CHAPTER XLVIII.

It still wanted half an hour of eight o'clock on the following

morning, when Dudley walked along the road from Beach Rock to Brandon.

He was not alone, however, for by his side was Martin Oldkirk, whose

stern but not unpleasant features were lighted up with an expression

of high satisfaction. At the distance of about a quarter of a mile

from the old Priory the two paused, and Dudley turned to take the path

across the fields which led to the ruin, while Martin Oldkirk went on;

but after a moment the young gentleman paused, and called to his

companion, saying, "I think you would do it more quickly if you would

go back and get the gig we left at Seafield. I should like to have

them all at Brandon by half-past nine."

"I shall go quicker on foot, sir," replied Oldkirk. "Seafield is a

mile and a half, and that would be all lost time."

Without more words he walked on; and leaping the stile with a light

heart, Dudley soon reached the bank of the little stream near which

ran the path he was following. Slackening his pace a little, as he

proceeded, to gaze at the dancing waters sparkling in the morning

light, he advanced with the copse straight before him, and an angle of

the ruin rising gray above the green foliage. The hour and the scene

and the season all harmonised well with the feelings in his bosom. He

was going to meet her he loved in the bright morning of the year's

most hopeful time, and his heart was full of the thrilling emotions of

life's happiest dream.

He reached the little lawn which spread from the old portal to the

brink of the stream, and knowing he was before the hour, was advancing

to take the seat which he had chosen the night before, and wait with

hope and fancy for his companions, when a man came forth from one of

the recesses of the building, with a slow and sauntering air.

"This is disagreeable!" thought Dudley; "but it matters not. As I have

resolved on my course, I will walk on. I shall be sure to meet them in

the park;" and he began to cross the green towards the copse, when the

man whom he had seen called to him, saying, "Sir, sir! I want to ask

you a question."

Dudley instantly paused and turned round, when at the same moment

another man appeared, and the first approaching said, "Is not your

name Dudley, sir?"

"Yes," replied the young gentleman; "what may be your pleasure with

me?"

"I apprehend you in the Queen's name," said the stranger, grasping his

arm and producing a constable's staff. "Come along with me!"

"Where is your warrant?" demanded Dudley, with perfect calmness, while

the second man approached.

"I don't need any warrants," answered the constable. "I know you for a

returned convict; and I shall take you at once before Mr. Conway."

"No, that you shall not do," replied Dudley, keeping them at a little

distance. "It is your duty to take me before the nearest magistrate;

that is Sir Arthur Adelon, and you have no pretence for making me go

four miles when there is a justice within one."

"Well, there can be no objection to that," said the constable; but the

other man interposed, observing in a low tone, "He said before Mr.

Conway."

"I don't care for that," replied the other; "I don't take my orders

from he. Did he say why?"

"I have told you what is your duty," said Dudley; "and you know it to

be so. Disregard it at your peril; for you will find in a very short

time that you are altogether wrong in this business; and if you

subject me to more inconvenience than necessary, I will punish you."

"Well, I shall put the handcuffs on you, at all events, my young

blade," replied the constable; "that I have a right to do."

"No, you have not," answered Dudley, who had a stout stick in his

hand; "and you shall not do it. I tell you I am not an escaped

convict, and that I am ready to go before Sir Arthur Adelon, without

the slightest resistance; but any attempt to treat me with indignity I

will resist to the utmost of my power, knowing that I am in the right.

The consequences, then, be upon your own heads; for whether I be

injured or you be injured, in any struggle which may take place, the

responsibility will rest with you."

It is unfortunate that the inferior officers of the law have seldom

any accurate knowledge of the law they have to execute, which

generally makes their proceedings either rashly violent or weakly

hesitating. "Well, sir," said the constable in return, after a

moment's thought, "if you will go quietly I don't mind."

"I will go quietly," replied Dudley, "and for your own satisfaction,

one can come on one side and the other on the other; but remember, if

either of you attempt to touch me, I will knock him down."

This being arranged, the whole party proceeded with some caution

through the little wood, across the road, and into the park. They had

hardly gone a hundred yards, however, when Dudley perceived those whom

he had come to meet, advancing towards him. He took not the least

notice, but proceeded with a calm and deliberate step; and he could

see that Edgar suddenly hurried his pace.

When they came a little nearer, Sir Arthur Adelon's son left his

cousin beneath one of the chestnut trees, and hastening forward, shook

Dudley warmly by the hand. The two constables looked at each other in

some surprise, for this was a sort of recognition which they had not

the least expectation of witnessing; and they made no effort to

interrupt a low conversation which went on for a minute or two between

their prisoner and his friend.

"I will tell him; I will not fail to tell him," said Edgar. "I will

get back with Eda as fast as possible, that she may be there before

you arrive. Good-bye, good-bye, for the present!"

Thus ended their short conference; and Dudley, turning to the

constables, told them he was ready to proceed. It was evident the two

men began to doubt that they were exactly in the right; but Dudley

gave them no opportunity of satisfying themselves any farther, walking

on with a slow step, and suffering Eda and her cousin to enter the

house before him. Few of the servants were seen about the place; and

the man who appeared at the hall-door, in answer to the summons of the

bell, was a stranger to Dudley.

A small room in Brandon House had been set apart as a justice-room;

but when the servant led the constables and their prisoner thither, he

found the door locked, and consequently conducted them to the library.

"Sir Arthur is not down yet," said the footman; "but I will tell him

as soon as he is up."

"Tell Mr. Filmer," said the constable; "he's up, I'll warrant."

Dudley listened with a slight smile, but made no remark aloud,

thinking, though mistakenly, "Some of the servants saw me on the night

of the wreck, and have told the priest."

After waiting for a few minutes, the same servant returned, and

beckoned one of the constables out of the room. He was absent for

nearly a quarter of an hour; but on his return he advanced towards

Dudley, saying, "I am to take you to Mr. Conway, sir; for Sir Arthur

will not like to deal with the case, because he knows you."

"I am afraid he must," replied Dudley, firmly. "I am here in a

magistrate's house, and I certainly shall not quit it till he has

decided whether there is, or is not, cause for keeping me in custody.

You need not speak another word on the subject, my good friend, for

here I am determined to remain."

The man seemed puzzled, and gave a significant look towards his

companion. He then quitted the room once more; but returning after an

absence of a few minutes, sat down at a little distance from the

prisoner, and beat the top of his hat with his fingers. Many persons

were now heard moving about the house, and a round-headed, fat-faced

young man, in a Melton coat, top-boots, and white-cord breeches,

entered, looked round, and walked out again. Some one also passed

along under the windows, whistling one of those interminable airs

which ornament modern operas, and which are so happily adapted to

vulgar tastes, that everybody can whistle them, and everybody does. A

moment after, Sir Arthur's voice was heard in the hall, saying,

apparently to a servant, "Well, ring the breakfast bell; I dare say we

shall not be long. Do you know what it is about? Who is he?"

"He looks quite like a gentleman, sir," said the servant; "but I did

not ask any questions. Mr. Filmer has spoken with the constables."

"Well, send Mr. Filmer to me," said Sir Arthur Adelon. "Good morning,

my lord; good morning, Captain M----. The constables have brought in a

prisoner; I must go and see what it is all about; but I will join you

at breakfast in a few minutes."

"Yours is an open court, I suppose, Sir Arthur," said the voice of

Captain M----; "and if you will permit me, I will see how people

conduct such business here."

"Certainly, certainly," said Sir Arthur Adelon; and opening the door

of the library, he walked in, followed by Lord Kingsland and Captain

M----.

The moment the baronet's eyes fell upon Dudley, however, a change came

over his face. He turned very pale, and his lip quivered; but he

recovered speedily, and noticing the prisoner with a haughty bow, he

said, "I did not expect to see you here, sir." At the same time, he

moved towards a great arm-chair, by the side of the library table.

Captain M----'s eye glanced towards Dudley with a very slight smile,

but he took no farther notice of him, and seated himself near the peer

and the baronet.

"I dare say you did not, Sir Arthur," said Dudley, in reply to the

magistrate's words. "My coming hither, at this moment, was unexpected

to myself, though I certainly should have troubled you with a visit in

a short time. It is to these two worthy gentlemen I owe the pleasure

of seeing you sooner than I intended."

"Humph!" said Sir Arthur, with a cold look. "I am to suppose, sir,

then, that they brought you hither: in which they probably only did

their duty? Upon what charge have you brought this--this--this

gentleman, before me," he continued, addressing the constable.

"Why, your worship, Sir Arthur," replied the man, "I had information,

that this gentleman, this Mr. Dudley, is an escaped convict; the same

as he who was condemned at the assizes two or three years ago. If he's

not, he's very like him."

"What do you say to this charge, sir," demanded Sir Arthur Adelon,

looking at Dudley with the same cold demeanour.

"By your permission, Sir Arthur," replied Dudley, "I will put one

question to this good man."

"Oh! as many as you please," answered the baronet, throwing himself

back in his chair, evidently not very much at ease.

"Well, then, tell me, my good friend the constable," continued Dudley,

"who was it that gave you orders to apprehend me?"

"Why, nobody gave me orders like," replied the constable; "but I had

information like."

"From whom?" demanded Dudley. "That is exactly what I want to know."

The man looked a little bewildered, but at length replied, "Why, I was

told not to say anything about it."

"Yes; but you must say something here," said Dudley. "I insist upon

your informing Sir Arthur Adelon, who it was that gave you that

information."

"Why, it was Mr. Filmer; Father Peter, as they call him, if I must

say," replied the constable. "I don't see why he should mind my

telling."

"I doubt its being very pleasing to him," replied Dudley; "but with

that we have nothing to do."

"I do not see what we have to do with the matter at all," said Sir

Arthur Adelon. "To me it seems of no importance."

"To you it is of the greatest importance in the world," replied

Dudley. "I put the question for the express purpose of leading to the

complete display of a villain's character. I must request you to send

for Mr. Filmer, sir."

"I have sent for him already," said Sir Arthur, sharply; "but the

question is, whether you, sir, are an escaped convict or not, and with

that Mr. Filmer has nothing to do."

"That is not the whole question," replied Dudley. "When that is all

made clear, it will remain to be seen whether these men have acted

properly in taking me into custody without a warrant, and without

information on oath. I might also add, that they sought, in the first

instance, doubtless by the advice of the same worthy informer, to take

me four miles hence, to Mr. Conway, when they apprehended me on the

very grounds of Brandon."

"That was wrong," said Sir Arthur. "Pray, who told you to do that,

constable?"

"Why, Mr. Filmer, sir," answered the man.

"Ah! here he comes to answer for himself," observed the baronet as the

door opened; but instead of Mr. Filmer, it was the baronet's son who

appeared, and walking straight up to Dudley, he shook hands with him

warmly.

Sir Arthur eyed him for a moment with a look of displeasure, and

perhaps would have fain closed the doors of the library against any

farther audience; but he felt that there were many circumstances which

might render such a step injudicious; and turning to one of the

constables, he said, in a hurried manner, "Send for Mr. Filmer again;

say I desire to speak with him. Pray be seated, Mr. Dudley," he

continued, in a more courteous tone than he had hitherto used. "I

could certainly have wished that this case had been brought before Mr.

