While they were yet discussing the matter, a savoury odour was smelt

even through the double doors of the club-room, and Mr. Justice

Whistler interrupted Bolland's eloquence by exclaiming, "Ha! here comes

the rump-steak. It will set all things to rights presently; and in the

meanwhile you go and get two strong horses ready. Find out what

constables you can rely upon for a long journey, and have everything

prepared for our departure."

To the few questions which Bolland now asked, he gave the clearest and

most precise answers; and when the worthy officer returned, after

fulfilling his mission, he found the dish which had contained the

beef-steaks void of its contents, and Mr. Justice Whistler walking up

and down the room as steadily as ever.

"I have only got two constables," he said, "who were willing to go; all

the rest were either drunk, or in bed, or did not like the job, and

would have run away and left us at the bounds of the county."

"Two are quite enough," replied Mr. Justice Whistler. "We can get

plenty more at the nearest town. These people here are all in a fit of

fright at the strange doings that have been taking place near them.

Better have some folks that are ignorant of the whole business. Now I'm

your man, Master Bolland. Are the horses ready?"

Bolland answered in the affirmative; but, before he followed the

justice into the court-yard of the inn, he swallowed what remained of

the bowl of punch, thinking that such encouragement was well adapted to

a long cold ride and a dangerous enterprise.

Mr. Justice Whistler now consulted gravely with Bolland in regard to

the road; and, taking one of the constables for their guide, they

determined to proceed about thirty miles that night, and accomplish the

rest upon the following day. They were, however, deceived in regard to

the distance. At the end of thirty miles, they found no town, nor place

of repose of any kind, and they were, consequently, obliged to ride on

till they got on the first soft slopes of those wild hills which we

have elsewhere described.

Mr. Justice Whistler began to grumble seriously at the length of way;

Bolland declared that he was nearly knocked up; and one of the

constables avowed that he saw the grey streaks of the morning resting

on the tops of the hills, which would serve at least to show them their

way, for they were at this time immured in the darkness of high hedges

and narrow wooded lanes. At that moment, however, a loud voice before

them called, "Stop!" and Bolland, at once recognizing the voice of

Franklin Gray, turned his horse's head, and galloped off as hard as he

could go.

The rest would most likely have followed his example, had not the same

voice vociferated, "Stop them there, Harvey! Do not let them go!" and

four or five men, leaping their horses over the hedge, cut off the

retreat of Mr. Justice Whistler and the constables, while one of them

fired a pistol down the lane after the retreating figure of Bolland,

which was followed by a sharp, sudden cry. But the horse's steps were

still heard galloping onward. The flash of the pistol had afforded

sufficient light, however, to show Mr. Justice Whistler that resistance

was vain, though he was a courageous and determined man, and would have

made it gallantly if there had been even a hope of success. Such not

being the case, however, he determined rapidly what to do, but

determined, unfortunately for himself, upon wrong grounds.

Remembering nothing but the awe with which his name and presence

inspired the petty plunderers of the metropolis, he resolved to

announce himself and all his terrors in good set form, and to endeavour

to frighten from their purpose those who stopped him. In the meanwhile,

however, the leader of the party threw back the shade of a dark

lantern, and poured the light thereof full upon the justice and his

followers, and he demanded, "What are you doing here at this hour? What

is your name, and what is your errand?"

"Let me pass, in the King's name, I command you," said the justice. "My

name is Whistler, and I am one of his Majesty's justices of the peace

for ----."

"Oh, you are Mr. Justice Whistler, are you?" replied the other. "Worthy

Mr. Justice, who are those two men behind you? They seem not of your

own condition."

"We are only two poor constables from the town of ----," replied the

men, choosing to speak for themselves, and in a humbler tone than that

which the justice had thought fit to use. "We are two hard-working men,

with small families, and are forced to do our duty."

"These are not any of those we sought," said Franklin Gray to one of

his followers. "Let these two poor fellows go; but strip me this

justice here to his skin. Take every sous he has in his pocket, and

then tie him to a tree and give him a hundred lashes with the stirrup

leather, as hard as you can lay it on. I will not take his life, though

I should like to give him one lash for every false and villanous act he

has committed, for every innocent man he has sent to prison, to the

stocks, the pillory, or the parish beadle. One lash for each, however,

would cut him to pieces; so give him a hundred, and let him go."

The commands thus issued were punctually obeyed; and while the justice

shouted loudly under the infliction, which was administered in the

neighbouring field, Franklin Gray went on addressing the man Harvey,

sometimes commenting upon what was going on near, sometimes speaking of

other subjects.

"They know we are on the look-out," he said; "and they will not stir so

long as that is the case. How the beast roars! Yet you say they must be

in this neighbourhood, for you traced their footsteps clearly. Those

fellows love flaying a justice in their hearts; I can hear the lashes

they give him even here. But we had better ride home now, and change

our quarters soon. There, there, that will do. There, my men, stop. You

will kill him, if you don't mind. Put his vest upon his fat back, turn

his face to the horse's tail, and send him cantering down the lane."

Every tittle of Franklin Gray's commands was executed to the letter;

and Mr. Justice Whistler, still writhing with the pain of the stripes

he had received, was partly clothed once more, and set upon his beast

again. His face, however, was turned in the contrary direction to that

which it usually assumed in relation to the animal that bore him, and

his feet being thrust through the stirrups, a few smart blows were

added to send the charger off. Happily for the preservation of the

justice's equilibrium, the horse was weary, and, even in its most

frisky moods, was a quiet, good sort of beast; so that, after having

jolted him in a hard trot for about three hundred yards, it began to

slacken its pace, gradually dropped into a walk, and finally stopped to

crop a scanty breakfast from the herbage by the side of the road.

Mr. Justice Whistler did not neglect to seize such an opportunity, and

carefully descending, for in his bruised condition every step was

painful, he remounted according to the usual mode, and, with a somewhat

splenetic jerk of the bridle, made his beast abandon its poor meal, and

proceed on the road before it. That road, indeed, was as unpromising to

a man in his condition as any road could be; for his first necessity

was now repose and food, and as it was the very way by which he had

come, no one could be more certain than himself that there was no

house, village, or anything in its course for at least ten miles. When

he had gone about one, however, a small country road was seen leading

to the left, away over a low hill; and Mr. Justice Whistler paused, and

gazed, and pondered.

The darkness of the night had now fled, the dull streaks over the

eastern hills had changed into gold and crimson, and the clear, cool

fresh light of morning was spreading over the whole prospect. The hills

rose up and shone in the coming beams; but a faint grey mist lay over

the lower grounds, marking out each wooded slope, each wave in the

fields, and each hedgerow, in long-defined lines across the view. The

hill over which the country road that now attracted the errant

justice's attention ran, was, as he sagely judged, fully high enough to

conceal a farm, a village, a town--nay, a city itself, should need

be--on the other side; and along the sandy road itself were to be

traced various marks of cart wheels of no very remote date, and the

prints of horses' hoofs more recent still.

Such a sight was wonderfully cheering to the justice, who instantly

turned his horse's head up the lane, and pursued it perseveringly,

though the high and manifold trees in which it embowered itself, soon

cut off all further prospect. A quarter of an hour's riding had not yet

brought him to anything like a house; but the joyful sound of some one

whistling broken snatches of a favourite village song set his heart at

rest. The crack of a whip, too, and the rattle and clatter of harness,

were soon heard; when lo! the road suddenly turned to the left round a

steep bank; and a little village green, with its pond affording much

matutinal enjoyment to a party of ducks, and its clump of tall elms,

ready to give shade when the sun rose high, presented itself to the

eyes of Mr. Justice Whistler as one of the pleasantest sights he had

ever seen.

To the right was a small farm-house, from which probably proceeded

those sounds of early labour which had given the scourged magistrate

encouragement on his way; but exactly before him, on the other side of

the green, appeared the grey village church, with its yews and its

little enclosure, where rested the dead of many a gone year; and, what

was more to the purpose of the justice, a neat and rather large white

house, in a pretty garden enclosed by low walls, which were chequered

with flints, and guarded by broken bottles from the predatory feet of

apple-loving boys. The justice at first thought it was too good a house

for the parsonage; but seeing no other abode of the kind near the

church, and looking at the air of comfort and wealth about the village

itself, he judged that it must indeed be the dwelling of some rector

well to do, and therefore straightway rode up to the gate to make his

piteous case known. Those were hospitable days, and such circumstances

as his, he well knew, would find instant compassion and relief; but, as

the occasion was urgent, it was no slight satisfaction to him to see

the gates into a stable-yard already open, horses in the court bearing

signs of having come from far, and one regular domestic, with one

personage, half groom half plough-boy, busily engaged in the duties of

the stable.

"Why, here's another, Bill!" cried the rustic as the justice

approached. "I think it rains strays just now."

To the inquiries of Mr. Justice Whistler, the servant replied that the

house was the rectory of the Reverend Mr. Sandon--that the rector was

up, and talking in the parlour with two gentlemen just arrived. A

second glance at the horses confirmed Mr. Justice Whistler in the

opinion which he had at first entertained, that they had been his

companions on the road during the greater part of the night; and on

being ushered into the presence of the owner of the house, he found him

listening to the two constables' tale of woe.

The rector was a quick, sharp-nosed, reddish-faced gentleman, extremely

well to do in the world, yet active, vigilant, shrewd, inquiring: the

good things of life having had no effect in producing sloth or

indulgence. He was a worthy man in the main, more charitable both in

thought and deed than he suffered himself to appear, and not by many

degrees so avaricious as some of his refractory parishioners wished to

prove. He was up early, to bed late; took great care of his farm and of

his flock; spared no one's vices or follies in the pulpit, and required

that his dues should be paid, if not rigorously, at least exactly,

dispensing that money for the benefit of one deserving part of his

flock which he derived from another.

