Title: The Wizard of West Penwith - A Tale of the Land's-End
Author: Forfar, William Bentinck
Language: English
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THE WIZARD OF WEST PENWITH,

A Tale of the Land's-End;

BY

WILLIAM BENTINCK FORFAR,

AUTHOR OF "PENTOWAN," "PENGERSICK CASTLE,"
"KYNANCE COVE," &c., &c.

PENZANCE:
W. CORNISH, THE LIBRARY,

1871.


[Illustration: THE AWFUL RIDE. See Page 49.]



PREFACE.


In writing my Cornish Tales I have always endeavoured to pourtray the
Cornish character in all its native wit and humour, for which the
genuine west-country miners are so proverbial. And I have generally
taken for the foundation of my Stories incidents which have really
happened in the localities wherein the actions of my little dramas have
been laid.

The scene of my present story is laid in the neighbourhood of the
Land's-End, and most of the characters were well-known there in days
gone by;--the names only being fictitious.

The fall of the horse over the cliff is still in the remembrance of some
old people in the neighbourhood; and the circumstance is related by the
Guides who shew the beauties of the Land's-End scenery to strangers. The
marks of the horse's hoofs in the grass at the edge of the cliff are
preserved to this day.

The Wizard (or Conjuror as he was called) was a notorious character at
St. Just, some fifty years ago;--and the horrid murder related in these
pages; and the mistaken identity of the guilty parties are also
veritable facts.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown were well-known characters, and are drawn from real
life.

This brief sketch of some of the scenes and characters to be found in
this little volume may perhaps add an interest to it, and induce a large
number of the lovers of Cornish lore to honour it with a perusal.

PLYMOUTH,
March, 1871.



CONTENTS.


CHAPTER                                                     PAGE
      I. Mr. Freeman                                           3

     II. The Wreck near the Land's-End                         8

    III. Alrina                                               12

     IV. The Unexpected Meeting                               16

      V. John Brown and his favorite mare Jessie              21

     VI. The Family Party                                     25

    VII. Murder most foul                                     30

   VIII. The Wizard                                           36

     IX. Love and Mystery                                     40

      X. Alrina's troubles increase                           42

     XI. Frederick Morley obstinately determines to ride
           the mare                                           45

    XII. The awful ride                                       47

   XIII. Its consequences                                     50

    XIV. Mrs. Brown tells the Conjuror a bit of her mind      53

     XV. The mysterious stranger at the Penzance Ball         56

    XVI. Josiah's astonishment at the effect produced by the
           display of his Treasure-trove                      60

   XVII. The borrowed feathers of the peacock fail to conceal
           entirely the plumage of the jackdaw                64

  XVIII. The birds have taken flight                          67

    XIX. The mysterious encounter                             71

     XX. Aristocratic connections                             76

    XXI. The Love-chase                                       81

   XXII. Alrina's first Love-letter                           88

  XXIII. The Secret                                           92

   XXIV. Man is born to trouble and disappointment as the
           sparks fly upwards                                 98

    XXV. Retrospection and recrimination                     106

   XXVI. Squire Pendray gets on his stilts and views
           Lieut. Fowler from a lofty eminence               113

  XXVII. The step in the wrong direction                     117

 XXVIII. By doing a little wrong, great good is accomplished
           in the end                                        122

   XXIX. Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Trenow indulge in a croom
           o' chat, while Cap'n Trenow gives some sage
           advice in another quarter                         125

    XXX. The two sisters pierced through the heart           134

   XXXI. Out of Scylla and into Charybdis                    139

  XXXII. Alrina's troubles are increased by an unexpected
           discovery                                         143

 XXXIII. Alrina visits a kind friend and makes a proposal    149

  XXXIV. Captain Courland's return and his wife's anxiety    154

   XXXV. The desperate plunge                                159

  XXXVI. The broken reed                                     168

 XXXVII. Josiah's lonely midnight watch in the Conjuror's
           house                                             174

XXXVIII. The Search                                          179

  XXXIX. The unexpected meeting and mysterious communication 184

     XL. Miss Pendray's singular accident                    191

    XLI. Mysterious sounds are heard issuing out of the
           earth at midnight. The curious cottage on the
           heath                                             195

   XLII. The poor dumb girl's sudden resolve, and its
           consequences                                      202

  XLIII. The Confession                                      206

   XLIV. Mrs. Brown enjoys another croom o' chat with
           Mrs. Trenow, and receives an unexpected
           visitor                                           210

    XLV. An awful catastrophe                                219

   XLVI. The dreaded interview                               224

  XLVII. Mysteries explained                                 229

 XLVIII. A brilliant Cornish diamond discovered and
           placed in a golden casket                         232

   XLIX. The wedding-bells                                   239



The Wizard of West Penwith.



CHAPTER I.

MR. FREEMAN.


Very near the most westerly point of Great Britain, and not very far
from the promontory called Cape Cornwall, you may see, as you glide
along the coast in your pleasure-boat of a calm summer's evening, a
pretty little fishing-cove, in shape like a horse-shoe,--the two extreme
points being formed by the projecting rocks on either side of the
entrance,--the interior, or curved part, immediately under the main
land, having a beautiful beach of white sand, on which boats can land
with safety, when piloted by those who know the coast outside; for the
little cove is guarded by hidden rocks, and is as safe in rough weather
against invasion by the uninitiated, as if it had been fortified by a
range of well-appointed batteries. Above this beach the cliffs rise
gradually, and various zigzag footpaths are formed by the constant tread
of the sailors and others who frequent the cove in going to and coming
from the main land.

About a mile inland is a village of some importance, inhabited by
sailors of various kinds, and miners and small farmers who occupy a few
acres of land, and fill up their spare time by working at the
neighbouring mines, either as mine labourers, or as carriers with their
horses and carts.

This part of the coast of Cornwall is almost studded with mines, whose
lodes, for the most part, run out under the sea; and although they are,
consequently, very expensive to work, yet many of them have given large
and continuous dividends to the adventurers.

As many of these rich mines were discovered by accident, it may easily
be imagined that the smallest indication of a metallic lode in the
neighbourhood causes great excitement, and often leads to the
expenditure of large sums of money in forming companies and searching
for the riches, which in very many instances are never found.

The village of St. Just was not, at the period when our story commences,
the important place that it is at present;--it could even then, however,
boast of a tolerably comfortable inn in the square, and an inferior
public-house in the outskirts of the village.

On a dark, tempestuous, winter's night, there sat in the kitchen or
public room of the inn, a goodly company, who had assembled to see the
old year out and the new year in--and more than this; for they would
also on this night witness the termination of one century, and the
commencement of another. A huge fire was burning on the hearth, and two
or three of the older men had ensconced themselves in the
chimney-corner. In those days the fire was made on the flat stones in
the chimney in these old houses, with wood and sticks, or peat; and
there was room round it, for those who did not mind the smoke, to sit
and enjoy a close proximity to the fire, while the others sat round
outside the fireplace, having a small table before them, on which was
placed the foaming eggy-hot, and the hot beer and sugar, made more
potent by the addition of an unlimited quantity of brandy. The wind was
howling dismally in the open chimney, and rattling the doors and
windows, as if angry at being shut out. As the night advanced the storm
seemed to increase; but the comforts of the bright fire and warm room,
and the good cheer before them, made the party feel the more happy and
exhilarated, from the reflection that they were sheltered from the storm
without. The song and jest went round, and many a thrilling story was
told by the elders in the chimney-corner, which made some of the younger
men draw closer to the fire and take an extra glass of the warm liquor
with which the table was supplied; for superstitious fear was indulged
in by all, more or less, in those days, and both old and young, rich and
poor, loved to hear a tale of horror, although it invariably made them
afraid of their own shadows, until daylight appeared again to dispel the
vapours of the night, and the toils of the day left no room for idle
thoughts or fancies.

In the innermost recess of the chimney-corner, almost hidden by the
smoke, sat a sedate looking man, who appeared so absorbed in his own
thoughts, that he did not seem to take much interest in the tales that
amused and interested his companions so much, except that, when a tale
of more than usual horror was told, a slight smile would steal over his
countenance, and he would change his pipe from one side of his mouth to
the other. In years he might have been about fifty, but in appearance he
was ten years older at least; not from any natural defect or want of the
usual stamina and vigour generally displayed by men of his age, but from
an eccentric habit he had contracted of affecting the old man,--for what
reason was best known to himself. His habits and mode of life were very
different from those of Cornishmen generally;--he had come into the
neighbourhood some years before in a mysterious manner, but how he came,
or where he came from, no one seemed to know. He had acquired somehow a
good deal of useful knowledge, and therefore he had the power frequently
of working upon the superstitious fears of his neighbours; and,
although he did not pursue any particular trade or calling, he did not
seem to want for money, for he lived comfortably and paid liberally for
his supplies; and, although he was reserved and unsociable as a general
rule, yet he liked meeting his neighbours in the public room at the inn,
where he could sit in the chimney-corner and smoke his pipe, and listen
to their conversation, which he seldom joined in; and when he had
gathered from them all the information they could impart, he would
occasionally gratify them by telling some thrilling story.

It was generally believed that he had something on his mind which
troubled him at times, but what it was no one could tell. There he sat,
as usual, on this tempestuous night, smoking his pipe and listening to
the conversation of his companions.

At length one of the party, addressing him, said,--

"Come, Maister Freeman, we've all had our turn; now you tell es one of
your stories,--they be clain off, they be."

"Well," said he, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and knocking out the
ashes on his hand, "I'll tell you a tale; but remember, mine are true
stories. The one I am about to relate happened in your own
neighbourhood. Your superstitious fears will, perhaps, make you afraid
to visit the spot again, if I tell it on such a terrible night as this,
after the stories you have already heard."

"No! no!" exclaimed his audience, "out weth et, whatever 'tes, Maister."

"Well, then," he began, "you all know the ruins of the old chapel above
Cape Cornwall, called Chapel Carn Brea, and the little hillocks that
surround it like graves in the churchyard."

A shudder passed round the room at the mention of this well-known spot,
for it was believed by most people that those ruins of the old chapel
were haunted by evil spirits; so the little circle drew their seats
nearer to the chimney, and instinctively looked round, as if they
expected to see some sprite or pixey enter through the keyhole at the
bare mention of so uncanny a spot at this hour of the night.

"Those little mounds or hillocks," continued Mr. Freeman, "are said to
be the graves of the Druid priests and ancient kings of Cornwall, and it
is also said that all their riches were buried with them; but it was
never known whether this was so or not, for no one had had the courage
to disturb the remains of these holy men. I had no such scruples,--so
one moonlight night, soon after I came here to reside, I took my pickaxe
and shovel, went up to the old ruins, and selected the largest mound and
began my work with a hopeful mind, for I believed that I should be
rewarded in the end by a rich booty. The earth on the top was soft and
easy to work, but as I got down it became harder. I worked with a will
for several hours, and got down several feet before the day began to
dawn. It was a lonely spot, in the dead of the night, to be working
in:--I could hear the waves as they dashed against the high cliffs under
Cape Cornwall, and I sometimes fancied I heard voices calling to me out
of the waves. I must confess, my courage nearly failed me, more than
once; but I took several pulls at my brandy-bottle, and thought of the
treasure underneath, and worked on.

"When the day began to dawn I left my work, intending to come the next
night and finish it. I knew that no one would venture there if they
could avoid it, even in the daytime, but I did not wish to be seen
working there;--the sight of an open grave in that spot would, I well
knew, scare people away, even if anyone was bold enough to approach it
during the day. A few hours' work more, I thought, would bring me to the
bottom, and then I should reap my reward. So the next night I took my
tools again and repaired to the spot, when, to my utter astonishment, I
found the grave filled in, and all my labour lost.

"In vain I looked about for some clue to the mystery; I could see no
one; so I set to work again, and soon threw up the loose earth, and came
down to the hard ground. I worked harder than any man ever worked for
his daily bread, and at last my pick touched something hard, which I
fancied at first was a rock. I carefully cleared the earth round it, and
found that it was a large stone slab, and, from the sound, I was
convinced it was hollow beneath. The moon was shining brightly, and
threw its light right into the grave, so that I could see the stone
distinctly, and could discern figures cut on it. Here, then, was the
coffin, no doubt; and it doubtless contained the coveted treasures. I
tried to raise the cover, but it baffled all my skill and strength;--I
found that the pit would have to be made much larger, and even then it
might require the united strength of two or three men to get the cover
up. I was then in the grave, which was deep enough to hide me entirely
from the view of anyone on the surface. While I was thus deliberating
what I should do, I heard a loud shriek just above my head. I got up,
with some difficulty, expecting to see some unfortunate traveller
transfixed superstitiously to the side of the grave, with his hair
standing on end, and his knees knocking together with fear and terror;
but there was no one to be seen. Again I was obliged to abandon my work
for the time, and again I returned the next night and found the grave
filled in as before. They say 'the third time is lucky,' said I to
myself,--so, nothing daunted, I went to work again, for I had now proof
positive that there was a hollow stone coffin underneath, which no doubt
contained the coveted treasure.

"Who the intruder was I neither knew nor cared, except that I did not
like the trouble of going over my work so many times, but now I was
determined to complete it.

"I got down to the stone slab again, and this time I had lengthened the
grave considerably at each end, and I thought I might be able to raise
the lid. I drove the point of my pick under the stone, and was about to
raise it, when I heard the same shriek I had heard on the previous
night,--and I felt at the same time a shower of earth falling all round
me.

"'Self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and so, to escape being
buried alive, I scrambled out of the grave as fast as I could; and on
looking over the heap of earth, thrown up round the sides of the grave,
I saw a figure moving swiftly away,--but whether it was a man or a
woman, or an imp of darkness, I could not tell, for my toe slipped out
of the notch I had made for a footstep, and I fell headlong into the
grave again; but, fearing another shower of earth, I scrambled out the
best way I could, and went home, determined to give up my search after
riches; for I felt sure that, as I had failed the third time, it was
useless to attempt again."

"Zackly like that," said the landlord, who had been busily supplying his
guests with more liquor at intervals, during the recital of the
tale;--"who wor she, I wondar?"

"Who should she be but one of the pixies?" replied a tall, stout,
well-built young man, who had been listening with breathless attention
to the story.

"Hould thy tongue, 'Siah Trenow," said an elderly man, rising from his
seat in the chimney-corner, and taking a long pull at the jug of hot
beer and sugar which the landlord had placed on the table;--"thee'st
nevar knaw nothen. I'll tell 'ee, na, tes like as this here. How could a
pixie handle a showl for to showley in the stuff again, I should like to
knaw; and where could a pixie get a showl from?"

"What wor aw like, so fur as you could see, Maister Freeman?" continued
he, turning round to where that gentleman had been sitting a minute
ago,--when, to his astonishment, he saw that the seat was vacant.

"Why he's gone like the snoff of a candle, soas!"

"That's zackly like he, na," said the landlord; "he'll tell a story till
he do bring 'ee up to a point, and then lev 'ee to gees the rest; esn't
et so, Peggy?"

"I'll tell 'ee, soas," said the young man who had been addressed as
''Siah Trenow,' but whose proper Christian name was 'Josiah,' "he do
knaw bra' things. Why, he ha' got a gashly g'eat room up there that
nobody can go in but he, where he do count the stars, so they do say."

"Iss fie," said the landlord, whose name was Brown; "many people can
tell about the conjuring and things, up there."

"Hush, Brown," exclaimed his wife; "you do knaw that when we lost so
many pigs you wor glad enough for to go to Maister Freeman for to knaw
something about them; and he tould 'ee, so you said, and you b'lieved
every word he tould 'ee,--so don't you bark nor growl. His dafter, Miss
Reeney, tould me last week that she shud think that Old Nick wor up
there sometimes weth her fe-a-thar, they do keep such a caparous,--and
I've got my thofts, too, soas!"

"Come! come! Mrs. Brown," exclaimed 'Siah Trenow, rising up in an
excited manner; "don't you bring Miss Reeney's name in weth her
fe-a-thar's doings, or else I'll----"

"Arreah! thon," replied Mrs. Brown; "that's the way the maggot do jump,
es et? Iss sure! Miss Reeney es a bra' tidy maid; an' f'rall she do
prink herself up so fine sometimes, and b'en to boarding-school, and all
that, and do knaw bra' things, she ha' got nothin' to do weth her
fe-a-thar's conjuring-room upstairs, I do believe in my conscience,
soas; and ef 'Siah ha' got a mind to her, there's wus than she a bra'
deal;--but he do hold his nose brave an' high, soas, don't aw?"

"Miss Reeney esn't the only woman that do live in that house, you knaw,"
said the old man who had spoken first, with a knowing wink.

"No, sure, there's Miss Freeman herself," said Mrs. Brown, pursing up
her lips; "she's a good catch, they do say."

"That's very well," said Mr. Brown, laughing at his wife's wit.

"Brown," said that good lady, "mind your own business;--what have you
got to say about Miss Freeman, I shud like to knaw?"

This remark shut up poor Mr. Brown entirely; and whether this discussion
of the merits and demerits of Miss Freeman and her niece Alrina
(familiarly called Reeney) would have proceeded much further, it is
difficult to say; for just at that moment a man, who had evidently been
out for a considerable time in the storm, burst into the room, and said
there was a vessel wrecked off Pendeen Point.



CHAPTER II.

THE WRECK NEAR THE LAND'S-END.


The sound of a wreck was sufficient, at any time, to rouse the most
lethargic; and old and young rose at once, and left the comfortable fire
and warm mixtures, and crowded round the new comer to hear the
particulars. All he could tell them, however, was that there was a
vessel in distress off the Point; he and several others had heard the
gun. She was not a wreck yet, the man said, but it could not be long
before she must strike,--for the weather was terrific, and the wind was
blowing right in; so he ran up to the village to give the alarm. There
was not a moment's hesitation among the listeners,--everyone prepared to
go down to the Point at once.

Some took ropes, and some took baskets, or bags, or whatever came to
hand; and each man got his lantern, and away they started to the scene
of distress. The wind was blowing a fearful hurricane, and the rain was
falling heavily, beating into the faces of the foremost, and almost
taking away the breath of the older and weaker of the party. As they
proceeded, others came out of their houses and joined them,--women as
well as men. On they went through the storm, with their hats and bonnets
tied down with handkerchiefs or pieces of string, to keep them from
being blown away. Noble creatures! thus to brave the storm on such a
night as this, for the sake of saving the lives and relieving the
sufferings of their fellow-creatures in distress.

To save life, however, was not the only object these poor people had in
view; nor was it, I fear, the principal one with a great many. When a
vessel was wrecked on the Cornish coast, in those days, it was believed
by most of the lower orders, that all that was washed ashore, became the
undoubted property of anyone who was fortunate enough to pick it up; and
so a wreck was looked upon as a God-send, and everyone took care of
himself, and sometimes returned with a rich booty.

At length they arrived at the Point, or as near it as it was prudent to
approach in this dreadful storm. The night was too dark for them to
distinguish the vessel; but as the gun was fired at intervals, the flash
enabled them to see that she was not far from the rocks, on which she
might strike at any moment, and all must perish; for no boat could go
out to their rescue, nor could a boat from the vessel live a single
moment in such a sea.

Although the watchers remained some hundreds of yards from the Point,
the sea dashed up every now and then against the high cliff, and
drenched them with its spray; but still they continued to watch--their
lanterns giving out a dim line of light as they stood closely packed
together, sheltering one another from the wind and rain. Another gun was
fired, and the watchers saw that the vessel was close upon the breakers.
A dreadful shriek was now borne towards them by the wind, which was
blowing towards the shore, and now they knew that all was over and that
the vessel had struck, and was most likely dashed in pieces.

Nothing more could be done till daylight appeared; so many of the
watchers sought the shelter of the rocks to wait for it, in order to
begin their work; for with that wind, and the tide beating in, the
contents of the vessel must wash on shore very quickly. The crew must
all have perished,--of that there was no doubt. The dreadful shriek
they had heard was that of the drowning crew. The only anxiety now was
concerning the valuables which might come in with the tide.

As the day dawned, the storm abated a little, and, towards morning, many
of the villagers were seen approaching the Point;--among them, Mr.
Freeman was conspicuous. He came along feebly, keeping the even tenor of
his way,--now speaking to one, and then to another, as he was overtaken
and passed on the road by the more energetic and youthful of the
wreckers, who were all too intent upon the gains in prospect to pay much
attention to an infirm man, although they knew not in their haste and
thoughtlessness that their actions were watched and noted down in the
memory of one who did not often forget a slight.

Long before it could properly be said to be daylight, the approaches to
the little cove were covered with people, watching for the prizes which
they expected every wave would wash in. The beautiful white sand was
covered with foam, and frequently a huge wave would come dashing in and
break beneath the very feet of the most daring and reckless of the
watchers, who had approached to the verge of the rocks which bounded the
innermost circle of the cove.

No one, as yet, could venture on the sand with safety, and it was yet
too dark for the watchers to see far before them, for the daylight on
that tempestuous morning was a long time making its appearance. A long
and eventful year had just terminated, and the new year seemed very
unwilling to take up what the old year had left it to do; but the laws
of nature must be obeyed, and so the new year's morning came at last,
and, with it, the prizes so much coveted by the wreckers.

Timber, casks, and boxes (some empty and some full) came washed in to
the very feet of those who were standing on the lowest rocks; but,
before they could reach them, they were carried out again by the
receding tide. There were some adventurous enough, however, to make a
grasp at the prizes as they came rolling in; but they would have met
with a watery grave, had they not been held back by the more prudent. As
the tide ebbed, it left the little cove comparatively free from danger,
and then many prizes were seized and carried away by the eager finders.

Mr. Freeman having no wish or intention, apparently, to appropriate any
of the unfortunate sailors' property to himself, wandered about from one
place to the other, watching for the bodies that he knew must be washed
on shore soon, in order to ascertain, if possible, by the appearance of
the sailors, or from any papers they might have about them, the name of
the ship, and her cargo and destination. In the course of the day
several bodies were washed ashore; but, even in this short time, they
were so disfigured by the sharp-pointed rocks against which they had
been dashed by the angry sea, that there were no traces left in any of
them of the "human face divine," and even their clothes had been torn
off by the merciless rocks and waves.

In the course of his wandering along the coast, Mr. Freeman surprised
several parties dividing and disputing about the property which had been
washed on shore in different parts. Here would be seen, perhaps,
half-a-dozen men quarrelling about the possession of a cask of wine or
brandy, and, in the _melèe_, the top would be knocked in, whilst, in
their eagerness to get at its contents, the cask would be overturned,
and the whole contents spilt on the sand. In another place might be seen
half-a-score women squabbling about the possession of a cask of fruit or
provisions. At length, in turning a sharp point of rock, he came
suddenly on a man and two women who were kneeling on the sand between
two rocks, intently examining the contents of a large sea-chest which
they had broken open. Mr. Freeman stood behind a rock for a few minutes,
concealed from their view, and watched their proceedings, as, one by
one, they took the things out of the chest, with the evident intention
of dividing the spoil. He had not before interfered with any of the
wreckers in their unlawful plunder, but he now stepped forward and
commanded them to replace all the things in the chest and put on the
cover. The two women started to their feet at once (for there was a
superstitious dread among the people generally at being "ill-wished" by
"The Maister" if they thwarted him); while the man remained kneeling
over the chest, holding in his hands the last article which he had taken
from it, in seeming doubt as to whether he had better put it back or bid
defiance to the apparently feeble form before him, when Josiah Trenow
jumped over a rock into the little cranny, and asked what was the
matter.

"That chest," said Mr. Freeman, "must be taken care of; I have reasons
which I shall not make known at present. If you will get it taken to
some safe place, Josiah, I shall feel much obliged to you. In my own
house it will be safest, I think."

"By all mains, sar," replied Josiah; "the best place I do knaw es your
awn house, Maister. So come, boy," continued he, addressing the man, who
was still kneeling by the side of the chest, and looking with longing
eyes at its contents, which seemed very valuable, "you and I'll carr'n
up."

However reluctant the man was to relinquish the prize, he had not the
foolhardiness to oppose two such powerful antagonists. In stature and
physical strength and courage, Josiah Trenow was the acknowledged
champion of the parish, and very few men liked to be pitted against him,
either in the ring or in more serious combat; whilst Mr. Freeman's
well-known ability in foretelling the future and relieving those who
were possessed of evil spirits, and even ill-wishing people himself (as
they believed), rendered him an object of dread to the superstitious and
weak-minded, of which there were not a few in those days. Josiah had not
much difficulty, therefore, in procuring sufficient assistance to carry
the chest to Mr. Freeman's house.



CHAPTER III.

ALRINA.


Mr. Freeman's house seemed, in many respects, as unsociable as its
master; for it was one of those oldfashioned farm-houses one meets with
occasionally in remote, out-of-the-way places, without having a farm
attached to it,--the farm formerly held with the house having been added
to an adjoining farm belonging to the same proprietor, on which there
happened to be a larger and better house. It was, even then, an
oldfashioned house, with an entrance-hall, if such it might be called,
into which you entered from the front door. On the right was the parlour
or best sitting-room, and on the left the common sitting-room where the
family generally sat. Opposite the front door were the stairs, and on
each side of the stairs there was a door,--the one leading into the
kitchen, and the other into the little back garden. Over the best
parlour was Mr. Freeman's private room, into which no one was permitted
to enter except those whose superstition led them to consult "The
Maister," as he was generally designated, and to seek his aid in
extricating them from some dire misfortune, and then great preparations
were made before the visitors were admitted into this mysterious room.

Mr. Freeman was a widower--so it was said--and his sister kept his
house, and exercised strict dominion over his only daughter, a young
girl of eighteen.

Miss Freeman, the sister, it was generally believed, knew more of her
brother's secrets than she liked to tell; and many a severe reprimand
did Alrina receive from her aunt for her curiosity, in trying to pry
into secrets which the elder lady thought she had no right to concern
herself about. Alice Ann, the servant of all work, was one of that
neighbourhood, and therefore spoke the broad Cornish dialect; but
Alrina, who had received a tolerably good education, as times went, had
not been infected by the dialect, which is so very contagious when
almost everyone speaks it around you. She had just attained her
eighteenth year; but, from her rotundity of figure, and womanly manners,
she might have been taken for a girl of that age two years before, at
least. She had been kept at a boarding-school in one of our large towns
almost from her infancy, and had seen very little either of her father
or aunt until recently, and therefore she knew little more of them, or
their habits and pursuits, than a stranger, until she left school about
twelve months before. In stature she was about the middle height,--very
fair, with bright auburn hair, which some were malicious enough to call
red, but "golden" would have been the more correct term. Red hair is not
generally admired, but there was such a golden hue cast over Alrina's
hair, that made her soft blue eyes look softer in the contrast.
Hogarth's line of beauty was displayed in the contour of her figure; and
such a pretty little foot and ankle might be seen as the rude wind waved
the drapery aside, when, like a fairy, she glided over the rocks--so
bold and varied on those high cliffs--that, taken _tout ensemble_, she
was just the very girl a man would fall in love with at first sight.
There were so many beauties visible at once, and such a happy
combination of them all; and then the pretty dimples in her cheeks, when
she smiled, betokened a temper mild and amiable, and yet with spirit
enough to resent a wrong, and assert her own rights against all the
world. And thus, although she was obliged to put up with many
indignities from her aunt, she managed, by her tact in yielding in minor
points, to have her own way in greater, and, to her, more important,
ones.

Alrina was in the kitchen assisting Alice Ann on the morning after the
wreck, her aunt having gone into the village on some domestic errand,
and for a quiet gossip with some of her numerous friends.

"Did my father say he would return to dinner, Alice Ann?" said Alrina,
as she prinked the paste round the edge of the pie she had just made.

"No, he dedn't," replied Alice Ann. "When do he say what time he'll be
home, or where he's going to?"

"I am tired of all this mystery," said Alrina;--"I wish I knew the
meaning of it all. That room upstairs puzzles me very much. I should
like to peep into it one day, and see where all the noise comes from,
when those 'goostrumnoodles' come here to know who has ill-wished them,
and wait in the best parlour while my father goes upstairs to prepare
the room for their reception."

"So shud I too, Miss Reeney," replied Alice Ann; "but 'tes no good to
try, I b'lieve; for I tried to peep in through the keyhole one day, and
a blast of gunpowder came out and nearly blinded me."

"Hush! here he comes," said Alrina, who heard her father's footstep in
the passage.

"Alrina," said he, opening the kitchen-door, "give these men some beer
for bringing this chest up from the cove. Take it to the top of the
stairs, men, and I shall be able to put it under lock and key myself
till the proper owner comes to claim it."

While the other men were taking the chest upstairs, and drinking their
beer, Josiah went into the kitchen to speak to Alice Ann, for whom he
had a sneaking kindness, as the gossips said, although Mrs. Brown tried
to insinuate that it was for the sake of the fair Alrina herself that
Josiah so strenuously defended the sayings and doings of the family.

"You've had a bra' night of it, I s'pose," said Alice Ann,--"fust weth
your drink up to Maister Brown's, to watch in the new year, and then
weth your walk to Pendeen to watch in the wreck. What have 'ee picked
up, thon, 'Siah?"

"Why nothin' at all, Alice Ann," replied he, "'cept the g'eat chest
that's carr'd up in the Maister's room."

"What is that chest brought up here for?" said Alrina, returning from
giving the men their beer; "I think we've got lumber enough here
already."

"So shud I, Miss Reeney," replied Josiah; "but I'd see the inside of a
good many things ef I wor you."

"Come, Josiah," exclaimed Mr. Freeman, "we'll go down to the cove again;
there may be more valuables washed in, and more dead bodies
perhaps,--living ones I don't expect to see."

Even the bright eyes of Alice Ann were not sufficiently attractive to
keep Josiah from trying his luck once more in search of the stray
treasures which the sea might yet wash in.

While the men went down into the cove, and over the rocks, in search of
treasure, Mr. Freeman took the higher road which led to the Point, and
there he stood watching the waves as they dashed against the bold cliffs
and fell back again into the white foam beneath, enveloping all the
surrounding objects in a hazy mist.

About a quarter of a mile from the promontory on which Mr. Freeman
stood, rose a large cluster of high rocks, over which the sea rolled at
intervals. As the mist cleared occasionally, Mr. Freeman fancied he
could see something move in a crevice of one of the topmost of those
rocks; but, after looking again and again, he began at last to think it
was nothing but imagination, for it seemed as if it was impossible for
any living creature to remain on those rocks so long in safety. He could
not rest satisfied, however, so he sought Josiah and brought him to look
at the object also.

"'Tes a man or a woman, I do b'lieve!" exclaimed Josiah, after looking
on the object for some time through a glass which he had borrowed from
one of the wreckers; "but how he got there, or how long he'll stay
there, I don't knaw."

It was impossible for any boat to go out, and it seemed almost certain
that he must perish, whoever or whatever it was. They made signals by
holding up their handkerchiefs tied to a stick, that the poor creature
might have the consolation of knowing he was seen, and cared for; and
that was all they could do.

Night came on once more, and all hands returned to their homes to rest
after the fatigues of the past day and night, and examine the treasures
they had picked up.

Josiah had been so much engaged in attending on Mr. Freeman, that he had
not succeeded in picking up anything worth carrying home. He thought,
therefore, he would remain at the Cove a little longer; so he stole
round the Point, and stooped down between two low rocks to conceal
himself until the others were gone; and as he stooped, he saw something
partially buried in the sand a few yards from him. At first he thought
it was a rock; but the waves, as they rolled over it, seemed to move it.
He watched for an opportunity when the waves receded, and at last he ran
out, at the risk of his life, and seized his prize. It was as much as he
could do to pull it up out of the sand, in which it was embedded;--he
succeeded, however, and got back to his hiding-place in safety, but not
without a good wetting, for a wave washed completely over him while he
was getting up the object of his cupidity, and he barely saved himself
from being carried out to sea, and that was all. It was a small box,
very strongly made, and very heavy. There was something valuable inside
it, he had no doubt; so he took off his coat, which was very wet,
wrapped it round the box, and made the best of his way home with his
treasure.

The next morning Mr. Freeman was early at the Point, but could see
nothing of the object which had before attracted his attention, and he
supposed it must have perished;--but he did not like to give it up; and
towards the middle of the day, the sea having calmed down a good deal,
he induced some stout sailors to go out to those rocks, and see if there
was anything there or not.

It was a perilous undertaking; but the boat was got ready and manned,
and four brave fellows started amid the shouts of their comrades on the
beach. After a severe struggle with the waves, they succeeded in getting
near the rocks, but it was impossible yet to land,--so they returned for
more help, and to wait till the tide was lower. They saw something lying
between two of the rocks, they said, but what it was they couldn't tell.

When the tide was at its lowest, the sea having subsided yet a little
more, two boats were manned, and ropes and grappling-irons, and all that
was deemed necessary, were put on board; and this time two of the boats'
crew succeeded in landing on the rock, where they found a man,
apparently lifeless, grasping a sharp rock so firmly, that it was with
difficulty they were enabled to extricate him;--it seemed like a death
grasp; but, on examination, they found that he still breathed. They
brought him on shore and rubbed him, and poured a little brandy down his
throat, which revived him; and he was carried at once to the inn, where
every attention was paid to him. It was at first thought he would sink
from exhaustion and the want of food for so many hours, but, after a
night's sleep, he rallied so as to be able to thank his deliverers, and
to give them some information respecting himself, as well as of the
vessel which had met with such a melancholy fate.

The ship was an East Indiaman, he said, returning to England with a
valuable cargo. The captain died on the voyage, and the mate was too
fond of the brandy-bottle, and flirting with the lady-passengers, to
attend to his duty, so he missed his reckoning and got on the rocks
before he expected, notwithstanding the warnings that were given him by
the sailors. The storm arose so suddenly that even the most wary were
caught.

The lanterns on the cliffs deceived them too, he said; for they seemed
to be close to the edge of the cliff, whereas they were some distance
inland. The boats were launched, and filled, but he believed everyone
perished. He got hold of some spars that were floating round the wreck
when she broke up, and held on as long as he could, but was eventually
lifted on to the rocks, where he was so providentially found;--he got
jammed between two sharp rocks, and there he held on with all his might;
but he could scarcely keep his position, for when the storm was at its
height the sea washed over him continually. There were several
passengers on board,--some bringing home gold, and others indigo and
other kinds of wealth, but all had perished. He was one of the crew, he
said, and therefore had not lost much. The ship belonged to the East
India Company, and so he supposed they could afford to lose a little;
but he believed they had taken care of themselves by insurances.

The poor man was well treated, and when sufficiently recovered a
subscription was made for him, and he was sent on to his friends.



CHAPTER IV.

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING.


Although Mr. Freeman was not at all inclined to be sociable or familiar
with his neighbours himself, yet he did not object to his sister and
daughter being on friendly terms with them;--indeed he rather wished it,
and was never more pleased than when they were visiting at the
farm-houses in the neighbourhood, or giving entertainments at home--at
which he was seldom seen except in some mysterious manner. Strange
noises would sometimes be heard in "The Maister's" private room, in the
dusk of the evening, before the candles were brought in; and, in the
midst of the terror of the visitors, and almost before the noises had
subsided, Mr. Freeman would walk quietly into the room, and relate some
thrilling story, and disappear again in the same mysterious manner.
These scenes would be talked over the next day by the gossips, and after
going the round for a few days, the most extraordinary additions would
be made and circulated. And so he became a man of great importance, and
was looked upon as a superior being, and people feared him and believed
that his powers were much greater than they really were.

He was greatly assisted in obtaining information respecting his
neighbours, by his sister, who was a shrewd woman, and who by her tact
and cunning could lead on her friends imperceptibly to talk of their own
and their neighbours' private affairs. She would impart those secrets to
"The Maister," who stored them in his memory till opportunities arose
for using his information with advantage. And when those ignorant people
applied to him to be informed by whom they were ill-wished, or to
recover their property, perhaps, which had been stolen, he could guess
pretty nearly who the culprits were likely to be, having possession of
these little secrets (long since forgotten by them); and he would so
work upon their fears, that the property would be restored in some
mysterious way, and he then would have the credit for getting it back by
some supernatural agency.

Alrina had a good deal of her father's fondness for the mysterious, but
in her it took a more romantic turn. She would spend whole days,
sometimes, in wandering over the cliffs and examining with curiosity the
ruins of chapels and ancient fortifications, of which there were several
in that locality; and the tumuli in the neighbourhood of the chapels,
supposed to contain the ashes of the Druids and other holy men, afforded
great scope to her imagination. Her father, as we have seen, was not
very regular in his habits--indeed it would not have suited his purpose
to be so--and her aunt was sometimes so intent on sifting out any little
secret gossip, and relating it to "The Maister," that Alrina was often
left for days without the supervision of either her father or aunt, and
so she wandered about alone.

She was sitting, one fine morning after the shipwreck, under the shelter
of some high rocks at the Land's-End, watching the vessels as they
passed round the point--some inside and some outside the Longships, when
she heard herself addressed by some one overhead, and, on looking up,
she saw a handsome young man looking down on her from the rocks which
overhung her resting-place. It was some stranger, evidently, for he
merely said, "You seem fond of seclusion, fair lady;"--but when she
looked up, he exclaimed, "Alrina! can it be possible?" and in a moment
he was at her side.

A crimson flush overspread her face, extending almost to the roots of
her hair, as she jumped up, and extended her hand towards the intruder,
who clasped her in his arms, while she exclaimed, without attempting to
extricate herself, "Are my dreams and hopes so soon realized? Where have
you been? How did you get here?"

"I have surprised you, Alrina," replied he, pressing his lips to her
cheek; "and I assure you when I left England, two years ago, so
unexpectedly, I thought it would have been a longer separation; but it
was cruel of you, Alrina, not to keep your appointment that night,
knowing it was the last opportunity I had of seeing you before I quitted
England!"

"Indeed, Frederick," replied Alrina, "it was not my fault. You know that
one of the servants at the school discovered our secret meetings in the
garden, and told Mrs. Horton, who had the window nailed up through which
I used to get out, and----"

"Yes!" said the gentleman, hastily; "but I bribed the other girl, who
was not so scrupulous, to manage one more meeting, as it was the last
night before my departure, and she faithfully promised to do so."

"Circumstances seemed to thwart us in every way," replied Alrina. "The
young lady who slept in my room was suddenly taken ill, just after we
went to bed, and the servant who betrayed us before was desired to
remain with her all night, so that I was a prisoner."

"I see it all," said he; "and this explanation has relieved my mind from
anxious thoughts. But why did you not write me?"

"That was impossible," replied Alrina; "for I was taken from school
almost immediately, and didn't know where to address a letter to you. I
wrote to your sister, who had been a day-pupil at the same school, and
through whom we first became acquainted, but, not having her exact
address, I suppose the letter never reached her."

"Never mind, Alrina," said he, as he took a seat by her side in the
little sheltered nook she had before occupied; "we have met at
last;--and now I will tell you something more about myself and my
position than I thought it necessary to tell, or you to ask, in any of
our clandestine meetings,--we had other things to think of and talk
about then. I have since been knocked about in the world, and the
romantic passion of my boyhood has lost, perhaps, much of its romance,
but the love I then felt for you still remains in all its purity and
devotion."

"I never doubted that," replied Alrina, looking fondly at him, as she
used to do;--for her romance had not been rubbed off by contact with the
world, but, on the contrary, had increased;--her life had been one of
romance and mystery from her childhood, and everything around her seemed
veiled in mystery.

"I have never ceased to think of you, and to wonder where you had gone,
and whether I should ever see you again," she continued. "These rocks
have been my refuge from the monotony and mystery of home; and here I
have ofttimes given vent to my feelings, when I thought and knew I was
unobserved. But tell me," she continued, looking up into his fine manly
face with love and admiration, "where you have been, and what you have
been doing, since we last met."

"I had just obtained my commission in the 63rd Regiment of Light
Infantry," he resumed; "and my fondest hopes, as I thought, were
realized when I met you walking in solemn procession with the other
young ladies of Mrs. Horton's seminary. I was struck with your
appearance, and I asked my sister, who was, as you have said, a
day-pupil at the same school, who you were. All she could tell me was
that your name was Alrina Freeman; and, I suppose, that was all I wanted
to know just then. She took a note to you from me, and the next time I
met the school procession, there was a mutual recognition; several notes
passed between us; and at last you consented to a clandestine meeting in
the garden. Our meetings were discovered. My regiment was ordered abroad
suddenly, and, owing to the circumstances already related, we did not
meet again before my departure. I returned with my regiment about a
month since, and made all the inquiry in my power, but without avail. I
went to the school. The mistress was dead, and the school given up. I
had a month's furlough; and, hearing that an old schoolfellow had an
appointment at a signal-station near the Land's-End, I packed up my
traps in a carpet-bag, and arrived at my friend's station, at
Tol-pedn-Penwith about a week since. My friend is a bachelor;--he is
several years my senior, but a right jolly fellow. His name is Fowler.
He introduced me to the squire's family at Pendrea-house. The squire has
been a queer old chap in his time, I believe; but his wife seems a good
old soul, and the two daughters are charming;--but the name of Freeman
was always in my thoughts. In the course of conversation after dinner at
the squire's the other day, some one said that there was a celebrated
conjuror residing near the Land's-End, whose name was Freeman. I felt a
thrill run through me at the name, and I determined on paying him a
visit; for I thought that if he was so clever as he was reported to be,
he might be able to assist me with some information respecting her I so
anxiously sought, especially as he bore the same name. You have heard of
him, I dare say. I came out to-day alone, determined to see the
conjuror, and get all the information I could before I returned; and
seeing a young lady go down over the rocks, I was seized with a little
romantic curiosity, and followed, when, as I looked over the rocks above
your head, I caught sight of your face, as you turned your head to watch
the course of a vessel which was passing. I was not quite sure even
then, not expecting to see you here,--so I spoke to you, as to a
stranger, and when you looked up at me I saw I was not mistaken; and
now," continued he, pressing her hand and laughing, "I need not go to
the conjuror."

"I do not know that," said Alrina, in a thoughtful tone; "I think it is
most likely you will have to go to 'the conjuror,' after all, if you
wish to know anything more of my family, for the person you call 'the
conjuror' is my father."

"Your father!" exclaimed Frederick, in great surprise. "No! no! you are
joking."

"I am not, indeed," replied Alrina; "there is some mystery hanging over
my relatives, that I have never been able to unravel, especially as to
my father;--my mother I don't remember; she died when I was very young,
I believe. Where we resided before we came here I don't know. My father
is very clever,--there is no doubt about that,--and he manages to awe
the people here into the belief that he knows more than he really does;
and he has a mysterious room which is only entered by himself and those
whose fears and superstition he wishes to work upon. My aunt knows
something of these mysteries--how much I don't know;--but I know nothing
of them; I am kept entirely in ignorance; they don't seem to like to
trust me. Oh! how wretched it makes me feel; for I sometimes fancy it
may be too dreadful to be told, and then I come out alone, and wander
over the rocks, and think of those few happy moments of my life, never
to be forgotten. It is very, very hard to feel that no one has
confidence in me;" and she burst into tears.

"Don't distress yourself about these things now, dearest Alrina," said
her companion, taking her hand. "I will protect you with my life; and I
will see the conjuror and his secret chamber before I leave this
neighbourhood, and bring him to his bearings, or my name is not
Frederick Morley!"

"Oh! but if there should be some dreadful secret," replied Alrina,
sobbing, as her lover pressed her to his heart, "we could never be to
one another as we have hoped; and now that you know who my father is, I
fear you will look cold upon me too, like the rest of the world, and
that would kill me. Oh! Frederick, after all my dreams of happiness, if
I should lose your love when I feel I want it most, and when the fondest
hope of my life seems almost realized by your return so
unexpectedly,----"

"My dearest Alrina," said Morley, "you will find no change in my
affections or feelings. I will sift this secret out to the end, cost
what it may, and nothing shall separate us now."

Thus did the two youthful lovers talk on, until it was time for them to
separate; and so earnest were they in their conversation, and on the
renewal of their former loves, that they did not perceive the head that
was projecting from the overhanging rocks, nor the eager eyes and ears
which had seen and heard all that had passed between them.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the individual to whom the head belonged, as it
walked quietly away, when the interview between the two lovers was
drawing to a close; "secrets worth knowing!"



CHAPTER V.

JOHN BROWN AND HIS FAVOURITE MARE "JESSIE."


Mr. and Mrs. Brown, who now kept the "Commercial" inn at St. Just, had
formerly lived, for many years, in the service of one of the ancient
aristocratic Cornish families in that neighbourhood,--the one as
coachman, the other as cook. Mr. Brown was rather effeminate and
methodical in his manners and habits, and particularly neat in his
dress. His hair, which he always kept short, was as smooth and sleek as
one of his master's coach-horses. He invariably wore a brown coat,
always nicely brushed, with light waistcoat and breeches; a white
neckerchief enveloped his neck, in which was enclosed a thick pad, and
tied in a neat little bow in front. His hat, which he wore continually
indoors and out, always looked as if it had just come out of the
hatter's shop; and as to his shoes!--if Mr. Brown was more particular in
one part of his dress than another, it was in the polish of his shoes,
which did credit to "Warren's Jet Blacking" and their master's energy
and skill,--for he invariably gave them an extra polish himself before
he put them on of a morning, after Bill, the stable-boy, had done his
best. If he was not quite the first groom of the chamber indoors, where
his wife held rule, he could certainly boast of being first groom of the
stall, when he got into the stables, where it was natural to suppose he
was in his element, from having been so many years coachman in a
gentleman's family.

He was a good judge of horseflesh, and had the sweetest little mare in
the stable that you would wish to set your eyes upon--a perfect picture
of a horse--a bright bay, with black tail and mane. And, although it was
January month, when most horses have their winter coats, yet, what with
grooming and clothing, and regular feeding and exercise, Mr. Brown's
mare Jessie was as sleek and smooth as if it had been the height of
summer, so well was she taken care of and petted by her master. This was
his hobby, and in this he spent most of his time, and a good deal of his
spare cash.

If Mr. Brown was too effeminate for a man, Mrs. Brown was certainly too
masculine for a woman,--at least so Mr. Brown thought sometimes,
although he had neither the courage nor the ill manners to say so. She
was neat, in her dress also, but not quite so particular as her husband.
A chintz gown, looped up through the pocket-holes,--a large coloured
silk handkerchief thrown over her shoulders, and pinned down in front
and confined at the ends by the wide string of her cheque apron, formed
the general character of Mrs. Brown's dress; and, like her husband, she
invariably wore her bonnet indoors and out.

The general business at "The Commercial" was not very extensive, but as
Mr. and Mrs. Brown had no children, and had saved a little money, they
kept on the house--which was their own property--more for amusement than
profit. They kept one servant indoors (a sort of maid-of-all-work),
whose name was Polly, and a boy in the stables to attend to Jessie the
mare, and do other little jobs to help the women. Mr. Brown made himself
useful in the house if required, when customers came in, by drawing beer
and attending to their wants, but he never did a single thing without
calling some one to help him; sometimes it was Polly, and sometimes
Billy, and sometimes even Peggy his wife; but he generally, poor man,
had to do the work alone, whatever it was, although fortunately it was
never very laborious.

On the afternoon of the day on which the two lovers met at the
Land's-End point, Mr. and Mrs. Brown were sitting in the kitchen
alone,--the latter having sent Polly upstairs, to brush up a bit, while
she went on with some work she had in hand for her husband. She was
knitting him a pair of white lamb's-wool stockings, for general wear, if
the truth must be told.

"I wish the boy was come to take the mare out a bit, I think," said Mr.
Brown, "this beautiful afternoon. I shall go out a mile or two myself if
he don't come soon."

"I tell 'ee what et es, Brown," said his wife; "there's more fuss made
about that mare than ef she'd b'en a cheeld. I'd have a glass case made
for har ef I wor you!"

"Don't 'ee be vexed, Peggy, 'cause I do take care of the poor thing.
There's the boy coming, I do believe," said he, rising from his seat,
and going towards the door. "Your sarvant, sar," he continued, as he met
a tall handsome young man in the passage; and without waiting for a
reply from the stranger, he returned to the kitchen, rubbing his hands,
followed by the stranger, and exclaiming, "Bless my life, Peggy! bless
my life!--es the best bedroom ready upstairs? here's a gentleman, my
dear!"

"Gentleman sure 'nuff!" said his wife, looking unutterable things at her
husband, and curtseying at the same time to the stranger;--"gentle or
semple is all the same to you, I believe, John Brown."

"Now, don't put yourselves out of the way for me, my good friends,"
said the stranger; "all I want is something to eat at once, and a
'shake-down' here for a night or two."

"We've got nothing in the house to eat, I do believe," said Mr. Brown;
"have us, Peggy? And as to a 'shake-down!'--why we don't have many
visitors here to sleep!"

"Brown!" said his better half, in an authoritative tone, "go and look to
the mare!"--and she pointed significantly to the door, through which Mr.
Brown made his escape, calling Billy, by way of covering his retreat,
without being further exposed to the stranger; for he saw he had gone a
little too far, in taking it upon himself to answer for what could or
could not be had in the house.

The stranger, in the meantime, had thrown himself carelessly into Mrs.
Brown's seat, and extended his legs before him, as if he was quite at
home, and was accustomed to make himself comfortable wherever he
happened to be.

"Now then, Mrs. Brown," said he, "a glass of your best ale to begin
with, and then something to eat, for I'm devilish hungry."

"I can give 'ee some eggs and a rasher at once, sar," replied Mrs.
Brown; "but ef you can wait 'bout half-an-hour or so, you shall have a
roast fowl and taties."

"I'll have the eggs and bacon by all means," said he; "I couldn't wait
half-an-hour for all the fowls in your yard;--and while you are dressing
the eggs and bacon, I will try if I can get some one to fetch my
carpet-bag." So he sauntered into the stable, where he found Mr. Brown
admiring his mare Jessie.

"Isn't she a beauty, sir?" said the landlord, combing his horse's tail
with a comb he kept in his pocket for the purpose.

"She is a handsome creature, certainly," said the stranger, looking at
the mare with the eye of a connoisseur; "but what can you possibly want
with a horse of that kind in this rough country?"

"That's to me, sir--asking your pardon," replied Mr. Brown, touching his
hat.

"Oh! of course, of course," said the stranger; "I meant no offence. I
came out to know if you could get anyone to go to Tol-pedn-Penwith
signal-station, where I have been staying, for my bag."

"Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station, sir!" replied Mr. Brown; "why that's
Lieutenant Foster's 'cabin,' as he calls it, near Lamorna Cove?"

"That's the place," said the stranger;--"could you send anyone?"

"Yes, sir, certainly; when my boy Bill do come in, he shall take the
mare and ride down there,--it'll be very good exercise for her this fine
a'ternoon. Drat the boy, I wish he was come!"

Bill soon made his appearance, and was despatched on the mare with a
note to Lieutenant Fowler, written on a leaf torn from the gentleman's
pocket-book, while Mr. Brown walked round the mare twice, and used his
comb on her tail and mane.

"Isn't she a beauty, sir?" said he, as the boy cantered off. "Easy!
easy, now!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, calling after the boy; "ride her
gently. Wo! ho! Jessie! gently, lass, gently!"

These remarks might as well have been addressed to the wind as to the
boy or the mare, who seemed both intent on a gallop, and away they went
at full speed.

"Drat the boy," said Mr. Brown; "he'll wind her--that's a sure
thing--one of these days; and then where'll the money come from to buy
another? But no money could do it! Why, I wouldn't take a hundred
guineas for that mare, sir, if it was offered to me to-morrow morning!
she's worth her weight in gold, sir, that mare is!"

"Don't fidget about the mare, Mr. Brown," said the gentleman; "she'll be
all right; a little gallop will do her good. And now I shall try Mrs.
Brown's cookery,--it smells very good;" and he returned into the house
to appease his appetite, while the landlord went into the stable to
lament once more over the wilfulness of that scamp of a boy, as he
called him, and to see that all things were ready for his pet when she
came back. And, having done all this, he returned to the kitchen, where
he found the stranger smoking a pipe in the chimney-corner after his
frugal repast, and chatting with Mrs. Brown as if they had been old
acquaintances.

"Come, Mr. Brown," said he, "I'm going to have a glass of brandy and
water, and you must take one too; so mix them, if you please, and come
and tell me all the news."

"Polly! come and get the hot water and sugar for the gentleman," said
the landlord, calling to the maid, who was upstairs, as he went towards
the bar to get the two brandies. "Come, Poll! Poll! Polly!" But as Polly
did not come, he was obliged to bustle about himself; for he received no
help from his wife, although he called to her several times from the
bar. At length all things were placed on the little table, and the
stranger began to ask about "The Conjuror."

"The what!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, dropping her needles, and looking up
in surprise and alarm,--while poor Mr. Brown stopped short in the act of
putting his glass to his lips.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the stranger; "you look as if you had heard some
fellow talking treason against His Most Gracious Majesty the King--God
bless him!"--and the stranger lifted his hat, which he had kept on out
of compliment to his host and hostess. "I mean Mr. Freeman, then," he
said, correcting himself; "I have heard such wonderful accounts of him,
that I should like to know what he can really do."

"He would shaw you what he could do, very soon, ef he heard you speak
that word, I reckon," replied Mrs. Brown, getting up from her seat and
going to the door of the kitchen, and looking into the passage and
closing the front door.

"He doesn't like being called a 'conjuror,' then," said the stranger.

"Like it?" said Mrs. Brown, drawing her chair nearer to the
chimney-corner; "iss,--just as much as you would like to be called '_no
conjuror_!'"

"That's very well," said Mr. Brown, venturing on a laugh, now that his
courage was being wound up by the brandy and water.

At this moment there came a clatter down the road, as of a horse at full
gallop.

"Drat the boy!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, rising in great excitement; "he
can't be come a'ready, can aw? To ride the mare like that es too bad!
too bad! I'll kill 'n ef 'tes he. Iss fie! tes; for she's stopped at the
stable-door. Dear lor'! Polly! Polly!"

When Mr. Brown went out, followed by the stranger and Mrs. Brown, there
was the mare sure enough, standing at the stable-door without a rider,
trembling from head to foot, and covered with foam and mud, with
scarcely a dry hair on her body.

"Drat the boy!" exclaimed Mr. Brown; "he's killed--that's a sure
thing--and the mare is ruined. Wo! ho! my darling; wo! ho!" And he took
the mare's nose into his arms, and caressed it as if it had been a
favourite daughter, while the stranger examined her all over, but could
find no wound or injury whatever. She had evidently been frightened, for
she was trembling still. They led her into the stable, and then began to
think of the boy.

"I'd go and search for him," said the stranger, "but I don't know which
way he went."

"No, nor yet I," said Mrs. Brown; "there's no knowing where that boy do
go, when he's out; he's mighty fond of taking the narrow roads and bye
lanes instead of the high road. There's two or three ways of going to
Tol-pedn-Penwith from here; and like enough he went the way that nobody
else would go ('cept 'The Maister')." This latter sentence she spoke
almost in a whisper.

"While we are talking here, the boy may die," said the stranger, "if
he's thrown and seriously hurt."

"The mare is all right," said Mr. Brown, coming out of the stable; "and
now, if missus will get Polly to make a 'warm mash,' and give it to her
at once, you and I'll go, sir, and see what can be done for the poor
boy."



CHAPTER VI.

THE FAMILY PARTY.


The two young officers had been invited to dine at Pendrea-house on that
day, at two o'clock--the squire's usual dinner-hour. Lieut. Fowler had
some writing work to do--rather an unusual occupation for him. However,
as it was a report to be sent to head-quarters, which he had put off
from day to day, he said to his friend in the morning, during breakfast,
"The writing be blowed! but 'needs must when the devil drives!' so you
go out, old fellow, and take a stroll, and leave me here to kick my
heels under the table for a few hours. Two o'clock sharp, mind, and then
we'll put our legs under the squire's mahogany, and tuck into his old
port like trumps. That's an amusement which suits me a devilish deal
better than quill-driving, if I must tell the honest truth for once in
my life."

Two o'clock arrived, but Morley did not make his appearance. "The deuce
take the fellow," soliloquised the lieutenant; "he'll lose his dinner
and get out of the squire's good books. By Jove! though, perhaps he went
in to have a lark with the girls in the morning, and so he did not think
it worth while to come back. I'll just wash the ink off my paws, and
toddle down as quick as I can; the squire won't like being kept waiting.
'Tis devilish lucky the old chap doesn't require a fellow to dress for
dinner every time he tucks his legs under his mahogany;--I don't like
getting into harness very often, unless duty calls--and then we must
obey."

While the jovial officer is washing his hands, we will just look round
his little "cabin," as he called it.

The little dwelling in which the commander of the signal-station
resided, was certainly fitted up more to resemble a cabin on board ship,
than the habitation of a landsman. On the ground floor there was a small
room, or lobby, into which you entered at once from the front door.
Opposite this door there was a door leading into the sitting-room, and
beyond that another door led from the sitting-room into the kitchen. On
the right, as you entered the lobby, were the stairs, leading to the two
bedrooms, which led one into the other, like the rooms below. And in the
ceilings were fixed iron rings, to which the hammocks were slung at
night, and unshipped by day, the same as on board ship, so that these
rooms might also be used as sitting-rooms, if required, in the daytime.

There were three men kept at each of these stations, besides the
officer, and they had a separate cabin appropriated to them, adjoining
the principal one. Their duty was to attend upon the officer; hoist
signals of flags and balls, to give notice of the approach of an enemy's
ship; or to signal to English ships orders from head-quarters. And these
signals could be communicated to and from London in a very short
time,--although not so quickly, nor so accurately, as by the telegraph
of the present day.

It was not long after two when Lieut. Fowler got down to Pendrea-house,
where he found the squire with his watch in his hand.

"Half-an-hour is soon lost, my boy," said the old gentleman, as the
lieutenant entered the drawing-room; "but where is your friend?"

"Hasn't Morley been here, sir?" asked Fowler, in some surprise.

"No," replied the squire, "I haven't seen him,--have you, girls?"

This last question was addressed to two young ladies, whom Lieut. Fowler
now approached, and greeted as old acquaintances. They had seen nothing
of Mr. Morley, they said, since the day before, when they had all walked
to Lamorna Cove together.

