CHAPTER VIII.LORD OAKLEIGH.
On the morning following her strange adventure in the chapel, our heroine arose with the lark, not a whit the worse for her passage through the storm.
The old earl had suffered terribly when the tempest and the night had come, and his darling was known to be absent in the forest, or on the wild crag; but when the swift messenger had broughthim the glad intelligence of her safety, his fears departed; and when he had finally held her in his arms, and had then held her off that he might gaze into her beautiful face and know that all was well with her, then his joy was great indeed.
When it was all so happily over he was almost thankful it had happened, for it had told him over again how dearly he loved her and what a treasure she was to him!
On this morning the girl put on her hat, with a light mantle over her shoulders, thinking to take a walk in her garden before breakfast. The air was fresh and pure after the storm and not at all chilly, and the autumnal flowers were in full bloom.
She had reached the place—an inclosure within the outer walls of the castle—and was slowly and thoughtfully walking in one of the graveled paths, when she was startled by the sound of a quick, heavy footfall behind her, and on turning she found herself face to face with Matthew Brandon—by courtesy Lord Oakleigh.
He was not a pleasant man to look at, and yet many might have called him good looking—perhaps handsome. If he had any beauty it was of the Mephistophelean order. He was tall and strong, and dressed in a costly garb of embroidered velvet and satin.
He wore a large diamond in his shirt-front, he had fine rings on two or three fingers, and his gold watch-chain was conspicuous.
His complexion was dark, even to swarthiness; hishair black and quite short, with a pair of eyes now, as in his boyhood, set very near together and deeply sunken in their sockets.
He had a good nose but his lips were heavy and sensual, his mouth large, and his lower jaw broad and strong. He wore no beard, but his cheeks and his chin and his upper lip, where the razor did its work, betrayed the possibility of a beard, black and luxuriant, had he been willing to let it grow.
A friend had once asked him how it was that, with such a chance for a beard, he could be content to sacrifice it.
“Oh!” he had answered with a laugh, “I am black enough as it is; should I add a coal-black beard, I should be blackness incarnate.”
“Cordelia,” he said, when the usual salutations of the morning had been exchanged, “I have a few words to say to you; and I have come out here this morning to say them. I might not have time after breakfast, as I must return to Oxford to-day.”
The girl had stopped in her walk and stood facing him. A tremor, which she could not repress, shook her frame; for she knew very well, or she believed she knew, what he wished to speak about.
“I am listening, Lord Oakleigh.”
“Bah! Why do you eternally ‘lord’ me? I don’t like it, at least from your lips.”
“My lord, I give you the title respectfully, because it is yours. I can call you by your Christian name, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it: and I wish you to remember it. Itwill do very well for the servants to dub me ‘lord’ and for my grandfather when he is in the mood; but I don’t want it from you.” He paused and looked around.
“Haven’t you a seat anywhere about here?”
“If you are weary, you will find a very comfortable seat in yonder grape-arbor.”
“I’m not weary, my dear lady; but it is sometimes weary work to converse on one’s feet. Come with me to the arbor. I won’t keep you long. Bless me! I hope you’re not afraid of me.”
She was afraid of him; but she would not confess it. There was a coarseness in his manner; a lowness in his speech, his clipping and contracting words more like a private trooper than like an English gentleman, that disgusted her; and there was a look in his gleaming, sunken black eyes that made her afraid.
She presently saw that he would take her hand if she hesitated longer; so, without further remark, she turned and led the way to the arbor she had pointed out.
It was a small affair a framework of wood, over which the closely interwoven branches and tendrils of a number of stout grape-vines formed a complete covering, with plain wooden seats on three of its sides. Cordelia waited until Lord Oakleigh was seated; and she then sat down on the opposite side. She had struggled bravely to compose herself, being determined that nothing he could say should cause her to forget herself or to lose her temper.
“Matthew, it is nearer to the breakfast hour, perhaps, than you think.”
“Oh! don’t worry. I won’t take long to say the little I have in mind.” He paused here, and looked at her curiously. Presently he went on.
“Cordelia—you remember I once told you that when I should be ready to speak on a certain subject I should speak plainly, and in few words; and you will confess that from that time I have given you your own way, so far as I have been concerned. I have not sought to interfere with you in any way, neither in regard to your acts nor your choice of companions. ’Pon my word! I think, all things considered, that I’ve done pretty well, don’t you?”
“Really, my lord, I can not imagine to what circumstance you have reference—what things you would have considered.”
“Can’t you?”
“Indeed, I can not.”
“Well, look here. You know very well that it was the earnest desire of your parents, of your father and of mine, that you and I should grow up to be husband and wife. That you know.”
“That I—do—not—know!” the girl replied, speaking slowly and with strong emphasis.
“What! You don’t know?” cried Oakleigh, feigning great surprise. “But you do know. You can not help knowing. I tell you—”
“Stop!” commanded the young lady, holding up her hand. “Let us not dispute. Your grandfatherknows if my father ever expressed any desire of that kind. Let him decide between us.”
“Look ye, Cordelia!” Matthew exclaimed, with the flame of anger in his sunken eyes, “do you mean to throw me over now? After all these years of patient waiting, do you fancy that I am to be cast aside, like a worn-out boot? By the Host! you’ll find it a sorry work to do.”
“Lord Oakleigh!” said the proud girl starting to her feet, her face flushed and her eyes burning with deep indignant fire, “you have no authority—no right—for speaking to me in that manner. Let me tell you, once for all, I never had, I have not now, nor can I ever have a thought of becoming your wife. Let me hope that you will never broach the subject again.”
