“A sad miscalculation about distance
Made all their naval matters incorrect.”
Don Juan.
“She look’d as if she sate at Eden’s door.
And griev’d for those who could return no more.”
Ibid.
The fosterer and I lost no time in making a hasty toilet—and in five minutes our outer men had assumed as ruffianly an appearance as that of any contrabandista in Biscay. The tower clock of the cathedral struck two; and I remembered that Cammaran had mentioned that this would be the hour on which the garrison would sally. Excepting the hollow moaning of the wind, and the occasional drifting of the rain against the casements, all around was still; and, dark as the night was, I remained gazing at the court-yard expecting the appearance of Rawlings and his associates, with all the intensity of hope and fear which a man will feel, when on the eve of an attempt that will achieve his liberty at once, or rivet his chains more closely than before. All was quiet—no ghost appeared—no tinkle of “the light guitar” was audible—when, suddenly, a dull discharge was heard from La Mota, and a shell, bursting over the bay, “gave signal dread of dire debate,” and announced that the sortie was being made.
Within ten minutes the din of war “disturbed the night’s propriety.” The guns of San Sebastian opened, the Chefre batteries thundered their reply, while a hewy fusilade on the isthmus, pointed to the place where the besieged and the besiegers were fiercely fighting; and where, for a doubtful result, death or distinction, Cammaran played the desperate game a soldier ventures. The fire went rolling forward, therefore, the French gained ground, and so far the surprise had been successful. At the moment a hand touched my shoulder—a voice whispered that “all was ready;” I turned—the speaker was William Rawlings.
Had I stood upon ceremony, and wished to bid Senhor La Pablo, and that comely dame, his lady, “a fair good night,” neither of the parties allowed the opportunity; consequently, I descended at once to the courtyard, and there found two ill-favoured gentlemen in attendance, and, under their guidance, wc proceeded to effect—or at least attempt—our deliverance.
The effort was admirably timed. The sally of the besiegers had been checked, repelled, repulsed; and the spattering fire which had hitherto rolled steadily forward across the suburb of San Roman, now rapidly receded, while, from the trenches, the fusilade became every moment more heavy and more sustained.
On quitting the court-yard of La Pablos, we made a sudden turning, entered a dark lane, and found two men in waiting. A few short sentences were interchanged in low whispers, and we proceeded under the guidance of one who seemed to have undertaken to pioneer the party. The firing every moment became more violent; and, as the scene of strife was on the land-side, the attention of the sentries stationed on the defences next the bay was misdirected. We gained the centre of a curtain connecting two bastions, unperceived; and, by means prepared already for effecting a descent, glided down the wall unchallenged, and reached the beach in safety.
So far the work went bravely on but the most hazardous part of the feat was yet to be performed. Although my poor mother’s secret treasure had been required by the contrabandistas—according to their story to pay for the hire of a chasse-marée, as Jack Falstaff kept “his charge of foot” in light marching order, properly considering that linen was to be found on every hedge, so, our naval contractors prudently declined “taking up a vessel” especially for our transport, when one might as easily be borrowed without troubling the proprietor to become a consenting party to the loan. This arrangement was made known to Rawlings and myself, for the first time, when we had actually reached the water: but the Biscayan assured us that “nearly a dozen chasse-marées were anchored at a stone’s cast from the shore, and beside us there was a small fishing-boat, ready for the launching; we had only to row quietly out, slip into the first vessel we could find, take a peaceable possession, if allowed, and if not, forcibly eject the owners for want of civility; “cut our lucky” and their cable by the same operation, and then stand boldly out to sea.
“Why, honest José,” observed the sailor to the leader of the smugglers, “it appears that we are to pay for our deliverance first, and fight for it afterwards.”
The person addressed returned an evasive answer.
“Well, no matter—it seems the business must be done,” continued Rawlings, “and the sooner we go about it the better. Lend a hand, lads—Softly with the launch! we may be nearer our intended prize than we imagine. How fast the wind rises! Upon my soul, on a darker night or more unpromising weather, men never went on a cutting-out party.”
In another minute the fisher’s boat was in the water, and we embarked. It was one of those small skiffs in which women are frequently seen fishing on the eastern coast, and hence, we were crowded so closely as to render the least movement dangerous, the water reaching to the wash-streak of the boat. As the wind was dead off the beach we had no occasion to use our oars for any purpose but to direct our course, and out we went, drifting in the dark, and upon what the fosterer termed “the devil’s expedition.”
“What,” he remarked, “was swimming the Sedana to this? Everybody knew that a river had a bank; but here, the first land we would touch on might be Achil Head or Gibraltar—and he, Mark Antony, would be glad to know what was provided in the eating-and-drinking line for this voyage of discovery?”
