We left Lieut. Fowler on the road between Lamorna Cove and the signal-station, at Tol-pedn-Penwith. Various were the conjectures that passed through his mind during his walk, as to who the stranger could be, but to no purpose. He could not think of any of his relatives or acquaintances, who would be likely to be in that neighbourhood, without apprising him of their intended visit. If it should turn out to be a good companionable fellow, he wouldn't mind, but then, he was an old grey-headed man, as he construed Miss Pendray's description of the stranger. His friend, Frederick Morley, had gone off in rather an unceremonious manner, and had left him again to the resources of the Land's-End for amusement and companionship; and he had therefore been more frequent in his visits to Pendrea-house, and more attentive to the young ladies, than during his friend's visit.
It was not often that Miss Pendray favoured Fowler and her sister with her company; for, as the reader already knows, she had more attractions elsewhere; and so accustomed were her friends to her romantic wanderings over the bold cliffs alone, that the innocent Blanche was continually Lieut. Fowler's only companion, and thetime generally passed so pleasantly that neither of them regretted the absence of a third party.
When Miss Pendray came upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly on that eventful morning, they were in the midst of a very interesting, but, to Blanche, rather an embarrassing,tête-à-tête. The gentleman was trying to make himself understood, without saying what he meant, in so many words; and the lady, although—sly little creature—she knew quite well what he meant to say, and wished from her heart he would say it out boldly, and not be hammering and stammering about it so—making her every moment feel more nervous and embarrassed, and himself too; yet she would not help him, even by a look, but kept turning a pebble round and round with her foot, and looking as steadily on the sand as if she was endeavouring to look underneath it, for some rich treasure supposed to be buried there.
In the midst of all this, came the majestic Maud, with the tale of her adventure with the remarkable stranger with the white hair. Wasn't it provoking to be interrupted just at that critical time? Fowler felt that it was downright——we won't say what. He wished the white-headed stranger was at the bottom of the sea, and Maud on the top of the cliffs, or anywhere, rather than there, at that moment. However, the spell was broken; there was no help for it now; and he had nothing to do but just walk home to see who this confounded fellow was, and what he wanted.
With all these reflections passing through his mind, as he neared his little cabin, he was not prepared to receive the stranger very cordially, nor to give him a very hearty welcome. He was told by the men, as he came up, that the gentleman was inside; and, as he passed the window of his sitting-room to reach the front door, he looked in, thinking he might catch a glimpse of the fellow before he went in. He caught more than a glimpse of him; for the stranger was standing at a little distance from the window, looking out over the bold headland at the sea in the distance, apparently absorbed in thought.
Fowler started, and turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost, and was obliged to hold by the railing of the little porch for a minute, before he could recover himself sufficiently to enter.
Sailors are not easily alarmed at trifles; so he soon got over the effects of his shock, or whatever it was, and, entering the room, in his usual boisterous, sailor-like style, exclaimed, louder than there was perhaps any occasion for,—
"Mr. Morley! how are you? I'm glad to see you once more."
This stentorian reception made the stranger start, and, turning round, he said, bowing to his host,—
"Lieut. Fowler, I presume. But how you should know that myname is Morley, I am at a loss to conceive, as I am pretty sure we have never seen one another before, and am quite sure you did not expect me."
Fowler passed his hand across his eyes, as if trying to recall something; and then he said abstractedly, as he placed a seat for his guest,—
"Not seen you before? surely, yes!—and yet, no! that cannot be." And he seemed so bewildered, that the stranger proceeded to explain; for he now began to see that the lieutenant was labouring under a mistake.
"You see the likeness to my poor father," said he.
"Ah!" exclaimed Fowler, starting up; "I see it all now. When I last saw your father, fifteen or sixteen years ago, he was the exact image of what you are now. He was older, of course, but there was the same remarkable white hair. Yours no doubt became white prematurely, causing you to look older than you really are. When I saw you standing at the window, I thought I saw your father standing before me. The likeness is most remarkable; and, almost before I had recovered myself, and without reflecting for a moment, I rushed into the room to welcome my old friend."
"I have heard my father mention the name of Fowler often," replied Mr. Morley, "with expressions of gratitude for kindnesses bestowed by your family—both on himself, and on my brother and sister, who were left here after that terrible catastrophe, of which I believe you are fully aware."
"It is true," returned Fowler, "that, in your father's younger days, he was intimate with my father, who also resided in India, but returned to England on account of his health, some time before yours came over with his two children. Your father often came to see him before that dreadful catastrophe, but never came after. He said he would never see his old friend again, until that foul stain was wiped from his name. My father did not, of course, believe that he was guilty, although the circumstantial evidence was so strong. It preyed on his mind, however, and, in his weak state, he could not bear up against the feeling that his friend was wrongfully accused; and he, like your father, pined under it, and passed away from among us in a very short time; but his death we were prepared for. Your father was a strong man then. But how did you find me out, Mr. Morley?"
"By the merest accident," replied Mr. Morley; "indeed, when I came here, I had no idea that you were at all connected with my father's old friend, although the name was familiar to me,—very familiar, I may say; for I knew your eldest brother in India intimately. He remained there long after your father left, and married a native, by whom he had one child—a daughter, I think.I shall never forget his kindness. He was the only friend whom I could depend upon, when my poor father died. He remained with me, day and night, until the last. His wife I never saw much of: she died in giving birth to her second child which was still-born. Your brother then made up his mind to come to England. He would not do so while his wife lived; for he did not like introducing a native as his wife, to his English relatives and friends. He was in good spirits when I took leave of him, and we both looked forward to meeting in England ere long; but, alas! he never reached his native shore alive. The ship was wrecked somewhere on this dangerous coast, and he and his little daughter perished. His body was found afterwards, but the child's was never heard of again. It makes passengers, and even sailors themselves, almost dread to approach this rock-bound coast. It is to be hoped that, ere long, warning-lights or beacons will be erected all round the coast. They are beginning to do so, I see; but there are more wanted yet."
"True," replied Fowler; "there are few families residing along the Cornish coast who have not had to lament the loss of some relative or friend in the merciless waves. But I am curious to know to what lucky accident I am indebted for this visit?"
"You have had another of those dreadful disasters on the coast," said Morley. "Another East-Indiaman has lately been wrecked here. I was a passenger on board that vessel. The weather was rough for several days before, and we touched in at the Scilly Islands, where I landed, taking a trunk with some clothes and a few valuables with me; and, meeting with an old friend of my father's there, Mr. Samuel Lemon, the collector, whom you know well, he pressed me so heartily to remain at his house, that I determined to spend a few days there, and partake of his kind hospitality, and I permitted the ship to proceed to her destination without me; and a miraculous escape I have had, for I find that all on board perished."
"Not all," replied Fowler; "there was one sailor saved. It was a miraculous escape, indeed. But you must have had some property on board?"
"I had a large chest containing some valuable clothes, and silks and jewellery, and a considerable sum in hard cash," replied Mr. Morley, "and, what I valued more than anything else, a small box, which belonged to my poor father, into which he had placed, with his own hands, some thousands of gold coins, and a written injunction to his two sons, to use their utmost exertions to find out the wretches who committed that foul murder of which my poor father was accused; and he directed that those gold coins should be expended in the search. My object, therefore, in coming to the Land's-End first, instead of going on direct to my relatives, was, with the hope that this property might have been washed ashore somewhere on thecoast, and my good friend Mr. Lemon told me that Mr. Fowler, the lieutenant at this station, would be the most proper person to apply to for assistance and information."
