Frederick Morley's state of mind can better be imagined than described, at finding himself a prisoner in the house which he intended to have entered as the bold deliverer of his beloved Alrina, who was, perhaps, by this time on her voyage to America. The boy continued to attend upon him, and he was beginning, Morley thought, to take an interest in him, and to pity his position; for Frederick, who was now getting strong again, had proposed taking him into his service,—at which he seemed pleased, although he did not say whether he would accept the offer or not. Cunning boy! he knew very well that he was watched closely by Cooper and his wife.
"What the devil were you and that chap whispering about?" said Cooper to the boy, one day, when the latter came down from attending on the invalid.
"If your ears had been long enough you would have heard," replied the boy, in his usual saucy way.
"Come, none of that!" said the man. "I wish 'The Maister' would come and take him off, or give the orders what to do with him; for I don't like this shill-i-shall-i game."
"Nor I," said the boy; "I'm tired too with this work. I'd rather be out than here tending 'pon the sick, like a maid. I tell 'ee what I'd do, ef I wor you, Cap'n,—I'd give'n the run of the cellars."
"What's the good of that, you fool?" replied Cooper, looking as if a bright thought had struck him all at once.
"Why, I'll tell 'ee," said the boy, coming closer to the man, and whispering in his ear,—"he'd be starved to death, or else he'd run his head agen the walls and batter his brains out."
"You young rascal!" exclaimed Cooper, looking at the same time more pleased than he intended to look; "you don't think I'd treat the young fellow like that, do 'ee? He never did any harm to me. If 'The Maister' ha' got a mind to do it, he may, but I sha'n't."
"You're turned chickenhearted all at once," said the boy. "I tell 'ee,—I don't like to be shut in here all day, when a turn of the key in the cellar-door would settle it all, and give me my liberty once more; and I tell 'ee, Cap'n, ef you don't like to do et, give me the key of the cellar, and I'll put 'n in there this very night, and nobody will be the wiser."
This was what Capt. Cooper would like to have done days ago; but he feared a betrayal on the part of the boy; but now that the young rascal, who was the acknowledged protége of Mr. Freeman, had proposed it himself, he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity, and his friend would thank him when it was all over, and he should be very glad himself to get rid of an enemy so formidable. These were his thoughts and reflections. Why he made them, or what reason either of them had for their antipathy to this young man, did not appear. That they had this antipathy was very evident,—and that their wish to get rid of him was about to be accomplished, was now vividly apparent to the mind of Capt. Cooper without the possibility of any blame being attached to him. He had sufficient control over his feelings, however, to prevent his showing the real pleasure it gave him, to the boy; but he stipulated that, to prevent an escape, he should himself be present to unlock the door, and put the prisoner into this safe stronghold.
The boy then went back to the prisoner, and told him that Capt. Cooper had granted permission for him to take a little exercise on the beach that evening; at which Morley was much pleased, for he felt almost suffocated, shut up in a close room for so long a time. Anywhere, he thought, was better than that. So, when the boy came in the evening to let him out, he almost leaped with joy. At the bottom of the stairs they were joined by Cooper, and the three went down another flight of steps, which seemed to Morley dark and dismal. The boy whispered to him that he would soon be in the open air, but that it was necessary they should reach it by a circuitous route. The man also spoke kindly to him; and down they went, till they came to a door, which the man unlocked,—and, in his eagerness to secure his prey, he gave his prisoner a push, which sent him headlong down another flight of steps.
The sudden fall stunned Morley for a few minutes; but he soon recovered himself, and, on looking round, he found that he was in what seemed to him to be a dark dungeon. This was worse than all. The boy had betrayed him! This he was now convinced of, and he should be left there in that dark cold dungeon to perish. He groped his way round the place as well as he could, and felt that the walls were damp. He stumbled over some casks and boxes, as he went cautiously along; and by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see that he was in an underground cellar, not very large nor very high; but in going round by the wall, he found that this small cellar communicated with a large one, which he groped his way into, through a small archway. Here he sank down on the floor from sheer exhaustion, and began to reflect on his situation.
Everything seemed going against him. It was evident, from the way in which the man had pushed him down the stairs, that he was anxious to get rid of him, and would perhaps resort to some speedy way of doing so; and he feared and believed the boy was in league with him. Why Mr. Freeman should have taken such a dislike to him he could not imagine, for he had never seen him that he was aware of. Altogether, it was a mystery which he could not understand; so he gave himself up to despair, and made up his mind that he would never be permitted to leave that place again. Whether his death would be a lingering one of starvation, or whether it would be a quick one by assassination, he could not of course tell;—he almost wished it might be the latter, for the suspense was dreadful.
Hour after hour passed away, and there he sat brooding over his unhappy fate, but no one came to end his woes. Night came on,—he could feel it although he could not see it, for all was cold and dark and dreary around him. The damp was coming out from the walls, and he felt a chill pass through his frame; for he was still weak from his late illness. Exhausted nature was giving way, and sleep was falling on him. He tried to keep awake; for he feared that if he slept in that place he should never wake again. He got up and tried to rouse himself and keep awake by walking to and fro, but it was of no use. His thoughts were terrible. It was better to suffer death than continue in that state of awful suspense. He sat down at last on an empty box, and yielded to that oblivion which soothes and invigorates the frame, while it relieves the mind from harrowing and disagreeable thoughts and feelings.
The gossips of St. Just were spared the necessity of inventing idle tales to keep conversation alive,—a practice so prevalent in small communities, where the events that happen in everyday life are generally so uninteresting and monotonous. Events had happened within the last few months which gave ample scope to the most inveterate and accomplished gossip for exercising the art of conversation to the fullest extent, and yet be most truthful; although they still had the power of embellishing the facts according to their own lively fancy and vivid imagination. They could talk of "The Maister" now with the utmost freedom; for he was no longer in the neighbourhood to pry into their secrets, and read their thoughts, and ill-wish them for talking of him and his doings. And, as a reservoir of water that has broken through the embankment, after having been pent up till it was full almost to overflowing, rushes with greater force on its first outburst,—or the pent-up steam in a mighty engine when suddenly let loose,—so did the long-restrained tongues of the gossips of St. Just now pour out, to their hearts' content, their secret spleen and antipathy to their dangerous and dreaded neighbour, Mr. Freeman. There was not a house in which some scandal was not going on continually;—and this was not confined to the women, the men being equally intent on "giving the devil his due," as they termed it.
Business was brisk at the "Commercial" Inn. The afternoons were generally devoted to a gossip over a dish of tea and a drop of "comfort," between Mrs. Brown and a few of her intimate female friends, after which the kitchen was occupied until a late hour by the men, who would drink a double quantity of beer if anyone could be found to amuse them by relating some fresh tale.
The chair in which Mr. Freeman had been accustomed to sit in the chimney-corner, was generally left unoccupied by a seeming tacit consent, the better to enable the speaker for the time being to designate the person of whom he was speaking, without mentioning any name, by simply nodding his head towards the vacant chair;—for they were, even now, afraid that "The Maister" might be listening to them in secret.
