THE MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER.
We left Lieut. Fowler on the road between Lamorna Cove and the
signal-station, at Tol-pedn-Penwith. Various were the conjectures that
passed through his mind during his walk, as to who the stranger could
be, but to no purpose. He could not think of any of his relatives or
acquaintances, who would be likely to be in that neighbourhood, without
apprising him of their intended visit. If it should turn out to be a
good companionable fellow, he wouldn't mind, but then, he was an old
grey-headed man, as he construed Miss Pendray's description of the
stranger. His friend, Frederick Morley, had gone off in rather an
unceremonious manner, and had left him again to the resources of the
Land's-End for amusement and companionship; and he had therefore been
more frequent in his visits to Pendrea-house, and more attentive to the
young ladies, than during his friend's visit.
It was not often that Miss Pendray favoured Fowler and her sister with
her company; for, as the reader already knows, she had more attractions
elsewhere; and so accustomed were her friends to her romantic wanderings
over the bold cliffs alone, that the innocent Blanche was continually
Lieut. Fowler's only companion, and the time generally passed so
pleasantly that neither of them regretted the absence of a third party.
When Miss Pendray came upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly on that
eventful morning, they were in the midst of a very interesting, but, to
Blanche, rather an embarrassing, _tête-à-tête_. The gentleman was trying
to make himself understood, without saying what he meant, in so many
words; and the lady, although--sly little creature--she knew quite well
what he meant to say, and wished from her heart he would say it out
boldly, and not be hammering and stammering about it so--making her
every moment feel more nervous and embarrassed, and himself too; yet she
would not help him, even by a look, but kept turning a pebble round and
round with her foot, and looking as steadily on the sand as if she was
endeavouring to look underneath it, for some rich treasure supposed to
be buried there.
In the midst of all this, came the majestic Maud, with the tale of her
adventure with the remarkable stranger with the white hair. Wasn't it
provoking to be interrupted just at that critical time? Fowler felt that
it was downright----we won't say what. He wished the white-headed
stranger was at the bottom of the sea, and Maud on the top of the
cliffs, or anywhere, rather than there, at that moment. However, the
spell was broken; there was no help for it now; and he had nothing to do
but just walk home to see who this confounded fellow was, and what he
wanted.
With all these reflections passing through his mind, as he neared his
little cabin, he was not prepared to receive the stranger very
cordially, nor to give him a very hearty welcome. He was told by the
men, as he came up, that the gentleman was inside; and, as he passed the
window of his sitting-room to reach the front door, he looked in,
thinking he might catch a glimpse of the fellow before he went in. He
caught more than a glimpse of him; for the stranger was standing at a
little distance from the window, looking out over the bold headland at
the sea in the distance, apparently absorbed in thought.
Fowler started, and turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost, and was
obliged to hold by the railing of the little porch for a minute, before
he could recover himself sufficiently to enter.
Sailors are not easily alarmed at trifles; so he soon got over the
effects of his shock, or whatever it was, and, entering the room, in his
usual boisterous, sailor-like style, exclaimed, louder than there was
perhaps any occasion for,--
"Mr. Morley! how are you? I'm glad to see you once more."
This stentorian reception made the stranger start, and, turning round,
he said, bowing to his host,--
"Lieut. Fowler, I presume. But how you should know that my name is
Morley, I am at a loss to conceive, as I am pretty sure we have never
seen one another before, and am quite sure you did not expect me."
Fowler passed his hand across his eyes, as if trying to recall
something; and then he said abstractedly, as he placed a seat for his
guest,--
"Not seen you before? surely, yes!--and yet, no! that cannot be." And he
seemed so bewildered, that the stranger proceeded to explain; for he now
began to see that the lieutenant was labouring under a mistake.
"You see the likeness to my poor father," said he.
"Ah!" exclaimed Fowler, starting up; "I see it all now. When I last saw
your father, fifteen or sixteen years ago, he was the exact image of
what you are now. He was older, of course, but there was the same
remarkable white hair. Yours no doubt became white prematurely, causing
you to look older than you really are. When I saw you standing at the
window, I thought I saw your father standing before me. The likeness is
most remarkable; and, almost before I had recovered myself, and without
reflecting for a moment, I rushed into the room to welcome my old
friend."
"I have heard my father mention the name of Fowler often," replied Mr.
Morley, "with expressions of gratitude for kindnesses bestowed by your
family--both on himself, and on my brother and sister, who were left
here after that terrible catastrophe, of which I believe you are fully
aware."
"It is true," returned Fowler, "that, in your father's younger days, he
was intimate with my father, who also resided in India, but returned to
England on account of his health, some time before yours came over with
his two children. Your father often came to see him before that dreadful
catastrophe, but never came after. He said he would never see his old
friend again, until that foul stain was wiped from his name. My father
did not, of course, believe that he was guilty, although the
circumstantial evidence was so strong. It preyed on his mind, however,
and, in his weak state, he could not bear up against the feeling that
his friend was wrongfully accused; and he, like your father, pined under
it, and passed away from among us in a very short time; but his death we
were prepared for. Your father was a strong man then. But how did you
find me out, Mr. Morley?"