Conway, or any other magistrate, rather than myself; for the feelings

of friendship which I have always entertained towards you, may throw a

suspicion of partiality over my proceedings. But I shall try to avoid

the reality as far as possible, and deal with the matter in hand

according to the principles of justice and common sense."

Dudley felt a little indignant at this speech, well understanding the

quality of the friendship which Sir Arthur expressed towards him; but

a portion of contempt mingled with his indignation, for he was aware

that hypocrisy has its origin in weakness more frequently than in art.

Cunning is the refuge of the feeble. He sat down, therefore, in

silence, merely bowing his head; and the moment after Mr. Filmer

entered the room.

Whether he had obtained any hint of what was occurring, or whether

shrewd perception supplied the place of information, I know not; but

his course was evidently chosen from the moment he entered the room.

His step was, as usual, calm and easy, silent, but firm; and turning a

cold, stern glance upon Dudley, he advanced to the table where Sir

Arthur Adelon sat, and said at once, without giving any one time to

explain, "I am very happy, Sir Arthur, to see that the constables have

done their duty upon the information which I afforded them last night,

although I perceive they have not attended to my warning, nor carried

before Mr. Conway a case upon which I knew it would be very painful

for you to decide."

As he spoke, his eyes again turned towards Dudley for a moment, and he

saw an expression upon that gentleman's face which did not satisfy

him. It was an expression of tranquil, almost contemptuous calmness.

Dudley seemed rather amused than not; but if the priest was not well

pleased with the look of the prisoner, he was still less so with a

word that sounded close in his ear. "Hypocrite!" said a low voice, and

turning round, he saw Edgar Adelon close beside him.

"Did you apply that term to me, my son?" said Mr. Filmer, almost in a

whisper.

With a stern, contracted brow, the young man slowly bent his head in

sign of affirmation, and then withdrew a step, leaving him alone.

"Pray, Mr. Filmer," said Dudley, rising, "though the question may

appear a little irregular, and not bearing on the points at issue, may

I ask how you obtained certain information of my return to this

country, so as, without making oath or taking out a warrant against

me, to send constables to apprehend me?"

"The question _is_ irregular," said the priest, sternly; but the

moment after, a gleam of bitter satisfaction came into his eyes, and

he added, "I can tell you if you desire it, nevertheless; but if you

will take my advice you will not inquire;" and he looked round to

Edgar Adelon with one of his serpent sneers, which seemed but the more

intense from the assumed mildness and tranquillity of every feature

but the lip. Edgar at once quitted the room, but Dudley replied--

"Sir, having nothing whatsoever to fear, I will beg you to give the

information I desired."

Mr. Filmer seemed to hesitate for a moment, and turned a look towards

Sir Arthur Adelon, who answered it by saying, "Pray do; this matter

must be investigated to the bottom."

"Be it so, then," said Mr. Filmer. "Yesterday evening I chanced, as is

frequently my custom, to wander forth to the old Priory, wishing, as

who might not wish, to spend a short time in meditation, perhaps in

prayer, upon the spot and amidst the scenes where holy men, ay, and

martyrs, too, have trod the earth with their feet and watered it with

their blood, and addressed their petitions to heaven. I was sitting,

lost in thought, when I heard voices near, and looking forth I saw a

party, consisting of two gentlemen and a lady. Shall I give their

names?" he continued; and he fixed his eyes firmly upon Dudley.

"Decidedly," replied the prisoner; although perhaps, to say the truth,

he was not quite well pleased at the idea of his conversation with Eda

having been overheard.

"Certainly, certainly," replied Lord Kingsland, who seemed for the

moment to have the parliamentary spirit strong upon him. "Name, name!"

"Pray give them," said Sir Arthur Adelon, although his feelings were

not very comfortable.

"One gentleman was Mr. Dudley," replied the priest, slowly; "the other

was your son, Sir Arthur; the lady's name perhaps I had better not

mention."

"She will name it herself," said Eda Brandon, entering the room,

leaning upon Edgar's arm. "I was the person, my dear uncle, who was

with Edgar and Mr. Dudley at the Priory; and I was exceedingly glad,"

she continued, crossing over to Dudley and giving him her hand, "to

congratulate him on his safe return to England."

Dudley retained the fair, small hand she offered, in his own for a

moment or two; and there they stood together, she with her colour a

good deal heightened, and he with his eyes full of bright and proud

satisfaction. It had required a great effort; but all that she had

said was calm and lady-like and nothing more. She had made no avowal

of attachment; she had tried to banish the tone, the look, the manner

of affection; but those who were around and marked the blush upon her

cheek, the light in Dudley's eyes, doubted not for one instant the

spring of love, from the depths of which those bright bubbles rose to

the surface.

Sir Arthur Adelon looked utterly confounded; and Eda, seeing, with

some embarrassment, that all eyes were fixed upon her, said, in a

somewhat faltering tone, but which grew stronger and firmer as she

went on, "I am afraid, my dear uncle, that I have intruded where I

have little business; but Edgar having told me; in his enthusiastic

way, that Mr. Filmer was likely to make a mystery of that in which

there is really none, I came to sweep all such things away; for there

is nothing that I should more dislike than any of my actions being

made a secret of. When all this is over, Mr. Dudley," she continued,

turning towards him, "I shall be most happy to welcome you to Brandon;

indeed, breakfast is already waiting;" and she was retiring from the

room, when her uncle exclaimed, "Stay, Eda, stay! All this is most

extraordinary! Pray, then, did you know that this gentleman had

returned?"

"Perfectly," answered Eda. "I was aware that he had come back in the

same ship with Edgar, and that he had suffered shipwreck with him,

after having endured two years of undeserved hardship, brought upon

him by the basest machinations of a designing man."

She would not look at Filmer while she spoke, for the strong, earnest

love of her heart, had raised the spirit of indignation in her, which

she feared might appear too clearly; and turning away she quitted the

library.

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked Sir Arthur Adelon, looking at

his son. "There seems to be a serious accusation against some one, but

what it is I cannot divine."

"It is, I believe, a very common case, Sir Arthur," answered Mr.

Filmer; "ingratitude to those who have served and benefited us;

suspicion of those who have dealt honestly for our own good against

our inclination; and slander of the innocent in order to shield the

guilty; but the simple question before you, I believe, is, without

considering any idle attack upon me, or defence equally idle, whether

that person standing there is or is not an offender, under the

sentence of the law, escaped from the country and the punishment to

which the law assigned him."

"I can answer that question at once," said Captain M----; "and you

must forgive me for speaking, notwithstanding your message, my dear

Dudley. I first knew that gentleman, Sir Arthur, in the quality of the

Nameless Fisherman by the Nameless Lake. I afterwards had the pleasure

of seeing him at the Government House, at Hobart Town, with his

character cleared from all stain, and his name and honour as bright

and proud as that of any gentleman in the land. I can testify that he

received a pardon under the great seal, in consequence of being

clearly proved innocent of an offence for which he had been wrongly

condemned."

"Then I have no farther business here," said Mr. Filmer, with perfect

tranquillity of tone and look. "I could not be aware of the

circumstances under which Mr. Dudley had returned; and I suppose that

no one will deny I acted properly, in pointing out to the officers of

justice a person whom I believed to have escaped from the due

punishment of a great offence."

"Stay one moment," said Dudley, "I have not yet done with you, sir. I

have a charge to make against you, and a very heavy one."

Mr. Filmer's face might turn a shade or two paler; for it is a

difficult thing, when, through a long life, one has been acting a deep

and criminal part, to see even the chance of exposure, and yet so rule

the heart, that the blood will not fly back to it in alarm. Habitual

success may do something; the confidence of tried skill and known

power may do something likewise; and the custom of concealing emotion

may still rule words, and tones, and actions, and even looks; but that

subtle thing, whatever it is, which sometimes sends the warm stream of

life rushing in an instant through every vein to the face, and at

others, calls it suddenly back to the deep well of the heart, cannot

be so commanded. The vagueness of a charge, too, does greatly add to

its terrifying influence upon one who has been a hypocrite from the

beginning. All his powers of mind, be they what they may, are but as a

small garrison in a ruined fortress, attacked by a large army. Every

evil act that he has committed, every false word that he has spoken,

has made a breach in his own walls of defence. He knows not at what

feeble and unguarded point he may be attacked, for he has himself

raised up an innumerable host to assail him; his own crimes are his

own enemies, and in proportion to their multitude must be his fears.

Mr. Filmer did turn somewhat paler than he was before; but so calm was

his whole aspect, that no one marked the change but Dudley and Edgar

Adelon, whose keen eyes were fixed upon his face the whole time.

"Well, sir," he said, turning towards his accuser, "I shall be very

ready to hear and answer the charge, as I know it must be groundless;

but will you allow me to suggest that it should be made at a later

hour of the day. You are aware that I am an early riser, and I have

not yet broken my fast. My appetite, too, is good, considering my

years."

"It seems, sir, that you wished to increase mine by a walk of four

miles," replied Dudley; "but this matter is serious, and cannot be

turned off lightly. I will make the charge whenever Sir Arthur Adelon

thinks fit to receive it; but I do not lose sight of you till it is

made."

"Then am I to consider it as of a criminal nature, and cognizable by a

magistrate?" demanded the baronet, very much discomposed.

"Such as must lead you, if it be even in part established," replied

Dudley, "to commit this person to prison, or at all events, to require

bail for his appearance."

"Then I would much prefer that the charge should be made before

another magistrate," said Sir Arthur; but Dudley, Edgar, and the

priest himself, interfered, the two former somewhat eagerly, and the

latter with the slightly sarcastic tone which marked his replies when

he was not well pleased.

"As my accuser has no objection, Sir Arthur," he said, "I must add my

voice to his. I at least do not suspect you of partiality; but the

great question with me at present is breakfast. I know you have not

yet taken any yourself, my kind friend; and although I do not bear any

ill will to Mr. Dudley on account of whatever accusations he may bring

against me either for pastime or revenge, I certainly shall be very

angry with him if he interrupts our pleasant morning meal, which was

always, I must say, a very tranquil one till he first set his foot in

this house."

"That is true, at least," said Sir Arthur, in a low tone. But Edgar

interfered again, observing, "You had better, perhaps, join Eda in the

breakfast-room, my dear father. Dudley, she will be happy, as you

heard, to see you there; and after the meal we can proceed with this

unfortunate business."

"An exceedingly good motion, and one for which I shall certainly

vote!" exclaimed Lord Kingsland, rising.

And then, turning to Captain M----, he added, in a low voice, "I

think, M----, if we ever intended, in the private theatricals of

Brandon, to perform the Rivals, we may spare ourselves the trouble!"

"I had no part in the cast," replied Captain M----, "though I am very

sure, my good lord, there are more private theatricals going on in

every house in the land than we generally imagine."

"Ever moralizing I ever moralizing!" said the peer, with an air of

easy persiflage. And he took his way to the breakfast-room, followed

by the rest of the party.

CHAPTER XLI.