“My dear lady,” returned the suitor, attempting a sneer, his hot wrath simmering beneath, “you talk foolishly. Do you fancy I shall give up the cherished hope and plan of a lifetime to suit a whim of yours? I tell you, before your father left India he conversed with my father on this subject, and it was arranged between them that you and I should be married. Why do you suppose I have held my tongue so long? I’ll tell you. Simply because I regarded the whole thing as settled.”
“Have you said all you had to say, my lord?” the girl asked as calmly as possible.
“That depends upon how you take what I have said. What I had to say was this: Our marriage will take place before the present year is at an end.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“I would like to have you tell me what you think of it?”
“I have said all that I have to say on that subject, Lord Oakleigh. If you did not understand me, I beg that you will understand me now. I shall never be your wife.”
“But I say, you will.”
“I can not prevent you from saying what you please; but, surely, over my own fate I should be allowed to hold an opinion. Breakfast will be waiting.”
“Stop! By —!” starting up with a fierce oath and grasping her by the arm. “You do not leave me in that fashion. Before you go you must hear a word I have to say. If you will marry me quietly of your own free will—Hush!—keep still till I have said my say!”
She had attempted to break away and leave him, when he had thrust her back upon the seat from which she had arisen.
“There!” he went on, hissing out his words madly. “Sit you there and listen: If you will marry me quietly, as it is your duty to do, all may be well. I will do by you, for your good and comfort, all that any man could do. I will be a true husband to you, kind and loving. But if you refuse me, if you persist in your stubborn will not to be my wife, if you hold out against me and persuade my grandfather to join you, if you do this I will make your life a living torture! I will strike you down so that youshall cry to me for mercy! Aye, the time shall come when you will beg of me to take pity on you and make you my wife! How do you like the picture?”
“Lord Oakleigh! Let me go! I have no more to say.”
“I ask you, how do you like the picture I have drawn?”
“And I ask you to let me go.”
“Won’t you answer me?”
“You need no answer. You do not wish for an answer. If you can find delight in torturing me I suppose I must submit until I can break from you.”
“Why don’t you call me, Monster!—as I see it plainly in your mind to call me?”
“Simply, sir, because I prefer that you should characterize yourself.”
“Cordelia! By —! I would give a thousand pounds if you could be a man for just one poor minute! It is a wonder that I do not strike you where you sit.”
“And yet you ask me to become your wife! I can scarcely understand you.”
“My dear lady, you will understand me better before you are four months older; for I swear, by the heaven above me! that you shall be my wife! Do you hear that? Hold! Just a moment more.” And he looked down upon her with an expression on his dark, passion-wrought face that startled her anew.
“Do you think I do not know which way yourfancy is tending?” he demanded, his terrible wrath causing the last drop of blood to leave his face. “As I live, I believe you would marry that smuggler’s brat to-morrow, if your guardian would suffer it! Oh it makes you wince, does it? I think I will see the gentleman.”
“Monster! let me go!” And thus exclaiming she sprang from him, and leaped away. He jumped to catch her; but, at that moment, two men-servants approached the place, and he gave it up, and drew back into the arbor.
“By —!” He muttered to himself a horrible oath, and went on: “I believe she really does love the fellow! What in the world can the old man have been thinking of to allow it? By heavens! if he don’t put a stop to it, I will. I’ll have the girl for my own, if I have to force her to it! Mercy on us! she’s been allowed to associate with young Maitland as though he’d been an own brother to her! No! we’ll put a stop to that. If it can not be done in one way, it can in another!”
With this he smoothed his wrinkled front as well as he could, and left the arbor. He was not in the mood for sitting at the breakfast-table with his grandfather and Cordelia; so he took a turn away toward the river, prolonging his walk for an hour.
On his return to the castle he found that the meal had been kept for him. The others, he was informed, had eaten. He was further informed that the earl desired much to see him.
But he did not have to search. His grandfathercame into the breakfast-room while he was eating, and took a seat near him.
“I want to ask you, my dear boy,” the old man said, in his pleasant, cheery way, “when you thought of returning to Oxford.”
“Why, I thought you knew,” the grandson replied with seeming frankness, “that I had planned to go to-day. However, I may put it off till to-morrow. Had you anything of business to propose?”
“Well, my boy,” the earl answered, with an earnest, yearning look into the dark face before him, “you do not forget that you have passed the age of proper youth—that you are now a free and independent man. Let’s see—you were twenty-one—”
“On the first of June last,” Matthew put in, while his grandfather hesitated.
“Exactly. And I had supposed that your term at college would have been at an end.”
“So it would have been had I not taken an extra pull at some of my studies. But it will be over shortly. I shall come home and take a short rest, and then, I think, I’ll take a run for a year or two on the continent.”
“All right, Oakleigh. I am happy to know that you have a settled plan.”
“Hark ye, my lord,” said the young man, after a brief pause, looking up with a wine-glass in his hand, “I have to say to you, that one of my settled plans has been considerably upset this morning.”
“Ah, how is that?”
“Let me answer by asking a question: Was thereever, between my father and Sir William Chester, a settled plan that Cordelia and I should marry?”
The old man started, and an expression of pain settled upon his countenance.
“You know, don’t you?” Matthew added, as his grandfather did not speak. “Was it not a settled plan between the two fathers, before Sir William and his child left India, that Cordelia and I should become man and wife?”
“My dear boy,” the earl replied, speaking slowly and earnestly and with evident pain, “I know all about it; I know all that was said, and all that was done. Have you ever believed that such an arrangement was made?”
“I certainly have.”
“What reason had you for the belief? Surely I never told you so.”
