The rooms occupied by Sir Arthur Adelon at Brandon House consisted of a large dressing-room, and an old-fashioned chamber on the first floor, lined with dark oak, supporting a richly ornamented stucco ceiling, where cupids and naiads, and a great number of heterogeneous deities, were flirting away all round the cornices, with plaster of Paris fruits and flowers in their hands. A bed, which rivalled the celebrated one of Ware in its dimensions, with old-fashioned chintz curtains, stood at one side of the room, looking small and modest, from the extent of the space about it. Opposite the foot of the bed was a fire-place, with hand-irons for burning wood, and on each side of it were two doors, one leading into the dressing-room, and the other into a large commodious closet. The windows of the room were three, and the curtains, which were now drawn close, were of the same thick chintz as those which shrouded the bed. There was thus very little light admitted, although the stuff of which the curtains were composed was sufficiently diaphanous for the eye of any one within to mark the change of light and shadow, as the clouds passed through the air without. The door of the dressing-room was open, and one of the windows, partly thrown up, admitted the air of spring, which, to say the truth, was at the time we speak of somewhat sultry and oppressive.
It was but little after the hour of noon when Edgar Adelon and his companion rode away from the stable-yard at Brandon, and at that time Sir Arthur was seated in a chair before the table, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes half shut. Painful emotions seemed to be passing through his mind, for the muscles of his face moved, and every now and then he would draw a deep and heavy sigh. Who shall say what was in his thoughts? Did he ponder over a life spent in vanities which had proved worse than ashes; of time misused in planting the seeds of very, very bitter fruit? Did he take that review of the long past, which every one, who has a mind capable of thinking, must sometimes ponder on in moments of silent, sleepless solitude? Did he consider how great wealth and lofty station, and high health and education, and every gift and every advantage which can decorate the fate of man, may be all rendered impotent of good to himself and others, by the pampering of one evil passion, by a devotion to one vanity or folly? Perhaps he did; but if so, if his eyes were keen enough, and his sight unsealed sufficiently to judge of the past justly, he saw that his weaknesses and his faults had been seized upon by a superior intellect, to render him, through their means, subservient to the views and purposes of others whose motives he even yet did not clearly distinguish.
"If he did that, he is a scoundrel indeed," said Sir Arthur, in a low murmur. "He is a scoundrel," he added, the next moment; "that is clear: for who but a scoundrel would, for any purpose, suborn evidence against an innocent man?"
But as that thought passed through his mind, a look of anguish came upon his countenance, and perhaps he felt that he had been art and part in the deeds he condemned. He might feel, too, that there were purposes, that there were passions, which, in the more vigorous days of life, would have led him, nay, had led him, to deeds little less base, and courses as tortuous as those which he viewed with horror in another.
But, at the same time, whichever way he turned his eyes in the wide range of the past, that other was still by his side, encouraging him in all that he now regretted; suggesting the act to his mind, preparing the means to his hand, and, with insidious eloquence, removing the restraints of conscience and of feeling, while they rose up as obstacles to his purpose. He saw that the fiend's own work had been done with him; that his faults and his vices had but been employed to generate more, and to leave his heart in possession of remorse.
The sad and bitter contemplation went on for more than one hour. A servant quietly opened the door, and finding that he was up, and not asleep, told him that the surgeon had arrived from Barhampton; but Sir Arthur waved his hand, and saying that he was busy, desired to be left quite alone. "I have no need of surgeons," he said; and as soon as the servant had retired, fell back into his reverie again. It lasted about half an hour longer, and then, wearied with the conflict of thought, he moved towards his bed, saying, "I will lie down and sleep, if I can; then I shall be more able to encounter the task of the evening; for I must and will have it all explained. It is getting very dark: it cannot be dusk yet." And looking at his watch, he found that it was barely two o'clock. He accordingly laid down in his dressing-gown, and thought for half an hour longer before sleep reached him; but while the busy brain still worked, the ideas shifted and changed place, and became confused. He thought of Eda and of Dudley, and of the insinuations thrown out by the priest; and the vanity which was still at the bottom of his heart again poured forth bitter waters. "Impossible," he said to himself; "she cannot, she will not, she must not marry a convict; and yet she can do as she pleases. I have no authority over her; and this man, too, has me in his power, and he knows it. I can see that by his bold demeanour to-day. But I will not think of all these things: I will sleep. All that must be settled hereafter. And Edgar, too: there is another thorn in my side; but I do not mind that so much, for Clive is of as ancient blood as any in the land, and what though he be poor, that does not take from his descent. I wish it had happened otherwise; and I was foolish to suffer this to go on, but at least it is some satisfaction she is a Catholic. It might have been worse. It is very warm; I will open another window." But while he was thinking of rising to do so, his eyelids fell once or twice heavily, and he dropped into a quiet slumber.
