Mr. Morley found his brother still in bed; not because he was too ill to get up—for the walk and the cold bath had done him good—but for the simple reason that he had no clothes to put on. Those he wore in the morning were too wet, and he had not yet received a fresh supply from the "First and Last" inn, at Sennen, where he had left his things when he started so suddenly on his journey some weeks before. So Mr. Morley sat by his bedside, and got him to relate his adventures, which he did very faithfully, until he came to the adventure of that morning; and then Mr. Morley saw there was a reluctance to tell all. But he was determined to know everything, and he pressed his brother to confide in him; and, after some little hesitation, he told all, except his attempt at self-destruction. He didn't tell that; but he dwelt long on the conduct of Alrina, and asked his brother if he could give him any clue to the discovery of Alrina's motive for treating him so coldly and cruelly.
"Yes," replied his brother; "I think I can fathom it; and although I think Miss Freeman is a noble girl, yet I think, when I have related to you my adventures of the last few weeks, you will think that she is right, and that you have luckily escaped being mixed up in a most unpleasant affair, that must have embittered your whole life, had not that noble girl been more prudent than yourself."
It will be remembered that Frederick knew nothing of his brother's search at Mr. Freeman's house, when he found his chest there, and the money gone,—nor did he know of the second attempt, that morning, to secure the man of cunning, nor of his death,—nor, indeed, had he heard of his brother's success in entering the deserted house near Bristol;—so that Mr. Morley had a long and interesting tale to relate.
Frederick was very much excited several times during the recital, and seemed to drink in every word, as it were, especially when his brother arrived at the latter part of his recital, wherein Alrina pleaded so piteously for a delay of her father's punishment.
A long silence ensued when the tale was ended. At last Mr. Morley said,—
"Now, do you see Miss Freeman's motive for her treatment of you this morning?"
"Noble girl!" exclaimed Frederick; "I see it all, she knew her father's guilt, and did violence to her feelings to save me from being involved in the sad affair. But after all, I cannot understand why she should say she couldn't love me;—why not have told me all, and have left it to me to act according to the dictates of my own feelings?"
"She knew you better than you knew yourself," replied his brother; "and I repeat that she acted nobly, and you ought to consider yourself lucky, that you have escaped a life of misery; for, however deeply you may love this girl now, in the warmth of a first and youthful love, you would find that your ardour would cool considerably, when you saw the world looking coldly on your wife, and avoiding her society, as the child of a felon, and worse, perhaps, however good and lovely she may be in herself. No! no! take my word for it, my dear brother, you will thank her for the course she has pursued, when you have calmly reflected on it."
"Never!" said Frederick, passionately; "instead of weakening my love for her, this noble conduct of hers, has endeared her to me a hundred-fold. What care I for the sneers of the world, if I have Alrina's love? I will go to her at once, and have a full explanation; and if, as you think, she declined my love for the sake of preventing my being subjected to the sneers and scorns of the world, I will compel her to marry me."
"Stay," said Mr. Morley; "you must first ascertain that my conjecture is the right one; but I wouldn't advise you to see her yourself. Let me see her for you."
"No," said his brother; "I will see her myself." And as his clothes had arrived by this time, he dressed and accompanied his brother back to Tol-pedn-Penwith, where Lieutenant Fowler had no difficulty in accommodating them both, although his house was so small. He ordered an extra hammock to be slung up in the largest of the sleeping apartments, where the two brothers slept soundly till a late hour the next morning, as they were both very tired.
Josiah, in the meantime, kept watch and guard over "the Maister's" house and its contents. It was pleasant enough while the daylight lasted; but when night came on, and darkness covered the face of the earth, Josiah thought it was very whisht to be there in that house all alone. So he went down to his father's, and had a good supper, and something to drink. This made him feel very comfortable, and he wished them all good-night, took a lantern with him, and went back again to his solitary watch.
Josiah was a courageous man at all times when there was any real danger to be feared, and a strong man, as everybody knew. The man must be more than mortal who could make Josiah afraid, but he had a strong superstitious feeling in his composition; and who had not in those days?—and if there was an excuse for the feeling at all, it certainly might be excused in such a case as this. Here was the man who had been the dread of the neighbourhood, and who was believed to have dealings with the Evil One, lying dead in that lonely house, where so many evil deeds had been done, some of which had been discovered within the last few days. That he was a man to be feared and dreaded no one doubted; but whether he really had the power which many gave him credit for, remained to be proved yet. Josiah thought that perhaps it would be his fate to prove this; and it cannot be denied that he felt rather uncomfortable, when he found himself seated in the kitchen of that house, not only without the pleasant society of Alice Ann, but, as he well knew, without having any human habitation within some distance of him.
His mother had kindly given him a flask of brandy, that he might indulge in the prevailing amusement at that period, of "keeping his spirits up, by pouring spirits down;" and so he sat down in the chair usually occupied by Alice Ann, having first placed a glass and some water on the table, and began to reflect on the vicissitudes of human life in general, and of his life in particular; and then he began to speculate on the prospects of happiness which seemed to loom in the future, when he should have led Alice Ann to the altar, and settled down as a married man. These thoughts were all very pleasant, and so was the brandy-and-water. The candle was burning brightly and so was the fire, and he thought he was "getten on brave."
He had got nearly to the bottom of the second glass of brandy-and-water, and was beginning to feel quite comfortable and happy. He only wanted one thing to add to his perfect happiness he thought, and that was the pleasure of Alice Ann's society. It was drawing towards midnight, and he was feeling drowsy, so he dropped off into a sound sleep as he sat in his chair, and dreamed of her he last thought of before he fell asleep. He fancied he heard her upstairs, brushing out the rooms, and knocking the furniture about, as servants frequently do, merely to show that they are doing something. She was making a tremendous noise certainly, he thought, and he called to her, in his sleep, not to make so much noise, to disturb "The Maister." But the noise continued, nevertheless; and when he awoke he found the candle burnt down in the socket, and the fire nearly gone out; so he replenished the fire first, and then looked about for another candle, but before he could find one, he heard, as he thought, a strange noise in "The Maister's" room. What could it be? No one could have got into the house; he had locked the doors,—he was sure of that, but still there was a noise—that was evident; and someone was walking up and down the room upstairs. What could it be?
The candle, which had been flickering in the socket, and wavering between life and death, as it were, for some seconds, now went out entirely, and left Josiah in perfect darkness. He searched in vain for another candle,—he couldn't find one anywhere; and then he tried to find the door of the kitchen, but he could not find it. He went round and round the room, as he thought, but no door could he find; so at length he came back to his chair again, which he found by the aid of the glimmer of light from the fire which he had nearly extinguished in his haste to replenish it, when he saw the candle flickering away.
He now fully made up his mind that he was spellbound, and that "The Maister's" spirit was walking through the house; but as the noise had ceased he became a little more reconciled, and helped himself to some more brandy, after which he fell fast asleep again, and when he awoke it was broad daylight.