“Perhaps you never did; but you have gone on, allowing me to—”
“Hush! Hush, my boy. You surely can have no cause of complaint against me. Never before have you spoken to me on the subject.”
“At all events,” insisted the youth, “you should have known that I was likely to fall in love with the beautiful girl and to want her for my wife.”
“Well, and what then? If you honestly love her, and will solemnly swear to be to her a true and loving husband, you shall have my consent, with God’s blessing.”
“Aye, but suppose the girl should refuse me?”
“Then, of course, that would be the end.”
“And you would put up with it, would you?”
“What do you mean, Matthew, by that?”
“You would allow the girl to have her own way? You would not make an effort to influence her?”
“To influence her to what?”
“To accept your grandson for a husband.”
The old man started and a perceptible shudder shook his strong frame. He looked again into the dark face before him, and thought of the precious darling who looked to him for care and protection.
“Did you understand me?” Lord Oakleigh asked, with a show of temper, as his grandfather continued to gaze upon him in silence.
“Yes, Matthew, I understood you but too well. I am surprised that you should put such a question to me.”
“In Heaven’s name! why surprised? Is it surprising that I should wish to make Cordelia Chester my wife?”
“Not at all; but I am surprised that you should for one moment suppose that I would urge her to marry against her will. In fact, my boy, I gave to her father, when he lay dying, a solemn promise that I would never do any such thing. She should not be asked to marry without love.”
“Oho-ho-oo!” The angry man laughed coarsely and contemptuously. “If you stick to that you’ll be likely to send your fair ward to a grand market! Do you know whom she will marry if she weds with the man of her heart’s desire?”
“Boy! What do you mean?”
“Upon my word! I believe you know very well what I mean. Don’t you know which way the girl is drifting? If you do not, it is time you opened your eyes!”
“Matthew,” said the earl, drawing himself up proudly, and looking his grandson straight in the face, “I will not profess to misunderstand you. You are speaking, or thinking, of Percy Maitland. I am only sorry that he is not of gentle blood; for I tell you frankly, were he so, I should not hesitate an instant to bestow upon him Cordelia’s hand, provided they both wished it.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you would not give that hand to me?”
“If you will have it, boy, I answer you just as frankly, yes.”
“By —! I begin to understand you!” the young lord exclaimed, prefacing the words with an imprecation the like of which had not been uttered in the earl’s presence for years. “And let me tell you, old man—”
“Hush! Oh, boy! boy! have you no heart?”
“— —!” Another oath, and then, “You treat me as though I had none. I approach my gentle Lady Cordelia; and she receives me as though I were infected. I ask her if she will be my wife, and she almost spits on me.”
“Ah! Then you have spoken with her?”
“Yes; this very morning. It was her treatment of me that took away my appetite for an earlier breakfast. If I had been a pariah, she could nothave treated me more contemptuously. A fine home-coming, truly!”
“Matthew,” said the old man, rising as he spoke, and gazing upon his grandson with mingled feelings of sadness and indignation, “I have but a few words to say, and those I speak to you from my heart though you may try to think otherwise. For the refusal of Cordelia, and for any harsh words she may have spoken, you have yourself to thank. If you spoke to her as you have spoken to me I wonder not that she took quick offense.”
“And how, if I may ask, have I spoken to your lordship?”
“The tone in which you now speak is enough for answer. Add to that the gross profanity which fell from your lips but a few moments since, and the measure of my endurance is reached. Oh, boy! boy! why will you do so? You do not know how I could have loved you, had you but allowed me to do it. For the love of Heaven! will you not try to do differently? Who shall say what might have been had you been pure and good?”
“Which is equivalent to saying, if I understand the king’s English, that I am not pure and good?”
“Neither pure, nor good, nor truthful, Matthew! Alas! that I should live to say it, and that you should live to deserve it.”
“Thanks! Many, many thanks, dear grandpapa! You’ll excuse me if I go out and get a bit of fresh air after this.” And, thus speaking the wretch turned away, with a sneer on his lips and a look ofdefiance in his eyes, and left the room. And the aged grandsire, when the distant door had been closed and he was left alone, sank into a seat, and burst into tears.
And so, a little later, Cordelia found him.
CHAPTER IX.A COMPROMISE.
“Dear, dear grandpa! Has he been making you unhappy, too? What has he done? What has he been saying to you? Tell me all about it.”
The earl felt two warm, loving arms around his neck, and a dear, treasured head pillowed on his bosom. By and by he looked up, and met the earnest, beseeching gaze of his beautiful ward—his grandchild of his heart—the one true, enduring love left to him in all the world.
“Oh, Cordelia, my sweet child! God and all the good angels keep and bless thee!”
And then, with many pauses, and many tears, he told the story of his interview with his grandson—all save that part of it which had reference to the smuggler’s son. Of that he spoke not yet.
When this had been told, Cordelia gave a truthful account of the interview in the arbor; but she did not dwell upon it. She hurried through with it as rapidly as possible, and then broached a new subject.
“Grandpa,” she said, with a world of eager inquiryin look and tone, “you have heard stories told of the old chapel of the Monks, on the crag—about its being haunted, and so on, haven’t you?”
“Yes, darling. Those stories are older than I am.”
“Well, what do you think about it? What did you ever think? Of course, you have had your thoughts.”
“Really, my dear child, you puzzle me. I hardly know how to answer. I must have had a great many thoughts during all the years since, in my boyhood, I heard the first stories of the ghosts of the old chapel. And there was one thing curious. For many years—for almost two-score, I should say, those stories died out.
“Of late, however, within ten or a dozen years, they have revived. I remember, it was during the very week of your father’s death, a number of our servants were frightened by a ghost—the ghost, they said, of a gray friar—wandering about the old ruin. But—but—it was, of course, the veriest nonsense.”
