Leaving him to guard the prisoner, first, however, removing Hunter's remaining pistol, and even securing the discharged one, the sturdy official took the wounded agent on his back, and crept out of the cavern. He soon returned, and with Tom's assistance removed Hunter also, who now from the combined effects of exhaustion, liquor and the opiate, was fast becoming insensible. Leaving one of his pistols with the agent, in case of treachery on the part of Tom, he once more returned, and taking off the outer clothing of the dead man, fastened a cord to his feet, and tied it firmly round a piece of rock near by. He was too used to scenes of blood to shed a tear, but he shook the dead man's hand and said, 'Poor Bill,' as he quitted the cave. His precautions with regard to Tom were unneeded. The ruffian's hatred had been aroused by Hunter's suspicion, and confirmed by the blow. Nor did he refuse to start to Erith for assistance to convey the prisoner and the wounded man there. He had been assured by the agent that no harm should come to him, protected by the powerful influence of the nobleman; and to allow himself to be captured had been part of the plan from the first. He had not sense enough to know that the heavier crime of murder, now laying upon the soul of the unfortunate man, did away with the necessity of his appearing as a witness, as it had been done in the presence of Mr. Lambert and the officer, and they were both too wise to undeceive him. Indeed the wily agent had determined, now that the service was rendered, to sacrifice his ruffianly tool, as his presence might be troublesome. Tom soon returned with a posse of police officers and a cart, to convey the prisoner and the wounded. A surgeon was with them, who dressed Mr. Lambert's wound temporarily, and pronounced it trifling, and the party departed—Tom going with them as a voluntary prisoner.
Great were the encomiums bestowed upon the officer by his brother official, for his conduct and bravery, and the agent also came in for his share of praise—and the whole party were in high glee at the result, which brought one poor hunted human being under the dread ban of the law, while he whose lust had driven him to crime revelled in luxury, and mingled with the fair and good, courted and caressed by those who would have shrunk from expressing any sympathy for the poor victims of his pride. Weep, angels, weep! and devils, shout for joy! Hell has no minister so powerful as the proud man's lust.
It may be as well to mention here at once, that the agent, pursuing his plan of getting rid of Curly Tom, much to that worthy's astonishment, pressed the charge of highway robbery against him, before the trial of Hunter, which was postponed through the influence of the Earl, which was indirectly exerted also to procure the condemnation of his base tool; and so it came to pass, that after a trial, which was a mere form—for the seaman's bare deposition, which Mr. Lambert had taken, was admitted as evidence—the good citizens of Canterbury being in want of a little excitement, that interesting individual performed a dance upon nothing, in company with a sheep-stealer and a forger, for their especial behoof, one fine day in September, under the personal superintendence of that accomplished artist, Mr. John Ketch, in the presence of a highly respectable and numerous audience, who all retired to their homes in peace, much gratified with the exhibition, and duly impressed with a deep sense of the blessing of being permitted to vegetate under the protection of a government so wise in its councils, so strong in execution, and so paternal in its care for the morals of the people. So said the newspapers next day; and thus ended the career of a heartless ruffian, it is true, but who had ever sought to make him otherwise?
To proceed with our tale. Day was now fast breaking; and as the cortege moved away with their prisoner, two horsemen appeared on the cliffs above, and dismounting, watched the party with eager but disappointed looks. They were the old seaman and Edward Barnett, the village landlady's eccentric nephew.
'A plague upon my awkward riding,' said the seaman, 'we are too late! They have taken him, and that rascal too with him! Fool that he was to place any confidence in such a hound.'
'He had been kind to Tom's mother,' said Edward, 'and he supposed that gratitude.'
'Bah!' said the sailor; 'when you have buffeted as many of the storms of life as I have, you will learn that gratitude is rarely found on earth—least of all in such a brutified nature as that fellow's. But why do I blame him? He was but what the law made him. Punished for a venial fault—sent to herd with hardened malefactors, is it wonderful that he should become schooled in crime? And now the law will punish the criminal it made. We can do no good here—we had best proceed to Erith. I have much to say to you, and much to do. But fear not; Hunter shall not perish without an effort, even if I tear him from the gallows.' So saying, he remounted, and the two slowly pursued their way towards Erith.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BEGINNING OF RETRIBUTION.
The seaman and his young companion were seated together in a little room overlooking the sea, on the evening succeeding the events we have related. It was one of those calm, lovely evenings when summer, seeming loth to give over her reign to the approaching fall, exerts herself to display her utmost beauty, and withholds her scorching heat. The declining sun gave a rose colored tint to the landscape, and the vessels passing to or from the modern Babylon added animation to the scene. The mariner was gazing at the distant horizon, lost in thought. That memories of other days were recalled to his mind, was evident from the working of his features; that it required a strong effort to restrain his emotion, was perceivable from the compression of his lips. There was a massive grandeur in his aspect as he sat, well befitting the scene. His young companion had his thoughts also, and they were not the usual ones of his age. The meeting with the seaman and subsequent events had roused him from his usual listless, wayward fancies, and he was going back in memory to past scenes—shadowy and indistinct—but all in some way mixed with the locket he wore suspended, unseen, around his neck. That the time had now arrived when he was to receive an explanation of the past, he felt sure; for his aunt had often told him that when Walter arrived he should know all: and from the seaman's manner he conjectured that the long wished for hour was come.
