words, started up, and drew her hand quickly from him, gazing upon him
with a look of anger and indignation. "Treats me harshly:" she said;
"It is false! He is kindness itself; and he is right too! What had I to
do meddling with his purposes or his will? I have been sorry for you,
young gentleman, and compassion has led me to do a foolish thing, but I
will take care so to offend no more;" and thus speaking, she left him,
and hurriedly sought her husband below.
She found him in a lower room, gazing forth as he had done above, but
the expression of his countenance was more sad and less fierce than
before. Mona advanced towards him, but he heeded her not; she laid her
hand upon his arm, but he did not turn his head. She was a creature of
noble impulses, however, and where her heart prompted she would not be
repelled. The tears, indeed, sprang to her eyes and ran over her
cheeks, but still she cast herself on her husband's bosom, saying, "I
have done wrong, Franklin; I should not have interfered where you
thought fit to act. I was sorry for the young man, and I thought that
he might have friends and relations, and perhaps a wife, that loved him
as I love you, and I wished you to send him back to his happy home on
that account. But I was wrong to speak of it at all, and still more
wrong to speak of it before him. Forgive me, Franklin; I will not
offend again."
Franklin Gray pressed her to his heart, and kissed the tears off her
cheek; and--although the seed of suspicion and doubt, once sown in a
soil so congenial to it as his mind, can never, perhaps, be wholly
eradicated, take what pains we will--yet he was anxious to feel as he
had felt, somewhat ashamed of having given way to such bitterness
towards her who was associated with all the better spirits of his
heart's dark tabernacle, and grieved to see the grief of one who had
brought the only real sweet sunshine on his path that he had known
through life. He pressed her then to his bosom, he treated her gently
and kindly, and once more, to her powerful gentleness, the fierce and
lion-like spirit of her husband was softened and bowed down.
She had not said one word of the dark shade of jealousy which had shown
itself in Franklin Gray's first words to her. She was far too wise to
comment on it, or to attempt to do it away by any eloquence but those
of acts. She saw it plainly, however; she felt that what in her breast
was but pity, had been misunderstood by her husband; and from a certain
vague expression on Lord Harold's face when last he spoke to her, she
feared that, with him, man's vanity had once more misjudged woman's
best feelings. She blamed herself, however, more than either: "I should
have known," she thought, "that man cannot see into the heart;" and
from that hour she went near the prisoner no more. She gave no cause
for so abstaining, and she took care that the woman who accompanied her
should provide for his comfort as far as might be. It is the meed of
such conduct, however, almost always to pass unremarked; the
recompense, the success is in our own hearts. Franklin Gray saw that
she was less with the prisoner than before, but he did not see that she
was never with him at all.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Having now exposed to view the state of mind of Franklin Gray, we must
turn once more to Lord Harold, and display, in some degree at least,
the feelings by which he was affected. His heart was one naturally
kind; his impulses were in general noble and generous; but he had
derived from his mother a strong degree of that quality which, more
than any other of the human heart, lays our hearts open to evil
passions, unless it be very early enlisted on the side of the good
ones; I mean pride.
From his father, too, had descended to him various faults and
peculiarities, which, if everything had gone smooth with him though
life, might perhaps have remained dormant, or, under particular
circumstances, might have assumed the aspect of virtues, when in fact
they were much more nearly allied to vices. There was, when roused by
anger or stimulated by hatred, a degree of remorseless determination
about his character, very much resembling that of Lord Danemore. This
had shown itself in a degree in his conduct towards Langford; but since
that period all the bad points in his nature, which had been originally
brought forth by his disappointment in regard to Alice, had been called
into still greater activity by the wounds he had received, by the
irritation of sickness, and by pondering in solitude and in a state of
confinement, not only over the disappointment of his first and early
love, but over the mortification which his vanity had received, and
over the annoyance of having to remain at a distance from the scene of
action, where he knew, from the few words which Langford had spoken to
him, that great and important events were likely to be transacted.
Under these circumstances, a degree of angry irritation had taken
possession of his mind; and even on the day when he was removed from
the neighbourhood of Moorhurst he would have resisted, had his strength
been sufficient to render opposition at all effectual. Besides his own
weakness, however, there was about Franklin Gray a tone of command and
authority, a decision, a breaking forth of powerful intellect, which
had the effect of producing, as the first impulse, an inclination to
obey in all that surrounded him; and Lord Harold felt that power, and
was angry with himself for feeling it.
He had determined, then, even before the period of the interview which
we have just described, to seek his liberty by any means; and had the
Robber at once granted him what he sought, had he either soothed or
reasoned with him, the whole current of the young nobleman's feelings
might have been changed, and he might have learned to admire those very
qualities which now, arrayed as they were in opposition to his wishes
and obnoxious to his pride, not only excited hatred, but created a
stern and bitter determination both of taking vengeance, which he
called "inflicting punishment," and of triumphing over the pride of one
whose mental powers overawed him, which he called again "doing
justice."
As he sat and listened to the brief discussion between Franklin Gray
and the beautiful creature that pleaded for his liberty, his
determination became more strong, his purpose more decided; and though,
to do him but justice, vanity did not speak, and he entertained no
definite thought of striving to raise into warmer feelings the
compassion which he had excited in Mona's breast, and of thus striking
the Robber in the most vulnerable point, he could not, as we have
before said, help feeling a sensation of admiration mingling with his
gratitude, and sentiments rising up in his bosom which might easily
have become dangerous and evil.
The degree of scorn also which mingled in Franklin Gray's tone in
speaking of and to himself had neither escaped his attention nor passed
without producing its natural effect; nor did the sudden coldness which
came over Mona diminish at all the strength of his determination to
seek for vengeance in the shape of justice.
His first purpose, then, was to obtain his liberty as soon as possible.
The wound he had received was not otherwise dangerous than from the
great loss of blood it had occasioned; and he felt that he was every
day and every hour recovering strength, which would soon enable him to
use any means he thought fit for regaining his freedom. In order to do
so, however, it would be necessary, he saw, to engage the co-operation
of some one; and as the compassion of Mona Gray was already enlisted on
his side, he determined, in the first place, to induce her, if
possible, to aid him in escaping. Nor did the consideration that by so
doing, he would render her a party to the execution of his second
purpose, at all deter him, though that second purpose was, instantly to
take measures for apprehending her husband and bringing him to the
scaffold, having seen enough during his confinement to remove all
doubts from his mind as to the real occupation and pursuits of him into
whose hands he had fallen.
During the whole of that day and the next, the absence of Mona Gray
rendered his design abortive. He looked for her coming in vain, though
he often heard the sounds of her voice speaking to her husband, or
singing to her child. She never approached the rooms to which he was
confined; and though the woman who attended on her, came frequently to
see that everything was done which could ensure his comfort, Lord
Harold feared to trust a menial, and consequently still remained in
expectation of the other at length appearing. When, towards the close
of the second day, however, he found that his anticipations were not
fulfilled, he ventured to ask of the woman, "Why does not your mistress
ever come to see me now? Will her husband not let her?"
"Oh no," replied the servant; "for he is out the greater part of the
day; but she is going out with him just now herself, and will be out
all night, I hear."
Lord Harold took two or three turns up and down the room with a
sufficient degree of agitation to attract the attention of the woman,
who asked in a peculiar tone, if she could do anything to serve him?
"If you could go down," said Lord Harold, "and ask your mistress to
speak with me for a few moments before she goes, you would very greatly
serve me. Do it privately!" he added.
The woman nodded her head, and left him. She returned in a few minutes,
however, alone, seeming to have met with a different reception from her
mistress to that which she expected. "She says she cannot come,"
replied she, to Lord Harold's eager questions. "If you want anything,
she bade me tell you to speak with Captain Gray himself, who will do
anything you may desire that is reasonable."
"Pray go down to her again," said Lord Harold; "tell her it is with her
I must speak. That I beg, that I entreat of her, by all the kindness
that she has shown me, to come and speak to me, if it be but for one
minute."
"I don't like to go any more," replied the woman; "she answered me
quite crossly, and the Captain himself is there, sitting at the further
end of the room reading, with his brow as dark as that great black
hill, which looks as if it never saw the sun."
Lord Harold pulled a ring from his finger, which was the only thing of
value on his person that had escaped the hands of Wiley and Hardcastle.
and held it out towards the woman. "Will you do what I ask you," he
said, "and have this for your reward?" She was not proof against the
temptation; and murmuring, "He cannot eat me, if I do whisper again to
his wife," she left the room and descended the staircase.
In a shorter time than before, she returned, however, and with a still
less satisfied countenance, saying, "She says she will not come. She
bids me tell you she will not come; and I'm to bring her no more such
messages, which I'm sure I would not do for twenty rings; for there he
sat while I whispered to her, and though he was so far off that he
could not hear a word, he looked up from his book and stared at me as
if his eyes had been swords to run me through."
Lord Harold turned away, mortified. "It may be the worse for all of
us," he said to himself; "it may be the worse for all of us. There,
woman, there is the ring I promised you; take it."
With a brightening countenance she received the gift, which was perhaps
more than she expected, as she had failed in her errand; and then,
descending the stairs, Lord Harold heard her stop a moment, and
apparently speak with the man who kept watch below.
"That must be my next resource," he said to himself; "that must be my
next resource. Perhaps I shall succeed better there."