"That's queer," said the squire; "but he's a stranger, and may have
missed his way,--so we'll give him a quarter-of-an-hour's grace."

And during this quarter-of-an-hour--the most awkward one in the whole
twenty-four hours--we will introduce the reader more formally than we
have hitherto done, to Squire Pendray and his family, the present owner
and occupiers of Pendrea-house.

The squire was a purse-proud man, who had made a good deal of money, no
one knew how, and purchased Pendrea estate many years before. He wished
to rank among the ancient aristocracy of the county,--and his wealth
enabled him to mix with them, and to be on a seeming equality; but in
those days ancestral pride was very strong, and those who could boast of
an ancient aristocratic pedigree, however limited their means might be,
looked down with contempt on the man of a day, who had nothing but his
riches to recommend him. The rich man was tolerated and patronized for
the sake of his wealth, but he was still looked down upon as an
inferior. Squire Pendray was one of these. But he was as proud of his
riches as they were of their pedigree, and so he did not see nor care
for their patronizing airs;--besides, he, in his turn, patronized those
whom he considered inferior to him in wealth, and he was satisfied. Some
said he was connected with the smugglers, and that they brought goods up
to some of his subterranean vaults, through a secret passage which led
from a cavern at Lamorna Cove up to Pendrea-house. Where the entrance
from the house to these subterranean vaults was, no one could tell but
the squire himself.

Mrs. Pendray was a homely, good sort of woman,--kind and hospitable, and
very much beloved by the poor of the parish, to whom she distributed her
bounties with a liberal hand.

Her two daughters will require a more elaborate description; for they
were considered the "belles" of the west, and were toasted by all the
young men of the neighbourhood at their after-dinner orgies--a custom
very prevalent at that period.

The elder of the two sisters, Matilda--or Maud, as she was generally
called--was a brunette, with dark hair and eyes, and a profile so
regular and perfect, that, when the countenance was still and in repose,
as it were, you might, without a great stretch of imagination, have
fancied it a piece of tinted sculpture,--but the slightest thing would
rouse it into animation, and then the dark eyes would flash like a
piece of polished steel when struck by the electric fluid. She wore her
hair in bands, which contrasted well with her high intellectual
forehead, and added dignity of expression to her handsome features. Her
stature was lofty, and her form elegant and symmetrical; and when she
walked across the room there was majesty in her step, as if her foot
disdained the ground it trod upon. She delighted to wander out alone
over the highest headlands, when the wind was raging with its wildest
fury, and to stand and watch the foaming waves, as they surged and
dashed against the perpendicular cliffs, until she was saturated with
the spray and in danger of being blown over into the abyss beneath.

Blanche was as unlike her elder sister as it was possible for her to be.
She was fair, and her beautiful auburn hair hung in graceful ringlets
over her soft young cheeks, as if to hide her blushes, which the merest
trifle would call forth. She was just seventeen. Her sister was four
years older; but, in person and manners, you would think there was a
greater difference of age between them. While Maud walked out to witness
the storm in all its majesty, from those bold cliffs, Blanche would take
some quiet book of poetry, and sit alone, and read, in the little room
upstairs, which their mother, years ago, had set apart for her two
daughters. And when the early spring brought soft and balmy sunshine,
Blanche would take her book and wander out alone--not to the towering
cliffs, and bold headlands, but along the sheltered paths which led down
to Lamorna Cove, gathering wild flowers by the way. And there she would
watch the rippling waves, as they came dancing in over the beautiful
white sand, sparkling in the sunshine; and when her eyes were weary with
watching the calm unruffled sea, she would sit beneath some sheltered
rock, and read, and weep over some sad tale until her eyes grew dim, and
then would rise again and search for some rare shell, or tiny piece of
seaweed, she had read or heard of, as being found at Lamorna Cove.

Lieut. Fowler, whose occupation caused him to wander everywhere along
the coast, in search of smugglers, or enemies' ships, would often come
suddenly on one or other of the sisters, and would then escort them home
and dine with the old squire, who liked him, and was fond of having him
there to while away an afternoon in social chat; for the lieutenant,
although not more than thirty years of age, had seen a little service,
and could tell tales that even Maud would sit and listen to. But, for
the gentle Blanche, those tales of hardship and suffering, and deeds of
daring, and hairbreadth escapes, had a deeper charm than she dared to
confess even to herself. He was not a handsome man by any means, but he
had a fine noble bearing, and courage and daring were marked in his
broad forehead. He was sometimes the only person they saw for weeks,
and, therefore, the two sisters enjoyed his society, and were always
glad when their papa asked him to dine. He admired them both, and not
being in a hurry to marry, or having been knocked about too much in the
world to have time to think of it, he did not see the danger he was
daily and hourly incurring by being on such intimate terms of friendship
with these two fascinating girls.

The old squire was very fond of his children, indulging them in most of
their caprices, and he did not see any danger or impropriety in allowing
them to be on intimate terms of friendship with a man whom he himself
liked so well, and who was, in fact, so necessary in assisting him to
pass away his time, with pleasure and comfort, in that dull
out-of-the-way place. It had also been a great pleasure to the squire's
family to receive the lieutenant's friend, Frederick Morley, at their
house; for he, too, was a very gentlemanly man, had seen a good deal of
the world, and could tell them of foreign scenes and manners, which very
much delighted them all. He was more romantic and impressible than his
friend. It was therefore evident that Miss Pendray preferred his society
to that of the more matter-of-fact Lieut. Fowler, and would take him to
her favourite wild cliffs, and point out the beauties she saw in them,
to which he listened with marked attention, entering into her feelings,
and admiring her pursuits, more than any other man she had been
accustomed to meet; but still there was something sad in his manner,
sometimes, which she could not account for. It seemed to her as if he
had met with some heavy affliction in days gone by. This thought was
impressed on her more than ever to-day; for he had not arrived in time
for dinner,--so they sat down without him. As the day passed slowly on,
and he did not appear, it made the whole family think the more of him.
After dinner, Miss Pendray asked Mr. Fowler if there was anything
pressing on his friend's mind, as, she said, she had often observed him
sad and thoughtful, when all had been merry and cheerful around him. Now
that the subject was mentioned, everyone seemed to have observed the
same; and they urged the lieutenant to tell them--if he knew, and it was
not a secret which he felt bound to keep--what it was that made the
young soldier look so sad at times when others were gay.

"My friend, Frederick Morley, has been a romantic dreamer all his life,"
said the lieutenant. "He was the same at school,--sometimes as gay and
reckless as the worst of us, and at other times sad and low-spirited,
even when his companions were in their gayest mood. About two years ago,
before he went abroad with his regiment, poor Fred had a romantic
love-affair at the town in which his regiment was quartered. His sister
was living in the same place, with her aunt; and Fred fell desperately
in love with a boarding-school miss, and as his sister was a day-pupil
at the same school, she was the messenger between them. Since his
return he has searched everywhere for the girl, but cannot succeed in
finding her. This much he has told me, but he will not divulge her name.
So you see, ladies, my poor friend has enough on his mind to make him
sad."

"Yes," replied Miss Pendray; "but this affair is of recent date, and you
say he was the same at school;--it was not a love-affair then, I
presume."

"Oh! no," said the lieutenant, in a grave tone; "there was another cause
for his melancholy then, but that is all blown over, and therefore,
perhaps, it is as well to leave it rest in oblivion. He never speaks of
it now, and so, I suppose, he wishes it to be forgotten."

"Oh! do tell us, Lieut. Fowler," said Blanche. "Poor young man! it must
have been some dreadful tale, I'm sure, to prey on his mind thus, for so
many years;" and she looked at him so beseechingly, that he could not
refuse,--indeed, why should he decline to make his friends acquainted
with the history of a young man whom he had introduced to their house?
The story threw no disgrace on his young friend; and if he scrupled to
tell them the true story, they might suspect it was some crime or
indiscretion which his friend had himself been guilty of. So, looking at
the sweet girl who sat opposite him, with her fair curls thrown back
from her face, the more easily to catch every word that was spoken by
him whose tales she loved to hear, he said he would relate the story as
well as he could. But it was a sad tale; and as it is likely to be a
long one, and probably an interesting one, we will give it a chapter to
itself.



CHAPTER VII.

"MURDER MOST FOUL."


"My friend's father," he began, "was an East-Indian merchant. He married
a native, by whom he had three children--two sons and a daughter. The
eldest son was several years older than the other two children, and he
received the best education that could be got in India, and was taken
into his father's factory to assist him, when he was very young. Their
mother died soon after the birth of her daughter; and, when they were
old enough, it was thought advisable to send the two younger children to
England, under the care of their aunt (Mr. Morley's only sister), to be
educated; and, as Mr. Morley was anxious to visit England once more, and
thought he could make more of his merchandize, by coming himself and
seeing how the markets stood, than his agents seemed to be making for
him, he determined to bring the children over himself. So he freighted
a vessel with a valuable cargo, and arrived in England safely with his
two children, having left his eldest son behind, to manage the business
in India. His sister resided at Ashley Hall, a country-seat about five
or six miles from Bristol. The children enjoyed the country air
exceedingly, and the scenery--so different from India--and the old
gentleman enjoyed it as much as they did. He visited Bristol almost
every day, and watched the markets, sometimes doing business and
sometimes not. He very often walked there and back, by way of exercise,
when the weather was fine. One day, about the middle of January, the
weather, although cold and sharp, being dry, he determined he would
walk, as he had so often done before, for he thought he should be able
to keep himself warmer in walking than driving. He did a good bit of
business that day, and had a considerable sum of money about him.

"It was a risk to walk home alone, but Mr. Morley had so often done it
before, without meeting with any accident, that he thought he would
start early, and in two hours he should be at the end of his journey. So
he buttoned up his great coat, and took his big stick in his hand, and
started. The stick was a very peculiar one, which he had brought with
him from India. It was very heavy for its size, and had large sharp
knots towards the big end,--not very handsome, but still it was
peculiar, and so it had many admirers. 'A good blow from this would
settle a stouter fellow than I am likely to meet with to-night, I
fancy,' said Mr. Morley, as he looked with pride on the formidable
weapon he held in his hand; and he strode down the street, with the cold
wind blowing in his face.

"Before he got a mile out of the town, it began to snow heavily; but
still he trudged on against the wind, which was blowing strong, and
beating the snow into his face, which made him hold his head down, so
that he did not remark a turn in the road, about three miles
out,--indeed, by this time, the road and hedges were covered with snow,
and anyone who knew the road even better than he did might have taken
the wrong turn. On, on he walked for several miles, when he began to
think he had missed his way,--for he now observed that he passed no
houses on the road, as he was accustomed to do when he walked home
before. At length, after walking some distance further, he saw a light,
and, thinking it might be a roadside-inn, he made towards it. On
approaching cautiously, however, he found it was not an inn, but a
solitary cottage, partly surrounded by a garden--the entrance to which
was through a small gate at the side; and nearly opposite this gate
there was a window. The light that he had seen, came from a window in
front of the house, facing the road. It was getting dark, but the white
snow threw a shadow of light all round, and he opened the little gate,
went round to the front, and looked in at the window, which was but
partially covered by a thin blind, and there he saw a woman sitting by
the fire alone. The room seemed comfortably furnished, and the table was
evidently laid for supper.

"It was now getting late, and Mr. Morley was cold and tired and hungry,
for he had been walking several hours; so he knocked at the door, which
was quickly opened by the woman he had seen sitting by the fire. She was
apparently about forty years of age, but not very prepossessing in
appearance, nor very courteous at first, but any shelter was better than
being out in the snow on such a night as this. He explained to her that
he had missed his way in going to his sister's house from Bristol; and
he begged her to let him partake of her meal, and rest a little, and
warm himself--for which he said he would willingly pay handsomely; and
he moreover said, incautiously, that he had more money about him than he
thought it was prudent for him to travel any further with alone that
night. This communication seemed to warm the woman's heart. She placed a
chair by the fire, and proceeded to get him some refreshment at once.

"'It is a dreadful night!' she said; 'and it has come on so suddenly
too. Who'd have thought it this morning?'

"'No indeed,' said Mr. Morley. 'This seems a lonely place for a
habitation. You have a husband, of course. He is out on business, I
suppose.'

"'No, sir, I have no husband. My father and brother live here with
me;--they are engaged in the seafaring line. My mother has been dead
some years.'

"'You are not far from the sea, then?' enquired Mr. Morley.

"'No,' she replied; 'a very short distance. I expect my brother home
soon, and was preparing supper for him. My father I don't expect home
for the night, so you shall occupy his room, if you please. It is on the
ground-floor, and looks into the garden. His business often keeps him
out late. We are gone to bed frequently when he comes in, and then he
can go into his room on the ground-floor without disturbing us. I
believe that was his fancy for having his bedroom there.'"

"Why, Fowler!" exclaimed the squire, "you are making quite an
interesting story of it. What it will end in, I haven't the slightest
idea; but go on."

"I'm afraid I am tiring you," replied the lieutenant; "but I have heard
the story repeated so often, that it is quite familiar to me."

"Oh! do go on," said Blanche, looking at him earnestly; "it is quite
like a tale one reads in the old romances."

"Old romances!" said her mamma, in alarm; "why where on earth have you
met with any old romances, I should like to know, child?"

"Well, if you would like to hear the end of my tale," said the
lieutenant, "I will proceed; but I haven't much more to tell. Let me
see. Where was I? Oh! the bedroom."

"Mr. Morley, having warmed himself and taken some refreshment, said he
was feeling very tired and sleepy, and should like to lie down for a few
hours, if perfectly convenient. The brother had not come in, so he
followed his hostess into the little bedroom, leaving his hat and stick
in the sitting-room. It was a comfortable little room enough. The bed
was small, and very near the door,--so near, that immediately you opened
it you faced the side of the bed, and you had to close the door again
before you could pass down by the side of the bed into the room. On the
other side of the bed, nearly opposite the door, stood the wash-stand,
and dressing-table, and one chair. The window faced the foot of the bed.

"Mr. Morley looked out at the night. It was very dark, and still snowing
a little. When he began to reflect on the acknowledged irregularity of
the men in the house, he did not feel very comfortable; for their
calling was evidently not a very reputable one. The woman seemed
superior in her manner and address to her present situation; but there
was a cunning, restless expression in her eye, which he did not at all
like. They might be a gang of desperadoes connected with the smugglers
that infested the coast. He did not like his position at all;--he was
unarmed, and in their power, and he had left his stick in the
sitting-room. If he went back for it, it would cause suspicion. He
determined, therefore, to lie down on the bed without taking off his
clothes, and be off in the morning as soon as he could see. There was no
lock to the door, nor bolt to the window, as far as he could find. He
tried the door cautiously, and found it was barred outside, and so was
the window;--so far, then, he was a prisoner. He threw himself on the
bed to rest, but not to sleep; and after some time he heard a man come
in at the front door. Then there was a savoury smell, and a good deal of
talk in whispers,--and then the brandy was asked for, and all was quiet.

"After a time he saw a man approach the window outside. He had the
appearance of being intoxicated. He opened the window after a little
trouble, and prepared to come in.

"'This is the father, no doubt,' thought Mr. Morley, 'come home
unexpectedly, and evidently very much intoxicated.'

"The man seemed too drunk to listen to reason, even if Mr. Morley had
got up and spoken to him; and a quarrel with him, in that state, would
be very unpleasant, and bring the other members of the household also
upon him. Besides, no doubt these men carried arms with them, wherever
they went; and if this man found a stranger in his bedroom, he would not
hesitate to shoot him, especially in his present state.

"What should he do? There was not a moment to be lost. The old man had
by this time tumbled into the room through the window. He would be on
the bed in a minute, for he was getting up from the floor. Mr. Morley
therefore slid down the side opposite the door, and got under the bed,
intending, as soon as the man was asleep, to get away from that house at
all risks.

"The old man threw himself on the bed, and was soon fast asleep.

"The door was now gently opened, and he heard a few heavy blows struck
with a heavy bludgeon on the poor old man's head, as he lay sound asleep
on the bed. There was a deep moan, and then the door was closed again.

"'Murder!' he said, as he crept from under the bed. He felt the body in
his fright; it was too dark to see it. There was no motion. Blood was
flowing from the wounds,--he could feel it, warm and clammy, although he
could not see it. He knew not what to do. The blows were no doubt
intended for himself, and if he raised an alarm he would still be
victimized. He was in an agony of fright and terror. His only thought
was to save his own life; for if the murderer discovered that he had not
killed his intended victim, he would be back again, no doubt, to finish
his work. He snatched up the hat that the old man had dropped on the
floor, thinking in his frenzy that it was his own, and got out of the
window, which had not been fastened again, and fled through the snow, he
knew not where."

"Oh! Mr. Fowler," exclaimed Blanche, shuddering; "this is too horrible.
Oh! don't go on! I can't bear it;"--and she placed her hands before her
eyes, that had before been so intently gazing on the speaker.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the squire; "we've heard the beginning; now let's
hear the end. Go on, Fowler. Those who don't wish to hear any more can
leave the room."

No one left the room; so Mr. Fowler continued:--

"The brother and sister were horror-struck, on entering the room the
next morning, to find that _their father_ had been murdered instead of
the stranger, and that the stranger had escaped, and was probably then
giving information to the authorities. Their first thought was
self-preservation. Circumstances favoured the guilty pair. The stranger
had evidently touched the murdered man, and had blood about his
hands--for there were stains on the window-frame--and he had worn away
the murdered man's hat, and left his own behind; and it was with _his
stick_ that the murder had been committed. Here was circumstantial
evidence enough; so the guilty pair lost no time in rousing the nearest
neighbours and constables; and information was given to the magistrates
by the brother and sister, accusing the stranger of the murder, which
appeared on the face of it very plausible; for the accused man's stick
and hat were found in the bedroom, and the name 'Morley' was written
inside the hat. The stick was covered with blood, and the sharp knots
corresponded with the marks in the murdered man's head. The stick was
easily identified. The murdered man's hat was missing too. But what
motive could such a man as Mr. Morley have had for committing such a
crime?" The woman said he might have been tipsy, and lost his way in the
snow, and finding the window so near the gate, and so easy to enter, he
had perhaps gone in, and a struggle might have taken place between him
and her father, who slept in that room. There was money in that room
too, she said; but it was not believed that Mr. Morley would murder
anyone for the sake of money. No one wished to believe him guilty; but
what could they do in the face of this circumstantial evidence? There
were his hat and stick, which he admitted at once were his--his name was
in the hat--and the stick was covered with blood. He was easily traced
in the snow, and when overtaken he was walking like a maniac. His hands
were bloody and so were his clothes; and he had the murdered man's hat
on his head.

"The sister told the tale before the magistrates very plausibly. It
might have been done in self-defence, she said. He might have got in at
the window, perhaps, for shelter; but why not have come round to the
door, and why did he not alarm the house, instead of going off in that
unaccountable way.

"He told his own tale, and concluded by saying that he had a
considerable sum of money about him, which he had lost or was robbed of.
No money was found, however.

"His tale did not appear plausible. The woman founded her belief that he
was tipsy, she said, on the fact of his having come so much out of his
way, if he was really only going from Bristol to Ashley Hall. He was a
comparative stranger in England, and very few knew him except in the way
of business.

"The circumstantial evidence was so strong that the magistrates could do
no other than commit him to the county gaol to await his trial for
murder at the next assizes.

"The assizes came, but there was no evidence against Mr. Morley, and he
was acquitted.

"The brother and sister had found the bag of money, no doubt, which he
had dropped in his agitation, and had absconded no one knew where. They
were afraid of the close cross-examination to which they would be
exposed, and under which their evidence must have broken down.

"Mr. Morley returned to India immediately, leaving his two children in
their aunt's care. It was a severe shock, from which he never
recovered. He felt that although he was innocent, yet the stigma of his
having been committed to prison on a charge of murder would still hang
over his family, until it could be properly cleared up by the conviction
or confession of the real murderer. He died soon after his return to
India; and on his death-bed he enjoined his children to make every
search in their power after those wicked people, who had so cruelly
murdered their own father and thrown the guilt upon him."

"Can you wonder, now, ladies, that my friend should feel low-spirited
sometimes?"

"It is indeed a dreadful tale," said Miss Pendray. "I wonder what became
of the guilty parties?"

"It is that which is preying on Morley's spirits," replied Mr. Fowler;
"he has searched and enquired everywhere--at home and abroad--but as yet
to no purpose. They have, no doubt, taken feigned names; but they will
be found out one day, I have not the slightest doubt."

"Now let us change the subject, and speak of the living," said the
squire. "What has become of young Morley, I wonder?"

"I shall have a search for him to-morrow morning," said the lieutenant.
"I fancy he is gone to St. Just, for he is anxious about his brother,
who was expected from India about this time, having amassed a large
fortune, besides what his father left, which he was about to divide
between the three children, according to his father's will. The wreck of
the Indiaman, the other day, has upset him rather; for he has an idea
that his brother might have been one of the passengers."

"Poor young man!" said Mrs. Pendray; "how many troubles he has had to
bear, for one so young!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE LAND'S-END CONJUROR.


Mr. Brown and his companion returned, after a three-hours' search,
without having found the boy or learnt any tidings of him. The mare had
eaten her warm mash, and Mrs. Brown had procured the assistance of
Josiah Trenow to give her a good rub-down and make her comfortable, and
he was having a glass of beer after his exertions, when Mr. Brown and
his companion came in.

"Thank 'ee, 'Siah," said Mr. Brown; "I do b'lieve the mare ha'n't had
such a rub-down for a month. Look here's a great strong arm, sir," he
continued, taking Josiah by the arm, while he called the gentleman's
attention to it.

"I shouldn't like to engage in single combat with him," replied Mr.
Morley, smiling, "if he is as strong as he looks."

"No fie! no fie!" said Mr. Brown. "Peggy! Peggy! Polly! Polly! Why the
women are all run away after the boy, I s'pose. Peggy, my dear!"

"Well, landlord," said Josiah; "what news have 'ee got about the boy?"

"Why no news," replied Mr. Brown, sitting down thoughtfully in his
wife's chair, a liberty he seldom took, unless he was "up in the
clouds," as she called it. "Sit down, sir, if you please. Why, a good
many people seed the boy and the mare go up, an' a fine passle seed the
mare come down again all of a rattle, without the boy, but nobody seed
the boy thrawd, an' nobody have seen the boy since, so far as we can
hear. Whisht, esn't et, 'Siah, boy?"

"Whisht! iss fie, 'tes whisht enough," said Mrs. Brown, coming
downstairs to hear the news too.

"That boy es so sure ill-wished as ever anybody wor in this world," said
Josiah; "he's in a queer por, an' ha' be'n so for a bra' bit."

"Why what are 'ee tellen', 'Siah," said Mr. Brown; "how shud 'ee think
so, boy?"

"Why for many things," replied Josiah; "the boy Bill wor took out of the
workhouse, worn't aw? and he ha'n't growd since--not an inch, I do
b'lieve. He can hardly reach to the mare's shoulder, and yet he do keep
that mare in good condition, with her summer's coat up all the year
round, like the squire's hunter, and better too, I b'lieve. He's mighty
fond of going out by night, too. I've seed that boy, when I've been
coming home from bal, two or three o'clock in the morning, going up by
Chapel-Carnbrea by hisself, whistling."

"What! our boy Billy whistling that time o' night?" said Mrs. Brown;
"dear lor'! I should think he'd be afeard of the pixies. And up there,
too!"

The conversation was evidently getting too dismal for Mr. Morley, and he
changed the subject by ordering a glass of brandy and water for himself,
and one each for Mr. Brown and Josiah.

"Come, Polly," said Mr. Brown, as he went to get the brandies. "Polly!
Polly! pretty Polly!"

He got no assistance, however; for Polly was gone out on some errand for
her mistress; and it really seemed as if he called the people about him
more from habit than anything else, for, like him who called spirits
from the vasty deep, poor Mr. Brown was not very much distressed or
astonished if they didn't come. While they were drinking their brandy
and water, the conversation turned again on the marvellous; and Mr.
Brown said, "I wondar ef 'twould be any good to ask 'The Maister' about
it."

"About what?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Why about the mare, to be sure," replied her husband; "she's ill-wished
as much as ever the boy es. Something frightened her more than human,
I'm sure;--what do you think, 'Siah?"

"Well," said Josiah, "I never seed a beast tremble like that afore. I
worked my arms off, purty nigh, afore she begun for to dry, an' then she
dried up all of a rattle, an' snorted brave."

"I'll go up now and ask 'The Maister,'" said Mr. Brown; "the mare es
ill-wished, I do b'lieve;"--so he drank up his brandy and water, and
started at once.

It was not, even then, very late, and Mr. Freeman's house was but just
outside the village.

"The Maister" was at home, the maid said. What did Mr. Brown please to
want.

"I do want to speak to him 'pon private business," replied Mr. Brown.

So Alice Ann shewed him into the best parlour, and left him there in the
dark, as she had orders to do to all visitors who came to "The Maister"
on private business.

Very soon he heard a rumbling noise in the room above, and then a
clanking of chains; and then he heard a voice, as if coming from the
floor of the room he was sitting in, telling him to beware of what he
was doing,--to keep all things secret,--and to tell "The Maister" all;
and then all would be well. All these mysterious sounds--coming
sometimes from above, and sometimes from one part of the room he was in,
and sometimes from another, when everything was shrouded in
darkness--were calculated to strike terror into a stronger mind than
poor Mr. Brown possessed; so that when Alice Ann came to the door and
asked him to follow her upstairs, he was confirmed in his belief that
"The Maister" was connected with "The Prince of Darkness," and was
prepared to see hobgoblins and spirits dancing about as he entered the
awful room.

Alice Ann knocked at the door three times, and at the third knock the
door flew open, and Mr. Brown was pulled in by some invisible hand, and
the door was closed again. He remained standing just inside, having a
screen of thick black cloth hanging before him, to prevent his seeing
what was in the room. He thought his last hour was come, and trembled
until his knees knocked together, and his teeth chattered in his head.
At last, a voice from the furthest corner of the room said:--

"John Brown, your business is known, without your telling it--as most
things are. Are you prepared to go through the ordeal necessary to free
the mare from evil hands, and the boy from witchcraft?"

"Oh! ye-es, Maister," said the poor man, in a tremulous voice: "I'll do
anything. I do know that your power is great, and your knowledge is
greater."

"Then down on thy knees, trembler, and do my bidding to the letter, or
woe be unto thee! And listen to what is now to be spoken." And down
flopped poor Mr. Brown on his knees, and awaited the ordeal, which he
interrupted occasionally, by sundry interjections and parenthetical
remarks of his own.

(_The Conjuror_) "You have a gentleman staying in your house?"

(_Mr. Brown_) "Oh! yes; and a very nice gentleman he is."

(_The Conjuror_) "He admires your mare?"

(_Mr. Brown_) "He do so."

(_The Conjuror_) "He must ride her!"

(_Mr. Brown_) "He shall, Maister. (Oh lor'! a wild harum-scarum like he
to ride the mare. Oh lor'! Peggy! Peggy! Oh lor'!)"

(_The Conjuror_) "Now listen. That gentleman must, within three days
from this time, ride the mare to the Land's-End point, and look over the
point, and the spell will be taken off which now hangs over the mare,
and the boy will be restored. If not, beware of what may befall you and
your household. The rider must have no friend or assistant within fifty
yards of the point."

(_Mr. Brown_) "Oh lor'! Peggy! Peggy! What shall I do? No mortal man
would do that. Oh lor'!"

A bell was now struck in the further end of the room, and the black
curtain was drawn up suddenly, when the room appeared to be all on fire.
There was a brilliant red light shed all around, and a thin vapour
filled the room, through which he saw the conjuror standing, dressed in
a black gown, and white wig, surrounded by ornaments composed of what
seemed to be silver, and small mirrors, which reflected the furniture of
the room, and multiplied them twentyfold. The conjuror then said, in a
solemn voice, "Do my bidding, or beware! your doom is fixed!"

The black curtain was then suddenly dropped again, and, after a few
minutes, the door was opened as before, and Mr. Brown was pushed out by
some invisible hand, and the door was locked on the inside.

Thus did this pretended necromancer work on the superstitious fears of
the ignorant and weakminded, and make them believe that he knew more of
their affairs than he really did; and thus did he gain a power over them
which no reasoning or persuasion could shake.

This is no exaggerated picture; for, at that period, there were numbers,
with less pretensions than Mr. Freeman, both men and women, who
practised these arts and received handsome incomes--not only from the
illiterate and ignorant, but from people in the higher walks of life, so
rife was the feeling of superstition which prevailed at that period, not
only in the county of Cornwall, but throughout the whole kingdom of
England. Well-to-do farmers, it was well known, paid one of these
emperics annual salaries to keep the _evil eye_ from their cattle. It is
not to be wondered at, therefore, that poor Mr. Brown should place
implicit reliance on what such a notable man as "The Maister" should
tell him, and determine to have "The Maister's" commands carried out to
the very letter, if it were possible that it could be done. If he had
been commanded to ride the mare to the brink of the Land's-End point
himself, or over it, he would have done it, without hesitation; but how
was he to get a stranger to do so for his benefit? It required
consideration; and, as two heads are better than one, he determined to
consult his wife at once, and they could put their heads together, he
thought, and the thing would be managed somehow,--for he had great faith
in his wife's wisdom; so he went home to sleep upon it.



CHAPTER IX.

LOVE AND MYSTERY.


The next morning, Alrina met her lover again by appointment, on the
rocks below Cape Cornwall; and here they renewed their former
protestations of love and constancy, and the hours passed pleasantly
away. But sunshine will not last for ever, and the brighter the sunshine
the darker will the cloud seem that obscures it for a time. In the midst
of their happiness a cloud passed over the countenance of Morley, and he
became thoughtful.

"Tell me," said Alrina, "what has caused this sudden gloom?"

"It is nothing, dearest," said he, putting his arm round her waist; "I
was just thinking how much more need we have of mutual sympathy than
either of us imagined. You have your secrets which you wish to
discover,--I mean as to your mother's and your father's early history,
and your own, and that secret which you seem to think your father has
hidden in his breast."

"Indeed, Frederick," replied Alrina, "I scarcely wish now to discover
those secrets,--for I fear the knowledge of them, whenever they are
discovered, may deprive me of that which I prize more than anything else
on earth--your love!"

"No, never!" replied her lover; "whatever your father may have done, or
whatever those secrets may be, as to the early history of your family,
will not alter my love for you, dear Alrina! I have a secret too,"
continued he; "and mine is a terrible one--one that would terrify you,
were I to tell you--and therefore it is better, perhaps, kept where it
is; I can bear it better alone. But we are only dreaming--don't cry,
Alrina;--all will be well in the end."

"But you have a terrible secret too, you say, Frederick?" she replied
through her tears. "I have told you all I know of myself; is your's a
secret to be kept from me? are you afraid to trust me, too?"--and the
poor girl burst into tears, and would not be comforted. She felt herself
an object of distrust to all, and her heart could not bear up against
such cold suspicion.

"Be calm, dear Alrina," said Frederick, in a soothing tone; "I have
nothing to conceal that you may not know. It will do you no good to know
it, and it may prey on your sensitive mind too much, and therefore do
more harm than good; but if you wish to know all, and you think you can
bear to hear it, I will tell you the whole,--but you must be calm."

"Oh! yes," replied Alrina, drying her tears; "I would rather know all. I
will be firm. I can bear anything with you, or for you." She placed her
hand in his, and looked up into his face with earnest love, as he
related to her the tale of his father's adventure in the snow, and his
accusation and acquittal for want of evidence. He told her also of his
brother, and that he was expected home from India about this time, and
how he feared he might have been in that Indiaman that was wrecked on
the coast but a few days before.

"Oh! Frederick, don't distress yourself about imaginary evils," said
Alrina; "bad news flies fast enough. A thought struck me while you were
relating that dreadful tale,--my father!"

"Your father!" exclaimed Frederick, hastily.

"Yes," she said; "why not ask him to help you in unravelling this
terrible secret. He is very clever, and knows many things that other
people scarcely dream of. People come here to consult him from all parts
of the country, and they generally go away satisfied; so I suppose he
tells them what they require to know. He is gone to some distant part
to-day, I believe, to cure some poor wretch who thinks he is ill-wished.
Remember, I have no confidence in that part of his scientific
pretension; but I know he has a clear head to sift out a mystery, and
has resources which few else have, from keeping all these
'goostrumnoodles' under his thumb, and some of the sharpest of them in
his pay."

"I will think of this," said Morley, smiling; "and if I become a convert
I will still consult the conjuror."

He then began to talk of his sister, Alrina's former schoolfellow. She
had left school, he said, and was living with their aunt, Mrs. Courland,
who had returned to her old house again near Bristol, where they were
staying when that sad affair happened to their father. Alrina must go
and see them.

The time passed swiftly on in such sweet converse, and they lingered on
and on--rising frequently to separate, and sitting down again; and in
the intensity of their love they neither of them saw that curious head,
nor those curious eyes and ears, which were watching them again, and
noting all their words and actions.

"Ho! ho!" said the individual, as it bore that curious head away on its
shoulders; "_more secrets worth knowing!_"



CHAPTER X.

ALRINA'S TROUBLES INCREASE.


Josiah Trenow resided with his father and mother in a small but neat
cottage, about a hundred yards from Mr. Freeman's house; consequently,
it was easy for Alrina or Alice Ann, when their elders were out of the
way, to run in and have a quiet gossip with Mrs. Trenow. Her husband was
underground-captain at Botallack mine, so that he was not much at home
during the day.

Alrina could not settle down to anything when she returned to her
father's house after her interview with Frederick Morley, related in the
last chapter. She tried to work, but she could not get on. She then took
a book, but could not fix her attention on the pages; and after sitting
half-an-hour with the book in her hand, she found that she was holding
it upside down.

Her father had returned, and had been closeted with her aunt ever since,
and it was as likely as not that Alrina would not see either of them
again for the night. They did not trust her with any of their secrets,
of which they seemed to have a good many; and her lover had imparted a
secret to her to-day, which made her feel very unhappy on his account;
but he had trusted her, and confided in her, so that was some
consolation; but then, if there should be any dreadful secret connected
with her past history, or her mother's, of whom she knew nothing, and
she were to lose his love in consequence, what should she do? She would
have no one then on whom she could lean for support and consolation in
her trials. All these thoughts, crowding one upon the other, made her
feel very sad, and she burst into tears, as she sat down in the little
parlour. Poor girl! how sad to be in the midst of relatives and friends,
and yet to feel that no one cares for you! Better to be a recluse at
once--far better.

Alice Ann knew that her young mistress had something on her mind that
distressed her, but she did not feel herself competent to advise or
console her. She peeped in at the door, however, and said,--

"What's the matter, Miss Reeney? I shud think you'd lost your sweetheart
a'most!"

"No, no, Alice Ann," she replied, wiping away her tears; "if I had one,
like you, and everything was going on smoothly, like your affairs,
perhaps it might raise my spirits a little."

"'Tesn't all so smooth as you may think," said Alice Ann; "I ha'n't se'n
sight nor sign of 'Siah (ef that's what you do main) sence the day after
the wreck, when he an' 'The Maister' had such a tussle up in the
'private room.' I looked in through the keyhole, but I couldn't see
much. When 'Siah came out aw looked all flushed, but I don't think aw
wor frightened, like some of them are when they do come out. Hes
fe-a-thar an' mother ha'n't seed much of 'n neither since then, I
b'lieve. I wish you could stay for to run down there, an' ax about 'n a
bit, Miss Reeney."

That was a happy suggestion. A good long chat with Mrs. Trenow, and,
probably, another secret, would relieve her mind a little from the heavy
weight she felt pressing upon it--almost more than she could bear.

She found Mrs. Trenow alone, with a basketful of coarse worsted
stockings before her, belonging to the men, which she was "mending a
croom," she said.

"How are 'ee, Miss Reeney, my dear," said she, as Alrina entered; "the
sight of you es good for sore eyes! Why, I ha'n't seed 'ee for ever so
long."

"No," replied Alrina; "I have been pretty much engaged, and my aunt has
been out more than usual lately, and so I have been housekeeper, you
know."

"Iss sure," said Mrs. Trenow, looking at her visitor over her
spectacles. "You ha' seed an' heerd bra' things lately, I s'pose. They
do say 'The Maister' es worken' the oracle purty fitty sence the wreck."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Alrina, in surprise.

"What do I main?" asked Mrs. Trenow, taking off her spectacles, and
closing the door;--"why, this here es what I do main. The best of the
things that wor picked up from that wreck es up in 'The Maister's'
private room, and more wud ha' b'en there, ef et worn't for one thing
more than another. There ha' b'en more people ill-wished, and more
cattle an' things dead, sence that night, than wor ever knaw'd to be
afore in so short a time; an' where shud they go to ef et worn't to 'The
Maister?'--and what wud he do for them ef they dedn't cross his hand?"

"I don't at all understand you!" said Alrina, more surprised than ever.

"No, I s'pose you don't, my dear," replied Mrs. Trenow; "you must go
abroad for to hear news about home, so they do say. An' poor Maister
Brown, too, ha' b'en up there, an' came home frightened out of his life.
Our 'Siah wor up to 'the public' when aw came in. He wudn't spaik a word
then, so 'Siah said; but to-day Mrs. Brown told 'Siah all about et. But
'tes a secret, my dear;--hush!"

"What is it, Mrs. Trenow? don't keep me in this suspense," said Alrina,
in an excited manner; "do tell me what has happened."

"Happened!" replied Mrs. Trenow; "why, nothen' ha'n't happened yet, that
I do knaw of; but how he'll git 'n to do it I don't knaw. I wudn't ef I
wor he."

"What! is Josiah to do something for Mr. Brown?" asked Alrina.

"No, my dear, not 'Siah," replied Mrs. Trenow. "There's a young
gentleman up there stopping, so 'Siah said, and he must ride Maister
Brown's mare to the edge of the cliff 'pon the Land's-End point, an'
look over, to save the man and the boy from witchcraft. Now, mind you
don't tell nobody, for 'tes a secret, my dear, down sous."

"I'd see them both at the bottom of the sea first," said Alrina; "why
should a stranger be mixed up with Mr. Brown's misfortunes?"

"Why! sure nuff!" replied Mrs. Trenow; "you may say Y or X, whichever
you mind to, but ef 'The Maister' do give the orders to the likes of Mr.
Brown, 'tes likely to be done, ef et can be any way in the world."

"What did my father know of the stranger, to give such an order as
that?" said Alrina.

"That I do no more knaw than a child," replied Mrs. Trenow; "but here's
fe-a-thar; mayhap he can tell."

"Your sarvant, Miss Reeney," said Captain Trenow, as he entered the
room; "you're a stranger, ma'am."

"Not much of a stranger, Captain Trenow," said Alrina; "but you are so
seldom at home when I can run down for a gossip with your good wife."

"Zackly like that," said the captain; "she's a bra' good hand for a
gossip, I do b'lieve. I'll back har agen the parish for tongue, Miss
Reeney. She don't do much else, I b'lieve in my conscience."

"Areah! then," said his wife, indignantly; "I shud like to knaw how
you'd get your victuals cooked, and your clothes mended, ef I was so
fond of gossipping as some people I do knaw?"

"Are 'ee going for to see the gentleman ride over the cliff to-morrow,
Miss Reeney?" said Captain Trenow, by way of changing the subject. "I do
hear that he's determined upon et, 'cause somebody said he cudn't. More
fool he, I do say."

"Oh! Captain Trenow," said Alrina, in the greatest terror; "don't let
him do it--pray, don't."

"Me! Miss Reeney," said the captain;--"why, I don't knaw the gentlemen.
Nobody here have ever seed 'n, 'ceps 'Siah an' the landlord's people."

"But won't Josiah prevent him?" said Alrina.

"That I can no more tell than you can, ma'am," replied Trenow. "'Siah es
gone up there now."

"Why, Miss Reeney!" exclaimed Mrs. Trenow, who had been looking
intently on Alrina for the last few minutes; "I shud think that strange
gentleman wor your sweetheart, ef I ded'nt knaw that you never clapp'd
your eyes upon om in your life. 'Siah do say, f'rall, that he's a likely
young chap enough."

This last expression of Mrs. Trenow's put Alrina on her guard. She did
not, at present, wish the gossips of St. Just to know that Frederick
Morley was either her friend or her lover; nor would he, under existing
circumstances, have wished it either. There were secrets on both sides
to be discovered and explained, before it would be prudent for them
openly to declare their attachment to each other. Frederick had not yet
even seen Alrina's father, and she was as yet entirely under her
father's control. She went home, therefore, with a sad heart; and
nothing that Alice Ann could say or do, could induce her to tell her
what she had heard, nor why she was so sad. She hoped that it might not
be true,--that was her only consolation. But it was true, nevertheless.



CHAPTER XI.

FREDERICK MORLEY OBSTINATELY DETERMINES ON RIDING THE MARE.


When Frederick Morley returned to the inn, after his meeting with
Alrina, he found his friend, Lieut. Fowler, there in deep conversation
with Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

"Hallo! old fellow," he exclaimed, as his friend entered; "a pretty
fellow you are, to keep the squire's dinner waiting, and two pair of
bright eyes languishing for something more sprightly than a poor
lieutenant R.N. to rest their weary lids upon. Why, where the deuce have
you been? You are not _ill-wished_, too, are you?"

"It seems very like it," replied Morley; "for I seem to bring trouble
wherever I go. Only last night, when I simply wanted a note taken over
to you, and my bag brought back, the boy was taken off by the pixies,
and the landlord's mare caught St. Vitus's dance, or something
worse,--so the sooner I return to the place from whence I came, the
better."

"I don't know that," replied Fowler; "for you have work cut out for you
here, it seems."

"What do you mean?" replied his friend, smiling. "The French haven't
landed, have they? and you want me to take the command of the
volunteers?"

"No, no," said Fowler; "but our friend, Mr. Brown, has been to the
conjuror about his misfortunes; and what do you think he told him?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Morley; "some humbug, I suppose."

"Nothing of the kind, I assure you," replied Fowler. "He merely said
that it would depend on the courage and skill of the person who was the
innocent cause of the misfortunes, to extricate him out of them."

"If you mean me," replied Morley, "you know I don't want for pluck; as
to the skill, that's another thing,--that will depend on what there is
to do."

"Well, then, Mr. Brown has confided to me the history of his visit to
the conjuror," said the lieutenant, "and he told him that the gentleman
(meaning you) must ride the mare to the edge of the cliff at the
Land's-End, and look over,--having no friend or assistant within fifty
yards of him."

"Ha! ha! ha! that's easy enough," said Morley; "I was considered the
best horseman in my regiment, and I am passionately fond of riding. Why,
I have jumped on the back of a colt that had never been haltered before,
and broken it in, so that a child could ride it, before I got off its
back again. I know the secret, and can tame a horse by whispering in his
ear. So you may consider your misfortunes at an end, if that will do it,
my good friend Brown?"

"No, sir," said Mrs. Brown, very decidedly; "there shall be no such risk
as that run for anything belonging to me. Lev the mare alone,--she'll
get round again; an' ef she don't, 'twas no fault of yours, sir."

"But, ef the gentleman esn't afeard," chimed in poor Mr. Brown, "why
not----"

"Brown!" said his wife, in a voice which made him start; "I wish to
gracious 'The Maister' had told you to ride the mare yourself. I b'lieve
you wud have b'en fool enough to have done et, and then I shud ha' got
rid of two troubles together. Drat the mare!" And, in her anger, she
took up a large bunch of furze, and threw it on the fire, which was
burning on the hearth, and sent it blazing up the large chimney, while
her husband shuffled away towards the door, intending to go into the
stable, his usual place of refuge from the two fires, which generally
blazed together within; for when his wife was in one of her tantrums,
and exercised her tongue more than usual, she generally put a good blast
into the chimney, and they blazed away together. Before poor Mr. Brown
reached the door, however, he was brought up "_with a round turn_," as
Lieut. Fowler expressed it, by the sweet voice of his wife, who said,
sharply,--

"Brown! did you hear Lieut. Fowler ask for a glass of ale for self and
friend?"

"No, Peggy, dear, I dedn't," said he; "but I'll draw the glasses, of
course I will. Polly! Polly! Why, wherever es that maid?"

So the glasses of ale were drawn, although the order was entirely in
Mrs. Brown's own imagination; for neither of the gentlemen had given
one;--but it was the very thing they both wished, and, no doubt, would
have ordered very soon, had not their wishes been anticipated by the
landlady, who always had an eye to business.

The two gentlemen then took a stroll together, and Lieut. Fowler tried
to dissuade his friend from this rash and foolish undertaking, but to no
purpose. He was determined to do it, he said,--it was just the thing he
liked; for English sports were so tame, after those he had been
accustomed to for the last two years. Hunting tigers and Lions,--that
was the sport for him.

"If you are really determined," said Fowler, "I shall bring the girls up
from Pendrea-house to have a look at you; but I think you will alter
your mind before the morning."

Mrs. Brown had prepared a very nice dinner, and so the friends enjoyed
two or three hours' social chat. Morley had heard no tidings of his
brother, he said, nor had anyone found anything that was likely to have
been his, as far as he could learn; and so he supposed he was not in
that ship. But he should remain a day or two longer, he said, to make
further search.

When his friend rose to leave, Morley said he would go out a little way
with him, and he would ride the mare to try her temper and her paces.

Mrs. Brown was obliged to yield when she found that the gentleman was
determined on the feat, and she trusted that the well-known good temper
and tractability of the mare would carry them both through with
safety,--although the fright into which the mare had been thrown two
days before, without any apparent cause, as it seemed, tended to weaken
Mrs. Brown's confidence in the perfect steadiness of her husband's pet.



CHAPTER XII.

THE AWFUL RIDE.


The eventful morning arrived. But it had been kept a profound secret,
fearing that, if a rumour of this dangerous feat being about to take
place got generally known, there would be a concourse of people on the
ground,--and the mare, however steady she was, might get frightened.

Mr. Brown walked up early to the point, and sat behind a rock, from
whence he could have a good view without being seen. Lieut. Fowler and
the young ladies from Pendrea were early on the ground also; and they
took their stations also behind some rocks, but in a more conspicuous
place than Mr. Brown. There were a few other spectators, but very few,
scattered about among the rocks. They waited some time in anxious
expectation, but no rider appeared.

"Morley has altered his mind, no doubt," said Lieut. Fowler to the
ladies; "and I am glad of it; for it is a dangerous feat to perform, on
a strange horse."

"Oh! I wish it may be so," said Blanche; "for, although I came to oblige
Maud, I shall shut my eyes when he goes down to the point."

"Nonsense," said the majestic Maud; "I don't think I should be afraid to
perform the feat myself, if I were a man;--I should like it. But here he
comes. I thought he wouldn't shew the white feather."

At that moment the object of their solicitude came towards them, mounted
on the famous mare, Jessie. She had been well fed, and carefully
groomed, and her master's comb had evidently gone through her tail and
mane more than once that morning.

Morley took off his hat to the ladies, and chatted with them a few
minutes, laughing at the idea of there being any danger in his riding
quietly to the point and back. The ladies admired and patted the
beautiful creature he was riding; and even Blanche thought there could
be no danger on such a beautiful quiet animal as that.

Lieut. Fowler, however, even then, tried to dissuade his friend from the
attempt.

"Don't be such a faint-hearted old codger," said Morley, laughing. And,
taking off his hat again to the ladies, he cantered easily down towards
the point.

The promontory, clothed with short grass, slopes gently down towards the
extreme point of the Land's-End for about fifty yards, and then breaks
off suddenly, and the cliffs go down perpendicularly some two or three
hundred feet, except that, here and there, in the side of the cliff, at
various distances, may be seen, by a person whose head is steady enough
to look down, projecting rocks just sufficient to break the fall, but
not large enough for a body to rest upon for a single moment.

At the bottom, the sea washes the base of the cliffs, coming booming in
with every wave, and surging and dashing against the rocks and cliffs
beneath, sending its spray sometimes in rough weather completely over
those towering cliffs,--a fearful sight for a man with a steady head to
look down upon, but for a horse!

On comes the bold rider,--steadily,--carefully. The mare doesn't like it
at first, and turns round when she is within a few yards of the edge of
the precipice. The turf is soft, and she capers a little. The rider pats
her neck, and turns her head again, gently, towards the cliffs. She goes
on gently! gently! he patting her neck, and sitting steadily on her
back. At last they are standing on the very edge of the precipice, and
are both looking over. Hurrah!! The deed is done!! All eyes are bent on
the bold rider, and are holding their breath. A single false step, even
now, would precipitate them into the abyss below, and both must be
dashed in pieces. Awful thought! The deed is done, however, and Mr.
Brown's misfortunes are at an end. The rider turns his horse to ride
back to his friends in triumph. He has just turned her head round
towards the green turf again, when something attracts the mare's
attention. She trembles! Her back is towards the precipice,--her hind
feet close to the edge of the cliff! Neither horse nor rider sees the
extent of the danger, for their backs are towards it. The mare refuses
to proceed; the rider urges her; she rears! Another moment and they must
be dashed in pieces,--nothing can save them. All is breathless anxiety
among the spectators. No one has the presence of mind to speak. A voice
at this moment is heard distinctly, stentorian in its anxiety,--"_Throw
yourself off the horse, and hold on!!!_" The young officer obeys the
voice instantly, as if it had been a command from his superior officer.
He flings himself off, and holds on by the turf, _like grim death_,
digging his fingers into the soft ground to hold on the firmer; for he
now hears the horse go down over the precipice,--down! down! bumping on
the projecting rocks in the fall, and _screeching_, as horses and all
animals will do in extreme danger and suffering. The rider had fallen on
the turf, it is true; but he had barely saved himself, for _his legs
dangled over the edge of the precipice_!

He could not stir. He felt as if he was holding himself up by his
fingers, which he had dug into that soft turf, and this seemed giving
way every instant; but it was not so in reality. His body was safely
lodged on the ground, although his feet were hanging over, and as long
as he could hold on he was safe; but he couldn't hold on so very long.
And then--oh! horror!--his terror and fright caused him to fancy a
thousand horrid deaths in an instant of time. Before he had been lying
on the turf two minutes, however, a tall, strong-built, powerful-looking
man, came bounding down towards him from one of the rocks just above,
and, seizing him round the waist, lifted him up in his strong arms, and
carried him to a safer resting-place. By this time he had fainted, and
was unconscious of the attentions which were being paid him.

His providential deliverer was no other than Josiah Trenow, who had come
there to see the feat, and was standing behind a rock, at no great
distance from the point. And he it was who had the presence of mind to
shout to the rider to throw himself off, when he saw the horse rear; and
it was his strong arm that lifted the poor terror-stricken man from his
perilous position.

Had it not been for the presence of mind of this bold strong man, the
young officer might still have gone over; for he had not the power to
move a limb, and, when he fainted, and let go his hold in the grass, he
must have followed the horse,--down! down! Oh! terrible fate!!!



CHAPTER XIII.

ITS CONSEQUENCES.


No one thought of the fate of Mr. Brown's favourite mare. All the
spectators clustered round the prostrate man. Maud Pendray looked on him
as a hero; she seemed to worship him with her eyes. Blanche wept tears
of joy that he was saved from what everyone thought inevitable
destruction. Poor Mr. Brown didn't know what to say or do. He called
upon Peggy, and said several times, as if talking to his pet, "Wo! ho!
Jessie! gently, mare! steady, now!" And then the poor man sat down on a
rock, apart from the rest, and burst into tears.

Those of the party who alone were equal to the occasion, were Lieut.
Fowler and Josiah Trenow. They collected the few men together who
happened to be present, and, between them, they carried the
terror-stricken man to "The First and Last Inn," at Sennen--that being
the nearest public-house to the scene of the accident.

A man on horseback was despatched to Penzance for a surgeon, and the
patient was put to bed at once.

A fortnight passed away, and the patient was fast recovering, but he
could not shake off the gloomy and depressing thoughts, which were
continually recurring, whenever he heard the sea, or saw the cliffs.

One day, the surgeon announced that there was to be a grand ball at
Penzance, in about a fortnight,--the precise day was not fixed; and he
advised his patient to go. Change of scene, and the excitement of the
music and the dancing, and the company, he thought, would draw his mind
away from those ever-present and depressing thoughts. His friend Fowler
had promised to go with the Pendray party, and they were all delighted
to learn that Morley had consented to join them also.

Poor Alrina! it was an anxious day for her. She knew that her lover was
gone out on the mare to attempt that daring feat; and she knew, also,
the extent of the risk he was incurring,--for she had often, in her
solitary rambles, walked down to the edge of the Land's-End cliffs, and
looked over, out of curiosity, and it made her shudder when she thought
of him. Even should he be able to get the mare down to the
brink,--sitting there at the mercy of the horse, one false step, or a
moment's giddiness, must be fatal to both. In the midst of her
meditations, news was brought that the horse and its rider had both
fallen over the cliff, and were dashed in pieces. She threw herself on
her bed, and tried to believe that the report was false; but no,--she
feared it must be true, for she had before worked her mind up to the
belief that the feat could not be accomplished in safety.

She was overwhelmed with grief; and when Alice Ann came up, a few hours
afterwards, and told her that Josiah was downstairs, and had brought a
message for her from Mr. Morley, the sudden and blessed news that he was
alive, affected her almost as much as the dreadful news of his death had
done. She was quite overcome by her feelings. Sometimes she would laugh
heartily, and then burst into a torrent of tears, until it ended in a
violent fit of hysterics.

It was a long time before Alice Ann could pacify her, and she dared not
call in the assistance of Miss Freeman, for she knew that her aunt did
not sympathize with "young ladies' vagaries," as she called them.
Besides, she was again closeted with her brother, who had been from home
nearly all the day, and had but just returned.

When she was sufficiently recovered, Alrina saw Josiah, and received the
kind message which her lover had sent her; and from Josiah she heard the
true but sad tale. He told her all, from the beginning. Mr. Morley was
as weak as a young baby, he said, and for hours after the accident he
trembled all over, as he lay in bed, so that the bed shook under him.
The doctor had desired that he should be kept perfectly quiet, and that
a watch should be kept with him, night and day; for he feared delirium.
He had left Mr. Fowler with him now, he said; but Mr. Morley had
requested Josiah to return as soon as possible, and stay with him also;
for he had a strange nervous feeling that he was _still falling_, and
nothing relieved him but feeling Josiah's strong arm round his
waist;--he felt safe then, and so Josiah had sat for hours on the poor
terror-stricken young man's bed, holding him in his arms; and the
sufferer would cry out like a little frightened child, if his supporter
did but move, and beg him not to let him fall over,--for he could not
divest himself of the idea that he was still on the brink of the
precipice.

Alrina listened with profound attention to Josiah's description of the
scene, and of her lover's present prostrate condition. She longed to go
to him, and to be his nurse; but there were many reasons, both on his
account, and her own, why she should not do so.

She wrote a short note, which Josiah promised to deliver into his hands;
but he said he could not promise to bring an answer in writing, for Mr.
Morley's hand trembled so that he could not hold a pen, nor even the
glass in which he took his medicine.

Although her mind was set at rest in a measure, yet Alrina had enough
to occupy her thoughts till bedtime, and so she retired to her room
again, and desired Alice Ann to tell her aunt, if she enquired after
her, that she had a headache, and was gone to lie down a little.

Before she had been in her room long, however, Alice Ann came to the
door, and said "The Maister" wanted Miss Reeney at once.

"My father!" exclaimed Alrina; "what can he possibly want!"

"I do no more knaw than you," replied Alice Ann; "but he told me to
fetch you down, f'rall I told'n you wor gone to bed poorly."

"Well, I suppose I must obey," said Alrina, heaving a heavy sigh. "I
wonder what he wants me for? it is so unusual for him to send for me. I
wish I knew why he was so cruel as to order Frederick to perform that
perilous feat to-day,--some hidden motive, no doubt. I'll try and find
it out. I've a great mind to ask him, point blank; but then----"

"Come, Miss Reeney," said Alice Ann, coming to the door again; "'The
Maister' es axing when you're comin', so I told'n you wor dressin'."

When Alrina came out into the front passage from her bedroom, which was
in the back of the house looking into the little garden, she found her
father waiting for her near the door of his "private room." He opened
the door and desired her to follow him.

Her curiosity was to be gratified, then, at last, but not in the way she
very much liked, for she fancied that this interview would not be a very
pleasant one,--why, she didn't know. Perhaps her father was now about to
reveal some of those mysteries which hung over them. At another time she
might not have felt these painful forebodings, but her nerves had been
unstrung by the events of the day; and she felt now as if an unkind
word, or an unexpected disclosure, would upset her again. So much more
terrible are imaginary misfortunes and troubles oftentimes when seen at
a distance, than they are in reality, when they actually take place.

Mr. Freeman took his seat at the top of the room, near a large table,
and pointed to a chair, which Alrina felt was intended as an invitation
for her to be seated also. This gave her courage to look round the room.
There were some large boxes about, and several cupboards and a few more
chairs; but, in general appearance, the room was pretty much like other
sitting-rooms, except that it required to be dusted, she thought. And,
when she had finished her survey of the room, she had time to look at
her father again, before he spoke. He was evidently trying to overawe
her, and when she found out that, it gave her fresh courage.

Mr. Freeman, as he sat in that large, curiously-fashioned chair, seemed
a fine-looking man,--much younger in appearance than he generally
looked; because, as we have before stated, he affected the old man, and
seemed to wish to be thought much older than he really was.

"Alrina," he said, at length, "how did you become acquainted with that
young man?"

"What young man?" said she, as innocently as she could.

"Alrina!" he said again, looking at her sternly; "you know whom I mean,
and therefore let's have no prevarication."

"His sister was one of my schoolfellows," she replied, "and she
introduced me to her brother."

"Oh!" replied her father, smiling; "and you each became affected with
that incurable malady which silly people call 'love;' and you have met
him again? And where is your old schoolfellow now, pray?" asked Mr.
Freeman.

"She is residing with Mrs. Courland, I believe," replied Alrina, "at
Ashley Hall."