Of all her female acquaintances, Mrs. Brown preferred Mrs. Trenow for a quiet gossip, because, living very near "The Maister's" house, and having been on intimate terms of friendship with both Alrina and Alice Ann, she could impart as well as receive information.
The whole neighbourhood was teeming with news. Events of the most thrilling interest were happening every hour—and, being told and retold from house to house, they lost nothing in their transit—when, one afternoon, Mrs. Trenow paid her accustomed visit to her old friend Mrs. Brown, whom she fortunately found alone, with the exception of her husband, who was sitting in the chimney-corner, thinking of nothing, and whistling for want of thought.
As she entered, Mrs. Trenow closed the door after her, and looked round the room in a mysterious manner, much to Mrs. Brown's surprise,—for they had lately fallen into the habit of discussing their subject rather more openly, in the conscious security of the absence of the evil-eye.
"Arrah, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, smiling; "the Franch are landed sure nuf now, then, I s'pose. Ef so, we'll put up a red coat to John Brown, and stick 'n out afore the door to frighten them away."
"I don't knaw nothen' 'bout the Franch, not I," replied Mrs. Trenow, drawing her chair as close to the landlady as she could, and bringing her face almost close to the ear of her friend; "but he's come back, cheeld vean!"
"Who's come back?" asked Mrs. Brown,—in a tone, however, which seemed to require no answer.
"I wor setten' up brave an' late, doen a bit of menden'," continued Mrs. Trenow,—"for, what with one body an' another comin' in chatting, I haan't done much by day lately—when I heard footsteps outside, and a woman's voice, complaining of a long walk, and how glad she was to get home once more. So, after they were gone by, I opened the door an' looked out, an' there I seed a man an' a woman. It was bright moonlight, you knaw,—an' who shud they be, but 'The Maister' and Miss Reeney. I cud see them so plain as I can see you now, as they went in through the little gate. Alice Ann was sent for again to-day, an' there they are. Where Miss Freeman es I caan't tell. They came back in a vessel, the maid said, an' wor out a bra' while. Where they've b'en to she cudn't tell, nor Miss Reeney neither, I b'lieve, for she wor kept fine an' close; but I shall knaw more another time,—Alice Ann cudn't stop more than a minute."
"Well, I'm glad they're come back, for one thing," said Mrs. Brown—"an' that's for the sake of Miss Reeney, poor young lady; I b'lieve she's dragged about more than she do like."
"Iss fie!" replied Mrs. Trenow, whispering into Mrs. Brown's ear again; "she's grieving about that young chap, so Alice Ann do say. She wor took away in the night, you knaw, an' never so much as wished 'n well; an' now she don't knaw where aw es, f'rall she ha' sent two letters to un; and she do b'lieve he's dead, for she haan't had a single line from him, evar sence he have b'en gone. An' our 'Siah said that he wor mad after har; an' ef he's alive he wud ha' found har somehow,—that's my b'lief."
"Well, all I can say es," chimed in Mrs. Brown, "that I'm sorry for them both. I took a mighty fancy to that young man. 'Tes whisht; but I caan't think that he's dead at all. But what's become of 'Siah?"
"Here!" exclaimed that individual, in a stentorian voice, which made the two friends jump from their seats, as he stalked into the room. "Why, I might ha' walked off weth your poor dear husband, Mrs. Brown, and you wud nevar ha' know'd et; for I was standen' behind your backs a bra' bit afore I spok', an' you nevar heard or seed me."
"No, sure," said his mother; "we wor just then spaiken' about you and your young master;—why, where have 'ee b'en, Siah; we thoft you wor lost, but I'm glad you're come back, for more reasons than one. Miss Reeney will be more contenteder now,—I s'pose he'll make et up now, Siah. Ef they're so mazed about one t'other as you do say, why the sooner they're married the better."
"Married!" exclaimed Josiah; "I wish they cud be, poor souls; but where es aw, says you?"
"Where es aw!" asked both the women in a breath; "why, come home weth you, I s'pose,—where else shud aw be?"
"No fie," replied Josiah, in a more serious tone; "I wish aw wor. He started from Ashley Hall a fortnight ago, or more, an' said he wor comin' down here for to sarch for somebody, an' we thoft for to find om here. Maister Morley, hes brother, es over to Leeftenant Fowler's. Mr. Frederick not here! that's whisht, thon. What core to bâl es fe-a-ther this week, mother?"
"He'll be home from bâl about six o'clock to-night," replied Mrs. Trenow.
"I'll have a glass o' brandy toddy, ef you plaise, Mrs. Brown, an' then go home to ax fe-a-ther's advice. He ded used to have brave thofts about things."
Captain Trenow was very glad to see his son returned safe and sound: for, as he had never been a great traveller himself, he could not understand the pleasure to be derived from locomotion and change of scene. "I can get along brave here," he would say, "where I do knaw everybody: but how I should get along among strangers I caan't tell. I shud be in a whisht porr sometimes, I reckon."
But notwithstanding his father's modest opinion of himself, Josiah held his knowledge and shrewdness in high estimation; so he related to his parent the whole of his adventures, from the time he left home until his return, and then asked his advice upon the whole—not only as to his own course, but as to the course he would advise his patron Mr. Morley to pursue, and especially as to the search it seemed incumbent on them to make after his young master.
"I'll tell 'ee, boy," said Captain Trenow, after he had heard his son's story, and had ruminated over it for some minutes,—"'tes like as this here, you knaw—he's kidnapped, that's what he es!"
"Hould your tongue, do," replied his son; "that's nonsense. Why, who wud kidnap he, I shud like to knaw. What good wud that do to anybody? What do anybody knaw about he, for to go for to kidnap 'n? No, no, ould man; touch your pipe a bit. They'd be glad for to bring om back agen, I reckon; for he's brave an' heavy, mon. No, he's no more kidnapped than you are; he's fell in a shaft, more likely."
"Like enough! like enough!" replied the father, seriously; "we must sarch, boy,—come!" And the kind-hearted miner rose at once, and took his hat with the intention of proceeding at once to search and drag every open shaft in the neighbourhood. But Josiah thought they had better see Mr. Morley first, and inform him that no tidings of his brother could be obtained at St. Just or the neighbourhood.
After a good supper, therefore, the two men started for Tol-pedn-Penwith, where they arrived just as the two gentlemen were about to retire for the night.
Mr. Morley was much concerned when he found that his brother had not been seen or heard of at St. Just; for he had fully made up his mind that he would visit that place first in his search after the girl he seemed so devotedly attached to; and would naturally endeavour to trace the fugitives, in their journey from thence round the sea-coast, to the solitary house in which Alrina said, in her letter, she was then confined.
"I am inclined to think," said he, at length, after a little consideration, "that Captain Trenow's conjecture may be true, and that my brother has been treacherously entrapped by some lawless band of ruffians, for the sake of gain. I scarcely believe he is murdered,—Cornishmen, from what I have heard of them, are not such cold-blooded villains as that,—and I am inclined to hope and believe that he has not fallen into a shaft; but wherever he is he must be found."
"With the morning's dawn," said Lieut. Fowler, "we must commence the search all along the coast, from the Land's-End to Truro. He was last seen at the latter place, you say?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Morley; "we traced him there, but could gain no further intelligence of him."
