We must now return to the conversation which was going on at the Rectory of Danemore between Mr. Evelyn, Sir Walter Herbert, and him whom we shall still call Henry Langford--in the fear that he should never establish his claim to any higher title; and the reader need scarcely be told that the interruption which took place therein was occasioned by the arrival of Mr. Justice Whistler, bearing with him the sad account of all that had occurred in consequence of the expedition which he himself led against Franklin Gray.
Putting down his hat upon the table, the feather band of which was dripping with some rain which had now begun to fall, he declared that he believed such events had never happened before in any civilized country; and he related with no inconsiderable degree of real feeling the death of poor Mona Gray. For a time, sensations of awe, and grief, and astonishment, suspended every other feeling in the bosoms of his hearers; but he himself, who had cast off the first impression under the influence of a good night's rest and a long heavy ride, recalled the rest of the party to other thoughts, by making Langford a low bow, and saying, "Under existing circumstances, I suppose I may congratulate you, Sir, upon your undisputed succession to the title of the Earl of Danemore."
Langford replied that he certainly intended at once to assume that title, though, he believed, it would not be undisputed; and Mr. Evelyn, who had a great inclination for doing business under all circumstances, immediately proceeded to take into consideration the change which the news that they had just received might produce in Langford's position. Judging that it might be as well to engage the acuteness of Mr. Justice Whistler in their service, at least as far as seeking for the lost papers was concerned, he opened the matter to that respectable magistrate, and held out to him such cogent inducements for exerting himself to the utmost in the business in hand, that the justice, though he represented the importance and necessity of his presence in London, agreed to leave all business there to his colleagues, and devote himself to the object in view.
Langford heard this arrangement without saying anything, and without giving any encouragement to Mr. Justice Whistler to remain; for, in truth, he had his own views upon the subject, and had already determined what course to pursue, feeling perfectly sure that the lost papers were in the possession of Franklin Gray, and that any efforts of Mr. Justice Whistler for the recovery of those papers would retard if not utterly prevent the attainment of their object.
He took care, therefore, to give no hint, either of his own purposes, or his suspicions as to the hands into which the papers had fallen, but at once turned to another part of the subject, saying, "In the first place, Mr. Evelyn, as it is my full intention to deal openly and straightforwardly in this business altogether, I think it may be necessary immediately to send a note to Sir Henry Heywood, informing him of the terrible fate which has befallen my unhappy brother, and begging to meet him here, to confer more fully on the subject to-morrow morning."
The note was accordingly written, and sent; and Sir Henry, who fancied himself considerably nearer to his object in consequence of the death of Lord Harold, returned a gracious answer, and appointed ten o'clock on the following day for the conference. Sir Walter Herbert then proceeded to Moorhurst; but although Langford felt a longing desire to pass one more evening of tranquillity with her he loved best, in the library of the calm old Manor House, he would not quit the sad dwelling where the body of his father lay, but remained there during the night.
By ten o'clock the next morning Sir Walter had returned, and the arrival of Sir Henry Heywood soon followed. He was now, however, accompanied by a lawyer, and on his entering the room, Langford immediately, in plain and courteous language, and few words, announced to him the situation in which he stood, as son of the late Earl of Danemore, by his private marriage with Eugenie de Beaulieu.
Sir Henry Heywood had not lost his time since his arrival in the neighbourhood of Danemore Castle, and by one means or another had collected a very accurate knowledge of Langford's situation, and the points in which his claim was strong or defective.
"Sir," he said, in reply, "what you have just asserted may be, and, indeed, very probably is correct. You are a likely young gentleman; bear a strong resemblance to the late Earl, and so forth. I have nothing to say against the fact of the Earl being your father, or of your mother being a very virtuous lady; but all I have to say is, that such assertions are good for nothing in law without proofs of the fact. If you will do me the honour to show me the registry of your father's and mother's marriage, a certificate to that effect from the hands of the clergyman who married them, the attestation of the proper witnesses, or, in short, satisfactory legal proofs, I shall make you a very low bow, and congratulate you on your accession to the title of Earl of Danemore. Till then, however, by your leave, I shall assume that title myself, and acting as heir to the late peer, take possession of everything to which the law gives me a claim."
"In regard to taking possession of anything, sir," replied Langford, "be my claim what it will, I think you will find yourself barred by my father's will."
"Then let it be produced, sir--let it be produced," said Sir Henry Heywood, with some degree of irritable sharpness. "We have heard a great deal about this will: let it be produced."
"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Evelyn; "here it is. But before it is opened, we will call in, if you please, the witnesses who heard every word of it read over to the Earl, and who saw him sign it. I think that his chief servants should be present."
What he suggested was agreed to. The small room of the Rectory was nearly filled; and while Langford, with feelings of deep grief, perhaps we might even say despondency, sat at the table shading his eyes with his hand, and Sir Henry Heywood, seated on the other side, shut his lips close, and looked full in Mr. Evelyn's face, the lawyer, after all due formalities, proceeded to read the will aloud.
