Oh, that I had the lucid arrangement of the late Lord Tenderden, or the happy illustration of Francis Jeffrey, or the _curiosa felicitas_ of George Gordon Byron, or the nervous vein of Gifford, or the elegant condensation of Lockhart, or any of the peculiar powers of any of the great men of past or future ages, to help me to make this chapter both interesting and brief; for there are several facts to state, and small space to state them in; and--what is worse than all--they are so dry and pulverized, that they are enough to give any one who meddles with them, what the Spaniard gracefully terms a "_retortijon de tripas_." As, however, they are absolutely necessary to the clear understanding of what is to follow, I will at once place them all in order together, leaving the reader to swallow them in any vehicle he may think fit.
First, then, on his visit to Mrs. Darlington, Dr. Wilton obtained no information whatever, except that the tidings he had before heard were true. Sir Sidney Delaware and his daughter, Mrs. Darlington said, had indeed left her; but they had requested, as a particular favor, that she would not even inquire whither they were going; and, as the favor was a very small one, she had granted it of course. From the house of that worthy lady, Dr. Wilton proceeded to join Mr. Egerton at Ryebury, where--according to their own request--they were met by the coroner for the county. All the traces which had been observed by Cousins were verified, and a complete plan of the scene of the murder was made under the direction of the magistrates.
A long conference took place at the same time between the two justices and the coroner, who expressed less dissatisfaction at the escape of Captain Delaware than they had expected.
"We must share the blame between us, gentlemen," he said. "You, for not having remanded him to some secure place, I, for not having sent him five-and-twenty miles that night to the county jail. Certain it is, the case was a very doubtful one, and I would fain have had the jury adjourn till the following morning. But in truth," he added, "coroners' juries, knowing that their decision is not final, and disgusted and agitated by the horrible scenes they are obliged to examine, very often return a hasty and ill-considered verdict, in spite of all the officers of the crown can do. This was, I am afraid, the case in the present instance; and I have no doubt that the young man has made his escape more from apprehension of a long and painful imprisonment--which is a severe punishment in itself--than from any consciousness of guilt."
Finding his opinion thus far favorable, the two magistrates communicated to the crown-officer all that they had discovered in regard to Harding and Smithson, and also the faint suspicion which they entertained, that Harding, at the instigation of Mr. Tims, junior, had placed the money in the chamber of Captain Delaware.
The coroner, however, shook his head. "As to Harding and Smithson," he said, "the matter is sufficiently made out to justify us in issuing warrants for their apprehension; and Harding may perhaps--from some motive we know nothing of--have placed the money as you suspect, especially as he seems to have been well acquainted with Emberton Park; but I do not believe that Mr. Tims had any thing to do with it. To suppose so, would at once lead us to the conclusion that he was an accomplice in the murder of his uncle; and his whole conduct gave the lie to that. No--no--had he even known that his uncle was dead before he came here, his whole actual behavior afterward would have been very different. He did not affect any great sorrow for his uncle, as he would have done had he been at all culpable; but, at the same time, he was evidently vindictive in the highest degree against the murderers. No--no--you are mistaken there, gentlemen! But let us issue warrants against the other two, and intrust their execution to Cousins. We shall easily be able to get at the truth in regard to Captain Delaware from one of those gentry, if we can but catch them."
While the warrants were in preparation, it was announced to the magistrates that Mr. Peter Tims himself was below, with the undertakers; and, also, that the constable of a neighboring parish had brought up a boy who had found a hat upon the sea-shore, which, it was supposed, might throw some light upon the matter before the magistrates.
Mr. Tims was accordingly directed to wait, while the boy was brought up, and the hat examined. The peculiarity of its form--a form unknown in Emberton--and of its color--a shade of that light russet-brown in which Shakspeare clothes the dawn for her morning's walk at once led Dr. Wilton to believe that it had belonged to his unfortunate friend, Henry Beauchamp. As Beauchamp, however, was not one of those men who write their names in their hats, the matter still remained in the most unpleasant state in the world--a state of doubt; and such a state being not less disagreeable to Dr. Wilton than to any one else--after catechising the boy, and discovering that nothing was to be discovered, except that the hat had been washed on shore at about five miles' distance from Ryebury, of which washing it bore ample marks--the worthy clergyman left his companions in magistracy to expedite the warrants, and returned in person to Emberton, in order to examine Mrs. Wilson, Beauchamp's late landlady, in regard to the hat, which he carried thither along with him.
As soon as Mrs. Wilson saw it, she declared that it was the identical hat that poor dear Mr. Burrel used always to wear in the morning. She had seen it, she said, full a hundred times, and knew it, because the leather in the inside was laced with a silk tag, for all the world like the bodices she could remember when she was young. Eagerly, also, did she question Dr. Wilton as to where it had been found; for it seems that Mr. Burrel had been no small favorite with the old lady; and when she was made acquainted with the facts, she wrung her hands, declaring that she was sure the poor young gentleman had gone and drowned himself for love of Miss Delaware. Now, Dr. Wilton had at his heart entertained a sort of vague suspicion that Beauchamp, notwithstanding all his strong moral and religious principles, might--in a moment of despair, and in that fancied disgust at the world, which he was somewhat too apt to pamper--do some foolish act. Perhaps I should have said that he _feared_ it might be so; and, as he would rather have believed any other thing and was very angry at himself for supposing it possible, he was, of course, still more angry at good Mrs. Wilson for so strongly confirming his apprehensions. He scolded her very heartily, therefore, for imagining what he had before imagined himself; and was just leaving her house, when he bethought him of making inquiries concerning the haunts and behavior of Mr. Burrel's valet, Harding. To his questions on this head, Mrs. Wilson--though a little indignant at the reprimand she had received--replied in the most clear and distinct manner, that Harding had never kept company with any one but Mr. Smithson, the chemist gentleman, who lodged farther up the town; that no one scarcely ever heard the sound of his voice; and that, for her part, so queer were his ways, that she should have thought that he was a conjuror, if he had not been a gentleman's servant--which two occupations she mistakenly imagined to be incompatible.
Dr. Wilton next inquired what was the size of the valet's foot, at which Mrs. Wilson looked aghast, demanding, "Lord! how should she know what was the size of the gentleman's foot? But stay," she cried the moment after, "Stay, stay, sir! Now I think of it, I can tell to a cheeseparing; for in the hurry that he went away in, he left a pair of boots behind him; and the groom, when he set off the morning after, would not take them, because he said Mr. Harding was always _jawing_ him, and meddling with his business, and some day or another he would tell him a thing or two."
Dr. Wilton demanded an immediate sight of the boots, with all the eagerness of a connoisseur, and with much satisfaction beheld a leathern foot bag, of extraordinary length, brought in by the landlady, who declared, as she entered, that "he had a very long foot after all."
The boot was immediately carried off to the inn; but as Mr. Egerton had the measurements with him at Ryebury, Dr. Wilton was obliged to wait one mortal hour and a half ere he could proceed to ascertain the correspondence of the valet's boot with the bloody mark of the murderer's foot, tormenting himself about Beauchamp in the mean while. After waiting that time, however, in fretful incertitude, as to going to the place itself, or staying his fellow-magistrate's return, Mr. Egerton appeared, the paper on which the footmarks had been traced was produced, and the boot being set down thereon, filled up one of the vacant spaces without the difference of a line.
