About an hour and a half after Edgar had left him, Dudley was seated
with Martin Oldkirk at a very homely meal; but it was good, though
plain, and the gentleman had shared, or rather more than shared, with
his companion, the small portion of brandy which the labouring man had
brought. Either Dudley's spirits had risen, or he had assumed a
greater degree of cheerfulness than he really felt. He was by nature
frank and free, as the good old English term goes, although early
misfortunes had, as we have shown in his room at Cambridge, given a
thoughtful cast to an imaginative mind. If, occasionally, he seemed a
little proud or haughty, it was with his equals or his superiors in
rank, where a feeling that impaired circumstances in himself might
generate a sense of condescension in them, induced him, by a certain
coldness of manner, to repel that vainest form of pride. With those
inferior to him, his manner was very different. Calm, easy, certain of
his own position and of their estimation of it, he ran no chance of
offending by too great familiarity, or of checking by too great
reserve. He was well aware that the lower classes are much keener
observers than the general world gives them credit for being, and that
their estimation of their superiors in station is generally founded on
much more just grounds than those on which men who are accustomed to
judge by mere conventional standards too frequently rely.
Oldkirk had become easy in his society, and their conversation, though
not, perhaps, exactly gay, was cheerful and interesting. Dudley
described the house that Norries had built for himself, his habits,
his manners of life, the difficulties, the dangers, the pleasures, and
the wild freedom of an Australian settler; and Martin Oldkirk
questioned, and talked, and discussed, as if his companion had been an
old friend. They put their feet to the fire, they gazed into the
glowing embers; they leaned on either side of the table in meditative
chat, and the high-born, high-bred gentleman felt that he was speaking
with a man of considerable natural powers, who, though uncultivated,
was not ignorant, and though not always courteous, rarely actually
vulgar.
At length Dudley drew out his pocket-book, and taking forth the
memoranda which he had previously examined, looked over them for a
moment, and then inquired, in an ordinary tone, "Pray did you ever
know a person of the name of Filmer--Peter Filmer?"
The man started from his seat as if he had been struck; his whole
countenance worked, his lips quivered, his brow contracted, and his
sharp eyes fixed upon Dudley, with a fierce and angry stare. It seemed
as if he were deprived of the power of utterance, for though his under
jaw moved, as if he would have spoken, he spoke not, but struck the
table a hard blow with his clenched fist.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed Dudley. "I did not intend to agitate
you in this manner. I had no idea that such simple words could produce
such emotion."
Martin Oldkirk cast himself down again upon the settle from which he
had risen, pressing his hands upon his eyes; and when Dudley added a
few words more, he exclaimed, in a loud, harsh voice, "Hold your
tongue, hold your tongue! you have named a fiend, and you have raised
one!"
"I did not intend it, I can assure you," replied Dudley, "let us speak
of something else."
"No!" cried the man, "I can neither speak nor think of anything else
now that name is mentioned. Let me look at that paper; let me see what
is put down there."
"I have no objection," answered Dudley; "but if it is to agitate you
thus, you had really a great deal better forbear."
The man did not answer, but stretched forth his hand; and Dudley gave
him the paper. He then laid it down before him, drew the single candle
closer to him, and supporting his broad forehead with his clasped
hands, and leaning his elbows on the board, gazed upon the memoranda
with a haggard and staring eye. He remained in the same position for
fully ten minutes, without uttering one word, and then, pushing the
paper across to Dudley, he said, in a much calmer tone, "That is Mr.
Norries's writing?"
"It is," answered Dudley; "but I am quite sure he had no idea the
questions he had there put down for me to ask would agitate you so
terribly!"
"He should have known! he should have known!" said Martin Oldkirk,
with stern bitterness; "but it matters not. I shall have recovered
myself before tomorrow morning, and we will then talk more--but yet,
tell me first, what have you to do with this man? This, this----" but
it seemed he could not utter the word, and after breaking off the
sentence abruptly, he added, "Have you ever seen him? Do you know
him?"
"I have seen him, do know him," answered Dudley; "and I have every
reason to believe that he has endeavoured to injure me most basely."
Dudley paused, and thought for a moment or two, and then added, "I had
better, perhaps, tell you how; for you had some share in the
business."
"I?--I?" exclaimed Martin Oldkirk. "What had I to do between you and
him? I have not seen him for many long years. I knew Sir Arthur Adelon
was here, it is true, and I kept out of his way; but the priest is not
with him surely."
"The priest is with him," answered Dudley; "and has never left him."
"Oh! yes he did; yes he did!" replied the peasant; "he was away two
whole years, I know. I thought he had gone to do penance, as he would
call it, and would never appear in the world again. Had he done so,
had he wept in solitude and silence for the whole of his bad career, I
might have forgotten it: no, not forgotten it! forgiven, perhaps, but
forgot it, never! He is here, then, here in this country; here in the
baronet's house?"