But these speculations as to our final destination were speedily interrupted, for William Rawlings’ practised eye had caught the dim outline of two or three small craft riding at anchor. Silence was rigidly enjoined, and the Englishman steered the skiff upon the centre chasse-marée, and desired us, in a whisper, to board the moment the boat’s gunnel scraped the vessel’s side.
It was quite evident that we were not to be so fortunate as to effect a capture by surprise. The heavy firing of the cannonade and musquetry, attendant on the sortie, had roused the crews, whom we heard distinctly conversing from deck to deck, as our boat neared their anchorage. Fortunately, from the extreme darkness, and the diminutive dimensions of the skiff, we were within an oar’s length of the chasse-marées before we were discovered. To a hasty challenge, a contrabandista replied that we were friends—an assertion on his part, which subsequent experience proved much at variance with our proceedings.
The lowness of her deck allowed us to board the coaster without trouble, and a short, scuffling fight ensued which was over in a minute. Although more numerous by half, the surprise of this nightly visitation distracted the Frenchmen, and they made but a feeble stand. One was flung overboard by a smuggler, an example promptly imitated by the fosterer, who took the same liberty with the person of the skipper—while three or four took the water of their own accord. Rawlings cut the cable—the jib was instantly run up—the vessel canted with her head to sea—the fore lug was set next minute—and, before, the astonished crews could persuade themselves that their consort was regularly carried off, we were beyond the reach of the few muskets which they managed to get hold of in the confusion.
A brief consultation followed our success; and it was agreed that we should stand right out to sea, to avoid meeting with any of the French privateers who were creeping along the coast occasionally, and also afford us a fair chance of falling in with one of our own cruisers.
When morning broke, we had gained an offing of nearly twenty miles. The fire of the Chofre batteries had recommenced with daylight; but a smoke-wreath, now and then, from the Castle and island of Santa Clara, with a grumbling sound, like that of distant thunder, and only when a squall came off the land, were all that told us that, with the sun’s appearance, the deadly struggle had commenced anew. Other cares were now presented. Had the chasse marée aught on board that a prudent soldier like Major Dalgetty, would declare by every war regulation absolutely necessary? The inquiry produced a painful disclosure. On board this ark of liberty, there were salt fish and fresh water for a day’s consumption! I thought Mark Antony would have fainted when the heavy tidings were gently broke by the chief contrabandista, who should, per agreement, have been ship-agent and commissary together. The truth was, my poor mother having been inhibited from imposing penance and fast on me in right of certain marital engagements, had laid upon the unhappy fosterer an additional quantity of both—and if there were two things on earth to which Mark Antony had an invincible antipathy, cold water was the one, and salt cod-fish was the other.
“Oh! we’re regularly murdered now;” ejaculated my foster brother. “Blessed Virgin! What the divil do ye call that dark gentleman who got the fifty-pound note? I would just like to ask him a civil question, if he intends sleeping quietly in his bed after nearly drowning us first, and starving us, as it appears he intends to do, afterwards. If we ever reach Ireland, by my oath, I’ll take an action against him, and”—
“Hist! You’ll have no occasion,” if my sight be accurate replied the sailor. “The cloud is over her again. Keep the craft away—and ease the sheets a trifle. Right—by everything that’s lucky!—a man-o-war brig! No mistake about that; a man can read it in the cut of her topsails.”
The vessel which Rawlings had espied, in a short time was clearly visible. Under single-reefed topsails, jib, and spanker, she was close-hauled as her course required, while we flew down direct before the breeze. Santa Clara disappeared, “the wide, wide sea” was round us, the cruiser and ourselves the only occupants of ocean—and in an hour, we were safely deposited on board Her Majesty’s eighteen-gun brig, “the Growler.” The chasse-marée was turned adrift as worthless—and a promise made on the part of Captain Hardweather, that we should be accommodated with a passage home—the Growler being on her return to England—while our companions, captive, and contrabandista, Tyrian and Trojan, should be put on board the first coaster we fell in with—none of the parties having the slightest inclination to visit the island home of liberty, and take up their abode in a prison-ship.
Had Cupid exchanged with Rolus “for the nonce,” he could not have afforded to his votaries more favourable winds. The Growler liked a stiff breeze, and during the run home she had no reason to complain. The fourth evening we were reported to be in the chops of the channel, and on the sixth, were snug at anchor in Spithead. No difficulty was occasioned in the debarcation of our personal effects; and, if all military adventurers returned in the same condition from the field of glory, I suspect the trade of war would not be considered as affording a safe investment for the capital of a younger son. During the passage home, a change of linen was effected by a friendly loan, and every outward habiliment, from shoe to schako, when we landed, was borrowed property. By the kindness of the brig’s commander, I was introduced to a banker, through whose agency I raised the necessary supplies; and one brief day wrought on all a marvellous change for the better. The second evening, on looking in the pier glass of the hotel, I had some doubts touching my own identity—Mark Antony was of opinion that he should be scarcely recognized by his own dog—and William Rawlings had actually set two barmaids by the ears, and left an impression on the too tender hearts of both, which required a full fortnight to obliterate.
