CHAPTER XXIV.

Franklin Gray uttered scarcely a word as he led his men down the hill,

through the deep plantations to the left of the castle, and to the

small door which he was aware stood generally unlocked throughout the

whole night. Not a human being seemed to be stirring in the mansion or

its proximity; darkness, silence, and solitude, reigned in all the

offices and courts; and the Robber laid his hand upon the heavy iron

latch which was to give him admission into the interior of the

building, without his approach having been perceived by any one.

He paused there for a moment, however, and spoke in a low tone to his

band, saying, "Remember! to free this young gentleman is the first

object. After that, take what may fall in the way, money and jewels;

nothing heavy; nothing cumbersome. All the rest that is light in weight

and valuable in quality, sweep off at once. What right has he to such

wealth more than we have?" he added, in the tone of one who sought to

justify, to himself and others, acts the justice of which he doubted.

"He took many a thing from others with a strong hand, and he shall now

feel the strong hand in turn. Your weapons, I know, are never unready;

but use them not, unless we are compelled. As little bloodshed as

possible! Remember, Harvey, the silly man, poor fellow!--then by the

Earl's dressing-room up to the old tower! You may clear the

dressing-room as you come, if you like. There are many jewels there."

Those he addressed heard his directions without reply, though swords

were loosened in their sheaths, and the priming of some of the pistols

examined or increased. Harvey, and one or two others, indeed, of the

more experienced, seemed too sure of their preparations to need any

investigation thereof, and, without touching their weapons, prepared to

accompany their leader, with as much easy nonchalance as if he had been

leading them to a ball-room.

Franklin Gray himself neither touched sword nor pistol, but there was

no affected carelessness in his air. It was grave and stern, and full

of thought, as it well might be when bent upon an errand in the course

of which human blood might be spilt like water, without any of the

exciting and animating spirit of martial enterprise which, under other

circumstances, might have led him to tread gaily the path to tenfold

dangers. He looked round at his companions, however, while the short

and fluttered preparation was made; then laid his hand upon the latch,

and the door opened easily to his hand.

All was dark within, and the hollow echo of Franklin Gray's foot, as he

crossed the threshold, and strode on into the vaulted passage, was the

only sound to be heard in the mansion. One by one the others followed,

and leading them on through the dark corridors, without either

hesitation or mistake, the Robber proceeded straight towards what was

called the Little Hall, and pushed open a swinging door which lay

between it and the passages communicating with the offices. As he did

so, a bright light burst upon him, and dazzled his eyes, so long

habituated to the darkness. He strode on, however, into the midst of

the hall with a pistol in his hand; but the place was tenantless; and

he found that the light proceeded from a large sconce over the chimney,

and from a lamp standing on the table.

"This will light us on our way," he said, taking up the lamp. "That is

the door, Harvey, which leads to the Earl's rooms above; when you have

set the poor man free, come that way at once. In the end room of the

suite you will find a door leading to a staircase between that room and

the top rooms of the tower above. Follow the stairs and join me; but,

remember, do not hurt the old man. Tie him, if he resists, but do not

take his life, unless he tries to take yours."

Thus saying, he turned, and took his way through the passage that led

towards the foot of the great stairs, which he found dark and solitary.

There Harvey and his companion left him; and with the rest of his

followers, now reduced to six in number, Franklin Gray ascended the

steps, and entered the long corridor.

"Hark!" he whispered, after pausing for a moment; "hark! There are

voices speaking beyond, and I think I see a light through the door.

That chamber lies close at the foot of the stairs which we have to go

up, and we must see what it contains, ere we proceed further. Follow

me," he continued; and, advancing with a noiseless step, he pushed open

the door, which was only ajar, and strode into the room.

There, seated round a table furnished with a large black jack full of

strong ale, were, not only the three men who had been ordered to keep

guard over Langford, but two or three of the women servants of the

house, whom their male companions had prevailed upon to come and cheer

the solitary hours of night with their presence, and to banish all

fears of the ghost by numbers and merriment.

The sudden apparition of Franklin Gray and his followers, however, at

once put an end to all glee. The men sat for a moment as if turned into

marble with terror and astonishment, but the women, without waiting to

see whether the object of their apprehensions was corporeal or

incorporeal, fled with loud and piercing screams by the opposite door;

and, as their retreat towards the great staircase was cut off, they had

no resource but to rush up towards the chambers inhabited by Langford.

No sooner was the example of flight set them, than the men hastened to

follow it, with loud and terrified vociferations; and though Franklin

Gray, irritated by the noise, vowed he would fire upon them if they

were not silent, they continued their outcry as they rushed on before

him up the stairs and through the outer chamber.

Without calculation or concert, it struck each of the terrified

servants that they might make their way through the prisoner's room

down into Lord Danemore's apartments, where they hoped to find new

courage, or at least protection, from one to whom they had been.

accustomed to see all things yield in his vicinity. Each, then, rushed

towards the door, and, when they found it locked, pushed against it

with frantic vehemence. It shook--it yielded--the steps of the pursuers

were heard at the top of the stairs--another great effort was made; and

so sudden and violent was the rush, that the door gave way at once, and

darting in, the terrified servants found themselves in the presence not

only of Langford, but of the Earl himself.

"What is the meaning of all this?" exclaimed the Earl. But scarcely had

the words issued from his lips, and before he could receive any reply,

when the figures of several strange men, armed, and for the most part

disguised, appeared at the doorway and gave him some intimation of the

truth. No sooner did he behold this sight, than he sprang towards the

door which led to his apartments below, unlocked it, and calling to his

servants, "Follow me!" he darted down the stairs, leaving Langford to

act as he thought fit.

Franklin Gray paused but for a single instant for the purpose of

speaking a few hurried words to the prisoner, or rather spoke them as

he passed; "Quick!" he cried; "take possession of the papers if you

have not got them, and fly across the park down to Moorhurst, and

thence to London, where use your advantage, and hire the most knavish,

which means the best, of that great herd of knaves, called lawyers. I

must after yonder old man, or he will get to the alarum bell, and have

the whole county upon us."

"Stop, Gray, stop!" exclaimed Langford; "remember ----"

"I cannot stop! I cannot remember!" shouted Gray, sharply, in return,

and, darting towards the door, he rushed after the Earl, followed by

his band.

Langford, left alone, paused for a moment, as if to consider, and then

took the same path that the rest had done. The stairs were all in

darkness, but the lights from the rooms below, the noise of many

voices, of trampling feet, and of evident contention, guided him; and,

rushing on through the dressing-room, he came to the Earl's bed-room,

where the old man, having snatched up what weapons he could find, with

the terrified women clinging to his knees, and the three men armed in

haste around him, now stood like an ancient lion brought to bay. With

his white hair floating back from his face, and the fire of

unquenchable courage flashing from his eyes, with a pistol presented

towards Gray in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, he leaned

forward ready and eager for the unequal strife; while the Robber, with

his band behind him, and his arms crossed upon his his broad chest,

stood gazing upon the old peer with a look, stern indeed, but not

devoid of admiration.

At the same time, in a detached group to the right, were Harvey and

Hardcastle, the first of whom had his foot planted firmly on the chest

of the Earl's Italian valet, who lay prostrate before him, while with

his right hand the Robber pointed a pistol at the servant's head.

Hardcastle from behind, with a short carbine raised to his shoulder,

took aim at the Earl, exclaiming, as he looked towards Franklin Gray,

"Shall I fire?"

Like lightning Langford sprang forward, grappled with Hardcastle, and

threw up the muzzle of the carbine, which instantly going off, struck

the fine gilded ceiling, and brought down a considerable part upon

their heads.

"Hold! hold!" shouted Gray. "If any one stirs he shall die!"

"I know you, mutinous traitor! I know you," exclaimed the Earl, gazing

fiercely upon the Robber; "I have not forgotten you!"

"Nor I you, buccaneer!" replied the Robber. "But this is no time to

call such memories to mind. Make no resistance, and you are safe."

But, even as he spoke, there came the rushing sound of many feet from

the direction of the little hall below. The door to the left of the

Earl was thrown open, and in poured a crowd of men, grooms, horse-boys,

running footmen, all armed in haste with whatever weapons they could

snatch up, and led on by the very groom who had been left upon the

hill.

Many of them were pale with terror, but the determination and courage

of a few amongst them served to inspire the whole, and they poured on

into the room to the number of twelve or thirteen men, jostling each

other through the door, and gazing wildly round a chamber in which few,

if any of them, had ever been before, and which now presented so

strange and fearful a scene.

The eyes of Franklin Gray flashed as he beheld them, and Hardcastle,

suddenly bursting from the grasp of Langford---for all this had passed

in a single moment--sprang to the side of his leader, while Harvey,

coolly firing the pistol at the Italian's head, followed his companion,

and ranged himself with the rest. The unhappy valet started partly up

from the ground, but ere he could gain his feet, fell back again, and

writhed for an instant in convulsive agony, while the spirit quitted

its frail tenement. Then all was still.

But matters of deeper interest to Henry Langford were going on at the

other side of the room. Fury had evidently taken place of calmness in

the breast of Franklin Gray, and the Earl's eyes were blazing with

triumph and wrath as he found himself unexpectedly supported by so

large a body of men.

"Now, villain! will you surrender and meet your fate?" the old man

exclaimed. "Now surrender, or die where you stand, like a man! Out of

the way, woman! why cling you there?" he continued, spurning one of the

women servants with his foot, and striding over her, to approach nearer

to the Robber. But at that moment Franklin Gray's arms were unfolded

from his breast, the pistol in his right hand was raised in an

instant--there was a flash--a report, and the Earl fell back.