'Edward,' said the mariner, 'I wish you to tell me all that you recollect—not of your life at your aunt's, but before that.'
'And then,' said the boy, 'in return you promise to tell me of my parentage?'
'You shall know all.'
The boy paced the floor for a few moments. His figure was slender, but lithe and active, of medium stature; and there was a restlessness about his movements that told of a wild spirit within. His face was remarkably handsome; features chiselled in a form that would have served a Grecian sculptor for a model—and his long dark hair fell in glossy locks even over his shoulders. He stood holding the back of a chair, and looking more to seaward than at his companion, began:
'It was not in this country, I am sure, that I first recollect myself, in a handsome house, but built different from these. There were cocoa-nut trees growing near it; and other trees that do not grow here; but I have seen something like them in the Earl's green house. There were luscious fruits, but not English ones—oranges and bananas I am sure. The people around us too were black. I remember I was frightened when I came here first at seeing so many white people and no blacks.'
Walter regarded him steadily—but the young man's eye was seaward. He seemed to see before him the scenes he was depicting.
'There was a piazza round the house, where I used to play, and a sweet lady, very like poor Mary, but dark-haired, whom I used to call mother.' There was powerful emotion depicted on the listener's face, but he said nothing. 'I remember a handsome gentleman, but he was not there often. He wore a uniform, but not like the officers here. I think now he must have been in the navy. I used to call him papa. I am sure he must have been my father, and he was a sailor; for my mother was always looking out to sea when he was absent, and he took me onboard a man of war ship once, where, from the deference every one showed to him, I judge, now that I am older, that he must have been the Captain of. These things seem to me like shadows, for I was not more than five years old then.'
'True,' said his auditor, 'your memory is good.'
'There was a party. I think my father was not there, but I was handsomely dressed, and ladies caressed me, and the negroes were dancing. I think it must have been my birth-day. I remember a servant bringing in a letter, and my mother fainting, and talk about a great fight at sea, and my father's name mentioned—I have forgotten it—but ladies told me not to cry, and I knew that he was dead; but I did not know what it meant. After this another gentleman used to come there, very handsome too, but not like my father, for he had a dark face and dark hair, and my father's hair was light. I did not like him, for he spoke very stern to my mother, and she used to weep, and was very much frightened by him. It was some paper he wanted from her, and he offered her gold once. I saw him, for I hid myself and watched him. Then my mother got sick—they said she was getting better, and I remember being much surprised one morning, when the old nurse came down and told me she was dead. She had died suddenly in the night, they said, and yet she had been better the evening before.'
A deep groan burst from the seaman's lips, and his face was ashy pale. The young man trembled as he proceeded.
'The dark gentleman came and took me away from the house, and I never saw it again. My old nurse went with me. I was six years old then, and I lived with her, in a poorer place than before, and not close to the old house, for we went a long way in a carriage to reach it. We lived together so till I was near eight years old. The dark gentleman never came near us—but one day a man came, and said he had bought her, I think, and she must go with him; and they took her away from me. I clung to her, but they beat me away. Unseen by them she tied this ribbon with the locket to it round my neck, and telling me never to part with it, for it had been my mother's, and would one day bring me rank and fortune, she went with her new master. A kind old colored woman, who used to say she was free, took me to her house, and I remember nothing more until you found me there, but that I hid the locket even from her, for I was afraid she would take it away, and that the man who took Nurse away, said, looking at me, "What a pity he is white!"'
The youth had been so intent upon collecting the reminiscences of his childhood, that he had failed to perceive the effect it had upon his companion, and the darkness now prevented his face from being seen—but the agonized sobs that broke from him now and then told that the fountains of his heart were stirred, and his very soul harrowed up, and memory had conjured up a series of terrible recollections. Lights were brought into the room, but all traces of agitation had disappeared, and his countenance bore only the look of stern, implacable resolve.
'Edward, tell me one thing more. Have you ever seen the dark-haired man since?'
'Daily, for these ten years almost. I knew him instantly.'
'His name?'
'De Montford! It was by accident I discovered the secret of the picture in the justice-room, and I have availed myself of it to play spirit to him and his base agent sometimes.'
'It was a boyish trick—but you have sterner work now in hand than playing ghost—you have to avenge a murdered mother!'
'Ah! then my mother's sudden death, when she was recovering—'
'Was the work of poison!'
'I see it all!' said the young man. 'The papers he wanted, and she refused—but I will kill him!' He started up, and was rushing to the door. The iron grasp of the seaman arrested him.
'You must be calm, Edward. He shall die, but he must not perish by your hand. He is your uncle. But he shall first be stripped of his assumed rank and title, and his proud spirit humbled. Then he shall answer in a court of justice for the murder of your mother.'
'Who, then, was my father?'
'The eldest lawful son of the late Earl De Montford!'
Edward gazed proudly around him for a moment, then sank into a chair, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears. Walter did not disturb him, but sat regarding him with a look in which affection was strangely mingled with his stern resolve. At length Edward raised his head.
'I am composed now,' said he, 'and will be guided by you, for I am convinced you have been a true friend to me. But there must be no reservation—you must tell me all.'
