"You may look at my leg as much as you like, my good people," he said; "but I have not the slightest intention of letting you do any thing to it, unless what you purpose agrees with my own opinion." This being settled, the woman knelt down, and the man held the candle, and the stocking being withdrawn, an examination and mumbled consultation of some length took place.
"It's not broken, sir, do you see!" said the old man, looking up. "It's only the small bone put out, do you see!"
"I see nothing at all, my good fellow," said Beauchamp, "except that it is very painful; and, of course, the more you pinch it the worse it is."
The man then assured him that if he would let him try, he would put it in in a minute; and, after a laborious explanation, Beauchamp consented. The old man pulled his foot as if he would have pulled it off the old woman squeezed his ankle as if she would have broken it through the middle; but at length, with a sudden snap, the bone started back into its place, and the patient found instant relief. Every attempt to stand, however, was still quite out of the question; and Beauchamp, giving himself entirely up into the hands of such skillful chirurgeons, suffered his ankle to be bandaged up with cloths steeped in vinegar and brandy, and himself to be carried to bed, where the smuggler assured him he ought to lie for at least four days, in order to perfect his recovery. When all was completed, and, his host and hostess were retiring, Beauchamp listened for a moment, and heard the key of the door turned with greater satisfaction than he had imagined the fact of being locked into his own room would ever afford him.
Now, Henry Burrel was a great deal too sincere a man, even in his commune with himself, to endeavor by any means to cheat himself into the belief that he was a hero. In short, he had quite sufficient real enthusiasm in his disposition, and quite sufficient contempt for those who affected it without having any, to make him very jealous of letting the portion he did, possess appear openly, even before his own eyes; and, in order to correct such propensities, he had got up, as we have shown before, a system of apathetic indifference to every thing that did not affect himself, which, though sometimes run away with by his zeal or his affections, contrived generally to bridle feelings that would otherwise have been somewhat headstrong.
Left alone in a little bed, in a little room in a smuggler's cottage, on the loneliest part of the sea-shore--locked in, without being able to set a foot to the ground--without a light--and with a confounded smell of fish pervading the whole atmosphere--his first impulse, as all these minor miseries tickled his imagination one after the other, was to laugh heartily. But the impression lasted but a moment; and, when he thought of the more remote, but more dreadful, circumstances connected by an inseparable link with his temporary situation--the murder of a helpless old man, which he doubted not had been committed--the fearful moral offense which three of his fellow-creatures had perpetrated--and the miserable fate of a youth in whom he had taken considerable interest--for he had recognized, as we have before hinted, the voice of poor Wat Harrison--when he thought of all these circumstances, his heart smote him for the moment of levity in which he had indulged; and poured out the full tide of its generous and kindly feelings to wash away the fault of that one instant.
He now revolved the matter more seriously; and as he did so, of course his own situation came again soberly under consideration. That situation was evidently any thing but pleasant; for no man could be expected to find his pillow very soft when it was shaken by the hands of a gang of murderers. But Beauchamp was constitutionally a brave man. His impulses were not those of fear: and, though he had a very considerable share of imagination, yet when he wanted to frighten himself about any thing, he had to think of it seriously, and call up all the dangers one by one. Now, in the present instance, there were so many unpleasant and perilous points in his position, which he could neither divert nor avoid, that, after a short reflection, he found it would be best and wisest not to think of the danger at all; and, when he had so settled the matter, he found no great difficulty in forgetting it altogether, although, with a degree of feverish restlessness, he turned and re-turned in his mind the conversation which he had heard in the adjoining room.
It was evident that Walter Harrison had not told the whole truth to the old man who had given them shelter; and whether it was the smuggler's previous conclusions that had led him to believe the crime, from the consequences of which the young sailor was flying, had been committed in an endeavor to defraud the revenue, or whether by a direct falsehood on the lad's own part, Beauchamp naturally deduced from every thing which he had discovered, that Willy Small, as they called him, would be the first to shrink from the perpetrators of the deeper offense which had really been offered to the laws of God and man. This was, at least, some consolation; and although Beauchamp still felt a sensation of awe and horror when he reflected calmly on the whole transactions of that night, yet his feelings were more like those of one who reads a horrid tale of crime and sorrow in the newspapers than those of one around whose very person the circumstances had been transacted, and who was in some degree a party to the whole.
Nevertheless, he could not go to sleep over it with the easy carelessness of one of those daily devourers of manufactured horrors, who join to patronize the periodical press with the devout idolators of agitation, and who, like men fed upon deviled gizzards, find that nothing on earth has enough cayenne. Whether it was busy thoughts, or a broken head, or an ankle that had been dislocated, that kept him awake, I can not tell; but he lay in feverish and uneasy restlessness long after all was quiet in the house, and even the murderers had retired--I had almost said,--to sleep.
Toward morning however, exhaustion overcame all, and he slept long and profoundly. How long indeed he did not know, for he had forgot to wind up his watch; but, at all events, he woke refreshed and calm, his headache gone, and the pain of his hurt ankle so much relieved, that he fancied he could do any thing, and at once sprang out of bed. He instantly found his mistake; for the moment he attempted to set that foot to the ground, he reeled, and would have fallen but for his hold of the bedstead; and, on examining more closely, he found his leg enormously swelled, and bidding fair, as the smuggler had predicted, to confine him to the house for more than one day. Notwithstanding this discovery, he determined to make his way to the window before any one interrupted him, in order to examine the locale, and what was passing without; and by means of the table and the chairs he contrived to effect his purpose.
The scene that presented itself was one that may be met with about once every three miles along the greater part of the southern and eastern coasts of England--a small sandy bay, opening out into the wide blue sea, with two or three high cliffs on either hand, and nothing more. In the present instance, however, an object struck the eyes of Henry Beauchamp, which was not without its peculiar interest. It was a small low-rigged cutter, just making her way out to sea, with a full steady wind, and a press of sail. He looked up to the sky, and, as far as he could judge from the position of the sun, concluded that one or two hours must have passed since noon. At the same time, there was no sound of voices below. A lad was seen mending one of the boats on the shore; and a man, in whom he easily distinguished the old smuggler, was standing on the nearest bank, with a glass to his eye, either watching the progress of the cutter, or examining a vessel that could just be seen hull down in the offing. All seemed to imply that those who had brought him thither had effected their escape from England; and after gazing out for a moment, he returned to his bedside, and proceeded to dress himself as well as he could. The gentleman who threaded the Dædalian labyrinth, and slew Mrs. Pasephæ's illegitimate son at the end of it, had not half such a piece of work of it as Henry Beauchamp had to get into his clothes. It is wonderful how much more use one makes of one's foot even in dressing one's self than one knows any thing about; and what would have come of it in the present instance can hardly be divined, had it not so happened that, after Beauchamp had struggled with innumerable difficulties for nearly half an hour, the old smuggler presented himself, as a somewhat rude valet-de-chambre, and saved his guest from martyrdom.
