… “The author of that crime,Inconceivable—is he my father?”
… “The author of that crime,Inconceivable—is he my father?”
… “The author of that crime,Inconceivable—is he my father?”
… “The author of that crime,
Inconceivable—is he my father?”
Edmund,on his return to the ball room, made the best of his way, scarcely conscious what he did, to the very spot he had left; where, fixing his eyes again on the same object on which he had been gazing when called away by the juggler, he fell into a profound reverie. “What could have been the motive of the violence offered him? To whom could his existence—to whom could his destruction be of so much importance? He was not then too contemptible to have enemies!” A strange sensation, approaching to satisfaction, accompanied the thought.
The bustle attendant on changing partners, reminded him that Julia was engaged to him for the next set; he put in his claim, and was soon recalled to a sense of pleasure, for Julia was leaning on his arm. A shudder followed, however, as he thought of the mysterious words of the ruffian stranger. Again and again he told himself that they had been uttered but to throw him off his guard. While the villain spoke, had not his eye been ever watchful? had not his hand grasped the drawn sword beneath his cloak? evidently awaiting a moment of excited feeling, to strike the blow the more securely. But this solution of the affair, rational and just as it was, did not suffice to set his mind at rest. Might he not be connected with Julia’s family in some way as disgraceful to himself as fatal to his mad attachment? Might not some secret agent have been in consequence employed to put an end to his miserable existence, lest he should entaildisgrace and crime on all connected with him? There were then beings connected with him! Who were those beings? and where were they? A thought of horror next crossed his mind: could it have been a parent who had employed the murderer’s hand, to blot out shame with blood? and his heart shrunk from a surmise too dreadful to be dwelt upon.
It had been previously arranged that the dance now about to commence was to take place in another apartment. The couples accordingly set out; Julia and Edmund led their own party, while before, behind, and on either side, moved a consolidated crowd in the same direction; so that retreat from the relative position once taken up was quite out of the question. Our hero and heroine were, consequently, obliged to keep, for a considerable time, a very painful situation in the immediate rear of a talkative party, who, without once looking behind them, proceeded with the following dialogue.
“We seem to abound in naval characters to-night,” observed a gentleman.
“You know it is quite a naval affair,” said a naval officer.
“True; commemoration of the battle of ⸺.”
“The day is worth remembering, sir!”
“Is Lord Fitz-Ullin here to-night?”
“No, but Captain Montgomery is, I understand.”
“Which is Captain Montgomery?” cried a lady.
“Which is Captain Montgomery?” said a second lady.
“Who is Captain Montgomery?” with emphasis on the wordwho, said a third lady, who was, by her own size and weight, making way for two slim little girls, her daughters, who, by the pressure of the crowd, were squeezed into the fat sides of their mother, like the off-shoots of a bulbous root.
“That is a question not so easily answered,” replied an equally fat gentleman.
“Is he any relation of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s?” enquired some one.
“None whatever,” replied an elderly naval officer, dryly.
“Lord Fitz-Ullin, then, was merely his patron?” said a young naval officer. “Merely,” resumed the elder, “and one half the talent and spirit, shown by Captain Montgomery, would have ensured to any young man Fitz-Ullin’s favour: he is quite enthusiastic about the service.”
“Fitz-Ullin was a very gay fellow in his youth,” observed a corpulent gentleman, “and Captain Montgomery being of unknown origin, may, after all, be no very distant relation of his lordship’s.”
“Very improbable!” rejoined the elder officer, “Fitz-Ullin would give one half his paternal estates for such a son, even in the way to which you allude.”
“His lordship has a son?”
“Yes, but Ormond, though a good-natured fellow, is quite unfit for his profession.”
“Strange that, too!” puffed out the corpulent gentleman, “for he is strikingly like his father.”
“There are some officers on before us,” said one of the young ladies, “I wonder is Captain Montgomery among them!” “I quite long to see him, I understand he is so handsome,” said a third lady. “He seems to be a general favourite with the ladies,” said the younger officer: “he is to be married shortly, I hear, to Lady Susan Morven: luck that! she has fifty thousand, I’m told.” “To Lady Julia L⸺, I have heard,” interposed the elder officer. “I beg your pardon,” said the fat lady, “Lady Julia L⸺ is to be married immediately to the Marquis of H⸺.” “A more suitable match, no doubt,” replied the elder officer; “but heiresses will sometimes please themselves, you know; and I haveheard, that Lady Julia L⸺ has been attached to Captain Montgomery from her infancy; and that she is determined to marry him in spite of all her friends, as soon as she shall be of age.” Just at this particular moment, Edmund found the impelling torrent press so weightily against his fair companion, that it was absolutely imperative upon him to draw her closer to himself than she had been.