Our journey to town was common-place. The “whips” kept sober, and hence we had not the exciting incident of “a spill.”—
Robbery being obsolete and utterly unfashionable even in the novels of these Boetian days, though we crossed “a blasted heath,” none called “Stand and deliver!”—and the passengers, one and all, seemed so apathetic regarding life and property, that one would have thought such heroic personages as Dick Turpin and Jerry Aberhaw had either not existed or that they were utterly forgotten.
Nearly three months had passed since letters reached me from England. The immediate advance of the army, the quick and constant series of events which followed it, my detention at Vittoria first, and my captivity afterwards, rendered it almost impossible that communications, addressed as they would be to the head-quarters of the fourth division, to which I had attached myself, should reach me during this short and adventurous passage in a life of “marvellous uncertainty” while it lasted. Brief as the season was that intervened since I had heard aught from those I was most interested about, how many “changes and chances” in that small circle might not have occurred? I envied the philosophy of the fosterer and his brother-in-law elect. Neither harboured a doubt that all “at home were well.” At home!—What does not that simple phrase embody? For a time I took courage from the example; but, when we reached the White Horse Cellar, whence the fosterer, “with lover’s haste,” set out to claim a bride, and the sailor to embrace a parent and sister, to whom he seemed ardently attached—then, left alone, I felt all the dark forebodings of one who dreams of nought but happiness and yet tremble lest fortune, in some capricious humour, may have already dashed the untasted cup away. Thanks to the gods! these sombre doubts were nothing but “idle phantasies.”
If ever the director of “a leathern conveniency”—cabs, gentle reader, were then unknown—was put regularly to the pin of his collar to keep time with an impatient gentleman, the unhappy wight who drove me was that person. At last we readied the street—I jumped out—paid honest jarvey double—inasmuch as he averred that his “near-side un,” a roarer before, was ruined for life by desperate driving—and “the outsider” would not be worth a bean for a fortnight. I knocked piano at the door—an old woman opened it—“Was Mr. Hartley at home?” She could not answer the question, for Mr. Hartley had not lived there these two months. Saints and angels! what misery! It was brief. A young lady-looking personage unclosed a parlour-door, and acquainted me that the arrival of some Irish relations had rendered it necessary for Mr. Hartley to take a larger house; that, for the benefit of country air, he had selected one some ten miles distant from the city,—adding, that the family were well, as a servant had called that morning with some message, from the ladies. She gave me my uncle’s address, and in half-an-hour 1 was speeding to Bromley Park, as fast as a light post-chaise would carry me.
Some seven miles from town, the last village was passed, and the remainder of the drive ran partly through shaded lanes, and partly over open commons. At a roadside hostelrie, within a gunshot of my uncle’s dwelling, I discharged my carriage, committed the light portmanteau which contained my wardrobe to the safe keeping of the landlady, and set out, under proper directions, to find the place where love and duty alike urged me to proceed.
I easily discovered the abode of “my fair ladie.” The exterior bore all the appearance of respectability; and, though the light was but indifferent, the entrance-lodge, palings, and close-clipped hedges, announced it to be a gentleman’s retreat. The mansion stood upon a lawn not far removed from the highway; lights flared from the lower windows, probably those of the apartment where the family were collected, and, by a singular impulse, I determined to escalade the enclosure, and have a sly peep, incog. at those within.
I turned from the high road into a grassy lane which skirted the palings of a shrubbery—and tried them once or twice, but they were confoundedly high, and in excellent preservation. I pushed on—not a practicable breach to be discovered—and my uncle’s mansion seemed as difficult of entrée as San Sebastian itself. Should I proceed, or abandon the attempt as hopeless? “Turn back!” said Common Sense,—“Go on!” and Adventure, jogged my elbow. I hesitated—a circumstance kicked the doubtful balance.
Within an open gateway to a field, I perceived a horse placed in the keeping of some low-sized personage evidently seeking concealment under the deep shelter of the hedge. I spoke; none answered. Why was this horse in waiting? It looked suspicious. Some felony was intended; burglary, or, more probably, exhumation. I strolled on a few yards farther—three or four railings had been recently sawn through, affording sufficient room to creep in by, and, without a second’s consideration, in I went.
