The night was very dark, and, blowing a gale of wind. The blast was not, indeed, directly upon the shore at the point of the coast nearest to Brandon; but about seven miles to the eastward, the line of the land took a bend towards the south, forming a low shingly beach, with a spit of sand running out into the sea, for full half a mile beyond the southernmost point of the cliffs, and against this shingly beach the gale blew hard and direct. The distance from Brandon house to the sea, in a straight line, was less than two miles; but Captain M----, followed by five or six servants, took his way across the country towards that part of the coast on which he judged the ship must have stranded. Riding on rapidly, he arrived, in about three quarters of an hour, at a village some nine miles from Brandon; and calling at one or two of the houses, he found that all the men, warned by the signals of distress, had gone down to the shore to give assistance. He learned, too, some farther particulars of the disaster which had occurred, and the exact spot where it had taken place. Pushing on without farther pause, then, he rode through the little village, where, as may be remembered, Edgar Adelon obtained his first interview with Martin Oldkirk; and issuing forth at the farther end, he soon after came upon the sea-shore, where a lighted tar-barrel and several links shed a red glare over a terrible scene, which was also, from time to time, partially illuminated by glimpses of the moon, as the gray clouds, hurrying rapidly past, left her bright face visible for a moment, and then concealed it again beneath their swarthy veil.
A tall and beautiful vessel appeared aground at the distance of less than a hundred yards from the beach. The masts were all still standing, and the fine tracery of the rigging, partially seen by the lights upon the shore, was now and then rendered completely visible when the moonlight broke forth behind for a moment, and brightened the stormy sky. Around the burning tar-barrel were several groups of men, with some women and children; and farther down upon the beach, even amidst the spray and foam, were others, one of whom held up a link, half extinguished by the dashing waves. An awful surf was falling in thunder upon the shore; and each mountain wave, as it rolled up, struck the unfortunate vessel on the stern and windward side, making a clear breach over her as she heeled towards the beach. When the moon was hidden, only the bow and the fore-mast could be seen by the lights on the shore, the rest of the ship being enveloped in darkness, except where the white surf rushed pouring over the hull, and sprang glittering up amongst the cordage; but when the momentary moon shone out, the shrouds, the tops, and many parts of the rigging, were seen loaded with human beings, striving in agony to postpone the fate which seemed ready to fall upon them. There were shrieks and cries for help, and loud shouts of direction and command; but all were so mingled with the noise of the rushing wind, and the thunder of the billows upon the shore, that everything was indistinct, rising in one loud screaming roar to the spot at which the young officer had arrived.
Drawing in his horse, he paused to gaze for a moment and consider what was expedient to be done; and at the same moment he perceived some of the men, with that gallant and intrepid daring which characterises the boatmen on the English coast, endeavouring to launch a boat a little to windward of the stranded ship. With a loud cheer they pushed her down into the water as a wave receded, and with a tremendous effort were shoving her off, when again the billows returned with a furious sweep, capsized her in a moment, and nothing was seen for several seconds but the figures of the men struggling in the surf, and the black hull of the boat surrounded by the whirling eddies of the retiring wave. For a moment it seemed as if several of the gallant fellows would be lost; but some clung to the boat, others scrambled back to the shore, and one, who was carried out, striking hard for life, was caught by another wave, and dashed back again, bleeding and almost senseless, on the beach.
Springing to the ground with several of the servants, Captain M---- hurried down to the principal group upon the beach, and put one or two questions, the import of which not being clearly seen at first by the men he addressed, they answered somewhat sullenly.
"My good sir," he said, speaking to a large, square-built man of the middle age, who seemed to be one of the principal boatmen, "I have been accustomed to these things, and aided to save many lives on a worse coast than this. The same means may prove effectual here, but we must have recourse to them immediately, or the ship will be a complete wreck."
"In two hours there won't be one of her timbers together," answered the man, dully.
"Then the more need to get the people off her at once," said Captain M----.
"Ay, if you can do it," said the boatman, turning away.
"Stay a moment," cried the young officer, in a tone of command. "Has any one got a gun with a large bore, and a good long hank of stout but thin cord?"
The object seemed to strike the man instantly, and turning sharply round, he laid his broad hand upon the young officer's shoulder, exclaiming, with an oath, "That's a good thought! There's my large duck-gun will do capitally; and as for a cord, you can't have anything better than one of our fish-lines. It's both light and strong."
All was changed in a moment; the efforts of the crowd were turned in a different direction; hope seemed to revive; a number of fishing-lines were brought forth, the heavy gun was placed in Captain M----'s hands, powder was procured, a bullet pierced and attached to one end of the strong cord, while the other end was fastened tightly to a thick rope. Every one aided; and Captain M---- having charged the piece, advanced as far as he could down to the beach, so that the waves, as they flowed up, reached his knees, and then prepared to fire. Before he did so, however, he turned to those behind him, saying, "We shall have to try several times before we succeed, so do not be disappointed if the first shot fails." Then elevating the gun, he pulled the trigger; in the hope that the bullet would carry the line over the rigging of the ship. As he had foreseen, however, the first attempt was unsuccessful. The sudden explosion of the powder broke the line before the bullet had got a foot from the mouth of the gun.
"We must have less powder and a smaller ball;" said the young officer. "Some one cut a piece out of my glove here to wrap it in. Perhaps we shall succeed better this time."