'Or you will doubt me. It was never my intention to keep you in the dark or in leading strings longer than necessary. I am above the petty spirit which, to magnify its importance, keeps to itself half a secret, to be told at another time. You shall know all, and we will concert our measures together as man and man, for I can easily guess from this moment you have put off the boy for ever.'
It was true. Even in that short time a marked change had come upon him, and it was with the resolved air of a man prepared to hear, determine, and to act, if need be, with firmness and deliberation, that he pushed his chair from the table, and folding his arms upon his chest, sat waiting for the mariner to proceed in his tale. That burst of tears which followed the announcement of his rank was a last farewell to boyhood, and his firm attitude and handsome features looked worthy to uphold the proud motto of his house, "Nulli Secundi."
CHAPTER VII.
THE SEAMAN'S STORY.
'I was little more than twelve years of age when I entered the British Navy as a midshipman, much against my good father's will, for I was his only child, and my mother died the day I first saw the light. But I was a wayward, unruly boy, and he feared I might take to bad courses if restrained. It was a time of stirring action, and before I was twenty years of age I bore upon my shoulder the epaulette of a lieutenant, earned in many a bloody fight. The naval service was then in high favour, and many sprigs of nobility condescended to walk the quarter-deck as captains and commanders, though they seldom knew as much about a ship as the ship's boys. One of these was the late Earl de Montford—He had the haughty courage of his race; few of them were deficient in that; but he had disdained to learn his profession, and when he was appointed to command a corvette, I was sent on board as first lieutenant, but in fact as what is called a nurse—to do the work, while my incapable but titled commander reaped the glory. We were anchored in the bay of Naples, having borne despatches to the fleet then stationed there, and were under orders to sail the next morning, when he sent for me into his cabin, and with more familiarity and kindness than he had ever used to me before, he confided to me that he was in love, and wanted my assistance to rescue her he loved from a convent. Fond of adventure, I consented, and we succeeded, so they were that very evening united by the chaplain on board the corvette. She was very beautiful, and he was both proud and fond of her. His father was alive, however, and as the old Earl had negotiated for him a marriage with the daughter of some proud Marquis in England, he did not dare to acquaint him of it—for though the title and the estate could not be alienated, yet the enormous personal property could, and even his love for the fair Italian could not reconcile him to risk the chance of enduring what he would have called poverty. He purchased a villa at Leghorn, and leaving the ship almost entirely at my command, lived for the time at least as though there was nothing on this earth to care for but love and beauty. The chaplain had been sworn to secresy, and the other officers of the ship thought it was merely some amour of their commander's, and whatever they thought of his morals, they of course took good care to say nothing. The chaplain died soon after, and I remained the sole living witness of the marriage. The birth of a son, however, instead of linking their hearts closer together, became the apple of discord between them. She pressed him to acknowledge her as his wife to the numerous English families who were settled around Leghorn, and who refused to associate with one in her equivocal position. She had borne their slights patiently when only directed against herself, but the feelings of a mother were aroused when the finger of scorn was pointed at her child. It was too evident, also, that his affection for her was on the wane. He was absent from her more frequently—spoke of the necessity of attending to his duty—his duty! oh, the ready excuse man finds to do evil. Better far for that poor girl would it have been to have been buried in the deepest recesses of the cloister, than to have attracted the notice of that vile unprincipled nobleman. It was about this time the old Earl died, and he quitted the service. There was no bar now for his acknowledging her as his wife—but he was satiated—his fleeting passion had evaporated. He had visited England in the interval, and seen the bride destined for him by his father: and her beauty, the enormous addition to his wealth and power which would accrue from the marriage, tempted him, and he now regarded the woman who had surrendered to him the most sacred of man's earthly trusts—her young heart's first affections, her hopes of earthly happiness—as a barrier to his pride and the vile passion he dared to dignify with the name of love: and when she now asked him to do her the justice which he could no longer plead his father's anger for denying—O God, where were thy thunderbolts!—he told her that their marriage was a sham one, that the chaplain was but a servant in disguise, and that in truth she was only his mistress. I had been dismissed the service through him—I will speak of that anon—the chaplain was dead—she did not even know his name or mine—how could she help herself? She never held up her head after this. She refused all support from him, though he offered to settle upon her a considerable pension. For five years she supported herself by teaching music at Florence, whither she removed with an attendant whom her gentle manners had attached to her, and from whom, years after, I learned these particulars. She never would, however, consent to sign any papers which would affect her own or her son's rights, nor would she part with the certificate of marriage the chaplain had given her, though he tried hard to obtain them, as also the letters he had written to her from the ship at different times in which he had always addressed her as his wife. But her constitution had received a shock from which it never recovered, and at the expiration of that time she died. His agent, who had been secretly watching her by his orders, took the boy to England, where he was sent to a distant school for education under a feigned name, and at the age of fifteen sent to sea—where, as he was believed to be a natural son of the Earl, and the latter favored that assumption, his advancement was rapid; not more so, however, than his gallantry and good conduct deserved, for I often heard his name mentioned with applause, though I little dreamed then who he was, or how closely the fortunes of those I loved the best were connected with him. He was your father, Edward, and the proud man who now usurps your title and your fortune is a bastard!'