"If Captain Trenow and Josiah can go with us," said the lieutenant, "I think they will be of greater service than my own men; for, in the first place, I shouldn't like to take so many of us off duty, and, in the next place, I think these two strong miners will be able to assist us in exploring the shafts in our way, and may tend to prevent any suspicion being attached to our search; whereas, a party of my men searching and exploring the coast, would attract suspicion at once, and put the whole neighbourhood on their guard."
Captain Trenow and Josiah readily consented to accompany the two gentlemen; and, after a few hours' sleep, and a hearty breakfast, they started on their expedition.
For two whole days they searched unceasingly, exploring every shaft they came near,—the two miners having brought ropes, by which one of them was frequently lowered down, to search for their young friend in the bowels of the earth. Houses were entered and searched thoroughly, and all manner of questions asked of the inmates, very much to the astonishment and terror of some of them, but all to no purpose. Yet on they went, searching still, and searching everywhere. At length, towards the end of the third day, they arrived at a solitary spot, which attracted the attention of Mr. Morley. It was a house surrounded by high walls on every side.
"This," he exclaimed, "appears to answer the description given in that letter, better than any place we have seen yet! Courage, my comrades! we have found the spot at last."
As they approached the outer door of the garden, they saw in a ditch by the side of the wall, the carcase of a dead horse, on which the crows were feeding so ravenously that they did not perceive the intruders until they were almost close upon them, when they rose in a cloud that almost darkened the sky, making a discordant noise, and flapping the air with their wings, which was heard distinctly until they settled down again in a neighbouring field to wait a favourable opportunity to return again to the feast from which they had been so suddenly dispersed.
Here was the spot, then, wherein, if not Frederick Morley, they felt pretty certain his loved Alrina was confined; and it should go hard, they said, if a clear discharge was not made of all prisoners inside, whoever or whatever they might be. Lieut. Fowler and Mr. Morley were armed with a brace of pistols each, while Capt. Trenow and his son had only their stout cudgels to depend upon.
"Never mind," said Capt. Trenow; "a stout cudgel and a strong arm ha' beat a good many men afore now, and may again;—I arn't afeard; art thee, 'Siah boy?"
"No fie," said Josiah, flourishing his cudgel round his head, and grinding his teeth with energetic determination; "I'll scat them all abroad 'pon the planchen' ef I do come nigh them." And down came the end of the cudgel on a log of wood near him, with such a crash, that the crows were frightened once more, and rose like a rushing mighty wind, and settled down again one field further off.
Whether it was the noise of the crows, or the sound of Josiah's cudgel on the log of wood, or a sudden impulse of female curiosity to see who the strangers were, the door was opened from the inside just at that moment, and a female head peeped out, and as suddenly Josiah sprang at the door, pushing it wide open, and asked as deliberately as he could under the circumstances, "ef the lady wanted to buy a hoss?"
"A hoss!" said the woman, taken quite by surprise; "no,—how ded 'ee think so?"
"Why, the crows are getten' fat upon the hoss you lost last week, and so I thoft you'd be wanten' another," replied Josiah, with the greatest coolness.
"Oh! that wasn't ours," said the woman, taken off her guard by the coolness of Josiah,—"that belonged to a young gentleman that——"
"Hold your jaw and bar the door, and be d——d to you!" exclaimed a man, coming out of the house in a rage.
"This looks suspicious and businesslike," said Lieut. Fowler, as he rushed into the garden after Josiah, followed by their two companions. The woman had disappeared at the first rush, but they were met midway between the door of the house and the outer door of the garden, by a rough, strong-built man, who seemed half sailor and half miner by his dress.
"What the devil do you want here?" said he, addressing Lieut. Fowler, who was now the foremost of the party. "I'm d——d if I don't see light through you in about two twos." And he drew a pistol from a side-pocket, and presented it at the lieutenant's breast.
"Two can play at that game," exclaimed Fowler, drawing a pistol from his breast-pocket.
"And three!" cried Mr. Morley, drawing his pistol also.
"Now, I'll tell 'ee, soas," said Capt. Trenow, putting his cudgel very coolly between the parties, and addressing the stranger on whom they had intruded,—"'tes like as this here, you knaw; two to one es brave odds,—the one might be killed—sure to be, I s'pose. Ef you've got any more of your sort inside, comrade, bring them out and then we'll fight fe-ar; or, ef you haan't got no backers for to fight, why lev es have a croom o' chat. Now, I've done, soas; spaik the next who will. As for fighten, I can stand a bra' tussle; but as for spaiken, I arn't wuth much."
No backers—as Capt. Trenow called them—came out; and, as the occupant of the house sew that he was left so sadly in the minority, and felt, no doubt, that he had been the first aggressor, by presenting his pistol at the breast of a king's officer, as he knew Lieut. Fowler to be by his dress, he began to make apologies as best he could, very much to the amusement of Capt. Trenow, who really seemed to be the coolest of the party, and, like a good and experienced general, was equal to the occasion, and could by his coolness and shrewd common sense, persuade where he could not command. And he very soon led the way into the house, as if he had been the owner of it, and was followed by all the party.
As resistance was quite out of the question, against four armed men, and one of them a king's officer in authority, Capt. Cooper made a virtue of necessity, and became very civil and obsequious.
What the object of this visit was he was puzzled to imagine. If it was in search of contraband goods he was safe; for they had all been disposed of long ago. He was not left long in suspense, however; for Mr. Morley was too impatient to find his brother to delay his enquiries, and he thought the bolder he did so, the better.
"We are in search of a gentleman," said he, "whom we have traced almost to your door. If he is here you had better say so at once, and produce him. If you decline, we shall proceed in our search; and if we find him, after a denial by you, the consequences may be serious to you and your household. If, on the other hand, you tell us honestly where he is, and produce him, if in your power, you have nothing to fear."
"If you will tell me the name of the gentleman," replied Cooper, cautiously, "I will inform you if I have seen him or not. I am accustomed to see gentlemen here on business often. But this much I will tell you, that unfortunately at present the only inmates of my house are myself and my wife; otherwise, perhaps you would not so easily have entered."
"The name of the gentleman we are in search of is Mr. Frederick Morley," said the interrogator. "Have you seen him?"
The mention of that name seemed to cause the smuggler to start involuntarily; but he soon recovered his former coolness and said, "I have no such person here; but, to satisfy yourselves, you are at full liberty to search my house; I will get the keys." And he left the room in search of his wife, who was not far off; and as he left the room, Josiah slid out after him unperceived, and saw him give a key to his wife, instead of taking any from her, and whisper something in her ear: so he determined to watch below while the others went upstairs. He had hid himself behind a door in a dark passage, from whence he watched the momentary interview between Captain Cooper and his wife, unperceived by them; and when Cooper returned to the party in the front room Josiah took off his shoes and followed Mrs. Cooper stealthily down some dark stone steps. It was so dark that even she was obliged to grope her way down. Once or twice she stopped and turned round and listened as if she fancied she heard someone following her; but Josiah was accustomed to grope his way in the dark underground, and could, therefore, perhaps, see better than she could under present circumstances; so he continued to dodge her footsteps, until she arrived at a small secret door in the wall on the right hand, which was so artfully concealed that a stranger, even with a lamp in his hand, would most likely pass it, believing it a part of the wall itself. Mrs. Cooper had evidently found the door by counting the steps as she descended, and she now groped about with her hand to find the keyhole, which she was not long in doing, for she had evidently performed the feat many times before. When she had opened the door Josiah heard her go down some more steps, into what he thought a dungeon or vault; and he listened at the door, which she had left ajar. When she was at the bottom of the steps, he heard her call to someone in a low whisper, saying, "Sir! sir! where are you? follow me and I'll save you. Come quickly!"