Nor was he disappointed; the ball carried the line clear over the ship, between the main and fore masts, and fell into the sea some way beyond. The unhappy voyagers seemed to have comprehended the efforts made for their safety, and had watched with eager eyes and in profound silence everything that was done. Not a word, not a cry was uttered from the moment the first shot was fired; and even when the second and more successful attempt was made, they were all silent still, for the line was so fine they did not perceive that the efforts of their friends on shore had been successful till the gestures of the crowd, rather than the voice of one of the boatmen, speaking through a trumpet, drew the attention of a sailor to the spot where the line had fallen. The directions were then given to run it through a pulley, and gently haul up the rope, and this being accomplished, the rope was made fast at both ends, and a means of communication, however frail, established with the shore.
A shout of joy burst forth from the people of the ship, and a loud cheer answered it from the beach.
There were many difficulties still to be overcome, however; for as the ship rocked to and fro when the waves struck her, there was a great chance of the rope snapping, especially if burdened with the weight of a man; but the son of one of the boatmen, a lad of about thirteen years of age, volunteered to try the dangerous path, with a light hawser made fast round his middle. Slowly and with difficulty he pursued his way, holding on both by hands and feet; but his perilous task was at length accomplished, and as soon as the hawser was firmly fixed, he returned to the shore, bringing back the end of the rope first sent, which had been passed through a pulley, so as to play easily.
Several of the men then came over from the ship without much difficulty; but this method was so slow, that Captain M---- proposed another plan, which was immediately adopted when it was found that there were a number of women and children in the bark. One of the sails of a small lugger was detached from the yard, and the corners being gathered together and made quite secure, it was slung upon the hawser, and connected with the rope passed through the pulley. It was thus easily moved backwards and forwards between the ship and the shore. Two, and sometimes three people, were brought to land at once; and joy and satisfaction displayed itself in every form and shape amongst those who were rescued from the grave.
During the whole time that these operations had been proceeding, two men were seen standing together in the fore-top, who, though they had busied themselves and assisted greatly in fastening the hawser and in passing the ropes, showed no anxiety to save themselves; aiding, indeed, to put the women and children into the sail, but remaining perfectly calm and motionless while the others passed to the shore. There was something in their manner and appearance which struck Captain M---- not a little, and advancing to one of the persons who had first come over, he inquired who those two persons were.
"They are passengers from Sidney, sir," replied the man; "perfect gentlemen both of them, and two brave fellows as ever lived; for if it had not been for them, we should have all lost heart long ago."
While he was speaking, some of the men who remained on board seemed by their gestures to urge the two gentlemen to go over; and the shorter of the two, taking a child in his arms from one of the sailors--it was the only child left--stepped into the sail, and holding fast by the rope above, was speedily drawn to land. A woman, who had been brought across some time before, with two other children, now rushed almost down into the sea when this new freight approached, as if afraid the man would drop the child. But the young gentleman--for he seemed very young, and was evidently of a superior class--placed the little boy safely in her arms, saying, "He is quite safe and warm."
The woman prayed God to bless him; but at the same moment his hand was taken by Captain M----, and shaken heartily, while one of the servants exclaimed, "Mr. Adelon!--hurrah! hurrah!" and half the people on the beach took up the cry, and waved their hats joyfully. But Captain M---- and Edgar Adelon were speaking together eagerly and in a low voice, while the latter pointed once or twice to the fore-top of the stranded vessel, as if explaining to his friend that some one whom they both knew was there. Several other persons then landed, so that the number on the shore amounted to nearly sixty, besides the inhabitants of the neighbouring huts and villages. Amongst the last who appeared was Edward Dudley, and he was warmly greeted by Captain M----, though his appearance now, it must be remarked, notwithstanding his being somewhat worn and tempest-tossed, was very different from that of the Nameless Fisherman by the Nameless Lake.
The servants of Sir Arthur Adelon were standing at some distance while their young master spoke with Captain M----; and Dudley, taking the arm of the latter, walked slowly away with him up the beach, and out of the light of the fire; but Edgar turned to speak a few minutes to his fellow-travellers, giving kind and liberal orders for their comfort and accommodation.
"I do not wish," said Dudley, addressing Captain M----, "to be recognised just at present. I will choose my own time and my own manner; and you may, doubtless, divine the reasons, as I know you have been made acquainted with a considerable portion of my history."
"I can easily conceive," replied Captain M----, "that you have a great many painful and unpleasant things to go through, which you would desire to do in your own way; but I congratulate you most sincerely, Mr. Dudley, not alone upon your salvation this night, but upon your restoration to your country and your friends, your property and your reputation. I trust this storm will be the last you will have to encounter."
"God only knows!" replied Dudley; "but for the future, my dear sir, I shall be less apt than in earlier years to give way either to hope or to despair."
"Hope is the best of the two," replied the young officer, in a lighter tone. "It comes from heaven, and is an ingredient, more or less, in everything that is good, and high, and holy. The other comes from below, leading to all that is evil, and dark, and disastrous. Choose hope, then, my good friend. But here comes some one quickly after us. I trust none of the men are much injured?"
"None of the survivors," answered Dudley, gravely; "but twenty or thirty perished when the ship first struck."
"Mr. Adelon sent me, sir," said a rough, but not unpleasant voice, "to show one of you two gentlemen the way to my cottage. It is the gentleman who was on the wreck," he continued, looking at Dudley, who said, in reply, that he was willing to go wherever the other should lead.
"Then I will leave you now," said Captain M----, in a low voice, "and your secret is perfectly safe with me, depend upon it; but I trust that we shall meet again before I depart for London, and if not here, in the great city."
"I will certainly find you out," replied Dudley, "for the scene and the circumstances in which we first met are never to be obliterated from memory, nor the kindness with which you soothed and relieved, at a moment when I thought there was none to help."
They then parted; and after taking a few steps forward with the stout, broad-set countryman who had been sent up to him, Dudley inquired how far they were from Brandon.
"Hard upon eleven miles, sir," replied the man.