While he thus lay, with his hand partly fallen over the side of the bed, the light seemed to decrease in the room, and a large heavy drop or two of rain beat upon the windows, followed by a faint flash, and a distant roar of thunder. It did not wake Sir Arthur Adelon, however; and a minute or two after, the door of the large closet opened slowly and noiselessly, and a figure entered with a still and silent step. It was that of the priest, dressed in his usual dark apparel, and carrying a roll of paper in his hand. For a moment he paused, and looked around the room, then advanced to the table, and laid down the paper, saying, "It will do as well." But the next instant his eye caught sight of the hand of Sir Arthur Adelon, which, as I have said, had dropped over the side of the bed, and with a bitter smile, Filmer advanced and gazed upon the sleeping face of him who had been once so much his friend. The clear, fair skin of the old man's cheek was still somewhat pale with the emotions of the day, and his brow still bore the trace of care. His mouth, too, moved from time to time, as if the busy thoughts which had been agitating him were yet at work within, prompting words which the chained lip refused to utter. As he gazed, the priest's look became stern and almost fierce; and it would seem that some thoughts or purposes suggested themselves to his mind, which other feelings induced him to reject, for he waved his arm, and spread forth his hand, as if he were throwing something from him, and murmured in a low voice, "No!"
The moment after, there was a vivid flash of lightning, which, notwithstanding the shade of the curtains, glared round the whole room, and made the face of the sleeping man look like that of a corpse. The rattle of the thunder succeeded, shaking the whole house; and Sir Arthur Adelon started and turned, as if to rise up from his bed. The priest instantly laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "My son!"
Sir Arthur gazed at him with a bewildered look, and then a sharp and angry expression came into his face. "Ah! is that you!" he said. "They thought you were gone."
"They mistook," replied the priest. "Lie still, and hear me, for I have much to say. Your incorrigible weakness shows me, that it is vain to remain with you longer. I cannot make you what you ought to be, and now I leave you to yourself."
"What I ought to be!" said Sir Arthur Adelon, raising himself upon his arm. "Have you not made me all I ought not to be?"
"As the most precious medicines become the most hurtful poisons to some peculiar constitutions," answered the priest, "so the best counsels to some men produce the worst results. Such has it been in your case; for the inherent feebleness of your mind was not capable of bearing the strong food that mine would have given it."
"This is too insolent!" exclaimed the baronet, raising himself still farther, and stretching his hand towards the bell; but Filmer grasped his arm tight, with a menacing look, saying, "Forbear! and remember, man, what must be the consequence of my staying here. If I go, it is in charity to you; for should I stay, depend upon it, it will be to expose, from the beginning to the end, the acts of a life the records of which I have put down here, lest your own memory should have been more treacherous than mine. Remember, I say, that everything, from first to last, is within my grasp, and that I can, when I please, open the casket, and pour out the jewels of proud Sir Arthur Adelon's good deeds for the admiring eyes of all the world. Remember, that against the code of honour, the laws of the land, and the dictates of religion, you have equally offended, and that if I remain, I remain to explain all."
The baronet evidently quailed before him; and sinking back upon his pillow again, he gazed up in his face for a moment in silence, and then said, "Dark and evil man as you are, speak not of religion or of laws; but if you would do one act of charity before you go, explain to me, rather than to others, the saddest and the gloomiest page in my life's history. Relieve my mind of the heavy doubts and fears that have been upon it for many a long year; notwithstanding all the presumptions that you brought forward--ay, bitter as it may be--tell me, rather, that the wife whom I so dearly loved was really guilty--guilty of anything, rather than leave me to think that my unkindness killed her wrongfully. Speak, man, speak! Do not stand there, smiling at me like a fiend, but tell me, was she guilty or not?"
"As innocent as the purest work of God," replied the priest; and as he spoke, a sharp shudder passed over the whole frame of Sir Arthur Adelon, and his face became distorted with various passions: sorrow, and rage, and remorse. "Villain, villain, villain!" he cried, "then why did you so basely deceive me?"
"What, then, you have not seen Martin Oldkirk?" said Filmer, with a look of some surprise. "He is here, in this house, and will soon tell you all."
"What! Martin Oldkirk, my old servant?" exclaimed the baronet. "Ah! I see, I see the whole damnable plot. You--you corrupted him."