The old man, in his quality of surgeon, blamed Beauchamp highly for getting up at all; and, pointing out the swelled state of his ankle, declared that he would only let him remain up on condition that he would keep it raised upon a chair during the rest of the day.
Beauchamp was perhaps a little irritable with the contention he had just gone through with various parts of his apparel; and, consequently, seating himself calmly on the nearest chair, he informed the old man, in a cool, determined tone, that it was his intention immediately to proceed to Dorchester, which, as far as he could calculate, was the nearest large town. He was met by the smuggler, however, in a way that he did not expect, and this, of course, gave a sudden change to the current of his feelings. Instead of telling him that he could not go, or that he should not go, or any of those things which would have rendered him more determined than ever, the old man replied, in a civil tone, "Well, sir, you can do as you like but I don't see how you can manage it to-night, for it is now near four--Dorchester's twenty miles off--and even were I to send for a shay, it can't come down within two mile of this place, 'cause there is no road.
"Past four, is it?" cried Beauchamp. "I must have slept sound."
"I dare say you were tired enough, sir," replied the old man; "but it is past four, indeed--and, as I was saying, Dorchester is twenty miles, and the next town is ten. You are very welcome to your bed, sir; and I think you had a great deal better stay till you can walk a bit."
Beauchamp mused; for his situation was certainly a very unpleasant one. He knew it to be his duty to give immediate information of what had occurred to himself, to those persons who might investigate the matter thoroughly, and discover whether a greater offense had not been committed. At the same time, he felt the impossibility of walking two miles, if his life had been at stake; while he did not think it would be either wise or safe to intrust to a man of so doubtful a character as this Willy Small, even his suspicions in regard to persons, with one of whom, at least, the smuggler was on terms of friendship. It was impossible to say what the fear of being implicated in such a transaction as Beauchamp believed to have taken place, might cause him to do, if he found that he had in his power the only person who could prove his connection with the culprits. At the same time, the man's tone was perfectly civil, and even kind; and as soon as Beauchamp found that no opposition was intended to the exercise of his free-will, he of course dropped the more peremptory manner he had assumed, and determined to try milder means instead, though he well knew that no measures would have proved successful had the smuggler made up his mind to risk after consequences in order to gain the present object.
"If these places be so far by land," he said, at length, "is it not possible that I can get a boat to carry me to the next town on the coast!--I see two lying there upon the beach; and I will pay well for one; if it can be procured."
"Why, sir, for the matter of that," answered the smuggler, "one of the boats has not been sea-worthy these three months, and the other unfortunately got badly damaged this morning in taking those fellows and the woman to the cutter. They would not wait till high water, and seemed in a devil of a hurry to get aboard; and how my boy managed it, or whether the old un had a hand in it, I don't know, but they had all near been swamped, and the boat can't be reckoned on, d'ye see!"
Beauchamp's lip curled, as he thought he perceived a determination to oppose his departure by fair means, if not by force; but the smuggler instantly caught it, and interpreting it aright, replied with a glowing cheek and a look of candor, that went farther to convince his hearer than all the oratory or bullying in the world would have done.
"Well, well! I see what it is," he said. "You think that I want to keep you, while those fellows sheer off clear. But they are gone, and that's done; and sorry am I that I ever saw their faces, for I've a notion that there's somewhat worse at the bottom than I thought for. But never mind that. Your honor's a gentleman, at least such I take you to be; and d--me if I have a hand in stopping your going wherever you like. If you like to get under weigh to-night, why, I say nothing; and I will even send the boy Bill over to ---- for horses and a shay, though I think you had better stay here, a devil of a deal; and as for the boat, you may hop down and look at her yourself, and you will see that it will be this time to-morrow before all's right again. So your honor may just do as you like--I say nothing, do you see!"
"You have said enough to make me believe you an honest man," replied Beauchamp; "and if what I suspect of your late inmates be true, you may find my testimony in your favor no light matter. What they have done," he added, seeing the old man's curiosity awakened; "I can only suspect, as you do yourself. All I know, of my own personal knowledge, is that, as I was accidentally coming upon them unawares, they thought fit to knock me down, and brought me hither; but I should certainly think you would find it most safe and most creditable to go immediately to the next magistrate and give information."
"No, no, no!" cried the smuggler--"No, by--, I won't peach; and, besides, I know nothing about them."
"I am well aware, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, "that you have been deceived; for I will tell you fairly that I heard unwillingly all that passed between you and the young sailor, in the next room, last night. Take my word for it, however, that there has been no smuggling in the business."
The man started, but Beauchamp went on "Smuggling had nothing to do with it; but as I know that your ideas of honor are very different from mine, I shall not of course press you to inform against men, whose crime you do not fully know, and whose guilt I myself could not clearly prove. Nevertheless, I must do my duty, and, well or ill, I must make my way to Dorchester to-morrow, in executing which purpose I am sure you will aid me."
"That I will, sir! that I will!" answered the old man. "I will leave Bill to mend the boat, and I will set out for ---- by daylight, and you shall have a shay down at the red stile by two o'clock at farthest. No! no! I will never peach against a poor lad, who trusted me: but somehow, what your honor has said has made me feel a little queerish--I should like to know the truth of the business vastly--I don't like these jobs, that I don't--any thing in the way of business I don't mind--but I don't--no, I don't like these jobs at all!"
It was very evident, from the changed and anxious countenance which the old smuggler now presented, that what he said was very true; and though he could talk with the utmost coolness of killing a king's officer in a smuggling brawl, yet the vague and doubtful nature of the transactions into which he had been unwittingly entrapped, filled him with anxious apprehensions.
"Well, well, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, whose object was not to alarm him too much on his own account, "at all events you have nothing to do with it, and I can bear witness to the conversation which took place between you and the young sailor last night, and which would at any time establish your ignorance of the whole facts."
"Thank your honor! thank your honor!" cried the old man, with evident heartfelt satisfaction. "Your honor's a gentleman--that you are; and I am sure that I would do any thing your honor tells me--that's to say, I wouldn't like to peach, d'ye see--but any thing else."
"All that can be required of you," replied Beauchamp, "is not to obstruct the course of justice; and, therefore, I shall trust to you to set out as early as possible to-morrow to get me some conveyance; and farther, should you be called upon hereafter to give evidence in this business, take my advice, and tell the whole truth boldly and straightforwardly; for depend upon it, to tell a falsehood, or to prevaricate, is the most dishonorable thing a man can do, whether his station be high or low."
