The countess looked up. Claudia read the expression of her face, which seemed to say, prepare for good news.
"Oh, yes, there is! there is!" exclaimed Claudia, suddenly snatching the paper, and turning to the telegraphic column, and then, with a cry of joy, sinking into her seat.
"Let me read it to you, my dear, you are incapable of doing so," said Berenice, gently taking the paper from her hand and reading aloud the following paragraph:
"News of the 'Oceana.'—The Oriental and Peninsular Steam Packet Company's ship 'Albatross' has arrived at Liverpool, bringing all the passengers and crew of the 'Oceana,' wrecked on the banks of Newfoundland. They were picked up by the 'Santiago,' bound for Havana, and taken to that port, whence they sailed by the 'Cadiz' for the port of Cadiz, whence lastly they were brought by the 'Albatross' to Liverpool. Among the passengers saved were Chief Justice Merlin of the United States Supreme Court, Ishmael Worth, Esquire, a distinguished member of the Washington bar, and Professor Erasmus Kerr, of the Glasgow University. The shipwrecked passengers have all arrived in good health and spirits, and have already dispersed to their various destinations."
"This is too much joy! Oh, Berenice, it is too much joy!" criedClaudia, bursting into tears and throwing herself into the arms ofLady Hurstmonceux, and weeping freely on the sympathetic bosom ofthat faithful friend.
"Claudia, dear," whispered that gentle lady, "go to your room and shut yourself in, and kneel and return thanks to God for this his great mercy. And so shall your spirits be calmed and strengthened."
Claudia ceased weeping, kissed her kind monitress, and went and complied with her counsel. And very fervent was the thanksgiving that went up to Heaven from her relieved and grateful heart. She had finished her prayers and had arisen from her knees and was sitting by her writing-table indulging in a reverie of anticipation, when a bustle below stairs attracted her attention.
She listened.
Yes, it was the noise of an arrival!
With a joyous presentiment of what had come to the house, Claudia rushed out of the room and down the stairs to the lower entrance hall, and the next moment found herself clasped to the bosom of her father.
For a few moments neither spoke. The embrace was a fervent, earnest, but silent one.
The judge was the first to break the spell.
"Oh, my child! my child! Thank God that I find you alive and well!" he exclaimed, in a broken voice.
"Oh, my father, my dear, dear father!" began Claudia; but she broke down, burst into tears, and wept upon his bosom.
He held her there, soothing her with loving words and tender caresses, as he had been accustomed to do when she was but a child coming to him with her childish troubles. When Claudia had exhausted her passion of tears, she looked up and said:
"But, papa, you have not been in the drawing room yet? You hare not seen Lady Hurstmonceux?"
"No, my dear, I have but just arrived. Claudia, immediately upon my landing I took the first train north, and reached Edinboro' this morning. I sent my party on to Magruder's Hotel and took a fly and drove immediately out here. I have but just been admitted to the house and sent my card in to the hostess. And, ah, I see that my messenger has returned."
A servant in livery came up, bowed, and said:
"My lady directs me to say to you, sir, that she will see you immediately in the drawing room, unless you would prefer to go first to the apartments which are prepared for you, sir."
The judge hesitated, and then turned to his daughter and whispered the inquiry:
"How do I look, Claudia? Presentable?"
Lady Vincent ran her eyes over the traveler and answered:
"Not at all presentable, papa. You look just as one might expect you to do—black with smoke and dust and cinders, as if you had traveled in the train all night."
"Which of course I did."
"And I think you would be all the better for a visit to your rooms, papa. Come, I will show you the way, for I am as much at home here as ever I was at dear old Tanglewood. James," she said, turning to the footman who had brought the message, "you need not wait. I will show my papa his rooms; but you may order breakfast for him, for I dare say he has had none. Come, papa!"
And so saying Claudia marshaled her father upstairs to the handsome suite of apartments that had been made ready for him. When he had renovated his toilet, he declared himself ready to go below and be presented to his hostess. Claudia conducted him downstairs and into "my lady's little drawing room."
How deep, how thorough felt the glowOf rapture, kindling out of woe;How exquisite one single dropOf bliss, that sparkling to the topOf misery's cup, is keenly quaffedThough death must follow soon the draught.—Moore.
The countess was sitting on one of the armchairs near the fire whenClaudia led the judge up before her, saying only:
"Lady Hurstmonceux, my father."
The countess arose and held out her hand with a smile of welcome, saying:
"It gives me much joy to see you safe, after all your dangers, JudgeMerlin. Pray sit near the fire."
The judge retained her hand in his own for a moment, while he bowed over it and answered:
"I thank you for your kind expressions, dear Lady Hurstmonceux. But, oh! what terms shall I find strong enough to thank you for the noble support you have given my daughter in her great need?"
"Believe me, I was very happy to be serviceable to Lady Vincent," replied the countess gently. Then, turning to Claudia, she said:
"Your father has probably not had breakfast."
"No; but I assumed the privilege of ordering it for him," replied the latter.
"The 'privilege' was yours without assumption, my dear. You did exactly right," said the countess.
"I see that my daughter is quite at home with you, madam," observed the judge.
"Oh, I adopted her. I told her that I should be her mother until the arrival of her father," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, smiling.
At this moment the footman put his head in at the door to say that the judge's breakfast was served. Lady Hurstmonceux led the way to the breakfast parlor, and then saying:
"You will make your father comfortable here, Claudia, I hope," she bowed and left them alone together.
Claudia sat down to the table and began to pour out the coffee.James, the footman, was in attendance.
"Dismiss the servant, my dear," said the judge, as he took his seat as near to his daughter as the conveniences of the table would allow.
"You may retire, James. I will ring if you are wanted."
The man bowed and went out. The father and daughter looked up; their eyes met and filled with tears.
"Oh, my child, how much we have to say to each other!" sighed the judge.
"Yes, but, dear papa, drink your coffee first. You really look as though you needed it very much," replied Claudia affectionately.
