RETROSPECTION AND RECRIMINATION.
Mr. Morley wrote to Lieut. Fowler from Ashley Hall, saying that he had
found his brother and Josiah Trenow there, and that they had discovered
a house, which they had every reason to believe was the scene of the
murder. He informed his friend also that he and Josiah would remain
there a little longer, to make further search, but that Frederick had
gone down into Cornwall in search of a party who had slipped through
their hands, so far.
In consequence of this letter, Lieut. Fowler was in daily expectation of
seeing his friend Frederick Morley at Tol-pedn-Penwith. And the ladies
at Pendrea-house were in anxious expectation too; for, now that they
knew more of his history, which seemed so fraught with romantic
interest, he had become quite a hero in their eyes. Day after day
passed, but he did not arrive. The ladies were alarmed, and feared some
accident had befallen him; but Fowler ridiculed this idea, and
attributed his non-arrival to the strictness of the search he was no
doubt making. Who the party was that Frederick was in search of, Fowler
didn't know, for the finding of the box by Josiah had been kept a
secret. The search after Mr. Freeman was merely to get his help to
unravel the mystery of that document, which Josiah seemed to think, from
his manner, he knew something about, although it was most probable, as
Frederick suggested at first, that Mr. Freeman pretended to know more
than he really did, in order to induce Josiah to leave the box and its
contents with him. As a drowning man will catch at a straw, so did
Frederick catch at this little incident, improbable as he really thought
it, in the hope that it might assist him in his search, or that the
conjuror, by his skill, might be able to give him some clue to the
mystery. Fowler knew nothing of all this, nor did he know of his
friend's devoted, and, it may be added, romantic, attachment to the
daughter of the celebrated Land's-End conjuror. Had he known it, he
would, no doubt, have tried to convince his friend of the folly and
absurdity of such a connection. But love is blind; and it would probably
have required more eloquence than Lieut. Fowler possessed to have
persuaded Frederick Morley that the lovely and fascinating girl whom he
loved so passionately from the first moment he saw her, as a schoolgirl,
was unworthy of his affection, because her father did not move in the
first circles of society. Luckily Fowler was ignorant of this
attachment; and so his friend had been spared the annoyance of a
discussion with him on the subject. The old squire was as anxious as any
of them to see the young soldier once more. But he didn't come.
Miss Pendray's mind was ill at ease--that was evident to all who knew
her. She still wandered over the cliffs, and braved the storm; but it
was not now, as it used to be, for the sake of looking at the bold
scenery. Her wanderings had now a more definite object;--she hoped,
every time she climbed those lofty cliffs, that she should meet with
someone to share her admiration of the beautiful scenery. She had become
accustomed to those pleasant meetings with one of the opposite sex; and
she felt a vacuum--a loneliness--that she had never felt before. The
stranger whom she met at the ball, and who seemed so enamoured of her,
had disappeared in a most unaccountable manner. She was beginning to
like his attentions, although there was something in his manner,
sometimes, which did not please her;--she told him as much, the last
time she met him. Perhaps he was offended; for she had never seen him
since the sudden appearance of that handsome man, who had intruded upon
their privacy at the Logan Rock. It was a strange coincidence--those two
men, meeting in that strange way. She was much struck with the
appearance and gentlemanly manners of the gentleman with the white
hair;--she couldn't put him out of her mind for the whole day; and, the
next evening, when Lieut. Fowler brought him to Pendrea-house, after
their return from St. Just, she thought him the most fascinating man she
had ever seen. There was an open frankness and ease in his manner, which
were wanting in Mr. Smith. As she reflected now on the difference
between the two men, she felt that Mr. Smith's manners seemed put on for
the occasion, and that he required to be on his guard, and to be always
watching himself, as it were, to prevent some hidden vulgarity from
peeping out under his apparently assumed garb of refinement. It was not
so with Mr. Morley;--he was a gentleman intuitively, and, therefore, had
no occasion to watch himself lest he should say or do, inadvertently,
anything he would be ashamed of. Mr. Morley, too, was much struck with
Miss Pendray's beauty; but he did not tell her so, point blank, as Mr.
Smith had done on more than one occasion. He asked her to shew him some
of her favourite scenes on the cliffs, with which he expressed himself
highly delighted, and he pointed out beauties in the rocks and cliffs
and headlands, which she had not observed before, and described to her,
in glowing colours, some of the magnificent scenery he had himself
witnessed in the East. And so they continued, day after day, to walk
together--sometimes over the cliffs and sometimes on the smooth sands
beneath--admiring the beauties of Nature, almost with the same eyes and
the same thoughts. They seemed to have so many ideas in unison, and each
became so fascinated with the other, that when the time arrived that Mr.