Cordelia looked up into the old man’s face searchingly. She looked so sharply, and with so much of meaning in the look, that he shrank away from it, and his eyes, usually so honest and true, wavered.
“Grandpa! grandpa! There is something you do not tell me. What is it? Come, you surely can have nothing that you would wish to hide from your darling.”
“Child! child! why are you so eager? Ah! tell me, were you in the chapel through the storm?Why of course you were. You told me so. Did you see anything?”
“Grandpa, I want you to answer me first. You ought to. You are the oldest, and should take the lead. Tell me, what was it you kept back from me?”
Once more, after a little further hesitation, the frank, steady, and straightforward look came back to the old earl’s eyes; and he said, first casting a swift glance around:
“Cordelia, the story I am going to tell you I have never told to anybody. It has puzzled me; and I have tried to solve the mystery involved; but I have kept it to myself.
“You will remember, shortly before your father’s death, his old attorney, John Chudley, came up to make the papers necessary to prove my appointment as your guardian, and to make the will, and so on. You will remember also that his son Charles came with him. Charles was at that time somewhere near twenty years old; and he was observant and reliable, as was his father.
“Well, one day, while they were here, after the legal business had all been done, those two, the Chudleys, went off up the river after fish, a sport of which they were fond, and of which they got little at home. They fished through the greater part of the day, and on their way home they took a fancy to climb Witch’s Crag. Suffice it to say—they went up—”
“Oh!—and got lost!” broke in the eager listener.“I remember the night, and how frightened everybody was. Just such another night as it was last night. Am I not right?”
“Entirely so, darling. They went up the crag, and on their way down they lost the path. The storm and darkness came and found them in sight of the chapel, and there they sought shelter. They had found some stone seats away in one corner, where they sat down and waited for the storm to pass, or at least for the rain to hold up a bit.
“And now comes the wonderful part. While they thus sat they were startled by the sound of somebody walking outside, and presently afterward they were sure somebody had entered the chapel. As luck would have it, a few seconds later there came a stream of lightning that made the place as light as day, and they plainly saw a human figure, tall and large, enveloped in the robe and cowl of a gray friar! Strangely enough, not more than three seconds had passed when another flash came, and this time they saw the friar close by the altar. The third flash came in a few seconds more, and the friar had vanished.
“The mystery was, what could have become of the strange intruder? They, father and son, could both swear that he had not gone out by the door. He could not have done it and they not know it. The windows were beyond the reach of any man unless he had a ladder or a tall stepping-place of some kind to help him. And yet he had gone—vanished, as into thin air.
“On the next day they went to the chapel; and I went with them; and they there told the story over, at the same time pointing out the different localities—the course which the figure took—and the point at the altar where he stood before he disappeared.
“That is the story, Cordelia. And I am free to confess it has puzzled me. That a person in the guise of a Franciscan monk, or gray friar, entered the chapel on that evening I am confident. Also, I can not doubt that he made his way out without going by the vestibule or through a window.”
“And now, my dear grandpa, what do you think of it? How do you think it was done?”
“To tell you the truth, dear child, I have thought there must be, somewhere near that altar, a secret trap—an entrance, in some way, to hidden vaults or crypts below.”
“But you never found anything?”
“No. I have searched at every possible point. I have closely examined every seam and every crevice, but nothing have I been able to find—not a trace, not a sign.”
“Now, grandpa, if I will tell you something, you will keep it to yourself, won’t you—at least till I tell you otherwise?”
“Certainly, darling, if there is good reason for it.”
“Well, there is the very best of reasons. We agreed—Percy and I—that we wouldn’t speak of ituntil he had time to investigate; but, since you know so much, you ought to know this, too.”
And thereupon she went on, excitedly and vividly, yet very clearly and succinctly, to tell the story of the adventure of the previous evening.
“Oh!” she cried, when she had concluded the narrative, “I am glad it was Percy. If there is anything to be found, be sure he will find it.”
“Cordelia!”
The girl started. There was something in the tone—in the manner in which her name had been thus abruptly pronounced, that sounded strangely to her. It seemed to her as though she could detect pain in it.
“Cordelia! You think a great deal of Percy Maitland?”
What in the world did he mean? Had he read her secret? Did he know or did he suspect, that she loved him, loved him with all the love of her heart? Ah! Matthew had spoken. His word had given the earl’s thoughts direction. She had hoped that the secret might be Percy’s and hers for a time longer; and it would be an easy matter to deceive her questioner, even now.
But, could she do it? Could she, in this hour, when a holy love had sanctified and beautified her life, take her first step in falsehood? Oh, no! no!
“My dear child!—darling!” reaching out and taking her hand, when a full minute had elapsed and she had not spoken. “You are not afraid of your dear old grandpa. Will you not trust him fully?”
“Yes, yes!” the noble girl answered. She started to her feet, and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him; then having resumed her seat, she looked frankly, trustfully up, and added: “Ask me what you please, dear grandpa, and I will answer if I can.”
“Cordelia! your generous tone, your entire readiness to answer, tells me that I, too, should be generous and confess to you my source of information. It was Matthew who put the thought into my mind, and he did it most unkindly.”
“I knew it, dear grandpa. He taunted me, or he meant to do so, and he made terrible threats, but they do not frighten me. They did at first, but they do not now. Dear, dear old grandpa,” she cried impulsively, after a short silence, at the same time grasping his arm with both her hands, “would you, could you ask me to marry with Lord Oakleigh?”
“Oh, my soul, no!”
“Did my father ever express a wish that I should marry with him?”
“No; he never did.”