The judge complied with her advice; though, if the truth must be told, he ate and drank indiscreetly fast in order to get through soon and be at liberty to talk to his daughter. When he arose from the table Claudia rang the bell for the service to be removed, and then led the way again to my lady's little drawing room.
It was deserted. Lady Hurstmonceux had evidently left it that the father and daughter might converse with each other unembarrassed by the presence of a third person.
"My dear," said the judge, as he seated himself on the sofa beside his daughter, wound his arm around her shoulders, and looked wistfully into her face, "do you know that I am surprised to see you looking so well? You must possess a great deal of fortitude, Claudia, to have passed through so much trouble as you have and show so few signs of suffering as you do."
"Ah, papa! if you had arrived a few days ago and seen me then, you would have had good cause to say I looked well. But, for the last week, the intense anxiety I have felt on your account has worn me considerably."
"My poor girl! Yes, I know how that must have been. The news of the shipwreck arrived long before we reached England, and everyone must have given us up for lost."
"I did not. Oh, no! I could not! I still hoped; but, oh, with what an agony of hope!"
"Such hope, my child, is worse than despair."
"Oh, no! I thought so then. I do not think so now; now that I have you beside me."
"Now that it is ended. But, oh, my dear child, how hard it was for you to have anxiety for my fate added to all your other troubles!"
"Papa, anxiety for your fate was my only trouble," said Claudia gravely.
"How! what! your only trouble, Claudia? I do not understand you in the least."
"All my other troubles had passed away. And now that anxiety is at an end, that trouble is also passed away and I have none."
"None, Claudia? How you perplex me, my dear."
"None, papa! I left them all behind at Castle Cragg."
"I do not—cannot comprehend you, my dear."
"No, papa, you cannot comprehend me; no one could possibly comprehend me who had not been placed in something like my own position. But—can you not imagine that when a victim has been stretched upon the rack and tortured by executioners, it is comfort enough simply to be taken off it? Or when a sinner has been in purgatory tormented by fiends, it is heaven enough only to be out of it? Oh, papa, that is not exaggeration! That is something like what I suffered at Castle Cragg; something like what I enjoy in being away from it. Think of it, papa," said Claudia, gulping down the hysterical sob that arose to her throat; "think of it! me, an honorable woman, the daughter of Christian parents, to find myself living in the house, sitting at the table in daily communication with creatures that no honest man or pure woman would ever willingly approach! Think of me being not only in the company, but in the power, and at the mercy of such wretches!"
"'Think,' Claudia! I have thought until my brain has nearly burst. Oh, I shall—no matter what I shall do! I will threaten no longer, but, by all my hopes of salvation, I will act. The remorseless monster! the infamous villain! I do not know how you lived through it all, Claudia!"
"I do not know myself, papa. Oh, sir, I never fully realized my life at Castle Cragg until I got away from it and could look back on it from a distance. For the trouble then grew around me gradually; slowly astonishing me, if you can conceive of such a thing; benumbing my heart; stupefying my brain; deadening my sensibilities; else I could not have endured it so quietly. Ah, it would have ended in death, though—death of the body, perhaps death of the soul! But still I knew enough, felt enough, to experience and appreciate the infinite relief. of being delivered from it. Oh, papa, looking back upon that home of horror, that den of infamy, I understand in what hell consists—not in consuming fire, but in the company of devils! Oh, sir, if you could once place yourself in my position and feel what it was for me to leave that polluted atmosphere of sensuality, treachery, and hatred, and to come into this pure air of refinement, truth, and love, you would understand how it is that I can feel no trouble now!"
"I do; but still I wonder to see you so well."
"Oh, sir, you know, severe as my tortures were, they were only superficial, only skin-deep; they did not reach the springs of my spirits. That is the reason why, in being relieved, I am so perfectly at ease."
"Then you never loved that scoundrel, Claudia?"
"No, father, I never loved him. Therefore, the memory of his villainy does not haunt me, as otherwise it might. Not loving him, I ought never to have married him. If I had not, I should have escaped all the suffering."
"Ah, Claudia, would to Heaven you never had married him," sighed the judge, without intending to cast the least reproach on his daughter.
She felt the reproach, however, and exclaimed, with passionate earnestness:
"Oh, father, do not blame me—do not! I could not help it! Oh, often I have examined my conscience on that score and asked myself if I could! And the answer has always come—no, with my nature, my passions, my pride, my ambition, I could not help doing as I have done!"
"Could not help marrying a man you could not love, Claudia?"
"No, papa, no! There were passions in my nature stronger than love. These spurred me on to my fate. I was born with a great deal of pride, inherited from—no one knows how many ancestors. This should have been curbed, trained, directed into worthy channels. But it was not. I was left to develop naturally, with the aid only of intellectual education. I did develop, from a proud, frank, high- spirited girl into a vain, scheming, ambitious woman. I married for a title. And this is the end. How true is it that 'pride goeth before a fall and a haughty temper before destruction!'"
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, every word you speak wounds me like a sword- thrust! It was my 'theory' that did it all, I said I would let my trees and my daughter grow up as nature intended them to do. And what is the result? Tanglewood has grown into an inextricable wilderness that nothing but a fire could clear, and my daughter's life has run to waste!" groaned the judge, covering his face with his hands.
"Papa, dear, dearest papa, do not grieve so! I did not mean to give you pain. I did not mean to breathe the slightest reflection upon so kind a father as you have always been to me. I meant only to explain myself a little. But I wish I had not spoken so. Forget what I have said, papa," said Claudia, tenderly caressing her father.
"Let it all pass, my dear child," said the judge, embracing her.
"And, papa, my life has not run to waste; do not think it. I told you that my troubles had not touched the springs of my soul; they have not. Is not my mind as strong and my heart as warm and my spirit as sweet as ever? Papa, this day I am a better woman for all the troubles I have passed through. I have never before been much comfort to you, my poor papa; but I will go with you to Tanglewood and make your home happier than it has ever been since mamma died. And you will find that my life shall be redeemed from waste."