"You may rely on my doing all I can for you," replied Fowler; "but I have not heard of any boxes answering the description of yours being picked up anywhere, and I fear there is little chance of their being washed on shore now; for their weight would sink them deeper and deeper in the sand, and the calm weather we have now would not throw them up. You have not lost all your property, I hope!"
"Oh! no," said Mr. Morley; "I had sent home the bulk of my fortune, and my father's, through agents, some months ago. That, I am happy to say, is safe enough. All I regret now is the loss of that little box."
"Your brother was a true prophet, after all," said Fowler, thoughtfully.
"My brother!" exclaimed Mr. Morley; "where is he?"
"Oh! I forgot to tell you," replied the lieutenant; "I was so interested in the history of your miraculous escape. Your brother was my guest for several weeks, until he met with an accident at the Land's-End." And he proceeded to relate to his visitor the exciting tale of the fall of the horse over the cliffs, with his brother's narrow escape, and the belief that Frederick still entertained, that his brother was one of the passengers on board that ill-fated vessel.
After dinner, the two gentlemen walked up to Sennen, and enquired at "The First and Last Inn" whether anything had been heard of Frederick Morley. Nothing had been heard of him, the landlord said; but a letter had been brought there for him that day, by a boy who said he was going on to St. Just, and would call again for an answer should the gentleman return in time. The letter was addressed, in a neat female hand, to "Frederick Morley, Esq., 'First and Last Inn,' Sennen, Cornwall."
"Who was the boy?" enquired the lieutenant of the landlord.
"I don't know," replied he; "but my wife do say that she es sure 'tes the same boy she ha' seen riding the mare that went over cliff."
"I thought as much," said Fowler. "We must see that boy, and I have no doubt we shall find him in his old quarters at St. Just."
So the two gentlemen extended their walk to St. Just in search of the boy.
Neither of them had the slightest idea from whom the letter could have come, unless it was from Morley's aunt or his sister; and in that case there would most probably have been a postmark.
Mrs. Courland, Frederick Morley's aunt, had been a celebrated beauty in her youth. Her father, the Rev. Octavius Morley, was a scion of a high family, with a small preferment; and his wife was also of aristocratic birth. Too poor to put their only son, Alexander, into a leading branch of one of the learned professions, and too proud to allow him to work his way on as a merchant in England, they wisely sent him to India with a friend, who soon put him into the way of making a rapid fortune; for he possessed business talents of no ordinary kind, and steady and persevering habits of industry. Having thus provided for their son, their only care now was the education and marriage of their daughter, who at nineteen was one of the loveliest girls that can possibly be imagined. Rather above the middle height, elegant in form, and graceful in all her movements, she attracted admirers wherever she went—very much to the annoyance of her parents, who destined her either for one of the aristocracy or for some rich Indian merchant. High birth, or riches, were indispensable in the aspirant to Isabella Morley's hand; her heart was left out of the question entirely by her honoured and honourable parents. Not so by the young lady herself;—she had already fixed her affections on a young officer, whom she had met at a ball to which she had been taken by a lady friend with whom she had been staying in a neighbouring town. He was the younger son of a country squire in an adjoining county; but as he was neither rich nor noble, his alliance was not deemed eligible by the aristocratic parents of Miss Morley, and they therefore discouraged the intimacy, when they became aware of it, although they did not positively forbid it; for they did not really believe that a young man in his position—a lieutenant in a light infantry regiment only, and the younger son of an obscure country squire—would presume to approach the only daughter of such high-born parents, except in the way of common politeness and courtesy. And, besides, they placed implicit confidence in the lessons of ambition they had taught their daughter; and therefore, having heard the rumour of this flirtation in a casual way, and not knowing to what extent it had already gone during her visit at Middleton, the young officer was received with politeness when he called to enquire for the young lady, after her return from her visit.
These calls were repeated again and again, andtêtes-à-têteswere observed in the garden and shrubbery, and Mrs. Morley began to open her eyes to the true state of things, when it was too late. Cupid had by this time planted his arrow too deeply to be easily eradicated. The gentleman was forbidden the house, and the young lady waskept in strict seclusion for some time; but, "Love laughs at locksmiths,"—and the two lovers managed to meet, notwithstanding the locks and bars.
Mrs. Morley's aristocratic notions could not be properly satisfied without a lady's-maid, such as she had been accustomed to in her father's house. But she soon found that a grand, high-and-mighty lady's-maid, such as she and her sisters had been accustomed to at home, would not put up with the inconvenience of a small vicarage-house in the country, where a suitable number of servants could not be kept, and, consequently, she was continually changing. This was both annoying and expensive; so when her daughter left school, at seventeen, Mrs. Morley hired a young woman whom they met with at a watering-place where they happened to be rusticating that summer. She was the daughter of a sailor, with whom they lodged; and Mrs. Morley found her so shrewd and useful in most respects, that she pressed her mother to allow her to go back with them in the capacity of double lady's-maid—to attend on herself and daughter.
Miss Fisher was apparently bold enough, and certainly old enough, to have decided for herself,—for she was upwards of thirty years of age; but she had cunning enough to read Mrs. Morley's character, through and through, and she knew that a seeming deference to her mother's opinion would have great weight with her new mistress. The old woman did not like to part with her, but she knew it would be useless to oppose it, as she saw that her daughter had set her mind on accepting the situation, and so she consented; and Mrs. Morley returned to the vicarage with a lady's-maid to her mind, as she thought. Miss Fisher proved all she could wish, yielding to her in everything, as she supposed; instead of which, the new lady's-maid, while seeming to yield, and, indeed, yielding sometimes, in smaller things, very soon gained such an ascendancy over her mistress, that, by a little clever manœuvring, she could turn her any way she liked. Miss Morley was not so easily ruled; nor did Miss Fisher seem to wish it,—she appeared to have taken a great fancy to her young mistress, and would do almost anything to please her; and many a scold and reprimand did she prevent by her tact and cunning.
Two years rolled over their heads, and Miss Fisher still acted in the capacity of lady's-maid to both mother and daughter; and when the latter received the invitation to pay a visit to her friend at Middleton, for the express purpose of attending the ball which was about to take place there, Mrs. Morley, in order that her daughter might be properly dressed and taken care of, and also to display the aristocratic style of her establishment, dispensed with the services of Miss Fisher for a time, and allowed her to accompany Miss Morley to her friend's house. They were more like companions than mistress and maid; for Miss Morley confided all her little secrets to Miss Fisher,and she was therefore, of course, made acquainted with the attentions of the young officer; and as Miss Fisher highly approved of his person and manners, and the pretty presents he occasionally gave her, she determined on favouring the lovers, and doing all in her power to assist them,—so that clandestine meetings were easy, although the young officer was forbidden the house, and the young lady was under close confinement indoors. She was beginning to exhibit signs of ill health, from the close confinement and anxiety to which she was subject, and Miss Fisher suggested change of air and scene. She was in the confidence of Mrs. Morley, who relied on her, and believed all she told her. The young officer's regiment was ordered abroad, she said, and therefore there could be no danger in that quarter. This Mrs. Morley knew to be true, for her husband had been making enquiries. Miss Fisher, however, managed to deceive her mistress as to the time, telling her he was to sail immediately, and begging to be allowed to take Miss Morley home to her father's house for a short time, as she wanted to see the old people, and she thought the sea-air would quite restore her young mistress's health, and the change of scene might cause her to forget this foolish love-affair. So said the designing Miss Fisher; and the pair went to old Mr. Fisher's house, there to reside in strict seclusion, and luxuriate in country-walks and sea-breezes. But, strange to say, they had not been there many hours, before the young officer made his appearance there also, and the bloom of health soon returned to the cheeks of the young lady, without the aid of the sea-breezes—although they were often felt, as the two lovers took their delightful walks over the rocks and along the cliffs. Lieut. Marshall's time was nearly up; but a few more days remained before he would be obliged to leave her he loved so much. He could not bear the thought;—he was going to the battle-field, and might never see her more; or, if he lived to return, he might find her the bride of another.