"Now, now, we have him!" cried Dr. Wilton, rubbing his hands eagerly; "Now we have him. Beyond all question, the counsel for the crown will permit the least criminal to become king's evidence, and I doubt not, in the slightest degree, that we shall find poor William Delaware completely exculpated."
"You call to my mind, my dear friend," said Mr. Egerton, laying his hand on Di. Wilton's arm, as if to stop his transports--"you call to my mind a waggish receipt for dressing a strange dish."
"How so? how so?" demanded Dr. Wilton, with a subdued smile at the reproof of his eagerness, which he knew was coming in some shape or other. "What is your receipt, my dear sir?"
"It runs thus," answered Mr. Egerton, "_How to dress a griffin_--First, catch a griffin!--and then, dress him any way you like!"
"Well, well!" answered Dr. Wilton, "we will try to catch the griffin, my dear sir, and you shall not find me wanting in ardor to effect the preliminary step, if you will aid me to bring about the second, and let me dress my griffin when I have caught him. To say the truth," he added, relapsing into grave seriousness, "the subject is not a laughing one; and I am afraid I have suffered my personal feelings to become somewhat too keenly interested--perhaps to a degree of levity. God knows, there is little reason for us to be eager in the matter, except from a desire that, by the punishment of the guilty, the innocent should be saved; and I am willing to confess, that I entertain not the slightest doubt of the innocence of William Delaware. A crime has certainly been committed by some one; and according to all the laws of God and man, it is one which should be punished most severely. Heaven forbid, however, that I should treat such a matter with levity. All I meant to say is, that if we do succeed in apprehending the real murderers, we must endeavor to make their conviction the means of clearly exculpating the innocent."
"I hope we shall be as successful as you could wish," replied Mr. Egerton; "and I think it would give me scarcely less pleasure than it would give yourself, to hear that Captain Delaware is innocent, although I will not suffer either a previous good character, or a gallant deportment, or a handsome countenance to weigh with me, except as presumptive testimony in his favor, and as a caution to myself to be on my guard against the natural predilections of man's heart. But what have you discovered regarding the hat?"
"Confirmation, I am afraid, too strong, of my worst fears," answered Dr. Wilton; and he related how positively Mrs. Wilson had declared it to have belonged to Mr. Beauchamp. Measures for investigating this event also, were immediately taken, and information of the supposed death, by drowning, of a gentleman lately residing at Emberton, was given to all the stations on that coast. This new catastrophe, of course, furnished fresh food to the gossiping propensities of the people of the town; and the tale, improved by the rich and prolific imaginations of its inhabitants, was sent forth connected by a thousand fine and filmy links with the murder of the miser, and the disappearance of the Delaware family. It instantly appeared in all the public prints, who, to do them but justice, were far too charitable to leave it in its original nakedness. Hence it was transferred, with new scenery, dresses, and decorations, to a broad sheet of very thin paper, and distributed by a man, with a loud voice, on the consideration of one halfpenny, to wondering housemaids, and keepers of chandler's shops, under the taking title of the "Ryebury Tragedy!" and there is strong reason to believe that it was alone owing to the temporary difficulties of Mr. ----, of the ---- theater, that Captain William Delaware was not brought upon the boards, with a knife in his hand, cutting the throat of the miser, while Henry Beauchamp threw himself from the rocks into the sea, for love of the murderer's sister. That this theatrical consummation did not take place is much to be wondered at; and it is to be hoped that, when the managers are furnished with all the correct particulars, they will give the public their version of the matter on every stage from Drury Lane to the very barn at Emberton itself.
As may be easily supposed, for two country magistrates, Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton had now their hands tolerably full; and consequently, on separating, they agreed to meet again at Emberton in two days. In the mean time, the funeral of the murdered man took place, conducted, as Mr. Peter Tims assured every body, with that attention to economy which would have been gratifying to the deceased himself, could he have witnessed it. Nobody could doubt that the nephew had probability on his side in this respect, though the undertaker grumbled, and the mercer called him a shabby person. After the interment, Mr. Tims took possession of the premises and the papers of the deceased; but, for reasons that may be easily divined, he did not choose to stay in the dwelling that his uncle had inhabited. Passing the ensuing evening and night at the inn, he had all the papers removed thither, and continued in the examination thereof for many an hour, in a room from which even his own clerk was excluded. Those who saw him afterward, declared that his countenance was as resplendent as a new sovereign; but he selfishly kept all his joy to his own bosom; and, after spending another day in Emberton, he set off post for London, with many a bag and tin case, to take out letters of administration.
Lord Ashborough left his niece, Maria Beauchamp, and the chief part of his establishment, in the country; and setting out with but two servants, arrived in the metropolis late on Saturday night. With that attention to decorum and propriety which formed a chief point in his minor policy, he appeared, on the Sunday morning, in the gallery of St. George's Church, Hanover-square, exactly as the organ sounded, and with grave and devout face, passed through the next two hours. But let it not be supposed that the impressive service of the Church of England, read even in its most impressive manner, occupied his thoughts, or that even the eloquence of a Hodgson caught his ear and affected his heart. It was only the flesh-and-blood tenement of Lord Ashborough that was at church; Lord Ashborough himself, in heart and in spirit, was in his library in Grosvenor-square, eagerly conversing with Mr. Peter Tims on the best means of snatching the last spoils of his enemy, Sir Sidney Delaware. Not that Lord Ashborough did not go to church with the full and clear purpose of doing his duty; but people's ideas of doing their duty are so very various, that he thought the going to church quite enough--without attending.
Now, in spite of risking a _longueur_, we must observe, that there are some people, who, although they live in great opposition to the doctrines they hear, nevertheless deserve a certain degree of honor for going to church, because they persevere in doing so, though the two hours they spend there are the most tiresome of their whole lives. Attribute it to resolution, or sense of decency, or what you will, still some honor is their due; but we are sorry to say that no such plea could be set up in favor of Lord Ashborough. The two hours that he spent at church were not tedious; he had the comfortable persuasion that he was doing his duty, and setting a good example; and, at the same time, had a fair opportunity of thinking over all his plans and projects for the ensuing week, without any chance of interruption. Thus, the time he spent within the holy walls, was a time of calm and pleasant reflection, and what profit he derived from it, the rest of his life must show. At all events, there was nothing disagreeable in it. It was a part of the pomp and parade of existence, and he went through it all with a degree of equanimity that took away every kind of merit from the act.
Before he had concluded his breakfast on the Monday morning, a servant announced that Mr. Peter Tims had been shown into the library; and thither Lord Ashborough bent his steps, after he had kept the lawyer waiting long enough to preserve his dignity and show his indifference.
Mr. Peter Tims was seated in the far corner of the library with great humility, and rose instantly on the peer's entrance, bowing to the ground. Now, the fact was--and it may need some explanation--that Mr. Tims found he was growing a great man, in his own estimation, on the wealth he derived from his uncle. He had just discovered that pride was beginning to get above avarice in his heart, and he became afraid. that Lord Ashborough might think he was deviating into too great familiarity, from feeling a strong inclination in his own bosom to do so. Such a consummation was, of course, not desirable on many accounts; and with his usual politic shrewdness, Peter Tims resolved to assume a far greater degree of humility than he really felt, and--while by other means he raised himself slowly in the estimation both of his noble patron and the world in general, suffering his newly-acquired wealth silently to act with its own weight--and determined to affect still a tone of ample subserviency till his objects were fully gained.
