"Frederick Morley," she said, rising and extending her hand in a commanding attitude, "you have heard all you will hear from me; do my bidding and you may know more: if you neglect it, or tell what you have heard to any human being, except the one named to you, it were better you had never been born." Saying which, she took up the jug again which she had placed on the table, and, waving her hand towards the door at which the two gentlemen had entered, disappeared into an inner room, bolting the door after her; and, almost at the same moment, "Maazed Dick" took up the keg of brandy from the table and disappeared also, somewhere in the wall, but where, the visitors could not tell; he could not have gone through the wall, that was very certain: there was evidently a secret cupboard somewhere in the wall; but, if so, it was very ingeniously concealed.
As there seemed no chance of learning any more, Frederick led the way out of the house and walked on at a rapid rate, followed by his brother, until they arrived at the end of the lane leading to the cottage. He seemed so excited that Mr. Morley became alarmed, and insisted on knowing what strange infatuation had seized him.
"You heard what that woman said," replied Frederick; "I feel that all my future happiness depends on my obeying her instructions, and I must do so."
"Nonsense!" said his brother: "it is perfectly ridiculous to suppose that the old hag we have just seen can know anything or do anything that can possibly influence your happiness in any way."
"She has not told me much, it is true," replied Frederick; "but she has told me enough to convince me that she knows more; but, however little I have heard, I am bound not to tell it even to you."
"Come! this is going a little too far!" said Mr. Morley, in a serious tone; "we are engaged in a common cause, and circumstances have prevented our pursuing our object together for several weeks: we must not separate again until these dark deeds are brought to light."
"I am convinced," replied Frederick, "that something will come out of my adventure this afternoon, which will throw a light on the whole. I wish, from my heart, I was at liberty to tell you; but it cannot be. I must work alone for a short time longer,—it may be a very short time. You are, I presume, going on to Fowler's station:—if so, we must separate, for my way lies in another direction."
"No," replied he, "I was going to Pendrea-house. I went out in search of Miss Pendray, and I believe I missed my way somewhere; I don't exactly know where I am."
"Fortunately, then," said Frederick, "you have been walking in the right direction, although not in the most frequented road: if you take the next turning on the right you will soon be at the end of your journey."
"But you will surely come with me," said Mr. Morley, taking his brother by the arm.
"My dear brother," said Frederick, looking earnestly at Mr. Morley; "it grieves me to be obliged to refuse to accompany you to Pendrea-house to-night, for many reasons; for I have another duty to perform which I feel convinced is of vital importance to more than one, but the nature of which, as I said before, I cannot now explain to you. Believe me, as soon as I have accomplished the task I have solemnly promised to perform, you shall know all."
As Mr. Morley saw that his brother was in earnest, and seemed determined to have his own way, he did not press him further, but bade him God-speed, and returned to Pendrea-house, which he reached soon after the arrival of Miss Pendray and Lieutenant Fowler.
Mrs. Courland remained in her room, for a considerable time after their return from Pendrea-house, reflecting on the events of the day, and especially on the unaccountable and unusual conduct of her husband. What could be the meaning of that letter?—Who could have written it? While these distracting thoughts were racking her brain, Flora, her poor dumb protegé, entered softly, unperceived by her protectress, and, leaning over the couch in which Mrs. Courland was reclining absorbed in thought, touched her cheek with her lips, and looked at her with a tender sympathizing expression, as if she knew that her protectress was unhappy, and was conscious that it was not in her power to comfort her, although she longed to be able to do so; but the events of the day, and the thoughts that had since passed through the mind of Mrs. Courland, had made the sight of this poor girl hateful to her. She had wished, in her heart, within the last hour, that this source and evidence of her deception could be blotted out from the face of the earth. She wished, in her agony, that she could be in any way got rid of and her existence drowned in oblivion; for, even here, in this remote place, she seemed to be followed by her dread enemies, and she believed that her secret was about to be discovered; the thoughts of those who have committed an evil deed, of however trivial a nature, being always suspicious and uneasy.
Mrs. Courland seemed suddenly to have changed her nature: from a gentle, beautiful woman, the sight of her she now so much dreaded seemed to have turned her into a demon in human form. She rose from her reclining position, and, seizing the poor dumb girl by the hair, dragged her down on the couch. What she meant to do, in her frenzy, it is difficult to say; for the action and look of the lady, together with the pain she inflicted on the poor girl, and the terror she felt, brought back the remembrance of former days, and all her old ferocity and strength returned; and, seizing Mrs. Courland by the wrists, she made her let go her hold, and pressed her back on the couch with all her might, until she screamed for help, and the servants ran in and extricated her from her perilous position.
It was more from the fear of what might happen than from what had already occurred, that Mrs. Courland gave the alarm; for she felt that she was as nothing in the hands of her protegé, when she chose to put forth her strength and her passions were roused. She had conquered again; and again did she seem to regret the part she had taken, when she saw that poor delicate lady powerless in her grasp. She released her hold at once, and the servants, having seen no violence used, believed that their mistress had been seized with giddiness, as she had told them she had, and that Flora, in attempting to support her, had, from over anxiety pressed her arms more tightly than she intended.
Flora, however, felt that Mrs. Courland had, without any apparent cause, treated her as her former associates had done: she saw and understood the look of determined hate and fury which was depicted in her countenance when she rose so suddenly from her couch and seized her by the hair. That look haunted her; she could not bear to think of it. She could not tell her thoughts to anyone, and she determined, in her own mind, that the lady, who had been so kind to her, should not have cause to look on her with hatred and scorn again. She would go away; she would die,—perhaps drown herself; she did not care what death it was; there was nothing worth living for now. All the world seemed to be possessed of the same evil passions, she thought,—they only wanted to be brought out. She put on an old bonnet and a shawl and went out: the coast was clear, for all the household were in attendance on Mrs. Courland. She walked through the town, and beyond it,—far out into the country.