"Nay, not so," answered Filmer, in a still bitter contemptuous tone; "but your own weak jealousy twisted his words from their right meaning, and made that serviceable to your suspicions which should only have confirmed your trust."
"At your suggestion, fiend!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, fiercely. "I remember it all, as well as if it were but yesterday. Oh! fool that I have been!" And striking his clenched fist upon his forehead, he fell back again upon the bed from which he had once more partially risen.
"And fool that you ever will be," answered Filmer, with a look of contempt. "Had that woman remained with you another year, she would have made you a heretic, as she was herself in heart." But his words fell upon an inattentive ear, for Sir Arthur Adelon had relapsed into the same state in which we have seen him during the morning. The priest gazed on him with a stern and thoughtful brow when he perceived that he had again fainted; but gradually a slight, a very slight smile curled his lip, and he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "What shall I do? He has fainted again. Pshaw! he will get better of this, as he has got better of many things. Poor, unhappy man, without firmness to carry forth good or evil! Had he but been firm, half of Yorkshire might have been Catholic at this day, and I, perhaps, a cardinal," and he added, the next moment, "with power to direct the efforts of the true church, in a course which would insure to her the return of this darkened land to her motherly bosom."
It was an after-thought, undoubtedly; for it is to be remarked, that in all hierarchies, where men are expected to merge personal passions and desires in the objects of a great body or institution, the passions and desires still remain; but by a cunning self-deceit, the individuals persuade themselves that they are made subservient to, or banished to open a space for, the general ends and purposes which the whole have in view. It is very seldom that a man can say, with sincerity and truth, "I desire to be made a bishop or a cardinal, only for the good of religion."
Mr. Filmer perhaps felt that truth as much as any man; but yet he still persuaded himself that he was right, or at all events, affected to believe it; for the fraudulent juggle that goes on between man and his own heart, is almost always more or less successful where strong passions are engaged, and there were many strong passions which shared in the motive of every one of Mr. Filmer's actions. If one had examined closely, the promotion of his church's views would have been found to bear a very small and insignificant share in any of his proceedings; and yet, even to himself, he affected to believe it to be the great, the sole, the overpowering object of his endeavours.
While he stood and gazed upon the face of Sir Arthur Adelon, as he lay like a corpse before him, the low-muttered thunder growled around his head, and the heavy drops of rain began to fall thick and fast, pattering in a deluge upon the windows, and splashing upon the turfy lawns. "There is more in the hills," he said, "and I must make haste, or the rivers will be swollen and stop me. I wonder which way the fools have taken who went in pursuit. The servants must have done dinner. But that matters not; they will not venture, I think, to oppose me, even if any one sees me; and that brutal idiot, Oldkirk, must be gone. I must even take my chance. Who minds the lightning?"
And yet such is human nature, the very next flash made him put his hands before his eyes and turn somewhat pale.
"It is awfully vivid," he said. "This artillery of heaven, men think, is sent to punish the guilty alone: the immediate retribution of the Almighty. If so, why does it choose its aim so lucklessly? I have seen the loveliest and the purest struck by it; the murderer, the villain, and the false prophet pass through it unscathed. But I will go, lest a worse fate than that of the lightning should reach me. Farewell, old man!" he continued, looking at the couch on which Sir Arthur Adelon was lying; "after many years' sojourn on this earth together, you and I may never meet again. If friendship unvarying, and services not to be doubted, and counsels ever for the best, could have done aught with you, you should have had them, nay, you have had them. But you were too weak and idle to profit even by experience. Instead of full trust, you gave half confidence; instead of full obedience, you gave nothing but a questioning support; and the church must triumph wherever it sets its foot, or the day of its destruction is arrived."
With this unvarying maxim of the Roman church, he turned away and left him, placing the papers he had brought farther on the table, with the claws of the inkstand to hold them safely down. He retired by the same means which had given him entrance; and without the slightest appearance of anxiety or haste, opened the first door and shut it behind him, then pulled back the private door which afforded a communication between his room and that of the baronet, and ascended a flight of steps which led to the chambers above.
All remained still and quiet below; and in a few minutes, proceeding into the stable-yard, Mr. Filmer had mounted, without the slightest opposition, a horse which had been set apart for his own use while at Brandon, and was riding away, but in a direction different to that which Edgar and his friend had taken.
