The lady then left the room, and returned in a short time, and placed upon the table, with her own hands, a little tray containing luncheon for two,—dainty meat and wine, such as the poor girl had scarcely ever seen before. She ate ravenously, and would have drank the whole contents of the small decanter of wine, had she not been prevented. But the kindness of those few minutes had subdued her into humble submission, more than all the beatings and harsh treatment which she had before been accustomed to receive to compel obedience.
So far, all was managed easily; but the girl must sleep somewhere—unseen and unknown. There was a small apartment within that private room, which might be used as a sleeping-room. Mrs. Courland made a sign to the girl, which she quickly understood, and in her strong arms she carried in a small couch; and with shawls and rugs, which Mrs. Courland managed to bring from other parts of the house, they made a comfortable bed and hiding-place for the stranger for the present, until Mrs. Courland could decide on the best course to be adopted.
She could scarcely make up her mind to believe it; and yet it seemed but too evident that this was the child she had grieved over so long, and so often wished and yet dreaded to see. The plainness of the girl's features she might yet get accustomed to, and art might be brought to her aid to improve her appearance;—the vulgarity in her manner might also be softened and ameliorated. But that sad calamity,—oh! that was dreadful,—no art could get rid of that.
Frederick Morley, in the meantime, was hastening on his journey. Love added speed to his horse's feet, and strength to the rider; and by dint of frequent changes on the road, he was not many days reaching Truro once more, where he halted to refresh himself and to deliberate on what course he should adopt.
It was a lone house, Alrina had told him in her letter, near the seaside, she believed, surrounded by a high wall, and not very far, she thought, from her former abode; because she must have been taken there during the night, so that the distance could not have been great. This was a very vague description. There were many lone houses, in those days, near the sea, surrounded by high walls;—indeed, the exception was, to see a lone house, without having a high wall round it, for the protection of the inmates against the lawless bands who infested the sea-coast in those troublous times. His course seemed to be, to go to the Land's-End at once, and see Lieut. Fowler, who might have heard something, or perhaps have seen the boy. He determined, however, to go by the road which would take him nearest to the sea; and, in his journey, he could look out for the house in which his Alrina was confined, and, to make sure of not passing her by this time, he determined he would effect an entrance by some pretence or other, into every house he saw surrounded by high walls in the course of his journey.
Having decided on this course, and taken some refreshment, he started on his exploring expedition; but he was obliged to ride the same tired horse, for there was not another to be had in the town. The horse, however, having been well fed and groomed, the ostler assured him that the animal was as fresh as a hunter going to the meet, and would carry him a long journey yet before sunset. So Frederick mounted once more, and, with whip and spur, got over a good bit of ground in a very short time; for the horse was one of those plucky animals that will run till they drop, under the spur of an impatient rider. Frederick did not intend to be cruel; but he wanted to get on, and the horse seemed willing to go, so on they went at a good pace, and soon neared the sea-coast. The horse was flagging a little, but whip and spur kept him up to the mark, and on they went still. They passed several farm-houses surrounded by walls; but none of them at all answered the description Alrina had given of her prison. At length Frederick thinks he sees, at some distance ahead, some high dark walls, and he fancies he discerns the roof of a house just peeping above them. "This must be the very house," cried he, in the greatest excitement; so he urged the horse on, thinking of nothing but the rescue of his Alrina. The road was rugged and the horse was tired. He stumbled over a loose stone going down a gentle declivity towards the building; and, not having sufficient strength left to save himself, he fell heavily. The rider was thrown with violence against the wall; he was stunned, and lay insensible and bleeding beneath the wall of the house he had been so anxious to reach.
The shadows of night are closing in all round, and the man and horse are still lying in that lonely road, no one having passed since the accident, nor has the garden-door been opened. At last a boy comes out; and, seeing that some accident has happened, he returns to the house, and a man and woman come out with him and examine the bodies. The horse is dead—the man sees that at once; but the rider breathes and is bleeding still. The man goes back to the house, taking the boy with him, while the woman runs for some water, with which she bathes the face of the wounded man, and washes away the congealed blood. The man and boy presently appear again, carrying a board. The three, then, with their united strength, place the wounded man on the board, and carry him in, leaving the horse by the roadside. The wounded gentleman is placed in a comfortable bed, and the man dresses his wounds and applies remedies with considerable skill. Life is preserved, but delirium comes on, caused by a slight concussion of the brain. No surgeon is sent for;—the man says he can cure him himself; and the woman and the boy, having apparently implicit confidence in his skill, yield to his wishes. They watch with the sufferer throughout the night, and the boy is despatched, in the morning, to the nearest town, for medicines and other things necessary for the patient's use and comfort.
Several days and nights pass, and the patient is still delirious. The man continues most attentive and skilful. The patient gradually gets better. He is out of danger; and, one evening, the man, after giving the woman the most minute instructions as to her treatment of the invalid, leaves, desiring her to keep strict watch over him, and keep the doors locked, so that he may not get away from the house until his return. The boy was left to assist the woman in attending on the invalid and keeping watch.
Frederick had now been an inmate of this lonely house about a week. He was fast recovering from the effects of the fall, but still too weak to leave his bed, although he wished most earnestly to get away, or to have his questions answered; for he didn't at all remember what took place after the horse fell, nor did he know where he was, nor who his attendants were.
The woman pretended not to know anything, and the boy generally evaded the questions, or answered very wide of them. The morning after the departure of the man, under whose skilful treatment Morley was progressing so favourably towards recovery, the boy entered the room with a cunning smile on his countenance, and said that he had a letter for the invalid.
"A letter!" said Morley, feebly, "who can possibly have written a letter to me? no one but those I have seen about me, know where I am." Taking the letter from the boy, however, he was astonished to find that it was from Alrina. He was too anxious and impatient to read it, to think of the bearer, or to ask any questions concerning the letter or its writer, until he had read its contents, which he did with such eagerness, that the boy was alarmed lest the invalid should relapse into delirium again;—not that he was easily alarmed or frightened at anything he saw or heard, but he knew that if the gentleman became delirious again, it would give him extra trouble.
In her letter, Alrina complained of her lot. She had thought, she said, that Frederick would, at least, have written her a line in reply to her first letter. She felt, now, that she was deserted by all. Everything seemed going against her. Her aunt had not returned yet; but her father came frequently, and she felt convinced there was some terrible secret, which they endeavoured to keep from her, but she was determined to find it out. The boy seemed willing to befriend her, she said, but she was almost afraid to trust him. And so she went on to the end of the letter, in the same desponding strain; winding up by asking Frederick, if he really loved her to lose no time in coming to her rescue, or, at least, to write a line, that she might know there was, at least, one person in the world who cared for her. It was a melancholy letter from beginning to end, and its perusal made her lover wretched. She was evidently under restraint somewhere; but where? that was the question: even if he knew, it was impossible for him to go to her at present; he was too weak. The boy who brought her letter might know something, and he turned to ask him, but he had left the room. He tried to get up; the exertion was too much for him, and he sank back on his pillow again. His only resource was to read the letter again and again. The more he reflected on Alrina's position, however, and on the unfortunate circumstances which had prevented his receiving her first letter in time, and his consequent inability to render her that assistance and consolation which he would have given worlds to have been able to do, the more irritated and unhappy did he feel; so that when the boy returned, he was in such a high state of excitement, that his attendant was afraid, at first, to go near him.