The look of high reserve that flashed in the young man's eyes as he listened to the tale, contrasted well while it agreed with the stern, implacable, expression of the mariner's countenance, which deepened, if possible, as he proceeded.
'It was many years afterwards that I learned these particulars, but I must now speak of my dismissal and its cause. From the day that your grandfather's love for his young bride began to decline, he hated me, yet he feared me—and took good care to conceal it: I was young and unsuspicious, and when he procured my appointment as first-lieutenant in a frigate bound to the West Indies, I thanked the man who was plotting my ruin. The commander of the frigate was one of the meanest wretches that ever disgraced a command—an impoverished rake who gained the means of continuing his excesses by flattering the vanity and aiding the schemes of his richer companions in vice, and duping the more inexperienced. He had received his directions evidently, and every studied insult, everything that petty spite and malice could inflict was tried to provoke me, but the contempt I felt for the reptile restrained me full as much as the iron bands of discipline. We arrived at Jamaica and cruised about the Bay of Mexico for some time, when the daughter of a rich planter, in South Carolina, (then one of his Majesty's colonies, now one of the brightest stars in the flag of the Great Republic,) took a passage with her governess in our ship to New Orleans, whither we were ordered on service. The Captain tried to make himself agreeable to her, but she treated his advances with coldness so marked as to enrage him. She saw through, with ease, the flimsy veil he attempted to throw over his vices. It was my happy fortune to save her from a watery grave. In landing, she incautiously stepped from the ladder before the boat was sufficiently near to receive her, and fell, into the sea. I dashed over the taffrail, the tide was running strong, but I caught her in my arms, and bore her up, until the boat came to our relief. Her father, who awaited her arrival, was unbounded in his expressions of gratitude, and invited me often to his hotel, he also gave me a cordial invitation to his plantation in Carolina. The Captain made many unseemly jokes upon the affair, but I bore them all,—for now I felt I loved and I hoped, who does not hope at twenty-three? I hoped I was beloved in return. Annoyed by my patience, galled and mortified by his rejection, he lost his usual prudence, and one day boasted before a knot of loose companions in my presence, of favors he had received from her,—from her who was purity itself, and had scarcely deigned to exchange the common courtesies of life with him. I struck him to the deck for his detested lie, and gave myself up as prisoner. I was tried by a Court Martial and declared incapable of serving his Majesty again. I had expected death, and his powerful friends did their utmost to procure a sentence, but the Admiral was a just though a rigid man, and well knew the character of my accuser,—the provocation was taken into consideration, and the services I had rendered during eleven years in storm and battle. I was dismissed. Mr. Elliott, the planter, offered me a home. I had saved considerable prize money. I was disgusted with England, and I loved. He, himself, offered me his daughter, and she did not refuse me. We lived together three happy years, when she died in giving birth to a daughter. Oh! she was beautiful,—most beautiful, but linked to my wayward fate, she perished.'
There was a softened shade over the seaman's face, and the stern expression had gone,—he brushed some moisture from his eyes with his strong hand, and turned aside for a moment; the young man was deeply moved.
'A life of inactivity gave no balm to my wounded spirit, and I burned for action. Mr. Elliott saw it; "Side with us," said he, "there has been a Tea Party in Boston harbor that will bring thunder ere long, and I will procure you a command;" he did so. I joined the Navy of the United States, and bore the stars and stripes aloft through many a scene of peril and of death. Mr. Elliott doted on his grandchild, and she remained with him. Those were times that tried men's hearts, and my father-in-law was chivalrous as he was generous—he gave the bulk of his fortune to his country's need, and confiding my daughter, then a child some two years old, to a distant relative, carried his grey head and feeble limbs to join the ranks of those who fought for liberty. He fell gloriously in battle, and when, after years of active service, peace was declared, and I came home to seek my daughter, the lady who had her in charge had died of fever, and my child had been taken away, no one could tell me by whom or where:—all traces of her were lost. I now longed to see my father, peace was declared, the Independence of America admitted, and as I had fought under an assumed name, I anticipated no danger. I was received as one from the grave. I never mentioned my marriage, even to my father, but accounted for my absence and my silence, by saying that, ashamed to come home after being dismissed, I had gone in a merchant vessel to India, and had there been taken prisoner by the Lootees, a species of banditti, while on an excursion inland. My tale was easily believed; to please my father, I married again. The sister of good Mrs. Ally, my second wife, was a good and kind woman, and after the birth of my daughter Mary, I again hoped for happiness. Vain hope. The malice of the De Montford family was again let loose upon me. Your grandfather was dead. I knew nothing of the events that had occurred during my absence, and supposed that his first wife had died in Italy, and her son also. But the countess had found among her husband's papers, so I suppose, at least, for on this point I am uninformed, something which threw light upon the past, and, supposing that I knew of the existence of your father resolved on removing me. I was fond of shooting, and one day shot a hare in a distant part of the manor. I had been watched, by her orders, and a charge of poaching was instituted against me. Her son was absent then, upon his murderous errand, as I afterwards knew. I was tried on a charge of poaching; the game laws were severe; the justice was her creature, and despite the entreaties of my father, and the tears of my wife, I was condemned to transportation for seven years.'