He rubbed his eyes and looked about the room, forgetting for a moment where he was; and then he began to think of his absurd fancies about being spellbound and "piskey-led," and such nonsense; and he laughed aloud and went out into the fresh morning air. The doors were barred and all secure, as he had left them when he came in the night before. But still he heard those strange noises in his ears, and he could not get rid of the feeling that the "The Maister's" spirit was walking in his room last night. He locked the door behind him, and went down the road towards his father's house to breakfast.
"Why, 'Siah, boy," said Captain Trenow, laughing, as his son approached, "you're looking so whisht as ef you'd seed a ghost. "The Maister" dedn't trouble 'ee in the night, ded aw?"
"I caen't tell," replied Josiah, "what et wor, but I heerd a bra' noise in the night."
"Why, what are 'ee tellen?" exclaimed Mrs. Trenow, coming to the door; "I always thoft hes sperit wud walk, ef anybody's ever ded."
"Nonsense!" said Captain Trenow; "you're two patticks, both of 'ee."
Josiah would not be persuaded out of the belief, however, that "The Maister's" spirit was walking in his room last night.
"I'm no coward, fe-a-thar, and that you do knaw," said he; "but I arn't fitty for to stop up there another night by myself, nor I wean't nether to plaise nobody,—there, na."
His father turned the whole tale into ridicule, and laughed at the idea of noises being heard in "The Maister's" chamber, when there was no one in the house but Josiah.
"I'll tell 'ee, my son," said the old man, at length, with a wicked twinkle in his eye; "the brandy was too strong, I reckon. Ha! ha! ha!"
Josiah was about to reply indignantly to this insinuation, when they were disturbed by a knock at the door.
"Dear lor'!" said Mrs. Trenow, rising to open the door; "why, who can be come so early, I wondar?"
She soon returned, saying that the undertakers wanted to go in to do their work.
"Aw! iss, sure," said Josiah; "the door es locked, sure nuff."
"Come," said Captain Trenow; "we may as well go down too, and make sure that no more noises shall be heard. I shudn't like for 'ee to be frightened worse than you are, boy."
So they went down together; and, as Josiah unlocked the door, his father said in a sarcastic tone,—"Now, don't you be frightened, my son."
Josiah did not answer, but led the way upstairs to "The Maister's" bedroom, which adjoined the mysterious room, so often referred to in this history; and having unlocked the door, he led the way into the room where only a few hours before that affecting scene had been witnessed, which we have before recorded.
The awful escape from the hands of justice of one who seemed deserving of a severe punishment, and the consequent shock to the nervous system of a lovely and noble-minded girl, who would have braved everything to save her father from ignominy and suffering,—this scene was no novelty to the undertaker's mermidons. They were accustomed to view dead bodies continually, in their calling. They had been working all night, in order to be in time, and they had brought the fruits of their labour with them, and proceeded, without ceremony, towards the bed, when they started back in amazement! for,—the bed was empty!
"The Maister" was gone!—fled! But where?—that was the question. They searched the room, but found nothing. There was a communication, however, between the bedroom and "The Maister's" private room which no one remembered ever having seen before;—it must have been concealed by some paintings hung against the wall. It was open now—wide open. They went through, into the mysterious room, and there they found that the drawers had been opened and ransacked, and all the valuables taken away. The belt containing the diamonds and jewels, which had been put into one of the drawers in that room, was gone. Captain Trenow was the first to discover this; for he had found it in undressing "The Maister," and he it was who had suggested to Alrina the propriety of locking it up in one of those drawers.
The news soon spread that the conjuror—body and soul—had vanished from the room in which he was supposed to have died; and various were the reports that got into circulation. Some said they didn't believe he had been there at all; others thought he wasn't dead when the squire and party left him; while others again believed that he was really dead, but that, by some supernatural agency, he had been resuscitated and taken away through the keyhole, or up the chimney, and that probably he was then wandering about invisible. And those who held this belief were pitiable objects; for they feared to speak a word against "The Maister," lest he should instantly appear in his bodily form, and annihilate them as they stood. The dread of "The Maister" and his evil eye was bad enough when he was alive and in the flesh, but now it was ten times worse. Little knots of gossips might be seen here and there, holding private conversations in whispers;—but that was all nonsense, the believers in the supernatural would say. If "The Maister" was walking about invisible he could come close enough to hear them, whisper so low as they would.
Josiah was rather glad than otherwise that things had turned out as they had; for his father didn't laugh at him now for fancying he heard noises in the night. Captain Trenow thought it was Josiah's duty to go and inform the gentlemen at Tol-pedn-Penwith what had happened, and Josiah was of the same opinion, but he said he wouldn't go unless his father went with him.
"What! afeard to go up there in the day-time now, art aw?" said his father; "why, we shall be forced for to have a little maid for to lead thee about soon."
"No, no," said Josiah, smiling; "I arn't afeard. Tesn't that altogether, but you knaw what 'twas this mornin' when I told the story, and it may be the same up there,—sure to be, I s'pose, weth them youngsters, that don't believe in no such thing as ghosts. No, no, I arn't going for to be made a maagum of, don't you think et."
"Well, ef that's the case," said his father, "why, I'll go too."
So away the two men started at a brisk pace; and it was well they both went, for the gentlemen could scarcely believe the tale, although it was confirmed in a most solemn manner by the old man, who did not look or speak as if he was trying to deceive them.
As the squire had taken an active interest in the affair, it was thought advisable to consult him before they took any steps to follow the fugitive, for although they did not believe that there was anything supernatural connected with it, they were at a loss to conjecture what it was, or how such a strange affair could have happened.
They appeared a formidable party as they emerged from the lieutenant's cabin, each man stooping to avoid knocking his head against the upper part of the low doorway as he came out. They were all tall and strong-built,—indeed you would not meet with five such fine-looking men again in a good distance. They were embarked in one common cause; so they kept together, and approached Pendrea-house, a strong body.
Alrina, after a good night's rest, seemed more cheerful, and was pleased at the little attentions shewn her by Mrs. Pendray and her daughters. Blanche was most attentive to her;—she would not leave her for a single moment, and seemed to be continually thinking what she could do more than she had done to make their guest comfortable. Maud received her kindly and paid her great attention, but it seemed constrained; she appeared to look upon her as an inferior, almost an infected, being, from her unfortunate connection with that man, whom everyone now spoke of with disgust and abhorrence; for all his evil doings that had yet been discovered were now pretty generally known and perhaps exaggerated.
In the course of the morning, as Alrina regained her wonted composure, her situation became more apparent and galling. She could not but appreciate the kindness of the family, and especially the delicate attention of the gentle Blanche, for whom Alrina conceived an almost intuitive love, as for a dear sister; and therefore, for the present, she thought she must accept their kindness, and when all was done that was necessary for the interment of the remains of her poor erring father, she would seek some employment by which she might maintain herself without being a burden on others.