"Then the place where we run ashore must be what they call Beachrock Spit, I suppose?" rejoined Dudley.
"Just so, sir," said the man; "the rock that names it is about two miles farther on, t'other side of the spit, as we call it; but the village is up hard by, not above a quarter of a mile inland."
"Do you know a man of the name of Martin Oldkirk?" asked Dudley, after advancing a few paces farther. "He must live in that village, I think."
"Yes, I know him, sir," answered the countryman, abruptly. "What do you want with him?"
"I want some conversation with him," answered Dudley. "I bring him some news of distant friends, and had, indeed, brought him a letter; but that, with all the rest of my baggage, is in the unfortunate ship, which will be a total wreck before to-morrow."
"I'm sorry for that, sir," said his companion; "for, to tell you the truth, I am Martin Oldkirk myself, so you may speak away as fast as you please."
"By and bye will do," answered Dudley, "for I shall be very glad, Oldkirk, if you can let me lodge in your cottage for a night or two. At all events, you will allow me to dry my clothes there, and while that is doing, we can talk of other things."
"I should be very happy to lodge you, sir," replied the man, in a civil tone; "but, Lord bless you, sir! it is not fit for such as you; and besides, there's but one bed and a bare bedstead in the place."
"The bare bedstead will do well enough for me," replied Dudley, "at least for the present; and to-morrow, perhaps, you will be able to procure me something else. Doubtless to-night every house and every bed in the place will have more than its fair share of occupants."
"We may be quite sure of that," answered Martin Oldkirk; "but I can get you some good hay and a clean pair of sheets, and that, with plenty of coats and things to keep you warm, will be better lodging than where you were like to have lodged an hour or two ago."
"That is true," answered Dudley; "and I should be a fool to grumble. You know a certain Mr. Norries, Oldkirk, do you not?"
"That I do," cried the man, with a start. "Poor gentleman, I am sorry for him! He deserved better, but he might have got worse; and one thing will always make his heart light. He never betrayed any one, though he might have got off himself if he had peached against others. But he always was an upright man, and readier to hurt himself than any one else. But I can't help thinking of him often, and how hard it is that he should be out there working like a galley-slave, when he only wished to free his country. I dare say he's very sad-like, isn't he, sir? For I take it, you come from that place, don't you?"
"Make your mind easy about his fate," answered Dudley, "for he was well and happy when I saw him, And would not, I believe, come back to England, even if they would let him. He is under no restraint either, except that he cannot return from banishment."
"Ay, they will find out what a man they've lost," answered Oldkirk. "I should have liked to have seen his hand-writing once again, however; but here we are just at the cottage, and I will blow you up a fire in a minute, and then run and get some things that you may want. A glass of brandy-and-water wouldn't be amiss, nor against Father Mathew either; for I am quite sure that the doctor would order it for you, after having gone through such a business."
"I'm accustomed to privation in storm and tempest," answered Dudley, entering the cottage; "so do not give yourself much trouble about provisions, my good friend," But, for some reason or another, Martin Oldkirk, though as we have seen, not given at all times to very intense courtesy, was determined to do the best he could to make his guest comfortable; and having blown the smouldering embers of his fire into a blaze, and piled on a quantity of mingled coal and wood, he went out again upon his hospitable errand.
Dudley took off his coat and waistcoat to dry them at the fire, and drawing a pocket-book from the pocket of the former, examined the papers which it contained carefully, to ascertain that they had not been injured by the sea-water, the spray of the waves having dashed over him for several hours. The leathern cover of the book was completely wet, but the contents were safe enough; and after seeing that some documents, apparently official, were all uninjured, he read over by a candle, which his host had lighted, some memoranda written in a clear clerk-like hand.
"Ay, if he will answer me," he said, commenting as he read; "but I doubt the fact. It is most unfortunate the loss of my baggage. It cannot be helped, however; and after all, it is not vengeance I seek. Nevertheless, the power to thwart this man's evil schemes were something;" and sitting down by the fire-side, he fell into thoughts from which he was roused, in about twenty minutes, by the sudden lifting of the latch of the door, and the entrance of Edgar Adelon "and Captain M----.
"They are all safe," said Edgar. "And now, what will you do, Dudley? I shall ride on to Brandon at once."
"And I will remain here, Edgar," replied the other, "if you are quite sure that none of the servants recognised me. I remembered the butler's face at once."
"I do not believe that any one saw you," replied Edgar; "and I suppose the best plan will be to act in the manner that was previously arranged; for our shipwreck here," he added, with a smile, "has merely landed us a hundred miles nearer Brandon."
"The only thing," replied Dudley, "that is necessary, is not to mention to any one my return to England, till I have time to arrange all my plans; nor, indeed, to say that you have met with me at all, or heard anything concerning me."
"But, Eda," said the young gentleman; "what to her, Dudley?"
"Oh! tell her, of course," replied his friend. "I would not keep her in unnecessary suspense for a moment; and she will see the necessity of her acting differently towards others."
A slight smile came upon the lip of Captain M---- as he heard their conversation. "I do not know whether you are aware," he said, "that there are a good many guests at Brandon: reputed suitors of the young lady. Indeed, it is more like the hall of Ulysses during his absence than anything else. But I suppose," he continued, with a gay glance towards Dudley, "the wandering king of Ithaca will some day soon return to claim his own, and drive these daring mortals from the gates." His words did not cheer Dudley, for there were still too many difficulties in his path, too many painful circumstances in his situation, for anything like gay hope to brighten the cloudy aspect of his fate; and as he did not himself reply, Edgar reverted to what they had been speaking of before, and said, "Well, I will ride on then at once, and I suppose I shall hear from you as to farther proceedings."