The wish for further information, however, which he believed the boy could give him, caused Morley to subdue his feelings, and to induce him, by the promise of a reward, to be a little more communicative than he had hitherto been. By degrees, the boy approached the bed cautiously, when Morley asked him, as mildly as he could, when and where he had received the letter, and if he knew where Alrina was at that moment confined, with many other questions too numerous for the boy to answer without a little time and consideration. Before he answered any of them, therefore, he gave that cunning smile, which had so annoyed Morley before, and which now irritated him beyond measure, when he was so anxious to hear something of her to whom he felt he had unwittingly given cause for complaint; but he soon saw that he should get nothing out of the boy by threats or angry expressions, so he changed his tactics, and extracted the information he wanted by asking one question at a time. That was certainly the oddest boy he had ever met with, he thought; for, although, judging from his diminutive stature, no one would have supposed him to be above eight or nine years of age, yet, from his shrewd knowledge of the world, and aged expression of countenance, he might have been eight- or nine-and-twenty. He was the same boy whom Mr. Brown formerly employed to look after his mare; and it was said, even then, and generally believed, that he was in constant attendance on Mr. Freeman, and knew a good many of his secrets.
He was found one night, when quite an infant, lying at the door of a farm-house in the neighbourhood of St. Just, wrapped up in coarse flannel; but it was never discovered who put him there, nor who the child's parents were. He was placed in the poor-house; and when he was old enough, he was apprenticed to one of the farmers of the district; but he would never settle down under one master,—and after trying to subdue him, without success, his master gave him up to his own inclinations, and so he got his living by doing odd jobs. From his constant intercourse with Mr. Freeman, he lost the broad Cornish dialect in a measure, and only spoke in that way when he was associating with the miners. He was fond of going into Penzance and mixing with the gentlemen's servants there occasionally, from whom he picked up many a slang expression, which he would retail to the frequenters of Mr. Brown's bar, very much to their amusement. He was an awkward individual to gain information from; so Morley was obliged to deal with him accordingly, and put his questions with caution:—
(Morley) "I think I have seen you before, my boy?"
(Boy) "I shouldn't wonder if you had, sir; and, maybe, I've seed you before."
(Morley) "You kept that mare like a picture;—I never saw a better groom, either at home or abroad."
(Boy—smiling) "It wasn't much odds, as it turned out, sir."
(Morley) "No, no; but that doesn't alter the fact of your ability as groom. Now, tell me—there's a good fellow—who gave you that letter."
(Boy—still pleased) "Why, Miss Reeney, to be sure."
(Morley—excited) "What! Alrina herself? Where did you see her?"
(Boy—putting on his cunning look again) "Where? why here, to be sure."
(Morley—more excited) "Here! what, in this house?"
(Boy) "To be sure; why not? She called to me through the keyhole upstairs, and shoved the letter out under the door, and told me to take it as before. I couldn't ask her anything, for I heard Mrs. Cooper coming upstairs."
(Morley—rising up in bed in the greatest excitement) "Oh! take me to her!—or, stay, take a message to her at once; tell her I am——"
(Boy) "Stop, stop, sir; you must lend me a horse to do that."
(Morley) "I thought you said she was here, in this house."
(Boy) "So she was; but 'The Maister' took her off with him last night."
(Morley) "Then that was Mr. Freeman who attended me; and Alrina has been here all the time, and did not come near me! Oh! cruel, cruel! she must be offended, indeed. Didn't she ask or try to come to see me?"
(Boy) "No, she didn't, sir, 'cause she didn't know you was here."
(Morley) "Not know it? strange!"
(Boy) "Nothing strange at all, sir, that I can see; I have seed stranger things than that, a bra' deal. She was kept at the top of the house, and you down here—under lock and key, both of 'ee; and last night 'The Maister' took her off with him. Where they're gone, I can't say,—I heard 'The Maister' tell Mrs. Cooper something about America."
(Morley) "America! do you think he intends to go there?"
(Boy) "I do no more know than you do, sir. F'rall I've b'en with 'The Maister' so often, an' have seed a good many of his quips and quirks, and helped in them too, I do no more know what he do main by what he do say, than a cheeld unborn. He ha' got something upon his mind, that's a sure thing."
The boy was beginning to throw off his reserve, as Morley thus cautiously questioned him; but he saw that if he put his questions too pointedly, the boy would "shut up" again; so he asked a few gossipping questions about Mr. and Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Trenow, which took the boy off his guard, and he went on talking. It seemed at last as if it were a relief to him to talk of "The Maister," as he called Mr. Freeman, in common with most people of the neighbourhood,—and, in relieving his pent-up mind, he told, perhaps, more than he intended; but he seemed to feel that Mr. Morley was a gentleman who wouldn't betray him, and so he threw off his reserve and trusted him.
"You've heard of Chapel Carn Brea, I s'pose, sir?" asked the boy.
"Yes; I've been there," replied Morley; "it is one of the curiosities of the neighbourhood. No doubt it was a handsome building at one time; and those mounds near it are tombs, no doubt."
"You're right, sir," said the boy; "I've heard 'The Maister' tell stories in Mr. Brown's bar, about that place, that would make your hair stand on end, ef you b'lieved it all. The men he told it to, b'lieved every word; and they wud no more go anist Chapel Carn Brea in the night, than they wud clunk boiling lead. I've b'en there by night an' by day; for I wor curious to find out somethen'."
"You were not likely to find anything there," said Morley, carelessly—which threw the boy completely off his guard; and, being in a communicative mood, he went on,—
"I saw something there one night, that made me feel uncommon queer, sure nuf; and I b'lieve that 'The Maister' ha' got some notion that I do knaw somethen'; for he slocked me up there for to try to frighten me more than once. It was somethen' that I'm sure he must have put there inside one of the walls, that went off like a clap of thunder, and frightened the mare, that night when I was throwed; and I'm sure 'twas his doing, for, when I came to myself, I was upon a bed in 'The Maister's' house, and nobody but his sister knaw'd a word about et. He gave me some stuff, and I soon got about agen. He went out the next morning, and Miss Freeman kept me there under lock and key; and when he came home in the afternoon, he told all about the mare, and how poor Mr. Brown was sitting down 'pon a rock by hisself, fretting about it, and he sent me up to bring him home."