Consternation for a moment seized upon his attendants, and Langford's

voice was heard aloud exclaiming, "If you have killed him, you shall

answer for it with your life!"

But the Earl sprang up again instantly, crying, "'Tis nothing--'tis

nothing but a slight hurt! Take that, villain!" and, in the very act of

rising, he fired the pistol, which he had never let fall, into the

midst of the group of robbers. He probably intended the shot for

Franklin Gray, and there had been a time when no aim of his would have

failed in reaching its object; but he was wounded and old, and the ball

hit the man Hardcastle a few inches below the collar bone, and brought

him to the ground with a loud unnatural scream.

All was now confusion; a number of shots were fired on both sides, till

the pistols and carbines which had been loaded were discharged, and,

betaking themselves to other weapons, the two parties mingled, and

bloodshed, slaughter, and determined strife spread throughout the whole

apartments. Some were driven back into the rooms beyond, and prolonged

the struggle there; some died where they stood; and some were seen to

steal away wounded, or to fly as fast as they could with terror. Skill,

however, and discipline were on the part of the robbers; and though

they were inferior in number, the advantage was evidently on their

side. Franklin Gray, with all the worst parts of his nature roused and

fierce within him, commanded, directed, and fought, as if he had been

in the field. His eye was on every part of the chamber in turn, and his

voice was heard shouting orders to his different men, which, promptly

obeyed, almost always brought success along with them. Two of the

Earl's grooms, who thrust themselves between him and their master, fell

by his hand, either killed or wounded, even while he was directing

others. But while he still strode on towards the old peer, who

struggled fiercely forward to meet him, he was encountered by one at

least equal to himself.

With difficulty Langford had forced himself forward through the scene

of strife and confusion that was going on. He spoke to no one, he

assailed no one, though he parried more than one blow aimed at random

at his head, for, though the lamp above their heads gave abundant

light, the struggle and the obscurity caused by the smoke had got to

that pitch that men scarcely knew who were adversaries or who were

friends; but, with his drawn sword in his hand, he hurried on to the

part of the room where he had seen the Earl, and now seemed to devote

himself to his defence.

At the very moment when Franklin Gray was within another stride of the

old peer, Langford thrust himself between them. But the Robber's blood

was all on fire. "Out of my way!" he cried; "out of my way, or take the

consequences!"

"Stand back!" cried Langford, in return, while his eyes too flashed

with living lightning; "Stand back, or I forget all, and you die!"

"Out of my way!" again repeated Franklin Gray, and their swords

crossed.

At that moment, however, the loud long peal of the alarum bell made

itself heard throughout the whole Castle--rung with such violence and

determination as speedily to rouse all the villages and hamlets in the

neighbourhood. Franklin Gray heard the sound; and never in the moment

of the strongest passion forgetting the judgment and the skill which

had distinguished him in the army, even in the most unjustifiable

enterprises, he glared for a moment upon Langford, unwilling to yield

his victim, or to give up the strife; but then, as the knell sounded

louder and more loud upon his ear, he turned to his nearest companion,

saying, in a low voice, "Wilson, we must make our retreat. Tell Harvey

to get the men together. We go by the same way that we came. Get hold

of yonder casket, and see what is in that cabinet, while I and these

good fellows screen you; and be quick, for we shall have the whole

peasantry upon us! There is a tremendous smell of fire! Be quick--be

quick!"

He spoke rapidly but calmly, glancing with his eye from time to time

towards his antagonist. Although he felt very sure that Langford would

not attempt to injure him, unless he pressed him, still he kept his

blade playing round that of his opponent; and when he had done, he made

a lunge or two to fill up the time, but evidently without any intention

of wounding his adversary. Langford parried them with ease, and as

rapid in his conclusions as Franklin Gray, he perceived at once that

the ringing of the alarum bell, which struck his ear also, had rendered

the robbers apprehensive of their retreat being cut off, and now made

them prepare to retire.

The Earl, however, fierce and implacable, rushed forward the more

eagerly from the sounds he heard, and from the hope of taking or

destroying those who had dared to assail him. With word and gesture he

cheered on the men who still stood around him, and pressed forward upon

the robbers, who were now ranging themselves in regular line, and

slowly retreating to the doorway behind them. His men, however, were in

general of the opinion that it is wise to make a bridge for a flying

enemy, and they seconded his efforts but feebly, notwithstanding his

reiterated commands and the fearful execrations which he poured forth

upon their cowardice. Two or three, indeed, rushed forward with him,

but they were driven back in a moment by the line of their adversaries,

bearing with them some severe wounds to teach them more caution for the

future.

They dragged back in their flight their more impetuous lord, and under

cover of the smoke, which was now so dense as to render every object in

the room indistinct, the Robber and his men reached the door by which

they had entered, and began to pass it two at a time. As they did so,

the eye of Franklin Gray ran over their numbers, and he suddenly

exclaimed, "Halt! Hardcastle is down and dead; but where are Harvey and

Doveton?"

"I am here," cried a faint voice, which proceeded from a man who was

seen staggering towards them through the clouds of smoke. "Go on,

Captain; never mind me. I will come after."

"We must leave none in the hands of the enemy." cried the Robber,

starting forward, and taking the wounded man by the arm. At that

moment, however, one of the grooms darted upon Doveton, and seized him

by the collar, but as instantly fell back on the floor cleft nearly to

the jaws by the heavy blade of Franklin Gray, who, while he was thus

remorselessly sending the spirit of an adversary to its eternal

account, was shouting out with anxious care for his companions--"Where

is Harvey? I don't see Harvey!"

Such is human nature.

"I am here; I am here, Captain," cried Harvey, bursting into the room

from the opposite door, and throwing down a man who stood in his way.

"Come quickly, then; come quickly!" cried his leader; "we shall scarce

have time to retreat!"

"No, by ----, we shall not!" replied Harvey, rushing up to Franklin

Gray, and speaking in a low tone. "We shall not for the house is on

fire in every part. I ran through there to see if we could get out by

that staircase and the little hall, but the fire seems to have begun

there; some of the men must have knocked over the sconce. Our only way

will be up these stairs, down the others from the tower, and through

the great gallery. But we must be quick, for the fire is running that

way rapidly." He spoke quickly, but by this time there was no chance of

his being interrupted, for the same tidings had just been communicated

to the Earl and those who surrounded him, but not with the same

clearness; and, horrified at the thought of the new kind of death

presented to their eyes, the whole body of grooms and attendants had

made a rush towards the ante-chamber and vestibule, hoping to escape by

the same way that Harvey had attempted, but found impracticable.

The Earl followed them more slowly, and he might be seen once or twice

to raise his hand toward his head, as if either faint from loss of

blood, or giddy with the smoke and the fatigue.

Langford gazed after him eagerly, and when he saw him reach the door,

and take hold of the lintel as if for support, he darted forward to aid

him; but he was suddenly detained by a strong and powerful hand which

grasped his arm, and turning, he beheld Franklin Gray and two of his

men by his side.

"This way! this way!" cried the Robber, eagerly; "this way, if you

would save your life and regain your liberty! This way, if you would

recover the papers you have so long eagerly sought! The house is on

fire, and everything will quickly be consumed!"

Langford hesitated; but when he turned again towards the Earl, the old

peer had passed through the door, and was no longer visible.

"Quick--quick!" cried Franklin Gray. "Come you must and shall! Drag him

along whether he will or not;" and, seized by both arms, he was hurried

to the foot of the staircase leading to the tower. Some sudden emotion,

however, seemed there to take possession of him, and make him throw

aside all hesitation at once.

"My duty first," he cried, "and God's will for the rest;" and shaking

off the hold of those who were hurrying him forward, he exclaimed, "Go

on, Gray, and if I perish, forget that we have drawn our swords upon

each other;--go on." As he spoke he turned with a rapid step, and

retrod his way into the Earl's bed-room.

Gray gazed after him for a moment, with a look of stern sorrow and then

said, "On, my men! He must perish if he will."

A number of voices assailed Langford as he entered the Earl's bed-room,

exclaiming, "Not that way--not that way! the vestibule is all on fire!

the stairs are down!" and men and women, rushing rapidly towards the

other staircase by which the robbers had fled, passed him as he

advanced, while the heat was becoming more and more intense, and the

smoke almost suffocating.

"Where is the Earl?" he demanded of one of the grooms as he darted by

him.

"I don't know," replied the man, with all the bitter selfishness of

terror. "Gone to the devil, I dare say," and on he rushed.

But Langford, undismayed, strode forward--passed through the bed-room,

and entered the ante-room beyond. It was now clear of all the crowd of

attendants who had supported the Earl in his struggle with the robbers,

but had fled in different directions from the still more appalling fate

that now menaced every one within those walls. The fire was running

round the cornices; the smoke was tremendously thick--the heat and

smell of burning wood intolerable, and the rushing and roaring of the

flames, as they seemed to revel with demoniac triumph in the passages

beyond, was almost deafening to the ear.

Immediately under the lamp that hung from the ceiling, however, and

leaning on a table of splendid mosaic work, which was soon destined to

crumble into nothing under the jaws of the devouring elements, stood

the Earl of Danemore, with the blood dropping rapidly from a wound in

the shoulder and from another in the arm. Them was a sort of fixed,

stern, cold determination in his countenance, which had something awful

in it, as, in that scene of terror and coming destruction, he stood

without making one effort to save himself.

"Fly, my lord, fly!" exclaimed Langford, hurrying towards him; "this

way is still clear."

"Sir," replied the Earl, calmly and coldly, "I cannot fly; I am old,

and weak, and wounded, and I cannot fly. I have exerted myself somewhat

too much in this little affray; my strength is expended, and I cannot

fly. I may as well die here, as in the next room or the room beyond."