"Oh! yes; I shall easily find a messenger," replied Dudley; and once more shaking hands warmly with Captain M----, he saw him and his companion depart.
Little delay was made upon the road by Captain M---- and Edgar Adelon, although the latter had a strong inclination to choose the right-hand road, where it parted from the high-way to Barhampton, leading direct to Clive Grange. He refrained, however, remembering that his father must know of the wreck, and might hear that he was on board. On arriving at Brandon House, the tranquil aspect of all things, and the servant's reply that Sir Arthur was playing at piquet, showed him that no great anxiety on his account had found its way into his father's bosom; and consequently proceeding to the library himself, he requested Captain M---- to send Eda to him, as we have seen he did. The moment she appeared he took her in his arms and kissed her with fraternal affection, saying, "I have just escaped death, dearest Eda, and I wanted to see you before I see any one else, for I have good news for you. Dudley is well, is here in England, and has received a full pardon."
Eda turned very pale, pressed her hand upon her heart, and grasped the arm of a chair for support. "Stay, stay, Edgar," she said, "do not tell me too much at once. A full pardon, do you say? But still the stain will remain upon his name."
Edgar drew back a step, and gazed at her gravely, almost sternly. "And would that make any difference to you, Eda, when you knew him, when you felt him, to be innocent?" he demanded.
Eda waved her hand, with a look of reproach. "None, Edgar, none!" she answered. "You cannot suppose such a thing for a moment; but it will make a great difference to him. I know Dudley well, and I feel sure that these events will cast a shadow over his whole life, if his innocence cannot be clearly established. But yet, I will not regret it," she cried, rising with, a brighter look, and laying her hand upon her cousin's arm. "It will give me the means, dear Edgar, of proving to him what devotion and attachment a woman's heart is capable of. The vision of my young love, when first he and I knew each other, now eight years ago, will now indeed be realized. I thought then how happy it would make me to show such a man as that, that no circumstances of fortune, no inducements, no unworthy obstacles, could affect in the slightest degree my attachment, when once given upon just and reasonable grounds. Now I can prove it to him all, and I am ready to prove it."
"I am sorry, dear girl, to dispel your visions of devotion," answered Edgar, gaily; "but here, though you can make him as happy as man need be, by giving him your fair hand and your true heart, you cannot cheer him under the doubt and suspicion of the world, for from that he is now quite cleared. His pardon was not granted till his innocence was proved beyond a doubt, by the acknowledgment of him who did the deed for which he has been so great a sufferer; and be assured that he will not rest satisfied until, by act of parliament, his condemnation is reversed. I will tell you more hereafter, dear cousin; and now I will go and see if I can find fitter clothes to appear in this smart house; for during the last year and a half I have been much more accustomed to sit in ships' cabins, or to range wild woods, than to take my place in a gay drawing-room. But remember, Eda, not one word of Dudley's return nor of his pardon. There is much to be done and thought of."
Eda would fain have had some explanations regarding the wreck of the vessel which brought her cousin over, but Edgar answered gaily, "I will tell all that to the assembled multitude in the drawing-room;" and then he, in turn, asked questions about Clive Grange, and its inhabitants; but Eda replied in the same tone in which he had spoken, "I will tell you all that to-morrow, Edgar. You cannot see Helen to-night, nor, indeed, to-morrow either, for she and Mr. Clive are both absent, I find, and do not return till the end of the week." With that they parted.
About an hour and a half after Edgar had left him, Dudley was seated with Martin Oldkirk at a very homely meal; but it was good, though plain, and the gentleman had shared, or rather more than shared, with his companion, the small portion of brandy which the labouring man had brought. Either Dudley's spirits had risen, or he had assumed a greater degree of cheerfulness than he really felt. He was by nature frank and free, as the good old English term goes, although early misfortunes had, as we have shown in his room at Cambridge, given a thoughtful cast to an imaginative mind. If, occasionally, he seemed a little proud or haughty, it was with his equals or his superiors in rank, where a feeling that impaired circumstances in himself might generate a sense of condescension in them, induced him, by a certain coldness of manner, to repel that vainest form of pride. With those inferior to him, his manner was very different. Calm, easy, certain of his own position and of their estimation of it, he ran no chance of offending by too great familiarity, or of checking by too great reserve. He was well aware that the lower classes are much keener observers than the general world gives them credit for being, and that their estimation of their superiors in station is generally founded on much more just grounds than those on which men who are accustomed to judge by mere conventional standards too frequently rely.
Oldkirk had become easy in his society, and their conversation, though not, perhaps, exactly gay, was cheerful and interesting. Dudley described the house that Norries had built for himself, his habits, his manners of life, the difficulties, the dangers, the pleasures, and the wild freedom of an Australian settler; and Martin Oldkirk questioned, and talked, and discussed, as if his companion had been an old friend. They put their feet to the fire, they gazed into the glowing embers; they leaned on either side of the table in meditative chat, and the high-born, high-bred gentleman felt that he was speaking with a man of considerable natural powers, who, though uncultivated, was not ignorant, and though not always courteous, rarely actually vulgar.
At length Dudley drew out his pocket-book, and taking forth the memoranda which he had previously examined, looked over them for a moment, and then inquired, in an ordinary tone, "Pray did you ever know a person of the name of Filmer--Peter Filmer?"
The man started from his seat as if he had been struck; his whole countenance worked, his lips quivered, his brow contracted, and his sharp eyes fixed upon Dudley, with a fierce and angry stare. It seemed as if he were deprived of the power of utterance, for though his under jaw moved, as if he would have spoken, he spoke not, but struck the table a hard blow with his clenched fist.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Dudley. "I did not intend to agitate you in this manner. I had no idea that such simple words could produce such emotion."