The money and jewels which Captain Trenow had found on her father's person, she determined she would not touch; for doubtless they had belonged to others and had been unlawfully obtained. Poor girl! notwithstanding all that the ladies at Pendrea were doing for her, and the kind attention they bestowed on her, she was ill-at-ease. She had many heavy thoughts and afflictions weighing her down, which her kind friends knew not of. Her father's death was not the greatest. Alas! she had, in her loftiness of soul, discarded the only being in the world who could have relieved her present sufferings and made everything smooth and bearable for her at this terrible juncture. She had decided on her course, however, in that respect; and the deep love she felt for him made her now more than ever determined not to bring disgrace upon him. After the treatment he had received at her hands, however, she did not believe he would ever come near her again, or think of her but with disdain;—indeed she did not deserve that he should,—she had taken her course, and she felt that she did not deserve his love or pity any more. This thought racked her brain, and rendered her silent and reserved. Her kind friends imputed it to her grief for her father's death, and the circumstances under which it had taken place. They knew now the strange story of the body having disappeared; but the squire thought it best not to let Alrina know this until they had ascertained more fully concerning it, and for this purpose he cheerfully received the formidable party that now sought his aid and co-operation.
They sat long in consultation,—one suggesting one plan, and one another. Frederick Morley, however, did not feel capable of joining in their deliberations. He walked to the window, and looked out on the dreary scene which bounded that wing of the house; but nothing that he could see without seemed so dreary, at that moment, as that which he felt within. He didn't care for the old conjuror, he said to himself, he might go to the devil if he would,—perhaps he was gone there. He wanted to see Alrina, and he knew that she was in that house, but how could he get an interview with her without betraying their secret?
He excused himself to the squire, and went out into the garden. Here he met one of the female servants, whom he had seen before in his former visits to the house with Lieutenant Fowler. He entered into conversation with her, and asked her in what he thought a disinterested off-hand manner, about Miss Alrina Freeman. But the shrewd girl saw at once how matters stood, and she pitied them both. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote a few hurried lines in pencil, and asked her to convey them to Miss Freeman, which the girl undertook to do as soon as the way was clear. Cunning girl! she knew at once, almost by instinct, that there was something between those two, which they did not wish the world to know at present. Even the prospect of having these few lines conveyed to Alrina was some relief to Frederick and he returned to his friends, who were still deep in consultation, but no plan had as yet been decided on. At length Captain Trenow, who had listened to all their plans without giving an opinion, said,—
"I'll tell 'ee, gentlemen,—'The Maister' dedn't walk off by hisself, that's a sure thing. Now, who helped 'n?—that's the point. Who are his friends? Tell me that, and we may guess, purty nigh, where he's likely to be carr'd to.
"Why I'll tell 'ee, fe-a-thar," said Josiah; "I b'lieve the friends he ha' got are them that slocked away Maister Frederick Morley here, and pocked 'n down in the cellar."
"Zackly like that," replied his father, looking at the gentlemen in a knowing way; "'Birds of a feather do flock together.'"
"A good thought!" exclaimed Mr. Morley, rising. "Don't let us lose any time, but proceed at once."
Horses were procured from the neighbouring farmers—for there were no gigs or dog-carts in those days at the Land's-End—and they started on their expedition; but lest so formidable a party should alarm the neighbourhood, they agreed to go by different routes and to meet at Portagnes, and to go in a body to Cooper's house; for that the body of the conjuror was taken there no one seemed to doubt;—it was the only place they could think of at all likely. For, although one of the party strongly believed that the noises he heard, and the removal of the body, were caused by supernatural agency, he did not express his thoughts on that point, but followed the others, fully persuaded that they would find their labour in vain.
Frederick Morley lingered behind his party a little, and under pretence of having left something behind at Pendrea, he returned there, promising to overtake his brother and the squire shortly. Fowler had gone another way, accompanied by Captain Trenow and Josiah.
Frederick had indeed left something behind at Pendrea, and, knowing that Alrina was there, he determined not to leave that place without having an interview with her, and hearing from her own lips an explanation of her conduct; and if it was from any feeling of delicacy, or as he deemed it foolish fear, that by uniting herself with him she would be bringing disgrace upon him and his family, he would insist on her recalling her vow, if she had made one; and if she still loved him as he believed she did, nothing on earth should prevent him from making her his own, and claiming it as his right to cherish and protect her against all the world.
This feeling had become a thousand times stronger than ever now, since he knew that she so much wanted protection. It strengthened his love, if possible, and made him more determined than ever not to leave that place without seeing her, and compelling her to give up her foolish scruples, and become his wife without delay; and the more he thought of her present destitute position, the more did he blame himself for ever having left her.
In the meanwhile, the squire and Mr. Morley pressed on their horses towards Portagnes, thinking that Frederick would overtake them; but as he did not, they supposed he had taken the other route, and had joined Lieutenant Fowler's party. They met according to appointment; but Frederick was not there. No one had seen him since he left them to search for what he said he had left behind at Pendrea-house. However, every moment was of consequence now, and they determined on proceeding at once to Cooper's house, where they believed they should find the fugitive. No one except Josiah doubted this for a moment; so it was determined that the outside of the house should be closely watched, by two of the party, while the others effected an entrance, by force if necessary. The constable, with his warrant, had accompanied Fowler and his party; and the lieutenant had left orders for two of his men to go round by water to the entrance of the cavern, and keep a look-out there,—so that escape was now impossible.
Lieutenant Fowler and Josiah watched outside, while the other three, accompanied by the constable, proceeded to effect an entrance into the house. They found the outer door of the garden unlocked, and they thought they should gain an easy entrance; for the fugitives had evidently either not returned there or were confident of their security. These thoughts passed through the mind of each as they passed from the outer door, through the garden, to the door of the house. Here, however, they found an obstacle, for the door was bolted. They knocked several times, and, no answer being returned, they held a consultation as to the best way to break open the door, when a head protruded from one of the upper windows, and they were asked, rather sharply, what they wanted.
"Come down, you old hag, and open the door, or we'll break it open," said Mr. Morley, in an angry tone, giving the door several knocks at the same time with his walking-stick.
"Don't be so hasty, gentlemen," said the woman; "I was fool enough to let you in last time, but you shan't come over me so easy again, I can tell 'ee. You should oft to be ashamed of yourselves,—iss you ded—for to come here with your staves and clubs to frighten a poor lone woman like me."
"Come down, you miserable specimen of humanity," said the squire, "and open the door, or it shall be broken open, and your house ransacked from top to bottom, and you will not be let off so easily this time, I can tell you."
"What did you please to want gentleman, when you do get in?" asked the woman, in what the squire thought a very impertinent tone. And he was about to reply, in a manner which would have given the woman an opportunity of keeping up the conversation, and thereby keeping them out of the house for a considerable time longer, when the constable thought it was time for him to begin; for he was a shrewd man in his way, and saw the woman's object. He believed she was keeping them in conversation outside, in order to give the other inmates time to get away or to conceal themselves in the house somewhere; so he said in as commanding a tone as he could,—
"You know me, good woman, don't you?"
"No, I don't," she replied, "and, what's more, I don't want to."