"By the merest accident," replied Mr. Morley; "indeed, when I came here,
I had no idea that you were at all connected with my father's old
friend, although the name was familiar to me,--very familiar, I may say;
for I knew your eldest brother in India intimately. He remained there
long after your father left, and married a native, by whom he had one
child--a daughter, I think. I shall never forget his kindness. He was
the only friend whom I could depend upon, when my poor father died. He
remained with me, day and night, until the last. His wife I never saw
much of: she died in giving birth to her second child which was
still-born. Your brother then made up his mind to come to England. He
would not do so while his wife lived; for he did not like introducing a
native as his wife, to his English relatives and friends. He was in good
spirits when I took leave of him, and we both looked forward to meeting
in England ere long; but, alas! he never reached his native shore alive.
The ship was wrecked somewhere on this dangerous coast, and he and his
little daughter perished. His body was found afterwards, but the child's
was never heard of again. It makes passengers, and even sailors
themselves, almost dread to approach this rock-bound coast. It is to be
hoped that, ere long, warning-lights or beacons will be erected all
round the coast. They are beginning to do so, I see; but there are more
wanted yet."
"True," replied Fowler; "there are few families residing along the
Cornish coast who have not had to lament the loss of some relative or
friend in the merciless waves. But I am curious to know to what lucky
accident I am indebted for this visit?"
"You have had another of those dreadful disasters on the coast," said
Morley. "Another East-Indiaman has lately been wrecked here. I was a
passenger on board that vessel. The weather was rough for several days
before, and we touched in at the Scilly Islands, where I landed, taking
a trunk with some clothes and a few valuables with me; and, meeting with
an old friend of my father's there, Mr. Samuel Lemon, the collector,
whom you know well, he pressed me so heartily to remain at his house,
that I determined to spend a few days there, and partake of his kind
hospitality, and I permitted the ship to proceed to her destination
without me; and a miraculous escape I have had, for I find that all on
board perished."
"Not all," replied Fowler; "there was one sailor saved. It was a
miraculous escape, indeed. But you must have had some property on
board?"
"I had a large chest containing some valuable clothes, and silks and
jewellery, and a considerable sum in hard cash," replied Mr. Morley,
"and, what I valued more than anything else, a small box, which belonged
to my poor father, into which he had placed, with his own hands, some
thousands of gold coins, and a written injunction to his two sons, to
use their utmost exertions to find out the wretches who committed that
foul murder of which my poor father was accused; and he directed that
those gold coins should be expended in the search. My object, therefore,
in coming to the Land's-End first, instead of going on direct to my
relatives, was, with the hope that this property might have been washed
ashore somewhere on the coast, and my good friend Mr. Lemon told me
that Mr. Fowler, the lieutenant at this station, would be the most
proper person to apply to for assistance and information."
"You may rely on my doing all I can for you," replied Fowler; "but I
have not heard of any boxes answering the description of yours being
picked up anywhere, and I fear there is little chance of their being
washed on shore now; for their weight would sink them deeper and deeper
in the sand, and the calm weather we have now would not throw them up.
You have not lost all your property, I hope!"
"Oh! no," said Mr. Morley; "I had sent home the bulk of my fortune, and
my father's, through agents, some months ago. That, I am happy to say,
is safe enough. All I regret now is the loss of that little box."
"Your brother was a true prophet, after all," said Fowler, thoughtfully.
"My brother!" exclaimed Mr. Morley; "where is he?"
"Oh! I forgot to tell you," replied the lieutenant; "I was so interested
in the history of your miraculous escape. Your brother was my guest for
several weeks, until he met with an accident at the Land's-End." And he
proceeded to relate to his visitor the exciting tale of the fall of the
horse over the cliffs, with his brother's narrow escape, and the belief
that Frederick still entertained, that his brother was one of the
passengers on board that ill-fated vessel.
After dinner, the two gentlemen walked up to Sennen, and enquired at
"The First and Last Inn" whether anything had been heard of Frederick
Morley. Nothing had been heard of him, the landlord said; but a letter
had been brought there for him that day, by a boy who said he was going
on to St. Just, and would call again for an answer should the gentleman
return in time. The letter was addressed, in a neat female hand, to
"Frederick Morley, Esq., 'First and Last Inn,' Sennen, Cornwall."
"Who was the boy?" enquired the lieutenant of the landlord.
"I don't know," replied he; "but my wife do say that she es sure 'tes
the same boy she ha' seen riding the mare that went over cliff."
"I thought as much," said Fowler. "We must see that boy, and I have no
doubt we shall find him in his old quarters at St. Just."
So the two gentlemen extended their walk to St. Just in search of the
boy.
Neither of them had the slightest idea from whom the letter could have
come, unless it was from Morley's aunt or his sister; and in that case
there would most probably have been a postmark.