Martin Oldkirk cast himself down again upon the settle from which he had risen, pressing his hands upon his eyes; and when Dudley added a few words more, he exclaimed, in a loud, harsh voice, "Hold your tongue, hold your tongue! you have named a fiend, and you have raised one!"
"I did not intend it, I can assure you," replied Dudley, "let us speak of something else."
"No!" cried the man, "I can neither speak nor think of anything else now that name is mentioned. Let me look at that paper; let me see what is put down there."
"I have no objection," answered Dudley; "but if it is to agitate you thus, you had really a great deal better forbear."
The man did not answer, but stretched forth his hand; and Dudley gave him the paper. He then laid it down before him, drew the single candle closer to him, and supporting his broad forehead with his clasped hands, and leaning his elbows on the board, gazed upon the memoranda with a haggard and staring eye. He remained in the same position for fully ten minutes, without uttering one word, and then, pushing the paper across to Dudley, he said, in a much calmer tone, "That is Mr. Norries's writing?"
"It is," answered Dudley; "but I am quite sure he had no idea the questions he had there put down for me to ask would agitate you so terribly!"
"He should have known! he should have known!" said Martin Oldkirk, with stern bitterness; "but it matters not. I shall have recovered myself before tomorrow morning, and we will then talk more--but yet, tell me first, what have you to do with this man? This, this----" but it seemed he could not utter the word, and after breaking off the sentence abruptly, he added, "Have you ever seen him? Do you know him?"
"I have seen him, do know him," answered Dudley; "and I have every reason to believe that he has endeavoured to injure me most basely."
Dudley paused, and thought for a moment or two, and then added, "I had better, perhaps, tell you how; for you had some share in the business."
"I?--I?" exclaimed Martin Oldkirk. "What had I to do between you and him? I have not seen him for many long years. I knew Sir Arthur Adelon was here, it is true, and I kept out of his way; but the priest is not with him surely."
"The priest is with him," answered Dudley; "and has never left him."
"Oh! yes he did; yes he did!" replied the peasant; "he was away two whole years, I know. I thought he had gone to do penance, as he would call it, and would never appear in the world again. Had he done so, had he wept in solitude and silence for the whole of his bad career, I might have forgotten it: no, not forgotten it! forgiven, perhaps, but forgot it, never! He is here, then, here in this country; here in the baronet's house?"
"I cannot exactly say that," answered Dudley; "for I do not know, and I would not deceive you on any account; but he was here two years ago, rather more, perhaps, for it was in the autumn; and he did all he could to injure me, though life or death were at stake."
"Ay, that is strange," said Martin Oldkirk. "Pray, may I ask what is your name, sir, for that is a thing I do not know even yet?"
"My name is Dudley," replied his companion; "and you may perhaps remember----"
"Why, then, you are the man who was tried and cast for the death of the young lord over the cliffs?" said Martin Oldkirk, interrupting him.
"The same," answered Dudley. "I was tried and condemned for an act with which I had nothing to do. Of Father Filmer, I have seen little or nothing, except when he came to visit me in prison, and tried to convert me to the Roman Catholic faith."
"Ah! he never lost sight of that," answered Oldkirk; "but still, what had he to do with you?"
"Why, you shall hear," answered Dudley; "only let me tell my tale to the conclusion. Do you remember one night when Mr. Adelon came to visit you, and when you gave him a good deal of assistance?"
"Oh, yes! I remember it very well," answered the man. "I thought, at first, there was some trick, and I would not say much; but I soon got sure of my man, and then I was willing enough to do anything I could for him, for I thought of his mother, poor young man. It's a pity I couldn't do more; but I fancied that Mr. Norries would know how to manage."
"Mr. Norries knew little of the matter till it all transpired long afterwards," replied Dudley; "but now, as a friend, Mr. Norries wishes me to possess such information as to frustrate the schemes of this Mr. Filmer, and he know no one better to whom he could send me than yourself."
"I should like to see the letter," said Martin Oldkirk.
"I am afraid that cannot well be," replied Mr. Dudley; "my baggage, as I told you, is by this time, doubtless, at the bottom of the sea; but you know Mr. Norries's hand-writing, and you cannot doubt that those memoranda were put down by him."
"That's true, that's true!" said the man; "but still I should like to see the letter. However, don't let us talk any more of things which are so long gone. I will give you an answer to-morrow, when I have thought over it. In the mean time, I should like very much to hear what the matter was all about two years ago. I recollect the trial very well, and Mr. Adelon coming to me in search of information. I gave him a rudish sort of answer at first; but he was so frank and so desperate-like, that I could not well refuse; and in the end I went with him to Norries, but I cannot see how this hypocritical priest had anything to do with that."
"What object, and interest he could have, I know not," answered Dudley, who was a little puzzled with the rambling and desultory manner in which his companion spoke. "All I can tell you is what he actually did, and of that Mr. Adelon says he has no doubt. In the first place, when Edgar went to meet you the second time, he saw you at the old workhouse of a place the name of which I forget. He was followed secretly, by Mr. Filmer's order, by a little boy, who was directed, immediately he discovered the place he entered, to give information to the constable of the hundred, who was already warned to seize Mr. Adelon and any one whom he had with him, on the pretence of his companions having been engaged in the Chartist riots."
"Ay, I broke master constable's head for his pains," said Oldkirk. "Go on, sir."
"He then deceived Mr. Adelon as to the time of my trial," continued Dudley; "and subsequently the same man gave intimation to a blacksmith, named Edward Lane, who could have borne important testimony, that the officers of justice were seeking for him. This priest also persuaded Mr. Clive and his daughter, who could have proved my innocence at once, and who have proved it since, to fly from England, and induced a man, named Daniel Connor, to give evidence which approached as near perjury as possible."