“And Lord L⸺’s great estates,” added the younger officer, “must go between his daughters, at his death, whoever they marry; so the gallant Captain knows what he is about, it seems.”
“He is accustomed to capturing rich prizes!” said the corpulent gentleman. A laugh followed this most original piece of wit.
“The friends,” interposed the plump lady, “can never consent to a young woman of her high connexions, throwing herself away upon a mere soldier of fortune.”
“I have always understood,” observed another gentleman, “that Lady Julia L⸺ was engaged to her cousin, Mr. St. Aubin. Indeed I had it from one who, I think, said that he had it from St. Aubin himself; or, at least, that St. Aubin admitted it.”
All this passed among a group, who, though masked, evidently knew each other. Their arrival at the apartment they had been all this time imperceptibly approaching, and the consequent spreading of the crowd, at length enabled Julia and Edmund to hasten from the vicinity of the party, which had so long annoyed them. Edmund, notwithstanding his causes for abstraction, was aroused by topics so interesting; he thought of the strange aside speeches of Henry, during the mummery of the juggler, and longed to know how Julia would treat the subject of her supposed engagement to her cousin. As to what had been said of himself, he dare not allude to it, he dare noteven think of it. At length he ventured to whisper a sort of introductory sentence, in the shape of an unmeaning compliment, saying—“How enviable a lot would Henry’s be, if there were any truth in the surmises of those people!” Julia blushed, but made no reply. So absurd a report did not seem to require contradiction; and, as she was too innocent to think any compliment of Edmund’s unmeaning, his implied question was lost in the pleasure of hearing him say, that to be preferred by her would be an enviable lot; nor did she perceive that her silence and her blush had at least surprised, if not alarmed him.
The dance now commenced, and put an end to conversation. It concluded, and Edmund, as he led Julia out of the set, began to say something about the necessity he should be under, of leaving Arandale the next morning at a very early hour; in pursuance of the journey, which was this morning so agreeablyinterrupted. At this moment Julia’s hand was claimed by Lord K⸺.
Previous to sitting down to supper, the whole assembly assumed an appearance of uninterrupted splendour. Every coarse or unbecoming disguise, was exchanged for its very opposite of elegance, or magnificence; every one being determined to look as well as possible unmasked. The young lady who cried primroses, proved to be the first public singer of the day; the remainder of the group of flower girls, the rest of the best set, engaged by Lord Arandale for the occasion. They performed, during supper, some of the best scenes of a favourite opera. A ballet followed, led by the pert miss of the wheelbarrow, who was an excellent dancer.
Those, however, who best knew the Earl, could perceive, notwithstanding the efforts he made to entertain his company, that during this evening of unparalleled gaiety and splendour,there was a slight shade of melancholy on his brow; and a tendency, while he sat at supper, to that, scarcely observable, movement of the head, before mentioned.
“To the lake with this; and, here, take some of these:And mingle some that grow upon the brink,And mar the sod. I’ll bear the body hence.”… “He is cold—Oh, he is dead!”
“To the lake with this; and, here, take some of these:And mingle some that grow upon the brink,And mar the sod. I’ll bear the body hence.”… “He is cold—Oh, he is dead!”
“To the lake with this; and, here, take some of these:And mingle some that grow upon the brink,And mar the sod. I’ll bear the body hence.”
“To the lake with this; and, here, take some of these:
And mingle some that grow upon the brink,
And mar the sod. I’ll bear the body hence.”
… “He is cold—Oh, he is dead!”
… “He is cold—Oh, he is dead!”
Foronce the bagpipes were not played under the windows of Arandale Castle at ten; indeed it was nearer twelve when the well known sounds were heard.
Yet late as was the hour, Edmund did not appear at the breakfast table.
His adventure of the night before with the ruffian who had obtained admittance in the disguise of a juggler, having been mentioned by Lord Arandale to Lady Arandale; by her Ladyship to Mrs. Morven; by Mrs. Morvento the General; by the people on the grounds, who had witnessed a part of the business, to all the servants; and by the servants to their respective masters and mistresses, it was now universally talked of. By those we mean, who could talk; some there were, who could not trust their lips with the utterance of a single syllable. Who could thus desire the amiable Edmund’s destruction, baffled all conjecture.