A bitter sneer was curling on the young man's lip; the mariner's face had resumed its stern expression. 'The details of my escape from Botany Bay are unimportant. Suffice it, that I once more reached America, and devoted my energies to tracing the fate of my child. In Savannah I was fortunate enough to meet with the attendant of your grandmother. She had accompanied a family of refugees from European disturbances, and from her I learned not only what I have told you already—but that my daughter had been married, and that her husband was no other than the son of her old mistress and your father!'
The young man threw his hands towards heaven and fell on his knees.
'O Thou, whose ways are inscrutable, blessed be thy name, for out of darkness thou hast brought light, and turned the misdeeds of the guilty upon themselves, and made the promptings of nature yearn in the heart of the orphan boy towards the father of my mother.'
He fell upon the old man's neck and sobbed. Such emotions are no disgrace to manhood. The mariner strained him to his heart, and it was some time ere the emotion of both had subsided sufficiently to enable the one to ask or the other to give further explanation. At length the mariner resumed. 'From this woman, who had recognised your father by a peculiar mark on his hand, I learned that she had kept the papers of your grandmother and the locket, and gave them to your father; but he treated them as fabulous, and her as an impostor. Your mother, however, gave credence to her tale, and even consulted a lawyer; but they were not sufficient without my evidence, and your father would not take any steps in the affair. Your mother kept her as an attendant till her own death, but your uncle must have heard from some source of the existence of his brother; and after his death, which happened in battle at sea, he tried to induce the widow to give up these papers. Failing in this, by a large sum of money he tempted your nurse to poison her, and possessed himself of them, representing himself as her husband's brother, but concealing his rank. She was also to make away with you; but repenting of the murder of your mother, she concealed you for some time in a distant part of the State, but he discovered her and sold her to a Tennessee planter. It was but this year I succeeded in tracing her, and finding her almost at the point of death, got these facts from her, regularly drawn up and witnessed. I bought her freedom first to enable her to give evidence, and soon after her earthly account was closed. Violetta D'Arista, your grand-mother's faithful attendant, gave me a clue by which I traced you; and she is now in London, anxious to fold you to her breast, and to aid you as far as in her power, to restore to you your birthright and inheritance.'
'And the papers?'
'If not destroyed, are in his possession.'
'Then I can obtain them, although he has had, as he thinks, all the subterranean passages stopped up, yet there remains one, by which I can penetrate to his very bed-room unseen, although a stout man could not.' The seaman mused. 'It would be dangerous. Your uncle is a brave man, and powerful. If he awoke—and such consciences must be bad sleeping companions, you would be sacrificed.'
'I fear not—for vengeance on my mother's murderer I would dare anything.'
'It must not be, young man. You have a sacred duty to perform, more binding far than vengeance, which is the Lord's alone. You have to heal the sorrows of those who will be in a great measure dependent upon you to redress the wrongs of years of oppression, to be a father to the tenants of your wide domain, and your life must not be idly risked.'
'I have it!' said Edward, eagerly. 'You say my father was fair-haired, and I am like my mother.'
The seaman took a miniature from his vest, and handed it to him. It contained two portraits—one of a captain in the British navy, in full uniform, his head bare, and locks of fair hair falling even over his shoulders, for he had disdained the peruke then in fashion—and that of a lady, whose dark eyes and raven ringlets told that her nativity had been the sunny south.
'Johnson is not unlike the portrait of my father, and is a slim man,' said Edward. 'He will readily go with me. I will personate my mother. I am confident the papers are not destroyed, for I have often seen him when he little dreamed an eye was upon him, examining some papers he keeps in a small casket on his toilet, and one in particular, a document of some length, which he has often seemed to me about to tear, but always replaced.'
'It will do,' said his grandfather. 'Good Mrs. Ally will procure you the necessary attire. She can be trusted fully, and I will reconcile her and Johnson, so that we can all work in concert. Those papers secured, with the evidence of Violetta and the dying deposition of your nurse, with the evidence of the lady who took charge of your mother, and who is also alive and in London, I doubt not soon to see you in the enjoyment of your rights. It will be a strange anomaly—an American a British peer.'
'And then, dear grandfather, you will allow me to repay you, in a small measure, by my affection and care of your declining years, for all the anxiety you have endured in securing my interests.'
'Not to me, young man, not to me. My lot on earth is cast. I am here a fugitive, in danger of a felon's doom. I shall return to honest, plain America, and there devote the remainder of my life to succoring the poor and afflicted. Do you likewise here, remembering that you are but the steward of your wealth. Let the former oppressions of your house be forgotten in your good deeds. Let your voice be heard in the high court of which you will be a member, whenever the artizan and the laborer need a defender from the foul enactments that are there consummated. Let your passions be subjected to the control of religion and morality—let no avaricious knave oppress the hard-toiling farmer in your name, but see to these things yourself. Let your ear be easy of access, and your heart be open, and then, my Lord, I shall be more than repaid, you will have had a nobler vengeance than any man could give you, and will earn in truth a right to bear the proud motto which your fathers arrogated to themselves, emblazoned, not on your escutcheon, but in the hearts of grateful men—
"Second to none in deeds of charity."'
CHAPTER VIII.
THE END OF TWO VICTIMS.