They first paused at the park gates, Edgar Adelon and Captain M----, and asked, in a quiet, easy tone, if Mr. Filmer had lately passed. The answer, as the reader may anticipate, was, "No;" and separating, they rode round the whole extent of the wide space enclosed within the walls of Brandon Park--not less than four or five square miles--inquiring of every person whom they met, and at every cottage which they passed, but without receiving any intelligence whatever. After having made this circuit, they rode down to Clive Grange, where Edgar was received with the greatest joy by all the servants; but no information was afforded, till one of the maid-servants recollected having heard the ploughman say that he thought he had seen Father Peter walking over the downs towards Barhampton. Edgar, impetuous as usual, was for setting out immediately; but Captain M---- stopped to investigate the statement, and inquired when this vision was seen. That the maid could not tell, but informed him that the man had mentioned the fact when he came home to dinner, adding, however, that he had returned to his work. Finding that the spot where he was employed lay considerably out of the way, the two gentlemen set off again, taking the cottage of Daniel Connor as they went; but the door was locked, and nobody within.
At Barhampton their inquiries were equally vain, though every quarter was applied to where it was supposed that anything like information could be obtained; and after a fruitless search of nearly an hour, they turned their horses' heads back towards Brandon, conversing on what it might be expedient to do next.
By this time, however, the indications of an approaching storm were visible in the sky. Large clouds, not decked with the fleecy fringes of the soft spring, but hard, defined, and of a bluish black, were rising rapidly in the south; and as Edgar and his friend gazed over the wide scene which presented itself to the eye from the slope just out of the gates of Barhampton, a curious purple light spread over the whole, giving to field, and hill, and tree, those intense hues which are more frequently seen in southern lands.
"Does not that put you in mind of Australia?" asked Captain M----, as they rode on.
"In some degree," replied Edgar; "but we shall have a fierce storm soon, or I am much mistaken. We had better leave the downs on the right, and cross the river by Clive Grange again. It will save us a mile."
The plan he proposed was followed; but long before they reached the stream, the storm, which was advancing as if to meet them, broke full upon their heads. The lightning flashed, and the thunder roared; but they suffered most from the rain, which poured down in torrents, mingled with enormous hailstones. On came the tempest, sweeping over the land, so lately bright and sunny, putting out every gleam of light, and involving all in a dark mist, only marked by the black lines of the descending hail.
The two horsemen urged their horses on at a rapid trot, taking the road past Mead's farm, and along the brow of the hill overhanging the river, to reach the bridge near Mr. Clive's house; and they remarked, as they rode along, that the waters below, usually so limpid and bright, were now turbid and red, whirling in rapid eddies, near the banks, but rushing on in foam and confusion, in the midst of the course.
"Why this is quite a torrent," said Captain M----, as they proceeded. "When we passed this morning it was nothing but a clear trout-stream."
"It is sometimes very furious when there is much rain in the hills," replied Edgar. "I remember it carrying away a mill some way higher up; miller, miller's man, and miller's wife, all went floating down together in their crazy dwelling; and yet, strange to say, no one was drowned."
"See, there is Mr. Clive and his daughter coming down the opposite slope," said the young officer.
"Good heaven! Helen will be drenched in this deluge," exclaimed Edgar; and he was spurring on his horse to a still faster pace, when an event occurred which for an instant seemed to turn him to stone.
Helen and her father reached the bottom of the slope, and had already advanced about two-thirds of the way across the bridge, round the old piers of which the red torrent was beating angrily, when suddenly the part just before them gave way, and fell in a large mass into the river. Clive caught his daughter's arm, and was hurrying back; but the next instant the part beneath their feet cracked, leaned over to the side, fell, and with those whom it had supported the moment before, was plunged into the struggling waters.
For an instant, as I have said, the sight of her he loved so enthusiastically, likely to perish before his sight, seemed to turn Edgar Adelon into stone; but it was only for an instant, and springing from his horse with one bound, he was down the bank, and into the midst of the torrent. He caught sight of Helen's dress as she rose again amidst the waters, and struck out strongly towards her, battling successfully with the fierce rage of the current, till it brought her down to where he was. His first grasp missed her, but his second caught her by the arm, and lifting her head above the stream, he struck back for the shore, holding her far from him, lest, in the terror and agitation of the moment, she should deprive him of the means of saving her; but Helen, with wonderful presence of mind, did not attempt to touch him. The bed of the river, as it has been before described, was narrow; and the current had luckily drifted her towards the side of Clive Grange. Thus, a few strong strokes brought Edgar to the bank, which was there not very steep, and without much difficulty he lifted her out, and had the joy of holding her in his arms alive.