"God forbid that it should be so!" replied Langford, eagerly. "My lord,

I can bear you forth; I am young and strong, unhurt and unfatigued. Let

me--let me save you!"

"Touch me not, sir!" exclaimed the Earl; "touch me not! You have

brought this thing upon my head. From the sight of that man's face, I

know where you gained your information of my former life. He came to

set you free. Touch me not! but go to join your fellows while you may.

Here, with death hanging over me, and perhaps over you, I tell you I

hate and abhor you, and will not have your support, even to save my

life!"

"Say not so, my lord; say not so," replied Langford, casting himself on

his knee before him; "let me entreat you--let me adjure you to accept

my aid! Did you not see my sword drawn against him in your defence?

Hate me, my lord, you may; injure me, you have; but you know not yet

that I love you with a love that may change your hate into affection;

and to show you what I feel, I swear that if you come not to safety

with me, I will remain and die with you!"

The old man was moved. "This is strange--this is very strange!" he

said; "but no!" he added, "save yourself, Monsieur de Beaulieu, save

yourself; and, in gratitude for what you say, let us mutually forgive

one another. For me, my hour is come; I know it--I feel it. My plans

are frustrated and thwarted; the secrets of my early life displayed;

the mansion of my fathers burnt to the ground! my son, my only son,

dead by the hand of a murderer!--I am old, houseless--hopeless; why

should I linger? I am companionless, childless; why should I live?"

"Not childless, my lord," replied Langford; "not companionless, if you

will have it so. Your son, Lord Danemore, is dead, but not your only

son. Your son is lost--but your eldest son is at your feet!"

"God of heaven!" exclaimed the Earl; "what do you mean? You are so

like; yes, you are so like--"

"Yes, my lord--yes!" exclaimed Langford, "I know I am. I am like

Eugenie de Beaulieu, your first, your only wife. I am her son! I am

your child! But now let me save my father;" and he threw his vigorous

arms around him.

The old man bent down his head upon his shoulder, and wept; but he

resisted him no longer; and Langford, with a great effort, raising that

still powerful form in his arms, bore him strongly onward through the

bed-room, and the dressing-room behind it, to the stairs. It is true he

felt that he carried a great and unusual weight; but there were those

feelings within his bosom which made every muscle as strong as a band

of iron, and he bore the old peer up the stairs into the chamber where

he had been so long confined.

Until that moment, the Earl uttered not a word, and the tears rained

heavy from his eyes; but then he raised his head, exclaiming, "Stop!

stop: The papers, my boy! The papers!"

"Not for a world:" exclaimed Langford; "if we have time, it is all that

we shall have;" and on he hurried through the ante-chamber and down the

stairs to the long gallery.

There was an awful sight before him. The rich carved oak wainscotting

was all in flames. The invaluable pictures which covered the walls

shrivelling and crackling with the fire. The armour and weapons, either

of the chase or war, which had been piled up in the form of trophies

between the panels, fallen from brackets that supported them, cumbered

the floor in many places. The ceiling from above was dropping down with

the heat, and in two places the flame might be seen forcing its way

through the flooring from below, and curling up the wooden pillars

which supported the roof. It was evident that the whole of the

corridors underneath were on fire; and as Henry, bearing his heavy

burden, strode on along the gallery, he knew not but that each step

might precipitate both himself and his father into the gulf of death.

His heart, however, was proud of its doing, and fearless; and if there

was one feeling in his breast which was painful, it arose there only

when the thought of Alice Herbert crossed his mind--when deep love and

the memory of her affection came tender and unnerving upon him. For a

single instant all the painful particulars of her situation, if he were

lost to her, flashed across his mind, but he banished them in a moment,

and summoned high resolution to his aid, knowing that he was acting as

she would have him act--knowing that she would be proud and satisfied

if she could see him at that moment.

Onward he went, rapidly but carefully. Twice he felt the flooring

giving way beneath him, and twice by a longer stride he reached a spot

where the beams were firm and unconsumed. The vast size of the gallery

enabled him to breathe with greater freedom, but still he could not see

clearly to the top of the great staircase, not only on account of the

smoke, but on account of a shower of sparks which came down from a spot

where the ceiling had fallen in.

The dust and mortar, even when he reached that place, prevented him

from discovering what was the state of the flooring below; only two

steps, however, lay between him and the head of the great staircase. If

he reached it, he knew that he was safe, for it was of stone, and he

strode on. The flooring gave way, however, at the first step, but he

perceived it yielding before it was too late, and with a violent

exertion sprang across the chasm. The effort was so great as nearly to

have cast him headlong down the steps, but he caught the iron

balustrade, and with a beating heart felt that he and his father both

were saved.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed.

"Thank God!" rejoined the Earl; "I can walk now! I can walk well!"

But Langford still bore him on till they had reached the doorway, and

passed out under the arch which projected beyond the building. There,

relaxing his hold, he suffered the Earl to regain his feet; but, still

supporting him by the arm, led him onward, after giving a moment to

recover breath, towards a spot on the terrace where all those who had

escaped from the fire, were assembled, and, as too usual on such

occasions, were standing with inactive wonder and selfish thankfulness

for their own deliverance.

Further on, indeed, there were two or three people engaged in raising

with difficulty a long ladder towards the high tower where Langford had

been confined. But a cry of "The Earl! the Earl!" which burst from the

nearest group as the two approached, caused them to pause, and the

woman Bertha, who had been directing their movements, ran up in haste.

The Earl, leaning on the arm of him who had saved him, gazed up for an

instant upon the splendid mansion of his ancestors, while in some parts

wide black vacuities, fringed with fire, and in others a mass of flame

and a blaze of light, crowned by a pyramid of red sparks and smoke,

showed him the state of that building from the midst of which he had

been borne.

The sight thus presented to his eyes, the memory of all that night's

events, the sudden wakening up of old, and dear, but painful,

associations, the renewal of feelings that had been extinct, and the

struggle of wonder and uncertainty with joy and conviction, were

overpowering to a frame weakened as his had been. He turned from the

burning mansion to his recovered son; he gazed for a moment, earnestly,

intensely, on his countenance, and then, casting his arms around his

neck, he exclaimed, "It is--it is--my son! my child! my deliverer! But

my eyes grow dizzy; my heart feels sick." And as he spoke, he fainted

with the loss of blood and the manifold emotions which thronged into

his heart.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"He acknowledges him! he acknowledges him as his own child!" exclaimed

the voice of Bertha, who had run up in haste from the other group.

"Bear witness all! bear witness every one! you Henry, you Jones, you

Moreton; he acknowledges him as his son even at the moment of his

death!"

"Hush! hush! he is not dead!" exclaimed the deep full voice of

Langford; "he is but fainting from loss of blood. Some one seek a

surgeon speedily. Give me something to bind up his wounds. Cannot some

one fetch a cup of water?"

"He acknowledged him!" repeated the woman Bertha, whose whole mind

seemed taken up with one idea; "he has acknowledged him; let every one

bear witness. I knew it would be so; I knew it must be so. I knew that

fate and inscrutable justice would work out their own way, though it

were in darkness and in shadow. I knew that it wanted no mortal skill

to direct, no mortal hand to help. Oh, thou," she continued, turning

towards Langford, "thou who hast undergone the severe trial in thine

infancy of evil fortune and adversity, thou who hast drunk the bitter

cup in youth, now--now that the sweeter cup is presented to

thee--forget not the lessons thou hast learnt, and show that thy heart

has been softened, not hardened, by struggles early endured, and

sorrows tasted in the brightest days of life; now show that thy bosom

is as free, even when loaded with riches, as when lowliest fortune

oppressed thee."

"I trust it may be so," replied Langford, quickly; "I trust it may be

so; but nevertheless you mark not the Earl's condition. Quick, Mistress

Bertha, quick! Surely some simples can be found to recall him from this

state of insensibility. Seek them, I beseech you; seek them quickly,

for it is terrible to think of losing a parent when one has so lately

regained one."

"Fear not! fear not!" answered the woman, gazing upon the Earl; "he

only faints. There is many a year's life yet within those old limbs. He

was not saved from destruction to die at the moment when his dearest

tie to the world was restored to him. But look not impatient, Master

Henry; I will speed quickly to the rooms which are not yet on fire,

although my keys have been stolen from me, and I know not where to find

anything that I seek. Nevertheless, so be it; I go but to obey."

She turned as if to quit them; but Henry, and one or two of those who

stood near, exclaimed, "Hold! hold! he is better; he opens his eyes.

Bring us some water; that will restore him fully."

As they spoke the Earl did indeed open his eyes, and looked around him

feebly. A few long strips of linen were procured, and made into

bandages for his wounds. Langford, as we shall still call him, applied

them skilfully and well; and some water was obtained, of which the Earl

drank eagerly, for he was parched and thirsty with exertion and loss of

blood. The deep draught seemed to refresh him much, and he raised

himself up on his arm from the turf whereon they had laid him, making a

sign for Langford and others to help him to rise entirely.

"You are better now," said Langford, eagerly; "you are better now. Let

us bear you to some cottage in the neighbourhood, where the aid of a

surgeon may be procured."

"I am better," replied the Earl, in a voice wonderfully firm; "I am

better, my son; but there is much yet to be done. Raise me up. Stay;

give me your hand, I can raise myself. How goes the fire? is the

building all down?"

"Oh, mind not the building, my lord," replied his son; "mind not the

building. Let us attend to your safety first. There will not be wanting

means to raise Danemore Castle from its ashes again. No, my lord, no,"

he continued, seeing the Earl make an impatient sign with his hand;

"the building is not all down; the whole of the right wing is free, and

the people are bringing out everything valuable that it contains."