I crossed the soft green turf, and proceeded in a straight direction towards the mansion, guided by the lights which had first attracted my attention on the road. A clump of evergreens suddenly shut them from my view, and I paused to determine whether I should turn to the right or to the left. While still uncertain, I thought something moved within the trees—I listened—whispers fell upon my ear, and next moment two figures glided from the clump, and crossed into what appeared in the darkness to be a belt of young plantations, stretching along the lawn and reaching to the lane from which I had effected my entrance. Who might these men be? Poachers, in pursuit of game, or keepers, on the look-out to prevent their preserves from being spoliated. When I recollected the horse I had detected concealed beneath the hedge, I came to the first conclusion—the men, no doubt, were poachers; and the animal had been left in charge of some confederate, to enable them to carry up to town the produce of their night’s marauding. In this belief, I proceeded cautiously to the hall, determined to apprise mine honoured uncle that knaves had “broke his park,” and possibly, might “beat his keepers.” But another scene, and one to me of deeper interest, drove hares, pheasants, and poachers from memory altogether.
When I cleared the clump of evergreens I found myself directly in front of the mansion, and as the windows reached nearly to the level of the lawn, the interior of the apartment was seen from without distinctly. All within bore the appearance of luxury and elegance.
The furniture, the plate, the paintings, the lights, were in perfect keeping with each other. In the panorama of life many such a scene may be discovered. It was evidently the dwelling-place of wealth—but not the abode of happiness.
Four persons occupied the chamber, and formed a striking group. The partie carrée consisted of two persons of either sex. On a sofa, a man past the meridian of life seemed in earnest conversation with a lady, who was still in the pride of matronly beauty; the expression of her face was that of settled melancholy; and it appeared that he who sate beside her was offering consolation—but in vain. The lady was my mother—the gentleman, her brother, and mine honoured uncle.
At the opposite side of the apartment the other twain were seated, and thither, after one hurried look at those upon the sofa, my gaze was turned and there remained. My father, with Isidora on his knee, encircled her waist with his solitary arm, while her head was resting on his bosom, and her hands clasped wildly round his neck.—Oh! what a change a few brief months had made! The sweet bud of promise I had first seen in its mountain solitude, had flowered into loveliness—and the woman, not the girl, was before me. Her face was turned towards the window, and as the lights fell upon it, every feature was distinct as if I stood beside her. Her’s was not the calm sorrow of my mother—it was the wilder outbreak of the youthful heart, which vents its sufferings in sobs and tears; and while my uncle and his sister conversed in whispers, the voices of my father and my mistress were audible outside the window. I could have easily suspected the cause of all this grief, had I but looked upon the table and the floor. On the former lay an open post-bag, and several letters with broken and unbroken seals: on the latter, a newspaper was spread out at my father’s foot, and, no doubt, the evil tidings it had contained occasioned the anguish and distress I witnessed.
“Oh! tell me not to hope,” exclaimed the fair girl, “I cannot dare not.”
It was painful to listen to the reply. The voice endeavoured to assume a steadiness which its broken tones belied; and the feelings of the father and the soldier conflicted sadly, as the tongue held out false and feeble hopes, which the speaker’s heart secretly believed to be illusory.
“Grieve not, my sweet girl,” said the veteran, “He is only returned ‘missing.’ No doubt Hector has been made prisoner, carried into the place, probably wounded—”
“Wounded!” exclaimed the listener, “No—no—no—Dead dead and I am for ever wretched”—and again the head of the fair sufferer sank on the bosom which had supported it before.
I cannot describe my feelings; my heart was bursting to announce my safety, and I only hesitated to know how it could be most safely done—a moment ended the doubt.
“Do not despair, Isidora—my own, own daughter.” The words came choakingly from his lips—the word daughter was too trying the chances were that he was now childless—and he hastily turned his head away. I saw a tear stealing down his cheek—and when the soldier’s eye is moist, the heart, indeed, is full.
“Cheer up, my dearest Isidora, all may yet be well—Hector may live—”
I could not control the impulse—
“He does live!” burst from my lips involuntarily.
“Saints and angels!” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, springing from his chair, and flinging the casement open—“True! by every thing providential! Himself! Hector—and in safety!”
As he spoke, I jumped through the window. My lady-mother uttered an exclamation of joy, and sank back upon the cushions of the sofa. My mistress sprang from my father’s knee, and fainted in my arms.
“And, of course, you re-deposited the young lady upon the place from whence she came, and flew dutifully to the assistance of your mamma, Mr. Hector O’Halloran?”
Mr. Reader, I never reply to impertinent questions; but, entre nous, I rather imagine that the resuscitation of the elder gentlewoman, was entirely committed to her husband and Mr. Clifford.
North.——“Every minute now
Should be the father of a stratagem
Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragick volume.”
2d Part of Hen. IV.
A letter I had received on my return to the head-quarters of the fourth division, after my séjour with the Empecinado, had apprized me that events in which my future fortunes were involved, hurried rapidly to a crisis. My communications with England had then ceased; and, on my unexpected return home, I found I had opportunely arrived when my presence was most desirable, and the dénouement of the drama was at hand.