During the whole of the last events Edgar had remarked nothing that was passing near him. He saw Helen, and Helen only. He thought of nothing but Helen; but the moment after she was safe upon the shore, his thoughts turned to her father, and he looked eagerly around. With deep satisfaction, however, he perceived at a little distance Captain M---- helping the old man up the bank; and he discovered afterwards that his friend had plunged in at the same moment as himself, but that finding Helen's father was a good swimmer, and was striking for the shore, he merely kept near him, till he perceived that, when just near the bank, Clive began to sink. Helen was weak and faint, but she found strength, to hurry to her father's arms, as he sat upon the turf, supported by Captain M----; and all her first feelings were joy and satisfaction when she saw that he was still alive. He did not answer her when she spoke, however, but pressed his hand tight upon his side, seeming to breathe with difficulty. The next instant Helen perceived the blood trickling through his fingers, and clasping her hands together, she exclaimed, "Oh, Edgar! he is hurt, he is very much hurt!"
"A little, a little, dear girl!" said Clive, with a great effort. "I shall soon be better; but it might be as well to send up to the Grange for some people to carry me up. I am too weak to walk. Thank God! you are safe, my dear child. It was that heavy beam struck me as we fell."
Edgar sprang away towards the house, and returned in a very short time with some men carrying a sofa, on which the large, powerful frame of Mr. Clive was speedily laid, and he was conveyed to the Grange, and put to bed. It was then found that there was a deep lacerated wound on the left side of the chest, and an indentation, which seemed to show that several of the ribs had been broken. A man was immediately sent to bring the nearest surgeon; and Edgar was watching anxiously with Helen by the bedside of the injured man, while the lightning still continued to flash through the room and the thunder to roll overhead, when one of the maids put her head into the room, saying, "Oh, Mr. Adelon! here is one of your servants wishes to speak with you."
The woman's face expressed terror and agitation; and Edgar, starting up, demanded what was the matter.
"Why, he says, sir, that Brandon has caught fire with the lightning," replied the woman, "and they wish you to come up directly."
Edgar turned a look to Clive, who said at once, as if in reply, "Go, Edgar, go. Take the stone bridge higher up. Yet one word, my dear boy, before you depart."
Edgar approached close to the bedside and bent down his head. "Perhaps we may never meet again," said Clive, with a good deal of agitation in his voice. "My Helen, Edgar! What will become of my Helen, if I am taken from her?"
Edgar took his hand and pressed it warmly. "Eda will be a sister to her," he said, "and I will be her husband; till then, a brother."
"Go," said Clive, "go! God's will be done! I am sure I may trust you, Edgar."
"On my honour, on my life, by everything I hold dear!" answered Edgar; and with one parting caress to Helen, he hurried away.
Captain M---- was waiting for him below with the servant, who was beginning to pour forth the tale of the disaster at Brandon, when Edgar cut him short by eagerly demanding, "Where are the horses?"
"They are here in the court," answered Captain M----. "Yours led the way, and mine followed. This is, indeed, a day of disasters; but I do hope that no great injury has been done at Brandon, for this rain must have kept down the fire."
"It was blazing away, sir, like a hundred lime-pits, when I was sent off to seek you," replied the servant, following them to the court-yard.
"Were all safe?" demanded Edgar, eagerly; but the man could give him no satisfactory account of the inmates, merely telling him that the lightning had struck the older part of the building towards the back, and that the flames had instantly spread from room to room with the utmost rapidity and fury.
As the horses had not been unsaddled, no time was lost; and riding up the stream to a stone bridge about half a mile higher on its course, they soon reached the gates of Brandon Park. The lodge was empty, the gates were open; and dashing between the trees of the avenue, so as to reach the open space whence the house was first visible, Edgar strained his eyes forward to see whether the fire was still going on.
A good deal of smoke was apparent, rising from one part of the building, but no flames were to be perceived, and the servant, riding up to Edgar's side, said, in a glad tone, "They have got it under, sir. It is very different now from what it was when I came away."
His master paused not to listen, however, but spurred on towards the terrace, where a number of people were to be seen moving about confusedly hither and thither, amongst whom, one group might be distinguished bearing out something that looked like a mattress towards the court and stable-yard. Edgar thought of his father, and that chilly feeling came over his heart which is said to be sometimes premonitory of approaching sorrow. When he came nearer, he perceived Dudley and Eda following those who had gone on into the court; and he called loudly to them, for they had not remarked his approach. Dudley instantly turned, said a word or two to Eda, and then hurried forward to meet her cousin.
"The fire is extinguished, Edgar," he said, in a grave tone, as they met. "It is only the second floor and part of the first that are destroyed. Come with me, and you shall see."