“Do you believe he would have allowed such a thing had he been living?”
“I know very well he would not have allowed it. So, my child, do you borrow no trouble because of your refusal of his suit.”
“Grandpa, do you believe he loves me?”
“Alas! I can not believe that a true love of the heart—a pure, unselfish love—is possible to his nature! But let him pass. Tell me of this other—ofPercy Maitland. What is he to you? You know what I mean.”
She had thought to answer promptly, but when the moment came her heart was bounding too strongly for coherent speech. She bent her head and pressed her hands over her bosom, and by and by she had gained control of her emotions; or, at least, of those that had overcome her. She looked up, with a warm, radiant light in her truthful eyes, and a rich, rosy glow on her earnest, lovely face.
“Dear grandpa, don’t be frightened; don’t have any fear; and I pray you, don’t blame me until you have taken a good long time for thought and observation; for I tell you, in the outset, while you live and need me, I will not leave.”
“Bless you, darling, for that!”
“And now, I must confess to you, I love Percy Maitland with all my heart, and all my strength. I love him as I never loved another—as I never can love another—with a love that would be my death if he were taken from me. We never knew till yesterday.”
And then, in her frank bubbling manner, with the ice thus broken, she went on and told the story of the love-passage on the crag; and of how their love had been sealed in the old chapel.
The old man was deeply interested. He felt his own youth come back, with the one great love of his lifetime; and he lived over again the ecstasy of the long ago.
And another thing—the character and the behavior of the low-born youth stood out in flattering colors. The earl could not put away his admiration for him; he could not help respecting and esteeming him.
And again he found himself wishing, “Oh! that Matthew had been like him!” Yet there was another and sterner side to the subject. Could he allow the lady daughter of one of England’s proudest, wealthiest knights to marry with the son of a smuggler?
But even here the old earl, his tender, loving heart, could find argument on both sides. He called to mind the dying words of Sir William. His gentle daughter should never be urged to wed without love, and he—the earl—had solemnly promised that he would never even ask her to do such a thing.
He remembered with a start how earnestly and feelingly the dying father of his fair ward had spoken of the misery that came from loveless marriage.
And here was the girl with a love in her heart that had become so much a part of her life that the loss of it would kill her.
Were the man the son of a landed proprietor—of an humble esquire—or even of a wealthy farmer, of good family, he might have hesitated; but—the son of an obscure seaman—aye, in truth, the son of an outlaw! Oh! it was too much!
“Cordelia? My blessed child, do you not see—do you not understand—this must not be. Think ofit. You know how I love you. I do not exaggerate when I say, I would willingly die for you. Then, oh, then, you will believe I have only your best good at heart. Think who and what this man is. Think of his family—his parentage. Do you not see?”
“Grandpa, I can not quite understand it. Here am I with a heart capable of loving. In my brief span of life I have become acquainted with two men, and have been thrown more or less into their companionship. In fact my relations with these two have been such that their friendship could not have been otherwise than valuable and very pleasant to me, provided I had found them worth confidence and esteem. One of those men was born the child of a smuggler. He could not help it, could he? The question with me is, what sort of a man has the smuggler’s son grown to be?
“The other man, dear grandpa, was born the son of—”
“Stop! stop! Oh, I know what you would say. Aye, and what sort of a man has he grown to be? Oh, Heaven have mercy!”
“Dear grandpa!” rising to her feet and once more winding her arms around his neck, “let us say no more about the matter at this time. You will not forbid me to associate with Percy as I have heretofore done. Think what he has been to me—my teacher and guide through all these years! And what a teacher! Could there have been a nobler, truer, or purer guide? You need not fear that Ishall marry him without your knowledge, and, I am almost ready to say, without your consent. But let it be for now. You may talk with my lover if you like; but mind, you shall not blame him. Mine is the blame if you have any to lay upon us.
“There!” giving him another kiss, “now go and be as happy as you can. Be sure your darling will do nothing to give you pain if she can help it. Shall it not be so?”
Poor, fond, foolish old man! He could not find it in his heart to say her nay. And, if the truth were told, he felt greatly relieved that the matter had been thus pleasantly disposed of.
He told himself things would simply be as they had been. If he would win his ward from the unfortunate love, he would not do it by beginning now to make her miserable and unhappy. He would wait. Who should say what of good the future might bring? He kissed her and blessed her, and the conference ended.
While this scene had been transpiring in the breakfast-room of the castle, another, of a somewhat different character, had been taking place in the wood by the river, not a great way off.
Lord Oakleigh had left his grandfather feeling about as angry—as thoroughly mad with rage and passion—as a naturally perverse and passionate man could be.
He went first to the butler’s room and got a bottle of brandy, which he took with him to his own apartment, where he drank freely.
Then he buckled on his sword and took his hat and went out. He had no particular aim in view, though his thoughts, which he muttered aloud as he gained the open park, were of the smuggler’s son. He could not believe that his grandfather would allow Cordelia to marry with the outlaw’s offspring; but there was no telling what the girl herself might do. So far as true love—or real love of any kind—was concerned, he felt not a particle of it in his heart for his grandfather’s fair ward. But he had never seen a girl he had liked better; and, surely, he had never seen one more beautiful.
In truth, he did not believe there was a more beautiful woman in the kingdom. At some time he would be earl of Allerdale; and he would want a mistress to preside over his household; and Cordelia Chester was the one woman of all the world upon whom his choice had been fixed.