"That it is, sir, surely--that it is!" replied the smuggler; "and I will tell the truth when I am asked. But that is different, your honor knows, from going and telling without any one asking me."
"Certainly it is," said Beauchamp; "and I do not ask you to do more than tell it when it is asked; but now, my good sir, can I get dinner, or breakfast as it is to me; for I begin to feel that I have not eaten any thing for several hours?"
"Now, that's what I call being d--d stupid!" cried Willy Small, much to Beauchamp's surprise, who at first concluded that the smuggler's censure was addressed to him. "If my old woman did not send me up on purpose to tell your honor that she had done you three mackerel, and that, with a rasher of pickled pork, and some fried--"
"Good Heaven!" cried Beauchamp, "I trust that she does not intend me to eat three mackerel, pickled pork, and fried any thing! But never mind--let me see them, by all means. I will eat what I can, and she must excuse me the rest."
Beauchamp's dinner was accordingly placed before him; and, with his usual perversity of disposition, it must be acknowledged that, in a smuggler's cottage, with a lame leg, and disappointed in love, he ate a better dinner of mackerel in October, salted pork, and fried eggs, than he had done since he left the Grand St. Bernard. There's a hero! Ulysses was nothing to him, though, dressed, in a dishclout, the hero of the Odyssey did sit down with twenty fellows who were making love to his own wife, and supped heartily upon "the entrails fat, enriched with blood," by which Homer undoubtedly meant black puddings.
When he had concluded--as Beauchamp could, when he liked it, cast off his reserve, mingle freely with all classes, and examine nature wherever he found it--he declared that, as the evening was somewhat chilly, he would come down and spend the rest of it by the kitchen fire; and, getting to the bottom of the stairs the best way he could, by the help of the old man and his son, he soon rendered himself familiar with the whole family, winning their love, while he made them more and more inclined to declare that he was really a gentleman.
Nor did the time pass unpleasantly to himself. He had got a notion, in direct opposition to generally received opinions, that nature was to be found only in the highest and in the lowest classes--more especially, indeed, in the highest, because the persons of which it is constituted have little inducement to conceal their feelings or thoughts, and certainly no wish to affect the manners of any other caste. Nature, however, as modified by the education of the lower classes, was more interesting to him, from being less frequently before his eyes; and though he certainly liked the nature of his own rank best, yet he was not sorry occasionally to observe the other a little nearer. Thus the time wore imperceptibly away; and the more tranquil passing of the night was only interrupted by the smuggler's son showing his father a powder-flask which, he said, one of the gentlemen had dropped upon the beach that morning. Beauchamp took it carelessly in his hand, and returned it without observation; but a single glance had shown him that it was one which, from some fault in its construction, he had given to his servant, Harding, a few days before. The sight, though it but confirmed former suspicions, threw him into a fit of musing for several minutes; but he shook it off as fast as possible, and soon resumed the easy tone in which he had been previously conversing.
The next morning he awoke earlier than the day before, but he found, from the smuggler's son, that the old man, true to his word, had already set out to procure a post-chaise for him from the nearest town. Many an hour passed by, however, without his return, and it was again nearly four o'clock ere Beauchamp, whose sole amusement had been looking out upon the ever varying sea, beheld him walking sturdily along over the high grounds to the west. He was soon down the little path, and into the house; but Beauchamp remarked that he paused not below, as he naturally might have done, to speak with his wife, but, on the contrary, with a hurried pace, proceeded straight up-stairs, and entered the stranger's room at once. He was far too much agitated to think of ceremonies; and, leaning on the table, without taking off his hat, he stood before Beauchamp, pale, trembling, and out of breath, for several moments, before he could utter a word.
"Oh, your honor!" he cried at length; "Oh, your honor! I hope to God you will stand my friend; for this is a horrible business I have got into, and, without help, I shall sink, that's certain!"
"What is the matter! What has happened!" demanded Beauchamp eagerly; but then, seeing the fearful state of agitation which shook the old man's powerful frame, he added, "Calm yourself! Calm yourself, Small! You have done nothing that I know of that can injure you! Let me hear what it is alarms you!"
"Thank you, sir, for that!" replied the smuggler, catching at Beauchamp's consolation. "Thank you for that! If you stand by me, I dare say I shall do. But what is it that alarms me? you ask. Why, what should it be! Why, when I went into the town of ----, what should I see but a number of people standing round the town-hall, just at a particular spot like; and something misgave me, so I went up, and there I saw stuck up against the wall a large sheet of paper, and at the top was printed, _Five Hundred Pounds Reward_; and then, when I looked below, I saw, in bigger letters still, _Murder!_ At first I could not see any more, my brain turned round so; but when I could read on, I saw in the _Blagard_, as the people called it, how those infernal villains, who were here the night afore last, had murdered a poor old helpless man at a place they call Ryebury. It did not just say it was them, indeed, but I am sure it was. Oh, I am quite sure it was them!"
The last declaration of his conviction was made more faintly, as if he entertained some slight hope that Beauchamp would contradict him; but, on the contrary, that gentleman replied, "I am afraid it was, indeed; for it was at that very place, Ryebury, and at the door of that old man's house, that they met me, and stunned me by a blow on the head. But what more did the placard say!"
"Oh, it mentioned a Captain Somebody," replied the smuggler. "I forget the name. It was a Frenchified name, however. It was that black-looking ---- with the whiskers, I'll bet a puncheon!"
"Was it Harding," demanded Beauchamp, fixing his eyes upon him eagerly, to catch his answer from his look, even before he had time to utter it.
"No, no, no!" answered the smuggler. "It was not Harding. It was some Frenchified name; and then there came some person or persons unknown. But now your honor will stand by me, I am sure; for if the justices find out that I helped them off the coast, they will make me out as having a hand in it; and I am sure that if I had known what they had been doing, I would sooner have scuttled the cutter, and sent them all to the bottom, if I had gone down with them myself."
"I really believe you would," replied Beauchamp; "and I do not think that, with the evidence which I can give, and which I will give in your favor, should any thing be brought against you, there is the slightest cause for your entertaining any apprehension."
"Thank you, sir! Thank you for that!" replied the smuggler. "That will make me easy, and now I'll go and tell the old woman."
"But stay, stay, my good friend!" cried Beauchamp. "Is the post-chaise--"
"Lord-a'-mercy, now!" cried the man, before his guest could finish, the sentence, at the same time pulling off his hat, and throwing it down upon the ground with a despairing sort of fling. "Lord-a'-mercy, now, if I did not forget all about it! This murder has turned my brain, I do think; for I never went into a house or shed in the whole place, but set off home as hard as I could go, to ask if your honor would stand by me."