"Is every one safe?" demanded Edgar, gazing in Dudley's face; and before the other could answer, he added, "My father! Where is my father?"
His friend did not answer him at once, and he was darting away towards the court-yard, when Dudley laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Do not go thither now, Edgar. Come apart with me, and I will tell you all."
"I must; I will go at once!" exclaimed Edgar Adelon, passing him; and with a rapid step he hurried on across the terrace, round the angle of the house, and towards the great gates of the court-yard. On the right was a large building, used as a billiard-room; and under shelter of the ornamental porch, Edgar saw Eda, with fair face bedewed with tears. She instantly came forward to meet him, saying, "Wait a few moments, Edgar. Do not go in there now, my dear cousin."
But Edgar passed her too, with a sad look, saying, "It must come once, Eda. Why not now?" When he entered the room he found five or six men laying a mattress, with some bed-clothes that covered it, upon the billiard-table, and pushing through them he beheld his father stretched out, cold and stiff, but with no mark of fire or injury whatsoever upon him, and a calm and placid look upon his countenance.
The young man gazed upon his parent's face for several moments with a look of sad, stern thought, while the servants and labourers who were present drew back as soon as they perceived who it was that interrupted them in their melancholy task. As he gazed, many memories crowded on him; paternal tenderness and affection, innumerable sweet domestic scenes, words spoken long ago, kindly looks and tones of love; and with that sad feeling which ever takes possession of the bosom, when with any of the near and dear the silver chain is broken, the tears rose up into Edgar Adelon's eyes, and fell upon the dead man's hand.
He wished not to be seen to weep; and turning away without a word, he gave one hand to Eda, and the other to Dudley, who had been standing close behind him, and with them left the chamber of the dead.
Six or eight hours before Brandon had been one of the most convenient and comfortable houses in the whole county. Everything about it had displayed that aspect of ancient and undiminished respectability and wealth which, thirty years ago, was the general characteristic of the English gentleman's country seat; and now, when Edgar Adelon, with Eda and Dudley, entered the hall, although the fire had never reached that floor, and had but partially destroyed the floor above, the scene of confusion and disarray left in the mansion scarcely a trace of its former self. Large quantities of furniture, books, chests of papers, valuable pictures, and objects of art, were piled up, without order or regularity, in the hall and the various rooms around it, and streams of water were flowing over the marble pavement of the vestibule, and soaking the thick carpets of the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room.
Of all seasons, when the empty-minded and the selfish-hearted, who are inherently bores at all times, are the most oppressive, the season of grief and anxiety is foremost. At other moments we are obliged to tolerate them, as one of the evils of a high state of refinement. Do not let any one suppose this a paradox; for there is no doubt of the fact, that as "the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog," (I do not know that I quote very accurately), so a refined state of society generates both empty heads and cold hearts. At other times, I say, we bear them as one of the evils of our social state; but then they become perfectly intolerable. We find, then, that there are human beings in every outward form and lineament like ourselves, who, nevertheless, are not of our nature, nor, apparently, of our race; we feel, or we fancy, that monkeys might be princes amongst them.
Eda had a great deal to suffer from creatures of this kind during that day. The peer, and the baronet, and the wealthy esquire, had returned from their several occupations in time to witness the conflagration at Brandon; and after having taken care of their horses and their carriages, and all their other effects, they had gathered together to interrupt the servants and country people by giving assistance. As soon as they saw Eda, however, enter the house with her cousin and Mr. Dudley, they found it courteous to go in and condole with her; and although she bore the infliction with wonderful patience, Edgar did not approach by any means so near to the character of Job.
One or two of his brisk sayings soon scattered the party, and after having, in a very polite manner, ascertained that the fire was entirely extinguished, the three gentlemen I have mentioned took their leave, got their carriages and horses, and departed. Dudley made no show of going, for he knew that he should still be a welcome guest; and Captain M---- also remained, though not till he had received a pressing request from Edgar to do so.
"We can put you up somewhere," he said; "and there are things to be investigated, in which, perhaps, you can help me. Stay with us here in the library, M----, now that those tiresome people are away, and let me inquire how this fire originated in reality, and how my poor father met with his death. I do not understand all this," he added, solemnly and sternly. "There is no trace of fire upon my father's person. I have strange suspicions; and before I give way to grief I must think of justice. I must see the people who first entered his room;" and going to the door, he gave orders to one of the servants in the hall to bring all those who had been present at the early part of the catastrophe into the library.
"This is a sad business for us all, dear Eda," he said, turning towards his cousin, who was seated in the recess of one of the windows, from time to time wiping the tears from her eyes. "Your beautiful place is well nigh destroyed."