He then gazed for some time from the window, laying out his plans in
his own mind, and feeling that, though still somewhat weaker than he
had hoped and expected to have been, he must take advantage of the
temporary absence of Franklin Gray, lest such another opportunity
should not occur again speedily. The windows of the room in which he
was, looked out over the high bank which we have mentioned in
describing the house, so that, in addition to the three stories below
him in the building itself, there was at least a perpendicular descent
of forty feet between him and the road. To let himself down from the
windows, therefore, was utterly hopeless; and nothing remained but to
bribe the man who guarded him, if such a thing were possible. How that
object was to be effected, was the great difficulty, for he had been
stripped of everything upon him when he was stopped upon the moor,
except the ring which he had given to the woman; and a man of the class
to which he who kept watch below pertained, was not likely to take
promises for payment.
While he still gazed and revolved all these matters in his mind, he saw
Franklin Gray and his wife habited, like two of the higher class of
peasantry, and mounted on two strong horses, ride slowly down the road,
and take their way across a track which lay between the upper hills and
the flatter country below. He watched them for some time as they rode
along, and shortly after, he saw two other persons issue forth and take
a different direction. During a few moments their departure was
succeeded by some loud talking and laughing in the house itself, which
soon ceased, however; and shortly after, the voice of the man at the
foot of the stairs was heard calling aloud, as if to the female
servant, "Come up here, Harriet; come up here, and chat to us a bit.
Curse me if I'm not lonely. Bring the child with you, if you don't like
to leave it."
"Now is my time," thought Lord Harold; "doubtless they are all out but
these two, and I may deal with them without interruption." He
accordingly advanced to the door, and, opening it, walked out to the
head of the stairs. The sound of his step, however, instantly attracted
the attention of the man below, and he started up with the pistol in
his hand, exclaiming, "What do you want?"
"I want to speak with you, my good sir," replied Lord Harold.
"Well, what is it?" rejoined the man, in a surly tone; "speak! I can
hear!"
"That will scarcely do," said the young man; "if you like to come up
here, I can speak to you at my ease, for I have a good deal to say, and
much that may be to your advantage."
The man hesitated, but then replied, "I can't come now, for I've called
to Harriet to come and talk to me, but I will come by-and-by."
"Come now," replied Lord Harold, "and bring the woman with you."
"Oh, oh! is that it?" said the man; "well, go in; I will come."
Lord Harold felt that he was treated with scanty ceremony; that he, the
eldest son of a proud and haughty peer, in the midst of a free land,
without any imputed guilt, or any liability in the eye of the law, was
held as a prisoner, and treated with degrading familiarity by a low and
probably guilty being. Nevertheless, he had an important object before
him, and a moment's reflection taught him to master all feelings of
irritation, and, according to the somewhat sordid view of our great
philosopher, submit to indignities that he might rise above them.
He strode up and down the room once or twice, and then listened for the
steps that he hoped to hear coming. For some time, however, nothing
struck his ear but the low murmur of voices from the story below, in
which he could distinguish the treble tones of the woman and the deeper
ones of the man, and he judged, and judged rightly, that they were in
earnest consultation in regard to himself. Nearly a quarter of an hour
elapsed before the discussion ended, and they then entered together;
the woman with a bolder and freer air, as one who had already taken two
or three steps in the course which they both saw was about to be laid
before them; the man with a look half sullen, half shy, as if he still
doubted and hesitated at a leap which he felt morally convinced he
should ultimately take.
Lord Harold paused, and gazed upon them both for a moment, calculating
what should be the tone and manner which he ought to employ towards the
persons before him; and after a moment's consideration he determined to
act that part which was most congenial to his own nature, not alone
because he felt that he should act it better than any other, but also
because he gathered from the man's countenance in an instant that he
was one of those low and grovelling animals who would take advantage of
the least condescension--who might be overawed, who might be bribed, by
those he felt to be above himself, but who would harden himself in
opposition or raise the price of his services extravagantly to any one
who descended to his own level, or who seemed to need his assistance so
much as to court it at the expense of degradation.
Lord Harold accordingly threw himself into a chair, and gazed full in
the man's countenance with that look of haughty consciousness which was
in some degree natural to him; and when he saw that he had beaten down
his gaze, he demanded, in a very different tone from that which he had
used before, "I suppose, sir, you know who I am?"
"Why, yes," replied the man; "I have heard that you are the son of that
old Lord ----"
"That is enough!" interrupted Lord Harold; "knowing then who I am, you
must at once see that being kept here in this state is disagreeable to
me. Besides which, important business requires my presence at home."
"Ay, that it does, if you knew all," muttered the man between his
teeth.
Lord Harold continued, without taking any notice of what he said: "You
must very well know, also, that anything which I promise, I will
execute fully."
"Ay, that's what I don't know," replied the man; "that's just what I
was talking to Harriet here about; for I know nothing of you; and it's
just as likely as not, that if I were to let you out this very night,
instead of doing anything that you said you would, you might take and
hang me for my pains. No, no; a bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush."
Lord Harold again felt angry and indignant; but he would not give way
to feelings which might in any way interfere with his plans; and,
though his nostrils expanded and his lips quivered, he mastered himself
in a moment, replying, "So you and Harriet have been settling the whole
business for me, and have doubtless saved me a world of trouble, for
you have most likely made up your minds as to whether you will do what
I require or not."
"Why, I think not," replied the man, somewhat staggered by the cool and
decided tone in which the prisoner treated the question; "I think not;
but that depends upon circumstances."
"On what circumstances?" demanded Lord Harold, shortly.
"Why, you see the matter is this," answered the man; "as far as I can
judge, we shall all separate in ten days or a fortnight, for every one
is wanting to go his own way. Now, you see, if the Captain--that is
Captain Gray--were going to remain in England, I would as soon try to
let you go as I would to jump out of that window, being as sure of
getting an ounce of lead in my brains before the month was out if I did
the one thing, as I should be of breaking my neck if I did the other.
But then, I've a pretty rare inkling that the Captain and his lady are
going across the seas; so that if you can make it worth my while in
ready money to hide myself away for a fortnight till they are off, we
may very likely come to terms."
"Ready money I have none," replied Lord Harold.
"Ay, that's what I was saying," interrupted the man; "I knew very well
that Hardy and Wiley left no more money in your purse than there is in
a dog's side-pocket. So I don't see----"
"But I do," replied Lord Harold. "As far as I can judge, from the
direction which the carriage took that brought me hither, from the time
occupied in the journey, and from the aspect of the scenery round, we
are now somewhere in the Chalden hills, and the town of ---- cannot be
far distant."
"Some fifteen miles," replied the man; "at least, so Harvey told me the
other day; I have not been there myself."
"It cannot be much more," said Lord Harold; "for I have hunted over all
these wastes many a time, and I know the town well; for therein,
as it is a seaport, lives a rich merchant and banker of the name
of Drury, whom I have often employed in buying fine objects of the
arts--pictures, and statues, and such things, from Italy. He has even
now in his hand a sum of near three hundred pounds belonging to me,
sent him to make such purchases; and, if you will engage this night to
set me free, I, putting full confidence in your word, will write an
order upon him for the money. You can send it by a messenger on
horseback, who may easily be back before nightfall; and then, dividing
the amount between you and your friend here, you can open the doors for
my escape."
"It's a pretty sum," replied the man; "but let us have a little talk
together, Harriet," and, drawing her to the further corner of the room,
he consulted with the woman in a low voice for several minutes.
Lord Harold watched them eagerly, and, as they conversed, he could see
the deep colours and shadows of strange and bad passions rise in the
countenance of each, but especially of the female servant. At length,
however, they grew calmer; their course seemed determined, and they
returned, the man taking upon him to speak, as before.
"What you offer, my lord," he said, "does not exactly suit us. We could
not send to the town, as you mention, without being discovered; for it
is a small place, and Captain Gray has gone there himself to-day, to
see about a ship, I fancy. His wife too, pretty Mistress Mona, would go
with him; and altogether he is in a fine humour, and when that is the
case, he has more eyes and hands than other people. However, as you
showed you would trust us, we will trust you. Of course, you have got
some banker in London, and if you have a mind to double the sum
mentioned, and give us an order upon London, Harriet and I will be off
together, and let you out, too, this very night. But you must swear to
us that the money shall be paid, and that when we go to get it, we
shall not be dogged, and that you will not appear against us in any
way, and that if ever we are in trouble, you'll lend us a helping hand,
bearing witness that we let you out."
"I pledge you my honour," replied Lord Harold, "most solemnly and most
distinctly, not only never to injure you in any way, but to bear
witness, should need be, that you both served me faithfully in my need.
The sum you demand you shall have; and now nothing remains but to get
me pen, ink, and paper, that I may write my order upon the banker in
London."
"That will soon be done," replied the man: "for there is nobody in the
house but ourselves, and we can do what we like. Come along, Harriet; I
hear the child crying. I will be back again in a minute."
"Now," thought Lord Harold, when they had both left the room, "this man
will betray the master who trusted him, disobey his commands, and, by
letting me out of his hands, put his life at my disposal, without even
binding me by any promise not to bring him to justice; and this woman,
trusted by a kind and gentle mistress with the care of her sweet child,
will leave that child helpless, while she schemes things that may
destroy the happiness of father, mother, and child for ever. Such is
fidelity in this world! Whom shall we trust?"
As he thus thought, he might feel a momentary touch of shame at using
such tools and yet so critically examining their actions; but he felt
no shame in owing his life to Franklin Gray, and then, because the
Robber detained him for a few days longer than it suited his pleasure,
deliberately resolving to bring him to the scaffold, veiling the darker
features of such an act under the shining guise of justice. So human
passions contrive ever to conceal their real nature from the eyes of
those who entertain them.
In a few minutes the man returned with pen and ink, and paper; but
before Lord Harold's hand could draw the order, the woman followed into
the room, carrying the child in her arms, and saying, "Be pleased to
make it half for him and half for me, for though he promises to marry
me, I like to have something in my own hands."