"Never! never!" replied Miss Morley; "I will never be another's bride. I am pledged and bound to you, dear James, by a sacred oath; I will die rather than break my vow. Yours, and yours only, till death parts us."
"I fully believe and trust in your good intentions, dearest Isabella," said he; "but, should a rich man offer himself, you will be compelled to break that vow, made only to me. Let us bind ourselves before the altar, dearest; then nothing can sever us."
Thus did he reason with the fair girl, and persuade her, when she had no one to guide her aright; and so ably was the young officer supported in his arguments, by the artful Miss Fisher, that they were married, and, within a week after, were separated—perhaps never to meet again.
Miss Morley (now Mrs. Marshall) returned to her father's housewith a heavy secret in her breast—one that she could not reveal. Letters came, through Miss Fisher, which cheered her. Months rolled on. Her husband's name was seen sometimes in the newspapers, and commented on by her parents, little thinking how near and dear he was to her whom they imagined cured of that foolish love-affair.
At last there came an account of a great battle, and, amongst the list of killed, was the name of Lieut. James Marshall. The shock was terrible. Luckily there was no one in the room at the time but Miss Fisher, who immediately rang for assistance, and took her to her room. She was confined to her bed for several days; and when she got a little better, Miss Fisher prevailed on Mrs. Morley to allow her daughter to try change of air and sea-breezes again, as they had been so beneficial before. So they went once more to old Fisher's house, by the seaside, where she stayed several months, keeping up a continual and cheerful correspondence with her parents, who were so pleased with her apparent recovery, that the visit was prolonged, week after week, and month after month. At last a letter came, peremptorily requesting her to return at once, for reasons that would be explained when she arrived.
Old Mrs. Fisher had died during her stay with them, so that Miss Fisher felt bound now, she said, to remain with her father, who did not like being left alone, although he was a strong able man yet, and did something in the seafaring line beyond fishing—but what it was Miss Morley (now Mrs. Marshall) could not make out;—they were very secret about that. About this time also Miss Fisher's only brother, of whom she had often spoken to her young mistress, returned, after a long absence. He was a handsome young man, and was much struck with the beauty of their visitor, and, not knowing at first her position, he began to pay her marked attention. This did not suit Miss Fisher's plans, nor was it at all agreeable to Mrs. Marshall. She therefore determined to leave at once, although she was not quite recovered, and would be obliged to trust to the safe keeping of Miss Fisher a secret which, if revealed, would probably cause her parents to cast her off for ever. At first, and before she was so completely in her power, she had placed the utmost confidence in the fidelity of her maid; but during her last visit to the old fisherman's cottage, her attendant's character had displayed itself in its true colours. She now saw that Miss Fisher was working entirely to suit her own wicked ends, and that her secret would only be safe, while she could supply that wicked woman with funds sufficient to satisfy her avarice. Mrs. Marshall was surprised and shocked at the sudden change which she observed in Miss Fisher's manner towards her, and could not account for it in any way, as she had always hitherto been so kind. It was not Miss Fisher's fault, however, entirely; for the idea of making money outof their too confiding visitor, was suggested by the brother. He was piqued at her indignant rejection of his attentions, and, having wormed the secret out of his sister, he suggested the plan which she was only too ready to carry out. She now saw the advantages to be derived from having this beautiful woman so completely in her power; for she was quite sure that ere long her parents would insist on her marrying some rich man;—she knew that their hearts were bent on this, and there was nothing now to prevent it, except the opposition of the young lady herself, whom Miss Fisher well knew now how to overcome.
When Mrs. Marshall returned, she found that her father had become acquainted with the captain of an East-Indiaman, who brought letters of introduction from her brother. He was about forty years of age,—not very prepossessing in appearance, nor gentlemanly in manners, but he was rich, very rich, her brother said. So here was a husband for Isabella, to whom Mr. and Mrs. Morley did not object—quite the contrary.
The captain was much struck with the beauty of Miss Morley (as she was, of course, still called at home), who looked more lovely than ever since her last illness. The rough captain paid her most devoted attention, and it was evident that he had fallen desperately in love with her.
Her parents and all her friends persuaded, and even urged, her to accept Capt. Courland's offer; and Miss Fisher urged it also most strongly, for many reasons. Having lost her first love, Miss Fisher said, she thought she ought to make a sacrifice now, to atone for her disobedience to her parents in her first marriage.
Money was a great consideration too—very great—to Mrs. Marshall now,—why, we need not enquire. Ladies are not exempt from that passion any more than men. She was a long time bringing her mind to the point, but she did consent at last. She stipulated, however, for a very handsome allowance as pin-money, to do what she liked with, and a liberal jointure in case of the death of her husband. This made him think odd things. "A liberal jointure, in case of his death," was an awkward clause to be suggested by a young bride. However, this made him think she was a good woman of business, and that he should have more than beauty in his wife, after all. So they were married. And he went his voyages as usual, and returned to his lovely wife every nine or ten months, and spent a few months with her, and then off again, leaving plenty of pin-money behind, and a most liberal allowance for maintaining a large establishment.
Capt. Courland was very intimate with his wife's brother, Mr. Alexander Morley, the Indian merchant, and brought him to England when he came over with the two children, and took him back again, after that dreadful murder and false accusation.
Mrs. Courland seemed to feel it more than anyone. She had now been married to Capt. Courland, some three or four years, and he treated her with the greatest kindness and liberality; but still she seemed unhappy. She appeared not to have got over the loss of her first love,—something seemed preying on her mind always. While her husband was at home, she strove against this melancholy feeling, and exerted herself to the utmost to return his kindness; and he, knowing nothing of the former love-affair, and seeing her only at her brightest, when she did violence to her feelings to please him, during the short time he remained at home, was happy in possession and love, as he believed, of his beautiful wife.
It was a relief and a comfort to her to have her little niece, Julia Morley, with her. The superintendence of her infant education (for the little girl was then but five years old) amused her, and relieved her mind from other thoughts. And when she was old enough to go to school, she removed into a town with her, and took a house there that she might keep her still under her own eye, and sent her to a boarding-school, as a day-pupil, attended by a servant; and here Julia became acquainted with Alrina Freeman, and they became bosom friends, as schoolfellows; but Alrina was not permitted to visit or leave the school at all. These injunctions were strictly laid down by her aunt, when she placed her at school; and Mrs. Horton, who was a strict disciplinarian, carried out her orders to the very letter.