It was getting late, and yet she walked on, not knowing where and without having any fixed purpose. On, on, she walked, sometimes on the broad road and sometimes through bye-lanes, she did not care where: her only object was to get away as far as she could, and to avoid being overtaken. At last she felt weary and sick at heart, and now she wished to meet with some house where she could rest herself a little; but there was no house to be seen anywhere: she had passed several at the commencement of her journey, but she did not feel so weary then, and had walked on. It was no use stopping in the lonely road, so on she walked again till her feet were sore; for she had come out in her thinnest indoor shoes. At length, when nearly exhausted, she saw a man coming towards her. She was frightened, and tried to hide herself behind a low hedge, but the man perceived her dress fluttering in the breeze, and he approached and spoke to her. She did not answer him but made signs to him, which he understood, for he had seen her before. It was Frederick Morley whom she had thus opportunely met. He had seen her before at his aunt's house, and he wondered to see her out alone at that hour, and in such a place, and made signs to go back; but she stamped the ground, and signified her intention of going on further away from her former protectress. Frederick saw that something had happened, but what it was he did not know, nor could she make him understand; she must be protected, however, for the night, until Captain Courland's family could be communicated with. He had just parted from his brother, and he at first thought of calling after him, and asking him to take her with him to Pendrea-house; but, on reflection, he thought this was a liberty that neither of them ought to take, as they were both comparative strangers to the Pendray family. He thought of the cottage he had just left, and that, perhaps, the old woman would not object to give the poor dumb girl shelter for the night; so he took her there, and the old woman received her with more warmth than Frederick expected, or than was at all necessary, he thought, under the circumstances.
Although Flora was very tired and hungry, and was glad to rest herself after her long walk, yet she did not appear at all comfortable. She seemed to look at the woman with dread and suspicion, but she was too tired to walk any further, so, after she had partaken of some refreshment, she followed the woman into an inner room, where there was a bed prepared for her. The old woman then gave Frederick some further instructions and enjoined haste and secrecy, and he again commenced his journey on the mysterious errand which had so puzzled his brother.
While her protegé was wandering through the lanes alone and trying to get further and further away, and seeking some obscure place where she should hide herself for ever, Mrs. Courland was receiving the attentions of the whole household. Her kind husband was much grieved to find his beautiful wife in this excited, and yet apparently helpless, state. She seemed to be suffering great pain too, but she kept the cause of it from them as much as she could, and covered her arms and wrists that they might not see the full extent of the bruises which the strong hands of Flora had made on her soft delicate flesh. The kind attention of her husband reassured her of his continued love and esteem, and she began to think that the mysterious letter might have been a mere hoax after all, and that she had nothing to fear: and as these thoughts occupied her mind in rapid succession, she began to feel more tranquil, until at last she came to the conclusion, that, even if her secret was discovered her husband would forgive her; and then she began to feel ashamed of her conduct towards the poor innocent cause of all this, and she sent her maid in search of Flora that she might atone for the part she had taken as the first aggressor, and make her protegé understand that she was forgiven also for the pain she had inflicted on her protectress.
The servants searched everywhere throughout the house, but Flora could nowhere be found. Her bonnet and shawl were gone, and so they supposed she had taken a stroll through the town, alone, as she was very fond of doing, and would return when her curiosity was satisfied.
Several hours passed by, but Flora did not make her appearance, and the household became alarmed; they fancied a thousand things. She might have missed her way and gone too near the sea, and have fallen in; or she might have been entrapped by some lawless gang of sailors and taken to one of their haunts. Captain Courland and the man-servant searched the town all over; they were out nearly all night, and, as soon as it was light in the morning he and the man started for St. Michael's Mount, in the vain hope that they might find her there, for she had often expressed a wish to see the interior of the ancient castle which appeared to her to be built almost in the clouds. She had the most romantic fancies sometimes, and amused her friends very much by the manner in which she expressed her feelings by signs and pantomimic dumb-shew.
All who knew her, loved and pitied the poor dumb girl, and they all joined in the search right heartily. Julia begged to be allowed to accompany her uncle; and the women-servants, and even the landlady herself, went out into the town and explored every part they could think of, leaving Mrs. Courland in the house alone. She could not rest, so she got up very early; but she was not equal to the task of joining in the search. She was sitting alone in the drawing-room, when she heard a hasty step coming up the stairs. Her first thought was, that Flora was found, and that some one had been sent to inform her of the fact. Without further reflection, she rushed towards the door in the greatest excitement, exclaiming—"Is she found? Is she found?"
"Yes, my dear aunt," cried Frederick Morley, catching Mrs. Courland in his arms as he hastily entered the room,—"the lost is found;" and, leading her to a seat, he explained to her that her daughter was found and was now with kind friends, and that all was about to be divulged; for the parties who possessed the secret, having already prepared Captain Courland for it, he said, had determined to publish everything: but they did not wish to do it to the injury of Mrs. Courland, and were willing to give her the opportunity of informing her husband herself if she preferred doing so. The parties had other secrets to communicate also of the greatest importance, and they wished Mrs. Courland to meet them at a certain house in the neighbourhood immediately. Frederick knew the house, he said, and had been commissioned to bring his aunt there without delay, as it was of the greatest importance. She hesitated at first, but, knowing what those people were, she thought, on reflection, that it would be wise for her to meet them and hear what they had to communicate, provided Frederick would go with her, and protect and assist and counsel her, which he promised he would do. He had engaged a conveyance; so, dressing herself in the commonest things she had, she accompanied her nephew to the outskirts of the town where the carriage was waiting, to avoid suspicion.
When they arrived within about a quarter of a mile of the cottage, they got out and walked the remainder of the distance, leaving the carriage in the road. Frederick could tell Mrs. Courland little more than he had already told her; and she was impatient to reach the place of meeting that she might know what those wicked people really intended to do, and what other secrets they had to communicate; for she felt that this suspense and uncertainty were worse than the reality, whatever that might be.
They found the old woman in the outer room of the cottage, anxiously expecting their arrival. She received Mrs. Courland with a curtsey, saying,—
"It is well, madam; you have been prompt in attending to my request. Had you delayed your coming but a few hours, you would have been too late."
"Too late!" said Mrs. Courland; "what do you mean? Has the poor afflicted girl met with an accident, or what has happened to her?"
Instead of replying, the old woman led the way into the interior of the house and beckoned her two visitors to follow her. They passed through two or three rooms, some furnished as sitting-rooms and some as sleeping-apartments; at last they came to an empty, unfurnished room, where the old woman desired them to wait while she prepared the invalid for their reception. In a few minutes she opened the door, and asked them to walk in.
It was a comfortable and well-furnished bedroom; but instead of finding Flora there, as Mrs. Courland expected, the bed was occupied by an elderly woman, who appeared very ill, and was sitting up in the bed supported by pillows. She motioned her visitors to be seated, and then said in a feeble voice,—
"You do not recognise me, Mrs. Courland: illness makes great changes in the human frame. The name you first knew me by was Fisher; I then changed it more than once, for reasons you shall know presently."
