have saved us all!"
"How, how?" cried Beauchamp, "You sent me from you, yourself. Had it not been for your own word, I would never, never have left you!"
"Do not--do not say it!" cried Blanche, while the tears streamed over her cheeks, "Do not say it, or I shall never forgive myself--I never have, indeed.--You only could have saved us--and oh, Henry Beauchamp, I am sure you would have done so!"
Beauchamp started to hear his real name from his fair cousin's lips; but Blanche went on rapidly and eagerly. "But it seems all strange to you. Have you not heard of my poor brother? Have you not heard what has happened?"
"I have heard nothing!" replied Beauchamp. "I have been detained for several days, ill and wretched, in a spot where I heard nothing."
"Oh!" cried Blanche, wringing her hands, "they have accused him of crimes he never committed, and blasted his name, and broken his heart--and if--if--Henry Beauchamp"----
"Is not the lady coming?" cried a voice from below. "The ship's getting under weigh, ma'am. You'll be left behind if you don't mind."
"Indeed, Miss Blanche, you must come," cried Mrs. Williams, who had hitherto discreetly remained at the other end of the corridor, when she saw who it was detained her young mistress. "You must come, indeed!"
"I will--I will!" said Blanche, and, dropping her voice, she added--while for one moment she raised her beautiful eyes to Beauchamp's face, and the warm blood mounted again into her cheek--"Henry Beauchamp--my dear cousin--it is most likely the last time we shall ever meet--but if ever you loved me--if you would have poor Blanche Delaware bless and pray for you to her last hour--use your whole strength and mind to clear my poor brother's name and character--God bless you, God bless you!" and she ran on, down the stairs.
Beauchamp paused for a moment in utter bewilderment, then, darting into his room, seized his hat, and followed with all the speed he could employ. That, however, was but little. The harbour was not far, it is true; but ere he could reach the narrow pier, from which the passengers had been embarked, the ship bound to Cherbourg had shot out to sea, and with a strong and favourable wind, was making its way towards the coast of France.
Beauchamp gazed after her in vain; for nothing but the faint indistinct forms of the many people that crowded the deck, could now be discovered; and with feelings as bitter and painful as ever man felt, he turned away and went back to the inn.
On entering the sitting-room which had been appropriated to him, Beauchamp cast himself back in a chair, and, for a moment, reflected on the extraordinary interview he had just gone through. But a new discomfort now assailed him, and he felt a degree of confusion of thought, and even indistinctness of memory, that pained and alarmed him. Could the blow he had received on the head, he asked himself, the consequences of which he had entirely neglected--could it have injured his brain? Nevertheless, his personal feelings occupied him but for an instant, and were only permitted to cut across his thoughts of Blanche Delaware, and interrupt the ideas which his conversation with her had called up, when the dizzy mistiness of his brain prevented him from pursuing clearly any defined train of thinking.
Should he engage a boat, he asked himself, and follow Sir Sidney to Cherbourg, in search of farther explanations--perhaps, I might say, in search of farther hopes; for with all the confused and painful feelings that his brief interview with Blanche Delaware had excited; there had also been left behind a sweet consoling hope, that after all he was beloved, and that time might yet make her his own.
He paused upon that idea, which, like a gleam of sunshine upon the dark and struggling waters of the sea, gave one bright spot for the mind's eye to rest upon, in the midst of the doubts and anxieties that whirled around him. Should he follow her, he thought, and enquire what was meant by her allusion to her brother; or should he stay and do what he conceived to be his duty, in bringing to justice, as far as he could effect it, the men who had committed the crime at Ryebury. "I will see what has been already discovered," he said at length, "and then act as I find necessary."
In consequence of this resolution, he rang the bell, and demanded the newspapers of the last two or three days; but for some minutes after they were brought, he could scarcely read the matter they contained, so fearfully did the letters dance before his sight, when he attempted to fix his eyes upon the page. He succeeded at length in gathering the contents; and, it may be unnecessary to say, that when he did so, he found sufficient, at once to determine his conduct. The whole account of what had taken place at Emberton was now before him; and with feelings, that it is impossible to describe, he perceived that the very means he had taken to remove the difficulties of Sir Sidney Delaware and his family, had, on the contrary, accumulated upon them a load of evils and distresses which his utmost apprehensions could never have anticipated.
Summoning the waiter once more, he ordered breakfast, and a place to be secured for him in the London coach. All was done according to his desire, with prompt activity; and by a quarter after ten, Henry Beauchamp was on his way to London, in the inside of a hot stage-coach, crammed full of humanity; while his own feelings consisted of a compound of intense mental anxiety, and all those horrible corporeal sensations which precede a violent attack of fever. His hands and his head burned like living coals; his feet were as cold as ice, and a faint sort of chilly shiverings thrilled over all his frame, alternating with a degree of heat that became sometimes intolerable.