"Thank you, Alrina. That was all I wanted to know. Now, you can go to
your room again, if you don't feel well, and let the servant bring you
up some tea. Good night."

So, then, this terrible ordeal in the "private room," which Alrina had
dreaded so much but a few minutes before, and racked her brain to
imagine what her father could possibly want of her, had ended in his
asking a plain simple question or two, and her giving him answers to
match. And although she had intended to ask him why he had been so cruel
as to order that dangerous feat to be performed by that young stranger,
and many other important questions, she had been dismissed so abruptly,
that she had actually said nothing.

The whole scene seemed so absurd that she burst into a hearty laugh when
she reached her own little bedroom once more.



CHAPTER XIV.

MRS. BROWN TELLS THE CONJUROR A BIT OF HER MIND.


Poor Mr. Brown! he remained on the rocks long after the other spectators
had left, and would have remained there much longer, had he not been
roused from his reverie by a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"Billy," said he, looking up; "let's go into the stable and have a look
at Jessie, boy. She must have a good rub-down and a warm mash to-night."

"Come along," said the boy. And, taking Mr. Brown by the arm, he led him
home to his amiable but eccentric wife.

"What! Billy!" she exclaimed, as the pair entered the kitchen; "where,
in the name of goodness ded you spring from?"

"Why, I ha'n't b'en away, have I?" replied the sly boy.

"Now, that's enough--a plenty," said Mrs. Brown, looking at the boy with
her keen grey eyes. "I can see through a millstone so well as most
people. I ha'n't b'en away, says aw!"

"No, have I?" said he, looking innocently at his mistress.

"Areah, thon! Now, I'll tell 'ee, Billy. He that ha' b'en your maister
the last three days, may take 'ee for the next three days, for what I do
care; for in my house you sha'n't stop,--there, na. My eyes ha' b'en
opening wider and wider evar sence last night. A croom of chat with one,
and a croom of chat with another, have opened them so wide, that I can
see round a corner a'most."

"I don't knaw what you do main," said the boy.

"Iss you do," replied Mrs. Brown, shaking her head; "so you march,--and
dont you come anist my door agen for a bra' spur."

The boy saw that his quondam mistress was in earnest; so he took the
hint and made himself scarce.

"And now, Mr. Brown," said she, turning to her husband, who had seated
himself in the chimney-corner, "what do you think of yourself, I shud
like to knaw? Your Jessie mare es come to a purty pass, esn't she? Ef
the young gentleman had gone over cliff too, I shud nevar ha' b'en good
no more. To go for to slock the young gentleman into et like that wor a
shame, an' so et wor. You an' 'The Maister' too oft to be
spefflicated,--iss you ded."

"'The Maister' wor right, Peggy," said Mr. Brown;--"the boy es come
back. Wo! ho! Jessie! gently, mare! steady, now! Wo! ho!"

"John Brown," said his wife, "I ha' thoft for a bra' bit that there was
but one biggar fool than you in the world, an' that's me, for marryin'
such a g'eat lazy, knaw-nothen' pattick. John Brown, go to bed!" And
this command was given in such an authoritative tone, that Mr. Brown
took it literally, and, lighting a bed-light, although it was broad
daylight, he took off his shoes at the bottom of the stairs, as was his
wont, and went to bed in right earnest; and in ten minutes he was fast
asleep.

"Well, that's a comfort," said Mrs. Brown.

"What's a comfort?" said Mrs. Trenow, who had come in to have a croom of
chat with the landlady; "you've had your drop of gin an' peppermint, I
s'pose?"

"No, sure, I ha'n't," replied Mrs. Brown; "but we will now, for I do
feel that there's something wantin', cheeld vean."

So the two gossips were very soon seated comfortably over their little
drop of cordial, seasoned with a pinch of snuff; and they wound up their
moderate carousal with a cup of tea.

"You said something wor a comfort when I came in," said Mrs. Trenow.

"Iss fie! hark!" replied Mrs. Brown, turning up her ear in a listening
attitude.

"You've got a pig bad, I s'pose?" said Mrs. Trenow; "but what comfort
there es in that, I caen't tell. Ill-wished again, I s'pose? Semmen to
me 'The Maister' ha' got bra' work now."

"No, my dear, tesn't the pig. Hark again!" said Mrs. Brown.

"Why, 'tes up in the chamber, to be sure," replied Mrs. Trenow,
listening.

"Iss fie, 'tes up in the chamber, sure nuff," said Mrs. Brown; "and
there he'd sleep and snore till to-morrow dennar-time ef I dedn't
rouse'n out."

"Dear lor'! like that, es aw? Whisht too 'pon om, now that the mare es
killed, I s'pose," said Mrs. Trenow. "Do 'ee think that 'The Maister'
had any grudge agen that young gentleman, do 'ee?"

"What shud he knaw 'bout the young gentleman?" returned Mrs. Brown.
"I'll tell 'ee, Mrs. Trenow, 'The Maister' wean't lev you nor me knaw
what he do think; for thinken' es one thing and spaiken' es another,
weth he, I'll assure 'ee."

"But the boy came back to the very minute, I do hear," said Mrs. Trenow,
who could not be persuaded out of her belief in "The Maister's" wisdom.

"I tell 'ee, Mrs. Trenow," said Mrs. Brown, in a confidential whisper;
"'tes my belief that ef they two wor to take off their shoes you wud see
two cloven hoofs,--iss I do."

"Oh! lor!" shrieked both the women, as they looked up, after their
little confidential whisper; for behind them stood Mr. Freeman himself.

"A glass of mild ale, if you please, Mrs. Brown," said he, in his
blandest tone, as he took his usual seat in the chimney-corner.

"Yes, sir," said the landlady. And while she was drawing the ale, Mrs.
Trenow took the opportunity of slipping out. Mrs. Brown was as shrewd
and cunning in her way as Mr. Freeman was in his, and, while she was
drawing the glass of ale, she began to reflect on the probable purport
of this early visit; for "The Maister" seldom came there until much
later in the evening, when he knew he should find some of those
peculiarly constituted individuals there, whom Alrina generally
designated "goostrumnoodles," and whom he seldom found much difficulty
in frightening to his heart's content. On these occasions, Mrs. Brown
never interfered; for she had an eye to business, and she knew that the
more terror there was produced in the brains of these poor numskulls,
the more stimulants they would consume. But, now, there was no occasion
for any dissimulation; and so she determined she would tell "The
Maister" a bit of her mind,--for she believed that he had some hidden
and wicked motive for prompting her husband to induce that young
gentleman to undertake so dangerous a feat as the one he had attempted
that day.

"Your husband has met with a serious loss to-day," said Mr. Freeman.

"Iss; and I s'pose you are come down for to make et good," replied Mrs.
Brown, rather tartly.

"Me!" said Mr. Freeman; "what have I to do with Mr. Brown's losses, more
than having a feeling of sympathy for the misfortunes of an old friend?"

"You dedn't tell Brown that the young gentleman must ride the mare up
there, I s'pose?" said Mrs. Brown, taking a cunning side glance at her
visitor.

"What motive could I have had for such a suggestion as that?" asked Mr.
Freeman, looking innocently at Mrs. Brown; "and who could possibly have
said that I had anything to do with the matter?"

"I tell 'ee, Maister Freeman," said Mrs. Brown; "there's more of your
doin's knawn than you do think. What you got out of that wreck es knawn
to a bra' many, f'rall they're afeard for to spaik et out, down sous."

This made Mr. Freeman wince a little; for he had such confidence in his
own cunning and ability in frightening and deceiving his neighbours,
that he never for a moment supposed that they would presume to speculate
on, or try to pry into, his private gains, or discuss his actions or
motives.

His eyes were now opened, and Mrs. Brown perceived that he felt very
uncomfortable--a most unusual and impolitic feeling for him to exhibit
in the presence of so shrewd a woman as Mrs. Brown, who drew her own
conclusions therefrom; and after her visitor had drank his ale, and left
her alone once more, she sat down, and, putting "this against that," saw
the "ins and outs of things," as she expressed it, more clearly than she
had ever done before.



CHAPTER XV.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER AT THE PENZANCE BALL.


Frederick Morley was getting strong again, and had met Alrina several
times, and pressed her to go to the ball at Penzance; but this she could
not think of doing, she said. Neither her father nor her aunt would
sanction that, she was quite sure; for, although her education had been
such as so fit her for ball-room society, and her beauty eminently
qualified her for a ball-room belle, yet the equivocal position of her
father, and the mystery which appeared to hang over them all, precluded
her from enjoying at present the society of him she loved so much, in
that sphere to which he of right belonged. He was unwilling to go
without her, and had almost made up his mind not to go; but she knew it
would do him good to mix in the society to which he had been accustomed,
and she knew, also, that if he declined accompanying the Pendray party
to the ball, his motives would be canvassed, and their secret love,
which it was best for the present should be concealed, might become
known; and so Alrina persuaded him to go.

Carriages were sent out from Penzance to take the Pendray family and the
two officers to the ball, which was expected to be a very aristocratic
affair. When they arrived at the hotel, they found that the best
sitting-room and bedroom--which Squire Pendray wished to have secured
for his party--had been engaged that morning by a strange gentleman, who
came in from Hayle in a carriage-and-four, the waiter said. He was
dressed like a foreigner, and had a large trunk with him, but no
servant. He seemed rich, and gave orders as if he had been accustomed to
be waited upon by a good many servants, and would not be satisfied with
any but the best rooms. He took two tickets for the ball, the waiter
said, and therefore, he supposed, he expected a friend, but no one had
yet arrived.

The ball was a very brilliant one, for a country ball in those days, and
everyone seemed in anxious expectation for the entrance of the
stranger--especially the young ladies. Miss Pendray looked splendid. She
had impressed Frederick Morley into her service, as her favoured beau;
for she had taken a great interest in him since his accident, and had
paid him marked attention,--indeed, she now looked upon him as a hero,
whom she could almost worship. Such deeds of daring had a charm for her
which few else could understand. But still, he did not come up to her
standard of manly perfection. There was scarcely enough of that romantic
devotion towards herself displayed, which she so much required, and
demanded from those she took an interest in. This placed Morley in a
very awkward position, for he could not help seeing that he had
attracted Miss Pendray's attention, and that she seemed more pleased
with his society than that of any other gentleman of her acquaintance.
But he could not return it as she evidently would have wished him to do;
for he had a secret treasure concealed within his breast, far dearer to
him than all the charms of person and mind and fortune which Miss
Pendray possessed. He would not exchange his Alrina's love for the
fairest and brightest jewel that the world could bestow; for, without
her, all the world to him would be an empty and worthless blank.

He enjoyed the ball as much as he could do in the absence of her who was
uppermost in his thoughts. The excitement of the music, the company, and
the dancing, brought back reminiscences of similar scenes abroad. His
wonted spirits returned, and he entered thoroughly into the pleasures of
the moment, and forgot for a time the scene on the cliffs, the horse's
screech of terror, and the sound of his falling from rock to rock, as he
went down over that awful precipice, while he himself was dangling on
the very edge. He danced with all alike,--one lady was the same, to him,
as another, there,--and he did not notice that Miss Pendray had
withdrawn from the dancing, and was sitting alone at one end of the
room, when the stranger entered. All eyes were directed towards the
door, as the waiter showed him in; but his eyes were evidently attracted
by the magnificent form of Miss Pendray, as she sat alone on a seat
nearly opposite the door.

One of the stewards immediately went up to him, introducing himself as
"steward," and offering to present him to a partner.

The stranger bowed, and expressed a wish to be presented to the lady who
was sitting opposite.

He gave his name to the steward who introduced him to Miss Pendray as
"Mr. Smith." The stranger was the topic of conversation throughout the
room. He certainly looked like a foreigner. His dress was that of an
Indian gentleman of rank of those days. His coat was of the finest
purple satin, trimmed and ornamented with gold; a white satin waistcoat,
tastefully embroidered with silver; and white kerseymere breeches of the
finest texture, fastened below the knee with a silver band; the white
silk stocking displaying to advantage a finely-turned leg,--his shoes
being fastened with small gold buckles. He was a tall, fine-looking man,
apparently between forty and fifty years of age--nearer the former,
perhaps, than the latter. He seemed to be making himself very agreeable
to Miss Pendray; for she became full of animation, and her handsome
countenance lit up radiant with beauty.

The stranger would not dance, but was introduced, by turn, to almost all
the ladies of note in the room. Miss Pendray, however, was the principal
attraction, and he returned to her side again and again.

Frederick Morley looked at the stranger several times with earnest
attention, and, after a time, became absorbed in thought. He was not
jealous of the attention bestowed on him by the lady whom he had led
into the room. No, it could not have been that. He did not care enough
for Miss Pendray to feel jealous of her attentions being bestowed
elsewhere. No, it was not that. He watched the stranger narrowly, and he
came to the conclusion that he was not the person he assumed to be.
"Smith" was a feigned name, evidently. His dress and ornaments betokened
him to have been a resident in India. India was a country familiar to
Morley by name, and dear to him, as having been the residence of his
father for so many years, and the birthplace of his mother, his brother
and sister, and himself. He had not seen his brother since he and his
sister were brought over by their father, when they were children, and
when that never-to-be-forgotten calamity befel his father, which
shortened his life. That false accusation was still hanging over the
family. He had been reminded of it, in almost every letter he had
received from his brother since their father's death; and, in his last
letter, he said he had wound up their father's affairs, and his own, in
India, and he intended to return to England by the next ship, to arrange
the property according to their father's will, and to make a strict
search after the wretches who had murdered their own father, on that
terrible night, and caused the suspicion and accusation to rest on an
innocent man. He would travel all over England, he said, and spend the
whole of his fortune, to clear his father from that foul suspicion.

Frederick had but a very faint recollection of his brother; but a
strange, unaccountable idea, took possession of him during supper. He
thought he observed the stranger start once or twice, when the name of
"Morley" happened to be spoken by anyone at the table--as was frequently
the case; for Frederick was a stranger too, and, therefore, received
great attention from the stewards, and, indeed, from the ladies, whose
goodness of heart frequently prompts them to show greater attention to
strange gentlemen than to those whom they are in the habit of meeting
every day.

Ever since he had heard of the wreck of that East-Indiaman at Pendeen,
he had been persuading himself that his brother might have been one of
the passengers on board that ill-fated vessel; and, as very few bodies
had been washed on shore, it was probable that one of the boats might
have withstood the storm, and, when the sea was more tranquil, they
might have landed somewhere on the north coast. It was possible. There
was just sufficient possibility in it to keep alive hope.

What if this stranger should turn out to be his brother? It was scarcely
probable; but yet the idea had seized hold of him, and he could not get
rid of it.

The discovery and exposure of those wretches, who had been the means of
hastening their father's death, and embittering his last moments, was
the constant theme in all his brother's letters, and seemed uppermost in
his thoughts. Year after year he longed to be able to give up his
business in India, and return to England seemingly for that one purpose.
He had witnessed the effect the stain of this false accusation had
produced on his father's mind and bodily health, and had seen him pine
away under it; and he had received his father's dying injunction to sift
the affair to the bottom as soon as he could return to England.

He had refrained from marrying in India, that he might have no ties to
keep him there after his business affairs were wound up. He would, of
course, change his name in searching after the fugitives, and he might
have commenced at once, Frederick thought, however remote the chance of
his finding them on the narrow strip of land which terminates the
kingdom of England.

In spite of its improbability, Morley could not divest himself of the
idea which had taken such a deep hold of him, and he determined on
speaking to the stranger after supper, and asking him if he had ever met
with a merchant of the name of Morley in India. He was disappointed,
however; for, almost immediately after supper, Frederick was seized with
one of his nervous attacks, and it was as much as his friend Fowler
could do to support him to his room; and when he came down to a late
breakfast, he found that the stranger had gone out for his morning's
walk.



CHAPTER XVI.

JOSIAH'S ASTONISHMENT AT THE EFFECT PRODUCED BY THE DISPLAY OF HIS
TREASURE-TROVE.


Josiah Trenow had been in constant attendance on Frederick Morley, ever
since the accident. It may appear strange that a young man so strong and
brave as Morley, and who had seen so much service abroad, and been
engaged in the most dangerous sports that can possibly be pursued,
should have been so entirely prostrated by this accident; but so it was.

It was Josiah's strong arm that had lifted him up from his perilous
position on the cliffs; and, for many days, he did not feel safe unless
that strong arm was near, to be thrown round him when the terrible
thought of his perilous situation seized him; and Josiah was beginning
to like his young master--for such he seemed now to have become, without
any formal agreement having been entered into between them.

While his young master was at Penzance attending the ball, Josiah went
to the mine where he had been working, to put things straight, and to
see the captain, and get another man put in his place; for Morley had
asked him to remain with him until he was obliged to join his regiment
again--which would not be for some time, as he had obtained an extension
of leave, in consequence of the accident, and the strong certificate
sent to head-quarters from the surgeon who attended him. He had remained
at "The First and Last Inn," at Sennen, ever since,--partly to be near
his friend Fowler, and partly because he fancied the removal to another
place might cause a return of those dreadful feelings of nervous terror
which he had now in a measure overcome.

On the morning after his return from Penzance, Josiah came into his
master's room, after breakfast, carrying a small box under his arm,
which appeared to be very heavy, and, placing it on the table, he said,

"I've got something here, sar, that I do want you to see. I picked 'n up
in the sand after the wreck, an' I oppened om, an' wor frightened sure
'nuff."

"Frightened at opening a small box!" said Morley, smiling; "I thought
your nerves were stronger, Josiah."

"You shall see for yourself," returned Josiah. And he proceeded to take
out the screws with which the box was fastened, when, to Morley's utter
astonishment, he saw that the box was filled to the brim with Indian
gold coins, and, in one corner of the box, closely packed down, there
was a piece of thick white writing-paper, neatly folded up.

"There, sar," said Josiah; "es et any wonder that I shud be frightened?"

"No, indeed!" said his master, taking up a few of the coins, and
examining them; "there must be many thousands of pounds in this little
box. Why, you're a lucky man, Josiah. And you consider these all your
own, of course, according to the doctrine of all Cornish wreckers?"

"No, I don't sar," replied Josiah; "but I caen't tell whose they are,--I
wish I cud. I b'lieve that paper wud tell, ef so be that I cud read 'n;
but I caen't read writen', f'rall I can read prent, ef they're brave an'
big letters. I carr'd that paper up to Maister Freeman, but I dedn't
car' up the box,--no fie! Ef you had seed his face when he looked 'pon
the paper fust, you'd never forgit 'n no more. 'Twor whisht sure 'nuf."

"Well, what did he say?" asked Morley, who felt more interested in
hearing something about the conjuror, who had so nearly caused his
death, than curiosity as to the contents of the paper.

"Say?" exclaimed Josiah; "why, nothen' for a bra' bit. He read 'n down
twice, quite study, like, an' then aw looked up 'pon me, like one
startled, an' folded up the paper. An' then he said, 'Josiah,' says he
to me, 'I can't make this out 'less I do see the box that 'twor in;
bring et to me at once,' says he. ''Tes an unlucky thing for you to keep
in your house,' says he; 'your pigs will die, and, maybe, you'll all be
laid down, and rise no more,' says he. 'Bring the box, and all the
contents, within one hour,' says he, 'or else you are all doomed,' says
he. An' weth that he wor goen' for to put the paper in his pocket; but I
catched 'n by the arm, and made 'n screech ten thousand murders, an'
drop the paper, an' I very soon picked 'n up agen. An' then he tore to
me, an' tried for to catch the paper agen; but I wor too quick for 'n,
an' I tripped 'n up weth my toe, an' left 'n lyin' 'pon the planchen';
and then I trapesed away down ste-ars. I reckon the maid Alice Ann wor
frightened too; for I b'lieve in my conscience she wor harken' outside
the door,--for I nearly knacked har down, poor soul, but I cudn't stop
to see."

"Let me see the paper," said Morley, who was now as anxious to see it,
as he had been indifferent before.

So Josiah took it out, and unfolded it very carefully; and if he had
been astonished to see the strange appearance of Mr. Freeman's
countenance when he perused that paper, he was perfectly astounded now,
to see the effect the perusal of it was producing on Mr. Morley; and he
began to think that the box and all it contained were bewitched, as Mr.
Freeman had said, and he entertained serious thoughts of carrying it
down to the cliffs and throwing it over. At length, Mr. Morley, having
finished the perusal of the paper for the third time, leaned his elbows
on the table, supporting his head with his hands, in which he still
clutched the paper, and sobbed aloud; for his nerves were still too weak
to bear up against any sudden shock without giving vent to his feelings.

Josiah stood looking at his master and the box alternately, having a
confused idea of a shipwreck and a man and horse falling over cliff,
with a box of gold tied to them as a weight to pull them down. At last
Mr. Morley recovered sufficiently to see that Josiah was looking
bewildered; so he thought it right to read the paper to him, which did
not, however, enlighten him very much till further explanation was
given.

The mysterious paper contained these words:--


     "_I, Alexander Morley, on my dying bed, enjoin my two sons, William
     and Frederick Morley, to make the strictest search for those two
     wretches, who committed the murder, of which I was accused, and to
     use all possible means to bring them to justice, or to induce them
     to confess their crime, that my bones may rest in peace. The
     contents of this box to be used in the prosecution thereof._

     "_Alexander Morley._"


"Well," said Josiah, "I ar'n't much furder footh, I think." And he
looked at his master with a vacant stare. Mr. Morley, therefore, thought
it best to entrust this faithful and honest man with the whole
circumstances relative to the murder, which made him stare more than
ever; but it was not a vacant stare now.

"You must let me take this paper, Josiah," said Mr. Morley; "and perhaps
I had better take care of the box also, for the present."

"By all mains, sar," said Josiah; "for, putting this and that together,
'tes surely your father's box, and sent here for a wise purpose."

"This accident has brought many sad reflections into my mind, Josiah,"
replied Mr. Morley. "I cannot now have any doubt of the fate of my poor
brother. He was, no doubt, bringing this valued box home, that we might
proceed together in the search. He is gone; but Providence has thrown
this box in my way, as a powerful incentive to use my utmost exertions,
single-handed, to perform the task allotted to my brother and myself by
our poor father."

"You sha-ant go by yourself, sar," said Josiah; "I'll help 'ee as far as
I can, ef you'll lev me to."

"You shall," replied his master. "I am indebted to you for my life, and
for the discovery of this box, so that our destinies seem blended
together, in an unaccountable manner. You shall not go unrewarded, I
assure you. We will use this money, as it is ordered, in searching for
the guilty parties."

"Zackly like that," returned Josiah; "an' ef I wor you I wud ax Maister
Freeman. Whether et wor his conjuring knawledge, or what, I caen't tell;
but semmen' to me I thoft he knawed somethen'."

"No, no," replied Morley; "it was the wish to get the gold into his
possession that made him look so odd. He is avaricious, and he thought
to frighten you into the foolish act of bringing the box to him, when he
would either have kept it altogether, or have taken a large toll out of
it."

"Well, sar," said Josiah, "I'll allow you for to knaw best; but ef I wor
you, I'd see Maister Freeman;--he might look to his books an' tell 'ee
somethen' more than you do knaw now."

This seemed very good advice; for, even if Mr. Freeman knew nothing,
Frederick thought he should at least see the conjuror in his "sanctum,"
as he was going to him on business, and he might have a chance of seeing
Alrina, whom he had not met for several days; for she did not keep her
last appointment with him two days before the ball, and he feared she
might be ill, or might have been prevented by some lynx-eyed Duenna, as
she had been before, when he blamed her without cause. So, for all these
reasons, Frederick determined he would visit the lion in his den, and
make him divulge all he knew respecting the contents of that paper, if
indeed he knew anything--which, however, the unhappy young man very much
doubted.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE BORROWED FEATHERS OF THE PEACOCK FAIL TO CONCEAL ENTIRELY THE
NATURAL PLUMAGE OF THE JACKDAW.


The strange gentleman who had caused such a sensation at the ball, and
who called himself "Mr. Smith," continued to reside at the hotel, at
Penzance, in a style which evinced great wealth, and perhaps rank, as
the inhabitants generally thought; so he was called on by most of the
aristocracy of the neighbourhood, and invited to dine at their houses.
He frequently rode out to the Logan Rock, or Lamorna cliffs, where he
met Miss Pendray--sometimes by appointment, and sometimes by accident.
She seemed quite fascinated with the mysterious stranger, and would meet
him in the roughest weather, and wander with him over the cliffs, while
he related to her tales of romance and horror, which delighted and
fascinated her; and she would look into his face, and allow him to hold
her hand, as they sat side by side on the rocks, while he poured into
her willing ear those tales she so delighted to listen to,--and by
degrees he blended, almost imperceptibly at first, his own feelings with
the more romantic scenes which he depicted so well, and shadowed forth,
at length, in vague but unmistakeable language, his love and admiration
of the beautiful creature by his side, until the majestic Maud was
subdued into a mere mortal and received his protestations and vows of
love and constancy, and returned them as fully and freely and
confidingly as her sister, the gentle and innocent Blanche, would have
done to him she loved above all others on earth. But, although he was
always so ready and anxious to meet Miss Pendray out of doors, he
avoided going to her father's house. She would frequently ask him the
reason of this, but he would never satisfy her. On one occasion, after
an unusually tender and protracted meeting on the cluster of rocks
surrounding the Logan Rock, when he thought he had gained sufficient
power over her, he asked her to elope with him; at which she was at
first highly indignant. She drew herself up instantly to her full
dignity, and, looking down with scorn on her lover, while her eyes
flashed with indignation, she said,

"Do you take me for a silly school-girl, that you presume to make such a
proposition to me? No, sir! while I reside under my father's roof, it
must be from his hands, and from his house, that I must be claimed and
taken, if at all."

"Nay," exclaimed her companion, in the greatest alarm and humiliation;
"I meant not to offend you. My life has been one of romance from my
childhood, and I thought you possessed the same romantic ideas, but in a
loftier, and, I perceive, more chivalrous, form. Pardon me. The
anticipation of the possession of a jewel so valuable, dazzled and
disordered my brain, and I feared its loss, if left to others to
decide; your father might refuse his consent, and a thousand things
might happen in the delay, to deprive me of the possession of her on
whom my happiness and life depend. But your wishes shall be as commands
to me;--it shall be done methodically, and in as businesslike a manner
as other poor mortals perform the same ordeal: I will ask your honoured
father, who will doubtless give us his blessing: we will go to the
parish church and be united, as the Cornish clodhoppers are accustomed
to be, and have a quiet dinner, and after tea we will jog into Penzance,
and spend the honeymoon in some comfortable lodgings. Let me go now, and
speak to the good squire," continued he, taking her hand, and kneeling
on the grass at her feet.

"Oh! Mr. Smith," she said, relenting a little; "you have drawn a very
rustic picture truly of the marriage ceremony. The one great event in
woman's life should be a little more brilliant and exciting than that,
certainly."

"Yes, yes," said he, rising and kissing her hand; "I knew you would not
be satisfied with a humdrum marriage, and so I went, perhaps, a little
too far the other way."

"Oh! Mr. Smith," she said, turning from him, and covering her eyes with
one hand, while he retained the other, "I am afraid I am doing wrong,
even now. I ought not to be here,--I know I ought not, and yet----"

"Do not speak thus, dearest Maud," said he; "you know my devoted
attachment to you, and my admiration of your noble character, and the
beauties of your mind and person. Your majestic and dignified form, and
the brilliancy of your eyes, attracted my attention when I entered the
ball-room at Penzance, and----"

"Allow me to remind you," replied Miss Pendray, rather haughtily, "that
I do not like gross flattery; it is repugnant to my nature; I cannot
endure it."

These expressions were uttered abruptly and incautiously, and the fair
lady was aware immediately that she had said too much; but she was so
much accustomed to have her own way at home, and to be treated with the
greatest deference and respect by all, and was moreover so conscious of
her own perfections, that any plain allusion to them was quite repulsive
to her; it was not the first time that this mysterious stranger had
mixed up a little vulgarity, as she deemed it, with his more refined
conversation, and interesting and romantic tales. She did not quite
understand him even now. She had never before taken him up so sharply,
although she had often wished to do so; but she feared to wound his
feelings. She had now, in the excitement of the moment, expressed her
thoughts more fully than she intended, and she felt sorry, and would
have given worlds to recall those last expressions. She was relieved,
however, from her embarrassment on that account; for, just at that
moment, as she turned to reassure him, a gentlemanly looking man
suddenly emerged from behind one of those lofty rocks at a little
distance from where the lovers were standing, and approached towards
them. Miss Pendray's back was turned towards the intruder, so that she
did not notice his approach; but, as she was about to speak to her
companion, she saw such a terrified, horrible expression come over his
countenance, as he gazed at the gentleman who was now rapidly
approaching them, that she turned round instinctively to see what it was
that had so absorbed his attention, when she found herself almost face
to face with the stranger, as he jumped down from a rock near her. She
uttered a little shriek at the suddenness of the surprise, but
immediately recovered herself sufficiently to take a hasty glance at his
personal appearance, before he spoke; for he was a remarkable looking
man. He was considerably above the middle height, strongly built, and
robust. His hair was almost white, although, from his fresh complexion
and general appearance, he was evidently still a young man--perhaps
scarcely forty. His face was tanned with the sun, as if he had lived
long in a warm climate. He had the appearance of a gentleman, and, from
his manners, he evidently was one.

"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, "for thus intruding on you. I
assure you it was quite unintentional. I was searching for Lieut.
Fowler. His men, at the station, told me he was out on the coast, near
by, somewhere; and, as I wished to see him, I thought I would take a
stroll, with the chance of falling in with him, rather than wait indoors
this beautiful morning."

"Pray don't apologize," replied Miss Pendray; "I often meet Lieut.
Fowler on the cliffs, and this is not at all an unlikely place to meet
with him."

"Thank you," said the stranger; and, taking off his hat to the lady, he
passed on in search of the lieutenant, while Miss Pendray turned round
towards Mr. Smith, whom she expected to find recovered by this time from
the shock, or whatever it was, that made him look so odd, and prevented
him, as she thought, from speaking to the intruder, who was now out of
sight. But where was Mr. Smith? He was nowhere to be seen. She looked
all round, and climbed to the topmost rock, but could see no trace of
him. It was very odd, she thought; and that demoniacal look haunted her.
What could it mean? Did he know that stranger, and fear him for some
reason? No, that could scarcely be; for he evidently saw Mr. Smith, but
he showed no signs of recognition. She knew not what to think. What did
she know of Mr. Smith? Who was he? Where did he come from? He was
comparatively a stranger to her. These were questions which she now
began to ask herself, as she walked slowly home; and she now began to
think that she had acted wrong, in meeting a mere stranger so often,
clandestinely, and allowing herself to be led away by his fascinating
conversation, after knowing him little more than a fortnight. These
reflections smoothed and softened her naturally bold and daring spirit,
and, instead of feeling a wish now to soar to the top of the loftiest
rocks and cliffs, and look danger in the face without shrinking, she
felt subdued and melancholy, and instinctively took the path which led
down towards Lamorna Cove--the spot so loved and admired by her gentle
sister.

Here she met Blanche and Lieut. Fowler searching for some rare shells on
the beach, to whom she recounted her adventure with the strange
gentleman with the white hair, but she did not mention the other in whom
she was more interested.

Lieut. Fowler knew no such person, he said, as Miss Pendray described.
Perhaps it was some inspecting officer. He could not have come on duty,
however, for in that case he would have been in uniform. But whoever it
was, he thought he had better go and see him; so he took leave of the
two sisters, and walked away in the direction of the signal-station at
Tol-pedn-Penwith, wondering who his strange visitor could be.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BIRDS HAVE TAKEN FLIGHT.


Frederick Morley determined on going to Mr. Freeman's house, and taking
a copy of that document with him, when he hoped to be able to induce the
"man of cunning" to tell him what he knew relative to the contents of
that paper which Josiah had found in the box; for Josiah seemed so
convinced of his being able to enlighten his master, that he was
beginning himself to feel that the visit might turn out more successful
and satisfactory than he at first imagined.

"I'll go weth 'ee, sar," said Josiah; "an' ef we caen't, both of es,
make 'n tell, why 'twill be whisht sure nuf. I'll maul 'n brave ef aw
don't tell everything; for I'm sure, semmen to me, that he wudn't look
like that there, ef he dedn't knaw somethen'."

"No, no, Josiah," replied his master; "we must not resort to personal
violence. You shall go with me, for you know him,--I do not,--and we
shall soon see by his manner what he knows, although I have my doubts,
still, as to his real knowledge of anything connected with this affair.
It is his object to pretend to know more than he really does, in order
to mislead ignorant people; and he thereby induces them to communicate
enough to enable him to guess at the rest,--and so he gets credit for a
vast amount of prescience more than he really possesses."

As they walked on slowly towards St. Just, on their important errand,
Morley's mind was filled with various thoughts and conjectures, all of
the greatest moment to him. He might now be on the point of having his
great secret unravelled, or at least of gaining some intelligence
respecting it, and he was about to see Alrina's father, and perhaps
herself. He should now also know the reason why she had not kept her
last appointment with him. All these serious reflections passing through
his mind, made him silent. It was likely to be an eventful day for him.
What Josiah's thoughts were we do not know--our little bird is silent on
that point. Perhaps he was also thinking of his Alice Ann; but this
thought did not seem to disturb him. His love was not quite so ardent,
perhaps, as his master's, or his love might probably be running more
smoothly; for he disturbed the air now and then by whistling snatches of
some old song or country jig, shewing thereby to his companion, if he
felt any interest in knowing the fact, that his faithful attendant's
thoughts didn't trouble him much. At length, after a weary walk, though
not by any means a long one, they arrived at the verge of the village;
and now Josiah took the lead, as he knew every house and almost every
stone in the place. The village was very quiet, for most of the men were
out at their work--some at the mine, and others at their little
farms--while the women were busy indoors, cleaning up a bit, and
preparing the men's dinners.

They passed the "Commercial" Hotel, which seemed to be taking its
morning nap, and reposing its dignity in the sun, which was shining
brightly on its whitewashed walls, and looking in at the windows, and
stretching itself, as far as it could, in at the open door, making the
fine sand, with which the passage was strewed, sparkle again. The
stable-door was shut,--all was quiet there. Poor Mr. Brown's occupation
was gone. Morley shuddered as he thought of the beautiful mare; but they
passed on in silence until they arrived at the further end of the
village, when Josiah stopped opposite a neat looking farm-house, and,
after a few minutes' reflection, exclaimed,

"Dash my buttons! why they're gone, to be sure."

This expression, which was said in an excited tone, recalled Morley from
his reverie, and, looking up, he saw that the house they were standing
opposite, seemed to be deserted and shut up. The window-shutters were
all closed, and the garden-gate was locked.

"That's unlucky, if this is the house," said Morley; "but they may not
be gone far. Let us enquire somewhere."

"Zackly like that," replied Josiah, in a sort of bewildered manner,
while he led the way to a cottage at a little distance off, which he
entered very unceremoniously, bidding his master to follow him.

"Where's 'The Maister' gone?" said he, addressing an elderly woman, who
was up to her elbows in soapsuds, washing at a small washtub.

"Your sarvant, sar," said Mrs. Trenow, wiping the soapsuds from her
hands and arms, without noticing her son's question.

"Set down, sar, ef you plaise," said Josiah, placing a chair for his
master; for he saw that he was fatigued. "Mother es like somethen'
that's very good to eat when 'tes boiled sometimes," continued Josiah;
"she don't always go foreright when she's wanted to."

"Areah, then," said his mother; "the world es come to a purty pass, when
cheldern do begin for to taich their mothers manners."

"Hush, mother," said Josiah, laughing, and slapping the old lady on the
back. "How are 'ee, thon? I ha'n't seed 'ee for a bra' bit."

"No fie, you ha'n't," replied Mrs. Trenow. "He's gone, cheeld vean, an'
joy go weth 'n, says I."

"You are speaking of Mr. Freeman, I presume," said Mr. Morley. "I came
here almost on purpose to see him, and we found the house shut up. Can
you give us any information respecting his movements?"

"No, sar, I caen't," replied Mrs. Trenow. "About a week ago, or so--I
caen't tell to a day--Miss Freeman (that's 'The Maister's' sister, sar)
told Alice Ann (that's the maid, sar) that she might have a holiday in
the afternoon; an' glad enough the maid wor to have her holiday, I can
assure 'ee, sar. Well, she went out and stayed away till brave an' late
in the evenin', an' she went home thinkin' she shud have a bra' scold
for stayin' out so long; but when she came to the gate, she found it all
fastened up, an' the winder-shutters up, an' the house looking quite
whisht like."

"That's very strange," said Morley; "but where are they gone?"

"That's the very thing, sar," replied Mrs. Trenow. "'Where are they
gone?' says you; and 'where are they gone?' says everybody, 'ceps Mrs.
Brown,--she don't say nothin'. The maid's clothes wor left there for
har, an' that's all she'll tell."

"Thank you, Mrs. Trenow," said Morley; "I think we must ask Mrs. Brown,
Josiah."

"I b'lieve we must, sar," replied Josiah, thoughtfully. "Where's Alice
Ann, thon, mother; she esn't gone after them, I s'pose?"

"No, no; she's up to har aunt's stopping a bit. Har fe-a-ther an' mother
do live a bra' way off, you knaw."

"Now, I'll tell 'ee, sar," said Josiah; "you go up to Mrs. Brown's an'
knaw all you can, an' I'll go down an' see what Alice Ann have got to
say,--an', between es, we may find out somethen'."

"Quite right, Josiah," returned his master, "that is a very good plan."
And each of them went his way on a voyage of discovery.

Mrs. Brown was laying the cloth for the midday meal when Morley entered,
and her husband was sitting in the chimney-corner. The old lady was
overjoyed to see her visitor, and, running towards him, she took his
hand in both hers, and kissed it, saying,--

"I am glad to see you once more, Mr. Morley. It was a miraculous
escape; an' I hope it will be a warnin' to you, not to risk your life
agen at the biddin' of a rogue an' a fool."

"My dear Mrs. Brown," replied Morley, "it was a narrow escape; but the
beautiful mare is gone! What does Mr. Brown do, without his Jessie
mare?"

"The name of the mare roused Mr. Brown from his lethargy, and, coming
out of his corner, he said,--

"Where's my hat, Peggy? I'm goin' to get Jessie mare out, for the
gentleman to try her a bit before to-morrow. Come, sir. Wo! ho! Jessie;
wo! ho. Come, Polly! Poll! Poll! Polly! Where's that maid gone, Peggy.
Billy, boy, come an' saddle the mare."

His hat, which was on his head, shone as brightly as ever, but his
internal brightness was gone. He never recovered the shock of seeing his
mare fall over the cliff, and the narrow escape of its rider. It was
very true he hadn't much to lose, poor man, intellectually. His one idea
was centred in the mare, and they both went together. He wandered in and
out of the house continually, and, as he didn't interfere with others,
no one interfered with him.

"Poor man," said Mr. Morley, looking after him.

"It's a blessin', Mr. Morley," said Mrs. Brown, "that the mare es gone.
She was no use here; and she was eatin' her head off, as the sayin' is.
What is, is best, I b'lieve."

"My errand to St. Just," said Morley, "was principally to see Mr.
Freeman, and I find he's gone away."

"Iss, he's gone, an' joy go weth 'n," replied Mrs. Brown.

"Where is he gone," said Morley; "do you know?"

"All I do knaw es this," replied Mrs. Brown. "He came here about ten
days ago, an' said he wor goin' to take his daughter for a little trip,
as she dedn't seem well,--she was so low-spirited, he said,--and he
asked me to take care of the maid Alice Ann's clothes for har, untel she
came back; for p'raps she wud be back before they wud. I thought they
wor goin' to Scilly, p'raps, or to Truro. And away they went, and Alice
Ann came for har clothes the next day. She dedn't go. Where they're
gone, I can no more tell than you can."

"That's very strange; I wish I knew where they were gone," replied
Morley, thoughtfully.

"You may wish agen, I b'lieve," returned Mrs. Brown; "he'll turn up
again one day, like a poor penny. Come, sir, have a snack weth us; we're
just going to dinner."

So poor Mr. Brown was called in, and the three sat down to a nicely
seasoned beef-steak pie, which Morley enjoyed very much after his walk,
notwithstanding his disappointment.

Josiah gained very little more information than his master. Alice Ann
told him that, for several days before they left, her young mistress,
Alrina, was confined to her room. She seemed drowsy, like, the girl
said, and didn't care to move nor to speak.

"I do b'lieve, Siah," said she, speaking in a half whisper, "that she
had some doctor's trade gov to har for to put har to slaip,--I do, sure
nuf; and they took har away in a post-chaise while she wor slaipen'."

Morley thought that if he could find where the post-chaise came from, he
might, by bribing and questioning the postboy, gain some clue to their
probable destination;--for, in addition to his anxiety to see Mr.
Freeman, which was now confirmed more than ever, he was doubly anxious
for the safety of Alrina, whom he was convinced her father and aunt were
persecuting--perhaps on his account, but why, he could not imagine; for
he was not aware that Alrina's relatives knew of his attachment to her,
or that he had ever met her. He little knew the resources of the "man of
cunning" for obtaining information of what took place in that
neighbourhood. He left a hasty note for his friend Fowler, stating that
he was unexpectedly called away on important business; and, taking
Josiah with him in the combined capacity of companion, assistant, and
valet, he proceeded on his travels in search of the fugitives.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER.


We left Lieut. Fowler on the road between Lamorna Cove and the
signal-station, at Tol-pedn-Penwith. Various were the conjectures that
passed through his mind during his walk, as to who the stranger could
be, but to no purpose. He could not think of any of his relatives or
acquaintances, who would be likely to be in that neighbourhood, without
apprising him of their intended visit. If it should turn out to be a
good companionable fellow, he wouldn't mind, but then, he was an old
grey-headed man, as he construed Miss Pendray's description of the
stranger. His friend, Frederick Morley, had gone off in rather an
unceremonious manner, and had left him again to the resources of the
Land's-End for amusement and companionship; and he had therefore been
more frequent in his visits to Pendrea-house, and more attentive to the
young ladies, than during his friend's visit.

It was not often that Miss Pendray favoured Fowler and her sister with
her company; for, as the reader already knows, she had more attractions
elsewhere; and so accustomed were her friends to her romantic wanderings
over the bold cliffs alone, that the innocent Blanche was continually
Lieut. Fowler's only companion, and the time generally passed so
pleasantly that neither of them regretted the absence of a third party.

When Miss Pendray came upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly on that
eventful morning, they were in the midst of a very interesting, but, to
Blanche, rather an embarrassing, _tête-à-tête_. The gentleman was trying
to make himself understood, without saying what he meant, in so many
words; and the lady, although--sly little creature--she knew quite well
what he meant to say, and wished from her heart he would say it out
boldly, and not be hammering and stammering about it so--making her
every moment feel more nervous and embarrassed, and himself too; yet she
would not help him, even by a look, but kept turning a pebble round and
round with her foot, and looking as steadily on the sand as if she was
endeavouring to look underneath it, for some rich treasure supposed to
be buried there.

In the midst of all this, came the majestic Maud, with the tale of her
adventure with the remarkable stranger with the white hair. Wasn't it
provoking to be interrupted just at that critical time? Fowler felt that
it was downright----we won't say what. He wished the white-headed
stranger was at the bottom of the sea, and Maud on the top of the
cliffs, or anywhere, rather than there, at that moment. However, the
spell was broken; there was no help for it now; and he had nothing to do
but just walk home to see who this confounded fellow was, and what he
wanted.

With all these reflections passing through his mind, as he neared his
little cabin, he was not prepared to receive the stranger very
cordially, nor to give him a very hearty welcome. He was told by the
men, as he came up, that the gentleman was inside; and, as he passed the
window of his sitting-room to reach the front door, he looked in,
thinking he might catch a glimpse of the fellow before he went in. He
caught more than a glimpse of him; for the stranger was standing at a
little distance from the window, looking out over the bold headland at
the sea in the distance, apparently absorbed in thought.

Fowler started, and turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost, and was
obliged to hold by the railing of the little porch for a minute, before
he could recover himself sufficiently to enter.

Sailors are not easily alarmed at trifles; so he soon got over the
effects of his shock, or whatever it was, and, entering the room, in his
usual boisterous, sailor-like style, exclaimed, louder than there was
perhaps any occasion for,--

"Mr. Morley! how are you? I'm glad to see you once more."

This stentorian reception made the stranger start, and, turning round,
he said, bowing to his host,--

"Lieut. Fowler, I presume. But how you should know that my name is
Morley, I am at a loss to conceive, as I am pretty sure we have never
seen one another before, and am quite sure you did not expect me."

Fowler passed his hand across his eyes, as if trying to recall
something; and then he said abstractedly, as he placed a seat for his
guest,--

"Not seen you before? surely, yes!--and yet, no! that cannot be." And he
seemed so bewildered, that the stranger proceeded to explain; for he now
began to see that the lieutenant was labouring under a mistake.

"You see the likeness to my poor father," said he.

"Ah!" exclaimed Fowler, starting up; "I see it all now. When I last saw
your father, fifteen or sixteen years ago, he was the exact image of
what you are now. He was older, of course, but there was the same
remarkable white hair. Yours no doubt became white prematurely, causing
you to look older than you really are. When I saw you standing at the
window, I thought I saw your father standing before me. The likeness is
most remarkable; and, almost before I had recovered myself, and without
reflecting for a moment, I rushed into the room to welcome my old
friend."

"I have heard my father mention the name of Fowler often," replied Mr.
Morley, "with expressions of gratitude for kindnesses bestowed by your
family--both on himself, and on my brother and sister, who were left
here after that terrible catastrophe, of which I believe you are fully
aware."

"It is true," returned Fowler, "that, in your father's younger days, he
was intimate with my father, who also resided in India, but returned to
England on account of his health, some time before yours came over with
his two children. Your father often came to see him before that dreadful
catastrophe, but never came after. He said he would never see his old
friend again, until that foul stain was wiped from his name. My father
did not, of course, believe that he was guilty, although the
circumstantial evidence was so strong. It preyed on his mind, however,
and, in his weak state, he could not bear up against the feeling that
his friend was wrongfully accused; and he, like your father, pined under
it, and passed away from among us in a very short time; but his death we
were prepared for. Your father was a strong man then. But how did you
find me out, Mr. Morley?"

"By the merest accident," replied Mr. Morley; "indeed, when I came here,
I had no idea that you were at all connected with my father's old
friend, although the name was familiar to me,--very familiar, I may say;
for I knew your eldest brother in India intimately. He remained there
long after your father left, and married a native, by whom he had one
child--a daughter, I think. I shall never forget his kindness. He was
the only friend whom I could depend upon, when my poor father died. He
remained with me, day and night, until the last. His wife I never saw
much of: she died in giving birth to her second child which was
still-born. Your brother then made up his mind to come to England. He
would not do so while his wife lived; for he did not like introducing a
native as his wife, to his English relatives and friends. He was in good
spirits when I took leave of him, and we both looked forward to meeting
in England ere long; but, alas! he never reached his native shore alive.
The ship was wrecked somewhere on this dangerous coast, and he and his
little daughter perished. His body was found afterwards, but the child's
was never heard of again. It makes passengers, and even sailors
themselves, almost dread to approach this rock-bound coast. It is to be
hoped that, ere long, warning-lights or beacons will be erected all
round the coast. They are beginning to do so, I see; but there are more
wanted yet."

"True," replied Fowler; "there are few families residing along the
Cornish coast who have not had to lament the loss of some relative or
friend in the merciless waves. But I am curious to know to what lucky
accident I am indebted for this visit?"

"You have had another of those dreadful disasters on the coast," said
Morley. "Another East-Indiaman has lately been wrecked here. I was a
passenger on board that vessel. The weather was rough for several days
before, and we touched in at the Scilly Islands, where I landed, taking
a trunk with some clothes and a few valuables with me; and, meeting with
an old friend of my father's there, Mr. Samuel Lemon, the collector,
whom you know well, he pressed me so heartily to remain at his house,
that I determined to spend a few days there, and partake of his kind
hospitality, and I permitted the ship to proceed to her destination
without me; and a miraculous escape I have had, for I find that all on
board perished."

"Not all," replied Fowler; "there was one sailor saved. It was a
miraculous escape, indeed. But you must have had some property on
board?"

"I had a large chest containing some valuable clothes, and silks and
jewellery, and a considerable sum in hard cash," replied Mr. Morley,
"and, what I valued more than anything else, a small box, which belonged
to my poor father, into which he had placed, with his own hands, some
thousands of gold coins, and a written injunction to his two sons, to
use their utmost exertions to find out the wretches who committed that
foul murder of which my poor father was accused; and he directed that
those gold coins should be expended in the search. My object, therefore,
in coming to the Land's-End first, instead of going on direct to my
relatives, was, with the hope that this property might have been washed
ashore somewhere on the coast, and my good friend Mr. Lemon told me
that Mr. Fowler, the lieutenant at this station, would be the most
proper person to apply to for assistance and information."

"You may rely on my doing all I can for you," replied Fowler; "but I
have not heard of any boxes answering the description of yours being
picked up anywhere, and I fear there is little chance of their being
washed on shore now; for their weight would sink them deeper and deeper
in the sand, and the calm weather we have now would not throw them up.
You have not lost all your property, I hope!"

"Oh! no," said Mr. Morley; "I had sent home the bulk of my fortune, and
my father's, through agents, some months ago. That, I am happy to say,
is safe enough. All I regret now is the loss of that little box."

"Your brother was a true prophet, after all," said Fowler, thoughtfully.

"My brother!" exclaimed Mr. Morley; "where is he?"

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," replied the lieutenant; "I was so interested
in the history of your miraculous escape. Your brother was my guest for
several weeks, until he met with an accident at the Land's-End." And he
proceeded to relate to his visitor the exciting tale of the fall of the
horse over the cliffs, with his brother's narrow escape, and the belief
that Frederick still entertained, that his brother was one of the
passengers on board that ill-fated vessel.

After dinner, the two gentlemen walked up to Sennen, and enquired at
"The First and Last Inn" whether anything had been heard of Frederick
Morley. Nothing had been heard of him, the landlord said; but a letter
had been brought there for him that day, by a boy who said he was going
on to St. Just, and would call again for an answer should the gentleman
return in time. The letter was addressed, in a neat female hand, to
"Frederick Morley, Esq., 'First and Last Inn,' Sennen, Cornwall."

"Who was the boy?" enquired the lieutenant of the landlord.

"I don't know," replied he; "but my wife do say that she es sure 'tes
the same boy she ha' seen riding the mare that went over cliff."

"I thought as much," said Fowler. "We must see that boy, and I have no
doubt we shall find him in his old quarters at St. Just."

So the two gentlemen extended their walk to St. Just in search of the
boy.

Neither of them had the slightest idea from whom the letter could have
come, unless it was from Morley's aunt or his sister; and in that case
there would most probably have been a postmark.



CHAPTER XX.

ARISTOCRATIC CONNECTIONS.


Mrs. Courland, Frederick Morley's aunt, had been a celebrated beauty in
her youth. Her father, the Rev. Octavius Morley, was a scion of a high
family, with a small preferment; and his wife was also of aristocratic
birth. Too poor to put their only son, Alexander, into a leading branch
of one of the learned professions, and too proud to allow him to work
his way on as a merchant in England, they wisely sent him to India with
a friend, who soon put him into the way of making a rapid fortune; for
he possessed business talents of no ordinary kind, and steady and
persevering habits of industry. Having thus provided for their son,
their only care now was the education and marriage of their daughter,
who at nineteen was one of the loveliest girls that can possibly be
imagined. Rather above the middle height, elegant in form, and graceful
in all her movements, she attracted admirers wherever she went--very
much to the annoyance of her parents, who destined her either for one of
the aristocracy or for some rich Indian merchant. High birth, or riches,
were indispensable in the aspirant to Isabella Morley's hand; her heart
was left out of the question entirely by her honoured and honourable
parents. Not so by the young lady herself;--she had already fixed her
affections on a young officer, whom she had met at a ball to which she
had been taken by a lady friend with whom she had been staying in a
neighbouring town. He was the younger son of a country squire in an
adjoining county; but as he was neither rich nor noble, his alliance was
not deemed eligible by the aristocratic parents of Miss Morley, and they
therefore discouraged the intimacy, when they became aware of it,
although they did not positively forbid it; for they did not really
believe that a young man in his position--a lieutenant in a light
infantry regiment only, and the younger son of an obscure country
squire--would presume to approach the only daughter of such high-born
parents, except in the way of common politeness and courtesy. And,
besides, they placed implicit confidence in the lessons of ambition they
had taught their daughter; and therefore, having heard the rumour of
this flirtation in a casual way, and not knowing to what extent it had
already gone during her visit at Middleton, the young officer was
received with politeness when he called to enquire for the young lady,
after her return from her visit.

These calls were repeated again and again, and _têtes-à-têtes_ were
observed in the garden and shrubbery, and Mrs. Morley began to open her
eyes to the true state of things, when it was too late. Cupid had by
this time planted his arrow too deeply to be easily eradicated. The
gentleman was forbidden the house, and the young lady was kept in
strict seclusion for some time; but, "Love laughs at locksmiths,"--and
the two lovers managed to meet, notwithstanding the locks and bars.

Mrs. Morley's aristocratic notions could not be properly satisfied
without a lady's-maid, such as she had been accustomed to in her
father's house. But she soon found that a grand, high-and-mighty
lady's-maid, such as she and her sisters had been accustomed to at home,
would not put up with the inconvenience of a small vicarage-house in the
country, where a suitable number of servants could not be kept, and,
consequently, she was continually changing. This was both annoying and
expensive; so when her daughter left school, at seventeen, Mrs. Morley
hired a young woman whom they met with at a watering-place where they
happened to be rusticating that summer. She was the daughter of a
sailor, with whom they lodged; and Mrs. Morley found her so shrewd and
useful in most respects, that she pressed her mother to allow her to go
back with them in the capacity of double lady's-maid--to attend on
herself and daughter.

Miss Fisher was apparently bold enough, and certainly old enough, to
have decided for herself,--for she was upwards of thirty years of age;
but she had cunning enough to read Mrs. Morley's character, through and
through, and she knew that a seeming deference to her mother's opinion
would have great weight with her new mistress. The old woman did not
like to part with her, but she knew it would be useless to oppose it, as
she saw that her daughter had set her mind on accepting the situation,
and so she consented; and Mrs. Morley returned to the vicarage with a
lady's-maid to her mind, as she thought. Miss Fisher proved all she
could wish, yielding to her in everything, as she supposed; instead of
which, the new lady's-maid, while seeming to yield, and, indeed,
yielding sometimes, in smaller things, very soon gained such an
ascendancy over her mistress, that, by a little clever manoeuvring, she
could turn her any way she liked. Miss Morley was not so easily ruled;
nor did Miss Fisher seem to wish it,--she appeared to have taken a great
fancy to her young mistress, and would do almost anything to please her;
and many a scold and reprimand did she prevent by her tact and cunning.

Two years rolled over their heads, and Miss Fisher still acted in the
capacity of lady's-maid to both mother and daughter; and when the latter
received the invitation to pay a visit to her friend at Middleton, for
the express purpose of attending the ball which was about to take place
there, Mrs. Morley, in order that her daughter might be properly dressed
and taken care of, and also to display the aristocratic style of her
establishment, dispensed with the services of Miss Fisher for a time,
and allowed her to accompany Miss Morley to her friend's house. They
were more like companions than mistress and maid; for Miss Morley
confided all her little secrets to Miss Fisher, and she was therefore,
of course, made acquainted with the attentions of the young officer; and
as Miss Fisher highly approved of his person and manners, and the pretty
presents he occasionally gave her, she determined on favouring the
lovers, and doing all in her power to assist them,--so that clandestine
meetings were easy, although the young officer was forbidden the house,
and the young lady was under close confinement indoors. She was
beginning to exhibit signs of ill health, from the close confinement and
anxiety to which she was subject, and Miss Fisher suggested change of
air and scene. She was in the confidence of Mrs. Morley, who relied on
her, and believed all she told her. The young officer's regiment was
ordered abroad, she said, and therefore there could be no danger in that
quarter. This Mrs. Morley knew to be true, for her husband had been
making enquiries. Miss Fisher, however, managed to deceive her mistress
as to the time, telling her he was to sail immediately, and begging to
be allowed to take Miss Morley home to her father's house for a short
time, as she wanted to see the old people, and she thought the sea-air
would quite restore her young mistress's health, and the change of scene
might cause her to forget this foolish love-affair. So said the
designing Miss Fisher; and the pair went to old Mr. Fisher's house,
there to reside in strict seclusion, and luxuriate in country-walks and
sea-breezes. But, strange to say, they had not been there many hours,
before the young officer made his appearance there also, and the bloom
of health soon returned to the cheeks of the young lady, without the aid
of the sea-breezes--although they were often felt, as the two lovers
took their delightful walks over the rocks and along the cliffs. Lieut.
Marshall's time was nearly up; but a few more days remained before he
would be obliged to leave her he loved so much. He could not bear the
thought;--he was going to the battle-field, and might never see her
more; or, if he lived to return, he might find her the bride of another.

"Never! never!" replied Miss Morley; "I will never be another's bride. I
am pledged and bound to you, dear James, by a sacred oath; I will die
rather than break my vow. Yours, and yours only, till death parts us."

"I fully believe and trust in your good intentions, dearest Isabella,"
said he; "but, should a rich man offer himself, you will be compelled to
break that vow, made only to me. Let us bind ourselves before the altar,
dearest; then nothing can sever us."

Thus did he reason with the fair girl, and persuade her, when she had no
one to guide her aright; and so ably was the young officer supported in
his arguments, by the artful Miss Fisher, that they were married, and,
within a week after, were separated--perhaps never to meet again.

Miss Morley (now Mrs. Marshall) returned to her father's house with a
heavy secret in her breast--one that she could not reveal. Letters came,
through Miss Fisher, which cheered her. Months rolled on. Her husband's
name was seen sometimes in the newspapers, and commented on by her
parents, little thinking how near and dear he was to her whom they
imagined cured of that foolish love-affair.