"Claudia, are you sure that you do not love that rascal—not even a little?"
"Papa, I do not even hate him; now judge if I ever could have loved him."
But the judge was no metaphysician, and he looked puzzled.
"Papa, if I ever had loved that man, do you not suppose that his unfaithfulness, neglect, and insults, to say nothing of his last foul wrong against me, would have turned all my love into hatred? But I never loved him, therefore all that he could do would not provoke my hatred. Papa, he is as much below my hatred as my love."
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, that you should be compelled to speak so of one whom you made your husband!"
"Papa, dear, you asked me a question and I have replied to it truthfully."
"My dear, I had a motive for putting that question. I wished to know whether a spark of love for that man survived in your heart to make his punishment a matter of painful interest to you. For to vindicate you, Claudia, it may become necessary to prosecute him with the utmost rigor of the law; necessary, in fact, to disgrace and ruin him," said the judge solemnly.
"Papa, dear, what are you talking about? Prosecute him to the utmost extent of the law? Disgrace and ruin him? Why, it appears to me that you do not know the circumstances, as of course you cannot. He has schemed so successfully, papa, that he has everything his own way. All the evidence, the false but damning evidence, is in his favor and against me. It seems to me, reflecting coolly upon the circumstances, to be quite impossible that he should be punished or I should be vindicated—in this world at least."
"Claudia, I know more of these circumstances than you think I do. I know more of them than you do; and I repeat that, in order to vindicate your honor fully, it may be necessary to prosecute Malcolm, Lord Vincent, with the utmost rigor of the law; to bring him to the felon's dock; to send him to the hulks. Now, are you willing that this should be done?"
Claudia turned very pale and answered:
"Let the man have justice, papa, if it places him on the scaffold."
"There are two courses open to us, Claudia. The first is—simply to let him alone until he brings his suit for divorce, and then to meet him on that ground with such testimony as shall utterly defeat him and destroy his plea. In that case you will be vindicated from the charge that he has brought against you, but not from the reproach that, however undeserved, will attach to a woman who has been the defendant in a divorce trial, and he will go unpunished. The second course is to prosecute him at once in the criminal court for certain of his crimes that have come to my knowledge, and so put him out of the possibility of suing for a divorce. And in that case your honor would go unquestioned, and he would be condemned to a felon's fate— penal servitude for years. Now, Claudia, I place the man's destiny in your hands. Shall we defend ourselves against him in a divorce court, or shall we prosecute him in a criminal court?"
"Papa," said Claudia, hesitating, and then speaking low, "what doesIshmael advise?"
"Ishmael? How did you know that he was with me, my dear?"
"I saw his name in the list of passengers, and I knew that he had come on with you as your private counselor."
"Yes, he did, at a vast sacrifice of his business; but then I never knew Worth to shrink from any self-sacrifice."
"What is his advice?" asked Claudia, in a low voice.
"He does more than advise; in this matter he dictates—I had almost said he commands; at least he insists that the divorce suit shall not be permitted to come on; that it shall be stopped by the arrest of Lord Vincent upon criminal charges that we shall be able to prove upon him. And that after the conviction of the viscount you shall bring suit for a divorce from him; for that it would not be well that your fate should remain linked to that of a felon."
"Then, papa, let it be as Mr. Worth says; and if the prosecution should place the viscount on the scaffold—let it place him there."
"It will not go so far as that, my dear—not in this century. If he had lived in the last century, and amused himself as he has done in this, he would have swung for it, that is certain."
"Papa, what is it that you have found out about him? Was he implicated in the death of poor Ailsie Dunbar? And, if so, how did you find it out? Tell me."
"My dearest, we have both much to tell each other. But I wish to hear your story first. Remember, Claudia, those alarming letters you sent me were very meager in their details. Tell me everything, my child; everything from the time you left me until the time you met me again."
"Papa, dear, it is a long, grievous, terrible story. I do not know how you will bear it. You are sensitive, excitable, impetuous. I scarcely dare to tell you. I fear to see how you will bear it. I dread its effects upon you."
"Claudia, my dearest, conceal nothing; tell me all; and I promise to restrain my emotions and listen to you calmly."
Upon this Claudia commenced the narrative of her sufferings from the moment of parting with her father at Boston to the moment of meeting with him at Cameron Court. The reader is already acquainted with the story, and does not need to hear Claudia's narration. Judge Merlin also knew much of it; as much as old Katie had been able to impart to him; but he wished to hear a more intelligent version of it from his daughter. It was, as she had said, a long, sorrowful, terrible story; such as it was not in the nature of woman to recite calmly. Some parts of it were told with pale cheeks, faltering tones, and falling tears; other parts were told with fiery blushes, flashing eyes, and clenched hands.
At its conclusion Claudia said:
"There, papa, I have hidden nothing. I have told you everything. Now at last you will believe me when I tell you how perfectly relieved I feel only to be out of that purgatory—only to be away from those fiends! Now at last you will see how it is that I can say without ruth, 'Let Malcolm, Lord Vincent, have justice, though that justice consign him to penal servitude, or to the gallows!' But, papa, when I said I had no trouble left, I spoke in momentary forgetfulness of my poor servants; Heaven forgive me for it! Though, really, uncertainty about their fate is the only care I have."
"My dear," said the judge, who had comported himself with wonderful calmness through the trying hour of Claudia's narration; "my dear, cast that care to the winds. Your servants are safe and well and near at hand."
"'Safe and well, and near at hand!' Oh, papa, are you certain—quite certain?" exclaimed Claudia, in joy modified by doubt.
"Quite certain, my dearest, since I myself lodged them at Magruder'sHotel this morning," said the judge.
"Oh, thank Heaven!" exclaimed Claudia fervently. "But, papa, tell me all about it. When, where, and how were they found?"
"About three weeks ago, in Havana, by Ishmael," answered the judge, speaking directly to the point.