Frederick Morley and Josiah met with very little success at Penzance. No one had seen the Freemans, and no post-chaise from there had gone to St. Just, except with pic-nic parties, for a considerable time. There was not much difficulty in finding out this; for there were but few hackney carriages in the town at that time.
Determined to discover the fugitives, the travellers went on to Truro, by way of Hayle, and there they were more fortunate. A party, answering their description as to number, had passed through that town about four or five days before.
Morley bought a couple of horses at Truro, and on they went in pursuit; for he found, by dint of the strictest enquiry, that a man and woman and a young girl had gone on by Russell's waggon. These persons answered the description pretty nearly in all but the dress; but they might have changed their dresses; so Morley determined on following the waggon, which was four days at least ahead of them.On they went, however, over the great London road, tracing the waggon, which they were rapidly gaining on, and changing their tired horses for fresh ones occasionally, for which accommodation Morley had to pay very dearly sometimes. They enquired continually at the wayside inns, where the waggon stopped to change horses, or for refreshment, and at first the answers were satisfactory. The fugitives had generally been seen by some one at the refreshment-houses, either in the house or having refreshment taken to them in the waggon. This was, so far, satisfactory; and on the two pursuers went, and came up with the waggon at Bristol.
The great lumbering vehicle was standing at the door of one of the second-class inns, to which they had been directed—the horses having been taken out, and the waggon unloaded. Morley thought it strange that it should be empty; for the same waggon generally went through to London; and while Josiah saw the horses taken care of, his master entered the inn and sought an interview with the driver, who informed him that he had brought three such persons into Bristol, and they were gone on in another waggon; for he had the misfortune to break his axle-tree as he entered the city, and was obliged to shift his load into another waggon, which was ten miles on the road by that time at least.
Fresh horses were procured, while the two travellers partook of a hasty refreshment, and on they went again with renewed hope; for the fugitives would not suspect pursuit, and would not, therefore, be prepared for escape.
That Mr. Freeman knew something of the parties connected with that document, Morley felt convinced now, having brooded over it so long, and had it constantly dinned into his ear by Josiah, who had held the belief from the first; but perhaps, after all, "the wish was father to the thought" in Morley's case. Now that he was drawing near the objects of their pursuit, a thousand reflections crowded into his mind; but, although the hope of finding some clue to "his secret" was very powerful, yet the hope of meeting Alrina once more, and rescuing her from the bondage which seemed now to enthral her, was uppermost.
In the midst of these reflections, the sight of the heavy waggon lumbering slowly up a hill, a little distance ahead of them, as they turned a corner, sent a thrill through the frames of both. There they were, and a brisk trot would bring the pursuers alongside of the waggon in a few minutes.
They spurred on their horses in great excitement, as if they thought the waggon would run away; but it still lumbered up the hill at its usual snail's pace, drawn by its eight fine horses, with the bells over the collars jingling at every step. The riders soon came up with them; and, jumping off his horse, and throwing the reinsto Josiah, Morley sprang into the waggon, and was greeted by the hindmost driver, who was walking by the side of his horses, with a hearty crack of the whip, which made his back sting most unpleasantly, and brought him round to face his assailant, before he had time scarcely to look into the waggon.
"What business have you in my waggon?" cried the principal driver; for there were two.
"I came in search of the three passengers that you have here," replied Morley, who was still feeling the effects of the crack of the whip, although he thought it best not to resent it just then, as he saw at once that the driver was in the right.
"I've got no passengers here now," replied the driver. "We brought three coves along, as you say; but they left us about ten miles back, or so, and turned down a narrow lane. They're a queer lot, I reckon; and that young girl is afraid of her life of the old birds."
This was a terrible disappointment to Morley, after having his hopes raised so high at the sight of the waggon, and thinking he was about to reap the reward of all his trouble and fatigue.
"Did they say where they were going?" asked Morley.
"Not they," replied the driver; "he's as close as a box—that old chap—and the old woman is upon the next stave of the ladder, I b'lieve."
Morley gave the drivers a small piece of money for their information, and the detention he had caused them, and held a consultation with his faithful ally.
"We must follow them, my friend," said Morley, looking very much disconcerted. "Alrina is persecuted and ill-used by her father and aunt, according to that man's account. But why? There lies the mystery. She must be rescued, at all risks, and that at once."
"Zackly like that," replied Josiah, thoughtfully; "but which lane ded they go into, I wondar. I seed powers of lanes both sides."
"True," said Morley; "I forgot to ask which lane."
"'Twud ha' b'en all the same ef you had, I b'lieve," replied Josiah, "for most of the lanes wor alike, so far I could see, as we came along."
"We are losing time. Mount, man, and follow me; we must find them." And, suiting the action to the word, Morley vaulted into his saddle, and Josiah followed his example.
They turned and rode back in silence for some miles, passing numerous lanes on each side of the road; but the driver said the party left him about ten miles back. The two travellers had not retraced their steps, however, many miles, when they were accosted by a little beggar-boy, who was coming out of rather a wide lane into the turnpike-road.
Morley gave the boy something, and asked him if he had seen three travellers—a man and two females—pass up that lane.
"Yes, sir," replied the boy. "The man and the young woman turned down another lane a little way on, and the old woman went up to the house."
"What is the name of the house, boy?" said Morley.
"Ashley Hall, sir," replied the boy.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Morley; "I had forgotten the locality. I never approached it from this road before." And, setting spurs to his horse, he rode on as if Old Nick was at his heels, instead of his faithful friend and follower, Josiah. At the end of the lane, there was a neat lodge, at which the impetuous gentleman was obliged to pull up.
"You ha' found a bra' keenly lode, I s'pose," said Josiah; "'tes looken' brave an' keenly, I must say. The gozzan an' the indications do 'token somethen' good furder in."
"Oh! I forgot to tell you," said Morley, "that this is my aunt, Mrs. Courland's, place. I haven't seen her since my return; and this old place I haven't seen since I was a boy,—for my aunt left it for a long time, in order to be near my sister when she was at school. I meant to have seen her much sooner, but that foolish accident at the Land's-End frustrated all my plans. We will take up our abode here, Josiah, at present, and go out scouring the country every day. We will make this our head-quarters."
"Very good quarters to be had here, I'll be bound," returned Josiah. "That's a grand house, sure nuf, that es," continued he, as they rode up to the front door.
They were admitted at once, when the man saw the name on the card which Morley gave him; and, desiring another servant to take care of Josiah, he conducted Frederick into the drawing-room, where he found his sister, alone, making delicious sounds on the pianoforte—which had just superseded the harpsichord, and was then quite the rage among the affluent. She was delighted to see her brother, although she scolded him for not coming to see them before. When he told her the reason, however, and recounted the scene of the accident, which he could not, even then, look back upon without a shudder, she readily forgave him. She offered him some refreshment, which he was very glad to have; for he had ridden far, and had been harassed by anxious and exciting thoughts for several days. They had dined long ago, Julia said, and immediately after dinner her aunt was called out of the room on business, and had not yet returned. "Some more buildings, or improvements, or alterations, going on, I suppose," she continued, in a more subdued tone; "wealth has its troubles, Frederick, as well as poverty."