There was but one rational supposition, the Earl said. The villain must have been employed by some one acquainted with those concealed facts, which had hitherto surrounded their young friend’s fate with mystery; some one whose interest would materially suffer by the development of that mystery; while at the same time there was most probably some event about to take place, which threatened to produce that development.
“Then, Edmund must be still in danger!” exclaimed Frances, starting upright from herseat, and clasping her hands. Julia sat trembling, and as pale as death; but neither moved nor spoke. The butler entered with rolls. He was asked if he could be certain that no one had been admitted without a ticket. He was quite certain! He had, himself, taken the ticket of each person who passed the first hall. Even the little pedlar had presented a card, which, happening to be of similar dimensions to the tickets, he, the butler, unfortunately, had not examined at the time; and which, when examined afterwards, proved to be one belonging to the man’s shop in Bath. This was the only ticket which was not correct, of the full number issued. It was strange! Tickets had not been given to any friends to give to friends of theirs; with the exception of a very few to Edmund himself, and to Henry, for naval officers of their acquaintance.
When the subject had been thus discussed, in all its bearings, the Earl, who still lookedserious, and even melancholy, said, “I am not sorry that Captain Montgomery has taken Arthur with him; it would have been a sad scene for the poor little fellow! Our friend, Sir Archibald Oswald,” he added, after a solemn pause, and looking round the company, “is no more! The state of his mind will, I trust, acquit him in the eyes of heaven, as it undoubtedly must in the judgment of men; but, there is reason to fear that our unhappy friend has been accessary to his own death. His body was yesterday found in the lake by the work people who were preparing for the illuminations. Duncan very properly suppressed the circumstance, till he had communicated it privately to me; and I judged it best to permit the entertainment offered to our friends to proceed, without checking the pleasure of the company by the introduction of so melancholy a subject.”
Miss Morven thought that Mr. St. Aubinwas certainly a very amiable young man: he showed so much feeling. He actually turned quite pale, when her uncle mentioned, Sir Archibald’s body being found in the lake.
Many of course were the exclamations of pity and surprise. “It will be quite a change of scene,” continued the Earl, “I must send for the proper persons; and, if their verdict is, as I have no doubt it will be, insanity, I must give my poor friend a suitable funeral.”
“Each fiercely grapples with his foe.”… “Have I then murder’d thee!”
“Each fiercely grapples with his foe.”… “Have I then murder’d thee!”
“Each fiercely grapples with his foe.”
“Each fiercely grapples with his foe.”
… “Have I then murder’d thee!”
… “Have I then murder’d thee!”
Toaccount for Sir Archibald Oswald’s disappearance from Arandale, and the subsequent discovery of his body in the lake, we must accompany him in a walk before breakfast, on the morning after he had evinced so much emotion the previous evening; first of a furious description, when Henry’s voice arrested his attention; and finally, of a tender and subdued nature, when, on hearing Julia sing, all violence had not only been allayed, but, unconscious tears had flowed over his haggard countenance.
Having retired without supper, and, consequently, without the excess in wine, which, with him, too frequently formed the principal part of that meal, the unhappy Oswald slept better than was his custom. He rose earlier; he felt some degree of composure; a lucid interval was probably approaching.
He wandered into the deep woods that surround Arandale Castle. The solitude they afforded was of a cheering and animated kind. Stately deer crossed his path; birds sang, and peacocks screamed in every branch, and the cawing rooks were, as usual, in busy motion, in and over the tops of all the high old trees.
The path he chanced to take, led him to the sheet of water before noticed. Our old acquaintances, the two swans, were slowly sailing on its calm surface. Half the quiet bosom of the lake was in deep shadow from the great trees, which seemed resting the weight of their branches upon it. The other half shone brightlyin the early sun; and every leaf, every blade of grass, which, amid so much cover, the rays of light could reach, was glittering with dew. The morning air was exhilarating. Oswald’s broken heart felt soothed by the influence of surrounding objects. He stood contemplating the scene with calmer feelings than were common to him. There was a peculiar stillness in the moment; the next, the sound of approaching footsteps fell on his ear. He looked round, and beheld, as he believed, one who had long been the object of his search, and of his hatred, coming towards him.