There was a certain degree of agitation upon Eda's beautiful face,

when the party from the library entered the room where she sat; but

that agitation did not take one particle from the grace of her

demeanour; and in a few minutes all were seated round the table. As

usual, where there is a great deal of vanity, there was a certain

portion of spite in Lord Kingsland's nature; and on the present

occasion it did not sleep. Ho was mortified at losing the hand of the

heiress of Brandon, and he took care to make the person who was likely

to cause that loss feel all that was painful in his position to the

utmost. Not, indeed, that he ever dreamed that Eda would give, or that

Sir Arthur would suffer her to give, her hand to one who had been a

convict; that was a thing quite out of the question, in his opinion.

It might be supposed, therefore, that he would not easily be led to

give up the pursuit in which he had engaged, as a marriage with the

heiress had always been looked upon by him merely as a matter of

convenience; but in every man's mind there is some peculiar prejudice

of that sort commonly called crotchet, generally proceeding from

vanity, and in his case decidedly so. He thought Eda Brandon

exceedingly beautiful; but still he had not husbanded the fine

feelings of the heart so carefully as to be capable of love.

Nevertheless, Lord Kingsland would on no account have married a woman

who had loved another. He did not like that any man on earth should be

able to say of his wife, "She was once engaged to me;" and how much

less would he have liked it to be said that Lady Kingsland had been in

love with a _convict!_

As that could not be, the only consolation he could find under his

little disappointment was to make Eda and Dudley feel that the latter

had been a convict, and would ever by his fellow-men be regarded as a

convict. He became exceedingly curious, on a sudden, about Van

Dieman's Land, asked innumerable questions in regard to Hobart Town,

and even ventured upon Norfolk Island. Convict discipline became a

matter of great interest to him; and to hear him speak upon the

subject, of which he knew nothing, one would have thought that he was

a great philanthropical legislator.

Dudley answered his questions with calm gravity; but yet he could not

help feeling, with painful acuteness, that the world, the bitter,

slanderous world, had got its fangs in his flesh, with a hold that

nothing could shake off; that a stain had been placed upon his name

most unjustly, which, though it might be erased, would still leave a

trace behind.

With the sharp and clear perception of woman, Eda understood the

motives in which the peer's conduct originated, and felt both contempt

and anger. The only effect which it produced upon her own conduct,

however, was to make her demeanour to Dudley more marked and tender.

Eda Brandon never flirted in her life, and there was something very

distinct from anything of that sort in her behaviour on the present

occasion; but she felt that it was due to Dudley, when she saw him so

unfairly annoyed, to take her stand, as it were, by his side, and to

let her affection for him be perfectly undisguised.

The other gentlemen who were in the room, and who had not been present

at the scene which had taken place in the library, seemed amazingly

puzzled at all they now witnessed. In addition to everything else, Sir

Arthur Adelon was evidently ill at ease, and Edgar was stern, silent,

and almost sharp in his replies when forced to speak.

Mr. Filmer was the only one who maintained his usual placid demeanour,

and he did that perfectly; for, alas! it is a very fatal error to

believe that the external appearance of calm tranquillity is always an

indication of a heart at peace with itself. The priest made a fuller

breakfast than usual, conversed agreeably with those around him, and

gave no indication of having any cause for anxiety or even deep

thought within. Before the meal was fully over, however, a servant

came in and announced that Mr. Clive and his daughter were there; and

Dudley could perceive that Filmer's face turned deadly pale.

"Show them in," said Sir Arthur. "I am very glad they have returned."

"Who is Mr. Clive?" asked the young baronet, whom I have mentioned

once before, and while Sir Arthur was answering, "Oh! he is a

gentleman of very old family, but of somewhat reduced circumstances,"

the priest arose quietly, and saying, in a low tone, "I am glad they

have come too; I want much to speak with Clive for a few minutes,"

moved, with his usual noiseless step, towards the door.

But Edgar Adelon suddenly sprang up from the table, and placed himself

in the way. "That cannot be suffered," he exclaimed. "You must remain

here, sir."

"You! This from you, Edgar!" exclaimed Mr. Filmer, drawing back with

an air of astonishment, if not really felt, certainly well assumed.

"Yes!" answered Edgar, "and more too; for where I once esteemed----"

What he was about to add was stopped by the entrance of Mr. Clive and

Helen, who sprang forward to Eda Brandon as to a sister. Sir Arthur

greeted Mr. Clive himself, with his usual kind, but somewhat stately

air; and Mr. Filmer approached with a degree of eagerness which in him

betokened no slight agitation, as if to welcome Mr. Clive, holding out

his hand to him at the same time. But Clive drew back, and looking

sternly at the priest, said, "Excuse me, sir; there are matters which

require explanation before I can either look upon you as my friend, or

listen to you as my pastor."

"What can be the meaning of all this?" exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon.

"Explain, Clive: I am in the dark."

"Ay, let him explain," answered Mr. Filmer, setting his teeth tight;

"I can give a sufficient account of my own conduct and my own motives,

and do not fear any explanations." But his clouded brow and unwonted

manner showed that there was something which he had wished concealed,

but which could be no longer hidden.

"If you wish it, sir, my conduct can all be easily explained," said

Clive; and then, turning towards Sir Arthur, he was going on, when his

eyes suddenly fell upon Dudley, and advancing towards him, he took his

hand in his own, and pressed it, with a grave look, saying, "Mr.

Dudley, I am delighted to see you back in your own country again, and

free from all stain or reproach. Believe me, had I known that a false

charge had been brought against you, had it not been studiously

concealed from me by the most artful and the most infamous means, you

should not have laboured for one hour under an imputation from which I

can free you, This I am sure you know, and you now know also who it

was that did the deed for which you have suffered so severely; but

what you do not know, perhaps, is, the man whom you see there standing

before you, urged me to fly, knowing that the act was mine, and the

very same night contrived means to turn the charge against you."

Mr. Filmer took a step towards them where they stood, and exclaimed,

with a solemn and impressive air, "Clive, Clive, my friend! You are

suffering a generous nature to betray you into most ungenerous acts. I

wish those words had been spoken by heretical lips, rather than yours.

Have you no respect for the religion you profess, or for its

ministers, that when one of them did you an act of great kindness, you

should use it as a charge against him? Tell me, did I not, the moment

I knew what you had done, did I not, I say, come down, at a late hour

of the night, to comfort and counsel you? I did advise you to fly; I

acknowledge it; but it was in consideration of your own safety that I

did so; for let me tell you, my son, that even in this land, which

boasts so much of its equity and its justice, it is no slight thing to

kill a peer of the realm. As soon as I was told who it was that had

done it, I went down for the sole purpose of advising you to fly, as

the only means of saving you from detection and punishment."

"May I ask you, sir," said Dudley, "as this seems to be an explanation

rather than an examination, who was the man from whom you derived your

information?"

"You are very ignorant, sir, it would appear," replied Filmer, with an

air of reproof, "of the rules and principles of a church of which you

are accustomed to express contempt and abhorrence, otherwise you would

know that a priest does not break the seal of confession. To give you,

or any one else, the name, would be a violation of that important

law."

"And did you really know who it was that killed Lord Hadley?" demanded

Sir Arthur Adelon, in a tone of surprise.

"I did, sir. What then?" replied Mr. Filmer, with a stern look, laying

a somewhat menacing emphasis upon the words.

"Nay, nothing," replied Sir Arthur Adelon; but Dudley went on, sternly

saying, "It is unnecessary, Mr. Filmer, to violate the seal of

confession, for we know the name of your informant already, and in

this deposition you will find all the facts. I am inclined to imagine

that Daniel Connor is even now in this house, but if you will examine

that paper, you will see that he has already deposed to his having

told you the whole truth, and to your having come down to him

afterwards, to induce him to put his evidence in such a shape as to

bring the charge upon me rather than upon Mr. Clive. Now, Sir Arthur

Adelon, this is something like a subornation of witnesses, and it can

be proved by the man's own statement."

"You are labouring under a mistake, young gentleman," said Filmer, now

driven to bay. "For his own sake and his safety I certainly did

recommend to Daniel Connor to go up and give his evidence

spontaneously, in order that no suspicion should attach to himself. He

said, if I recollect rightly, that the man who had done the deed was

very much of the same height as yourself, but when he swore that, he

swore truly."

"Doubtless," replied Dudley; "but he states that he could have told

exactly who did it, and would have told, if it had not been for your

persuasions to the contrary."

"This seems a very bad case," said Lord Kingsland, speaking to Edgar

Adelon. "If the animus can be proved, it will assume a serious

complexion."

Without replying directly to the peer, Edgar stepped forward, and

addressing Mr. Filmer, demanded, "Did you, or did you not, sir--when

you knew that I was seeking for evidence, and had nearly obtained it,

to show before a jury the impossibility of Mr. Dudley having committed

the offence with which he was charged--did you not cause me to be

watched, followed, and apprehended, after a struggle, in which my life

was nearly endangered; and did you not afterwards deceive me grossly,

as to the time when the trial was to be brought on, and take every

means of preventing me from accomplishing the end I had in view? Now,

sir, you cannot deny it, and if you can, I will convict you by the

testimony of your own spy. Your conduct towards members of your own

flock might be explained away, perhaps, but this proves your object,

if it does not prove your motives."

"Are you not of my own flock?" asked Mr. Filmer, in a tone of

reproach. "My son, I am sorry to hear of such a defalcation."

Edgar paused, gazing silently in his face for a moment; and then, with

a sudden start, he replied, "I will not have the question turned from

the straightforward course. Your object was, I say, to load an

innocent man with a false charge, to deprive him of all means of

establishing his innocence, and to see him condemned and suffer for

that of which you knew him to be guiltless."

He spoke impetuously; but there was a truth, a sincerity, an

earnestness in his whole tone and manner, which carried conviction to

the hearts of those who heard it; and at a mere glance round, Mr.

Filmer gathered enough, from the faces of the somewhat numerous

auditory, to show him that he was condemned by the judgment of all

present. But he quailed not; his brow grew stern, his look lofty, and

he replied, in a loud, almost imperious tone, "My object was, sir, to

save you, and to save that lady from the wiles of the artful and

ambitious: that is the great object that I have had in view in every

act of mine which concerned that person."

But his reply only still farther roused Edgar's indignation. "Of me,

sir," he said, "you shall say what you like; but do not attempt again

to mix my dear cousin's name with this business. With her, at least,

you have nothing to do, except that, knowing you all along to be what

you are, she has tolerated you in her house out of respect for my

father; but I think if she had known, and my father had known, how

deeply and shamelessly you have injured him, and injured one who is

now a saint in heaven, she would never have suffered you to enter her

gates, and he would have spurned you from his door."

"What do you mean? whom do you mean?" exclaimed Sir Arthur Adelon,

starting forward, with a face as pale as ashes, and eyes haggard with

intense emotion. "Whom do you mean, my son? Whom do you mean, my

Edgar?"

"My mother," answered Edgar Adelon, in a slow and solemn tone; and

almost as he spoke the words, Sir Arthur reeled and fell at his feet.

CHAPTER XLII.