"So you never saw anything more than that at Chapel Carn Brea, after all?" said Morley, by way of bringing the boy back to the secret he seemed about to tell,—for he saw, by his manner, there was something more, and he was anxious to know all he could about this man, although his thoughts were, even then, dwelling, with intense anxiety, on the probable sufferings, both in body and mind, of his Alrina.
"Iss I have," cried the boy, eagerly; "but I never told it to a single soul, from that time to this. Now, mind, you must promise that you'll never tell." And, without waiting for the promise, he went on eagerly with his tale. "When 'The Maister' came here to live first," resumed the boy, "I was but a little chap."
"So I should suppose," said Morley, smiling, "even if you were in existence, which I very much doubt,—for that must be fourteen or fifteen years ago, according to the account of Mrs. Brown and Josiah Trenow, and others of the neighbourhood; so I fancy you are about to tell me a tale in imitation of your master."
"No, no," replied the boy; "you don't know what I'm going to tell, and p'rhaps you won't. I'm older than I do look, I can tell 'ee. I'm no cheeld, f'rall I do look like one to a stranger, I dare say."
"Well, how old are you?" said Morley; "for I confess I have been puzzled several times as to your age. In stature you are but a very little boy; but when I look into your face, and hear your shrewd remarks, I fancy you may be almost any age."
"Well, sir," replied the boy, looking pleased at the gentleman's having noticed him so much as to be puzzled about his age; "I'm above twenty, but how much I don't exactly know."
"Billy!" cried a rough voice from below,—"Billy! I say. Where the devil is that rapscallion?"
"There!" said the boy; "Cap'n Cooper is come back, and the old woman is gone out, I s'pose. There'll be the devil to pay if I don't go down." And away he ran, leaving Morley in a most unpleasant state of suspense; for he had calculated on gaining a great deal of information from the boy, both with regard to Mr. Freeman, and, what he was still more concerned about, the probable movements and present abode of Alrina.
It was evident, from what the boy said, that he was a prisoner. He wouldn't have minded the old woman and the boy so much; for he thought he might be able to work upon their feelings, by bribes and fair words, sufficiently to induce them to connive at his escape; and he speculated in his mind, even while the boy was talking with him, that he might be able to prevail on him to leave Mr. Freeman and follow him as groom and valet, when he might be of the utmost assistance in many ways. But now it seemed as if all his aerial castles were dissolving into the element of which they were composed; for here was a more formidable jailor, if he might judge by the rough voice and the commanding tone of the fresh arrival. This was the master of the house, he had no doubt, from the name;—Cooper was the old woman's name, he knew. These thoughts drove him almost mad, and he lay back on his pillow and gave himself up to despair. "Alrina!" cried he, in his agony; "I feel that all things are working against us; but oh! Alrina, forgive your Frederick,—it was not my fault. Alrina! Alrina!" And, after raving like a madman for some minutes, he fell back exhausted.
In the meantime, the boy, locking the door behind him, as he passed out of the room in which Morley lay, hastened downstairs to meet the master of the establishment.
"Hallo!" exclaimed that gentleman, as he stood with his back to the fire; "where's all the people?"
"How should I know?" replied the boy, in the same unceremonious manner,—for he feared no one but "The Maister," and could be as impertinent as the greatest blackguard in the parish when he chose to be, for which he frequently got punished by those who didn't know him well, and these he generally took some opportunity of retaliating upon, so that no one gained much by punishing little Bill.
It was evident that the captain was out of sorts, and was inclined to vent his spleen upon anybody or anything that happened to come in his way.
"Confound your impudence," said he, advancing towards the boy, with his uplifted fist ready to make a blow at him, when he got near enough; "I'll knock you into the middle of next week, you young rascal!" And he struck at the young offender with such force, that the boy would have been seriously injured, had he not nimbly jumped on one side. The impetus of the blow not being checked by coming in contact with the boy's head, sent the man forward, and he was caught in the arms of his loving wife, who entered at that moment, and they both fell headlong on the floor together, at which the boy laughed and ran out of the room.
Nothing makes a person feel so awkward and foolish as when he measures his length on the floor by an accidental fall; and Captain Cooper and his better half felt quite ashamed of themselves, as they scrambled up from their ignominious position. Fortunately there were no spectators; for the boy had escaped, and was keeping out of sight for the present, but not out of hearing. A little corner sufficed for a hiding-place for him, and thus he frequently picked up a good many odd secrets, which he repeated to "The Maister" when he was assisting him in any of his necromancy, and obtained credit even from "The Maister" for shrewdness beyond his years.
"Where's Freeman?" asked the man, opening a cupboard and taking out a bottle of brandy and a glass to solace him after his fall.
"Gone," replied the woman, shaking herself to rights again; "he started last night, and took Alrina with him."
"The devil he did!" exclaimed the man, drinking off a full glass of the exhilarating liquor; "that's a queer game, when he promised to——"
"Don't you know that his promises can't always be kept?" said the woman. "Circumstances alter cases. There's been a circumstance here."
"A what!" cried the man, in an angry tone; "why, you're getting so bad as the boy, Jenny Cooper."
"Hush, Cap'n! I've got something to tell 'ee," replied his wife; and seating herself on a low chair, opposite the fire, and blowing it up lustily with the bellows at the same time, she related to her husband the accident, and told him the young gentleman was still in bed upstairs.
"Whew!" whistled the captain;—"then his game is up for a spur, and t'other is out of the way and off the scent,—so no herring-pool, after all; but where is the old man gone to?"
"I don't know," replied his wife; "but I shouldn't wonder if he's gone down to the old place again, now the coast is clear. He'll be noted again in St. Just, now that the breeze is blown over, and the scent is in another quarter, as you do say it is."
"Right you are," rejoined the captain, looking more pleased than he had looked yet since his return. "And now I'll tell you our bit of spree." And he related to his wife the expedition to Ashley Hall, and how his companion had left the girl with the lady, thinking to frighten her into submission to their terms, and that, when she went back again the next day, to see how the land lay, she found the little door in the lane locked and barred on the inside, and when she applied for admission, at the front entrance, she was told that Mrs. Courland could not see her. "So she's in a fix," continued the man; "but she stayed behind, and she'll blow the gaff, if they don't come to, soon. I should have stopped too, but I thought my old friend might want to be off at once, and so I came back to get all things right and straight for the trip."
"And you'd better get things right and straight now," said his wife; "for he may be going off all the same, for what I do know."
Mr. Morley wrote to Lieut. Fowler from Ashley Hall, saying that he had found his brother and Josiah Trenow there, and that they had discovered a house, which they had every reason to believe was the scene of the murder. He informed his friend also that he and Josiah would remain there a little longer, to make further search, but that Frederick had gone down into Cornwall in search of a party who had slipped through their hands, so far.
