FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
How deep, how thorough felt the glow
Of rapture, kindling out of woe;
How exquisite one single drop
Of bliss, that sparkling to the top
Of misery's cup, is keenly quaffed
Though death must follow soon the draught.
--_Moore_.
The countess was sitting on one of the armchairs near the fire when
Claudia led the judge up before her, saying only:
"Lady Hurstmonceux, my father."
The countess arose and held out her hand with a smile of welcome,
saying:
"It gives me much joy to see you safe, after all your dangers, Judge
Merlin. Pray sit near the fire."
The judge retained her hand in his own for a moment, while he bowed
over it and answered:
"I thank you for your kind expressions, dear Lady Hurstmonceux. But,
oh! what terms shall I find strong enough to thank you for the noble
support you have given my daughter in her great need?"
"Believe me, I was very happy to be serviceable to Lady Vincent,"
replied the countess gently. Then, turning to Claudia, she said:
"Your father has probably not had breakfast."
"No; but I assumed the privilege of ordering it for him," replied
the latter.
"The 'privilege' was yours without assumption, my dear. You did
exactly right," said the countess.
"I see that my daughter is quite at home with you, madam," observed
the judge.
"Oh, I adopted her. I told her that I should be her mother until the
arrival of her father," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, smiling.
At this moment the footman put his head in at the door to say that
the judge's breakfast was served. Lady Hurstmonceux led the way to
the breakfast parlor, and then saying:
"You will make your father comfortable here, Claudia, I hope," she
bowed and left them alone together.
Claudia sat down to the table and began to pour out the coffee.
James, the footman, was in attendance.
"Dismiss the servant, my dear," said the judge, as he took his seat
as near to his daughter as the conveniences of the table would
allow.
"You may retire, James. I will ring if you are wanted."
The man bowed and went out. The father and daughter looked up; their
eyes met and filled with tears.
"Oh, my child, how much we have to say to each other!" sighed the
judge.
"Yes, but, dear papa, drink your coffee first. You really look as
though you needed it very much," replied Claudia affectionately.
The judge complied with her advice; though, if the truth must be
told, he ate and drank indiscreetly fast in order to get through
soon and be at liberty to talk to his daughter. When he arose from
the table Claudia rang the bell for the service to be removed, and
then led the way again to my lady's little drawing room.
It was deserted. Lady Hurstmonceux had evidently left it that the
father and daughter might converse with each other unembarrassed by
the presence of a third person.
"My dear," said the judge, as he seated himself on the sofa beside
his daughter, wound his arm around her shoulders, and looked
wistfully into her face, "do you know that I am surprised to see you
looking so well? You must possess a great deal of fortitude,
Claudia, to have passed through so much trouble as you have and show
so few signs of suffering as you do."
"Ah, papa! if you had arrived a few days ago and seen me then, you
would have had good cause to say I looked well. But, for the last
week, the intense anxiety I have felt on your account has worn me
considerably."
"My poor girl! Yes, I know how that must have been. The news of the
shipwreck arrived long before we reached England, and everyone must
have given us up for lost."
"I did not. Oh, no! I could not! I still hoped; but, oh, with what
an agony of hope!"
"Such hope, my child, is worse than despair."
"Oh, no! I thought so then. I do not think so now; now that I have
you beside me."
"Now that it is ended. But, oh, my dear child, how hard it was for
you to have anxiety for my fate added to all your other troubles!"
"Papa, anxiety for your fate was my only trouble," said Claudia
gravely.
"How! what! your only trouble, Claudia? I do not understand you in
the least."
"All my other troubles had passed away. And now that anxiety is at
an end, that trouble is also passed away and I have none."
"None, Claudia? How you perplex me, my dear."
"None, papa! I left them all behind at Castle Cragg."
"I do not--cannot comprehend you, my dear."