He endured all this, with firm determination, for six mortal hours; but at length he found that nature would bear no more, and that he must stop. At Hartford Bridge, then, where his name and station in society were well known, from his having often spent a night in that most pleasant of all country inns--the White Lion--he desired the coachman to put him down, and entered the house. His appearance was so altered, that the old waiter did not recognize him for a moment; but the moment that he did so, he declared, upon his word then, that Major Beauchamp must be ill, in which assertion Beauchamp found strong reason within his own bosom to coincide.
The result therefore was, that, before the sixth day after he had been carried from Emberton was completely over, Henry Beauchamp was in bed, with an apothecary gently compressing his wrist on one side, and a waiter holding the candle on the other. After innumerable questions, to all of which the young gentleman answered like a lamb--which showed how ill he was--the apothecary declared him in a state of fever, and bled him considerably. By this depletion, he certainly felt relieved for the time, and the next morning was not at all worse than he had been the day before. Nevertheless, he was troubled with no inclination to rise; and the landlord asked anxiously of the man of medicine whether he conceived his patient to be in any danger, as he was aware that the gentleman had relations of high rank in London, whom he might wish to write to, if he knew himself in precarious circumstances.
Such a question, though so frequently put, remains still one of tremendous difficulty to the professors of the healing art, inasmuch as, on the one hand, they never can like, by acknowledging that there is great danger, to run the risk of other advice being called in, and yet, they neither choose to lose the credit which may accrue from curing a bad case, nor to incur the blame that will attach to them if their patient dies without their having admitted his peril. However, as vanity and covetousness are, generally speaking, stronger passions than apprehension, the followers of Esculapius usually seem to prefer running all risks, rather than have their cases interfered with by another practitioner. In the present instance, it occurred that the apothecary was really in the right, when he informed the worthy landlord, that, although his guest had certainly a sharp fever upon him, yet he did not see any present danger.
Thus passed over the day. No one was written to; and, before night, Beauchamp was not in a state to write to any one himself, having become completely delirious. The apothecary grew a little frightened; but as the landlord did not know the precise address of Beauchamp's friends, and as the patient could not give it himself, there was no remedy but patience and perseverance.
The delirium continued with but little interval for two days; but as the medical man was really a person of skill, his patient's constitution excellent, and the fever not very malignant in its nature, favourable symptoms began to show themselves sooner than could have been expected, and at the end of five days more the young gentleman was pronounced convalescent.
Though for some time he felt himself very weak, and incapable of much mental exertion; yet, from the moment the delirium left him, Henry Beauchamp found his thoughts much clearer and more exact than they had been since the day of his leaving Emberton; and, as he considered the various events which had taken place, a number of circumstances which the reader's mind may easily recall without minute recapitulation, led him to suspect that his uncle's lawyer, if not his uncle himself, had increased, if not created, many of those difficulties which, combined with accidental occurrences, had overwhelmed Sir Sidney Delaware and his family in ruin and in sorrow.
He was unwilling indeed to admit, to his own mind, that Lord Ashborough would descend to any thing mean or dishonourable, even to effect the very honourable purpose of revenge, which, when formalized by the rules of the monomachia, justifies murder; and therefore may surely equally well justify robbery, or fraud, or petty larceny, or any other peccadillo. But, at the same time, Beauchamp could not shut out the conviction, that the ruin of Sir Sidney Delaware and his family, by whatever means effected, would be in no degree disagreeable to the noble earl. In fact, he had seen more deeply into his uncle's character and into his uncle's heart, than Lord Ashborough knew; and though his discoveries were rendered less harsh by the natural affection of kindred, yet they had certainly not tended to increase that affection in any extraordinary degree.
However, all his reflections terminated in an uncertainty as to the past conduct of his uncle and his uncle's lawyer, which made him resolve to investigate the whole matter farther before he acted; for though he was unchangeably resolved that justice to William Delaware should be done, yet he was anxious, of course, that it should be rendered with as little obloquy to his own relation as possible. "Thank God, he has made his escape!" he thought; "and the earl, too, must have left London soon after I quitted it myself, so that he cannot be at all acquainted with my share in this unfortunate business at Ryebury. I will therefore remain quietly where I am till I can proceed to London, and then investigate every circumstance before I fix upon any farther plans. Of course, I shall easily discover the residence of Sir Sidney Delaware in France; and, when I have cleared his son's fair fame, may meet them all, with better hopes and brighter prospects."
Such were some of the reflections and resolutions of Henry Beauchamp, as he was recovering from the fever which had detained him at Hartford Bridge; and though he certainly indulged in a great many other reflections, and formed a great many more resolutions, yet they were all conceived in the same strain, and tended to the same effect. As day by day, however, he began to acquire strength, and saw that at the end of two or three more whirls of the great humming-top, he would be able to set out for London, a new difficulty pressed upon him of somewhat a novel nature. He had an inn bill to pay, which could not be small--he had an apothecary's bill to pay also, which must be still larger, and sick-nurses, &c., came at the end to swell the amount. Ten sovereigns was all that remained in his purse; and had Beauchamp been aware that, in the opinion of all his friends and relations, he was actually dead and buried under water, if not under ground, he might have been still more puzzled how to proceed than he was, in his state of blessed ignorance regarding all these facts.