"But the tower, the tower," exclaimed the Earl. "Those papers, my boy,

they must be preserved at all risks, otherwise your destiny will still

be clouded. Lift me up, lift me up, I say."

With very little assistance he raised himself from the ground and gazed

over the building, fixing his eyes eagerly on the old tower in which

Langford had been confined. The fire, running along the corridors, had

reached the first and second stories, and round the frameworks of the

lower windows might be seen the long lambent flames curling like fiery

serpents. But up above appeared the windows of the two chambers which

contained matter of such interest to both the Earl and his son, through

which shone forth nothing but the calm steady light of the lamps that

had been left burning there--pouring forth a mild and tranquil lustre,

high above all the fierce and eager flames below, like a gentle and

virtuous spirit shining on in peaceful brightness amidst the fire, and

flame, and smoke of the angry passions, and consuming strifes, and foul

ambitions of the world.

"There is yet time," exclaimed the Earl; "there is yet time! Raise up

that ladder," he continued, turning to those who had been, placing it

against the tower as a means for his own escape, but had now let it

sink back again to the ground; "raise up that ladder. Why have you let

it drop? There! Be quick! Place it against the furthest window to the

east. Why do you not aid them?" he continued, turning to some of the

servants who stood inactive. "By Heaven, I will have your ears slit, if

you stand idly there!"

The men, reminded by the tone, of the fiery rule under which they had

so long lived, sprang to obey; but notwithstanding all the eager haste

with which he urged then on, to raise that tall ladder was a work

requiring some labour and time, and, while they did it, the anxious eye

of the Earl marked with apprehension the flames appearing, one after

another, at the small loop-hole windows which lighted the staircase

that led from the great gallery to the chambers above.

"Now, now," he said, in the loudest voice he could command, as soon as

the ladder was fixed, "a thousand guineas to the man who will mount

into that room, and with a pickaxe break open the cabinet door in the

wall on the left hand, and bring me down safely the small iron case

that is contained therein. A thousand guineas to that man, I say!"

"I will do it, my lord," cried a stout peasant, starting forth; "I'd go

through fire, or water either, for a thousand guineas, for then I could

marry Jenny Barker, and take old Hudson's farm. There's no pickaxe

here, but here's a crowbar, which will do as well."

"Up, up then," cried the Earl; "a thousand guineas if you bring it

down!"

The young man sprang up the ladder at once; but ere he had reached the

top, the flames were seen bursting through the windows of the adjoining

room, and every eye below watched his ascent with fearful interest. He

went on boldly, however, and, reaching the top, contrived to open the

window. He was seen kneeling for a moment upon the sill, and then

sprang into the room.

A moment of anxious suspense followed, but then the small flickering

point of the flame was seen curling round the wood-work of the casement

through which he had just passed, and in another instant it burst forth

in a volume. As it did so, a wild scream burst from the crowd behind

the Earl, and a pretty country girl ran forward, wringing her hands.

But at that moment the form of him she loved was seen emerging from the

very midst of the fire. He planted his foot firmly on the ladder, and

descended rapidly, holding a small case in his arms.

"He has got them!" cried the Earl; "he has got them!" and he turned

towards Langford with a smile full of joy.

"He is safe!" murmured the girl; "he is safe!" and she burst into

tears.

With haste so great as almost to be dangerous, the young man descended

the ladder; but it soon became apparent why he did so, for the flames

were seen curling about the upper rounds thereof, and just as he

reached the bottom, the upper part, consumed by the intense heat, gave

way, and the ladder fell, first against another point of the tower, and

then with a crash to the ground. The young man, however, was safe; and,

giving one pressure of the hand to the girl, who ran forward to meet

him as he passed, he advanced directly to the Earl, and placed the

small iron case that he carried in his hands.

It opened with a spring lock, and the Earl pressed it back eagerly.

Langford gazed, not without much agitation, for there before him, he

thought, lay all that he had so long desired and striven to possess,

the proofs of his mother's honour and purity, his title to great

wealth, a noble name, and high rank, (not only in his own country, but

in that which had in some degree adopted him,) and the means of

showing, of proving, to Alice Herbert, that he had loved her, and

sought her, with the high, pure, disinterested love of which she was

worthy. He gazed anxiously, then, while the Earl pressed back the lock;

but the old man's hands were still feeble, and it was with difficulty

that he accomplished that object. He did so at length; the lock gave

way, and the top flew open; but, to the surprise and consternation of

both, the casket was void. Not a paper, not a trace of anything of the

kind did it contain.

The Earl let it drop from his hands, and turned a glance of fierce

inquiry upon the young peasant, exclaiming, "Have you opened it?"

"As I hope for salvation, my lord," exclaimed the young man, "I neither

tried nor knew how to open it, but brought it to you just as I found

it."

His anxious and terrified look, the sudden rush of blood to his

countenance, his frank and ingenuous bearing, all confirmed his words,

and left no doubt that he spoke the truth. The Earl then turned to his

son, and gazed in his face with a look of deep and painful interest.

Langford's brow was grave, but calm, and taking both the Earl's hands

in his, he said, "Never mind, my lord; it cannot be helped; let us be

satisfied with the good which has befallen us. This day I have gained a

father, and you a son! It is enough! Let us not mind the rest."

The Earl cast himself upon his bosom. "You are my son, you are my son!"

he said; "I know and feel it, though there is much that I do not

comprehend, there is much still to be explained. You are like your

mother! Oh! too like your mother! Hating myself for having wronged her,

I hated her because she was wronged; and yet, though it seem madness

and folly to say it, I loved her still. But I knew not that she had had

a son, or I would never have acted as I did act; I would never have

wronged her as I did wrong her. A vague suspicion of the truth, a wild

whirling phantom of the imagination, did cross my mind once in years

long gone; and once, too, within these few days, when first I saw you

in that tower. But why, why did she conceal it?"

"Because, my lord," replied Langford, "you had left her; you had taken

from her the proofs of your marriage with her; you were upon the eve of

marriage with another, a proud and princely dame of another land; and

because her brother, my uncle, once your friend and companion, though

he doubted not the tale that his sister told of her private marriage

with yourself, and of your having obtained from her all the proofs of

that marriage, upon the most solemn vow never to destroy them; though

he doubted it not, I say, no, not a word of the whole tale, yet he

insisted upon her concealing her situation and the birth of her child,

for the sake of the honour of his family, at least till he could obtain

from you the proofs of his sister's virtue. Nay more; when he found

that, notwithstanding all his precautions, scandal had got abroad and

was busy with her name, he forced her to quit her own land, to dwell in

other countries, to assume another name, and to countenance the report

of her own death. In every matter of fortune he treated her with noble

and princely generosity; and in all points he was kind, except in one,

where he was stern and inflexible. But I agitate you. You are not able

to hear this tale now."

"Go on! go on!" exclaimed the Earl; "let me hear it all at once. Keep

me not a moment in suspense."

"Well," continued Langford, "he educated me as if I had been his own

child; but, as I was born in England--born within but a few miles of

this spot--he caused me to be placed in the English regiments serving

at that time with the troops of France. When of an age to judge for

myself, he told me, with her consent, the sad story of my mother, which

she had never told me----"

"What! then she lived!" exclaimed the Earl; "she did not die when I was

told she died!"

"Oh no, my lord," replied Langford; "she bore deep grief for many a

long and bitter year. Hers was a heart of much endurance, and though

the disappointment of her first affection, the destruction of all

confidence in----"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the Earl, covering his eyes with his hands.

"Hush, hush; I did her bitter wrong!"

There was a silent pause of several minutes, and then the old man asked

again, "How long has she been dead?"

"Scarcely two years, my lord," replied his son; "and let me say, that

even to the last, there was within her heart a lingering spark of

affection toward him whom she had loved in early youth--whom she had

loved alone."

"Bless her!" exclaimed the Earl; "bless her! Oh, could she but know

that I weep for her even now!" and he did weep.

"But that, too," he added sadly, "is amongst the dark things of the

irrevocable past. Oh! could but man remember that, though each act that

he performs, each fiery passion gratified, each rash word spoken, each

selfish wrong committed, may be blotted from his memory the next hour,

like words written by the finger of a child upon the sea-shore sand;

that, though his remembrance thereof may be but as a waxen tablet, on

which each new impression effaces the last; could he but remember, I

say, that there is a stern and adamantine record kept by fate, on which

the lightest line, once traced, can never be effaced, which whole

oceans of tears can never clear of one spot, nor the fiery longings of

the repentant heart ever purify of one dark act done, human things

would surely never give themselves cause to feel what I feel now,

longing to pour out my blood like water, so that it could but recall

the past."

There was another pause, and then the Earl continued, "Tell me more, my

son; tell me more. You spoke of your uncle. He was a noble man, and

generous. Though there have been harsh words and fierce acts pass

between us, I loved him well: I love him even now."

"I was about to say, my lord," continued Langford, "that when I was of

an age to hear and judge, he told me my mother's history, and my own

condition. He told me that you had wedded another, and had a son on

whom you doted fondly; and he showed me that there was no chance of

your ever doing myself or my mother justice, if by so doing you were to

wring your earldom and your rich estates from him, the child of your

affection. He then proposed to me to make a sacrifice, and once more to

apply to you for the proofs of my mother's marriage, entering into a

solemn compact with you never to produce those proofs in England.

Possessing them in France would not only have at once restored the

honour of my mother, but would have rendered me heir to the Marquisate

of Beaulieu, and to all the estates thereunto attached. But there arose

a question as to whether my birth should be made known to you. My

mother longed for it eagerly; for with a mother's fond affection she

thought that there was something in your breast which would prevent you

from utterly wronging your child."