"No, papa, you cannot comprehend me; no one could possibly
comprehend me who had not been placed in something like my own
position. But--can you not imagine that when a victim has been
stretched upon the rack and tortured by executioners, it is comfort
enough simply to be taken off it? Or when a sinner has been in
purgatory tormented by fiends, it is heaven enough only to be out of
it? Oh, papa, that is not exaggeration! That is something like what
I suffered at Castle Cragg; something like what I enjoy in being
away from it. Think of it, papa," said Claudia, gulping down the
hysterical sob that arose to her throat; "think of it! me, an
honorable woman, the daughter of Christian parents, to find myself
living in the house, sitting at the table in daily communication
with creatures that no honest man or pure woman would ever willingly
approach! Think of me being not only in the company, but in the
power, and at the mercy of such wretches!"
"'Think,' Claudia! I have thought until my brain has nearly burst.
Oh, I shall--no matter what I shall do! I will threaten no longer,
but, by all my hopes of salvation, I will act. The remorseless
monster! the infamous villain! I do not know how you lived through
it all, Claudia!"
"I do not know myself, papa. Oh, sir, I never fully realized my life
at Castle Cragg until I got away from it and could look back on it
from a distance. For the trouble then grew around me gradually;
slowly astonishing me, if you can conceive of such a thing;
benumbing my heart; stupefying my brain; deadening my sensibilities;
else I could not have endured it so quietly. Ah, it would have ended
in death, though--death of the body, perhaps death of the soul! But
still I knew enough, felt enough, to experience and appreciate the
infinite relief. of being delivered from it. Oh, papa, looking back
upon that home of horror, that den of infamy, I understand in what
hell consists--not in consuming fire, but in the company of devils!
Oh, sir, if you could once place yourself in my position and feel
what it was for me to leave that polluted atmosphere of sensuality,
treachery, and hatred, and to come into this pure air of refinement,
truth, and love, you would understand how it is that I can feel no
trouble now!"
"I do; but still I wonder to see you so well."
"Oh, sir, you know, severe as my tortures were, they were only
superficial, only skin-deep; they did not reach the springs of my
spirits. That is the reason why, in being relieved, I am so
perfectly at ease."
"Then you never loved that scoundrel, Claudia?"
"No, father, I never loved him. Therefore, the memory of his
villainy does not haunt me, as otherwise it might. Not loving him, I
ought never to have married him. If I had not, I should have escaped
all the suffering."
"Ah, Claudia, would to Heaven you never had married him," sighed the
judge, without intending to cast the least reproach on his daughter.
She felt the reproach, however, and exclaimed, with passionate
earnestness:
"Oh, father, do not blame me--do not! I could not help it! Oh, often
I have examined my conscience on that score and asked myself if I
could! And the answer has always come--no, with my nature, my
passions, my pride, my ambition, I could not help doing as I have
done!"
"Could not help marrying a man you could not love, Claudia?"
"No, papa, no! There were passions in my nature stronger than love.
These spurred me on to my fate. I was born with a great deal of
pride, inherited from--no one knows how many ancestors. This should
have been curbed, trained, directed into worthy channels. But it was
not. I was left to develop naturally, with the aid only of
intellectual education. I did develop, from a proud, frank, high-
spirited girl into a vain, scheming, ambitious woman. I married for
a title. And this is the end. How true is it that 'pride goeth
before a fall and a haughty temper before destruction!'"
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, every word you speak wounds me like a sword-
thrust! It was my 'theory' that did it all, I said I would let my
trees and my daughter grow up as nature intended them to do. And
what is the result? Tanglewood has grown into an inextricable
wilderness that nothing but a fire could clear, and my daughter's
life has run to waste!" groaned the judge, covering his face with
his hands.
"Papa, dear, dearest papa, do not grieve so! I did not mean to give
you pain. I did not mean to breathe the slightest reflection upon so
kind a father as you have always been to me. I meant only to explain
myself a little. But I wish I had not spoken so. Forget what I have
said, papa," said Claudia, tenderly caressing her father.