In consequence of this letter, Lieut. Fowler was in daily expectation of seeing his friend Frederick Morley at Tol-pedn-Penwith. And the ladies at Pendrea-house were in anxious expectation too; for, now that they knew more of his history, which seemed so fraught with romantic interest, he had become quite a hero in their eyes. Day after day passed, but he did not arrive. The ladies were alarmed, and feared some accident had befallen him; but Fowler ridiculed this idea, and attributed his non-arrival to the strictness of the search he was no doubt making. Who the party was that Frederick was in search of, Fowler didn't know, for the finding of the box by Josiah had been kept a secret. The search after Mr. Freeman was merely to get his help to unravel the mystery of that document, which Josiah seemed to think, from his manner, he knew something about, although it was most probable, as Frederick suggested at first, that Mr. Freeman pretended to know more than he really did, in order to induce Josiah to leave the box and its contents with him. As a drowning man will catch at a straw, so did Frederick catch at this little incident, improbable as he really thought it, in the hope that it might assist him in his search, or that the conjuror, by his skill, might be able to give him some clue to the mystery. Fowler knew nothing of all this, nor did he know of his friend's devoted, and, it may be added, romantic, attachment to the daughter of the celebrated Land's-End conjuror. Had he known it, he would, no doubt, have tried to convince his friend of the folly and absurdity of such a connection. But love is blind; and it would probably have required more eloquence than Lieut. Fowler possessed to have persuaded Frederick Morley that the lovely and fascinating girl whom he loved so passionately from the first moment he saw her, as a schoolgirl, was unworthy of his affection, because her father did not move in the first circles of society. Luckily Fowler was ignorant of this attachment; and so his friend had been spared the annoyance of a discussion with him on the subject. The old squire was as anxious as any of them to see the young soldier once more. But he didn't come.
Miss Pendray's mind was ill at ease—that was evident to all who knew her. She still wandered over the cliffs, and braved the storm; but it was not now, as it used to be, for the sake of looking at the bold scenery. Her wanderings had now a more definite object;—she hoped, every time she climbed those lofty cliffs, that she should meet with someone to share her admiration of the beautiful scenery. She had become accustomed to those pleasant meetings with one of the opposite sex; and she felt a vacuum—a loneliness—that she had never felt before. The stranger whom she met at the ball, and who seemed so enamoured of her, had disappeared in a most unaccountable manner. She was beginning to like his attentions, although there was something in his manner, sometimes, which did not please her;—she told him as much, the last time she met him. Perhaps he was offended; for she had never seen him since the sudden appearance of that handsome man, who had intruded upon their privacy at the Logan Rock. It was a strange coincidence—those two men, meeting in that strange way. She was much struck with the appearance and gentlemanly manners of the gentleman with the white hair;—she couldn't put him out of her mind for the whole day; and, the next evening, when Lieut. Fowler brought him to Pendrea-house, after their return from St. Just, she thought him the most fascinating man she had ever seen. There was an open frankness and ease in his manner, which were wanting in Mr. Smith. As she reflected now on the difference between the two men, she felt that Mr. Smith's manners seemed put on for the occasion, and that he required to be on his guard, and to be always watching himself, as it were, to prevent some hidden vulgarity from peeping out under his apparently assumed garb of refinement. It was not so with Mr. Morley;—he was a gentleman intuitively, and, therefore, had no occasion to watch himself lest he should say or do, inadvertently, anything he would be ashamed of. Mr. Morley, too, was much struck with Miss Pendray's beauty; but he did not tell her so, point blank, as Mr. Smith had done on more than one occasion. He asked her to shew him some of her favourite scenes on the cliffs, with which he expressed himself highly delighted, and he pointed out beauties in the rocks and cliffs and headlands, which she had not observed before, and described to her, in glowing colours, some of the magnificent scenery he had himself witnessed in the East. And so they continued, day after day, to walk together—sometimes over the cliffs and sometimes on the smooth sands beneath—admiring the beauties of Nature, almost with the same eyes and the same thoughts. They seemed to have so many ideas in unison, and each became so fascinated with the other, that when the time arrived that Mr. Morley thought he must in duty visit his relatives, they parted, with sorrowing hearts, although neither of them knew what a pang the other felt at parting.
Miss Pendray had not been accustomed, in that out-of-the-way place, to meet with men of that stamp;—she had never before come into contact with a congenial spirit. Frederick Morley was better than most she had been in the habit of meeting; but he would, occasionally, appear so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was, at times, scarcely companionable. Mr. Smith was bold and clever, evidently, and as romantic in his ideas and pursuits as she could possibly desire, and frequently fascinated her with his thrilling stories; but there was something in his manner sometimes that did not satisfy her; and his aversion to join their domestic circle seemed most strange.
Mr. Morley was quite different, in every respect; and, now that she wandered over the cliffs alone, day after day, she could reflect on the difference between the three men. She had always looked down with pity on her younger sister's susceptibility, and often upbraided her for exhibiting, so unreservedly, her attachment to Lieut. Fowler, who was not at all suited to her, either in age or position, Miss Pendray thought.
The gentle Blanche could now turn the tables on her more prudent and high-minded sister; for she saw that the handsome Mr. Morley had made a conquest, and that the majestic Maud watched his every look and action, and was pained, beyond measure, when, even in common politeness, he paid the slightest attention to anyone else.
While Maud and Mr. Morley were thus revelling in each other's society, over the bold cliffs and headlands, Blanche and her lover were taking their quiet walks along the rocks and sands beneath, where they would, ever and anon, stop and rest themselves, and look out on the broad ocean which lay before them, talking of the future, and hoping that all might turn out smoothly in the end; for, although Blanche quite understood what her lover meant now, and returned his love with the fondest affection, and wished to her heart that all could be settled at once, yet she was still afraid for her father to be spoken to on the subject, lest he should get angry, and forbid their intercourse altogether. Poor silly child! her timid nature feared she knew not what; and the more her lover urged her to allow him to ask her father's consent, the more did she recoil from the ordeal, dreading what the answer might be. She knew her sister's thoughts and opinions on the subject, and she feared her father might hold the same opinion, for they were much alike in pride and lofty bearing; and so her timid fear overcame her prudence, and she held her lover back from doing that which he well knew and felt he ought to do, in common honesty and honour. But he loved his darling Blanche too well to thwart her; and so the two went on in tender communing, and each day brought fresh arguments on either side—the one, in manly uprightness, urging the appeal to the father for his sanction to their union; the other, in timid maidenly reserve, dreading the answer her stern parent might give, and controlling her fond lover, who felt he could not disobey her.
"Only wait a little longer," she said, one day, as she sat listening to his arguments, and looking up at him so earnestly;—"you don't know papa so well as I do. In most things he is so kind; but I fear in this he would not be so."