His daughter looked so amazed that he hastened to say:
"It is easily understood, Claudia. You mentioned in the course of your narrative that you suspected the viscount of having spirited away the negroes. Your suspicion was correct. Through the agency of chloroform he abducted the negroes and got them on board a West Indian smuggler, that took them to Havana and sold them into slavery. When we went there on the 'Santiago,' we found, recognized, and recovered them."
"And what was his motive—the viscount's motive, I mean—for selling my poor negroes into slavery, and thereby committing a felony that would endanger his reputation and liberty? It could not have been want of money. The highest price they would bring could scarcely be an object to the Viscount Vincent. What, then, could have been his motive?"
"What you mentioned that you suspected it to be, Claudia: to get rid of dangerous witnesses against himself. But I had better tell you the whole story," said the judge; and with that he began and related the history of the conspiracy entered into by the viscount, the valet, and the ex-opera singer, and overheard by Katie; the discovery and seizure of the eavesdropper; and the abduction and sale of the negroes.
At the conclusion of this narrative he said
"So you see, Claudia, that we have got this man completely in our power. Look at his crimes. First, complicity in the murder of Ailsie Dunbar; secondly, conspiracy against your honor; thirdly, kidnaping and slave-trading. The man is already ruined; and you, my dear, are saved."
"Oh, thank Heaven, thank Heaven, that at least my name will be rescued from reproach!" cried Claudia earnestly, clasping her hands and bursting into tears of joy, and weeping on her father's bosom.
"Yes, Claudia," he whispered, as he gently soothed her; "yes, my child—thank Heaven first of all! for there was something strangely providential in the seemingly dire misfortune that was the cause of our being taken to Havana. For if we had not gone thither, we should never have found the negroes; and if we had not found them, it would have been difficult, or impossible, to have vindicated you."
"Oh, I know it. And I do thank Heaven."
"And, after Heaven, there is one on earth to whom your thanks are due—Ishmael Worth. Not because he was the first to find the negroes, for that was an accident, but because he sacrificed so much in order to attend me on this voyage; and because he has been of such inestimable value to me in this business. Claudia, but that I had him with me in Havana, I should not now be by your side. But that I had him with me, I should have plunged myself headlong into two law cases that would have detained me in Havana for an indefinite time. But that I had him with me to restrain, to warn, and to counsel I should have prosecuted the smugglers for their share in the abduction of the negroes, and I should have sued the owners for the recovery of them. But I yielded to Ishmael's earnest advice, and by the sacrifice of a sum of money and a desire of vengeance, I got easy possession of the negroes and brought them on here. You owe much to Ishmael Worth, Claudia."
"I know it, oh, I know it! May Heaven reward him!"
"And now our witnesses are at hand; and before night, Claudia, warrants shall be issued for the arrest of the Viscount Vincent, Alick Frisbie, and Faustina Dugald."
"They can have no suspicion of what is coming upon them, and therefore will have no chance to escape."
"Not a bit. We shall come upon them unawares."
"How astonished they will be."
"Yes—and how confounded when confronted with my witnesses."
"Papa, I am not malicious, but I think I should like to see their faces then."
"My dearest Claudia, you will have to imagine them. You will not be an eye-witness of their confusion. You will not be required either at the preliminary examination or at the trial, and it would not be seemly that you should appear at either."
"Oh, I know that, papa. And I am very glad that I shall not be wanted. But will the testimony of those three negroes be sufficient to convict the criminals?"
"Amply. But that testimony will not be unsupported. We shall summon the steward and housekeeper of Castle Cragg. And now, my dear, I must leave you, if the warrants are to be issued to-day," said the judge, rising.
"So soon, papa?"
"It is necessary, my dear."
"But, at any rate, you will be back very shortly?"
"I do not know, my child."
"The countess expects you to make Cameron Court your home while you remain in the neighborhood."
"Lady Hurstmonceux has not said so to me, Claudia."
"She has had no fit opportunity. Wait till you start to go."
"By the way, I must take leave of my kind hostess," said the judge, looking around the room as if in search of something or somebody.
Claudia touched the bell. A footman entered.
"Let the countess know that the judge is going."
The servant bowed and withdrew, and Lady Hurstmonceux entered.
"Going so soon, Judge Merlin?" she said.
"Just what my daughter has this moment asked. Yes, madam; and you will acknowledge the urgency of my business, when I tell you it is to lodge information against Lord Vincent and his accomplices, and procure their immediate arrest, upon the charge of certain grave crimes that have come to my knowledge, and that I am prepared to prove upon them."
"You astonish me, sir. I certainly had reason to suspect Lord Vincent and his disreputable companions, but I am amazed that in so short a time you should have ferreted out so much."
"It was accident, madam; or rather," said the judge, gravely bending his head, "it was Providence. My daughter will explain the circumstances to you, madam. And now, will you permit me once more to thank you for your great goodness to me and mine, and to bid you good-morning?"
"I hope it will be only good-morning, then, judge, and not good-by. I beg that you will return and take up your residence with us while you remain in Scotland," said the countess, with her sweetest smile.
"I should be delighted as well as honored, madam, in being your guest, but I am off to Banff by the midday train."
"Off to Banff?" repeated Berenice and Claudia, in a breath.
"Certainly."
"What is that for?" inquired Claudia.
"Why, my dear, there is where I must lodge information against the viscount and his accomplices. There is where the crimes were committed, and where the warrants must be issued."
"Oh, I see."
"I had forgotten. I was thinking; or rather without thinking at all, I was taking it for granted that it could be all done in Edinboro'," smiled the countess.
"Madam, I must still leave my daughter a pensioner on your kindness for a few days," said the judge, with a bow.
"You say that as if you supposed it possible for me to permit you to do anything else with her," laughed the countess, holding out her hand to the judge. He raised it to his lips, bowed over it, and resigned it, all in the stately old-time way. Then he turned to his daughter, embraced her, and departed.
"Now, Claudia, tell me what the judge has found out about Vincent. Was he implicated in that murder? I shouldn't wonder if he was," said the countess impatiently.