Josiah now determined at all risks to follow the woman, and see the end of it and rescue the prisoner if possible; for he now firmly believed that his young master was incarcerated here, and that it was to him the woman was calling, perhaps with the intention of murdering him, or getting rid of him in some way; so he put on his shoes again and approached the spot from whence the woman's voice proceeded. She evidently took him for some other person, and, seizing him by the hand, she dragged him along after her through the darkness, until they heard the sea dashing against the rocks, when she said in a hurried and agitated manner,—
"The smugglers are seeking your life;—fly if you would be saved. At the end of this passage you will find an outlet. Run for your life! the smugglers are after you! Fly! fly!"
The truth now flashed on the mind of Josiah, and he saw exactly how matters stood. It was evident that someone, most probably his young master, was confined in that dungeon, and, fearing detection, she had been sent to convey the prisoner away, and, by frightening him, and pointing out a way of escape, induce him to run into the sea over the rocks, at the entrance to the cavern, which perhaps communicated with this dungeon, or, it might be, to jump over a precipice.
She had evidently mistaken Josiah, in the dark, for the prisoner, and he was determined to turn the tables on her; so, seizing her by the wrist in his powerful grasp, he exclaimed, in a stentorian voice which struck terror into the affrighted woman, and made her sink on the ground as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt,—
"You cold-blooded old hag! tell me who you ha' got here locked up in this gashly old place, or else I'll carr' you where you wanted me to run, an' throw 'ee into the sea, and hold your head under water till you're so dead as a herren'."
"Oh! sir," said she, gasping and writhing with the pain that Josiah's strong hand was inflicting; "it wasn't my doing,—'twas that boy; he put the gentleman here."
"Come, come," said Josiah; "no nonsense! Was it Mr. Frederick Morley or who was it?"
"Oh! sir," screamed the woman, "I b'lieve that was his name."
"Then where es he gone to?" said Josiah.
"Oh! sir," cried the woman; "I'm afraid he must be dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Josiah; "ef so, I'll break every bone in your body, and your husband's too, and burn the house over your heads. We must have a light and sarch." So saying, he dragged the woman back towards the steps which led up to the dark passage, while she continued to scream from the pain she was suffering; for he did not relax his grasp in the least.
When they had emerged on the main stairs again, Josiah flung the door wide open that there might be no difficulty in finding it again, and called out lustily for a light.
The woman's screams and Josiah's vociferous calls for a light, reached the ears of the searchers upstairs, and they all ran down in great alarm to enquire what had caused such a terrible commotion.
"He is here!" exclaimed Josiah, when his friends appeared;—"bring a light quickly."
Captain Trenow had seen a lantern in the kitchen as they passed, and, being accustomed to emergencies in his daily occupation as a miner, he went back, and, lighting the candle, appeared again with the lantern in his hand, before the others had recovered from their surprise.
Captain Cooper at first put a bold front on it, and denied all knowledge of the young gentleman, until he saw the cellar door wide open and knew there was now no escape. He then maintained a sullen silence, and preceded the party down the narrow steps into the cellar. It was deemed advisable to send him in first, coupled with Captain Trenow, fearing treachery. Josiah still kept his hold on the woman.
On they went in double file, slowly and cautiously, searching every nook and corner, looking behind old casks, and turning up old canvass bags that lay about in corners; but no trace of their missing friend could be found.
Capt. Cooper now began to hold up his head again. It had evidently turned out better than he expected, and he called his wife a doating old fool, to tell such lies and deceive the gentlemen in that way. They had searched the whole of his house and premises,—and what more would they have? He might complain, but he wouldn't, he said. They naturally felt alarmed about the young gentleman,—who would not? He had no hesitation in telling them that Mr. Freeman and his daughter Alrina had lodged at his house for a few weeks, for change of air for the young lady, who was delicate; but they had left, and, he believed, had gone back to St. Just.
What could they do, therefore, under the circumstances, but thank Capt. Cooper for allowing them to search for their friend, and to bid him adieu? Josiah, however, still held his opinion that his young master had been confined in this dungeon, and had been got rid of somehow. He was not at all satisfied. He must have been starved to death there, he said, and the rats might have eaten him, and he believed they had. This idea, however, was not entertained by the others of the party, although they knew not what else to think.
Our story now takes us back to Pendrea-house, where we left several of its inmates ill at ease both in body and mind. For, as some mighty warrior, who has borne the burden and heat of the day on the battle-field, and received bravely many a thrust from the point of a lance without flinching, when he retires to his couch after his fatigues, is worried and tormented almost beyond endurance by the bite of a small mosquito,—so were the inmates of Pendrea-house—one and all—disturbed and thrown out of their natural course, by the sharp-pointed arrows of a certain little mischievous creature, who is generally represented as a little innocent-looking, chubby-faced boy, with tiny wings and a laughing eye. He had shot many an arrow at Miss Pendray before, which merely grazed the surface of her smooth delicate skin, and the wounds disappeared almost as quickly as they had been inflicted, leaving scarcely a trace behind. But now his arrow had pierced deeper, and caused a wound which disturbed the peace of mind of this haughty beauty. Mr. Morley had paid her great attention during the short time he had been in the neighbourhood, and had given unmistakeable proofs of his admiration of her, and she had been fascinated by his handsome person and agreeable manners and conversation, and had met him more than halfway, and displayed without disguise the interest she took in him and the pleasure she felt in his society. Yet he never once spoke to her on the subject nearest her heart, and had left the neighbourhood abruptly, without seeing her or bidding her farewell; and now he had returned with Lieut. Fowler, and left again without seeking an interview with her, or even calling at Pendrea-house. She felt that she had been deceived by his attentions, and that he was perhaps after all only trifling with her. This her proud haughty spirit would not brook, and she tried to drive his image from her thoughts, but she could not succeed; for the more she tried to pluck out the little barbed arrow that had already pierced her heart so surely and sharply, the deeper did it penetrate, and the wound was now becoming almost unbearable.