"I remember you, now," said Mrs. Courland involuntarily, shrinking further from the bed, as if still afraid of the poor helpless creature before her.
"I am not long for this world," said the invalid; "and before I die I wish to make some amends for the misdeeds I have done during my life, and they have been many. I have requested Mr. Frederick Morley to attend with you, for a part of the revelations I am about to make concerns him also."
"Do you know anything," exclaimed Frederick, "of the wretches who——?"
"Don't interrupt me, if you can possibly help it," she said; "for I feel my strength failing me, and I don't know if I shall be spared even long enough to finish my recital. My father was not a poor fisherman, as you supposed when you and your mother came to lodge with us. He was pursuing a lawless employment,—sometimes bringing in great earnings, and sometimes nothing. He had seen better days. In his youth he was captain of a large trading vessel, and my brother and myself received a good education. My father amassed considerable property,—more than he could possibly have done by legitimate trading; and he was suspected, and watched, and found out. He had turned his vessel into a smuggler, and, under cover of fair trading, clandestinely carried on a lucrative trade in all sorts of contraband goods. He was convicted, and fined heavily, and, in fact, ruined.
"We then retired to the small fishing-cove where your mother found us. My brother had gone to France to reside some time before, and acted as my father's agent there. He was very shrewd and intelligent, but a determined character, and one who would never forget nor forgive an injury. He was naturally cunning and crafty; and his smuggling pursuits tended to sharpen his natural gifts in this respect.
"Our fortune was at a low ebb when we first became acquainted with you; and we were glad of the assistance of an aristocratic lodger. I saw your mother's weak points, and your love of gaiety and admiration; and I thought that, by residing with you in the confidential capacity of lady's-maid, I could benefit myself in many ways. Your clandestine marriage, and the birth of your daughter, which I persuaded you to keep secret from your parents, gave me a double hold upon you.
"After the death of your husband, and while you were with us on a visit to recruit your health, my brother returned. He fell desperately in love with you;—you refused to receive his addresses, and spurned him from you with scorn. He was desperate. He begged me to intercede for him, which I promised to do, but did not; for your marriage with my brother would not have suited my purpose at all. I knew your parents wished you to marry some rich man, and, as I was now the keeper of your secret, I knew that if you married according to your parents' wishes, I could make my own terms with you. You were summoned home, and eventually married according to their wishes and mine.
"My mother died. Your little daughter was left in my care, and I was well paid. I sent her to school, but I watched her most carefully;—I could not afford to lose her, for she was my nest-egg: and she grew a lovely girl, just like you when you were her age."
"How is it possible that she can ever have been even good-looking?" exclaimed Mrs. Courland;—"but that dreadful spoiler of the human face—the small-pox—has done its work: it was that, no doubt, that altered her so much."
"She was a lovely girl," continued the invalid, without noticing Mrs. Courland's interruption. "My brother would gaze on her countenance for hours without speaking, and then he would leave the room in a rage. He hated the name of Morley, because it was under that name that he first knew you, and was spurned by you. He seldom took much notice of the child, except to gaze on her until he had worked his mind up to a state of maddening jealousy.
"We never lost sight of you. Wherever you moved, we followed, and lived near you under feigned names, in order to worry you by continually draining your purse, and threatening to expose your duplicity and deceit to your husband by producing the child and telling him all, of which we had ample proof, and have still. My brother would not see you himself,—he could not bear it, he said. I was always your tormentor; and when I brought the dumb girl to you, I thought the sight of her hideous features, and her infirmity, would have so disgusted you, that you would have given us what we asked, rather than have her left on your hands as your acknowledged daughter. We were mistaken. You kept her, believing her to be your child; and you thought that, by doing this, and denying me an interview, you would be free from further worry, and there could be no danger of the girl telling anything of her former life or associates; and if we tried to expose you to your husband, he would not believe us.
"Since that girl has been with you, we have had other things to think of; and our anxiety for my brother's safety prevented our taking the steps we intended with regard to your secret. That poor dumb girl is not your daughter, Mrs. Courland."
"Oh! thank God for that!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rising in the greatest excitement. "I hope you are not deceiving me again. If you can produce her, and I can be satisfied that she really is my daughter, I will acknowledge her in the face of all the world, and tell my husband all, and throw myself on his mercy. I have suffered years of torture, from having followed your advice in the beginning. Oh! had I but acted a straightforward part, and kept no secret from my husband, my life would have been much happier. I see my error now, and am determined to keep the secret no longer. Where is she? let me see her at once; don't keep me in suspense."
The invalid had exhausted her strength in the recital of her tale, and this outburst of Mrs. Courland's quite upset her. She could not speak again for several minutes, until Frederick Morley handed her the glass which she seemed to wish for, and which was standing on the table more than half full of brandy. This, which she drank off at once, seemed to give her new life and energy. Then, turning to Frederick, she said, in a gayer tone than before,—
"You will be glad to hear, Frederick Morley, that the lovely girl to whom you are so devotedly attached, is not the daughter of John Freeman, the Land's-End conjuror, but the daughter of your aunt—Mrs. Courland."
"Alrina, of whom I have heard so much, my daughter!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland; "impossible!"
"Oh! this is indeed too good to be true!" cried Frederick; "I cannot believe it. What proof is there of this?"
"Proof in abundance," replied the invalid; "I am ready to make an oath of the fact before a magistrate; and my brother——"
"Your brother!" said Frederick; "where is he? is he still alive?"
"I was about to say that my brother could have confirmed my statement. Captain Cooper and his wife can also bear witness to the fact; but, even if there were no other evidence, the likeness would be sufficient to a person who knew Mrs. Courland as Miss Morley."
"Let me see her!" said Mrs. Courland; "where is she? It is very strange that I have never seen her, although I have heard so much about her. Why did you never let me see her?"
"That would not have suited our purpose," replied the invalid; "you would have braved all risk of your husband's displeasure, and taken her home long before, if you had seen her. I think you would have seen the likeness yourself. No, no, my brother's revenge was not complete. I led you, from the first, to believe that she was disfigured by the small-pox, and rendered very ugly and forbidding; but I never said she was dumb,—indeed, it was not our intention to have left the other girl with you entirely; it was only to frighten you into granting us the money that we required, that the poor girl was taken into your house. My brother knew that he must be found out, ere long, and he wanted all the money he could get to carry with him; for he had made all his preparations for leaving this country, and his associates and accomplices wanted their share of the hush-money also. It was the last we should get from you, and so we demanded a large sum."