"Humph!" said Beauchamp, "this is pleasant."
"Well," thought Beauchamp, "I certainly did calculate upon being at Dorchester to-night, as firmly as if I had never read the Rambler. Oh, Seged, Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia! But never mind! to-morrow, at all events, nothing shall stop me; and by that time this leg of mine will be nearly well, so that some advantage at least will be gained by the disappointment."
The following morning the son, instead of the father, was accordingly dispatched to the post-town of ----, to order down a chaise to the nearest point of the high-road; and he was, moreover directed to take advantage of the conveyance, to return so far upon his way, in order to give Beauchamp notice of its arrival. This precaution was not unnecessary, for the boy was a lout who might very probably have suffered the chaise to go on without him; but having taken these measures, Beauchamp very confidently expected to hear that his vehicle was in waiting at or about the hour of two.
His lameness had by this time so far worn off, that he could move from place to place with tolerable ease; and he spent the morning principally on the sea-shore, partly in thoughts which were all the busier from the forced inactivity of his body, partly in removing any remaining traces of apprehension from the mind of the old smuggler, who continued working leisurely and lazily at his boat, the damage done to which had evidently been considerable. A little before two o'clock, Beauchamp settled his accounts with his hostess; and all charges being left to his own liberality, and his purse being luckily and miraculously still in his pocket, he presented the worthy dame with a sum so much above either her expectations, or the value of her mackerel and pickled pork, as, in the first place, to make her turn red with surprise and satisfaction, and then to run out to tell her husband what the stranger had given them. Two o'clock however, passed, and old Billy Small, began to regret that he had sent young Billy Small, instead of going himself. Three o'clock passed, and Beauchamp joined most sincerely in the regret, especially when he heard the old man exclaim, in the tone of a discovery, "I'd bet a puncheon, now, that Bill has gone and got drunk at the 'lection. I forgot this was the first day of the 'lection for the borough, or I would ha' gone myself, to a certainty. He's drunk, no doubt!"
The father, however, did the son injustice; for toward half-past three, the good youth appeared lumbering over the hill, and entered the cottage, wiping his brow, indeed, but with a sober pace. In answer to Beauchamp's inquiries--which were made with more eager haste than he generally indulged in--the young man replied that all the horses in the town, and for many miles round it, were engaged in the 'lection, so that not one was to be got for love or money.
Now, Beauchamp found himself so strongly inclined to be cross, that--instead of either sending all elections to that distinguished personage who has gained more by them and their consequences than any one else--I mean the devil--or vituperating the post-horses, or any of the other things concerned, as some persons would have done when put out of temper by similar mischances--he acted, of course, in a way of his own, and laughed outright, merely exclaiming, "Well, I must buy a shirt of you, Small, if you will sell me one; for at present I certainly do not come within the old beau's definition of a gentleman!"
As Beauchamp now determined to send no more to a town in which the election of a fit and proper person to represent his Majesty's lieges in Parliament was going on, his next questions related to the boat, or rather to the boats. The smaller of the two, old Small assured him, though it served well enough to catch mackerel in the little sheltered bay before the house, would never do to go any distance; but he promised Beauchamp that the other boat should be ready to carry him to the next coast town by three o'clock on the following day.
Beauchamp, from what he had seen in the morning, imagined that the old man's promise might very well be fulfilled; but he little knew what mending an old boat is. Father and son set to work upon it at once, and went on as long as they could see; and when the young stranger rose next morning, he found them already occupied in the same manner. His ankle being now greatly better, though not well, he walked out to watch their proceedings; and, sitting beside them, and occasionally giving some slight assistance, he saw hour after hour of the fourth day since his arrival wear away, in performing what he had imagined would have been completed in half the time; till at length, while several small things still remained to be done, he beheld the purple mingling with the blue in the sky, and telling that the day star was going down to the dark pavilion of his rest. "Oh! Seged, Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia!" cried Beauchamp, as he returned into the cottage, "I will this night, at all events, resolve upon doing nothing at all to-morrow, in order to see whether fate will for once disappoint me the right way!"
The morrow, however, dawned bright and clear--the boat was at length ready and launched; and Beauchamp--shaved as usual with the smuggler's one universal razor, and covered with the best specimen of his check-shirts--gladly stepped into the yawl, and saw her pushed off from the land by the united efforts of father and son, both of whom accompanied him on his voyage.
The boat was clinker-built, somewhat broad over the beam, and in all respects the very reverse of a long, thin, shadowy thing that was lying high and dry a little farther up the beach, looking both in form and color just like the shell of a razor-fish.
Old Willy Small, however, shook his head at mention of that craft, saying, "No, no! The preventive had knocked up all that stuff." So that Beauchamp, well content to get off at all, was obliged to rest satisfied with the slow and sure means of progression which the yawl afforded, though, the wind being light and rather baffling, it appeared very plainly that they were not destined to reach their port much before nightfall.
To increase the tediousness of a day's voyage in an open boat, to a man who had the utmost abhorrence of every sort of water-carriage, the fine morning waxed more and more dim; and first a drizzle, and then a deluge, continued to pour from the sky during the whole of the rest of the day. It was five o'clock before they reached the small town, whose white houses, ranged along with their large goggling windows directly opposite the sea, like a score or two of unsophisticated girls, with white frocks and large black eyes, ranged along the side of a country ball-room, afforded a most welcome sight to the eyes of the weary voyager.
The custom-house officers satisfied themselves with wonderful ease that there was nothing in the boat which they could count as lawful prey, though the appearance of their well-known acquaintance, Willy Small, excited many a shrewd suspicion; and they looked after Beauchamp, as he was borne off to the inn, with the same prying glance with which the merchants, in the Arabian Nights, might be supposed to have examined the pieces of beef brought up by the eagles from the valley of diamonds. At the inn the dripping traveler, who limped along, leaning on the shoulder of the old smuggler, was examined with scarcely less attention, as soon as it was ascertained that he had no baggage; but, somehow, there was--to use a most fearful periphrasis--an air of right to respect, and of the habit of being obeyed, which instantly commanded obedience and attention.
Old Billy Small was immediately rewarded and dismissed; and, with many thanks, he hustled rapidly away, like a hunted hippopotamus, to his own element again; perhaps purposing, as he passed by the quay, to have some short conversation, concerning various professional matters, with some of the sailors of a ship which was lying in the harbor, and about to sail for Cherbourg the next morning.