"I'm the head constable of the district I am," said he; "and I claim entrance, in the King's name, under a bench warrant."
"I don't care if you're the tail constable; you shan't come in here," replied the woman, shutting down the window.
"Thank you for nothing," said the constable; for at this moment the door was opened from the inside by Captain Trenow, who had gone round the house to reconnoitre, while the others were still trying to persuade the old woman to let them in; and, finding a window open at the back of the house, he entered that way, and now admitted the whole party. The old woman protested there was no one in the house but herself, and so it turned out; for they searched everywhere—upstairs and down—in the cellars and even out to the extremity of the cavern. There was no one there; so they beat a retreat and went back to the house they had before met at, hoping that by this time Frederick had arrived; but in this they were also disappointed. He was not there, nor had he been seen by anyone; so, after partaking of a hasty refreshment, they turned their horses' heads once more in the direction of the Land's-End, crestfallen and disappointed.
While the gentlemen were holding their consulation at Pendrea-house, the ladies of the establishment were variously occupied. Mrs. Pendrea was superintending the cooking of some nice little sweet dish for a poor sick child in the neighbourhood, and the two young ladies were seemingly playing at hide-and-seek with one another, and wandering from room to room, in hopes of hearing something, or of catching a sight of their lovers; while Alrina was left alone to meditate on her sad fate.
She had not been alone long, however, before the door was opened cautiously, and a servant entered, and closing the door after her in a very mysterious way, and, approaching the couch on which Alrina was resting, she put her finger on her lips, as much as to say, "Be silent," and gave Alrina a slip of paper on which was written, or rather scrawled, hastily in pencil—
"Dearest Alrina.—I am wretched,—miserable! Grant me an interview for a few minutes. I have something of the greatest importance to communicate. I will be in the garden at the back of the house as soon as the other gentlemen are gone. I shall go out with them to prevent suspicion, and return on some pretence. The faithful bearer of this will assist you and let you know when.
"Adieu—my dearest love,
"Frederick."
When her attendant saw the agitation into which the young lady was thrown, on the perusal of this scrap of paper, her former conjectures were confirmed, and she determined to do her best to assist the two lovers. She had a sympathetic feeling, and she retired to the window under pretence of putting the blind straight, while Alrina perused, and reperused, these few pencilled lines, so dear to her. She thought but a few hours ago that she had overcome every feeling but that of duty and honor, and that she could look upon him whom she so dearly loved, as a brother. It was for his good that she had decided on this course; and she believed that she should have firmness and courage to carry it out to the end; and but a short time ago she felt so strong in her mind and will, that she wished to see him once more to tell him so again. But she then feared that no opportunity would ever offer, and that she should never see him again to explain to him fully the state; of her mind, and her real motives of action; for she felt that she had wronged him in what she had said, and wounded his feelings when she told him she could not love him. She knew she ought not to have said that; but what else could she say? Her father was alive then, and might recover; she could not tell her lover of her father's faults and crimes; and what was she to do? Now, that he was dead, all was known, and Frederick believed, she must now know all too, and she could now tell him why she could not marry him; and she wished and longed to see him once more—only once more—and now the opportunity had come; it might never come again. But her heart failed her; she could not see him and tell him calmly that they must part for ever, and explain her reasons fully, so as to make him understand clearly what she meant. No, she could not do this; and yet she felt that she must see him once more. So she decided on obeying the promptings of her heart; and calling the maid to her, she said she wished to be informed when the gentlemen left, and then she would walk in the back garden a little. It was not at all necessary to explain anything further to that shrewd girl, for she immediately saw how things stood, and managed accordingly.
The Pendrea ladies were summoned to the drawing-room, almost immediately after the departure of the gentlemen, to entertain Captain and Mrs. Courland and their niece, who had come to return the call the squire and his lady had made on them a few days before at Penzance, where they had taken lodgings. Nothing could be better for the interview between the lovers.
Grace, the go-between, as she styled herself, was delighted. She immediately went to Alrina's room, and informed her that all was ready, and that the coast was clear; which information rather astonished the young lady,—for she could not conceive how Grace should know that she wanted the coast clear; unless Frederick had told her more than she thought was prudent. However, she had made up her mind to go through with it; and, having put on her bonnet and shawl, which the prudent Grace had brought with her, followed her conductress into the garden, when Grace shewed her prudence again by withdrawing and leaving the two lovers to themselves.
Alrina trembled at the thought of the terrible trial she was about to go through, and her heart throbbed at every step as she walked down the narrow pathway of the little garden, which was at the very back of the house, secluded from view and sheltered by high walls, with no window to overlook it, although, when you were inside, every part of it was exposed enough, for the trees were very few and stunted.
Frederick had not arrived, evidently, unless he was concealed in the little arbour at the bottom of the garden. Alrina walked down to it and looked in. No, he was not there,—something had detained him, no doubt. She waited, and waited, and walked up and down; still he did not come. She was getting cold. She climbed up so as to look over the wall, but could see nothing of him; and now she began to think he had deceived her. He had taken this course to be revenged for the insult she had offered him, when she told him—he to whom she had so often before avowed the fondest love—that she could not love him. Yes; he had indeed been revenged, and she felt that she deserved it all.
But hark! she hears a footstep approaching towards the garden-door. Her ears are quick; they have been listening intensely for some time. Yes! it must be. She rushes towards the door, and is caught in the arms of two lovely girls.
"Alrina, you naughty girl," exclaimed Blanch, "how could you be so imprudent as to come out in this cold wind?
"Alrina!" exclaimed the young lady; "can it be possible? you, here!—and have I found you at last, my darling schoolfellow!" And the two girls, in their gushing love, embraced most lovingly and affectionately; and then there were explanations to be given and rereceived, and Blanche led the way into Alrina's room, where Julia informed Blanche how they had been at school together, and how her brother Frederick had fallen in love with Alrina, when she was out walking, and how she had carried letters and messages between them, and how her brother had searched for Alrina everywhere, when he returned from abroad, and had written her to search everywhere for his lost lady-love too; and kissing Alrina, in her girlish way, she said, "Oh! how glad Frederick will be to find you here."
Alrina could do nothing but kiss her friend, in return for all her kind expressions and caresses. What could she say? She felt glad—very glad—to see her old schoolfellow; but, under the circumstances, it was mixed up with too much pain and sorrow to give her any permanent pleasure.
Very soon Julia was summoned to attend her uncle and aunt on their return to Penzance. They had taken a very substantial lunch while the three girls had been having their tête-à-tête.
Captain Courland and his party had travelled by easy stages, for they had come all the way in their own carriage with post-horses. It was one of those old lumbering carriages intended to hold six inside—a regular family coach.
"Well, ladies," said the Captain, as he seated himself; "I wish you would take pattern by Mrs. Pendray; she had no hoops, nor farthingales on,—a plain homely woman. No nonsense,—everything above board."
"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Courland; "a very pleasant, agreeable, little woman, as I have met with for a long time; but in the country they are not always dressed for receiving visitors."
"And didn't you like Blanche, aunt?" asked Julia; "she is such a dear girl."