"But my daughter!" said Mrs. Courland—"if in reality she is such—pray let me see her. Where is she?"
"Your daughter, madam, is now at Pendrea-house, as Frederick Morley knows. Let him go there and fetch her, while you remain here; for I have something more to tell you in connection with this affair, which will convince you I am not deceiving you now. Tell Alrina," continued she, turning to Frederick, "that her aunt, Miss Freeman, is on her death-bed, and she must come at once."
While the other gossips were going from house to house, collecting and retailing the news respecting the mysterious disappearance of "The Maister," Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Trenow were having a serious chat over their "drop of comfort," according to custom.
"So, you don't think he's carr'd away by the pixies, then," said Mrs. Trenow.
"No, I don't," replied Mrs. Brown, "'tes some of his hocus pocus work, you may depend. I'm glad the old cap'n es gone weth Siah to see the gentlemen. They'll find 'The Maister' somewhere, I'll be bound, afore come back."
"No, no more than you will, cheeld vean," said Mrs. Trenow. "The Pixies have got 'n, or something wuss, so sure as my name es Mally Trenow. They'll be home soon, I shudn't wonder, and then we shall knaw. They've be'n gone evar since the mornin', an' now 'tes come brave an' late. Aw! here they are, sure nuff,—'spaik o' the Devil and his horns will appear.' Well, where's 'The Maister,' soas," continued she, addressing her husband and son as they entered.
"We do no more knaw than you do, old woman," replied her husband; "we've sarched everywhere we cud think upon, and now we've returned, like a bad penny. Two glasses o' brandy toddy, Mrs. Brown, ef you plaise, for we've had a bra' tramp."
"Iss sure," said the landlady, proceeding to execute the order; "you must want somethin' to drink after your hard day's work; but you haven't be'n to the right place, I reckon."
"No fie, we ha'n't be'n to the right place, sure nuff," said Josiah.
"You shud oft to ha' kept a sharper look-out, Siah," said Mrs. Brown, taking a side glance at Josiah, as if she meant something more than she said.
"Zackly like that," said he, looking very serious, as he sipped his brandy and water; "'Needs must when the devil drives' es an old sayin' and a very true one; and I tell 'ee, Mrs. Brown, you may laugh so much as you will, and squinny up your eyes till they're so small as the button-holes of my jacket; but 'tes my belief that the Devil es at the bottom of et all. He put me to sleep, and fastened the door, so that I cudn't get out; and he took away 'The Maister' to have his desarts,—that's my belief, down sous; and now you've got it all."
Mrs. Trenow looked very serious at her son's earnestness; for she herself held the same opinions, although she didn't express them;—but Mrs. Brown continued to look at Josiah in her sarcastic way, without uttering a word.
"Where's Alice Ann, mother?" asked Josiah, at length breaking the silence.
"She's gone up to her aunt's again for a bit," replied Mrs. Trenow; "the ladies wanted her to stop over to Pendrea-house too, I b'lieve; but she thoft that one stranger wor enough for them to take in; and they wor very kind to take in the one that wanted it most. Poor Miss Reeney! she's worth her weight in gold. Talk about Cornish diamonds, soas! why, she's a Cornish diamond, every inch of her, and a bright one too. But where ded 'ee lev the young gentleman, 'Siah, boy?"
"Aw! he's right enough, I reckon," replied Josiah; "I thoft how 'twould be. When we went to sarch for 'The Maister,' he went to sarch for somebody else, I reckon; and I s'pose he found her, for we nevar seed he no more for the day."
"That's very well!" chimed in poor Mr. Brown, from his seat in the chimney-corner. "We sarched for the boy everywhere; but the mare came home safe. Wo! ho! my beauty; she shall be rubbed down, she shall! The boy came back at last, f'rall, zackly to the time,—dedn't aw, Peggy, my dear?"
"John Brown!" cried his wife; "hould your tongue!"—which had the desired effect of stopping that unruly member, and bringing John Brown back to the contemplation of the fire on the hearth—and nothing more.
Early the next morning—very early indeed—almost before the sun had taken down his shutters, Mrs. Brown was awoke from a sound sleep by someone, as she thought, knocking gently at the front door. She listened, and heard the same sound again, rather louder than before. At first she thought it might be some sailor or fisherman who had been out fishing all night, and wanted his morning's dram to warm him.
"You must wait, whoever you are," said she to herself, as she turned round to have a second nap. Still the knocking continued at intervals, and prevented her from indulging in her morning's nap. "Whoever can it be?" said she, as she sat up in the bed and listened; "I don't think it can be any of the sailors; for they'd have rapp'd the door down by this time, or else have gone away. I'll see who it es, at any rate." So she went to the window, and, drawing back the blind a little, saw a figure standing under the window which very much astonished her. It was not a sailor, certainly. She put on some of her clothes, and went down as quietly as she could, and opened the door to——Alrina!
"Why, wherever ded you come from?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown; "why, you're mazed, to be sure, Come in, do, and sit down, while I do light the fire and fit a cup o' tea for 'ee. Dear lor'! wonders will nevar cease. Miss Reeney here this time in the mornin'!"
It was indeed Alrina, exhausted and hungry. She had walked all the way from Pendrea-house to St. Just through the night. Her father's death she had borne bravely, after the first shock, and she intended to have remained at Pendrea-house until after the funeral, and then to have gone into some respectable service to gain her own livelihood, as companion to some invalid lady, or nursery governess. She was very grateful to her kind friends, but she could not impose on their good nature. Then came that cruel treatment which she supposed Frederick had planned, in order to be revenged for the coolness she had shown towards him. She deserved it,—she knew she deserved it; but it was hard to bear. Then came Blanche's discovery of her secret love, and, to crown all, the news of the mysterious disappearance of her father's body. Her friends would still be kind to her—she knew that—and would pity her, and alleviate her painful position as much as lay in their power. Of this she was quite sure: but this was repugnant to her feelings;—she would rather die, than live to be pitied,—she could not bear to think of it. She requested to be left alone for the night, as she was tired and wanted rest.