In the first place, it ordained as private and speedy a burial of his body as possible. In the next, it provided liberally for all the servants. It then went on to leave to his son Edward, heretofore erroneously called Lord Harold, a large independent fortune, which was to revert, in case of his death without issue, to the person whom next he named; that person was his eldest son, Henry, by his first wife, Eugenie de Beaulieu, whom he had married privately the year before the Restoration.
Under the skilful management of Mr. Evelyn, nothing had been left undone to show that Langford was the person to whom he alluded, and to render the wording of the Earl's will the most solemn acknowledgment of his marriage and declaration of his son's legitimacy. With all these precautions, the Earl went on to leave to him every part of his vast fortune not otherwise disposed of; noticing the estates attached to the title of Earl of Danemore only as coming to him of necessity. The three executors were then appointed, as had been before announced, and the will terminated with the signature.
The reading of this document called forth a burst of angry vehemence from Sir Henry Heywood, which might have proceeded further had it not been repressed instantly by a murmur of indignation which ran through all present.
Langford, however, himself, was the coolest of the party, and as soon as the reading of the will was concluded, he said, "Sir Henry Heywood, in the present state of feeling experienced by all parties, the less discussion that takes place, of course the better. You are now satisfied as to who are the executors; but I think it will be better, till after the funeral is over, to remove none of the seals which have been placed; and I doubt not that this reverend gentleman, and Sir Walter Herbert, will agree with me in that view. You will, of course, be present at the funeral; and I doubt not that on that sad occasion we shall all meet more calmly. For the present, I wish you good morning;" and so saying, he bowed and quitted the room.
Sir Henry Heywood remained, and would fain have entered into the discussion of many points, both with Sir Walter and Mr. Evelyn, but neither were at all inclined to gratify him in that respect; and he retired, declaring that he would certainly attend the funeral; but that before that time he would have such legal authority from London as would enable him to maintain his just rights against any conspiracy which might be formed to oppose them. Sir Walter Herbert coloured, and raised his head at the word conspiracy, with signs of ill-repressed indignation; but Mr. Evelyn laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "He is a disappointed man, Sir Walter, and has privilege of angry words."
On the measures that were taken by Sir Henry Heywood we will not dwell; nor will we pause, even for a moment, on the melancholy ceremony of committing to dust the bodies of the Earl of Danemore and his younger son. Langford, although between him and the dead there existed none of those endearing ties which gather round the heart in the tender intercourse of early years, though his affection towards them was not, like the rich shells which we find embedded in the coral rock, joined to the things it clung to by the accumulated love and associations of years, still could not help feeling deeply and painfully as he laid the father and the brother in the grave, and took the dark farewell of his last earthly kindred.
Sir Henry Heywood had by this time learned so far to restrain himself that nothing disagreeable occurred; and from the vault the whole party turned their steps, not to the Rectory, but to one of the large saloons which had remained unconsumed in Danemore Castle. The two noted lawyers were found waiting for the baronet, who immediately addressed himself to Langford, demanding if he distinctly understood him to lay claim to the earldom of Danemore.
"Distinctly, sir," replied Langford.
"Very well, sir. Then--" interrupted Sir Henry.
But the other waved his hand, and went on, "I do most distinctly lay claim to that earldom, sir; but as I wish to do nothing whatsoever that can be considered unfair towards you, and shall in a few days be able to produce the only papers which seem necessary to convince you of my right--having at this moment a certain knowledge of the person who has taken them--I shall leave the executorial duties under my father's will entirely to my excellent friends, who, well advised, will deal with you in all justice and kindness, I am sure. I myself am bound upon important business, and therefore you will excuse my presence any further. I trust in two honourable men, all whose actions I know will bear the closest inspection; and I shall feel satisfied with and ratify everything that they shall do."
A word whispered in the ear of Sir Henry Heywood by one of his lawyers, made him start a step forward ere Langford departed, and say, "Doubtless, sir, we are to expect on your return the production of the papers; and of course you will be willing to submit them, as you do the conduct of your friends, to the closest inspection?"
"Quite," replied Langford, with a calm smile, so slightly coloured by contempt that none but an eager and well-qualified appetite could have detected the admixture. "Whether I bring back the papers or not, Sir Henry, depends upon fortune; or, rather, I should say, upon God's will. You judge rightly when you think I go to seek them; and that I go to seek them where they are to be found, I am quite certain. My chance may be to find them, or not. I give you good-day."
Leaving Sir Henry Heywood to follow what course he thought fit, and Sir Walter Herbert with the rector, guided by Mr. Evelyn, and an old, calm, thoughtful, experienced, little-speaking lawyer from London, to deal with him as they judged advisable, we shall trace the course of Henry Langford, who now, followed by two servants, one attached to Sir Walter Herbert, and the other an old and faithful domestic of his father, the late earl, took his way abruptly from Danemore Castle, but not in the direction which the reader may imagine. He rode at once across the country to the little village of Moorhurst; and passing over the bridge--because the shortest way, though the park, under lately existing circumstances, had been closed--he approached the Manor House; and leaving his horse, with orders not to unsaddle him, in the court-yard, he hurried through the house in search of Alice Herbert.