"A nice little girl enough, I dare say," said the captain, answering the question for his wife; "but her elder sister seemed to snub her, I thought. 'Shiver my mizen,' thinks I, I'd haul down your topgallant sails, miss, if I were your father."
"My dear," said Mrs. Courland, "I wish you would try to forget your sea terms when you are in the society of ladies. I observed Miss Pendray looking at you with astonishment several times, when you were giving out some of your elegant expressions."
"I wish the squire had been home," replied her husband, without noticing the remarks of his wife; for he was accustomed to these rebukes,—not that she said them or meant them ill-naturedly, but she inherited her mother's aristocratic notions, and could not endure anything approaching to vulgarity or coarseness. She had not had very much of her husband's society in former years, for he was only at home for a few months at a time, and then his time was very much occupied, being the principal owner of the ship he commanded. But, now he had nothing to do, and was at home constantly, so that his elegant and accomplished wife had more frequent opportunities of experiencing his rough sailor-like manner; not that he was at all a coarse-minded man,—it was only his manner, which he had naturally imbibed from the persons he was obliged to come into such close contact with on board ship. He was naturally kind-hearted in the extreme, and would do any good that lay in his power for a fellow creature in distress; but he couldn't overcome his habit of using nautical expressions, nor indeed did he try to now. He did try at first, years ago, to speak a little more "dandified," as he called it, to please his beautiful wife; but he found it too hard to accomplish, and so he gave up trying, and contented himself with listening to her lectures, good-humouredly, which he said came in at one ear and went out at the other: and so he had listened patiently now to her remarks, and then continued the conversation as if nothing had been said on the "vexed" subject by his sensitive wife.
"I wish the squire had been home," said he; "he's a jolly fellow. I hate to be stuck up with a parcel of palavering women, and be obliged to sit bolt upright in my chair and take out every word and look at it before I speak, or else be hauled over the coals for it."
"I'm sure you behaved very well to day, uncle," said Julia; "I saw Miss Pendray looking at you several times, as if she admired your blunt, straightforward manners."
"Did you?" replied the captain, looking rather pleased; "I looked at her too when she got round to the starboard-tack. Brace my rigging, says I to myself; but you're as tight and well built a frigate from stem to stern as ever I clap'd my two eyes upon, save one."
"It was well you put in that saving clause, uncle," said Julia, laughing; "or you would have made Aunt Courland jealous."
"No, no," said the captain, taking his wife's hand affectionately, "I'm a rough knot; but if she never makes me jealous, I shall never make her so. Everything is upright and downright and aboveboard with me. No secrets from my wife, no, no; and I don't think she has any secrets or mysteries from me, although we do have a breeze now and then about the lingo."
"Talking of mysteries," said Julia, turning to her aunt; "who do you think I met at Pendrea? You'll never guess, so I may as well tell you. Why, no other than my old friend and schoolfellow, Alrina."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland; "you quite surprise me, where did she come from?—how did she get there?"
"I don't know," replied Julia; "for just as I was about to enquire all the particulars, I was summoned to attend you."
"Has Frederick seen her, or does he know she is there," asked Mrs. Courland, with more than her usual energy.
"I know no more than I have told you," replied Julia; "I only met her a short time before we left; for Blanche and I had been wandering over the curious old house, and we were just going to have a peep at what they call their garden, when Alrina came rushing out to meet us. I was struck with her peculiar beauty at once, for I didn't at first know her until Blanche mentioned her name. She was but a girl when I knew her at school; she has now grown a beautiful woman,—oh! so beautiful, Aunt, and so fair, with that auburn hair which you admire so much. I have seen someone very like her, but I can't remember who it is. The expression of her countenance when she met us, was so like an expression I have seen in some one before; but who it is I cannot remember,—it was so strange."
"We must ask the family to visit us at Penzance, my dear, and bring this wonderful stranger with them," said Mrs. Courland, thoughtfully; "I should like to know something more about her, and where she has been hiding so long, that no trace of her could be found."
"Oh! yes, Aunt," said Julia; "for the sake of Frederick, I'm glad she is found again; he was so passionately devoted to her."
"For his sake, perhaps, it would have been better if she had never crossed our paths again," replied Mrs. Courland, talking to herself rather than to her companions; "but the destiny of all must be fulfilled. There is some mystery about this girl,—I am convinced there is."
"So am I," replied Julia; "and I shall not rest till I have found it out."
"Mystery!" exclaimed Captain Courland, in a voice which startled the two ladies; "I hate mysteries. Everything open and aboveboard, say I,—there's no occasion for mystery. I'd throw the lubber overboard, and let him sink into Davy Jones's locker, if he didn't out with it at once, whatever it was. 'Speak the truth and shame the devil,'—that's my motto. I'll have no mysteries hid from me—no matter who it is—overboard he'll go—damn me!"
This outbreak was so sudden and so unexpected, that it made the two ladies feel very uncomfortable, especially the elder lady, whose conscience smote her, and made her feel that, some day, the secret she was keeping so rigidly from her husband might be revealed to him, and then all her happiness would be gone. For she now saw, from this sudden outburst of feeling, how angry he could be, and to what lengths he could carry his vengeance, if he ever found out that terrible secret, and discovered how long he had been deceived. It was a dreadful thought and she shuddered at it, and lay trembling in the corner of the carriage, while Julia, having no such pricks of conscience, and being, on the whole, more amused than otherwise at the Captain's burst of passion, apparently without a cause, answered him in his own language as far as she could: for she believed that it was only a reminiscence of something that might have happened on board ship, that had so roused him; and turning to him, with a laughing eye, she said,—
"There's rough weather where you're sailing, Captain, I believe."
"Rough!" said he: "yes;—but rough or smooth, I'll have the whole of the crew overhauled from the first mate down to the loplolly-boy; I'll make a clean sweep. Mysteries, indeed, on board my ship!"
"Why, whatever do you mean, Uncle?" said Julia, now getting alarmed in right earnest.
"Why! this is what I mean," replied he searching his pockets; "I'd forgotten all about it, till you began to talk about mysteries and such nonsense. When I went out to have a look about the place there, after lunch, a queer-looking 'son of a gun' came and gave me this letter, and cut off again as if the devil was at his heels. Now, you just read that, and see if I haven't enough to make me look out for squalls! what the devil is the meaning of it? I don't know!"
Julia took the letter from her uncle, and read the contents—first to herself and then aloud:—
"Noble Captain.—A secret mystery, which now hangs over you and your's, is about to be revealed; but fear nothing; be firm, and bear it as a brave sailor ought to do, and it will add to your happiness:—but should you be led away by passion, or weakness, and receive it otherwise, misery and woe will be the portion of you and your's for ever. Bide your time—you will have further notice.
"A Friend,—who was formerly an Enemy."