His resource, in the present instance, was to indite a letter to his worthy friend and agent Mr. Wilkinson, informing him, in a few words, that he had been ill at Hartford Bridge, and would thank him to send him down, either by post or coach, a sufficient sum to pay his temporary expenses.
This epistle reached Mr. Wilkinson just as he was drawing up a general statement of the money matters of the late Henry Beauchamp, Esq., formerly of his Majesty's ---- Regiment of Dragoons; and the letter of the living Mr. Beauchamp, of course, put a sudden stop to the affairs of the dead one. The handwriting, however, although certainly bearing a great resemblance to that of his client, was, as Mr. Wilkinson observed, more like a copy of his hand than his hand itself; and the illness which had produced this difference, had also produced a brevity and carelessness of style, in which Henry Beauchamp was not accustomed to indulge. The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Wilkinson, calculating that Hartford Bridge was only thirty miles from London, and that two or three guineas was better lost than two or three hundreds, put himself at once into the coach which was to have conveyed the money; and in a few hours he was sitting beside the identical Henry Beauchamp, who had left London about two months before, and was assisting him most conscientiously to despatch the first meat meal he had been allowed to taste since his recovery.
As may well be supposed, this interview was destined to enlighten Beauchamp greatly as to many events which had taken place; and, after having laughed at his own death more heartily than a merrier matter might have occasioned, the invalid entered into explanations with his lawyer, which in turn gave him a new but sad insight into the occurrences of the last three weeks.
"I am afraid, sir," said Mr. Wilkinson--"I am afraid, sir, there has been very foul play! This Mr. Tims--who, between you and me, bears so bad a character in the profession, that it is a very general wonder how your noble relative continues to employ him--has, since your death--God bless me!--I mean, since your supposed decease--has, I say, presented the very note for ten thousand pounds, (which you say you gave to the murdered man at Ryebury,) as payment of the sum owed to your account by his client, your uncle; and yet, though this, and the vouchers which he must have found concerning the fifteen thousand pounds sent before, cannot have failed to show him that the money tendered by Captain Delaware was advanced by you, yet he is, I understand, pursuing the business against that unfortunate young gentleman with greater virulence than ever. I heard only yesterday that his name had been struck out of the Navy List."
"God forbid!" cried Beauchamp--"God forbid! But does the rascal keep both the twenty-five thousand pounds paid, and the ten thousand which my uncle should have transferred to my account?"
"Not only that," answered the lawyer; "but contending that, as the money had been stolen, it did not constitute a legal discharge of Lord Ashborough's claim upon Sir Sidney Delaware, he has plunged the whole business into Chancery--has, at the same time, started a point which can only be decided by a common law court; and as he has all the most obsolete and vexatious decisions at his fingers' ends, would undoubtedly have kept the business embroiled for years, had you not suddenly started up to prove that the payment was legal, and therefore the whole difficulty at an end."
"And if I had not started up," said Burrel, "and William Delaware had been taken, I suppose one of the most gallant officers in his Majesty's service, and one of the most generous-spirited gentlemen in England, would have been hanged for a crime he never committed."
"Why, I am sorry to say, that it is very probable he might have been so dealt with," answered Mr. Wilkinson.
"Then, immortal honour to Robert Peel!" said Beauchamp, "for having begun a reformation in laws, which, though far superior to those of any other nation in the world, are yet so imperfect, as to risk such a loud-tongued iniquity; and may he have life and power granted to him to correct all their evils without diminishing their efficiency. But you speak, my dear sir, of my starting up. Now, do you know, I have a great mind not to start up for some time yet; and to give this rogue, Tims, time enough to show himself in his true colours. As I am dead, and the mourning bought, and all those whose hearts would break upon my account are broken-hearted already, I do not see why I should announce my resuscitation in the newspapers till I have obtained not only the proofs--which, indeed, I can furnish myself--of William Delaware's complete innocence; but the proofs also of the guilt of those who really did commit the murder; and which, with a little of your good advice, I doubt not easily to acquire. In the mean time, if I am not mistaken, good Mr. Tims, counting upon my death, will plunge deeper and deeper into the quagmire of deceit and villainy through which he is now struggling, and we shall have an opportunity of at once exposing him, and opening my uncle's eyes to his knavery."
Mr. Wilkinson shook his head with a dry "hum!" at the last sentence which Beauchamp spoke; but the other part of his young client's proposal he approved very much, saying, "Certainly, certainly! The plan is a good one; and we must never show our adversary our cards, as Mr. Pleydel is made to observe, by the only great romance-writer that the world has produced since Cervantes, and Le Sage, and Fielding. But you forget, Mr. Beauchamp, that I do not fully know what information you possess. Your lawyer must be your confessor, my dear sir, if you would have his advice of any avail."
Beauchamp in reply recounted all that had happened to him since he left Emberton on the morning before the murder--the fact of his servant Harding overtaking him at Dr. Wilton's rectory--his own return to Ryebury--his first and second visit to the miser--his compulsory voyage with the murderers--and his stay at the house of the smuggler--all in short that had occurred, with the exception of a brief interview in the corridor of the inn at ----, which he thought proper to leave untold.