Morley thought he must in duty visit his relatives, they parted, with
sorrowing hearts, although neither of them knew what a pang the other
felt at parting.
Miss Pendray had not been accustomed, in that out-of-the-way place, to
meet with men of that stamp;--she had never before come into contact
with a congenial spirit. Frederick Morley was better than most she had
been in the habit of meeting; but he would, occasionally, appear so
absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was, at times, scarcely
companionable. Mr. Smith was bold and clever, evidently, and as romantic
in his ideas and pursuits as she could possibly desire, and frequently
fascinated her with his thrilling stories; but there was something in
his manner sometimes that did not satisfy her; and his aversion to join
their domestic circle seemed most strange.
Mr. Morley was quite different, in every respect; and, now that she
wandered over the cliffs alone, day after day, she could reflect on the
difference between the three men. She had always looked down with pity
on her younger sister's susceptibility, and often upbraided her for
exhibiting, so unreservedly, her attachment to Lieut. Fowler, who was
not at all suited to her, either in age or position, Miss Pendray
thought.
The gentle Blanche could now turn the tables on her more prudent and
high-minded sister; for she saw that the handsome Mr. Morley had made a
conquest, and that the majestic Maud watched his every look and action,
and was pained, beyond measure, when, even in common politeness, he paid
the slightest attention to anyone else.
While Maud and Mr. Morley were thus revelling in each other's society,
over the bold cliffs and headlands, Blanche and her lover were taking
their quiet walks along the rocks and sands beneath, where they would,
ever and anon, stop and rest themselves, and look out on the broad ocean
which lay before them, talking of the future, and hoping that all might
turn out smoothly in the end; for, although Blanche quite understood
what her lover meant now, and returned his love with the fondest
affection, and wished to her heart that all could be settled at once,
yet she was still afraid for her father to be spoken to on the subject,
lest he should get angry, and forbid their intercourse altogether. Poor
silly child! her timid nature feared she knew not what; and the more her
lover urged her to allow him to ask her father's consent, the more did
she recoil from the ordeal, dreading what the answer might be. She knew
her sister's thoughts and opinions on the subject, and she feared her
father might hold the same opinion, for they were much alike in pride
and lofty bearing; and so her timid fear overcame her prudence, and she
held her lover back from doing that which he well knew and felt he ought
to do, in common honesty and honour. But he loved his darling Blanche
too well to thwart her; and so the two went on in tender communing, and
each day brought fresh arguments on either side--the one, in manly
uprightness, urging the appeal to the father for his sanction to their
union; the other, in timid maidenly reserve, dreading the answer her
stern parent might give, and controlling her fond lover, who felt he
could not disobey her.
"Only wait a little longer," she said, one day, as she sat listening to
his arguments, and looking up at him so earnestly;--"you don't know papa
so well as I do. In most things he is so kind; but I fear in this he
would not be so."
"Why do you think so, dearest Blanche?" he replied, taking her hand in
his; "he seems to like me, and is continually asking me to come to
Pendrea-house. What objection can he have? have you ever heard him say
he disliked me, or----"
"Oh! no! never," she replied; "but Maud and papa seem to hold the same
opinions on many points; and she has spoken to me often of the disparity
of age, and seemed so utterly against it, that I fear papa will think so
too."
"It shall be exactly as you wish," said he; "but I would much rather
know my fate at once, than wait in suspense;--what good end can it
answer to delay it?"
"Oh! don't talk in that way," replied Blanche, bursting into
tears;--"you know how much I should wish it settled, too; but then, if
papa should be angry, and refuse to give his consent, I should never see
you again. I cannot bear to think of that."
Poor little innocent timid Blanche! she knew not what troubles her
timidity was bringing on them both. It was her first love; and,
childlike, she thought only of her present pleasure. She felt like one
in a pleasant dream, gliding through the air on azure clouds, wafted
gently onwards by a zephyr's breeze, with her lover ever by her side to
protect her from harm; and she feared lest the slightest change in their
present position should cause an angry storm to rise, and overturn all
their blissful happiness. She did not know, poor girl, in her ignorance,
of the changes and chances that are continually going on in the world,
where the greatest pleasures and the severest pains and trials last but
for a season, and they are gone, and old Time keeps on the even tenor of
his way, and pains and pleasures live only in the memory, and fade away
as time rolls on, leaving, in the end, but a faint shadow of the past.
Blanche knew not this; and, anxious to secure present happiness, she
induced her lover, in the very innocence of her young heart, by tears
and entreaties, to delay his application to her father for a time, in
defiance of his better judgment; for he was older, and knew the world
much better than this poor innocent girl, but still he yielded, and they
loved on in secret.