"That is just what I thought; but that is not the case. Oh, Berenice, what a revelation it is; but I will tell you all about it," said Claudia,
And when they were cozily seated together beside the drawing-room fire Claudia related the story her father had told her of the conspiracy against her own honor, the abduction and sale of the negroes, and the recognition and recovery of them.
"I am not surprised at anything in that story but the providential manner in which the servants were recovered. I believe the viscount capable of any crime, or restrained only by his cowardice. If he should hesitate at assassination, I believe that it would not be from the horror of blood-guiltiness, but from the fear of the gallows. I hope that no weak relenting, Claudia, will cause either you or your father to spare such a ruthless monster."
"No, Berenice, no. I have said to my father, 'Let Lord Vincent have justice, though that justice place him in the felon's dock, in the hulks, or on the scaffold.' No, I do not believe it would be fair to the community to turn such a man loose upon them."
While Lady Hurstmonceux and Lady Vincent conversed in this manner,Judge Merlin drove to Edinboro'.
He reached Magruder's Hotel, where he had left Ishmael Worth, the professor, and the three negroes.
Ishmael had lost no time; he had seen that the whole party had breakfast; and then he had gone himself and engaged a first-class carriage in the express train that started for Aberdeen at twelve, noon.
They were now therefore only waiting for Judge Merlin. And as soon as the judge arrived the whole party started for the station, which they reached in time to catch the train. Three hours' steaming northward and they ran into the station at Aberdeen. The stage was just about starting for Banff. They got into it at once, and in three more hours of riding they reached that picturesque old town.
Merely waiting long enough to engage rooms at the best hotel and deposit their luggage there, they took a carriage and drove to the house of Sir Alexander McKetchum, who was one of the most respected magistrates of Banff.
Judge Merlin introduced himself and his party, produced his credentials, laid his charge, and presented his witnesses.
To say that the worthy Scotch justice was astonished, amazed, would scarcely be to describe the state of panic and consternation into which he was thrown.
Long he demurred and hesitated over the affair; again and again he questioned the accusers; over and over again he required to hear the statement; and slowly and reluctantly at last be consented to issue the warrants for the apprehension of Lord Vincent, Alick Frisbie, and Faustina Dugald.
Ishmael took care to see that these warrants were placed in the hands of an efficient policeman, with orders that he should proceed at once to the arrest of the parties named within them.
And then our party returned to their hotel to await results.
Our plots fall short like darts that rash hands throwWith an ill aim that have so far to go,Nor can we long discovery prevent,We deal too much among the innocent.—Howard.
Lord Vincent was at Castle Cragg. Unable to absent himself long from the siren who was the evil genius of his life, he had come down on a quiet visit to her. A very quiet visit it was, for he affected jealously to guard the honor of one who in truth had no honor to lose. The guilty who have much to conceal are often more discreet than the innocent who have nothing to fear.
Mrs. MacDonald was still at the castle, playing propriety to the beauty. A very complacent person was Mrs. MacDonald.
This precaution deceived no one. The neighboring gentry rightly estimated the domestic life at Castle Cragg and the character of its inmates, and refrained from calling there.
This avoidance of her society by the county families galledFaustina.
"What do they mean by it?" she said to herself. "I am the Honorable Mrs. Dugald. Ah, they think I have lost myself. But they shall know better when they see me the Viscountess Vincent, and afterwards, no one knows how soon, Countess of Hurstmonceux and Marchioness of Banff! Ah, what a difference that will make!"
And Faustina consoled herself with anticipations of a brilliant future, in which she would reign as a queen over these scornful prudes. But Faustina reckoned without Nemesis, her creditor. And Nemesis was at the door.
It was a wild night. The snowstorm that had been threatening all day long came down like avalanches whirled before the northern blast. It was a night in which no one would willingly go abroad; when everyone keenly appreciated the comfort of shelter.
Very comfortable on this evening was Mrs. Dugald's boudoir. The crimson carpet and crimson curtains glowed ruddy red in the lamplight and firelight. The thundering dash of the sea upon the castle rock below came, softened into a soothing lullaby, to this bower of beauty.
Lord Vincent and Mrs. Dugald were seated at an elegant and luxurious little supper that would have satisfied the most fastidious and dainty epicure. Three courses had been removed. The fourth—the dessert—was upon the table. Rare flowers bloomed in costly vases; ripe fruits blushed in gilded baskets; rich wines sparkled in antique flasks.
On one side of the table Faustina reclined gracefully in a crimson velvet easy-chair. The siren was beautifully dressed in the pure white that her sin-smutted soul, in its falsehood, affected. Her robe was of shining white satin, trimmed with soft white swan's- down; fine white lace delicately veiled her snowy neck and arms; white lilies of the valley wreathed her raven hair and rested on her rounded bosom.
She looked "divine," as her fool of a lover assured her. Yes, she looked "divine"—as the devil did when he appeared in the image of an angel of light.
How did she dare, that guilty and audacious woman, to assume a dress that symbolized purity and humility?
Lord Vincent lolled in the other armchair on the opposite side of the table, and from under his languid and half-tipsy eyelids cast passionate glances upon her.
Mrs. Macdonald had withdrawn her chair from the table and nearer the fire, and had fallen asleep, or complacently affected to do so; for Mrs. MacDonald was the soul of complacency. Mrs. Dugald declared that she was a love of an old lady.
"What a night it is outside! It is good to be here," said Faustina, taking a bunch of ripe grapes and turning towards the fire.
"Yes, my angel," answered the viscount drowsily, regarding her from under his eyelids. "What a bore it is!"
"What is a bore?" inquired Faustina, putting a ripe grape between her plump lips.
"That we are not married, my sweet."
"Eh bien! we soon shall be."
"Then why do you keep me at such a distance, my angel?"
"Ah, bah! think of something else!"
The viscount poured out a bumper of rich port and raised it to his lips.
"Put that wine down, Malcolm, you have had too much already."
He obeyed her and set the glass untasted on the board.
"That's a duck; now you shall have some grapes," she said, and, with pretty, childish grace, she began to pick the ripest grapes from her bunch and to put them one by one into the noble noodle's mouth.