"He hated you heartily," said Martin Oldkirk, setting his teeth hard; "and he cannot hate without seeking to destroy."
"For some reason, he certainly does seem to hate me," replied Dudley; "and whether he has power to injure me farther or not, I cannot tell; but at all events, it is the opinion of both Mr. Adelon and myself, that he will try to do so, and that, perhaps, in matters which most deeply affect my welfare. Mr. Norries, with whom I consulted, told me to ask you for some particulars of this priest's previous life, which he thought would open the eyes of Sir Arthur Adelon to the man's real character."
"Puppies are only blind nine days," replied Oldkirk, with a bitter smile. "Sir Arthur Adelon has been blind for twenty years. You will find it a hard matter to open his eyes. Did his son tell him what the priest had done in your case?"
"No," answered Dudley, "he did not, on many accounts. For some weeks after my condemnation Edgar was very ill, and then he only arrived at the whole truth by degrees. He proposes now to do so, however, and I wish to strengthen the case against this man by any previous circumstances which may tend to show his false and deceitful character."
"Do not tell it to Sir Arthur when alone," said Oldkirk, musing while he spoke. "He is too weak to retain a deep impression long; he may believe a part of what you say at first, but his inclination will be, not to believe, and if his own better judgment and convictions are not backed up by those of others, they will soon fall and be forgotten. I have seen it so myself. As to the rest, I will think over it, sir, and see what can be done. It is many a year since I heard that bitter name, and it has raised feelings in me which I had hoped and thought were dead. I will try to get quieter before to-morrow. I did not know the viper was so near me, or I might have tried to crush his brains out before now. I knew that Sir Arthur was here a great deal, but him I have never seen but once, and that at a distance. The son I saw many times, for he rode much about the country, and I used to think how much like his poor mother he was, but I never spoke to him till he came that night to see me, for I did not wish to have anything more to do with them."
"Did no one ever tell you that they had a priest with them?" asked Dudley.
"Oh! yes, I heard that," replied Martin Oldkirk; "but there are many priests in Rome, and I knew that this man had been away for a long while after poor Lady Adelon's death; so I never thought it was the same. Did Mr. Norries tell you to ask me for anything more?"
"Yes," replied Dudley; "he said you have charge of certain papers belonging to me."
"They were given me by Norries," replied Oldkirk; "and I certainly shan't give them to any one without his orders."
"Perhaps you are right," replied Dudley; "and to tell you the truth, I care very little about them, for they only serve to prove a fact which I have long known: that strong passions take as inveterate a hold of weak minds as of more powerful minds. They might, indeed, give me some little authority and influence where it may be needful, but that is all."
"Strike at Filmer, strike at Filmer!" said Martin Oldkirk, sharply; "and be you sure, sir, that man has nourished in the baronet every evil plant, till it has produced evil fruit. But remember, whatever you do, do it before plenty of witnesses. Take some public room, some crowd, some general meeting, and tax him there with all his wickedness. Unmask him before multitudes, and make him a scoff and a byword for ever. But now, sir, it is late; you must be tired enough, and we shall have many things to talk of to-morrow. It is my way, when anything moves me a great deal, to lie down and sleep. I sleep like a stone when I am much moved; and then I get up with my thoughts fresh and clear. I have made you up the best bed I can, and I dare say weariness will be as good as a feather pillow. Wait, I will light you another candle; I dare say, now, you never sat with a single one before."
"I have sat through long nights with none," replied Dudley. "You forget, my good friend, what it is to be a convict in a penal colony, and cannot know what it is to be an escaped convict in the midst of wilds and deserts which the foot of man has seldom trod; but such has been my fate."
"I did forget," replied Martin Oldkirk. "You have had a hard lot, sir." And Dudley and he parted for the night.
The sun had been up more than an hour when Dudley awoke on the following morning; and while he dressed himself in the little back room of the cottage where he had slept, he heard voices in the neighbouring chamber, and could distinguish the words: "I hope the gentleman will remember us well for our trouble, for you see, Martin, the locks aren't broken, and we've not even looked into them."
"I will be answerable for him," replied the voice of Martin Oldkirk. "You may be sure he will pay you well;" and the words were succeeded by a heavy trailing sound, as if some large object was dragged slowly from one side of the room to another.
When Dudley entered the front chamber, he saw two large boxes standing on the left hand side, to which Martin Oldkirk pointed, with a look of satisfaction, saying, "We've got them out, sir, though we had some trouble, and they seemed pretty well soaked in the seawater. Now that the tide's out, she stands well nigh high and dry at one part; that's to say, what's left of her, for the masts are all down, and she's broken in two. Another tide, if the wind goes on blowing in this way, won't leave a stick of her together. A good deal has been got out of her, notwithstanding: one-third of the cargo, I dare say, and most of the passengers' baggage."
"This, is, indeed, an important service, Oldkirk," replied Dudley; "and you shall now have Norries's letter; but we must break the chest open, for my keys are lost."
What he proposed was soon effected. The trunks were broken open, the different articles they contained taken out to dry, and the letter which had been so often mentioned was placed in Oldkirk's hands. He took it to the window and read it eagerly, and then exclaimed, "That's a good man, that's a good man, sir! He's the only lawyer that I ever knew who would come forward to help a poor man without fee or reward. He saved me from ruin. The little I have I owe all to him, and I will do all that he tells me. You shall hear all about it, sir; every word; but first let us have some breakfast."