The woman was young and pretty, and the man only laughed, replying,
"You're right, Harriet, you are right. If every woman was as careful as
you, there would be fewer faithless lovers in the world." The matter
was arranged as she proposed; and as soon as it was concluded, Lord
Harold demanded, "What is to prevent us executing our scheme now? Why
should we not set off at once?"
"Only because we should be caught and brought back again in five
minutes," replied the man; "and while you might risk a bullet or two, I
should certainly get my brains blown out. Why, there is Harvey and
little Bill, and all the rest of them, gone out with their carbines
turned into birding pieces, for the purpose of seeing what game they
can get upon the hills. They are scattered about all over the place,
and we could not go half a mile without the risk of meeting some of
them. Besides, there's that young devil, Jocelyn, lurking about in some
of the dells, trapping wheatears and such things, and we must take care
to blind him, for he's all eyes and ears together. No, no; one of them
has promised to come back to take my place in a couple of hours; then
I'll go out as if to sport, and mark out our way across the country. I
shall come on again to watch about ten o'clock at night, and then,
depend upon it, they'll all be drinking as hard as they can drink, till
they go to bed. Most of them will be drunk; and, when they are all fast
asleep, we can do what we will, for Franklin Gray won't be back till
noon to-morrow, so you and I, and Harriet here, can take horses and be
off."
"And what will you do with the infant?" demanded Lord Harold, looking
to the woman.
"Oh, it sleeps all night," she replied, "when once it's put off;
they'll find it in the morning, and feed it till its mother comes
back."
Lord Harold shut his teeth tight, but there was no remedy for it, and
he made no comment. He could not help doubting, however, whether the
order he had given upon a London banker would be very safe in the hands
of this faithful couple, who might or might not make use of the paper,
and yet leave him as much a prisoner as before. As he had given them
the drafts, however, he felt that it would be impolitic to demand them
back again, and consequently, after arranging all the minor particulars
of their plan, he suffered them to depart, carrying with them the
unconscious child whom they had brought to witness the betrayal of its
parents' trust.
The rest of the day passed over to Lord Harold with no slight
impatience and anxiety. In somewhat more than the two hours, which the
man had mentioned, several of the gang were heard to return and relieve
the guard, who was found sitting at his post below. The voice of the
woman, too, could be distinguished, caroling at her work, as gaily and
lightly as if there had been neither vice, nor guilt, nor folly at her
heart; and from time to time, the young nobleman could hear her talking
to the child as tenderly as if she had been its mother. "Strange and
contradictory human nature," he thought, "which can reconcile all these
most opposite things;" and, as do most people who comment upon the
actions of others, he forgot to look into the contradictions of his own
bosom.
Seldom had Lord Harold seen the sun go down, with such anxious feelings
as he then experienced. The voice of the boy Jocelyn was heard below,
but the few sounds to be distinguished in the house showed that the
greater part of the gang were still absent. Speedily, however, others
were heard, and then came several more, laughing, talking, and singing;
and the woman, when she brought him in lights, said, "They are all come
back, and are soon going to supper."
The noise, after a short interval, increased rapidly, and it was
evident that wine began to do its work. The rattling of dice was heard;
then many a merry song--some appropriate enough to the calling of those
who poured them forth, some as opposite as it was possible to imagine.
Hour after hour passed by, and Lord Harold fancied that the revel would
never end; but gradually the sounds became fewer as one after another
of the party fell asleep under the influence of wine, or retired to
rest, from weariness. At length, after one more general burst of
merriment, the whole of the band seemed to betake themselves to repose.
Steps were heard in different directions, a voice here and there
speaking to a companion, the dull end of some drowsy ditty hummed
amidst hiccups, as the half drunken reveller stripped off his clothing.
and then all was silent throughout the mansion.
"Now," thought Lord Harold, "I shall soon see whether they will keep
their word with me;" for he could not shake off from his mind an
impression that they would prove as faithless to him as they had done
to Franklin Gray; and, as nearly an hour elapsed after all was quiet,
without his seeing anything of any one, he became more and more
convinced that it was as he had suspected. He was mistaken, however;
for at length the door of his room slowly opened, and the man, putting
in his head, beckoned to him to come out.
Lord Harold had been long prepared, and he instantly followed the
footsteps of his guide, who led him silently down the stairs to a wide,
deep, porch doorway, where the woman Harriet was in waiting. Not a word
was spoken by any of the party, and the man then took his way across
the court-yard towards a long range of stabling and outhouses, which in
former times had sheltered many an honest and modest farmer's gelding,
but which now contained not a few of those animals which have
established for themselves an impudent reputation under the title of "a
highwayman's horse." The man raised the latch, and pushed the door, but
it resisted his efforts, and, with a voice full of dismay and
bewilderment, he exclaimed, "Hang me if Harvey hasn't locked the
stables!"
Lord Harold made no reply, but waited to see what expedient he would
propose, and very soon found that it was one to which he was not at all
inclined to submit, namely, that of returning to the house and taking
their chance of another day.
"No," he said, in a low tone; "no, my good friend! I have determined to
make my escape to-night, or not at all. I am out here with you and this
good lady, and nothing shall make me go in again. If there are no
horses to be found, we must go on foot."
"But suppose I say you shall go in again," replied the man; "what
then?"
"Why then," replied Lord Harold, "I shall take care to make my refusal
in so loud a tone that some of the good people who are asleep there
shall hear it, and come down to find you and this fair lady so far upon
your way, with an order upon my banker in your pockets."
The man stood and glared at him for a moment, as if he would have shot
him where he stood; but at length he said, with a slight stamp upon the
ground, "Well, it's no use; I suppose we had best take our way off on
our own feet, if we cannot get four legs to carry us. One must risk
something in this world; and perhaps, after all, the clatter of those
horses' feet might have roused some of the fellows above. Come,
Harriet, my lass; you must try what you can do for a forced march."
Thus saying, he led the way out of the court-yard, and bent his steps
straight against the side of the hill. He seemed to bear no malice
towards Lord Harold for having forced him to the decided step he had
taken; and when they were at a sufficient distance from the house to
permit of his speaking aloud without risking anything, he said, "I
found out this morning, while I was exploring, that if we take this way
over the hill, between those two high knolls, we shall get into a
little lane on the other side which leads down to a village some ten
miles off. Now, we shall get there, I dare say, before daylight, though
it is tough work walking up this hill, and there, I don't doubt, we may
get horses to take us on. If so, we part there, my young lord; for it
won't suit me to travel with lordship any longer. I and Harriet will go
on to London as fast as we can, and I dare say you will be able to make
your way without us."
"That I shall, easily," replied Lord Harold, "even if I go as far as
that with you; but most likely I shall stop before that."
The truth was, that Lord Harold began now to feel that he was much
feebler than he had supposed; and although they had not gone at this
time above half a mile since they first set out, it was with difficulty
that he kept up with his two companions. They showed him some degree of
kindness and consideration, however, slackening their pace for his
convenience, when they found, on looking back towards the house they
had left, that no light nor any other sign whatever announced that
their flight had been discovered. A strong effort of his determined
nature enabled the young nobleman to do more than many persons would
have effected in his situation, and he succeeded in crossing the summit
of the hill, and descending so far on the other side as to arrive at
the end of the wooded lane of which his guide had spoken. There,
however, he was obliged to declare that he could go no further; and the
reply of the man was, "Well, then, we must leave you; for of course we
can't stop here; for, to say the truth, I would rather meet the devil
himself than Franklin Gray after what has happened."
"Go on; go on!" replied Lord Harold; "go on, and take care of
yourselves. I will rest here for an hour or two by these trees, and
then doubtless shall be able to go forward very well by myself."
"Mayhap you would like a pistol, however," said the man, putting one
into Lord Harold's hand; "I always find them convenient;" and, without
further adieu, he left the young nobleman, who seated himself under one
of the trees, with the darkness of the night around him. The other two
went on; and in a moment after the woman's voice was heard in a loud
laugh, which Lord Harold doubted not was in some way at his expense.
CHAPTER XXIX.
"Let us do everything formally," said Sir Matthew Scrope to Sir Thomas
Waller, when the latter returned from the expedition which we have
already recorded to Danemore Castle, at about eleven o'clock in the
day. "Pray, let us do everything formally, or we may get into a scrape.
Indeed, what you tell me about this young man being the Earl's son
makes me afraid we have got into a scrape already. Ha! Mister Justice
Whistler; is it not so? ha!"
"What is life, my dear sir," said Justice Whistler, who was somewhat of
a wag, and generally displayed his talent for raillery upon any one he
saw in mortal terror or great anguish of mind--such as young prisoners
brought before him for capital offences, and their friends or
relations; "what is life, my dear sir, but a succession of scrapes? We
get into a terrible scrape when we enter it, surely, and an awful
scrape in going out of it. Then, between, there is love and matrimony,
two other sad scrapes; beside all the others, such as the present,
which we fall into between infancy and dotage. The great art of life is
to get out of our scrapes cleverly. Now, let us see how you will manage
to get out of this; ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed most uncomfortably
close to the ear of his two fellow justices.
Sir Matthew Scrope was evidently in great anxiety respecting the
result, and bitterly regretted that a rooted disinclination to rise by
candlelight had prevented him from going over to Danemore with his
colleague Sir Thomas Waller, whom he looked upon as a rash young man,
though he was at least fifty-eight years of age. He had been in very
great apprehension before, lest it should ultimately prove that the
personage whom he at first determined to be undoubtedly guilty, should
prove entirely innocent; and the extraordinary consequences of hearing
that the Earl acknowledged him, not only as his son, but as his
legitimate son, were, that he speedily not only began to doubt whether
the prisoner was guilty or not, but whether he, Sir Matthew Scrope, had
ever thought him guilty; and he might very soon have worked himself up
into the belief that he had always maintained his innocence, but had
been overruled by Sir Thomas Waller.