He found her without much difficulty; and sweet and tender were her feelings on that first meeting, alone, and altogether to each other, after a long period of distress and anxiety, and the obtrusiveness of a thousand anxious and busy cares. He told her that he could not go away upon a journey of some distance and of much importance without seeing her--without bidding her farewell for the time. He told her again and again how deeply and how passionately he loved her. He pressed her again and again to his heart, in gratitude for past kindness, in the ardour of present affection, in the longing apprehension of parting. He took, and she granted, all that a noble heart could wish or a pure heart could yield; and then, springing upon his horse, he once more pursued his way towards the spot which the tale of Justice Whistler had pointed out as that where Franklin Gray was likely to be met with.
He left the village, with the Rectory of Mr. Sandon, far to the left, about an hour before sunset; and then inquiring his way to the nearest farm-house--for there were neither railroads over deserts, nor hotels upon mountains in those days--he prepared to repose for the night ere he pursued his inquiries on the following morning. The people of the farm were kind and civil: and, though it put them somewhat out of their way to receive a guest with two servants and three horses, when they expected no such thing, the matter was readily arranged, and Langford soon found himself sitting at a pleasant country table, whereat ten or twelve people were enjoying themselves after the fatigues of the day.
Langford made himself friends wherever he came, by the urbanity of his manners: generally ruling as much as he wished in all circumstances, by appearing, like the ancient Greek, to yield and to respect. In the present instance he was received with great gladness, and was enabled to gain information of everything that was passing throughout the country round, by the very fact of his making himself at once at home amongst the people, as we have said he did, and by seeming to share their feelings, which soon proved the means of sharing their thoughts. The whole tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood was now detailed to him, and he heard every particular of the death of his brother. The stopping of Mr. Justice Whistler, and his scourging with the saddle-girths and stirrup-leathers, were also told him, with many other interesting details, which seemed to have made a deep impression upon the laughter-loving hearts of the honest villagers.
Langford himself was, in comparison with his ordinary moods, sad and gloomy, as he well might be, not so much from anticipation of the future as in reflecting upon the past, and upon all the deeds, wrongs, and sorrows whereon that inevitable past had set its seal for ever; and as he approached the spot where his brother had fallen, the despondency that he felt was of course not diminished. Without asking any direct questions concerning Franklin Gray, Langford obtained tidings which made him hesitate in regard to his further conduct; for in answer to his inquiries as to whether any of the robbers had been captured, the honest farmer--who had been one of those that went out against them, and therefore took a personal interest in the whole affair--informed him that the band had certainly dispersed, each man, it was supposed, taking his separate way back to London. Such was the opinion pronounced by Mr. Justice Whistler, the farmer said; and Langford now learned, for the first time, that the worthy justice had returned to the scene of his former adventures, and was eagerly aiding the local magistrate in the pursuit of the robbers.
He feared, then, that Franklin Gray might thus have been driven from the neighbourhood; but after some reflection, an impression took hold of his mind--probably springing from traits of the Robber's character which he had seen and marked in better days--that Gray would linger, for a time at least, round the spot where his unhappy wife was interred; and Langford consequently proceeded at once to the little solitary burial ground in which she lay. To it was attached a small church, situated at a great distance from any other building, high upon the side of the hill, and offering once in the week some means of religious instruction to the inhabitants of that wild tract. He easily found the grave of poor Mona Gray, for no one had been buried there for many months but herself, and every other grave was green.
The sight of that grave, however, confirmed him in the hope of soon finding Franklin Gray, for at the head were strewed, here and there, some wild flowers, evidently lately gathered. Justice Whistler, with a heart hardened by intercourse with evil things, did not comprehend the character of the Robber as Langford did, and never dreamed that he would linger near the spot where the wife whom he had himself slain with such determined premeditation, slept her last sleep.
Leaving his two servants to watch in the churchyard, Henry Langford rode up to the top of the hills, and continued his course along the ridge towards the sea; but ere he had gone half a mile, he saw something move in one of the deep, shadowy indentations of the ground, and riding quickly down, he pursued the object as it fled before him, taking advantage of everything which could conceal it in its flight, doubling round every tree and bush, and plunging into each deep dell. But Langford caught sight of it sufficiently often to feel sure that it was a human being, and he gained upon it also as it led him back in its flight towards the churchyard.
There, however, he lost sight of it again; but the moment after, a faint cry met his ear, and a shout; and riding on fast, he found the boy Jocelyn in the hands of his two servants. The boy was evidently in great terror; and the sound of another voice behind him, when Langford spoke as he came up, made him start almost out of the hands of the men who held him. The sight of Langford's well-known face, however, instantly made his countenance brighten; and when that gentleman spoke kindly to him, and bade the men let him go, the boy came up towards him, bending his head, and looking gladly in his face, as a favourite dog that has been lost for several days, runs up, fawning, but yet half frightened, towards its master, when it returns.