What should she do? If she remained there till the morning, and named her intention of leaving, the family would not hear of it; they would compel her to remain, and would probably watch her, in their kindness. After thinking over her position for some time, she made up her mind that she would leave at once, or at least as soon as the house was quiet. She would find her way to the road as well as she could; and then she would go direct to St. Just, where she would be able to learn the full particulars of this mysterious affair.
The house was not quiet until late. Miss Pendray's adventure caused great commotion, and kept the servants up late; but the interest they took in their young mistress's adventure, and their concern for her, and joy at her narrow escape, drove all thoughts of their visitor out of their heads, and she was left quite undisturbed. She wrote a letter to Mrs. Pendray, thanking her for all her kindness, and saying that circumstances compelled her to leave; and when the house was perfectly quiet, she put on some of the warmest clothing she had with her, and went out into the cold night. She missed her way several times, but at length got into the broad road, which she knew pretty well, and arrived at Mrs. Brown's house, where she knew she would meet with a hearty welcome, before any of the inhabitants of St. Just were astir.
It was early, too, when Frederick Morley arrived at Pendrea-house that morning in search of Alrina. In his haste and excitement to communicate the delightful intelligence he had just learned to the one nearest and dearest to his heart, he quite forgot the carriage which was waiting in the lane, so that he was some time in reaching the house; and when he arrived at the door, he was exhausted and out of breath, and totally unfit for the duty which he had come there to perform. So he thought his best plan would be to have a private interview with his brother, and ask him to be the bearer of the message to Alrina from her supposed aunt.
Mr. Morley was very much surprised at the tale his brother told him. He could hardly believe it could be true; but as Frederick said that Mrs. Courland seemed satisfied that Alrina was her daughter, and was at that moment receiving more proofs of it, he felt bound to adopt the belief too, and promised to see Alrina at once, and induce her to go to the cottage to see her aunt.
Frederick thought that, after what had occurred, it would be better for his brother to see Alrina alone; for, although he had started with the full determination of seeing her himself, and bringing her with him to the cottage to hear the welcome and delightful news, yet, when he considered the manner in which she had treated him in their former interviews, and remembered also that he had solicited an interview with her the day before, and had not kept his appointment, his heart failed him, and he proposed that his brother should see her alone, and he would wait his return.
After some little time, Mr. Morley returned, saying that he had sought an interview with Alrina through her friend Blanche, who immediately went to her room, and found no one there. On the table she found a letter, expressing her deep gratitude to Mrs. Pendray and all the family for the great kindness they had shown her in her distress, but stating, at the same time, she could not, after all that had occurred in connection with her and her's, trespass on their kindness any longer. She knew that their goodness and kind hospitality would not permit her to leave them, she went on to say, if she remained to take leave of them; and, therefore, to avoid pain to all parties, she had taken this step, which she felt seemed like ingratitude,—but it was not so. From her heart she thanked them all; and should she succeed in getting into some situation, whereby she could gain her own livelihood honourably, they should hear from her. If not,—God only knew what might become of her.
Mr. Morley read this much from the letter which he held in his hand, and then handed it to his brother.
"Gone!" cried Frederick, at length; "gone! just as the dark cloud was being lifted, which had obscured her so long! Can it be possible? Gone! But where can she have gone to? She had no friends—she has often told me this—no friends but her father and aunt."
"She is most probably gone to her father's house, to enquire for herself into this mysterious affair," said Mr. Morley.
"Yes," exclaimed Frederick; "she is gone back to the old house, no doubt. I will go there immediately, and seek her."
"Stay," replied his brother; "let us first consider what is best to be done. I think I had better go to St. Just in search of Alrina, while you return to the cottage to inform our aunt of her sudden disappearance."
"That, perhaps, will be the best arrangement," said Frederick; "I will be guided by you, for I know not what to do or say,—I am quite beside myself. My brain seems bewildered; I cannot think steadily on any subject. Let us go at once; I shall not rest till she is found. She is, perhaps, even now, out on the cold bleak common. The whole country shall be roused to search for her. Oh! why did I permit myself to be led away by that wretched scarecrow;—but he said she was there,—yes, he told me Alrina was at that cottage awaiting my arrival, and the letter he brought confirmed his statement. Oh! cruel, cruel fate!"
"It will doubtless turn out all for the best," said Mr. Morley. "Had you neglected the message of that unfortunate woman, she might have died, and then her secret would never have been told, and Alrina would have lived on, believing herself still the daughter of that guilty wretch."
"True," replied his brother; "I will believe in the wisdom of Divine Providence. We see His hand in all things. I will trust, and all things may yet be well."
The brothers did not think it advisable to tell Squire Pendray's family anything respecting their aunt in connection with Alrina;—they merely expressed their great concern at her abrupt departure.
Sir. Morley had not an opportunity the night before of seeing Miss Pendray alone,—indeed, she was too much excited and overcome by her late adventure, to receive his addresses with composure, and he was too much rejoiced at her safety, and anxious that she should seek repose after the terrible shock she had undergone, to think of himself. She saw how anxious and concerned he was, and she was pleased at it. Her object was gained; for she saw that he was feeling more than he could express on her account.
Lieut. Fowler was prevailed upon to stay and partake of their evening's meal: for, although the squire had not forgotten his former opinion of the lieutenant, which he in a measure still entertained, yet he had been the means of preserving the life of his favourite daughter; and ingratitude was not one of the squire's failings. Fowler would not, however, intrude on the squire's hospitality longer than politeness compelled him, but took his leave of them as soon as he possibly could after supper.
Mr. Morley had arrived some time before; and nothing was talked of but Miss Pendray's accident. Almost immediately after Fowler left, Miss Pendray rose from the table also, and, pleading fatigue, retired for the night, leaving the others to entertain their visitor. Soon after she left the room, a message was brought, that the squire was wanted on business.
"Dear me," said he, "who can want me at this time of night: it can't be to tell me that the conjuror is found, I suppose."
It was no stranger that wanted him. Miss Pendray had sent for him to explain and atone for the injury she had done her sister and Lieut. Fowler by her mischievous tale-bearing: she felt that she could not rest until she had made that atonement which was due to them both.
The squire was astonished to hear the confession of the proud and haughty Maud, and, had it been at any other time, he would have been very angry; but the recollection of her late sufferings and miraculous escape, and the preservation of her life by Lieut. Fowler, subdued him, and he promised to forget and forgive, provided he found that all was straight and above board. But he was determined that he would not be the first to invite him back to his house; for he still believed that Maud had exaggerated a little in her estimation of Fowler's conduct, out of gratitude for her own preservation. However he returned to the supper-table a happier man then he had been for many a day, and paid more than usual attention to Blanche, who could not understand the change.