So it would not answer to suffer this young smuggler to bewitch her. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that young Maitland was about the handsomest young fellow he had ever met—just the man, he told himself, for an impressionable young girl like Cordelia to go crazy about. “Upon my soul,” he muttered on, “I believe she would run away with him in a moment, if she were crossed. And just so long as the fellow is in the neighborhood, just so long will the old earl allow her to associate with him. Poor old fool! He don’t know what he is doing. But I think I’ve put a flea in his ear. Yet, for all that, the girl can befool him. Shecan coax and wheedle him into anything, I don’t care how monstrous it is.
“By —! There’s one thing I can do! Aye, and if the need shall come, I will do it. Ha! I was talking of him; and here he is.”
Brandon had entered the wood at the edge of the park, and was now in the path that ran along upon the shore of the river.
He had been muttering to himself, as we have heard, when, on raising his eyes, he beheld not far away the very man of whom he had been thinking and speaking, coming toward him.
When Percy lifted his eyes on hearing an approaching footstep, and beheld Lord Oakleigh, his first thought was to avoid him; and he had half turned, for the purpose of striking into the wood, when it occurred to him that the act would not only appear cowardly, but the young lord might take it as an affront.
At all events his second thought, which he obeyed, led him straight on, and pretty soon they were face to face. Maitland had swerved to the right, intending to pass; but the other had stepped directly in front of him, thus preventing the passage.
Percy looked up in surprise—surprise and indignation. He saw that his lordship had been drinking, and there was mischief in his black, sunken eyes.
But the well-disposed youth would avoid trouble if the thing were possible; and, to that end, he turned to the left, making a movement to pass in thatdirection. And again the young lord stepped in front of him, thus interposing a second time.
CHAPTER X.A BROKEN HAND—A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
Our hero looked straight into the face of the man before him, and he saw there not only the unmistakable signs of drink, but he saw, too, a fierce, ungovernable anger. The dark, sinister face was the face of a madman.
And there was still mischief in the eyes. They sent forth a malevolent, vengeful gleam not to be mistaken. What did the man mean?
What could have possessed him? It occurred to Maitland at once that his wrath had been aroused before this present meeting. The sight of himself might have set it boiling over, but that had not been the sole cause of it.
Instinctively Percy thought of his means of defense against attack. Oakleigh was armed with a good sword, and was angry enough to draw it upon the slightest provocation. Indeed, it was more than possible that his intent was in that direction. Fortunately our hero was armed. He had in his hand a leopard-wood staff—a common walking-cane—a stick that Donald Rodney had brought from one of the Pacific islands and given him as a present. It had a head of solid silver, and was, taken all in all,as serviceable a weapon as he could have wished for.
“Lord Oakleigh! why do you thus impede my progress? If you have anything to say, I am ready to hear it.”
“Oho! you’ve found your tongue, have you? Well, my gay young spark, I have something to say, and you may find it of importance. I have to inform you that you have made yourself about as familiar at the castle as will be good for you. Henceforth you will give that place as wide a berth as possible. To come to the point, you will have nothing more to say to the Lady Cordelia. I think you can understand that, and I can assure you, you had better take heed.”
“Is that all, my lord?”
“Is—that—all! Isn’t it enough? Do you intend to obey me?”
“Lord Oakleigh, I answer you frankly—I do not recognize your right to command me.”
“You don’t, eh?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then, by —! I’ll give you a taste of my quality. I give you fair warning. I command you to cease all intercourse with Cordelia Chester! And I give you fair warning that if you do not, here and now, give me your promise to that effect, I will punish you! Aye, I will put it beyond your power to trouble her more! If you can not put that into plain English I shall not translate it for you. I’ll expound it in a way you’ll be likely to remember whileyou live! What say you? Shall I have your promise?”
“Lord Oakleigh, you have no right to speak—”
“Silence! Will you promise?”
“Lord Oakleigh, have you come hither on purpose to assassinate me?”
“Will you give me the promise?”
“I will not!”
“Then (the oaths he muttered in his mad rage were horrible) I’ll show you for I am here! Take that!”
The first movement he made and he made it furiously, told his fell purpose.
He had drawn his sword, a heavy infantry sabre, of the pattern worn by the higher officers when on active service, and his first movement, following immediately upon the words he had spoken, was a direct, powerful lunge at the other’s bosom.
But our hero had been on his guard and was prepared. Probably there was not a better swordsman in Headlandshire than was he.
With a downward and outward sweep of his heavy staff he struck the blade aside, and his lordship’s own impetus, with the expected resistance thus removed, came near to sending him prone upon the earth. But he quickly recovered himself and came on again.
And again did Percy beat his blade aside,—and again; and by and by he gave his lordship a rap on the knuckles that made him groan aloud in his pain.
“Oakleigh! if you do not desist, I will breakyour arm; or I will lame it for you so that you will not wield a sword again for a time at least. Beware!”
If Matthew Brandon had been in any degree sober, and in possession of his reason, he would have seen that he had no show against the antagonist he had chosen.
The staff was like iron in weight, and impervious to the cutting edge of the sword; and in the hand of its owner it was really a dangerous weapon. With only a jaunty velvet cap to protect Lord Oakleigh’s head, his antagonist could, had he willed so to do, have brought his stick down upon it with force enough to crack it; and more than once had the opportunity been offered.
At length, when Brandon had become so mad and furious as to lose all control of himself, when only an insane purpose to kill urged him on in his blind, headlong attack, Percy determined to put an end to the scene.
Twice, without particular effort, he struck aside the blade, and then, as the opening was given, he brought his heavy staff down upon the back of his lordship’s right hand with a force that closed the strife.
The sword dropped to the earth, and Lord Oakleigh fairly shrieked with pain.
“You’ve broken my hand! You’ve broken my wrist!”
“Thank me that I did not break your head, which I might have done half a dozen times!”