"Well, Jocelyn," said Langford, gazing at him, and marking his soiled clothes and pale and haggard appearance, "you seem not to have fared very richly, my poor boy, since you got away from Justice Whistler. Did you find out your master?"
The boy looked timidly at the two men who stood near, then hung down his head, and made no reply. Langford bent over him, and said in a low voice, "Do not be frightened, Jocelyn. I am seeking no ill, either to yourself or your master. Come with me on the hill side, and tell me more. We will leave the men here."
"You must leave your horse behind, then, also," said the boy, in the same low tone, "if you want to see the Captain as you used to do; for he will never let us find him if he sees any one coming on horseback."
"That I will do willingly," replied Langford; and throwing the bridle to one of the men, he bade them remain there till he returned.
Holding the boy Jocelyn by the hand, he then went out upon the hill side, questioning him as they walked along, with regard to Franklin Gray; but before he would answer anything, the boy made him again and again promise that he would not betray his master. When he was satisfied on that point, he gazed up in Langford's face, with a look of deep and anxious sadness, saying, "Oh, you don't know all, Captain Langford! You don't know all!"
"Yes, my good boy, I do," replied Langford; "I have heard all the sad story of the people going to attack your master in his house, and his fancying that his wife had betrayed him, and shooting the person he loved best on earth."
"Ay, poor thing, she is happy!" said the boy; "I am sure she is in heaven, for every day since they laid her in the churchyard, I have strewed what flowers I could get, upon her grave, and they do not wither there half so soon as they do anywhere else. But I am sure it is better for her to be there than to see her husband in such a state as he is now."
"What do you mean, Jocelyn?" demanded Langford. "Grief and remorse for what he has done must, I dare say, have had a terrible effect upon your master; but you seem to imply something more. What is it that you mean?"
"Alas," replied the boy, "he is mad; quite mad. That is what made Harvey and the rest leave him, for they found him out after he got away and joined him again; but, both for his sake and their own, they were obliged to separate, when they found what state he was in. But I am sure he had been mad some time before, for the day after that wicked man made his escape, who brought all the people upon us, I saw him on the hill fire one of his pistols in the air, as if he had been shooting at something, though there was nothing to be seen: and when he had done he looked at the pistol and said, 'You are not so dangerous now.' But now he is quite wild, and you must take care how you go near him, for it is a thousand to one that he fires at you, and you know he never misses his mark."
"Whereabouts is he?" demanded Langford. "I wonder he has not been discovered."
"Oh, he is two or three miles off, at least," replied the boy; "in the rocky part of the hills near the sea. He comes here about night, when he goes to the grave in the churchyard, and moans over it; but then before daylight he is away again."
Langford and the boy walked on, but the two or three miles he spoke of proved to be fully five, and during the last mile the scenery became wild and rugged in the extreme. The turf, which had covered the hills further inland with a smooth though undulating surface, was here constantly broken by immense masses of rock, sometimes taking the form of high banks and promontories, with the tops still soft and grassy; sometimes starting abruptly up in fantastic groups out of the ground, like the rugged and misshapen columns of some druidical temple. Here and there a few scattered birch trees varied the scene, and near a spot where a spring of clear water broke from the ground, and wandered down in a stream into the valley, some fine oaks had planted themselves, sheltered by a higher ridge of the hill from the sharp winds of the sea.
As they came near this spot, the boy Jocelyn gave a long low whistle, more like the cry of some wild bird than any sound from human lips, saying, after he had done so, "He is often about here at this hour."
No answer was returned, however, and they went on for nearly another mile, which brought them to the high rocks that encircled a bay of the sea. "I should not wonder if he were here," said the boy; "for I sometimes catch fish for him there, and there are more berries upon the shrubs that grow half way down than anywhere else."
"Good God! Is that the only food that he obtains?" demanded Langford.
"He has had nothing else," said the boy, sadly, "since Harvey and the rest went away. Look! There he is!--just below us. Hush! Do not let us go quick!"
Langford laid his hand upon the boy's arm, and detained him, while he gazed down for two or three moments on the unhappy man who had once been his companion and friend in the stirring days of military adventure.
It was a terrible sight! The sun was shining brightly, though over the deep blue sky some large detached masses of cloud were borne by a soft and equable but rapid wind, throwing upon the green bosom of the water below, and the rocks and hills round about, deep clear shadows, which, as they floated on, left the objects that they touched brighter than ever in the sunshine, like the shadows which doubt or suspicion, or gloom, or the waywardness of the human heart, will cast upon things in themselves beautiful, and which, when the mood is gone or the doubt removed, resume at once all their splendour. Part of the steep close by Franklin Gray was covered with bushes, mingled with some taller trees, and over these the shadow of a cloud was flying, while he himself sat in the full light upon a small projecting piece of the rock.