On seeing the apparition of Mr. Justice Whistler clad simply in his

vest, and that not very well buttoned over his protuberant stomach, the

rector stared for a single instant in silence; but the next moment,

though he could not repress a slight smile which came upon his lip at

such a strange apparition, he resumed his courtesy, and, advancing

towards the stranger, said, "I presume I have the honour of seeing

Justice Whistler; at least, so the account of these good men leads me

to imagine; and most happy am I to see him alive and well, for, knowing

the desperate character of the men into whose hands he had fallen, I

was apprehensive of the result."

"Alive, sir, alive," said the magistrate, impatiently, "but not well,

by no means well: half-flayed, scarified, basted with stirrup leathers

till there is not an inch of the skin on my back without a wound, nor a

bone in my body that does not ache. I have come, sir, to claim your

hospitality--to seek a few hours' repose--to obtain some refreshment,

and to get some soft appliances to my back; after which, God willing. I

will raise the hue and cry through the country, and tuck that fellow up

as high as Haman, or my name's not Whistler."

"You shall have all that my poor house affords, to make you

comfortable," replied the rector; "and after you are refreshed, perhaps

I may be able and ready, more so than you expect, to aid in your very

laudable design of ridding the country of the band of ruffians who have

lately taken up their quarters upon the verge of these two counties."

"I am pleased to hear it; I am pleased to hear it!" exclaimed Mr.

Justice Whistler; "but just now my back aches so portentously, I am so

wearied and so hungry, that I can think of little but a flagon of

mulled ale and a toast, a soft bed, and four or five hand-breadths of

old linen to my back."

"All that you shall have, sir," replied the rector; and, though there

was just that degree of pain in the countenance and the whole movements

of the justice which excites one almost as much to merriment as to

compassion, the worthy clergyman kept his countenance very well, and

with kindness and alacrity ordered everything that was necessary for

making the suffering man more comfortable. The mulled ale and the toast

were brought, and a small cup of metheglin was superadded to give the

whole consistency, as the magistrate observed. After that, the broad

magisterial back was dressed by a staid but not unskilful housekeeper;

and, tucked up in a comfortable bed, Mr. Justice Whistler soon forgot

in the arms of slumber the woes and the adventures of the preceding

night.

CHAPTER XXXII.

While Mr. Justice Whistler and his colleagues had been proceeding in

their examinations, and the events we have just narrated had been

taking place in a distant part of the country, the days and nights in

the little village of Danemore had been spent in the slow and wearing

anxieties of watching the progress of sickness towards death. Alice

Herbert remained almost constantly with the Earl, at his own earnest

wish, and Sir Walter Herbert coming over from the Manor House early

every day, spent the greater part of his time with Langford, in all

those various occupations of which the circumstances in which they both

stood furnished an abundance to fill up the time.

The Earl of Danemore lay upon his bed of sickness, and hour by hour

showed as it went by, that it would be the bed of death also. It was

not, indeed, that his wounds were mortal, for no vital part in all his

frame had been touched; but he received those wounds, not only as an

old man in whom the loss even of a portion of that strange red current

that flows within our veins, dispensing life and vigour, is not easily

restored; he received them also as one on whom strong and ungovernable

passions had already wrought most powerfully, and on whom also the same

intensity of feeling was still destined to work, though excited by

better causes, and a better purpose. Weakened by great loss of blood,

exhausted by fatigue and excitement, but little was wanting to bring

fever in the train of corporeal injury; and the energetic eagerness

with which he applied his mind to everything connected with Henry

Langford, only served to increase his irritability, rather than to lead

his mind to calmer and more tranquillizing subjects. He felt that his

days on earth were numbered: and that feeling begat in him an anxiety

to make up for the evils he had inflicted, which tended to shorten

those few hours that remained to him.

The difficult and painful situation in which he was placed also; the

necessity of sacrificing one child to another; the struggle to do

justice to one for whom he felt deep gratitude and esteem, when opposed

by the claims of old affection and long-nourished tenderness; the

knowledge that disgrace would fall upon his name, and, like the yellow

lichen on a tombstone, would live and flourish, and render indistinct

every record of his life, when all below had mouldered away into dust;

all joined together to make him feel most poignantly and bitterly that

the last dark hour of life, when the bright sun that has lighted us

through the morning of our youth and the mid-day of our manhood, and

even shone warmly on the evening of our decline, has gone down behind

the horizon, leaving but a few faint rays in the sky behind, is not the

time to seek our way back into the light path which we have abandoned

in the splendid noon of our existence; and that even if we do regain it

at last, it must be by plunging into the thorns and briars of grief,

regret, and remorse, without hesitation, though with difficulty and

agony itself.

It was not that even in those last hours of his life the Earl of

Danemore looked upon death with any feeling of terror. Such sensations

were not within the grasp of his nature; he knew not what fear meant.

He might see and know that there was danger in this thing or in that;

he might fix his eyes even upon death itself, and the retributive

future after death; but still while gazing on the frowning brow of

fate, and comprehending all which that dark inevitable countenance

menaced, he strode on undaunted, and said, even to Omnipotence,

"Strike!"

No! it was not that anything like fear affected him; but weakened in

body and wearied in mind with a long struggle against many internal

adversaries, he listened to the voice of conscience and of equity,

making itself heard through the medium of a judgment naturally strong

and acute--making itself heard not the less distinctly in the silence

of exhausted passions, because in former times the small still voice

had been drowned amidst their contending fury.

He felt what it was right to do, and he strove now to do it, however

difficult, however painful his own acts might have rendered the

task--however fatal to his corporeal frame might be the efforts that he

made, and the anxieties he suffered. For the greater part of one whole

night he remained eagerly dictating his will to the lawyer Evelyn;

providing for his younger son, but endeavouring to strengthen in every

way the claim of the elder to his title and estates. He made a solemn

declaration of his marriage too; named the day, the spot, the clergyman

who had performed it, with scrupulous accuracy, pointed to the woman

Bertha as the only surviving witness, and related how the leaf on which

the marriage had been inscribed had been cut from the register and how

he had forced his young and unhappy wife to give up to him the

certificates she had received of their union. He spared himself, in

short, in nothing; and again and again he asked eagerly if that

declaration and the woman Bertha's testimony would not be sufficient.

The lawyer shook his head doubtingly. The marriage, he said, had been

denied for so many years; the woman, too, was an alien and a Roman

Catholic, against whom prejudices then ran high. The question involved

an ancient peerage and immense property; and, in short, there was every

reason to doubt whether the young gentleman's title could be sustained,

unless the papers were recovered. If the register itself were not in

existence, and the marriage had never been denied, the case might

easily have been made good; but, with no trace of such an act in the

existing register, and no absolute publication of the marriage, he had

many doubts.

"But there is a trace!" exclaimed the Earl vehemently; "there is a

trace; there is the leaf cut out. Send for the register! Let it be

brought here immediately!"

"We can do that to-morrow, my lord," replied the lawyer.

But the Earl would not be satisfied till a servant was despatched for

the record on which so much depended. It was brought to him by the

clerk of the parish of Uppington, during the grey daylight of the next

morning, for the very vehemence of his nature had taught every one

through the country round to yield instant, and now habitual deference

to his wishes. On examining the book, however, he found nothing but

disappointment. When by large bribes he had induced the low-minded but

cunning priest, who then held the living, to cut out the leaf, he had

enjoined him strictly to leave no trace whatever of the transaction;

and so nicely had the removal been accomplished, that no eye could

detect the place where the vacancy existed.

Again his own acts fell upon his own head; and the Earl felt as if it

were ordained by retributive justice that he should go down to the

grave leaving the fate of both his children still entirely in doubt.

The idea took possession of him, and it weighed him down. Often he

asked if any news had been heard of his son Edward; and when the reply

was made that none had been received, he exclaimed, "Of course--of

course! Nothing will be known of him till I am dead."

As the third and fourth days went by, his mind began to wander, and

that most painful of all states to see, delirium, came rapidly upon

him. He raved of his first wife, his Eugenie, the only one whom he had

ever loved, and yet the one whom he had most deeply wronged. He called

upon her to return to him, to bring her boy to his father's arms; and

then again he went over some bitter quarrels, where it was evident that

her firm sweetness had but served to aggravate his fiery wrath. It was

a scene most painful to behold, and yet Alice Herbert, tending him as

if she had been his own child, beheld it all, and with sweet and

thoughtful tenderness did much to soften and tranquillize the mind of

him who suffered, as well as the feelings of him who stood by with a

wrung heart, witnessing a father's agony and a father's remorse.

To the eyes of Langford never did Alice Herbert, in all the bright

flush of health and happiness, as he had at first beheld her, look so

lovely; never did she seem to his heart--even when she acknowledged the

love that made him happy--so dear as now; while somewhat pale with

cares and anxieties lately suffered, and fatigues daily undergone, she

stood, by the pale light of the shaded lamp, with calm sorrow and

apprehension in every line of that fair face, watching the death-bed of

his father, and soothing the last hours of him who had caused her so

much pain. He felt from his heart that a common exaggeration of

affection was, to her at least, well applied, though he would not

himself apply it; and he listened well pleased, when Bertha, after

watching Alice long, with the usual dark and stern expression, at

length exclaimed, "Thou art certainly an angel!"

Towards the evening of the fifth day there seemed a slight improvement

in the condition of the Earl. He slept for an hour or two in the course

of the evening. His mind was more collected: he recognised his son, and

Alice Herbert, and her father, at all times; and although his words

occasionally wandered and his eyes looked wild, yet there were evident

promises of returning judgment and returning strength; and both Alice

and Langford hoped--and in a degree trusted because they hoped--that

the Earl might yet regain his corporeal health, and that his mind, like

the air when purified by a thunder-storm, might rise freed from all the

vehement passions which had worked up the tempest that had hung around

the last few days.