“You shall pay for this! Oh, you shall pay for it!”
“Lord Oakleigh, you attacked me with the intent to kill me. You meant it from the first; I saw it in your face, and you did the same as to swear you would do it. Listen, now, my lord: four separate times, at least, your life was at my mercy. I could have delivered a blow on your skull that would have crushed it like an egg-shell; but I spared you. I may say to you, however, don’t depend upon my sparing you should you make a second attempt upon me, because I might not do it. And now, noble sir, you had better go home and have your hand properly cared for.”
“You’ve broken every bone in it! Oh, you shall suffer for it, be sure of that!”
“I can only say to you once more, my lord, thank me that I did not break your head.” And with this our hero, who had changed places with his antagonist during the conflict, turned on his heel and walked swiftly away.
Lord Oakleigh watched him till a bend in the path had hidden him from view, and then burst forth into a torrent of oaths and imprecations and threats of vengeance, dire and deadly.
By and by, when he had regained sense enough to realize the needs of his situation, he bethought him of what he had better do. He was confident his wrist was broken. His best plan would be to see the village surgeon, whom he knew as a man of skill and judgment.
He managed to pick up his sword with his left hand and return it to its scabbard, after whichhe set forth for the village, distant less than a mile.
He was fortunate enough to find the surgeon at home, an elderly man, and really skillful in the way of his profession. He knew the young lord by sight, and was ready, and even eager, to be of service; but with not a particle of servility. He would have been just as earnest to help the poorest man in the town.
Oakleigh told him he had received a kick from a horse. And the surgeon, when he examined it, decided that it had been a pretty furious kick, and it was curious that the remark should have fallen from his lips, “Be thankful, my lord, it was not your head. You would never have come to me to fix it for you.”
His lordship winced, and, doubtless, felt like swearing, but he contained himself. The surgeon informed him that two of the metacarpal bones were fractured and dislocated at their point of articulation with the carpus.
“You are an Oxford man,” said the doctor, smilingly, “so, of course, you know what all that means.”
“Certainly,” the sufferer answered; but he lied, and the old man suspected as much, but he made no further remark. The dislocation was reduced, and the two central bones of the hand were properly set, and a couple of light splints bound on to hold them in place while they healed.
“I must go to Oxford at once,” said Oakleigh,when the surgeon had spoken of his calling again. “You can tell me how I must manage.”
“When do you start?”
“This very day.”
“Then keep your hand in a good, firm sling; have your servant do your undressing and dressing for you, and as soon as you reach Oxford call on Dr. Cartwright and let him look at it. Mark you, don’t attempt to use that hand, and don’t you let either of those splints get out of place till you have seen the Oxford surgeon.”
His lordship promised obedience with a nod, paid the fee, and departed: his hand—and his whole arm, for that matter—giving him an exquisite sense of pain.
He did not think of wishing that he had kept clear of Percy Maitland. In that direction his thoughts were only of vengeance; and the imprecations that fell from his lips were terrible.
Meantime our hero had kept on up the river path. He was bound for the old chapel, having determined to make a search for the secret which he firmly believed had existence there. He had thought of calling on Cordelia to accompany him, knowing that she would be anxious to do so, did she know of his purpose, but he could not do it. After the adventure of the preceding evening, his calling her out would loosen people’s tongues; and even she might deem it an unwarrantable liberty.
Ah! he would not have felt this way four-and-twenty hours before. The whole world had changedto him in that time. A great joy had entered into his lowly life, uplifting and sanctifying it, a joy which must be kept hidden from the world until it could be published with safety to his darling.
Henceforth the end and aim of his existence would be to care for and bless the dear one who had so frankly and nobly trusted him; and for the present, for her comfort and well-being, their love must be known only to themselves.
Ah! he would be very careful that he did not give any one cause for suspicion. He could not be quite so free as he had been. He would go on his present excursion alone, and Cordelia should decide for herself how it should be thereafter.
It was near noon when Percy reached the old chapel. He entered and looked around. All was as they had found it on the previous day.
He went to the corner where the stone cubes were, and sat down where he had sat on the evening before. For a little time he gave himself up to thoughts of the blissful moment that had come to him amid storm and tempest. He lived them over again; and, naturally enough, his mind ran on into the future. What should it bring? Would he ever be permitted to make the daughter of an English nobleman his wife?
“But she loves me! She loves me!” he cried in tones of rapture; “and with her dear love I will be content. If darkness and disaster must come, I will not court it. I will love her while life is mine, and love shall be my joy. Oh! that can not be takenfrom me! That is a part of myself that will endure while I live, and can only die when I am done with earth.”
Shortly after this he gave his attention to the business on which he came. He looked first and calculated the direction in which the spectral figure had gone after passing the center of the chapel.
It had been directly toward the altar, and there, very nearly at the right-hand corner of the huge block of stone as he stood facing it, the figure had last been seen.
He now approached the altar and looked around upon the pavement in its neighborhood. It—the pavement—was composed of flags of a bluish-gray stone, square in form and fully three feet across, laid in cement. He got down upon his knees and with the strong blade of his pocket-knife sought to find a crack or a crevice of any kind between the stones of the floor.
But his search was vain. Fully half an hour was spent thus, and to no effect. The pavement over that whole part of the chapel was as intact, as firm and solid as though it had been a single mass, without break or flaw.
Where could it be? He examined the altar itself. Certainly there was no possible opening in any part of that. It was a single block of stone, without flaw or blemish.
The explorer looked around at the open windows. Not by any one of them could the seeming monk have gone. That was decided at once. Where then?
Had the whole thing been a wild, fantastical hallucination? Only a dream? Could it be possible that they had seen nothing?