Without wearying the reader with the details of my uncle’s proceedings, we will bring their results before him, up to the evening when at Bromley Hall I popped so unexpectedly through a window, and frightened two amiable ladies into fainting-fits.
It was the evening of a sultry day, the harvest had commenced, and, over a rich and picturesque expanse of country, far as the eye could range, the sickle was busily employed. On an elevation, in a domain of noble extent, a gentleman far advanced in years, was seated on a rustic bench, under the expansive shadow of an oak the growth of centuries. At times he looked at the busy and interesting scene which the landscape all around presented—and then resumed the perusal of a newspaper. The domain was Clifford Park—the old English gentleman was my grandfather.
At the side of a copse, not many yards distant from the bench where the owner of the park was seated, another and a very different personage might have been discovered. She was a gipsy-woman of middle age, and seemed busily employed in gathering sticks wherewith to cook her supper. The old gentleman looked at her with some attention. For the last three evenings he had remarked her at the same hour and on the same spot. The regularity of her appearance had therefore excited some curiosity—and, beckoning her to come forward, he took his purse from his pocket, and presented her with some silver.
On receiving this munificent present, the gipsy curtseyed reverently to the ground—the old gentleman resumed his newspaper, and waved his hand as a signal she should retire; but she made a step closer to the bench, directed a speaking look at Mr. Clifford for a moment, then threw a suspicious glance around, and, in a low voice said, with some hesitation, “We are alone, sir,—Dare I speak to you?”
The old gentleman for a moment regarded the speaker with marked astonishment. The manner, rather than the words, was startling; but he nodded a mute assent.
“For many a week I have sought this opportunity; but you are so closely watched, that, hitherto, I dared not venture near you—I have tidings—”
“None, woman, that can interest me,” said the old man, with a melancholy sigh. “There is nothing in this life to give me pleasure, and little connected with it that could cause me pain. No tie binds me to the world—”
“And yet you have a double one—the dearest to ordinary hearts, have you not a daughter and a grandchild?”
“Stop, woman,—who are you?”
“The humble instrument of Heaven, destined, I hope, to restore to the parent’s arms, a child alienated far too long—Ah! here comes yon meddling priest! Would you even yet have the remnant of your days made happy, be here to-morrow evening—and, for your own sake, be silent.”
“I will,” said the old man impressively. The gipsy assumed her former attitude of deep humility, curtseyed to the ground again, resumed the bundle of sticks she had collected; and, as if she had not perceived him coming, turned into the direct path by which the confessor hastily advanced.
They met; the gipsy made her humble obeisance, which the priest returned by a searching glance. In the handsome features of the wanderer there was nothing to excite suspicion, and he simply asked “what was her business with Mr. Clifford?”
With a face beaming with delight at having received a large and unexpected gratuity, the gipsy unclosed her hand.
“See, reverend sir, what his noble honour has bestowed upon the poor wanderer!” and she pointed to the silver Mr. Clifford had just given. “It is many a long day since I was mistress of so much. Reverend sir, you are not angry at my gleaning a few sticks? Believe me, poor Mary will do no injury to the trees. You look a kind-hearted gentleman. Heaven grant you long and happy days!”
What will not the mystic influence of beauty effect? The cold churchman looked at the supplicant for a moment—a soft black eye was eloquently turned on his, as, “with lips apart,” disclosing teeth of pearly whiteness, the gipsy timidly awaited his reply.
“How lovely she must have been in woman’s noon-day!” the confessor involuntarily muttered. “You have the permission, you ask. Take care it be not abused.” Again the gipsy curtseyed, and the churchman passed on—giving her, in return for an outbreak of ardent thanks, unbeliever as she was, his parting benedicite!
Days passed—the weather continued beautiful, and the lord of Clifford Hall might have been seen on his fwourite seat beneath the old oak tree every afternoon—generally, the confessor close at hand, and the gipsy gathering sticks in some of the copses at no great distance. Twice she contrived to convey a sealed packet to the old man unperceived; and, on the following evening, after he had perused their contents, she saw, with unspeakable delight, that what he had read was not displeasing. The letters were from his long lost son, cautiously worded to sound the old man’s secret feeling, lay the ground-work of a disclosure, and prepare him for coming events.
It was on the third evening before I had so very unexpectedly presented myself at Bromley Hall, that, just as the light was failing, a man, evidently in an excited mood, paced slowly back and forwards in front of the ancient oak in Clifford Park, which we have already described as being a fwourite spot with the owner of the domain. Besides the extended view over the surrounding country which this rising ground commanded from its crest, the front and back entrances to the park were visible—and towards both, the lonely visitor turned frequently an anxious look. At last, as if wearied with his solitary vigil, the confessor—for it was he—broke into a rambling soliloquy.