The scene of confusion that ensued after the event related in the last

chapter is not to be described. Every one crowded round Sir Arthur

Adelon, and he was speedily raised and placed upon the sofa. Servants

were called, water was sprinkled in his face, and all the usual

restoratives were had recourse to for some time in vain. He opened his

eyes faintly, indeed, for a moment, but he seemed instantly to

relapse, and a servant was sent off in haste to Barhampton for the

surgeon who usually attended him; for the only person who seemed to be

sure that it was an ordinary fainting fit, though one of a very severe

kind, was Captain M----, who, with kind and judicious words,

encouraged Eda and Edgar to pursue their efforts, assuring them that

they would be finally successful.

At the end of half an hour Sir Arthur began to revive; and one or two

of the guests, who had made their comfort yield to their politeness,

then vacated the room, leaving only Captain M----, with Edgar, Dudley,

Eda, and Helen. For some time the baronet seemed incapable of

speaking, for though he looked round from time to time with an anxious

glance, he remained perfectly silent, notwithstanding more than one

inquiry as to how he felt. His first words, however, when he did

speak, instantly recalled the subject which had interested them all so

deeply the moment before he had fainted.

"Where is the priest?" he said. "Where is Father Peter?" And every one

instantly looked round, and then, for the first time, perceived that

he was gone. Eda would fain have diverted her uncle's attention from

matters which she knew must be most painful to him; but Sir Arthur

slowly raised himself upon the sofa, and would have got up entirely

had his strength permitted, still repeating, "Where is he? where is

he? Seek him, seek him! Do not let him escape!" Then pressing his hand

upon his brow, he added, "Can it be true? It has been a frightful

dream to me for many a long year. Seek him, seek him, somebody! Oh! if

it be true, I will tear his heart out!"

Dudley and Captain M---- hurried away from the room to inquire for the

priest, while Eda assured her uncle that she doubted not he would soon

be found; but Edgar, looking from the back of the sofa behind which he

was standing, shook his head with a stern and mournful expression of

face, as if to express a strong doubt that such would be the case.

But little information of Father Filmer's movements could be obtained

by Dudley and his companion from the servants. Some of them had seen

him pass out of the breakfast-room, but not aware that any charge

whatever had been brought against him, had taken no notice of so

ordinary an occurrence. Others had seen him mount the staircase

towards his own room, but when he was sought for there he was not

found. No one had seen him quit the house, however; and though one or

two of those who had lately come up the alley, or through the park,

were questioned particularly on the subject, none could give any

information, and every room to which it was supposed he might have

betaken himself was examined in vain. Finding all their search

fruitless, the two gentlemen at length returned to the breakfast-room,

and found Sir Arthur half-seated, half-reclining on the sofa, but much

more calm than he had been when they left him. He looked hard at

Dudley for a moment without speaking, as if endeavouring to gain

command over himself, and then said, in a cold and formal tone, "Pray

be seated, sir. You have brought some serious charges against a

gentleman who has long lived with me as a friend, ay, for more than

five-and-twenty years. Had you concluded all you wished to say?"

"There were other charges, Sir Arthur," replied Dudley, "which in your

eyes would be doubtless much more important. Those which I have

brought affect myself alone; and though, perhaps, more immediately

cognizant by the law, as coming nearly, if not quite, under the

statute in regard to the subornation of evidence, is in my mind less

criminal than his conduct towards you, whom, for the five-and-twenty

years you speak of, he has deceived, betrayed, and injured. But on

that subject, Sir Arthur, as I see it affects you much, it will be

better to speak at a future period. Those charges which I have

actually brought I am prepared to sustain immediately. Indeed, they

can be proved at once by Mr. Clive, who is in the next room; or even

this young lady," he continued, pointing to Helen, "can give you full

information. But all this had better also be referred to another

occasion, when you will be more able to give attention to the

subject."

"His presence would be necessary," said Sir Arthur, leaning his head

upon his hand. "But there is one question more, sir; one question

more, and I have done for the present. Was it from you, sir, that my

son derived the information which led him to utter the words he lately

did?"

"No, assuredly," answered Dudley; "but I can see clearly that his

words pointed to the same painful subject, in regard to which I also

have charges to make of a most serious character. Where he obtained

his information I cannot tell."

"From the same source whence yours was derived, Dudley," replied

Edgar. "Only a few words were spoken; but connected with some old

letters from my poor mother, they were enough to enlighten me as to

much of the dark past."

Sir Arthur waved his hand as his son spoke, saying, "I cannot hear it

now; I will go to my own room. Come with me, Edgar. I shall have the

honour of seeing you again this evening, sir," he continued, turning

to Dudley, who replied, with a slight degree of embarrassment of

manner, "Assuredly, Sir Arthur, if you wish it; but if our farther

conference is to be this evening, I must, I fear, be an intruder here

till that time, for my present abode is near the place where we met

shipwreck, twelve miles distant."

Sir Arthur Adelon was faint, agitated, and shaken; but yet a touch of

his own self-important pride could not be repressed; and with an air

by no means very well satisfied or altogether courteous, he replied,

pointing to Eda, while he walked towards the door leaning on his son's

arm, "That lady is mistress of herself and of this house, and

doubtless she will be happy in having your society."

"Oh, my dear uncle!" said Eda, starting forward with a look of pain,

"how can you speak such unkind words?"

"Well, well!" replied her uncle, kissing her brow, "I do believe you

love me, Eda; but no more just now." And he slowly quitted the room.

As soon as he was gone, Eda turned towards Dudley, with many mingled

emotions in her bosom, which, had it not been for the presence of

others, would probably have found relief in tears and in his arms. As

it was, she gave him her hand, saying, "You stay, of course, Dudley,

and I trust will remain some days."

"I must stay till this task is accomplished," he replied, and he would

fain have added the dear, familiar name which he ever called her in

his heart; but the presence of Captain M---- restrained him, and he

would not call her Miss Brandon. "I was not aware," he proceeded,

"that the information I have to convey would pain your uncle so deeply

as the effect of the few words spoken by Edgar make me fear it will,

or I would not have undertaken the task. We make sad mistakes in life,

I am afraid, in judging of the character of others. We are too apt to

suppose that one great predominant passion or weakness swallows up all

others; and yet I am convinced, that if we looked into the heart of

any man, be he the most ambitious, the most avaricious, the most vain,

the most proud, we should find some well of tenderness hidden under

the rubbish of life, which, if opened out again, might pour forth

fresh and pure waters to revivify and beautify all around."

"Oh! that we had many searchers for such wells," said Eda; "but it

seems to me that men, in dealing with their fellow-men, rather labour

to cover and hide them. But what can have become of Mr. Filmer? Do you

think he has fled?"

"It would seem so," answered Dudley; "and yet I can hardly imagine

that one who has gone on for so many years in successful hypocrisy,

would yield the field after so brief a struggle."

"I do not know," said Captain M----; "it may be that he finds himself

fully detected, and then what a mass of fraud and sin must present

itself to memory, and terrify him with the prospect of exposure and

punishment! I remarked that he stood firm before all the charges

brought against him in regard to his infamous and criminal conduct

towards you, Dudley. It seemed as if he thought that, upon some

principle he could justify himself, at least, to himself, for acts the

most base; but when Mr. Adelon uttered those few words about his

mother, my eye was upon him, and he gave way at once. I saw him shake

in every limb, and should certainly have watched him narrowly, to

prevent his escape, had not Sir Arthur occupied all my attention. But

now, I think, I will mount my horse, and riding round for a few miles,

endeavour to obtain some information regarding this man's place of

retreat. It surely will not be so difficult here to overtake a

bushranger as it is in the fifth quarter of the globe, Dudley?"

As he spoke, Edgar re-entered the room with a quick step; but it was

to Helen he now turned. He had only hitherto, throughout all the

scenes which had taken place, spoken a few words to her, and given her

one look; but the words and the look were both of love. He now led her

at once into the deep window, and conversed eagerly with her, mingling

inquiries about matters quite different with expressions of tenderness

and affection.

"This bad man must be found, Helen, dearest," he said; "you look pale,

love, and anxious. I am the more eager to find him, my beloved,

because he has disgraced the religion which we hold, perverting its

pure precepts to suit the dark, foul purposes of his own heart. Even

were it not for that, my Helen, I would pursue him throughout life;

for he poisoned the sources of my dear mother's happiness, and has

turned the noble nature of my father to a curse. Nay, look not up so

imploringly in my face, sweet love, with those dear reproachful eyes,

as if you thought your Edgar fierce and stern. It is only that I am

eager, Helen, very eager; I have ever been so: eager in love; eager, I

trust, in pursuit of justice and right; eager in defence of innocence;

and surely I may be eager in the punishment of iniquity and wrong?

Helen will not think me very wrong for being so?"

"Wrong, Edgar!" she answered; "do you not know I think everything you

do right? I never saw you do anything that was wrong from our infancy

till now."

"Oh! yes, many a thing," answered Edgar; and then dropping his voice,

he added: "When first I kissed those dear pouting lips, did you not

tell me I was very wrong indeed? But, Helen, we must find this man,

wherever he may be. I shall not rest in peace till I have made him,

with his own lips, undo the wrong he did my mother. You know his

haunts well. Tell me, love, where you think it most likely he would

betake himself."

"Not to our house, certainly," answered Helen, "now that he knows we

are aware of all his baseness to poor Mr. Dudley; and not to the

cottage of Connor, unless it be to reproach him for exposing him. I

really know not where he will go; surely not to the Priory!"

"No, I should think not," answered Edgar, musing. "But here comes your

father. This night shall set his heart at ease."

"That will never be," replied Helen, with a very sorrowful look. "The

death of that unhappy young man still rests like a heavy weight upon

him. You have but to look into his face to see that it is bearing him

down to the earth."

"I trust your happiness, dear Helen, may cheer him," answered her

lover; "and to secure that shall be Edgar's task."

Advancing towards Clive as he spoke, he put nearly the same questions

to him which he had put to Helen, regarding the probable course which

Mr. Filmer had pursued.

"I should have thought he was more likely to turn and stand at bay

than to fly," replied Mr. Clive; "but if he has fled, it will be far,

depend upon it."

"Then the more reason for seeking for him immediately," exclaimed

Edgar. "Come, Captain M----, let you and I set out. If I find him, I

will venture to apprehend him without warrant, and risk whatever may

be the result."

"There may be some risk, it is true," replied Captain M----, "for it

does not seem to me that he has committed any offence clearly

cognizable by a magistrate. Indeed, I am afraid some of the greatest

crimes that men can perpetrate have never yet been placed within the

grasp of the law. But let us go; I will take my share of the

responsibility." And leaving the little party in the breakfast-room,

they went out to pursue their search.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The rooms occupied by Sir Arthur Adelon at Brandon House consisted of

a large dressing-room, and an old-fashioned chamber on the first

floor, lined with dark oak, supporting a richly ornamented stucco

ceiling, where cupids and naiads, and a great number of heterogeneous

deities, were flirting away all round the cornices, with plaster of

Paris fruits and flowers in their hands. A bed, which rivalled the

celebrated one of Ware in its dimensions, with old-fashioned chintz

curtains, stood at one side of the room, looking small and modest,

from the extent of the space about it. Opposite the foot of the bed

was a fire-place, with hand-irons for burning wood, and on each side

of it were two doors, one leading into the dressing-room, and the

other into a large commodious closet. The windows of the room were

three, and the curtains, which were now drawn close, were of the same

thick chintz as those which shrouded the bed. There was thus very

little light admitted, although the stuff of which the curtains were

composed was sufficiently diaphanous for the eye of any one within to

mark the change of light and shadow, as the clouds passed through the

air without. The door of the dressing-room was open, and one of the

windows, partly thrown up, admitted the air of spring, which, to say

the truth, was at the time we speak of somewhat sultry and oppressive.