When he was alone, Beauchamp thanked God--not with the empty idleness of tongue with which those words are so often spoken, but truly, sincerely, and from his heart--for his escape from dangers which he had not suffered himself to estimate fully till they were over. He then rang, and desired the landlord to be called, feeling heated and weary, and having taken it into his head that the long period which had elapsed since he had enjoyed any thing like gentlemanly neatness of person was the cause of the dry and thirsty feeling that he experienced.
The landlord appeared, and answered his inquiries concerning warm baths, and various other matters which would occupy too much room to enumerate, eyeing him curiously to the end, when he added--"Beg pardon, sir--beg pardon! but is not your name Major Beauchamp?"
"It was some time ago," replied Mr. Beauchamp; "but I have quitted the service, and am now plain Mr. Beauchamp, if you please--but who are you, my good friend?"
"Beg your pardon, sir, for the liberty," replied the landlord; "but I am Frank, the waiter at ----'s Hotel, in St. James's-street--that is to say, I was, sir; but this being my native place, and having got together a little money, and having married, and--you see, sir, I came to set up in a small way for myself."
"Well, I am glad to see you, Frank, and hope you may prosper," replied Beauchamp "Have you many people in your house?"
"No, sir, no!" answered the man, with a somewhat grave shake of the head. "Not many; the season's over, indeed--only an old gentleman and his daughter, and an old lady who seems like the housekeeper; but they are very dismal-like, and do not do so much in the way of our business."
"They might be rueful enough, if they had been kept as I have been for the last five days," replied Beauchamp, "at a little cottage on the sea-shore, with a dislocated ankle, and neither clothes, assistance, nor the means of procuring any. But see about the things I mentioned, Frank, and send the things; and if these warm baths are not far, I will try to walk to them, in the mean time."
"Next door but one, sir! Next door but one!" replied the landlord. "Lord, sir, you walk very lame! Stay, sir, I will get my hat, and help you there;" and accordingly, leaning on the arm of the quondam waiter, Beauchamp made his way to the warm baths, feeling that there was some truth in the old Greek epigram, which describes them as among the luxuries without which life were not worth possessing.
Returning to the inn, where his family and fortune, by this time fully known, made the whole house ready to perform _Cow Tow_, he dined with that sort of moderation which a man feels inclined to practice, when he finds himself extremely feverish, and when every sort of wine, from cool claret to hot sherry, seems like molten lead, within ten minutes after it is swallowed. Immediately after dinner, all the necessary changes of raiment, which he had been so long without, and which could never be so rapidly supplied as at a seaport town, were brought in one by one, by the officious care of the landlord; and, on discovering that the first coach for London set off on the following morning at ten o'clock, he made that fact a good excuse to himself for yielding to the lassitude he felt, and going to bed at nine.
The night passed in heated tossing to and fro; and short fitful intervals of sleep too dreamful and agitated to be called repose. From one of those brief snatches of slumber he was awakened early the next morning, by someone knocking at the door of the room next to his own, and exclaiming in a loud tone, "Seven o'clock, sir; is the luggage ready?"
Beauchamp certainly wished the luggage, and the man who demanded it, at the bottom of the sea together, and tried to go to sleep again; but after rolling from side to side for half an hour, he found that it was in vain. All the infamous noises which announce that some frightful people, in the neighboring chambers of the same inn, are going to set out upon voyage or journey, at an awfully early hour, were complicated around Beauchamp's unfortunate head; and at length, after the trampling of sailors and porters in the passage had ceased, he heard some one again knock at a door, on the opposite side of the passage, and say, "My love, I must go down to see the luggage passed and put on board; but make haste and be ready, for the ship will sail directly. I will send up and let you know when to come down."
Beauchamp started out of bed, and hurried on his clothes as fast as possible, for the voice was that of Sir Sidney Delaware; but his lameness still retarded him, and every time he took a quick step, his ankle gave way beneath him, and caused him intolerable pain; so that, just as he was tying his cravat, the voice of old Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper, was heard along the passage.
"Miss Blanche! Miss Blanche!" she cried, "make haste, pray make haste! Your papa says all is ready, and the ship is just going to sail."
Beauchamp pulled on his coat as best he might, and threw open his door; nor was he a moment too soon, for Blanche Delaware was already walking along the passage. She was paler far, but as beautiful as ever, and not the less so that the tears were swimming in her eyes at the thought, of quitting her own dear fair native land--perhaps forever.
"Good God, Miss Delaware!" cried Beauchamp, "what is the meaning of this?"
"Mr. Burrel!" exclaimed Blanche faintly, while the blood mounted quick into her cheek, and then again left it pale as ashes. "Oh, Mr. Burrel, where have you been? Your presence might perhaps have saved us all!"
"How, how?" cried Beauchamp. "You sent me from you, yourself. Had it not been for your own word, I would never, never have left you!"
"Do not--do not say it!" cried Blanche, while the tears streamed over her cheeks, "Do not say it, or I shall never forgive myself--I never have, indeed. You only could have saved us--and oh, Henry Beauchamp, I am sure you would have done so!"
Beauchamp started to hear his real name from his fair cousin's lips; but Blanche went on as rapidly and eagerly. "But it seems all strange to you. Have you not heard of my poor brother? Have you not heard what has happened?"
"I have heard nothing!" replied Beauchamp "I have been detained for several days, ill and wretched, in a spot where I heard nothing."
"Oh!" cried Blanche, wringing her hands, "they have accused him of crimes he never committed, and blasted his name, and broken his heart--and if--if--Henry Beauchamp!--"
"Is not the lady coming?" cried a voice from below. "The ship's getting under weigh, ma'am. You'll be left behind, if you don't mind."
"Indeed, Miss Blanche, you must come," cried Mrs. Williams, who had hitherto discreetly remained at the other end of the corridor, when she saw who it was that detained her young mistress. "You must come, indeed!"
"I will--I will!" said Blanche, and, dropping her voice, she added--while for one moment she raised her beautiful eyes to Beauchamp's face, and the warm blood mounted again into her cheek--"Henry Beauchamp, my dear cousin, it is most likely the last time we shall ever meet--but if ever you loved me--if you would have poor Blanche Delaware bless and pray for you to her last hour--use your whole strength and mind to clear my poor brother's name and character--God bless you, God bless you!" and she ran on, down the stairs.
Beauchamp paused for a moment in utter bewilderment, then, darting into his room, seized his hat and followed with all the speed he could employ. That, however, was but little. The harbor was not far, it is true; but ere he could reach the narrow pier, from which the passengers had been embarked, the ship bound to Cherbourg had shot out to sea, and with a strong and favorable wind was making its way toward the coast of France.