"True," replied her brother; "and I really think wealth bringsmost trouble very often. Aunt Courland has something of importance to settle to-night, I should think."
"Oh! I never mind her absence," replied Julia; "she has often engagements that occupy her a whole day, and I see nothing of her from breakfast till tea-time. But I'll go and see where she is now; she will be glad to know that you are here; and none of the servants would disturb her, I'm sure."
Julia found her aunt, alone, in a little room looking out into her private garden, from which there was a private communication with the lane which branched off from the entrance-gate and skirted the gardens of Ashley Hall. Mrs. Courland had evidently been weeping, and had gone through some agitating scene; for she trembled still, as Julia felt when she kissed her. She soon recovered, however, and accompanied her niece into the drawing-room to welcome her nephew, who was a great favourite. He, too, saw that something had agitated her, and he asked her what had happened to upset her so.
"Nothing," she said; "it will be all over in a few minutes." And she did get better; but still a cloud hung over her countenance, which she could not altogether dispel, although it was evident she made a great effort to do so.
The next morning, Morley and Josiah were on horseback before the ladies were stirring. Josiah had gained some useful information from the servants, as to the locality and the different lanes, and where they led to, and how far they were from the sea.
They rode all day without success. Every lane they saw they explored as far as they could, and enquired everywhere, but could gain no tidings of the fugitives; and they returned late, weary and out of heart.
Day after day was passed in the same way, and with the same result. Mrs. Courland requested that Frederick would use her horses to relieve his own, so that he had always fresh horses at his command. One day they rode along a narrow lane which seemed to lead to the sea. It was a lonely road, skirted on each side by deep woods of tall forest-trees. Not a house or human habitation was to be seen for miles. At length, as they approached nearer the water, the trees appeared more stunted and dwindled down to short coppice-wood. Still the road was lonely and destitute of human habitation.
Suddenly they came upon a solitary cottage, surrounded by what had once been a garden, but which was now filled with weeds and rank grass.
The entrance into the garden seemed to be at the end, through a little wicket-gate, which had fallen off its hinges; but as the low wall of the garden had fallen down in several places, Morley had no difficulty in entering; so, leaving his horses to the care of Josiah,he made his way through one of the gaps in the wall, and approached the front of the cottage. The door was locked and the house seemed deserted. He looked in at the windows, and, to his surprise, the house seemed furnished, and everything in the rooms appeared as if they had been recently used. This was very strange, Morley thought; so he went round the house, and, in one end, he observed a window, rather larger than the front window; and, looking into the room, he saw that it was a bedroom on the ground-floor, which appeared as if it had been lately occupied. A sudden thought now flashed across his mind, as he looked again in at that window; and, returning to Josiah, he said,—
"We must make some enquiries about this house, Josiah; it seems to be shut up,—and yet the interior has the appearance of having been lately occupied."
"'Tes a whisht old house, sure nuf," replied Josiah; "a purty place for pixies and ghostes, I reckon."
They mounted their horses again, and rode on about a mile further, when they arrived at a farm-house. The farmer informed them that he had not resided in that neighbourhood more than four or five years; but he had heard that the house Morley was enquiring about, was haunted. A horrible murder had been committed there many years ago, the farmer said, and no one had resided there since.
"To whom does it belong?" asked Morley.
"I have heard that it belonged to the old man who was murdered there," replied the farmer. "The son and daughter lived there with him, I believe; but after the murder they went off, no one could tell where, and they have never been heard of since."
"Do you know the names of these people?" enquired Morley.
"Well, I have heard," replied the man; "but I have forgotten."
Morley's conjecture was confirmed. This was, no doubt, the very house in which that dreadful murder was committed, of which his poor father had been accused. The murderers had gone to some distant part of the country, no doubt, or perhaps gone abroad, and left the house and its contents just as they were, fearing to return lest they should be discovered; and no one else would venture near the house, on account of their superstitious fears of ghosts. The premises would not be worth much, in that lonely district; indeed, no one would purchase them after what had happened; and so the risk of returning was not worth incurring, especially as the guilty parties must have taken away a considerable sum with them; for the money which Mr. Morley had with him at the time, and which he must have dropped in his agitation, at the time he slid down from the bed, was, no doubt, picked up by the fugitives and carried off. This was enough to enable them to live comfortably for a long time.
It was getting late; so Morley enquired the nearest way to AshleyHall, and returned by a short cut which the farmer pointed out, determined to explore the interior of the house the next morning.
Julia ran down to meet her brother when she heard he had returned, and begged him to have his dinner in the breakfast-parlour, if he didn't mind, as her aunt was engaged with a stranger in the dining-room.
"What! more mysterious visitors, Julia?" said her brother, smiling; "why, my aunt Courland must be worried out of her life."
"Yes. Now eat your dinner, like a good boy," replied Julia, leading her brother to the table, which was already laid for dinner; "and then, if you are very good, I will tell you a grand secret."
"Hallo!" exclaimed Frederick, eating at the same time—for he was very hungry; "why, this place ought to be called 'The Castle of Mystery' instead of 'Ashley Hall.' You seem to have more secrets here than were contained in 'Blue Beard's' secret chamber. But the tables are turned here, and the ladies hold the secrets, and the poor men have to guess."
"Heighho!" cried his sister, with a sigh; "I am sorry to say we haven't many men here to hide secrets from. Their visits are 'like angels' visits, few and far between.'"
"Now, one glass of wine," said Frederick, who had been going into the substantials heartily while his sister had been talking;—"one glass of wine, my little sister, and then for your secret."
"Two glasses, Frederick dear,—I must insist on your taking two glasses at least; for I want to make you able to hear my terrible secret without fainting outright." And she kissed him so kindly as she said this, that he could not refuse his little sister's request.
"Two glasses, then," said he, "if it must be so."
When he had finished his two glasses of wine, she said she had such a surprise for him in the dining-room, where perhaps he would have to take another glass of wine.
"You little mysterious puss," said he, as he drew her arm within his, and suffered her to lead him to the dining-room. "What can you have to shew me?—it isn't a lover, is it?"
"Oh! no," replied she, sighing; "animals of that genus don't acclimatize at Ashley Hall—the atmosphere here is too cold for them."
"You little satirical minx," said he, as his sister threw open the dining-room door, and introduced him to their eldest brother, William, from India.
It was a surprise indeed. The two brothers embraced most affectionately, and then they looked at each other for some minutes. At last Frederick said,—
"My recollection of our poor father is but faint—I was only ten years of age when I last saw him; but it seems to me as if I saw him standing before me now."
"Yes," replied his brother; "the likeness has been remarked by all our friends in India."
"I was painfully struck with it," said Mrs. Courland, "when William entered the room this morning. I felt as if my poor brother had come back again, to bring to light that awful catastrophe. My thoughts went back to that awful time, and I shuddered as he entered. I can scarcely get over it now."
"It shall be discovered, my dear aunt," said the elder brother—whom in future we will call Mr. Morley. "We will not return till the guilty parties are brought to light."
A sudden change came over the countenance of Mrs. Courland as these words were pronounced, in the solemn voice so like her poor brother's, that alarmed her nephews. Julia had seen those fits on her before; and she motioned to her two brothers to be quiet, while she held her aunt's throbbing head to her bosom.