She tried to soothe her troubled mind, by taking her accustomed walks along the cliffs, and sitting in solitary meditation on the bold headlands, and watching the waves as they came surging and dashing against the rocks beneath her feet. His image haunted her still, and made her very miserable. She might now have sympathized with her poor suffering sister; for she well knew the cause of her illness, although her mother and her attendants attributed it to a different cause; but her proud haughty spirit would not stoop to condole or sympathize with one who had so boldly accused her of unseemly behaviour—even although that one was her only, and till now her darling, sister. So the poor little innocent Blanche continued to suffer in secret, having no one to whom she could confide her sad tale. There was one consolation, however, which she possessed unknown to anyone in her father's house except her favourite maid, who was, as she termed it, "keeping company" with one of Lieut. Fowler's men;—this was a letter which Lieut. Fowler had contrived to send her through this medium; wherein he explained to her the circumstances of his dismissal from the house, and the cause,—reiterating his protestations of unalterable attachment, and his determination to possess the object of his fond affection at all risks and against all opposition, if Blanche was as true and devoted to him as he believed her to be.
This letter distressed while it consoled her; for she now felt in its fullest force that it was owing to her own weakness and persuasion, that Lieut. Fowler had incurred her father's displeasure, and she felt also that she ought to sacrifice everything to exonerate her generous and fondly devoted lover from the disgraceful suspicion attached by her father to his conduct. She believed that her sister, who inherited all her father's pride and aristocratic notions, had set him against Lieut. Fowler, by relating with considerable exaggeration their apparently clandestine meetings, which seemed no doubt, as she had represented them, very reprehensible, and sufficiently culpable to justify her father in acting as he had done.
Blanche, therefore, thought that, if she could find an opportunity of speaking to him alone, and explaining the nature of their meetings, which were not clandestine, as her sister very well knew,—for she generally knew when and where they met, and was frequently asked to join them,—and if she could at the same time explain to her father that it was by her own persuasion, and at her earnest request, that Lieut. Fowler had refrained from naming his intentions to him earlier, he might at least be induced to alter the harsh opinion he had formed of his former friend. This she determined she would do;—she would take all the blame on herself, to exonerate him who was all in all to her, and who would, but for her, have boldly and honourably asked her father's consent to their happiness long ago.
Squire Pendray was very fond of his children, especially of his little pet, the gentle Blanche,—indeed, no one could help liking her. She possessed the good-natured simplicity and kindness of her mother, and was beloved by the poor as well as the rich; and many a little act of charity did this gentle, loving, girl do for the poor and needy, whose cottages she often visited in the course of her rambles.
Maud was kind and charitable to the poor also, and distributed her bounties as freely and largely as her sister, and perhaps more so; but her gifts were given with haughty pride, and the recipients were made to feel their dependent inferiority, by the manner in which they were bestowed. It was not so with Blanche;—she gave as if she were receiving a favour instead of bestowing one. She conversed with the poor recipients of her bounty, and freely entered into all their little troubles, and sympathized with them as if she were one of themselves; and yet they never presumed on her condescension, but looked upon her almost as a being from another world, come down to minister to their wants; and so her gifts were doubly valuable, and she was almost worshipped in the parish.
The squire was a shrewd man of the world, and was proud in the enjoyment of his wealth and position, and happy in the possession of two such lovely daughters; and it was with feelings of the deepest regret, that he saw them both pining away under the influence of some secret malady of which he knew not the cause. The best medical advice that could be procured was called in, but to no purpose,—the doctors could do them no good whatever. At last, when all their efforts had failed, Mrs. Pendray said to her husband one night, when they were sitting alone in the dining-room, taking their solitary supper,—
"I tell you what it is, squire,—those two girls are ill-wished, as sure as you are sitting in that chair."
"Ill-wished! nonsense!" replied the squire; "who can have ill-wished them, I should like to know? What harm have those two innocent girls done to anyone, to cause them to be ill-wished. No, no, I can't believe it."
"Well, whether you believe it or not," returned his wife, "I do,—in fact I'm sure of it. What has happened to one may happen to another, any time. There was Farmer Pollard's daughter, two years ago,—she pined away, just as Blanche is doing now, and nothing seemed to do her good until her father applied to the conjuror."
"Yes, I remember that case," said the squire; "and the conjuror discovered that she was ill-wished by another young woman, through jealousy. But that can't be the case with either of our daughters."
"There are many ways of ill-wishing, and many causes and reasons for doing so," replied Mrs. Pendray. "I was talking with Mrs. Pollard about it only yesterday, and she says that it may be that someone has a grudge against you; and so they may have ill-wished our dear children out of revenge, knowing how dear they are to us."
"If I thought that," said the squire, rising passionately, and pacing the room, "I would horsewhip the fellow within an inch of his life, whoever he is;—he should have some cause for his ill-will, at any rate."
"You forget, my dear," replied his wife, "that you do not know who the party is; and I only know of one way by which you can find out your enemy."
"And that is by going to the conjuror, I suppose," said the squire, in a sarcastic tone. "I don't dispute his skill, for I have seen proofs of it among our neighbours; but I don't like the fellow,—and I believe there are many of the same opinion as myself respecting him, but they are afraid of him, and dare not speak their minds; for he has great power, and manages to know what is going on around him, and even what is said about him, in a most unaccountable manner; but I tell you I don't like the fellow, and I wouldn't go near him if all my family were dying."
"Oh! don't say that," said Mrs. Pendray, putting her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away the tears which were trickling fast down her cheeks; "you would not see our poor children pine away, and do nothing to avert the calamity,—I'm sure you would not. Nothing seems to relieve them;—the doctors have given them up; and now, alas! we have but one sad prospect before us. After all the love and care we have bestowed upon them from their infancy, and the many happy years we have devoted to our darling children, and the pleasant future we looked forward to, it is very hard thus to be deprived of them, and to see their strength failing them, and the hand of death stealing over them in their prime, when one word from their father would restore them,—yes, one sentence spoken by their father, would restore them to their former health, and relieve their parents from present grief, and a future of unmingled misery and woe." And—overcome by her feelings, and the sad thoughts that arose in her mind at the melancholy picture she had drawn—the poor old lady gave way to a burst of grief, which touched the sterner heart of her proud husband, who averted his head and brushed away a tear with his hand, as he continued to pace the room in great agitation.
It may seem strange in these enlightened days, that persons in the position of Mr. and Mrs. Pendray should believe for one moment, that one person had the power to ill-wish another, or that it was in the power of any man, however skilful in the occult sciences, to counteract their evil imprecations. Yet such was the case. Superstition was rife in those days, as we have said before, even among the best educated; and many a poor old woman had suffered seriously, for exercising the power of witchcraft which she supposed she possessed.
The district of the Land's-End was rather too remote for this crime to be visited with severity by the authorities, and so the Land's-End conjuror was left undisturbed,—indeed, he was too cautious, generally, in his dealings with those who sought his aid, to give his enemies any handle that they could take hold of against him. Like the master of a puppet-show, he knew the mechanism of his figures, and knew what strings to pull to make them work according to his will;—the only difference was, that he exercised his skill on the minds of his figures instead of their limbs.
Squire Pendray was a man of good common sense, and a magistrate, and yet he had not escaped the common feeling of superstition which prevailed at that time—not only in Cornwall, but in every other part of the kingdom. It was not, therefore, from any want of confidence in the skill of the conjuror, that he declined asking him to exercise it, but simply because, as he said, "he didn't like the fellow." Probably he would have been puzzled to have given a reason for this strong dislike to a man he scarcely knew; for Mr. Freeman avoided coming in contact with the squire, as much as he possibly could, and they had scarcely ever met. No doubt the conjuror had his reasons for this. It would not have been convenient for him at all times to have had the squire prying into his little secret doings.