At last there came an account of a great battle, and, amongst the list
of killed, was the name of Lieut. James Marshall. The shock was
terrible. Luckily there was no one in the room at the time but Miss
Fisher, who immediately rang for assistance, and took her to her room.
She was confined to her bed for several days; and when she got a little
better, Miss Fisher prevailed on Mrs. Morley to allow her daughter to
try change of air and sea-breezes again, as they had been so beneficial
before. So they went once more to old Fisher's house, by the seaside,
where she stayed several months, keeping up a continual and cheerful
correspondence with her parents, who were so pleased with her apparent
recovery, that the visit was prolonged, week after week, and month after
month. At last a letter came, peremptorily requesting her to return at
once, for reasons that would be explained when she arrived.

Old Mrs. Fisher had died during her stay with them, so that Miss Fisher
felt bound now, she said, to remain with her father, who did not like
being left alone, although he was a strong able man yet, and did
something in the seafaring line beyond fishing--but what it was Miss
Morley (now Mrs. Marshall) could not make out;--they were very secret
about that. About this time also Miss Fisher's only brother, of whom she
had often spoken to her young mistress, returned, after a long absence.
He was a handsome young man, and was much struck with the beauty of
their visitor, and, not knowing at first her position, he began to pay
her marked attention. This did not suit Miss Fisher's plans, nor was it
at all agreeable to Mrs. Marshall. She therefore determined to leave at
once, although she was not quite recovered, and would be obliged to
trust to the safe keeping of Miss Fisher a secret which, if revealed,
would probably cause her parents to cast her off for ever. At first, and
before she was so completely in her power, she had placed the utmost
confidence in the fidelity of her maid; but during her last visit to the
old fisherman's cottage, her attendant's character had displayed itself
in its true colours. She now saw that Miss Fisher was working entirely
to suit her own wicked ends, and that her secret would only be safe,
while she could supply that wicked woman with funds sufficient to
satisfy her avarice. Mrs. Marshall was surprised and shocked at the
sudden change which she observed in Miss Fisher's manner towards her,
and could not account for it in any way, as she had always hitherto been
so kind. It was not Miss Fisher's fault, however, entirely; for the idea
of making money out of their too confiding visitor, was suggested by
the brother. He was piqued at her indignant rejection of his attentions,
and, having wormed the secret out of his sister, he suggested the plan
which she was only too ready to carry out. She now saw the advantages to
be derived from having this beautiful woman so completely in her power;
for she was quite sure that ere long her parents would insist on her
marrying some rich man;--she knew that their hearts were bent on this,
and there was nothing now to prevent it, except the opposition of the
young lady herself, whom Miss Fisher well knew now how to overcome.

When Mrs. Marshall returned, she found that her father had become
acquainted with the captain of an East-Indiaman, who brought letters of
introduction from her brother. He was about forty years of age,--not
very prepossessing in appearance, nor gentlemanly in manners, but he was
rich, very rich, her brother said. So here was a husband for Isabella,
to whom Mr. and Mrs. Morley did not object--quite the contrary.

The captain was much struck with the beauty of Miss Morley (as she was,
of course, still called at home), who looked more lovely than ever since
her last illness. The rough captain paid her most devoted attention, and
it was evident that he had fallen desperately in love with her.

Her parents and all her friends persuaded, and even urged, her to accept
Capt. Courland's offer; and Miss Fisher urged it also most strongly, for
many reasons. Having lost her first love, Miss Fisher said, she thought
she ought to make a sacrifice now, to atone for her disobedience to her
parents in her first marriage.

Money was a great consideration too--very great--to Mrs. Marshall
now,--why, we need not enquire. Ladies are not exempt from that passion
any more than men. She was a long time bringing her mind to the point,
but she did consent at last. She stipulated, however, for a very
handsome allowance as pin-money, to do what she liked with, and a
liberal jointure in case of the death of her husband. This made him
think odd things. "_A liberal jointure, in case of his death_," was an
awkward clause to be suggested by a young bride. However, this made him
think she was a good woman of business, and that he should have more
than beauty in his wife, after all. So they were married. And he went
his voyages as usual, and returned to his lovely wife every nine or ten
months, and spent a few months with her, and then off again, leaving
plenty of pin-money behind, and a most liberal allowance for maintaining
a large establishment.

Capt. Courland was very intimate with his wife's brother, Mr. Alexander
Morley, the Indian merchant, and brought him to England when he came
over with the two children, and took him back again, after that dreadful
murder and false accusation.

Mrs. Courland seemed to feel it more than anyone. She had now been
married to Capt. Courland, some three or four years, and he treated her
with the greatest kindness and liberality; but still she seemed unhappy.
She appeared not to have got over the loss of her first love,--something
seemed preying on her mind always. While her husband was at home, she
strove against this melancholy feeling, and exerted herself to the
utmost to return his kindness; and he, knowing nothing of the former
love-affair, and seeing her only at her brightest, when she did violence
to her feelings to please him, during the short time he remained at
home, was happy in possession and love, as he believed, of his beautiful
wife.

It was a relief and a comfort to her to have her little niece, Julia
Morley, with her. The superintendence of her infant education (for the
little girl was then but five years old) amused her, and relieved her
mind from other thoughts. And when she was old enough to go to school,
she removed into a town with her, and took a house there that she might
keep her still under her own eye, and sent her to a boarding-school, as
a day-pupil, attended by a servant; and here Julia became acquainted
with Alrina Freeman, and they became bosom friends, as schoolfellows;
but Alrina was not permitted to visit or leave the school at all. These
injunctions were strictly laid down by her aunt, when she placed her at
school; and Mrs. Horton, who was a strict disciplinarian, carried out
her orders to the very letter.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE LOVE-CHASE.


Frederick Morley and Josiah met with very little success at Penzance. No
one had seen the Freemans, and no post-chaise from there had gone to St.
Just, except with pic-nic parties, for a considerable time. There was
not much difficulty in finding out this; for there were but few hackney
carriages in the town at that time.

Determined to discover the fugitives, the travellers went on to Truro,
by way of Hayle, and there they were more fortunate. A party, answering
their description as to number, had passed through that town about four
or five days before.

Morley bought a couple of horses at Truro, and on they went in pursuit;
for he found, by dint of the strictest enquiry, that a man and woman and
a young girl had gone on by Russell's waggon. These persons answered the
description pretty nearly in all but the dress; but they might have
changed their dresses; so Morley determined on following the waggon,
which was four days at least ahead of them. On they went, however, over
the great London road, tracing the waggon, which they were rapidly
gaining on, and changing their tired horses for fresh ones occasionally,
for which accommodation Morley had to pay very dearly sometimes. They
enquired continually at the wayside inns, where the waggon stopped to
change horses, or for refreshment, and at first the answers were
satisfactory. The fugitives had generally been seen by some one at the
refreshment-houses, either in the house or having refreshment taken to
them in the waggon. This was, so far, satisfactory; and on the two
pursuers went, and came up with the waggon at Bristol.

The great lumbering vehicle was standing at the door of one of the
second-class inns, to which they had been directed--the horses having
been taken out, and the waggon unloaded. Morley thought it strange that
it should be empty; for the same waggon generally went through to
London; and while Josiah saw the horses taken care of, his master
entered the inn and sought an interview with the driver, who informed
him that he had brought three such persons into Bristol, and they were
gone on in another waggon; for he had the misfortune to break his
axle-tree as he entered the city, and was obliged to shift his load into
another waggon, which was ten miles on the road by that time at least.

Fresh horses were procured, while the two travellers partook of a hasty
refreshment, and on they went again with renewed hope; for the fugitives
would not suspect pursuit, and would not, therefore, be prepared for
escape.

That Mr. Freeman knew something of the parties connected with that
document, Morley felt convinced now, having brooded over it so long, and
had it constantly dinned into his ear by Josiah, who had held the belief
from the first; but perhaps, after all, "the wish was father to the
thought" in Morley's case. Now that he was drawing near the objects of
their pursuit, a thousand reflections crowded into his mind; but,
although the hope of finding some clue to "his secret" was very
powerful, yet the hope of meeting Alrina once more, and rescuing her
from the bondage which seemed now to enthral her, was uppermost.

In the midst of these reflections, the sight of the heavy waggon
lumbering slowly up a hill, a little distance ahead of them, as they
turned a corner, sent a thrill through the frames of both. There they
were, and a brisk trot would bring the pursuers alongside of the waggon
in a few minutes.

They spurred on their horses in great excitement, as if they thought the
waggon would run away; but it still lumbered up the hill at its usual
snail's pace, drawn by its eight fine horses, with the bells over the
collars jingling at every step. The riders soon came up with them; and,
jumping off his horse, and throwing the reins to Josiah, Morley sprang
into the waggon, and was greeted by the hindmost driver, who was walking
by the side of his horses, with a hearty crack of the whip, which made
his back sting most unpleasantly, and brought him round to face his
assailant, before he had time scarcely to look into the waggon.

"What business have you in my waggon?" cried the principal driver; for
there were two.

"I came in search of the three passengers that you have here," replied
Morley, who was still feeling the effects of the crack of the whip,
although he thought it best not to resent it just then, as he saw at
once that the driver was in the right.

"I've got no passengers here now," replied the driver. "We brought three
coves along, as you say; but they left us about ten miles back, or so,
and turned down a narrow lane. They're a queer lot, I reckon; and that
young girl is afraid of her life of the old birds."

This was a terrible disappointment to Morley, after having his hopes
raised so high at the sight of the waggon, and thinking he was about to
reap the reward of all his trouble and fatigue.

"Did they say where they were going?" asked Morley.

"Not they," replied the driver; "he's as close as a box--that old
chap--and the old woman is upon the next stave of the ladder, I
b'lieve."

Morley gave the drivers a small piece of money for their information,
and the detention he had caused them, and held a consultation with his
faithful ally.

"We must follow them, my friend," said Morley, looking very much
disconcerted. "Alrina is persecuted and ill-used by her father and aunt,
according to that man's account. But why? There lies the mystery. She
must be rescued, at all risks, and that at once."

"Zackly like that," replied Josiah, thoughtfully; "but which lane ded
they go into, I wondar. I seed powers of lanes both sides."

"True," said Morley; "I forgot to ask which lane."

"'Twud ha' b'en all the same ef you had, I b'lieve," replied Josiah,
"for most of the lanes wor alike, so far I could see, as we came along."

"We are losing time. Mount, man, and follow me; we must find them." And,
suiting the action to the word, Morley vaulted into his saddle, and
Josiah followed his example.

They turned and rode back in silence for some miles, passing numerous
lanes on each side of the road; but the driver said the party left him
about ten miles back. The two travellers had not retraced their steps,
however, many miles, when they were accosted by a little beggar-boy, who
was coming out of rather a wide lane into the turnpike-road.

Morley gave the boy something, and asked him if he had seen three
travellers--a man and two females--pass up that lane.

"Yes, sir," replied the boy. "The man and the young woman turned down
another lane a little way on, and the old woman went up to the house."

"What is the name of the house, boy?" said Morley.

"Ashley Hall, sir," replied the boy.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Morley; "I had forgotten the locality. I never
approached it from this road before." And, setting spurs to his horse,
he rode on as if Old Nick was at his heels, instead of his faithful
friend and follower, Josiah. At the end of the lane, there was a neat
lodge, at which the impetuous gentleman was obliged to pull up.

"You ha' found a bra' keenly lode, I s'pose," said Josiah; "'tes looken'
brave an' keenly, I must say. The gozzan an' the indications do 'token
somethen' good furder in."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," said Morley, "that this is my aunt, Mrs.
Courland's, place. I haven't seen her since my return; and this old
place I haven't seen since I was a boy,--for my aunt left it for a long
time, in order to be near my sister when she was at school. I meant to
have seen her much sooner, but that foolish accident at the Land's-End
frustrated all my plans. We will take up our abode here, Josiah, at
present, and go out scouring the country every day. We will make this
our head-quarters."

"Very good quarters to be had here, I'll be bound," returned Josiah.
"That's a grand house, sure nuf, that es," continued he, as they rode up
to the front door.

They were admitted at once, when the man saw the name on the card which
Morley gave him; and, desiring another servant to take care of Josiah,
he conducted Frederick into the drawing-room, where he found his sister,
alone, making delicious sounds on the pianoforte--which had just
superseded the harpsichord, and was then quite the rage among the
affluent. She was delighted to see her brother, although she scolded him
for not coming to see them before. When he told her the reason, however,
and recounted the scene of the accident, which he could not, even then,
look back upon without a shudder, she readily forgave him. She offered
him some refreshment, which he was very glad to have; for he had ridden
far, and had been harassed by anxious and exciting thoughts for several
days. They had dined long ago, Julia said, and immediately after dinner
her aunt was called out of the room on business, and had not yet
returned. "Some more buildings, or improvements, or alterations, going
on, I suppose," she continued, in a more subdued tone; "wealth has its
troubles, Frederick, as well as poverty."

"True," replied her brother; "and I really think wealth brings most
trouble very often. Aunt Courland has something of importance to settle
to-night, I should think."

"Oh! I never mind her absence," replied Julia; "she has often
engagements that occupy her a whole day, and I see nothing of her from
breakfast till tea-time. But I'll go and see where she is now; she will
be glad to know that you are here; and none of the servants would
disturb her, I'm sure."

Julia found her aunt, alone, in a little room looking out into her
private garden, from which there was a private communication with the
lane which branched off from the entrance-gate and skirted the gardens
of Ashley Hall. Mrs. Courland had evidently been weeping, and had gone
through some agitating scene; for she trembled still, as Julia felt when
she kissed her. She soon recovered, however, and accompanied her niece
into the drawing-room to welcome her nephew, who was a great favourite.
He, too, saw that something had agitated her, and he asked her what had
happened to upset her so.

"Nothing," she said; "it will be all over in a few minutes." And she did
get better; but still a cloud hung over her countenance, which she could
not altogether dispel, although it was evident she made a great effort
to do so.

The next morning, Morley and Josiah were on horseback before the ladies
were stirring. Josiah had gained some useful information from the
servants, as to the locality and the different lanes, and where they led
to, and how far they were from the sea.

They rode all day without success. Every lane they saw they explored as
far as they could, and enquired everywhere, but could gain no tidings of
the fugitives; and they returned late, weary and out of heart.

Day after day was passed in the same way, and with the same result. Mrs.
Courland requested that Frederick would use her horses to relieve his
own, so that he had always fresh horses at his command. One day they
rode along a narrow lane which seemed to lead to the sea. It was a
lonely road, skirted on each side by deep woods of tall forest-trees.
Not a house or human habitation was to be seen for miles. At length, as
they approached nearer the water, the trees appeared more stunted and
dwindled down to short coppice-wood. Still the road was lonely and
destitute of human habitation.

Suddenly they came upon a solitary cottage, surrounded by what had once
been a garden, but which was now filled with weeds and rank grass.

The entrance into the garden seemed to be at the end, through a little
wicket-gate, which had fallen off its hinges; but as the low wall of the
garden had fallen down in several places, Morley had no difficulty in
entering; so, leaving his horses to the care of Josiah, he made his way
through one of the gaps in the wall, and approached the front of the
cottage. The door was locked and the house seemed deserted. He looked in
at the windows, and, to his surprise, the house seemed furnished, and
everything in the rooms appeared as if they had been recently used. This
was very strange, Morley thought; so he went round the house, and, in
one end, he observed a window, rather larger than the front window; and,
looking into the room, he saw that it was a bedroom on the ground-floor,
which appeared as if it had been lately occupied. A sudden thought now
flashed across his mind, as he looked again in at that window; and,
returning to Josiah, he said,--

"We must make some enquiries about this house, Josiah; it seems to be
shut up,--and yet the interior has the appearance of having been lately
occupied."

"'Tes a whisht old house, sure nuf," replied Josiah; "a purty place for
pixies and ghostes, I reckon."

They mounted their horses again, and rode on about a mile further, when
they arrived at a farm-house. The farmer informed them that he had not
resided in that neighbourhood more than four or five years; but he had
heard that the house Morley was enquiring about, was haunted. A horrible
murder had been committed there many years ago, the farmer said, and no
one had resided there since.

"To whom does it belong?" asked Morley.

"I have heard that it belonged to the old man who was murdered there,"
replied the farmer. "The son and daughter lived there with him, I
believe; but after the murder they went off, no one could tell where,
and they have never been heard of since."

"Do you know the names of these people?" enquired Morley.

"Well, I have heard," replied the man; "but I have forgotten."

Morley's conjecture was confirmed. This was, no doubt, the very house in
which that dreadful murder was committed, of which his poor father had
been accused. The murderers had gone to some distant part of the
country, no doubt, or perhaps gone abroad, and left the house and its
contents just as they were, fearing to return lest they should be
discovered; and no one else would venture near the house, on account of
their superstitious fears of ghosts. The premises would not be worth
much, in that lonely district; indeed, no one would purchase them after
what had happened; and so the risk of returning was not worth incurring,
especially as the guilty parties must have taken away a considerable sum
with them; for the money which Mr. Morley had with him at the time, and
which he must have dropped in his agitation, at the time he slid down
from the bed, was, no doubt, picked up by the fugitives and carried off.
This was enough to enable them to live comfortably for a long time.

It was getting late; so Morley enquired the nearest way to Ashley Hall,
and returned by a short cut which the farmer pointed out, determined to
explore the interior of the house the next morning.

Julia ran down to meet her brother when she heard he had returned, and
begged him to have his dinner in the breakfast-parlour, if he didn't
mind, as her aunt was engaged with a stranger in the dining-room.

"What! more mysterious visitors, Julia?" said her brother, smiling;
"why, my aunt Courland must be worried out of her life."

"Yes. Now eat your dinner, like a good boy," replied Julia, leading her
brother to the table, which was already laid for dinner; "and then, if
you are very good, I will tell you a grand secret."

"Hallo!" exclaimed Frederick, eating at the same time--for he was very
hungry; "why, this place ought to be called 'The Castle of Mystery'
instead of 'Ashley Hall.' You seem to have more secrets here than were
contained in 'Blue Beard's' secret chamber. But the tables are turned
here, and the ladies hold the secrets, and the poor men have to guess."

"Heighho!" cried his sister, with a sigh; "I am sorry to say we haven't
many men here to hide secrets from. Their visits are 'like angels'
visits, few and far between.'"

"Now, one glass of wine," said Frederick, who had been going into the
substantials heartily while his sister had been talking;--"one glass of
wine, my little sister, and then for your secret."

"Two glasses, Frederick dear,--I must insist on your taking two glasses
at least; for I want to make you able to hear my terrible secret without
fainting outright." And she kissed him so kindly as she said this, that
he could not refuse his little sister's request.

"Two glasses, then," said he, "if it must be so."

When he had finished his two glasses of wine, she said she had such a
surprise for him in the dining-room, where perhaps he would have to take
another glass of wine.

"You little mysterious puss," said he, as he drew her arm within his,
and suffered her to lead him to the dining-room. "What can you have to
shew me?--it isn't a lover, is it?"

"Oh! no," replied she, sighing; "animals of that genus don't acclimatize
at Ashley Hall--the atmosphere here is too cold for them."

"You little satirical minx," said he, as his sister threw open the
dining-room door, and introduced him to their eldest brother, William,
from India.

It was a surprise indeed. The two brothers embraced most affectionately,
and then they looked at each other for some minutes. At last Frederick
said,--

"My recollection of our poor father is but faint--I was only ten years
of age when I last saw him; but it seems to me as if I saw him standing
before me now."

"Yes," replied his brother; "the likeness has been remarked by all our
friends in India."

"I was painfully struck with it," said Mrs. Courland, "when William
entered the room this morning. I felt as if my poor brother had come
back again, to bring to light that awful catastrophe. My thoughts went
back to that awful time, and I shuddered as he entered. I can scarcely
get over it now."

"It shall be discovered, my dear aunt," said the elder brother--whom in
future we will call Mr. Morley. "We will not return till the guilty
parties are brought to light."

A sudden change came over the countenance of Mrs. Courland as these
words were pronounced, in the solemn voice so like her poor brother's,
that alarmed her nephews. Julia had seen those fits on her before; and
she motioned to her two brothers to be quiet, while she held her aunt's
throbbing head to her bosom.

It soon passed away; and then she rose and begged her two nephews to sit
a little over their wine, as she knew they must have much to say to each
other.



CHAPTER XXII.

ALRINA'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER.


The wine and dessert had remained on the table, although all but
Frederick had dined long ago. The two brothers sat over their wine, as
Mrs. Courland had requested them to do; but their time was otherwise
employed than in drinking wine. Mr. Morley related to his brother the
history of his life, from the time of their father's death, and his
miraculous escape from the shipwreck. Frederick, in return, related to
his brother the incidents of his life,--his miraculous preservation on
the cliffs at the Land's-End; Josiah's prompt assistance; the discovery
of the box of gold; the conjuror;--indeed, all except his love-affair.
That he retained as a secret still. They had much to tell, and the
brothers sat late.

It was a great relief to Mr. Morley's mind to know that their father's
box was safe. That Mr. Freeman knew something about the parties, he had
no doubt whatever, and he was now as anxious as his brother was to find
him, in order to obtain any information he might be able to give them;
for Josiah, who had been sent for into the dining-room, to give them a
description of the "man of cunning," and his habits and mode of life,
said that "The Maister" knew "bra' things."

Alrina was mentioned by Frederick; but he did not tell all respecting
her, nor did he so far confide in his brother as to tell him of the
plighted troth which existed between them. Mr. Morley guessed, however,
that there was something more than disinterested friendship in his
brother's anxiety on her account.

The discovery of the house in which the murder had been committed was
also told; and the brothers determined to go to the deserted house again
the next day, and effect an entrance, when they might possibly discover
some clue to the mystery.

When they were about to separate for the night, Mr. Morley gave his
brother a letter which he said had been left at the "First and Last Inn"
for him; but as he supposed it had come from Ashley Hall, he did not
think of giving it to him before, as he had no doubt heard its contents
from the lady herself. Frederick took the letter and put it into his
pocket, intending to read it in his bedroom. He could not imagine who
could have written it. It could not have been either his aunt or sister;
for they would no doubt have mentioned it, if it had come from them.

The ladies had retired long ago; and the brothers, being tired, followed
their example.

When Frederick had closed the door of his room, he took out the letter
and examined the address, which appeared to be written in pencil. He did
not know the handwriting. It was a neat lady-like hand. At first he
thought of Miss Pendray,--but what could she have to write him about? At
last he broke the seal, and was astonished as well as delighted, to find
that it was a letter from Alrina--a short letter evidently written in
haste. So he sat down and almost devoured its contents.


     ALRINA'S LETTER.

     _My own dear Frederick_,

     _May I call you so? Yes; I feel I may,--and yet I scarcely know
     what to say or how to begin a letter to you. But who else can I
     look to? Oh! Frederick, I am very, very unhappy. My father
     discovered our meetings. He knows our secret,--by what means I know
     not._

     _I was in a state of stupor for a long time, and when I recovered
     myself I was in a strange place. How I was conveyed here, or when,
     I do not know. I am puzzled and bewildered._

     _The house is surrounded by high walls on every side. My father has
     been absent,--I have only seen him once. I think this house must be
     near the sea; for the owner dresses like a sailor, and I overhear
     conversations which lead me to believe he is connected with
     smugglers. His wife is older than he is. Oh! Frederich, she is such
     a tyrant, and treats that poor girl shamefully. (I forgot to say
     they have a young girl living with them, whom they call their
     niece.) Poor girl! I pity her; but I am not allowed to speak to
     her,--indeed, she seems to forbid it herself, by placing her finger
     on her lips whenever I happen to meet her. I hear her cries, poor
     child!_

     _There is some mystery about her,--I feel convinced of this. I hear
     whisperings. My aunt is in the secret, whatever it is. The two
     women have been closeted continually. I am closely watched and
     guarded--I know that; so that I amuse myself by watching too, and
     listening; but I cannot learn much. Yesterday the man went out, and
     took the girl with him; and soon after, my aunt told me she was
     going a short journey, and I must remain here until her return. I
     am accustomed to hear of her short journeys. She often went from
     home; but the journeys appeared to be long ones,--she generally
     stayed away a fortnight. All is mystery. The old woman keeps guard
     over me. The boy Billy, whom you may have seen in poor Mr. Brown's
     stable, came with my father, and he managed to get me this sheet of
     paper and a pencil unknown to anyone. I am writing now as a
     prisoner; for the old woman locks me in when she is not with me. I
     am thankful to be alone, for then I can think of you,--and oh! how
     pleasant the thought. When I shall see you again I know not,--and
     whether I shall be able to send this letter after I have written
     it, God only knows; but it is a pleasure, in my solitude, to write
     my thoughts and my troubles, to one who will feel for me. I shall
     try to send this by the boy, should he ever come here again. Hark!
     I hear the bolt of the door drawn back. She comes! Adieu!_

     _Your fond and loving_
     ALRINA.


Frederick read Alrina's letter over and over again, as he paced the
floor of his bedroom in mad agitation. He had wasted his time by coming
after this waggon, while his Alrina was probably still within a few
miles of her former habitation. Had he received this letter before he
started, he might have rescued her; but now! it may be too late. Several
days had passed,--days? yes, nearly a fortnight since that letter was
written. "Fool! madman! idiot!" he exclaimed as he paced the floor. "Why
did I not enquire more strictly before I took this fool's journey?"

Exhausted nature gave way at last, and, throwing himself on the bed, he
slept heavily till Josiah came to call him for their usual early
morning's ride. He had not taken off his clothes, so that, after a
refreshing wash, he went out into the garden followed by Josiah. The
fresh morning air invigorated him, and restored tranquillity to his
mind; and he was enabled to tell his faithful follower the principal
contents of the letter.

"Well, sar," said Josiah, "that's a whisht job sure nuf; but what's done
caen't be helped. Ef har fe-a-ther es a conjuror, you arn't, I s'pose;
so how cud you tell that she wor there?"

"True," said Frederick, who now began to see the folly of reflecting on
himself for coming to Bristol instead of remaining in Cornwall--a
mistake which it was impossible he could have seen the result of.

"We have done something by coming here, however," he continued,
reflectively; "we have discovered that lonely house. Now, I think you
had better remain here with my brother; for I feel convinced that by
entering that house, some discovery will be made. In the meantime I will
return and seek Alrina and her father. If I can find that boy, I shall
succeed without a doubt in rescuing her."

"Iss; but semmen to me that two 'f's' do belong to that," said Josiah.

"What do you mean by 'two f's?'" exclaimed Frederick.

"Why, the fust es, _ef_ you cud find the boy," replied Josiah; "and the
next es, _ef_ she's there still. You don't knaw that boy so well as I
do; but 'tes no harm to try. I'll go home, or stay here, whichever you
plaise; but there's one thing I ha' got to say, that I b'lieve we wor
'pon a good scent, after all."

"What do you mean?" asked Morley.

"Why, I heard somethen' spoke down in the servants' hall last night,
that I ha' b'en thinken' about a bra' deal; but I cudn't, to save my
life, make the two ends to 'kidgey' like; but your letter ha' opened my
eyes all abroad."

"You are speaking in enigmas, Josiah," said his master.

"I don't knaw what sort of things they are, not I," said Josiah; "but
putten' this agen that, I can see a bra' way this mornen', I think."

"What are you driving at?" said Morley, looking puzzled.

"Why, this here es about the size of et," replied Josiah, looking very
wise,--"Miss Freeman wor in that woggen, so sure as my name es 'Siah
Trenow."

"How can you possibly know that?" cried Morley, very much excited.

"Well, I don't knaw et zackly," replied Josiah; "but the porter said,
last night, that there ha' b'en a woman up there two or three times
spaken' to Mrs. Courland, an' he watched her in an' out o' that little
gate in the garden; and by what he said, I do b'lieve 'tes she. He
chalked her out zackly, semmen to me."

"Whatever could she be doing here?" asked Morley. "It is quite absurd to
think of such a thing."

"Zackly like that," said Josiah; "but I do b'lieve 'twor she, an' that
man an' the little maid wor the ones that Miss Reeney spoke about. 'Tes
some new manoeuvre of 'The Maister's,' I'll be bound, an' I shall watch
like a cat watching a mouse. Dedn't Miss Reeney say that he knaw'd all
about you, an' everything. He wor watching you when you dedn't knaw et,
down there, I'll be bound. An' now he ha' sent she for to tell your aunt
somethen'."

At this point of their conversation, they were joined by Mr. Morley, to
whom Frederick read the most material portions of Alrina's letter, and
Josiah repeated his suspicions that Miss Freeman was lurking about the
neighbourhood. If so, they had no doubt she was there on some errand
from her brother respecting Frederick Morley. What it was they couldn't
imagine. It was arranged therefore that Frederick should return to
Cornwall again in search of Alrina and her father; while Mr. Morley and
Josiah should remain at Ashley Hall, for the purpose of making what
discovery they could in the deserted house, and of finding out whether
Miss Freeman was really in the neighbourhood, and what she was about.
So, after an early breakfast, their plans were formed, and Mr. Morley
and Josiah proceeded to the deserted house, while Frederick rode on the
wings of love to the rescue of his imprisoned enchantress.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SECRET.


Mrs. Courland was expecting her husband's return about this time. She
was anxious and nervous. He was a good, kind husband, and she
endeavoured to do all in her power to make him happy. It was a great
trial to her to look that kind, good man in the face, and know that she
was keeping a secret from him which he ought to have known from the
beginning. It made her unhappy,--miserable,--and she dreaded his return.
Should he discover it now, and find that she had been deceiving him for
so many years, it would be dreadful. And now he was on his last
voyage;--he would now retire from the sea and live at home. How should
she be able to keep the secret then? Some trifling circumstance might
occur at any time, to discover it; and then his kind affection would be
lost to her. He would not--he could not--look upon her with his wonted
loving confidence, after the discovery of her deception. Oh! why had she
kept it from him?

Julia knew that her aunt was anxious about her husband's return, and she
did not disturb her therefore when she retired after breakfast to her
little private room.

She retired, as usual, that morning, and sat brooding over her sorrows
and anxieties, until she became quite low-spirited; for the more she
thought of her difficult and unpleasant situation, the more guilty and
blameable she seemed in her own estimation; and, placing her hand before
her eyes, she wept in the bitterness of her heart.

Still comparatively a young woman, and still beautiful, and the
admiration of all, when she chose to enter into society,--possessed,
also, of considerable wealth, a noble mansion, and a splendid
establishment--all, in short, which the world could bestow,--and, above
all, being blessed with a kind and indulgent husband,--yet, with all
these advantages, there sat that handsome and gifted lady in the midst
of all this splendour, a miserable, unhappy woman.

A gentle tap is heard at the little door leading into the garden, which
makes her start and turn pale. Strange that so gentle a tap should
frighten her so much. Where are all the servants, that she should be
obliged to open the door herself? She seems to dread the admission of
the visitor; and yet she rises almost immediately, and unbolts the
little door and admits the intruder on her privacy.

The visitor enters unceremoniously, and closes the door, as if she had
been accustomed to visit the beautiful owner of the establishment often.
She was a tall, masculine-looking woman, apparently about fifty years of
age, with an eye that betokened both boldness and cunning, and a
restless uneasy expression by no means pleasing. The compressed lips
expressed great determination of character, and the strong and well-knit
frame seemed formed more according to the model of the ruder than the
softer sex.

This was the visitor who had just been admitted into Mrs. Courland's
private room.

"Am I never to be at rest?" said the lady in a supplicating tone, as she
took her seat again. "Say, once for all, what will satisfy you, and
leave me in peace. This continual worry and anxiety is killing me."

"You know," replied the visitor, "that I am not asking for myself. It is
in the cause of another that I occasionally trouble you. The poor child
must be educated according to the station she may one day fill; and her
maintenance must be cared for. And those who take the trouble, and keep
the secret, must be rewarded--and that with liberality."

"I know all that," said Mrs. Courland, "and am willing to make a
sacrifice. What will suffice? say!"

"I am acting for another, as you know; and my instructions are, five
hundred pounds--not a penny less," said the woman, sternly.

"I cannot comply with your exorbitant demand," replied Mrs. Courland, in
an abject tone; "I have not so much money in the house. My husband's
allowance is all exhausted,--you have been a continual drain upon me. I
expect him almost hourly, and then my supplies will be almost unlimited
again. Pray leave me now, and let me have a little time to recover
myself before his return. Then you shall be liberally rewarded."

"I cannot wait," said the visitor; "or, if I do, the money must be
supplied _by himself_, and all must be known."

"Oh! no! no! not that," cried Mrs. Courland, almost in despair. "He is
kind--most kind. Spare him the knowledge of that which has been kept
from him so long, to my bitter, bitter cost. Oh! would that he had known
all at the beginning. It would have saved me many unhappy hours." And
the poor lady wept, as if her heart was breaking. Her unwelcome visitor
seemed moved, and begged her not to distress herself so.

"You have not seen the child?" said she. "Let me bring her to you. Why
not take her here? she might be a comfort to you. Her misfortune and
dreadful calamity may induce you to pity, if you cannot love her, and
will afford some occupation for your leisure hours. She is within call;
I will bring her in." And before Mrs. Courland could collect herself
sufficiently to decide what she would do, or to ask another question,
the woman had disappeared.

The grounds of Ashley Hall, as we have before said, were skirted on one
side by a narrow lane, very little frequented,--the hedges on each side
being overgrown with brambles and thick thorn-bushes. In this lane,
there was a door which led into Mrs. Courland's private room, through a
small garden, which she called her own private property--no one being
permitted to enter it, except herself, and the gardener, who at stated
times was admitted to keep it in order.

Outside this little door in the lane, on the morning of this woman's
visit to Mrs. Courland, stood an elderly man, dressed in the garb of a
sailor, and a young girl, about fifteen or sixteen years of age--she
might have been a year or two more, or she might have been less; it was
difficult to determine. She was plainly dressed, and looked clean and
neat; but her general appearance was not at all prepossessing. She was
short and stout; and extreme vulgarity and impudent assurance, mingled
with cunning, were depicted in her forbidding looking countenance, which
was deeply pitted with the small-pox;--and yet, with all this, there was
a look of melancholy which seemed to indicate that the girl was unhappy.
Continued ill-treatment had perhaps produced this harsh and repulsive
expression of countenance which she now exhibited.

"We must try what effect the girl will have," said the woman, as she
merged into the lane through the little private door, after having kept
her companions waiting a considerable time. "The lady says she has not
much money in the house, and won't have till the captain comes home."

"She be hanged!" replied the man. "That's her game. Not money in a
house like that? Tell her to pawn her jewels, or sell her carriage. I
tell you, mistress, if you can't manage better than that, I shall go in
myself and play Old Nick with her."

"Hush!" said the woman. "Let me take the girl in. That will be best.
Leave it to me, Cooper; I know how to manage her."

"Now, mind," cried the man; "no nonsense,--money down, or else there'll
be the devil to pay. I won't wait one day longer. I've got other fish to
fry, and I don't like dancing attendance upon a parcel of women, like
this."

Leaving the man alone in the lane, in not a very good humour, the woman
took the girl with her into Mrs. Courland's private room, where she
found that lady still weeping and in great agitation.

"I have brought the child," said the woman, as she entered, "and I
intend leaving her here on your hands. I have a bold partner outside,
who will publish it far and near, and your husband will know all
immediately on his return. I have sufficient proof of all, as you have
seen before."

"Oh! spare me! spare me!" cried the poor lady, as she looked at the girl
through her tears. "Oh! terrible fate. Not that! _She_ cannot be the
child. Oh! in pity take her away, and say there is some mistake. Oh!
dreadful. His child can never be like that!" And she turned her head
away, as if she loathed the sight of one so hideous. Had she been a
handsome girl, she might have reconciled herself to her fate; but to
have a low, vulgar, hideous creature there, and to present that creature
to her husband now,--she could not do it. Better die a thousand deaths
than face this terrible ordeal. Her husband would despise and hate her,
as much as he loved her now, when he discovered the extent of the
deception that had been practised upon him. He would be at home now
continually; and she would have to bear his frowns, day by day, without
relief. She presented to her own mind the darkest side of the picture,
and painted it in the dullest and blackest colours, like all who give
way to these low desponding thoughts. While these gloomy reflections
were passing in Mrs. Courland's mind, the woman disappeared through the
little private door, and left the poor girl standing in the middle of
the room. Here was a new difficulty. What could she do with that
repulsive looking girl? She ran out through the little garden and opened
the door leading into the lane. There was no one to be seen;--both the
man and the woman had either gone off very quickly, or were concealing
themselves behind some of the overgrown thorns and bushes. The girl was
left on her hands, evidently, and she must make the best of it. Perhaps
she might know where to find her friends, and might be induced to go to
them if she was provided with some money. Consoling herself, as well as
she could, with these reflections, Mrs. Courland returned to the room,
where she found the girl standing in the same place, and looking, with
stolid astonishment, at the elegant and costly ornaments which decorated
the room, and exhibited the refined taste and great wealth of its owner.

Mrs. Courland seated herself once more, and tried to look at the poor
half-frightened girl with less abhorrence: but it was of no use. She
could not endure the sight of her: and the idea of keeping her there was
quite out of the question;--she must get rid of her, at all risks, cost
what it would. The girl, seeing that she was not noticed, turned round
to look at the beautiful bijouterie with which some of the tables and
the mantel-piece were strewed; and she was now standing with her back to
the mistress of the apartment.

Mrs. Courland summoned up resolution enough at length to speak to the
girl, but she did not seem to notice it. Again Mrs. Courland addressed
her, but she neither replied nor turned towards the lady.

"You are obstinate, girl," said Mrs. Courland. "I will soon let you know
who is mistress here;"--for she felt her dignity insulted, which she was
not accustomed to; and rising from her chair impatiently, she approached
the girl, and, taking her by the shoulders (for the girl's back was
still turned towards her), she gave her a hearty shake, which came so
unexpectedly, that the girl jumped round, and seized the lady by both
her wrists, giving at the same time a hideous and unearthly scream, and
looking more like a fiend than anything human. But, seeing that she had
frightened her, she released her grasp, which had been so strong and
powerful, that the marks of her hard, bony fingers were left on the soft
and delicate flesh of the lady, who dropped into a seat, terrified and
exhausted. Her situation was even worse than she had anticipated.

_The girl was evidently deaf and dumb!_

She could not turn such a helpless unfortunate out into the world,
alone;--even if she filled the poor creature's pockets with gold, she
could not help herself nor make her wants known, and she would be
robbed. What was she to do? The woman, it was evident, meant to leave
her there: and now all must be known.

The poor girl was still standing in the same place, looking at the lady
with a penitent countenance; for she saw, with natural instinct, that
she had done amiss. She had been accustomed to ill-treatment, and any
resentment she evinced subjected her to a more severe punishment; and so
she had become hardened and vindictive, and would take some opportunity
of doing her persecutors some mischief, treacherously, for which she
often got double punishment; so that she was always conquered, and her
temper became sour and morose, which gave an unpleasant expression to
her countenance, that, but for the ravages made on it by that dreadful
disease, the small-pox, might not have seemed so forbidding and
repulsive. A mingled feeling of pity and compassion took possession of
Mrs. Courland's mind, as she sat gazing at the poor creature, who now
looked so penitent, and seemed to be begging for pardon, in her way. The
expression of her countenance was quite altered and subdued. She now
felt the pride of being the conqueror over that delicate and beautiful
lady, by the strength of her sinewy hands; for there was no hand
uplifted here to fell her to the ground for her temerity and rudeness.
She saw, too, that the lady had been weeping, and that her delicate
wrists had been hurt by her powerful grasp; for the marks of her fingers
were still visible there.

She had never, perhaps, been taught to kneel in worship or in penitence
to any higher being than the man and woman with whom she resided--and to
them only by accident, when struggling for the mastery, or in
endeavouring to evade the severity of her daily punishment. Her natural
instinct now plainly indicated to her, that she was standing in the
presence of a superior being, whom she had injured, and who bore the
pain without resenting it. She could not express her penitence and
sorrow for the pain she had inflicted, in words; so she threw herself on
her knees before the lady, and, bending her head almost to the floor,
burst into tears--the first she had shed, perhaps, except in pain or
anger, in the whole course of her life.

Mrs. Courland's heart was touched at the natural homage and contrition
of this poor afflicted girl. She raised her from the floor and placed
her in her own chair, signing to her to remain there.

The lady then left the room, and returned in a short time, and placed
upon the table, with her own hands, a little tray containing luncheon
for two,--dainty meat and wine, such as the poor girl had scarcely ever
seen before. She ate ravenously, and would have drank the whole contents
of the small decanter of wine, had she not been prevented. But the
kindness of those few minutes had subdued her into humble submission,
more than all the beatings and harsh treatment which she had before been
accustomed to receive to compel obedience.

So far, all was managed easily; but the girl must sleep
somewhere--unseen and unknown. There was a small apartment within that
private room, which might be used as a sleeping-room. Mrs. Courland made
a sign to the girl, which she quickly understood, and in her strong arms
she carried in a small couch; and with shawls and rugs, which Mrs.
Courland managed to bring from other parts of the house, they made a
comfortable bed and hiding-place for the stranger for the present, until
Mrs. Courland could decide on the best course to be adopted.

She could scarcely make up her mind to believe it; and yet it seemed
but too evident that this was the child she had grieved over so long,
and so often wished and yet dreaded to see. The plainness of the girl's
features she might yet get accustomed to, and art might be brought to
her aid to improve her appearance;--the vulgarity in her manner might
also be softened and ameliorated. But that sad calamity,--oh! that was
dreadful,--no art could get rid of that.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"MAN IS BORN TO TROUBLE AND DISAPPOINTMENT, AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARDS."


Frederick Morley, in the meantime, was hastening on his journey. Love
added speed to his horse's feet, and strength to the rider; and by dint
of frequent changes on the road, he was not many days reaching Truro
once more, where he halted to refresh himself and to deliberate on what
course he should adopt.

It was a lone house, Alrina had told him in her letter, near the
seaside, she believed, surrounded by a high wall, and not very far, she
thought, from her former abode; because she must have been taken there
during the night, so that the distance could not have been great. This
was a very vague description. There were many lone houses, in those
days, near the sea, surrounded by high walls;--indeed, the exception
was, to see a lone house, without having a high wall round it, for the
protection of the inmates against the lawless bands who infested the
sea-coast in those troublous times. His course seemed to be, to go to
the Land's-End at once, and see Lieut. Fowler, who might have heard
something, or perhaps have seen the boy. He determined, however, to go
by the road which would take him nearest to the sea; and, in his
journey, he could look out for the house in which his Alrina was
confined, and, to make sure of not passing her by this time, he
determined he would effect an entrance by some pretence or other, into
every house he saw surrounded by high walls in the course of his
journey.

Having decided on this course, and taken some refreshment, he started on
his exploring expedition; but he was obliged to ride the same tired
horse, for there was not another to be had in the town. The horse,
however, having been well fed and groomed, the ostler assured him that
the animal was as fresh as a hunter going to the meet, and would carry
him a long journey yet before sunset. So Frederick mounted once more,
and, with whip and spur, got over a good bit of ground in a very short
time; for the horse was one of those plucky animals that will run till
they drop, under the spur of an impatient rider. Frederick did not
intend to be cruel; but he wanted to get on, and the horse seemed
willing to go, so on they went at a good pace, and soon neared the
sea-coast. The horse was flagging a little, but whip and spur kept him
up to the mark, and on they went still. They passed several farm-houses
surrounded by walls; but none of them at all answered the description
Alrina had given of her prison. At length Frederick thinks he sees, at
some distance ahead, some high dark walls, and he fancies he discerns
the roof of a house just peeping above them. "This must be the very
house," cried he, in the greatest excitement; so he urged the horse on,
thinking of nothing but the rescue of his Alrina. The road was rugged
and the horse was tired. He stumbled over a loose stone going down a
gentle declivity towards the building; and, not having sufficient
strength left to save himself, he fell heavily. The rider was thrown
with violence against the wall; he was stunned, and lay insensible and
bleeding beneath the wall of the house he had been so anxious to reach.

The shadows of night are closing in all round, and the man and horse are
still lying in that lonely road, no one having passed since the
accident, nor has the garden-door been opened. At last a boy comes out;
and, seeing that some accident has happened, he returns to the house,
and a man and woman come out with him and examine the bodies. The horse
is dead--the man sees that at once; but the rider breathes and is
bleeding still. The man goes back to the house, taking the boy with him,
while the woman runs for some water, with which she bathes the face of
the wounded man, and washes away the congealed blood. The man and boy
presently appear again, carrying a board. The three, then, with their
united strength, place the wounded man on the board, and carry him in,
leaving the horse by the roadside. The wounded gentleman is placed in a
comfortable bed, and the man dresses his wounds and applies remedies
with considerable skill. Life is preserved, but delirium comes on,
caused by a slight concussion of the brain. No surgeon is sent for;--the
man says he can cure him himself; and the woman and the boy, having
apparently implicit confidence in his skill, yield to his wishes. They
watch with the sufferer throughout the night, and the boy is despatched,
in the morning, to the nearest town, for medicines and other things
necessary for the patient's use and comfort.

Several days and nights pass, and the patient is still delirious. The
man continues most attentive and skilful. The patient gradually gets
better. He is out of danger; and, one evening, the man, after giving the
woman the most minute instructions as to her treatment of the invalid,
leaves, desiring her to keep strict watch over him, and keep the doors
locked, so that he may not get away from the house until his return.
The boy was left to assist the woman in attending on the invalid and
keeping watch.

Frederick had now been an inmate of this lonely house about a week. He
was fast recovering from the effects of the fall, but still too weak to
leave his bed, although he wished most earnestly to get away, or to have
his questions answered; for he didn't at all remember what took place
after the horse fell, nor did he know where he was, nor who his
attendants were.

The woman pretended not to know anything, and the boy generally evaded
the questions, or answered very wide of them. The morning after the
departure of the man, under whose skilful treatment Morley was
progressing so favourably towards recovery, the boy entered the room
with a cunning smile on his countenance, and said that he had a letter
for the invalid.

"A letter!" said Morley, feebly, "who can possibly have written a letter
to me? no one but those I have seen about me, know where I am." Taking
the letter from the boy, however, he was astonished to find that it was
from Alrina. He was too anxious and impatient to read it, to think of
the bearer, or to ask any questions concerning the letter or its writer,
until he had read its contents, which he did with such eagerness, that
the boy was alarmed lest the invalid should relapse into delirium
again;--not that he was easily alarmed or frightened at anything he saw
or heard, but he knew that if the gentleman became delirious again, it
would give him extra trouble.

In her letter, Alrina complained of her lot. She had thought, she said,
that Frederick would, at least, have written her a line in reply to her
first letter. She felt, now, that she was deserted by all. Everything
seemed going against her. Her aunt had not returned yet; but her father
came frequently, and she felt convinced there was some terrible secret,
which they endeavoured to keep from her, but she was determined to find
it out. The boy seemed willing to befriend her, she said, but she was
almost afraid to trust him. And so she went on to the end of the letter,
in the same desponding strain; winding up by asking Frederick, if he
really loved her to lose no time in coming to her rescue, or, at least,
to write a line, that she might know there was, at least, one person in
the world who cared for her. It was a melancholy letter from beginning
to end, and its perusal made her lover wretched. She was evidently under
restraint somewhere; but where? that was the question: even if he knew,
it was impossible for him to go to her at present; he was too weak. The
boy who brought her letter might know something, and he turned to ask
him, but he had left the room. He tried to get up; the exertion was too
much for him, and he sank back on his pillow again. His only resource
was to read the letter again and again. The more he reflected on
Alrina's position, however, and on the unfortunate circumstances which
had prevented his receiving her first letter in time, and his consequent
inability to render her that assistance and consolation which he would
have given worlds to have been able to do, the more irritated and
unhappy did he feel; so that when the boy returned, he was in such a
high state of excitement, that his attendant was afraid, at first, to go
near him.

The wish for further information, however, which he believed the boy
could give him, caused Morley to subdue his feelings, and to induce him,
by the promise of a reward, to be a little more communicative than he
had hitherto been. By degrees, the boy approached the bed cautiously,
when Morley asked him, as mildly as he could, when and where he had
received the letter, and if he knew where Alrina was at that moment
confined, with many other questions too numerous for the boy to answer
without a little time and consideration. Before he answered any of them,
therefore, he gave that cunning smile, which had so annoyed Morley
before, and which now irritated him beyond measure, when he was so
anxious to hear something of her to whom he felt he had unwittingly
given cause for complaint; but he soon saw that he should get nothing
out of the boy by threats or angry expressions, so he changed his
tactics, and extracted the information he wanted by asking one question
at a time. That was certainly the oddest boy he had ever met with, he
thought; for, although, judging from his diminutive stature, no one
would have supposed him to be above eight or nine years of age, yet,
from his shrewd knowledge of the world, and aged expression of
countenance, he might have been eight- or nine-and-twenty. He was the
same boy whom Mr. Brown formerly employed to look after his mare; and it
was said, even then, and generally believed, that he was in constant
attendance on Mr. Freeman, and knew a good many of his secrets.

He was found one night, when quite an infant, lying at the door of a
farm-house in the neighbourhood of St. Just, wrapped up in coarse
flannel; but it was never discovered who put him there, nor who the
child's parents were. He was placed in the poor-house; and when he was
old enough, he was apprenticed to one of the farmers of the district;
but he would never settle down under one master,--and after trying to
subdue him, without success, his master gave him up to his own
inclinations, and so he got his living by doing odd jobs. From his
constant intercourse with Mr. Freeman, he lost the broad Cornish dialect
in a measure, and only spoke in that way when he was associating with
the miners. He was fond of going into Penzance and mixing with the
gentlemen's servants there occasionally, from whom he picked up many a
slang expression, which he would retail to the frequenters of Mr.
Brown's bar, very much to their amusement. He was an awkward individual
to gain information from; so Morley was obliged to deal with him
accordingly, and put his questions with caution:--

(_Morley_) "I think I have seen you before, my boy?"

(_Boy_) "I shouldn't wonder if you had, sir; and, maybe, I've seed you
before."

(_Morley_) "You kept that mare like a picture;--I never saw a better
groom, either at home or abroad."

(_Boy--smiling_) "It wasn't much odds, as it turned out, sir."

(_Morley_) "No, no; but that doesn't alter the fact of your ability as
groom. Now, tell me--there's a good fellow--who gave you that letter."

(_Boy--still pleased_) "Why, Miss Reeney, to be sure."

(_Morley--excited_) "What! Alrina herself? Where did you see her?"

(_Boy--putting on his cunning look again_) "Where? why here, to be
sure."

(_Morley--more excited_) "Here! what, in this house?"

(_Boy_) "To be sure; why not? She called to me through the keyhole
upstairs, and shoved the letter out under the door, and told me to take
it as before. I couldn't ask her anything, for I heard Mrs. Cooper
coming upstairs."

(_Morley--rising up in bed in the greatest excitement_) "Oh! take me to
her!--or, stay, take a message to her at once; tell her I am----"

(_Boy_) "Stop, stop, sir; you must lend me a horse to do that."

(_Morley_) "I thought you said she was here, in this house."

(_Boy_) "So she was; but 'The Maister' took her off with him last
night."

(_Morley_) "Then that was Mr. Freeman who attended me; and Alrina has
been here all the time, and did not come near me! Oh! cruel, cruel! she
must be offended, indeed. Didn't she ask or try to come to see me?"

(_Boy_) "No, she didn't, sir, 'cause she didn't know you was here."

(_Morley_) "Not know it? strange!"

(_Boy_) "Nothing strange at all, sir, that I can see; I have seed
stranger things than that, a bra' deal. She was kept at the top of the
house, and you down here--under lock and key, both of 'ee; and last
night 'The Maister' took her off with him. Where they're gone, I can't
say,--I heard 'The Maister' tell Mrs. Cooper something about America."

(_Morley_) "America! do you think he intends to go there?"

(_Boy_) "I do no more know than you do, sir. F'rall I've b'en with 'The
Maister' so often, an' have seed a good many of his quips and quirks,
and helped in them too, I do no more know what he do main by what he do
say, than a cheeld unborn. He ha' got something upon his mind, that's a
sure thing."

The boy was beginning to throw off his reserve, as Morley thus
cautiously questioned him; but he saw that if he put his questions too
pointedly, the boy would "shut up" again; so he asked a few gossipping
questions about Mr. and Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Trenow, which took the boy
off his guard, and he went on talking. It seemed at last as if it were a
relief to him to talk of "The Maister," as he called Mr. Freeman, in
common with most people of the neighbourhood,--and, in relieving his
pent-up mind, he told, perhaps, more than he intended; but he seemed to
feel that Mr. Morley was a gentleman who wouldn't betray him, and so he
threw off his reserve and trusted him.

"You've heard of Chapel Carn Brea, I s'pose, sir?" asked the boy.

"Yes; I've been there," replied Morley; "it is one of the curiosities of
the neighbourhood. No doubt it was a handsome building at one time; and
those mounds near it are tombs, no doubt."

"You're right, sir," said the boy; "I've heard 'The Maister' tell
stories in Mr. Brown's bar, about that place, that would make your hair
stand on end, ef you b'lieved it all. The men he told it to, b'lieved
every word; and they wud no more go anist Chapel Carn Brea in the night,
than they wud clunk boiling lead. I've b'en there by night an' by day;
for I wor curious to find out somethen'."

"You were not likely to find anything there," said Morley,
carelessly--which threw the boy completely off his guard; and, being in
a communicative mood, he went on,--

"I saw something there one night, that made me feel uncommon queer, sure
nuf; and I b'lieve that 'The Maister' ha' got some notion that I do knaw
somethen'; for he slocked me up there for to try to frighten me more
than once. It was somethen' that I'm sure he must have put there inside
one of the walls, that went off like a clap of thunder, and frightened
the mare, that night when I was throwed; and I'm sure 'twas his doing,
for, when I came to myself, I was upon a bed in 'The Maister's' house,
and nobody but his sister knaw'd a word about et. He gave me some stuff,
and I soon got about agen. He went out the next morning, and Miss
Freeman kept me there under lock and key; and when he came home in the
afternoon, he told all about the mare, and how poor Mr. Brown was
sitting down 'pon a rock by hisself, fretting about it, and he sent me
up to bring him home."

"So you never saw anything more than that at Chapel Carn Brea, after
all?" said Morley, by way of bringing the boy back to the secret he
seemed about to tell,--for he saw, by his manner, there was something
more, and he was anxious to know all he could about this man, although
his thoughts were, even then, dwelling, with intense anxiety, on the
probable sufferings, both in body and mind, of his Alrina.

"Iss I have," cried the boy, eagerly; "but I never told it to a single
soul, from that time to this. Now, mind, you must promise that you'll
never tell." And, without waiting for the promise, he went on eagerly
with his tale. "When 'The Maister' came here to live first," resumed the
boy, "I was but a little chap."

"So I should suppose," said Morley, smiling, "even if you were in
existence, which I very much doubt,--for that must be fourteen or
fifteen years ago, according to the account of Mrs. Brown and Josiah
Trenow, and others of the neighbourhood; so I fancy you are about to
tell me a tale in imitation of your master."

"No, no," replied the boy; "you don't know what I'm going to tell, and
p'rhaps you won't. I'm older than I do look, I can tell 'ee. I'm no
cheeld, f'rall I do look like one to a stranger, I dare say."

"Well, how old are you?" said Morley; "for I confess I have been puzzled
several times as to your age. In stature you are but a very little boy;
but when I look into your face, and hear your shrewd remarks, I fancy
you may be almost any age."

"Well, sir," replied the boy, looking pleased at the gentleman's having
noticed him so much as to be puzzled about his age; "I'm above twenty,
but how much I don't exactly know."

"Billy!" cried a rough voice from below,--"Billy! I say. Where the devil
is that rapscallion?"

"There!" said the boy; "Cap'n Cooper is come back, and the old woman is
gone out, I s'pose. There'll be the devil to pay if I don't go down."
And away he ran, leaving Morley in a most unpleasant state of suspense;
for he had calculated on gaining a great deal of information from the
boy, both with regard to Mr. Freeman, and, what he was still more
concerned about, the probable movements and present abode of Alrina.

It was evident, from what the boy said, that he was a prisoner. He
wouldn't have minded the old woman and the boy so much; for he thought
he might be able to work upon their feelings, by bribes and fair words,
sufficiently to induce them to connive at his escape; and he speculated
in his mind, even while the boy was talking with him, that he might be
able to prevail on him to leave Mr. Freeman and follow him as groom and
valet, when he might be of the utmost assistance in many ways. But now
it seemed as if all his aerial castles were dissolving into the element
of which they were composed; for here was a more formidable jailor, if
he might judge by the rough voice and the commanding tone of the fresh
arrival. This was the master of the house, he had no doubt, from the
name;--Cooper was the old woman's name, he knew. These thoughts drove
him almost mad, and he lay back on his pillow and gave himself up to
despair. "Alrina!" cried he, in his agony; "I feel that all things are
working against us; but oh! Alrina, forgive your Frederick,--it was not
my fault. Alrina! Alrina!" And, after raving like a madman for some
minutes, he fell back exhausted.

In the meantime, the boy, locking the door behind him, as he passed out
of the room in which Morley lay, hastened downstairs to meet the master
of the establishment.

"Hallo!" exclaimed that gentleman, as he stood with his back to the
fire; "where's all the people?"

"How should I know?" replied the boy, in the same unceremonious
manner,--for he feared no one but "The Maister," and could be as
impertinent as the greatest blackguard in the parish when he chose to
be, for which he frequently got punished by those who didn't know him
well, and these he generally took some opportunity of retaliating upon,
so that no one gained much by punishing little Bill.

It was evident that the captain was out of sorts, and was inclined to
vent his spleen upon anybody or anything that happened to come in his
way.

"Confound your impudence," said he, advancing towards the boy, with his
uplifted fist ready to make a blow at him, when he got near enough;
"I'll knock you into the middle of next week, you young rascal!" And he
struck at the young offender with such force, that the boy would have
been seriously injured, had he not nimbly jumped on one side. The
impetus of the blow not being checked by coming in contact with the
boy's head, sent the man forward, and he was caught in the arms of his
loving wife, who entered at that moment, and they both fell headlong on
the floor together, at which the boy laughed and ran out of the room.