Beauchamp gazed after her in vain; for nothing but the faint, indistinct forms of the many people that crowded the deck could now be discovered; and, with feelings as bitter and painful as ever man felt, he turned away and went back to the inn.
On entering the sitting-room, which had been appropriated to him, Beauchamp cast himself back in a chair, and, for a moment, reflected on the extraordinary interview he had just gone through. But a new discomfort now assailed him, and he felt a degree of confusion of thought, and even indistinctness of memory, that pained and alarmed him. Could the blow he had received on the head, he asked himself, the consequences of which he had entirely neglected--could it have injured his brain! Nevertheless, his personal feelings occupied him but for an instant, and were only permitted to cut across his thoughts of Blanche Delaware, and interrupt the ideas which his conversation with her had called up, when the dizzy mistiness of his brain prevented him from pursuing clearly any defined train of thinking.
Should he engage a boat, he asked himself, and follow Sir Sidney to Cherbourg, in search of farther explanations--perhaps, I might say, in search of farther hopes; for with all the confused and painful feelings that his brief interview with Blanche Delaware had excited, there had also been left behind a sweet, consoling hope, that after all he was beloved, and that time might yet make her his own.
He paused upon that idea, which, like a gleam of sunshine upon the dark and struggling waters of the sea, gave one bright spot for the mind's eye to rest upon, in the midst of the doubts and anxieties that whirled around him. Should he follow her, he thought, and inquire what was meant by her allusion to her brother; or should he stay and do what he conceived to be his duty, in bringing to justice, as far as he could effect it, the men who had committed the crime at Ryebury. "I will see what has been already discovered," he said at length, "and then act as I find necessary."
In consequence of this resolution, he rang the bell, and demanded the newspapers of the last two or three days; but for some minutes after they were brought, he could scarcely read the matter they contained, so fearfully did the letters dance before his sight when he attempted to fix his eyes upon the page. He succeeded at length in gathering the contents; and it may be unnecessary to say, that, when he did so, he found sufficient at once to determine his conduct. The whole account of what had taken place at Emberton was now before him; and, with feelings that it is impossible to describe, he perceived that the very means he had taken to remove the difficulties of Sir Sidney Delaware and his family had, on the contrary, accumulated upon them a load of evils and distresses which his utmost apprehensions could never have anticipated.
Summoning the waiter once more, he ordered breakfast, and a place to be secured for him in the London coach. All was done according to his desire, with prompt activity; and, by a quarter after ten, Henry Beauchamp was on his way to London, in the inside of a hot stage-coach, crammed full of humanity; while his own feelings consisted of a compound of intense mental anxiety, and all those horrible corporeal sensations which precede a violent attack of fever. His hands and his head burned like living coals; his feet were as cold as ice; and a faint sort of chilly shiverings thrilled over all his frame, alternating with a degree of heat that became sometimes intolerable.
He endured all this with firm determination for six mortal hours; but at length he found that nature would bear no more, and that he must stop. At Hartford Bridge, then, where his name and station in society were well known, from his having often spent a night in that most pleasant of all country inns--the White Lion--he desired the coachman to put him down, and entered the house. His appearance was so altered, that the old waiter did not recognize him for a moment; but the moment that he did so, he declared, upon his word then, that Major Beauchamp must be ill, in which assertion Beauchamp found strong reason within his own bosom to coincide.
The result, therefore, was, that, before the sixth day after he had been carried from Emberton was completely over, Henry Beauchamp was in bed, with an apothecary gently compressing his wrist on one side, and a waiter holding the candle on the other. After innumerable questions, to all of which the young gentleman answered like a lamb--which showed how ill he was--the apothecary declared him in a state of fever, and bled him considerably. By this depletion he certainly felt relieved for the time, and the next morning was not at all worse than he had been the day before. Nevertheless, he was troubled with no inclination to rise; and the landlord asked anxiously of the man of medicine whether he conceived his patient to be in any danger, as he was aware that the gentleman had relations of high rank in London, whom he might wish to write to, if he knew himself in precarious circumstances.
Such a question, though so frequently put, remains still one of tremendous difficulty to the professors of the healing art, inasmuch as, on the one hand, they never can like, by acknowledging that there is great danger, to run the risk of other advice being called in, and yet they neither choose to lose the credit which may accrue from curing a bad case, nor to incur the blame that will attach to them if their patient dies without their having admitted his peril. However, as vanity and covetousness are, generally speaking, stronger passions than apprehension, the followers of Esculapius usually seem to prefer running all risks, rather than have their cases interfered with by another practitioner. In the present instance, it occurred that the apothecary was really in the right when he informed the worthy landlord that, although his guest had certainly a sharp fever upon him, yet he did not see any present danger.
Thus passed over the day. No one was written to; and, before night, Beauchamp was not in a state to write to any one himself, having become completely delirious. The apothecary grew a little frightened; but as the landlord did not know the precise address of Beauchamp's friends, and as the patient could not give it himself, there was no remedy but patience and perseverance.
The delirium continued, with but little interval, for two days; but as the medical man was really a person of skill, his patient's constitution excellent, and the fever not very malignant in its nature, favorable symptoms began to show themselves sooner than could have been expected, and, at the end of five days more, the young gentleman was pronounced convalescent. Though for some time he felt himself very weak, and incapable of much mental exertion, yet, from the moment the delirium left him, Henry Beauchamp found his thoughts much clearer and more exact than they had been since the day of his leaving Emberton; and, as he considered the various events which had taken place, a number of circumstances which the reader's mind may easily recall, without minute recapitulation, led him to suspect that his uncle's lawyer, if not his uncle himself, had increased, if not created, many of those difficulties which, combined with accidental occurrences, had overwhelmed Sir Sidney Delaware and his family in ruin and in sorrow.
He was unwilling, indeed, to admit to his own mind that Lord Ashborough would descend to any thing mean or dishonorable, ever to affect the very honorable purpose of revenge, which, when formalized by the rules of the monomachia, justifies murder; and, therefore, may surely equally well justify robbery, or fraud, or petty larceny, or any other peccadillo. But, at the same time, Beauchamp could not shut out the conviction that the ruin of Sir Sidney Delaware and his family, by whatever means effected, would be in no degree disagreeable to the noble earl. In fact, he had seen more deeply into his uncle's character and into his uncle's heart than Lord Ashborough knew; and though his discoveries were rendered less harsh by the natural affection of kindred, yet they had certainly not tended to increase that affection in any extraordinary degree.