It was but little after the hour of noon when Edgar Adelon and his

companion rode away from the stable-yard at Brandon, and at that time

Sir Arthur was seated in a chair before the table, with his head

resting on his hand, and his eyes half shut. Painful emotions seemed

to be passing through his mind, for the muscles of his face moved, and

every now and then he would draw a deep and heavy sigh. Who shall say

what was in his thoughts? Did he ponder over a life spent in vanities

which had proved worse than ashes; of time misused in planting the

seeds of very, very bitter fruit? Did he take that review of the long

past, which every one, who has a mind capable of thinking, must

sometimes ponder on in moments of silent, sleepless solitude? Did he

consider how great wealth and lofty station, and high health and

education, and every gift and every advantage which can decorate the

fate of man, may be all rendered impotent of good to himself and

others, by the pampering of one evil passion, by a devotion to one

vanity or folly? Perhaps he did; but if so, if his eyes were keen

enough, and his sight unsealed sufficiently to judge of the past

justly, he saw that his weaknesses and his faults had been seized upon

by a superior intellect, to render him, through their means,

subservient to the views and purposes of others whose motives he even

yet did not clearly distinguish.

"If he did that, he is a scoundrel indeed," said Sir Arthur, in a low

murmur. "He is a scoundrel," he added, the next moment; "that is

clear: for who but a scoundrel would, for any purpose, suborn evidence

against an innocent man?"

But as that thought passed through his mind, a look of anguish came

upon his countenance, and perhaps he felt that he had been art and

part in the deeds he condemned. He might feel, too, that there were

purposes, that there were passions, which, in the more vigorous days

of life, would have led him, nay, had led him, to deeds little less

base, and courses as tortuous as those which he viewed with horror in

another.

But, at the same time, whichever way he turned his eyes in the wide

range of the past, that other was still by his side, encouraging him

in all that he now regretted; suggesting the act to his mind,

preparing the means to his hand, and, with insidious eloquence,

removing the restraints of conscience and of feeling, while they rose

up as obstacles to his purpose. He saw that the fiend's own work had

been done with him; that his faults and his vices had but been

employed to generate more, and to leave his heart in possession of

remorse.

The sad and bitter contemplation went on for more than one hour. A

servant quietly opened the door, and finding that he was up, and not

asleep, told him that the surgeon had arrived from Barhampton; but Sir

Arthur waved his hand, and saying that he was busy, desired to be left

quite alone. "I have no need of surgeons," he said; and as soon as the

servant had retired, fell back into his reverie again. It lasted about

half an hour longer, and then, wearied with the conflict of thought,

he moved towards his bed, saying, "I will lie down and sleep, if I

can; then I shall be more able to encounter the task of the evening;

for I must and will have it all explained. It is getting very dark: it

cannot be dusk yet." And looking at his watch, he found that it was

barely two o'clock. He accordingly laid down in his dressing-gown, and

thought for half an hour longer before sleep reached him; but while

the busy brain still worked, the ideas shifted and changed place, and

became confused. He thought of Eda and of Dudley, and of the

insinuations thrown out by the priest; and the vanity which was still

at the bottom of his heart again poured forth bitter waters.

"Impossible," he said to himself; "she cannot, she will not, she must

not marry a convict; and yet she can do as she pleases. I have no

authority over her; and this man, too, has me in his power, and he

knows it. I can see that by his bold demeanour to-day. But I will not

think of all these things: I will sleep. All that must be settled

hereafter. And Edgar, too: there is another thorn in my side; but I do

not mind that so much, for Clive is of as ancient blood as any in the

land, and what though he be poor, that does not take from his descent.

I wish it had happened otherwise; and I was foolish to suffer this to

go on, but at least it is some satisfaction she is a Catholic. It

might have been worse. It is very warm; I will open another window."

But while he was thinking of rising to do so, his eyelids fell once or

twice heavily, and he dropped into a quiet slumber.

While he thus lay, with his hand partly fallen over the side of the

bed, the light seemed to decrease in the room, and a large heavy drop

or two of rain beat upon the windows, followed by a faint flash, and a

distant roar of thunder. It did not wake Sir Arthur Adelon, however;

and a minute or two after, the door of the large closet opened slowly

and noiselessly, and a figure entered with a still and silent step. It

was that of the priest, dressed in his usual dark apparel, and

carrying a roll of paper in his hand. For a moment he paused, and

looked around the room, then advanced to the table, and laid down the

paper, saying, "It will do as well." But the next instant his eye

caught sight of the hand of Sir Arthur Adelon, which, as I have said,

had dropped over the side of the bed, and with a bitter smile, Filmer

advanced and gazed upon the sleeping face of him who had been once so

much his friend. The clear, fair skin of the old man's cheek was still

somewhat pale with the emotions of the day, and his brow still bore

the trace of care. His mouth, too, moved from time to time, as if the

busy thoughts which had been agitating him were yet at work within,

prompting words which the chained lip refused to utter. As he gazed,

the priest's look became stern and almost fierce; and it would seem

that some thoughts or purposes suggested themselves to his mind, which

other feelings induced him to reject, for he waved his arm, and spread

forth his hand, as if he were throwing something from him, and

murmured in a low voice, "No!"

The moment after, there was a vivid flash of lightning, which,

notwithstanding the shade of the curtains, glared round the whole

room, and made the face of the sleeping man look like that of a

corpse. The rattle of the thunder succeeded, shaking the whole house;

and Sir Arthur Adelon started and turned, as if to rise up from his

bed. The priest instantly laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "My

son!"

Sir Arthur gazed at him with a bewildered look, and then a sharp and

angry expression came into his face. "Ah! is that you!" he said. "They

thought you were gone."

"They mistook," replied the priest. "Lie still, and hear me, for I

have much to say. Your incorrigible weakness shows me, that it is vain

to remain with you longer. I cannot make you what you ought to be, and

now I leave you to yourself."

"What I ought to be!" said Sir Arthur Adelon, raising himself upon his

arm. "Have you not made me all I ought not to be?"

"As the most precious medicines become the most hurtful poisons to

some peculiar constitutions," answered the priest, "so the best

counsels to some men produce the worst results. Such has it been in

your case; for the inherent feebleness of your mind was not capable of

bearing the strong food that mine would have given it."

"This is too insolent!" exclaimed the baronet, raising himself still

farther, and stretching his hand towards the bell; but Filmer grasped

his arm tight, with a menacing look, saying, "Forbear! and remember,

man, what must be the consequence of my staying here. If I go, it is

in charity to you; for should I stay, depend upon it, it will be to

expose, from the beginning to the end, the acts of a life the records

of which I have put down here, lest your own memory should have been

more treacherous than mine. Remember, I say, that everything, from

first to last, is within my grasp, and that I can, when I please, open

the casket, and pour out the jewels of proud Sir Arthur Adelon's good

deeds for the admiring eyes of all the world. Remember, that against

the code of honour, the laws of the land, and the dictates of

religion, you have equally offended, and that if I remain, I remain to

explain all."

The baronet evidently quailed before him; and sinking back upon his

pillow again, he gazed up in his face for a moment in silence, and

then said, "Dark and evil man as you are, speak not of religion or of

laws; but if you would do one act of charity before you go, explain to

me, rather than to others, the saddest and the gloomiest page in my

life's history. Relieve my mind of the heavy doubts and fears that

have been upon it for many a long year; notwithstanding all the

presumptions that you brought forward--ay, bitter as it may be--tell

me, rather, that the wife whom I so dearly loved was really

guilty--guilty of anything, rather than leave me to think that my

unkindness killed her wrongfully. Speak, man, speak! Do not stand

there, smiling at me like a fiend, but tell me, was she guilty or

not?"

"As innocent as the purest work of God," replied the priest; and as he

spoke, a sharp shudder passed over the whole frame of Sir Arthur

Adelon, and his face became distorted with various passions: sorrow,

and rage, and remorse. "Villain, villain, villain!" he cried, "then

why did you so basely deceive me?"

"What, then, you have not seen Martin Oldkirk?" said Filmer, with a

look of some surprise. "He is here, in this house, and will soon tell

you all."

"What! Martin Oldkirk, my old servant?" exclaimed the baronet. "Ah! I

see, I see the whole damnable plot. You--you corrupted him."

"Nay, not so," answered Filmer, in a still bitter contemptuous tone;

"but your own weak jealousy twisted his words from their right

meaning, and made that serviceable to your suspicions which should

only have confirmed your trust."

"At your suggestion, fiend!" exclaimed Sir Arthur, fiercely. "I

remember it all, as well as if it were but yesterday. Oh! fool that I

have been!" And striking his clenched fist upon his forehead, he fell

back again upon the bed from which he had once more partially risen.

"And fool that you ever will be," answered Filmer, with a look of

contempt. "Had that woman remained with you another year, she would

have made you a heretic, as she was herself in heart." But his words

fell upon an inattentive ear, for Sir Arthur Adelon had relapsed into

the same state in which we have seen him during the morning. The

priest gazed on him with a stern and thoughtful brow when he perceived

that he had again fainted; but gradually a slight, a very slight smile

curled his lip, and he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "What shall

I do? He has fainted again. Pshaw! he will get better of this, as he

has got better of many things. Poor, unhappy man, without firmness to

carry forth good or evil! Had he but been firm, half of Yorkshire

might have been Catholic at this day, and I, perhaps, a cardinal," and

he added, the next moment, "with power to direct the efforts of the

true church, in a course which would insure to her the return of this

darkened land to her motherly bosom."

It was an after-thought, undoubtedly; for it is to be remarked, that

in all hierarchies, where men are expected to merge personal passions

and desires in the objects of a great body or institution, the

passions and desires still remain; but by a cunning self-deceit, the

individuals persuade themselves that they are made subservient to, or

banished to open a space for, the general ends and purposes which the

whole have in view. It is very seldom that a man can say, with

sincerity and truth, "I desire to be made a bishop or a cardinal, only

for the good of religion."

Mr. Filmer perhaps felt that truth as much as any man; but yet he

still persuaded himself that he was right, or at all events, affected

to believe it; for the fraudulent juggle that goes on between man and

his own heart, is almost always more or less successful where strong

passions are engaged, and there were many strong passions which shared

in the motive of every one of Mr. Filmer's actions. If one had

examined closely, the promotion of his church's views would have been

found to bear a very small and insignificant share in any of his

proceedings; and yet, even to himself, he affected to believe it to be

the great, the sole, the overpowering object of his endeavours.