Nevertheless, the vital powers were evidently diminished in a terrible

degree; and the eye of the surgeon at once perceived that the sleep he

enjoyed was the sleep of exhaustion; that feebleness, and not returning

health, brought repose; and that, although that repose might perhaps

produce the only favourable change which his situation admitted, there

were a thousand chances to one against its restoring him to health.

It was on that very night that a messenger arrived from a village at a

considerable distance, eagerly asking to speak with the Earl of

Danemore, and on being questioned by Langford, he at once informed him

that he came to bear the Earl tidings of his son Lord Harold's safety,

as well as a note under the young nobleman's own hand, with which he

had been entrusted. Some discussions ensued between the rector, Sir

Walter, and Langford, as to whether it would be expedient, in the

Earl's state at that moment, to communicate the intelligence which had

just been received.

Sir Walter, who had seen less of the world than his young friend, and

had examined much less deeply that which he had seen, eagerly entreated

Langford to communicate the tidings to the Earl directly, declaring

that the news of his son's safety must necessarily act as the best

remedy which could be applied to his case. The good knight spoke from

the impulse of a fine and generous mind, practically unacquainted with

evil, and with all the complicated and even opposite impulses which the

existence of evil in the human mind must necessarily produce. The

rector urged the same course through mere ignorance, for he was a man

of no strong sensations himself, and those which he did possess were

merely the animal ones. To hear of a son's welfare, he felt in himself,

must--separate from all other things--be a joyful event; and he was

incapable of weighing or judging, or even comprehending the various

circumstances which might render that which was in itself joyful, most

painful and agitating.

Langford, however, knew better. He had discovered before this time,

many of the deep, peculiar points in the Earl's character, and he knew

all the particular details of his situation which might make the

certainty of his brother's life and speedy return a matter of

apprehension, care, and emotion. Both his companions, however, so

strongly urged him to communicate at once the tidings to his father,

that he felt he could not and he ought not to withhold them.

He cared not, it is true, what others would think of his conduct; but

it might, perhaps, be a weakness in Langford, that--knowing well, by

early experience of the world and all the world's baseness, the many

turns, the subtle disguises, the strange masquerading tricks which

selfishness will take to deceive, not only the natural and habitual

egotist, but the kindest and the most liberal of men, where any dear

interest, or prejudice, or affection is at stake--he was as much upon

his guard against himself as if he had known himself to be ungenerous;

and was always more willing to take the opinions of others in a matter

where his own interest might be risked, than on subjects where self was

totally out of the question.

In the present instance, it was clear that the life or death of his

brother might make the greatest difference in the Earl's views and

feelings; and although he knew himself too well not to be sure that the

consideration of such a difference would not influence him in the

slightest degree in withholding or communicating the news he had

received, yet he yielded to the opinion of others against his own

judgment, when he would not have done so had his own interests been in

no degree implicated. He only demanded that Sir Walter himself should

communicate the tidings; and he warned him, when he agreed to do so,

that the effect might be more powerful than he expected.

Sir Walter, though he totally misunderstood the view that Langford

took, and the fears which he entertained, acted, from natural goodness

of heart and sensibility of feeling, exactly as his young friend could

have desired, only apprehending that the joy would be so great as to

perform the part of grief itself.

Although he had resolved at first not to do so--lest his very presence

might excite in the mind of his dying father those painful combinations

on which his thoughts had evidently been wandering during his

delirium--Langford followed Sir Walter into the room, and stood at a

little distance behind, listening, with a heart whose accelerated

beatings told even to himself how deeply he was interested by the words

in which the worthy knight clothed his communication.

"I have got what I trust may be pleasant news for you, my good lord,"

said Sir Walter, as he seated himself deliberately in the chair by the

Earl's bedside, affecting the greatest possible degree of composure

and tranquillity as he did so, and banishing every appearance of haste

or excitement from his manner.

"What is it?" demanded the Earl, turning round towards him as quickly

as he could; for he no longer started up with that vehemence which he

had displayed but a few days before. "What is it? Are the papers found?

For ever since Eugenie--but I wander--I wander. I feel that I wander;

that I have been wandering for many days. But go on, go on. I am more

collected now. What of the papers? It was about them you were talking,

was it not?"

"No, my lord," replied Sir Walter; "we are not talking about the

papers, but of something which, if I judge rightly, may prove of as

great interest as even their recovery--I mean that of your son. We have

heard some tidings of him, my lord."

"What are they?" demanded the Earl. "Speak! What are they?"

"They are all as favourable as you could desire," replied Sir Walter,

in the same calm manner. "We have heard that he is rapidly recovering,

and has escaped from the hands of the people who detained him." And

seeing that the Earl listened without reply, he added, "We may, I

trust, soon expect him here."

Lord Danemore pressed his thin white hand--through the blanched and

shrivelled skin of which might be seen protruding the large bones and

joints which had once marked his extraordinary strength--upon his eyes,

and remained for several minutes in deep thought. He then withdrew his

hand, and turning to Sir Walter Herbert, he said in a low voice, "It is

a terrible thing, Sir Walter; it is a terrible thing not to be able to

thank God for the recovery of a son that we love--not to know whether

we desire to see him before we die, or not."

"It is, indeed, a terrible thing, my lord," replied Sir Walter; "but I

trust that such is not your case, and that your son's coming will give

you unmixed pleasure."

"Far from it," replied the Earl, gloomily. "He will have to hear sad

truths; to undergo mortifications the most bitter to a proud nature

like his. He will have to hear of his father's faults and crimes, he

will have to learn that, instead of vast wealth, a noble name, and a

high rank, he has no inheritance but that of an illegitimate son; that

he has no name; that he has no station; that he has no rank; and all

this the consequence of his father's faults. I know him, Sir Walter

Herbert; I know him: and there is too much of my own blood in his veins

for me to expect that he should do anything, in the bitter

disappointment of a proud spirit, but curse him who, for his own

gratification, and in the indulgence of mad and headlong passions,

brought shame and sorrow and disgrace upon him. My own blood, I say,

will cry out against me in his heart. He will curse me, as I would have

cursed my father had he so acted. He will look down upon me as I lie

here like a writhing worm, and he will think that it is only because my

corporeal vigour is at an end, and my strong heart weakened by abasing

sickness, that I do those acts of justice which I had determined on

long ere I knew these wounds to be fatal: which I had determined on as

soon as I found that he whom I had wronged, that he who had borne with

me so patiently, that he who had defended me, and rescued me from

death, was my own child, the son of her I early loved. He will

misconceive, he will misunderstand it all. I know his heart, from my

own; and I know that in my meeting with him under these circumstances

all will be dark, and stormy, and terrible. I feel not even sure that

it will be better for him to live rather than to die, as we supposed he

had. I feel not sure that death would not be preferable to the feelings

he will have to endure. He will not bear the crossing of his high

fortune meekly. He will strive against it; he will strive to prove the

words false that take from him his high station, even though they are

spoken by his father. He will contend for the rank and fortune and

place which he has so long expected, even with his brother. Through

life he will go on in bitterness and disappointment. His heart will

henceforth be full of gall, and his lip breathing curses. It would have

been so with me, and why should it not be so with him? He is my own

child, the inheritor of my nature, if not of my name."

It was evident that he was exciting himself to a dangerous degree by

the exaggerated picture which his imagination drew; and Langford could

not restrain from advancing, and trying to soothe him.

"My dear father," he said, "if such be really Edward's

character--though I think you judge of him and of yourself too

harshly--how much better it will be to take the middle course that I

have proposed; to conceal from him the period of my mother's death; and

never to let him know that the marriage to which he owes his birth was

an unlawful one. Willingly I offered, and willingly I repeat the offer

to do more, and abandon to him altogether the rank and station which he

has held in England, the estates which are attached to the title of our

ancestors, and content myself with justifying my mother's fair fame to

her kindred in another land, and with claiming there the fortune to

which I have a right through my noble uncle."

"You are all your mother!" exclaimed the Earl, gazing upon him. But

then other feelings seemed to rush across his mind; the expression of

his countenance changed, and he exclaimed, "What! would you have me

afraid of my own son? Would you have me dastardly conceal the truth

from him, for fear of his anger? No, no; he must hear it. It may be

bitter, but he must hear it. Bitter things are good for us sometimes.

But from whose lips shall he hear it?" he added after a moment's pause.

"Not from mine, Henry; not from mine, for I feel that the hour is

drawing nigh! I shall never see him more in life. I feel that there is

a chill hand upon me: surely it must be the hand of death!"

It was so, for from that moment the Earl rapidly sunk. His senses did

not leave him again, however, and from time to time he spoke to those

around him. He expressed neither hope nor fear in regard to the future.

The only words, in fact, which he uttered at all, referring to the

awful consideration of a future life, were spoken about an hour after

the conversation had taken place which we have just detailed. He then

beckoned Alice to draw nearer, took her hand affectionately in his, and

as she bent down to listen, he said, "I owe you much, sweet lady--much

for all that you have done for me; but more than all for the endeavour

to give me such hopes and expectations as may best soothe and cheer

this last dark hour. Whether such hopes are to be realised I soon shall

see, and as far as bitterly repenting everything I have done amiss, I

have followed the injunction to the letter. But alas! Alice, if it be

necessary to the repentance you speak of, to bow down in terror as well

as remorse, that--struggle for it as I may--I cannot accomplish. I can

repent, but I cannot fear. I am ready to meet my doom, whatever it may

be, and to endure it to the utmost. Nevertheless, to you I owe deep

thanks, and you have them. Now leave me, sweet lady. Farewell, for the

last time! I would not have you see me die."

His words had turned Alice deadly pale, and Langford, taking her hand,

led her from the room. She found relief, however, in tears. She then

strove to read, but she could not; and she sat waiting in the rector's

parlour, with a heavy heart, till she heard footsteps moving down the

stairs. Her father and Langford then entered the room. The latter was

pale and grave, but calm and firm; and sitting down by Alice's side, he

laid his hand upon hers, saying, "Thank you, my beloved Alice, for all

that you have done to soothe the death-bed of my father."