In the mean while, Lord Ashborough, who believed that a gulf as wide as that which yawned in the Forum lay between himself and Peter Tims, bespoke the lawyer with condescending civility, bade him take a seat and inquired what news he had brought from Emberton.
Mr. Peter Tims hesitated, and then replied, that the news he brought was bad, in every respect. "In the first place, my lord, I have not been able to stop any of the rents, for they had unfortunately been paid on the day preceding my return to Emberton. In the next place, it would appear that Sir Sidney Delaware has run away as well as his son; for he has certainly disappeared, and, notwithstanding every means I could use, I was not able to discover any trace of him."
He had imagined that Lord Ashborough would have expressed nothing but disappointment at tidings which threatened to make his views upon the Emberton estate more vague and difficult of success; but he was mistaken. The first passion in the peer's breast was revenge. The picture presented to him was Sidney Delaware flying from his country, disgraced, ruined, and blighted in mind and body. Memory strode over three-and-twenty years in an instant, and showed him the same man as he had then appeared--his successful rival triumphing in his disappointment. Placing the portrait of the present and the past together, the peer again tasted the joy of revenge, and mentally ate his enemy's heart in the market-place. For a moment, avarice gave place to revenge; but, after all, avarice is the most durable and permanent of human passions. Like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea, it gets upon the back of every thing else that invades its own domain, and never leaves them till they die of inanition. Ambition sometimes gorges itself; pride is occasionally brought down; vanity tires, and love grows cold; but avarice, once possessed of the human heart, may be driven into the inmost recesses for a moment, but never quits the citadel, and always, sooner or later, regains the outworks.
"Will this make any difference with regard to our proceedings against the old man and his son?" demanded the peer, after he had given revenge its moment, and had suffered avarice to return.
"Not at all, as respects the son!" answered Mr. Tims; "but I am afraid that, in the father's case, it may occasion some delays. You see, my lord, not knowing where he is, we can not serve him with process. In regard to the son, too, you see, my lord, nothing can be discovered--not the slightest trace. However, I doubt not that we shall be able to fit him with a law that will secure your lordship the reversion. But I am afraid, my lord, I have still worse news in store for you. Grieved I am to be such a croaking raven in your lordship's ears, and thus to--"
"Do me the favor, then, my good sir," said Lord Ashborough, cutting across his figures of speech impatiently, "to make your croaking as brief as possible; and without circumlocution, to tell me what is the matter."
"I would first ask your lordship," said Mr. Tims, who had a great opinion of the foolish plan of breaking bad tidings by degrees--"I would first ask your lordship, if you have lately heard from Mr. Beauchamp?"
"Oh, is that all?" said Lord Ashborough. "I told you before, and I tell you again, Mr. Tims, there is no more chance of her marrying Henry Beauchamp, than there is of my marrying my walking-stick."
"But it is not that, my lord!" cried Mr. Tims. "It is not that at all! I am afraid Mr. Beauchamp is drowned!"
Lord Ashborough started from his chair, pale and aghast, with a complication of painful feelings which Mr. Tims had little thought could be excited by the death of any living thing. But the lawyer made the common mistake of generalizing too broadly. He had fancied that his patron was calmly callous to every thing but what immediately affected himself, and he was mistaken; for it is improbable that there ever was a man whose heart, if we could have traced all its secret chambers and intricate windings, did not somewhere contain a store, however small, of gentle feelings and affections. Lord Ashborough loved his nephew, though probably Henry Beauchamp was the only human being he did sincerely love. In him all the better affections of his heart had centered.
Lord Ashborough had also loved his brother, Beauchamp's father; and, in early life, when the heart is soft, he had done him many a kindness, which--as they were, perhaps, the only truly generous actions of his life--made him love his brother still more, as the object that had excited them. Neither, in the whole course of their lives did there occur one unfortunate point of rivalry between them; and Mr. Beauchamp, or rather Governor Beauchamp, as he was at last generally called, felt so deeply the various acts of friendship which his brother had shown to him, and him alone, in all the world, that he took the best way of expressing hie gratitude, namely, by making Lord Ashborough on all occasions appear to advantage, giving way to his pride, putting the most favorable construction on his actions, and never opposing him in words, however differently he might shape his own conduct. Thus the love of his brother remained unshaken and increasing, till the last day of Governor Beauchamp's life; and at his death it was transferred to his son, rendered indeed more tender, but not decreased, by regret for the father, and by the softening power of memory.
It is sad to think that any less noble feelings should have mingled with these purer affections, even though they might tend to increase the intensity of his affection for Henry Beauchamp. It would be far more grateful to the mind to let this redeeming point stand out resplendent in the character of the peer; but we are telling truth, and it must not be. The shadow, however, perhaps, is a slight one; but it was pride of two kinds that gave the full height to Lord Ashborough's love for Beauchamp. In the first place, to his titles and estates there was no other heir than Henry Beauchamp. There was not even any collateral line of male descent, which could have perpetuated the earldom, if his nephew had been removed. Henry Beauchamp dead, and the peer saw himself the last Lord Ashborough. In him, therefore, had centered all the many vague, and, we might almost call them, _mysterious_, feelings of interest with which we regard the being destined to carry on our race and name into the long futurity. Family pride, then, tended to increase the earl's affection for his nephew; but there was pride also of another kind concerned. Lord Ashborough admired Henry Beauchamp as well as loved him; and, strange to say, admired him, not only for the qualities which they possessed in common, but for the qualities which his nephew possessed, and which he himself did not. They were both good horsemen, and Lord Ashborough had been in his youth, like Henry Beauchamp, skilled in all manly exercises, had been elegant in his manners, and graceful in his person; but light wit, a fertile imagination, a generous disposition, were qualities that the earl had never possessed; and yet he was gratified beyond measure that his nephew did possess them, delighted in the admiration they called upon him, and was proud of the heir to his fortune and his name.
All these facts had been overlooked by Mr. Tims, whose mind, though of the same kind of web as that of his patron, was of a grosser texture; and not a little was he surprised and frightened when he beheld the effect which his abrupt tidings produced upon the earl.
Lord Ashborough turned deadly pale, and, staggering up, rang the bell violently. Mr. Tims would have spoken, but the earl waved his hand for him to be silent: and when the servant appeared, exclaimed, "The drops out of my dressing-room! Quick!"
The man disappeared, but returned in a moment with vial and glass; and pouring out a few drops, Lord Ashborough swallowed them hastily; and then, leaning his head upon his hand, paused for a minute or two, while the servant stood silent beside him, and the lawyer gazed upon him in horror and astonishment. In a short time the peer's color returned; and, giving a nod to the servant, who was evidently not unaccustomed to scenes somewhat similar, he said, "You may go!"
"Now, Mr. Tims," he continued, when the door was once more closed, "what were you telling me? But first, let me say you should be more cautious in making such communications. Do you not know that I am subject to spasms of the heart, which are always brought on by any sudden affection of the mind!"
Mr. Tims apologized, and declared his ignorance, and vowed he would not have done such a thing for the world, _et cetera_; but Lord Ashborough soon stopped him, and demanded, with some impatience, what had given rise to the apprehension he had expressed. The lawyer, then, with circumlocution, if not with delicacy, proceeded to state the rumors that he had heard at Emberton, which had been confirmed to him by Mrs. Wilson, namely, that Mr. Beauchamp's hat had been washed on shore on the sea-side not far from that place. He had found it his duty, he said, to make inquiries, especially as the good landlady had declared that the young gentleman had appeared very melancholy and "out of sorts" on the day he left her. No other part of Mr. Beauchamp's apparel had been found except a glove, which was picked up on the road leading from Emberton to a little fishing village, not far off.