Mr. Wilkinson rubbed his hands at each pause, and, in the end, declared that nothing was more plain than the facts, and nothing would be more easy than the proof. "The man Harding," he said, "whom you think you recognized in the boat with this Walter Harrison, has never returned to your house in London; and therefore we may conclude from the fact of the powder-flask, and from your recognition, that he it really was who committed the murder, with the other two and the maid-servant, as accessories. Information must be obtained from this man Small, in regard to the port at which his cutter landed them in France; and once having gained that, we have nothing to do but set a Bow Street officer on the track, and he will follow it like a bloodhound. I entertain as strange doubts in regard to this Mr. Peter Tims as you do; and believe, from some memoranda on the back of your note of hand, that he knows fully, at this moment, that Captain Delaware never had anything to do with the murder of his uncle. Such a man well deserves to be punished; and if you like to lieincog, for a week or so, we will watch his proceedings; but you must not take it ill, my dear sir, if I say, that we must be careful not to implicate any one whom we might not like to inculpate."
Beauchamp's cheek flushed a good deal, but he replied calmly, "I understand you, Mr. Wilkinson; but I am sure there is no fear of that. However, my own intention is to go at once to France--I shall certainly endeavour to see my sister first; for if any one on earth grieves for me indeed, it is poor Maria. But, as I said, I shall certainly go to France, and may help in tracing these villains myself."
"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Wilkinson, "you must pause a few days. I will write to the local magistrates, and gain a clear view of all they have discovered in the neighbourhood. We must have this man Small examined; and I do not well see how we can proceed without your presence in England--Suppose, for instance, Captain Delaware should be taken and brought to trial."
"Why, of course, I will stay a few days," replied Beauchamp musing; "and, before I go, I will make a formal deposition on oath before a magistrate, which I suppose I must do, in order to induce him to grant me an officer to seek the culprits in France."
"There is an officer in Paris already, I believe," replied Mr. Wilkinson; "but at all events, we must get full information ere we proceed. Believe me my dear sir, the man that meddles with law, either criminal or civil, without obtaining a clear knowledge of every circumstance before he takes a single step, is very likely, indeed, to burn his fingers."
"It is a dangerous thing to touch, I know full well," replied Beauchamp, with a smile, "and God forbid that I should have more to do with it than necessary. I will therefore come to London, where, I suppose, that there is not a mortal being left by this time but you gentlemen of the law, and I may very well pass my timeincogat an hotel."
"Nay, indeed, you are mistaken as to the paucity of better people than lawyers in London," replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Your noble uncle is himself in town, and your sister. The latter I have had the honour of seeing, and found her equally in despair about yourself and Captain Delaware."
"Indeed!" said Beauchamp, smiling at a small twinkling of fun that danced for a moment in Mr. Wilkinson's eyes, as he mentioned Miss Beauchamp's anxiety in regard to William Delaware. "Indeed! and does Maria show herself so greatly distressed about this accusation against her cousin?"
"So much so," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "that she would insist upon employing me in gathering evidence for his defence, which, by the way, is the cause of my knowing so much about the case. Not only that; but understanding apparently that there is no such stimulus to a lawyer's exertions as money, she made me take notes for two hundred pounds to meet the expenses."
"She is very generous, indeed," answered Beauchamp; "but pray, did she show any inclination to ascertain my existence?"
"Oh yes, most eagerly!" replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Come, come, my dear sir, you must not think that interest in the cousin made her forget the brother. On the contrary, although she says that she knows you too well to believe that you would drown yourself--yet"----
"What! did they make it out that I had drowned myself?" cried Beauchamp. "You did not tell me that before, Mr. Wilkinson!"
"Why, I thought it might hurt your feelings, and only said it now incautiously," replied the lawyer; "but so indeed it is. They made it out that you had drowned yourself in the sea near Emberton."
"They made a very great mistake, then," said Beauchamp, biting his lip. "You need not tell me the causes assigned for the rash act as the newspapers term such things. I can divine them all, as it suited each person to put them. The ladies, of course, said it was for love, and the men said debt or gambling. No, no, I shall never commit suicide. I laughed so heartily once at a philosopher at Geneva, who determined to commit suicide in a fit of the spleen, that I am sure I could not do it, even if I felt inclined. He went down to drown himself in the lake, and, as it was a rainy day, he carefully took his umbrella. When he came to the side of the water, however, and began to put down the umbrella, the absurdity of the whole affair of a man drowning himself with an umbrella in his hand, suddenly tickled his fancy to such a degree, that he burst into a fit of laughter, and turned upon his heel. Meeting him with the tears in his eyes, I soon joined in his merriment when I heard the story; and the very idea of suicide is connected with such ludicrous ideas, in my mind, that it makes me laugh even to think of it--But you were saying that my uncle was in town; how does he console himself for my irreparable loss?"