Nothing makes a person feel so awkward and foolish as when he measures
his length on the floor by an accidental fall; and Captain Cooper and
his better half felt quite ashamed of themselves, as they scrambled up
from their ignominious position. Fortunately there were no spectators;
for the boy had escaped, and was keeping out of sight for the present,
but not out of hearing. A little corner sufficed for a hiding-place for
him, and thus he frequently picked up a good many odd secrets, which he
repeated to "The Maister" when he was assisting him in any of his
necromancy, and obtained credit even from "The Maister" for shrewdness
beyond his years.

"Where's Freeman?" asked the man, opening a cupboard and taking out a
bottle of brandy and a glass to solace him after his fall.

"Gone," replied the woman, shaking herself to rights again; "he started
last night, and took Alrina with him."

"The devil he did!" exclaimed the man, drinking off a full glass of the
exhilarating liquor; "that's a queer game, when he promised to----"

"Don't you know that his promises can't always be kept?" said the
woman. "Circumstances alter cases. There's been a circumstance here."

"A what!" cried the man, in an angry tone; "why, you're getting so bad
as the boy, Jenny Cooper."

"Hush, Cap'n! I've got something to tell 'ee," replied his wife; and
seating herself on a low chair, opposite the fire, and blowing it up
lustily with the bellows at the same time, she related to her husband
the accident, and told him the young gentleman was still in bed
upstairs.

"Whew!" whistled the captain;--"then his game is up for a spur, and
t'other is out of the way and off the scent,--so no herring-pool, after
all; but where is the old man gone to?"

"I don't know," replied his wife; "but I shouldn't wonder if he's gone
down to the old place again, now the coast is clear. He'll be noted
again in St. Just, now that the breeze is blown over, and the scent is
in another quarter, as you do say it is."

"Right you are," rejoined the captain, looking more pleased than he had
looked yet since his return. "And now I'll tell you our bit of spree."
And he related to his wife the expedition to Ashley Hall, and how his
companion had left the girl with the lady, thinking to frighten her into
submission to their terms, and that, when she went back again the next
day, to see how the land lay, she found the little door in the lane
locked and barred on the inside, and when she applied for admission, at
the front entrance, she was told that Mrs. Courland could not see her.
"So she's in a fix," continued the man; "but she stayed behind, and
she'll blow the gaff, if they don't come to, soon. I should have stopped
too, but I thought my old friend might want to be off at once, and so I
came back to get all things right and straight for the trip."

"And you'd better get things right and straight now," said his wife;
"for he may be going off all the same, for what I do know."



CHAPTER XXV.

RETROSPECTION AND RECRIMINATION.


Mr. Morley wrote to Lieut. Fowler from Ashley Hall, saying that he had
found his brother and Josiah Trenow there, and that they had discovered
a house, which they had every reason to believe was the scene of the
murder. He informed his friend also that he and Josiah would remain
there a little longer, to make further search, but that Frederick had
gone down into Cornwall in search of a party who had slipped through
their hands, so far.

In consequence of this letter, Lieut. Fowler was in daily expectation of
seeing his friend Frederick Morley at Tol-pedn-Penwith. And the ladies
at Pendrea-house were in anxious expectation too; for, now that they
knew more of his history, which seemed so fraught with romantic
interest, he had become quite a hero in their eyes. Day after day
passed, but he did not arrive. The ladies were alarmed, and feared some
accident had befallen him; but Fowler ridiculed this idea, and
attributed his non-arrival to the strictness of the search he was no
doubt making. Who the party was that Frederick was in search of, Fowler
didn't know, for the finding of the box by Josiah had been kept a
secret. The search after Mr. Freeman was merely to get his help to
unravel the mystery of that document, which Josiah seemed to think, from
his manner, he knew something about, although it was most probable, as
Frederick suggested at first, that Mr. Freeman pretended to know more
than he really did, in order to induce Josiah to leave the box and its
contents with him. As a drowning man will catch at a straw, so did
Frederick catch at this little incident, improbable as he really thought
it, in the hope that it might assist him in his search, or that the
conjuror, by his skill, might be able to give him some clue to the
mystery. Fowler knew nothing of all this, nor did he know of his
friend's devoted, and, it may be added, romantic, attachment to the
daughter of the celebrated Land's-End conjuror. Had he known it, he
would, no doubt, have tried to convince his friend of the folly and
absurdity of such a connection. But love is blind; and it would probably
have required more eloquence than Lieut. Fowler possessed to have
persuaded Frederick Morley that the lovely and fascinating girl whom he
loved so passionately from the first moment he saw her, as a schoolgirl,
was unworthy of his affection, because her father did not move in the
first circles of society. Luckily Fowler was ignorant of this
attachment; and so his friend had been spared the annoyance of a
discussion with him on the subject. The old squire was as anxious as any
of them to see the young soldier once more. But he didn't come.

Miss Pendray's mind was ill at ease--that was evident to all who knew
her. She still wandered over the cliffs, and braved the storm; but it
was not now, as it used to be, for the sake of looking at the bold
scenery. Her wanderings had now a more definite object;--she hoped,
every time she climbed those lofty cliffs, that she should meet with
someone to share her admiration of the beautiful scenery. She had become
accustomed to those pleasant meetings with one of the opposite sex; and
she felt a vacuum--a loneliness--that she had never felt before. The
stranger whom she met at the ball, and who seemed so enamoured of her,
had disappeared in a most unaccountable manner. She was beginning to
like his attentions, although there was something in his manner,
sometimes, which did not please her;--she told him as much, the last
time she met him. Perhaps he was offended; for she had never seen him
since the sudden appearance of that handsome man, who had intruded upon
their privacy at the Logan Rock. It was a strange coincidence--those two
men, meeting in that strange way. She was much struck with the
appearance and gentlemanly manners of the gentleman with the white
hair;--she couldn't put him out of her mind for the whole day; and, the
next evening, when Lieut. Fowler brought him to Pendrea-house, after
their return from St. Just, she thought him the most fascinating man she
had ever seen. There was an open frankness and ease in his manner, which
were wanting in Mr. Smith. As she reflected now on the difference
between the two men, she felt that Mr. Smith's manners seemed put on for
the occasion, and that he required to be on his guard, and to be always
watching himself, as it were, to prevent some hidden vulgarity from
peeping out under his apparently assumed garb of refinement. It was not
so with Mr. Morley;--he was a gentleman intuitively, and, therefore, had
no occasion to watch himself lest he should say or do, inadvertently,
anything he would be ashamed of. Mr. Morley, too, was much struck with
Miss Pendray's beauty; but he did not tell her so, point blank, as Mr.
Smith had done on more than one occasion. He asked her to shew him some
of her favourite scenes on the cliffs, with which he expressed himself
highly delighted, and he pointed out beauties in the rocks and cliffs
and headlands, which she had not observed before, and described to her,
in glowing colours, some of the magnificent scenery he had himself
witnessed in the East. And so they continued, day after day, to walk
together--sometimes over the cliffs and sometimes on the smooth sands
beneath--admiring the beauties of Nature, almost with the same eyes and
the same thoughts. They seemed to have so many ideas in unison, and each
became so fascinated with the other, that when the time arrived that Mr.
Morley thought he must in duty visit his relatives, they parted, with
sorrowing hearts, although neither of them knew what a pang the other
felt at parting.

Miss Pendray had not been accustomed, in that out-of-the-way place, to
meet with men of that stamp;--she had never before come into contact
with a congenial spirit. Frederick Morley was better than most she had
been in the habit of meeting; but he would, occasionally, appear so
absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was, at times, scarcely
companionable. Mr. Smith was bold and clever, evidently, and as romantic
in his ideas and pursuits as she could possibly desire, and frequently
fascinated her with his thrilling stories; but there was something in
his manner sometimes that did not satisfy her; and his aversion to join
their domestic circle seemed most strange.

Mr. Morley was quite different, in every respect; and, now that she
wandered over the cliffs alone, day after day, she could reflect on the
difference between the three men. She had always looked down with pity
on her younger sister's susceptibility, and often upbraided her for
exhibiting, so unreservedly, her attachment to Lieut. Fowler, who was
not at all suited to her, either in age or position, Miss Pendray
thought.

The gentle Blanche could now turn the tables on her more prudent and
high-minded sister; for she saw that the handsome Mr. Morley had made a
conquest, and that the majestic Maud watched his every look and action,
and was pained, beyond measure, when, even in common politeness, he paid
the slightest attention to anyone else.

While Maud and Mr. Morley were thus revelling in each other's society,
over the bold cliffs and headlands, Blanche and her lover were taking
their quiet walks along the rocks and sands beneath, where they would,
ever and anon, stop and rest themselves, and look out on the broad ocean
which lay before them, talking of the future, and hoping that all might
turn out smoothly in the end; for, although Blanche quite understood
what her lover meant now, and returned his love with the fondest
affection, and wished to her heart that all could be settled at once,
yet she was still afraid for her father to be spoken to on the subject,
lest he should get angry, and forbid their intercourse altogether. Poor
silly child! her timid nature feared she knew not what; and the more her
lover urged her to allow him to ask her father's consent, the more did
she recoil from the ordeal, dreading what the answer might be. She knew
her sister's thoughts and opinions on the subject, and she feared her
father might hold the same opinion, for they were much alike in pride
and lofty bearing; and so her timid fear overcame her prudence, and she
held her lover back from doing that which he well knew and felt he ought
to do, in common honesty and honour. But he loved his darling Blanche
too well to thwart her; and so the two went on in tender communing, and
each day brought fresh arguments on either side--the one, in manly
uprightness, urging the appeal to the father for his sanction to their
union; the other, in timid maidenly reserve, dreading the answer her
stern parent might give, and controlling her fond lover, who felt he
could not disobey her.

"Only wait a little longer," she said, one day, as she sat listening to
his arguments, and looking up at him so earnestly;--"you don't know papa
so well as I do. In most things he is so kind; but I fear in this he
would not be so."

"Why do you think so, dearest Blanche?" he replied, taking her hand in
his; "he seems to like me, and is continually asking me to come to
Pendrea-house. What objection can he have? have you ever heard him say
he disliked me, or----"

"Oh! no! never," she replied; "but Maud and papa seem to hold the same
opinions on many points; and she has spoken to me often of the disparity
of age, and seemed so utterly against it, that I fear papa will think so
too."

"It shall be exactly as you wish," said he; "but I would much rather
know my fate at once, than wait in suspense;--what good end can it
answer to delay it?"

"Oh! don't talk in that way," replied Blanche, bursting into
tears;--"you know how much I should wish it settled, too; but then, if
papa should be angry, and refuse to give his consent, I should never see
you again. I cannot bear to think of that."

Poor little innocent timid Blanche! she knew not what troubles her
timidity was bringing on them both. It was her first love; and,
childlike, she thought only of her present pleasure. She felt like one
in a pleasant dream, gliding through the air on azure clouds, wafted
gently onwards by a zephyr's breeze, with her lover ever by her side to
protect her from harm; and she feared lest the slightest change in their
present position should cause an angry storm to rise, and overturn all
their blissful happiness. She did not know, poor girl, in her ignorance,
of the changes and chances that are continually going on in the world,
where the greatest pleasures and the severest pains and trials last but
for a season, and they are gone, and old Time keeps on the even tenor of
his way, and pains and pleasures live only in the memory, and fade away
as time rolls on, leaving, in the end, but a faint shadow of the past.

Blanche knew not this; and, anxious to secure present happiness, she
induced her lover, in the very innocence of her young heart, by tears
and entreaties, to delay his application to her father for a time, in
defiance of his better judgment; for he was older, and knew the world
much better than this poor innocent girl, but still he yielded, and they
loved on in secret.

While Maud was so engrossed with Mr. Morley, there was no one to watch
and overlook them; but when he was gone, it seemed to her as if all her
occupation was gone too,--she had nothing left but to wander out alone
and think of him whose image ever haunted her;--and, in her wanderings,
she often surprised Blanche and her attendant lover, in one of their
favourite haunts. And, wanting some better occupation, she would chide
her sister when they were alone together. At first, Blanche didn't mind
it much; but its frequent repetition angered her, and she spoke up
sharply to her sister, contrary to her wont, which made Maud speak her
mind more freely. And as they sat at work alone, one afternoon, she
renewed the old subject:--

"I must tell you, Blanche," she began, "that I think it is very wrong
in you to encourage Mr. Fowler to pay you such marked attention, when,
perhaps, he means nothing, after all."

"I will not allow anyone, in my presence, to impeach Mr. Fowler's
honour," replied Blanche, looking up from her work, her cheeks burning
with indignant pride; "I have the most perfect confidence in his
honourable intentions, and therefore I will not hear him traduced."

"There we differ," returned her elder sister, hastily; "and, let me tell
you that, were his intentions ever so honourable, papa would never
sanction the engagement of a daughter of his to Lieut. Fowler."

"And, pray, what would be the objection?" asked Blanche, indignantly.

"There are several," replied her sister; "I know papa's opinion of his
position pretty well, for I have already sounded him on it."

"And what right, let me ask, had you to sound papa on a subject which
you know nothing about?" asked Blanche;--"that subject has never been
named by Mr. Fowler, either to you or to papa, that I am aware of."

"Then it ought to have been," replied Maud, "and that would have settled
the matter at once. It is neither honourable nor manly in Mr. Fowler to
ensnare your affections, and wish you to meet him clandestinely, as I
fear and know you too often do. What his intentions are, I don't know;
but, if I may judge from this circumstance, they cannot be honourable,
and it is time papa took some measures to prevent it, before it is too
late."

"I am surprised, Maud," replied her sister, coolly, "that you, above all
others, should accuse me of doing the very thing that you have been
doing yourself for the last two months."

"Me!" exclaimed the majestic Maud; "how dare you say such a thing?"

"Yes, you!" replied Blanche. "If I have walked occasionally with papa's
old friend, Mr. Fowler, I have done so openly, and with him only,--while
you have had three strings to your bow, two of whom I know you met
clandestinely, often and often, my prudent sister. What has become of
the stranger you met at the ball, who called himself 'Mr. Smith?' did
you think your meetings with him were not known? And, having lost him,
you carried on the same game with Mr. Morley. Did either of these
gentlemen ask papa? If not, I say they ought to have done so, before
they induced you to meet them so often, clandestinely, at the Logan
Rock,--a nice secluded place for lovers to meet at, truly?"

The timid Blanche had never spoken so fearlessly and sharply to her
sister before, and Maud was perfectly astonished. She felt conscious,
all at once, that the tables were turned on her deservedly--for she had
an inward conviction of the truth of what her sister had said; but, like
most people whose minds are filled with one great and absorbing passion,
she neither saw nor knew that her actions were observed and commented on
by the lookers-on in the outer world. Although she looked upon the world
in general with cold indifference, and would sit for hours as inanimate
as a statue, her handsome features looking, in repose, like a piece of
beautifully-chiselled, tinted, marble; yet, when anyone approached in
whom she took a more than ordinary interest, or any subject was
introduced which it pleased her to discuss, her countenance would light
up instantaneously, and you might see the fire of her soul shine out
with dazzling brilliancy, in her dark flashing eyes. Nothing, then,
could control the ungovernable passion that dwelt within; and the longer
it had lain dormant, the stronger would it now burst forth, seeing
nothing but that one object on which her mind was then intent. With such
an all-absorbing passion had she, during the last few days of his
sojourn among them, loved Mr. Morley. At first she was passive;--she
walked with him, and pointed out the beauties of the scenery, and
listened to his description of the scenes he had passed through in
India, with pleasure, certainly, but not with the rapture she now felt
in all he said or did. She liked him, at first, as a highly-gifted
gentlemanly companion,--when, all at once, she was seized with that
ungovernable love for him, which prevented her from seeing anything
else; nor did she care, in her mad passion, if the whole world was
looking on,--she was blind to all but him. She, like Blanche, thought
but of her present happiness, but, unlike Blanche, she thought not of
her father's consent nor dissent; and so she was taken quite by
surprise, when she found that all her doings had been seen and commented
upon. She had been like a little playful child, who covers its head, and
thinks, poor little innocent, that, because it cannot see the company
around, it cannot be seen by them. Maud was shocked at the discovery. It
roused another passion within her--that of anger; and, rising from her
seat, with a haughty frown, she swept from the room, and left her poor
timid sister trembling and frightened, wondering what she had said or
done to cause such a terrible commotion within her sister's breast.



CHAPTER XXVI.

SQUIRE PENDRAY GETS ON HIS STILTS, AND VIEWS LIEUT. FOWLER FROM A LOFTY
EMINENCE.


When Lieut. Fowler called at Pendrea-house the next morning, to take
Blanche out, as he had promised, to finish a sketch she was making of a
scene near the Logan Rock, he was met at the door by the old squire
himself, who, bowing stiffly asked his visitor to grant him a few
minutes' conversation in the library.

"This is an odd reception," thought Fowler; "the old gentleman is up on
his stilts this morning." But, however, as he knew the squire was very
uncertain in his temper, he followed him in silence; and, when they had
entered the room, the squire requested him to be seated, and, after a
moment's pause, in which he seemed to be considering how he should
begin, he said, rather abruptly,--

"I have not deserved this at your hands, Lieut. Fowler."

"What, sir?" said Fowler, in the greatest surprise.

"When you came into this district," continued the squire, without
noticing Fowler's remark, "I invited you to my house; and my family and
myself have tried to make it as agreeable as we could to you, as you
seemed lonely up there by yourself; and the return I have had for all my
kindness, has been your undermining the innocent simplicity of my
youngest daughter, and, in an underhand and clandestine manner, gaining
the affections of an unsophisticated, simple girl, and inducing her to
meet you in bye-places unknown to her family."

"My dear sir!" exclaimed Fowler, scarcely knowing what he said--he was
so taken by surprise; "I protest----"

"It is of no use your denying it," continued the squire; "for I am in
possession of the fact that you have destroyed my child's peace of mind,
without ascertaining whether your attentions would be agreeable to me or
not."

"I acknowledge that I love your daughter, squire Pendray," replied
Fowler; "but I hold her and all your family in too high respect to do
anything underhand or clandestinely, to gain her affections; and I tell
you, sir," he continued, rising with calm dignity, "I have not done so;
and, if you had not been Blanche's father, I would not submit quietly to
be taunted in this way. I should have communicated my feelings to you
long ago, but----"

"But what, sir!" exclaimed the squire, rising from his seat also.

"But for a timid feeling which Blanche possesses," replied Fowler,
"that----"

"Whatever fears Blanche might have had, sir, they ought not to have
prevented you from acting as an honourable man and a gentleman. You are
many years older than my daughter, Lieut. Fowler, and ought not to have
led her away thus. It is well, perhaps, that the discovery has been made
before it was too late. You have taken advantage of my hospitality, sir,
and I desire you will not enter my doors again; and whatever there may
have been between you and my daughter, it must cease. Sir, I wish you a
very good morning." And, bowing to his visitor, the crusty old gentleman
opened another door, which led to the upper part of the house, leaving
Lieut. Fowler standing in the middle of the room, and wondering what
could be the meaning of all this, and who could have informed the squire
of his attachment to his daughter, and of their meetings. He was
conscious of the rectitude and earnestness of his intentions, and knew,
of course, that he had been prevented from making them known to her
father, only by the earnest intreaty of Blanche herself. But he could
not compromise her--indeed he had not an opportunity of doing so, even
if he wished; for, before he had time to reply, or to defend himself,
the old gentleman was gone, and there was no one to receive his
explanation. At first he thought that, perhaps, Blanche might have been
questioned by her father, and had been induced to confess their
attachment and their frequent meetings, without having had the courage
or the opportunity to explain the reason.

He could not remain in the house, of course, nor could he call again,
after what had taken place; but he thought he should like to hear from
Blanche herself how far she was implicated (unintentionally, he was
quite sure) in divulging their secret, and thus causing his dismissal
from a house which he had visited with so much pleasure ever since he
had been in Cornwall. He determined, therefore, that he would see
Blanche, if possible, before he left. So he rang the bell. The servant
who answered it said, in reply to his request to see Miss Blanche for a
moment, that she was confined to her room with a headache, and could not
see him; so he had no alternative but to leave the house.

How little do we know what a day may bring forth! As he walked away from
that house where he had been accustomed to be received almost as one of
the family for a period of four or five years, Lieut. Fowler began to
reflect on the changes and vicissitudes of human life, and how easily
the merest trifle, light as air, will sometimes turn the scale. From his
first introduction to squire Pendray, to the present time, they had
been, as it were, boon companions; for the squire, although an old man,
was a jolly companion over his wine, and would frequently, even then, at
his advanced age, take his gun and have a day's sport with his friend,
and keep up with him too, to the end of the day without flagging, and
would enjoy the bachelors' dinner, and a glass of grog afterwards, at
the lieutenant's little cabin, where the dinner was cooked by a jolly
tar, and served up in sailor fashion, as much as if the table was
spread with the daintiest dishes, and everything was done in the first
style of fashion. And, only two days before, when Fowler dined at
Pendrea-house, he thought, as they sat at their wine after dinner, that
it was impossible his old friend could refuse him his daughter's hand,
if he could only be permitted by her to ask the question; for he had
been always treated more like a brother by the young ladies, than like a
stranger. And now, without even allowing him an opportunity of
explaining his conduct, or of exculpating himself from the insinuations
thrown out against his character as a man of honour and a gentleman, he
is unceremoniously expelled from the house, and forbidden all further
intercourse with her for whom he would willingly lay down his life.

That some secret enemy had been at work, he had not the slightest doubt;
but who it could be, he could not imagine. He was not, therefore, in a
very serene state of mind, when he arrived home, as his men soon
discovered. He ordered them out on night duty, and said he should
himself take a long round and inspect all the outposts during the night.

Blanche had not heard of her lover's having been at the house. She was
not very well, but a walk in the fresh air would have done her good, and
she sat in her room expecting to be informed by her maid, as she had
directed, when Lieut. Fowler called; but none of the female servants saw
him come in, and they did not know he was in the house; for he had been
admitted, as will be remembered, by squire Pendray himself, who,
anticipating that Lieut. Fowler would probably try to see his daughter
before he left the house, desired the footman to say that Miss Blanche
could not be seen; and so the servant was prepared with his answer
before the question was asked. Hour after hour passed away, and still
Blanche waited in anxious expectation, but he did not come--as she
supposed; and at length she went down into the drawing-room to join her
mother and sister.

Maud had done her work cleverly and successfully, and she was satisfied
with herself;--she had avenged the unpleasant insinuations and
reflections cast upon her by her younger sister; and she had prevented
her, she believed, from being ensnared into a connection which was not
deemed eligible in any way for a daughter of the house of Pendray.

Nothing was said by either of the ladies about Lieut. Fowler; and so
Blanche remained in ignorance of his visit and its termination. Day
after day passed away, but Lieut. Fowler did not make his appearance,
and Blanche became alarmed. She walked out occasionally with the hope of
meeting him at one of their favourite haunts, but he did not come. Maud
would now accompany her sister, which was very unusual, their pursuits
and ideas being so widely different. Blanche could not understand it;
and, after their late conversation, she did not like to mention the
name of Fowler to her sister, and so they went on--each having a secret
and reserving it in her own breast, fearing, and yet wishing, to talk to
each other with that confidence which should have existed between two
sisters, who had scarcely ever been separated in their lives.

Blanche, at length, began to feel unhappy and uncomfortable. She
declined going out when her sister asked her, and would sit in her own
room, with her door locked, all day long, and never join the family,
except at meal-times, when she shewed evident signs of mental distress.
The tears would sometimes chase each other gently down her cheeks, as
she sat pretending to eat--for it was a mere pretence;--she had no
appetite, and merely came to the table because she was obliged to do so,
to prevent being questioned. She feared he was ill, but she dared not
ask; and thus, poor timid child, "she let concealment, like a worm i'
the bud, feed on her damask cheek," and pined away in lonely sadness.

Squire Pendray and his eldest daughter divined the cause of Blanche's
melancholy; but, instead of commiserating and consoling her, they
privately denounced Lieut. Fowler as the cause of it all. And, the more
Blanche gave way to her secret grief, and pined for the loss of him
whose presence seemed almost necessary to her existence, the more did
they censure and reproach their former friend.

The only comforter--if such it might be deemed--whom Blanche had, was
Mrs. Pendray, her kind indulgent mother. She, poor lady, knew nothing of
the love affair, and attributed her darling daughter's illness to
another cause, and overwhelmed the sufferer with well-meant attentions,
and loaded her with dainties of all sorts--none of which could Blanche
touch.

The old squire was concerned to see his little pet pining away, and
refusing all nourishment; but his pride would not permit him to yield in
any one particular.

Miss Pendray, too, had her moments of secret anxiety; for Mr. Morley had
not written to anyone, as far as she knew, since his first letter to
Lieut. Fowler, and he had now been gone a fortnight. Lieut. Fowler might
have heard, perhaps, but she had been the means of precluding the
possibility of knowing; for it was in consequence of her tale-bearing to
her father that he had been forbidden the house. She did not, perhaps,
calculate on the mischief she was doing, when her pride and her
ungovernable passion prompted her to betray her sister.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE STEP IN THE WRONG DIRECTION.


It was a curious fact that everyone who spoke of Mr. Freeman, wound up
their description of him by saying that he had something on his
mind;--but what that something was, or by what means they had
ascertained the fact, or why they had come to that conclusion, they
could not tell. There was, certainly, some mystery about him, inasmuch
as he kept a good deal to himself, and generally appeared thoughtful and
taciturn. He had come to St. Just from some distant part of England,
many years before, and had bought the house in which he resided, and
lived there alone for some time. Then Miss Freeman came. He called her
his sister;--some said she was his wife; but, as neither of them cared
much what was said about them, gossips got tired at last, and allowed
them to be what they were--brother and sister.

Years rolled on; and Mr. and Miss Freeman continued to reside at St.
Just, and to mix occasionally with the people, but no one seemed really
to know them a bit better than they did at first. Their motto seemed to
be, "to hear, see, and be silent."

One hot summer, an epidemic broke out in the parish. There was no doctor
nearer at that time than Penzance. It was too expensive for the poor to
send for him at such a distance, and many of them died for want of
medical assistance.

Mr. Freeman did not, at first, take much notice of it,--he kept aloof.
At length, a boy who went errands for him, and did other jobs, caught
the infection. Mr. Freeman went to see him, and gave him some medicine
which cured him. This got abroad, and Mr. Freeman was sought after, and
he cured many others.

When the epidemic among the human beings was over, there came one among
the cattle and pigs. It was rumoured that the evil eye was upon them,
and that they were ill-wished. Mr. Freeman was applied to again. He had
been reading the minds of the people, and getting at their secrets while
he was attending them. And, storing up in his memory the petty strifes
and bickerings among them, he could tell pretty nearly how they were
affected towards each other; and the little boy he had cured of the
fever, and who was now his factotum, assisted him; so that, by a few
lucky cures of their cattle, and a very slight hint at someone with whom
the ill-wished party was at variance, the ill-wisher was sufficiently
indicated to procure "The Maister"--as he was now beginning to be
designated--a brilliant reputation, which he profited by considerably;
and the people feared him and honoured him, for his wonderful knowledge
and ability;--but, notwithstanding all his skill, everyone thought that
"The Maister" had something upon his mind. The brother and sister were
an odd pair,--no one could understand them,--and so they ceased to be
much talked about after a time. Their movements were very uncertain.
They would lock up the house and go away, and stay away for weeks,
sometimes. Some of their neighbours wished they would stay away
altogether; but they would not venture to say so, even to themselves;
for they believed that "The Maister" could read their very thoughts
almost.

Years rolled on; and one day, Miss Freeman, having been absent longer
than usual, brought home a beautiful young lady with her. Here was food
for another gossip. Who was she? She was not like Miss Freeman, nor was
she much like "The Maister;" but they were told she was his daughter. He
had been left a widower when Alrina was very young, Miss Freeman said,
and so she had been at school ever since, agreeably to her mother's
dying request. Gossip wore itself out in this instance also; and Alrina
was allowed to settle down as Mr. Freeman's daughter,--indeed, there was
no one to dispute it; why should they?

The idle gossip of a country village may suggest and insinuate many
things; but the proof is generally wanting when they come to the test.
Miss Freeman went to fetch the young lady, certainly;--and why not?
Gossip was at fault, and Alrina resided quietly with her father and
aunt.

Whether Mr. Freeman intended to prevent his daughter from having any
intercourse at all with young men of about her own age, or whether he
had any objection to Frederick Morley individually, certain it is, that,
as soon as he discovered their meetings, he contrived to confine his
daughter to the house, by giving her some powerful narcotic. And,
leaving her in the care of his sister, he went to Portagnes, to make
arrangements for their removal to the house of Capt. Cooper, which was
more calculated for seclusion and confinement than his own.

The two men were well suited to each other, and played a good game.
Capt. Cooper was bold, rough, and daring, and was the captain of a nice
little vessel in which Mr. Freeman held a large share. And in this he
would go across the water for contraband goods, and Mr. Freeman assisted
him in disposing of them in some of the large towns where he had
friends;--and many a daring adventure had Capt. Cooper been engaged in,
and many a clever run had he made, and evaded the officers of the
customs, and effected landings almost under their very eyes. His house
was a very large one; and underneath, there were commodious cellars,
which were of great use in concealing the contraband goods.

Why Frederick Morley's appearance at the Land's-End had made these men
so uneasy, it is difficult to say. He was a soldier, and was on intimate
terms of friendship with Lieut. Fowler, the avowed enemy of smuggling;
and, if allowed to meet Alrina as a lover, secrets might be told which
she could not help knowing, they thought. This was one reason, perhaps,
why they wished to get rid of him. But they hadn't succeeded yet. Mr.
Freeman tried the ride on the mare to the Land's-End point, but the
rider was preserved. Now he was completely in their power, but they were
puzzled what to do with him. Alrina had been removed out of his way
again, and the secret of his being there had been kept from her, but the
boy knew it. He was the first who discovered him, when he was lying
insensible under the garden wall. The boy was useful to them, but they
feared him; for he knew too much, and, with all their shrewdness, they
could not fathom him. He might betray them any day. He knew enough of
their secrets; and, although he knew nothing criminal against them, he
was a check upon them,--otherwise Cooper would not have hesitated to get
rid of their troublesome visitor very quickly. Mr. Freeman, too, might
have got rid of him by allowing him to perish when they found him
outside the garden wall, wounded; but both the woman and the boy would
have procured medical aid, if he had not used his utmost skill in
restoring him,--and this would not have suited Mr. Freeman at all just
at that time and in that place; so he used his utmost skill, and cured
him, and there he lay a prisoner still.

That unfortunate girl, before mentioned, had been a source of profit to
them all, notwithstanding her infirmity. Cooper and his wife had had her
in their keeping from her infancy. The neighbours thought she was their
own child; but they always called her their niece, and the poor girl was
pitied for her dreadful calamity, and for the unkindness with which most
people knew she was treated.

At stated periods, Miss Freeman would go to Ashley Hall, or wherever
Mrs. Courland happened to be, and work upon her fears, as she best knew
how; for Miss Freeman was a shrewd and cunning woman, and the best
suited of the party for an expedition of this kind. And the dread of her
husband's knowing her secret, generally induced Mrs. Courland to comply
with the exorbitant demands made upon her. She had been applied to for a
large sum, but without effect, for she candidly told them that she had
not the money. This did not satisfy them. They wanted a large sum for a
particular purpose, and they might not be able to come again for some
time. They did not believe Mrs. Courland's statement, that she had not
the money; and, in order to terrify her into compliance, the girl was
brought and left on her hands, as we have seen.

A tender chord was struck in the heart of Mrs. Courland by that look of
penitence and sorrow which the poor afflicted girl put on, when she
found that she had injured one who bore the pain without resentment.
When the poor girl dropped on her knees, and gave vent, to her feelings
by a gush of tears, the lady yearned towards her, and, looking at her
with compassion, she said, "Yes, it may be so;"--and, from that moment,
she made up her mind to keep the poor creature with her, and teach her
all she was capable of learning. She would, by this, be preserving the
girl from the ill-treatment which she saw by her countenance and manner
whilst the woman was in the room she had evidently been subject to, and
she would also, by this act, save herself from the continual annoyance
of this woman's visits and importunity. She might keep this poor girl as
a dependant, and account for her presence there, by saying that she came
into the garden through the little private door from the lane, and fell
on her knees in a supplicating attitude, which she (Mrs. Courland)
understood to mean, "Take care of me,"--and she had taken care of her,
out of compassion. This was, in fact, true, as far as it went; and of
course the girl herself could not betray her. So, instead of concealing
the girl in the little inner room, as she had intended, she sent for her
niece and told her the tale.

It seemed so romantic, that Miss Morley was delighted, and amused
herself by trying to talk to the girl by signs, which she soon found she
understood with remarkable quickness; for, in all but the power of
speech and hearing, she was shrewd and intelligent. This was a new
occupation for Mrs. Courland; it opened out a new life to her; it
relieved her mind from the anxieties which had almost overwhelmed her
before.

Her husband might come now,--she was not afraid of the tales of her
persecutors. She knew the worst, and was no longer harassed by suspense.
She could tell him as much or as little as she pleased,--her silent
protége could not enlighten him further; and the people she so much
dreaded before, she would not admit to her presence again.

A suitable wardrobe was procured for the delighted girl; and Julia,
assisted by Mrs. Courland's own attendant, succeeded in making her look
quite presentable in a short time. They were very much amused at her
utter astonishment, when she looked at herself in the glass, after they
had dressed her and arranged her hair, according to the "mode,"--she
could not make it out at all. She looked into the glass and smiled, as
if pleased with the change, and then looked round, as if trying to find
her former self. They then proceeded to teach her how to conduct herself
in keeping with her dress, especially in the etiquette of eating and
drinking among well-bred people; and it was astonishing, how soon she
learned all they wished to teach her. The next puzzle was to find a name
for her; and, as she seemed remarkably fond of flowers, they called her
"Flora;"--not that it made any difference to her, poor girl, whether she
had a name or not; but it enabled her kind friends to designate her the
better when speaking of her.

Mr. Morley and Josiah, in the meantime, had effected an entrance into
the deserted house, through the window in the end, which entered into
the bedroom on the ground floor. One glance sufficed to convince Mr.
Morley that this was the house,--he had heard it described so often by
his father. There were dark marks on the floor still, and the bed was
blood-stained, although time had softened it down into a faint tinge
only.

That bed appeared never to have been touched since that fatal night,
except to remove the dead body of the murdered man from it; and the
other rooms also seemed as if they had been lately occupied, except that
everything was covered with dust and cobwebs, and the rats and mice had
made sad inroads into the bed-curtains and everything that they could
convert into food, or make an impression on with their sharp teeth. An
old rat came out of one of the bedrooms to meet them as they mounted the
stairs, and seemed astonished and indignant at the intrusion; but when
he saw that the intruders were not to be daunted by looks of defiance,
he turned and scampered back again to his old quarters between the
blankets. The beds had remained as they were when the fugitives left;
and on turning down the covering of the bed to which the rat had
directed its course, Josiah discovered a nest of young rats comfortably
settled. They soon scampered off, however, and, in their retreat, roused
others; and there was a precious noise through the house, as the inmates
rattled downstairs. No wonder that the house had the name of being
haunted. These noises had been heard before, no doubt, when some daring
thief had attempted to get in to rob it; and their superstitious fears
preserved the house and its contents from invasion. It was very easy to
account for the last occupiers having left all things as they were; for
they were, no doubt, glad to get away as soon as possible, after they
had thrown the scent off from themselves by accusing another; and Mr.
Morley's money, which they must have taken with them, was amply
sufficient to compensate them for the loss of the house and furniture,
and to provide them with all they would require for a very long time.

The rooms were all in the same state. Some of the drawers and cupboards
were partially open, while others were locked, but the keys had been
left in them. Everything betokened a hasty flight. In some of the
drawers were found a few articles of clothing, both male and female; but
these were moth-eaten and discoloured. There were no papers of any kind
to serve as a clue to the discovery of the parties.

In searching one of the drawers in what appeared to have been the
bedroom of a female, Josiah found a gold earring, of a peculiar pattern,
with a small diamond in the drop end of it. This he put into his pocket,
with the intention of giving it to the dumb girl, to amuse her; for all
the household, at Ashley Hall, had already begun to take an interest in
her, and she was getting quite at home with them, and familiar with
every part of the house, and she could now make herself understood,
without much difficulty. Mr. Morley thought it was very strange that
such a valuable ornament should be found in such a house. Those
earrings, however, might have been a present from some rich lady for
services performed. The other earring might have been lost; or this may
have been a stray one, taken in a hurry, among other trinkets, which the
owners of that house might have appropriated to themselves from time to
time, when they found an opportunity; for it was evident, from the
circumstances that had occurred in connection with that murder, that
plunder was their principal object.

When Josiah gave Flora the ornament in the evening, she looked at it at
first with pleasure, and thanked the donor in her way. She then took it
into another part of the room, and examined it more minutely, and
admired every part of it. At last she gave a start, and her countenance
became overclouded with an expression of terror and pain. This was in
the servants' hall. And, running up to Josiah, she became quite
outrageous, pointing to the ornament as if in anger; and then, making a
sign, as if she thought it had come from a long way off, she threw it on
the floor, and would have stamped on it, had not Josiah snatched it up.
They could not at all understand what she meant. Josiah was about to put
the earring into his pocket again, when she snatched it out of his hand,
and ran out of the room. Nothing more was heard or seen of the ornament;
and so they supposed she had thrown it away or destroyed it.

Mr. Morley was now beginning to feel uneasy about his brother; for he
had heard from his friend Fowler twice, and in both letters he said he
had seen nothing of Frederick. So Mr. Morley determined to return to
Cornwall again without delay.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

BY DOING A LITTLE WRONG, A GREAT GOOD IS ACCOMPLISHED IN THE END.


Frederick Morley's state of mind can better be imagined than described,
at finding himself a prisoner in the house which he intended to have
entered as the bold deliverer of his beloved Alrina, who was, perhaps,
by this time on her voyage to America. The boy continued to attend upon
him, and he was beginning, Morley thought, to take an interest in him,
and to pity his position; for Frederick, who was now getting strong
again, had proposed taking him into his service,--at which he seemed
pleased, although he did not say whether he would accept the offer or
not. Cunning boy! he knew very well that he was watched closely by
Cooper and his wife.

"What the devil were you and that chap whispering about?" said Cooper to
the boy, one day, when the latter came down from attending on the
invalid.

"If your ears had been long enough you would have heard," replied the
boy, in his usual saucy way.

"Come, none of that!" said the man. "I wish 'The Maister' would come and
take him off, or give the orders what to do with him; for I don't like
this shill-i-shall-i game."

"Nor I," said the boy; "I'm tired too with this work. I'd rather be out
than here tending 'pon the sick, like a maid. I tell 'ee what I'd do, ef
I wor you, Cap'n,--I'd give'n the run of the cellars."

"What's the good of that, you fool?" replied Cooper, looking as if a
bright thought had struck him all at once.

"Why, I'll tell 'ee," said the boy, coming closer to the man, and
whispering in his ear,--"he'd be starved to death, or else he'd run his
head agen the walls and batter his brains out."

"You young rascal!" exclaimed Cooper, looking at the same time more
pleased than he intended to look; "you don't think I'd treat the young
fellow like that, do 'ee? He never did any harm to me. If 'The Maister'
ha' got a mind to do it, he may, but I sha'n't."

"You're turned chickenhearted all at once," said the boy. "I tell
'ee,--I don't like to be shut in here all day, when a turn of the key in
the cellar-door would settle it all, and give me my liberty once more;
and I tell 'ee, Cap'n, ef you don't like to do et, give me the key of
the cellar, and I'll put 'n in there this very night, and nobody will be
the wiser."

This was what Capt. Cooper would like to have done days ago; but he
feared a betrayal on the part of the boy; but now that the young rascal,
who was the acknowledged protége of Mr. Freeman, had proposed it
himself, he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity, and his
friend would thank him when it was all over, and he should be very glad
himself to get rid of an enemy so formidable. These were his thoughts
and reflections. Why he made them, or what reason either of them had for
their antipathy to this young man, did not appear. That they had this
antipathy was very evident,--and that their wish to get rid of him was
about to be accomplished, was now vividly apparent to the mind of Capt.
Cooper without the possibility of any blame being attached to him. He
had sufficient control over his feelings, however, to prevent his
showing the real pleasure it gave him, to the boy; but he stipulated
that, to prevent an escape, he should himself be present to unlock the
door, and put the prisoner into this safe stronghold.

The boy then went back to the prisoner, and told him that Capt. Cooper
had granted permission for him to take a little exercise on the beach
that evening; at which Morley was much pleased, for he felt almost
suffocated, shut up in a close room for so long a time. Anywhere, he
thought, was better than that. So, when the boy came in the evening to
let him out, he almost leaped with joy. At the bottom of the stairs they
were joined by Cooper, and the three went down another flight of steps,
which seemed to Morley dark and dismal. The boy whispered to him that he
would soon be in the open air, but that it was necessary they should
reach it by a circuitous route. The man also spoke kindly to him; and
down they went, till they came to a door, which the man unlocked,--and,
in his eagerness to secure his prey, he gave his prisoner a push, which
sent him headlong down another flight of steps.

The sudden fall stunned Morley for a few minutes; but he soon recovered
himself, and, on looking round, he found that he was in what seemed to
him to be a dark dungeon. This was worse than all. The boy had betrayed
him! This he was now convinced of, and he should be left there in that
dark cold dungeon to perish. He groped his way round the place as well
as he could, and felt that the walls were damp. He stumbled over some
casks and boxes, as he went cautiously along; and by degrees, as his
eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could see that he was in an
underground cellar, not very large nor very high; but in going round by
the wall, he found that this small cellar communicated with a large one,
which he groped his way into, through a small archway. Here he sank down
on the floor from sheer exhaustion, and began to reflect on his
situation.

Everything seemed going against him. It was evident, from the way in
which the man had pushed him down the stairs, that he was anxious to get
rid of him, and would perhaps resort to some speedy way of doing so; and
he feared and believed the boy was in league with him. Why Mr. Freeman
should have taken such a dislike to him he could not imagine, for he had
never seen him that he was aware of. Altogether, it was a mystery which
he could not understand; so he gave himself up to despair, and made up
his mind that he would never be permitted to leave that place again.
Whether his death would be a lingering one of starvation, or whether it
would be a quick one by assassination, he could not of course tell;--he
almost wished it might be the latter, for the suspense was dreadful.

Hour after hour passed away, and there he sat brooding over his unhappy
fate, but no one came to end his woes. Night came on,--he could feel it
although he could not see it, for all was cold and dark and dreary
around him. The damp was coming out from the walls, and he felt a chill
pass through his frame; for he was still weak from his late illness.
Exhausted nature was giving way, and sleep was falling on him. He tried
to keep awake; for he feared that if he slept in that place he should
never wake again. He got up and tried to rouse himself and keep awake by
walking to and fro, but it was of no use. His thoughts were terrible. It
was better to suffer death than continue in that state of awful
suspense. He sat down at last on an empty box, and yielded to that
oblivion which soothes and invigorates the frame, while it relieves the
mind from harrowing and disagreeable thoughts and feelings.



CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. BROWN AND MRS. TRENOW INDULGE IN A CROOM O' CHAT. WHILE CAP'N
TRENOW GIVES SOME SAGE ADVICE IN ANOTHER QUARTER.


The gossips of St. Just were spared the necessity of inventing idle
tales to keep conversation alive,--a practice so prevalent in small
communities, where the events that happen in everyday life are generally
so uninteresting and monotonous. Events had happened within the last few
months which gave ample scope to the most inveterate and accomplished
gossip for exercising the art of conversation to the fullest extent, and
yet be most truthful; although they still had the power of embellishing
the facts according to their own lively fancy and vivid imagination.
They could talk of "The Maister" now with the utmost freedom; for he was
no longer in the neighbourhood to pry into their secrets, and read their
thoughts, and ill-wish them for talking of him and his doings. And, as a
reservoir of water that has broken through the embankment, after having
been pent up till it was full almost to overflowing, rushes with greater
force on its first outburst,--or the pent-up steam in a mighty engine
when suddenly let loose,--so did the long-restrained tongues of the
gossips of St. Just now pour out, to their hearts' content, their secret
spleen and antipathy to their dangerous and dreaded neighbour, Mr.
Freeman. There was not a house in which some scandal was not going on
continually;--and this was not confined to the women, the men being
equally intent on "giving the devil his due," as they termed it.

Business was brisk at the "Commercial" Inn. The afternoons were
generally devoted to a gossip over a dish of tea and a drop of
"comfort," between Mrs. Brown and a few of her intimate female friends,
after which the kitchen was occupied until a late hour by the men, who
would drink a double quantity of beer if anyone could be found to amuse
them by relating some fresh tale.

The chair in which Mr. Freeman had been accustomed to sit in the
chimney-corner, was generally left unoccupied by a seeming tacit
consent, the better to enable the speaker for the time being to
designate the person of whom he was speaking, without mentioning any
name, by simply nodding his head towards the vacant chair;--for they
were, even now, afraid that "The Maister" might be listening to them in
secret.

Of all her female acquaintances, Mrs. Brown preferred Mrs. Trenow for a
quiet gossip, because, living very near "The Maister's" house, and
having been on intimate terms of friendship with both Alrina and Alice
Ann, she could impart as well as receive information.

The whole neighbourhood was teeming with news. Events of the most
thrilling interest were happening every hour--and, being told and retold
from house to house, they lost nothing in their transit--when, one
afternoon, Mrs. Trenow paid her accustomed visit to her old friend Mrs.
Brown, whom she fortunately found alone, with the exception of her
husband, who was sitting in the chimney-corner, thinking of nothing, and
whistling for want of thought.

As she entered, Mrs. Trenow closed the door after her, and looked round
the room in a mysterious manner, much to Mrs. Brown's surprise,--for
they had lately fallen into the habit of discussing their subject rather
more openly, in the conscious security of the absence of the evil-eye.

"Arrah, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, smiling; "the Franch are landed
sure nuf now, then, I s'pose. Ef so, we'll put up a red coat to John
Brown, and stick 'n out afore the door to frighten them away."

"I don't knaw nothen' 'bout the Franch, not I," replied Mrs. Trenow,
drawing her chair as close to the landlady as she could, and bringing
her face almost close to the ear of her friend; "but he's come back,
cheeld vean!"

"Who's come back?" asked Mrs. Brown,--in a tone, however, which seemed
to require no answer.

"I wor setten' up brave an' late, doen a bit of menden'," continued Mrs.
Trenow,--"for, what with one body an' another comin' in chatting, I
haan't done much by day lately--when I heard footsteps outside, and a
woman's voice, complaining of a long walk, and how glad she was to get
home once more. So, after they were gone by, I opened the door an'
looked out, an' there I seed a man an' a woman. It was bright moonlight,
you knaw,--an' who shud they be, but 'The Maister' and Miss Reeney. I
cud see them so plain as I can see you now, as they went in through the
little gate. Alice Ann was sent for again to-day, an' there they are.
Where Miss Freeman es I caan't tell. They came back in a vessel, the
maid said, an' wor out a bra' while. Where they've b'en to she cudn't
tell, nor Miss Reeney neither, I b'lieve, for she wor kept fine an'
close; but I shall knaw more another time,--Alice Ann cudn't stop more
than a minute."

"Well, I'm glad they're come back, for one thing," said Mrs. Brown--"an'
that's for the sake of Miss Reeney, poor young lady; I b'lieve she's
dragged about more than she do like."

"Iss fie!" replied Mrs. Trenow, whispering into Mrs. Brown's ear again;
"she's grieving about that young chap, so Alice Ann do say. She wor took
away in the night, you knaw, an' never so much as wished 'n well; an'
now she don't knaw where aw es, f'rall she ha' sent two letters to un;
and she do b'lieve he's dead, for she haan't had a single line from him,
evar sence he have b'en gone. An' our 'Siah said that he wor mad after
har; an' ef he's alive he wud ha' found har somehow,--that's my b'lief."

"Well, all I can say es," chimed in Mrs. Brown, "that I'm sorry for them
both. I took a mighty fancy to that young man. 'Tes whisht; but I caan't
think that he's dead at all. But what's become of 'Siah?"

"Here!" exclaimed that individual, in a stentorian voice, which made the
two friends jump from their seats, as he stalked into the room. "Why, I
might ha' walked off weth your poor dear husband, Mrs. Brown, and you
wud nevar ha' know'd et; for I was standen' behind your backs a bra' bit
afore I spok', an' you nevar heard or seed me."

"No, sure," said his mother; "we wor just then spaiken' about you and
your young master;--why, where have 'ee b'en, Siah; we thoft you wor
lost, but I'm glad you're come back, for more reasons than one. Miss
Reeney will be more contenteder now,--I s'pose he'll make et up now,
Siah. Ef they're so mazed about one t'other as you do say, why the
sooner they're married the better."

"Married!" exclaimed Josiah; "I wish they cud be, poor souls; but where
es aw, says you?"

"Where es aw!" asked both the women in a breath; "why, come home weth
you, I s'pose,--where else shud aw be?"

"No fie," replied Josiah, in a more serious tone; "I wish aw wor. He
started from Ashley Hall a fortnight ago, or more, an' said he wor
comin' down here for to sarch for somebody, an' we thoft for to find om
here. Maister Morley, hes brother, es over to Leeftenant Fowler's. Mr.
Frederick not here! that's whisht, thon. What core to bâl es fe-a-ther
this week, mother?"

"He'll be home from bâl about six o'clock to-night," replied Mrs.
Trenow.

"I'll have a glass o' brandy toddy, ef you plaise, Mrs. Brown, an' then
go home to ax fe-a-ther's advice. He ded used to have brave thofts about
things."

Captain Trenow was very glad to see his son returned safe and sound:
for, as he had never been a great traveller himself, he could not
understand the pleasure to be derived from locomotion and change of
scene. "I can get along brave here," he would say, "where I do knaw
everybody: but how I should get along among strangers I caan't tell. I
shud be in a whisht porr sometimes, I reckon."

But notwithstanding his father's modest opinion of himself, Josiah held
his knowledge and shrewdness in high estimation; so he related to his
parent the whole of his adventures, from the time he left home until his
return, and then asked his advice upon the whole--not only as to his own
course, but as to the course he would advise his patron Mr. Morley to
pursue, and especially as to the search it seemed incumbent on them to
make after his young master.

"I'll tell 'ee, boy," said Captain Trenow, after he had heard his son's
story, and had ruminated over it for some minutes,--"'tes like as this
here, you knaw--he's kidnapped, that's what he es!"

"Hould your tongue, do," replied his son; "that's nonsense. Why, who wud
kidnap he, I shud like to knaw. What good wud that do to anybody? What
do anybody knaw about he, for to go for to kidnap 'n? No, no, ould man;
touch your pipe a bit. They'd be glad for to bring om back agen, I
reckon; for he's brave an' heavy, mon. No, he's no more kidnapped than
you are; he's fell in a shaft, more likely."

"Like enough! like enough!" replied the father, seriously; "we must
sarch, boy,--come!" And the kind-hearted miner rose at once, and took
his hat with the intention of proceeding at once to search and drag
every open shaft in the neighbourhood. But Josiah thought they had
better see Mr. Morley first, and inform him that no tidings of his
brother could be obtained at St. Just or the neighbourhood.

After a good supper, therefore, the two men started for
Tol-pedn-Penwith, where they arrived just as the two gentlemen were
about to retire for the night.

Mr. Morley was much concerned when he found that his brother had not
been seen or heard of at St. Just; for he had fully made up his mind
that he would visit that place first in his search after the girl he
seemed so devotedly attached to; and would naturally endeavour to trace
the fugitives, in their journey from thence round the sea-coast, to the
solitary house in which Alrina said, in her letter, she was then
confined.

"I am inclined to think," said he, at length, after a little
consideration, "that Captain Trenow's conjecture may be true, and that
my brother has been treacherously entrapped by some lawless band of
ruffians, for the sake of gain. I scarcely believe he is
murdered,--Cornishmen, from what I have heard of them, are not such
cold-blooded villains as that,--and I am inclined to hope and believe
that he has not fallen into a shaft; but wherever he is he must be
found."

"With the morning's dawn," said Lieut. Fowler, "we must commence the
search all along the coast, from the Land's-End to Truro. He was last
seen at the latter place, you say?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Morley; "we traced him there, but could gain no
further intelligence of him."

"If Captain Trenow and Josiah can go with us," said the lieutenant, "I
think they will be of greater service than my own men; for, in the first
place, I shouldn't like to take so many of us off duty, and, in the next
place, I think these two strong miners will be able to assist us in
exploring the shafts in our way, and may tend to prevent any suspicion
being attached to our search; whereas, a party of my men searching and
exploring the coast, would attract suspicion at once, and put the whole
neighbourhood on their guard."

Captain Trenow and Josiah readily consented to accompany the two
gentlemen; and, after a few hours' sleep, and a hearty breakfast, they
started on their expedition.

For two whole days they searched unceasingly, exploring every shaft they
came near,--the two miners having brought ropes, by which one of them
was frequently lowered down, to search for their young friend in the
bowels of the earth. Houses were entered and searched thoroughly, and
all manner of questions asked of the inmates, very much to the
astonishment and terror of some of them, but all to no purpose. Yet on
they went, searching still, and searching everywhere. At length, towards
the end of the third day, they arrived at a solitary spot, which
attracted the attention of Mr. Morley. It was a house surrounded by high
walls on every side.

"This," he exclaimed, "appears to answer the description given in that
letter, better than any place we have seen yet! Courage, my comrades! we
have found the spot at last."

As they approached the outer door of the garden, they saw in a ditch by
the side of the wall, the carcase of a dead horse, on which the crows
were feeding so ravenously that they did not perceive the intruders
until they were almost close upon them, when they rose in a cloud that
almost darkened the sky, making a discordant noise, and flapping the air
with their wings, which was heard distinctly until they settled down
again in a neighbouring field to wait a favourable opportunity to return
again to the feast from which they had been so suddenly dispersed.

Here was the spot, then, wherein, if not Frederick Morley, they felt
pretty certain his loved Alrina was confined; and it should go hard,
they said, if a clear discharge was not made of all prisoners inside,
whoever or whatever they might be. Lieut. Fowler and Mr. Morley were
armed with a brace of pistols each, while Capt. Trenow and his son had
only their stout cudgels to depend upon.

"Never mind," said Capt. Trenow; "a stout cudgel and a strong arm ha'
beat a good many men afore now, and may again;--I arn't afeard; art
thee, 'Siah boy?"

"No fie," said Josiah, flourishing his cudgel round his head, and
grinding his teeth with energetic determination; "I'll scat them all
abroad 'pon the planchen' ef I do come nigh them." And down came the end
of the cudgel on a log of wood near him, with such a crash, that the
crows were frightened once more, and rose like a rushing mighty wind,
and settled down again one field further off.

Whether it was the noise of the crows, or the sound of Josiah's cudgel
on the log of wood, or a sudden impulse of female curiosity to see who
the strangers were, the door was opened from the inside just at that
moment, and a female head peeped out, and as suddenly Josiah sprang at
the door, pushing it wide open, and asked as deliberately as he could
under the circumstances, "ef the lady wanted to buy a hoss?"

"A hoss!" said the woman, taken quite by surprise; "no,--how ded 'ee
think so?"

"Why, the crows are getten' fat upon the hoss you lost last week, and so
I thoft you'd be wanten' another," replied Josiah, with the greatest
coolness.

"Oh! that wasn't ours," said the woman, taken off her guard by the
coolness of Josiah,--"that belonged to a young gentleman that----"

"Hold your jaw and bar the door, and be d----d to you!" exclaimed a man,
coming out of the house in a rage.

"This looks suspicious and businesslike," said Lieut. Fowler, as he
rushed into the garden after Josiah, followed by their two companions.
The woman had disappeared at the first rush, but they were met midway
between the door of the house and the outer door of the garden, by a
rough, strong-built man, who seemed half sailor and half miner by his
dress.

"What the devil do you want here?" said he, addressing Lieut. Fowler,
who was now the foremost of the party. "I'm d----d if I don't see light
through you in about two twos." And he drew a pistol from a side-pocket,
and presented it at the lieutenant's breast.

"Two can play at that game," exclaimed Fowler, drawing a pistol from his
breast-pocket.

"And three!" cried Mr. Morley, drawing his pistol also.

"Now, I'll tell 'ee, soas," said Capt. Trenow, putting his cudgel very
coolly between the parties, and addressing the stranger on whom they had
intruded,--"'tes like as this here, you knaw; two to one es brave
odds,--the one might be killed--sure to be, I s'pose. Ef you've got any
more of your sort inside, comrade, bring them out and then we'll fight
fe-ar; or, ef you haan't got no backers for to fight, why lev es have a
croom o' chat. Now, I've done, soas; spaik the next who will. As for
fighten, I can stand a bra' tussle; but as for spaiken, I arn't wuth
much."

No backers--as Capt. Trenow called them--came out; and, as the occupant
of the house sew that he was left so sadly in the minority, and felt, no
doubt, that he had been the first aggressor, by presenting his pistol at
the breast of a king's officer, as he knew Lieut. Fowler to be by his
dress, he began to make apologies as best he could, very much to the
amusement of Capt. Trenow, who really seemed to be the coolest of the
party, and, like a good and experienced general, was equal to the
occasion, and could by his coolness and shrewd common sense, persuade
where he could not command. And he very soon led the way into the house,
as if he had been the owner of it, and was followed by all the party.

As resistance was quite out of the question, against four armed men, and
one of them a king's officer in authority, Capt. Cooper made a virtue of
necessity, and became very civil and obsequious.

What the object of this visit was he was puzzled to imagine. If it was
in search of contraband goods he was safe; for they had all been
disposed of long ago. He was not left long in suspense, however; for Mr.
Morley was too impatient to find his brother to delay his enquiries, and
he thought the bolder he did so, the better.