The Earl stretched forth his hand and turned away his head, exclaiming,

"She did me more than justice. My heart might have been torn with agony

and shame, but I should have found no means to escape but in fresh

crime, and might not have had the courage even to do partial right."

"So my uncle judged," replied Langford, "and he refused his consent to

your being made acquainted either with my birth, or with my mother's

existence. He offered you his solemn pledge, however, never to use the

proofs, if you once yielded them, for any other purpose than to

establish the fact of his sister's marriage, in France."

"And I refused him," said the Earl; "I refused him what he had every

right to claim. But it is vain regretting; and he, too, is dead,

bearing with him to the cold tomb a load of injuries, from him whom he

once called his friend--from him whom he succoured in adversity, nursed

in sickness. He, too, is dead, and with him likewise the past is beyond

recall. But with thee, my boy, with thee it is not too late; and yet,"

he added, sadly, "those papers are lost which I promised never to

destroy--which I guarded so carefully--the only proofs of that

marriage--they are lost at the very moment that I find my son. Does it

not seem as if fate were resolved to punish all my past deeds by

stamping them with its irrevocable signet at the moment I first longed

to recall them? What shall we do? How shall we act to prove the facts?

Bertha you were present; you are the only one now left."

"Is it not enough that you acknowledge him?" demanded the woman; "are

your laws in this land so hard that a man cannot do tardy justice when

he longs to do it?"

"What is justice to one, might be injustice to another," replied

Langford; "and if I am rightly informed, the title and estates must

pass away to some far relative."

"A man I hate!" exclaimed the Earl, with a touch of his old fierceness.

But Langford interposed. "Oh, hate no one now!" he said; "but let us

talk no more of these things; at least not now. You are faint, my lord,

and I fear, much hurt; lean on my arm, and take this good youth's too,

who, though he brought us but the empty casket, with the treasure gone,

must not be unrewarded."

"The stables are not touched, my lord," said one of the grooms,

advancing, and bowing low; "we can bring a carriage in a moment."

"Do so! do so, speedily!" replied Langford, and he endeavoured to lead

the peer to some place of repose. But the old man seemed still inclined

to linger and to inquire into the past, in the presence of the awful

scene which was yet proceeding before his eyes. All that had been said,

both by father and son, had been witnessed by a crowd of persons; but

at first, the overpowering feelings of their hearts had withdrawn all

attention from external objects, and neither had remarked nor

remembered that there was any living soul present but themselves. Henry

had awakened to their situation first, and he now strove to prevent the

Earl entering further into the history of his past life, grieved and

angry with himself for not having stopped him ere any ears had heard

him charge himself with so many dark offences.

"We are surrounded by listeners, my lord," he said, in a low tone,

seeing that the Earl was proceeding with the theme then paramount in

his thoughts; "we had better pause till we are in private. There is

many a keen ear around us."

"I mind them not!" replied the Earl, aloud, drawing himself up to his

full height, but still leaning upon his son's arm; "I mind them not! I

would have them know it! Who can say that I shall ever see to-morrow's

sun? Hear every one, and bear witness, that I acknowledge this

gentleman as my son; that I was fully and lawfully married to his

mother, before his birth, in the church of Uppington; that by my hand

the leaf was torn from the register which recorded that marriage; that

the certificate thereof was taken by me from his mother; and that it,

with the torn leaf and other papers, was kept by me, from that time to

this, in the case which now lies empty there. Some one has stolen them

in the horrors of this night; but for their recovery, I will double the

reward I offered for the casket itself. Let every one remember the

words that I have spoken. This is my legitimate son!"

The people around answered by a shout; but the heavy pressure of the

Earl's hand upon his son's arm showed Henry that the exertion of

speaking in so loud a tone had been too much for his exhausted powers;

and he eagerly led him away towards a spot where he could sit down till

the vehicle came to carry him to the neighbouring village. The old man

seemed satisfied, however, with what he had accomplished, and gazing in

his son's face with a smile, he said, "I have done my best towards one

act of reparation. Oh, my boy, would that I could repair all!"

Langford said little in reply, but what he did say was kind and tender;

and as soon as the carriage appeared; the Earl was placed in it, and

conveyed to the house of the clergyman of the village, who gladly

received his noble patron. Messengers were instantly sent off for

surgeons, but ere they arrived, Langford, who sat by his father's

bedside, saw with pain a bright red spot deepening every moment in the

Earl's cheek, announcing, as well as his burning thirst, that strong

fever was taking possession of him.

CHAPTER XXVI.

It is an awful thing to sit by the bed of sickness at any time; to see

that strange and inexplicable thing, animal life, oppressed and beaten

down like a crushed butterfly, waving its faint wings with the energy

of suffering, but not the freedom of health; to mark the quick

breathing, to gaze upon the anxious eye, to see the cheek, once florid,

grown pale and ashy, the lip parched and dry, the thin nostril

expanding for the insufficient breath, the hand suddenly blanched and

grown meagre, the uneasy frame tossing with the dire combination of

lassitude and restlessness; and to know that all these are signs of a

spirit approaching that dread portal, which, if once passed, can never

be passed again till the gates of life are thrown open for eternity!

It is an awful thing at any time! but when the being whom we see so

situated is dear to our heart by the ties of kindred or of love, it is

still more awful; and awful, trebly awful, is the scene, when the

creature that lies weighed down by sickness before our eyes is both

closely linked to our deepest feelings and tenderest natural

affections, and yet loaded, even more than by the weight of malady,

with faults and errors, and sins and crimes, which may render the dark

passing of that fearful porch of death, the eternal separation from all

who loved him on the earth.

The fire in Danemore Castle had burnt itself out. Part of the building

had been saved, and remained uninjured. The servants had taken

possession of it, and were using all means to prevent the fire from

breaking out again. The greater part of the peasantry had returned to

their homes, and few persons were seen in the park or on the terraces,

but here and there a straggling group of idlers gathered together from

the neighbouring country to gaze upon the scene of ruin and

destruction.

He whom we have called throughout this book Henry Langford, had twice

gone forth, at his father's desire, to see what was taking place

without, and he now sat, in the cool grey of the dawn, beside the couch

of the Earl, as he lay obtaining snatches of brief and troubled

slumber. As Langford so sat, and gazed upon him, the natural feelings

of a son's heart towards a father would have way. The blood of kindred

stirred within him, and he felt that he was his son. But still as he

gazed, the image of his dead mother rose up before his sight, and all

the bitter wrongs that she had suffered made his heart sad, and brought

the tears into his eyes.

He thought of her as he had known her in his youth, still exquisitely

lovely, though touched by the withering hand of sorrow. He thought of

her as he had known her in later days, fading rapidly away, like a

flower broken and trampled under foot by some heedless passer-by. He

thought of her as he had seen her on the bed of death, with every

worldly hope at an end, and with no thought nor care but of the heaven

to which her steps were bent, and of his own future fate and happiness

on earth. Her words, almost the last which she ever spoke, still rang

in his ears; the promise she had exacted from him, never to give up the

endeavour to establish her honour and purity, and the injunction which

she had likewise laid upon him, if his father ever did him injustice,

to forgive and love him for her sake.

Henry felt that he did forgive him; but he felt, too, that there was

another and a greater Judge whose forgiveness was needed; a judge not

less merciful, indeed, but one not moved by human passions and

affections; and as he thought of all that had been done by him to whom

he owed his being--of all the dark deeds of other years--the fierce

unruly passions which had remained unextinguished even to that very

night, the scene of his father's suffering, the prospect of big death

became awful, trebly awful to the eyes of his son.

The surgeon from the county town had been with Lord Danemore, had

examined his wounds, and had pronounced that there was no immediate

danger; but he had not in any degree assured the Earl's son that there

was a prospect of his illness terminating favourably. He spoke as men

are too apt to speak, with cautious consideration of his own

reputation, more than with any regard for the feelings and anxieties of

him to whom he spoke. Langford had gathered, however, that he judged

unfavourably of his father's state. He dwelt upon the facts of the Earl

being an old man--of his constitution, though strong, having been

apparently severely tried in former years--of the event of all such

wounds being uncertain--and of a great deal of fever having rapidly

come on. He said nothing to mitigate these unfavourable circumstances,

and Langford judged the worst. His feelings, then, when after the

surgeon had left the Earl for a short time, and he sat beside him

watching his fitful slumbers, were most painful; but they were destined

to be more so ere long.

Scarcely had the sky grown yellow with the bright coming on of morning,

when the trampling of many horses' feet below, and then the sound of

persons ascending the stairs, called his attention. It had been the

surgeon's express injunction that the Earl should be kept perfectly

quiet; and as the sounds approached the chamber in which he lay,

Langford started up and moved towards the door, in order to caution the

new comers to make less noise. Before he reached it, however, that door

opened, and five or six persons unceremoniously entered the chamber.

The noise at once awoke the Earl, and, starting up on his arm, he

exclaimed, "Who is there?"

"It is I, my lord; your lordship's very humble servant, Sir Thomas

Waller," replied the first person who entered. "No sooner did I hear

that your lordship's house had been attacked and set on fire, than I

got on horseback with as many constables as I could gather together to

come to your aid; and as my learned and worshipful friend and cousin,

Justice Whistler, from London, the chief magistrate of police, happened

to be lodging in my poor house at the time, I besought him to come over

with me too."