Mrs. Pendray had appealed to her husband's feelings, and revived in his breast those chords of tender affection which she so well knew he possessed, but which had, in a measure, lain dormant since his children had grown into womanhood, and were able to take care of themselves. It seemed now, however, as if his daughters had returned to their childhood again, and required the tender care of their mother as much as ever they did.
"It is very hard," said Mrs. Pendray, still sobbing, and speaking more to herself than to her husband, "that, after all our care of the dear girls for so many years, they should be allowed to die now, because their father has some foolish scruples about asking the assistance of the only man that can relieve them from the spell that has been cast around them." And the poor old lady's grief burst forth afresh, while the squire continued to pace the room more slowly and thoughtfully; for conflicting passions agitated his mind, and he was debating within himself between his hatred of the man of science and his love for his children. At length parental affection prevailed, and he determined to lay aside the hatred which he somehow entertained towards the conjuror, and be a supplicant at his door the next morning, for his aid in relieving his daughters from the spell by which he now felt convinced they were bound. It was a severe struggle; but he had made up his mind to go through with it, and no obstacle would now prevent him from carrying it out.
We left our hero, Frederick Morley, fast asleep in the inner cellar at Capt. Cooper's house. He slept soundly—for he was quite exhausted—and dreamed of Alrina, whom he fancied he saw bending over him, and watching him as he slept; but it seemed as if he had lost all power over himself,—he could not speak to her. At last she glided gently away, and beckoned him to follow her, but he could not move. He seemed spellbound; and she faded away in the darkness, leaving him to lament his fate on his cold, damp couch. He continued to sleep on for some time, until he was roused by a voice which seemed to come from the innermost recess of the dungeon. He started up—for he thought his hour was come—and prepared himself to yield to the cold-blooded assassination which he believed was now to put an end to his earthly career. He could not defend himself, for he could not see from what point the blow would come. It was, however, a gentle voice that called him,—a woman's voice, he thought; he could not hear it distinctly, but still it called to him in the distance. Could it be Alrina? Had she, whom he had followed so long, hoping to be her deliverer, come to rescue him? But how could she have discovered him, and how did she get there? He knew not what to think. He answered in the same low tone, and approached the spot from whence the sound appeared to come, and was taken by the hand by someone—not by Alrina, however, but by his little attendant, Bill!
"Hush!" said the boy; "follow me, and you will be saved,—quick! before we are discovered."
The boy still held him by the hand, and drew him on; for the place was still very dark. They entered a narrow passage, and the boy dragged him on and on through the darkness. At last he heard the sea, and saw a glimmer of light in the distance; and presently a gentle breeze, which was wafted towards him, convinced him that they were approaching the outer world once more. They were now in a large cavern, into which the sea flowed, and he saw a small boat moored to a rock within the cavern.
The boy told him to jump into the boat; and in a moment, the mooring was loosened, and the boy was by his side in the boat, which he skilfully pushed out with one of the oars, and they very soon rode on the open sea. The boy then gave Morley the other oar, and they pulled out with all their might; for Morley felt that he was being rescued from the jaws of death.
When they were fairly out on the broad ocean, the boy said, "Now, sir, you take both the oars—you are stronger than I am—and I'll steer." So they glided swiftly over the still blue water;—for Morley had practised the use of the oar, both at home and abroad; and the feeling that every stroke of his oar placed a greater distance between him and the vile wretches who had evidently sought his life, gave additional strength to his arm, and he struggled against nature, and for a time forgot the weakness and exhaustion which had overcome him in the cellar and caused him to fall asleep in the midst of the danger that surrounded him.
The subterranean passage through which they had passed, had been excavated many years before. There was a large natural cavern running in for some distance under the cliffs from the sea, in the entrance to which there was water enough to float a boat at high-tide; and beyond the flow of the tide were large rocks, which prevented the water, except at very high tide, from encroaching on the interior of the cavern. In this cavern the smugglers formerly secreted their contraband goods: and many of them, being miners as well as smugglers, and being in the employ of a former owner of the house long before Cooper occupied it, they, at his suggestion and by his order—he being a great smuggler himself, and having made a large fortune by the trade—excavated a communication between that cavern and the cellar underneath his house, by which means smuggled goods could be secreted easily and safely. Very few people knew of this passage except the parties immediately concerned. The boy, however, had been found useful on many occasions, in watching the revenue officers, and putting them on a wrong tack, and, thus knowing the secret passage, formed this plan for rescuing Morley from almost certain death.
The night was calm and serene, and everything around them was still. Several small vessels were lying in the little cove—some ready to go to sea again with the next tide, having discharged their cargoes,—and others just come in, waiting for the dawn of day to begin their work of discharging their cargoes of coal and timber into the merchants' yards; and as the little boat glided by, the watch on deck would sing out, "Boat ahoy! what ship?" or, "Good night, shipmates;" and then all was still again; for the appearance of a small fisherman's boat going out at that hour of night did not arouse the least suspicion, and on they went swiftly and steadily.
The moon was shedding her soft pale light all around; and the oars, as they were "feathered" by the skilful rower, cast showers of silvery spray back into the water again at every stroke. Some of the white granite cliffs shone brightly in the moonlight, as its rays fell full upon them; while others, hid in shadows, seemed like some huge monsters, indistinct and terrible, towering above their lighter companions until they appeared almost lost in darkness, and imagination pictured them higher by many degrees than they really were.
On, on they went, bravely and swiftly; for the fear of pursuit impelled the rower to exert his strength to the utmost. But the strength of man will not always obey his will, and ere long he fell back in the boat exhausted and faint. He had but very recently, it will be remembered, risen from a bed of sickness, and the exertion and anxiety had been too much for him. His pluck had not deserted him, but he had exerted his strength beyond its power. Nature at last gave way, and he fell back insensible. His fall was sudden, and he dropped both the oars into the water. The boy was too much frightened to think of anything but his companion at the moment; so the oars drifted away, and the boat was left to the mercy of the waves, while the boy did all he could to revive the prostrate man.
He had brought no provisions with him—not even a can of water; for he thought that a few hours' rowing would bring them to the next cove, where they would land without suspicion, and procure anything and everything they wanted. Poor boy! he could do nothing but watch the invalid, and support his head on one of the thwarts of the boat, and this he did for a considerable time,—it seemed to him an age. At last kind nature came to his rescue, and the invalid opened his eyes to the boy's infinite relief, and in a short time he had so far recovered as to be able to comprehend their perilous situation. Fortunately it was a calm night, but there they were helpless and exhausted, and drifting out to sea with no provision on board. Morley gradually regained his former vigour of mind, if not of body, but it was only to bewail their sad fate.