Mr. Morley determined that he would not leave that house again without knowing his fate; and, when breakfast was over, he told Frederick that he had something of importance to settle there before he could leave, but that if he would go back to the cottage, and relieve their aunt's anxiety and send her back to Penzance in the carriage, he would meet him at the cottage as soon as he had finished his business, and they would then go on to St. Just together.
This pleased Frederick very much, for he wished to go with his brother, but did not press it before, as Mr. Morley seemed to think he had better go alone: Frederick, therefore, returned at once to the cottage, where he found his aunt and Miss Freeman anxiously waiting his arrival with Alrina, and they were very much distressed when they heard that she had left Pendrea-house unknown to the family. Mrs. Courland had received sufficient proofs to satisfy her, she said, that Alrina was her daughter, and she was most anxious to see her, that she might have the further test of the likeness. As that was impossible, at present, Frederick persuaded her to return to Penzance at once, fearing Captain Courland might return before her and might be angry at her absence, which she could not at present explain to him.
Mr. Morley did not keep his brother waiting very long, for his business was soon over. Miss Pendray knew quite well what he wanted, when he requested an interview with her; for she saw by his manner the night before, and from the tender concern he appeared to take in her miraculous escape, and the expression of his fine handsome countenance when he looked at her, that he felt a deeper interest in her than she had before supposed from his seeming-indifference to her during the past few months. Perhaps she measured his feelings by her own, and when they met, each being anxious for the other's love, and well-knowing their own feelings, and each being ready and willing to meet the other more than halfway, the betrothal was soon settled, and Mr. Morley left the house a happy man.
Horses were procured, and the two brothers were not long in reaching St. Just. They put their horses in Mr. Brown's stable, and went in to consult Mrs. Brown. She had heard Alrina's account of her having left Pendrea-house without taking leave of the family, and her reasons for doing so, and she also knew her determination as to the future, and her wish to avoid being seen by any of her former acquaintances at present. Mrs. Brown listened attentively to the tale the two gentlemen told:—that Miss Freeman, Alrina's supposed aunt, was lying at a cottage near Pendrea-house on her death-bed, and wished to see her niece before she died.
This was very "whisht" Mrs. Brown thought, and Alrina ought to go and see her aunt; for, however wicked "The Maister" had been, she never heard that Miss Freeman had been concerned in his wicked doings, so she determined that she would persuade Alrina to go. After thinking therefore for some minutes she said,—"I was tould not to let anybody knaw where Miss Reeney es, but in a caase like this, when a relation es upon her death-bed, I think she oft to go.—Stay here, gentlemen, for a few minutes, and I'll go and fetch her."
"I think we had better accompany you," said Mr. Morley, "for I fear she will take alarm and be off again."
"As you plaise, gentlemen," she replied, "you may go by yourselves if you like: she es now in the ould house trying to find out the mystery: you are gentlemen and men of understanding, and your judgment, perhaps, es better than mine."
So they went to the old house, where so many scenes of different kinds had been enacted within the last few months. Here they found Alrina, wandering through the rooms alone. She was perfectly calm, and talked to them both in a quiet and dignified manner. She looked pale and care-worn, and bowed down with grief and suffering. The beautiful roseate hue which formerly gave such a charm to her delicate complexion was gone, and her bright laughing eye was now cold and stern. Frederick could scarcely trust himself to speak,—the change which had come over Alrina within the last few days quite shocked him. Mr. Morley took her hand gently and led her to a seat, while he told her of the illness of her whom she had been taught to call aunt: he then imparted to her the tale he had heard his brother relate. She seemed like one in a dream while he went on unfolding the dark cloud, and displaying, by degrees, the silver lining; and when he had finished his tale, she looked from one to the other of the visitors, without uttering a word; she seemed to be trying to realize it all. At last she burst into tears, exclaiming,—"Oh, Mr. Morley, can this be true?—Can it be really true?"—and, giving way again to a burst of hysterical tears, which she seemed to have no power to control, she rose and hurried out of the room.
The brothers heard her go upstairs; and there they sat in silence: neither of them spoke for several minutes; at length Mr. Morley said,—"Poor girl! how sensitive she is!—the prospect of a happy future has affected her more than the misfortunes to which she had almost become reconciled before. I hope it will not have any serious effect on her: but what can we do?"
"I'll go for Mrs. Brown," said Frederick, whose feelings were ready to burst forth also; and, had he not thus escaped into the open air, he felt that he should have been unmanned, and have made a fool of himself before his sterner brother.
Mrs. Brown readily accompanied Frederick, and by the time they arrived at the deserted house he had recovered something of his former spirits. Mr. Morley told Mrs. Brown that Alrina was overcome at hearing the news they had communicated, and had gone upstairs in hysterics. They did not tell her the extent of the news, so she naturally concluded it was hearing of the serious illness of her aunt that had so affected her.
Mrs. Brown went upstairs, and remained there so long with her charge, that the gentlemen began to think it was a more serious matter than it really was: at length they came down together. Alrina was still very pale, and her eyes were swollen with weeping; but she was tranquil and more composed,—almost cheerful. She was leaning for support on Mrs. Brown, who looked on her sweet face and smoothed it with her hand caressingly, as ladies will sometimes smooth and caress a favourite lap-dog, playing with it as it were, and fondling it, while she expressed her love by kissing the smooth white forehead. It was a touching scene,—that kind, good, old woman leading in her whom she loved and respected so much, and caressing her as if she were a little child, while she looked up so lovingly in return, thanking by that look her kind friend who had been to her a second mother, and feeling that to express her gratitude in any other way would be more than she could do.
Mr. Morley, at that moment, thought he had never seen so lovely a creature before; and Frederick,—we will not tell his thoughts,—we cannot.
Alrina had told her kind friend all, and now Mrs. Brown wished to hear it all over again from Mr. Morley, who told his tale once more; and, with Frederick's assistance, a little more was added which he had not before remembered.