"I cannot exactly say that," answered Dudley; "for I do not know, and
I would not deceive you on any account; but he was here two years ago,
rather more, perhaps, for it was in the autumn; and he did all he
could to injure me, though life or death were at stake."
"Ay, that is strange," said Martin Oldkirk. "Pray, may I ask what is
your name, sir, for that is a thing I do not know even yet?"
"My name is Dudley," replied his companion; "and you may perhaps
remember----"
"Why, then, you are the man who was tried and cast for the death of
the young lord over the cliffs?" said Martin Oldkirk, interrupting
him.
"The same," answered Dudley. "I was tried and condemned for an act
with which I had nothing to do. Of Father Filmer, I have seen little
or nothing, except when he came to visit me in prison, and tried to
convert me to the Roman Catholic faith."
"Ah! he never lost sight of that," answered Oldkirk; "but still, what
had he to do with you?"
"Why, you shall hear," answered Dudley; "only let me tell my tale to
the conclusion. Do you remember one night when Mr. Adelon came to
visit you, and when you gave him a good deal of assistance?"
"Oh, yes! I remember it very well," answered the man. "I thought, at
first, there was some trick, and I would not say much; but I soon got
sure of my man, and then I was willing enough to do anything I could
for him, for I thought of his mother, poor young man. It's a pity I
couldn't do more; but I fancied that Mr. Norries would know how to
manage."
"Mr. Norries knew little of the matter till it all transpired long
afterwards," replied Dudley; "but now, as a friend, Mr. Norries wishes
me to possess such information as to frustrate the schemes of this Mr.
Filmer, and he know no one better to whom he could send me than
yourself."
"I should like to see the letter," said Martin Oldkirk.
"I am afraid that cannot well be," replied Mr. Dudley; "my baggage, as
I told you, is by this time, doubtless, at the bottom of the sea; but
you know Mr. Norries's hand-writing, and you cannot doubt that those
memoranda were put down by him."
"That's true, that's true!" said the man; "but still I should like to
see the letter. However, don't let us talk any more of things which
are so long gone. I will give you an answer to-morrow, when I have
thought over it. In the mean time, I should like very much to hear
what the matter was all about two years ago. I recollect the trial
very well, and Mr. Adelon coming to me in search of information. I
gave him a rudish sort of answer at first; but he was so frank and so
desperate-like, that I could not well refuse; and in the end I went
with him to Norries, but I cannot see how this hypocritical priest had
anything to do with that."
"What object, and interest he could have, I know not," answered
Dudley, who was a little puzzled with the rambling and desultory
manner in which his companion spoke. "All I can tell you is what he
actually did, and of that Mr. Adelon says he has no doubt. In the
first place, when Edgar went to meet you the second time, he saw you
at the old workhouse of a place the name of which I forget. He was
followed secretly, by Mr. Filmer's order, by a little boy, who was
directed, immediately he discovered the place he entered, to give
information to the constable of the hundred, who was already warned to
seize Mr. Adelon and any one whom he had with him, on the pretence of
his companions having been engaged in the Chartist riots."
"Ay, I broke master constable's head for his pains," said Oldkirk. "Go
on, sir."
"He then deceived Mr. Adelon as to the time of my trial," continued
Dudley; "and subsequently the same man gave intimation to a
blacksmith, named Edward Lane, who could have borne important
testimony, that the officers of justice were seeking for him. This
priest also persuaded Mr. Clive and his daughter, who could have
proved my innocence at once, and who have proved it since, to fly from
England, and induced a man, named Daniel Connor, to give evidence
which approached as near perjury as possible."
"He hated you heartily," said Martin Oldkirk, setting his teeth hard;
"and he cannot hate without seeking to destroy."
"For some reason, he certainly does seem to hate me," replied Dudley;
"and whether he has power to injure me farther or not, I cannot tell;
but at all events, it is the opinion of both Mr. Adelon and myself,
that he will try to do so, and that, perhaps, in matters which most
deeply affect my welfare. Mr. Norries, with whom I consulted, told me
to ask you for some particulars of this priest's previous life, which
he thought would open the eyes of Sir Arthur Adelon to the man's real
character."
"Puppies are only blind nine days," replied Oldkirk, with a bitter
smile. "Sir Arthur Adelon has been blind for twenty years. You will
find it a hard matter to open his eyes. Did his son tell him what the
priest had done in your case?"
"No," answered Dudley, "he did not, on many accounts. For some weeks
after my condemnation Edgar was very ill, and then he only arrived at
the whole truth by degrees. He proposes now to do so, however, and I
wish to strengthen the case against this man by any previous
circumstances which may tend to show his false and deceitful
character."