It soon passed away; and then she rose and begged her two nephews to sit a little over their wine, as she knew they must have much to say to each other.
The wine and dessert had remained on the table, although all but Frederick had dined long ago. The two brothers sat over their wine, as Mrs. Courland had requested them to do; but their time was otherwise employed than in drinking wine. Mr. Morley related to his brother the history of his life, from the time of their father's death, and his miraculous escape from the shipwreck. Frederick, in return, related to his brother the incidents of his life,—his miraculous preservation on the cliffs at the Land's-End; Josiah's prompt assistance; the discovery of the box of gold; the conjuror;—indeed, all except his love-affair. That he retained as a secret still. They had much to tell, and the brothers sat late.
It was a great relief to Mr. Morley's mind to know that their father's box was safe. That Mr. Freeman knew something about the parties, he had no doubt whatever, and he was now as anxious as his brother was to find him, in order to obtain any information he might be able to give them; for Josiah, who had been sent for into the dining-room, to give them a description of the "man of cunning," and his habits and mode of life, said that "The Maister" knew "bra' things."
Alrina was mentioned by Frederick; but he did not tell all respecting her, nor did he so far confide in his brother as to tell him of the plighted troth which existed between them. Mr. Morley guessed, however, that there was something more than disinterested friendship in his brother's anxiety on her account.
The discovery of the house in which the murder had been committed was also told; and the brothers determined to go to the deserted house again the next day, and effect an entrance, when they might possibly discover some clue to the mystery.
When they were about to separate for the night, Mr. Morley gave his brother a letter which he said had been left at the "First and Last Inn" for him; but as he supposed it had come from Ashley Hall, he did not think of giving it to him before, as he had no doubt heard its contents from the lady herself. Frederick took the letter and put it into his pocket, intending to read it in his bedroom. He could not imagine who could have written it. It could not have been either his aunt or sister; for they would no doubt have mentioned it, if it had come from them.
The ladies had retired long ago; and the brothers, being tired, followed their example.
When Frederick had closed the door of his room, he took out the letter and examined the address, which appeared to be written in pencil. He did not know the handwriting. It was a neat lady-like hand. At first he thought of Miss Pendray,—but what could she have to write him about? At last he broke the seal, and was astonished as well as delighted, to find that it was a letter from Alrina—a short letter evidently written in haste. So he sat down and almost devoured its contents.
ALRINA'S LETTER.
My own dear Frederick,May I call you so? Yes; I feel I may,—and yet I scarcely know what to say or how to begin a letter to you. But who else can I look to? Oh! Frederick, I am very, very unhappy. My father discovered our meetings. He knows our secret,—by what means I know not.I was in a state of stupor for a long time, and when I recovered myself I was in a strange place. How I was conveyed here, or when, I do not know. I am puzzled and bewildered.The house is surrounded by high walls on every side. My father has been absent,—I have only seen him once. I think this house must be near the sea; for the owner dresses like a sailor, and I overhear conversations which lead me to believe he is connected with smugglers. His wife is older than he is. Oh! Frederich, she is such a tyrant, and treats that poor girlshamefully. (I forgot to say they have a young girl living with them, whom they call their niece.) Poor girl! I pity her; but I am not allowed to speak to her,—indeed, she seems to forbid it herself, by placing her finger on her lips whenever I happen to meet her. I hear her cries, poor child!There is some mystery about her,—I feel convinced of this. I hear whisperings. My aunt is in the secret, whatever it is. The two women have been closeted continually. I am closely watched and guarded—I know that; so that I amuse myself by watching too, and listening; but I cannot learn much. Yesterday the man went out, and took the girl with him; and soon after, my aunt told me she was going a short journey, and I must remain here until her return. I am accustomed to hear of her short journeys. She often went from home; but the journeys appeared to be long ones,—she generally stayed away a fortnight. All is mystery. The old woman keeps guard over me. The boy Billy, whom you may have seen in poor Mr. Brown's stable, came with my father, and he managed to get me this sheet of paper and a pencil unknown to anyone. I am writing now as a prisoner; for the old woman locks me in when she is not with me. I am thankful to be alone, for then I can think of you,—and oh! how pleasant the thought. When I shall see you again I know not,—and whether I shall be able to send this letter after I have written it, God only knows; but it is a pleasure, in my solitude, to write my thoughts and my troubles, to one who will feel for me. I shall try to send this by the boy, should he ever come here again. Hark! I hear the bolt of the door drawn back. She comes! Adieu!Your fond and lovingAlrina.
My own dear Frederick,
May I call you so? Yes; I feel I may,—and yet I scarcely know what to say or how to begin a letter to you. But who else can I look to? Oh! Frederick, I am very, very unhappy. My father discovered our meetings. He knows our secret,—by what means I know not.
I was in a state of stupor for a long time, and when I recovered myself I was in a strange place. How I was conveyed here, or when, I do not know. I am puzzled and bewildered.
The house is surrounded by high walls on every side. My father has been absent,—I have only seen him once. I think this house must be near the sea; for the owner dresses like a sailor, and I overhear conversations which lead me to believe he is connected with smugglers. His wife is older than he is. Oh! Frederich, she is such a tyrant, and treats that poor girlshamefully. (I forgot to say they have a young girl living with them, whom they call their niece.) Poor girl! I pity her; but I am not allowed to speak to her,—indeed, she seems to forbid it herself, by placing her finger on her lips whenever I happen to meet her. I hear her cries, poor child!
There is some mystery about her,—I feel convinced of this. I hear whisperings. My aunt is in the secret, whatever it is. The two women have been closeted continually. I am closely watched and guarded—I know that; so that I amuse myself by watching too, and listening; but I cannot learn much. Yesterday the man went out, and took the girl with him; and soon after, my aunt told me she was going a short journey, and I must remain here until her return. I am accustomed to hear of her short journeys. She often went from home; but the journeys appeared to be long ones,—she generally stayed away a fortnight. All is mystery. The old woman keeps guard over me. The boy Billy, whom you may have seen in poor Mr. Brown's stable, came with my father, and he managed to get me this sheet of paper and a pencil unknown to anyone. I am writing now as a prisoner; for the old woman locks me in when she is not with me. I am thankful to be alone, for then I can think of you,—and oh! how pleasant the thought. When I shall see you again I know not,—and whether I shall be able to send this letter after I have written it, God only knows; but it is a pleasure, in my solitude, to write my thoughts and my troubles, to one who will feel for me. I shall try to send this by the boy, should he ever come here again. Hark! I hear the bolt of the door drawn back. She comes! Adieu!
Your fond and lovingAlrina.
Frederick read Alrina's letter over and over again, as he paced the floor of his bedroom in mad agitation. He had wasted his time by coming after this waggon, while his Alrina was probably still within a few miles of her former habitation. Had he received this letter before he started, he might have rescued her; but now! it may be too late. Several days had passed,—days? yes, nearly a fortnight since that letter was written. "Fool! madman! idiot!" he exclaimed as he paced the floor. "Why did I not enquire more strictly before I took this fool's journey?"
Exhausted nature gave way at last, and, throwing himself on the bed, he slept heavily till Josiah came to call him for their usual early morning's ride. He had not taken off his clothes, so that, after a refreshing wash, he went out into the garden followed by Josiah. The fresh morning air invigorated him, and restored tranquillity tohis mind; and he was enabled to tell his faithful follower the principal contents of the letter.