Alrina had not yet begun to realize her position:—her thoughts seemed to be wandering; her brain was bewildered, and she knew not what to say; her future had seemed before obscured by a dark cloud,—she could see nothing but gloom before her; now the cloud seemed brighter, but it was not quite dispelled. She had met with so many disappointments in her short life, that she feared there might be a greater one than she had hitherto felt still in store for her. What, if this tale should turn out to be a fabrication of her aunt's,—and after she had buoyed herself up with the hope of future happiness, it should be discovered that she was not Mrs. Courland's daughter after all? This overthrow of all her hopes, after having tasted of their pleasures, would be worse than remaining as she was. All these thoughts, and a thousand others, passed through her mind in rapid succession as she sat listening to the tale for the second time, and hearing questions asked by Mrs. Brown which the two young men could not answer; for Frederick knew nothing more than what he had heard Miss Freeman relate to his aunt: he had seen no proof; all he could say was, that his aunt seemed perfectly satisfied when he returned to take her to the carriage, and was most anxious to see Alrina, that she might judge of the likeness, as far as a person can judge of her own likeness.
Mrs. Brown thought that, at all events, it was Alrina's duty to go and see her aunt at once: but she could not go alone, nor could she go with the gentlemen without some female companion. Mrs. Brown could not leave her husband so long, nor the business; she suggested, therefore, that Alice Ann should be sought,—she was in the neighbourhood she knew. "Josiah will find her," said she, "if one of the gentlemen will run down to Captain Trenow's house and ask him."
Frederick volunteered to go; for although he was happy at having Alrina to gaze upon, yet he was not comfortable, nor was she, evidently; for neither knew how the other felt. They had both done violence to their feelings,—the one intentionally, the other unwittingly, and a mutual explanation was necessary before they could be certain how they now stood towards each other. Frederick could scarcely bring himself to believe that Alrina really meant that she had ceased to love him;—he could not think that, after what had passed between them. But she had told him so, and was he not bound to believe her? If so,—if that was really true, he must try and win her love back again. He could not give her up,—he would not. These were his reflections as he hastened on his errand.
Josiah was gone to Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station, Mrs. Trenow said, in search of his young master. He must have gone the other road, and so he had missed him.
Frederick told Mrs. Trenow his errand, saying that Miss Alrina had come back to see the old house once more, and she wanted Alice Ann.
"I'll run up for her myself, sar," said she, "tesn't very far. I'll just clap up my 'tother cap fust. Where shall I tell her she'll find her missus?"
"I think you had better tell her to come to Mrs. Brown's," replied Frederick.
Mrs. Trenow was not long in executing her errand, and Alice Ann was quite delighted at the thoughts of being once more in attendance on Alrina.
There were no conveyances to be had, so that the gentlemen were puzzled how they should convey Alrina and her attendant across the country to the place of rendezvous. Alrina had already walked from thence to St. Just, that morning, or rather in the course of the night; so that, although the distance was not more than six or seven miles, her walking back there again was quite out of the question. It was decided that Frederick should ride straight to Penzance, as fast as he could, to inform his aunt that Alrina had been found, and to send a carriage for her if his aunt wished it; and Alice Ann proposed that Alrina should ride on the other horse to the cottage, while Mr. Morley and herself walked by her side. As no better plan could be thought of, Alice Ann's suggestion was adopted, and the party set out at a slow pace, which gave them time for reflection and conversation on the road. Alice Ann could tell them many a legend connected with the different places they passed, and especially about Chapel Carn-Brea, where many a terrible deed had been done, she said, in times past, and where ghosts might be seen walking now, if anyone had the courage to go there at the midnight hour. "That boy, Bill could tell a sight of stories about this and that," said she, "I b'lieve he and 'The Maister' ha' be'n there brave an' often together."
"I wonder what has become of that boy?" said Alrina, joining for the first time in the conversation, "I am sure he knows a great deal about many things that are mysteries to other people."
"He do so," replied Alice Ann, "he wor the cutest chap for his size that evar I seed; and as for tongue, why, he would turn 'ee inside out in a minute, ef you dedn't keep your eyes abroad. What's become of he I caen't tell; but I can give a purty near guess, and so can Mrs. Trenow too, so she do say."
"Who was this boy?" asked Mr. Morley, "where did he come from?"
"I can no more tell than you can, sar," replied Alice Ann, "he wor found one night when he wor a cheeld, outside the workhouse door, an' wor broft up by the parish, so I've heard; for tes a bra' many years ago,—f'rall he's so small."
"Do you think he knew anything of my fa——, of Mr. Freeman's mysterious doings?" asked Alrina, who seemed now to take more interest in the conversation than she had done during the first part of the journey.
"Do I think?" replied Alice Ann, "I do knaw that he ded. 'Siah have seed that boy up to Chapel Carn-Brea in the middle of the night, when he ha' ben coming home from Bâl, and 'The Maister' havn't ben very far off, an' he whistling like a black-bird, that time o' night. I tell 'ee Miss Reeney, that boy Bill wor no good. What's become of the boy? says you.—What's become of 'The Maister?' says I. Find the one, and you'll find the t'other; that's my b'lief."
Thus they wiled away the time during the journey, until they arrived at the brow of the hill which overlooked the cottage to which they were directing their steps. Mr. Morley had turned round when they arrived on this eminence in the morning, to view the surrounding neighbourhood, and to mark the spot, that he might be able to find it again easily, for it was situated in rather a secluded valley, the approach to which was by a narrow path branching off from the main road. Everything looked serene and calm then, and, but for a thin jet of smoke rising from one of the chimneys and curling up against the clear blue sky, the cottage and its locality would have passed unobserved by a casual traveller; for it stood very low, as we have said before, all the rooms being built on the ground-floor: the walls were rudely built of clay—earth and straw wetted and well mixed together,—called in Cornwall, "Cob;" the roof was thatched with straw; and the partitions, inside, were made of thick wood, collected, from time to time, from the wrecks of vessels, with which that part of the coast of Cornwall abounds in the winter season.
As the party halted now on the top of this eminence, to enable Mr. Morley to reconnoitre and take his bearings, to guide him in the selection of the right path leading directly to the cottage, he saw, instead of a thin curl of smoke, such as he had seen in the morning, a large volume of black smoke rising from the spot, almost darkening the sky; and, at short intervals, a long tongue of fire would rise into the air above the smoke, and disappear again, as a darker and more dense volume of smoke issued forth.
"The cottage is on fire!" exclaimed Mr. Morley. "Follow me, as well as you can; take the second turning to your right:" and away he ran, leaving the two females to take care of themselves and the horse, and to find their way to the cottage as well as they could.