It was enough, and Alice again burst into tears; but the next moment a

servant entered the room, asking the two gentlemen if they knew where

he could find the rector.

"He is up stairs, in the chamber of death," said Sir Walter; "but you

had better not disturb him at present."

"Why, sir, I must disturb him," said the man; "for there is a gentleman

waiting, who came down two or three days ago, in a coach with only two

horses, and who has been hanging about here and up at the Castle ever

since, though nobody knows who he is. He desires to speak with my

master immediately. He has inquired every day if the Earl were still

living, but would not give his name nor tell his business. So I must

disturb my master."

"Do so, then," replied Sir Walter; and the man quitted the room.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

The words which the servant had spoken, in announcing to Sir Walter

Herbert the arrival of a stranger, had made but little impression

either upon the worthy knight or on the son of the deceased nobleman;

and, after a broken conversation, in which pauses of deep and solemn

thought constantly interrupted their discourse, Langford was begging

Sir Walter to convey his daughter from that melancholy house to her own

happy home, when the rector entered the room, bringing with him a

person unknown to any one present.

"I am forced to intrude upon you, sir," said the clergyman, addressing

Langford, "as this gentleman who has just presented himself has come on

business in which you are deeply interested."

"It is an unpleasant moment, sir," replied Langford, "for me to enter

upon any business at all. I am occupied with very gloomy thoughts and

very painful feelings, and I could wish that the business, whatever it

is, might be postponed till to-morrow."

"I am very sorry, sir, both for your sake and my own, that cannot be,"

replied the stranger, advancing.

He was a man about the middle age, tall and well made, though meagre,

courtly in his personal appearance, and bearing in his whole demeanour

the stamp of gentleman. Nevertheless, there was something repulsive in

his aspect--something cold, and cynical, and dry, which was smoothed

down, indeed, by courtesy of manner and personal grace, but which,

nevertheless, tended to make Langford the less inclined to enter into

any conversation with him at that moment. The stranger, however, went

on, and the next few words he uttered were sufficient to show him to

whom they were addressed that he must meet the subject at once.

"It will, perhaps, sir," the stranger said, "be satisfactory to you to

know, in the first instance, who it is that is forced to intrude upon

you, which our worthy and reverend friend here has forgotten to

mention. My name is Sir Henry Heywood; I have the honour of being

second cousin to the late Earl of Danemore, and in default of his son

Lord Harold, who, there is good reason to believe, I find, is dead, am

heir to the title and estates of the late peer."

There was something in the manner of his announcing himself--the tone,

the demeanour, the look--that galled Langford not a little, and made Mm

assume a cold dryness of manner which was not natural to him. To the

stranger's announcement, then, he only replied by drawing up his head

and demanding, "Well, sir, what then?"

The shortness of this reply seemed to puzzle Sir Henry Heywood a good

deal, for he paused a moment or two before he answered, and then begun

with some degree of hesitation: "Why, sir, under these circumstances,"

he said at length, "during the absence and probable death of Lord

Harold, I am the only fit person to take possession of the late Earl's

papers and effects."

"I do not feel quite sure of that," replied Langford, in the same tone.

"Pray, then, sir," demanded Sir Henry; "if you consider yourself a

fitter person than I am, and the question be not an impertinent one.

will you inform me who it is I have the honour of addressing, for this

excellent divine has given me but vague information upon the subject?"

The question somewhat embarrassed Langford, for he had determined to

wait for his brother's return ere he took any step whatsoever in regard

to asserting his rights as the eldest son of the late Earl, and to be

guided entirely by the frame of mind in which he found that brother at

the time. He determined, therefore, to evade it as far as possible for

the moment, and consequently replied, "The character in which, sir, I

should oppose your taking possession of the papers of the late Earl, is

that of one of his lordship's executors; and in order to satisfy

yourself that I am justified in assuming that character, as well as my

friend here, Sir Walter Herbert, and the worthy rector himself, who are

the only persons named, you have nothing to do but consult with Mr.

Evelyn, the lawyer, who drew up the Earl's will four or five days ago,

and will inform you that such is the case. He is now, I think, in the

next room, writing. Let him be called in."

"That is unnecessary; that is unnecessary," said Sir Henry Heywood. "Of

his lordship's will, at the present moment we are supposed to know

nothing; and I must contend that I, as the next heir, in default of

Edward Lord Harold, am entitled to take possession of the papers,

especially as there is every reason to believe that I am at this moment

Earl of Danemore."

"There is every reason to believe the contrary," replied Langford,

growing provoked; "and great reason to believe also, that you never

will be so. If you are at all acquainted with the handwriting of the

gentleman you call Lord Harold, you will recognise it in that note,

which was received from him not three hours ago, informing his father

that he was not only alive but at liberty, and rapidly recovering from

the injuries he had received."

Thus saying, he threw down the note on the table before him, and after

eyeing it with a cursory glance, the countenance of Sir Henry Heywood

fell amazingly; nevertheless, he replied in the same bold tone, "I am

extremely happy, sir, to hear that such is the case, but this does not

in the least prevent me from insisting on my right till Lord Harold

appears."

Langford was about to reply, perhaps angrily, but Sir Walter Herbert

interposed, saying, "It seems to me, sir, that you are pressing forward

a very painful discussion at a very painful moment, and I really do not

understand what is your object in so doing."

"Why, I will explain my object in a few words, sir," replied the other.

"There is a gentleman, I understand, who has of late set up some

chimerical claim as eldest son of the late Earl of Danemore, in which

it seems that he has persuaded the Earl to concur--"

Langford's check grew very red, and his lip quivered; but Alice, who

was sitting by him, laid her hand upon his arm, and looked imploringly

up in his face.

Langford bowed his head with a smile, saying, in a low tone, "Do not be

afraid, sweetest; these matters are not decided by the sword."

In the meanwhile Sir Henry went on, saying, "Under these circumstances,

sir, I think it absolutely necessary that the papers of the Earl should

be placed in safe keeping, for we have seen too much lately, in the

various plots and contrivances of the last reign but one, of how papers

may be manufactured or altered to suit certain purposes."

It was Sir Walter Herbert's cheek that now turned red, and he replied

somewhat sharply, "Sir, your imputations are of a character--But it

matters not," he added, interrupting himself. "I will not be provoked

to forget my age or my station. The late Earl of Danemore has appointed

three respectable persons, of whom I perhaps am the least worthy, to

act as his executors, and take possession of all his papers after his

death. The testimony of Mr. Evelyn to that effect will be sufficient,

till we have an opportunity of reading the will, which was given by the

late Earl into that gentleman's keeping.--Do not interrupt me, sir! But

in order to satisfy you completely till the will is read, I am

perfectly willing, and doubtless the two other executors are so also,

to permit of your putting your seal in conjunction with ours upon all

the effects of the late Earl. Does this satisfy you?"

"Why, I suppose it must," replied Sir Henry; "although," he added,

giving a bitter and angry glance towards Langford, "I am sorry that I

cannot get this gentleman to put forth his claims and acknowledge his

purposes boldly and straightforwardly."

"My not doing so, sir," replied Langford, "proceeds, I beg to inform

you, from sources and considerations which have no reference to you

whatsoever. If there were not such a worshipful person as Sir Henry

Heywood in existence I should behave exactly as I do now. The matter

remains to be settled, not between me and you, but between myself and

another."

"It may do so," replied Sir Henry Heywood, "or it may not."

"But I say, sir, it _does_," replied Langford, frowning.

"You misunderstand me, sir," replied the other, with the same dry

courtesy. "I do not mean to impugn your word in the least. I have no

doubt that you are perfectly a man of honour and integrity. All I meant

to say was, that, after all, Lord Harold may never appear. However, I

am bound to take care of my own rights, and from those rights neither

frowns nor high words will move me. In the meantime, I accept the terms

proposed. We will both put our seals upon all cabinets and private

receptacles of the Earl's papers, either till his son Edward appears,

or till the will is opened, and persons lawfully in power take

possession thereof. I seek nothing but what is straightforward and

right, but I am firm in pursuing that which I do seek."

"After all, the man is right," thought Langford to himself, for he was

one of those marvels that can acknowledge an adversary right; "he does

it in a disagreeable and harsh way, it is true, when a few sweet words

would have honeyed the thing over, and made it palatable instead of

bitter. Nevertheless, he is right, and we must not quarrel with the

manner."

"Well, sir," he continued, aloud, "I am ready to proceed with you in

the matter you propose. We will, if you please, take the lawyer with

us, and my worthy and reverend co-executor will probably do me the

favour to accompany us. Sir Walter, I think, will trust to my accuracy;

for, if I am right, he ordered his coach to convey himself and his

daughter home, and we need not detain him."

"Alice will go home with her maid," said Sir Walter; "I have much to

speak to you about to-night, Henry, and many things to settle here;

therefore, if the good doctor will give me lodging for one night more,

I will remain."

The rector expressed his satisfaction; but Langford looked out of the

window upon the sky to mark how far the sun had declined, for, after

all that had happened during the last few weeks, he could not part with

the only being that he loved deeply upon earth, even upon a short but

unprotected journey like that before Alice Herbert, without feeling

something like the apprehensiveness of strong affection steal over his

heart. The plan proposed by Sir Walter, however, was followed. Alice

took her departure, and, to save the reader any unnecessary doubt, we

may say she arrived in safety.

The four gentlemen then called in Mr. Evelyn, the attorney, to whom Sir

Henry Heywood thought fit to be very condescending; but he found Mr.