Tenderly folded to his bosom, he held his infant with both his arms; and, swaying backwards and forwards, while his eyes wandered wildly over the waters, he seemed endeavouring to rock it to sleep. A little further up, his horse, his beautiful grey, of which he had been so fond, cropped the scanty herbage, with the bridle cast upon his neck; and hearing the approach of strangers even before his master, he raised high his proud head, and gazed eagerly around.
"How does he feed the child?" demanded Langford, in a whisper.
"With berries, and anything he can get," replied the boy; "he never lets it be out of his arms but to crawl round him for a few moments on the turf."
"This is very terrible, indeed," said Langford; "but he sits there on such a fearful point of the rock that you had better go forward yourself, in the first instance, and tell him that I am here. The least thing might make him plunge over."
"It would not surprise me at all," replied the boy, "for where he goes I am sure I would not go, and yet I can climb as well as any one."
Langford then withdrew for a few yards, and the boy again uttered his low whistle, which was immediately answered. After pausing for a moment or two to give him time to reach his master, Langford again advanced, and saw the boy in eager conversation with Franklin Gray, whose eyes were now bent upon the spot where he stood. Satisfied that he was prepared for his coming, Langford descended with difficulty the precipitous path which led to the shelf of rock on which he stood; and Franklin Gray himself took a step or two back from the edge, and came forward to meet him. Holding the child still to his bosom with one arm, he at first held out the other to his old companion; but the next moment, as they came near, he drew it suddenly back, gazing upon him with his bright flashing eyes, and exclaiming, "No, no! This hand killed your father and your brother, and you must pursue me to the death!"
"No, Franklin," replied Langford, in a calm and quiet tone; "I pursue you not with any evil intent towards you. What you say is true; that hand did slay my brother, and aided, perhaps, in taking my father's life; but that hand too aided and supported my mother; and my father, not many days before his death, made me promise that I would not seek for vengeance upon you. He said that he had wronged you in early years, and that it was fitting your own hand should punish him."
"He did--he did wrong me!" cried Franklin Gray. "To him I owe all that is evil in my nature. He had me kidnapped when I was a boy, and would have fain followed the sweet lady he had deserted. He had me kidnapped, and carried me away into the south, and made me familiar with blood; and when I fled from him, he pursued me as if I had been his slave; but I escaped. And now, Henry, tell me what you seek with me! If you come not for vengeance, what is it you come for?"
"I came," replied Langford, "from a personal motive; but I did not expect, Franklin, to find you in this state, and the thoughts of myself are swallowed up in pain to find you thus."
"What! you mean I am mad!" burst forth Franklin Gray. "It is true, I am mad, madder than any that we used to see nursed by the Brothers of Charity at Charenton. But what matters that? Every one else is as mad as myself. Was not she mad to let me think that she had betrayed me? Was she not madder still to send me word when she was dying that she had not betrayed me, and to pile coals of fire upon my head? Was she not mad to die at all, and leave me with this infant?" and sitting upon the ground, he looked earnestly upon the face of the child, which his vehemence had awakened up from its sleep.
After pausing for a few minutes, and pressing his hand tightly upon his brow, he turned to Langford more collectedly, saying, "You told me you came here from a personal motive. What was it? Speak quickly, while my mind will go straight, for my brain is like a horse that has just gone blind, and wavers from one side of the road to the other." And he laughed wildly at his own simile.
"The motive that brought me, Franklin," replied Langford, "was to obtain from you the papers which you know I have been so long seeking to possess. My mother's marriage, it seems, cannot be proved without them."
Franklin Gray started upon his feet, and gazed with wild surprise in Langford's face. "I have them not," he exclaimed; "I never touched them. Did you not take them? It was your own fault, then; and they were burnt with the house. We rushed out as fast as we could go. I know nothing further."
That he spoke truth was so evident, that Langford instantly determined to say nothing more on the subject, though the disappointment caused him a bitter pang. But it was useless to enter into any explanations with the unhappy man before him; and with the usual calm decision of his character he determined at once to apply himself, as far as possible, to see what might be done to relieve and comfort him. If he remained in England, his life would inevitably be sacrificed to the law, notwithstanding his manifest insanity. He himself, under such circumstances, could not even intercede in his favour, and the only hope of saving him from public execution was to induce him to fly to France, and by giving notice of his condition to some persons of influence there, to obtain admission for him into the institution which he himself had mentioned--namely, that of the Brothers of Charity at Charenton, who devoted themselves to the care of persons in his unhappy situation. All this passed through his mind in a moment, and he replied to Franklin Gray at once, "Well, if it be so, it cannot be helped; but now, Gray, to speak of yourself. You must be aware that you are here in a very dangerous situation, surrounded by people who are pursuing you for the express purpose of bringing you to the scaffold. Would it not be much better for you to fly to France?"
Franklin Gray gazed in his face for a moment or two, then looked up to the sky with a sort of half smile. "It would be better," he answered, at length; "it would be better, and my passage is even taken in a ship which is to sail, I think, in two days. But what am I to do with the child?"