The latter worthy knight was a man of courage of a certain kind, that
is to say a sort of chameleon courage, which took its colour from
whatever was next to it. As long as he had remained by Mr. Justice
Whistler, the cool, self-possessed resolution of the London justice,
who knew better than any man living how to carry through what is called
an unpleasant piece of business, had kept him up, and bold measures
were all that he thought of; but the timid apprehensions of Sir Matthew
Scrope damped his fire most amazingly, and when he found the London
justice admit calmly that they were in a scrape, the fire went out
altogether.
Both the country justices, being men of vivid imaginations, instantly
set to work to picture to themselves all the evil consequences which
might ensue from the _faux pas_ they had committed; and a sort of
nervous twitching came over Sir Matthew Scrope's whole person, which
afforded Mr. Justice Whistler much internal satisfaction.
"Nay, nay, my good friend," exclaimed Sir Matthew; "these are no joking
matters; and the only thing that it seems needful to do now is, to see
how we may best retreat from this business quietly."
"Retreat from it!" exclaimed the London magistrate; "nonsense. Face it
out boldly. The man is just as innocent of the murder as you or I; but
what matters that? Do your best to prove that he is guilty; then there
will be always so fair a case against him that you will be justified in
all you have done; and the more vigorously you act against the Earl's
own son, the more credit you will get for the impartial administration
of justice."
But such bold counsels were not for Sir Matthew Scrope; and Sir Thomas
Waller, whose courage was just now lukewarm, was more inclined to
timidity than anything else. "Let us discharge him at once," he
exclaimed, "and be civil to him."
"Nonsense, I say again," replied Mr. Justice Whistler. "What! discharge
him without cause, after having dragged him away from his dying
father's bedside this very morning. Would you make fools of us all!"
"No, no; that will never do," said Sir Matthew Scrope; "but,
nevertheless, let us do things formally. Let us have the young
gentleman up for examination; let us be civil to him, as Sir Thomas
says. Perhaps something may come out in his re-examination which may
show his innocence."
"If it do not come out, you will squeeze it out, that is clear,"
rejoined Justice Whistler; "but the man stands committed, the warrant
is made out, and there is nothing to be done but to send him to the
gaol. I am sorry I did not send the constables on with him at once."
"I am very glad you did not," said Sir Matthew. "As to the warrant, it
is but a bit of parchment, which will shrivel up in my kitchen fire in
a minute; and so we will have him up into the justice-room to
re-examine him before we send him--"
"Back to his father," said Justice Whistler, supplying the words, and
shrugging his shoulders. "Well if you will act in such a way, I suppose
I must help you to do it gracefully. Let us go to the justice-room.
Call the clerk. Leave the whole business to me, and do not be afraid.
Whatever you may hear or see, I will get you out of the business--and
in your own way," he added, seeing his fellow justices hesitate.
"Well, well," replied Sir Matthew Scrope; "if in our own way that will
do; but let me beg of you, Mr. Justice Whistler, not to plunge us
further in the mire than we are at present."
"A capital simile," muttered the London justice between his teeth, as
he led the way to the justice-room, which communicated by a long
passage with the mansion of Sir Matthew Scrope.
The clerk was then called, the magistrates took their stations in
formal array, the table was diligently strewed with papers, and an
order was given to bring in the prisoner.
"Ahem!" cried Sir Matthew Scrope, as Langford appeared between two
constables. "Ahem! ahem!" said his fellow justices; and Sir Thomas
Waller, who now--like a tennis ball, which, having been struck in one
way by the hand of a strong player, is met by his opponent's racket,
and is driven further back in the opposite direction--was inclined to
go further than any of his colleagues, according to the new impulse
which he had received, added, with a simpering smile, "Pray, be seated,
sir. Ahem! You rascal, why don't you give the gentleman a chair?" and
he bent his brows as frowningly on the constable as if he had committed
petty larceny at least.
Langford was pale, and his features somewhat worn and haggard, with all
the anxiety, agitation, and distress of mind which he had gone through,
within the last week; neither was his heart well at ease when he
regarded either his father's situation or his own at that moment, and
felt that his recovered parent might remain in sickness and in anguish,
and even pass the gates of death, without the consolation of his son's
presence; while he, perhaps, manacled and treated like a common felon,
was detained in the solitary wretchedness of a prison upon the charge
of murdering his own brother. Nevertheless, a faint smile came over his
lip at the somewhat burlesque exhibition of Sir Matthew Waller, and it
instantly flashed across his mind that something must have occasioned a
change in the worthy justice's feelings towards him, both from the
sudden alteration and great embarrassment of his manner. He threw
himself into the chair, however, that was placed for him, and leaning
his elbow on the table, gazed upon the magistrates, thinking, "What
next?"
"You stand before us, sir," said Mr. Justice Whistler, in a pompous
tone, "accused of the murder of Edward Lord Harold. Ahem!"
There was something in the man's whole manner that roused Langford's
indignation and contempt at the same time; and he replied, with his lip
curling and his nostril expanding, "I _sit_ before you, sir, committed
on that charge; at least, if I believe what you told me not above three
hours ago."
"Circumstances may have occurred since, sir," said the justice, with a
mysterious look, "to make us take a more favourable view of the case,
and we have consequently determined to re-examine you."
"Sir, I am tired of re-examinations," replied Langford. "You informed
me that I was committed: under such circumstances, I am not disposed to
answer any further questions, or to be re-examined at all."
Mr. Justice Whistler looked at his two companions, and both the knights
looked at Mr. Justice Whistler, for Langford's renitency threatened to
keep them exactly in the disagreeable position in which they had placed
themselves; but after a moment's pause he added a few words, which,
like the sound of parley, gave hope of entering into some capitulation.
"Pray, sir," said the prisoner, "what are the circumstances which
induce you to take a more favourable view of the case?"
"Nay, young gentleman," said Mr. Justice Whistler, with a benign and
yet dignified look, "you cannot expect us to give you such information.
That would be defeating the ends of justice; but if you think fit to
answer the interrogatories which shall be addressed to you, and if your
replies coincide with the information which we have received, the
result may be very much in your favour."
Langford paused for a moment ere he replied. He was naturally extremely
anxious to free himself as soon as possible, but yet he felt a degree
of indignation at the conduct that was pursued towards him which
overcame every other feeling; and at the same time he began to perceive
that the worthy justices were very doubtful as to their own
proceedings, so that he was not without some expectation of their
setting him free at once if he avoided any further reference to that
journey to the moor, which he could neither explain nor account for,
without inconvenience and danger to himself and others; he, therefore,
once more refused to submit to any interrogation.
"All I shall say," he continued, "is, that I am, as you well know,
perfectly innocent; that I never saw the unfortunate young gentleman of
whose death I am accused, after I parted with him in the Manor park at
Moorhurst; and that there is not the slightest evidence to show, that
though he drew his sword upon me, I ever drew mine upon him. I shall
reply to nothing more."
Mr. Justice Whistler whispered eagerly to Sir Matthew Scrope. "There is
nothing for it, I tell you," he said, "but to send him to prison, and
make out the best case against him you can. You see he will give us no
opportunity of letting him go. Your risk will be much greater in the
one case than in the other."
Sir Matthew Scrope turned very pale, for the alternative was certainly
somewhat disagreeable; and his eyes wandered with an anxious vacancy
from the countenance of the London justice to that of the prisoner, and
then again stole round to the face of Sir Thomas Waller, without
finding any resource in the expression of either of the three. Sir
Thomas Waller, on his part, being of a more irritable and less
lamblike disposition than his worthy colleague, was getting somewhat
excited, or rather into a state of irritable despair, which inclined
him to side with Mr. Justice Whistler, and take the leap before him,
even at the risk of breaking his neck.
At that moment, however, while the justices were in this state of
anxiety and embarrassment, a constable made his appearance at the
doorway, closed the door gently behind him, and, walking slowly up the
room, communicated something to Sir Matthew Scrope, which was instantly
transmitted to the other two magistrates, in the same low tone in which
he had received it.
"Oh, send him away; send him away," said Mr. Justice Whistler. "Bid him
come another time."
"He's a most respectable man," said Sir Thomas Waller; "perhaps he
might help us in this business."
"Why, your worship," said the constable, in a low tone, "I understood
him to say that it was something about this very business he wanted to
tell you."
"Show him in, then; show him in!" said the large round voice of Mr.
Justice Whistler; and in a few minutes a small neat dapper man was
ushered into the presence of the three magistrates, dressed in a plain
suit of black silk, who was greeted by the two country magistrates as
Master Evelyn.
With a quick, short step he advanced to Sir Matthew Scrope, took him by
the button, led him into the recess of a window at some distance behind
the other magistrates, and spoke to him for a few moments with rapid
utterance, but in a low voice. Most men have seen the sun come from
behind a cloud; but the glorious visage even of the great orb of day,
when it bursts forth from that vapoury veil, is scarcely more radiant
than became the countenance of Sir Matthew Scrope while listening to
the words of Mr. Evelyn, the attorney.
"Hist! hist:--Sir Thomas!" he exclaimed; "Your worship. Master
Whistler!" and with dignified grace he beckoned them up to the place of
conference. Mr. Justice Whistler, as he listened, laid his finger
solemnly upon the side of his nose, and then, making a sign to his
colleagues to be silent, returned to his seat, and said in a full round
voice, "Mr. Evelyn, be so good as to introduce the witnesses."