“It is strange, what has delayed him—two long hours beyond the time he told me he should return! I can scarce believe that I am waking. He who for years has been the creature of my will—who thought as I dictated—who acted as I pointed out—who in my hands was but a mere automaton, whom I wound and directed as I pleased—that he should thus miraculously assume an independence, and break through the thrall that bound him.—By mine order, ‘tis marvellous—‘tis scarcely credible! That cursed interview with his grandson laid the foundation of the whole—and yet I fancied that I had remedied the mischief, and extinguished the yearnings of natural affection which the youth’s sudden appearance rekindled in the old man’s breast. But the last fortnight has crowned the mystery. Three long years—the old man never penned a letter. Were private communications to be made, I was summoned to indite them. Was business to be transacted, the steward was always the amanuensis. But now, he sits for hours alone—and writes, and transmits letters daily, and by the hand of one who hates my creed, and with whom I dare not tamper. What can be done? Never was a game more critical—one false move, and all is lost. The tidings ot the evening too, are ominous. His lawyer to be here to-morrow his errand, strictly secret too. What augurs that but mischief? By every saint, I know not how to act. True, I have not let the harvest pass without gleaning plentifully—and, better still, I have secured the reward of many an anxious scheme. But to see the grand object of my ten years of toil and artifice slip from my grasp—even at the moment when the course of nature should have consummated the triumph of sound conceptions, ably and patiently carried out—Ha!—a horseman—‘Tis he—I’ll reach the hall before him.”
While the steward rode hastily to the stables, the priest had reached the mansion and retired to his private apartments. There, he impatiently waited the return of his confederate—and, in a lew minutes, the steward presented himself. If the confessor fancied that himself had startling tidings to communicate, one glance at the steward’s agitated countenance, assured him that heavier news had yet to be unfolded.
“How now!” he muttered. “You seem disturbed. Has ought occurred to cause us more disquietude?”
“We stand upon the brink of ruin,” was the reply.
“Go on—whence comes the threatened danger?” inquired the churchman.
“From the grave!” returned the steward.
“The grave?”
“Ay, holy father—well may you betray astonishment. One believed dead for five-and-twenty years not only lives, but actually resides within a few miles of where we stand.”
“Whom mean ye?” said the priest.
“Edward Clifford!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the churchman. “He died in misery and exile.‘Tis some impostor.”
“It is the true man, by Heaven!”—“Think ye that one who hated him as I did—who was robbed of the object of his love who swore eternal vengeance, kept the vow faithfully, and wrought the secret ruin of him who wronged him—think you, holy sir, that he could ever forget one, at the same time, the offender and the victim. No—no—ordinary injuries pass from the memory in time but insulted love lewes a burning recollection in the heart, which death alone obliterates.”
“By the holy saints!” exclaimed the confessor, “your tidings are astonishing.”
“You have not heard the worst,” continued the steward. “Give me some wine—for faith, my nerves are sorely shaken by the occurrences of this afternoon. Fill your glass, father, and listen to a tale, singular and wonderful as any which, even in the confessional, may have reached your ears.”
“You know that the object of my ride to-day was to trace, if possible, the person with whom the old man holds his dangerous correspondence. Every inquiry failed—and I was returning a sadder, but not a wiser man than when I left you, considering what channel I should next try to seek the information we require, when simple accident discovered the perilous position in which we stand—one that, in danger, infinitely surpasses any thing which our gloomiest apprehensions could have fancied.
“A short time since, a stranger, named Hartley, took Bromley Hall for a few months; and there he immediately removed his establishment. It was on a small scale, ‘twas said, but in every respect that befitting a gentleman; and as Mr. Hartley was retired in his habits, and visited with no one in the neighbourhood, his arrival made no sensation in the country; he was scarcely known beyond his own domain, nor did any one inquire who he was, or whence he came.
“On my return this evening, after an unsuccessful mission, close to ‘the George’—a road-side house contiguous to Bromley Hall—my horse cast a shoe, and I stopped to have it replaced. While the smith was doing it, I strolled from the forge and sauntered down a shaded lane; within an open gate a fallen tree was lying, and as the evening was close, I turned in and sate down to rest myself upon its stem. Presently, at the other side of the paling, I heard footsteps move cautiously along. An opening in the fence enabled me to ascertain who the person was—and you may easily fancy my astonishment, when I recognised the gipsy woman, who, for the last three weeks, has been every day in Clifford Park under the pretence of gathering fire-wood. Although surprised for a moment at her appearance, I remembered that the wandering habits of her people throw them across one’s path in every direction where business calls; I rose to return to the forge and resume my ride, when suddenly the gipsy stopped, looked suspiciously around to see that no one had observed her, then drawing a key from her bosom she applied it to a wicket in the paling, and the next moment entered the grounds of Bromley Hall, and disappeared.