"Whether in regard to the fire or in regard to the robbery," replied

the Earl, cynically, "your coming is somewhat late; and as I am both

wounded and in pain, and have the express orders of my surgeon to

remain in perfect quiet, you will perhaps favour me by leaving me to

repose; and another time, before you bring strangers into my room, do

me the honour to inquire whether it is my pleasure to receive you;" so

saying, he laid himself down again, and turned his back upon his

unwished-for guests.

"This is a very extraordinary reception, indeed," said a portly,

keen-faced personage, who had followed Sir Thomas into the room; "but,

at all events, Sir Thomas, we must do our duty. My lord, I am sorry to

trouble your repose."

"You must trouble it no longer, sir," said Langford, advancing towards

him, "but have the goodness at once to quit the room."

The worshipful Justice Whistler--for he it was who had been speaking,

calmly took a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, placed them on his

nose, and gazed at Langford from head to foot.

"This is the young man, I take it, Sir Thomas," he said, turning to his

companion; and, on a significant nod from Sir Thomas Waller, he

proceeded, "You are the personage calling yourself Henry Langford, and

stand charged, I find, with the wilful murder of Edward Lord Harold. On

consulting with my good friend here on the subject last night, aided by

the wisdom of Sir Matthew Scrope, I gave it as my decided opinion that

you should be immediately committed to the county gaol, having been

left too long already in circumstances which rendered it probable that

the ends of justice might be defeated."

"What is this? what is this?" exclaimed the Earl, starting up.

"Nothing, my lord," replied the magistrate, "but that this young man

stands committed upon a due warrant to that effect, placed in the hands

of these officers behind me for execution."

"Do you know, sir," demanded the Earl, sternly--"do you know that he is

my son?"

"We have heard something to that effect this night," rejoined the

justice, in a sharp dry tone--he evidently having taken offence at the

Earl's first salutation, and not having that reverence for his wealth

and power which was felt by his neighbours in the country--"we have

heard something to that effect this night; but as I observed to my good

friend here, that only renders the matter more probable. That your

lordship's illegitimate son----"

"He is not my illegitimate son, sir," replied the Earl; "he is my

legitimate child, by my first wife."

"It is very awkward, certainly," answered the imperturbable Justice

Whistler; "but, nevertheless, my lord, we cannot help it. The law must

have its course; and, as I said before, the charge is but rendered the

more probable by the fact of his being your unacknowledged son. To get

an obtrusive heir out of the way is no slight inducement; but besides

all that, there is quite proof sufficient to justify his committal long

ago. Here they are seen to draw their swords upon each other. The one

rides away slowly up to the moor; the other gets his horse and follows

him at full speed, just as night is closing in. The one is killed upon

the moor, and his horse returns all bloody. The other does not get back

till late that night, and then is in an evident state of agitation. A

pistol shot is heard in that direction at the very time he is there,

and at the very spot to which he is seen riding. My lord, the matter is

quite conclusive; and though doubtless unpleasant, the young gentleman

must to prison!"

The Earl gazed wildly but earnestly in the face of his son, with

feelings which those who have read the steps he had taken to bring

about the very result that now fell upon him like a thunderbolt may

well conceive.

"I have done this!" he exclaimed; "I have done this! Oh, my son, I am

your murderer!" and he turned away his head with an aguish shudder

passing all over his frame.

Langford, however, hastened to console him. "Oh, no!" he said, grasping

the old man's hand--"Oh, no! While you thought me guilty, you justly

used all means to punish the supposed murderer of your son, but----"

"You do not know," replied the Earl, with that withering expression of

heartfelt anguish that nothing but remorse can give; "You do not know.

I have pursued you like a fiend! Your blood will be Upon my head--my

own child's blood!"

"Not so, my lord; not so." replied Langford, again. "The worst will be

but a few days' imprisonment. You know my innocence; I know it too, and

know that it can be proved with ease. That which gives me the greatest

pain at this moment, is to be deprived of the opportunity of watching

by and attending you till you shall have recovered from your wounds. It

grieves me--it is dreadful to me--to leave you to the hands of menials.

My lord, there will be one comfort to me--one consolation in prison,

which, as the first favour I have ever asked you, you must grant me.

There is a lady in this vicinity, kind, and gentle, and tender; your

son's promised bride: Mistress Alice Herbert, I mean. Will you let me

sit down and write her a few lines, beseeching her, during my enforced

absence from my father's sick bed, to attend him as if she were his

daughter? I know that it will be an office which she will love to

fulfil, not more for my sake than for yours. Pray let me do so."

The Earl's eyes had been cast down, and the thick eyebrows had gathered

heavily over them; but he did not speak, for the knowledge of all he

had done lay weighty on his heart, and took away all utterance. Sir

Thomas Waller, however, took upon himself to reply. "Your writing,

young gentleman, would be useless," he said; "for I am sorry to tell

you that Sir Walter--who, though a hasty and passionate man, and

sometimes very disrespectful to persons fully equal to himself, is a

very good man, and much liked in the country--was arrested yesterday

evening at the suit of the noble Earl here. Indeed, he would have been

arrested in the earlier part of the day, but the country people rose

and rescued him."

"This, too!" exclaimed the Earl, setting his teeth; "I have done this!

I have done this!"

"Your worthy lawyer, my lord," continued Sir Thomas, whose mind was one

of those shallow ones that cannot comprehend any deep and powerful

emotion, even when they see its workings before their eyes; "your

worthy lawyer, my lord, Master Kinsight, was very roughly handled by

the people, and is likely to die."

"Curse him!" said the Earl, in a low, deep voice; "curse him! He is one

of the vile instruments, the ready tools of wrong."

"May I ask you, sir," interposed Langford, with no slight anxiety now

thrilling in his bosom--"may I ask you, who seem to know the

particulars of the whole affair, what has become of Mistress Alice

Herbert, under these distressing circumstances?"

"She chose to go with her father, I was informed," replied the Knight;

"I dare say Master Bolland made her pay dear for permission to do so.

He is not a man to grant anything without a consideration."

"And has worthy, kind-hearted, noble Sir Walter Herbert," exclaimed

Langford, with the anguish of his heart making itself apparent in every

feature--"has he fallen into the hands of that well-known, that

infamous knave and peculator, whose very existence as an officer of the

law, even though in the lowest grade of degraded offices, is a disgrace

to this free country, whose acts make the capital of England notorious

for monstrous injustice, and for the daily infraction of every social

law, of every moral feeling, and of every sacred right? Has he--has

he--simple, unguarded, plain, and true! fallen into the hands of one

whose whole soul is fraud, corruption, perjury, and baseness? Yet how

can this be?" he continued, after a moment's pause; "I myself furnished

the money to pay this debt. I do not comprehend it."

"I have done this, too. I have done this, too," replied the Earl, in a

tone of profound despondency. "I refused to receive the money! I seized

upon it as the property of a felon. Bitterly, bitterly do these things

fall upon my head; bitterly, oh, how bitterly, is the punishment of all

coming upon me!"

There was a deep silence, for Langford's heart was wrung, and he could

give him no consolation. After a moment or two, however, the Earl

started up in bed, exclaiming, "This--this at least can be amended.

This--this at least can be repaired. Give me the pen and ink; quick!"

He was obeyed immediately, and with a trembling hand he wrote a full

acquittal of all debt from Sir Walter Herbert to himself, principal and

interest--costs and charges; nothing was omitted.

"There," he said, putting it in Langford's hands--"there is the first

act of atonement which I have been able to accomplish. Take it, my son;

take it. The writing those lines has given me the first happy moment I

have known for years. Oh, misery of violent passions indulged! thou

fiery curse that makest even gratification a torment! Had I but

known--had I but known what it is to refrain! Stay," he continued, as

Langford was taking the paper, "stay. These wounds and this weakness

have made my hand shake, and such men as now stand by us, cunning

lawyers and wise justices as they are, may hereafter swear that the

writing is not mine. Here, Sir Thomas Waller; here, worthy Justice

Whistler, favour me by placing to this act the testimony of your

hands."

"But, my lord--" exclaimed Mr. Justice Whistler.

"But me no buts, sir," replied the Earl, fixing his keen feverish eyes

upon him; "I know what you would say; I know what your lawyer-like

seeking for a flaw would suggest: that no consideration has been given,

and that therefore the deed will not be legal. But I tell you, sir,

that a consideration has been given; that the money in full was paid

into my hand this morning, and will be found in my library, if that

library has escaped the flames. Sign, sir, sign! that is all you have

to do. Witness that this is my act and deed!"

The two justices put their hands to the paper; and, to render Sir

Thomas Waller but simple justice, he did so freely and willingly

enough; not so exactly, worthy Mr. Justice Whistler, who showed no

slight disinclination and hesitation in even witnessing an act which

might take a fellow creature from out of the clutches of the law.

Twice, when he had got his hand to the paper, he withdrew it, and

paused for a moment in thought, longing apparently to find some excuse

or some motive for refusal. At length, however, he signed it; and the

Earl gave it to Langford, saying, "There, my son; take it, and use it

for your friend's deliverance."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said the justice, again interposing; "but

this gentleman will have no opportunity of acting in the matter. You

had better trust it to me."

"Wonderful impudence!" cried the Earl. "What! give meat to the harpies!

Out upon it, man! do you think I would trust you with any feasible

means of hurting your fellow creatures?"

"My lord," answered the justice, sharply, "if I am to judge by your own

words lately used, your sarcasm is as much applicable to your lordship

as myself."

"You say true, man; you say true," replied the Earl. "But though I be a

wolf, I will not trust a wolf; I know you all too well. My son," he

continued, turning to Langford, "are they really going to take thee

from me at this painful hour?"

"I fear, my lord, that such is really their purpose," replied Langford.