"Let it all pass, my dear child," said the judge, embracing her.
"And, papa, my life has not run to waste; do not think it. I told
you that my troubles had not touched the springs of my soul; they
have not. Is not my mind as strong and my heart as warm and my
spirit as sweet as ever? Papa, this day I am a better woman for all
the troubles I have passed through. I have never before been much
comfort to you, my poor papa; but I will go with you to Tanglewood
and make your home happier than it has ever been since mamma died.
And you will find that my life shall be redeemed from waste."
"Claudia, are you sure that you do not love that rascal--not even a
little?"
"Papa, I do not even hate him; now judge if I ever could have loved
him."
But the judge was no metaphysician, and he looked puzzled.
"Papa, if I ever had loved that man, do you not suppose that his
unfaithfulness, neglect, and insults, to say nothing of his last
foul wrong against me, would have turned all my love into hatred?
But I never loved him, therefore all that he could do would not
provoke my hatred. Papa, he is as much below my hatred as my love."
"Oh, Claudia, Claudia, that you should be compelled to speak so of
one whom you made your husband!"
"Papa, dear, you asked me a question and I have replied to it
truthfully."
"My dear, I had a motive for putting that question. I wished to know
whether a spark of love for that man survived in your heart to make
his punishment a matter of painful interest to you. For to vindicate
you, Claudia, it may become necessary to prosecute him with the
utmost rigor of the law; necessary, in fact, to disgrace and ruin
him," said the judge solemnly.
"Papa, dear, what are you talking about? Prosecute him to the utmost
extent of the law? Disgrace and ruin him? Why, it appears to me that
you do not know the circumstances, as of course you cannot. He has
schemed so successfully, papa, that he has everything his own way.
All the evidence, the false but damning evidence, is in his favor
and against me. It seems to me, reflecting coolly upon the
circumstances, to be quite impossible that he should be punished or
I should be vindicated--in this world at least."
"Claudia, I know more of these circumstances than you think I do. I
know more of them than you do; and I repeat that, in order to
vindicate your honor fully, it may be necessary to prosecute
Malcolm, Lord Vincent, with the utmost rigor of the law; to bring
him to the felon's dock; to send him to the hulks. Now, are you
willing that this should be done?"
Claudia turned very pale and answered:
"Let the man have justice, papa, if it places him on the scaffold."
"There are two courses open to us, Claudia. The first is--simply to
let him alone until he brings his suit for divorce, and then to meet
him on that ground with such testimony as shall utterly defeat him
and destroy his plea. In that case you will be vindicated from the
charge that he has brought against you, but not from the reproach
that, however undeserved, will attach to a woman who has been the
defendant in a divorce trial, and he will go unpunished. The second
course is to prosecute him at once in the criminal court for certain
of his crimes that have come to my knowledge, and so put him out of
the possibility of suing for a divorce. And in that case your honor
would go unquestioned, and he would be condemned to a felon's fate--
penal servitude for years. Now, Claudia, I place the man's destiny
in your hands. Shall we defend ourselves against him in a divorce
court, or shall we prosecute him in a criminal court?"
"Papa," said Claudia, hesitating, and then speaking low, "what does
Ishmael advise?"
"Ishmael? How did you know that he was with me, my dear?"
"I saw his name in the list of passengers, and I knew that he had
come on with you as your private counselor."
"Yes, he did, at a vast sacrifice of his business; but then I never
knew Worth to shrink from any self-sacrifice."
"What is his advice?" asked Claudia, in a low voice.
"He does more than advise; in this matter he dictates--I had almost
said he commands; at least he insists that the divorce suit shall
not be permitted to come on; that it shall be stopped by the arrest
of Lord Vincent upon criminal charges that we shall be able to prove
upon him. And that after the conviction of the viscount you shall
bring suit for a divorce from him; for that it would not be well
that your fate should remain linked to that of a felon."