"There is one sad fact, my lord, however," continued the lawyer, "which gives me great apprehension. I, myself, in the course of my inquiries, discovered Mr. Beauchamp's beautiful hunter, Martindale, in the hands of a poor pot-house keeper, in the village about three miles, or not so much, from Emberton. This man and his servants were the last persons who saw your nephew. He came there, it appears, late one evening on horseback, asked they had a good dry stable, put up his horse, saw it properly attended to, and then walked out, looking very grave and disconsolate, the man said. I found that this person knew the horse's name; and, when I asked him how he had learned it, for he did not know Mr. Beauchamp at all, he said that the gentleman, just before he went, had patted the horse's neck, and said, 'My poor Martindale! I must take care of you, however.'"
Lord Ashborough listened with a quivering lip and haggard eye, as Mr. Tims proceeded with his tale. "Have you been at his house?" he demanded, as the other concluded.
"I went there the first thing this morning, my lord," replied Mr. Tims; "but I am very sorry to say, none of his servants know any thing whatever in regard to him. They all say they have been expecting him in town every day for the last week."
Lord Ashborough again rang the bell.--"Order horses to the carriage immediately!" he said, when the servant appeared; "and go on to Marlborough-street with my compliments to Sir George F----, and a request that he would send me an experienced officer, who can go down with me into the country directly. Mr. Tims, I must inquire into this business myself. I leave you here behind to take every measure that is necessary; but, above all things, remember that you have ten thousand pounds to pay into the hands of poor Beauchamp's agents. Do not fail to do it in the course of to-day; and explain to them that the business of the bill was entirely owing to forgetfulness. Let all the expenses be paid, and clear away that business at once. I am almost sorry that it was ever done."
"And about Sir Sidney Delaware, my lord?" said Mr. Tims. "What--"
"Proceed against him instantly!" interrupted the peer, setting his teeth firm, "Proceed against him instantly, by every means, and all means! The same with his son! Leave not a stone unturned to bring him to justice, or punish him for contumacy. If it had not been for those two villains, and their damned intrigues, this would not have happened to poor Henry!"
Thus do men deceive themselves; and thus those things that, would they listen to conscience instead of desire, might become warnings and reproofs, they turn to apologies for committing fresh wrongs, and fuel to feed the fire of their passions into a blaze. The observation may be common-place, but it is true; and let the man who does not do so, call it trite, if he will--no one else has a right.
It was evident that the earl was in no placable mood; and Mr. Tims, though he had much yet to speak of, and many a plan to propose, in order to overcome those legal difficulties to the design he had suggested, which were now springing up rapidly to his mind, yet thought it expedient to put off the discussion of the whole till his noble patron was in a more fitting humor, not a little apprehensive that, if he touched upon the matter at present, the earl's anger might turn upon himself, for discovering obstacles in a path which he had formerly represented as smooth and easy. He therefore contented himself with asking a few more directions; and leaving Lord Ashborough, proceeded straight to Doctors' Commons to make the necessary arrangements concerning his uncle's property. That done, he visited the Stamp-office; his business there being of no small consequence to himself. It was neither more nor less than to cause a paper to be stamped, which he had found among other documents belonging to his uncle, which acknowledged the receipt of the sum of ten thousand pounds from Mr. Tims, of Ryebury, and was signed by Henry Beauchamp.
Considerable difficulties were offered at the Stamp-office to the immediate legalization of this paper; but Mr. Tims was so completely aware of every legal point, and through Lord Ashborough's business, was so well known at the office, that it was at length completed, and he turned his steps toward the house of Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, who had lately become the law-agents of Henry Beauchamp. Before he had gone above half a mile on the road thither, he pulled the check-string of the hackney-coach in which he was seated, and bade the man drive to Clement's Inn. This was immediately done; and Mr. Tims entered his chambers, and retired into its utmost recesses, to pause upon and consider the step that he had just been about to take.
This was no other than to wait upon Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, and tender them Mr. Beauchamp's stamped acknowledgment of the receipt of ten thousand pounds from his uncle, in discharge of the ten thousand pounds which he had been directed to pay by Lord Ashborough, appropriating to himself, as his uncle's heir, the money which was thus left in his hands. The matter was susceptible of various points of view; for, though the law does not recognize the principle of any man helping himself in such a manner, yet we are informed by those who know better than ourselves, that it is very difficult, under many circumstances, to prevent him from doing so. There was one point, however, which greatly incommoded Mr. Tims--namely, that the acknowledgment in Mr. Beauchamp's hand was dated on the very day of the Ryebury murder, and thereby offered a strong presumption, that the money had really been placed in Captain Delaware's chamber by his cousin. Many important consequences might ensue, should Mr. Beauchamp reappear, and declare such to have been the fact; and although Mr. Tims sincerely hoped and trusted that he was at the bottom of the sea, yet, as it might happen that he was not, the lawyer, with laudable precaution sat down to state to himself the results which would take place, in each of the two cases, if he were now to present his acknowledgment.
He found, therefore, that should Mr. Beauchamp never be heard of more, the case would go on against Captain Delaware, the suit in Chancery might proceed against Sir Sidney Delaware, the twenty-five thousand pounds he had got would remain in his hands, and, by presenting the acknowledgment, he would be enabled to retain possession of ten thousand pounds more. All this, therefore, was in favor of acting as he had determined.
On the other hand, if Mr. Beauchamp did reappear--which he did not think likely--he began to suspect that Captain Delaware would be cleared, that the twenty-five thousand pounds would be transferred to Lord Ashborough, that the Emberton estate would be freed from all incumbrance, and that he would undoubtedly lose the twelve thousand pounds which had been stolen from his uncle, as well as Lord Ashborough's favor and business. "The more reason," he thought, "why I should immediately get this money, which undoubtedly did belong to my uncle! But, can I then continue the process against Captain Delaware," he continued, "with such a strong presumption of his innocence in my own hands?"--and he looked at the note, which nearly amounted to positive proof--"But what have I to do with that? It does not absolutely prove his innocence. The coroner's inquest has returned its verdict, and the law must take its course; besides, Henry Beauchamp is at the bottom of the sea, and a jury of fishes sitting on his own body by this time--Pshaw! I will present the acknowledgment to-morrow."
This doughty resolution Mr. Tims accordingly fulfilled, and at noon waited in person on Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson. He was shown into the private room of the latter, a seat was placed for him, and his business was asked.
"Why, Mr. Wilkinson," he replied, "I have first to explain to you an uncommonly awkward blunder, which took place by some forgetfulness on the part of my noble friend and client, the Earl of Ashborough, who, not adverting to the arrangements made between us, did not leave assets in my office to pay the bill drawn by you on Mr. Beauchamp's account. Had I been in town myself," he added feeling wealthy, "of course I would have supplied the money; but I, like my noble friend and client, was out of town till yesterday."
"Rather unfortunate, indeed, Mr. Tims!" replied Mr. Wilkinson, dryly, "especially as Mr. Beauchamp drew for the money. His letter was couched in such terms as to permit of our handing over the assets that were in our hands; but we can not tell that he has not been put to great inconvenience. Lord Ashborough's note was of course protested--here it is! I hope you have come to retire it."