"I have not seen his lordship," answered Mr. Wilkinson; "but every one agrees that he has felt your supposed death more bitterly than any event that ever occurred to him through life. Miss Beauchamp will never give credit to the story of your death; but Lord Ashborough, I understand, believes it firmly, and of course, I need not tell you, that he is surrounded already by hundreds of sycophants, eager to share in the immense wealth which is now, as they believe, without a direct heir. Under such circumstances, would it not be better to give his lordship intimation of your existence, as he may perhaps alter his will, and life is precarious?"
"Not I!" answered Beauchamp. "Not I! The hereditary estates go with the title, and I shall take no step whatever to secure anything else. In fact, I believe that I have contradicted my uncle more frequently than my sense of respect would have otherwise permitted me to do, simply because he has two or three hundred thousand pounds to leave, and I do not choose to be thought a sycophant. I should have been a very dutiful nephew, indeed, if it had not been for that money; the more especially, as I know that my good uncle values it so highly himself, that he cannot help thinking I must value it highly too."
"At all events," said Mr. Wilkinson, who saw that his client was becoming rather fatigued, and, perhaps, the more unmanageable from that circumstance. "At all events, Mr. Beauchamp, before you set out once more, like the Knight of La Mancha, upon a new sally in search of such perilous adventures, you must give me fuller powers to act for you, and fuller instructions, too, as to how I am to act; for good Mr. Tims has already been hinting atwinding up the affairs of the late Henry Beauchamp, Esquire, as he phrases it."
"Indeed!" said Beauchamp. "Indeed! Well, I do believe that if there were an act for hanging rogues, it would ultimately save a vast waste of hemp upon thieves, and leave honester men in the world after all. But I must now let you seek repose; and we will talk more of these matters to-morrow morning, when, if my Galen will suffer me, I will accompany you to London; for the last ten days I have been like poor Erminia:--
'Cibo non prende già che de suoi maliSolo si pasce, e sol di pianto ha sete?'
But I think I have made amends for one evening, at least."
Now Mr. Wilkinson, though a very pleasant gentlemanly man--slightly inclined to be facetious, but never yielding to that vein farther than a subdued--one might almost say, internal--smile, at the odd things, and the absurd things, and the wicked things of this world--was quite in the wrong in taking it into his head that Maria Beauchamp was in love with Captain William Delaware. In truth, she was not; though certainly never were there circumstances more likely to make her become so. She had only got as far at present as being interested in the young sailor's fate in the highest degree; perfectly convinced, that he was innocent and injured--thinking him certainly a very handsome youth--and granting that he was, with all his simplicity, one of the most agreeable men she had ever seen. The reader may ask if all this, then, was not love? No, no, no! It was not! There were bricks, and mortar, and trowels, and hods; but it was not the tower of Babel--What I mean is, that there were all the materials for love, but they wanted putting together.
In Lord Ashborough's house, however, with all these prepossessions in William Delaware's favour, she heard nothing coupled with his name but pompous censure, or flat and pointless sneers; and she dared not say a word in his favour. Now this, as it furnished her with a motive for not only thinking of him from morning till night, but furnished her also with a legitimate cause for connecting in the sweet, unanswering privacy of her own bosom, all those manifold arguments in his favour, which she could have put forth in society, had she not been afraid of their being controverted, caused imagination, and zeal, and generous enthusiasm, to labour hard to build up the said bricks and mortar into the firm and regular structure which Mr. Wilkinson, in his over-hasty conclusions, imagined to be already built.
However all that may be, it is certain that few people had been more completely wretched--and she was not a person to be so, without seeming so too--than Maria Beauchamp, since the business at Ryebury had taken place, and she yielded to a degree of gloom and despondency, which Lord Ashborough had never before seen her display under any circumstances. As she never mingled in the conversation regarding William Delaware, the earl imagined that anxiety and suspense, in regard to the fate of her brother, were the causes of her gloom; and--with the very natural consideration which people generally display, who, however much grieved they may feel for a time, love to get over the memory of their dead relations as fast as may be--the noble earl took every means of removing her state of doubt as fast as possible, by assuring her, on all occasions, that unquestionably her brother was dead.
Suddenly a change came over Miss Beauchamp's whole demeanour. Though she admitted that it was very possible her brother might be dead, yet she resumed her usual tone of spirits; and instead of being silent in regard to Captain Delaware, she repelled with contempt the idea of his guilt whenever it was mentioned, declaring that she felt as much confidence in his innocence of the murder, as she did in her own. All this surprised Lord Ashborough. The first, indeed, he accounted for pleasantly enough to himself, declaring that Maria's mind had now recovered its elasticity, having been relieved from suspense, by the firm conviction which he had taken care to impress upon it, that her brother was dead. He lauded at the same time, be it remarked, his own wisdom in the course he had pursued, blaming severely those ill-judging friends, who, in such cases, suffer hope to linger on till it wears itself out. He even ventured on a simile, saying, that it was like torturing a drowning man, by holding out straws to him.
In regard to Miss Beauchamp's extraordinary perversity in defending the murderer, he declared that he was more puzzled; and one day, after having remonstrated severely, he related the fact to the worthy Mr. Peter Tims. That excellent person, however, only decided that it was a lady's caprice; and with this solution of the enigma, his lordship was forced to rest satisfied.