"We are in search of a gentleman," said he, "whom we have traced almost
to your door. If he is here you had better say so at once, and produce
him. If you decline, we shall proceed in our search; and if we find him,
after a denial by you, the consequences may be serious to you and your
household. If, on the other hand, you tell us honestly where he is, and
produce him, if in your power, you have nothing to fear."

"If you will tell me the name of the gentleman," replied Cooper,
cautiously, "I will inform you if I have seen him or not. I am
accustomed to see gentlemen here on business often. But this much I will
tell you, that unfortunately at present the only inmates of my house are
myself and my wife; otherwise, perhaps you would not so easily have
entered."

"The name of the gentleman we are in search of is Mr. Frederick Morley,"
said the interrogator. "Have you seen him?"

The mention of that name seemed to cause the smuggler to start
involuntarily; but he soon recovered his former coolness and said, "I
have no such person here; but, to satisfy yourselves, you are at full
liberty to search my house; I will get the keys." And he left the room
in search of his wife, who was not far off; and as he left the room,
Josiah slid out after him unperceived, and saw him give a key to his
wife, instead of taking any from her, and whisper something in her ear:
so he determined to watch below while the others went upstairs. He had
hid himself behind a door in a dark passage, from whence he watched the
momentary interview between Captain Cooper and his wife, unperceived by
them; and when Cooper returned to the party in the front room Josiah
took off his shoes and followed Mrs. Cooper stealthily down some dark
stone steps. It was so dark that even she was obliged to grope her way
down. Once or twice she stopped and turned round and listened as if she
fancied she heard someone following her; but Josiah was accustomed to
grope his way in the dark underground, and could, therefore, perhaps,
see better than she could under present circumstances; so he continued
to dodge her footsteps, until she arrived at a small secret door in the
wall on the right hand, which was so artfully concealed that a stranger,
even with a lamp in his hand, would most likely pass it, believing it a
part of the wall itself. Mrs. Cooper had evidently found the door by
counting the steps as she descended, and she now groped about with her
hand to find the keyhole, which she was not long in doing, for she had
evidently performed the feat many times before. When she had opened the
door Josiah heard her go down some more steps, into what he thought a
dungeon or vault; and he listened at the door, which she had left ajar.
When she was at the bottom of the steps, he heard her call to someone in
a low whisper, saying, "Sir! sir! where are you? follow me and I'll save
you. Come quickly!"

Josiah now determined at all risks to follow the woman, and see the end
of it and rescue the prisoner if possible; for he now firmly believed
that his young master was incarcerated here, and that it was to him the
woman was calling, perhaps with the intention of murdering him, or
getting rid of him in some way; so he put on his shoes again and
approached the spot from whence the woman's voice proceeded. She
evidently took him for some other person, and, seizing him by the hand,
she dragged him along after her through the darkness, until they heard
the sea dashing against the rocks, when she said in a hurried and
agitated manner,--

"The smugglers are seeking your life;--fly if you would be saved. At the
end of this passage you will find an outlet. Run for your life! the
smugglers are after you! Fly! fly!"

The truth now flashed on the mind of Josiah, and he saw exactly how
matters stood. It was evident that someone, most probably his young
master, was confined in that dungeon, and, fearing detection, she had
been sent to convey the prisoner away, and, by frightening him, and
pointing out a way of escape, induce him to run into the sea over the
rocks, at the entrance to the cavern, which perhaps communicated with
this dungeon, or, it might be, to jump over a precipice.

She had evidently mistaken Josiah, in the dark, for the prisoner, and he
was determined to turn the tables on her; so, seizing her by the wrist
in his powerful grasp, he exclaimed, in a stentorian voice which struck
terror into the affrighted woman, and made her sink on the ground as if
she had been struck by a thunderbolt,--

"You cold-blooded old hag! tell me who you ha' got here locked up in
this gashly old place, or else I'll carr' you where you wanted me to
run, an' throw 'ee into the sea, and hold your head under water till
you're so dead as a herren'."

"Oh! sir," said she, gasping and writhing with the pain that Josiah's
strong hand was inflicting; "it wasn't my doing,--'twas that boy; he put
the gentleman here."

"Come, come," said Josiah; "no nonsense! Was it Mr. Frederick Morley or
who was it?"

"Oh! sir," screamed the woman, "I b'lieve that was his name."

"Then where es he gone to?" said Josiah.

"Oh! sir," cried the woman; "I'm afraid he must be dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Josiah; "ef so, I'll break every bone in your body,
and your husband's too, and burn the house over your heads. We must have
a light and sarch." So saying, he dragged the woman back towards the
steps which led up to the dark passage, while she continued to scream
from the pain she was suffering; for he did not relax his grasp in the
least.

When they had emerged on the main stairs again, Josiah flung the door
wide open that there might be no difficulty in finding it again, and
called out lustily for a light.

The woman's screams and Josiah's vociferous calls for a light, reached
the ears of the searchers upstairs, and they all ran down in great alarm
to enquire what had caused such a terrible commotion.

"He is here!" exclaimed Josiah, when his friends appeared;--"bring a
light quickly."

Captain Trenow had seen a lantern in the kitchen as they passed, and,
being accustomed to emergencies in his daily occupation as a miner, he
went back, and, lighting the candle, appeared again with the lantern in
his hand, before the others had recovered from their surprise.

Captain Cooper at first put a bold front on it, and denied all knowledge
of the young gentleman, until he saw the cellar door wide open and knew
there was now no escape. He then maintained a sullen silence, and
preceded the party down the narrow steps into the cellar. It was deemed
advisable to send him in first, coupled with Captain Trenow, fearing
treachery. Josiah still kept his hold on the woman.

On they went in double file, slowly and cautiously, searching every nook
and corner, looking behind old casks, and turning up old canvass bags
that lay about in corners; but no trace of their missing friend could be
found.

Capt. Cooper now began to hold up his head again. It had evidently
turned out better than he expected, and he called his wife a doating old
fool, to tell such lies and deceive the gentlemen in that way. They had
searched the whole of his house and premises,--and what more would they
have? He might complain, but he wouldn't, he said. They naturally felt
alarmed about the young gentleman,--who would not? He had no hesitation
in telling them that Mr. Freeman and his daughter Alrina had lodged at
his house for a few weeks, for change of air for the young lady, who was
delicate; but they had left, and, he believed, had gone back to St.
Just.

What could they do, therefore, under the circumstances, but thank Capt.
Cooper for allowing them to search for their friend, and to bid him
adieu? Josiah, however, still held his opinion that his young master had
been confined in this dungeon, and had been got rid of somehow. He was
not at all satisfied. He must have been starved to death there, he said,
and the rats might have eaten him, and he believed they had. This idea,
however, was not entertained by the others of the party, although they
knew not what else to think.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE TWO SISTERS PIERCED THROUGH THE HEART.


Our story now takes us back to Pendrea-house, where we left several of
its inmates ill at ease both in body and mind. For, as some mighty
warrior, who has borne the burden and heat of the day on the
battle-field, and received bravely many a thrust from the point of a
lance without flinching, when he retires to his couch after his
fatigues, is worried and tormented almost beyond endurance by the bite
of a small mosquito,--so were the inmates of Pendrea-house--one and
all--disturbed and thrown out of their natural course, by the
sharp-pointed arrows of a certain little mischievous creature, who is
generally represented as a little innocent-looking, chubby-faced boy,
with tiny wings and a laughing eye. He had shot many an arrow at Miss
Pendray before, which merely grazed the surface of her smooth delicate
skin, and the wounds disappeared almost as quickly as they had been
inflicted, leaving scarcely a trace behind. But now his arrow had
pierced deeper, and caused a wound which disturbed the peace of mind of
this haughty beauty. Mr. Morley had paid her great attention during the
short time he had been in the neighbourhood, and had given unmistakeable
proofs of his admiration of her, and she had been fascinated by his
handsome person and agreeable manners and conversation, and had met him
more than halfway, and displayed without disguise the interest she took
in him and the pleasure she felt in his society. Yet he never once spoke
to her on the subject nearest her heart, and had left the neighbourhood
abruptly, without seeing her or bidding her farewell; and now he had
returned with Lieut. Fowler, and left again without seeking an interview
with her, or even calling at Pendrea-house. She felt that she had been
deceived by his attentions, and that he was perhaps after all only
trifling with her. This her proud haughty spirit would not brook, and
she tried to drive his image from her thoughts, but she could not
succeed; for the more she tried to pluck out the little barbed arrow
that had already pierced her heart so surely and sharply, the deeper did
it penetrate, and the wound was now becoming almost unbearable.

She tried to soothe her troubled mind, by taking her accustomed walks
along the cliffs, and sitting in solitary meditation on the bold
headlands, and watching the waves as they came surging and dashing
against the rocks beneath her feet. His image haunted her still, and
made her very miserable. She might now have sympathized with her poor
suffering sister; for she well knew the cause of her illness, although
her mother and her attendants attributed it to a different cause; but
her proud haughty spirit would not stoop to condole or sympathize with
one who had so boldly accused her of unseemly behaviour--even although
that one was her only, and till now her darling, sister. So the poor
little innocent Blanche continued to suffer in secret, having no one to
whom she could confide her sad tale. There was one consolation, however,
which she possessed unknown to anyone in her father's house except her
favourite maid, who was, as she termed it, "keeping company" with one of
Lieut. Fowler's men;--this was a letter which Lieut. Fowler had
contrived to send her through this medium; wherein he explained to her
the circumstances of his dismissal from the house, and the
cause,--reiterating his protestations of unalterable attachment, and his
determination to possess the object of his fond affection at all risks
and against all opposition, if Blanche was as true and devoted to him as
he believed her to be.

This letter distressed while it consoled her; for she now felt in its
fullest force that it was owing to her own weakness and persuasion,
that Lieut. Fowler had incurred her father's displeasure, and she felt
also that she ought to sacrifice everything to exonerate her generous
and fondly devoted lover from the disgraceful suspicion attached by her
father to his conduct. She believed that her sister, who inherited all
her father's pride and aristocratic notions, had set him against Lieut.
Fowler, by relating with considerable exaggeration their apparently
clandestine meetings, which seemed no doubt, as she had represented
them, very reprehensible, and sufficiently culpable to justify her
father in acting as he had done.

Blanche, therefore, thought that, if she could find an opportunity of
speaking to him alone, and explaining the nature of their meetings,
which were not clandestine, as her sister very well knew,--for she
generally knew when and where they met, and was frequently asked to join
them,--and if she could at the same time explain to her father that it
was by her own persuasion, and at her earnest request, that Lieut.
Fowler had refrained from naming his intentions to him earlier, he might
at least be induced to alter the harsh opinion he had formed of his
former friend. This she determined she would do;--she would take all the
blame on herself, to exonerate him who was all in all to her, and who
would, but for her, have boldly and honourably asked her father's
consent to their happiness long ago.

Squire Pendray was very fond of his children, especially of his little
pet, the gentle Blanche,--indeed, no one could help liking her. She
possessed the good-natured simplicity and kindness of her mother, and
was beloved by the poor as well as the rich; and many a little act of
charity did this gentle, loving, girl do for the poor and needy, whose
cottages she often visited in the course of her rambles.

Maud was kind and charitable to the poor also, and distributed her
bounties as freely and largely as her sister, and perhaps more so; but
her gifts were given with haughty pride, and the recipients were made to
feel their dependent inferiority, by the manner in which they were
bestowed. It was not so with Blanche;--she gave as if she were receiving
a favour instead of bestowing one. She conversed with the poor
recipients of her bounty, and freely entered into all their little
troubles, and sympathized with them as if she were one of themselves;
and yet they never presumed on her condescension, but looked upon her
almost as a being from another world, come down to minister to their
wants; and so her gifts were doubly valuable, and she was almost
worshipped in the parish.

The squire was a shrewd man of the world, and was proud in the enjoyment
of his wealth and position, and happy in the possession of two such
lovely daughters; and it was with feelings of the deepest regret, that
he saw them both pining away under the influence of some secret malady
of which he knew not the cause. The best medical advice that could be
procured was called in, but to no purpose,--the doctors could do them no
good whatever. At last, when all their efforts had failed, Mrs. Pendray
said to her husband one night, when they were sitting alone in the
dining-room, taking their solitary supper,--

"I tell you what it is, squire,--those two girls are ill-wished, as sure
as you are sitting in that chair."

"Ill-wished! nonsense!" replied the squire; "who can have ill-wished
them, I should like to know? What harm have those two innocent girls
done to anyone, to cause them to be ill-wished. No, no, I can't believe
it."

"Well, whether you believe it or not," returned his wife, "I do,--in
fact I'm sure of it. What has happened to one may happen to another, any
time. There was Farmer Pollard's daughter, two years ago,--she pined
away, just as Blanche is doing now, and nothing seemed to do her good
until her father applied to the conjuror."

"Yes, I remember that case," said the squire; "and the conjuror
discovered that she was ill-wished by another young woman, through
jealousy. But that can't be the case with either of our daughters."

"There are many ways of ill-wishing, and many causes and reasons for
doing so," replied Mrs. Pendray. "I was talking with Mrs. Pollard about
it only yesterday, and she says that it may be that someone has a grudge
against you; and so they may have ill-wished our dear children out of
revenge, knowing how dear they are to us."

"If I thought that," said the squire, rising passionately, and pacing
the room, "I would horsewhip the fellow within an inch of his life,
whoever he is;--he should have some cause for his ill-will, at any
rate."

"You forget, my dear," replied his wife, "that you do not know who the
party is; and I only know of one way by which you can find out your
enemy."

"And that is by going to the conjuror, I suppose," said the squire, in a
sarcastic tone. "I don't dispute his skill, for I have seen proofs of it
among our neighbours; but I don't like the fellow,--and I believe there
are many of the same opinion as myself respecting him, but they are
afraid of him, and dare not speak their minds; for he has great power,
and manages to know what is going on around him, and even what is said
about him, in a most unaccountable manner; but I tell you I don't like
the fellow, and I wouldn't go near him if all my family were dying."

"Oh! don't say that," said Mrs. Pendray, putting her handkerchief to her
eyes to wipe away the tears which were trickling fast down her cheeks;
"you would not see our poor children pine away, and do nothing to avert
the calamity,--I'm sure you would not. Nothing seems to relieve
them;--the doctors have given them up; and now, alas! we have but one
sad prospect before us. After all the love and care we have bestowed
upon them from their infancy, and the many happy years we have devoted
to our darling children, and the pleasant future we looked forward to,
it is very hard thus to be deprived of them, and to see their strength
failing them, and the hand of death stealing over them in their prime,
when one word from their father would restore them,--yes, one sentence
spoken by their father, would restore them to their former health, and
relieve their parents from present grief, and a future of unmingled
misery and woe." And--overcome by her feelings, and the sad thoughts
that arose in her mind at the melancholy picture she had drawn--the poor
old lady gave way to a burst of grief, which touched the sterner heart
of her proud husband, who averted his head and brushed away a tear with
his hand, as he continued to pace the room in great agitation.

It may seem strange in these enlightened days, that persons in the
position of Mr. and Mrs. Pendray should believe for one moment, that one
person had the power to ill-wish another, or that it was in the power of
any man, however skilful in the occult sciences, to counteract their
evil imprecations. Yet such was the case. Superstition was rife in those
days, as we have said before, even among the best educated; and many a
poor old woman had suffered seriously, for exercising the power of
witchcraft which she supposed she possessed.

The district of the Land's-End was rather too remote for this crime to
be visited with severity by the authorities, and so the Land's-End
conjuror was left undisturbed,--indeed, he was too cautious, generally,
in his dealings with those who sought his aid, to give his enemies any
handle that they could take hold of against him. Like the master of a
puppet-show, he knew the mechanism of his figures, and knew what strings
to pull to make them work according to his will;--the only difference
was, that he exercised his skill on the minds of his figures instead of
their limbs.

Squire Pendray was a man of good common sense, and a magistrate, and yet
he had not escaped the common feeling of superstition which prevailed at
that time--not only in Cornwall, but in every other part of the kingdom.
It was not, therefore, from any want of confidence in the skill of the
conjuror, that he declined asking him to exercise it, but simply
because, as he said, "he didn't like the fellow." Probably he would have
been puzzled to have given a reason for this strong dislike to a man he
scarcely knew; for Mr. Freeman avoided coming in contact with the
squire, as much as he possibly could, and they had scarcely ever met. No
doubt the conjuror had his reasons for this. It would not have been
convenient for him at all times to have had the squire prying into his
little secret doings.

Mrs. Pendray had appealed to her husband's feelings, and revived in his
breast those chords of tender affection which she so well knew he
possessed, but which had, in a measure, lain dormant since his children
had grown into womanhood, and were able to take care of themselves. It
seemed now, however, as if his daughters had returned to their childhood
again, and required the tender care of their mother as much as ever they
did.

"It is very hard," said Mrs. Pendray, still sobbing, and speaking more
to herself than to her husband, "that, after all our care of the dear
girls for so many years, they should be allowed to die now, because
their father has some foolish scruples about asking the assistance of
the only man that can relieve them from the spell that has been cast
around them." And the poor old lady's grief burst forth afresh, while
the squire continued to pace the room more slowly and thoughtfully; for
conflicting passions agitated his mind, and he was debating within
himself between his hatred of the man of science and his love for his
children. At length parental affection prevailed, and he determined to
lay aside the hatred which he somehow entertained towards the conjuror,
and be a supplicant at his door the next morning, for his aid in
relieving his daughters from the spell by which he now felt convinced
they were bound. It was a severe struggle; but he had made up his mind
to go through with it, and no obstacle would now prevent him from
carrying it out.



CHAPTER XXXI.

OUT OF SCYLLA AND INTO CHARYBDIS.


We left our hero, Frederick Morley, fast asleep in the inner cellar at
Capt. Cooper's house. He slept soundly--for he was quite exhausted--and
dreamed of Alrina, whom he fancied he saw bending over him, and watching
him as he slept; but it seemed as if he had lost all power over
himself,--he could not speak to her. At last she glided gently away, and
beckoned him to follow her, but he could not move. He seemed spellbound;
and she faded away in the darkness, leaving him to lament his fate on
his cold, damp couch. He continued to sleep on for some time, until he
was roused by a voice which seemed to come from the innermost recess of
the dungeon. He started up--for he thought his hour was come--and
prepared himself to yield to the cold-blooded assassination which he
believed was now to put an end to his earthly career. He could not
defend himself, for he could not see from what point the blow would
come. It was, however, a gentle voice that called him,--a woman's voice,
he thought; he could not hear it distinctly, but still it called to him
in the distance. Could it be Alrina? Had she, whom he had followed so
long, hoping to be her deliverer, come to rescue him? But how could she
have discovered him, and how did she get there? He knew not what to
think. He answered in the same low tone, and approached the spot from
whence the sound appeared to come, and was taken by the hand by
someone--not by Alrina, however, but by his little attendant, Bill!

"Hush!" said the boy; "follow me, and you will be saved,--quick! before
we are discovered."

The boy still held him by the hand, and drew him on; for the place was
still very dark. They entered a narrow passage, and the boy dragged him
on and on through the darkness. At last he heard the sea, and saw a
glimmer of light in the distance; and presently a gentle breeze, which
was wafted towards him, convinced him that they were approaching the
outer world once more. They were now in a large cavern, into which the
sea flowed, and he saw a small boat moored to a rock within the cavern.

The boy told him to jump into the boat; and in a moment, the mooring was
loosened, and the boy was by his side in the boat, which he skilfully
pushed out with one of the oars, and they very soon rode on the open
sea. The boy then gave Morley the other oar, and they pulled out with
all their might; for Morley felt that he was being rescued from the jaws
of death.

When they were fairly out on the broad ocean, the boy said, "Now, sir,
you take both the oars--you are stronger than I am--and I'll steer." So
they glided swiftly over the still blue water;--for Morley had practised
the use of the oar, both at home and abroad; and the feeling that every
stroke of his oar placed a greater distance between him and the vile
wretches who had evidently sought his life, gave additional strength to
his arm, and he struggled against nature, and for a time forgot the
weakness and exhaustion which had overcome him in the cellar and caused
him to fall asleep in the midst of the danger that surrounded him.

The subterranean passage through which they had passed, had been
excavated many years before. There was a large natural cavern running in
for some distance under the cliffs from the sea, in the entrance to
which there was water enough to float a boat at high-tide; and beyond
the flow of the tide were large rocks, which prevented the water, except
at very high tide, from encroaching on the interior of the cavern. In
this cavern the smugglers formerly secreted their contraband goods: and
many of them, being miners as well as smugglers, and being in the
employ of a former owner of the house long before Cooper occupied it,
they, at his suggestion and by his order--he being a great smuggler
himself, and having made a large fortune by the trade--excavated a
communication between that cavern and the cellar underneath his house,
by which means smuggled goods could be secreted easily and safely. Very
few people knew of this passage except the parties immediately
concerned. The boy, however, had been found useful on many occasions, in
watching the revenue officers, and putting them on a wrong tack, and,
thus knowing the secret passage, formed this plan for rescuing Morley
from almost certain death.

The night was calm and serene, and everything around them was still.
Several small vessels were lying in the little cove--some ready to go to
sea again with the next tide, having discharged their cargoes,--and
others just come in, waiting for the dawn of day to begin their work of
discharging their cargoes of coal and timber into the merchants' yards;
and as the little boat glided by, the watch on deck would sing out,
"Boat ahoy! what ship?" or, "Good night, shipmates;" and then all was
still again; for the appearance of a small fisherman's boat going out at
that hour of night did not arouse the least suspicion, and on they went
swiftly and steadily.

The moon was shedding her soft pale light all around; and the oars, as
they were "feathered" by the skilful rower, cast showers of silvery
spray back into the water again at every stroke. Some of the white
granite cliffs shone brightly in the moonlight, as its rays fell full
upon them; while others, hid in shadows, seemed like some huge monsters,
indistinct and terrible, towering above their lighter companions until
they appeared almost lost in darkness, and imagination pictured them
higher by many degrees than they really were.

On, on they went, bravely and swiftly; for the fear of pursuit impelled
the rower to exert his strength to the utmost. But the strength of man
will not always obey his will, and ere long he fell back in the boat
exhausted and faint. He had but very recently, it will be remembered,
risen from a bed of sickness, and the exertion and anxiety had been too
much for him. His pluck had not deserted him, but he had exerted his
strength beyond its power. Nature at last gave way, and he fell back
insensible. His fall was sudden, and he dropped both the oars into the
water. The boy was too much frightened to think of anything but his
companion at the moment; so the oars drifted away, and the boat was left
to the mercy of the waves, while the boy did all he could to revive the
prostrate man.

He had brought no provisions with him--not even a can of water; for he
thought that a few hours' rowing would bring them to the next cove,
where they would land without suspicion, and procure anything and
everything they wanted. Poor boy! he could do nothing but watch the
invalid, and support his head on one of the thwarts of the boat, and
this he did for a considerable time,--it seemed to him an age. At last
kind nature came to his rescue, and the invalid opened his eyes to the
boy's infinite relief, and in a short time he had so far recovered as to
be able to comprehend their perilous situation. Fortunately it was a
calm night, but there they were helpless and exhausted, and drifting out
to sea with no provision on board. Morley gradually regained his former
vigour of mind, if not of body, but it was only to bewail their sad
fate.

Out, out they went to sea, drifting further and further from the land,
with no power to control the course of their frail bark. At length, as
morning dawned, the current changed, and they were drifted back again;
and here they exchanged the calm tranquillity of their former position
for the rough encounter between the two channels--always turbulent and
often dangerous, but in a little boat without oars to guide her course
doubly so. The rudder was of very little use in that turbulent sea. They
saw the rocks with which that part of the coast abounds, and dreaded
lest an unfortunate roll of the boat or an angry wave should drive it
headlong upon one of those rocks and dash her in pieces. Hour after hour
passed away in dreadful uncertainty. The turn of the tide again drifted
them out to sea in another direction. They heard the roar of the Wolf
Rock, and knew from that circumstance that they were drifting towards
the Scilly Islands. They now gave themselves up to despair; for it
seemed almost next to impossible that they could pass this Wolf Rock
safely without oars or any means of keeping the boat under control.

Want of food for so many hours in his already weak and exhausted state,
rendered Morley entirely helpless, and listless to all that might happen
to them. He lay down in the bottom of the boat without the power to move
or speak. The boy bore up as bravely as he could, and tried to support
his companion; but he too gave way after a time, and then they lay side
by side in the bottom of the boat, expecting every minute to feel a
crash against the rock, and then all would be over.

At last it came--a bump! a crash! The water seemed filling their mouths
and ears. They revived for a moment, and were fully alive to their awful
position. All the actions of their past lives rushed into their minds,
and they seemed to live their lives over again, in that short moment of
time.

Alrina's form was vividly present to Morley's mind for an instant, and
then all was blank!



CHAPTER XXXII.

ALRINA'S TROUBLES ARE INCREASED BY AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY.


Mr. Freeman had returned to St. Just with his daughter, but neither of
them had appeared much in public since. The servant, Alice Ann, said
that her young mistress was looking very whisht and palched, and "The
Maister" worn't like hisself at all. He was continually locked in his
private room, and she had seen him through the keyhole more than once,
upon his knees before a great chest, taking things out and putting
things in.

"What sort of things be they, then?" Mrs. Trenow would ask; for to her,
as her nearest neighbour and the mother of her sweetheart, Alice Ann was
most communicative.

"Why, powers of things," would be the reply; "silks and satins, all
foreign like, and gold and silver I b'lieve--a purty passle."

Miss Freeman had not returned, so that there was no one to watch
Alrina's movements, and she might have gone out and stayed out all day
if she liked, but she did not care to move. She would sit in her room
all day long, and scarcely touch the little dainties with which Alice
Ann tried to tempt her; nor did she care to speak, unless her faithful
attendant broached the subject of all others which she well knew
occupied her young mistress's every thought. Days and weeks and months
had passed away, and yet she had heard nothing of Frederick. She had
written him, but he had not replied to her letters. Alice Ann tried to
console her; but what could she, a poor ignorant country-girl, say by
way of consolation to one possessing the refined and sensitive feelings
of Alrina.

It was hard to believe; and yet, what could she think? He had deserted
her! Perhaps he had met with another more to his taste, and more suited
to him in position and fortune--one whose family history could be
clearly set forth, and over whose heads no dark mystery hung. It was
natural, she thought, that on reflection he should shrink from uniting
himself with one whose family were so obscure and in many respects
objectionable.

Many days did this poor girl sit brooding over her sad fate. She would
release him from his engagement with her; it was right, she thought,
considering all things, that she should do so, and she determined in her
mind she would do so. She would like to see him once more, however, just
to tell him this. When she had made up her mind to this step, she felt
more tranquil and resigned to her fate, and she now began to walk out as
usual, and wander over the rocks--perhaps with the dim hope that she
might one day fall in with Frederick in the course of her rambles, as
she had done before, when she could tell him her determination. Poor
girl! she knew not her own weakness; for had he, whose image she had so
fondly cherished from her childhood, appeared before her at that time,
her fancied courage would have forsaken her, and she would have taken
him back to her heart and forgiven him, even did she know beyond a doubt
that he had deserted her for another.

Alas! she little knew how impossible it was for him to appear before her
then, as she secretly hoped and wished he would; nor did she know, poor
girl, how near he had been to her when she was under Cooper's roof.
Conflicting thoughts occupied her mind for several days. It was a hard
struggle; but she conquered her feelings, and the trial did not appear
to her so painful, now that she had fully made up her mind that it was
her duty to put an end to the engagement on account of this dark mystery
which hung over her family history. She felt that in doing this she was
acting honourably towards him whom she could not help loving still with
all the ardour of a first love. This she thought she could bear better
than the belief that he had deserted her;--she could not bear that, nor
would she think so again. She felt that it was her own act now, as she
had made up her mind that it should be so--not out of any angry feeling
which she bore towards Frederick, but out of pure love for him, and a
reluctance to place him in a position which might hereafter cause him
pain, and, when the first ardour of love was over, make him ashamed of
his wife's relatives.

When she had fully made up her mind to this, she felt more at ease, and
would sit for hours on the rocks, in calm reflection on the past, and
hopeful meditation on the future. And thus she would pass whole days
without moving from the spot, watching the broad clear sea, and the
vessels passing and repassing, and the graceful gambols of the
sea-birds, as they flew from rock to rock, or took their flight far out
to sea--never heeding the meal-time hour, nor seeming to want food or
sustenance until her return, when her faithful attendant would upbraid
her for staying so long without food, and force her to eat some little
nice thing she had prepared during her young mistress's absence, with
which to tempt her appetite.

In the meantime, her father continued to be occupied in his private room
all day long, looking over papers, and examining the contents of that
large chest.

One morning, while he was so engaged, there came two tall men to the
outer gate of the little garden, who seemed impatient to enter; but not
knowing the secret spring by which the gate was opened, they shook the
gate in their impatience, and called loudly to the inmates (if there
were any) to open and let them in.

Mr. Freeman's private room overlooked the little garden; and on going to
the window to ascertain the cause of all this noise, he started back
like a man shot, and trembled all over like an aspen leaf. Alice Ann
was surprised too when she recognized one of the visitors, but hers was
evidently a feeling of pleasure; for there stood her old lover Josiah,
accompanied by a tall handsome gentleman, with remarkably white hair for
a man of his age, as he did not look above forty.

"Dash the old gate," said Josiah, shaking it to and fro; "you're buried
up brave, I think."

"Iss fie," replied Alice Ann, opening the gate; "we do knaw who to keep
out and who to lev in."

"Where's 'The Maister'?" asked Josiah, as they entered the little
garden.

"How shud I knaw?" returned the girl; "in his skin, I s'pose."

"Is Mr. Freeman at home, my good girl?" said Mr. Morley; "for I am very
anxious to see him."

"He wor up in his room a bit a while ago, sar," replied Alice Ann,
dropping a curtsey to the gentleman, "for I heard a purty caparouse up
there."

"Tell'n that there's a gentleman do want to see un 'pon partic'lar
business," said Josiah, "an' be quick about et."

"Not sure nuff I shaan't," replied the girl. "He said he mustn't be
disturbed for nobody. Ef you'll stop till Miss Reeney do come in, she'll
go up, maybe,--_I_ shaan't, there na."

The girl was not to be persuaded; so Mr. Morley walked into the common
sitting-room, as he saw the door open, while Josiah followed Alice Ann
into the kitchen, to persuade her, perhaps, to go up to her master; or,
probably as they hadn't met for some time, they had little secrets to
communicate, into which we will not be so rude as to pry,--indeed, these
little secret meetings between lovers are seldom interesting to
lookers-on.

Josiah and Alice Ann would not have finished their _tête-à-tête_ for
some time longer, had not a thundering rap at the front door with a
large stick, roused them from their pleasant conversation.

"Dear lor'! how my cap es foused, soas," said Alice Ann, as she jumped
from her seat, and surveyed herself in a small looking-glass which hung
in the kitchen; "whoever can be come now, I shud like to knaw. Drat
thom!" And away she went to answer the knock.

"I want to see the conjuror," said Squire Pendray, in his pompous
manner; for he it was who had disturbed the two lovers so cruelly.

"The what, sar?" exclaimed Alice Ann, opening her eyes to their fullest
extent; for to call her master "the conjuror" was an offence for which
she was sure the enquirer would suffer if her master heard it,--and what
couldn't he hear?

The squire now became aware of his error; for he asked in his blandest
tones if Mr. Freeman was at home.

"He wor home a bit o' while ago, sar," answered Alice Ann, curtseying
very low; for she knew the squire was a very great man, and a
magistrate.

"Tell him I wish to speak to him in a case of life and death," said the
squire.

"Iss sar," said the girl, curtseying again, lower than before, and
leading the way into the usual waiting-room, into which persons on
urgent business of this kind were generally shewn.

Mr. Morley had walked into the common sitting-room, almost without being
bidden; for, although the little waiting-maid had seemed so cool in the
reception of her lover, she thought too much of him at the time to pay
much attention to the gentleman he brought with him. She now went up and
knocked at "The Maister's" door; and receiving no answer she peeped in
at the keyhole. There was the great chest still open on the floor, but
she could see nothing of her master, nor hear him. She knocked again a
little louder,--still no answer. She then called to him; but no notice
was taken of it, and she became alarmed. She tried the door,--it was
locked. She then went down to consult with Josiah, who thought they had
better tell the two gentlemen; so Alice Ann went into one room, and
Josiah into the other, to inform the respective occupants how matters
stood,--and then there was a general consultation as to what steps
should be taken. Each gentleman was surprised to see the other there;
but their thoughts were too much occupied in deliberating what was to be
done, to ask any questions.

It was the general opinion that Mr. Freeman had either died suddenly
from natural causes, or that he had committed suicide. Mr. Morley
thought they ought to break open the door; but this Alice Ann would not
consent to at all. She knew her master's power, and remembered the
dreadful noises she had heard in that room, and the scenes which she
believed had been enacted there, from the appearance of the poor victims
when they came out. The squire also had some kind of superstitious dread
of interfering with the man of science, who was so much feared in the
neighbourhood; and Josiah, although so powerful in bodily strength, had
a touch of this same superstition too. At last it was determined to send
someone in search of Alrina, and to wait her return.

After some considerable time, which appeared longer than it really was
to those who were waiting, Alrina returned, and was greatly surprised to
find the house occupied by two strangers;--Josiah she had known long
before. They were both much struck with her beauty and quiet ladylike
manner, and explained to her their position. They had come to see Mr.
Freeman on business, and it appeared he had locked himself in his room,
and could not be heard inside, nor would he answer to the calls of the
servant. Alrina was very much alarmed; but she said her father was very
peculiar, and would often refuse to answer when he did not wish to be
disturbed. She went up to the door herself, with the same result; and,
after hesitating for some time, she at length consented that the door
should be forced. This was easily accomplished by Josiah with the aid of
the kitchen poker; and the whole party entered the sacred room,
expecting to see some dreadful sight,--what, they could not imagine.

There stood the chest wide open, as the girl had seen it through the
keyhole; but no one thought of looking into this,--their whole thoughts
were centred in the fate of the owner himself. They searched everywhere,
but no trace of him could be found. Alice Ann suggested that he had
probably gone up the chimney in a flash of fire, and that he might be on
the housetop at that very moment, looking in upon them, or riding
through the air on a broomstick. "We've heard of such things, you knaw,"
said she.

They were roused from their speculations on the mysterious disappearance
of "The Maister" by an exclamation from Mr. Morley, who had been
narrowly examining the room, and was now standing transfixed before the
large chest, which was open, and from which some things had been taken
out on the floor.

"As I live," he exclaimed, "this is my chest! How could this have got
here?"

"That's the chest," replied Josiah, "that 'The Maister' found after the
wreck, and told us to bring up here,--for what, we cudn't tell."

"That chest contained money and papers of great value," said Mr. Morley;
"it has been overhauled evidently to some purpose, and no doubt
everything valuable is gone."

"Oh! no, sir!" cried Alrina, in a pitiable tone; "don't accuse my father
of robbery,--he would never do that, I am quite sure."

"My dear young lady," said the squire; "your father shall not be accused
of anything that cannot be fully proved; but I am bound to say it,
however painful it may be to you, that I have had my suspicions for some
time, and so have my brother magistrates. He could not have lived
without money, and the mystery is where he got it from. Now, pray be
calm, while Mr. Morley examines his chest."

"'Morley!'" cried Alrina; "did I hear you rightly, sir? did you call
that gentleman 'Morley?'"

"My name is Morley," said that gentleman, taking her hand; "I am the
brother of one whom I know you have been led to believe will take you
out of your present position, and raise you to his station in life."

"No, sir," replied Alrina, indignantly,--"my family shall never be a
disgrace to anyone; and, let me tell you, sir, that neither you nor your
brother shall ever be disgraced by me! I will never be the wife of a man
who might afterwards despise me."

"That was nobly spoken," said the squire; "you're an honour to your
sex. Gad! I wish my daughters could speak like that, and send the
jackanapes about their business that come swarming about my house."

"Dear lor'! what a handsome coat," exclaimed Alice Ann, as she saw Mr.
Morley take a richly embroidered coat from the chest.

"Yes," said he, holding up the coat and admiring it; "that coat cost me
a great deal of money. I had it made to wear at a grand fancy-dress ball
in Calcutta; and there are other parts of the dress to match, somewhere.
Oh! here they are; you have never seen anything like that in England,
squire, have you?"

"Gad! but I have, though," exclaimed the squire; "if not that same
dress, there was one very like it worn by a stranger at our last ball at
Penzance. And now I begin to think,--why, it must have been Freeman
himself disguised. I never saw him very near that I remember, for he
always avoided me: but it struck me at the time that I had certainly
seen that face somewhere before, but he looked much younger than he can
possibly be."

"Aw! 'The Maister' esn't so old nor yet so ugly as he do make out to
be," said Josiah.

After searching still further, Mr. Morley found the bag in which his
money had been placed, but the money was all gone and the papers also.

"Now!" exclaimed he, jumping up from the kneeling posture in which he
had been for the purpose of examining the contents of the chest; "here's
proof enough. Now let us use all our exertions to secure the man." And,
leaving Alrina and Alice Ann to take care of themselves, the two
gentlemen left the house more quickly than they had entered it, followed
by Josiah. But the object of their search had got the start of them by
several hours; for his fear so overcame him at the sight of Mr. Morley
entering his house--(why, was best known to himself)--that he opened the
room door at once, and locked it behind him, putting the key into his
pocket, and escaped through the back door, and over the back garden
wall, while Alice Ann was opening the front garden gate to let Mr.
Morley and Josiah in. And, making his way as fast as he could to the
cove, he there got a boat which took him out to Cooper's little cutter,
which was anchored a short distance out waiting for orders. It was his
intention to leave the country in this cutter, as soon as he had
arranged his affairs; for he found things were going against him, and
that his power was failing fast; but he did not intend to have gone
quite so soon. He had secreted a considerable sum in gold and jewels
round his person, inside his clothes, several days before,--so that, in
this respect, he was quite prepared for whatever might happen at any
time.

The three pursuers traced him to the seaside, and were just in time to
see the cutter which bore him away. But the little vessel had gone too
far for any attempt to be made to follow her, with the least chance of
success; so they retraced their steps with disappointed looks and
feelings.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

ALRINA VISITS A KIND FRIEND AND MAKES A PROPOSAL.


Alrina's cup of misery was now full to the brim. It had required but one
drop more to fill it, and here it was. Her lover had deserted her--that
was most certain; but she had forgiven him, and made up her mind that
she would exonerate him from all his vows,--indeed, she would insist on
breaking off the engagement for ever, on account of the dark mystery
which hung over her family history.

But while the mystery was concealed, whatever it was, there was still a
hope that it might turn out in the end that there was no mystery at all,
and all might still be well. She secretly hoped this, although, in her
magnanimity, she considered it her duty to exonerate her lover from all
ties. But now the mystery was solved. It was no longer dark and
concealed, yielding a hope, however slight, that it might have existed
merely in her own imagination. It was no longer dark or mysterious. Her
father had robbed Mr. Morley (her lover's brother) of a considerable sum
of money, and had purloined his valuable papers, and had moreover gone
to a public ball at Penzance, dressed in Mr. Morley's clothes. There was
no getting over this;--there was no mystery here. All this could be
fully proved,--and he had gone off, no one knew where.

What was she to do? She was left without a friend and penniless. There
was the house, it was true; but she could not live there without a penny
to buy food.

Squire Pendray told the sad story when he returned home; and good Mrs.
Pendray went herself to Mr. Freeman's, and begged Alrina to go home with
her, and live with them as one of her daughters. This kind offer Alrina
respectfully declined. Mrs. Pendray then offered her a supply of money
to purchase necessaries until her father's return.

"My father will never return, madam," said she, with dignity; "he
cannot. And, although I thank you from my heart for your kindness, I
cannot accept charity,--no, madam, I must gain my own livelihood, as
many a poor girl has done before."

So the good lady, having failed of success in her good intentions, took
an affectionate leave of the noble girl, begging her to reconsider her
determination, and to come to her still if she altered her mind. "I
shall watch over you, my dear," said the good lady at parting, "and
shall get information brought me of your progress. Good bye! And may the
Almighty Giver of all good watch over and protect you."

This disinterested kindness was almost overpowering. It was as much as
Alrina could do to prevent herself from giving way to her feelings. She
had borne her lover's supposed desertion, and the discovery of her
father's disgrace without shedding a tear, or allowing anyone to
discover how much she was affected by them. Now she could bear up no
longer. Mrs. Pendray's kind offer of protection and charity made her
feel the full force of her situation, and she returned to her room, and,
throwing herself on her bed, wept bitter tears of distress, mingled with
feelings of anger and wounded pride. She had been deserted, disgraced,
and humiliated. Long did she remain in that state of desponding
wretchedness. It was not in her nature to give way to her feelings, and
weep for every trifling thing that went wrong; she had been brought up
in a sterner school. But when she did give way, hers was not an ordinary
fit of weeping and then over; no, when she wept, it was a terrible
outbreak of pent-up feelings, like a large reservoir of water bursting
its banks, and carrying all before it. Nothing could stop it, until it
had spent itself out. And so it was now with Alrina;--she tossed and
rolled on her bed in her agony of mind, and wept until she became
exhausted, and then fell into a sound sleep, from which she awoke after
some hours, refreshed and renovated both in mind and body. She bathed
her eyes and face in cold water, and rearranged her hair, and sat in her
chair by the side of the dressing-table, calm and dignified, and began
to think of what she should do for the future.

The past was gone for her. She must leave the house at once, and lock it
up, after allowing Mr. Morley to take what remained of his property.

She rang for Alice Ann, and told her her determination, and offered her
some money--all she had in the world--in payment of her wages for the
past few weeks. This the poor girl as indignantly but respectfully
refused, as Alrina herself had refused but a few hours before the
proposed kindness and protection of Mrs. Pendray.

"Why, she's maazed, I reckon," said Alice Ann, looking at her young
mistress as if she were some dangerous animal; "do 'ee knaw what you're
tellen' of, do 'ee?--_you_ go out for to get your livin'--no, no,--tarry
here, Miss Reeney, an' I'll tend 'ee the same as I do now, an' nevar
take a penny. An' as for meat,--'where there's a will there's a
way,'--we'll take in stitchen' an' sawen', I cud used to do plain work,
brave an' tidy; an' you cud do the fine work. We'll get along, nevar you
fear."

"It is very kind of you, Alice Ann, to offer to help me to live,"
replied Alrina; "but it cannot be,--I shall not remain in this house
another night after what has happened, if I can possibly help it. I
shall go out now for a short time, and when I return we will arrange for
the future." So saying, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went down
the road, leaving Alice Ann at a loss to conjecture what she meant to
do, or where she could be going in such a hurry.

"She's gone to chat it over weth somebody, I s'pose," said the girl, as
she stood at the door and watched her young mistress walking quietly
down the road.

Alice Ann was right in a measure. Alrina was going to chat it over with
somebody, but not for the purpose of asking advice, nor by way of idle
gossip. She had fully determined in her own mind what she would do; and
when she had fully made up her mind to a thing it was not an easy matter
to turn her from her purpose.

Mrs. Trenow's house was generally her favourite resort when she wanted a
quiet chat; but, to Alice Ann's surprise, she passed that house now, and
went on into the heart of the village, and she soon lost sight of her,
and returned into the house to put things in order, and prepare the tea
against her young mistress returned.

Alrina stopped before the door of the "Commercial" Inn as if doubtful
what she should do. After a moment's hesitation, however, she walked
quietly in. Mrs. Brown had been working very briskly at her needle,
mending some old garment after a fashion; for she was no great hand at
that sort of work,--knitting she could get on with tolerably well,
because it required very little skill, and was therefore rather pleasant
work. She was now sitting looking at her work with an angry brow; for,
after all her trouble, she had put on the wrong piece. She had sat for
several hours, stitch, stitch, at that garment, patching it up, as she
thought, to look nearly as well as ever, and now all her labour was
lost, for the piece must come off again;--it would never do as it was.

"Drat the old gown!" said she; "here have I be'n worken' my fingers to
the bone, an' puzzlin' my brain till I'm all mizzy mazey, an' thinken' I
had done a bra' job,--an' there it is."

"Send for the tailor, Peggy! send for the tailor, to be sure," said Mr.
Brown from his place in the chimney-corner, from whence he seldom
stirred now; for he had become feeble in body as well as in mind, since
the shock he had experienced by the terrible death of his favourite
mare. Mrs. Brown was very kind to him and indulged him as far as she
could; but she could not help being irritated sometimes by his silly
remarks; for he prematurely declined into second childhood.

"Send for a fool! and that's you, John Brown," replied his wife,
testily, as she turned the garment in different directions to see if
she could make it do at all, without ripping out the piece again;--but
it was of no use, out it must come.

"If that lazy maid we've got here could stitch a bit tidy she wud be
some help," soliloquized the old lady; "but she's no good but to scrub
the floors, and tend the pigs,--she caen't draw a pint of beer fitty.
And there's Grace Bastian, the only decent maid we had in the parish for
to do a bit of sewing-work, she must prink herself off to Penzance too.
I don't knaw what's come to the maidens, not I. Miss Reeney! how are 'ee
my dear? Come in an' sit down;--why, you're quite a stranger," continued
the good landlady, as she rose to place a chair for her visitor.

"Yes, I've been very much occupied since our return," replied
Alrina;--"but what are you about, Mrs. Brown?--you seem to have mended
your dress with a piece of a different colour. Why, here's a piece that
would have matched it exactly, and, if stitched in neatly, no one would
find out that it had been mended."

"That's the very thing I'm thinken' about," said Mrs. Brown. "Here have
I be'n stitch, stitch, nearly all the day, putten' on that piece, an'
when I had finished it I found I had put on the wrong one; but I caen't
stitch any more to-day,--my head is bad already."

"Let me see," said Alrina, taking the dress, and matching the right
piece on it;--"there, Mrs. Brown, that would do nicely, would it not?"

"Yes, my dear; but the thing is to stitch it in."

"Lend me your scissors, and I will soon manage it," replied Alrina.
"There," continued she, as she ripped off the piece that it had taken
Mrs. Brown so long to put in; "that's soon done. Now, lend me your
needle and thimble,--I'll put in the piece, while we gossip a little of
the latest news imported. Your thimble is too large;--haven't you a
smaller one in the house?"

"I believe our maid Polly have got one somewhere," said Mrs. Brown;
"I'll sarch for it."

"Poll! Poll! Polly!" said Mr. Brown, catching at the familiar sound:
"come out in the stable, Polly,--the mare must want her gruel by this
time. Wo! ho! Jessie, my beauty--wo! ho! mare!"

"Will you be quiet, John Brown?" said his wife, as she came downstairs
with the thimble.

"Here, Miss Reeney, I s'pose this is too big for your little finger."

"Never mind, Mrs. Brown," said Alrina, who had by this time pinned on
the proper piece; "I'll make this do."

The work now went on briskly--Mrs. Brown knitting, and Alrina stitching
and gossipping between. While the work was going on, two miners came in,
and asked for a pint of beer.

"Let me draw it, Mrs. Brown," said Alrina, putting down her work--"it
will be a change of work too."

"Well, you shall if you are fancical," replied Mrs. Brown, smiling.
"Take the brown jug, my dear--that's a pint exactly--and draw it out of
the end cask. Blow off the froth and fill up again,--our customers don't
like the jug half full of froth, I can assure you."

So Alrina drew the beer, and received the money, as if she had been
accustomed to it all her life, very much to the astonishment of the two
men, who seemed puzzled at being tended by Miss Reeney;--but they liked
it very well, nevertheless, and ere long asked for another pint, for the
sake, no doubt, of receiving it from so fair a cup-bearer.

The two men were in a little room leading out of the kitchen, so that
neither party could hear distinctly the conversation of the others,--nor
was there much said by either party, indeed, worth the trouble of
listening to.

When the men were gone, Mrs. Brown said, "Why, I shud think you had been
used to the bar all your life, to see how handy you are; and you've
nearly finished the work that I wor all the day about. Your husband will
have a treasure, whoever he is."

"I shall never be married, Mrs. Brown," said Alrina, with a heavy sigh.

"Iss, Iss, you'll be married fast enough, and I think I can tell his
name, though I'm no conjuror, asking your pardon."

"I have not seen the man yet that I would marry," returned Alrina, with
an effort.

"Oh! fie!" said Mrs. Brown; "you mustn't say so to me; I wasn't born
yesterday, an' I can see a bra' way, though tes busy all, I'll allow."

"What I have told you is perfectly true," replied Alrina; "and so far
from thinking of marrying, I am going to try to get my own living,--will
you take me into your service?"

"My dear young lady," replied Mrs. Brown, taking off her spectacles, and
looking at Alrina steadily and seriously, "you mustn't make game of your
elders, nor look down with scorn upon those you may consider inferior in
station to yourself,--but that remains to be proved. Take her (a
boarding-school young lady) into my service! Did you hear that, John
Brown?"

John Brown didn't hear that, or if he did he didn't understand it, for
he made no reply.

"You seem as if you didn't understand me, Mrs. Brown," said Alrina.

"No, sure, I don't understand your meanin' at all," replied Mrs. Brown.

Alrina then related the circumstances of the morning to Mrs. Brown, whom
she knew she could trust, and whose advice she knew she could rely on,
for she was a shrewd intelligent woman. When she had finished her tale,
Mrs. Brown took her hand, and said, "You must forgive me for my hasty
speech just now. 'Tes an ugly business, but you shall never want a house
to shelter you, nor a bit of morsel to eat while I have got it for you."

"You don't understand me now," said Alrina; "I will never accept
charity, either in the shape of food, raiment, or shelter. What I ask
you to do is this,--to take me into your service, to help you, as I have
done this afternoon, for instance. I will take the burden of the house
off your shoulders, and do the sewing, and attend to the bar. Poor Mr.
Brown is not able to do anything now, and indeed requires more of your
attention than you have time to give him, and I cannot but remember that
it was in consequence of some advice given him by my father (for what
reason I know not), that Mr. Brown lost his mare, and became in
consequence almost imbecile; and it is my duty, if possible, to repair
the injury that has been done. I cannot return the mare, nor give Mr.
Brown renewed strength; but I can help you, and by that means you will
have more time to devote to his little comforts. I don't want money;--I
merely want a home with a respectable family, to whom I can render
services sufficient to remunerate them for their kindness, without
having the feeling that I am maintained merely out of charity. Now do
you understand what I mean?"

"I do," replied Mrs. Brown, "and it shall be as you wish, and I shall
always respect and honour you for the noble and independent way in which
you have acted."

This being settled, Alrina went back to her father's house, to inform
Alice Ann of what she had done; and, having arranged with Mrs. Brown
that Alice Ann should sleep at her house also for a night or two, she
locked up the house where so many evil deeds had been performed, and
took up her residence at the "Commercial" Inn, as barmaid and general
superintendent of the stitchery of the household.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

CAPTAIN COURLAND'S RETURN AND HIS WIFE'S ANXIETY.


The man of cunning had proved himself more than a match for his
pursuers. He had got the start of them, and was now out of their reach.
So the squire and Mr. Morley, accompanied by Josiah, prepared to retrace
their steps, angry and crestfallen at having been thus outwitted. They
walked on in silence until, on rounding a rock, they met Lieutenant
Fowler and one of his men, who were evidently out on duty. Fowler seemed
quite taken by surprise, and scarcely knew what to do; but he
instinctively touched his cap to the squire, and, shaking Morley by the
hand, was about to pass on. The squire, however, was too much engrossed
with the matter in hand to remember his late treatment of the
lieutenant, or the cause of it, and Morley was ignorant of the whole
matter. So they both greeted Fowler heartily, and told him the whole
affair, and pointed out the vessel which was bearing away their crafty
deceiver. Fowler put his glass to his eye, and scanned the horizon after
having looked attentively at the vessel.

"She'll be back again" said he, "before long; there's a storm rising."

"No! no!" replied the squire; "that fellow will not return to this coast
again if he can by any possibility keep away; they'll probably reach the
Scilly Islands before the storm comes on."

"We shall see," said the lieutenant; "my men shall keep a good watch,
however, all night. Good day gentlemen." And he touched his cap again,
and was moving off.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, my dear fellow?" said Morley, "I
haven't seen you for an age. Come! I'm going up to your station to have
a serious chat with you."

"Go on, then; I shall be home soon; but I must go round to see what the
other men are about, whom I sent, some time ago, to watch a suspicious
looking craft, round the next headland. Go up to my cabin, there's a
good fellow; for I want to have a serious chat with you too." So saying,
he walked on, having seen that the squire had got on his stilts again
after the first impulse had subsided; for he had walked on without
taking any further notice of Fowler.

Mr. Morley, true to his appointment, declined the squire's pressing
invitation to dine with him at Pendrea-house, and proceeded towards
Tol-pedn-Penwith station, where he had not been very long before his
friend returned. After dinner, Fowler confided to him his secret, and
the manner in which he had been treated by the squire. Morley at first
treated it as a joke, saying, "Faint heart never won fair lady;" but on
reflection he thought there must be some mistake, and that a mutual
explanation would set all things right, which he undertook to perform.
But he was so anxious about his brother that he could not settle his
mind to anything until he had found him or ascertained his fate. He had
evidently been at Cooper's house,--that was pretty certain, from what
the old woman had said,--and it was also certain that he was not there
now, for they had searched everywhere, nor was he at the Land's-End, nor
St. Just; nor had any trace of him been seen in that neighbourhood by
anyone, and the boy had not been seen either, for some time. Mr.
Morley's only conjecture now was, that he had probably escaped from
Cooper's cellar, and had returned to Ashley Hall, thinking that, as
Josiah had seen Miss Freeman there, Alrina might be there also,
concealed somewhere; and he no doubt thought that he would there also
have the advice and assistance of his brother and Josiah whom he had
left there; for Mr. Morley knew that neither of his letters had reached
him, because he found them both lying at the Penzance post-office. He
therefore determined at once to return to Ashley Hall. The more he
thought of it, the more was he confirmed in this belief, and he also
felt certain, that, having escaped through the underground cellar, and
no trace of him having been discovered in the neighbourhood, his brother
had, to avoid pursuit and suspicion, gone on board some vessel, bound to
Bristol, and proceeded thither by water.

Mr. Morley wished to see Miss Pendray once more before he left; but his
sense of duty prevailed over love, and he determined to start at once,
that very night, and to leave nothing untried until he found his
brother--dead or alive. He would have gone to Pendrea-house, just to see
her for a moment, and take leave of her, but he was afraid to trust
himself. She would have kept him on and on, he feared, until the chance
of finding his brother might be gone. He knew her powers of fascination,
and he would not trust himself to them. He would come back to love and
pleasure with greater satisfaction after he had performed his duty.

He took the faithful Josiah with him; and so hasty was their departure,
that poor Josiah had not time to return to St. Just, to take leave of
Alice Ann, and so they did not know of the change that had taken place
in the abode of the mistress and maid.

So sure did Mr. Morley feel, now, that Frederick had returned to Ashley
Hall by water, that he did not make any inquiry on the road, but rode
night and day, hiring fresh horses at every stage, until they reached
the hall. Why he was so confident of finding his brother there he could
scarcely tell; but as that was the only hope he seemed to have, and the
only probable place to which he thought he could have gone, he seized it
as the "forlorn hope," as it were, and brooded on it, so that it became
fixed in his mind, and he would not allow any other thought to supersede
it. How great was his disappointment, then, when he arrived at the hall,
to find that his brother had not been seen there, nor had anything been
heard of or from him, since he left it some weeks before. It was like a
death stroke. He could scarcely believe it. He could not bring his mind
back to the thought that his brother was lost. He searched everywhere.
Mrs. Courland and Julia were alarmed also when they heard how matters
stood, and even the poor dumb girl was alarmed and agitated; for she saw
there was something amiss, but she didn't know what it was, and no one
had the time or the inclination to tell her; so she wandered about the
house, unheeded.

Captain Courland had returned, and had now given up the sea, having
realized a handsome fortune, and looked forward to spending the
remainder of his life in peace and happiness, with his beautiful wife,
and her niece, Julia Morley, whom they had adopted as their own, and
whom they were both very fond of. The first day of his arrival was a
very happy one to him. He revelled in the society of his wife and niece,
and nothing occurred to mar his happiness. Flora was kept out of the way
in Mrs. Courland's private apartments, where she had first been
introduced to the house. These rooms had been fitted up expressly for
her. Here she had every amusement she could enjoy, and she liked being
here alone, and would frequently spend whole days there, and in the
little garden adjoining, planting, and watching, and cultivating the
flowers, of which, as we have said before, she was passionately fond. A
slight hint from Mrs. Courland that there was company in the house, was
quite enough to keep her in her apartments the whole day; for she did
not like mixing with strangers. She always seemed to have a dread, lest
she should meet with someone she had seen before, and who she feared
would take her away and beat her.

Mrs. Courland knew whom she meant, but to the others this was a mystery.
Mrs. Courland still dreaded the introduction of this poor girl to her
husband, although she knew his kind heart would compassionate a poor
helpless creature thrown upon her charity, as she had represented it, as
much as the other members of the family had done. But she did not feel
the same repugnance at deceiving them, as she did at deceiving her
husband. She had already deceived him by keeping this secret from him.
And now, by the introduction of this poor girl into his house, the
secret might be disclosed at some unlucky moment. She at first decided
on introducing her at once on his return, and telling him the story she
had framed; but her courage failed her, and she thought she would put it
off until his return from London, where he was going the day after his
arrival, to arrange his business with the principal shareholders of his
ship. He was detained there some days, and had not returned when Mr.
Morley and Josiah arrived, although he was hourly expected. All was
confusion throughout the house at the intelligence brought by Mr.
Morley, that his brother Frederick could nowhere be found. He was a
general favourite there, and all the household turned out for this
hopeless search, leaving poor Flora a wanderer through the house.