"Oh, I will provide means for its joining you," replied Langford: "it shall be well taken care of."
"I have got a little boat, too, down there," said Gray, in a rambling manner, "which would carry me to the ship in no time."
Langford looked at the boy Jocelyn with an inquiring glance; but the youth shook his head, murmuring, in a scarcely audible tone, "There is no boat."
Franklin Gray was evidently occupied with other thoughts. He put his hand again to his head, and then, turning to Henry Langford, he said, "Henry, we are old companions, and I will take you at your word. Promise me, as a man and a soldier, that this babe shall be well taken care of till he joins me. It is a sweet creature, and seldom, if ever, cries. You will use it as your own, Henry, in every respect as your own?"
"I will, indeed," replied Langford; "I will, indeed; but let us think now how you can best be got off to the vessel."
But Franklin Gray went on thus:--"And poor Jocelyn, too," he said, laying his hand upon the boy's head; "you will be kind to him, and breed him as a soldier?"
"He had better go with you, Franklin," replied Langford.
"No," answered Franklin Gray, "No; I shall be better alone;" and at the same time the boy whispered to Langford, "Humour him; humour him. I will find means to follow him closely."
"Will you promise that, too?" demanded Franklin Gray, but instantly went on without waiting a reply--"Then the baby, too, Henry; you will be very kind to it, and tender, and love it very much? See, it smiles at you. Take it in your arms."
Langford took the child as he held it out to him. Franklin Gray bent down his head and kissed it; then laid his two muscular hands upon Langford's shoulders, and gazed gravely and solemnly into his eyes.
"Henry," he said, "your vow is registered in heaven!" and before Langford could answer him, he shouted exultingly, "Now I am free! Now I am free!"
With a sudden spring forward he reached the ledge on which he had lately stood, and without pause, or thought, or hesitation, plunged at once over into empty air.
The depth below might be near two hundred feet, and the water of the sea washed the base of the rock. It was in vain that Langford himself sought, and, with the aid of his servants and some people that they brought to his assistance, spent the whole of that evening in endeavouring to find the body of Franklin Gray. It was not till nearly ten days after that some fishermen found a corpse, with marks of much violence about it, showing that it must have struck upon the rocks at the bottom of the water, lying on a sandy spit that ran out from one of the points of the bay. The clothes proved it to be that of Franklin Gray; but nobody took any pains to identify it as such. A verdict of found drowned was returned by the coroner's jury; and it was buried, at Langford's expense, close to the side of Mona Gray, in the churchyard on the hills.
The road which Langford pursued, on his way back, was that which passed over the moor, as we have before mentioned, near the spot called Upwater Meer, and thence descending the hill, separated into two branches, at a point where, on the one hand, the remains of Danemore Castle, with its wide park and deep woods, were to be seen at the distance of about four miles, and on the other appeared the graceful little spire of Moorhurst Church, with the manifold roofs and chimneys of the Manor House, peeping out of the trees some way in advance.
When Langford reached that spot, which was at the period of the evening when the shadows begin to grow long, but before the sun had lost any of its power, he paused and gazed for several minutes upon the mansion of his ancestors; saying to it in his own heart, "Farewell for ever. The things which were to have given you back to me, with all the honours and pride of high birth and long ancestry, are lost beyond recall. But never mind. It may be better as it is. I shall escape the temptations of high estate. Alice will not love me less; and though it may cost Sir Walter's heart a pang that the legitimacy of my birth is not clear to the eyes of all men, he himself will not doubt it. It may cause mine a pang, too, that even a shade should rest upon my mother's name; but I have done all that could be done."
Such were his thoughts, though not, perhaps, his words, as, after gazing for some time upon the castle, he turned, and directed his horse's head towards Moorhurst. On arriving at the old Manor House, he looked up with pleasure to see the smoke curling above the trees, the lattice windows wide open to give admission to the sweet fresh air, and all bearing that air of comfort and cheerfulness which it used to do.
There were several persons, not servants, lingering about in the court-yard, however. There was a look of some vexation in honest Halliday's face as he gave Langford admission, and some strangers were in the hall. The events of the last few weeks had brought an apprehensiveness upon Langford's heart which sorrow can do even to those who are steeled against danger; and he asked at once if anything were the matter.
"Oh, no. His worship and Mistress Alice are both quite well, sir," replied Halliday, divining Langford's feelings at once. "It is only that they have brought a poor fellow up before Sir Walter, charged with stealing, who I am sure never stole; and that Sir Henry Heywood, or Lord Danemore, as he calls himself--I hope he'll have to uncall himself soon--is pressing to have him sent to prison at once. Mistress Alice is up in the village. I am glad she is away, poor thing."
Langford went on into the library, and, passing without much notice a group of persons around the prisoner at the end of the long table, he advanced to Sir Walter, who was sitting with Sir Henry Heywood at some distance, with a table before them, and some books. The Knight and the Baronet both rose on seeing Langford; the one to grasp his hand: the other to make him a more cordial bow than hitherto.