"I am directed by my Lord Ashborough to do so," answered the lawyer; "but I rather imagine that Mr. Beauchamp could not be put to much inconvenience; for I find by this document that he has obtained that sum, and four hundred and thirty-two pounds more, from my late unfortunate uncle, to whose property I have taken out letters of administration, and therefore, retaining the ten thousand pounds now in hand, I request you would hand me over the four hundred and thirty-two pounds at your convenience, when I will give you a receipt in full."
"Sir, this is somewhat unprecedented," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "and I think you will find that money can not thus be stopped, _in transit_, without form of law. Such proceedings, if once admitted, would open a door to the most scandalous abuses. You acknowledge that you are commissioned to pay us this money, on account of Lord Ashborough. Having done so, you will have every right to present your claim against Mr. Beauchamp, which will of course, be immediately examined and attended to."
Mr. Tims replied, and Mr. Wilkinson rejoined; but as it is more than probable that the reader may already have heard more than he desires of such a discussion, it will be unnecessary to say more than that Mr. Tims adhered to his first resolution, and carried off the sum he had in hand, leaving Mr. Wilkinson to send down to Lord Ashborough his protested bill, and Beauchamp's note of hand, if he pleased.
In the mean time, that noble lord proceeded, as fast as a light chariot and good horses could carry him, down to Emberton. It was dark, however, ere he arrived; and the first object that met his sight the following morning, as he looked forth from the windows of the inn, was the old mansion, at the end of its wide and solitary park, with the stream flowing calmly on, through the midst of the brown grass and antique trees, and the swans floating upon its bosom in the early light. He had not seen it since he was a mere youth, and the finger of time had written that sad word _decay_ on the whole aspect of the place. To the earl, through whose whole frame the same chilly hand had spread the growing stiffness of age, the sight was awfully sad, of the place where he had spent the most elastic days of life, and it was long ere he could withdraw his eyes, as he paused and contemplated every feature of the scene, and woke a thousand memories that had long slept in the night of the past.
There was a change over all he saw since last he had beheld it--a gloom, a desolation, a darkness; and he felt, too, that there was a change as great in himself. But there was something more in his thoughts; the decay in his own frame was greater, more rapid, more irremediable. The scene might flourish again under some cultivating hand; the mansion, repaired with care, and ornamented with taste, might assume a brighter aspect, but nothing could restore life's freshness or the body's strength to him. Each day that passed must see some farther progress in the downfall of his powers; and few, few brief months and years would behold him in the earth, without leaving a being behind him to carry on his lineage into time, if Henry Beauchamp were, indeed, as his fears anticipated. It was the first time that he had thought in such a sort for long; and most unfortunate was it that there was no voice, either in his own heart, or from without, to point the moral at the moment, and to lead the vague ideas excited, of life, and death, and immortality, to their just conclusion. He thought of death and of his own decay, indeed; but he never thought of using better the life that still remained--for he scarcely knew that he had used the past amiss; and after indulging for some minutes those meditations that will at times have way, he found that they only served to make him melancholy, and turned again to the every-day round of life.
When he was dressed and had breakfasted, he set out for the small village near which Henry Beauchamp's hat had been found. In his way, he stopped also at the house where the hunter had been left, identified the horse, and listened attentively to the replies which the landlord and his servants made to the shrewd questions of an officer he brought with him from London.
The man's tale was very simple, and quite the same that he had given to Mr. Tims. He described Henry Beauchamp very exactly, declared that he had appeared grave and melancholy when he came there, and that he had never heard any thing of him since. The servants told the same story; and Lord Ashborough only acquired an additional degree of gloom, from ascertaining in person the accuracy of the lawyer's report.
"Oh, he is gone!" he thought, as he returned to his carriage, giving way to despair in regard to his nephew. "He is gone! This Sidney Delaware is destined to be the blight of all my hopes and expectations. If it had not been for his vile intrigues to get quit of that annuity, all this never would have happened; but I will make him rue it, should it cost me half my fortune."
It may be asked, whether the earl did never for a moment allow the remembrance, that his own intrigues might have something to do with the business, to cross his mind. Perhaps he did--perhaps, indeed, he could not prevent such thoughts from intruding. But that made him only the more bitter against Sir Sidney Delaware. Have you never remarked a nurse, when a child has fallen down and hurt itself, bid it beat the naughty ground against which it fell? Have you never seen a boy when he has cut his finger, throw the knife out of the window, or even a man curse the instrument that he has used clumsily? It is the first impulse of pampered human nature, to attribute the pangs we suffer to any thing but our own errors, and to revenge the pain, which we have inflicted on ourselves, upon the passive instrument. Lord Ashborough did no more, although, as he rolled on toward the sea-side, he meditated every sort of evil against Sir Sidney Delaware.
No great information could be obtained upon the coast, although Lord Ashborough spent the whole day in fruitless inquiries, and although one of the officers of the coast-guard gave every assistance, with the keen and active intelligence of a sailor.
The only thing elicited, which seemed to bear at all upon the fate of Henry Burrel, was the fact, that one of the sailors, on the look-out about a week before, had heard, or fancied he heard, a man's voice calling loudly for help. So convinced had he been himself of the fact, that, with one of his comrades, he ran down the shore in the direction of the sounds; but he could discover nothing. It was a fine clear moonlight night, he said, so that he must have seen any thing if there had been any thing to see; but the sound only continued a moment, and on not finding any person, he had concluded that it was all the work of fancy.
With these scanty tidings, which, of course, only served to increase his apprehensions, Lord Ashborough was obliged to be satisfied for the time; and, returning to the inn at Emberton, he gave orders for printing placards, and inserting advertisements in the newspapers, each purporting that a large reward would be paid on the discovery of the body of a gentleman, supposed to be drowned, of whom a very accurate description was subjoined. The placards were pasted up all over the country, and Lord Ashborough himself remained two days at Emberton; but there was something in the aspect of the old mansion and the park that was painful to him. When he rose, there it was before his eyes; when he went out, there it stood, grave and gray, apparently in his very path; when he returned, he found it still sad and gloomy at his door. At length, satisfied that he had done all in his power to discover his nephew, he returned to town, leaving the police-officer behind him, with orders to spare neither trouble nor expense to ascertain the facts; and although the earl himself did not choose to appear openly in the business of Captain Delaware, a private hint was conveyed to the officer through his lordship's valet, that, to aid the others who were upon the search, might be very advantageous to himself.
I do most sincerely believe, that the very best way to get all the characters of this book out of their manifold difficulties, would be, to end the work at the close of the preceding chapter, and leave the world to settle it, as it liked. However, as the great object is to make known the truth, and as the chances are infinite, that no single individual of the millions who intend to read this book would by the utmost exertion of their imagination, discover what the truth is, it may be necessary to go on, and explain what has become of some at least of the characters which have slipped off the stage Heaven knows where--especially as they have each much to do, and to suffer, before they "sleep the sleep that knows no waking."
The great advantage of autobiography is, that a man never troubles his head about other people's affairs, but goes on with his own tale till he has done with it; whereas the unfortunate wretch who undertakes to tell the history of a number of other people, has no better life of it than a whipper-in, and is obliged to be continually trotting up and down, flogging up his straggling characters to a pace with the rest. The reader, too, may get his brains most tremendously puzzled in the mean time. But what can he do? If people will not write their own stories, other people must write them for them, and the work must go on as best it may. Under these circumstances, we must request the gentle reader to bring back his mind, or his eyes, to the end of the seventeenth chapter since which precise point we have neglected entirely the history of Henry Beauchamp. However, amends shall immediately be made to that gentleman, and he shall have the remainder of this chapter to himself.