"Well, sar," said Josiah, "that's a whisht job sure nuf; but what's done caen't be helped. Ef har fe-a-ther es a conjuror, you arn't, I s'pose; so how cud you tell that she wor there?"
"True," said Frederick, who now began to see the folly of reflecting on himself for coming to Bristol instead of remaining in Cornwall—a mistake which it was impossible he could have seen the result of.
"We have done something by coming here, however," he continued, reflectively; "we have discovered that lonely house. Now, I think you had better remain here with my brother; for I feel convinced that by entering that house, some discovery will be made. In the meantime I will return and seek Alrina and her father. If I can find that boy, I shall succeed without a doubt in rescuing her."
"Iss; but semmen to me that two 'f's' do belong to that," said Josiah.
"What do you mean by 'two f's?'" exclaimed Frederick.
"Why, the fust es,efyou cud find the boy," replied Josiah; "and the next es,efshe's there still. You don't knaw that boy so well as I do; but 'tes no harm to try. I'll go home, or stay here, whichever you plaise; but there's one thing I ha' got to say, that I b'lieve we wor 'pon a good scent, after all."
"What do you mean?" asked Morley.
"Why, I heard somethen' spoke down in the servants' hall last night, that I ha' b'en thinken' about a bra' deal; but I cudn't, to save my life, make the two ends to 'kidgey' like; but your letter ha' opened my eyes all abroad."
"You are speaking in enigmas, Josiah," said his master.
"I don't knaw what sort of things they are, not I," said Josiah; "but putten' this agen that, I can see a bra' way this mornen', I think."
"What are you driving at?" said Morley, looking puzzled.
"Why, this here es about the size of et," replied Josiah, looking very wise,—"Miss Freeman wor in that woggen, so sure as my name es 'Siah Trenow."
"How can you possibly know that?" cried Morley, very much excited.
"Well, I don't knaw et zackly," replied Josiah; "but the porter said, last night, that there ha' b'en a woman up there two or three times spaken' to Mrs. Courland, an' he watched her in an' out o' that little gate in the garden; and by what he said, I do b'lieve 'tes she. He chalked her out zackly, semmen to me."
"Whatever could she be doing here?" asked Morley. "It is quite absurd to think of such a thing."
"Zackly like that," said Josiah; "but I do b'lieve 'twor she, an'that man an' the little maid wor the ones that Miss Reeney spoke about. 'Tes some new manœuvre of 'The Maister's,' I'll be bound, an' I shall watch like a cat watching a mouse. Dedn't Miss Reeney say that he knaw'd all about you, an' everything. He wor watching you when you dedn't knaw et, down there, I'll be bound. An' now he ha' sent she for to tell your aunt somethen'."
At this point of their conversation, they were joined by Mr. Morley, to whom Frederick read the most material portions of Alrina's letter, and Josiah repeated his suspicions that Miss Freeman was lurking about the neighbourhood. If so, they had no doubt she was there on some errand from her brother respecting Frederick Morley. What it was they couldn't imagine. It was arranged therefore that Frederick should return to Cornwall again in search of Alrina and her father; while Mr. Morley and Josiah should remain at Ashley Hall, for the purpose of making what discovery they could in the deserted house, and of finding out whether Miss Freeman was really in the neighbourhood, and what she was about. So, after an early breakfast, their plans were formed, and Mr. Morley and Josiah proceeded to the deserted house, while Frederick rode on the wings of love to the rescue of his imprisoned enchantress.
Mrs. Courland was expecting her husband's return about this time. She was anxious and nervous. He was a good, kind husband, and she endeavoured to do all in her power to make him happy. It was a great trial to her to look that kind, good man in the face, and know that she was keeping a secret from him which he ought to have known from the beginning. It made her unhappy,—miserable,—and she dreaded his return. Should he discover it now, and find that she had been deceiving him for so many years, it would be dreadful. And now he was on his last voyage;—he would now retire from the sea and live at home. How should she be able to keep the secret then? Some trifling circumstance might occur at any time, to discover it; and then his kind affection would be lost to her. He would not—he could not—look upon her with his wonted loving confidence, after the discovery of her deception. Oh! why had she kept it from him?
Julia knew that her aunt was anxious about her husband's return, and she did not disturb her therefore when she retired after breakfast to her little private room.
She retired, as usual, that morning, and sat brooding over her sorrows and anxieties, until she became quite low-spirited; for the more she thought of her difficult and unpleasant situation, the more guilty and blameable she seemed in her own estimation; and, placing her hand before her eyes, she wept in the bitterness of her heart.
Still comparatively a young woman, and still beautiful, and the admiration of all, when she chose to enter into society,—possessed, also, of considerable wealth, a noble mansion, and a splendid establishment—all, in short, which the world could bestow,—and, above all, being blessed with a kind and indulgent husband,—yet, with all these advantages, there sat that handsome and gifted lady in the midst of all this splendour, a miserable, unhappy woman.
A gentle tap is heard at the little door leading into the garden, which makes her start and turn pale. Strange that so gentle a tap should frighten her so much. Where are all the servants, that she should be obliged to open the door herself? She seems to dread the admission of the visitor; and yet she rises almost immediately, and unbolts the little door and admits the intruder on her privacy.
The visitor enters unceremoniously, and closes the door, as if she had been accustomed to visit the beautiful owner of the establishment often. She was a tall, masculine-looking woman, apparently about fifty years of age, with an eye that betokened both boldness and cunning, and a restless uneasy expression by no means pleasing. The compressed lips expressed great determination of character, and the strong and well-knit frame seemed formed more according to the model of the ruder than the softer sex.
This was the visitor who had just been admitted into Mrs. Courland's private room.
"Am I never to be at rest?" said the lady in a supplicating tone, as she took her seat again. "Say, once for all, what will satisfy you, and leave me in peace. This continual worry and anxiety is killing me."
"You know," replied the visitor, "that I am not asking for myself. It is in the cause of another that I occasionally trouble you. The poor child must be educated according to the station she may one day fill; and her maintenance must be cared for. And those who take the trouble, and keep the secret, must be rewarded—and that with liberality."
"I know all that," said Mrs. Courland, "and am willing to make a sacrifice. What will suffice? say!"
"I am acting for another, as you know; and my instructions are, five hundred pounds—not a penny less," said the woman, sternly.
"I cannot comply with your exorbitant demand," replied Mrs. Courland, in an abject tone; "I have not so much money in the house. My husband's allowance is all exhausted,—you have beena continual drain upon me. I expect him almost hourly, and then my supplies will be almost unlimited again. Pray leave me now, and let me have a little time to recover myself before his return. Then you shall be liberally rewarded."
"I cannot wait," said the visitor; "or, if I do, the money must be suppliedby himself, and all must be known."
"Oh! no! no! not that," cried Mrs. Courland, almost in despair. "He is kind—most kind. Spare him the knowledge of that which has been kept from him so long, to my bitter, bitter cost. Oh! would that he had known all at the beginning. It would have saved me many unhappy hours." And the poor lady wept, as if her heart was breaking. Her unwelcome visitor seemed moved, and begged her not to distress herself so.