In the meanwhile, Henry Beauchamp did the most uninteresting thing in the whole world, namely, he travelled from Calais to Paris; for, with the exception of Sterne, who carried his own world about with him in his post-chaise--and a strange mixed world of beauty and deformity it was--I know no one who has been able to make anything of the journey between those two towns, either one way or the other--except, indeed, the Duke of Guise, in 1558, who made Calais a French town of it.
Henry Beauchamp's journey was somewhat Quixotic certainly; but the whole details of his sally serve lamentably to show how the science of knight-errantry has declined since the occultation of the star of La Mancha. For a squire he had a Bow Street officer, backed by letters missive from the Foreign Secretary, and seated upon the rumble of a dark-green armless chariot, beside a fierce-looking mastiff of a courier, whom Beauchamp had engaged upon somewhat surer grounds than those on which Master Harding had been received into his service. Dapple and Rozinante were converted into four French stallions, of all sorts and sizes; and instead of mistaking inns for castles, one might have concluded that the young Englishman mistook them for prisons, so strenuously did he avoid them by travelling night and day.
As Mr. Wilkinson had stated, an officer had been previously sent to Paris in pursuit of Captain Delaware; and although it had not been judged expedient, notwithstanding the information given by Mr. Beauchamp, to recall him from that search, yet he was directed vigorously to co-operate with the person now sent to arrest Harding and his accomplices. Beauchamp, in his inexperience of such matters, had thought it might be better to follow the culprits by the port at which they had landed in France, and which had been clearly ascertained from Willy Small, the smuggler, and his eldest son, who had acted as master of the cutter that took them over. The officer shook the wise head, however, and said, "No, no! Let us go to Paris first, sir; for that's a place which is sure to draw all rogues to it, first or last--as a saucer of honey in a shop window catches the flies. We get at all the passports there, too; and, beside, the mayors and folks in the country places wouldn't dare to back us in seizing the men without a government order, and aJohn Darmas they call them. When we have searched Paris, let us set off for Cherbourg, and meet them in the face."
To this reasoning Beauchamp of course yielded; and although some difficulties occurred on the part of the French government, they were speedily removed--the passport-office was examined--some of the most active agents of the French police were employed--and such information finally obtained, as the Bow Street officer thought likely to lead to the discovery of the whole party, either at Cherbourg or at Caen. Thither, then, Beauchamp and his attendants of various kinds, now increased in number to four, turned their steps, making the most minute enquiries at every point which offered the least chance of affording information concerning the culprits. Beauchamp, at the same time, pursued another search, anticipating, with no small eagerness, a meeting with Miss Delaware and her father, who, he concluded, must journey by slow stages, on account of the baronet's health. Strange, however, to say, that he, and the Bow Street officer, and the French agent of police, were all equally disappointed. Beauchamp found nobody that he sought; and his companions, though they laid hands upon the three personages whose passports and description had excited suspicion, were surprised and mortified to find that they bore not the slightest resemblance to those who had carried Mr. Beauchamp off from Ryebury.
On minute enquiry amongst the fishermen of the village where the culprits were said to have landed, the house was at length discovered in which they had first lodged; and thealbergisteat once declared, that, understanding the English language, he had heard them announce their intention of proceeding to Havre, in order to embark on board some American trader.
No time was to be lost under such circumstances, as ships were sailing every day for some transatlantic port or another; and the horses having been again put to the two carriages, which now formed the cortege, away went Beauchamp and his train for Havre. From Cherbourg to Havre, running through one half of the peninsula of Cotentin, is a long, though not uninteresting journey, to one who has nothing else to think of. But Beauchamp was in haste to get on. French postilions are notoriously slow, and Norman postilions notoriously slower. The steam-boat was gone when the party arrived at Honfleur; and, in short, every thing that nature and art could do to stop them on their way, was done to perfection. At length, when they did reach Havre, they found that one vessel had sailed for America the preceding day, full of emigrants of all descriptions, and that two others had departed about four days earlier, each of which, to believe the accounts given of them, must have been a perfect Noah's Ark.
Beauchamp and the officers lost heart, and even the courier, whose trade being to run, could not be supposed to object tobattre la campagnein this manner, began to look rueful, under the apprehension that, if no farther clue could be gained, his occupation would soon be gone. After every inn had been inspected, every consul consulted, every shipping-office examined, Beauchamp determined once more to return to Paris, and thither he accordingly came by the way of Rouen, followed by the posse, who found it not at all disagreeable to eat, and drink, and sleep at his expense, and be paid for the trouble thereof over and above.
New researches were immediately commenced; and never did fat-faced Gibbon bend his rotund cheeks over the pages of infidelity, ancient or modern, from Arius to Hobbes, with more eagerness to filch or find an objection or a fault in the blessed faith, whose beginning and end is glory to God in the highest, and peace and goodwill towards men, than did all parties pursue their object of discovering the guilty, in order, principally, it must be confessed, to exculpate the innocent. But the search seemed perfectly in vain; and the only conclusion to which any one could come was, that the murderers had really effected their escape to America. After nibbling at various surmises and reports for some time, the officer who had accompanied Beauchamp declared himself foiled, and took his leave. He who had been sent in quest of Captain Delaware had abandoned the pursuit for some time; and Beauchamp was thus left alone to proceed with such enquiries as he might still have sufficient perseverance to make.