Evelyn as short and dry as even he himself could have desired, in one

of his own shortest and dryest moods. The lawyer said, when he was

informed of their object, that there was not the slightest necessity

for any one to seal up the papers, except the executors, as he had the

will in his pocket, and their names were endorsed upon it, so that the

persons appointed could be ascertained at once, without the indecency

of opening the paper within an hour of the testator's death. Langford,

however, to save any further discussion, informed him that it had been

so arranged; and, in the first place, notwithstanding all the many

painful feelings that were busy at his heart, he accompanied the others

with a firm step into the room where his father's body lay.

Sir Walter Herbert cast down his eyes, and would not look upon him as

he entered. The rector, on the contrary, took a quick glance to see how

he bore it; but all was firm and calm--sad, but self-possessed; and

while the others proceeded to their task of sealing up several cabinets

which had been brought from Danemore Castle after the fire, Langford

advanced to the side of the bed of death, by which, as was then

customary, stood a light on either side, and gazed in upon the

countenance of him who had just departed.

All was calm and still on that face where so many fierce and violent

passions had displayed themselves through life. All was peaceful,

tranquil--even happy in the expression. The muscles which had

habitually contracted the brow were now relaxed, and the deep wrinkle

between the thick eyebrows was obliterated. The closed eyelids veiled

the quick, keen, flashing eyes which had now lost not only the blaze of

passion but the lustre of life; and the lip which had quivered with a

thousand emotions in a moment--which had now curled with bitter

scorn--now been raised with hasty indignation--now been shut with

suppressed passion--and now been drawn down with stern determination,

was motionless, meaningless. The only expression that it bore, if it

bore any, was that of gentle and quiet repose--an expression which is

so consonant to the features of a child, that in infants we trace it

alike in sleeping, in waking, and in death; but which is seldom, if

ever, seen in sleep upon the countenance of the aged; though it is

sometimes assumed by them in waking life, when a natural placidity of

disposition overcomes cares, infirmities, anxieties, regrets, and all

the heavy burden of years; and is often, very often seen when the hand

of the eternal tranquillizer, death, has stilled the fiery passions

into his deep, unbroken repose.

Langford gazed long and wistfully; and, at length, the finger of Sir

Walter Herbert, laid gently on his sleeve, made him start; and, turning

round, he left the apartment, with a deep sigh that thus should have

ended a life full of mighty energies and noble capabilities, which

might have been devoted to the accomplishment of a thousand great and

magnificent things. The whole party thence proceeded to Danemore

Castle, and went through the same process of sealing up all the private

cabinets and chests which could be found. Few, indeed, were there still

in existence, for the greater portion had been kept in that part of the

building which was burnt; and, though Sir Henry Heywood showed an

inclination at first to make himself sure that all had been consumed

beyond the line marked out as that of the fire, he was very soon

satisfied by nearly breaking his neck down a flight of stairs that

seemed tolerably steadfast till he set his unlucky foot upon them.

This being done, and Sir Henry quite assured that the other parts of

the Castle were not practicable for human feet, a low and formal bow

separated the two parties, and the expectant heir of the earldom

retired to the small village public-house, where he had put up on his

arrival, and immediately sent off for shrewd lawyers to advise with him

in the circumstances in which he stood.

As the others returned on foot towards the Rectory, Sir Walter took the

arm of Langford in one hand, while he gently grasped that of the

lawyer, Master Evelyn, with the other, saying, in a low and kindly

tone, "We must lose no time!"

"Certainly not, Sir Walter," said the lawyer; "we must lose no time,

indeed; for opponents, you see, are in the field quickly."

"But," said Langford, "perhaps--"

"There is no 'perhaps,' my lord," replied Master Evelyn, interrupting

him, but with a civil and courteous tone, and a deprecatory bow; "I

know quite well what you would say: that perhaps your mind is not made

up how to act; but all which I mean to urge is, that it is necessary to

be fully prepared to act in any way that you may think fit at a

moment's notice. Here is your father's declaration in regard to his

marriage, drawn up and sworn to. It is now expedient to take the

declaration of Mistress Bertha, and swear her thereunto before the

magistrates, as well as to employ every means of obtaining further

proof and information. You may act afterwards as you think fit."

Langford readily agreed that the lawyer was in the right, although he

felt a repugnance at that moment to follow, with even apparent

eagerness, his claim to the heritage of him who was just dead. He

returned, however, to the Rectory, where Bertha had still remained, and

she soon appeared in answer to his summons.

There were traces of tears upon her cheeks; and when Langford, speaking

some soothing and consoling words, explained to her his object in

sending for her, she replied, "You have done well, sir. You have done

well; for I feel that I shall not live long; and what I have to say had

better be rightly taken down. I feel that I shall not live long, I say,

because, for the first time for thirty years, I have shed tears. It is

a weakness that I did not expect to fall upon me again; but now that

the last of those who have been connected with my fate is gone into the

tomb, I feel that the time is come for me to take my departure also;

and these tears, I suppose, are a few drops of rain ere the dark night

sets in."

"I trust not. Bertha," said Langford, kindly. "I trust not, indeed. The

last being connected with your fate has not departed; for surely my

fate has been strongly and strangely connected with yours, and I have

so much to thank you for, that I would fain show my gratitude, and make

the last days of your life pass happily away."

"You have, perhaps, something to thank me for," replied Bertha, "but

more to blame and hate me for. But you know I am not a person of many

words; and if I am to tell all that I know of you and yours, let me do

it now, and as shortly as may be."

"In the first place," said Mr. Evelyn, "we had better send for another

magistrate; the lady can make her declaration in the meanwhile and

swear to it afterwards."

"Do not call me the lady, Master Lawyer," said Bertha, with her usual

cold sharpness; "I am no lady. I am Bertha, the housekeeper. But send

for what magistrate you like. I will say nothing that I will not swear

to."

A messenger was accordingly sent off for Sir Matthew Scrope, and in the

meanwhile Bertha went on with her tale.

"I was born on the beautiful coast of Brittany;" she said; "my father

was a small holder under the Lords of Beaulieu, his mother's

ancestors," and she pointed to Langford. "The chateau stood upon a high

rock, crowned with thick woods above the sea; for in those sweet shores

the green leaves dip themselves in the green waters. At fifteen years

of age, I went to attend upon the Lady Eugenie--his mother--who was

some two years older than myself. The Lords of Beaulieu were fathers to

all beneath them, and she was as a sister to me. She found out that

even at that early age I loved, and that there was little hope of him I

loved ever being able to win my father's consent, for my father was

wealthy for a peasant. She told her father and her brother, and prayed

their help; they gave it; and so well did they do for my happiness,

that ere two summers were over, Henri Kerouet was the prosperous owner

of a small trading ship. My father's consent was given, the day was

appointed, and two days before, I saw from the windows of the castle my

father, my two brothers, and my lover, put out to sea in a fine boat,

to buy things at Quimperle for the wedding. I watched them from the

windows of my young mistress's room with the eyes of love, and saw them

skim for half a mile over the waters, as if it had been a thing of

their own; but then, I know not how or why, the sail flapped upon the

water, the boat upset, and all that were in it disappeared. One of them

rose again for a moment, and clung to the side of the boat. I think it

was Henri; but ere my screams called attention, and other boats could

put off, his hold had given way, and he too was beneath the waters.

"There is in every woman's breast a history; and this is mine. I had

but one brother left; every other relation was gone, and he I loved

also. My heart was shut up from that hour, never to open again. My

young mistress was all kindness, and tenderness, and benevolence; she

kept me with her, she strove to soothe and to console; but she had soon

need of consolation and soothing herself, for her father died suddenly

as he sat at breakfast beside her, and she remained an orphan in the

castle of her ancestors for several weeks, till her brother, who was

with the army, could obtain permission to return to his estates. When

he did come, he brought with him one whom I remember well, as he then

crossed the threshold, in all the graces, the powers, and the fiery

passions of youth; one whom you have all seen bent and worn by age and

care, and by the punishment of those passions indulged; one who lies

within a few steps of us even now, in the cold and marble stiffness of

death, with all the stormy impulses of his nature passed away. He was

then like a fiery war-horse, full of beauty, and strength, and danger,

for there was nothing on earth that he dared not do; there were but too

few things, also, which, with such a mind and such a body, he could not

accomplish. He loved my mistress, and my mistress loved him, ere many

weeks of his sojourn with us passed away.

"He brought with him a boy of some twelve or fourteen years old; a gay,

wild, fearless creature like himself; the son, as I understood, of a

poor but noble gentleman, who had placed him as a page, to learn from

infancy the art of war, with the young lord. This boy would often sit

and tell me of wild scenes which had taken place in the civil strifes

of England, and sometimes would glance at stranger and still more

terrible things in western lands, where they both had sojourned long.

This Franklin Gray it was who first called my notice to the love that

was growing up between the two; and I saw how strong it was, though

there was nothing avowed as yet between them.

"The time came for the young Marquis to return to the wars. The English

Lord was to return with him, and still nothing was spoken of their

love, at least so far as I could learn; but on the day when they were

about to depart, the young foreigner turned to my mistress, in her

brother's presence, and said, 'Lady, I have a parting present to make

you. You have applauded and admired my gay young page. In the present

beggary of my fortunes, I can do but little for him; I pray you to take

him to your service, and when he is old enough, let your noble brother

do what he can to promote him in the career of arms. Till then, as he

is of gentle blood, he may well serve a gentle lady.' He spoke gaily,

and as it seemed freely; but I could observe a peculiar expression on

his face which gave the words more meaning; and there came at the same

time the blood, like a rising rebel, into my mistress's cheek, telling

that she comprehended him well.

"It had been arranged that while the Marquis was absent, she should

proceed to England, to join her uncle, then on a political mission in

London, rather than remain in solitude in France. A vessel was engaged,

and in a few days, after she had parted with her brother and her lover,

she embarked, with myself, the boy Franklin Gray as a servant, and the

priest. We met with foul weather, and the ship with difficulty reached

a port upon the coast of Cornwall, where we landed; but there, upon the

pretext of fatigue and illness, she determined to remain some days; and

on the first night of our arrival she despatched the boy Franklin Gray

to London, both to announce her safety to her uncle, and, as it proved,

to communicate with one who in disguise had returned to his native

land, at the risk of life, for the purpose of meeting her.