The calm evening light was shining sweetly upon park, and wood, and valley, and high, bare down: a strong wind blew the fleecy clouds fast across the sky, varying the face of earth with shadows that chased one another like children in their play; and ever and anon the sun was left clear and brilliant, and his rays, poured obliquely from a point hardly two hand's-breadth from the horizon, gilded the western sides of the trees, and made their lustrous leaves shine like diamonds. Through the heart of Eda Brandon the shadowy clouds of manifold emotions passed as rapidly as the vapours over the sky, but still the sun of hope shone forth again, and rendered the little world of her fair bosom as bright and sparkling as the scene around her. He was safe, he was home again, he was near her, he was clear of blame; his innocence was made manifest to the eyes of the whole world. She could look with pride even to his sufferings and to her own love; she could say, "He has been injured, traduced, and grieved, but he is innocent, and I have loved him still." Oh! how joyful was the thought of consoling him through life for all he had undergone! how sweet the expectation of seeing him again, as, leaning on Edgar's arm, she walked quickly across the park towards the old priory; but yet those feelings were sorely agitating. Joy would hold its place, and all seem glad and cheerful for a time; but then, the very intensity of her affection would reach a point which became almost painful, and a sensation of faintness would come over her, and make her pause and pant for breath.
Edgar felt for her; for although a great change had come over him since first he was presented to the reader; although experience and action, the seasoning fires of youth, had given decision and firmness to his character; although he had grown more powerful in mind, more manly in character, yet not one of the warm enthusiastic feelings of his heart had been lost, and he could understand what it was to feel, with sensations very like those of fear, the meeting with a lover under such circumstances as hers. He soothed her kindly, and tenderly, too; he cheered her with every bright subject that fancy could suggest; but he ventured not to laugh or jest, as he might have done at another time; for he saw and knew that the emotions were too deep, the waters of the heart too profound, to be stirred by the light winds in sport. At length the limits of the park were reached, and they passed out. He walked quickly through the little wood, though Eda murmured, "Oh, Edgar!" and would fain have paused for a moment, for he thought she would be better, stronger, happier, when the first meeting was over. In a minute more, the gray ruin, and the green ivy, and the little meadow before the sculptured porch, and the stream glancing beyond, were before their eyes, and the form of Dudley, rising up from a pile of architectural fragments, on which he had been sitting, was in Eda's sight.
There had been many emotions, as I have said, in her breast, as she walked thither; there had been anxiety, and joy, and some degree of apprehension of she knew not what; but the moment that she beheld him every impression gave way to one, the thought of all he had suffered, and how he had suffered it. It came rushing upon her like a torrent, as one great image, the anguish, the indignation, the privations, the sorrows, the wrongs he had endured and felt; and giving way at once to the impulse of the heart, and forgetting all conventional forms, and the cold, thoughtful ceremonies of the world, she sprang forward, she cast herself into his arms, she wept with mingled joy and grief.
There was a long, long pause, for neither of the two could speak, and Edgar would not. The tears rose, too, in Dudley's eyes: not the tears of those weaker emotions which shake the light and the tender on meeting again with those they love, but the tears of strong, powerful, soul-subduing gratitude to God for mercies shown, and hope and happiness restored. He thanked, from his very heart, the Almighty Ruler of all destinies, that he had seen his native land again; he thanked him for deliverance from disgrace, and sorrow, and undeserved punishment; he thanked him for a reputation cleared, a high name restored, for honour, and for peace, and for dawning happiness; and perhaps he thanked him more than all for giving him the love, the persevering, devoted, unchanging love of one whom he loved so well. It was indeed the crowning blessing of all; that which alone could render life cheerful and pleasant to him; and while, with his arms around her, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her soft cheek, he felt that of all the blessings prepared for man by the great Creator in the terrestrial paradise, there was no blessing equal to the last, which was bestowed for the comfort and consolation needed by man even in Eden.
At length their feelings found voice; and seating themselves upon the same shaded pile of chiselled stone-work where Dudley had waited the coming of Eda and her cousin, they began to talk over the past and the future. Of the past the reader knows so much that he need not listen to their conversation here. Nor did Dudley dwell upon it long, for he knew that their time was short, and that Eda must speedily return to mingle once more with gay scenes, in which she took no interested part; but turning quickly to the more important present, on which so much depended, he besought Eda not to say to any one that she had seen him, nor to give a hint that he had returned to the land.
"There are many things, dearest Eda," he said, "which I wish to do before I openly avow myself. I must, in the first place, claim back my property from the crown, and take measures to make my restitution to all my rights, and the restoration of honour to my name, as clear and perfect as possible; and for these purposes I must see Mr. Clive. But I am told he is absent. Do you think he will soon return?"
"Not till the end of the week they told me at the Grange, Dudley," answered Miss Brandon; "but I can easily get his address."
"Are you quite sure, dear Eda," asked Dudley, "that he has not told the facts concerning the death of Lord Hadley to other and less discreet persons than yourself, especially to Mr. Filmer?"
"Certainly not, unless by letter," replied Eda; "for both Mr. Clive and Helen were away when we arrived. I have asked at many of the cottages of the peasantry in regard to the cause of his long absence, but do not find that any one entertains the slightest suspicion of what it seems, from Edgar's account, has taken place in London, and I am quite sure that neither my uncle nor Mr. Filmer have the slightest knowledge of the changed circumstances in which we stand. I think it might be better," she added, and then paused and hesitated, with a beautiful blush rising up and tinging her cheek and temples, "I think it might be better--why should I scruple to say so? to come up to Brandon and claim me for your own at once. There are several persons there, some of them entertaining expectations, I believe with my uncle's encouragement, which can never be fulfilled; and I would fain have it known at once, Dudley, that my hand is promised to another, and that there is nothing which has been able to shake my esteem for a man whose conduct in trifles only gave me, in early years, the clearest indication of what would be his conduct in more important, though more painful, scenes at an after period."