"Why do you think so, dearest Blanche?" he replied, taking her hand in his; "he seems to like me, and is continually asking me to come to Pendrea-house. What objection can he have? have you ever heard him say he disliked me, or——"
"Oh! no! never," she replied; "but Maud and papa seem to hold the same opinions on many points; and she has spoken to me often of the disparity of age, and seemed so utterly against it, that I fear papa will think so too."
"It shall be exactly as you wish," said he; "but I would much rather know my fate at once, than wait in suspense;—what good end can it answer to delay it?"
"Oh! don't talk in that way," replied Blanche, bursting into tears;—"you know how much I should wish it settled, too; but then, if papa should be angry, and refuse to give his consent, I should never see you again. I cannot bear to think of that."
Poor little innocent timid Blanche! she knew not what troubles her timidity was bringing on them both. It was her first love; and, childlike, she thought only of her present pleasure. She felt like one in a pleasant dream, gliding through the air on azure clouds, wafted gently onwards by a zephyr's breeze, with her lover ever by her side to protect her from harm; and she feared lest the slightest change in their present position should cause an angry storm to rise, and overturn all their blissful happiness. She did not know, poor girl, in her ignorance, of the changes and chances that are continually going on in the world, where the greatest pleasures and the severest pains and trials last but for a season, and they are gone, and old Time keeps on the even tenor of his way, and pains and pleasures live only in the memory, and fade away as time rolls on, leaving, in the end, but a faint shadow of the past.
Blanche knew not this; and, anxious to secure present happiness, she induced her lover, in the very innocence of her young heart, by tears and entreaties, to delay his application to her father for a time, in defiance of his better judgment; for he was older, and knew the world much better than this poor innocent girl, but still he yielded, and they loved on in secret.
While Maud was so engrossed with Mr. Morley, there was no one to watch and overlook them; but when he was gone, it seemed to her as if all her occupation was gone too,—she had nothing left but to wander out alone and think of him whose image ever haunted her;—and, in her wanderings, she often surprised Blanche and her attendant lover, in one of their favourite haunts. And, wanting some better occupation, she would chide her sister when they were alone together. At first, Blanche didn't mind it much; but its frequent repetition angered her, and she spoke up sharply to her sister, contrary to her wont, which made Maud speak her mind more freely. And as they sat at work alone, one afternoon, she renewed the old subject:—
"I must tell you, Blanche," she began, "that I think it is very wrong in you to encourage Mr. Fowler to pay you such marked attention, when, perhaps, he means nothing, after all."
"I will not allow anyone, in my presence, to impeach Mr. Fowler's honour," replied Blanche, looking up from her work, her cheeks burning with indignant pride; "I have the most perfect confidence in his honourable intentions, and therefore I will not hear him traduced."
"There we differ," returned her elder sister, hastily; "and, let me tell you that, were his intentions ever so honourable, papa would never sanction the engagement of a daughter of his to Lieut. Fowler."
"And, pray, what would be the objection?" asked Blanche, indignantly.
"There are several," replied her sister; "I know papa's opinion of his position pretty well, for I have already sounded him on it."
"And what right, let me ask, had you to sound papa on a subject which you know nothing about?" asked Blanche;—"that subject has never been named by Mr. Fowler, either to you or to papa, that I am aware of."
"Then it ought to have been," replied Maud, "and that would have settled the matter at once. It is neither honourable nor manly in Mr. Fowler to ensnare your affections, and wish you to meet him clandestinely, as I fear and know you too often do. What his intentions are, I don't know; but, if I may judge from this circumstance, they cannot be honourable, and it is time papa took some measures to prevent it, before it is too late."
"I am surprised, Maud," replied her sister, coolly, "that you, above all others, should accuse me of doing the very thing that you have been doing yourself for the last two months."
"Me!" exclaimed the majestic Maud; "how dare you say such a thing?"
"Yes, you!" replied Blanche. "If I have walked occasionally with papa's old friend, Mr. Fowler, I have done so openly, and with him only,—while you have had three strings to your bow, two of whom I know you met clandestinely, often and often, my prudent sister. What has become of the stranger you met at the ball, who called himself 'Mr. Smith?' did you think your meetings with him were not known? And, having lost him, you carried on the same game with Mr. Morley. Did either of these gentlemen ask papa? If not, I say they ought to have done so, before they induced you to meet them so often, clandestinely, at the Logan Rock,—a nice secluded place for lovers to meet at, truly?"
The timid Blanche had never spoken so fearlessly and sharply to her sister before, and Maud was perfectly astonished. She felt conscious, all at once, that the tables were turned on her deservedly—for she had an inward conviction of the truth of what her sister had said; but, like most people whose minds are filled with one great and absorbing passion, she neither saw nor knew that her actions were observed and commented on by the lookers-on in the outer world. Although she looked upon the world in general with cold indifference, and would sit for hours as inanimate as a statue, her handsome features looking, in repose, like a piece of beautifully-chiselled, tinted, marble; yet, when anyone approached in whom she took a more than ordinary interest, or any subject was introduced which it pleased her to discuss, her countenance would light up instantaneously, and you might see the fire of her soul shine out with dazzling brilliancy, in her dark flashing eyes. Nothing, then, could control the ungovernable passion that dwelt within; and the longer it had lain dormant, the stronger would it now burst forth, seeing nothing but that one object on which her mind was then intent. With such an all-absorbing passion had she, during the last few days of his sojourn among them, loved Mr. Morley. At first she was passive;—she walked with him, and pointed out the beauties of the scenery, and listened to his description of the scenes he had passed through in India, with pleasure, certainly, but not with the rapture she now felt in all he said or did. She liked him, at first, as a highly-gifted gentlemanly companion,—when, all at once, she was seized with that ungovernable love for him, which prevented her from seeing anything else; nor did she care, in her mad passion, if the whole world was looking on,—she was blind to all but him. She, like Blanche, thought but of her present happiness, but, unlike Blanche, she thought not of her father's consent nor dissent; and so she was taken quite by surprise, when she found that all her doings had been seen and commented upon. She had been like a little playful child, who covers its head, and thinks, poor little innocent, that, because it cannot see the company around, it cannot be seen by them. Maud was shocked at the discovery. It roused another passion within her—that of anger; and, rising from her seat, with a haughty frown, she swept from the room, and left her poor timid sister trembling and frightened, wondering what she had said or done to cause such a terrible commotion within her sister's breast.
When Lieut. Fowler called at Pendrea-house the next morning, to take Blanche out, as he had promised, to finish a sketch she was making of a scene near the Logan Rock, he was met at the door by the old squire himself, who, bowing stiffly asked his visitor to grant him a few minutes' conversation in the library.
"This is an odd reception," thought Fowler; "the old gentleman is up on his stilts this morning." But, however, as he knew the squire was very uncertain in his temper, he followed him in silence; and, when they had entered the room, the squire requested him to be seated, and, after a moment's pause, in which he seemed to be considering how he should begin, he said, rather abruptly,—
"I have not deserved this at your hands, Lieut. Fowler."