"What is coming now?" thought Langford, as he heard the direction
given, and he turned to look towards the door, while the London
justice, with an air of perfect self-composure, took up some of the
papers from the table, and seemed to study them attentively, as if
perfectly indifferent to the next act of the drama.
Langford still kept his eyes upon the door, however, not a little
anxious to see who were to be the witnesses for or against him; and
certainly his surprise was not slight when he saw Sir Walter Herbert
enter the room, with Alice, pale and evidently much agitated, leaning
on his arm; and a woman servant, whom he had often seen at the Manor
House, following close behind.
He started up with an impulse that he could not resist, and sprang
forward to meet her. Had he kept his seat. Alice might have gone
through the scene very well, for, though agitated in a very great
degree, she had taken much pains to nerve her mind, in order calmly to
perform the part assigned to her; but the sudden start, the joyful
smile, the radiant look of happiness with which Langford sprang forward
to meet her, quite overthrew her equanimity, carried her away
altogether, and she suffered herself to sink forward in the arms he
held out to her, bursting into a violent flood of tears.
Sir Matthew Scrope, who was naturally not without a feeling heart, was
affected at what he saw, and Mr. Justice Whistler amused. "No private
communications between the witness and the prisoner," said the latter,
with a broad grin; and though Langford turned round towards him with a
heavy frown gathering on his high forehead, he went on in the same
strain. "Pray, separate them, Mr. Evelyn. Pray, separate them, Sir
Walter Herbert, else we shall have evident collusion, and be obliged to
refuse the evidence!"
Langford removed the arms which he had at first clasped warmly round
the beautiful form of his promised bride; and Alice, while she wiped
away the tears with one hand, placed the other in that of her father,
and advanced towards the table.
"Well, madam," continued the justice, "what is it that you have to say
upon this subject? I understand it is something of great importance."
"I trust it may prove so," replied Alice; "and indeed I should think it
would prove of the greatest importance. What I have to say is this,
that in the course of last night I myself distinctly saw Edward Lord
Harold alive."
"And are you ready to swear to this, madam?" asked the justice.
"Quite ready," replied Alice.
"Then be so good, madam," he said, "as to detail all the
circumstances."
Alice immediately complied; and with distinctness and precision, which
called a compliment from the lips even of Mr. Justice Whistler, she
narrated every event of the preceding night which related to the matter
in question. She told, glancing timidly at the cause of their journey
at that late hour, how the carriage which contained herself and her
father had been stopped, they themselves obliged to alight, their own
horses turned loose, and others put to; and she went on to say, that
when the party which had dispossessed them took possession of the
carriage, she had distinctly seen Lord Harold, whom she had known from
her childhood, assisted to the carriage by two men, and placed therein,
together with other persons. She further said, that she had called her
maid to witness what was going on, and she had consequently seen the
whole, of which she would give her own account. The maid was then
called forward, and corroborated in every respect her mistress's
statement. She knew Lord Harold perfectly well by sight; had known him
from the time he was a boy, and could not be mistaken. She had seen him
distinctly by the bright light which was then in the sky, and which she
had since heard proceeded from the burning of Danemore Castle. She had
heard his voice, and recognised it, as well as his person, so that
there remained do earthly doubt upon her mind that he was still alive.
"Well, then," exclaimed Mr. Justice Whistler, "such being the case, of
course, where nobody has been killed, nobody can be the murderer. We
have therefore nothing further to do but to discharge the warrant
against this gentleman, and set him at liberty. We have heard in
romances, and such trash, of gentlemen being liberated by fair ladies,
but I must confess I never saw it before till this day. However, we
must, as I said, discharge the warrant; though, if I am rightly
informed," he added, with what he intended to be a pleasant and meaning
smile to Langford--"though, if I am rightly informed, almost as many
aliases should have been put into the description of this honourable
gentleman as into that of any person brought to the Old Bailey."
Langford looked grave, for his feelings were very much mingled. He was
rejoiced, undoubtedly, at his liberation; he was rejoiced to hear that
the man of whose safety he had himself given up all hope, was still
living; he was rejoiced that Alice Herbert should have been the means
of restoring him to freedom; but still he saw many a difficulty and
many a pang before him; and with a generous heart and mind, he grieved
for the sake of his younger brother, as well as for himself, that he
had not known of Edward's safety before, when he might have taken means
to soften everything that was now likely to be harsh and painful both
to the Earl and to himself, as well as to him who had so long looked
forward with a feeling of perfect certainty to the enjoyment of high
rank, commanding station, and one of the most splendid fortunes in the
country.
He could now do nothing; the Earl had so loudly proclaimed the secret
of his birth, had acknowledged him before so many persons, that no
means of breaking or softening the matter to him who had hitherto been
called Lord Harold now remained; and even with regard to the Earl
himself, all that Langford could hope for was, to have the opportunity
of communicating the facts to him in the first instance, and of
concerting some means with him for taking the sting out of his offence.
Such were the feelings which were busily crossing his bosom while the
magistrate spoke, and for the moment, they produced a look of serious
thought, almost of sadness, which surprised even Alice Herbert. The
next moment, however, his countenance was all clear; and taking her
hand in his, he thanked her a thousand times, feeling, with true love's
sweet deception, as if his liberation were entirely owing to her
exertions.
"Oh, dear Langford!" she said, "indeed, you owe me nothing. I wish it
had been in my power to do anything to free you sooner, not only from
imprisonment, but from a horrid accusation, which was even worse. But
this has been all accident; and though it has made me very happy, I
have had no merit therein."
Langford thanked her still, however, and thanked her eagerly; and then
turning to good Sir Walter Herbert, he shook him warmly by the hand,
thanking him too, and asking him if he had yet received the paper which
the Earl of Danemore had sent that very morning. He found, however,
that such was not the case; and that Sir Walter Herbert was then
waiting with Alice to tender bail for his appearance; Bolland and his
follower never yet having reached the county town to which the good
knight and his daughter had bent their steps after having been left
without their carriage.
The tale of their adventures instantly roused the peculiar genius of
Mr. Justice Whistler, who had that very morning, on his way back with
Langford, investigated accurately the whole history of the attack upon
Danemore Castle, and who now, furnished with a clue by the account of
Sir Walter Herbert, resolved to remain in the county, and to pursue the
robbers till he had brought them to justice, though he vowed that his
presence was daily needed in London. On this sage determination he
proceeded to act, and as soon as Bolland appeared--which he did in
somewhat rueful plight about the middle of the day, having remained
tied to a tree during the whole night--Mr. Justice Whistler sought to
engage him in the scheme, well knowing that never ferret traced the
windings of a warren with more supple ingenuity than the sheriff's
officer would trace the track of a fugitive.
It was with difficulty, however, that Bolland was persuaded to
undertake the task, for the warning voice of Franklin Gray rang in his
ears; and though he longed to be revenged for the cold night he had
passed upon the moor, yet he had a great reverence for the Robber's
threats, having remarked that they seldom went unexecuted. He was at
length, however, persuaded; and as soon as Sir Walter and his daughter,
accompanied by Langford, now at liberty, had taken their way back, with
hearts greatly relieved, towards the scenes where first they appeared
before the reader's eyes, the London magistrate and his new ally, with
the two country justices, as slow hounds behind them, proceeded to hunt
out tidings of Franklin Gray and his party. They were soon at fault,
however; for though the marks of wheels and horses' hoofs could be
traced from the spot where the carriage had been taken from Sir Walter
Herbert as far as the road continued sandy, the nature of the soil soon
changed; hard rock succeeded, and all such marks were lost. At the same
time, it was found in vain to question the cottagers and townspeople,
for all declared that if such a party had passed at all they had passed
in the night, when heavy sleep had closed each ear and shut up every
eye.
CHAPTER XXX.
It is probable that very few persons in the world, were the choice left
to them, would prefer that any mixture whatsoever of pain should
chequer the happiness which they covet. But yet have we not all felt,
have we not all at some time owned, that the mingling of a slight drop
of acid in the sweet cup of enjoyment gave it a zest which prevented it
from palling on the taste.
Seated beside Alice Herbert, in a vehicle which had been hired at the
county town to convey them back to their own dwelling, a vehicle the
external appearance of which none of those it contained even saw,
Langford gave way to joy, not unmixed, indeed, but only so far touched
with care and anxiety as to bring out the brighter points in the more
striking relief. As far as he could, he cast from his mind every memory
of evil: he thought of that which was pleasant and gladdening in his
fate alone, and suffered the memory of past discomforts and pangs, or
the apprehension of difficulties and dangers in the future, to come
across his mind but as vague shadows, like distant clouds upon the edge
of the horizon, which the wind might or might not bear away, but which
at all events did not serve to obscure the sun that shone in the
zenith.
He had, indeed, infinite cause for satisfaction. He had a thousand
motives for joy, and even for triumph. That which had been for many
years the first, the great object of his existence, was now
accomplished, and accomplished, though not without pain, and
difficulty, and danger, still without one action which he could look
back upon with sorrow or with regret. He felt that, though he had been
tempted to do things which he would afterwards have repented, he had
resisted the temptation, and had struggled nobly as well against
himself as against the injustice of others.
Whatever might result from the circumstances in which he was placed, he
had succeeded in that great object of clearing his mother's memory from
a stain. The Earl, in the presence of many witnesses, had more than
once acknowledged the marriage which for eight-and-twenty years he had
concealed and denied; and Langford doubted not that the same good
providence which had led him so far through such tortuous paths to
success, would accomplish the rest in good time, nor leave unfinished
the work begun. It was a blessing, too, when he gazed on Alice Herbert,
the beautiful and the beloved! to feel that the only stigma upon his
name, which even the eye of prejudice could have seen, was removed, and
that her father's views of illegitimate birth would not in his case
mingle any degree of pain with that approbation which in other respects
he had given so joyfully.