These enquiries, it must be confessed, related principally to Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware, but here as many difficulties awaited him as he had met with in the other search; and he was just on the point of giving up the matter in despair, and returning to London to surprise his mourning friends, when a circumstance occurred, which, without throwing the slightest ray of light upon the course which Blanche and her father had taken, served, at all events, to induce Beauchamp to remain in Paris for several days longer than he had intended.
The hotel in which he lodged, at the corner of the Rue de la Paix, unlike most hotels in Paris, had but one staircase; and Beauchamp, who walked up and down this staircase as seldom as possible, had rarely the misfortune of meeting many people upon it. The last day but one, however, of his intended stay, he encountered a lady walking leisurely up; and, as each moved a little on one side, to suffer the other to pass, by a sort of semi-rotation of each upon the axis, their faces came opposite to one another, and Beauchamp recognised Mrs. Darlington while she paid him the same compliment.
"Good gracious, Mr. Burrel!" she exclaimed, much more surprised than was at all proper. "Or Mr. Beauchamp, am I to call you? for people tell me, that the Mr. Burrel I had the pleasure of knowing, was known to others under the name of Beauchamp. But under whatever name you choose, I am most happy to see you; for all your good friends in England told me you were dead."
"They have done me too much honour in every respect, my dear madam," replied Beauchamp. "Those the gods love, you know, die young. But though I must plead guilty to having deceived you, by calling myself names far different from my own; yet believe me, when I assure you that I had no hand in my own death. That was entirely arranged by my friends and relations--though I doubt not, when I go back to England, the public prosecutor will think fit to arraign me forfelo-de-sewith as much justice as the coroner's jury returned a verdict of murder against poor William Delaware."
"Ah, that was a terrible business!" replied Mrs. Darlington. "A terrible business, indeed, poor young man! and I should like to talk it over with you, Mr. Beauchamp--but I dare say that was your carriage waiting, and I will not keep you now; but if you will return at half-past six, and dine with me and the Abbé de ----, who is as deaf as a pug-dog, I will tell you a curious circumstance which has occurred to me since I came here--not about the Delawares, indeed, poor people, but about something that happened just at the same time."
Now every thing that happened at that time was more or less a matter of interest to Henry Beauchamp; and therefore he willingly agreed to dine and hear, according to invitation. A few minutes after the appointed time, he was in the saloon of Madame Darlington's apartments, where he found that lady, with a worthy ex-emigré Abbé--the very sort of man who could dine with a widow lady of any age without scandal.
Beauchamp fully understood thebeinseanceof never being curious about anything, and therefore he listened to all Mrs. Darlington's reasons for being in Paris--how London was of course out of the question in October--how the house she had hired near Emberton had turned out as damp as a fen, and smelt of a wet dog from the garret to the kitchen--how Paris always afforded variety, &c.--without showing the slightest inclination to enquire into the occurrence she had mentioned in the morning. Dinner was announced, and was asrecherchein France as if it had been at Emberton; but not a word took place concerningthe occurrenceMrs. Darlington spending all the leisure moments in marvelling that Mr. Beauchamp and herself could have remained in the same house for four days without discovering their proximity. After dinner, Beauchamp'sbeinseancebegan to get tired, and probably would have broken down entirely, had he not fortunately happened to take up a very beautiful eyeglass, set with emeralds, in the French fashion, which lay upon the table in the saloon.
"Oh dear, that puts me in mind, Mr. Beauchamp!" cried Mrs. Darlington. "It is strange enough; I have twice bought that eyeglass in this very town. Once two days, and once eighteen months, ago. That is the very thing I wished to tell you about. You remember when you did me the favour of dining with me at Emberton; my house was burned down"----
"Var shocken, indeed!" cried the Abbé, who piqued himself upon speaking English. "Terrible shocken great!"
"Well," continued Mrs. Darlington, "that very evening, I left that eyeglass upon the table in the drawing-room; and you remember, I dare say, that I lost all my plate and jewels--indeed, the loss of various things was incalculable--but, however, that glass was amongst the rest; and as it was a sort of pet, I went into a shop the other day to see if I could find anything like it. Well, the jeweller finding out I was English--though how he did so, I am sure I do not know, for I believe I speak French tolerably"----
"Oh, var excellent much!" said the Abbé, who was listening with his most acute ear, bent subserviently to Mrs. Darlington's story. "As one Frenchwomen."
Mrs. Darlington smiled, nodded, and went on. "Well, the man found out that I was an Englishwoman by the carriage, I suppose; and would talk nothing but English all the time, though, he spoke it badly enough. On my describing what I wanted, he said that he had got the very thing; fresh arrived from England three days before. I told him that what I wanted was French; he declared that I must be mistaken, and produced my own eyeglass, with I. D., 'Isabella Darlington' ('What pretty name!' cried the Abbé) on the medallion. I bought it, as you see, and the jeweller assured me that he had purchased it three days before from an English gentleman with black hair and large whiskers."