Let it be remembered, then, that he set out from the dwelling of the miser at Ryebury, promising that punctilious person to return, and sign at once the more formal and regular documents, for which the necessary stamps were still to be procured from Emberton, that he passed William Delaware on his road, concealing himself from him as he did so; and the reader, if he be so pleased, may dip his hand into the wallet of imagination, and take out his own particular little scheme, for leaving the money with which Beauchamp was burdened, in the chamber of--Blanche Delaware's brother.
Those three last words may seem periphrastic; but if the reader thinks they are so, he makes a mistake; for at that moment, it was not in the least as Captain William Delaware, a master and commander in his majesty's navy, nor as the son of Sir Sidney Delaware of Emberton, baronet, nor in any other quality, shape, or capacity of any kind whatsoever, that Henry Beauchamp regarded him; but solely and wholly in relation to Blanche Delaware--or, in short, as the brother of her he loved. When he avoided him, it was because she has rejected his--Beauchamp's offered hand; when he placed the money on the table at Emberton, it was, that the clouds which had so long obscured the sunshine of her days, might be scattered forever; and Henry Beauchamp could no more think of William Delaware, without the connecting link that bound him to his sister, than one can think of the planetary system without the sun.
When it was all done, however, and, having regained the shade of the park trees, Henry Beauchamp was strolling on, slow and sad, toward Ryebury, he bethought him of what was next to be done, as a consequence of the very things that were just accomplished. Let it be remarked that this was the first time he had thought of what was to follow; for the hurry and confusion of the whole day, which had just passed over his head, had left him no time for reflection, even had he been inclined to indulge in it; and the bitter disappointment he had suffered had given him no great taste for thought of any kind. All he had calculated, was the best means of arriving at his immediate object; and farther than that, he had satisfied himself with the grand conscience-salve for all mad enterprises--
"He dared to say, all would go right!"
Now, however, when he began to consider the matter, it presented more difficulties than he had before perceived. He was quite romantic enough and wealthy enough to have given the money to his cousins, with pleasure in the gift, and without inconvenience from the consequences; but, from the delicacy of feeling natural to his own heart, he perfectly understood that neither Sir Sidney Delaware, nor any of his family, would be willing to receive such a sum from any one as a donation--especially from him, circumstanced as he was in regard to Miss Delaware. Disgusted and wearied with the delays and shuffling of the miser, and suspecting that his worthy uncle, Lord Ashborough, might have some share in producing the impediments, he had determined to put it out of the power of any one to prevent the payment, and consequently had acted as we have seen; but now, that he had done so, he found that it would be in no degree easy to give the matter the air of an ordinary transaction.
People who have met with few difficulties in their undertakings, soon teach themselves to trust the execution of any thing they themselves find troublesome, to others, and look upon their carrying it through easily as a matter of course; and as Beauchamp, though not in general given to _insouciance_, was just then in a state of mental irritation and impatience, which rendered long reflection of any kind irksome to him, he determined to throw the burden of the business upon the shoulders of the miser. "I will tell him," he thought, "to write a note to William Delaware, the first thing tomorrow, informing him that he has sent the money by a friend to-night, and is ready to execute the legal documents in regard to the whole transaction." Having so far made his arrangements in his own mind, he walked on slowly, beginning to feel somewhat weary with his day's exertion; and, as he did so--every other subject which could force his thoughts from the most painful object they could choose being lost for the time--memory naturally led him back to dream of Blanche Delaware, and her strange and unaccountable conduct toward himself. That he loved her as deeply and as sincerely as man could love woman, he now felt but too painfully; but, notwithstanding good Mrs. Wilson's sentimental anticipations of his antique Roman impatience of existence, Beauchamp was the last man on earth to drown himself under any circumstances whatever. Not that he did not feel that the gloss and splendor was, to him, gone from the earth forever--not that he did not feel that his love would endure to his last hour, mingling the poison drop of disappointment through all the cup of life--not that wounded pride, and broken hopes, and rebuked self-confidence, and all that can embitter man's feelings, were not poured like gall and wormwood into his heart--but, somehow, he had acquired a strange notion, that to lay hands upon one's own life was not only immoral and unchristian, but was also cowardly and stupid--the act of a madman, a lout, or a barbarian. He had never been one of those men that particularly value life; and certainly he felt that, at the present moment, if any one had been inclined to take it from him, it was a sort of commodity he could part with without great regret. Yet, at the same time, even in that case, he would probably have defended it as a matter of course; and, as to throwing it away by his voluntary act, such a thing never entered his mind.
His thoughts, however, in regard to Blanche Delaware were, as we have said, bitter enough. He loved her deeply--with a first, pure, steadfast and yet passionate affection. His heart--so long guarded--had poured on upon her all its stored enthusiasm and repressed tenderness; and in the full and confident belief that his attachment was returned, hope had seduced him into every one of those waking visions which are so bright to dream and so agonizing to lose. He had certainly believed that he was loved in return; and the dissolution of that belief was the most painful part of all. Yet Beauchamp was both too proud and too just to suppose that he had been trifled with; or to imagine that a woman, on whom he could have so fixed his heart, would have been guilty of such petty coquetry. He rather chose to blame his own vanity; to admit that Blanche Delaware had been, perhaps a little thoughtless; but that he had been far too confident.
Thus thinking, he walked on toward Ryebury, deviating slightly from the way, in order that he might not meet William Delaware on his return, and mingling vague, wild schemes for the future, with the bitter memories and regrets of the past. He would visit Greece, he thought--perhaps cross over the narrow strait, and wander through Syria and Judea, or penetrate into Armenia, and pause for a while among the tribes whose patriarchal habits have been so beautifully depicted by Morier's entertaining pen, or even travel forward into India itself, and watch the slow customs of Europe forcing their way amidst the immemorial habits of the Hindoo. He would do any thing, in short, for amusement--and forgetfulness.
When he at length approached the door of Mr. Tims's house, the moon had sunk considerably, though she had still some hours to shine; and pouring her beams from the side, with the slightest possible angle of declination toward the back of the house, her light fell full upon the two steps that led up to the door, without lighting the door itself. Beauchamp thought he heard a noise in the passage as he approached; but with his usual indifference, certainly not decreased either by fatigue or grief, he walked on with the same slow pace in which he had before been proceeding, and was just in the act of laying his hand upon the bell, when the door was suddenly and unexpectedly thrown open. The faint outline of three men standing in the dim darkness of the passage was all that Beauchamp could perceive; but the moonlight poured full upon his own figure as he stood alone upon the steps. So unlooked-for a sight in the house of Mr. Tims caused him to pause in some surprise; and he had no time to recover from it; for before he could ask any question or form any conjecture, he received a violent blow from some heavy instrument on the head, which instantly felled him to the ground, completely stunned and motionless.
How long he continued in that state, Beauchamp could hardly tell; but when he again recovered his consciousness, he found himself lying extended upon some planks, with a stiff and numb sensation over all his limbs, a violent headache, and extreme pain in his ankle, while a rippling sound and buoyant undulating motion seemed to show that he was in a boat upon the water. For the first moment he could not verify this supposition by sight, as he seemed to have been cast carelessly into the boat, and his hat was driven so far over his brows as to prevent him from seeing any thing around.
Before he was well aware of what he was doing, he started up, pushing back the covering from his eyes; but, as he did so, his unsteady footing in the boat, together with the violent pain in his ankle, made him lose his balance, and very nearly fall over into the sea, which received his hat as he fell, and bore it far away in a moment.