Walter Waters, or Captain Williams, as he called himself now, and in fact He had come to England ostensibly as the commander of a trading vessel, had determined to effect the escape of Horace Hunter. That his own plans might not be disarranged by any violence towards the Earl, he had on an accidental meeting in the West Indies promised Hunter a more full revenge if he waited for three years; and feeling that his capture had in some measure been owing to his appointment, he revolved in his mind many plans for his rescue. His trial had taken place, and as the evidence was conclusive, he was condemned to death. As his friends were now permitted to see him, Walter with his daughter to whom and his father he had made himself known in private, although he still stopped at Mrs. Ally's when not in London, obtained permission to visit the doomed man. Who shall attempt to portray the feelings of Mary Waters, as in company with the parent so long mourned as dead, she set forth to hold the last communication on earth with him to whom the treasure of her young love had been given. Joy at once more beholding her father mingled in painful intensity with her heart's desolation when she contemplated the fearful position of her lover; and to her father's assurances of rescuing him, of reclaiming him and of their union and a happy life in America, she only replied by a mournful feature, and pointing to her own emaciated form and hectic cheek. Her beauty had now assumed an almost unearthly character. The lustre of her dark blue eye and deathly paleness of her cheek told indeed her race was nearly run. As they all stood together in the steward's house on the morning of their visit, they formed a strange and touching group. The bowed figure of the aged man whose life had been prolonged so far beyond the usual term of man's existence, the strong form of the mariner, whose vigor was unabated although near sixty, and the wasted figure and sharpened features of his daughter, who though scarce more than past the threshold of womanhood, was yet closer to the dread abyss of eternity than either. The old steward looked wistfully after them as they passed out into the wintry air.
Hunter's passion for drink, his remorse for the officer's death, his burning thirst for vengeance, and his own sense of self-abasement—all conspired to add to the fever of his brain; and when Walter and his daughter were admitted to his cell, it was a gibbering maniac that rushed forward to meet them. Walter removed his fainting daughter from the appalling spectacle, and returned with a sickening heart and terrible forebodings. The shades of evening had given place to bright moonlight ere they reached the castle. The driver used his utmost speed, but the snow hindered their progress, and just as they arrived at the castle gates, the horses swerved violently, and starting to the side of the road, stood snorting with terror. Walter sprang out, and in the momentary strength caused by the excitement, his daughter followed him. The Earl with some companions rode up at the moment of seeing the carriage stopped; but a more ghastly obstacle obstructed their path—for there in the snow drift at the gates of the mansion where her seducer lived in splendor, lay the corpse of the once fair, gentle, and accomplished Ellen Hunter.
The Earl gazed upon the body of his victim for a moment, and even his callous heart was touched. It was evanescent, however, for on one of his companions asking in a tone of coarse buffoonery, if he was contemplating that frozen carrion with a view to ornamenting his hall with it as a statue, he replied in the same strain, and was turning his horse's head towards the gate, when he was arrested by the stern voice of the mariner.
'Blasphemer, peace! Add not insult to the fearful injury you have committed to that poor piece of clay! Man of the marble heart, your career is near its close! This is not the only one of your crimes that has resulted in death. There arises from the earth in South Carolina a voice that calls for vengeance on her murderer. The child you thought without a friend, whom you hoped would perish unknown, is even now preparing to assert his rights, and drive you, titled bastard as you know yourself to be, from your usurped position. Your agents have confessed, and nothing can save you from the merited punishment of your crimes. Repent, weep tears of penitence over this poor form, and make your peace with God. You have but little time left ere man's justice will claim you as its due.' He replaced his daughter in the carriage, and lifting the body of poor Ellen as tenderly as if it had been a child, placed it inside, and thus the dying and the dead departed.
At headlong speed the Earl reached his mansion, galled to madness. He pondered long and deeply who the mysterious seaman could be, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion; but reflecting that he still possessed the only papers which could be produced in support of the claimant of his title, he became more collected, and resolved first to destroy the documents, and then to devise means for getting rid of the obnoxious seaman, and also of his nephew, if he dared to press his claim. Somewhat relieved by these considerations, he entered into an explanation with his friends, spoke of the seaman as a harmless maniac, and succeeded in calming the irritation of their wounded pride.