Out, out they went to sea, drifting further and further from the land, with no power to control the course of their frail bark. At length, as morning dawned, the current changed, and they were drifted back again; and here they exchanged the calm tranquillity of their former position for the rough encounter between the two channels—always turbulent and often dangerous, but in a little boat without oars to guide her course doubly so. The rudder was of very little use in that turbulent sea. They saw the rocks with which that part of the coast abounds, and dreaded lest an unfortunate roll of the boat or an angry wave should drive it headlong upon one of those rocks and dash her in pieces. Hour after hour passed away in dreadful uncertainty. The turn of the tide again drifted them out to sea in another direction. They heard the roar of the Wolf Rock, and knew from that circumstance that they were drifting towards the Scilly Islands. They now gave themselves up to despair; for it seemed almost next to impossible that they could pass this Wolf Rock safely without oars or any means of keeping the boat under control.
Want of food for so many hours in his already weak and exhausted state, rendered Morley entirely helpless, and listless to all that might happen to them. He lay down in the bottom of the boat without the power to move or speak. The boy bore up as bravely as he could, and tried to support his companion; but he too gave way after a time, and then they lay side by side in the bottom of the boat, expecting every minute to feel a crash against the rock, and then all would be over.
At last it came—a bump! a crash! The water seemed filling their mouths and ears. They revived for a moment, and were fully alive to their awful position. All the actions of their past lives rushed into their minds, and they seemed to live their lives over again, in that short moment of time.
Alrina's form was vividly present to Morley's mind for an instant, and then all was blank!
Mr. Freeman had returned to St. Just with his daughter, but neither of them had appeared much in public since. The servant, Alice Ann, said that her young mistress was looking very whisht and palched, and "The Maister" worn't like hisself at all. He was continually locked in his private room, and she had seen him through the keyhole more than once, upon his knees before a great chest, taking things out and putting things in.
"What sort of things be they, then?" Mrs. Trenow would ask; for to her, as her nearest neighbour and the mother of her sweetheart, Alice Ann was most communicative.
"Why, powers of things," would be the reply; "silks and satins, all foreign like, and gold and silver I b'lieve—a purty passle."
Miss Freeman had not returned, so that there was no one to watch Alrina's movements, and she might have gone out and stayed out all day if she liked, but she did not care to move. She would sit in her room all day long, and scarcely touch the little dainties with which Alice Ann tried to tempt her; nor did she care to speak, unless her faithful attendant broached the subject of all others which she well knew occupied her young mistress's every thought. Days and weeks and months had passed away, and yet she had heard nothing of Frederick. She had written him, but he had not replied to her letters. Alice Ann tried to console her; but what could she, a poor ignorant country-girl, say by way of consolation to one possessing the refined and sensitive feelings of Alrina.
It was hard to believe; and yet, what could she think? He had deserted her! Perhaps he had met with another more to his taste, and more suited to him in position and fortune—one whose family history could be clearly set forth, and over whose heads no dark mystery hung. It was natural, she thought, that on reflection he should shrink from uniting himself with one whose family were so obscure and in many respects objectionable.
Many days did this poor girl sit brooding over her sad fate. She would release him from his engagement with her; it was right, she thought, considering all things, that she should do so, and she determined in her mind she would do so. She would like to see him once more, however, just to tell him this. When she had made up her mind to this step, she felt more tranquil and resigned to her fate, and she now began to walk out as usual, and wander over the rocks—perhaps with the dim hope that she might one day fall in with Frederick in the course of her rambles, as she had done before, when she could tell him her determination. Poor girl! she knew not her own weakness; for had he, whose image she had so fondly cherished from her childhood, appeared before her at that time, her fancied courage would have forsaken her, and she would have taken him back to her heart and forgiven him, even did she know beyond a doubt that he had deserted her for another.
Alas! she little knew how impossible it was for him to appear before her then, as she secretly hoped and wished he would; nor did she know, poor girl, how near he had been to her when she was under Cooper's roof. Conflicting thoughts occupied her mind for several days. It was a hard struggle; but she conquered her feelings, and the trial did not appear to her so painful, now that she had fully made up her mind that it was her duty to put an end to the engagement on account of this dark mystery which hung over her family history. She felt that in doing this she was acting honourably towards him whom she could not help loving still with all the ardour of a first love. This she thought she could bear better than the belief that he had deserted her;—she could not bear that, nor would she think so again. She felt that it was her own act now, as she had made up her mind that it should be so—not out of any angry feeling which she bore towards Frederick, but out of pure love for him, and a reluctance to place him in a position which might hereafter cause him pain, and, when the first ardour of love was over, make him ashamed of his wife's relatives.
When she had fully made up her mind to this, she felt more at ease, and would sit for hours on the rocks, in calm reflection on the past, and hopeful meditation on the future. And thus she would pass whole days without moving from the spot, watching the broad clear sea, and the vessels passing and repassing, and the graceful gambols of the sea-birds, as they flew from rock to rock, or took their flight far out to sea—never heeding the meal-time hour, nor seeming to want food or sustenance until her return, when her faithful attendant would upbraid her for staying so long without food, and force her to eat some little nice thing she had prepared during her young mistress's absence, with which to tempt her appetite.
In the meantime, her father continued to be occupied in his private room all day long, looking over papers, and examining the contents of that large chest.
One morning, while he was so engaged, there came two tall men to the outer gate of the little garden, who seemed impatient to enter; but not knowing the secret spring by which the gate was opened, they shook the gate in their impatience, and called loudly to the inmates (if there were any) to open and let them in.
Mr. Freeman's private room overlooked the little garden; and on going to the window to ascertain the cause of all this noise, he started back like a man shot, and trembled all over like an aspen leaf. Alice Ann was surprised too when she recognized one of the visitors, but hers was evidently a feeling of pleasure; for there stood her old lover Josiah, accompanied by a tall handsome gentleman, with remarkably white hair for a man of his age, as he did not look above forty.
"Dash the old gate," said Josiah, shaking it to and fro; "you're buried up brave, I think."
"Iss fie," replied Alice Ann, opening the gate; "we do knaw who to keep out and who to lev in."
"Where's 'The Maister'?" asked Josiah, as they entered the little garden.
"How shud I knaw?" returned the girl; "in his skin, I s'pose."
"Is Mr. Freeman at home, my good girl?" said Mr. Morley; "for I am very anxious to see him."
"He wor up in his room a bit a while ago, sar," replied Alice Ann, dropping a curtsey to the gentleman, "for I heard a purty caparouse up there."
"Tell'n that there's a gentleman do want to see un 'pon partic'lar business," said Josiah, "an' be quick about et."
"Not sure nuff I shaan't," replied the girl. "He said he mustn't be disturbed for nobody. Ef you'll stop till Miss Reeney do come in, she'll go up, maybe,—I shaan't, there na."
The girl was not to be persuaded; so Mr. Morley walked into the common sitting-room, as he saw the door open, while Josiah followed Alice Ann into the kitchen, to persuade her, perhaps, to go up to her master; or, probably as they hadn't met for some time, they had little secrets to communicate, into which we will not be so rude as to pry,—indeed, these little secret meetings between lovers are seldom interesting to lookers-on.
Josiah and Alice Ann would not have finished their tête-à-tête for some time longer, had not a thundering rap at the front door with a large stick, roused them from their pleasant conversation.