"I will not insult these gentlemen by saying that they know me to be

innocent, though I must say that they seem very willingly blind to

innocence. But they are resolved to carry the matter through to the

last, and, therefore, it may be well to bring this scene, painful and

terrible as it must be to you, to an end as soon as possible."

"Stay yet awhile--stay yet awhile," cried the Earl, grasping the hand

that he held out to him; "I feel that it is terrible to see you go,

for, perhaps, my son, we may never meet again. We may never meet in

this world. We may never meet in the world to come, that dark and awful

world towards which I am speeding quickly--quickly!"

"Oh, say not so," replied Langford; "I trust--nay, I hope--I am

sure--that my innocence will so speedily be made manifest by one means

or another, that in a very few days, perhaps a few hours, I shall again

sit beside you, and I trust then to find you better."

The Earl shook his head. "Too late found," he said; "too early lost. I

now feel how I could love you. I see your mother's spirit shining out

of your eyes. I see that spirit, which pardoned and gave way but too

much, looking mildly upon me, who wronged both her and you so deeply;

but it is all in vain." And as he spoke, he pressed his hands over his

eyes; and Langford, willing to spare him any further agitation, took

that moment to make a sign to Justice Whistler, signifying that he was

ready, and turned towards the door.

The Earl heard his step, however, and exclaimed, "Oh, not yet--not

yet!" but Langford opened the door, and called Bertha with a loud

voice.

The Frenchwoman came immediately, for she was sitting watching in the

neighbouring chamber.

"Look to my father," said Langford; "you who were a witness of my

mother's marriage--you, who owe my race so much--you----"

"You," she interrupted, "you would say, you who have repaid their

kindness so ill----"

"No," answered Langford, "such was not my thought. You, who have had a

share in all the turns of my wayward fate, look to my father, now on

his couch of illness; look to him, tend him well, and if you feel that

you have injured me or mine, make up for it now by keeping his mind as

free from all anxiety as may be, by shutting out all that can agitate

or alarm him, by speaking cheerfully and hopefully of my fate, and by

teaching him that there is much yet to be done on earth, much yet to be

gained from heaven. Take this paper also. You will see its value at

once. Find somebody--if there be such a being on earth--in whom you can

place implicit trust. Send him to seek out Sir Walter Herbert, who is

in the hands of the notorious, infamous John Bolland. Let him give the

paper to Sir Walter himself, requesting him, from me, to send for some

lawyer of high repute in London, and not to act himself in the matter.

Tell him--tell Alice--not to fear for me, for, being innocent, my

innocence must appear. They may aid me if they find means; but, at all

events, I am safe in my integrity. But above all things, be careful to

whom you trust the paper."

"I will," she answered, "I will; but you will soon be able to follow

out these things yourself. I know it; I feel sure of it."

"So do I," replied Langford; "but Alice and Sir Walter must not

languish till then. Now, gentlemen, there but remains to crave a

father's blessing, and then I am ready. I mean to use no threat towards

you, Mr. Justice Whistler, but the time may come when the share you

have had in this matter will be fully inquired into, and the legality

of your proceedings investigated and ascertained."

"I will look to that, sir," replied the justice, with a calm and

sneering nod; "I have taken care of myself in more difficult

circumstances than these, and, doubtless, shall be able to do so

still."

Langford made no reply, but re-entered the room where the Earl sat

gazing upon the door, and listening to the sound of his voice.

The young gentleman advanced direct towards him, and knelt by the side

of his bed. "My father," he said, "give me your blessing!"

The Earl turned away his head. "What, oh! what is my blessing worth?"

he said; "but be it so. My blessing, the blessing of a father's fondest

affection, be upon you. I have none now but you!"

"If you would render that blessing of effect," replied Langford,

"remember that on your life and health my fate may greatly depend. Be

careful, then; cast away from you every thought and every feeling that

may injure or agitate you, and strive for life and health, if not for

your own sake, for your son's. Now, gentlemen, I am ready."

The two justices and the constables accompanied him out of the room.

"What think you of it?" asked Sir Thomas Waller, addressing his

companion in a whisper as they went.

The London magistrate replied by a peculiar contortion of countenance,

and then added, "We must make as good a case of it as we can, if it be

but to bear ourselves harmless."

CHAPTER XXVII.

We must now leave that part of the country to which we have so

constantly adhered during the preceding portion of this true history,

and lead the gentle reader with us along a road which, perhaps, he may

never have travelled before, but which, if he ever have, he will

doubtless remember at once, from the description we are about to give.

Setting off in a line lying north-west from the little village of

Moorhurst, and proceeding over the wild heath to which we have so often

turned our steps, one road leads, after various turnings and

meanderings, of which our ancestors were undoubtedly more fond than

ourselves, as the reader already knows, to the county town. But in one

of these turnings the road effects an object very different from the

usual one, of merely going out of its way, and branches off into a

country road, taking the direction of various small and remote towns.

Now, from the want of care and neatness with which this branch road was

kept at that time, it would in all probability have presented a very

much larger proportion of ruts and sand than the larger road from which

it was derived, and would have required double the time to travel each

individual mile along its course which was required upon its parent

road, had it not been for one circumstance. That circumstance was an

extraordinary development of a stratum of very-hard stone in that part

of the country, which, taking the place of the sand, just a quarter of

a mile from the spot where the two roads separated, afforded--or,

rather, might have afforded--equal pleasure and admiration to Mr.

M'Adam, the geologists, and all the members of the stonoclastic race,

if the period we speak of had not been before geologists were

discovered, and when Mr. M'Adam was yet unborn.

On it, if horses had been in the habit of going as fast as they do now,

a carriage might have been drawn at any given rate of velocity, till

after the road had passed through two or three small villages and

towns, and a space of about twenty miles, when it again got into the

sand, and then plunged like an eel--which it very much resembled in

some other respects--into a deep mud.

This state, however, lasted not long; but, issuing like a bittern from

the morass, the road took its flight over the hills, which were low

wooded and well cultivated for about twenty miles further, and then

began to assume a wilder and more barren aspect, till at length, when

their summits were crossed, and at the distance of about sixty miles

from Moorhurst, they presented on their northern side a wide range of

rough, chill, rocky country, covered only by short brown turf from

which the sheep had much ado to nibble a scanty subsistence, and

decorated alone by fine hawthorns and hanging birches, except where, in

the deeper dells, the oak and elm had sought and found a friendly

shelter.

Forges and foundries, and manufactories of various kinds, have since

blackened and enlivened that part of the country; but at the period

which I speak of, the great demon of civilization had not gone forth,

with a smoky chimney in one hand, and a steaming kettle in the other,

equalizing and vulgarizing the whole earth; and a tract of about forty

miles in length, and from ten to fifteen in breadth, was left upon the

side of those hills, if not without any sign of man's habitation, at

least without any sign of his arts, except, indeed, the patriarchal one

of sheep-feeding. Here and there, in the nooks and dells, indeed, an

old farm-house, which perhaps might boast a few acres of corn land

around it, showed the dwelling-place of the great sheep farmer, who,

riding over the hills adjacent, might generally say, "I am monarch of

all I survey." But these had never been many; and the loneliness of the

situation, an increasing taste for towns and luxuries, and various

changes in the state of society, on which it is not worth while to

dwell, had diminished the amount of inhabitants to even a smaller

number than it had once contained. Two farms had often been joined in

one; some of them were untenanted, and encroached upon by their

neighbours; some of the few-houses that did exist were vacant, and some

were tumbling down.

It is to a house in this district, about five miles from the spot where

the road we have mentioned crossed it, that we must now bring the

reader, begging him diligently to mark the outside of it, in the first

place, seated as it is in a deep gap in the hills, sheltered on three

sides by a grove of fine old elms, in the topmost branches of which

innumerable rooks make the air musical with their sweet country-sounds:

the house itself placed upon a high bank, its small windows overlooking

a little stream below; and the other side turning towards its

farm-yard, with a cart-road, indeed, leading up to it, but requiring

both very strong horses and very strong carts to undertake the rough

and perilous ascent.

This house was not one amongst the uninhabited ones which we have

mentioned, for at the period whereof we speak--namely, but a few days

after the events had taken place which we recorded in our last

chapter--the farm-yard might be heard ringing with several voices, and

more than one horse stamped in the stables. Leaving the house, however,

let us speak of one of its inhabitants. About mid-day a solitary

personage issued forth from the gates, took his way into the deepest

part of the grove, and with his arms crossed upon his broad chest,

walked slowly up and down, bending the bitter brow, and gnawing the

dissatisfied lip, while his eyes were bent on the dry leaves of the

past year, in which his feet left deep marks as he strode along. After

thus wandering in the shade for some time, as if the gloomy shadow was

congenial to his feelings, he raised his brow, and looked up, seeming

to seek higher associations in the sky above. Whether the feelings

within his breast did become more free and clear or not, he then turned

his steps to the hill-side, and climbed high up, gazing over the wild,

waste prospect below, and pausing every two or three minutes, as if

endeavouring to fix more distinctly some particular spot. Yet his

thoughts were neither of the scene on which his eyes rested, nor of the

cultivated country beyond, nor of the towns and villages, the haunts

and resting-places of busy man, but, on the contrary, they were fixed

upon the deep, dark recesses of an erring human heart--on the troubled

world of his own bosom--where, as in the world covered by the deluge,

the dove of peace found no resting-place, so overwhelmed was the whole

by the waves of sin and sorrow and remorse. Upon that turbulent ocean,

too, floated the wrecks of many bright things past--high feelings,

noble aspirations, manly generosity, steady friendship, warm

affections--and over it spread dark clouds of doubt and suspicion, and

morose discontent, springing from self-dissatisfaction and

disappointment, and internal reproach.