"As soon as the boy was gone, she told me all; how they loved, and how

their love had been told, and of the impossibility of his asking her

hand at that time, while in exile and in poverty, having nothing but

his sword to depend upon. When the boy returned, she seemed a good deal

agitated; and, as when once she had given her confidence it was

extreme, she told me that she had received messages from the Earl

begging her to follow a particular course in her journey, in order that

he might see her, if but for a moment, by the way. She shaped her

course accordingly, and passed through the very scenes where now we

are; and at the little town of Uppington, not ten miles hence, she was

met by the Earl. He had obtained--Heaven know how! for I do not--a

considerable sum of money, which raised high his hopes and

expectations. He pressed her to be united to him immediately in

private. Love was strong and eloquent in her breast, and she consented.

She exacted, however, that their marriage should be solemnized

according to the rites of his faith and the laws of his country, as

well as according to her own.

"The good weak priest who accompanied her was easily induced to perform

the ceremony of our church, and the Earl had now wealth sufficient

fully to bribe the priest of that village; but as it was determined

that in a very few days she should go on to join her uncle, and double

the quickness of her journey to make up for the lost time, I only, and

one of the servants, were admitted to be present as witnesses to a

marriage which was to be held strictly secret. I saw them married by

the rites of both churches; and my mistress, for her honour's sake,

demanded and received from both priests, certificates of the marriage.

The day before that on which she was to have set out, news arrived of

the death of Cromwell, and the rumour that all was in confusion through

the country across which we had to pass. The tidings did not make them

very sad, for they were in their first happiness; but the boy Franklin

Gray was again sent to London, in company with our good weak priest, to

see her uncle, and ask whether she should come on. At the end of a

week, the boy returned alone. Her uncle had quitted London in haste,

and the poor priest had been involved in a tumult in the streets, had

been recognised as belonging to the Catholic Church, and had been

murdered by the brutal populace. For him she grieved sincerely; but it

seemed to me that she was not very sorry that a fair excuse was given

her for remaining with her husband, and sharing his fate, whatever that

fate might be.

"She soon experienced, however, the sad lot of those who cast

themselves upon the mercy of man. He was violent--rash--hasty. There

were matters grieved him deeply. The sum that he possessed was drawing

near to a close, and he wished much it was evident, ere two months were

over--I do not say to annul his marriage, for I believe, nay, I am

sure, he loved her still--but to have it concealed for the time. He

urged her then to return to her brother, showing her that he could with

difficulty support her, even if he were not himself by chance

discovered by lingering in England; and he framed for her a plausible

story to account for the period of her absence, which in times of such

danger and confusion might easily be done.

"She refused, however, firmly, though mildly. She said, that though, so

long as it merely referred to concealing her marriage, she was willing

to do all he wished; nevertheless, when it could no longer be concealed

but by a falsehood, she would yield no further; and nothing should ever

induce her to tell her noble brother a lie. Anger and fury on his part

succeeded. I and the boy Franklin were in the room; and the Earl, when

he found that passion could effect nothing, turned to me, thinking that

I might persuade my mistress to consent. She had that morning given me

some offence; for I had ever been idle and vain, and my terrible fate

had not cured my follies, though it had embittered my heart. I did not

try to persuade her, but I said maliciously and falsely--for I knew

better--that I thought she was very wrong not to do as her husband told

her.

"She gazed upon me with surprise and indignation; but the boy Franklin

burst forth, exclaiming, 'She does very right not to tell a lie for any

one:' and the Earl in his passion struck him to the ground.

"The boy instantly drew his dagger and sprang upon the Earl, but he

wrenched it from his hand in a moment, and putting him forth from the

door, returned laughing, moved to merriment, even in the midst of his

anger, by the youth's daring. With him the storm for a time passed

away; but from that moment my mistress seemed to look upon me with

contempt. I felt that I merited it, and hated her the more. All her

good deeds, all her kindness towards me, were forgotten; and a few

hasty words which she spoke the next morning, in her indignation at my

conduct, became like poison, and rankled in my heart. Thus passed two

or three more days; and I laid a scheme which succeeded but too well. I

looked at the Earl often as I passed him, seeking to draw his

attention, and make him speak to me upon the matter of his dispute with

my lady. At length, one day he did so, and I hurriedly and basely

advised him to obtain from her by any means the proofs of her marriage,

and then let her refuse to go back to her brother for a time if she

dared. My mistress came in as we were speaking, and looked surprised,

but said nothing; and the Earl followed my advice. He tried many

methods to arrive at his purpose; but it was in a moment of love and

affection that he induced her to give him up the certificates, the

attestations of myself and the other servant, and all the proofs of her

marriage, upon the pretence that he would keep them more securely. A

doubt, however, seemed to cross her mind, even when she was placing

them in his hands, for she asked him to swear most solemnly that he

would never destroy them; and I remember particularly, that when he

said he would swear by everything he held sacred, she insisted upon his

adding that he swore upon his honour as an English gentleman.

"When he had got the papers, however, and he knew that he could compel

her to do whatsoever he liked, his love and his tenderness seemed to

return in full force, and the idea of parting with her at all was

evidently hateful to him. At length, however, necessity compelled

him to propose it again; and once more, high words and angry

discussion ensued; and then it was that all the smothered feelings

which she had been long nourishing towards myself burst forth.

She accused me of alienating her husband's affection. She called me

base--ungrateful--criminal. She told me to quit her presence, and never

re-appear in it again; and I did quit her, determined to return to

France, and obey her to the letter.

"How the matter would have ended between herself and her husband, I

know not, had not other circumstances intervened; for, with

all his violent passions, he certainly loved her still,

deeply--tenderly--devotedly. But news was suddenly brought him that

his real name and character, which he had concealed, had been

discovered, and that warrants were out for his apprehension, as what

they called a Malignant. He returned to the house for a few minutes

after receiving these tidings, informed his wife what had taken place,

took a tender and affectionate leave of her, and besought her to hasten

to France with all speed, where he would join her ere ten days were

over. The spot was named, the time fixed, and I saw him press her

warmly to his heart as they parted.

"He then spoke to me for a moment, and, bidding me forget all that had

passed, enjoined me to remain with and console my mistress. I refused

at once, sternly and bitterly, to do so; and as he had no time to lose,

and found my determination fixed, he only further asked me to let him

know without fail where I established my abode, that he might show his

gratitude for my services in brighter days, and do away the evil

feelings between my mistress and myself. I told him that he would

always hear of me at the house of my brother, and he departed. He was

scarcely gone when I too left the house, and found my way back to

France alone, but took care not to revisit the place of my birth,

believing that a bad name had gone there before me. What happened to my

mistress then I do not know; but I heard that, keeping only the boy

Franklin Gray to attend upon her, she had sold all her jewels--"

"We had better not admit anything into the declaration," said Mr.

Evelyn, "except what you personally saw or knew, my good lady. Indeed,

as it is, only parts of the declaration can be used."

"I am neither good nor a lady, Master Lawyer," replied Bertha. "But to

go on with what I personally know--about a year and a half after, or

perhaps two years, a letter reached me by a circuitous route from the

Earl of Danemore, telling me that the restoration of the Stuart family

to the throne of England had restored him to his native land and all

his honours, and that if I chose to come to England, and occupy that

post in his household which I lately filled, I should spend the rest of

my days in comfort and peace and honour. I agreed to do so, for where I

then was, I was very miserable; and I set out for England. When I came

into his presence, however, he scarcely knew me; for when he had last

seen me I had been a blooming--perhaps a handsome girl; and in that

short space, grief, anxiety, and self-reproach had made me, with very

little difference, what I now am. To my surprise, however, I found that

his house was occupied by a noble and beautiful bride; and when he told

me, I gazed in his face with wonder and apprehension. He understood my

looks, and with that stern, determined air which was so natural to his

countenance, he told me, in a few short words, that when he had

returned to France, being hopeless and nearly destitute, he had not

sought out his wife as he had promised, trusting that she would go back

to her brother and conceal her marriage, as he from the first had

wished. The Marquis de Beaulieu had sought him out, however, and

covered him with reproaches: they had fought, and both had been

severely wounded. 'I then,' he added, 'went into other lands; but

suddenly found that the king had been restored. I returned to my native

country, but speedily perceived, that though I had sacrificed

everything for my sovereign, I could regain my honours, but could not

regain one half of my estates without using the influence of another

peer, all-powerful with the king. To him I applied, and he proposed to

me a marriage with his daughter. I might have resisted the temptation

if I had never seen her; but she is young, beautiful, fascinating. I

married her, and regained all.'

"'And the Lady Eugenie,' I cried; 'the Lady Eugenie?'

"'She is dead,' replied the Earl; 'I have now obtained certain

information that she is dead; but I cannot say,' he added; and he

grasped my arm tightly while he spoke--'I cannot say I am sure that she

was dead before this second marriage was contracted; and now, Bertha,'

he continued, 'now, swear to me, by everything you hold sacred, never,

till I permit you, to reveal to any one the fact of my former marriage;

and if you do swear, you bind me to you for ever!' I did swear, for we

both thought that she was dead; and I kept that promise inviolably. But

I asked him, before I took any vow, if he had kept his, and preserved

the proofs of his first marriage; for, at first, I thought he wished to

entangle me by an oath, when his real wife was still living; and I had

repented enough already what I had done against her. He told me that he

had, and showed them to me in the chamber where they were preserved:

and again he swore never to destroy them, though her death, he said,

might well free him from that promise. But I saw then, and I have seen

through his life, that he felt, as well as I did--that there was a fate

attached to those papers which would one day change everything.