"Do not tell it to Sir Arthur when alone," said Oldkirk, musing while
he spoke. "He is too weak to retain a deep impression long; he may
believe a part of what you say at first, but his inclination will be,
not to believe, and if his own better judgment and convictions are not
backed up by those of others, they will soon fall and be forgotten. I
have seen it so myself. As to the rest, I will think over it, sir, and
see what can be done. It is many a year since I heard that bitter
name, and it has raised feelings in me which I had hoped and thought
were dead. I will try to get quieter before to-morrow. I did not know
the viper was so near me, or I might have tried to crush his brains
out before now. I knew that Sir Arthur was here a great deal, but him
I have never seen but once, and that at a distance. The son I saw many
times, for he rode much about the country, and I used to think how
much like his poor mother he was, but I never spoke to him till he
came that night to see me, for I did not wish to have anything more to
do with them."
"Did no one ever tell you that they had a priest with them?" asked
Dudley.
"Oh! yes, I heard that," replied Martin Oldkirk; "but there are many
priests in Rome, and I knew that this man had been away for a long
while after poor Lady Adelon's death; so I never thought it was the
same. Did Mr. Norries tell you to ask me for anything more?"
"Yes," replied Dudley; "he said you have charge of certain papers
belonging to me."
"They were given me by Norries," replied Oldkirk; "and I certainly
shan't give them to any one without his orders."
"Perhaps you are right," replied Dudley; "and to tell you the truth, I
care very little about them, for they only serve to prove a fact which
I have long known: that strong passions take as inveterate a hold of
weak minds as of more powerful minds. They might, indeed, give me some
little authority and influence where it may be needful, but that is
all."
"Strike at Filmer, strike at Filmer!" said Martin Oldkirk, sharply;
"and be you sure, sir, that man has nourished in the baronet every
evil plant, till it has produced evil fruit. But remember, whatever
you do, do it before plenty of witnesses. Take some public room, some
crowd, some general meeting, and tax him there with all his
wickedness. Unmask him before multitudes, and make him a scoff and a
byword for ever. But now, sir, it is late; you must be tired enough,
and we shall have many things to talk of to-morrow. It is my way, when
anything moves me a great deal, to lie down and sleep. I sleep like a
stone when I am much moved; and then I get up with my thoughts fresh
and clear. I have made you up the best bed I can, and I dare say
weariness will be as good as a feather pillow. Wait, I will light you
another candle; I dare say, now, you never sat with a single one
before."
"I have sat through long nights with none," replied Dudley. "You
forget, my good friend, what it is to be a convict in a penal colony,
and cannot know what it is to be an escaped convict in the midst of
wilds and deserts which the foot of man has seldom trod; but such has
been my fate."
"I did forget," replied Martin Oldkirk. "You have had a hard lot,
sir." And Dudley and he parted for the night.
The sun had been up more than an hour when Dudley awoke on the
following morning; and while he dressed himself in the little back
room of the cottage where he had slept, he heard voices in the
neighbouring chamber, and could distinguish the words: "I hope the
gentleman will remember us well for our trouble, for you see, Martin,
the locks aren't broken, and we've not even looked into them."
"I will be answerable for him," replied the voice of Martin Oldkirk.
"You may be sure he will pay you well;" and the words were succeeded
by a heavy trailing sound, as if some large object was dragged slowly
from one side of the room to another.
When Dudley entered the front chamber, he saw two large boxes standing
on the left hand side, to which Martin Oldkirk pointed, with a look of
satisfaction, saying, "We've got them out, sir, though we had some
trouble, and they seemed pretty well soaked in the seawater. Now that
the tide's out, she stands well nigh high and dry at one part; that's
to say, what's left of her, for the masts are all down, and she's
broken in two. Another tide, if the wind goes on blowing in this way,
won't leave a stick of her together. A good deal has been got out of
her, notwithstanding: one-third of the cargo, I dare say, and most of
the passengers' baggage."
"This, is, indeed, an important service, Oldkirk," replied Dudley;
"and you shall now have Norries's letter; but we must break the chest
open, for my keys are lost."
What he proposed was soon effected. The trunks were broken open, the
different articles they contained taken out to dry, and the letter
which had been so often mentioned was placed in Oldkirk's hands. He
took it to the window and read it eagerly, and then exclaimed, "That's
a good man, that's a good man, sir! He's the only lawyer that I ever
knew who would come forward to help a poor man without fee or reward.
He saved me from ruin. The little I have I owe all to him, and I will
do all that he tells me. You shall hear all about it, sir; every word;
but first let us have some breakfast."