"What, sir?" said Fowler, in the greatest surprise.
"When you came into this district," continued the squire, without noticing Fowler's remark, "I invited you to my house; and my family and myself have tried to make it as agreeable as we could to you, as you seemed lonely up there by yourself; and the return I have had for all my kindness, has been your undermining the innocent simplicity of my youngest daughter, and, in an underhand and clandestine manner, gaining the affections of an unsophisticated, simple girl, and inducing her to meet you in bye-places unknown to her family."
"My dear sir!" exclaimed Fowler, scarcely knowing what he said—he was so taken by surprise; "I protest——"
"It is of no use your denying it," continued the squire; "for I am in possession of the fact that you have destroyed my child's peace of mind, without ascertaining whether your attentions would be agreeable to me or not."
"I acknowledge that I love your daughter, squire Pendray," replied Fowler; "but I hold her and all your family in too high respect to do anything underhand or clandestinely, to gain her affections; and I tell you, sir," he continued, rising with calm dignity, "I have not done so; and, if you had not been Blanche's father, I would not submit quietly to be taunted in this way. I should have communicated my feelings to you long ago, but——"
"But what, sir!" exclaimed the squire, rising from his seat also.
"But for a timid feeling which Blanche possesses," replied Fowler, "that——"
"Whatever fears Blanche might have had, sir, they ought not to have prevented you from acting as an honourable man and a gentleman. You are many years older than my daughter, Lieut. Fowler, and ought not to have led her away thus. It is well, perhaps, that the discovery has been made before it was too late. You have taken advantage of my hospitality, sir, and I desire you will not enter my doors again; and whatever there may have been between you and my daughter, it must cease. Sir, I wish you a very good morning." And, bowing to his visitor, the crusty old gentleman opened another door, which led to the upper part of the house, leaving Lieut. Fowler standing in the middle of the room, and wondering what could be the meaning of all this, and who could have informed the squire of his attachment to his daughter, and of their meetings. He was conscious of the rectitude and earnestness of his intentions, and knew, of course, that he had been prevented from making them known to her father, only by the earnest intreaty of Blanche herself. But he could not compromise her—indeed he had not an opportunity of doing so, even if he wished; for, before he had time to reply, or to defend himself, the old gentleman was gone, and there was no one to receive his explanation. At first he thought that, perhaps, Blanche might have been questioned by her father, and had been induced to confess their attachment and their frequent meetings, without having had the courage or the opportunity to explain the reason.
He could not remain in the house, of course, nor could he call again, after what had taken place; but he thought he should like to hear from Blanche herself how far she was implicated (unintentionally, he was quite sure) in divulging their secret, and thus causing his dismissal from a house which he had visited with so much pleasure ever since he had been in Cornwall. He determined, therefore, that he would see Blanche, if possible, before he left. So he rang the bell. The servant who answered it said, in reply to his request to see Miss Blanche for a moment, that she was confined to her room with a headache, and could not see him; so he had no alternative but to leave the house.
How little do we know what a day may bring forth! As he walked away from that house where he had been accustomed to be received almost as one of the family for a period of four or five years, Lieut. Fowler began to reflect on the changes and vicissitudes of human life, and how easily the merest trifle, light as air, will sometimes turn the scale. From his first introduction to squire Pendray, to the present time, they had been, as it were, boon companions; for the squire, although an old man, was a jolly companion over his wine, and would frequently, even then, at his advanced age, take his gun and have a day's sport with his friend, and keep up with him too, to the end of the day without flagging, and would enjoy the bachelors' dinner, and a glass of grog afterwards, at the lieutenant's little cabin, where the dinner was cooked by a jolly tar, and served up in sailor fashion, as much as if the table was spread with the daintiest dishes, and everything was done in the first style of fashion. And, only two days before, when Fowler dined at Pendrea-house, he thought, as they sat at their wine after dinner, that it was impossible his old friend could refuse him his daughter's hand, if he could only be permitted by her to ask the question; for he had been always treated more like a brother by the young ladies, than like a stranger. And now, without even allowing him an opportunity of explaining his conduct, or of exculpating himself from the insinuations thrown out against his character as a man of honour and a gentleman, he is unceremoniously expelled from the house, and forbidden all further intercourse with her for whom he would willingly lay down his life.
That some secret enemy had been at work, he had not the slightest doubt; but who it could be, he could not imagine. He was not, therefore, in a very serene state of mind, when he arrived home, as his men soon discovered. He ordered them out on night duty, and said he should himself take a long round and inspect all the outposts during the night.
Blanche had not heard of her lover's having been at the house. She was not very well, but a walk in the fresh air would have done her good, and she sat in her room expecting to be informed by her maid, as she had directed, when Lieut. Fowler called; but none of the female servants saw him come in, and they did not know he was in the house; for he had been admitted, as will be remembered, by squire Pendray himself, who, anticipating that Lieut. Fowler would probably try to see his daughter before he left the house, desired the footman to say that Miss Blanche could not be seen; and so the servant was prepared with his answer before the question was asked. Hour after hour passed away, and still Blanche waited in anxious expectation, but he did not come—as she supposed; and at length she went down into the drawing-room to join her mother and sister.
Maud had done her work cleverly and successfully, and she was satisfied with herself;—she had avenged the unpleasant insinuations and reflections cast upon her by her younger sister; and she had prevented her, she believed, from being ensnared into a connection which was not deemed eligible in any way for a daughter of the house of Pendray.
Nothing was said by either of the ladies about Lieut. Fowler; and so Blanche remained in ignorance of his visit and its termination. Day after day passed away, but Lieut. Fowler did not make his appearance, and Blanche became alarmed. She walked out occasionally with the hope of meeting him at one of their favourite haunts, but he did not come. Maud would now accompany her sister, which was very unusual, their pursuits and ideas being so widely different. Blanche could not understand it; and, after their late conversation, she did not like to mention the name of Fowler to her sister, and so they went on—each having a secret and reserving it in her own breast, fearing, and yet wishing, to talk to each other with that confidence which should have existed between two sisters, who had scarcely ever been separated in their lives.
Blanche, at length, began to feel unhappy and uncomfortable. She declined going out when her sister asked her, and would sit in her own room, with her door locked, all day long, and never join the family, except at meal-times, when she shewed evident signs of mental distress. The tears would sometimes chase each other gently down her cheeks, as she sat pretending to eat—for it was a mere pretence;—she had no appetite, and merely came to the table because she was obliged to do so, to prevent being questioned. She feared he was ill, but she dared not ask; and thus, poor timid child, "she let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, feed on her damask cheek," and pined away in lonely sadness.