"Then, papa, let it be as Mr. Worth says; and if the prosecution
should place the viscount on the scaffold--let it place him there."
"It will not go so far as that, my dear--not in this century. If he
had lived in the last century, and amused himself as he has done in
this, he would have swung for it, that is certain."
"Papa, what is it that you have found out about him? Was he
implicated in the death of poor Ailsie Dunbar? And, if so, how did
you find it out? Tell me."
"My dearest, we have both much to tell each other. But I wish to
hear your story first. Remember, Claudia, those alarming letters you
sent me were very meager in their details. Tell me everything, my
child; everything from the time you left me until the time you met
me again."
"Papa, dear, it is a long, grievous, terrible story. I do not know
how you will bear it. You are sensitive, excitable, impetuous. I
scarcely dare to tell you. I fear to see how you will bear it. I
dread its effects upon you."
"Claudia, my dearest, conceal nothing; tell me all; and I promise to
restrain my emotions and listen to you calmly."
Upon this Claudia commenced the narrative of her sufferings from the
moment of parting with her father at Boston to the moment of meeting
with him at Cameron Court. The reader is already acquainted with the
story, and does not need to hear Claudia's narration. Judge Merlin
also knew much of it; as much as old Katie had been able to impart
to him; but he wished to hear a more intelligent version of it from
his daughter. It was, as she had said, a long, sorrowful, terrible
story; such as it was not in the nature of woman to recite calmly.
Some parts of it were told with pale cheeks, faltering tones, and
falling tears; other parts were told with fiery blushes, flashing
eyes, and clenched hands.
At its conclusion Claudia said:
"There, papa, I have hidden nothing. I have told you everything. Now
at last you will believe me when I tell you how perfectly relieved I
feel only to be out of that purgatory--only to be away from those
fiends! Now at last you will see how it is that I can say without
ruth, 'Let Malcolm, Lord Vincent, have justice, though that justice
consign him to penal servitude, or to the gallows!' But, papa, when
I said I had no trouble left, I spoke in momentary forgetfulness of
my poor servants; Heaven forgive me for it! Though, really,
uncertainty about their fate is the only care I have."
"My dear," said the judge, who had comported himself with wonderful
calmness through the trying hour of Claudia's narration; "my dear,
cast that care to the winds. Your servants are safe and well and
near at hand."
"'Safe and well, and near at hand!' Oh, papa, are you certain--quite
certain?" exclaimed Claudia, in joy modified by doubt.
"Quite certain, my dearest, since I myself lodged them at Magruder's
Hotel this morning," said the judge.
"Oh, thank Heaven!" exclaimed Claudia fervently. "But, papa, tell me
all about it. When, where, and how were they found?"
"About three weeks ago, in Havana, by Ishmael," answered the judge,
speaking directly to the point.
His daughter looked so amazed that he hastened to say:
"It is easily understood, Claudia. You mentioned in the course of
your narrative that you suspected the viscount of having spirited
away the negroes. Your suspicion was correct. Through the agency of
chloroform he abducted the negroes and got them on board a West
Indian smuggler, that took them to Havana and sold them into
slavery. When we went there on the 'Santiago,' we found, recognized,
and recovered them."
"And what was his motive--the viscount's motive, I mean--for selling
my poor negroes into slavery, and thereby committing a felony that
would endanger his reputation and liberty? It could not have been
want of money. The highest price they would bring could scarcely be
an object to the Viscount Vincent. What, then, could have been his
motive?"
"What you mentioned that you suspected it to be, Claudia: to get rid
of dangerous witnesses against himself. But I had better tell you
the whole story," said the judge; and with that he began and related
the history of the conspiracy entered into by the viscount, the
valet, and the ex-opera singer, and overheard by Katie; the
discovery and seizure of the eavesdropper; and the abduction and
sale of the negroes.