Dudley pressed his lips upon her hand. "Dear Eda," he said, "the temptation is a great one; but let us think well what we are doing. Your uncle, I believe, knows not, has, in fact, no suspicion, that my innocence is proved, and my pardon granted."
"None, none whatever," answered Eda. "During several months, while we were wandering hither and thither, he only saw the newspapers at intervals, and I know not whether the case was ever stated in them at all."
"It was hinted at in one of the evening prints," said Edgar Adelon; "but the whole transaction was conducted privately, without any affectation of secrecy indeed, but in a quiet, unostentatious manner; and the Secretary of State thought, when all was decided, that it would be better to take no public notice of the transaction till your return, Dudley; when, as he said, you could yourself have recourse to such means as you might judge advisable."
Dudley had fallen into a reverie while Edgar was speaking, but he roused himself immediately, saying, in the same low tone which they had hitherto employed--for the impression of their secret meeting affected even their conversation, while no one could hear--"Perhaps it might be better, as you say, Eda; but if I determine upon following this course, prepare yourself, love, for somewhat strange and perhaps unpleasant scenes. Your uncle will, of course, imagine at first than I am an escaped convict. He will be indignant at my showing myself in his house at all, still more indignant at what he will consider my rash pretensions. He may carry this indignation to violent measures and harsh terms; and if you yourself are present, it may place you in unpleasant circumstances."
"I fear not," answered Eda, "the whole will be easily explained; and although he will, doubtless, still object, and I might be most unwilling, in matters not affecting my whole happiness and welfare, to reject the counsel of one who has been a father to me, yet in this case, Dudley, no objections will be of any avail. I have scrutinized my own heart; I know and understand my own feelings, and I am ready to choose my part at once, and to act up to it to the end."
"But the question is this," said Dudley. "Can you do so, my Eda, if I think fit, on motives of my own, to give no explanations to your uncle, or any one who may be present, to let mistakes go on, and confusion work itself clear by gradual and natural means?"
"But upon what motives, Dudley?" asked Eda, in a tone of anxiety. "Why should you suffer mistakes to exist when there is an easy way of explaining them?"
"Not for the purpose, believe me, dear girl," replied Dudley, "of showing how strong is the force of your attachment, and inducing you to avow your unshaken affection even for a condemned convict; neither with a view to let your uncle commit himself by injustice towards me; but to open his eyes, perhaps, to the conduct of a villain and a hypocrite who has long deceived him. The course I propose seems to me to be the best adapted to that object; but I will think over it Eda till to-morrow morning. Could not you and Edgar stroll down here together on an early walk an hour or two before breakfast?"
"Assuredly," answered Edgar, speaking for his cousin. "All our guests are sad lie-a-beds, and will be in no condition to interrupt us, except our good friend, Captain M----, and of him we can easily dispose."
"Well, I will think of it to-night," replied Dudley. "I should have liked to see Clive first, indeed; but I think as he is absent we must not wait his coming. Only remember not to give any explanation till I judge right to do so myself. I think Eda will not disavow her love under any circumstances?"
"Assuredly," answered Eda; "but one of our servants said to-day, that there was some expectation entertained of the return of Mr. Clive and Helen to-morrow: tidings which have kept Edgar's heart beating all the day;" and she gazed at her cousin with a gay smile.
"I shall be able to tell you more when we meet, Dudley," said Edgar; "and to say the truth, I think your plan the very best you could have formed; for whether Mr. Clive is here or not, I shall be able to prove all the facts, having a copy of the depositions."
"There are more facts than you know, Edgar," answered Dudley, in a somewhat stern tone; and Eda started at the words, and drew a little aside, saying, "Speak with me for a moment, Dudley. You would not, I am sure," she continued, in a low voice, "do anything to injure my uncle. You may have obtained those papers of which we once heard much mention; but I think--nay, I am sure--that you would not use them to his detriment."
"Pain him, I must, Eda," replied Dudley; "injure him I will not in the least degree, and even the pain shall turn to his benefit, ay, and to his peace; for with all his prosperity he has not been a happy man. But the sun is down, dear one, and I must not keep you longer, for it will be quite dark ere you reach the house."
Thus saying, he led her back to where Edgar stood, and bade them adieu, adding, as they parted, in a louder tone than they had hitherto used, "Then I shall see you here to-morrow, about eight, and we will decide upon our future course."
Edgar and Eda assured him they would not fail, and took their way back through the little wood. Dudley gazed after them till they were hidden by the young green boughs, and then walked slowly away in the direction of the small place called Beach Rock.
For some minutes after he was gone, all was still and silent. The rosy beams of the evening departed from the light clouds overhead; the nightingale broke forth in the wood; the scene around lost its lustre, and became gray; and the bat, more surely summer's harbinger even than the martin, flitted quietly over the space before the old building, in search of its insect prey. At the end of those few minutes, however, some of the branches of ivy, which had extended themselves across the ruined doorway, were pushed back, and a dark shadowy figure came out in the gray twilight, and stood for a moment with the arms crossed upon the chest. It was that of a man, dressed in a long straight-cut black coat, with a white cravat tied round the throat. There was nothing else remarkable in his appearance, and he gazed quietly to the left, upon the road taken by Eda and Edgar, and then to the right, where Dudley had disappeared. He next fell into a fit of meditation, the nature of which it would be difficult to divine. It ended, however, with a low, unpleasant laugh, and saying to himself, "So, so! at eight o'clock to-morrow," he turned and walked away in the same direction as Miss Brandon and her cousin, but took the road under the park wall for some way, and entered the enclosure by a stile farther up.