Julia read this strange epistle through two or three times, and so intent was she in endeavouring to discover what it could mean, and who the writer could be, that she did not notice the agitation of Mrs. Courland, and the anguish of mind she was suffering as she lay half concealed in the corner of the carriage; and the captain was too much engrossed with his own irritating thoughts to pay any attention to anyone else. So the poor lady was not disturbed by anything but her own thoughts until they arrived at their lodgings, when she rushed upstairs and gave vent to her feelings, harrowing up the most dreadful consequences from this revelation, which she had no doubt was that of her own secret. But, when she became more calm, and began to reflect a little, she saw how absurd it was of her to anticipate evil so readily. She had forgotten, in her haste, that she was now many, many miles away from anyone who could possibly know her secret, and, as she became calm again, she thought how very foolish she had been,—but so it is—an evil conscience will start at a shadow. When the mind is constantly brooding over one subject, and that, the consciousness of a crime committed, the guilty perpetrator of the deed fears to look an upright, honest man in the face; for he has the feeling that his breast is transparently open to his gaze if he only gives him the opportunity to look in: and so he slinks away, fearing that, in an unguarded moment, the transparency may be penetrated. Just so did Mrs. Courland feel when she heard her husband speak in those terrible and decided tones of his horror of secrets and mysteries, well knowing that she was keeping one from him in her own bosom which she ought to have told him long ago. And then that letter! Could it be that her secret was about to be revealed? She would have given worlds to know: it would be a relief to know even the worst:—the suspense was dreadful.
Every moment, during the latter part of their drive home, she expected her husband would say that he knew all, and denounce her as a faithless deceitful wife. She had consented to come into Cornwall, thinking that she would be here removed from any chance of a discovery, but she found, to her sorrow, that her guilt followed her even here—at least, so she believed in her weak and self-accusing mind.
Alrina thought her cup of misery had been full long ago: but here was another drop added to it. She was now fully convinced that Frederick had taken her at her word and given her up, and, to be revenged of her treatment of him, had induced her to come out into the garden, merely to shew her that he could be as indifferent to her feelings as she had been to his; and now Blanche knew her secret love, and would of course tell it to all the family; and Julia would return, no doubt, and endeavour to renew their former friendship until she discovered who she was, and what her miserable father had been, and then she would spurn her.
Blanche returned to her after the visitors had departed, and began the usual good-humoured badinage which passes between young ladies when a secret love is discovered: she spoke in a playful manner at first: for she did not know how serious it was, and she intended, if Alrina had placed confidence in her, and told her, as a friend, of her secret love, to have imparted to Alrina, in return, her own sorrows; and she was surprised and grieved to find that, although she could see clearly there was something very much amiss which preyed on Alrina's mind, yet her friend did not seem to have sufficient confidence in her to tell her what it was; so, to gain Alrina's confidence, in some degree, she told her own secret first. It took a long time in the telling, although there was not really much to tell; but it was the theme on which she had been dwelling for weeks, and weeks, and as it was uppermost in her own thoughts, she fancied it must be interesting in its minutest details to everyone else. She had never spoken of it before to a single human being, and now that she had commenced, and found, as she thought, a willing and attentive listener, she dwelt on every trifling incident.
Alrina's thoughts were otherwise engaged, but she sympathised with the gentle confiding creature who was pouring her thoughts and feelings into her ear, and, when she had told her tale, Alrina said:—
"My dearest Blanche, there is some misunderstanding in all this—someone has poisoned your father's mind: let some mutual friend but come between and explain, and all will be well. But my love, alas! is past all healing! It cannot be! it cannot be!" and she burst into a flood of tears, which Blanche tried in vain to assuage.
Early in the evening, Squire Pendray returned, bringing Mr. Morley with him, for the latter believed that his brother had remained behind at Pendrea-house for some private reason of his own, instead of following them to Portagnes; and, moreover, Mr. Morley was very anxious to see Miss Pendray once more, after having been absent from her so long. He had not, it is true, pointedly asked her the question, but he had seen sufficient of her to believe that his attentions were appreciated by her, and that he had a fair chance of being accepted, should he venture on that important step: and this step would have been taken long ago, but for his anxiety to secure the vile wretches who had so stained the character of his father, and brought him to an untimely end. He had spoken to the squire on the subject, during their ride home, and although he was rather inclined to get on his stilts again at first, believing that Mr. Morley had been trifling with his daughter's feelings, yet, when all was explained, he promised that if Mr. Morley and his daughter could make matters up, as he termed it, he would not object. And, while the squire went to acquaint his wife with the result of the day's search, Mr. Morley went in search of the fair creature whose charms had so entirely enthralled him: and so sure did he feel that his brother Frederick had returned to Pendrea, and was there comfortably ensconced, that he did not even enquire for him when he returned. Oh! Cupid! Cupid! thou little perverter of men's thoughts and tormentor of women's minds!
Alrina had scarcely recovered herself when Mrs. Pendray entered the room and told the two young girls the whole story of the mysterious disappearance of Alrina's father, and the fruitless search which had been made for him by the gentlemen that day: the squire thought it best that Alrina should be told the whole now, as there seemed no chance of their being able to discover the body, or the parties who were concerned in taking it away. This news came upon her so suddenly, that she could scarcely realize it. That her father possessed more shrewdness and knowledge than most other people she fully believed; but she did not believe in his being possessed of any supernatural power, as many in the neighbourhood did; and she therefore thought that the body had been removed by some of his wicked assistants, to gratify some private end of their own. Instead of giving way to tears again, she merely asked the favor of being left alone for the remainder of the night, that she might think on what course would be best for her to pursue under the circumstances; and, so earnestly did she urge this, that her friends were prevailed on to yield to her wishes, and she was left to her own meditations. The gentle Blanche was very loth to leave her thus, after the mutual understanding that had so lately sprung up between them; but, as Alrina assured her that she required repose and meditation after the excitement she had undergone, and that she should be better in the morning, her kind friends retired, begging her at the same time, to summon the domestics if she found she required anything more before they retired for the night.
Mr. Morley sought Miss Pendray every where, in doors and out, but she was no where to be found. One of the servants had seen her go out soon after Captain Courland and his party left; but no one had seen her since.—She had not returned.
This, however, was not at all unusual; she often wandered out alone, and stayed away for hours. No one took much notice of her eccentricities.
Mr. Morley enquired where she was likely to have gone. No one could tell: she might be gone to the Logan-Rock; or she might be, even then, sitting on one of the lofty rocks above Lamorna Cove, where she sometimes sat for hours watching the waves; or she might even be gone on so far as Tol-pedn-Penwith.—It was very uncertain which route she might have taken. One thing, however, the household were pretty certain about,—she was on the high cliffs somewhere, for she seldom went underneath.
Mr. Morley was determined to find her, and bring his suit to an issue at once; and he thought that, if he could have the good fortune to meet her alone on one of those distant headlands, he would have ample time to say all he had to say during the walk back; so he started in pursuit.