With an involuntary groan from the pain he suffered, Beauchamp relapsed into his former position; but the single instant he had been able to stand up had shown him sufficient to make him comprehend in a great degree his immediate situation. The moon, he had remarked, just about to dip below the horizon, was pouring a long, long line of yellow light over the waves that rippling away in the far perspective, seemed like living things of gold, dancing joyfully in the beams, while over all the rest of the expanse was to be seen nothing else but the dark mass of agitated waters heaving up and down with a dull but solemn sound. He had just caught a glimpse, too, of a faint line of high coast stretching away to the northwest, and consequently catching upon its most prominent points the beams of the setting moon, while all the rest remained in dim gray shadow. Such had been the more distant objects that Beauchamp had beheld. Those more immediately around him were the small open boat in which he was borne along, and four figures that it contained. Of these--one of which was that of a woman--two appeared to be death-sick, and the other two sat clove beside each other in silence at the stern of the boat. One was steering, the other gazing fixedly over the side upon the flashing waters; but the movement of Beauchamp instantly called the eyes of both, though neither made any observation even when he fell back again upon the planks. After he had lain there for a moment or two more, however, the one who was unoccupied whispered something to the steersman. The other made no reply, and the whisper was repeated. The steersman then broke forth with a fearful oath, adding, "If you offer to touch a hair of his head, I will heave you overboard, and send you to hell an hour before your time!"
His companion muttered something which Beauchamp did not hear, and the sailor again replied in the same angry tone, "Come, come, rouse out none of your slack jaw at me, or blast me if I do not show you who commands here. You have got your way with me once to-night to my own damnation, but you shall not do it again!"
Here the matter dropped, and all was silent but the ripple of the waters. Half an hour more elapsed without a word being spoken; and though Beauchamp felt very giddy and confused, he endeavored to think over the circumstances in which he was placed, and form some plan for his demeanor toward those by whom he was surrounded.
Although he had very few facts to lead him to such a conclusion, yet something more than a suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. The peculiar whistling he had heard, both in going to and coming from Ryebury, joined with the appearance of the three men in the passage of the miser's house at that time of night--the assault upon himself, and his situation at the very moment--all made him conclude that a bold and extensive robbery had been committed, and that he had been carried away from an apprehension that he might give the alarm, and lead to the detection of the robbers.
He suspected, also, that it might be a matter of doubt in the bosom of the man who sat by the steersman, whether it would not be best to dispose of such an evidence against them, as he himself might prove, by throwing him into the sea; and the answer of the other showed him that, at all events, there was one of the party averse to such a mode of proceeding.
From all this he concluded, that as he himself could offer little or no resistance to whatever his companions chose to do with him, it would be much better to keep himself as quiet as possible, and to take no apparent notice of any thing that was passing around him. Whether such might have been his determination had he felt well, and in the full use of all his limbs, may be doubtful; but the aching of his head was intense and stupefying, and from the sensation which he experienced in his ankle, he felt sure that one, at least, of the bones had been dislocated in throwing him into the boat. These sort of little corporalities are apt to make a man excessively quiescent; and Beauchamp, though in general not liking particularly to be treated as a portmanteau, at least without asking the reason why, being now convinced that, however much he might express his volition, he could do no more toward executing it than a trunk itself, determined wisely to keep silence, also, and not even to move, any more than the pain he suffered impelled him to do, for the mere sake of changing his position.
His companions remained silent for near an hour, and the only words which then broke the stillness were spoken by the steersman, who seemed to be the only seaman of the party. "If she be not under the lee of Jerry's Knocker, we must run for Old Willy Small's, that's all. We are sure enough with him, and to-morrow we can get another boat, and so across."
The other made no reply, and very likely did not understand clearly what his companion meant. Beauchamp, however, who had in his youth frequented that part of the country, and, as the reader may have perceived, had forgotten but little of the localities, instantly remembered that a long promontory, jutting out from the rest of the coast, and having a calm sheltered bay to the eastward, bore throughout the country the name of Jerry's Knocker; and he was led to conclude, from the rest of the sentence, that the respectable people into whose hands he had fallen were looking out for some smuggling vessel to carry them to France.
It very speedily became evident that whatever they were seeking was not to be found. The sea began soon to run high off the headland, and shortly after grew far calmer than before, leading Beauchamp to imagine--though he could see nothing around--that they had doubled the point; but the word's, "She's weighed by--," at once showed that the vessel was gone; and the steersman, who had been anxiously looking out, resumed his seat, and brought his boat a point nearer to the wind.
In about half an hour afterward the pitching of the boat ceased almost entirely, and it was clear she was entering smooth water; while a warning to be quiet, given somewhat sharply by the steersman to one of the sea-sick personages, who was now inclined to speak, showed that they were approaching some spot where other ears might be on the watch. The thought passed through Beauchamp's mind to try the strength of his lungs; and, had he been sure that there was any one within hearing, it is more than probable he would have done so, as he felt not a little cramped and uncomfortable on the planks of the boat. However, not being sure that any one would or could come to his aid if he were to halloo till he grew hoarse, and that the attempt might only procure him a speedy passage into the sea, he adhered to his former plan, and, in a moment after, with a gentle rush and a slight shock, the boat touched the land.
"Run up to yonder light," said the steersman, in a low voice, "tell the old man that I am here, and bid him come down and lend a hand."
"Why don't you go yourself?" asked the other, in the same whispered tone. "He doesn't know any of us."
"Because I do not choose," answered the other; and the person to whom he spoke at once obeyed. Ere two minutes had elapsed, a considerable addition was made to their party, and the steersman himself, now springing ashore, held a low consultation with those who joined them. The other man and the woman, whom Beauchamp had observed, were next taken out of the boat, and in a moment after a stout old man jumped in, and stirred him by the shoulder. "Come, master!" he said, "you must get out, and come along with us--though you seem to take things vastly quiet."
"I suppose it is the best thing I can do," replied Beauchamp. "But if you want me out, you must carry me out, my good fellow, for they have lamed me, and I can not stand."
"That's a bad job!" replied the other, speaking in a rough but kindly tone. "Wat will be sorry for that; for they did not intend to hurt you, I can tell you."
"Perhaps not," said Beauchamp; "though knocking me down, and stunning me on the spot, were not very unlikely to hurt me."
"Ay, but if a man will poke his nose into what he has no business with, master," replied the other, "he must take what he gets."
"Very true!" answered Beauchamp, dryly, though somewhat surprised at the fellow's coolness. "Very true, indeed! But it was purely accidental on my part. I had not the slightest intention of intruding upon the gentlemen in the pursuit of their avocations. But, as I said before, if you mean me to get out of this boat--and I am heartily tired of it--you must carry me; for I can only stand upon one leg, and the ground is somewhat uneven."
"True enough, true enough!" answered the man. "Here, Bill, lend us a hand to lift the lad out of the boat. They have broke his leg among them. It will teach you, master, to keep out of the way when there is any thing to be run upon the coast. Always sheer off when you see what's going on. But we will get it spliced for you, never fear. Here, Bill, I say!"