"Although the description is very exact," answered Beauchamp, smiling, "I can assure you, my dear madam, that I was not the thief--but as it has long struck me that there has been something very mysterious indeed in the whole business of the fire at your house, I should like much to know the name of the jeweller; and if you will favour me with it, will delay my departure for a day or two, in order to make farther enquiries."
Mrs. Darlington thanked Beauchamp warmly for the interest he took in the matter; and the address being given and put down, the young Englishman declared he would go that night and take the first steps towards investigating the business fully. Accordingly taking his leave, he sauntered out into the Place Vendome, and thence into one of the principal streets in the neighbourhood of the Tuileries, where, entering the shop of the jeweller, he bought some trifling article, as a fair excuse for indulging in that sort of gossip which he thought most likely to elicit some facts.
The Frenchman was exactly the sort of person with whom one would desire to gossip. He was even more urbane than the editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, fond of a little conversation on any subject--love, war, or politics--with those who came to buy his nick-nacks, and had his small fund of wit, of sentiment, and of anecdotism--not more of either than would have lain conveniently in a vinaigrette, yet quite sufficient to give piquancy to his vivacious nothings. Beauchamp soon led him to the subject of Mrs. Darlington's eyeglass; but he quitted it in a moment, declaring that it was a droll occurrence, but nothing to what had happened since.
He always had Galignani's Messenger on his counter, he said, to amuse the English gentlemen who dealt with him; and the other night, as he was sitting alone, abeau jeune hommewho had been there once before, came in to offer him some other article for sale. "While I was examining what the stranger brought," continued the jeweller, "the young Englishman took up the newspaper, and then suddenly laid it down, but after a moment or two, he took it up again; and then I saw that he had just lighted upon the horrible murder, that has been lately committed in your country by a Captain in the Navy. Well, sir, when I looked in his face, he had turned as pale as a table-cloth, and was so agitated that I should have thought he was the assassin himself, had he not been too young to be a Captain in your Navy. He read it out every word, however, though I could clearly see that he was very much disturbed, and I am sure that he was some relation either of the man who was killed, or of the murderer."
"How old was he?" demanded Beauchamp, remembering the extreme youthfulness of Captain Delaware's appearance.
"Oh, he could not be twenty!" answered the jeweller. "He was very fair too, with fine light hair, tall, and well-made too--Do you think it could be the assassin, Monsieur?'"
"Certainly not!" replied Beauchamp, who, though morally convinced that it was Captain Delaware whom the jeweller had seen, was still more convinced that he had nothing to do with the murder. "The man who committed this crime is quite a different person; I know the gentleman who has been here, as you describe, and I wish much to see him. Have you any idea of his address?"
"None whatever, sir!" replied the jeweller, "but I dare say he will be here again soon; for I bought the bijoux he had to sell, and he said that he had more, and would return."
"Well, it is of no great consequence," replied Beauchamp, assuming as much indifference as possible; "but in case he does come, be so good as to tell him that Mr. Henry Burrel is at the Hotel de ----, Rue de la Paix; and would be very glad to see him. Tell him also, that, I shall be at home andaloneon every evening during the week, from the hour of seven till the hour of ten."
The jeweller promised to deliver the message punctually; and, to guard against all mistakes, Beauchamp put down in writing his assumed name, and the number of his apartments in the hotel. He then--to do full justice to Mrs. Darlington's business--tried to bring the jeweller back to the story of the eyeglass; but it was all in vain. The man was like one of those birds whose correct ornithological name I do not know, but which boys call water-wagtails, and which go hopping from stone to stone, pausing lightly balanced on each for a moment, and then springing on to another, without ever returning to the same. It was in vain Beauchamp tried to elicit any farther information; he skipped on from subject to subject, and nothing farther could be made of him.
Tired of the endeavour, the young Englishman at length rose and returned to his hotel, bidding the man send the trinkets he had bought. He there reported his ill success to Mrs. Darlington; and taking measures to guard against intrusion at the hour he had promised to be alone on the following nights, he waited anxiously for Captain Delaware's coming, with that degree of uncertainty--as to whether the young officer would ever revisit the jeweller, and whether he would come even if he did receive the message,--which Beauchamp could not endure with that feeling, or rather assumption, of indifference, with which he sometimes cheated himself.
From seven till ten on the two following nights, he paced his little saloon with a degree of anxiety which he had hardly ever felt before. Every step upon the stairs caught his ear--every voice in the anteroom, where he had placed his own servant on guard, made him pause and listen; but it was all in vain; and on both nights he heard ten, and even eleven, strike before he abandoned the consolatory reflection that clocks might differ, and that the object of his expectation might still appear.
As he now felt certain, however, that William Delaware was in the same city with himself, he resolved to wait on in Paris; and, if the message he had left proved vain, to endeavour once more to discover his dwelling by other means.