"It is nice to be here, is it not, mon ami?" she smilingly asked.
"Yes, sweet angel!" he sighed languishingly.
"And when one thinks of the black dark and sharp cold and deep snow outside, and of travelers losing their way, and getting buried in the drifts and freezing to death, one feels so happy and comfortable in this warm, light room, eating fruit and drinking wine."
"Yes, sweet angel! but you won't let me have any more wine," said the viscount drowsily.
"You have had more than enough," she smiled, putting a ripe grape between his gaping lips.
"Just as you say, sweet love! You know I am your slave. You do with me as you like," he answered stupidly.
"Now," said Faustina, her thoughts still running on the contrast between the storm without and the comfort within, "what in this world would tempt one to leave the house on such a night as this?
"Nothing in the world, sweet love!"
"Malcolm, I do not think I would go out to-night, even in a close carriage, for a thousand pounds."
"No, my angel, nor for ten thousand pounds should you go."
"I like to think of the people that are out in the cold, though. It doubles my enjoyment," she said, as she put another fine grape in his mouth.
"Yes, sweet love!" he answered drowsily, closing his fingers on her hand and drawing her forcibly towards him.
"Ah! stop!" she exclaimed, under her breath, and directing his attention to Mrs. MacDonald, who sat with her eyes closed in the easy-chair by the chimney corner.
"She is asleep," said the viscount, in a hoarse whisper.
"No, no! you are not certain!" whispered Faustina.
"Come, come! sit close to me!" exclaimed the viscount, with fierce vehemence, drawing her towards him.
"You forget yourself! You are drunk, Malcolm!" cried Faustina, resisting his efforts.
At that moment there came a rap at the door; it was a soft, low tap, yet it startled the viscount like a thunderclap. He dropped the hand of Faustina and demanded angrily:
"Who the fiend is there?"
There was no answer, but the rap was gently repeated.
"Speak, then, can't you? Who the demon are you?" he cried.
"Why don't you tell them to come in?" said Faustina, in a displeased tone.
"Come in, then, set fire to you, whoever you are!" exclaimed LordVincent.
The door was opened and old Cuthbert softly entered.
"What the fiend do you want, sir?" haughtily demanded the viscount; for he had lately taken a great dislike to old Cuthbert, as well as to every respectable servant in the house, whose humble integrity was a tacit rebuke to his own dishonor; and least of all would he endure the intrusion of one of them upon his interviews with Faustina.
"What brings you here, I say?" he repeated,
"An'it please your lairdship, there are twa poleecemen downstairs, wi' a posse at their tails," answered the old man, bowing humbly.
"What is their business here?"
"I dinna ken, me laird."
"Something about that stupid murder, I suppose."
Faustina started; she was probably thinking of Katie.
"I dinna think it is onything connected wi' Ailsie's death, me laird."
"What then? What mare's nest have they found now, the stupidDogberries?"
"I canna tak' upon mesel' to say, me laird. But they are asking for yer lairdship and Mistress Dugald."
"Me!"
This exclamation came from Faustina, who turned deadly pale, and stared wildly at the speaker. Indeed her eyes and her face could be compared to nothing else but two great black set in a marble mask.
"Me!"
"Aye, mem, e'en just for yer ain sel', and na ither, forbye it be his lairdship's sel'," replied the old man, bowing with outward humility and secret satisfaction, for Cuthbert cordially disapproved and disliked Faustina.
"Horror! I see how it is! The dead body of the black woman has been cast up by the sea, as I knew it would be, and we shall be guillotined—no!—hanged, hanged by the neck till we are dead!" she cried, wringing and twisting her hands in deadly terror.
"I wish to Heaven you may be, for an incorrigible fool!" muttered the viscount, in irrepressible anger; for, you see, his passion for this woman was not of a nature to preclude the possibility of his falling into a furious passion with her upon occasions like this. "What madness has seized you now?" he continued. "There is no danger; you have no cause to be alarmed. They have probably come about the murder of Ailsie Dunbar, Satan burn them! Cuthbert, what are you lingering here for? Go, see what it is!"
The old man bowed lowly, and left the room.
"Faustina!" exclaimed the viscount, as soon as Cuthbert had gone, "your folly will be the ruin of us both some day—will lead to discovery! Can you not let the black woman, as you call her, rest? Why will you be so indiscreet?"
"Oh, it is you who are indiscreet now," exclaimed Faustina, clasping her hands and glancing towards Mrs. MacDonald, whose sleep seemed too deep to be real.
"Try to govern yourself, then!" said the viscount.
"Ah, how can I, when I am quaking like a jelly with my terror?"
"You should not undertake dangerous crimes unless you possess heroic courage," said the viscount.
"Mon Dieu! it is you who will ruin us!" cried Faustina, stamping her small feet and pointing to Mrs. MacDonald.
The viscount laughed.
And at this moment old Cuthbert re-entered the room.
"Well?" asked Lord Vincent.
"If you please, me laird, they say they maun see yer lairdship's sel' and the leddy," said the old man.
"What the blazes do they want with us? Was ever anything so insolently persistent? Go and tell the fellows that I cannot and will not see them to-night! And if they are disappointed it will serve them right for coming out on such a night as this, They must have been mad!"
"Verra weel, me laird. I'll tell them," said the old man, departing.
"Compose yourself, Faustina, this business has no reference to you, I assure you. When they asked for us, they merely wished to see us to put some questions about the case of Ailsie Dunbar," said the viscount, who had not the slightest suspicion that there was, or could be, a warrant out for his arrest. He fancied himself entirely secure in his crimes. He believed the negroes to be safe beyond the sea; sold into slavery in a land of which they did not even understand the language, and from which they never would be allowed to return. He believed Claudia to be crushed under the conspiracy he had formed against her. He believed her father to be far away. And so he considered himself safe from all interruptions of his iniquities. What was there, in fact, to arouse his fears? What had he to dread?
Nothing, he thought.