“Strange and mysterious fancies crossed my mind—I determined to watch her movements, but how was I to follow? I continued my researches along the park palings, and at last discovered an opening occasioned by the removal of several slabs, for what purpose I cannot pretend to guess.
“I found myself in a thick plantation, left all to chance, and blindly wandered on. Imagine my surprise when, not forty yards off, I suddenly perceived the gipsy in deep conversation with a stranger. They spoke in whispers, hence I could not overhear a word that passed; but I saw distinctly a letter pass from her hand to his, and the action of both during their brief conversation was marked and energetic. At last the interview was over, and both returned towards the wicket in the paling through which the gipsy had entered Bromley Park.
“The path wound through the plantation, and at not a yard’s distance from the spot where I had concealed myself, but fortunately a thick holly hid me effectually, and yet permitted me to observe the faces of the persons who approached. Almost within arm’s length the man paused suddenly—
“‘And is he so far prepared for the extraordinary revelations which are about to be made?’ he inquired in a low voice that thrilled through my very soul.
“‘He is’—returned this infernal agent. ‘He knows that his grandson is recalled—that Hector’s father is already in England—that his daughter is ready to fly to the bosom from which she has been so long estranged. Nay, more—I have darkly insinuated that many a wild youth, after years of wandering, has returned; and plainly hinted that a son lost to him so long might live—nay, did live!’
“Could I believe the evidences of my senses, holy father? Was it a dream? Oh! no, no—all was fatal reality.
“‘Mary,’ returned a voice, whose tones were unchanged as when I last heard them in this very room—‘Mary, your services have made me for life your debtor, and to his humble but faithful ally, I trust, in a few days, Edward Clifford will prove his gratitude.’”
“Clifford—the exiled, the discarded, the dead! What! he returned—received—restored to life! Impossible!” exclaimed the confessor springing from his seat, and shivering to pieces on the table the wine glass which he had held untasted in his hand, while Morley recounted his strange adventure.
“True, by every thing sacred!” returned the steward.—“On they passed—I caught a glimpse of his well-remembered features,—years and climate had laid their hewy imprint on them, but in outline, they were those of my former play-fellow. The light and springy figure of the boy were gone—and a stout and compact form now stood before me, and just such as I remember Mr. Clifford’s was some thirty years ago. Holy father, Edward Clifford is alive, and not seven miles from where we sit.”
“I do not put faith in witchcraft,” muttered the priest—“but this strange tale of yours would almost make me a believer. Well—we both, it would appear, are on the eve of ruin. I, in expectations which I conceived to be sure as certainty itself—and your acquisitions, my good friend, methinks are sadly jeopardized.”
“Mine jeopardized!” exclaimed the steward—“More than that, reverend sir—I shall be ruined, beggared, and undone. It is not the blow itself, heavy as it is, but the suddenness of the stroke that annihilates me. Could I but have had the warning of a month—in that brief interval, I might have so arranged, that when I bent to the storm—as bend I must—I might have sought another country, possessor of ten thousand pounds; ay, and carried with me too the rents payable a fortnight hence. If ever calamity fell heavily on man, it has fallen upon me—and by such agency—the only beings upon earth whom I, at the same time, hated and injured most.”
“Yes,” observed the churchman, half in soliloquy and half addressing himself to his companion—“the mystery is cleared—and the old man’s altered bearing is now sufficiently accounted for. Worse yet—the mischief is beyond all remedy. One duped so long and so completely, when once the mind is disabused, becomes ten-fold more suspicious than they who have never been deceived. Mr. Clifford is exactly that sort of character. His thoughts and acts are now as clearly revealed to me, as if I had listened to every communication made by that artful woman, and read the secret letters he has written and received. For how long, did this returned prodigal mention to his female confederate, that these intended disclosures were to be delayed?”
“The phrase was vague,” replied the steward. “In a few days’—ay, that was the term he used.”
“A limited time, indeed, for action—but brief as it is, I will avail myself of the lull, and not await the bursting of the storm,” observed the confessor.
“And will you leave me alone to face the coming tempest?” inquired the steward, with evident alarm and surprise. “Holy father—have I not ever been to you a faithful friend? have I not acted as you directed? have not my own interests been frequently sacrificed to yours? Has not your word with me been law—your advice implicitly followed—your plans zealously carried out? I was ever your ready and your willing agent—and now, in the hour of need and danger, will you desert me?”
A pause of a minute ensued.
“Morley,” returned the confessor slowly—“I cannot see how my remaining here could serve you. You wish to delay events—to avert them would now be idle as to war against the elements. But how can breathing-time be gained? Mine own interests would make a short interval before discovery shall take place, as desirable as is respite to the criminal; but, by mine order—I cannot devise any plan that could promise even probable success. We stand upon a loaded mine—and who can say the moment when the engineer will fire the train?”