"Dear lor'! how my cap es foused, soas," said Alice Ann, as she jumped from her seat, and surveyed herself in a small looking-glass which hung in the kitchen; "whoever can be come now, I shud like to knaw. Drat thom!" And away she went to answer the knock.
"I want to see the conjuror," said Squire Pendray, in his pompous manner; for he it was who had disturbed the two lovers so cruelly.
"The what, sar?" exclaimed Alice Ann, opening her eyes to their fullest extent; for to call her master "the conjuror" was an offence for which she was sure the enquirer would suffer if her master heard it,—and what couldn't he hear?
The squire now became aware of his error; for he asked in his blandest tones if Mr. Freeman was at home.
"He wor home a bit o' while ago, sar," answered Alice Ann, curtseying very low; for she knew the squire was a very great man, and a magistrate.
"Tell him I wish to speak to him in a case of life and death," said the squire.
"Iss sar," said the girl, curtseying again, lower than before, and leading the way into the usual waiting-room, into which persons on urgent business of this kind were generally shewn.
Mr. Morley had walked into the common sitting-room, almost without being bidden; for, although the little waiting-maid had seemed so cool in the reception of her lover, she thought too much of him at the time to pay much attention to the gentleman he brought with him. She now went up and knocked at "The Maister's" door; and receiving no answer she peeped in at the keyhole. There was the great chest still open on the floor, but she could see nothing of her master, nor hear him. She knocked again a little louder,—still no answer. She then called to him; but no notice was taken of it, and she became alarmed. She tried the door,—it was locked. She then went down to consult with Josiah, who thought they had better tell the two gentlemen; so Alice Ann went into one room, and Josiah into the other, to inform the respective occupants how matters stood,—and then there was a general consultation as to what steps should be taken. Each gentleman was surprised to see the other there; but their thoughts were too much occupied in deliberating what was to be done, to ask any questions.
It was the general opinion that Mr. Freeman had either died suddenly from natural causes, or that he had committed suicide. Mr. Morley thought they ought to break open the door; but this Alice Ann would not consent to at all. She knew her master's power, and remembered the dreadful noises she had heard in that room, and the scenes which she believed had been enacted there, from the appearance of the poor victims when they came out. The squire also had some kind of superstitious dread of interfering with the man of science, who was so much feared in the neighbourhood; and Josiah, although so powerful in bodily strength, had a touch of this same superstition too. At last it was determined to send someone in search of Alrina, and to wait her return.
After some considerable time, which appeared longer than it really was to those who were waiting, Alrina returned, and was greatly surprised to find the house occupied by two strangers;—Josiah she had known long before. They were both much struck with her beauty and quiet ladylike manner, and explained to her their position. They had come to see Mr. Freeman on business, and it appeared he had locked himself in his room, and could not be heard inside, nor would he answer to the calls of the servant. Alrina was very much alarmed; but she said her father was very peculiar, and would often refuse to answer when he did not wish to be disturbed. She went up to the door herself, with the same result; and, after hesitating for some time, she at length consented that the door should be forced. This was easily accomplished by Josiah with the aid of the kitchen poker; and the whole party entered the sacred room, expecting to see some dreadful sight,—what, they could not imagine.
There stood the chest wide open, as the girl had seen it through the keyhole; but no one thought of looking into this,—their whole thoughts were centred in the fate of the owner himself. They searched everywhere, but no trace of him could be found. Alice Ann suggested that he had probably gone up the chimney in a flash of fire, and that he might be on the housetop at that very moment, looking in upon them, or riding through the air on a broomstick. "We've heard of such things, you knaw," said she.
They were roused from their speculations on the mysterious disappearance of "The Maister" by an exclamation from Mr. Morley, who had been narrowly examining the room, and was now standing transfixed before the large chest, which was open, and from which some things had been taken out on the floor.
"As I live," he exclaimed, "this is my chest! How could this have got here?"
"That's the chest," replied Josiah, "that 'The Maister' found after the wreck, and told us to bring up here,—for what, we cudn't tell."
"That chest contained money and papers of great value," said Mr. Morley; "it has been overhauled evidently to some purpose, and no doubt everything valuable is gone."
"Oh! no, sir!" cried Alrina, in a pitiable tone; "don't accuse my father of robbery,—he would never do that, I am quite sure."
"My dear young lady," said the squire; "your father shall not be accused of anything that cannot be fully proved; but I am bound to say it, however painful it may be to you, that I have had my suspicions for some time, and so have my brother magistrates. He could not have lived without money, and the mystery is where he got it from. Now, pray be calm, while Mr. Morley examines his chest."
"'Morley!'" cried Alrina; "did I hear you rightly, sir? did you call that gentleman 'Morley?'"
"My name is Morley," said that gentleman, taking her hand; "I am the brother of one whom I know you have been led to believe will take you out of your present position, and raise you to his station in life."
"No, sir," replied Alrina, indignantly,—"my family shall never be a disgrace to anyone; and, let me tell you, sir, that neither you nor your brother shall ever be disgraced by me! I will never be the wife of a man who might afterwards despise me."
"That was nobly spoken," said the squire; "you're an honour to your sex. Gad! I wish my daughters could speak like that, and send the jackanapes about their business that come swarming about my house."
"Dear lor'! what a handsome coat," exclaimed Alice Ann, as she saw Mr. Morley take a richly embroidered coat from the chest.
"Yes," said he, holding up the coat and admiring it; "that coat cost me a great deal of money. I had it made to wear at a grand fancy-dress ball in Calcutta; and there are other parts of the dress to match, somewhere. Oh! here they are; you have never seen anything like that in England, squire, have you?"
"Gad! but I have, though," exclaimed the squire; "if not that same dress, there was one very like it worn by a stranger at our last ball at Penzance. And now I begin to think,—why, it must have been Freeman himself disguised. I never saw him very near that I remember, for he always avoided me: but it struck me at the time that I had certainly seen that face somewhere before, but he looked much younger than he can possibly be."
"Aw! 'The Maister' esn't so old nor yet so ugly as he do make out to be," said Josiah.
After searching still further, Mr. Morley found the bag in which his money had been placed, but the money was all gone and the papers also.
"Now!" exclaimed he, jumping up from the kneeling posture in which he had been for the purpose of examining the contents of the chest; "here's proof enough. Now let us use all our exertions to secure the man." And, leaving Alrina and Alice Ann to take care of themselves, the two gentlemen left the house more quickly than they had entered it, followed by Josiah. But the object of their search had got the start of them by several hours; for his fear so overcame him at the sight of Mr. Morley entering his house—(why, was best known to himself)—that he opened the room door at once, and locked it behind him, putting the key into his pocket, and escaped through the back door, and over the back garden wall, while Alice Ann was opening the front garden gate to let Mr. Morley and Josiah in. And, making his way as fast as he could to the cove, he there got a boat which took him out to Cooper's little cutter, which was anchored a short distance out waiting for orders. It was his intention to leave the country in this cutter, as soon as he had arranged his affairs; for he found things were going against him, and that his power was failing fast; but he did not intend to have gone quite so soon. He had secreted a considerable sum in gold and jewels round his person, inside his clothes, several days before,—so that, in this respect, he was quite prepared for whatever might happen at any time.