Miss Pendray's proud spirit could not brook the repeated slights to which she had been subjected by Mr. Morley, as she thought, and the indifference with which he had treated her: he had been at Pendrea-house again, and had not thought proper to see her or even to inquire for her. So, as soon as Captain Courland and his party were gone, she went out in no very amiable mood, and walked along the edge of the highest cliffs at a brisk pace; and so absorbed was she in thought, that she did not seem to notice the wild scenery, which generally had such attractions for her, nor did she think of the distance she was walking, until she found herself standing on one of the highest and most dangerous of the headlands to be found on that part of the coast, many miles from Pendrea-house, and no great distance from Tol-pedn-Penwith. She had, by this time, worked herself up to such a pitch of anger and disappointment, that she did not see her dangerous position. As she thought of the treatment she had received, she stamped her foot indignantly, and, in doing so, the crumbling rock on which she was standing gave way, and, with a shriek, she fell with it; but, fortunately, there happened to be a ledge of rocks a few yards down, standing out from the cliffs, which broke her fall and saved her from being engulphed in a watery grave, if she was not dashed in pieces by the fall from that great height. She was stunned by the shock, and lay insensible for some minutes on the narrow slip of rock which had so far saved her life. When she recovered her senses again she was afraid to move, lest this rock should give way too; and she shuddered as she looked down on the foaming water, which dashed against the rocks some hundred feet beneath her. And there she lay, in unspeakable terror, fearing that the next moment she might be precipitated into the abyss below.
Dreadful suspense! she had scarcely ever known what fear was until now. The shades of evening were fast gathering round her, and the fear of having to remain all night on that dread spot roused her, and something of her wonted courage returned. Looking about, she saw that the ledge of rock on which she was lying appeared to be the entrance into a cavern; but how large it was, or whether it was merely a chasm in the rock extending down to the sea, she did not know. She crept cautiously in, feeling her way, as she went. For several feet she found the rocks hard and firm; here she could rest securely. She sat and looked out on the broad ocean before her; and the more she reflected on her awful situation, the more disheartened did she feel. She saw nothing before her but a lingering death. No boat could approach the rocks underneath; indeed she could not be seen, unless she ventured out on that narrow ledge of rock again. When she had rested herself a little, she explored a little further, creeping cautiously along in the dark cavern. At last she thought she saw a light. She stopped, and looked around. The cavern was dark, except just at the entrance; but these lights seemed to be coming from the further end. She crept on a little further, and was at last convinced that this light came from some opening in the interior; but whether it came from above or below she could not tell;—perhaps it came from below. There was probably, she thought, a deep chasm running down to the sea from the interior of the cavern, and if she ventured too near she might be in danger of falling through. She crept a little nearer, and then sat on a rock to meditate on her position, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on this faint stream of light at the extremity. She was now begining to feel cold and uncomfortable; her delicate hands and arms were lacerated by the rocks, and her fingers were sore from holding on to them so firmly: in her fear and anxiety for her safety, she did not feel these injuries before, but now her scratches and bruises were beginning to make themselves felt, and there she sat in the greatest agony, both of body and mind.
The party who had gone in search of the body of Mr. Freeman and his guilty associates separated as they approached their respective homes: Captain Trenow and Josiah went to St. Just, Squire Pendray and Mr. Morley went to Pendrea-house as we have seen, and Lieutenant Fowler proceeded on his solitary journey towards his own cabin at Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station. On turning a sharp corner in the road, he met one of his men, who had been ordered out on night-duty, and who ought to have been watching the coast instead of travelling along on the public road.
The man touched his cap to his commanding officer, who spoke rather sharply to him as he returned the salute.
"What brings you here, Braceley?" said he, "when your orders were to keep close to the cliffs to-night;—for there's mischief afloat, and we want the coast well watched."
"Yes, sir," replied the man; "I have obeyed orders, and have heard something that I thought best to report at once, and I came this road, thinking to fall in with your honor."
"Well! what is it?" said Fowler; "bear a hand, and out with it; for it's cold standing here in the wind."
"By the powers! sir," said Braceley, looking very solemn, "I believe 'The Maister' isn't far off, for I've heard queer sounds."
"Sounds," said Fowler; "nonsense, man, what do you mean?—This is one of your confounded Irish superstitions."
"No, sir! by the Holy St. Patrick, 'tis no superstition, nor anything of the kind," replied Braceley, coming nearer to the officer: "I was coming along over the cliffs, sir, and I heard voices in the air over my head,—and I spoke to them, and they answered again. Spirits, I'm sure they were, your honor! 'The Maister' is here, says I,—and I tould him to be aisy while I called the praist."
It was a queer story; but as nothing was too strange or improbable to believe, in connection with "The Maister," after what had happened within the last few days, Fowler determined he would go and see what it was himself; so he accompanied the man in silence, until they arrived at the spot where Braceley said he had heard those extraordinary sounds. It was now getting dark, and the place was very lonely; not at all the place that a nervous man would like to be in at night, if he heard anything that he could by any means imagine was caused by supernatural agency. Fowler had none of that superstitious feeling in his composition which was so prevelant everywhere at that period, and he laughed at his companion, who possessed a good deal of it, and told him that what he fancied he had heard was entirely in his own imagination. The man could not be persuaded, however, and they listened for minutes, but heard nothing, and Fowler said, in a jeering, tone, "'The Maister's' ghost, no doubt, Braceley! you shall have a guard of nanny-goats when you turn out on night-duty again."
He had scarcely finished his sentence, before they heard the most piercing sounds rending the air all round them. Fowler was startled; the sounds came upon them so suddenly: he listened, but could not make out where they came from; sometimes they appeared above their heads, and then again beneath their feet: he did not believe in the supernatural, but he really didn't know what else to impute it to. His companion, however, had no doubt whatever but that it was "The Maister's" spirit hovering about, seeking rest. Neither of them spoke, but they walked on towards the edge of the cliff, and, on approaching a deep hole or opening in the rock, about fifty yards from the extreme edge of the cliff, Fowler was convinced that the sounds were coming up from underneath. This opening was partially concealed by the overhanging rocks, and might be passed unobserved by a casual visitor. He however knew the place well, for he had once, on his first coming to Tol-pedn-Penwith, made a good seizure of kegs in the cavern beneath. When they arrived at this place, he called down lustily and asked who was there, although he could scarcely believe that it could be any human being. He was soon convinced, however, and astonished beyond measure, at hearing a well-known voice calling up to him in tones of the bitterest anguish:—
"Oh! good sir, whoever you are, assist me out of this dreadful place; I fell from the precipice several hours ago, and crept in here. I am wounded, and bitterly cold. Oh! good Christian, make haste."
"Don't distress yourself any more," replied Fowler; "you shall be extricated at once; I know the cavern. I am Fowler of the signal-station: I will be down to protect you in a few minutes."
In her distress and fear, Miss Pendray had evidently not recognised his voice so easily as he had recognised hers. He desired Braceley to proceed at once to the station, and get ropes and lights, and all the assistance he could. Braceley had a blue-light in his pouch, which Fowler lit, and fired a pistol, which he knew would bring any of his men who were within hail to the spot at once. He then descended cautiously, by the aid of the light, to reassure the unfortunate lady, and to convince her that relief was at hand. It was a perilous adventure; but Fowler had been down before; and so he knew that the opening did not descend perpendicularly. He had first to slide down over a smooth rock, almost perpendicular, for several yards, and then to jump on a flat rock, and then slide on again, and so on alternately; but in the descent the greatest caution was necessary, lest, in jumping on one of the narrow flat rocks, he should slip and be carried by the impetus headlong down to the bottom.