At the conclusion of this narrative he said
"So you see, Claudia, that we have got this man completely in our
power. Look at his crimes. First, complicity in the murder of Ailsie
Dunbar; secondly, conspiracy against your honor; thirdly, kidnaping
and slave-trading. The man is already ruined; and you, my dear, are
saved."
"Oh, thank Heaven, thank Heaven, that at least my name will be
rescued from reproach!" cried Claudia earnestly, clasping her hands
and bursting into tears of joy, and weeping on her father's bosom.
"Yes, Claudia," he whispered, as he gently soothed her; "yes, my
child--thank Heaven first of all! for there was something strangely
providential in the seemingly dire misfortune that was the cause of
our being taken to Havana. For if we had not gone thither, we should
never have found the negroes; and if we had not found them, it would
have been difficult, or impossible, to have vindicated you."
"Oh, I know it. And I do thank Heaven."
"And, after Heaven, there is one on earth to whom your thanks are
due--Ishmael Worth. Not because he was the first to find the
negroes, for that was an accident, but because he sacrificed so much
in order to attend me on this voyage; and because he has been of
such inestimable value to me in this business. Claudia, but that I
had him with me in Havana, I should not now be by your side. But
that I had him with me, I should have plunged myself headlong into
two law cases that would have detained me in Havana for an
indefinite time. But that I had him with me to restrain, to warn,
and to counsel I should have prosecuted the smugglers for their
share in the abduction of the negroes, and I should have sued the
owners for the recovery of them. But I yielded to Ishmael's earnest
advice, and by the sacrifice of a sum of money and a desire of
vengeance, I got easy possession of the negroes and brought them on
here. You owe much to Ishmael Worth, Claudia."
"I know it, oh, I know it! May Heaven reward him!"
"And now our witnesses are at hand; and before night, Claudia,
warrants shall be issued for the arrest of the Viscount Vincent,
Alick Frisbie, and Faustina Dugald."
"They can have no suspicion of what is coming upon them, and
therefore will have no chance to escape."
"Not a bit. We shall come upon them unawares."
"How astonished they will be."
"Yes--and how confounded when confronted with my witnesses."
"Papa, I am not malicious, but I think I should like to see their
faces then."
"My dearest Claudia, you will have to imagine them. You will not be
an eye-witness of their confusion. You will not be required either
at the preliminary examination or at the trial, and it would not be
seemly that you should appear at either."
"Oh, I know that, papa. And I am very glad that I shall not be
wanted. But will the testimony of those three negroes be sufficient
to convict the criminals?"
"Amply. But that testimony will not be unsupported. We shall summon
the steward and housekeeper of Castle Cragg. And now, my dear, I
must leave you, if the warrants are to be issued to-day," said the
judge, rising.
"So soon, papa?"
"It is necessary, my dear."
"But, at any rate, you will be back very shortly?"
"I do not know, my child."
"The countess expects you to make Cameron Court your home while you
remain in the neighborhood."
"Lady Hurstmonceux has not said so to me, Claudia."
"She has had no fit opportunity. Wait till you start to go."
"By the way, I must take leave of my kind hostess," said the judge,
looking around the room as if in search of something or somebody.
Claudia touched the bell. A footman entered.
"Let the countess know that the judge is going."
The servant bowed and withdrew, and Lady Hurstmonceux entered.
"Going so soon, Judge Merlin?" she said.
"Just what my daughter has this moment asked. Yes, madam; and you
will acknowledge the urgency of my business, when I tell you it is
to lodge information against Lord Vincent and his accomplices, and
procure their immediate arrest, upon the charge of certain grave
crimes that have come to my knowledge, and that I am prepared to
prove upon them."
"You astonish me, sir. I certainly had reason to suspect Lord
Vincent and his disreputable companions, but I am amazed that in so
short a time you should have ferreted out so much."