However, all his reflections terminated in an uncertainty as to the past conduct of his uncle and his uncle's lawyer, which made him resolve to investigate the whole matter farther before he acted; for though he was unchangeably resolved that justice to William Delaware should be done, yet he was anxious, of course, that it should be rendered with as little obloquy to his own relation as possible. "Thank God, he has made his escape!" he thought; "and the earl, too, must have left London soon after I quitted it myself, so that he can not be at all acquainted with my share in this unfortunate business at Ryebury. I will, therefore, remain quietly where I am till I can proceed to London, and then investigate every circumstance before I fix upon any farther plans. Of course, I shall easily discover the residence of Sir Sidney Delaware in France; and, when I have cleared his son's fair fame, may meet them all with better hopes and brighter prospects."
Such were some of the reflections and resolutions of Henry Beauchamp, as he was recovering from the fever which had detained him at Hartford Bridge; and though he certainly indulged in a great many other reflections, and formed a great many more resolutions, yet they were all conceived in the same strain, and tended to the same effect. As day by day, however, he began to acquire strength, and saw that, at the end of two or three more whirls of the great humming-top, he would be able to set out for London, a new difficulty pressed upon him of somewhat a novel nature. He had an inn bill to pay, which could not be small--he had an apothecary's bill to pay, which must be still larger, and sick-nurses, &c., came at the end to swell the amount. Ten sovereigns was all that remained in his purse; and had Beauchamp been aware that, in the opinion of all his friends and relations, he was actually dead and buried under water, if not under ground, he might have been still more puzzled how to proceed than he was in his state of blessed ignorance regarding all these facts.
His resource, in the present instance, was to indite a letter to his worthy friend and agent, Mr. Wilkinson, informing him, in a few words, that he had been ill at Hartford Bridge, and would thank him to send him down, either by post or coach, a sufficient sum to pay his temporary expenses.
This epistle reached Mr. Wilkinson just as he was drawing up a general statement of the money matters of the late Henry Beauchamp, Esq., formerly of his Majesty's--regiment of dragoons; and the letter of the living Mr. Beauchamp, of course, put a sudden stop to the affairs of the dead one. The handwriting, however, although certainly bearing a great resemblance to that of his client, was, as Mr. Wilkinson observed, more like a copy of his hand than his hand itself; and the illness which had produced this difference, had also produced a brevity and carelessness of style, in which Henry Beauchamp was not accustomed to indulge. The consequence of all this was, that Mr. Wilkinson, calculating that Hartford Bridge was only thirty miles from London, and that two or three guineas was better lost than two or three hundreds put himself at once into the coach which was to have conveyed the money; and in a few hours he was sitting beside the identical Henry Beauchamp, who had left London about two months before, and was assisting him most conscientiously to dispatch the first meat meal he had been allowed to taste since his recovery.
As may well be supposed, this interview was destined to enlighten Beauchamp greatly as to many events which had taken place; and, after having laughed at his own death more heartily than a merrier matter might have occasioned, the invalid entered into explanations with his lawyer, which in turn gave him a new but sad insight into the occurrences of the last three weeks.
"I am afraid, sir," said Mr. Wilkinson--"I am afraid, sir, there has been very foul play! This Mr. Tims--who, between you and me, bears so bad a character in the profession, that it is a very general wonder how your noble relative continues to employ him--has, since your death--God bless me!--I mean, since your supposed decease--has, I say, presented the very note for ten thousand pounds (which you say you gave to the murdered man at Ryebury) as payment of the sum owed to your account by his client, your uncle; and yet, though this, and the vouchers which he must have found concerning the fifteen thousand pounds sent before, can not have failed to show him that the money tendered by Captain Delaware was advanced by you, yet he is, I understand, pursuing the business against that unfortunate young gentleman with greater virulence than ever. I heard only yesterday, that his name had been struck out of the Navy List."
"God forbid!" cried Beauchamp; "God forbid! But does the rascal keep both the twenty-five thousand pounds paid, and the ten thousand which my uncle should have transferred to my account?"
"Not only that," answered the lawyer, "but contending that, as the money had been stolen, it did not constitute a legal discharge of Lord Ashborough's claim upon Sir Sidney Delaware, he has plunged the whole business into Chancery--has, at the same time, started a point which can only be decided by a common law court; and as he has all the most obsolete and vexatious decisions at his fingers' ends, would undoubtedly have kept the business embroiled for years, had you not suddenly started up to prove that the payment was legal, and therefore the whole difficulty at an end."
"And if I had not started up," said Burrel, "and William Delaware had been taken, I suppose one of the most gallant officers in his Majesty's service, and one of the most generous-spirited gentlemen in England, would have been hanged for a crime he never committed."
"Why, I am sorry to say, that it is very probable he might have been so dealt with," answered Mr. Wilkinson.
"Then, immortal honor to Robert Peel!" said Beauchamp, "for having begun a reformation in laws, which, though far superior to those of any other nation in the world, are yet so imperfect as to risk such a loud-tongued iniquity; and may he have life and power granted to him to correct all their evils without diminishing their efficiency. But you speak, my dear sir, of my starting up. Now, do you know, I have a great mind not to start up for some time yet, and to give this rogue, Tims, time enough to show himself in his true colors. As I am dead, and the mourning bought, and all those whose hearts would break upon my account are broken-hearted already, I do not see why I should announce my resuscitation in the newspapers till I have obtained not only the proofs--which, indeed, I can furnish myself--of William Delaware's complete innocence, but the proofs also of the guilt of those who really did commit the murder; and which, with a little of your good advice, I doubt not easily to acquire. In the mean time, if I am not mistaken, good Mr. Tims, counting upon my death, will plunge deeper and deeper into the quagmire of deceit and villainy through which he is now struggling, and we shall have an opportunity of at once exposing him, and opening my uncle's eyes to his knavery."
Mr. Wilkinson shook his head with a dry "hum!" at the last sentence which Beauchamp spoke; but the other part of his young client's proposal he approved very much, saying, "Certainly, certainly! The plan is a good one; and we must never show our adversary our cards, as Mr. Pleydel is made to observe, by the only great romance-writer that the world has produced since Cervantes, and Le Sage, and Fielding. But you forget, Mr. Beauchamp, that I do not fully know what information you possess. Your lawyer must be your confessor, my dear sir, if you would have his advice of any avail."
Beauchamp in reply recounted all that had happened to him since he left Emberton on the morning before the murder--the fact of his servant Harding overtaking him at Dr. Wilton's rectory--his own return to Ryebury--his first and second visit to the miser--his compulsory voyage with the murderers--and his stay at the house of the smuggler--all, in short, that had occurred, with the exception of a brief interview in the corridor of the inn at ----, which he thought proper to leave untold.