While he stood and gazed upon the face of Sir Arthur Adelon, as he lay

like a corpse before him, the low-muttered thunder growled around his

head, and the heavy drops of rain began to fall thick and fast,

pattering in a deluge upon the windows, and splashing upon the turfy

lawns. "There is more in the hills," he said, "and I must make haste,

or the rivers will be swollen and stop me. I wonder which way the

fools have taken who went in pursuit. The servants must have done

dinner. But that matters not; they will not venture, I think, to

oppose me, even if any one sees me; and that brutal idiot, Oldkirk,

must be gone. I must even take my chance. Who minds the lightning?"

And yet such is human nature, the very next flash made him put his

hands before his eyes and turn somewhat pale.

"It is awfully vivid," he said. "This artillery of heaven, men think,

is sent to punish the guilty alone: the immediate retribution of the

Almighty. If so, why does it choose its aim so lucklessly? I have seen

the loveliest and the purest struck by it; the murderer, the villain,

and the false prophet pass through it unscathed. But I will go, lest a

worse fate than that of the lightning should reach me. Farewell, old

man!" he continued, looking at the couch on which Sir Arthur Adelon

was lying; "after many years' sojourn on this earth together, you and

I may never meet again. If friendship unvarying, and services not to

be doubted, and counsels ever for the best, could have done aught with

you, you should have had them, nay, you have had them. But you were

too weak and idle to profit even by experience. Instead of full trust,

you gave half confidence; instead of full obedience, you gave nothing

but a questioning support; and the church must triumph wherever it

sets its foot, or the day of its destruction is arrived."

With this unvarying maxim of the Roman church, he turned away and left

him, placing the papers he had brought farther on the table, with the

claws of the inkstand to hold them safely down. He retired by the same

means which had given him entrance; and without the slightest

appearance of anxiety or haste, opened the first door and shut it

behind him, then pulled back the private door which afforded a

communication between his room and that of the baronet, and ascended a

flight of steps which led to the chambers above.

All remained still and quiet below; and in a few minutes, proceeding

into the stable-yard, Mr. Filmer had mounted, without the slightest

opposition, a horse which had been set apart for his own use while at

Brandon, and was riding away, but in a direction different to that

which Edgar and his friend had taken.

CHAPTER XLIV.

They first paused at the park gates, Edgar Adelon and Captain

M----, and asked, in a quiet, easy tone, if Mr. Filmer had lately

passed. The answer, as the reader may anticipate, was, "No;" and

separating, they rode round the whole extent of the wide space

enclosed within the walls of Brandon Park--not less than four or five

square miles--inquiring of every person whom they met, and at every

cottage which they passed, but without receiving any intelligence

whatever. After having made this circuit, they rode down to Clive

Grange, where Edgar was received with the greatest joy by all the

servants; but no information was afforded, till one of the

maid-servants recollected having heard the ploughman say that he

thought he had seen Father Peter walking over the downs towards

Barhampton. Edgar, impetuous as usual, was for setting out

immediately; but Captain M---- stopped to investigate the statement,

and inquired when this vision was seen. That the maid could not tell,

but informed him that the man had mentioned the fact when he came home

to dinner, adding, however, that he had returned to his work. Finding

that the spot where he was employed lay considerably out of the way,

the two gentlemen set off again, taking the cottage of Daniel Connor

as they went; but the door was locked, and nobody within.

At Barhampton their inquiries were equally vain, though every quarter

was applied to where it was supposed that anything like information

could be obtained; and after a fruitless search of nearly an hour,

they turned their horses' heads back towards Brandon, conversing on

what it might be expedient to do next.

By this time, however, the indications of an approaching storm were

visible in the sky. Large clouds, not decked with the fleecy fringes

of the soft spring, but hard, defined, and of a bluish black, were

rising rapidly in the south; and as Edgar and his friend gazed over

the wide scene which presented itself to the eye from the slope just

out of the gates of Barhampton, a curious purple light spread over the

whole, giving to field, and hill, and tree, those intense hues which

are more frequently seen in southern lands.

"Does not that put you in mind of Australia?" asked Captain M----, as

they rode on.

"In some degree," replied Edgar; "but we shall have a fierce storm

soon, or I am much mistaken. We had better leave the downs on the

right, and cross the river by Clive Grange again. It will save us a

mile."

The plan he proposed was followed; but long before they reached the

stream, the storm, which was advancing as if to meet them, broke full

upon their heads. The lightning flashed, and the thunder roared; but

they suffered most from the rain, which poured down in torrents,

mingled with enormous hailstones. On came the tempest, sweeping over

the land, so lately bright and sunny, putting out every gleam of

light, and involving all in a dark mist, only marked by the black

lines of the descending hail.

The two horsemen urged their horses on at a rapid trot, taking the

road past Mead's farm, and along the brow of the hill overhanging the

river, to reach the bridge near Mr. Clive's house; and they remarked,

as they rode along, that the waters below, usually so limpid and

bright, were now turbid and red, whirling in rapid eddies, near the

banks, but rushing on in foam and confusion, in the midst of the

course.

"Why this is quite a torrent," said Captain M----, as they proceeded.

"When we passed this morning it was nothing but a clear trout-stream."

"It is sometimes very furious when there is much rain in the hills,"

replied Edgar. "I remember it carrying away a mill some way higher up;

miller, miller's man, and miller's wife, all went floating down

together in their crazy dwelling; and yet, strange to say, no one was

drowned."

"See, there is Mr. Clive and his daughter coming down the opposite

slope," said the young officer.

"Good heaven! Helen will be drenched in this deluge," exclaimed Edgar;

and he was spurring on his horse to a still faster pace, when an event

occurred which for an instant seemed to turn him to stone.

Helen and her father reached the bottom of the slope, and had already

advanced about two-thirds of the way across the bridge, round the old

piers of which the red torrent was beating angrily, when suddenly the

part just before them gave way, and fell in a large mass into the

river. Clive caught his daughter's arm, and was hurrying back; but the

next instant the part beneath their feet cracked, leaned over to the

side, fell, and with those whom it had supported the moment before,

was plunged into the struggling waters.

For an instant, as I have said, the sight of her he loved so

enthusiastically, likely to perish before his sight, seemed to turn

Edgar Adelon into stone; but it was only for an instant, and springing

from his horse with one bound, he was down the bank, and into the

midst of the torrent. He caught sight of Helen's dress as she rose

again amidst the waters, and struck out strongly towards her, battling

successfully with the fierce rage of the current, till it brought her

down to where he was. His first grasp missed her, but his second

caught her by the arm, and lifting her head above the stream, he

struck back for the shore, holding her far from him, lest, in the

terror and agitation of the moment, she should deprive him of the

means of saving her; but Helen, with wonderful presence of mind, did

not attempt to touch him. The bed of the river, as it has been before

described, was narrow; and the current had luckily drifted her towards

the side of Clive Grange. Thus, a few strong strokes brought Edgar to

the bank, which was there not very steep, and without much difficulty

he lifted her out, and had the joy of holding her in his arms alive.

During the whole of the last events Edgar had remarked nothing that

was passing near him. He saw Helen, and Helen only. He thought of

nothing but Helen; but the moment after she was safe upon the shore,

his thoughts turned to her father, and he looked eagerly around. With

deep satisfaction, however, he perceived at a little distance Captain

M---- helping the old man up the bank; and he discovered afterwards

that his friend had plunged in at the same moment as himself, but that

finding Helen's father was a good swimmer, and was striking for the

shore, he merely kept near him, till he perceived that, when just near

the bank, Clive began to sink. Helen was weak and faint, but she found

strength, to hurry to her father's arms, as he sat upon the turf,

supported by Captain M----; and all her first feelings were joy and

satisfaction when she saw that he was still alive. He did not answer

her when she spoke, however, but pressed his hand tight upon his side,

seeming to breathe with difficulty. The next instant Helen perceived

the blood trickling through his fingers, and clasping her hands

together, she exclaimed, "Oh, Edgar! he is hurt, he is very much

hurt!"

"A little, a little, dear girl!" said Clive, with a great effort. "I

shall soon be better; but it might be as well to send up to the Grange

for some people to carry me up. I am too weak to walk. Thank God! you

are safe, my dear child. It was that heavy beam struck me as we fell."

Edgar sprang away towards the house, and returned in a very short time

with some men carrying a sofa, on which the large, powerful frame of

Mr. Clive was speedily laid, and he was conveyed to the Grange, and

put to bed. It was then found that there was a deep lacerated wound on

the left side of the chest, and an indentation, which seemed to show

that several of the ribs had been broken. A man was immediately sent

to bring the nearest surgeon; and Edgar was watching anxiously with

Helen by the bedside of the injured man, while the lightning still

continued to flash through the room and the thunder to roll overhead,

when one of the maids put her head into the room, saying, "Oh, Mr.

Adelon! here is one of your servants wishes to speak with you."

The woman's face expressed terror and agitation; and Edgar, starting

up, demanded what was the matter.

"Why, he says, sir, that Brandon has caught fire with the lightning,"

replied the woman, "and they wish you to come up directly."

Edgar turned a look to Clive, who said at once, as if in reply, "Go,

Edgar, go. Take the stone bridge higher up. Yet one word, my dear boy,

before you depart."

Edgar approached close to the bedside and bent down his head. "Perhaps

we may never meet again," said Clive, with a good deal of agitation in

his voice. "My Helen, Edgar! What will become of my Helen, if I am

taken from her?"

Edgar took his hand and pressed it warmly. "Eda will be a sister to

her," he said, "and I will be her husband; till then, a brother."

"Go," said Clive, "go! God's will be done! I am sure I may trust you,

Edgar."

"On my honour, on my life, by everything I hold dear!" answered Edgar;

and with one parting caress to Helen, he hurried away.

Captain M---- was waiting for him below with the servant, who was

beginning to pour forth the tale of the disaster at Brandon, when

Edgar cut him short by eagerly demanding, "Where are the horses?"

"They are here in the court," answered Captain M----. "Yours led the

way, and mine followed. This is, indeed, a day of disasters; but I do

hope that no great injury has been done at Brandon, for this rain must

have kept down the fire."

"It was blazing away, sir, like a hundred lime-pits, when I was

sent off to seek you," replied the servant, following them to the

court-yard.

"Were all safe?" demanded Edgar, eagerly; but the man could give him

no satisfactory account of the inmates, merely telling him that the

lightning had struck the older part of the building towards the back,

and that the flames had instantly spread from room to room with the

utmost rapidity and fury.

As the horses had not been unsaddled, no time was lost; and riding up

the stream to a stone bridge about half a mile higher on its course,

they soon reached the gates of Brandon Park. The lodge was empty, the

gates were open; and dashing between the trees of the avenue, so as to

reach the open space whence the house was first visible, Edgar

strained his eyes forward to see whether the fire was still going on.

A good deal of smoke was apparent, rising from one part of the

building, but no flames were to be perceived, and the servant, riding

up to Edgar's side, said, in a glad tone, "They have got it under,

sir. It is very different now from what it was when I came away."