While Maud was so engrossed with Mr. Morley, there was no one to watch
and overlook them; but when he was gone, it seemed to her as if all her
occupation was gone too,--she had nothing left but to wander out alone
and think of him whose image ever haunted her;--and, in her wanderings,
she often surprised Blanche and her attendant lover, in one of their
favourite haunts. And, wanting some better occupation, she would chide
her sister when they were alone together. At first, Blanche didn't mind
it much; but its frequent repetition angered her, and she spoke up
sharply to her sister, contrary to her wont, which made Maud speak her
mind more freely. And as they sat at work alone, one afternoon, she
renewed the old subject:--
"I must tell you, Blanche," she began, "that I think it is very wrong
in you to encourage Mr. Fowler to pay you such marked attention, when,
perhaps, he means nothing, after all."
"I will not allow anyone, in my presence, to impeach Mr. Fowler's
honour," replied Blanche, looking up from her work, her cheeks burning
with indignant pride; "I have the most perfect confidence in his
honourable intentions, and therefore I will not hear him traduced."
"There we differ," returned her elder sister, hastily; "and, let me tell
you that, were his intentions ever so honourable, papa would never
sanction the engagement of a daughter of his to Lieut. Fowler."
"And, pray, what would be the objection?" asked Blanche, indignantly.
"There are several," replied her sister; "I know papa's opinion of his
position pretty well, for I have already sounded him on it."
"And what right, let me ask, had you to sound papa on a subject which
you know nothing about?" asked Blanche;--"that subject has never been
named by Mr. Fowler, either to you or to papa, that I am aware of."
"Then it ought to have been," replied Maud, "and that would have settled
the matter at once. It is neither honourable nor manly in Mr. Fowler to
ensnare your affections, and wish you to meet him clandestinely, as I
fear and know you too often do. What his intentions are, I don't know;
but, if I may judge from this circumstance, they cannot be honourable,
and it is time papa took some measures to prevent it, before it is too
late."
"I am surprised, Maud," replied her sister, coolly, "that you, above all
others, should accuse me of doing the very thing that you have been
doing yourself for the last two months."
"Me!" exclaimed the majestic Maud; "how dare you say such a thing?"
"Yes, you!" replied Blanche. "If I have walked occasionally with papa's
old friend, Mr. Fowler, I have done so openly, and with him only,--while
you have had three strings to your bow, two of whom I know you met
clandestinely, often and often, my prudent sister. What has become of
the stranger you met at the ball, who called himself 'Mr. Smith?' did
you think your meetings with him were not known? And, having lost him,
you carried on the same game with Mr. Morley. Did either of these
gentlemen ask papa? If not, I say they ought to have done so, before
they induced you to meet them so often, clandestinely, at the Logan
Rock,--a nice secluded place for lovers to meet at, truly?"
The timid Blanche had never spoken so fearlessly and sharply to her
sister before, and Maud was perfectly astonished. She felt conscious,
all at once, that the tables were turned on her deservedly--for she had
an inward conviction of the truth of what her sister had said; but, like
most people whose minds are filled with one great and absorbing passion,
she neither saw nor knew that her actions were observed and commented on
by the lookers-on in the outer world. Although she looked upon the world
in general with cold indifference, and would sit for hours as inanimate
as a statue, her handsome features looking, in repose, like a piece of
beautifully-chiselled, tinted, marble; yet, when anyone approached in
whom she took a more than ordinary interest, or any subject was
introduced which it pleased her to discuss, her countenance would light
up instantaneously, and you might see the fire of her soul shine out
with dazzling brilliancy, in her dark flashing eyes. Nothing, then,
could control the ungovernable passion that dwelt within; and the longer
it had lain dormant, the stronger would it now burst forth, seeing
nothing but that one object on which her mind was then intent. With such
an all-absorbing passion had she, during the last few days of his
sojourn among them, loved Mr. Morley. At first she was passive;--she
walked with him, and pointed out the beauties of the scenery, and
listened to his description of the scenes he had passed through in
India, with pleasure, certainly, but not with the rapture she now felt
in all he said or did. She liked him, at first, as a highly-gifted
gentlemanly companion,--when, all at once, she was seized with that
ungovernable love for him, which prevented her from seeing anything
else; nor did she care, in her mad passion, if the whole world was
looking on,--she was blind to all but him. She, like Blanche, thought
but of her present happiness, but, unlike Blanche, she thought not of
her father's consent nor dissent; and so she was taken quite by
surprise, when she found that all her doings had been seen and commented
upon. She had been like a little playful child, who covers its head, and
thinks, poor little innocent, that, because it cannot see the company
around, it cannot be seen by them. Maud was shocked at the discovery. It
roused another passion within her--that of anger; and, rising from her
seat, with a haughty frown, she swept from the room, and left her poor
timid sister trembling and frightened, wondering what she had said or
done to cause such a terrible commotion within her sister's breast.