Squire Pendray and his eldest daughter divined the cause of Blanche's melancholy; but, instead of commiserating and consoling her, they privately denounced Lieut. Fowler as the cause of it all. And, the more Blanche gave way to her secret grief, and pined for the loss of him whose presence seemed almost necessary to her existence, the more did they censure and reproach their former friend.
The only comforter—if such it might be deemed—whom Blanche had, was Mrs. Pendray, her kind indulgent mother. She, poor lady, knew nothing of the love affair, and attributed her darling daughter's illness to another cause, and overwhelmed the sufferer with well-meant attentions, and loaded her with dainties of all sorts—none of which could Blanche touch.
The old squire was concerned to see his little pet pining away, and refusing all nourishment; but his pride would not permit him to yield in any one particular.
Miss Pendray, too, had her moments of secret anxiety; for Mr. Morley had not written to anyone, as far as she knew, since his first letter to Lieut. Fowler, and he had now been gone a fortnight. Lieut. Fowler might have heard, perhaps, but she had been the means of precluding the possibility of knowing; for it was in consequence of her tale-bearing to her father that he had been forbidden the house. She did not, perhaps, calculate on the mischief she was doing, when her pride and her ungovernable passion prompted her to betray her sister.
It was a curious fact that everyone who spoke of Mr. Freeman, wound up their description of him by saying that he had something on his mind;—but what that something was, or by what means they had ascertained the fact, or why they had come to that conclusion, they could not tell. There was, certainly, some mystery about him, inasmuch as he kept a good deal to himself, and generally appeared thoughtful and taciturn. He had come to St. Just from some distant part of England, many years before, and had bought the house in which he resided, and lived there alone for some time. Then Miss Freeman came. He called her his sister;—some said she was his wife; but, as neither of them cared much what was said about them, gossips got tired at last, and allowed them to be what they were—brother and sister.
Years rolled on; and Mr. and Miss Freeman continued to reside at St. Just, and to mix occasionally with the people, but no one seemed really to know them a bit better than they did at first. Their motto seemed to be, "to hear, see, and be silent."
One hot summer, an epidemic broke out in the parish. There was no doctor nearer at that time than Penzance. It was too expensive for the poor to send for him at such a distance, and many of them died for want of medical assistance.
Mr. Freeman did not, at first, take much notice of it,—he kept aloof. At length, a boy who went errands for him, and did other jobs, caught the infection. Mr. Freeman went to see him, and gave him some medicine which cured him. This got abroad, and Mr. Freeman was sought after, and he cured many others.
When the epidemic among the human beings was over, there came one among the cattle and pigs. It was rumoured that the evil eye was upon them, and that they were ill-wished. Mr. Freeman was applied to again. He had been reading the minds of the people, and getting at their secrets while he was attending them. And, storing up in his memory the petty strifes and bickerings among them, he could tell pretty nearly how they were affected towards each other; and the little boy he had cured of the fever, and who was now his factotum, assisted him; so that, by a few lucky cures of their cattle, and a very slight hint at someone with whom the ill-wished party was at variance, the ill-wisher was sufficiently indicated to procure "The Maister"—as he was now beginning to be designated—a brilliant reputation, which he profited by considerably; and the people feared him and honoured him, for his wonderful knowledge and ability;—but, notwithstanding all his skill, everyone thought that "The Maister" had something upon his mind. The brother and sister were an odd pair,—no one could understand them,—and so they ceased to be much talked about after a time. Their movements were very uncertain. They would lock up the house and go away, and stay away for weeks, sometimes. Some of their neighbours wished they would stay away altogether; but they would not venture to say so, even to themselves; for they believed that "The Maister" could read their very thoughts almost.
Years rolled on; and one day, Miss Freeman, having been absent longer than usual, brought home a beautiful young lady with her. Here was food for another gossip. Who was she? She was not like Miss Freeman, nor was she much like "The Maister;" but they were told she was his daughter. He had been left a widower when Alrina was very young, Miss Freeman said, and so she had been at school ever since, agreeably to her mother's dying request. Gossip wore itself out in this instance also; and Alrina was allowed to settle down as Mr. Freeman's daughter,—indeed, there was no one to dispute it; why should they?
The idle gossip of a country village may suggest and insinuate many things; but the proof is generally wanting when they come to the test. Miss Freeman went to fetch the young lady, certainly;—and why not? Gossip was at fault, and Alrina resided quietly with her father and aunt.
Whether Mr. Freeman intended to prevent his daughter from having any intercourse at all with young men of about her own age, or whether he had any objection to Frederick Morley individually, certain it is, that, as soon as he discovered their meetings, he contrived to confine his daughter to the house, by giving her some powerful narcotic. And, leaving her in the care of his sister, he went to Portagnes, to make arrangements for their removal to the house of Capt. Cooper, which was more calculated for seclusion and confinement than his own.
The two men were well suited to each other, and played a good game. Capt. Cooper was bold, rough, and daring, and was the captain of a nice little vessel in which Mr. Freeman held a large share. And in this he would go across the water for contraband goods, and Mr. Freeman assisted him in disposing of them in some of the large towns where he had friends;—and many a daring adventure had Capt. Cooper been engaged in, and many a clever run had he made, and evaded the officers of the customs, and effected landings almost under their very eyes. His house was a very large one; and underneath, there were commodious cellars, which were of great use in concealing the contraband goods.
Why Frederick Morley's appearance at the Land's-End had made these men so uneasy, it is difficult to say. He was a soldier, and was on intimate terms of friendship with Lieut. Fowler, the avowed enemy of smuggling; and, if allowed to meet Alrina as a lover, secrets might be told which she could not help knowing, they thought. This was one reason, perhaps, why they wished to get rid of him. But they hadn't succeeded yet. Mr. Freeman tried the ride on the mare to the Land's-End point, but the rider was preserved. Now he was completely in their power, but they were puzzled what to do with him. Alrina had been removed out of his way again, and the secret of his being there had been kept from her, but the boy knew it. He was the first who discovered him, when he was lying insensible under the garden wall. The boy was useful to them, but they feared him; for he knew too much, and, with all their shrewdness, they could not fathom him. He might betray them any day. He knew enough of their secrets; and, although he knew nothing criminal against them, he was a check upon them,—otherwise Cooper would not have hesitated to get rid of their troublesome visitor very quickly. Mr. Freeman, too, might have got rid of him by allowing him to perish when they found him outside the garden wall, wounded; but both the woman and the boy would have procured medical aid, if he had not used his utmost skill in restoring him,—and this would not have suited Mr. Freeman at all just at that time and in that place; so he used his utmost skill, and cured him, and there he lay a prisoner still.
That unfortunate girl, before mentioned, had been a source of profit to them all, notwithstanding her infirmity. Cooper and his wife had had her in their keeping from her infancy. The neighbours thought she was their own child; but they always called her their niece, and the poor girl was pitied for her dreadful calamity, and for the unkindness with which most people knew she was treated.