"Would I could repair your loss, Edgar," replied Eda, "as easily as mine can be repaired."
"It must be some comfort to you, Edgar," said Dudley, who had hitherto scarcely spoken a word, "to know that your father did not suffer. It is impossible that any violence could have been offered to him; it is equally impossible that the fire can have reached him or injured him in any way; and I am inclined to think that he was never conscious of its existence, for I was one of the first who entered his room; indeed, there were only two who mounted the stairs before me; and when I strove to wake him I found that he was no more; nay, his hand was quite cold. The room, indeed, was full of smoke, but the air was not sufficiently loaded to suffocate any one who was not in a fainting fit, or exceedingly debilitated."
"Who was there first?" demanded Edgar.
"The butler and Martin Oldkirk ran up together," replied Dudley; "and I followed as soon as I had seen Eda upon the terrace. For some time we did not at all imagine the house was on fire, although there was a strong smell of burning wood; but at length the smoke came rolling down the stairs, and at the same time, it seems, one of the keepers from the park rushed into the offices, saying that the whole roof was in flames."
"Ah! here come the men!" cried Edgar. "Now, Martin Oldkirk, my good friend, stand forward and tell me what you found, when first you went into my father's room."
"It was the butler, sir, went in first," said Martin Oldkirk. "I was waiting in his pantry, as I had been ordered; and when the alarm of fire came he ran on first, saying he must save Sir Arthur, and I followed. There was a good deal of smoke in the room, but no fire; indeed, it is uninjured even now. We both ran to the bed, and found Sir Arthur lying upon it, but there was no sign of life about him. Mr. Dudley came in the next moment, and the valet a minute after. Sir Arthur was dressed as he is now; and we took him up and carried him down, first to the dining-hall, and then out to the billiard-room, as you saw."
"You are sure there was nobody in the room when you entered?" asked Edgar Adelon.
"No one, sir," replied Oldkirk; "but there was a packet of papers, written in a hand which I know well, and so I took it up, and have got it here."
"Give it to me," said Edgar; and gazing at the first lines he exclaimed, "This is Filmer's handwriting. That man must have been in the house when we went away. This letter is dated to-day, and it was not there when I left my father. I charge you, my friends, most solemnly, to tell me if any of you have seen him within the last four hours."
"Oh yes! Mr. Edgar," said one of the grooms, coming forward. "He went away about an hour and a-half or two hours ago. I saddled his horse for him."
"I am sure he was in Sir Arthur's room just about luncheon time," said the valet; "for knowing that my master was not well, I went up to see if he wanted anything, and not liking to disturb him, I listened at the door. I heard some people speaking loud, and I can swear that one of the voices was Father Peter's. It was just about the time when the storm began."
Edgar gazed gloomily at the papers in his hand, and Dudley demanded, "Did you hear any of the words, sir, that passed?"
"Why, Sir Arthur seemed very angry," replied the man; "and I heard him cry out, 'Villain, villain, villain!' I should have opened the door, and had my hand upon the lock, but then Sir Arthur went on speaking more quietly, so that I was sure no one was hurting him."
"Let us ascertain at once," said Captain M----, "how the fire really originated; for this affair, it seems to me, will assume a very serious aspect if it cannot be shown that it was caused by the lightning, as we have been led to suppose."
"Oh! Lord bless ye; yes, sir, it was caused by the lightning, sure enough," replied one of the keepers. "Why, as I was standing on Little-green hill, as we call it, just at t'other side of the park, towards the back there, I saw something come down from the sky in a great stream, just as I have seen a man pour out a ladleful of lighted pitch, only ten times at fast, and it hit the corner of the roof, and in a minute all the slates flew about like dust, and then there was a blaze just at the same place. So I took to my heels as fast as possible, and never stopped running till I got into the servants' hall, but by that time the place was all in a blaze."
"That is so far satisfactory," said Captain M----; "and I believe, my dear Adelon," he added, "you will find that the melancholy event, which we must all deplore, has taken place by natural causes. It is probable that the conversation between your father and Mr. Filmer was of an angry and agitating character. Sir Arthur, who was much shaken in the morning, was ill able to bear fresh anxiety or sorrow. He may have again fainted before or after the priest left him, and the suffocating effect of the smoke may have done the rest. You add to your grief, which must be poignant enough, by suspicions, for which, at present, I see no cause."