"He then brought me to the presence of his lady, to whom he had

announced my coming. When the door opened for me to enter, and she knew

who it was, she turned towards me, as I thought, coldly and somewhat

sullenly; but the moment after, she looked surprised. She had expected

to see a young and handsome girl; but she saw a lean and sallow woman,

and all doubts of me and of her husband, if she had entertained such,

vanished. She became as kind to me as the first day of spring, though

she was often haughty and cold to others. She trusted me in everything,

and I learned to love her well. I loved her better, far better, than

the mistress I had at first served; but there was still something

wanting in the latter attachment. I believe it was the freshness of

early feelings; the freshness that never comes again. However, after I

had been in England for some ten years, and one son of the Earl and his

Countess had been born and died, and the second supplied his place,

being then but a sickly child himself, I remained behind for a short

time in London after they had quitted the court to come down into the

country. In about ten days I followed, and travelling slowly, stopped

one night at a little inn in the town of Stockbridge.

"It was night; and, after having supped, I went along the passage

towards my bed-room, when, as I passed a door that was open, I heard a

voice that almost made me sink into the earth. It was that of the Lady

Eugenie; and, as I passed by the door, I looked in without wishing to

look, and I saw her there, sitting speaking to a servant, pale and

worn, but scarcely less beautiful than ever. I was fool enough to

faint; and when I revived, I found myself in her chamber, with herself

and her woman bending over me. At first I thought she did not know me,

so terribly was I changed, and so little did she seem moved by the

sight of one who had injured her; but when I was quite well, and

thanked her in the English tongue, and was about to leave her, she

said. 'No; stay a moment. Leave us, Marguerite;' and I trembled so that

I could not move. The girl went away: and then she said, 'You are

terribly altered, Bertha; but I have kept you to say, that if sorrow

for anything you ever did against me be the cause of that sad change,

console yourself. I have long ago forgiven you. Nay, more; I have often

thought I did you some injustice.'"

"Then you positively saw the same lady with your own eyes," said Mr.

Evelyn, "whom you had seen united to the late Earl before the death of

Cromwell, ten years after he had married another person?"

"I did," replied Bertha. "But it is useless now to detail all that

passed between us. I found that her brother had compelled her to assume

another name, and to spread a report of her own death. That after her

return to France she had borne a son; this gentleman present, the true

Earl of Danemore--"

"You mistake," said Langford; "I was born in England, in the very town

where my father's marriage was celebrated with my mother; for she was

resolved, she has often told me, that I should lose none of the

privileges of an Englishman by being born in a foreign country, and she

crossed the seas to England a month before my birth, in order that her

child might first see light in the native land of his father. I have

the certificate of my birth duly attested."

"All that, she told me," answered Bertha; "and I meant but to say that

the child was born some months after her husband had left her. The boy

was with her then, and I saw him; and I am ready to swear, though

changed now from a youth to a man, that this is the same person. She

strove eagerly to persuade me to give her an attestation of her

marriage, under my hand; but I would not do it, for I had vowed not.

She asked anxiously after the papers, too, and if I knew whether they

had been destroyed; but I assured her that her husband had kept his

word. I told her even where they were placed; and I assured her that if

ever fate so willed it that the obstacles which then existed to the

open establishment of her marriage should be removed--and I felt that

they would be--I assured her, I say, that I would then aid her to the

very best of my power in obtaining the result she wished. I promised

her even then to do all that I could, without breaking my oath, to

console and comfort her; and I told her, without, however, telling her

the whole truth, that her husband fully believed her to be dead.

"We women derive comfort from strange sources often; and that thought

that her husband believed her to be dead, and had acted as he had acted

under that belief, seemed to console her more than anything that I had

said. She wept bitterly; but the tears were evidently sweet ones; and

when we parted, she made me promise to write to her frequently, and

give her news of him whom she still dearly loved. I did write to her

frequently, and she to me; and I told her everything that passed, which

could give her any pleasure to hear. After her death her son wrote to

me; and though for some time past he has not told me his movements, yet

when I heard from accidental report that for two or three summers a

gentleman had been wandering about the neighbourhood, attracting the

attention of many by his gracious manners and his kindly heart, I felt

sure that it was the son of Eugenie de Beaulieu, led on by the hand of

fate towards the destiny that awaited him."

Thus Bertha ended her history, which had occupied some time in the

narration; and when it was done, both Langford and Sir Walter pondered

for several minutes over the tale just told. The first who broke

silence was Mr. Evelyn, who though but a country attorney of those

days, was superior both in knowledge and in mind to the generality of

his class.

"Though, undoubtedly," he said, "there is sufficient matter to bear us

out in making a vigorous struggle to recover your rights, my lord, yet

I very much fear that, without the documents which afford the only real

legal evidence of the marriage, we should be defeated. The leaf has

been taken so nicely out of the register that we can draw no conclusive

inference from that fact. And yet," he continued, as if a sudden

thought struck him--"and yet there may be means of proving that a leaf

is really wanting. Of that, however, more hereafter, for we cannot be

at all secure without the papers."

"Should I make up my mind," said Langford, "to enter into the struggle

at all, I think that I shall be able ultimately to obtain them; but in

the meantime--"

He was interrupted, however, by the entrance of the rector's servant,

who announced that a gentleman had just arrived, demanding to speak

with the Earl of Danemore, and on being told that he was dead, had

appeared in what the man called a great taking.

"Is he gone?" demanded the rector.

"No, sir," replied the servant. "When I told him the Earl was dead, but

that a number of gentlemen were in the parlour talking the matter over,

he said that he should like to speak with them, as he had news of great

importance to communicate from Lord Harold."

"Pray let us see him," said Langford; and the rector, bowing his head,

told the servant to give the stranger admittance.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Before we follow any further the proceedings, however important they

might be, which were taking place at the village of Danemore, we must

return to several of the personages concerned in this history, whom we

have now quitted for somewhat too long a period. In the first place, we

must give due consideration to Mr. Justice Whistler, whom we last left

fast asleep. Whether he dreamed at all or not is difficult to say, but

if he did, it is certain that his dreams must have been of prisons and

the gallows, for such were the very first thoughts that presented

themselves to his mind when he awoke after a nap of between five and

six hours.

It is probable, indeed, that he would not have roused himself near so

soon, but for an extraordinary trampling of horses and the sound of

manifold voices, which, ascending from the court-yard below, caused

Morpheus to flap away upon his soft wings, and leave the worthy

magistrate with his eyes and ears wide open, wondering what could be

the matter. He started from his bed instantly, and advanced to the

window, the curtains of which had been drawn to keep out the sun; and

putting forth his head above the court-yard, he perceived a number of

persons collected together, habited principally like sturdy yeomen and

farmers. Each had his horse with him, and all seemed to be well armed;

while the two constables who had followed the worthy magistrate in his

nocturnal expedition were seen in the midst of the crowd, bustling

about with a look of importance. Now Justice Whistler was a man of

rapid combinations, and he instantly divined what was the occasion of

the meeting; but he was a cautious man too, and he loved to have his

own conclusions confirmed by the testimony of others. He consequently

protruded his head still further from the window, and, catching the

attention of one of the constables, demanded, in somewhat of an

impatient tone, "What is all this about, sirrah? What are you going to

do?"

"We are going to catch the thief, your worship," replied the constable;

"and all these good gentlemen are going to help us."

"On no account! on no account!" exclaimed the justice from the window.

"What! without me? I tell you if that fellow were hanged without my

help, I would hang myself."

"Why, we thought as how," replied the man, "that your worship had been

so well basted already, that you might likely not wish for any more of

it."

"Out upon you, fellow!" said the justice, "I'll baste you, if you do

not mind. Go, and beg Mr. Rector directly, to stop but for ten minutes;

and I'll be ready to go with him. If any man were to lay a hand upon

that fellow Gray before me, I should hold myself but half a man and no

gentleman. Go, and tell him so, sirrah!"

While the man proceeded to obey the commands he had received, Mr.

Justice Whistler hurried on his garments, wincing desperately, every

now and then, as a sudden turn made him aware of the deficiency of skin

on some part or another of his back. At length, however, his toilet was

accomplished as far as it could be; that is to say, his vest was put

on, for neither coat nor cloak had been left to him; and with a rueful

face he was obliged to descend with his sturdy arms only decorated by

the wide white sleeves of his shirt.

Guided by the sound of voices he found his way to the rector's parlour,

and, opening the door, presented himself to the eyes of the more select

party therein assembled. It consisted of three or four of the principal

farmers or small landed proprietors in the neighbourhood, together with

the rector himself, and a young gentleman, who instantly, by the entire

difference of his mien and demeanour from those of the persons by whom

he was surrounded, attracted the attention of the worthy magistrate. He

was tall and well proportioned, though somewhat slightly made; but he

was extremely pale, so much so, indeed, as to have the appearance of

ill-health. He was only armed with an ordinary sword, which might

perhaps have befitted a country gentleman in those days, but did not

harmonize with the striking and distinguished appearance of the

personage who bore it. But while there was something about the corners

of the mouth which implied a certain degree of indecision of character,

there was a quick dash in the eye, and lines and furrows upon the brow,

that seemed to contradict the other expression, and gave a look of

stern determination even approaching to fierceness. The appearance of

the justice in his shirt sleeves, joined with the account which had

been previously given of his adventures of the night before, for a

moment relaxed the countenance of the young gentleman we have

mentioned, and, sitting by a table on which various refreshments were

laid out, he gazed upon Justice Whistler with a smile.

"My dear sir," exclaimed the magistrate, addressing his host--"My dear

sir, how could you think of going against this scoundrel without me? I

would not have had it done for a thousand pounds."

"Why," replied the rector, "we judged that your worship was so tired

and injured that it would have been cruel to disturb your repose; and

as I had yesterday morning gone round the country, and appointed all

these worthy people to meet here, for the purpose of taking as many as

we can of this gang of villains, I could not very well delay."