Mr. Wilkinson rubbed his hands at each pause, and in the end declared that nothing was more plain than the facts, and nothing would be more easy than the proof. "The man Harding," he said, "whom you think you recognized in the boat with this Walter Harrison, has never returned to your house in London; and therefore we may conclude from the fact of the powder-flask, and from your recognition, that he it really was who committed the murder, with the other two, and the maid-servant, as accessories. Information must be obtained from this man Small, in regard to the port at which his cutter landed them in France; and once having gained that, we have nothing to do but to set a Bow Street officer on the track, and he will follow it like a bloodhound. I entertain as strange doubts in regard to this Mr. Peter Tims as you do; and believe, from some memoranda on the back of your note of hand, that he knows fully, at this moment, that Captain Delaware never had any thing to do with the murder of his uncle. Such a man well deserves to be punished; and if you like to lie _incog_. for a week or so, we will watch his proceedings; but you must not take it ill, my dear sir, if I say, that we must be careful not to implicate any one whom we might not like to inculpate."
Beauchamp's cheek flushed a good deal, but he replied calmly, "I understand you, Mr. Wilkinson; but I am sure there is no fear of that. However, my own intention is to go at once to France--I shall certainly endeavor to see my sister first; for if any one on earth grieves for me indeed, it is poor Maria. But, as I said, I shall certainly go to France, and may help in tracing these villains myself."
"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Wilkinson; "you must pause a few days. I will write to the local magistrates, and gain a clear view of all they have discovered in the neighborhood. We must have this man Small examined; and I do not well see how we can do without your presence in England; suppose, for instance, Captain Delaware should be taken and brought to trial?"
"Why, of course, I will stay a few days," replied Beauchamp, musing; "and, before I go, I will make a formal deposition on oath before a magistrate, which, I suppose, I must do, in order to induce him to grant me an officer to seek the culprits in France."
"There is an officer in Paris already, I believe," replied Mr. Wilkinson; "but, at all events, we must get full information ere we proceed. Believe me, my dear sir, the man that meddles with law, either criminal or civil, without obtaining a clear knowledge of every circumstance before he takes a single step, is very likely, indeed, to burn his fingers."
"It is a dangerous thing to touch, I know full well," replied Beauchamp, with a smile; "and God forbid that I should have more to do with it than necessary. I will therefore come to London, where I suppose that there is not a mortal being left by this time but you gentlemen of the law, and I may very well pass my time _incog_., at an hotel."
"Nay, indeed, you are mistaken as to the paucity of better people than lawyers in London," replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Your noble uncle is himself in town, and your sister. The latter I have had the honor of seeing, and found her equally in despair about yourself and Captain Delaware."
"Indeed!" said Beauchamp, smiling at a small twinkling of fun that danced for a moment in Mr. Wilkinson's eyes, as he mentioned Miss Beauchamp's anxiety in regard to William Delaware. "Indeed! and does Maria show herself so greatly distressed about this accusation against her cousin?"
"So much so," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "that she would insist upon employing me in gathering evidence for his defense, which, by the way, is the cause of my knowing so much about the case. Not only that, but understanding apparently that there is no such stimulus to a lawyer's exertions as money, she made me take notes for two hundred pounds to meet the expenses."
"She is very generous, indeed," answered Beauchamp; "but pray, did she show any inclination to ascertain my existence!"
"Oh, yes, most eagerly!" replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Come, come, my dear sir, you must not think that interest in the cousin made her forget the brother. On the contrary, although she says that she knows you too well to believe that you would drown yourself--yet--"
"What! did they make it out that I had drowned myself?" cried Beauchamp. "You did not tell me that before, Mr. Wilkinson!"
"Why, I thought it might hurt your feelings, and only said it now incautiously," replied the lawyer; "but so indeed it is. They made it out that you had drowned yourself in the sea near Emberton."
"They made a very great mistake, then," said Beauchamp, biting his lip. "You need not tell me the causes assigned for the _rash act_, as the newspapers term such things. I can divine them all, as it suited each person to put them. The ladies, of course, said it was for love, and the men said debt or gambling. No, no, I shall never commit suicide. I laughed so heartily once at a philosopher at Geneva, who determined to commit suicide in a fit of the spleen, that I am sure I could not do it, even if I felt inclined. He went down to drown himself in the lake, and, as it was a rainy day, he carefully took his umbrella. When he came to the side of the water, however, and began to put down the umbrella, the absurdity of the whole affair of a man drowning himself with an umbrella in his hand, suddenly tickled his fancy to such a degree, that he burst into a fit of laughter, and turned upon his heel. Meeting him with the tears in his eyes, I soon joined in his merriment when I heard the story; and the very idea of suicide is connected with such ludicrous ideas, in my mind, that it makes me laugh even to think of it.--But you were saying that my uncle was in town; how does he console himself for my irreparable loss?"
"I have not seen his lordship," answered Mr. Wilkinson; "but every one agrees that he has felt your supposed death more bitterly than any event that ever occurred to him through life. Miss Beauchamp will never give credit to the story of your death; but Lord Ashborough, I understand, believes it firmly, and of course, I need not tell you, that he is surrounded already by hundreds of sycophants, eager to share in the immense wealth which is now, as they believe, without a direct heir. Under such circumstances, would it not be better to give his lordship intimation of your existence, as he may perhaps alter his will, and life is precarious?"
"Not I!" answered Beauchamp, "Not I! The hereditary estates go with the title, and I shall take no step whatever to secure any thing else. In fact, I believe that I have contradicted my uncle more frequently than my sense of respect would have otherwise permitted me to do, simply because he has two or three hundred thousand pounds to leave, and I do not choose to be thought a sycophant. I should have been a very dutiful nephew, indeed, if it had not been for that money; the more especially, as I know that my good uncle values it so highly himself, that he can not help thinking I must value it highly too."
"At all events," said Mr. Wilkinson, who, saw that his client was becoming rather fatigued, and perhaps the more unmanageable from that circumstance--"At all events, Mr. Beauchamp, before you set out once more, like the Knight of La Mancha, upon a new sally in search of such perilous adventures, you must give me fuller powers to act for you, and fuller instructions, too, as to how I am to act; for good Mr. Tims has already been hinting at _winding up the affairs of the late Henry Beauchamp, Esquire_, as he phrases it."
"Indeed!" said Beauchamp, "indeed! Well, I do believe that if there were an act for hanging rogues, it would ultimately save a vast waste of hemp upon thieves, and leave honester men in the world after all. But I must now let you seek repose; and we will talk more of these matters to-morrow morning, when, if my Galen will suffer me, I will accompany you to London. For the last ten days I have been like poor Erminia:--
'Cibo non prende gia che de suoi mali Solo si pasce, e sol di pianto ha sete?'
But I think I have made amends for one evening at least."