Miss Pendray was still sitting on the rock, afraid to move, when Fowler jumped down at her side, carrying the light in his hand. She could scarcely express her joy and gratification. She clasped his arm tightly with both her hands and seemed afraid to let go her hold. She forgot all her former animosity, and thought only of her present perilous position and his ability and willingness to save her.
Braceley soon returned with ropes and lights and more assistance, and they were not long in getting Miss Pendray up from her perilous position. She was most grateful for the attention and almost miraculous assistance of Lieutenant Fowler. She was not so much bruised but that she was able to walk, although her limbs were sore, and her arms and hands were lacerated fearfully. Fowler accompanied her as far as the door of Pendrea-house, where he was about to take his leave, but she would not suffer it: she almost compelled him to come in; for she felt that, after all he had done for her that night, it was incumbent on her to dispel some of the clouds which had for some time hung over his happiness, and which she could not but feel she had been the means of gathering around him and her gentle sister, and which this evening's adventure had determined her to make amends for, by explaining to her father the true state of the case; for she well knew that she had exaggerated, to use a mild expression, when she told him of the clandestine meetings of her sister and the lieutenant. Anger and wounded pride had led her to commit this treacherous and ungenerous act, towards her younger sister, whom she ought rather to have advised and reproved in private if she had seen anything wrong in her behaviour. This act had been repented of often by Miss Pendray, but her proud spirit would not bend to acknowledge her fault: now she was determined on acknowledging the part she had played, and, if she could not be happy herself in the possession of the love of the only man who had ever really gained her affections, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing she had made two others happy, by candidly confessing her own dissimulation.
Mr. Morley, in the meantime, had gone on in search of her; but, as she had considerably the start of him, he did not overtake her. He walked over the cliffs for some distance, until he felt convinced that she could not be gone in that direction; for he did not believe that any lady would walk even so far as he had gone, on those high cliffs alone at that hour; so he struck into a path which seemed to lead towards the high road, thinking that would be the safer way for him to return, as he was not familiar with the coast. He walked on for some distance, until he came to a spot where several paths met, and here he was puzzled; however, he took the one which seemed the most probable, although he had by this time almost entirely lost his bearings, for he was now on low ground, and could not see the cliffs or the sea. He walked on briskly for a considerable time, when he halted again, for he felt convinced he had missed his way. There was no house or human habitation to be seen, nor could he see anyone of whom he might enquire; so he walked on again. The twilight was now getting more decided in its character, and the shadows of night were closing in, and he began to fear that he might be kept wandering over that dreary heath all night; for he frequently came upon some other path branching off from the one he was pursuing, and he would sometimes be tempted to try a fresh one. At length he thought he perceived smoke rising at some little distance, and he made sure now that he should meet with some one to direct him; for it evidently arose from a cottage at no great distance. He thought of his father's adventures in that lonely cottage, on that dreadful night, and he braced up his nerves and walked manfully forward; when, on turning into a narrow lane which seemed to lead to the cottage, a man ran against him, and nearly knocked him off his legs. Mr. Morley was a tall, powerful man, and was armed with a stout stick which he instantly raised above his head, ready to strike if he found that foul play was intended. The uplifted hand descended, but not to strike; for Mr. Morley, to his great surprise recognized in the ferocious and excited individual before him, his brother Frederick.
"Where on earth did you spring from?" he exclaimed; "I thought you were at this moment comfortably closeted with that unhappy girl you seemed so infatuated with."
"I left you with the intention of seeing her and having a mutual explanation," replied Frederick, "and she, no doubt, now feels that I have deserted her."
"No! no! she can't think that," said Mr. Morley; "but better she should, perhaps, than that you should unite yourself to the daughter of this man."
"But suppose she is not his daughter?" replied Frederick, looking earnestly at his brother, and speaking hurriedly and anxiously.
"That is a ridiculous speculation," said Mr. Morley, "after what we have heard and know. Of course she is his daughter; there can be no doubt about that: she has been known as such, at any rate, in this neighbourhood; and even the association with such a wretch must carry contamination with it. Give her up Frederick! let me entreat you to give her up!"
Frederick did not reply; but, taking his brother's arm, he led him back to the cottage which he seemed to have just quitted.
It was a lone cottage, and, but for the smoke which Mr. Morley saw issuing from the chimney, might have escaped his notice in the dim twilight: it consisted of several rooms, covering a considerable space, but they were all on the ground-floor. The house was commonly built, the rooms entering one into the other, without having any passages between them. There were several doors in the walls, by which a person could enter or escape, if necessary, and puzzle his pursuers. On entering the outer room, by the principal entrance-door, Mr. Morley perceived an old woman sitting at a table, on which were the remains of a substantial meal, and a good supply of liquor in a small wooden barrel or keg. The woman had just filled a jug from the barrel, and seemed about to carry it to some other part of the house; but on the entrance of the gentlemen she placed it on the table. She was a tall large-boned woman, with a commanding appearance, and looked as if she was accustomed to be obeyed; and yet there was an expression of low cunning in her countenance which was not at all pleasant, and which made strangers feel uncomfortable and suspicious. She was believed in the neighbourhood to be a witch, and people went to her to have their fortunes told, and she very often told them true, for she had her secret spies about as well as "The Maister"; but, from want of education, her prophecies were seldom so startling or so well or plausibly expressed as his were. It was generally believed that they were connected in business, and that they played into each other's hands, although no one had ever seen them together.
Sitting by the fire, on a low stool, was a grotesque looking being, somewhat between a man and a monkey; not that he was particularly ill-formed, but the expression of his countenance as he intently watched the woman's movements, had something ludicrous in it, and but for the wild stare which occasionally lit up his countenance, he might be an idiot or an imbecile.
"Ha! ha!" cried he, jumping up and skipping about in a ludicrous manner, as the two gentlemen entered; "'Maazed Dick' es the boy! 'Maazed Dick' es the boy! Letter to the young maister;—get him down here! get him down here! Letter to the cap'n; frightened out of his wits! frightened out of his wits! ha! ha!"
"Richard!" said the old woman, in her most commanding tone; "hold your tongue and sit down."
This seemed to have the same effect on "Maazed Dick" as the sharp command of a sportsman has on a well-trained spaniel dog;—he ceased his antics and retained his seat by the fire, keeping his eyes fixed on her of whom he seemed to stand so much in fear.
The old woman then, turning to the two gentlemen, said, "What's your will, gentlemen? and what do you want here at this hour of the night?"
"This is my brother," said Frederick, "and I want him to hear from your lips what I have heard to-night: it may tend to convince him that he has formed a hasty opinion and that all may yet be well."