"You have not seen the child?" said she. "Let me bring her to you. Why not take her here? she might be a comfort to you. Her misfortune and dreadful calamity may induce you to pity, if you cannot love her, and will afford some occupation for your leisure hours. She is within call; I will bring her in." And before Mrs. Courland could collect herself sufficiently to decide what she would do, or to ask another question, the woman had disappeared.
The grounds of Ashley Hall, as we have before said, were skirted on one side by a narrow lane, very little frequented,—the hedges on each side being overgrown with brambles and thick thorn-bushes. In this lane, there was a door which led into Mrs. Courland's private room, through a small garden, which she called her own private property—no one being permitted to enter it, except herself, and the gardener, who at stated times was admitted to keep it in order.
Outside this little door in the lane, on the morning of this woman's visit to Mrs. Courland, stood an elderly man, dressed in the garb of a sailor, and a young girl, about fifteen or sixteen years of age—she might have been a year or two more, or she might have been less; it was difficult to determine. She was plainly dressed, and looked clean and neat; but her general appearance was not at all prepossessing. She was short and stout; and extreme vulgarity and impudent assurance, mingled with cunning, were depicted in her forbidding looking countenance, which was deeply pitted with the small-pox;—and yet, with all this, there was a look of melancholy which seemed to indicate that the girl was unhappy. Continued ill-treatment had perhaps produced this harsh and repulsive expression of countenance which she now exhibited.
"We must try what effect the girl will have," said the woman, as she merged into the lane through the little private door, after having kept her companions waiting a considerable time. "The lady says she has not much money in the house, and won't have till the captain comes home."
"She be hanged!" replied the man. "That's her game. Not money in a house like that? Tell her to pawn her jewels, or sell her carriage. I tell you, mistress, if you can't manage better than that, I shall go in myself and play Old Nick with her."
"Hush!" said the woman. "Let me take the girl in. That will be best. Leave it to me, Cooper; I know how to manage her."
"Now, mind," cried the man; "no nonsense,—money down, or else there'll be the devil to pay. I won't wait one day longer. I've got other fish to fry, and I don't like dancing attendance upon a parcel of women, like this."
Leaving the man alone in the lane, in not a very good humour, the woman took the girl with her into Mrs. Courland's private room, where she found that lady still weeping and in great agitation.
"I have brought the child," said the woman, as she entered, "and I intend leaving her here on your hands. I have a bold partner outside, who will publish it far and near, and your husband will know all immediately on his return. I have sufficient proof of all, as you have seen before."
"Oh! spare me! spare me!" cried the poor lady, as she looked at the girl through her tears. "Oh! terrible fate. Not that!Shecannot be the child. Oh! in pity take her away, and say there is some mistake. Oh! dreadful. His child can never be like that!" And she turned her head away, as if she loathed the sight of one so hideous. Had she been a handsome girl, she might have reconciled herself to her fate; but to have a low, vulgar, hideous creature there, and to present that creature to her husband now,—she could not do it. Better die a thousand deaths than face this terrible ordeal. Her husband would despise and hate her, as much as he loved her now, when he discovered the extent of the deception that had been practised upon him. He would be at home now continually; and she would have to bear his frowns, day by day, without relief. She presented to her own mind the darkest side of the picture, and painted it in the dullest and blackest colours, like all who give way to these low desponding thoughts. While these gloomy reflections were passing in Mrs. Courland's mind, the woman disappeared through the little private door, and left the poor girl standing in the middle of the room. Here was a new difficulty. What could she do with that repulsive looking girl? She ran out through the little garden and opened the door leading into the lane. There was no one to be seen;—both the man and the woman had either gone off very quickly, or were concealing themselves behind some of the overgrown thorns and bushes. The girl was left on her hands, evidently, and she must make the best of it. Perhaps she might know where to find her friends, and might be induced to go to them if she was provided with some money. Consoling herself,as well as she could, with these reflections, Mrs. Courland returned to the room, where she found the girl standing in the same place, and looking, with stolid astonishment, at the elegant and costly ornaments which decorated the room, and exhibited the refined taste and great wealth of its owner.
Mrs. Courland seated herself once more, and tried to look at the poor half-frightened girl with less abhorrence: but it was of no use. She could not endure the sight of her: and the idea of keeping her there was quite out of the question;—she must get rid of her, at all risks, cost what it would. The girl, seeing that she was not noticed, turned round to look at the beautiful bijouterie with which some of the tables and the mantel-piece were strewed; and she was now standing with her back to the mistress of the apartment.
Mrs. Courland summoned up resolution enough at length to speak to the girl, but she did not seem to notice it. Again Mrs. Courland addressed her, but she neither replied nor turned towards the lady.
"You are obstinate, girl," said Mrs. Courland. "I will soon let you know who is mistress here;"—for she felt her dignity insulted, which she was not accustomed to; and rising from her chair impatiently, she approached the girl, and, taking her by the shoulders (for the girl's back was still turned towards her), she gave her a hearty shake, which came so unexpectedly, that the girl jumped round, and seized the lady by both her wrists, giving at the same time a hideous and unearthly scream, and looking more like a fiend than anything human. But, seeing that she had frightened her, she released her grasp, which had been so strong and powerful, that the marks of her hard, bony fingers were left on the soft and delicate flesh of the lady, who dropped into a seat, terrified and exhausted. Her situation was even worse than she had anticipated.
The girl was evidently deaf and dumb!
She could not turn such a helpless unfortunate out into the world, alone;—even if she filled the poor creature's pockets with gold, she could not help herself nor make her wants known, and she would be robbed. What was she to do? The woman, it was evident, meant to leave her there: and now all must be known.
The poor girl was still standing in the same place, looking at the lady with a penitent countenance; for she saw, with natural instinct, that she had done amiss. She had been accustomed to ill-treatment, and any resentment she evinced subjected her to a more severe punishment; and so she had become hardened and vindictive, and would take some opportunity of doing her persecutors some mischief, treacherously, for which she often got double punishment; so that she was always conquered, and her temper became sour and morose, which gave an unpleasant expression to her countenance, that, but for the ravages made on it by that dreadful disease, the small-pox,might not have seemed so forbidding and repulsive. A mingled feeling of pity and compassion took possession of Mrs. Courland's mind, as she sat gazing at the poor creature, who now looked so penitent, and seemed to be begging for pardon, in her way. The expression of her countenance was quite altered and subdued. She now felt the pride of being the conqueror over that delicate and beautiful lady, by the strength of her sinewy hands; for there was no hand uplifted here to fell her to the ground for her temerity and rudeness. She saw, too, that the lady had been weeping, and that her delicate wrists had been hurt by her powerful grasp; for the marks of her fingers were still visible there.
She had never, perhaps, been taught to kneel in worship or in penitence to any higher being than the man and woman with whom she resided—and to them only by accident, when struggling for the mastery, or in endeavouring to evade the severity of her daily punishment. Her natural instinct now plainly indicated to her, that she was standing in the presence of a superior being, whom she had injured, and who bore the pain without resenting it. She could not express her penitence and sorrow for the pain she had inflicted, in words; so she threw herself on her knees before the lady, and, bending her head almost to the floor, burst into tears—the first she had shed, perhaps, except in pain or anger, in the whole course of her life.
Mrs. Courland's heart was touched at the natural homage and contrition of this poor afflicted girl. She raised her from the floor and placed her in her own chair, signing to her to remain there.