While the search was going on, Captain Courland returned from London,
and, finding none of the servants in their accustomed places, he walked
into the breakfast-room, where he saw a young lady standing at the
window, with her back towards him as he entered, looking intently into
the garden below. At first he thought it was his niece Julia, and he
asked her what had occurred in the house to make such a scarcity of
servants, and where her aunt was; but, to his great surprise, she took
no notice of him,--so he went up close to her and tapped her on the
shoulder, when she turned suddenly round, and gave a peculiar,
disagreeable scream, and ran out of the room. He thought this very
extraordinary. He could not imagine who the young lady could be, who
seemed so much at home in his house, and who treated him with such rude
contempt. He sought his wife for an explanation. On his mentioning the
circumstance to her, she seemed taken quite by surprise, and hesitated,
and looked confused while she told him her tale. He thought it very
strange that she had not mentioned this circumstance to him in any of
her letters, and he asked her rather harshly why she had not mentioned
it when he was home for a day and a night, on his first arrival from
sea. He spoke more harshly to her than he had ever done before, perhaps
without intending to do so; but the consciousness that she had done
wrong, and the fear lest her secret should yet be discovered by him,
overcame her, so that, instead of explaining the reason, which she might
easily have done, she burst into tears, which pained him, and made him
think there was something more in this affair than he had yet heard;
but, in the goodness of his heart and his devoted affection and love for
his wife, he never suspected for a moment that she had done any wrong,
or was concealing anything from him of a serious nature; while she,
poor, timid, guilty creature, read his thoughts by her own, and fancied
that her husband was looking into her heart, and reading there her
guilty secret.

Had she possessed the moral courage to tell the truth in the beginning,
when they were first married, all would have been well. But she had
retained the secret in her own breast so long, and thereby deceived her
husband, that the telling of it now would be like the confession of a
twofold guilt. And if she had not the courage to tell her secret, when
it was but a little secret after all, how could she tell it now, when
years of deception had been added to it. And so, by this little
accidental discovery of nothing, as it were, her courage deserted her,
and the resolution she had formed of explaining the way in which the
poor dumb girl became an adopted inmate of his house, was told in a way
to create suspicion rather than allay it.

As his wife had adopted this poor creature, Captain Courland tacitly
consented; for, although he felt that there was something that he could
not understand in the matter, he had the heart of a true British sailor,
and would not willingly wound the feelings of a woman if he could avoid
it, especially in such a trifle as this; and more especially as the
offender, if such she could be deemed, was his beautiful wife, to whom
he was attached with the most ardent and devoted affection. After a time
he became quite attached to the poor dumb girl: she amused him, and he
would spend hours in her private room, while she taught him to talk
with his fingers; and she was interested in her task, and would laugh
such a hearty, ringing laugh when he made a mistake, that the jovial
captain would throw himself back in his chair, and laugh, too, till his
sides shook;--and then he could burst out with a nautical phrase in her
society with impunity, which, when he attempted unwittingly in the
presence of his wife or niece, caused a gentle reprimand, and he was
obliged to "knock under," as he expressed it.

Mr. Morley and the captain were old friends. They had met often in
India; and no one was more concerned than Captain Courland at the loss
of Mr. Morley's brother. Many days were spent in scouring the country in
endeavouring to find some trace of him, but, alas! without effect. Nor
could they gain any intelligence of the strange woman whom Josiah had
seen, at a distance, and who, he verily believed, was Miss Freeman.

All their efforts having proved fruitless, Mr. Morley determined to
retrace his steps back to Cornwall once more; and Captain Courland,
feeling a deep interest in the discovery of his friend's brother,
proposed to his wife that they should accompany their friend there, and
help him in the search. This was the very thing Mrs. Courland wished--to
get away from the hall and its now unpleasant associations, and, above
all, to leave the object of her fear and guilt behind her. She believed
that Flora would be quite happy in the undisturbed possession of her
favourite rooms, and she could depend on her being taken care of by the
servants, for they all liked and pitied her. This would be a great
relief to her mind; and then she could give to her husband her undivided
attention, without the constant dread of discovery. But when the time of
departure arrived, to her great surprise and annoyance, Captain Courland
made arrangements for taking Flora in the travelling carriage with them,
and was quite angry at his wife's even hinting that Flora would be far
happier at the hall. The captain had become so attached to her, that she
seemed necessary now to his amusement and occupation. So she accompanied
them.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE DESPERATE PLUNGE.


Alrina had been at Mrs. Brown's several days, and was beginning to like
her employment, and to make herself very useful in the house, when one
evening, a strange-looking man came rushing in, and asked for a glass of
brandy, which he drank off in a hurried manner, and then said he had
seen a ghost. He had such an odd look, and seemed to speak in such an
incoherent manner, that both Mrs. Brown and Alrina thought he was
deranged: but, knowing the suspicious treachery of persons in that
state, they feared to let him see their timidity, lest he might do them
some injury. So Mrs. Brown pretended to believe in his statement, and
questioned him as to what the ghost was like, and where he had seen it.
The man was well known to Mrs. Brown, as a poor half-witted creature,
who wandered about in a kind of melancholy state, but perfectly
harmless: and the neighbours were kind to "Mazed Dick," as he was
called, and gave him meat, and occasionally Mrs. Brown's customers would
give him a glass of beer, at the "Commercial," for the sake of having a
little amusement; for "Mazed Dick" could perform various little feats of
dexterity, such as standing on his head, climbing a greasy pole, or
dancing in a grotesque manner, or allowing a whole pint of beer to be
poured down his throat, as through a funnel, without closing his mouth.
But Mrs. Brown had never seen him so excited before as he seemed to be
now, nor had he ever asked for brandy before; and after he had drank it,
she wished she had not given it to him. Without answering Mrs. Brown's
questions, he continued to talk in the same incoherent way, sometimes
laughing by way of interlude, and sometimes screaming as if he suddenly
saw some terrifying object before him. It was no use to ask him any more
questions, so they let him go on in his own way,--

"Down 'tween the rocks, Mrs. Brown, ma'm, a g'eat big ship (ha! ha!
ha!), bottom up, Mrs. Brown, ma'm, bottom up, ma'm (ha! ha! ha!), kegs
of brandy. Mrs. Brown, ma'm, kegs of brandy (ha! ha! ha!). Little Dick
creepy crawly, creepy crawly, up the top of the bottom (oh!
lor'!),--slip down agen,--see a g'eat hole, Mrs. Brown, ma'm. Dick put
in his hand to take out a keg of brandy (oh! lor'! oh! lor'!), catch
Dick's hand (oh! lor'! oh! lor'!) Dick run away,--a ghost!--a ghost!"

From this story they gathered that a ship had been wrecked, and thrown
ashore with its bottom up. Some men who had seen "Mazed Dick" running
towards the public house, followed him, thinking he was in a good mood
for one of his performances; but on hearing that there was a wreck on
the coast, they started at once for the spot, taking Dick with them as a
guide, who continued to repeat the same jargon until they arrived at the
cove, where they saw a small vessel, as "Mazed Dick" had described it,
jammed between two rocks, with her bottom up. To climb up the side of
the vessel as she lay thus, bottom up, was a difficult task; for the
sides were slippery. No one but little Dick could do it; so he, to show
his dexterity, climbed up at once like a cat, and put his hand into the
hole, which they could see as they stood on the rock. He had no sooner
done so, however, than he began to scream and kick about his legs in a
vain effort to get clear and slide down again; but no,--there he was
held, as it seemed, by some invisible power inside. What could it be?
Whatever it was, however, it had not the power of holding its victim in
that position long; for poor Dick was soon released, and came sliding
down again among his companions, exclaiming, "A ghost! a ghost! oh!
lor'! oh! lor'!"--and this was all they could get out of him. He could
give no account of what he had seen or felt. So it was determined to
send for a ladder and examine this mysterious affair thoroughly.

The ladder was soon procured, and with it a host of wreckers, both men
and women, although it was now getting dusk, and they would not be able
to see what was inside when they got to the hole; so lanterns were
procured, and there was a parley as to who should go up. All had been
eager to reach the spot, and would have braved any visible danger either
by sea or land; but there was a mystery about this which their
superstitious fears deterred them from attempting readily. In the midst
of their hesitation, Captain Trenow came down to see what it was all
about, and he volunteered at once to climb the ladder, and examine the
interior of the vessel; for he believed it was nothing but "Mazed
Dick's" timidity that made him scream, or perhaps one of his mad tricks.
So up went the brave old man, carrying a lantern in his hand; and, after
looking in at the hole for a few minutes, holding the lantern now on one
side and now on the other, to enable him to see every part of the
interior, as far as the size of the hole would admit, he came down
again, and said very deliberately,--

"'Tes a whished sight, soas!"

"Why, what ded 'ee see, cap'n?" cried a dozen voices.

"Why, I seed two men and a boy, so well as I cud make out," replied
Captain Trenow.

"Dear lor'!" exclaimed the women; "the crew starved to death, poor
souls! That's whisht, sure nuff."

"'Tes whishter to be standen' here like a passle of fools," said Captain
Trenow; "they mayn't be all dead, an' I don't think they are. Lev the
women run up to church-town for some blankets and sails an' things, and
some brandy, an' some of the men go down to bâl for some ropes an'
planks, an' a hatchet or two, and a saw; for the hole esn't big enough
to hale a man through."

Here was the master mind equal to any emergency; and, so accustomed is
the bâl captain to be obeyed by the miners under him at the bâl, that
Captain Trenow's commands were obeyed to the letter, such discipline
being as necessary in mining operations, where there is so much risk and
danger, as in a military army on the field of battle. In an incredibly
short time, the men returned with ropes, and planks, and more ladders,
accompanied by some of the mine-carpenters, who had not left work in
consequence of a breakage at the mine.

"Go up," said Captain Trenow to the carpenters, "and enlarge that hole
three or four feet each way." And up they went at once and commenced
their work without asking a question; and very soon an opening was made
large enough to bring up any thing that might be below.

By this time the women had arrived also, with plenty of blankets and old
sails, and brandy, accompanied by many more people from the village.
Captain Trenow, with three or four of the strongest men of the party,
now went up the ladders which were placed against the side of the
vessel, taking shorter ladders with them, which they let down through
the opening that the carpenters had made, taking ropes and blankets and
sails with them. On descending into the vessel they found two men and a
boy--the two men lying at the bottom, apparently dead, or in the last
gasp, while the boy was lying on a cask near the hole. He was alive, and
still retained the use of his limbs; and it must have been he who had
seized poor Dick in that mysterious manner. They were soon got out of
their perilous situation; and that infallible remedy--brandy--having
been applied to their lips, it was ascertained that they were all alive.
The boy revived considerably, but the two men, with all the remedies
Captain Trenow's experience applied, only revived sufficiently to
exhibit signs of life.

They were speedily conveyed to the "Commercial" Inn, and Mrs. Brown and
her fair assistant prepared comfortable beds for them, while Captain
Trenow and one or two strong, trusty men remained to watch them during
the night. A little food was given them frequently; for Captain Trenow
saw that they were suffering principally from exhaustion and want of
food.

The boy did not require much attention; and, after a moderate allowance
of food, he fell fast asleep. Mrs. Brown's household also went to bed,
at Captain Trenow's earnest request, while he and one of the miners
remained in attendance on the invalids all night. The boy slept soundly
till morning, when he awoke refreshed, but hungry; so he went downstairs
in search of something to eat. Mr. Brown was the only one stirring, and
he was in the back kitchen giving a finishing polish to his shoes.

"What! Billy, boy!" said he, as the boy entered; "come, 'tes time to
look to the mare. Come, boy! come!" And he led the way into the stables,
as he used to do, and the boy followed him; for he knew that was the
only way to get anything to eat. "Mare first and breakfast afterwards,"
was always Mr. Brown's motto.

The sad reality very soon exhibited itself to poor Mr. Brown's shattered
brain; and he sat down on the pail which was standing useless against
the wall with its bottom up, and bewailed his loss.

"Iss, boy," said the poor man; "I seed them both go over cliff,--and
that poor young gentleman to be killed too. 'Twas whist, Billy, boy.
Semmen to me I can see them now tumblen' over. I've seed his ghost
since, boy, I have."

When Mr. Brown had exhausted himself with his monotonous lamentation, on
the loss of the mare and the young gentleman, the boy went up close to
him, and whispered something in his ear which made him start; and,
jumping up, he proceeded into the house at once, exclaiming, "Peggy!
Peg! Peg! Peggy! my dear,--here's that gentleman; get breakfast quickly.
What! Miss Reeney downstairs already! Good morning, ma'am. Come to see
"The Maister," I s'pose. Get breakfast quickly, Peggy! Ods my life! how
hungered they'll be! Out exercising the mare, es he? That's brave. Get
the corn ready and a clean wisp o' straw to give her the first rub weth.
Ods my life! how glad I am."

"Hoity! toity! what's all the fuss?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, as she came
slowly downstairs; "one wud think that the French were landed."

"And so they are, I b'lieve, o' my conscience," said Mr. Brown.

"Hold your tongue, John Brown!" said his wife, angrily, as she proceeded
to get the breakfast. She had not seen Alrina or the boy; for the latter
made a signal to Alrina to follow him out into the little garden at the
back of the house, while Mr. Brown was giving his silly and futile
orders about the mare, which his wife was now too much accustomed to, to
notice.

Imagine Alrina's astonishment, when she heard from the boy, that her
father and lover were both in that house. What should she do?--That was
the first question she asked herself; and it was as quickly answered in
her own mind. She must do her duty; and her first duty was to attend to
her father, however disgraceful his conduct might have been. And, under
the circumstance, it was her duty also to avoid meeting her lover, both
for her own peace of mind and for his;--for she had fully determined
that nothing should induce her to continue an engagement, which must
bring disgrace on him and misery to her;--she could never endure to
marry a man whose family would despise her. She learnt the whole history
of his escape from the boy, and she shuddered when he told her of the
dreadful moment, when the boat bumped against the rock, as they thought,
but which in reality was a vessel they could not see, as they lay in the
bottom of the boat, faint and exhausted. They were picked up and taken
on board, but his master was so exhausted that he was unconscious all
the time. The boy soon discovered, he said, that the principal person on
board was no other than his old master, Mr. Freeman, who treated them
both very kindly; but a storm arose that night, and drove the little
vessel back again towards the Land's-End. He and Mr. Freeman were below,
he said, attending to the invalid, when the vessel struck on a rock,
and her mast was blown over somehow, and they felt the vessel turn on
her beam ends. The hatches had been closed down over them when they went
below, for the sea was washing over the deck. The two sailors must have
been washed overboard. How long they were in that awful state, beating
about, the boy did not know; it seemed an age. He was the strongest of
the party, he said; and, when he found that the vessel was at last
stationary, he got on a cask to be as near the hole which the rocks had
made in her as possible, and it was in this position that he caught the
man's hand; but he was too much exhausted to speak.

Alrina consulted her good friend, Mrs. Brown, as to what she should do
with her father; and it was ultimately decided that he had better be
removed at once to his own house.

Who the other invalid was, Alrina did not say. Mr. Freeman seemed in a
very precarious state; and if he was to be removed at all, Captain
Trenow thought it should be done at once. It was early, and few people
were stirring as yet in the village; and so the poor unconscious man was
removed gently and quietly to that house which he had left but a short
time before, knowing and feeling that his return to that place must end
in public disgrace and punishment. His faithful daughter, as in duty
bound, made everything as comfortable about him as she could, and her
attendant, Alice Ann, came back at once to her young mistress's
assistance.

In undressing him to put him into bed, Captain Trenow discovered a belt
round his waist, which, on being opened, was found to contain a
considerable sum of money, principally in gold, and a quantity of
diamonds and other jewels apparently of great value. The money Captain
Trenow persuaded Alrina to take into her possession, and to use as much
as was necessary for the maintenance of the house and for comforts for
the invalid, while the jewels he placed in a drawer in Mr. Freeman's
private room, under lock and key. It was evident that he had been
preparing for flight for some time, and had secured enough of "the
needful" to enable him to live comfortably in some distant country. Of
his daughter's comfort he cared nothing; for he did not leave a single
shilling behind for her, and yet she forgave him all, and came back
again to the house she thought she had quitted for ever, to be his
guardian and ministering angel.

A surgeon was sent for from Penzance, who said it was doubtful whether
his patient would recover. By care, and attention, and good nursing, he
might rally.

Frederick Morley--for he was Captain Trenow's other patient--was
recovering slowly, when he learned that Mr. Freeman had been taken home,
and that his daughter was there also. He immediately got up, weak as he
was, and walked towards Mr. Freeman's house, determined to see Alrina,
whose image had been ever present to his mind, night and day, and from
whom he was now fully determined no power on earth should separate him.
When he arrived at the house he was told that Alrina was in attendance
on her father, who was not able to leave his bed.

He waited some time in the little parlour before the object of his
adoration made her appearance, as she was obliged to school herself into
the proper state of mind in which she wished to appear, before she met
him to whom she must now say farewell for ever.

She had been expecting this visit, and had been preparing herself for
the meeting, and thought, poor girl, that she could be firm;--but now,
when the time was actually come, she found that it was more than she
could go through. She came at last, pale and trembling, but firm. And
when Frederick rushed towards her with the impetuosity of a warm-hearted
lover, from whom his darling had been separated so long, she recoiled
calmly and coldly from his embrace, and requested him, in a dignified
manner, to be seated.

"Alrina!" exclaimed he, in surprise; "what is the meaning of this
coolness? After so long an absence, I expected to have been received by
you in a very different manner. What have I done to deserve this? Or has
some vile calumniator been poisoning your mind against me? Tell me,
dearest!" And he attempted to approach her again, his eyes beaming with
the fondest love and devotion.

"Mr. Morley!" said Alrina, restraining her feelings with a strong
effort; "circumstances have changed since we last met; and I am
compelled, more for your sake than mine, to tell you that all further
intercourse must cease between us."

"Alrina!" exclaimed he, passionately; "what can you mean?--Can I believe
my ears,--that she, whom I so fondly and devotedly love, can coldly and
deliberately tell me that our intercourse must cease, without assigning
any reason. Tell me at least this. What cause have I given you for
treating me thus?"

"None!" said she; "none! you have been to me more than I deserve. It is
not that, oh! no!"

"You have seen another whom you love better," said he. "Tell me,--only
tell me, and relieve my racking brain,--anything is better than this
suspense. I will never give you up,--I swear I will not! The villain who
has supplanted me shall die!" And he paced the room in mental agony,
while poor Alrina scarcely knew what to do. She had made up her mind to
do her duty; and she was determined, for his sake more than her own, to
go through with it. He must not think he had a rival; it would endanger
some innocent person, perhaps; nor could she make up her mind to tell
him of her father's disgrace. He would hear it, of course,--he must know
it; but it should not come from her. What should she do?

There was only one alternative that seemed open to her. She must take
all the blame on herself, and bear all his wrath, or scorn, or hate, or
whatever it might be, on her own shoulders. However painful, it must be
done. And, rising with as much coolness as she could command at that
awful crisis, she said, in a trembling voice,--

"Mr. Morley, we must part now and for ever; for I feel I cannot love you
as I ought."

"Oh! Alrina!" he exclaimed, taking her hand, which she could not
prevent; "do not say so! oh! do not say so,--you cannot mean it,--say
you do not mean that. Not love me! Oh! Alrina! after all----"

"I cannot stay longer," said she, hastily withdrawing her hand; "I can
only repeat that I cannot love you." And, in an agony of mind, which it
would be impossible to describe, she rushed to her own room, and,
locking the door, threw herself on the bed, and wept bitter tears of
agony unspeakable.

Morley remained motionless for some minutes, as one thunderstruck. It
seemed as if he had received his death blow. To be treated thus coldly
by one who, but a short time before, had expressed the warmest affection
for him, was inexplicable. He could not understand it. There was only
one solution that presented itself to his disordered mind. She loved
another! And that thought rendered him desperate,--it maddened him.

Revenge was his first thought. But how, and on whom? He staggered out of
the house like a drunken man, and directed his steps unconsciously
towards the sea. Life had become a burden to him within the last short
hour. He had nothing now to live for. He looked down into the deep blue
sea, as he stood on the rock. All his former hope of life and happiness
had faded away like a shadow. He could have lived on with the hope that
she might one day be his, knowing that she loved him still. But, now,
she had told him that she could not love him, and had bade him farewell
for ever! He could not endure the thought. Her coldness and the apparent
cause thrilled through his frame. This feeling of jealousy maddened him;
his brain reeled. One plunge into that deep blue water, and all his
mental sufferings would be ended. The waters would open to receive him;
and when they closed over him again, all the cares and troubles of this
life would be over, and she would be free from the dread of his
presence, if indeed she feared it.

His brain was on fire; he was mad; a temporary insanity had seized him;
and he thought only of escaping from present troubles. One short plunge,
and all would be over. Alas! he thought not of the future. What mortal,
when in that state of frenzied madness, does think of that?

For if, he did,--if, in the act of making his quietus by self
destruction, one sane thought remained,--"that dread of something after
death--the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller
returns--would puzzle the will; and make him rather bear the ills he
has, than fly to others that he knows not of." Man's life is not in his
own hands. He who gave it, and He alone, has the right to take it when
it shall please Him so to do. Morley thought not of the future, but only
how to escape from "the pangs of despised love," which now oppressed
him. And the more he thought of this, the more did his brain seethe and
boil, till he could bear it no longer; and, taking a desperate leap from
the high rock on which he stood, he plunged into the deep blue water
that lay so tranquil at his feet.

A splash was heard as the waters opened to receive their prey; and then
they closed around and over him, and down he went,--down! down!--five
fathoms deep, or more, for the water here was deep enough to swim a
three-decked ship with all her thousand men on board, and guns and
ammunition. 'Twas an awful plunge, not like the plunge of the agile
swimmer, who jumps from off a rock and dives until he touches the
bottom, only to rebound and then come up again some few yards ahead, and
strike out boldly with head erect, braving the restless sea, and riding
over each wave buoyant and graceful as a sea-bird, whose element it is.
The plunge of the victim of self destruction has a sadder and more
decided sound. Down he goes to the bottom, a dead weight, with all his
sins upon his head; for in that short space of time, all the actions of
his past life crowd on his mind, and he lives his life over again, as it
were, in a single moment.

And so went down the body of Frederick Morley to the bottom. But as his
body touched it, up it came again buoyant in that unruffled sea. Ere it
rose to the surface of the water, another splash was heard, and a stout
strong swimmer came breasting the waves, ready to catch the rash young
man as soon as he appeared; and, seizing him in one of his strong arms,
he swam with him to the shore and landed him in safety.

Frederick had not been under water long enough to receive any serious
injury, although the salt water in his mouth and eyes and ears, made him
feel very uncomfortable. And this might have a very serious effect,
after his late sufferings and confinement; for he had risen from his bed
to go to Alrina, on learning that she was at home, when he ought to have
remained quiet for a little longer, in order to be fully equal to the
double shock he had sustained. Perhaps had he been in robust health, he
would not have taken this rash step; but his nerves were weak. The
plunge into the water, however, had tended to cool his fevered brain;
and, when he turned to thank his deliverer, after he had recovered a
little, what was his surprise to find that he was indebted again for his
life to that noble fellow, Josiah Trenow, who had thus saved him a
second time from the jaws of death.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BROKEN REED.


Mr. Morley and Josiah had left Ashley Hall before the family could get
ready for the journey, and had travelled with speed and arrived at
Lieutenant Fowler's station on the morning of Frederick Morley's visit
to Alrina; and as Josiah had been hurried away without seeing Alice Ann,
he was anxious to know what had become of her; so, under pretence of
going to see his mother, he hastened to St. Just at once, and made
direct for Mr. Freeman's house, little thinking of the changes that had
taken place there during his short absence. He learned from Alice Ann
all that she knew of the history of the past few weeks, and she ended by
telling him that Mr. Frederick Morley had been there that morning, and
that something had happened between him and Miss Reeney, for that she
was locked in her room sobbing and crying her eyes out a'most, and Mr.
Frederick was gone down towards the sea, raving like a mad bull.

Josiah thought there must be something very much amiss, but what it was
he could not imagine. However he deemed it prudent to follow his young
master; and it was lucky he did so, for he reached the spot barely in
time to see him throw himself from the rock into the sea. Josiah was an
expert swimmer so he did not hesitate a moment, but throwing off his
coat and hat, he plunged in after the demented youth, and saved him, as
we have seen. Now that he was cool and collected once more, Morley
seemed quite ashamed of the act he had attempted, and shuddered at what
might have been his fate, had he not been thus fortunately rescued; nor
would he satisfy his faithful follower as to whether it was accident or
not. After sitting in the sun to dry themselves a little, they walked
back to the inn, where they found Lieutenant Fowler and Mr. Morley
waiting their return. Fowler had not heard, until the night before, of
Frederick's miraculous escape from his imprisonment at Cooper's, and his
preservation in the vessel which had borne away Mr. Freeman from the
hands of justice;--and they came on to see Frederick, whom they expected
to find in bed, and to learn the truth about the return of Mr. Freeman;
for Fowler had heard only a rumour of that as yet,--the gossips being
still afraid to speak out openly about him, lest evil should come upon
them.

Josiah had heard every particular from Alice Ann; and Mr. Morley, being
determined that he should not elude them this time, desired Josiah to
watch the house lest any one should escape, while he and Fowler
proceeded to Pendrea, for the assistance of the squire, whose warrant as
a magistrate would be necessary for the apprehension of the guilty
party. Josiah recommended Frederick to go to bed at once, for he feared
serious consequences would result from his remaining in his wet clothes
any longer, and he told the other gentlemen that their friend had
slipped off a rock into the water. They sat by his bedside for a little
time after he was in bed, and heard his adventures, and then proceeded
on their more important business. They refrained from telling Frederick,
however, the name of the party they were in search of, fearing the
consequences, in his present weak state, and knowing the pain it would
cause him, to find that it was Alrina's father whom they accused.

Fowler forgot his own wrongs in his anxiety to serve his friend; and it
was not until they were within a short distance of Pendrea-house, that
he remembered his position with regard to the squire and his household,
and he scrupled to go on.

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," said Mr. Morley; "you are going on a very
different errand now. That was pleasure, this is business; besides, we
don't know what it may lead to."

Thus persuaded, but certainly not against his inclination, Fowler went
on without again alluding to the subject, well knowing the old adage
that "faint heart never won fair lady."

The squire was at home, and received his two visitors with politeness if
not with cordiality; for his wife had got a crotchet into her head about
Mr. Morley and her eldest daughter, which had been told her by one of
the servants, and she had told it to the squire; and, putting this
against that, as he expressed it, he thought he saw clearly that Mr.
Morley had been trifling with his eldest daughter's affections, as
Fowler had been doing with her sister; and so he came to the conclusion,
without the aid of the conjuror, that the conduct of these two men had
caused the sudden and alarming change which they had observed in the
health and spirits of their two daughters, and which had baffled the
skill of all the doctors. Had Mr. Morley and Lieutenant Fowler,
therefore, called in the ordinary way, and claimed his friendship, they
would not probably have been admitted; but they now came on business in
which the squire was himself much interested; so he filled up a warrant
and agreed to accompany them to see the end of it. They could take a
constable from the village, as they passed, he said.

The old squire did not forget his hospitality, in his pique at the
treatment he believed his daughters had received at the hands of these
two gentlemen. They were both gentlemanly men, and they were now engaged
in one common cause with himself, the punishment of a man whom the
squire had suspected and watched for some time, and who, they now
discovered, was a villain of the deepest dye. Mr. Morley had suspicions
even beyond what, at present, he thought it prudent to communicate to
the other two gentlemen. The squire unbent and came down from his
stilts, before they had conversed five minutes, and ordered lunch, which
he might in those days have termed dinner; after which the three
gentlemen started on their expedition. And so eager and anxious were
they in concocting their plans for the capture of the man who had so
cunningly eluded them before, that, if the ladies were not forgotten by
some of the party, they were certainly not alluded to. Perhaps this was
avoided from policy by the two visitors;--the stilts might have been had
recourse to again, if that subject had been revived just then in the
mind of the crusty old squire.

The ladies knew that the two gentlemen were in the house, and expected
to be summoned into the drawing-room, but they were disappointed. The
three gentlemen lunched alone, and then started on their expedition. An
experienced constable was procured at the next village, and on they
went, a formidable party, determined not to be outwitted again by that
cunning man. They found the trusty Josiah watching closely when they
arrived near the house; no one had gone in or come out, he said, since
he had been there. He had not even seen Alice Ann come out, and he would
not venture too near the house for fear of causing suspicion. They knew
the depth and cunning of the man so well, that it was necessary to use
every precaution. He might feign extreme illness in order to put them
off their guard, and might again escape. So it was arranged that
Lieutenant Fowler and Josiah should watch the outside of the house,
while the other two went in, accompanied by the constable, who was well
up to his work, having been sent down from a larger place some years
ago, and recommended to the office by a gentleman high in authority.

"'The Maister' es very bad in bed, sar," said Alice Ann, making a low
curtsey to the squire, as she opened the door; "Miss Reeney es up in har
room, very bad too, for what I can tell; for I haan't seed har for a
bra' bit. I'll call har down, sar. Step inside, ef you plaise." And she
ushered them into the best parlour.

As the house was well watched and guarded, the squire and Mr. Morley
thought it would be but courteous to see the daughter, and smooth it
over to her as well as they could. Justice must have its course, but it
would have been cruel to have distressed the poor innocent girl more
than was absolutely necessary. They intended to try to get her away
somewhere first, and then she would not feel the disgrace so much. The
constable, however, was for executing his warrant at once without
showing favour or affection to anyone, man, woman, or child; and if the
magistrate had not been there in person to check him, he would have made
short work of it; for he was a rough, determined character, and had been
in office long enough to be hardened in the stern duties he was
sometimes obliged to perform. He had suffered for showing too much
lenity to persons in his early career and he was determined that
shouldn't happen again.

After a short time, Alrina made her appearance, pale and wretched, with
swollen eyes, and a fevered brow, which her visitors, who knew not the
real cause, attributed to her grief and anxiety for her father. The
squire told her as gently as he could, that they had an unpleasant duty
to perform, which must be done; and he advised her to leave the house,
and seek the protection of some friend.

"Alas!" she replied; "what friend have I to fly to? I have no one in the
world but my father and my aunt, to look to for protection. My father
lies upstairs on a bed of sickness, and he has no one but myself to
nurse him; and where my aunt is I know not. Oh! gentlemen, have pity on
me, if not on my father;--he is my father, whatever evil he may have
done. Spare him for my sake! Consider, squire Pendray, you have
daughters of your own,--consider their feelings if placed in my
situation. My poor father to be taken from a bed of sickness, where I
have endeavoured to do all in my power to relieve his sufferings, and to
ease his pain,--to be taken out by the rough hands of the executors of
the law, and cast into a cold damp prison! Oh! gentlemen, on my knees I
beg you to allow him to remain here with me. It may not be long." And,
falling on her knees, she clasped the squire by the hand, and burst into
a flood of tears.

It was an affecting sight. The squire remembered his own daughters, and
their fond affection for their father, and would have relented; and Mr.
Morley, although he was the one most aggrieved, turned away from the sad
scene. It was heartrending to see one so young and lovely on her bended
knees, praying for her father's relief from present punishment.

It was but a slight request after all.

"Why not let the constable remain here?" said Mr. Morley at last. "Two
if you like."

"Yes! two!" exclaimed Alrina, rising suddenly, and approaching Mr.
Morley; "only allow my father to remain here under my care and nursing,
until he is able to be removed (if it must be so), and I will ask no
more. Oh! squire Pendray!--Oh! Mr. Morley!" continued she, appealing to
each of them by turns; "think what it is to have a father taken from
you, and in this way! Let him remain here,--oh! pray, let him remain."

The constable was made of sterner stuff. He had been constable many
years, and knew his duty when he had a warrant placed in his hands; and,
seeing that Mr. Morley had given way already, and that the squire would
soon follow his example, he thought it was time to speak.

"I tell 'ee what et es, squire," said he; "you have put a warrant in my
hands agen John Freeman, the Land's-End conjuror, and what not, and Mr.
Morley's oath es gone forth agen him; and ef you wink at et now, and the
man shud escape, what do you think will be the upshot of et? Why, we
shall have to take the conjuror's place for compromising a
felony,--that's about the time o' day, gentlemen. I've suffered before
for tender-heartedness, and I don't mean to do et agen; so ef miss will
show me the room I'll follow her, or else I'll find et out by myself."

Alrina now turned to the constable and besought him to pity her, and, if
it must be so, to remain there, and she would make him as comfortable as
possible.

"Oh! sir!" she said, "if you have a daughter, think of her feelings,
should her father be taken from her, as you would take away mine,--oh!
in pity think of that sir!"

"That's the very thing I'm thinking about, miss," replied the constable;
"and I'm thinking that my daughter wud have to go through the same trial
as you are going through now, ef I wor to lev the conjuror go. No! no!
miss, rather he than me, axing your pardon. Why lor' bless you, miss,
tesn't much when you're used to et. We'll take care of the old
gentleman, as much as ef he had be'n the old gentleman hisself. I've got
a tidy little covered cart outside, and we'll clap 'n in, and travel to
Penzance to-night, and to-morrow mornin' he'll be broft before the
magistrates and committed, ef he's guilty,--and he's sure to be, I
s'pose,--and then on to Bodmin. Why, 'twill be a nice little ride for 'n
miss."

"Oh! don't, please don't, paint such a terrible picture as that," said
Alrina, looking' up at the inexorable constable, with the tears
glistening in her eyes.

"Come," said he, "I'm not going to be made chicken-hearted. Show me the
way to his room,--we're wasting time." And he led the way out of the
room, followed by the others.

Alrina, now, seeing that tears and entreaties would not avail, preceded
the party upstairs; but when she arrived at her father's bedroom-door,
she stopped and begged the constable to allow her to go in first, to
break the nature of their business to him, and prepare him for their
approach.

"No!" said the constable, sharply, placing his hand on the handle of the
door; "that dodge won't do, my pretty lady. A cunning man and a shrewd
woman are a match for the devil, when they get together." So, seeing she
had no alternative but to open the door and admit them, Alrina, with a
trembling hand, lifted the latch, and, preceding the others, hastily
gained the side of the bed, and, kneeling down, begged her father not to
be frightened, for he would be treated kindly. She said this without
looking on his face; for she knew she could say nothing to comfort him,
and she did not like to witness the shock which this untimely intrusion
must occasion, and so she pressed her face on the bed, as she knelt, and
said these few introductory words, and waited to hear what he would say
to his unwelcome visitors. No one spoke for a few minutes. A deathlike
silence prevailed throughout the room. At last the constable broke the
spell by saying,--

"Escaped again, by George!"

"Escaped!" cried Alrina, jumping up from her kneeling posture; "thank
God for that. But how escaped? how could he----?"

She did not finish her sentence; for, looking down where she had dreaded
to look before, the awful truth was but too evident. There was no
mistaking it. There lay the earthly remains of her poor deluded father,
it was true, but the spirit had indeed escaped, and fled to regions
unknown!

The shock was too great for her. She had suffered the severest mental
agony that day that it was possible for mortal to bear. She had borne up
bravely while there appeared a chance of saving her father from
disgrace; but now she broke down altogether, and fell on the floor
insensible. Alice Ann had followed the intruders into the room; and, as
all her efforts to rouse her young mistress were in vain, she asked the
gentlemen to assist in carrying her into her own room.

Fowler and Josiah were called in, and a consultation was held as to
where Alrina should be placed for the present. She could not remain
there, under the circumstances,--that was very clear. Several plans were
proposed and discussed, but nothing could be decided on for her. She
might object to them all when she recovered her senses. At last Squire
Pendray proposed that she should be conveyed to his house, where he was
sure she would be taken care of; and he felt, moreover, although he did
not express it, that the companionship of such a noble strong-minded
girl might lead to the recovery of his own daughter. This was thought an
excellent plan, and everyone declared that the squire was most kind and
considerate. But then came another difficulty. She would not accept his
offer now, he feared, any more than she would the offer that was made
her by his wife, before. And in this he thought she acted
foolishly,--more foolishly than he should have imagined from the good
sense she had displayed in other respects.

Under these circumstances, he thought, they must get her to
Pendrea-house by stratagem, and, when there, he felt sure she would like
it too well to run away, and he was sure his family would approve of the
plan, and would make her as comfortable as possible. So it was arranged
that she should be taken carefully, in her present unconscious state,
and placed gently in the covered cart, well wrapped up, and that Alice
Ann should go also to take care of her, on the road. This plan Alice Ann
thought capital. So the poor unconscious girl was carried out gently by
Josiah in his great strong arms, and placed comfortably in the covered
cart, with Alice Ann by her side, and Josiah was left in charge of the
house and the dead body of its late owner.

Mr. Morley said he must go and see his brother again; for he feared that
the sufferings and privations he had lately undergone, had seriously
impaired his health and undermined his constitution. So he went on to
"The Commercial" inn, while the squire and Lieut. Fowler proceeded
towards their respective homes; and as their road lay the same way for
some distance, they walked together. Fowler made himself so agreeable to
the old gentleman during their walk that he was sorry to part with him
when their roads turned in different directions. He did not ask him,
however, to continue his companion all the way to Pendrea-house; but
during his solitary walk after they had parted, he began to think that
such an agreeable fellow could never really be the villain he supposed
him to be with regard to his conduct towards his daughter. His opinion
of him was softened a good deal; and if a satisfactory explanation of
his conduct could have been given just then, and a proposal made in a
straightforward honourable way, the old gentleman would, no doubt, have
consented, rather than leave his daughter pine away thus,--the cause of
which he now devined so truly. But the explanation did not come, nor was
the proposal made; so the old squire walked home alone to prepare his
family for the reception of their visitor, who was being brought slowly
round by the broad road, while he and Fowler had taken a short cut
across the common.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

JOSIAH'S LONELY MIDNIGHT WATCH IN THE CONJUROR'S HOUSE.


Mr. Morley found his brother still in bed; not because he was too ill to
get up--for the walk and the cold bath had done him good--but for the
simple reason that he had no clothes to put on. Those he wore in the
morning were too wet, and he had not yet received a fresh supply from
the "First and Last" inn, at Sennen, where he had left his things when
he started so suddenly on his journey some weeks before. So Mr. Morley
sat by his bedside, and got him to relate his adventures, which he did
very faithfully, until he came to the adventure of that morning; and
then Mr. Morley saw there was a reluctance to tell all. But he was
determined to know everything, and he pressed his brother to confide in
him; and, after some little hesitation, he told all, except his attempt
at self-destruction. He didn't tell that; but he dwelt long on the
conduct of Alrina, and asked his brother if he could give him any clue
to the discovery of Alrina's motive for treating him so coldly and
cruelly.

"Yes," replied his brother; "I think I can fathom it; and although I
think Miss Freeman is a noble girl, yet I think, when I have related to
you my adventures of the last few weeks, you will think that she is
right, and that you have luckily escaped being mixed up in a most
unpleasant affair, that must have embittered your whole life, had not
that noble girl been more prudent than yourself."

It will be remembered that Frederick knew nothing of his brother's
search at Mr. Freeman's house, when he found his chest there, and the
money gone,--nor did he know of the second attempt, that morning, to
secure the man of cunning, nor of his death,--nor, indeed, had he heard
of his brother's success in entering the deserted house near
Bristol;--so that Mr. Morley had a long and interesting tale to relate.

Frederick was very much excited several times during the recital, and
seemed to drink in every word, as it were, especially when his brother
arrived at the latter part of his recital, wherein Alrina pleaded so
piteously for a delay of her father's punishment.

A long silence ensued when the tale was ended. At last Mr. Morley
said,--

"Now, do you see Miss Freeman's motive for her treatment of you this
morning?"

"Noble girl!" exclaimed Frederick; "I see it all, she knew her father's
guilt, and did violence to her feelings to save me from being involved
in the sad affair. But after all, I cannot understand why she should say
she couldn't love me;--why not have told me all, and have left it to me
to act according to the dictates of my own feelings?"

"She knew you better than you knew yourself," replied his brother; "and
I repeat that she acted nobly, and you ought to consider yourself lucky,
that you have escaped a life of misery; for, however deeply you may love
this girl now, in the warmth of a first and youthful love, you would
find that your ardour would cool considerably, when you saw the world
looking coldly on your wife, and avoiding her society, as the child of a
felon, and worse, perhaps, however good and lovely she may be in
herself. No! no! take my word for it, my dear brother, you will thank
her for the course she has pursued, when you have calmly reflected on
it."

"Never!" said Frederick, passionately; "instead of weakening my love for
her, this noble conduct of hers, has endeared her to me a hundred-fold.
What care I for the sneers of the world, if I have Alrina's love? I will
go to her at once, and have a full explanation; and if, as you think,
she declined my love for the sake of preventing my being subjected to
the sneers and scorns of the world, I will compel her to marry me."

"Stay," said Mr. Morley; "you must first ascertain that my conjecture
is the right one; but I wouldn't advise you to see her yourself. Let me
see her for you."

"No," said his brother; "I will see her myself." And as his clothes had
arrived by this time, he dressed and accompanied his brother back to
Tol-pedn-Penwith, where Lieutenant Fowler had no difficulty in
accommodating them both, although his house was so small. He ordered an
extra hammock to be slung up in the largest of the sleeping apartments,
where the two brothers slept soundly till a late hour the next morning,
as they were both very tired.

Josiah, in the meantime, kept watch and guard over "the Maister's" house
and its contents. It was pleasant enough while the daylight lasted; but
when night came on, and darkness covered the face of the earth, Josiah
thought it was very whisht to be there in that house all alone. So he
went down to his father's, and had a good supper, and something to
drink. This made him feel very comfortable, and he wished them all
good-night, took a lantern with him, and went back again to his solitary
watch.

Josiah was a courageous man at all times when there was any real danger
to be feared, and a strong man, as everybody knew. The man must be more
than mortal who could make Josiah afraid, but he had a strong
superstitious feeling in his composition; and who had not in those
days?--and if there was an excuse for the feeling at all, it certainly
might be excused in such a case as this. Here was the man who had been
the dread of the neighbourhood, and who was believed to have dealings
with the Evil One, lying dead in that lonely house, where so many evil
deeds had been done, some of which had been discovered within the last
few days. That he was a man to be feared and dreaded no one doubted; but
whether he really had the power which many gave him credit for, remained
to be proved yet. Josiah thought that perhaps it would be his fate to
prove this; and it cannot be denied that he felt rather uncomfortable,
when he found himself seated in the kitchen of that house, not only
without the pleasant society of Alice Ann, but, as he well knew, without
having any human habitation within some distance of him.

His mother had kindly given him a flask of brandy, that he might indulge
in the prevailing amusement at that period, of "keeping his spirits up,
by pouring spirits down;" and so he sat down in the chair usually
occupied by Alice Ann, having first placed a glass and some water on the
table, and began to reflect on the vicissitudes of human life in
general, and of his life in particular; and then he began to speculate
on the prospects of happiness which seemed to loom in the future, when
he should have led Alice Ann to the altar, and settled down as a married
man. These thoughts were all very pleasant, and so was the
brandy-and-water. The candle was burning brightly and so was the fire,
and he thought he was "getten on brave."

He had got nearly to the bottom of the second glass of
brandy-and-water, and was beginning to feel quite comfortable and happy.
He only wanted one thing to add to his perfect happiness he thought, and
that was the pleasure of Alice Ann's society. It was drawing towards
midnight, and he was feeling drowsy, so he dropped off into a sound
sleep as he sat in his chair, and dreamed of her he last thought of
before he fell asleep. He fancied he heard her upstairs, brushing out
the rooms, and knocking the furniture about, as servants frequently do,
merely to show that they are doing something. She was making a
tremendous noise certainly, he thought, and he called to her, in his
sleep, not to make so much noise, to disturb "The Maister." But the
noise continued, nevertheless; and when he awoke he found the candle
burnt down in the socket, and the fire nearly gone out; so he
replenished the fire first, and then looked about for another candle,
but before he could find one, he heard, as he thought, a strange noise
in "The Maister's" room. What could it be? No one could have got into
the house; he had locked the doors,--he was sure of that, but still
there was a noise--that was evident; and someone was walking up and down
the room upstairs. What could it be?

The candle, which had been flickering in the socket, and wavering
between life and death, as it were, for some seconds, now went out
entirely, and left Josiah in perfect darkness. He searched in vain for
another candle,--he couldn't find one anywhere; and then he tried to
find the door of the kitchen, but he could not find it. He went round
and round the room, as he thought, but no door could he find; so at
length he came back to his chair again, which he found by the aid of the
glimmer of light from the fire which he had nearly extinguished in his
haste to replenish it, when he saw the candle flickering away.

He now fully made up his mind that he was spellbound, and that "The
Maister's" spirit was walking through the house; but as the noise had
ceased he became a little more reconciled, and helped himself to some
more brandy, after which he fell fast asleep again, and when he awoke it
was broad daylight.

He rubbed his eyes and looked about the room, forgetting for a moment
where he was; and then he began to think of his absurd fancies about
being spellbound and "piskey-led," and such nonsense; and he laughed
aloud and went out into the fresh morning air. The doors were barred and
all secure, as he had left them when he came in the night before. But
still he heard those strange noises in his ears, and he could not get
rid of the feeling that the "The Maister's" spirit was walking in his
room last night. He locked the door behind him, and went down the road
towards his father's house to breakfast.

"Why, 'Siah, boy," said Captain Trenow, laughing, as his son
approached, "you're looking so whisht as ef you'd seed a ghost. "The
Maister" dedn't trouble 'ee in the night, ded aw?"

"I caen't tell," replied Josiah, "what et wor, but I heerd a bra' noise
in the night."

"Why, what are 'ee tellen?" exclaimed Mrs. Trenow, coming to the door;
"I always thoft hes sperit wud walk, ef anybody's ever ded."

"Nonsense!" said Captain Trenow; "you're two patticks, both of 'ee."

Josiah would not be persuaded out of the belief, however, that "The
Maister's" spirit was walking in his room last night.

"I'm no coward, fe-a-thar, and that you do knaw," said he; "but I arn't
fitty for to stop up there another night by myself, nor I wean't nether
to plaise nobody,--there, na."

His father turned the whole tale into ridicule, and laughed at the idea
of noises being heard in "The Maister's" chamber, when there was no one
in the house but Josiah.

"I'll tell 'ee, my son," said the old man, at length, with a wicked
twinkle in his eye; "the brandy was too strong, I reckon. Ha! ha! ha!"

Josiah was about to reply indignantly to this insinuation, when they
were disturbed by a knock at the door.

"Dear lor'!" said Mrs. Trenow, rising to open the door; "why, who can be
come so early, I wondar?"

She soon returned, saying that the undertakers wanted to go in to do
their work.

"Aw! iss, sure," said Josiah; "the door es locked, sure nuff."

"Come," said Captain Trenow; "we may as well go down too, and make sure
that no more noises shall be heard. I shudn't like for 'ee to be
frightened worse than you are, boy."

So they went down together; and, as Josiah unlocked the door, his father
said in a sarcastic tone,--"Now, don't you be frightened, my son."

Josiah did not answer, but led the way upstairs to "The Maister's"
bedroom, which adjoined the mysterious room, so often referred to in
this history; and having unlocked the door, he led the way into the room
where only a few hours before that affecting scene had been witnessed,
which we have before recorded.

The awful escape from the hands of justice of one who seemed deserving
of a severe punishment, and the consequent shock to the nervous system
of a lovely and noble-minded girl, who would have braved everything to
save her father from ignominy and suffering,--this scene was no novelty
to the undertaker's mermidons. They were accustomed to view dead bodies
continually, in their calling. They had been working all night, in order
to be in time, and they had brought the fruits of their labour with
them, and proceeded, without ceremony, towards the bed, when they
started back in amazement! for,--the bed was empty!

"The Maister" was gone!--fled! But where?--that was the question. They
searched the room, but found nothing. There was a communication,
however, between the bedroom and "The Maister's" private room which no
one remembered ever having seen before;--it must have been concealed by
some paintings hung against the wall. It was open now--wide open. They
went through, into the mysterious room, and there they found that the
drawers had been opened and ransacked, and all the valuables taken away.
The belt containing the diamonds and jewels, which had been put into one
of the drawers in that room, was gone. Captain Trenow was the first to
discover this; for he had found it in undressing "The Maister," and he
it was who had suggested to Alrina the propriety of locking it up in one
of those drawers.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SEARCH.


The news soon spread that the conjuror--body and soul--had vanished from
the room in which he was supposed to have died; and various were the
reports that got into circulation. Some said they didn't believe he had
been there at all; others thought he wasn't dead when the squire and
party left him; while others again believed that he was really dead, but
that, by some supernatural agency, he had been resuscitated and taken
away through the keyhole, or up the chimney, and that probably he was
then wandering about invisible. And those who held this belief were
pitiable objects; for they feared to speak a word against "The Maister,"
lest he should instantly appear in his bodily form, and annihilate them
as they stood. The dread of "The Maister" and his evil eye was bad
enough when he was alive and in the flesh, but now it was ten times
worse. Little knots of gossips might be seen here and there, holding
private conversations in whispers;--but that was all nonsense, the
believers in the supernatural would say. If "The Maister" was walking
about invisible he could come close enough to hear them, whisper so low
as they would.

Josiah was rather glad than otherwise that things had turned out as they
had; for his father didn't laugh at him now for fancying he heard noises
in the night. Captain Trenow thought it was Josiah's duty to go and
inform the gentlemen at Tol-pedn-Penwith what had happened, and Josiah
was of the same opinion, but he said he wouldn't go unless his father
went with him.

"What! afeard to go up there in the day-time now, art aw?" said his
father; "why, we shall be forced for to have a little maid for to lead
thee about soon."

"No, no," said Josiah, smiling; "I arn't afeard. Tesn't that altogether,
but you knaw what 'twas this mornin' when I told the story, and it may
be the same up there,--sure to be, I s'pose, weth them youngsters, that
don't believe in no such thing as ghosts. No, no, I arn't going for to
be made a maagum of, don't you think et."

"Well, ef that's the case," said his father, "why, I'll go too."

So away the two men started at a brisk pace; and it was well they both
went, for the gentlemen could scarcely believe the tale, although it was
confirmed in a most solemn manner by the old man, who did not look or
speak as if he was trying to deceive them.

As the squire had taken an active interest in the affair, it was thought
advisable to consult him before they took any steps to follow the
fugitive, for although they did not believe that there was anything
supernatural connected with it, they were at a loss to conjecture what
it was, or how such a strange affair could have happened.

They appeared a formidable party as they emerged from the lieutenant's
cabin, each man stooping to avoid knocking his head against the upper
part of the low doorway as he came out. They were all tall and
strong-built,--indeed you would not meet with five such fine-looking men
again in a good distance. They were embarked in one common cause; so
they kept together, and approached Pendrea-house, a strong body.

Alrina, after a good night's rest, seemed more cheerful, and was pleased
at the little attentions shewn her by Mrs. Pendray and her daughters.
Blanche was most attentive to her;--she would not leave her for a single
moment, and seemed to be continually thinking what she could do more
than she had done to make their guest comfortable. Maud received her
kindly and paid her great attention, but it seemed constrained; she
appeared to look upon her as an inferior, almost an infected, being,
from her unfortunate connection with that man, whom everyone now spoke
of with disgust and abhorrence; for all his evil doings that had yet
been discovered were now pretty generally known and perhaps exaggerated.

In the course of the morning, as Alrina regained her wonted composure,
her situation became more apparent and galling. She could not but
appreciate the kindness of the family, and especially the delicate
attention of the gentle Blanche, for whom Alrina conceived an almost
intuitive love, as for a dear sister; and therefore, for the present,
she thought she must accept their kindness, and when all was done that
was necessary for the interment of the remains of her poor erring
father, she would seek some employment by which she might maintain
herself without being a burden on others.

The money and jewels which Captain Trenow had found on her father's
person, she determined she would not touch; for doubtless they had
belonged to others and had been unlawfully obtained. Poor girl!
notwithstanding all that the ladies at Pendrea were doing for her, and
the kind attention they bestowed on her, she was ill-at-ease. She had
many heavy thoughts and afflictions weighing her down, which her kind
friends knew not of. Her father's death was not the greatest. Alas! she
had, in her loftiness of soul, discarded the only being in the world who
could have relieved her present sufferings and made everything smooth
and bearable for her at this terrible juncture. She had decided on her
course, however, in that respect; and the deep love she felt for him
made her now more than ever determined not to bring disgrace upon him.
After the treatment he had received at her hands, however, she did not
believe he would ever come near her again, or think of her but with
disdain;--indeed she did not deserve that he should,--she had taken her
course, and she felt that she did not deserve his love or pity any more.
This thought racked her brain, and rendered her silent and reserved. Her
kind friends imputed it to her grief for her father's death, and the
circumstances under which it had taken place. They knew now the strange
story of the body having disappeared; but the squire thought it best not
to let Alrina know this until they had ascertained more fully concerning
it, and for this purpose he cheerfully received the formidable party
that now sought his aid and co-operation.

They sat long in consultation,--one suggesting one plan, and one
another. Frederick Morley, however, did not feel capable of joining in
their deliberations. He walked to the window, and looked out on the
dreary scene which bounded that wing of the house; but nothing that he
could see without seemed so dreary, at that moment, as that which he
felt within. He didn't care for the old conjuror, he said to himself, he
might go to the devil if he would,--perhaps he was gone there. He wanted
to see Alrina, and he knew that she was in that house, but how could he
get an interview with her without betraying their secret?

He excused himself to the squire, and went out into the garden. Here he
met one of the female servants, whom he had seen before in his former
visits to the house with Lieutenant Fowler. He entered into conversation
with her, and asked her in what he thought a disinterested off-hand
manner, about Miss Alrina Freeman. But the shrewd girl saw at once how
matters stood, and she pitied them both. He tore a leaf from his
pocket-book, and wrote a few hurried lines in pencil, and asked her to
convey them to Miss Freeman, which the girl undertook to do as soon as
the way was clear. Cunning girl! she knew at once, almost by instinct,
that there was something between those two, which they did not wish the
world to know at present. Even the prospect of having these few lines
conveyed to Alrina was some relief to Frederick and he returned to his
friends, who were still deep in consultation, but no plan had as yet
been decided on. At length Captain Trenow, who had listened to all their
plans without giving an opinion, said,--

"I'll tell 'ee, gentlemen,--'The Maister' dedn't walk off by hisself,
that's a sure thing. Now, who helped 'n?--that's the point. Who are his
friends? Tell me that, and we may guess, purty nigh, where he's likely
to be carr'd to.

"Why I'll tell 'ee, fe-a-thar," said Josiah; "I b'lieve the friends he
ha' got are them that slocked away Maister Frederick Morley here, and
pocked 'n down in the cellar."

"Zackly like that," replied his father, looking at the gentlemen in a
knowing way; "'Birds of a feather do flock together.'"

"A good thought!" exclaimed Mr. Morley, rising. "Don't let us lose any
time, but proceed at once."

Horses were procured from the neighbouring farmers--for there were no
gigs or dog-carts in those days at the Land's-End--and they started on
their expedition; but lest so formidable a party should alarm the
neighbourhood, they agreed to go by different routes and to meet at
Portagnes, and to go in a body to Cooper's house; for that the body of
the conjuror was taken there no one seemed to doubt;--it was the only
place they could think of at all likely. For, although one of the party
strongly believed that the noises he heard, and the removal of the body,
were caused by supernatural agency, he did not express his thoughts on
that point, but followed the others, fully persuaded that they would
find their labour in vain.

Frederick Morley lingered behind his party a little, and under pretence
of having left something behind at Pendrea, he returned there, promising
to overtake his brother and the squire shortly. Fowler had gone another
way, accompanied by Captain Trenow and Josiah.

Frederick had indeed left something behind at Pendrea, and, knowing that
Alrina was there, he determined not to leave that place without having
an interview with her, and hearing from her own lips an explanation of
her conduct; and if it was from any feeling of delicacy, or as he deemed
it foolish fear, that by uniting herself with him she would be bringing
disgrace upon him and his family, he would insist on her recalling her
vow, if she had made one; and if she still loved him as he believed she
did, nothing on earth should prevent him from making her his own, and
claiming it as his right to cherish and protect her against all the
world.

This feeling had become a thousand times stronger than ever now, since
he knew that she so much wanted protection. It strengthened his love, if
possible, and made him more determined than ever not to leave that
place without seeing her, and compelling her to give up her foolish
scruples, and become his wife without delay; and the more he thought of
her present destitute position, the more did he blame himself for ever
having left her.

In the meanwhile, the squire and Mr. Morley pressed on their horses
towards Portagnes, thinking that Frederick would overtake them; but as
he did not, they supposed he had taken the other route, and had joined
Lieutenant Fowler's party. They met according to appointment; but
Frederick was not there. No one had seen him since he left them to
search for what he said he had left behind at Pendrea-house. However,
every moment was of consequence now, and they determined on proceeding
at once to Cooper's house, where they believed they should find the
fugitive. No one except Josiah doubted this for a moment; so it was
determined that the outside of the house should be closely watched, by
two of the party, while the others effected an entrance, by force if
necessary. The constable, with his warrant, had accompanied Fowler and
his party; and the lieutenant had left orders for two of his men to go
round by water to the entrance of the cavern, and keep a look-out
there,--so that escape was now impossible.

Lieutenant Fowler and Josiah watched outside, while the other three,
accompanied by the constable, proceeded to effect an entrance into the
house. They found the outer door of the garden unlocked, and they
thought they should gain an easy entrance; for the fugitives had
evidently either not returned there or were confident of their security.
These thoughts passed through the mind of each as they passed from the
outer door, through the garden, to the door of the house. Here, however,
they found an obstacle, for the door was bolted. They knocked several
times, and, no answer being returned, they held a consultation as to the
best way to break open the door, when a head protruded from one of the
upper windows, and they were asked, rather sharply, what they wanted.

"Come down, you old hag, and open the door, or we'll break it open,"
said Mr. Morley, in an angry tone, giving the door several knocks at the
same time with his walking-stick.

"Don't be so hasty, gentlemen," said the woman; "I was fool enough to
let you in last time, but you shan't come over me so easy again, I can
tell 'ee. You should oft to be ashamed of yourselves,--iss you ded--for
to come here with your staves and clubs to frighten a poor lone woman
like me."