And he was still laughing at Faustina's weakness as he stood with his back to the fire, when once more the door opened and old Cuthbert reappeared, wearing a frightened countenance and followed by two policemen.
Faustina shrieked with terror, covered her face with her hands, and shrunk back in her chair. Mrs. MacDonald, aroused by the shriek from her real or feigned sleep, opened her eyes and stared.
But Lord Vincent, astonished and indignant, strode towards the door and demanded of his old servant:
"What means this intrusion, sir? Did I not order you to say to these persons that I would not see them to-night? How dare you bring them to this room?"
"'Deed, me laird, I could na help it! When I gi'e them yer lairdship's message they e'en just bid me gang before, and sae they followed me up, pushing me to the right and left at their ain will," said Cuthbert sullenly.
Lord Vincent turned to the intruders and haughtily demanded:
"What is the meaning of this conduct, fellows? Were you not told that I would not see you to-night? How dare you push yourselves up into the private apartment of these ladies? Leave the room and the house instantly."
"We will leave the room and the house, my lord; but, when we do so, you and that lady must go with us," said the taller of the two policemen, advancing into the room.
"What?" demanded the viscount.
"Mon Dieu!" shrieked Faustina.
"Gracious, goodness, me, alive!" exclaimed Mrs. MacDonald.
"You are wanted," answered the policeman, whose name by the way wasMcRae.
"What do you mean, fellow? Leave the room, I say, before I order my servant to kick you out!" fiercely cried the viscount.
The policeman immediately stepped up to the side of his lordship and laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying:
"Malcolm Dugald, Lord Vincent, you are my prisoner."
"Your prisoner, you scoundrel! hands off, I say!" cried the viscount.
"I arrest you in the Queen's name, for the abduction and selling into slavery of the three negroes, Catherine Mortimer, James Mortimer, and Sarah Sims," said McRae, taking a firmer hold of his captive.
"Let go my collar, you infernal villain, and show me your warrant!" thundered Lord Vincent, wrenching himself from the grasp of the policeman.
McRae calmly produced his warrant and placed it in the hands of the viscount.
Lord Vincent, astonished, terrified, but defiant, held the document up before his dazed eyes and tried to read it. But though he held it up with both hands close to his blanched face, it trembled so in his grasp that he could not trace the characters written upon it.
While he held it thus, McRae slyly drew something from his own pocket, approached the viscount and—click! click—the handcuffs were fastened upon the wrists of his lordship!
Down fluttered the warrant from the relaxed fingers of the viscount, while his face, exposed to view, seemed set in a deadly panic as he gazed upon his captor.
"Look to him, Ross," said McRae, addressing his comrade and pointing to the viscount.
Then he stepped up to the cowering form of Mrs. Dugald, who had shrunk to the very back of her deep velvet chair. Laying his hand upon her shoulder he said:
"Faustina Dugald, you are my prisoner. I arrest you, in the Queen's name, upon the charge of having aided and abetted Lord Vincent in the abduction of—"
"Oh, horror! let me go, you horrid brute!" cried Faustina, suddenly finding her voice, interrupting the officer with her shrieks and springing from under his hand.
She rushed towards the passage door with the blind impulse of flight and tore it open, only to find herself stopped by a posse of constables drawn up without. They had come in force strong enough to overcome resistance, if necessary.
"Give yourself up, Faustina. It is the best thing you can do," said the viscount.
She stared wildly like a hunted hare, and then turned and made a dash towards her bedroom door, but only to be caught in the arms of McRae, who stepped suddenly thither to intercept her mad flight.
He held her firmly with one hand, while with the other he drew something from his pocket and suddenly snapped the handcuffs upon her wrists.
She burst into passionate tears.
"I am sorry to do this, madam, but you forced me to it," said McRae gravely and kindly.
She was a pitiable object as she stood there, guilty, degraded, and powerless. Her wreath of lilies had been knocked off and trampled under foot in the scuffle. The bouquet of lilies that rested on her bosom was crushed. Her lace and swan's-down trimmings were torn. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, and her eyes streaming with tears.
"Why do they make me a prisoner?" she sobbed.
"I told you, madam, it was for your share in the abduction of—"
"Abduction! abduction! I don't know what you mean by abduction! I did not kill the black negro person! I did not put her into the sea! It was Lord Vincent! I never helped him! No, not at all! He would not let me! And if he would, I should not have done it! He did it all himself! And it is cruel to make a poor, small, little woman suffer for what a big man does!" she cried, amid piteous tears and sobs.
"Faustina! Faustina! what are you saying?" exclaimed the viscount, in consternation.
"The truth, my lord viscount; you know it! The truth, messieurs, I assure you! Lord Vincent killed the black negro woman and threw her into the sea! And I had nothing to do with, it! I did not even know it until all was over! And I will tell you all about it, messieurs, if you will only take these dreadful things off my poor, little, small wrists and let me go! It is cruel, messieurs, to fetter and imprison a poor, small little woman, for a big man's crime! Let me go free, messieurs, and I will tell you all about him," pleaded this weeping creature, who for the sake of her own liberty was willing to give her lover up to death.
But you need not be surprised at this; for I told you long ago that there can be no honor, faith, or love among thieves, let the biographers of the Jack Shepherds and Nancy Sykeses say what they please to the contrary. "Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?" The criminal is the most solitary creature upon earth; he has no ties—for the ties of guilt are nothing; they snap at the lightest breath of self-interest.
Faustina's plea dismayed her accomplice and disgusted her captor.
"Madam," said the latter, "you had better hold your peace. Your words criminate yourself as well as Lord Vincent."
"How do they criminate myself? Oh, mon Dieu! what shall I do, since even my denials are made to tell against me!" she whimpered, wringing her hands.
"Faustina, be silent!" said the viscount sternly.
"My lord, we are ready to remove you," said McRae, advancing toward the viscount.
"Where do you intend to take us then?" demanded the viscount, with a blush of shame, though with a tone of defiance.
"To the police station house, for the night. In the morning you will be brought before the magistrate for examination."