His master paused not to listen, however, but spurred on towards the

terrace, where a number of people were to be seen moving about

confusedly hither and thither, amongst whom, one group might be

distinguished bearing out something that looked like a mattress

towards the court and stable-yard. Edgar thought of his father, and

that chilly feeling came over his heart which is said to be sometimes

premonitory of approaching sorrow. When he came nearer, he perceived

Dudley and Eda following those who had gone on into the court; and he

called loudly to them, for they had not remarked his approach. Dudley

instantly turned, said a word or two to Eda, and then hurried forward

to meet her cousin.

"The fire is extinguished, Edgar," he said, in a grave tone, as they

met. "It is only the second floor and part of the first that are

destroyed. Come with me, and you shall see."

"Is every one safe?" demanded Edgar, gazing in Dudley's face; and

before the other could answer, he added, "My father! Where is my

father?"

His friend did not answer him at once, and he was darting away towards

the court-yard, when Dudley laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Do

not go thither now, Edgar. Come apart with me, and I will tell you

all."

"I must; I will go at once!" exclaimed Edgar Adelon, passing him; and

with a rapid step he hurried on across the terrace, round the angle of

the house, and towards the great gates of the court-yard. On the right

was a large building, used as a billiard-room; and under shelter of

the ornamental porch, Edgar saw Eda, with fair face bedewed with

tears. She instantly came forward to meet him, saying, "Wait a few

moments, Edgar. Do not go in there now, my dear cousin."

But Edgar passed her too, with a sad look, saying, "It must come once,

Eda. Why not now?" When he entered the room he found five or six men

laying a mattress, with some bed-clothes that covered it, upon the

billiard-table, and pushing through them he beheld his father

stretched out, cold and stiff, but with no mark of fire or injury

whatsoever upon him, and a calm and placid look upon his countenance.

The young man gazed upon his parent's face for several moments with a

look of sad, stern thought, while the servants and labourers who were

present drew back as soon as they perceived who it was that

interrupted them in their melancholy task. As he gazed, many memories

crowded on him; paternal tenderness and affection, innumerable sweet

domestic scenes, words spoken long ago, kindly looks and tones of

love; and with that sad feeling which ever takes possession of the

bosom, when with any of the near and dear the silver chain is broken,

the tears rose up into Edgar Adelon's eyes, and fell upon the dead

man's hand.

He wished not to be seen to weep; and turning away without a word, he

gave one hand to Eda, and the other to Dudley, who had been standing

close behind him, and with them left the chamber of the dead.

CHAPTER XLV.

Six or eight hours before Brandon had been one of the most convenient

and comfortable houses in the whole county. Everything about it had

displayed that aspect of ancient and undiminished respectability and

wealth which, thirty years ago, was the general characteristic of the

English gentleman's country seat; and now, when Edgar Adelon, with Eda

and Dudley, entered the hall, although the fire had never reached that

floor, and had but partially destroyed the floor above, the scene of

confusion and disarray left in the mansion scarcely a trace of its

former self. Large quantities of furniture, books, chests of papers,

valuable pictures, and objects of art, were piled up, without order or

regularity, in the hall and the various rooms around it, and streams

of water were flowing over the marble pavement of the vestibule, and

soaking the thick carpets of the drawing-room, the library, and the

dining-room.

Of all seasons, when the empty-minded and the selfish-hearted, who are

inherently bores at all times, are the most oppressive, the season of

grief and anxiety is foremost. At other moments we are obliged to

tolerate them, as one of the evils of a high state of refinement. Do

not let any one suppose this a paradox; for there is no doubt of the

fact, that as "the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog," (I do not know

that I quote very accurately), so a refined state of society generates

both empty heads and cold hearts. At other times, I say, we bear them

as one of the evils of our social state; but then they become

perfectly intolerable. We find, then, that there are human beings in

every outward form and lineament like ourselves, who, nevertheless,

are not of our nature, nor, apparently, of our race; we feel, or we

fancy, that monkeys might be princes amongst them.

Eda had a great deal to suffer from creatures of this kind during that

day. The peer, and the baronet, and the wealthy esquire, had returned

from their several occupations in time to witness the conflagration at

Brandon; and after having taken care of their horses and their

carriages, and all their other effects, they had gathered together to

interrupt the servants and country people by giving assistance. As

soon as they saw Eda, however, enter the house with her cousin and Mr.

Dudley, they found it courteous to go in and condole with her; and

although she bore the infliction with wonderful patience, Edgar did

not approach by any means so near to the character of Job.

One or two of his brisk sayings soon scattered the party, and after

having, in a very polite manner, ascertained that the fire was

entirely extinguished, the three gentlemen I have mentioned took their

leave, got their carriages and horses, and departed. Dudley made no

show of going, for he knew that he should still be a welcome guest;

and Captain M---- also remained, though not till he had received a

pressing request from Edgar to do so.

"We can put you up somewhere," he said; "and there are things to be

investigated, in which, perhaps, you can help me. Stay with us here in

the library, M----, now that those tiresome people are away, and let

me inquire how this fire originated in reality, and how my poor father

met with his death. I do not understand all this," he added, solemnly

and sternly. "There is no trace of fire upon my father's person. I

have strange suspicions; and before I give way to grief I must think

of justice. I must see the people who first entered his room;" and

going to the door, he gave orders to one of the servants in the hall

to bring all those who had been present at the early part of the

catastrophe into the library.

"This is a sad business for us all, dear Eda," he said, turning

towards his cousin, who was seated in the recess of one of the

windows, from time to time wiping the tears from her eyes. "Your

beautiful place is well nigh destroyed."

"Would I could repair your loss, Edgar," replied Eda, "as easily as

mine can be repaired."

"It must be some comfort to you, Edgar," said Dudley, who had hitherto

scarcely spoken a word, "to know that your father did not suffer. It

is impossible that any violence could have been offered to him; it is

equally impossible that the fire can have reached him or injured him

in any way; and I am inclined to think that he was never conscious of

its existence, for I was one of the first who entered his room;

indeed, there were only two who mounted the stairs before me; and when

I strove to wake him I found that he was no more; nay, his hand was

quite cold. The room, indeed, was full of smoke, but the air was not

sufficiently loaded to suffocate any one who was not in a fainting

fit, or exceedingly debilitated."

"Who was there first?" demanded Edgar.

"The butler and Martin Oldkirk ran up together," replied Dudley; "and

I followed as soon as I had seen Eda upon the terrace. For some time

we did not at all imagine the house was on fire, although there was a

strong smell of burning wood; but at length the smoke came rolling

down the stairs, and at the same time, it seems, one of the keepers

from the park rushed into the offices, saying that the whole roof was

in flames."

"Ah! here come the men!" cried Edgar. "Now, Martin Oldkirk, my good

friend, stand forward and tell me what you found, when first you went

into my father's room."

"It was the butler, sir, went in first," said Martin Oldkirk. "I was

waiting in his pantry, as I had been ordered; and when the alarm of

fire came he ran on first, saying he must save Sir Arthur, and I

followed. There was a good deal of smoke in the room, but no fire;

indeed, it is uninjured even now. We both ran to the bed, and found

Sir Arthur lying upon it, but there was no sign of life about him. Mr.

Dudley came in the next moment, and the valet a minute after. Sir

Arthur was dressed as he is now; and we took him up and carried him

down, first to the dining-hall, and then out to the billiard-room, as

you saw."

"You are sure there was nobody in the room when you entered?" asked

Edgar Adelon.

"No one, sir," replied Oldkirk; "but there was a packet of papers,

written in a hand which I know well, and so I took it up, and have got

it here."

"Give it to me," said Edgar; and gazing at the first lines he

exclaimed, "This is Filmer's handwriting. That man must have been in

the house when we went away. This letter is dated to-day, and it was

not there when I left my father. I charge you, my friends, most

solemnly, to tell me if any of you have seen him within the last four

hours."

"Oh yes! Mr. Edgar," said one of the grooms, coming forward. "He went

away about an hour and a-half or two hours ago. I saddled his horse

for him."

"I am sure he was in Sir Arthur's room just about luncheon time," said

the valet; "for knowing that my master was not well, I went up to see

if he wanted anything, and not liking to disturb him, I listened at

the door. I heard some people speaking loud, and I can swear that one

of the voices was Father Peter's. It was just about the time when the

storm began."

Edgar gazed gloomily at the papers in his hand, and Dudley demanded,

"Did you hear any of the words, sir, that passed?"

"Why, Sir Arthur seemed very angry," replied the man; "and I heard him

cry out, 'Villain, villain, villain!' I should have opened the door,

and had my hand upon the lock, but then Sir Arthur went on speaking

more quietly, so that I was sure no one was hurting him."

"Let us ascertain at once," said Captain M----, "how the fire really

originated; for this affair, it seems to me, will assume a very

serious aspect if it cannot be shown that it was caused by the

lightning, as we have been led to suppose."

"Oh! Lord bless ye; yes, sir, it was caused by the lightning, sure

enough," replied one of the keepers. "Why, as I was standing on

Little-green hill, as we call it, just at t'other side of the park,

towards the back there, I saw something come down from the sky in a

great stream, just as I have seen a man pour out a ladleful of lighted

pitch, only ten times at fast, and it hit the corner of the roof, and

in a minute all the slates flew about like dust, and then there was a

blaze just at the same place. So I took to my heels as fast as

possible, and never stopped running till I got into the servants'

hall, but by that time the place was all in a blaze."

"That is so far satisfactory," said Captain M----; "and I believe, my

dear Adelon," he added, "you will find that the melancholy event,

which we must all deplore, has taken place by natural causes. It is

probable that the conversation between your father and Mr. Filmer was

of an angry and agitating character. Sir Arthur, who was much shaken

in the morning, was ill able to bear fresh anxiety or sorrow. He may

have again fainted before or after the priest left him, and the

suffocating effect of the smoke may have done the rest. You add to

your grief, which must be poignant enough, by suspicions, for which,

at present, I see no cause."

"No cause, my friend!" said Edgar. "If you could look at this paper

which I hold in my hand, but which I dare not show you or any one, you

would see at once that there is cause to suspect that bad man of

anything; for there is nothing evil, nothing wicked, which he has not

done himself, or prompted others to do, and which he boldly avows here

as the means to a great end. That end must, indeed, be accursed, to

which such means are necessary. That can never be holy which treads

such unholy paths. This paper will give me matter for deep thought,[3]

may make a change in all my views, and may teach me to renounce many

opinions instilled into me in youth, if I should find that a religion,

which I have hitherto considered pure and holy, naturally requires

fraud, ignorance, and wrong, for its support. I say not how I shall

act, I know not how I shall act; but I do say, and I do know, that

this thing will force upon me a review of all my previous convictions,

and I trust that God will give me understanding to judge in the end

aright."

"Pray God it be so!" said Eda Brandon; but she said no more, although

she felt, and had ever felt, that a religion which pretended to rest

upon revelation, and yet withheld that revelation from the great mass

of the people, commenced with an error which has characterised every

pagan idolatry, and opened the way to corruptions the most gross, and

abominations the most foul.