A youth of about seventeen or eighteen now came up and helped his father, as it proved the old man was, to lift the stranger on shore. Beauchamp then, with the assistance of the elder personage, made his way from the little sandy cove into which the boat had been run, to a lonely house, standing high upon the bank, with two boats drawn up, nearly to the door, and about a square yard of cabbage-garden at the back. The old smuggler, for such he evidently was, led his unwilling guest in, and was about to conduct him into a room, the door of which opened at a right angle with that which entered from the shore. Various signs and symbols, however, within the chamber, made the man pause ere he went in; and at length he exclaimed, as he still stood in the entrance--"Well, well! But give us a candle, though! How the devil can one see up the stairs? It's as dark as Davy's locker!"
Beauchamp made as much use of his eyes as possible; but it was in vain that he did so, for the persons that the room contained were concealed from his sight by the half-closed door; and all that he could distinguish was a part of the common interior of the fisherman's kitchen--a large chest, a deal table, a wide fireplace, and two shelves covered with clean blue-edged plates and porringers, together with a vial bottle, half-full of ink, and having a pen stuck in the top of it, pendent by a bit of string from the corner of one of the shelves.
A moment after, a clean, little, well-salted fisherman's wife, emerged from behind the door, with a brazen candlestick, and three inches of lighted candle in her hand; and Beauchamp, conducted up stairs with no inconsiderable agony, was ushered into a small bed-room (of which there appeared to be four, by the way), which amidst all its faults and deficiencies, was at least clean.
As they went up the stairs, and for a moment after they entered the room, the eyes of the smuggler continued to run over his guest's apparel and face with a look of surprise, and even anxiety, which increased at every glance; and when he had done, there was a change in his whole demeanor which might have made Beauchamp smile at any other time, or under any other circumstances. He now, however, threw himself down in a chair, exhausted with the pain his exertion had caused him, and was about to demand that a surgeon should be sent for, when the old man, setting down the candle on the table, told him, with a tone of respectful civility, that he would return in a moment, and left him.
"Lock the door," shouted a voice from below, as the smuggler quitted the room. The door accordingly was locked; and Beauchamp, left alone, before he proceeded to think over his present situation, according to his usual deliberate custom, set to work to get his boot off, and see what was really the state of his ankle.
His leg, however, was so much swelled, that all ordinary efforts were in vain, although he never committed that piece of exuberant impolicy, the wearing of a tight boot. As soon as he discovered this to be the case, he took his penknife from his pocket, and at once relieved his foot and leg from their leathern prison. He was then about to proceed in his examination, when steps coming from below interrupted him: but another door was opened, and in a moment after he heard the voice of the old smuggler, and that of the man who had steered the boat, conversing together somewhat eagerly. At first, as usual, there was a guard upon their tongues, and all that reached his ear was a sort of hum; but soon the caution wore away; they spoke loud, and Beauchamp, without the desire or capability of moving from the chair in which he had first sat down, heard distinctly the greater part of all that passed.
"Well, well, Wat!" said the voice of the old man, "D--me, if I'm a man to leave a poor boy in a pinch! We must just get the cutter run down; but she can not be here, you know, till to-morrow night, any how. It must be a bad job though, that makes you so wild to get to France, my boy."
"A bad job enough! a bad job enough!" answered a voice that Beauchamp now remembered full well. "But mark ye, William Small, when you hear it all told--mark ye, I say! I had nothing to do with the worst part of it. Those two fellows below have cheated me, and made a wretch of me. D--me, if I would not rather have gone up to the main chains, and gone pitch over, head-foremost, into the Bay of Biscay. But they did it--not I, mind that!"
"I'd bet a puncheon they've killed the officer," replied the other.
"Don't ask any questions, Willy Small!" replied his companion; "don't ask any questions it is safer for us all!"
"Why, that's true enough!" replied the smuggler; "that's true enough! No, no! I'll not ask nor guess either, and then I know nothing about it, but that you and t'others wanted the cutter to go a pleasuring; and I'll take the lowest price you see, too, Watty, so they can't bring me in as art and part for the run goods. But what is to be done with the young man in the next room? Why, Wat, he seems a gentleman--I say!"
"Ay! he is a gentleman every inch of him," answered the other; "and such a one as one seldom sees--I would not have harm happen to him for the world--why, you must just keep him for a day or two, till we are gone and safe, and then let him go. But I say, when you lock the door to-night upon him, keep you the key yourself, mind you. Those fellows below have an ill-will to him; and if it had not been for me, they would have hove him overboard this blessed night--upon my soul they would!"
"D--n their eyes and limbs!" exclaimed the other; "I should like to see them touch him, in my house. If I would not tie them together, like a couple of hogsheads, and sink them out of water-mark. But as to locking the door, Wat, there is no use of that at all, bless ye. He can't stir an inch. Why, you've broken his leg, among you!"
The reply of the other, though sufficiently blasphemous--and we must here apologize to the more scrupulous reader for admitting into the dialogues just past, so many profane expletives, which we would not perhaps have done, having no delight in such matter ourselves, had not the love of truth and accuracy prevailed--the reply of the other, then, though sufficiently blasphemous, showed that he was bitterly grieved for the accident which had happened to Beauchamp; and a long conversation ensued in regard to the necessity of sending for a surgeon.
That, however, they both agreed would "blow the whole business"--to use their own expression--and humanity, as usual, gave way to apprehension. Old Willy Small, as the smuggler was denominated, declared that he was a goodish hand himself at splicing a broken limb, and that he and his wife would look to it, till the other party were safe off to France. This seemed to quiet the conscience of the other upon that particular; and, after concerting some farther plans for facilitating all the preparations for their journey, they returned to their comrades below.
The effect of this conversation upon the mind of Henry Beauchamp was not certainly to produce any very agreeable sensations. He began to apprehend that a worse crime than simple robbery had been committed at the house of the unhappy miser; and though, in one point of view, he felt little anxiety on his own account--seeing evidently that he would not want assistance at his need, if any thing were attempted against him--yet he could not help shuddering at his proximity to a gang of murderers, and contemplated with no great pleasure the surgical offices to be performed upon his own leg by a smuggler and an old woman. An evil, however, is seldom without its good; and though, certainly, had it been left to his own choice, he might have found a more agreeable way of diverting his thoughts from all the painful subjects that previously occupied them, yet true it most assuredly is, that corporeal uncomfort, pain, and apprehension, did very materially lessen--no! not his love for Blanche Delaware--but the first bitter feeling of the disappointment which her conduct had occasioned.
If it were not so strange to say, and if we could by any means discover the process by which the mind could arrive at such a result, we should declare that, in the midst of all these dangers, troubles, and uncomforts of a different kind, Beauchamp had found a new store of hope. How, or why, who can tell! but either his hope was like the limbs of the skeleton in the Fantocini, which, after being all disjointed are suddenly pulled together again by strings that no one can see; or else it was like a fire of dry wood, which, when it has appeared for some time quite extinguished, will pour out a small white flame, when nobody is expecting any such thing, and soon be as bright again as ever. At all events, he had left Emberton that very morning without a spark of hope apparently left; and after going through as much as would have contented him with adventures for the whole of his life, he could not help thinking that there was something very strange and unaccountable in Blanche Delaware's whole conduct, and that, if he could but get the key, all might still go well. Nevertheless, he was not long left to cogitate upon any thing; for, in a minute or two, the smuggler and the smuggler's wife walked in, in the character of surgeon and assistant; and, after some awkward explanations of their purpose, demanded to look at the gentleman's leg, to see if they could help him. As he knew that it was predetermined not to send for a surgeon, Beauchamp, who was not disposed to make people look foolish unnecessarily, did not, as he once intended, propose that expedient.