But he could not calm the raging tumult of his own heart—he had entered into preliminary engagements for a marriage with the daughter of a house as haughty as his own. His mother's fame would suffer, not that he cared one jot for any abstract idea of virtue, and she had been sinless in that at least, for she knew not that her husband had another wife. He had been offered by the king, and had accepted a high confidential mission to a foreign power, and now when every proud wish of his heart seemed to be gratified, to be threatened with the loss of all—and more, to be subjected to the vulgar gaze as a murderer—death he felt were better. He drank deeply, which was not his usual custom, and to conceal his feelings affected a wild gaiety, which, however, failed in deceiving his companions. Midnight had long passed when he retired to his chamber, harassed and jaded by the efforts he had made to preserve appearances, and still more irritated by the wine he had drank. A vague feeling of horror moreover began to steal over him. He looked out upon the moonlight and drew his head in with a shudder, for he fancied—it was but fancy, that he saw a body lying upon the ground. He tried to nerve himself to the task of destroying the documents, but could not bring himself to touch the casket. At length he opened the casket; a deep groan seemed to issue from it. The long low musical laugh he had heard before sounded in the room. The next moment he hardened himself and began to read them over. They consisted of the letters mentioned before, his father's marriage certificate, and the addition of a still more important document—a statement drawn up by his father a little before his death, in which he acknowledged Captain Piercy, the name his son had been known by, prayed for forgiveness for the wrong he had done his mother, and fully acknowledged his marriage with the fair Italian. This was the document which had led the countess to persecute Captain Williams, and her son to murder his brother's widow. He read them slowly through, and taking them in his hand walked towards the fireplace; he was about to cast them in, when the same low mocking voice sounded so close him—he turned and beheld an appalling spectacle. The picture of his own mother, that had occupied a large compartment of the room, had entirely disappeared, although but the instant before he had seen it—and in its place appeared the figures of a man in a full dress naval uniform, and a lady in the costume of the one he had murdered in distant America. He gave one wild shriek and fell senseless on the floor. To seize the papers was to Edward, whom our readers will easily guess to have personated the lady, but the work of a moment; he regained the panel and swung it to just as the domestics were hurrying up; not however before he had fixed upon the toilet with a penknife of the Earl's, a paper with the word "doomed!" in large characters traced upon it.
CHAPTER IX.
THE AGENT'S PUNISHMENT.
The village bells tolled mournfully, and the stout farmers looked with Saddened faces at each other on the morning which was to consign to earth the remains of Mary Waters. Matrons held their aprons to their eyes as they followed the melancholy procession. She was laid by her own request in the same grave with Ellen Hunter. The old clergyman who had loved her as his daughter, faltered as he read the solemn words, "I am the resurrection and the life," and when the ceremony was concluded, there was not an eye that was not filled with tears. When the old steward heard the earth fall upon the coffin lid, his frame was seen to quiver, he fell forward, and his spirit had departed. They laid him by the side of his grand daughter the next day; and it was soon ascertained that he had left the bulk of his savings to the poor children of Johnson, and that Mrs. Alice Goodfellow was appointed sole executrix.
Rumors now began to circulate about the Earl—a claim had been laid in due form by Edward—and the tumult which raged in his heart was indescribable. Yet he dared to think of vengeance, and swore an oath to have the heart's blood of those who had humbled him. As he approached the house of the agent he determined to ask his aid in carrying out his schemes. Mr. Lambert, however, had no intention of being dragged down into the vortex, and received him coldly.
'This is not the reception I expected, Mr. Lambert.'
'I beg your pardon sir.'
Sir!—how the word grated on the ear, that had been accustomed to 'my lord,' and that in the humblest tone; 'I merely wish to intimate, Mr. Lambert, when it is your gracious pleasure to listen, that I want a word or two with you.' He spoke in his old sneering tone; the other, who from habit, remained standing in his presence, bowed; but he did not answer a word. 'Since you cannot, or will not speak—hear one thing; for your interest is thereby affected; and that I suppose will reach you—do you suppose, that those who have attacked the master, will let the servant escape. Will not even the great Mr. Lambert, be required to give an account of his stewardship; when so humble an individual as myself, has been deemed worthy of notice?'—he bowed with mock humility. 'My accounts are prepared to undergo the strictest investigation. My—sir—' said the agent, recovering his self possession the instant business was mentioned, 'both as regards the estate and personal account, my balances are correct—that of the estate which yet remains unsettled I am ready to account for to—the proper parties—' (he substituted for the new Earl's name which rose to his lips,) 'the small balance on the personal account which is in my favour, I shall be happy to take your note for—properly endorsed.' The man of business had been so occupied with the figures he was running up in his mind, that he had failed to observe the gathering storm on his companion's brow; he had been so used to hold down his head while speaking to his patron, that even now he could not forego the habit; but the last word had not passed his lips fully—ere the earl rose from his seat, and seizing the heavy brass lamp upon the table between them, struck the unfortunate man a tremendous blow with it, which prostrated him to the floor; smashing in a portion of his skull, and inflicting a mortal wound; the agent groaned and lay senseless; the servants rushed to the scene on hearing the fall, but the furious appearance of the murderer terrified them, particularly as he still held in his hand the weapon he had used; he burst through them, and mounting his horse at the door, fled as though pursued by all the fiends of hell.
CHAPTER X.
RETRIBUTION.
Regardless of the wintry storm, the murderer spurred on the noble animal he rode; he had no purpose in the flight, he had arranged no plan of escape; unused to act for himself, his movements were all uncertainty: now he reined in his horse, and listened as if for pursuers, but none came: now fancying he heard the mocking laugh he had so often heard, he dashed forward, as if the furies were behind him; the storm meanwhile increased in its violence, he felt it not; the warfare of the elements was calmness to the tumult of his heart; he looked up to the heavens, but there on the edge of every lurid cloud, he saw it, he saw them; not one but hundreds: maidens with stony blue eyes, all glaring upon him; he looked upon the earth, a gibbering madman was running by his side, howling and hooting in the wind; now so near as almost to touch him: now hundreds of yards away, but always the same; behind him with his ghastly mangled head, came the form of his last victim, forward! forward! while the crashing thunder pealed above his head; he shook his impious hand against the sky, and still darted onward, till the horse stopped, snorting on the beach; and there as the great sea, rolled in foaming and turgid, there, he saw it plain in yon glare of livid lightning, on the crest of every curling wave, a dark haired lady lay, glaring at him with eyes that looked like coals of fire; a monster wave came rolling in, and the frightened horse turned, and seizing the bit between his teeth sped homeward, but still he saw them in the clouds behind, before, beckoning to him, calling to him, in the voice of the great wind; on, on, towards the castle gates, he looked up to the battlements; they were there, on every turret's top, on every pointed arch, from every window, visible to him, as though it had been bright daylight he saw them. The horse unable to check his momentum dashed against the castle gates, and falling over crushed him in its fall; and there on the very spot where one of his victims had lain in the sleep of death, there lay the mangled and now dying man, mingling his blood with that of the expiring animal. Day dawned, and when the red sun rose, it shone upon a corpse; the storm had ceased, but the wind had blown the snow from off it, and the laborer who found the body, rushed from the spot in terror at the horrible expression of the dead man's face.