He sat beside her, then, giving way to the extreme of happiness; and,
strange to say, the love which in their last meeting had been new and
timid in the hearts of both, had now, by the events of deep interest,
by the dangers, by the sorrows, by the anxieties which they had passed
through together--by all the various circumstances, thoughts, and
feelings in which the fate of each had been associated with that of the
other, been taught to feel like old and tried affection, had lost much
of the shyness of novelty; and Alice allowed the hand which he had
taken, to rest in his, while on their onward journey he told as much of
the strange tale of his past life as he could do without embarrassing
the story with the names of others whose fate was yet uncertain, but
might be affected by the very share they had taken in all that had
passed regarding him.
He mentioned not the name of Franklin Gray, but he took his own history
far back, and told her and her father that long ago, in the days of the
civil wars, many an Englishman, driven forth from his native land, had
sought refuge in France; that many of them, broken in fortunes, and
bankrupt even of hope, had become mere adventurers, and had established
for their countrymen the reputation of bad and reckless men.
He went on to tell her that one of these exiles from their native land
had been kindly received and nobly entertained by a family which had
long been more or less connected with England and English people. He
was of a daring and adventurous nature, and had sought his fortune,
before he came to France, in still more distant countries; but there
was something in his whole demeanour, in the high education which he
displayed, in the noble feelings which often burst from him, even in
the very faults and untamed wildness of a nature spoilt by indulgence,
which confirmed his account of his own high rank, and the large
possessions of his dead father in the island of his birth.
That man, he said, was now the Earl of Danemore; and then, in the
graces of youth, he found no great difficulty in winning the heart of
Eugenie de Beaulieu, whose feelings in his favour were first excited by
compassion, and ended in admiration and in love. They parted, but it
was soon to meet again. Her brother had been forced to join the army
then warring in the Low Countries. Her uncle had been sent to England
on one of the brief embassies which from time to time marked the broken
intercourse between the great usurper Cromwell and the legitimate
monarch of France. The aunt of Eugenie de Beaulieu, having accompanied
her husband, had sent over people in whom she could confide, to bring
her niece, who had been left almost unprotected in France during her
brother's absence, to the British capital; but the death of Cromwell,
and the uncertain policy of his weak successor, had thrown the whole
country into confusion ere she arrived. Eugenie was followed by her
lover, and never reached the dwelling of her uncle in London. Ere she
arrived at that city she had consented to become a wife; and her
husband, having been discovered as an adherent of the house of Stuart,
was soon after obliged to fly and leave her. What he meditated, what he
purposed by such an act, his son now touched upon but slightly; but he
was obliged to tell how, by threats as well as by entreaties, the Earl
had forced her, who had been his bride but a few weeks, to give into
his hands all the proofs of their private marriage, promising by
everything he held sacred never to destroy them.
The next part of the story was a painful one, and was also passed over
lightly: how his mother returned to France, and did not find her
husband where she expected to meet him; how she was forced to
communicate her situation to her brother; how her brother doubted and
feared, but at length believed her tale; how he cast all thoughts aside
but that of doing justice to his sister; how he traced out her husband,
and eagerly, perhaps fiercely, demanded that he should do her right.
How, in short, two high tempers went on to words which could not be
forgiven; how they fought, and how both had nearly died where they
stood. So went the tale.
The husband, carried from the field, was not heard of more for nearly
two years, when he suddenly re-appeared in England, claimed and
received his honours, titles, and estates, and wedded into a rich and
noble house. His first and deserted wife, forced by her brother to
countenance a report of her own death, brought forth a son in secret;
and the rest of the tale, as it was told to Alice Herbert, the reader
must have already gathered. There was a part of it, however, which was
not told then, and which will be noticed, perhaps, hereafter; but it
was a part which involved the whole history of those steps which had
been taken for several years to regain from the Earl the proofs of his
first marriage; and it touched upon so much that was painful, and so
much which might be imprudent to speak, that Langford was not sorry
when he found that the many questions of Alice and Sir Walter, their
many exclamations of pity for his mother's sorrows, and interest in her
fate, the long explanations and minute details which he had to give,
and the various episodes and collateral anecdotes which were required
in such a history, told to such listeners, had occupied the time till
they had nearly reached the spot where he had left his father, and he
was compelled to leave his tale for the time incomplete.
Anxious in every respect to return to the side of his sick parent,
Langford gazed up at the windows of the house where he lay, as the
carriage rolled heavily into the court before the old parsonage. All
was still, however; and a careless horse-boy whistled in the yard while
he thrust the straw on one side. Langford questioned him regarding his
father's health; but the lad knew nothing on the subject, but that
"there had been a rare coming and going, and seeking for the doctor,
who had gone to see Betty Hinton, who had been scorched while seeking
to pilfer something from the fire at the Castle."
Sir Walter Herbert and the Earl's son, however, both felt that the
boy's account gave a bad augury; and the Knight and his daughter
remained in a vacant room below, while Langford ascended the stairs. He
found some of the Earl's attendants in the outer room, and from them he
learned a confirmation of his fears. His lordship, they said, was much
worse, and had become so about an hour before. The doctor, they added,
was then with him, as well as Mistress Bertha and the rector; but they
could say nothing further as to his condition.
Langford hurried on, with a sweet hope that his presence might soothe
and cheer, he opened the door cautiously; but the face of the old peer
was towards it, and the bright, fevered eye was fixed upon him
instantly. With much pain, however, Langford saw that his appearance
seemed to agitate rather than to calm; the lip quivered, the brow knit,
and tossing round upon his other side, he turned his face to the wall.
His son, however, divined at once the cause of this change, and shaped
his course accordingly. Moving gently forward, he advanced to the
bedside of his hurt father, and sat down, while Bertha gave place, and
the rector bowed low to his patron's son.
"How fare you now, sir?" demanded the young gentleman, "I hope better,
for I bring you good news."
The Earl, however, occupied with his own thoughts, did not seem to
attend to his words; "No!" he cried, casting himself round again in the
bed, and grasping Langford's hands; "No, I will not disown thee--my
gallant, my noble boy! No; I will not recall my words, be the
consequences what they may! Your voice sounds in my ear like your poor
mother's, when first I heard it in youth and generous-hearted
innocence; it sounds soothing, and not reproachful; and I say it again,
you are my son! She was my wife! Let them do what they will--let them
say what they will--so it is, and shall be denied no longer; and yet,
poor Edward!--think of poor Edward! He is living, you have heard? he is
living! The joy of those sudden tidings had well nigh killed me; but
the pangs that came after have gone further still. Think of poor
Edward!"
"I have thought of him, my dear sir; I have thought of him much and
deeply," replied Langford; "but indeed there is no cause for your
present agitation--"
"No cause!" exclaimed the Earl, with his old vehemence breaking forth
even then; "no cause, do you say! Why, do I not, by the very act of
acknowledging you, bastardize the boy that has lain in my bosom, that
has dwelt with me through years which would otherwise have been
solitary? Do I not take the wrong from your mother to put it upon his?
Do I not deprive him, by a word, of station, rank, and noble name? Do I
not proclaim myself false--a breaker of all vows? Oh! young man, young
man, you know not how this proud hard heart is wrung and torn at this
moment! Say not a word; say not a word! I know that it is by my own
follies; my own crimes, if you will. I know what you can say; I know
all that you can say; that your mother, as noble and as virtuous as
his, bore her sorrows through a long life, raised no loud murmur
against him who had injured her, and died forgiving him who had
embittered her existence; that hers is the just right; that hers was
the first claim; that the real wife lived in sorrow and under reproach,
and died in misery and despair; that the false wife lived in honour and
in high esteem, and died in the arms of her son, and of him she thought
her husband; that it is time now, even now, to make the atonement! I
know it all, and the atonement shall be made; but neither tell me that
there is no cause for agitation, nor utter one reproach in the voice of
her who never reproached me."
"Far from it, my lord," replied Langford, as soon as the Earl would let
him speak; "far from it! I seek not in the slightest degree to utter a
word that comes near a reproach; and though I know you must be pained
and grieved by much that has occurred, there is still, I trust, cause
for nothing but joy in the tidings we have heard of my poor brother's
safety. In the first place, my lord, the papers which are necessary to
establish my claim as heir to your estates and title in England have
not yet been found, and may never be so; nor do I at all seek to
deprive my brother of that to which he has through life looked forward.
Were they found to-morrow, as long as he lived I should conceive myself
bound by the engagement which I and my uncle both entered into
formerly, never to make use of those papers in England, but to employ
them solely for the establishment of my legitimacy in France. No one in
this country, but myself, knows, or should ever obtain proof from me,
of the period of my mother's death; and consequently, as that event
might have taken place before your marriage with another, that second
marriage will remain valid in England, to all intents and purposes. I
say, that such shall be the case, even should the papers be found.
Should they not be found, your own solemn declaration, upon oath,
together with the testimony of Bertha here, a born subject of France,
will be sufficient fully to establish my legitimacy in that country,
and to restore to me my uncle's title and estates, which have passed
away to others. Such being the case, I say again, there is no cause for
anything but joy in the tidings of my brother's safety. If you desire
it should be so, he even need never know that you were united to his
mother while mine was still living. I pledge myself, upon my honour,
never to tell him, and in no respect to seek to wrest from him the
estates or honours he would have derived from you. Shall it be so?"
The Earl gazed at him for several moments, with a countenance over
which the shades of many passions came flitting like figures across a
glass. He hesitated; he doubted; he admired. But his was not a nature
to remain long in uncertainty. Keen, eager, fiery in all his
determinations, he strode at once to his object, and when his
resolution was once taken, he could trample upon his own heart when it
lay in the way, as well as upon the hearts of others.