Such was the state of mind of Franklin Gray as he strode along the

hill-side, pondering the events of the last few weeks, and finding in

all, matter of bitterness and regret. His feelings suffered some

alteration, and turned to more material objects when he gained the

summit of the hill. They did not exactly make themselves audible, but

nevertheless to his own mind they clothed themselves in words, and the

tenor of those words was somewhat to the following effect:--

"This is wild enough, and solitary enough, but nevertheless they will

doubtless try to hunt me out here. So great an enterprise as this

cannot, in this pitiful and servile land, pass without stirring up all

the great tyrants of the soil to put down him who has dared to strip

them of their ill-gotten wealth. Doubtless they will hunt me out even

here; and by heaven I have a thousand minds to stay and dare them, and

defend my mountains to the last. But then these fellows," he added,

after some thought, "though brave and true in the moment of danger, now

that we have divided the money, are all anxious to leave me, and hasten

up to the great city, to spend it in rioting and luxury. Well, I must

not blame them! I felt so once myself. But this land then must be no

more for me; I must quit it, and take myself back again to those more

ardent and free countries where I can roam at large, and where, with a

strong hand and a stout heart, I can make the miser, and the

extortioner, and the slave-master pay for his pitiful life at the price

of gold. Yet this, indeed," he continued, "has been a glorious booty;

what between gold and jewels, we have swept off a mighty sum, and my

own share might well content me for the rest of my days. Why should I

not cross the seas, and in some of those sweet valleys by the higher

Rhine, pass through the calm close of a busy life in bright

tranquillity."

And, as he thus thought, a vision of sweet and peaceful things, such as

his heart had sometimes longed for but had never known, rose up before

his eyes; and he pictured to himself sweet wanderings through fair

scenes, with his beautiful Mona by his side, and his lovely boy growing

up into proud manhood under his eye. But as he thought of Mona a sudden

shadow came across him; it was a mood he struggled with, and would fain

have conquered, but it was one unconquerable, for it was a part of his

dark fierce nature; and after pausing gloomily for several minutes,

and, casting his eyes down upon the ground, with his whole feelings

changed in a moment by one gloomy thought, he burst forth aloud, "I

love it not! She would not wrong me--I know she would not wrong me; but

still she is too tender of him. If she give her heart's affections to

another, if she even take from me the smallest portion of those

feelings that once were mine alone, she leaves a gap, a vacancy, a

break in that deep intense love which is enough, but not too much for

love like mine. Shall I speak to her thereon? shall I tell her what I

feel? Ay, and make her think me jealous," he answered, with a bitter

sneer even at himself. "I jealous! jealous too of such a weak, pitiful,

effeminate thing as that! No; she shall go on in her own way. She must

have seen that I loved it not; she must have felt that it displeased

me; and see it and feel it she shall still, but speak of it I will

never. Doubtless she is there now, soothing him, tending his wounds,

speaking to him sweet kindly words, and listening to his soft

gratitude. I will go back and mar the sunshine;" and as he spoke, with

a cloudy, moody air, he strode back again towards the house, passed

through the farm-yard, and entered the door, which stood open.

Proceeding up a tall narrow stone staircase, he passed one of his men

seated on one of the landing-places, at the last story but one, so as

to prevent any one from ascending or descending without being seen.

Franklin Gray was not one, even when the dark and debasing passions of

jealousy and suspicion were roused within him, to commit a mean or a

pitiful act; and he spoke loud to the man upon the stairs, and trod

heavily up, so that his voice and his footsteps might give notice of

his coming to those above.

When he reached the upper story, he opened a door before him, and

entered a room, poorly and scantily furnished, where were two persons

with whom the reader is already acquainted. The first--who sat near the

door, with her small beautiful foot resting upon a rude stool, and her

knee supporting an instrument of music, in shape much resembling a

guitar--was that lovely being whom we have twice before had occasion to

mention under the name of Mona, the wife of Franklin Gray. She was

finishing a song when he entered--a sweet plaintive song, in the tongue

of some distant land; and as he came into the room, her dark lustrous

eyes grew still brighter, and were raised to his with a smiling and a

happy look, as if she thought she was doing what would please him best,

and that the well-known music would awaken some sweet thoughts in her

husband's bosom. The stern unmoved gloom of his countenance pained but

did not surprise her, for she was accustomed to his moody temper; and

loving him at all times and in all states, attributed his ill-humour to

things which had gone wrong in matters with which she had no concern.

The other person who tenanted that room was one whom we have lost sight

of for some time. It was Edward, called Lord Harold, who now, very

pale, and evidently but just recovering from severe sickness, leaned

back upon his chair with his head resting on his arm, and the right

side of the loose vest which he wore cut open and tied, so as to give

greater ease and space to some wounded part beneath. So intently had he

been listening to the music, that he scarcely heard the entrance of

Franklin Gray, and a faint but expressive smile hung upon his pale lip,

while the vacant gazing of his eye told that the melody had borne

imagination on its wings afar, and that he was enjoying sweet fancies

removed from all that surrounded him.

"I see," said Franklin Gray, looking earnestly at Mona, "that you have

become his musician as well as nurse."

Mona started, and gazed inquiringly in her husband's face. "Did you not

wish me to do so?" she said, with her sweet-toned voice and foreign

accent; "did you not tell me to do everything I could to soothe him and

restore him to health?"

"I did so," replied her husband; "and I see you do it willingly."

Mona gazed in his face with a bewildered look, as if she did not

comprehend his meaning; for though his words were not ungentle, they

were spoken in that tone which showed the feelings that prompted them

to be bitterer than the expression. There succeeded a pause for one or

two minutes; and Franklin Gray, moving across the room, cast himself

into a chair near the window, and gazed out gloomily over the wide

prospect that stretched afar beneath his eyes, diversified only by the

slopes of the hills, without town or village, or hedgerow to mark

man's habitation or his cultivating hand. As he sat there, he spoke not

to any one, and the silence grew painful, till at length it was broken

by Lord Harold, as we shall continue to call him.

"I am glad of an opportunity of speaking with you," he said, "for I

want to know more precisely how I am situated. I have to thank you, I

find--"

"For nothing, sir!" replied Franklin Gray; "I have done what I have

done for my own pleasure and convenience, and you have to thank me for

nothing."

"Such is perhaps the case, sir," replied Lord Harold, coolly; "at all

events, you saved my life when I should otherwise undoubtedly have bled

to death upon the moor. You have since treated me kindly and skilfully,

have nearly cured a wound which might have proved fatal, and have

tended me with much attention. At the same time, from various events

which have occurred, from my being brought forth across the downs and

placed in a coach which carried me hither, as well as from having seen

at all times an ill-looking fellow with a pistol in his hand sitting at

the foot of the next flight of steps, when I crossed from one room to

the other, I am inclined to believe that you view me in some sort as a

prisoner."

"Doubtless the ill-looking fellow, as you call him," replied Franklin

Gray, with a bitter smile, "may find many of the fair and the gay, in

his own rank of life, who would think him fully as good-looking as

Edward, Lord Harold. However, sir, I gather from your discourse, that

you wish to learn whether you are to consider yourself as a prisoner or

not. Now, as you acknowledge that you owe me your life, I do not think

you can consider it a hard case, even should I, for my own convenience,

keep you a prisoner for a certain time."

"Yes, I have, sir," replied Lord Harold; "for I suppose there is

scarcely any Englishman who does not feel that liberty is preferable to

life."

"Then perhaps the best way of settling it," answered Franklin Gray,

sternly, "would be to shoot you through the head, and thus leave the

account between you and me as it stood before."

But as he spoke, Mona had advanced gently to his side, and laid her

hand upon his arm. "Oh, set him free!" she said; "set him free as soon

as he is able to depart."

"What is it to you, Mona?" demanded Franklin Gray, turning sharply upon

her; "Why should you wish him to depart?"

"It is much to me, Franklin," she answered; "very much to me; and I do

wish him to depart, for you have twice looked cold upon me since he has

been here, which you never in your life did before, and anything which

causes such a change I wish instantly away; for you know, Franklin,

that your kind looks to me are like the sunshine of my own happy

land--sunshine that I have left far behind."

Franklin Gray was somewhat moved, and seeing that he was so, she went

on, saying, "Oh, set him free, my husband! and if it be needful, make

him swear that he will never betray your abode. I will be answerable

for it, he will keep his word."

Franklin Gray had been moved for a moment, and he had also thought of

setting Lord Harold free, or of only detaining him till all was

prepared for executing his own purpose of crossing the sea and seeking

other lands; but the last few words which his wife uttered hardened his

heart in a moment.

"You will be answerable!" he exclaimed. "What have you to do with being

answerable for him? No; I will not set him free? If you choose to

betray your husband, woman, and open the doors to him whom it is

needful to detain, you can do it when you like. I shall neither watch

nor stop you; but the consequence be upon your own head."

Thus saying, he turned upon his heel with a frowning brow, and hastily

quitted the room, after which his steps might be heard slowly

descending the stairs. Mona sunk down into the chair beside her,

clasping her hands together, and fixing her eyes upon the ground with a

look of despair; for they were the first harsh words, the first unkind

and ungenerous expressions, which had ever dropped from the lips of him

she loved, from the day on which she had sacrificed kindred, and home,

and fortune, and her native land, to follow his uncertain footsteps

through the world. As she sat there, with that look of deep

despondency, Lord Harold could not but feel admiration of her exquisite

beauty mingling even with the compassion which he felt; and there was

something of that admiration apparent in his look and manner, as he

slowly rose from his chair and crossing the room, took her hand in his,

saying, "He treats you harshly, lady."