“Still, reverend sir,” continued the steward, “have we not days to count upon—and what might not hours, were they but well-employed, accomplish?”
“Yes,” returned the priest—“days certainly may be reckoned on—and, under ordinary circumstances, much might be effected in the mean-while. But in this case—one so hopeless and so desperate—when the very grave would seem to have given up its dead—and when—”
“The grave must receive the living in return. Ay, father, there is but one chance left,—Clifford dies—no alternative remains but death for him—or disgrace, and poverty, and banishment for me.”
“No more of that,” exclaimed the cautious churchman. “Pause ere you act—and weigh well the consequences. England, for such experiments, is a dangerous country. Remember your former attempt on young O’Halloran. What a disastrous failure! Four lives were sacrificed—while he, the destined victim, passed through the trial unharmed! ‘Twere better, possibly, my friend, to yield to circumstances, and—”
“See myself impoverished and insulted. I am no favourite with the country,—they view me as an upstart—and often has that cutting truth been told me to my face. The tenants on these estates secretly dislike me. As matters stand, their bad feelings are not exhibited—but let the change come that we anticipate—then, like a cry of hounds, every voice will be united against me, and I must either skulk cowardly away, or be hunted to the death, while the man I hate, have hated, and will while life remains detest, he will be received with acclamation, and trample on a fallen enemy whose neck is already in the very dust. No—no—though life be lost in the attempt, near as he fancies himself to this, his long estreated inheritance—he never shall be nearer. Father, I start instantly for London. We must act—ay, and act immediately.”
“Of these things I remain in ignorance,” returned the confessor. “But if you risk this perilous attempt—safety and success in every mortal venture, depend upon two simple qualities—prudence and promptness. These two, in human actions, are worth every cardinal virtue beside. Farewell—I too have cares which, for hours to come, will keep me watching.”
The confederates separated—each to carry out his own particular object. The confessor had only the future to regret—the past he had secured—and consequently, he had neither a necessity or a wish to join in Morley’s dangerous experiments. With the steward, matters were altogether different. In rash confidence, all that he had cared for hitherto, was to accumulate—and hence, his ill-acquired wealth had been so clumsily invested, that time was absolutely necessary to enable him to regain possession of his property. That time could only be obtained by a fearful and perilous attempt. But no course besides remained—and Morley started that night for London.
The evening was wild and blustering—doors creaked—windows were unusually noisy for that season of the year—and those who had a fire-side, were too happy to find themselves at home. “The George” was entirely deserted; for the stragglers who had dropped in after sunset, alarmed at the threatening appearance of the weather, took a hurried refreshment, and pushed forward to gain their abiding places before the fury of the night should break. Three trwellers, however, still remained. They had required and obtained an apartment for their especial use—and a fire hwing been lighted in the parlour of the hostlerie, the wayfarers there bestowed themselves.
One, who seemed to play the host, was a man of respectable appearance, and beyond the middle age. He might be a farmer, a lawyer, a trader—but it was clear he was not, in common parlance, a gentleman. The others were of a caste immeasurably inferior. One was tall, burly, and dark-visaged—the other, short, slightly-framed, and sandy-haired. The countenances of both were particularly repulsive—and a stranger would have found it hard to determine whether they were knaves, or ruffians, or both.
He who appeared “lord of the revel” seemed ill at ease. He rose from his chair—looked for a moment from the window—muttered something about “foul weather out of doors—” returned, sounded a hand-bell which had been placed beside him—ordered supper to be hastened, and brandy and water to be brought in, to fill the tedious interval.
The order was obeyed—“the maid of the inn” departed—the door was closed—and each of the company, by an involuntary impulse, looked over his shoulder to ascertain that no eaves-dropper was near. He who played the host seemed in no mood for revelry, and merely sipped the glass before him—the lesser of the strangers also drank sparingly—but the tall ruffian turned down the tumbler considerably below its centre, pushed its diminished contents further on the board, and then leaning a pair of overgrown hands upon his knees, and bending forward until his head, by slow progression, had made a Turkish obeisance to the superior of the company, in slow and pointed terms he begged respectfully to inquire, “what business had brought himself and—” he merely pointed to his companion—“on such short notice to the country?”
“Business—and that, too, of consequence,” was the brief reply.
“All right,” returned the stouter ruffian. “Business is very well in its way—but I’d like to understand the nature of the job before I undertook it. Light work is well enough, but when it comes, Mr. Thingembob—for I don’t know y’er name—to what we calls heavy, wot means, ye know, hemp or transportation—why then men must look about them, and ax a question or two before they takes on.”