CHAPTER XI.
CONCLUSION.
Three years have passed away,—the young Earl has arrived at age, and is coming to take possession of his domains—after finishing his education at Oxford; great preparation has been made to welcome him. Foremost on the occasion is Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, and as their Lord's reputed aunt for so many years, she is a person of no small importance:—still single, but beginning to think of settling now, as her glass gives awkward reflections,—but still balancing the claims of her admirers, though she does give color to the report of shewing a preference for the sturdy blacksmith;—by her side, smartly dressed, are gamboling about the young Johnsons, while their father, in a respectable suit of black, marshals the somewhat unruly procession of maidens and youths chosen to receive the young Earl. He is now the steward, (agent is a name he wisely discards,) and a great man, but young girls and boys from sixteen to twenty have a trick of paying no attention to the wisdom of their elders, and he is sorely put to it to maintain order. Spring has planted her fair feet upon the daisied green, and a huge May-Pole has been erected, as in the olden time, an ox is roasted whole upon the lawn, tables are spread out under the shade of the great elms and sturdy oaks, foaming barrels of mighty ale, such as Guy of Warwick drank, ere he encountered the dun cow, are seen with taps ready in them,—the children are dancing round the May-Pole in wild glee,—and now a scout posted on a rising ground comes tearing towards them as though life and death defended on his speed,—the carriage is coming,—a cheer arises,—it has passed the gates, and is coming up the avenue. Johnson is full of nervous excitement, the maidens cease giggling and pinching and all those endearing little amusements, the young men try to look solemn and only succeed in causing a burst of laughter from the sly girls, some of whom draw down their faces in imitation. They are nervous, too—what if the great man should see their dresses in disorder, and he a young man, too; the elder matrons and the farmers stand nearest the house, all is expectation, he has come, the carriage has stopped at the very extremity of the line, a cheer, thrice repeated, peals through the air, as he descends from the carriage, and it is a heartfelt one, for this they know has been among themselves, and shared their hopes and fears. He is followed by Captain Williams, in the full uniform of an American Naval Officer; he is whiter headed than when we saw him last, but he looks able to wrestle any man upon the ground, a cheer bursts forth for him also, though none recognize in him aught but the brave sailor who had shown such sympathy at the grave of Mary Waters. They are received by the Curate, Mr. Johnson, the Lawyer and the Clerk. The young Earl waves his hand, and every door and window, in the spacious edifice is thrown open. With a kind word for every one, a merry joke with one fair maiden, and a laughing glance at another, a cheerful nod to the young men, and a hearty shake of the hand to the old, and as he decorously salutes each old matron on the cheek, he fairly rushes into the arms of his quondam aunt, who nearly goes into hysterics with joy, (which would have been awkward, as she is stout, and has laced some,) so she thinks better of it, and cries over him, which does just as well. Such a shout arises as makes the very welkin ring. He stops upon the top-most step, Capt. Williams and the others by his side. Every sound is hushed as he speaks. 'It is not outside, my friends, whom I hope I may never give reason to regret this day. It is not outside of my halls that I can give you thanks for my reception. There is no room in my house in which you are not freely welcome, this night, and to him who will not accept the call of the Earl de Montford, I will send poor Edward Barnett. Ten years from this day, if such of you as are spared, and I am one, will meet me here again, I will render to you an account of my stewardship, and then if you can raise again the cheers with which you have this day greeted me, poor Edward Barnett will be more than rewarded for his trials, and the Count de Montford the happiest of his race.' The glorious sun shone full upon his manly form and handsome features, and as cheer upon cheer arose, not one that looked upon his open truthful countenance, feared he would not redeem his promise, or disgrace the proud motto emblazoned on the banners that waved high above his head on the battlements;—Nulli Secundi,—Second to none.
POSTSCRIPT.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
Gentle reader! if thou hast been interested in this tale of human hopes and fears—of stern retribution on the wicked, if thou hast shed a tear over the fate of the gentle and the good—thou wilt perhaps be anxious to know more of him, who at the close of our tale, we left—in life's young morning brightness—with wealth and power to aid in his path. Did he fall from his high estate, did prosperity dim the lustre of his promise, (and methinks some gentle maiden asks, how sped he in his love.) If thou hast borne with our tediousness, and hast not fainted—fear not, we will inflict upon thee yet more.