"No!" he exclaimed, at length, in answer to Langford's question; "no;
it shall not be so! I will do justice, even at the last hour. I
will do justice, let it cost me what it may. No! noble, and generous,
kind-hearted, and true as you have shown yourself, worthy child of her
that I wronged, true descendant of a noble race, upon whose fame and
honour I brought the first imputation, I will not take advantage of
your too generous kindness; I will not screen myself from the
consequences of what I have done, by withholding from him who saved his
father's life, at the very moment that father was doing him the
grossest injustice, the rank that he will honour nobly, the wealth that
he will rightly employ. No; though I break my own heart by what I
inflict upon his, Edward, when he returns, shall know all; shall know
how well and nobly you have acted; how ill I have acted towards both;
and then if, while you forgive and soothe, he in the bitterness of his
heart should curse the father that has wronged him, let him do it; I
say, let him do it."
Langford was about to reply, but the surgeon interposed, saying,
"Indeed, sir, though it may be very necessary that such important
matters as those on which you have been speaking should be settled in
some manner, it is absolutely necessary to make all discussion upon the
subject as short as possible; for, if prolonged, the consequences must
necessarily be of the worst and most serious nature."
"Far be it from me to prolong them," replied Langford; "let the matter
rest as it is, my dear father. Let us take no steps whatsoever, nor
discuss the matter in any shape, till your health is returned, and
then--"
"Do not deceive yourself," said the Earl; "do not deceive yourself, my
son. From this bed I shall never rise again! The day is past, the night
is coming. The fire is burnt out, and there lingers but a spark behind.
The oil in the lamp is exhausted, and though the flame may flicker up
yet once or twice, it soon must sink and be extinguished. Henry, I feel
that I am dying! It is not these wounds that have killed me, but the
long intense struggles of a fiery and uncontrollable spirit have at
length beaten down the bars of the fleshly prison that once strongly
confined it, and it is now ready to take wing and fly to other lands.
We will discuss the matter, as you say, no more; but my hours are
numbered, and ere I die I must act. Where is that man Kinsight, the
lawyer? Why did he not return to me last night? Let him be sent for
instantly, for I must take those measures, both to place your birth
beyond all doubt, as far as yet lies in my power, and to provide amply
and nobly for the son I have wronged. But alas, alas! have I not
wronged you both? you first, and him last, both deeply, terribly,
equally! Where, I wonder is that lawyer? I wonder why he came not last
night?"
"I fear, my lord," replied the surgeon, "that he will not be able to
attend you, for I find that he was very severely handled by the people
yesterday evening, in an attempt to execute a writ upon Sir Walter
Herbert, so that he has been in a state of insensibility since
yesterday about five o'clock, till this morning, and is not likely, it
would seem, to recover."
"Retribution!" said the Earl; "retribution! Though it sometimes comes
slowly, it is sure to come at last, and then comes altogether. This was
my doing too, though by his prompting. However, be it as it may,
retribution has fallen upon us both. But somebody told me that Sir
Walter was arrested last night nevertheless, and I sent a release, that
he might be set free."
"I have found no one," said Bertha, who had remained standing
behind--"I have found no one to whom I would trust so important a
document. You told me," she continued, turning to Langford, "to give it
to nobody but one on whom I could implicitly rely, and I have thought
over all the persons I know--over all the persons I have ever known,
and cannot remember one who deserves such a name."
"You are bitter," said Langford, "but not just, Bertha. However, set
your mind at ease, my dear father; Sir Walter Herbert is at liberty,
and in this house, waiting anxiously to hear tidings of your health.
His daughter is with him, too; and she thinks that, if you would permit
her, she could, by that care, and kindness, and tenderness, which are
parts of her nature, greatly soothe and comfort you."
The Earl shook his head; and a smile, faint indeed, but still the first
that had crossed his countenance for a long time, hung upon his lip
during a single instant. "You are a lover," he said; "but nothing can
soothe or comfort me more in life, Henry. Yet I would fain see Sir
Walter Herbert. I am in the course of atonement, and I must atone to
him, too, in words as well as deeds."
"Indeed, my lord," said the surgeon, "the fewer that you see--"
"Sir, I will have it so!" exclaimed the Earl, turning upon him with a
frowning brow. "Let me not be tormented by opposition even at my last
hour!" And with a firm and imperious voice he directed Bertha to invite
Sir Walter and his daughter to his chamber.
They came speedily, and no trace of any feeling but that of kind and
generous compassion was to be seen upon the countenance of Sir Walter
Herbert, when he entered the presence of the man who had inflicted so
much pain and anxiety upon him.
The Earl gazed for a moment in his face, as if to see what expression
it bore, in order to form his own demeanour by it; and then held out
his hand to him frankly. "Sir Walter," he said, as the old knight
advanced and took it, "I have done you wrong; I have acted ungenerously
towards you, as well as towards many others. Do you forgive me?"
"From my heart," replied Sir Walter Herbert; "but let us not think of
anything that is painful, my good lord. I trust that you have not been
seriously injured in the course of this sad business, the details of
which I know but imperfectly."
The Earl shook his head at the expression of such a hope, but he made
no reply; and merely demanded, turning to Bertha, "Where is the paper?"
When it was put into his hand, he continued, "I intended this to have
reached you early in the morning, Sir Walter. Take it now. It is but an
act of justice; and anything that might be considered wanting by your
lawyer to put it into due form, had better be mentioned to me soon; for
I am going a long journey, Sir Walter, and would fain leave nothing
incomplete that I can set to rights. Mistress Alice," he continued,
turning to the fair creature who stood timidly a step behind, in a
scene so painful and so unusual--"Mistress Alice, sweet lady, come
hither, and speak to an old man ere he dies."
Alice approached quickly to his bedside, and taking her hand, he gazed
up in her face, saying, "Lady, to you I have acted doubly ill, for in
my demeanour towards you lately I not only forgot what was just and
right, but what was courteous also; and yet I am going to ask a great
and extraordinary favour of you. When you are the wife of this my
son--which God grant you may be, and soon--try, if it be possible, by
kindness and affection during the whole of the rest of his life, to
make up to him for the want of a father's love, and a father's care,
during the adverse period of his youth."
Alice blushed deeply, but she replied, "Indeed, my lord, I will; and I
also have a favour to ask of you. I see that you are ill. I know that
you must be suffering. My father, thank God, needs not my care nor
help. Let me stay with you, I beseech you, and be to you as a daughter
until you are better, which I hope and trust will be sooner than you
expect."
"Hope nothing, young lady," replied the old nobleman; "I do not deceive
myself. Nevertheless, you shall stay, if you so will, because I know
that it may be a satisfaction to you hereafter, and to him, my son,
even now. Yet it is cruel to inflict upon you, so young, so tender, and
so well assorted to sights of hope, and joy, and life, and expectation,
scenes of sickness, and suffering, and of death. Yet if you will, it
shall be so."
Alice turned a little pale, but still she firmly pressed her request;
while her father and her promised husband gazed upon her with looks of
love, and tenderness, and approbation. "Mistress Bertha," she said,
after again repeating her wish to remain, "you will let me share your
cares, and with a little instruction from you I doubt not to prove
skilful in my new employment."
"More skilful than I am, lady," replied Bertha; "for I was never made
for soothing or for tenderness. I seek it not myself when sickness or
when pain seizes on me, and I am not fitted to give it to others.
Nevertheless," she added, in a lower voice, "you may perhaps find a
moment to teach that dying man to prepare for the world to which he is
speeding. I have lived long enough in this land, which I once thought
given over to perdition, to believe that salvation may be found by even
those who do not believe all that the Church of Rome would have them.
Seek a moment to speak to him, young lady; seek a moment to point out
to him that all the earthly compensation he can now make is nothing
when compared with the faults he has committed. Tell him he must find
an atonement, that he must seek for an intercessor; and show him that
that intercessor cannot be gained but by full faith and trust in Him."
"I will," replied Alice. "Indeed, I will lose no opportunity;" and she
kept her word. At the reiterated request of the surgeon, the chamber
was soon after cleared, while a lawyer was sent for from the county
town to supply the place of the Earl's own attorney. No person was left
in it but one; and the task of sitting by the sick man's side was
fulfilled by Alice at her own choice.
Sir Walter went on to the Manor House, promising to return ere night;
and Langford sat in a chamber below, consulting with the rector and
others concerning the best means of tracing out his lost brother. But
in the meanwhile Alice, watching by the Earl, while he strove
ineffectually to gain even a brief interval of sleep, pondered in her
own mind how she might accomplish the great object she had promised to
attempt; how she might even touch upon a subject from which, but a few
moments before, when mentioned by the rector, she had seen the sick man
start away with impetuous vehemence, apparently judging that all appeal
to Heaven's mercy was too late, and determined not only to brave
fearlessly once more death which he had so often tempted, but to
encounter unshrinkingly the "something after death" which he believed
his own acts to have loaded with all the wrath of Omnipotence.
After tossing for a long time, with great restlessness and apparent
pain, sleep fell for a few minutes upon the Earl's eyes; and, when it
was over, though it had lasted so short a time, he turned to Alice with
a smile, saying, "Oh, how blessed a thing is sleep! Could heaven itself
be sweeter than slumber after restlessness and agony?"
"Oh, yes," replied Alice, "I think so; for here, rest requires labour,
or fatigue, or pain, to make it sweet: there, the enjoyment must be
pure and self-existing, requiring no contrast. However, we know little
of such subjects. God grant that we may all know such a state
hereafter."