"Pray, sir, may I ask," he said, immediately, with a certain anxious quivering of the lip, but with perfect civility, "if you have been successful in your search?"
"I have not, sir," replied Langford, honestly; "I have not found what I sought."
"Then I presume, sir, that you are not disposed to pursue further your claims in this matter?" rejoined the other, in a hesitating manner.
"You are wrong, sir," replied Langford; "I shall pursue it upon such proofs as are in my possession. If it were but for the purpose of clearing my mother's fame, I would do so, even if there existed no chance of my recovering my right."
"It is a noble feeling, sir," said Sir Henry, with an urbane smile; "but perhaps there may be a method of compromising this affair. Allow me one word with you," and so saying, he drew Langford aside into the recess of one of the windows. "For my own part," he continued, "I am not ambitious. I am a widower, and shall certainly never marry again. I have but two daughters--you are a single man--"
"But one engaged to be married very shortly," replied his auditor, making him a low bow; and Sir Henry went back to Sir Walter Herbert, saying, in a fierce and impatient tone, "Let us proceed with the business before us at once, Sir Waller. I say the man must be committed, and I call upon you as a magistrate to do so."
"I do not see the case as you do," answered the good Knight of Moorhurst; and as he spoke, Langford approached the table also, and, raising his eyes to the prisoner, at once recognised the poor half-witted man, Silly John Graves. Though surprised and grieved, he said nothing, having learned in a hard and difficult school to govern his first emotions. Standing beside Sir Walter Herbert, however, and feeling that internal conviction of the man's honesty and truth which is gained, not alone from great and significant notions, but from small signs and casual traits, which betray rather than display the heart, he determined to interpose in the poor man's defence, and not to suffer the overbearing vehemence of Sir Henry Heywood to crush the calm simplicity of truth, as overbearing vehemence so generally does in this world.
"Why, Sir Waller Herbert," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, in the same sharp tone, "has not the man been found carrying out of Danemore Castle a valuable cup and silver cover? Has he not been taken in the very act?"
"I took nothing but what was my own," said Silly John, gazing upon Sir Henry Heywood with a shy look, which mingled in strange harmony terror, and contempt, and hatred; "I took nothing but what was my own, or what ought never to have been there, or what no one there had a right to."
"What, then," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, "you took more beside the cup?"
"Ay, that I did," replied Silly John; "I took the cup because Mistress Bertha brought it to me full of wine on the night I was shut up there, in the dark hole under the tower; and she gave me the cup and all, and said I might keep it; and then the fire came, and I lost the cup; and so, whenever I was well enough of the burns and the bruises, I went back again to seek it, and to take my own."
"Send for Mistress Bertha," said Sir Waller, speaking to one of the attendants at the lower side of the room; "She is now in the house, which is fortunate."
Sir Henry Heywood gnawed his lip, but, as if to fill up the time, he asked the prisoner, looking keenly at him, "You acknowledge you took other things out of the Castle before you were caught. What were they, and what right had you to them? You will see, Sir Walter," he continued, "that whether Danemore Castle belongs to me, or to this other gentleman who claims it, it is absolutely necessary that we who dispute the property, and you who are executor to the will, should investigate accurately, and prosecute vigorously, every one who abstracts anything from that building. I ask you again," he added, addressing the half-witted man, "what it was you admit taking, and what claim you had thereunto."
"More claim than you can show," answered Silly John; "for I had some right, and you have none. And worse than a fox you are, for a fox only seeks a young bird out of the nest; you seek nest and all. Every one knows I never told a lie in my life!"
"Ay, that we do!" cried some voices at the end of the library; but at that instant Sir Henry Heywood exclaimed, "Silence there! how dare you disturb the court?"
"By your leave, Sir Henry," said Sir Walter Herbert.
But at that moment the woman Bertha entered the room, with the same cold, calm, and dignified air which had become second nature with her, and gazing round with a look of inquiry, she demanded, "What is wanted with me? Who sent for me?"
The next moment, however, her eves fell upon the half-witted man, as he stood at the bottom of the table, and clasping her hands together with emotion, such as no one present had ever beheld her display on any previous occasion, she exclaimed, "Good God! is it possible? Art thou living? or art thou risen from the dead? I thought thou hadst been burnt to ashes in Hubert's tower, which fell amongst the first that went down. I dared not even mention thy name, for thy confinement there, and the dreadful fate that I thought had befallen thee, were too terrible, were too awful for thought even, to rest upon! But now thou art come to life again to bear witness of the truth and yet," she added sorrowfully, "they will not hear his testimony, for they will say he is mad--that he has been mad for years!"
"Never you fear that, Mistress Bertha," said the half-witted man. "The foxes let me out before they set fire to the house; and I never forget anything; so, while they were fighting and tearing each other to pieces, I went and fingered what do you think?"
"The papers! the papers!" exclaimed Bertha, almost screaming with joy.