Every one else was silent for a moment, and then Edgar moved his hand,

saying, "I will keep you no longer, my good friends. Perhaps your

testimony may be wanted in a more formal inquiry on a future day. But,

in the mean time, remember that this man, this Mr. Filmer, whom we

have all been accustomed most mistakenly to reverence, has been proved

to be guilty of the most horrible deceits, and is charged with crimes

of a very serious character. If, then, any of you should meet with

him, hear of him, or know where he is to be found, it is your duty to

give him up to justice, that the accusations against him may be

patiently investigated. At present, you had better go and get some

refreshment after all your labours; and I am sure my cousin will

reward and thank you for the services you have rendered."

The strength of mental exertion seemed to have kept him up till the

servants and others, who had been summoned to the library, quitted the

room; but when they were gone, he threw himself down in a chair,

before the large table where his father had so often sat, and resting

his arms upon it, bent down his head till his eyes were hid upon them,

and remained thus in silence for several minutes, while Eda, and

Dudley, and Captain M----, spoke together earnestly, but in a low

voice.

By this time the shades of evening were beginning to come over the

sky, and although the rain had ceased, the clouds were heavy and dark.

Yet a gleam of yellow light was seen beneath, towards the west, and

Dudley, laying his hand upon Eda's, said, "See, Eda, there is hope in

the midst of sorrow: I will go and speak to Edgar. There are many

things more painful in the events of the day than even the death of a

father whom he loved. He must be roused by new incitements to action;

and there is cause, too, for exertion."

Advancing a step or two towards Edgar, he laid his hand upon his

shoulder gently, saying, "Do not give way, my friend. Heavy sorrows

have befallen you; but there are duties to be performed, efforts to be

made, important steps to be considered. Our friend, Captain M----,

tells me that poor Mr. Clive has met with a terrible accident, and it

is his opinion that Helen Clive may both have to encounter fresh

grief, and be left without protection or comfort."

Edgar started up as if his words had roused a new spirit within him,

and Dudley continued thus:--"Under these circumstances, Eda is

inclined to take refuge at the Grange, where there is plenty of room.

She would not do so if she did not look upon Helen, and Helen did not

look upon her, as a sister."

Edgar started forward, in his impetuous way, towards his fair cousin,

and taking her hand, pressed his lips upon it with tears in his eyes.

"Thank you, Eda," he said; "thank you for Helen, thank you for myself.

I know what leads you to the Grange, and I must go with you."

"We will all go down," said Dudley. "I trust that our evil

anticipations may be found premature; but should the worst happen,

Helen will need all the comfort that can be given to her. There are

many things, however, first to be done here, Edgar; and although I now

boldly claim a right to act on Eda's behalf, yet it is but fitting

that her nearest and dearest surviving relation should join his voice

to mine in all matters. There is another task, Edgar, which you must

entrust to me. Painful as it must be, I think I can promise to perform

it according to your wishes; and in the few cases where a doubt may

occur to me, as to how I should act, I will apply to yourself."

Edgar pressed his hand warmly in his own, murmuring, "Dudley, we are

brothers;" and Dudley, turning away his head for a moment, answered,

"Come, Edgar, we must give directions for restoring some degree of

order here, and for setting a watch, to ensure, that if the fire

should break out again in any place where it is yet smouldering, it

shall be extinguished at once. Then we will all go down to the Grange;

and after seeing what is the state of poor Mr. Clive, Captain

M---- and myself will leave you and Eda there, and find lodgings for

the night somewhere in the neighbourhood."

Much, indeed, remained to be done, and many orders to be given before

the party could set out; but the mind of Edgar Adelon, in many scenes

of trial and difficulty, had gained much strength since first we saw

him; and to a strong mind exertion is relief, even under the load of

grief.

CHAPTER XLVI.

The clouds had passed away from the sky, the stars shone out clear and

bright, when Edgar Adelon, with his cousin Eda, Edward Dudley, and

Helen, stood by the bed-side of Mr. Clive; but the clouds of sorrow

had not yet passed from the minds of any there present: the star of

Hope was hidden, though it might still be in the sky. There was a

surgeon sitting by the sick man's side, with his hand upon the pulse,

Helen's eyes were fixed eagerly upon the face of the man of healing,

but after a moment or two he raised his look to hers, and shook his

head gravely.

"It is of no use, my child," said Clive, in a low and feeble tone. "I

am on the eve of the long departure. I feel death gaining upon me

fast; life is at an end, and with it manifold cares, sorrows, and

apprehensions. I am going, I trust, to a happier place, where none of

these things can disturb me, and where your beloved mother has long

been awaiting me. This feeling, this hope, would make my going very

tranquil, were it not that even now all the tender yearnings of a

father's heart for the welfare of his child are as strong upon me as

ever, Helen. Oh! who can ever know till they have felt it, what fears,

what hopes, what thoughts, and cares for the beloved ones, rush

through a father's heart and brain at every moment of existence, and

make his life one long care for them. I ought not to let them disturb

me now, in this last solemn scene; but still, Helen, your fate is my

anxiety, my only anxiety."

Helen wept; but Edgar Adelon once more came forward to the dying man's

bed-side, and said, with an earnest, though low-toned voice, "Be not

anxious, Mr. Clive; sweep that anxiety away. Helen is mine, as soon as

ever she will. I am now, alas, my own master, to do as I think best. I

am certain that this is best;" and he took Helen's hand, and kissed

it. "But there may be anxieties even beyond that, Mr. Clive," he

added. "You may think that though she be the wife of Edgar Adelon, she

may yet be an unhappy wife; but here I vow, as solemnly as man can vow

anything, that my whole existence shall be devoted to her happiness.

If ever any of those things which men say disturb domestic

tranquillity: a hasty word, an angry feeling, a discontented thought

should occur, although my deep love now tells me they cannot, I will

think of this moment; I will think of this promise; I will think of

the fate of my own dear mother; and I will hasten to atone to Helen

with all my heart. You know me, Mr. Clive; you know how I have loved

her from boyhood; and I think you will not doubt that I shall love her

to the end."

"I do not doubt you, Edgar," said Mr. Clive, very, very faintly. "I

have watched and known you from a boy, as you say, and I know that

your enthusiasms, in love or friendship, are not only warm, but

enduring. Mine have been so too, but there has been too much vehemence

with me. I doubt not your intentions in the least either; but I only

doubt that others may interfere to forbid that which you are yourself

thoroughly disposed to perform. You say that you are your own master:

I know not what you mean."

Edgar shook his head sadly, and replied, "My father has gone where her

father is going. We have been children together, and we shall be

orphans together. In all things our fate will be united. She is mine;

I am hers; and in heart and spirit, in love and truth, in hopes and

fears, in joys and sorrows, on this earth and I trust in heaven, we

shall be one."

"Amen!" said Mr. Clive; and raising his hand, as if in the act of

giving a solemn benediction, his head sunk back on the pillow, and the

spirit took its flight.

* * * * *

* * * * *

There were many tears shed at Brandon House and Clive Grange; and on

one day, followed by the same mourners, carried to the same burial

ground, that of the old Priory, the representatives of the ancient and

noble houses of Adelon and Clive were committed to the earth. They had

died in the same faith in which they and their ancestors lived; and a

Roman Catholic priest, as amiable and excellent as he whom it has been

my painful task in these pages to depict was base and evil, solemnised

the last rites of their church amongst the mouldering remains of ages

past away.

Some months went by, and Eda Brandon and Helen Clive kept their

mourning state at the Grange, while Edgar took up his abode at the

lodge of Brandon Park, and surrounded with books, seemed to forget

himself in deep study, except during those hours which he spent with

her he loved.

Dudley was absent more than once, and remained absent for several

weeks at a time; but Eda Brandon did not think his passion cooled, and

she knew there was no cause to suppose so; for he was engaged in

sweeping the last trace of the convict from his name, and recording

the proofs of his innocence in such a manner that doubt or shame could

never visit him. He had property to claim, too, and to receive, which

removed all suspicion that he sought wealth rather than love in his

marriage with Eda Brandon; and towards the autumn, about the same

period of the year when he had first visited Brandon Park, his fate

was united with hers, on the same day that Helen became the wife of

Edgar Adelon.

To say that every trace of the events which had so chequered Dudley's

early life with dark shadows was swept away, even in the intense joy

of his union with her he loved, would be false, for there was a shade

rested upon him; but perhaps, although his happiness was of a graver

cast than it might have been had unvarying prosperity shone upon his

whole career, it was not less deep, less full, less enduring.

Edgar Adelon's joy in his marriage with Helen Clive was brighter and

more lively. People somewhat wondered that the benediction of the

Romish church was not asked to his union with Helen Clive; but it

speedily became rumoured that both had, a few days before, in a quiet

and unostentatious manner, renounced the errors in which they had been

brought up. Inquiry had produced conviction, and they acted with open

minds and clear consciences, knowing that neither persuasion, nor

sophistry, nor interest, had been allowed to have any effect; but that

the simple study of that holy Word, which is closed in so many

countries of the earth to those who seek the waters of life, had given

them a knowledge of the truth, which none could take from them.

The fate of Mr. Filmer remained a mystery. He was never again seen in

England; but Captain M----, while on his bridal tour through Italy,

wrote to his friends at Brandon, that amongst the monks at Camaldoli

he had caught sight of a face which he was convinced was that of

Father Peter; and it is certain that, not long after, with money which

came from that country, Daniel Connor set out for Rome, and joined

himself to a religious community of the most severe and penitential

rule.

Martin Oldkirk was well provided for by Dudley and Edgar Adelon; and

though he remained a stern and somewhat thoughtful man, and retained a

feeling of wrathful grief at the remembrance that words of his,

perverted by the priest, should have been used to destroy the

happiness of an innocent and beloved mistress, yet his heart was

softened by prosperity and opened to enjoyment.

Norries is still living in Australia. It is supposed he might have

obtained a full pardon some time ago, if he had thought fit to apply

for it; but such was not the case; and contented where he is, he goes

on seeing a new population growing up around him, to whom, from time

to time, he communicates his own transcendental notions on political

subjects; but he has gained experience from the past, and whatever he

may seek himself, or teach others to aim at, he always inculcates the

doctrine, that moral force is the only just means by which a triumph

can be obtained over injustice or wrong.

"The axe, the sword, and the pike," he says, "belonged to ages when

the physical triumphed over the intellectual. The age of reason and of

mental power has begun, and truth and argument are the weapons with

which the bad must be conquered, and the good armed for battle. The

thunder of a nation's voice is worth the roar of a thousand cannon;

and knowledge, and conscience, and right, are arms which no armies can

withstand."

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: This word is usually wrongly written _ærie_, as if

derived from _aer_ or _air_, but I am convinced it comes from the

German word _ey_, an egg.]

[Footnote 2: These fish in the Murrumbidgee and other rivers sometimes

reach the weight of a hundred or a hundred and twenty pounds. They are

evidently genuine perch, although the colonists call them river cod.]

[Footnote 3: The little history of a life here referred to, may be

given to the public at a future period, as it is neither uninteresting

nor uninstructive; but, for various reasons, it must not be printed at

present.]

THE END.