"It was accident, madam; or rather," said the judge, gravely bending
his head, "it was Providence. My daughter will explain the
circumstances to you, madam. And now, will you permit me once more
to thank you for your great goodness to me and mine, and to bid you
good-morning?"
"I hope it will be only good-morning, then, judge, and not good-by.
I beg that you will return and take up your residence with us while
you remain in Scotland," said the countess, with her sweetest smile.
"I should be delighted as well as honored, madam, in being your
guest, but I am off to Banff by the midday train."
"Off to Banff?" repeated Berenice and Claudia, in a breath.
"Certainly."
"What is that for?" inquired Claudia.
"Why, my dear, there is where I must lodge information against the
viscount and his accomplices. There is where the crimes were
committed, and where the warrants must be issued."
"Oh, I see."
"I had forgotten. I was thinking; or rather without thinking at all,
I was taking it for granted that it could be all done in Edinboro',"
smiled the countess.
"Madam, I must still leave my daughter a pensioner on your kindness
for a few days," said the judge, with a bow.
"You say that as if you supposed it possible for me to permit you to
do anything else with her," laughed the countess, holding out her
hand to the judge. He raised it to his lips, bowed over it, and
resigned it, all in the stately old-time way. Then he turned to his
daughter, embraced her, and departed.
"Now, Claudia, tell me what the judge has found out about Vincent.
Was he implicated in that murder? I shouldn't wonder if he was,"
said the countess impatiently.
"That is just what I thought; but that is not the case. Oh,
Berenice, what a revelation it is; but I will tell you all about
it," said Claudia,
And when they were cozily seated together beside the drawing-room
fire Claudia related the story her father had told her of the
conspiracy against her own honor, the abduction and sale of the
negroes, and the recognition and recovery of them.
"I am not surprised at anything in that story but the providential
manner in which the servants were recovered. I believe the viscount
capable of any crime, or restrained only by his cowardice. If he
should hesitate at assassination, I believe that it would not be
from the horror of blood-guiltiness, but from the fear of the
gallows. I hope that no weak relenting, Claudia, will cause either
you or your father to spare such a ruthless monster."
"No, Berenice, no. I have said to my father, 'Let Lord Vincent have
justice, though that justice place him in the felon's dock, in the
hulks, or on the scaffold.' No, I do not believe it would be fair to
the community to turn such a man loose upon them."
While Lady Hurstmonceux and Lady Vincent conversed in this manner,
Judge Merlin drove to Edinboro'.
He reached Magruder's Hotel, where he had left Ishmael Worth, the
professor, and the three negroes.
Ishmael had lost no time; he had seen that the whole party had
breakfast; and then he had gone himself and engaged a first-class
carriage in the express train that started for Aberdeen at twelve,
noon.
They were now therefore only waiting for Judge Merlin. And as soon
as the judge arrived the whole party started for the station, which
they reached in time to catch the train. Three hours' steaming
northward and they ran into the station at Aberdeen. The stage was
just about starting for Banff. They got into it at once, and in
three more hours of riding they reached that picturesque old town.
Merely waiting long enough to engage rooms at the best hotel and
deposit their luggage there, they took a carriage and drove to the
house of Sir Alexander McKetchum, who was one of the most respected
magistrates of Banff.
Judge Merlin introduced himself and his party, produced his
credentials, laid his charge, and presented his witnesses.
To say that the worthy Scotch justice was astonished, amazed, would
scarcely be to describe the state of panic and consternation into
which he was thrown.
Long he demurred and hesitated over the affair; again and again he
questioned the accusers; over and over again he required to hear the
statement; and slowly and reluctantly at last be consented to issue
the warrants for the apprehension of Lord Vincent, Alick Frisbie,
and Faustina Dugald.
Ishmael took care to see that these warrants were placed in the
hands of an efficient policeman, with orders that he should proceed
at once to the arrest of the parties named within them.
And then our party returned to their hotel to await results.