When Mr. Morley arrived at the spot, an awful sight presented itself to his view. The cottage was in flames, which the straw roof and wooden partitions were feeding most bountifully; and, as they consumed the dry conbustible on which they were feeding so greedily, their long tongues would issue, in fantastic spurts, from the doors and windows on the leeward side of the building. It was a fearful sight; a good number of men and women were already there, attracted by the smoke, which could now be seen far and wide. Josiah had been there some little time: he had received intelligence of the fire, as he was returning from the signal-station, and he hastened down to the spot at once, having sent a messenger on to Lieut. Fowler with all speed. Josiah, and the few persons who were there when he arrived, did all they could in carrying buckets of water from a well at a short distance off; but their efforts seemed at first to be increasing the fire rather than abating it. They continued however to pour water into the rooms on one side of the building which seemed the most likely to be inhabited, and, by opening the doors and windows on the other side, they, in a measure, diverted the fire to that side; but whether they were doing right or wrong they could not tell; they could only conjecture on which side the inmates, if any, were located.
Lieut. Fowler and his men, followed by a number of people from the surrounding neighbourhood, had just arrived, and the lieutenant was in the act of marshalling his men, when Mr. Morley rushed down among them, in the greatest excitement, asking all sorts of questions, as to how the fire had originated, and if there were buckets enough, and if the inmates had been got out; but instead of replying, Fowler took him by the arm, saying, "Take half a dozen men to the well, Morley, with buckets and ropes, and keep them there. Let them fill the buckets as fast as they can, and I will organize a double row of men and women from thence to the cottage to pass the full buckets up and the empty ones down; and my men and Josiah will then pour the water where it will be most available for extinguishing the flames." And to Squire Pendray, who also arrived about the same time, he allotted the task of keeping the double row of men and women steady at their work.
The commanding voice of the officer, and the example of his men, accustomed to obey, very soon restored order, where there was nothing but confusion before; and, by his judicious management, and the courage and bravery of his men, assisted by the strong arm of Josiah, the flames were soon got under sufficiently to enable some of them to enter the house. Fowler set a guard outside each door to prevent the mob from entering, and then, taking Mr. Morley and the squire with him, they entered the house followed by Josiah, and opened some of the inner-doors to let out the smoke, when something flitted by them and rushed into the interior of the house; but whether it was a man or a woman they could not make out. Josiah however, seemed to know what it was, for he followed immediately in full chase, leaving the others behind, who thought their most prudent plan was to emerge into the air to refresh themselves, and be prepared for anything that might turn up; for, in a very short time, the smoke would have evaporated sufficiently to enable them to go through the house with ease and impunity. Josiah did not return; so after a few minutes, the three gentlemen entered the house again. The entrance-rooms were not very much damaged; but as they proceeded, the ravages of the fire were fearful. The straw roof was entirely destroyed, from one end to the other. They passed into one room, if a room it could be called now, where the fire seemed to have raged in its greatest fury, and, looking into what was once another room, divided from the place where they stood by a thick wooden partition, they beheld a sight which made them shudder. The door, which was not so thick as the partition, was burnt to ashes, and a portion of the thick partition was also burnt: it was evident that the interior of the room had been partially preserved by the water which Josiah and the first comers had thrown in when they first arrived; but it had been the scene of a great conflagration, and the smoke had hardly cleared away yet: the walls were blackened, and the ornaments and pictures which hung against them had dropped off with the heat. It had evidently been a well-furnished room, the remains of which were still to be seen. The bed was reduced to ashes, and it seemed as if the flames from the bed had communicated to some inflammable substance in the room, and thence to the straw roof which was not protected or covered on the inside, and was at no great distance above the head of the bed. But their attention was not long confined to the destruction of the bed and the other furniture of the room; for a more awful spectacle presented itself to their view. On the floor, in a corner of the room, lay two females, the elder one having her hand entwined in the long hair of the younger, who grasped the elder woman's arms in a strong determined grip. That it had been a death-struggle there could be no doubt; but how they got there, or what the struggle was about, neither of the three gentlemen could divine. But there they lay, behind the door, dead!—They had been suffocated, no doubt by the smoke: their clothes were burnt and their flesh had been scarred by the fire.
The younger of the two, seemed well dressed, as far as they could judge by the little that was left of it, and she must have been a well-formed comely figure, in the hey-day of youth: the elder was an emaciated figure, evidently the occupant of the bed which had once stood in the middle of the room. It was a dreadful sight, and the three gentlemen left the room in search of information as to their identity, when they met Josiah, holding a boy by the arm. Mr. Morley pointed to the room from which they had just retreated, and looked enquiringly at Josiah. "Iss, sure I've seed them!" said he, "and 'tes a whisht sight, sure 'nuff; but there's a whisheder sight for 'ee to see yet. This way ef you plaise, gen'lemen:" and he led the way, still holding the boy by the arm, till they came to a room at the other end of the house, which seemed to have suffered more from the fire than any they had yet seen; for this end had been neglected by them all, supposing that nothing of any consequence would be found there.
This part seemed more securely built, and to have been better furnished than any of the other rooms. The partitions were of thicker wood, and the doors and windows were better finished with bolts and locks: the door had not been burnt through, as the other doors and partitions had been. Josiah said he had burst open the door from the outside, and it now stood wide open. On the floor lay the body of a man, whose lower extremities were literally burnt to a cinder; but his features, although blackened by the action of the fire, were still discernible. One look was enough! The whole party hurried from the scene with horror depicted in their countenances, and it was not until they got out into the open air, that either of them could find words to express their horror and dismay at what they had just witnessed.
Josiah still held the boy by the arm, who seemed very much distressed. Outside the door they encountered Alrina and Alice Ann, who were most anxious to hear all particulars.
"You shall know all, after we have made the necessary enquiries," said Lieut. Fowler.
At this moment a carriage drove up to the scene, and the post-boy handed a letter to Mr. Morley: it was from his aunt, begging him to bring Alrina to Penzance at once; he therefore told the squire and Lieut. Fowler that he was obliged to go to Penzance, but would be back again immediately; so the squire requested all the others of the party to go on to Pendrea-house and wait until Mr. Morley's return; for he said they must need some refreshment after the fatigues of the morning. Josiah took charge of the boy; for they all believed he could enlighten them on all that had happened. Alice Ann accompanied her mistress and Mr. Morley in the carriage to Penzance.