"No cause, my friend!" said Edgar. "If you could look at this paper which I hold in my hand, but which I dare not show you or any one, you would see at once that there is cause to suspect that bad man of anything; for there is nothing evil, nothing wicked, which he has not done himself, or prompted others to do, and which he boldly avows here as the means to a great end. That end must, indeed, be accursed, to which such means are necessary. That can never be holy which treads such unholy paths. This paper will give me matter for deep thought,[3]may make a change in all my views, and may teach me to renounce many opinions instilled into me in youth, if I should find that a religion, which I have hitherto considered pure and holy, naturally requires fraud, ignorance, and wrong, for its support. I say not how I shall act, I know not how I shall act; but I do say, and I do know, that this thing will force upon me a review of all my previous convictions, and I trust that God will give me understanding to judge in the end aright."
"Pray God it be so!" said Eda Brandon; but she said no more, although she felt, and had ever felt, that a religion which pretended to rest upon revelation, and yet withheld that revelation from the great mass of the people, commenced with an error which has characterised every pagan idolatry, and opened the way to corruptions the most gross, and abominations the most foul.
Every one else was silent for a moment, and then Edgar moved his hand, saying, "I will keep you no longer, my good friends. Perhaps your testimony may be wanted in a more formal inquiry on a future day. But, in the mean time, remember that this man, this Mr. Filmer, whom we have all been accustomed most mistakenly to reverence, has been proved to be guilty of the most horrible deceits, and is charged with crimes of a very serious character. If, then, any of you should meet with him, hear of him, or know where he is to be found, it is your duty to give him up to justice, that the accusations against him may be patiently investigated. At present, you had better go and get some refreshment after all your labours; and I am sure my cousin will reward and thank you for the services you have rendered."
The strength of mental exertion seemed to have kept him up till the servants and others, who had been summoned to the library, quitted the room; but when they were gone, he threw himself down in a chair, before the large table where his father had so often sat, and resting his arms upon it, bent down his head till his eyes were hid upon them, and remained thus in silence for several minutes, while Eda, and Dudley, and Captain M----, spoke together earnestly, but in a low voice.
By this time the shades of evening were beginning to come over the sky, and although the rain had ceased, the clouds were heavy and dark. Yet a gleam of yellow light was seen beneath, towards the west, and Dudley, laying his hand upon Eda's, said, "See, Eda, there is hope in the midst of sorrow: I will go and speak to Edgar. There are many things more painful in the events of the day than even the death of a father whom he loved. He must be roused by new incitements to action; and there is cause, too, for exertion."
Advancing a step or two towards Edgar, he laid his hand upon his shoulder gently, saying, "Do not give way, my friend. Heavy sorrows have befallen you; but there are duties to be performed, efforts to be made, important steps to be considered. Our friend, Captain M----, tells me that poor Mr. Clive has met with a terrible accident, and it is his opinion that Helen Clive may both have to encounter fresh grief, and be left without protection or comfort."
Edgar started up as if his words had roused a new spirit within him, and Dudley continued thus:--"Under these circumstances, Eda is inclined to take refuge at the Grange, where there is plenty of room. She would not do so if she did not look upon Helen, and Helen did not look upon her, as a sister."
Edgar started forward, in his impetuous way, towards his fair cousin, and taking her hand, pressed his lips upon it with tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Eda," he said; "thank you for Helen, thank you for myself. I know what leads you to the Grange, and I must go with you."
"We will all go down," said Dudley. "I trust that our evil anticipations may be found premature; but should the worst happen, Helen will need all the comfort that can be given to her. There are many things, however, first to be done here, Edgar; and although I now boldly claim a right to act on Eda's behalf, yet it is but fitting that her nearest and dearest surviving relation should join his voice to mine in all matters. There is another task, Edgar, which you must entrust to me. Painful as it must be, I think I can promise to perform it according to your wishes; and in the few cases where a doubt may occur to me, as to how I should act, I will apply to yourself."
Edgar pressed his hand warmly in his own, murmuring, "Dudley, we are brothers;" and Dudley, turning away his head for a moment, answered, "Come, Edgar, we must give directions for restoring some degree of order here, and for setting a watch, to ensure, that if the fire should break out again in any place where it is yet smouldering, it shall be extinguished at once. Then we will all go down to the Grange; and after seeing what is the state of poor Mr. Clive, Captain M---- and myself will leave you and Eda there, and find lodgings for the night somewhere in the neighbourhood."
Much, indeed, remained to be done, and many orders to be given before the party could set out; but the mind of Edgar Adelon, in many scenes of trial and difficulty, had gained much strength since first we saw him; and to a strong mind exertion is relief, even under the load of grief.