At stated periods, Miss Freeman would go to Ashley Hall, or wherever Mrs. Courland happened to be, and work upon her fears, as she best knew how; for Miss Freeman was a shrewd and cunning woman, and the best suited of the party for an expedition of this kind. And the dread of her husband's knowing her secret, generally induced Mrs. Courland to comply with the exorbitant demands made upon her. She had been applied to for a large sum, but without effect, for she candidly told them that she had not the money. This did not satisfy them. They wanted a large sum for a particular purpose, and they might not be able to come again for some time. They did not believe Mrs. Courland's statement, that she had not the money; and, in order to terrify her into compliance, the girl was brought and left on her hands, as we have seen.
A tender chord was struck in the heart of Mrs. Courland by that look of penitence and sorrow which the poor afflicted girl put on, when she found that she had injured one who bore the pain without resentment. When the poor girl dropped on her knees, and gave vent, to her feelings by a gush of tears, the lady yearned towards her, and, looking at her with compassion, she said, "Yes, it may be so;"—and, from that moment, she made up her mind to keep the poor creature with her, and teach her all she was capable of learning. She would, by this, be preserving the girl from the ill-treatment which she saw by her countenance and manner whilst the woman was in the room she had evidently been subject to, and she would also, by this act, save herself from the continual annoyance of this woman's visits and importunity. She might keep this poor girl as a dependant, and account for her presence there, by saying that she came into the garden through the little private door from the lane, and fell on her knees in a supplicating attitude, which she (Mrs. Courland) understood to mean, "Take care of me,"—and she had taken care of her, out of compassion. This was, in fact, true, as far as it went; and of course the girl herself could not betray her. So, instead of concealing the girl in the little inner room, as she had intended, she sent for her niece and told her the tale.
It seemed so romantic, that Miss Morley was delighted, and amused herself by trying to talk to the girl by signs, which she soon found she understood with remarkable quickness; for, in all but the power of speech and hearing, she was shrewd and intelligent. This was a new occupation for Mrs. Courland; it opened out a new life to her; it relieved her mind from the anxieties which had almost overwhelmed her before.
Her husband might come now,—she was not afraid of the tales of her persecutors. She knew the worst, and was no longer harassed by suspense. She could tell him as much or as little as she pleased,—her silent protége could not enlighten him further; and the people she so much dreaded before, she would not admit to her presence again.
A suitable wardrobe was procured for the delighted girl; and Julia, assisted by Mrs. Courland's own attendant, succeeded in making her look quite presentable in a short time. They were very much amused at her utter astonishment, when she looked at herself in the glass, after they had dressed her and arranged her hair, according to the "mode,"—she could not make it out at all. She looked into the glass and smiled, as if pleased with the change, and then looked round, as if trying to find her former self. They then proceeded to teach her how to conduct herself in keeping with her dress, especially in the etiquette of eating and drinking among well-bred people; and it was astonishing, how soon she learned all they wished to teach her. The next puzzle was to find a name for her; and, as she seemed remarkably fond of flowers, they called her "Flora;"—not that it made any difference to her, poor girl, whether she had a name or not; but it enabled her kind friends to designate her the better when speaking of her.
Mr. Morley and Josiah, in the meantime, had effected an entrance into the deserted house, through the window in the end, which entered into the bedroom on the ground floor. One glance sufficed to convince Mr. Morley that this was the house,—he had heard it described so often by his father. There were dark marks on the floor still, and the bed was blood-stained, although time had softened it down into a faint tinge only.
That bed appeared never to have been touched since that fatal night, except to remove the dead body of the murdered man from it; and the other rooms also seemed as if they had been lately occupied, except that everything was covered with dust and cobwebs, and the rats and mice had made sad inroads into the bed-curtains and everything that they could convert into food, or make an impression on with their sharp teeth. An old rat came out of one of the bedrooms to meet them as they mounted the stairs, and seemed astonished and indignant at the intrusion; but when he saw that the intruders were not to be daunted by looks of defiance, he turned and scampered back again to his old quarters between the blankets. The beds had remained as they were when the fugitives left; and on turning down the covering of the bed to which the rat had directed its course, Josiah discovered a nest of young rats comfortably settled. They soon scampered off, however, and, in their retreat, roused others; and there was a precious noise through the house, as the inmates rattled downstairs. No wonder that the house had the name of being haunted. These noises had been heard before, no doubt, when some daring thief had attempted to get in to rob it; and their superstitious fears preserved the house and its contents from invasion. It was very easy to account for the last occupiers having left all things as they were; for they were, no doubt, glad to get away as soon as possible, after they had thrown the scent off from themselves by accusing another; and Mr. Morley's money, which they must have taken with them, was amply sufficient to compensate them for the loss of the house and furniture, and to provide them with all they would require for a very long time.
The rooms were all in the same state. Some of the drawers and cupboards were partially open, while others were locked, but the keys had been left in them. Everything betokened a hasty flight. In some of the drawers were found a few articles of clothing, both male and female; but these were moth-eaten and discoloured. There were no papers of any kind to serve as a clue to the discovery of the parties.
In searching one of the drawers in what appeared to have been the bedroom of a female, Josiah found a gold earring, of a peculiar pattern, with a small diamond in the drop end of it. This he put into his pocket, with the intention of giving it to the dumb girl, to amuse her; for all the household, at Ashley Hall, had already begun to take an interest in her, and she was getting quite at home with them, and familiar with every part of the house, and she could now make herself understood, without much difficulty. Mr. Morley thought it was very strange that such a valuable ornament should be found in such a house. Those earrings, however, might have been a present from some rich lady for services performed. The other earring might have been lost; or this may have been a stray one, taken in a hurry, among other trinkets, which the owners of that house might have appropriated to themselves from time to time, when they found an opportunity; for it was evident, from the circumstances that had occurred in connection with that murder, that plunder was their principal object.
When Josiah gave Flora the ornament in the evening, she looked at it at first with pleasure, and thanked the donor in her way. She then took it into another part of the room, and examined it more minutely, and admired every part of it. At last she gave a start, and her countenance became overclouded with an expression of terror and pain. This was in the servants' hall. And, running up to Josiah, she became quite outrageous, pointing to the ornament as if in anger; and then, making a sign, as if she thought it had come from a long way off, she threw it on the floor, and would have stamped on it, had not Josiah snatched it up. They could not at all understand what she meant. Josiah was about to put the earring into his pocket again, when she snatched it out of his hand, and ran out of the room. Nothing more was heard or seen of the ornament; and so they supposed she had thrown it away or destroyed it.
Mr. Morley was now beginning to feel uneasy about his brother; for he had heard from his friend Fowler twice, and in both letters he said he had seen nothing of Frederick. So Mr. Morley determined to return to Cornwall again without delay.