"Ay, even so," said the half-witted man, thrusting his hand into his breast. "I found the key upon the door of the room, and I opened the hole in the wall, and took them out."
"What right had you with them!" thundered Sir Henry Heywood, who had sat by, no unconcerned spectator of the scene. "What right had you with anything in that place! You confess robbery!"
"What right had I with them?" exclaimed Silly John, with a wild laugh. "Why, you are as foolish as if you had been born before Noah's flood! Wasn't there the leaf of the register which they cut out of my own register-book just about the time I first went mad, when I was usher of Uppington Grammar School, and clerk of the parish! and did not that make me madder than before? Who had any right to the leaf but I? and there it is!" and he spread out upon the table an old yellow leaf of paper, written over both sides with pale ink, and bearing the traces of many foldings.
"If is a falsehood! a forgery!" exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood. "It is got up for the occasion! It is a conspiracy! Let me see the sheet!" and he started forward to snatch it up from the table; but at that moment Mr. Evelyn, the lawyer, stepped in before him, and laid his hand firmly upon it.
"By your leave, sir," he said, "this valuable document is fingered by nobody. Do not, bend your brows on me, sir. I am firm! Clerk, take up the document, and be you responsible for it. If Sir Henry chooses to bring this business into court, he may; but if he will take my advice he will listen to a few quiet words. While thinking that my noble client and patron, the young Earl of Danemore, here present," and he pointed to Langford, "would certainly obtain this same document from another source, I busied myself eagerly to obtain every collateral testimony which could prove the identity of the leaf that had been so nicely extracted from the register; and I have here, under my hand, the certificates of five marriages which took place in that same year in the parish of Uppington, which are not now to be found in the volume of the register, but which will be found, I will answer for it, in the leaf that is now produced. This will be confirmation, beyond all doubt, if it be so. Clerk, compare the papers!"
"Oh, but that is all nonsense, Master Turney," cried Silly John; "there's no need of comparing anything. Was not I clerk of the parish myself, and witness of the marriage? And besides, here's the certificate of the marriage in the Rev. Jonathan Whattle's own hand. Anybody in the place will swear to the drunken parson's handwriting. The only difference was, that it was more crooked and shaky when he was sober than when he was drunk; and here's my own handwriting to it, as I used to write in those days. God help me! I've nearly forgotten how to write now. And then there's Mistress Bertha's there; her hand is to it too, and a Frenchman's hand that was with them at the time. I remember very well. And here's another paper besides, written in a tongue I don't understand, which is all the more likely to prove a matter of moment. God help us all! we're as blind as kittens of time days old, and can tell nothing of what will happen at the end of the nine."
"Sir," said the clerk, who had been busily looking over the papers, "I find all these extracts placed at intervals in the leaf of the register before me. There are nine or ten others, too, which could doubtless easily be traced. Shall I send for the register of Uppington to compare the book and the leaf?"
"It is unnecessary, sir; it is unnecessary," said Sir Henry Heywood, making a virtue of necessity. "My Lord the Earl of Danemore, I congratulate you on your unexpected accession to such honours and so much wealth. That you have cast me out from them I forgive you. Disappointed I must feel; but that disappointment, believe me, proceeds more from affection for my two poor girls, whose inheritance will be but their father's sword, useless in their hands, and their mother's virtues, which God grant may adorn them always, than from the loss of rank and wealth to myself. Sir, I give you good morning, and leave you."
"Stop a moment, Sir Henry Heywood," said Langford; "a word in your ear before you go." That word was spoken in a moment, but Sir Henry Heywood's face was in that moment lighted up with joy, and grasping Langford's hand in both his own, he exclaimed, "Indeed! indeed, my Lord, you are too generous!"
"Not so, Sir Henry," replied Langford; "for the present, adieu. We will meet to-morrow at Danemore Castle, and all shall be settled entirely. Sir Walter," he added, in a lower tone, "there is some one whom I would fain see, in this moment of joy and agitation, before I say a word more to any one."
"She must have returned by this time," said Sir Walter. "Let us go!"
They went out, and proceeded to the ladies' withdrawing-room, where they found Alice, with her beautiful eyes raised anxiously towards the door. As soon as she saw Langford, she sprang up to meet him, with the whole pure unrestrained joy of her heart beaming forth upon that lovely face.
"Alice," said Sir Walter, with a touch of his kindly stateliness, "this is the Earl of Danemore!"
"Your own Henry, ever dearest Alice," said Langford, casting his arms round her; and then, while he held her to his bosom with one hand, he extended the other to Sir Walter. "Most excellent and generous friend, I have never yet asked your consent with my own lips. Do you give her to me? Will you part with this great--this inestimable treasure?"
"I will give her to you, Henry," replied Sir Walter, "with all my heart and soul. I will give her to you, but I will not part with her. I must have a garret in the Castle, my dear boy! There, there; I give her to you. She is yours. God's blessing and her father's be upon your heads!"
So saying, he clasped their hands in each other's, and they were happy.