Oswald stamped on the earth, uttered a yell, at once of triumph and defiance. His eyes flashed with the fire of phrenzy; he gnashed his teeth; his whole countenance became distorted with the horrible rage of a maniac. Henry paused! for it was, indeed, this unfortunate son of a desperate father, whom the bewildered perceptions of the madman had mistakenfor that father. A father whose very memory could thus entail on his offspring, not only the wild vengeance of others, but almost a necessity in himself to become the perpetrator of crime, actual, if not intentional.
Henry saw, and endeavoured to avoid Oswald; but the unhappy being crossed his path, and seized on his throat with violence, reiterating, “Villain! villain! villain!” accusing him of deeds of the blackest dye, and calling upon him with threats and imprecations to restore the rights of his son! At first Henry, to do him justice, only sought to escape; next, only to defend himself: but when it became evident that the maniac’s purpose was to put him to death, and that, with that purpose, was coupled an insane glee at the immediate prospect of its fulfilment; and that, added to all this, Henry began to feel himself actually threatened with strangulation; his own angry passions kindled, and he put his strength to the struggle. Oswald,however, having at first fastened on Henry’s cravat, maintained his hold with the ferocious tenacity of a bull-dog, and pursued his advantage with the supernatural force derived from phrenzy. There were moments when Henry gave himself up for lost! It was now that he forgot his assailant’s age and imbecility of mind, and with all the strength of youthful sinews clasped his arms round the old man’s waist, and, in a few seconds, brought him to the ground. Here the sight of Oswald’s grey hairs lying amid the grass and fallen leaves might have recalled better feelings; but even here the poor maniac’s fury was unabated: his countenance still expressed his horrible intention, and his hand still grasped the cravat of Henry. In the latter the instinct of self-preservation grew each moment more fierce.
The efforts of Oswald, even in this prostrate position, continued for a time as frantic as ever. When, suddenly, all became still: thehands had relaxed their hold, and Henry gazed in mute horror and unavailing remorse on a passive—nay, a lifeless form!—himself as motionless.
“Self-defence is not murder!” he at length murmured. “Self-defence is not murder!” he repeated. But no false arguments could stifle the shocking conviction to which his suddenly cooled faculties had awakened. The conviction that a too fatal fierceness had accompanied the pressure with which he had held the fallen madman to the earth after immediate danger to himself had ceased. The vital breath, suspended by wild excitement and frantic exertion, might have, would have returned had not that cruelly continued pressure impeded the efforts of nature.
Such feelings, however, shortly yielded to a dread of the consequences of what had happened; attended thus by, at least, very suspicious circumstances.
He stood up, and looked all round him. It was solitude everywhere; and Oswald’s hat had rolled into the lake. He seized the thought, drew the body towards the margin, and pushed it in also.
It sunk, and the water closed over it. Henry gazed on the spot whence it had disappeared, till the last spreading circle had melted away; then, turned to depart. But, started and shuddered on beholding full, attentive eyes fixed upon him, as it were observing his movements! For a moment, he felt detected; but the next, recovered from his panic, for the eyes were only those of a stately deer. The animal stood at a little distance, beneath a tree; his face turned full round, his head proudly erect, sustaining the weight of his branching horns.
Henry envied him! And now striking hastily into a walk, that led towards the Castle, he debated with himself, in great agitation, whether he should mention what had happened toLord Arandale, pleading the dreadful necessity of self-defence, against a maniac, who would else have taken his life; or, whether he should remain silent, and suffer it to be supposed that Oswald had drowned himself. That such a man should commit an act of suicide could not surprise any one, and Henry, therefore, determined on the latter alternative.
It was on this occasion that he entered the breakfast-room on the first morning of the races, just as Lady Arandale was enquiring of the butler, if any one had been in Sir Archibald’s room. It was at this breakfast that Lady Susan had observed on Henry’s not having any appetite.
It may now too be imagined what his feelings of consternation must have been, when, within an hour after, little Arthur, mistaking him for Edmund, laid hold of the side of his coat, and asked him, in a cautious whisper, where his poor papa was.
The body of Sir Archibald Oswald, over which we have seen the peaceful surface of the waters close, rose again at the usual time. But before any one had chanced to visit a place so sequestered, both it and the hat had been gently borne along towards a narrow outlet, at the further end of the lake, and received into the strait, or pass, which was too confined to allow of their further progress.
And here they might still have lain, had not the work people, mentioned by the Earl, found it necessary to clear this pass.
END OF VOL. II.
Gunnell and Shearman, 13, Salisbury Square.
Transcriber’s NotesThe cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.The errata for this volume (II) have been corrected.
Transcriber’s Notes
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.
The errata for this volume (II) have been corrected.