The Earl gazed thoughtfully in her face for a few minutes, and then
said, "Alice, do you think that those who meet in the same place
hereafter, will each know the other?"
"Oh, doubt it not!" cried Alice, eagerly; "doubt it not! It were sin to
doubt it. Heaven could not be heaven without those we love."
"Then, Alice," cried the Earl, with his brow darkening and his eye
straining upon her--"then, Alice, what would it be to meet, with all
one's crimes laid bare, a long, long train of those we have injured or
oppressed--the slighted, the broken-hearted, the wronged, the insulted,
the slain! Could hell itself be worse than that?"
"But," said Alice, eagerly--"but to those whom God has pardoned, who
shall impute wrong?"
The Earl started up, and leaning on his elbow, grasped her hand. "Is
there, Alice," he cried--"is there pardon for such as me?"
"There is pardon," she replied, "for every sinner that repents and puts
his trust in Him who alone can save. Such were His own words; and, oh!
let me beseech you," she cried, and she cast herself upon her knees
beside his bed--"let me entreat you to hear them. I am young,
unlearned, inexperienced, but yet His words need no learning to
expound; His doctrine is clear; His promises are addressed to the
spirits of every one. Oh, hear them, my lord: hear them, for my sake,
for Henry's sake, hear them."
"I will," answered the Earl, sinking back upon the pillows. "From your
lips, Alice, I will; but not from his who gives them forth by rote.
Speak, Alice; speak, my child, and I will listen. There is one thing
that I now know, and to know that much, I feel, is something already
done. It is, that never man yet lived who had greater need of
intercession than myself. Speak to me, then; read to me; and though I
promise nothing further, though I say not that I will have faith,
though I say not that I will hope, yet I will listen to every word." He
did listen to her when he would have listened to no one else, while
she, with a beating heart and timid earnestness, went on in her new
task. How she fulfilled it we need not dwell upon. What was the effect
cannot be told, for the Earl made neither comment nor reply; but when
the door opened, and they announced that the lawyer Evelyn had arrived,
he pressed Alice's hand affectionately in his own, and said, "I thank
you, Alice; from my heart and soul, I thank you."
CHAPTER XXXI.
"Good news, Master Justice; good news!" said John Bolland, entering the
room of the small inn, where Mr. Justice Whistler sat sipping a bowl of
fragrant punch with his two brother magistrates, about two days after
we last left him; "I have found out our man, and nothing is wanting but
good courage and plenty of people to take him and the greater part of
his gang."
"Sit down, Master Bolland; sit down, and take a ladleful," replied
Justice Whistler. "By your leave, Sir Matthew; by your leave. Now,
Master Bolland, now tell us all the facts. To speak truth, I am in no
condition to move far to-night, though I have courage enough to take
the great prince of thieves himself, were it needful; but there is a
certain feeling about my knees which speaks a too great pliancy. This
punch is potent, Sir Matthew; very potent; but the upper story is quite
clear. So pray, Master Bolland, sip, and recite."
"Why, I have but little to say, Worshipful," said Bolland, who saw that
the punch evidently had produced a not infrequent effect upon all
three. "The only matter is, I have found out where this worthy Captain
Gray and his band have housed themselves; that is all."
"And where may that be?" demanded Mr. Whistler. "Pray, where may that
be, my dear Bolland?"
"Why, over the hills, beyond Badeley," replied the officer; "but the
further particulars I will keep till to-morrow, as you cannot set out
to-night; though, to say the truth, every moment lost is likely to lose
us our man. He'll not stay there long, depend on it. They'll be just
like a covey of partridges at sunset, flitting about from place to
place before any one can come near them."
"But tell me all the particulars," cried Justice Whistler; "for if need
be, I will go this minute."
"And so will I," shouted Sir Matthew Scrope, who in his cups grew
mighty valiant. "And so will I, I swear!"
Sir Thomas Waller had proceeded a step beyond the other two, and he
could only stare. But even the proposal of Sir Matthew was more than
suited the purposes of John Bolland and his friend Mister Justice
Whistler, who had agreed long before to share the profits of the
matter, which were likely to be considerable, between them. Each hoped,
also, to gain a certain share of honour and credit by the joint
management of the affair, which honour and credit were somewhat
necessary to both to lacker over certain flaws in their reputation that
were becoming rather too apparent.
It may seem a strange paradox, perhaps, to say that Mr. Justice
Whistler was as sober when he was tipsy as when he was not, but such
was the case with all the upper man; the drunkenness began at the knees
with him, and went downwards, leaving the brain quite as clear and
shrewd as usual, with the only difference that his manner was a little
more jocular--his pomposity somewhat higher flavoured. On the present
occasion, one glance from the eye of Bolland towards Sir Matthew Scrope
reminded the London justice of their arrangements, and he instantly
changed his tone.
"No, no, Sir Matthew; we cannot go to-night," he said. "We will hear
what Bolland has to say; we will ponder on it on our pillows, and act
to-morrow. Let me help you, Sir Matthew. Generous punch never yet
harmed any man but a flincher. Sir Thomas, your glass is empty. Master
Bolland, join us. You see I do not spare myself;" and he filled himself
out a ladleful, nodding to Sir Matthew Scrope, and drinking to the
health of his fair niece.
The additional burden thus poured upon the mental faculties of Sir
Thomas Waller was quite sufficient to send him quietly under the table;
and Sir Matthew Scrope, who likewise did justice to his glass, was
reduced to that state at which eloquence, however unruly, finds
utterance difficult. Mr. Justice Whistler, perceiving the effect which
the last cup had produced, nodded to Bolland, and said in a hall
whisper, "Now for his nightcap! Perhaps, Sir Matthew," he added looking
at the knight with a compassionating air, "perhaps we had better not
drink any more, though the bowl is not yet empty. I am not at all drunk
myself, though I fear for your head to-morrow, Sir Matthew. I thought
you had been stronger men in these parts. Why, with the help of Master
Bolland, we have not finished the--"
"Sir, sir," hiccupped Sir Matthew Scrope, "I am no more drunk than you
are. I can take another glass very well. Ay, two. We will never leave
the bowl unfinished."
Mr. Justice Whistler might, perhaps, upon another occasion, have found
some degree of pleasure in prolonging the yearnings of Sir Matthew
Scrope for the liquor of his heart, for all the minor sorts of
tormenting were generally sweet pastime to him, but at present he was
too deeply interested, to pursue anything but the straightforward
course; and when he saw that opposition had sufficiently roused the
drunken energies of his fellow magistrate, he suffered him to drink his
punch in peace, and fall back into his chair in the soft embraces of
the son of Lethe. No sooner was this accomplished than he looked upon
Bolland with a triumphant smile. He had himself, indeed, in no
degree, flinched from the potations he had inflicted upon his two
fellow-magistrates, but he was very well aware of his own calibre,
foresaw the result, and knew the remedy. A slight additional weakness
of the knees was all that he had to anticipate; and though he felt
morally certain that, if he rose from the table and attempted to make
his exit by the door, it would cost him five or six efforts before he
could shoot the arch, he knew at the same time that there were
restorative means to give back vigour to the sinews of his lower man,
and to enable his whole body to recover that just equilibrium of which
the potent punch had deprived it.
"Bolland," he said; "Bolland, I'm in no condition for riding just yet,
but half an hour will set the whole matter to rights. Have these two
clods carried home, and make pretty Sally, the black-eyed barmaid,
bring me a large basin and a ewer of water. Then quietly steal into the
kitchen, and tell the cook to do me a good rump-steak, and bring it up
piping hot, with some sliced onions. I dar'n't move from the table; for
unless I were cautious, cautious--cautious, Master Bolland, I should be
at my full length on the floor in a minute."
Bolland did as he was bid; and as, in those days, there were
attached, as indispensable appendages to the inn of every county
town--especially, if a club of magistrates held its meetings
thereat--certain sturdy fellows, both ready and willing to carry away
the bodies of such as fell in their contest with good liquor, three or
four personages were soon found to bear off Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir
Thomas Waller to their respective homes. Betty also soon appeared with
the basin and ewer, as the magistrate had directed, and Mr. Justice
Whistler, taking off his wig, caused a deluge of the pure cold element
to be poured over his naked head, which bent humbly before the hand of
the practised barmaid.
When his face was well dried, and the wig replaced, he looked up in the
face of Bolland, who had just returned from his errand, with a smile of
satisfaction, saying, "I think I could do it now, Bolland; I think I
could do it now. But I won't try till I have put the beefsteak upon the
top of the punch. In the meantime, give me the whole particulars of
this grand discovery you have made. Where is this man to be found, and
how have you found him out? for we must be sure of what we are about,
before we stir an inch."
"Oh, for that matter, I am quite sure," answered Bolland; "for I had it
this very morning from a sheep-drover whom I met just under the hills
on this side, and who gave me a long account of this strange gentleman
coming with half a dozen or more men, and taking the sheep-farm that he
described, without inquiring into anything, as another man would have
done. I asked him if he had seen this strange gentleman. He said, 'Oh,
dear, yes; twice, walking about the hills in a melancholy kind of way,
with his arms crossed upon his chest.' And then the fellow went on, and
painted him like a picture. I got the whole account of the place
exactly, too, so that when we get to the little town of Badeley, I can
lead you at once to the spot."
"How far is it, Bolland?" demanded Mr. Justice Whistler.
"Some fifty-five miles, I hear," replied the officer; and, thereupon,
the justice shook his head, exclaiming, "Too far for one night's ride.
Too far; too far. It would make my old bones ache."
"I did not know your worship had any bones," was the quaint reply.
"However, it is too far for me, also, for I have ridden nearly forty
miles this morning, and I am neither a post, nor a post-boy."