"What! then you had determined to go against them before I came?" cried

the justice, hewing himself off a large slice from a cold sirloin that

graced the table. "How was that? How was that? I understood they had

only been in this country some few days, and they cannot have committed

many depredations."

"Yes; but my noble young guest here, the Lord Harold," replied the

rector, "only escaped from their hands the night before, and arrived at

my house yesterday morning. We consulted together what was to be done,

and determined on the steps we have taken."

"My Lord Harold!" cried the justice; "my Lord Harold, I give your

lordship good morning, and very happy I am to see you alive, for we

have had many doubts on the subject; and I have had more to do with

your concerns of late than perhaps you are aware of."

"I am afraid my father must have suffered much anxiety on my account,"

said Lord Harold, with a somewhat cold and stately air; "but I sent off

a letter yesterday morning, the very first moment that I had the means

of doing so, to inform him of my safety. Had the messenger not arrived

when you left that part of the country?"

"Not that I heard of, not that I heard of, my lord," replied the

justice. "My good lord, your father, indeed, had much anxiety; and, for

the matter of that, other people too; for there was a certain young

gentleman taken up, and accused of having murdered you. He remained for

several days in confinement, which seemed to chafe his proud spirit

very much."

"Pray who was that, sir?" demanded Lord Harold. "Why, he calls himself

Captain Henry Langford," replied the justice; "but you may doubtless

know more of him by some other name."

Lord Harold's brow grew as dark as night, and bright red spots came

into his cheek as he replied, "I have heard of him, and seen him, and

have also been informed that he takes the name of the Chevalier de

Beaulieu. But perhaps you have had an opportunity of investigating more

fully who he really is?"

The justice, however, saw that Lord Harold was utterly unacquainted

with all that had taken place during his absence; and, as there was a

great deal that he himself could not explain clearly, while everything

that he could explain was anything but agreeable, he determined to

leave the task to others, and was meditating how to evade giving any

reply, when the rector came unexpectedly to his aid, by saying, "I beg

pardon for interrupting you, gentlemen; but allow me to remind you that

time wears. It is now near one o'clock. We have fully fifteen miles or

more to go, and it may be necessary not to fatigue our horses before we

arrive at the point of our destination. By your leave, therefore, I

think we had better postpone all explanations."

"One more cup of this excellent ale," exclaimed the justice, "and then

I am ready. I hope the rascals have got my horse saddled. Pray, your

reverence, make inquiry."

"But, my dear sir," said the rector, "how can you manage to go without

a coat? I am afraid, too, that none of mine would fit you--not even one

of my loose riding coats, for I am a spare man, and you are----"

"Fat! you would say," added the justice. "Yes, I am fat, sir; that is

to say, fattish; and how to do without a coat I know not; but go I

will. Is there not a fat person in the neighbourhood that would lend me

a jerkin?"

"Why, your reverence," said one of the farmers, who had hitherto stood

aloof, but who now advanced towards the rector, "there's Farmer Balls,

down at the Pond Gate; his coat would just do. He weighs full one and

twenty stone. His coat would surely just fit his worship."

"I could get into it, at least," said the magistrate, "for I only weigh

nineteen, so there are two stone to spare, which makes more difference

in a coat than in a load of hay. So run, my good sir, or send some one,

and beg Farmer Balls to lend Justice Whistler a coat for a few hours.

Hark ye! hark ye! not his Sunday's best, for we have dirty work to do,

and there is no need to spoil it."

The coat was soon procured; and Mr. Justice Whistler, having mounted

with the rest, set out at the head of the procession, which consisted

of nearly thirty persons, having Lord Harold on one side of him, and

the reverend rector on the other. The justice took the place of leader

as a sort of right, which was tacitly conceded to him by all the rest,

more out of respect for his portly person than from anything that they

knew of his character or abilities.

Lord Harold, however, soon began to appreciate his ready shrewdness,

for as they moved onward at a slow trot, he put several questions to

him with regard to their future proceedings, resolved, if he found any

occasion to be dissatisfied with the other's arrangements, to take the

matter into his own hands; for the stern and harsh determination which

he had formed in regard to Franklin Gray had not at all given way since

the period of his escape.

The plans which the justice proposed however, the shrewdness with which

he put all his questions regarding the exact situation of the house,

and the rapidity with which he received and comprehended every

explanation given, soon convinced his young companion that they could

not be in better hands. It was accordingly determined that, as soon as

they reached the top of the hills at the point where they could first

see the house, the party should divide, and one body, under the

direction of the rector, should sweep round through a hollow in the

hills, while the other pursued the road by which Lord Harold had made

his escape, so as to approach the abode of Franklin Gray on both sides

at once. By this means no one could quit the house without being seen

by one or other of the parties, and the possibility of the robbers

effecting their escape by one side of the building while the assailants

forced their way on the other was guarded against. In making these

arrangements, and in giving directions to all the various personages of

which the troop was composed, the time was passed, till they emerged

from the woods, lanes, and cultivated grounds on the first slopes of

the upland, and began to take their way over the soft short turf, which

was only varied by the innumerable scattered stones that covered the

higher ground on that side.

Lord Harold--though it must be acknowledged that he thought, and with

bitter pleasure, more of the capture of Franklin Gray than of any other

thing on earth--had determined to pass the rest of their march, after

every arrangement had been fully made, in learning from Mr. Justice

Whistler all that had taken place during his absence from Danemore

Castle, some vague reports of extraordinary events having reached him

even there, though the news which now travels by a steam carriage then

went by the waggon.

On putting his very first question, however, he perceived that the

keen, hawk-like eye of the justice was fixed upon a particular spot on

the hills, over whose soft green bosoms the sunshine and the shade were

chasing each other quickly, as the wind blew the light clouds over the

sky. The effect was beautiful but dazzling; yet still the justice kept

his eye fixed on that particular spot at the distance of about two

miles before them, and made no reply whatsoever to the young lord's

interrogation.

Lord Harold, who was in no very placable frame of mind, repeated his

question in a sharper tone; but the magistrate instantly exclaimed,

without taking any notice of him, "Yes, yes; I see it move! Do not you,

parson? Look ye there, up in that hollow which the shadow is just

leaving. I have been for this ten minutes trying to determine whether

that is a man on horseback or a hawthorn tree. It is a man, I'm sure! I

saw it move this minute, a bit to the left, so as to get a better sight

of us."

"There is a hawthorn tree there," said the rector; "I know it of old.

But you are right, you are right! There is something moving from behind

it. It is a horseman indeed, evidently watching us. See, he is

cantering up the hill. I am afraid this bodes disappointment."

"There is another on the top of the highest mound," cried Justice

Whistler; "they have a terrible start of us; but never mind. We must

not fear breaking our horses' wind. We must gallop as hard as we can

go; and now there must be no thought of going round by the hollow as we

proposed. The only plan is to make for the house as fast as possible.

Don't you say so, my lord?"

"Most assuredly," replied Lord Harold; "there are women and children

also to be moved, which must take them some time. It cost them nearly

an hour and a half to get ready when they came hither, for I was with

them, and saw all their proceedings."

"Set spurs to your horses, then, gentlemen!" cried the magistrate,

aloud. "Master Constable, ask some of these good yeomen to lend me a

pistol. They can muster a brace for me amongst them, I dare say. Some

of them seem to have three or four."

But leaving the constable to bring him the weapons afterwards, he

himself spurred on without any delay, while Lord Harold and the rector

accompanied him at full speed, and the officers and farmers followed

quickly, gaining, by the rapidity of motion and the excitement of the

sort of race they ran with each other, a good deal more courage and

enthusiasm than they had probably set out with. At this eager pace they

reached the top of the hill, but were obliged to ride some little way

to the right before they could get a sight of the house. When they did

so, however, though nothing was seen of it but the chimneys towering up

above the tall trees, every one instinctively pulled in his bridle

rein, with somewhat of an awful feeling at his heart.

The house lay at the distance of about two miles and a half, but the

air was clear and pure, and every curl of the thin blue smoke, as it

rose peacefully over the trees, might be traced by the eye till it

mingled with the atmosphere around. After a moment's silence, the

constable rode up, and put the pistols into Justice Whistler's hands;

but at that very instant a body of horsemen was seen passing over the

slope beyond the house, and then giving rein to their horses, and

galloping away as hard as ever they could, over the open downs beyond.

Man is undoubtedly a beast of prey; and, in the present instance, no

sooner did the posse who followed the justice, the rector, and the

young nobleman, see a body in flight before them, than those who had

been most timid and fearful of leading the way, were all setting off at

full gallop in pursuit of fugitives whom there was little or no chance

of overtaking. It was with the utmost difficulty that the fat but

powerful voice of Mr. Justice Whistler, the shriller tones of the

rector, and the deeper but feebler sounds of Lord Harold's voice, each

exerted with the utmost force, could induce these hot pursuers to halt

and receive orders ere they departed.

When they were at length brought to pull up their horses, however, a

few words between their three leaders seemed to settle their

arrangements, and Mr. Justice Whistler raised his voice, exclaiming,

"Constable Jones!"

But no one came forward, he having pronounced the name at random, and

there being no Constable Jones amongst them, "The youngest constable,"

he cried again; but thereat his own two followers, with three or four

others, spurred forward from the crowd; and fixing upon the one who

appeared the most intelligent of those who had come with him, he said,

"Take that man, and that man, and that man, and that, and gallop after

those fellows as hard as ever you can go. Remember, your business is

not to come up with them till you have got a sufficient force, but to

raise the whole country as you go along by the hue and cry, commanding

all men, in the king's name, to follow and assist you. Keep them in

sight as far as possible, but at all events keep above them on the

hills, and drive them into the populous country. There you may follow

them by the tongue as well as here by the eye. Now off with ye, quick!

We will come soon after, when we have run through the house."