"To your beast of a station house?" said the viscount.
The policeman bowed.
"Ah, mon Dieu! will he take us out into the snow to-night? I cannot go! I should freeze to death! I should perish in the storm! It would be murder!" cried Faustina, wringing her hands.
"You see it would be barbarous to drag a lady out in this horrible weather. Can you not leave her here for the night? and if you consider yourself responsible for her safe-keeping, can you not remain and guard her?" inquired his lordship, speaking, however, quite as much, or even more, for himself than for Faustina; for he was well aware that, if she were left, he would be also left.
"My lord, it is impossible. I could not be answerable for my prisoner's safety if she were permitted to remain here all night, no matter how well guarded she might be. It was only a few weeks ago that a prisoner—a young girl she was, charged with poisoning— persuaded me to hold her in custody through the night in her own chamber. I did so, placing a policeman on guard on the outside of each door. And yet, during the night she succeeded in making her escape down a secret staircase and through a subterranean passage, and got clear off. It was in just such an ancient place as this, my lord. I came near losing my office by it; and I made a resolution then never to trust a prisoner of mine out of my sight until I got him or her, as the case might be, safe under lock and key in my station house."
"But, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! what will become of me?" wailed Faustina.
"It will kill her. She is very tender," urged Lord Vincent.
"Your lordship may order your own close carriage for her use. She may wrap up in all her furs. And though she may still suffer a good deal from the long, cold ride, she will not freeze, I assure you," said McRae.
"Ah, but what do you take me for at all? I say that I did not kill the black negro woman; Lord Vincent did it."
"Madam, neither you nor my lord are accused of murder," said McRae.
"Ah! what, then, do you accuse us of?"
"You will hear at the magistrate's office, madam," said the policeman, losing patience.
"I say, what—whatever it was, Lord Vincent did it!"
"Faustina, be silent! If no remnant of good faith leads you to spare me, spare yourself at least," said the viscount.
"Will you order your carriage?" said McRae.
"Cuthbert, go down and have the close carriage brought around. Put the leopard skins inside and bottles of hot water," ordered the viscount.
"Madam, you had better summon your maid and have your wrappings brought to you, and anything else you may wish to take with you," advised McRae.
"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! must I leave this beautiful place to go to a horrid prison. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" wept Faustina, wringing her hands.
"Shall I ring for your maid?" inquired McRae.
"No, you monster!" shrieked Faustina. "Do you think I want Desiree, whose ears I boxed this morning, to come here to see me marched off to prison? She would be glad, the beast! she would laugh in her sleeve, the wretch! Madame MacDonald, will you get my bonnet and sables?" she said, turning to her companion.
"Yes, my dear, suffering angel, I will do all that you wish me to do. Ah! you remind me of your countrywoman, Queen Marie Antoinette, when she was dragged from the luxurious Tuileries to the dreary temple," whined sympathizing Complacency.
"Good Heaven! woman, do not speak of her. She was guillotined!" cried Faustina, with a shiver of terror.
"But you shall not be, my dear; you shall come out clear; and they who have accused you shall be made ashamed," said Mrs. MacDonald, as she passed into Faustina's dressing room.
Presently she came forth, bearing a quilted silk bonnet, a velvet sack, a sable cloak, a muff and cuffs, and warm gloves and fur-lined boots, and what not; all of which she helped Faustina to put on. While she was kneeling on the floor and putting on the beauty's boots she said:
"I think some of these men might have the modesty to turn their backs, if they canna leave the room. Ah, my poor dear! now you remind me of my own countrywoman, poor Queen Mary Stuart, when she complained on the scaffold of having to undress before so many men! Now you have to dress before so many."
"Oh, God, you will be the death of me, with your guillotined women! You turn my flesh to jelly, and my bones to gristle, and my heart to water!" cried Faustina, with a dreadful shudder, as she rose to her feet, quite ready, as far as dress was concerned, for her journey.
"Will my poor, dear, suffering angel have anything else?" said Mrs.MacDonald.
"Yes. Oh, dear, that I should have to leave this sweet place for a nasty prison! Yes, you may get together all that fruit and nuts and cake and wine, and don't forget the bonbons, and have them put in the carriage, for I don't believe I could get such things in the horrid prison! And, stay—put me a white wrapper and a lace cap in my little night-bag; and stop—-put that last novel of Paul de Kock in also. I will be as comfortable as I can make myself in that beast of a place."
"Blessed angel! what a mind you have; what philosophy; what fortitude! You now remind me of your illustrious compatriot, Madame Roland, who, when dragged from her elegant home to the dreadful prison of the Conciergerie, and knowing that in a few days she must be dragged from that to the scaffold, yet sent for her books, her music, her birds, and her flowers, that she might make the most of the time left," said Mrs. MacDonald, as she zealously gathered up the desired articles.
"Silence! I shall dash my brains out if you speak to me of another headless woman!" shrieked Faustina, stopping both her ears.
Old Cuthbert put his head in to say that the carriage was ready. Lord Vincent ordered him to load himself with the luxuries that had been provided for Faustina and put them into the carriage, and then in returning to fetch him his overshoes, cloak, and hat. All of these orders were duly obeyed.
When all was ready Lord Vincent shook hands with Mrs. MacDonald was saying:
"We must all bow to the law, madam; but this is only a passing cloud. We shall be liberated soon. And I hope we shall find you here when we return."
"Ye may be sure of that, my lord. And may Heaven grant you a speedy deliverance," she answered.
Faustina next came up to bid her good-by.
"Good-by! Good-by! my sweet, suffering angel. Bear up under your afflictions; fortify your mind by thinking of the martyred queens and heroines who have preceded you," said Mrs. MacDonald, weeping as she embraced Faustina.
"Good Heaven, I shall think of none of them! I shall think only of myself and my deliverance!" said Faustina, breaking from her.
They went downstairs, marshaled by the policemen. They entered the carriage, two policemen riding inside with them, and one on the box beside the coachman. And thus they commenced their stormy night journey.