Could it be that the very excursion itself, together with what he had deemed the most rapturous event of his life—could that have been but a baseless vision of his distempered brain?
He looked down, and his eyes rested upon his poor staff—its beautiful, evenly spotted and highly polished surface, erstwhile so smooth and fair, now marred and cut, and bruised and hacked by its rough contact with the edge of Lord Oakleigh’s sword. Ah! that had been real at all events, and he very soon told himself that all that had gone before had been real.
Yes—the gray friar had certainly vanished from sight at that altar. There had been no deception; no hallucination—the departure had been a fact; and that was the end.
He had given up, and had turned, in deep dejection, toward the vestibule for the purpose of departing, when suddenly a new thought came to him, under the influence of which he stopped, and presently went back to the altar.
Was it cemented to the pavement? Was it secured in its place in any way? Again he went down on his knees, with his pocket-knife in his hand.
He commenced at the rear wall, at the end of the huge block where the specter had stood, and examined the point of connection between it and the pavement.
Ah! he found places where he could insert the knife-blade. He arose, and went outside and cut a small twig from a bush near by, the wood of which was tough and elastic. This he shaved down to a long, thin strip, and returned to his work.
He commenced again at the rear wall, brushing away the accumulated dust, and probed with the new implement. And so he went entirely around the altar; and at no point had it any further connection with the pavement than simply to rest upon it.
He was gazing upon the line, between the lower edge of the block and the floor, when something caught his eye that caused him to start.
It was a series of marks—abrasions—extending out from the edge of the altar, with a circular sweep, entirely across one of the broad stone flags. What did it mean? What could have done it?
A critical examination, with a little calculation, showed him that exactly such an abrasion as that would have been made by the swinging outward of the altar, away from the wall.
Suppose the huge block could swing on a pivot fixed at the corner next to the wall, at its eastern end—the end on the left hand, as one stood facing it. With a pivot at that point, a swinging outward of the giant cube would produce exactly the marks he had discovered.
And why were they on that one flag, and no where else? Simply because that flag was an eighth of an inch higher than its mates.
He stood back and looked. He felt that he had made an important discovery.
Somewhere, out of sight, was mechanism by which the altar, ponderous as it was, could be moved out of place; and there, beneath it, would be found an entrance to regions below. He was as sure of it as he could be of anything which his eyes had not absolutely beheld. And further, there must be some very simple and ready way of setting the mass free, and moving it from the wall. Enormous weights with easily working pulleys operating beneath might do it.
In fact, the explorer as he contemplated the scene could imagine several ways in which the end might be accomplished. But that did not help him. Where was the point of connection outside?
That was the thing now, and the only thing. It must be very simple, wherever it was. The friar had accomplished the work of opening and closing the way very quickly, and with but little noise. Our adventurer looked around once more, and once more stood and reflected, with his head bent and his hands folded.
Again he went down upon his knees, and with his probe went entirely around the altar a second time, closely examining the line of separation between the cube and the floor. And this time he noticed something which he had not noticed before.
On the left-hand—easterly—end of the altar, the space between it and the pavement was marked. At the other end the huge block of stone sat firmlyupon the flagging, there being places where even the thinnest probe he could fashion would not enter; but on that left-hand end it was different.
There the stone of the altar came in direct contact with the pavement at no single point!
And he found another thing: from the outer corner on that left-hand end to a point midway on the front side, that line of separation continued.
It was very slight—not more than an eighth of an inch in width—and would never be detected by a person while standing erect. He would have to stoop to find it. Was there any meaning to this? Could the ponderous block possibly be tilted over toward that easterly end?
Just half its bulk at bottom appeared to be free from resting upon the floor beneath, so there might be just that eighth of an inch play in case it could be moved.
Percy looked the ground over once more, and then went around to the opposite—the westerly—end of the altar. That was where the spectral monk had last been seen.
Could the massive block be jostled? He laid his hands upon the upper edge, then stooped slightly, so as to lift at the stone when he should put forth his strength, and then made the trial. He did not apply his full force in the outset. It was an experiment, and he wished to note particularly the result.
With his two hands fixed in place, and his lower limbs firmly braced, he lifted, lightly at first, and then with renewed force.
By and by, acting upon the impulse of the moment, he gave a sudden upward pressure with all his might. The result was wonderful.
First, he felt the heavy mass yield; next, he heard a dull thud followed by a rattling, grating sound beneath the floor; and, a moment later, the ponderous cube, starting away from its rest against the rear wall of the chapel, swung outward for a distance equal to its own depth, perhaps a little more.
And there, exposed to his view, was an opening in the pavement seemingly as long and as broad as the altar would safely cover; and on looking down he saw the head of a ladder resting against the side nearest to him.
His first thought was of the mechanism by which this wonderful result had been wrought; and for the purpose of discovering that he went part way down the ladder. He examined thoroughly, and found it very nearly as he had thought. A system of enormous weights, slung in chains of copper, the chains working in easily running blocks, were so arranged that upon setting the weights free the stone would be moved, as we have seen. The huge stone itself swung upon a pivot, at the inner, eastern corner, and at the other end underneath were small trucks on which it traveled over the flagging, and which had caused the abrasions which had attracted the explorer’s attention.
The tipping of the rock backward set the spring free, and our hero remembered that he had instinctively applied his force towards moving the stoneaway from the wall until it had stopped, and then he had heard a sharp click, as though another spring had been caught.
Would tipping the stone again cause it to resume its former position against the wall? He thought so.
The next question he asked himself was, Should he unarmed and without a light, attempt to explore the wonderful place he had so curiously discovered?