"Come down, you miserable specimen of humanity," said the squire, "and
open the door, or it shall be broken open, and your house ransacked from
top to bottom, and you will not be let off so easily this time, I can
tell you."

"What did you please to want gentleman, when you do get in?" asked the
woman, in what the squire thought a very impertinent tone. And he was
about to reply, in a manner which would have given the woman an
opportunity of keeping up the conversation, and thereby keeping them out
of the house for a considerable time longer, when the constable thought
it was time for him to begin; for he was a shrewd man in his way, and
saw the woman's object. He believed she was keeping them in conversation
outside, in order to give the other inmates time to get away or to
conceal themselves in the house somewhere; so he said in as commanding a
tone as he could,--

"You know me, good woman, don't you?"

"No, I don't," she replied, "and, what's more, I don't want to."

"I'm the head constable of the district I am," said he; "and I claim
entrance, in the King's name, under a bench warrant."

"I don't care if you're the tail constable; you shan't come in here,"
replied the woman, shutting down the window.

"Thank you for nothing," said the constable; for at this moment the door
was opened from the inside by Captain Trenow, who had gone round the
house to reconnoitre, while the others were still trying to persuade the
old woman to let them in; and, finding a window open at the back of the
house, he entered that way, and now admitted the whole party. The old
woman protested there was no one in the house but herself, and so it
turned out; for they searched everywhere--upstairs and down--in the
cellars and even out to the extremity of the cavern. There was no one
there; so they beat a retreat and went back to the house they had before
met at, hoping that by this time Frederick had arrived; but in this they
were also disappointed. He was not there, nor had he been seen by
anyone; so, after partaking of a hasty refreshment, they turned their
horses' heads once more in the direction of the Land's-End, crestfallen
and disappointed.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING AND MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION.


While the gentlemen were holding their consulation at Pendrea-house, the
ladies of the establishment were variously occupied. Mrs. Pendrea was
superintending the cooking of some nice little sweet dish for a poor
sick child in the neighbourhood, and the two young ladies were seemingly
playing at hide-and-seek with one another, and wandering from room to
room, in hopes of hearing something, or of catching a sight of their
lovers; while Alrina was left alone to meditate on her sad fate.

She had not been alone long, however, before the door was opened
cautiously, and a servant entered, and closing the door after her in a
very mysterious way, and, approaching the couch on which Alrina was
resting, she put her finger on her lips, as much as to say, "Be silent,"
and gave Alrina a slip of paper on which was written, or rather
scrawled, hastily in pencil--


     "_Dearest Alrina.--I am wretched,--miserable! Grant me an interview
     for a few minutes. I have something of the greatest importance to
     communicate. I will be in the garden at the back of the house as
     soon as the other gentlemen are gone. I shall go out with them to
     prevent suspicion, and return on some pretence. The faithful bearer
     of this will assist you and let you know when._

     "_Adieu--my dearest love,_
     "_Frederick._"


When her attendant saw the agitation into which the young lady was
thrown, on the perusal of this scrap of paper, her former conjectures
were confirmed, and she determined to do her best to assist the two
lovers. She had a sympathetic feeling, and she retired to the window
under pretence of putting the blind straight, while Alrina perused, and
reperused, these few pencilled lines, so dear to her. She thought but a
few hours ago that she had overcome every feeling but that of duty and
honor, and that she could look upon him whom she so dearly loved, as a
brother. It was for his good that she had decided on this course; and
she believed that she should have firmness and courage to carry it out
to the end; and but a short time ago she felt so strong in her mind and
will, that she wished to see him once more to tell him so again. But she
then feared that no opportunity would ever offer, and that she should
never see him again to explain to him fully the state; of her mind, and
her real motives of action; for she felt that she had wronged him in
what she had said, and wounded his feelings when she told him she could
not love him. She knew she ought not to have said that; but what else
could she say? Her father was alive then, and might recover; she could
not tell her lover of her father's faults and crimes; and what was she
to do? Now, that he was dead, all was known, and Frederick believed, she
must now know all too, and she could now tell him why she could not
marry him; and she wished and longed to see him once more--only once
more--and now the opportunity had come; it might never come again. But
her heart failed her; she could not see him and tell him calmly that
they must part for ever, and explain her reasons fully, so as to make
him understand clearly what she meant. No, she could not do this; and
yet she felt that she must see him once more. So she decided on obeying
the promptings of her heart; and calling the maid to her, she said she
wished to be informed when the gentlemen left, and then she would walk
in the back garden a little. It was not at all necessary to explain
anything further to that shrewd girl, for she immediately saw how things
stood, and managed accordingly.

The Pendrea ladies were summoned to the drawing-room, almost immediately
after the departure of the gentlemen, to entertain Captain and Mrs.
Courland and their niece, who had come to return the call the squire and
his lady had made on them a few days before at Penzance, where they had
taken lodgings. Nothing could be better for the interview between the
lovers.

Grace, the go-between, as she styled herself, was delighted. She
immediately went to Alrina's room, and informed her that all was ready,
and that the coast was clear; which information rather astonished the
young lady,--for she could not conceive how Grace should know that she
wanted the coast clear; unless Frederick had told her more than she
thought was prudent. However, she had made up her mind to go through
with it; and, having put on her bonnet and shawl, which the prudent
Grace had brought with her, followed her conductress into the garden,
when Grace shewed her prudence again by withdrawing and leaving the two
lovers to themselves.

Alrina trembled at the thought of the terrible trial she was about to go
through, and her heart throbbed at every step as she walked down the
narrow pathway of the little garden, which was at the very back of the
house, secluded from view and sheltered by high walls, with no window to
overlook it, although, when you were inside, every part of it was
exposed enough, for the trees were very few and stunted.

Frederick had not arrived, evidently, unless he was concealed in the
little arbour at the bottom of the garden. Alrina walked down to it and
looked in. No, he was not there,--something had detained him, no doubt.
She waited, and waited, and walked up and down; still he did not come.
She was getting cold. She climbed up so as to look over the wall, but
could see nothing of him; and now she began to think he had deceived
her. He had taken this course to be revenged for the insult she had
offered him, when she told him--he to whom she had so often before
avowed the fondest love--that she could not love him. Yes; he had indeed
been revenged, and she felt that she deserved it all.

But hark! she hears a footstep approaching towards the garden-door. Her
ears are quick; they have been listening intensely for some time. Yes!
it must be. She rushes towards the door, and is caught in the arms of
two lovely girls.

"Alrina, you naughty girl," exclaimed Blanch, "how could you be so
imprudent as to come out in this cold wind?

"Alrina!" exclaimed the young lady; "can it be possible? you, here!--and
have I found you at last, my darling schoolfellow!" And the two girls,
in their gushing love, embraced most lovingly and affectionately; and
then there were explanations to be given and rereceived, and Blanche led
the way into Alrina's room, where Julia informed Blanche how they had
been at school together, and how her brother Frederick had fallen in
love with Alrina, when she was out walking, and how she had carried
letters and messages between them, and how her brother had searched for
Alrina everywhere, when he returned from abroad, and had written her to
search everywhere for his lost lady-love too; and kissing Alrina, in her
girlish way, she said, "Oh! how glad Frederick will be to find you
here."

Alrina could do nothing but kiss her friend, in return for all her kind
expressions and caresses. What could she say? She felt glad--very
glad--to see her old schoolfellow; but, under the circumstances, it was
mixed up with too much pain and sorrow to give her any permanent
pleasure.

Very soon Julia was summoned to attend her uncle and aunt on their
return to Penzance. They had taken a very substantial lunch while the
three girls had been having their _tête-à-tête_.

Captain Courland and his party had travelled by easy stages, for they
had come all the way in their own carriage with post-horses. It was one
of those old lumbering carriages intended to hold six inside--a regular
family coach.

"Well, ladies," said the Captain, as he seated himself; "I wish you
would take pattern by Mrs. Pendray; she had no hoops, nor farthingales
on,--a plain homely woman. No nonsense,--everything above board."

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Courland; "a very pleasant, agreeable,
little woman, as I have met with for a long time; but in the country
they are not always dressed for receiving visitors."

"And didn't you like Blanche, aunt?" asked Julia; "she is such a dear
girl."

"A nice little girl enough, I dare say," said the captain, answering the
question for his wife; "but her elder sister seemed to snub her, I
thought. 'Shiver my mizen,' thinks I, I'd haul down your topgallant
sails, miss, if I were your father."

"My dear," said Mrs. Courland, "I wish you would try to forget your sea
terms when you are in the society of ladies. I observed Miss Pendray
looking at you with astonishment several times, when you were giving out
some of your elegant expressions."

"I wish the squire had been home," replied her husband, without noticing
the remarks of his wife; for he was accustomed to these rebukes,--not
that she said them or meant them ill-naturedly, but she inherited her
mother's aristocratic notions, and could not endure anything approaching
to vulgarity or coarseness. She had not had very much of her husband's
society in former years, for he was only at home for a few months at a
time, and then his time was very much occupied, being the principal
owner of the ship he commanded. But, now he had nothing to do, and was
at home constantly, so that his elegant and accomplished wife had more
frequent opportunities of experiencing his rough sailor-like manner; not
that he was at all a coarse-minded man,--it was only his manner, which
he had naturally imbibed from the persons he was obliged to come into
such close contact with on board ship. He was naturally kind-hearted in
the extreme, and would do any good that lay in his power for a fellow
creature in distress; but he couldn't overcome his habit of using
nautical expressions, nor indeed did he try to now. He did try at first,
years ago, to speak a little more "dandified," as he called it, to
please his beautiful wife; but he found it too hard to accomplish, and
so he gave up trying, and contented himself with listening to her
lectures, good-humouredly, which he said came in at one ear and went out
at the other: and so he had listened patiently now to her remarks, and
then continued the conversation as if nothing had been said on the
"vexed" subject by his sensitive wife.

"I wish the squire had been home," said he; "he's a jolly fellow. I hate
to be stuck up with a parcel of palavering women, and be obliged to sit
bolt upright in my chair and take out every word and look at it before I
speak, or else be hauled over the coals for it."

"I'm sure you behaved very well to day, uncle," said Julia; "I saw Miss
Pendray looking at you several times, as if she admired your blunt,
straightforward manners."

"Did you?" replied the captain, looking rather pleased; "I looked at her
too when she got round to the starboard-tack. Brace my rigging, says I
to myself; but you're as tight and well built a frigate from stem to
stern as ever I clap'd my two eyes upon, save one."

"It was well you put in that saving clause, uncle," said Julia,
laughing; "or you would have made Aunt Courland jealous."

"No, no," said the captain, taking his wife's hand affectionately, "I'm
a rough knot; but if she never makes me jealous, I shall never make her
so. Everything is upright and downright and aboveboard with me. No
secrets from my wife, no, no; and I don't think she has any secrets or
mysteries from me, although we do have a breeze now and then about the
lingo."

"Talking of mysteries," said Julia, turning to her aunt; "who do you
think I met at Pendrea? You'll never guess, so I may as well tell you.
Why, no other than my old friend and schoolfellow, Alrina."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland; "you quite surprise me, where did she
come from?--how did she get there?"

"I don't know," replied Julia; "for just as I was about to enquire all
the particulars, I was summoned to attend you."

"Has Frederick seen her, or does he know she is there," asked Mrs.
Courland, with more than her usual energy.

"I know no more than I have told you," replied Julia; "I only met her a
short time before we left; for Blanche and I had been wandering over the
curious old house, and we were just going to have a peep at what they
call their garden, when Alrina came rushing out to meet us. I was struck
with her peculiar beauty at once, for I didn't at first know her until
Blanche mentioned her name. She was but a girl when I knew her at
school; she has now grown a beautiful woman,--oh! so beautiful, Aunt,
and so fair, with that auburn hair which you admire so much. I have seen
someone very like her, but I can't remember who it is. The expression of
her countenance when she met us, was so like an expression I have seen
in some one before; but who it is I cannot remember,--it was so
strange."

"We must ask the family to visit us at Penzance, my dear, and bring this
wonderful stranger with them," said Mrs. Courland, thoughtfully; "I
should like to know something more about her, and where she has been
hiding so long, that no trace of her could be found."

"Oh! yes, Aunt," said Julia; "for the sake of Frederick, I'm glad she is
found again; he was so passionately devoted to her."

"For his sake, perhaps, it would have been better if she had never
crossed our paths again," replied Mrs. Courland, talking to herself
rather than to her companions; "but the destiny of all must be
fulfilled. There is some mystery about this girl,--I am convinced there
is."

"So am I," replied Julia; "and I shall not rest till I have found it
out."

"Mystery!" exclaimed Captain Courland, in a voice which startled the two
ladies; "I hate mysteries. Everything open and aboveboard, say
I,--there's no occasion for mystery. I'd throw the lubber overboard, and
let him sink into Davy Jones's locker, if he didn't out with it at once,
whatever it was. 'Speak the truth and shame the devil,'--that's my
motto. I'll have no mysteries hid from me--no matter who it
is--overboard he'll go--damn me!"

This outbreak was so sudden and so unexpected, that it made the two
ladies feel very uncomfortable, especially the elder lady, whose
conscience smote her, and made her feel that, some day, the secret she
was keeping so rigidly from her husband might be revealed to him, and
then all her happiness would be gone. For she now saw, from this sudden
outburst of feeling, how angry he could be, and to what lengths he could
carry his vengeance, if he ever found out that terrible secret, and
discovered how long he had been deceived. It was a dreadful thought and
she shuddered at it, and lay trembling in the corner of the carriage,
while Julia, having no such pricks of conscience, and being, on the
whole, more amused than otherwise at the Captain's burst of passion,
apparently without a cause, answered him in his own language as far as
she could: for she believed that it was only a reminiscence of something
that might have happened on board ship, that had so roused him; and
turning to him, with a laughing eye, she said,--

"There's rough weather where you're sailing, Captain, I believe."

"Rough!" said he: "yes;--but rough or smooth, I'll have the whole of the
crew overhauled from the first mate down to the loplolly-boy; I'll make
a clean sweep. Mysteries, indeed, on board my ship!"

"Why, whatever do you mean, Uncle?" said Julia, now getting alarmed in
right earnest.

"Why! this is what I mean," replied he searching his pockets; "I'd
forgotten all about it, till you began to talk about mysteries and such
nonsense. When I went out to have a look about the place there, after
lunch, a queer-looking 'son of a gun' came and gave me this letter, and
cut off again as if the devil was at his heels. Now, you just read that,
and see if I haven't enough to make me look out for squalls! what the
devil is the meaning of it? I don't know!"

Julia took the letter from her uncle, and read the contents--first to
herself and then aloud:--


     "_Noble Captain.--A secret mystery, which now hangs over you and
     your's, is about to be revealed; but fear nothing; be firm, and
     bear it as a brave sailor ought to do, and it will add to your
     happiness:--but should you be led away by passion, or weakness, and
     receive it otherwise, misery and woe will be the portion of you and
     your's for ever. Bide your time--you will have further notice._

     "_A Friend,--who was formerly an Enemy._"


Julia read this strange epistle through two or three times, and so
intent was she in endeavouring to discover what it could mean, and who
the writer could be, that she did not notice the agitation of Mrs.
Courland, and the anguish of mind she was suffering as she lay half
concealed in the corner of the carriage; and the captain was too much
engrossed with his own irritating thoughts to pay any attention to
anyone else. So the poor lady was not disturbed by anything but her own
thoughts until they arrived at their lodgings, when she rushed upstairs
and gave vent to her feelings, harrowing up the most dreadful
consequences from this revelation, which she had no doubt was that of
her own secret. But, when she became more calm, and began to reflect a
little, she saw how absurd it was of her to anticipate evil so readily.
She had forgotten, in her haste, that she was now many, many miles away
from anyone who could possibly know her secret, and, as she became calm
again, she thought how very foolish she had been,--but so it is--an evil
conscience will start at a shadow. When the mind is constantly brooding
over one subject, and that, the consciousness of a crime committed, the
guilty perpetrator of the deed fears to look an upright, honest man in
the face; for he has the feeling that his breast is transparently open
to his gaze if he only gives him the opportunity to look in: and so he
slinks away, fearing that, in an unguarded moment, the transparency may
be penetrated. Just so did Mrs. Courland feel when she heard her husband
speak in those terrible and decided tones of his horror of secrets and
mysteries, well knowing that she was keeping one from him in her own
bosom which she ought to have told him long ago. And then that letter!
Could it be that _her secret_ was about to be revealed? She would have
given worlds to know: it would be a relief to know even the worst:--the
suspense was dreadful.

Every moment, during the latter part of their drive home, she expected
her husband would say that he knew all, and denounce her as a faithless
deceitful wife. She had consented to come into Cornwall, thinking that
she would be here removed from any chance of a discovery, but she found,
to her sorrow, that her guilt followed her even here--at least, so she
believed in her weak and self-accusing mind.



CHAPTER XL.

MISS PENDRAY'S SINGULAR ACCIDENT.


Alrina thought her cup of misery had been full long ago: but here was
another drop added to it. She was now fully convinced that Frederick had
taken her at her word and given her up, and, to be revenged of her
treatment of him, had induced her to come out into the garden, merely to
shew her that he could be as indifferent to her feelings as she had been
to his; and now Blanche knew her secret love, and would of course tell
it to all the family; and Julia would return, no doubt, and endeavour to
renew their former friendship until she discovered who she was, and what
her miserable father had been, and then she would spurn her.

Blanche returned to her after the visitors had departed, and began the
usual good-humoured badinage which passes between young ladies when a
secret love is discovered: she spoke in a playful manner at first: for
she did not know how serious it was, and she intended, if Alrina had
placed confidence in her, and told her, as a friend, of her secret love,
to have imparted to Alrina, in return, her own sorrows; and she was
surprised and grieved to find that, although she could see clearly there
was something very much amiss which preyed on Alrina's mind, yet her
friend did not seem to have sufficient confidence in her to tell her
what it was; so, to gain Alrina's confidence, in some degree, she told
her own secret first. It took a long time in the telling, although there
was not really much to tell; but it was the theme on which she had been
dwelling for weeks, and weeks, and as it was uppermost in her own
thoughts, she fancied it must be interesting in its minutest details to
everyone else. She had never spoken of it before to a single human
being, and now that she had commenced, and found, as she thought, a
willing and attentive listener, she dwelt on every trifling incident.

Alrina's thoughts were otherwise engaged, but she sympathised with the
gentle confiding creature who was pouring her thoughts and feelings into
her ear, and, when she had told her tale, Alrina said:--

"My dearest Blanche, there is some misunderstanding in all this--someone
has poisoned your father's mind: let some mutual friend but come between
and explain, and all will be well. But _my_ love, alas! is past all
healing! It cannot be! it cannot be!" and she burst into a flood of
tears, which Blanche tried in vain to assuage.

Early in the evening, Squire Pendray returned, bringing Mr. Morley with
him, for the latter believed that his brother had remained behind at
Pendrea-house for some private reason of his own, instead of following
them to Portagnes; and, moreover, Mr. Morley was very anxious to see
Miss Pendray once more, after having been absent from her so long. He
had not, it is true, pointedly asked her the question, but he had seen
sufficient of her to believe that his attentions were appreciated by
her, and that he had a fair chance of being accepted, should he venture
on that important step: and this step would have been taken long ago,
but for his anxiety to secure the vile wretches who had so stained the
character of his father, and brought him to an untimely end. He had
spoken to the squire on the subject, during their ride home, and
although he was rather inclined to get on his stilts again at first,
believing that Mr. Morley had been trifling with his daughter's
feelings, yet, when all was explained, he promised that if Mr. Morley
and his daughter could make matters up, as he termed it, he would not
object. And, while the squire went to acquaint his wife with the result
of the day's search, Mr. Morley went in search of the fair creature
whose charms had so entirely enthralled him: and so sure did he feel
that his brother Frederick had returned to Pendrea, and was there
comfortably ensconced, that he did not even enquire for him when he
returned. Oh! Cupid! Cupid! thou little perverter of men's thoughts and
tormentor of women's minds!

Alrina had scarcely recovered herself when Mrs. Pendray entered the
room and told the two young girls the whole story of the mysterious
disappearance of Alrina's father, and the fruitless search which had
been made for him by the gentlemen that day: the squire thought it best
that Alrina should be told the whole now, as there seemed no chance of
their being able to discover the body, or the parties who were concerned
in taking it away. This news came upon her so suddenly, that she could
scarcely realize it. That her father possessed more shrewdness and
knowledge than most other people she fully believed; but she did not
believe in his being possessed of any supernatural power, as many in the
neighbourhood did; and she therefore thought that the body had been
removed by some of his wicked assistants, to gratify some private end of
their own. Instead of giving way to tears again, she merely asked the
favor of being left alone for the remainder of the night, that she might
think on what course would be best for her to pursue under the
circumstances; and, so earnestly did she urge this, that her friends
were prevailed on to yield to her wishes, and she was left to her own
meditations. The gentle Blanche was very loth to leave her thus, after
the mutual understanding that had so lately sprung up between them; but,
as Alrina assured her that she required repose and meditation after the
excitement she had undergone, and that she should be better in the
morning, her kind friends retired, begging her at the same time, to
summon the domestics if she found she required anything more before they
retired for the night.

Mr. Morley sought Miss Pendray every where, in doors and out, but she
was no where to be found. One of the servants had seen her go out soon
after Captain Courland and his party left; but no one had seen her
since.--She had not returned.

This, however, was not at all unusual; she often wandered out alone, and
stayed away for hours. No one took much notice of her eccentricities.

Mr. Morley enquired where she was likely to have gone. No one could
tell: she might be gone to the Logan-Rock; or she might be, even then,
sitting on one of the lofty rocks above Lamorna Cove, where she
sometimes sat for hours watching the waves; or she might even be gone on
so far as Tol-pedn-Penwith.--It was very uncertain which route she might
have taken. One thing, however, the household were pretty certain
about,--she was on the high cliffs somewhere, for she seldom went
underneath.

Mr. Morley was determined to find her, and bring his suit to an issue at
once; and he thought that, if he could have the good fortune to meet her
alone on one of those distant headlands, he would have ample time to say
all he had to say during the walk back; so he started in pursuit.

Miss Pendray's proud spirit could not brook the repeated slights to
which she had been subjected by Mr. Morley, as she thought, and the
indifference with which he had treated her: he had been at Pendrea-house
again, and had not thought proper to see her or even to inquire for her.
So, as soon as Captain Courland and his party were gone, she went out in
no very amiable mood, and walked along the edge of the highest cliffs at
a brisk pace; and so absorbed was she in thought, that she did not seem
to notice the wild scenery, which generally had such attractions for
her, nor did she think of the distance she was walking, until she found
herself standing on one of the highest and most dangerous of the
headlands to be found on that part of the coast, many miles from
Pendrea-house, and no great distance from Tol-pedn-Penwith. She had, by
this time, worked herself up to such a pitch of anger and
disappointment, that she did not see her dangerous position. As she
thought of the treatment she had received, she stamped her foot
indignantly, and, in doing so, the crumbling rock on which she was
standing gave way, and, with a shriek, she fell with it; but,
fortunately, there happened to be a ledge of rocks a few yards down,
standing out from the cliffs, which broke her fall and saved her from
being engulphed in a watery grave, if she was not dashed in pieces by
the fall from that great height. She was stunned by the shock, and lay
insensible for some minutes on the narrow slip of rock which had so far
saved her life. When she recovered her senses again she was afraid to
move, lest this rock should give way too; and she shuddered as she
looked down on the foaming water, which dashed against the rocks some
hundred feet beneath her. And there she lay, in unspeakable terror,
fearing that the next moment she might be precipitated into the abyss
below.

Dreadful suspense! she had scarcely ever known what fear was until now.
The shades of evening were fast gathering round her, and the fear of
having to remain all night on that dread spot roused her, and something
of her wonted courage returned. Looking about, she saw that the ledge of
rock on which she was lying appeared to be the entrance into a cavern;
but how large it was, or whether it was merely a chasm in the rock
extending down to the sea, she did not know. She crept cautiously in,
feeling her way, as she went. For several feet she found the rocks hard
and firm; here she could rest securely. She sat and looked out on the
broad ocean before her; and the more she reflected on her awful
situation, the more disheartened did she feel. She saw nothing before
her but a lingering death. No boat could approach the rocks underneath;
indeed she could not be seen, unless she ventured out on that narrow
ledge of rock again. When she had rested herself a little, she explored
a little further, creeping cautiously along in the dark cavern. At last
she thought she saw a light. She stopped, and looked around. The cavern
was dark, except just at the entrance; but these lights seemed to be
coming from the further end. She crept on a little further, and was at
last convinced that this light came from some opening in the interior;
but whether it came from above or below she could not tell;--perhaps it
came from below. There was probably, she thought, a deep chasm running
down to the sea from the interior of the cavern, and if she ventured too
near she might be in danger of falling through. She crept a little
nearer, and then sat on a rock to meditate on her position, keeping her
eyes steadily fixed on this faint stream of light at the extremity. She
was now begining to feel cold and uncomfortable; her delicate hands and
arms were lacerated by the rocks, and her fingers were sore from holding
on to them so firmly: in her fear and anxiety for her safety, she did
not feel these injuries before, but now her scratches and bruises were
beginning to make themselves felt, and there she sat in the greatest
agony, both of body and mind.



CHAPTER XLI.

MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS ARE HEARD ISSUING OUT OF THE EARTH AT MIDNIGHT. THE
CURIOUS COTTAGE ON THE HEATH.


The party who had gone in search of the body of Mr. Freeman and his
guilty associates separated as they approached their respective homes:
Captain Trenow and Josiah went to St. Just, Squire Pendray and Mr.
Morley went to Pendrea-house as we have seen, and Lieutenant Fowler
proceeded on his solitary journey towards his own cabin at
Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station. On turning a sharp corner in the road,
he met one of his men, who had been ordered out on night-duty, and who
ought to have been watching the coast instead of travelling along on the
public road.

The man touched his cap to his commanding officer, who spoke rather
sharply to him as he returned the salute.

"What brings you here, Braceley?" said he, "when your orders were to
keep close to the cliffs to-night;--for there's mischief afloat, and we
want the coast well watched."

"Yes, sir," replied the man; "I have obeyed orders, and have heard
something that I thought best to report at once, and I came this road,
thinking to fall in with your honor."

"Well! what is it?" said Fowler; "bear a hand, and out with it; for it's
cold standing here in the wind."

"By the powers! sir," said Braceley, looking very solemn, "I believe
'The Maister' isn't far off, for I've heard queer sounds."

"Sounds," said Fowler; "nonsense, man, what do you mean?--This is one of
your confounded Irish superstitions."

"No, sir! by the Holy St. Patrick, 'tis no superstition, nor anything of
the kind," replied Braceley, coming nearer to the officer: "I was coming
along over the cliffs, sir, and I heard voices in the air over my
head,--and I spoke to them, and they answered again. Spirits, I'm sure
they were, your honor! 'The Maister' is here, says I,--and I tould him
to be aisy while I called the praist."

It was a queer story; but as nothing was too strange or improbable to
believe, in connection with "The Maister," after what had happened
within the last few days, Fowler determined he would go and see what it
was himself; so he accompanied the man in silence, until they arrived at
the spot where Braceley said he had heard those extraordinary sounds. It
was now getting dark, and the place was very lonely; not at all the
place that a nervous man would like to be in at night, if he heard
anything that he could by any means imagine was caused by supernatural
agency. Fowler had none of that superstitious feeling in his composition
which was so prevelant everywhere at that period, and he laughed at his
companion, who possessed a good deal of it, and told him that what he
fancied he had heard was entirely in his own imagination. The man could
not be persuaded, however, and they listened for minutes, but heard
nothing, and Fowler said, in a jeering, tone, "'The Maister's' ghost, no
doubt, Braceley! you shall have a guard of nanny-goats when you turn out
on night-duty again."

He had scarcely finished his sentence, before they heard the most
piercing sounds rending the air all round them. Fowler was startled; the
sounds came upon them so suddenly: he listened, but could not make out
where they came from; sometimes they appeared above their heads, and
then again beneath their feet: he did not believe in the supernatural,
but he really didn't know what else to impute it to. His companion,
however, had no doubt whatever but that it was "The Maister's" spirit
hovering about, seeking rest. Neither of them spoke, but they walked on
towards the edge of the cliff, and, on approaching a deep hole or
opening in the rock, about fifty yards from the extreme edge of the
cliff, Fowler was convinced that the sounds were coming up from
underneath. This opening was partially concealed by the overhanging
rocks, and might be passed unobserved by a casual visitor. He however
knew the place well, for he had once, on his first coming to
Tol-pedn-Penwith, made a good seizure of kegs in the cavern beneath.
When they arrived at this place, he called down lustily and asked who
was there, although he could scarcely believe that it could be any human
being. He was soon convinced, however, and astonished beyond measure,
at hearing a well-known voice calling up to him in tones of the
bitterest anguish:--

"Oh! good sir, whoever you are, assist me out of this dreadful place; I
fell from the precipice several hours ago, and crept in here. I am
wounded, and bitterly cold. Oh! good Christian, make haste."

"Don't distress yourself any more," replied Fowler; "you shall be
extricated at once; I know the cavern. I am Fowler of the
signal-station: I will be down to protect you in a few minutes."

In her distress and fear, Miss Pendray had evidently not recognised his
voice so easily as he had recognised hers. He desired Braceley to
proceed at once to the station, and get ropes and lights, and all the
assistance he could. Braceley had a blue-light in his pouch, which
Fowler lit, and fired a pistol, which he knew would bring any of his men
who were within hail to the spot at once. He then descended cautiously,
by the aid of the light, to reassure the unfortunate lady, and to
convince her that relief was at hand. It was a perilous adventure; but
Fowler had been down before; and so he knew that the opening did not
descend perpendicularly. He had first to slide down over a smooth rock,
almost perpendicular, for several yards, and then to jump on a flat
rock, and then slide on again, and so on alternately; but in the descent
the greatest caution was necessary, lest, in jumping on one of the
narrow flat rocks, he should slip and be carried by the impetus headlong
down to the bottom.

Miss Pendray was still sitting on the rock, afraid to move, when Fowler
jumped down at her side, carrying the light in his hand. She could
scarcely express her joy and gratification. She clasped his arm tightly
with both her hands and seemed afraid to let go her hold. She forgot all
her former animosity, and thought only of her present perilous position
and his ability and willingness to save her.

Braceley soon returned with ropes and lights and more assistance, and
they were not long in getting Miss Pendray up from her perilous
position. She was most grateful for the attention and almost miraculous
assistance of Lieutenant Fowler. She was not so much bruised but that
she was able to walk, although her limbs were sore, and her arms and
hands were lacerated fearfully. Fowler accompanied her as far as the
door of Pendrea-house, where he was about to take his leave, but she
would not suffer it: she almost compelled him to come in; for she felt
that, after all he had done for her that night, it was incumbent on her
to dispel some of the clouds which had for some time hung over his
happiness, and which she could not but feel she had been the means of
gathering around him and her gentle sister, and which this evening's
adventure had determined her to make amends for, by explaining to her
father the true state of the case; for she well knew that she had
exaggerated, to use a mild expression, when she told him of the
clandestine meetings of her sister and the lieutenant. Anger and wounded
pride had led her to commit this treacherous and ungenerous act, towards
her younger sister, whom she ought rather to have advised and reproved
in private if she had seen anything wrong in her behaviour. This act had
been repented of often by Miss Pendray, but her proud spirit would not
bend to acknowledge her fault: now she was determined on acknowledging
the part she had played, and, if she could not be happy herself in the
possession of the love of the only man who had ever really gained her
affections, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing she had
made two others happy, by candidly confessing her own dissimulation.

Mr. Morley, in the meantime, had gone on in search of her; but, as she
had considerably the start of him, he did not overtake her. He walked
over the cliffs for some distance, until he felt convinced that she
could not be gone in that direction; for he did not believe that any
lady would walk even so far as he had gone, on those high cliffs alone
at that hour; so he struck into a path which seemed to lead towards the
high road, thinking that would be the safer way for him to return, as he
was not familiar with the coast. He walked on for some distance, until
he came to a spot where several paths met, and here he was puzzled;
however, he took the one which seemed the most probable, although he had
by this time almost entirely lost his bearings, for he was now on low
ground, and could not see the cliffs or the sea. He walked on briskly
for a considerable time, when he halted again, for he felt convinced he
had missed his way. There was no house or human habitation to be seen,
nor could he see anyone of whom he might enquire; so he walked on again.
The twilight was now getting more decided in its character, and the
shadows of night were closing in, and he began to fear that he might be
kept wandering over that dreary heath all night; for he frequently came
upon some other path branching off from the one he was pursuing, and he
would sometimes be tempted to try a fresh one. At length he thought he
perceived smoke rising at some little distance, and he made sure now
that he should meet with some one to direct him; for it evidently arose
from a cottage at no great distance. He thought of his father's
adventures in that lonely cottage, on that dreadful night, and he braced
up his nerves and walked manfully forward; when, on turning into a
narrow lane which seemed to lead to the cottage, a man ran against him,
and nearly knocked him off his legs. Mr. Morley was a tall, powerful
man, and was armed with a stout stick which he instantly raised above
his head, ready to strike if he found that foul play was intended. The
uplifted hand descended, but not to strike; for Mr. Morley, to his great
surprise recognized in the ferocious and excited individual before him,
his brother Frederick.

"Where on earth did you spring from?" he exclaimed; "I thought you were
at this moment comfortably closeted with that unhappy girl you seemed so
infatuated with."

"I left you with the intention of seeing her and having a mutual
explanation," replied Frederick, "and she, no doubt, now feels that I
have deserted her."

"No! no! she can't think that," said Mr. Morley; "but better she should,
perhaps, than that you should unite yourself to the daughter of this
man."

"But suppose she is not his daughter?" replied Frederick, looking
earnestly at his brother, and speaking hurriedly and anxiously.

"That is a ridiculous speculation," said Mr. Morley, "after what we have
heard and know. Of course she is his daughter; there can be no doubt
about that: she has been known as such, at any rate, in this
neighbourhood; and even the association with such a wretch must carry
contamination with it. Give her up Frederick! let me entreat you to give
her up!"

Frederick did not reply; but, taking his brother's arm, he led him back
to the cottage which he seemed to have just quitted.

It was a lone cottage, and, but for the smoke which Mr. Morley saw
issuing from the chimney, might have escaped his notice in the dim
twilight: it consisted of several rooms, covering a considerable space,
but they were all on the ground-floor. The house was commonly built, the
rooms entering one into the other, without having any passages between
them. There were several doors in the walls, by which a person could
enter or escape, if necessary, and puzzle his pursuers. On entering the
outer room, by the principal entrance-door, Mr. Morley perceived an old
woman sitting at a table, on which were the remains of a substantial
meal, and a good supply of liquor in a small wooden barrel or keg. The
woman had just filled a jug from the barrel, and seemed about to carry
it to some other part of the house; but on the entrance of the gentlemen
she placed it on the table. She was a tall large-boned woman, with a
commanding appearance, and looked as if she was accustomed to be obeyed;
and yet there was an expression of low cunning in her countenance which
was not at all pleasant, and which made strangers feel uncomfortable and
suspicious. She was believed in the neighbourhood to be a witch, and
people went to her to have their fortunes told, and she very often told
them true, for she had her secret spies about as well as "The Maister";
but, from want of education, her prophecies were seldom so startling or
so well or plausibly expressed as his were. It was generally believed
that they were connected in business, and that they played into each
other's hands, although no one had ever seen them together.

Sitting by the fire, on a low stool, was a grotesque looking being,
somewhat between a man and a monkey; not that he was particularly
ill-formed, but the expression of his countenance as he intently watched
the woman's movements, had something ludicrous in it, and but for the
wild stare which occasionally lit up his countenance, he might be an
idiot or an imbecile.

"Ha! ha!" cried he, jumping up and skipping about in a ludicrous manner,
as the two gentlemen entered; "'Maazed Dick' es the boy! 'Maazed Dick'
es the boy! Letter to the young maister;--get him down here! get him
down here! Letter to the cap'n; frightened out of his wits! frightened
out of his wits! ha! ha!"

"Richard!" said the old woman, in her most commanding tone; "hold your
tongue and sit down."

This seemed to have the same effect on "Maazed Dick" as the sharp
command of a sportsman has on a well-trained spaniel dog;--he ceased his
antics and retained his seat by the fire, keeping his eyes fixed on her
of whom he seemed to stand so much in fear.

The old woman then, turning to the two gentlemen, said, "What's your
will, gentlemen? and what do you want here at this hour of the night?"

"This is my brother," said Frederick, "and I want him to hear from your
lips what I have heard to-night: it may tend to convince him that he has
formed a hasty opinion and that all may yet be well."

"Frederick Morley," she said, rising and extending her hand in a
commanding attitude, "you have heard all you will hear from me; do my
bidding and you may know more: if you neglect it, or tell what you have
heard to any human being, except the one named to you, it were better
you had never been born." Saying which, she took up the jug again which
she had placed on the table, and, waving her hand towards the door at
which the two gentlemen had entered, disappeared into an inner room,
bolting the door after her; and, almost at the same moment, "Maazed
Dick" took up the keg of brandy from the table and disappeared also,
somewhere in the wall, but where, the visitors could not tell; he could
not have gone through the wall, that was very certain: there was
evidently a secret cupboard somewhere in the wall; but, if so, it was
very ingeniously concealed.

As there seemed no chance of learning any more, Frederick led the way
out of the house and walked on at a rapid rate, followed by his brother,
until they arrived at the end of the lane leading to the cottage. He
seemed so excited that Mr. Morley became alarmed, and insisted on
knowing what strange infatuation had seized him.

"You heard what that woman said," replied Frederick; "I feel that all
my future happiness depends on my obeying her instructions, and I must
do so."

"Nonsense!" said his brother: "it is perfectly ridiculous to suppose
that the old hag we have just seen can know anything or do anything that
can possibly influence your happiness in any way."

"She has not told me much, it is true," replied Frederick; "but she has
told me enough to convince me that she knows more; but, however little I
have heard, I am bound not to tell it even to you."

"Come! this is going a little too far!" said Mr. Morley, in a serious
tone; "we are engaged in a common cause, and circumstances have
prevented our pursuing our object together for several weeks: we must
not separate again until these dark deeds are brought to light."

"I am convinced," replied Frederick, "that something will come out of my
adventure this afternoon, which will throw a light on the whole. I wish,
from my heart, I was at liberty to tell you; but it cannot be. I must
work alone for a short time longer,--it may be a very short time. You
are, I presume, going on to Fowler's station:--if so, we must separate,
for my way lies in another direction."

"No," replied he, "I was going to Pendrea-house. I went out in search of
Miss Pendray, and I believe I missed my way somewhere; I don't exactly
know where I am."

"Fortunately, then," said Frederick, "you have been walking in the right
direction, although not in the most frequented road: if you take the
next turning on the right you will soon be at the end of your journey."

"But you will surely come with me," said Mr. Morley, taking his brother
by the arm.

"My dear brother," said Frederick, looking earnestly at Mr. Morley; "it
grieves me to be obliged to refuse to accompany you to Pendrea-house
to-night, for many reasons; for I have another duty to perform which I
feel convinced is of vital importance to more than one, but the nature
of which, as I said before, I cannot now explain to you. Believe me, as
soon as I have accomplished the task I have solemnly promised to
perform, you shall know all."

As Mr. Morley saw that his brother was in earnest, and seemed determined
to have his own way, he did not press him further, but bade him
God-speed, and returned to Pendrea-house, which he reached soon after
the arrival of Miss Pendray and Lieutenant Fowler.



CHAPTER XLII.

THE POOR DUMB GIRL'S SUDDEN RESOLVE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


Mrs. Courland remained in her room, for a considerable time after their
return from Pendrea-house, reflecting on the events of the day, and
especially on the unaccountable and unusual conduct of her husband. What
could be the meaning of that letter?--Who could have written it? While
these distracting thoughts were racking her brain, Flora, her poor dumb
protegé, entered softly, unperceived by her protectress, and, leaning
over the couch in which Mrs. Courland was reclining absorbed in thought,
touched her cheek with her lips, and looked at her with a tender
sympathizing expression, as if she knew that her protectress was
unhappy, and was conscious that it was not in her power to comfort her,
although she longed to be able to do so; but the events of the day, and
the thoughts that had since passed through the mind of Mrs. Courland,
had made the sight of this poor girl hateful to her. She had wished, in
her heart, within the last hour, that this source and evidence of her
deception could be blotted out from the face of the earth. She wished,
in her agony, that she could be in any way got rid of and her existence
drowned in oblivion; for, even here, in this remote place, she seemed to
be followed by her dread enemies, and she believed that her secret was
about to be discovered; the thoughts of those who have committed an evil
deed, of however trivial a nature, being always suspicious and uneasy.

Mrs. Courland seemed suddenly to have changed her nature: from a gentle,
beautiful woman, the sight of her she now so much dreaded seemed to have
turned her into a demon in human form. She rose from her reclining
position, and, seizing the poor dumb girl by the hair, dragged her down
on the couch. What she meant to do, in her frenzy, it is difficult to
say; for the action and look of the lady, together with the pain she
inflicted on the poor girl, and the terror she felt, brought back the
remembrance of former days, and all her old ferocity and strength
returned; and, seizing Mrs. Courland by the wrists, she made her let go
her hold, and pressed her back on the couch with all her might, until
she screamed for help, and the servants ran in and extricated her from
her perilous position.

It was more from the fear of what might happen than from what had
already occurred, that Mrs. Courland gave the alarm; for she felt that
she was as nothing in the hands of her protegé, when she chose to put
forth her strength and her passions were roused. She had conquered
again; and again did she seem to regret the part she had taken, when she
saw that poor delicate lady powerless in her grasp. She released her
hold at once, and the servants, having seen no violence used, believed
that their mistress had been seized with giddiness, as she had told them
she had, and that Flora, in attempting to support her, had, from over
anxiety pressed her arms more tightly than she intended.

Flora, however, felt that Mrs. Courland had, without any apparent cause,
treated her as her former associates had done: she saw and understood
the look of determined hate and fury which was depicted in her
countenance when she rose so suddenly from her couch and seized her by
the hair. That look haunted her; she could not bear to think of it. She
could not tell her thoughts to anyone, and she determined, in her own
mind, that the lady, who had been so kind to her, should not have cause
to look on her with hatred and scorn again. She would go away; she would
die,--perhaps drown herself; she did not care what death it was; there
was nothing worth living for now. All the world seemed to be possessed
of the same evil passions, she thought,--they only wanted to be brought
out. She put on an old bonnet and a shawl and went out: the coast was
clear, for all the household were in attendance on Mrs. Courland. She
walked through the town, and beyond it,--far out into the country.

It was getting late, and yet she walked on, not knowing where and
without having any fixed purpose. On, on, she walked, sometimes on the
broad road and sometimes through bye-lanes, she did not care where: her
only object was to get away as far as she could, and to avoid being
overtaken. At last she felt weary and sick at heart, and now she wished
to meet with some house where she could rest herself a little; but there
was no house to be seen anywhere: she had passed several at the
commencement of her journey, but she did not feel so weary then, and had
walked on. It was no use stopping in the lonely road, so on she walked
again till her feet were sore; for she had come out in her thinnest
indoor shoes. At length, when nearly exhausted, she saw a man coming
towards her. She was frightened, and tried to hide herself behind a low
hedge, but the man perceived her dress fluttering in the breeze, and he
approached and spoke to her. She did not answer him but made signs to
him, which he understood, for he had seen her before. It was Frederick
Morley whom she had thus opportunely met. He had seen her before at his
aunt's house, and he wondered to see her out alone at that hour, and in
such a place, and made signs to go back; but she stamped the ground, and
signified her intention of going on further away from her former
protectress. Frederick saw that something had happened, but what it was
he did not know, nor could she make him understand; she must be
protected, however, for the night, until Captain Courland's family could
be communicated with. He had just parted from his brother, and he at
first thought of calling after him, and asking him to take her with him
to Pendrea-house; but, on reflection, he thought this was a liberty that
neither of them ought to take, as they were both comparative strangers
to the Pendray family. He thought of the cottage he had just left, and
that, perhaps, the old woman would not object to give the poor dumb girl
shelter for the night; so he took her there, and the old woman received
her with more warmth than Frederick expected, or than was at all
necessary, he thought, under the circumstances.

Although Flora was very tired and hungry, and was glad to rest herself
after her long walk, yet she did not appear at all comfortable. She
seemed to look at the woman with dread and suspicion, but she was too
tired to walk any further, so, after she had partaken of some
refreshment, she followed the woman into an inner room, where there was
a bed prepared for her. The old woman then gave Frederick some further
instructions and enjoined haste and secrecy, and he again commenced his
journey on the mysterious errand which had so puzzled his brother.

While her protegé was wandering through the lanes alone and trying to
get further and further away, and seeking some obscure place where she
should hide herself for ever, Mrs. Courland was receiving the attentions
of the whole household. Her kind husband was much grieved to find his
beautiful wife in this excited, and yet apparently helpless, state. She
seemed to be suffering great pain too, but she kept the cause of it from
them as much as she could, and covered her arms and wrists that they
might not see the full extent of the bruises which the strong hands of
Flora had made on her soft delicate flesh. The kind attention of her
husband reassured her of his continued love and esteem, and she began to
think that the mysterious letter might have been a mere hoax after all,
and that she had nothing to fear: and as these thoughts occupied her
mind in rapid succession, she began to feel more tranquil, until at last
she came to the conclusion, that, even if her secret was discovered her
husband would forgive her; and then she began to feel ashamed of her
conduct towards the poor innocent cause of all this, and she sent her
maid in search of Flora that she might atone for the part she had taken
as the first aggressor, and make her protegé understand that she was
forgiven also for the pain she had inflicted on her protectress.

The servants searched everywhere throughout the house, but Flora could
nowhere be found. Her bonnet and shawl were gone, and so they supposed
she had taken a stroll through the town, alone, as she was very fond of
doing, and would return when her curiosity was satisfied.

Several hours passed by, but Flora did not make her appearance, and the
household became alarmed; they fancied a thousand things. She might have
missed her way and gone too near the sea, and have fallen in; or she
might have been entrapped by some lawless gang of sailors and taken to
one of their haunts. Captain Courland and the man-servant searched the
town all over; they were out nearly all night, and, as soon as it was
light in the morning he and the man started for St. Michael's Mount, in
the vain hope that they might find her there, for she had often
expressed a wish to see the interior of the ancient castle which
appeared to her to be built almost in the clouds. She had the most
romantic fancies sometimes, and amused her friends very much by the
manner in which she expressed her feelings by signs and pantomimic
dumb-shew.

All who knew her, loved and pitied the poor dumb girl, and they all
joined in the search right heartily. Julia begged to be allowed to
accompany her uncle; and the women-servants, and even the landlady
herself, went out into the town and explored every part they could think
of, leaving Mrs. Courland in the house alone. She could not rest, so she
got up very early; but she was not equal to the task of joining in the
search. She was sitting alone in the drawing-room, when she heard a
hasty step coming up the stairs. Her first thought was, that Flora was
found, and that some one had been sent to inform her of the fact.
Without further reflection, she rushed towards the door in the greatest
excitement, exclaiming--"Is she found? Is she found?"

"Yes, my dear aunt," cried Frederick Morley, catching Mrs. Courland in
his arms as he hastily entered the room,--"the lost is found;" and,
leading her to a seat, he explained to her that her daughter was found
and was now with kind friends, and that all was about to be divulged;
for the parties who possessed the secret, having already prepared
Captain Courland for it, he said, had determined to publish everything:
but they did not wish to do it to the injury of Mrs. Courland, and were
willing to give her the opportunity of informing her husband herself if
she preferred doing so. The parties had other secrets to communicate
also of the greatest importance, and they wished Mrs. Courland to meet
them at a certain house in the neighbourhood immediately. Frederick knew
the house, he said, and had been commissioned to bring his aunt there
without delay, as it was of the greatest importance. She hesitated at
first, but, knowing what those people were, she thought, on reflection,
that it would be wise for her to meet them and hear what they had to
communicate, provided Frederick would go with her, and protect and
assist and counsel her, which he promised he would do. He had engaged a
conveyance; so, dressing herself in the commonest things she had, she
accompanied her nephew to the outskirts of the town where the carriage
was waiting, to avoid suspicion.

When they arrived within about a quarter of a mile of the cottage, they
got out and walked the remainder of the distance, leaving the carriage
in the road. Frederick could tell Mrs. Courland little more than he had
already told her; and she was impatient to reach the place of meeting
that she might know what those wicked people really intended to do, and
what other secrets they had to communicate; for she felt that this
suspense and uncertainty were worse than the reality, whatever that
might be.

They found the old woman in the outer room of the cottage, anxiously
expecting their arrival. She received Mrs. Courland with a curtsey,
saying,--

"It is well, madam; you have been prompt in attending to my request. Had
you delayed your coming but a few hours, you would have been too late."

"Too late!" said Mrs. Courland; "what do you mean? Has the poor
afflicted girl met with an accident, or what has happened to her?"

Instead of replying, the old woman led the way into the interior of the
house and beckoned her two visitors to follow her. They passed through
two or three rooms, some furnished as sitting-rooms and some as
sleeping-apartments; at last they came to an empty, unfurnished room,
where the old woman desired them to wait while she prepared the invalid
for their reception. In a few minutes she opened the door, and asked
them to walk in.



CHAPTER XLIII.

THE CONFESSION.


It was a comfortable and well-furnished bedroom; but instead of finding
Flora there, as Mrs. Courland expected, the bed was occupied by an
elderly woman, who appeared very ill, and was sitting up in the bed
supported by pillows. She motioned her visitors to be seated, and then
said in a feeble voice,--

"You do not recognise me, Mrs. Courland: illness makes great changes in
the human frame. The name you first knew me by was Fisher; I then
changed it more than once, for reasons you shall know presently."

"I remember you, now," said Mrs. Courland involuntarily, shrinking
further from the bed, as if still afraid of the poor helpless creature
before her.

"I am not long for this world," said the invalid; "and before I die I
wish to make some amends for the misdeeds I have done during my life,
and they have been many. I have requested Mr. Frederick Morley to attend
with you, for a part of the revelations I am about to make concerns him
also."

"Do you know anything," exclaimed Frederick, "of the wretches who----?"

"Don't interrupt me, if you can possibly help it," she said; "for I feel
my strength failing me, and I don't know if I shall be spared even long
enough to finish my recital. My father was not a poor fisherman, as you
supposed when you and your mother came to lodge with us. He was pursuing
a lawless employment,--sometimes bringing in great earnings, and
sometimes nothing. He had seen better days. In his youth he was captain
of a large trading vessel, and my brother and myself received a good
education. My father amassed considerable property,--more than he could
possibly have done by legitimate trading; and he was suspected, and
watched, and found out. He had turned his vessel into a smuggler, and,
under cover of fair trading, clandestinely carried on a lucrative trade
in all sorts of contraband goods. He was convicted, and fined heavily,
and, in fact, ruined.

"We then retired to the small fishing-cove where your mother found us.
My brother had gone to France to reside some time before, and acted as
my father's agent there. He was very shrewd and intelligent, but a
determined character, and one who would never forget nor forgive an
injury. He was naturally cunning and crafty; and his smuggling pursuits
tended to sharpen his natural gifts in this respect.

"Our fortune was at a low ebb when we first became acquainted with you;
and we were glad of the assistance of an aristocratic lodger. I saw your
mother's weak points, and your love of gaiety and admiration; and I
thought that, by residing with you in the confidential capacity of
lady's-maid, I could benefit myself in many ways. Your clandestine
marriage, and the birth of your daughter, which I persuaded you to keep
secret from your parents, gave me a double hold upon you.

"After the death of your husband, and while you were with us on a visit
to recruit your health, my brother returned. He fell desperately in love
with you;--you refused to receive his addresses, and spurned him from
you with scorn. He was desperate. He begged me to intercede for him,
which I promised to do, but did not; for your marriage with my brother
would not have suited my purpose at all. I knew your parents wished you
to marry some rich man, and, as I was now the keeper of your secret, I
knew that if you married according to your parents' wishes, I could make
my own terms with you. You were summoned home, and eventually married
according to their wishes and mine.

"My mother died. Your little daughter was left in my care, and I was
well paid. I sent her to school, but I watched her most carefully;--I
could not afford to lose her, for she was my nest-egg: and she grew a
lovely girl, just like you when you were her age."

"How is it possible that she can ever have been even good-looking?"
exclaimed Mrs. Courland;--"but that dreadful spoiler of the human
face--the small-pox--has done its work: it was that, no doubt, that
altered her so much."

"She was a lovely girl," continued the invalid, without noticing Mrs.
Courland's interruption. "My brother would gaze on her countenance for
hours without speaking, and then he would leave the room in a rage. He
hated the name of Morley, because it was under that name that he first
knew you, and was spurned by you. He seldom took much notice of the
child, except to gaze on her until he had worked his mind up to a state
of maddening jealousy.

"We never lost sight of you. Wherever you moved, we followed, and lived
near you under feigned names, in order to worry you by continually
draining your purse, and threatening to expose your duplicity and deceit
to your husband by producing the child and telling him all, of which we
had ample proof, and have still. My brother would not see you
himself,--he could not bear it, he said. I was always your tormentor;
and when I brought the dumb girl to you, I thought the sight of her
hideous features, and her infirmity, would have so disgusted you, that
you would have given us what we asked, rather than have her left on your
hands as your acknowledged daughter. We were mistaken. You kept her,
believing her to be your child; and you thought that, by doing this, and
denying me an interview, you would be free from further worry, and there
could be no danger of the girl telling anything of her former life or
associates; and if we tried to expose you to your husband, he would not
believe us.

"Since that girl has been with you, we have had other things to think
of; and our anxiety for my brother's safety prevented our taking the
steps we intended with regard to your secret. _That poor dumb girl is
not your daughter_, Mrs. Courland."

"Oh! thank God for that!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rising in the
greatest excitement. "I hope you are not deceiving me again. If you can
produce her, and I can be satisfied that she really is my daughter, I
will acknowledge her in the face of all the world, and tell my husband
all, and throw myself on his mercy. I have suffered years of torture,
from having followed your advice in the beginning. Oh! had I but acted a
straightforward part, and kept no secret from my husband, my life would
have been much happier. I see my error now, and am determined to keep
the secret no longer. Where is she? let me see her at once; don't keep
me in suspense."

The invalid had exhausted her strength in the recital of her tale, and
this outburst of Mrs. Courland's quite upset her. She could not speak
again for several minutes, until Frederick Morley handed her the glass
which she seemed to wish for, and which was standing on the table more
than half full of brandy. This, which she drank off at once, seemed to
give her new life and energy. Then, turning to Frederick, she said, in a
gayer tone than before,--

"You will be glad to hear, Frederick Morley, that the lovely girl to
whom you are so devotedly attached, is not the daughter of John Freeman,
the Land's-End conjuror, but _the daughter of your aunt--Mrs.
Courland_."

"Alrina, of whom I have heard so much, my daughter!" exclaimed Mrs.
Courland; "impossible!"

"Oh! this is indeed too good to be true!" cried Frederick; "I cannot
believe it. What proof is there of this?"

"Proof in abundance," replied the invalid; "I am ready to make an oath
of the fact before a magistrate; and my brother----"

"Your brother!" said Frederick; "where is he? is he still alive?"

"I was about to say that my brother could have confirmed my statement.
Captain Cooper and his wife can also bear witness to the fact; but, even
if there were no other evidence, _the likeness_ would be sufficient to a
person who knew Mrs. Courland as Miss Morley."

"Let me see her!" said Mrs. Courland; "where is she? It is very strange
that I have never seen her, although I have heard so much about her. Why
did you never let me see her?"

"That would not have suited our purpose," replied the invalid; "you
would have braved all risk of your husband's displeasure, and taken her
home long before, if you had seen her. I think you would have seen the
likeness yourself. No, no, my brother's revenge was not complete. I led
you, from the first, to believe that she was disfigured by the
small-pox, and rendered very ugly and forbidding; but I never said she
was dumb,--indeed, it was not our intention to have left the other girl
with you entirely; it was only to frighten you into granting us the
money that we required, that the poor girl was taken into your house. My
brother knew that he must be found out, ere long, and he wanted all the
money he could get to carry with him; for he had made all his
preparations for leaving this country, and his associates and
accomplices wanted their share of the hush-money also. It was the last
we should get from you, and so we demanded a large sum."

"But my daughter!" said Mrs. Courland--"if in reality she is such--pray
let me see her. Where is she?"

"Your daughter, madam, is now at Pendrea-house, as Frederick Morley
knows. Let him go there and fetch her, while you remain here; for I have
something more to tell you in connection with this affair, which will
convince you I am not deceiving you now. Tell Alrina," continued she,
turning to Frederick, "that her aunt, Miss Freeman, is on her death-bed,
and she must come at once."



CHAPTER XLIV.

MRS. BROWN ENJOYS ANOTHER CROOM O' CHAT WITH MRS. TRENOW, AND RECEIVES
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


While the other gossips were going from house to house, collecting and
retailing the news respecting the mysterious disappearance of "The
Maister," Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Trenow were having a serious chat over
their "drop of comfort," according to custom.

"So, you don't think he's carr'd away by the pixies, then," said Mrs.
Trenow.

"No, I don't," replied Mrs. Brown, "'tes some of his hocus pocus work,
you may depend. I'm glad the old cap'n es gone weth Siah to see the
gentlemen. They'll find 'The Maister' somewhere, I'll be bound, afore
come back."

"No, no more than you will, cheeld vean," said Mrs. Trenow. "The Pixies
have got 'n, or something wuss, so sure as my name es Mally Trenow.
They'll be home soon, I shudn't wonder, and then we shall knaw. They've
be'n gone evar since the mornin', an' now 'tes come brave an' late. Aw!
here they are, sure nuff,--'spaik o' the Devil and his horns will
appear.' Well, where's 'The Maister,' soas," continued she, addressing
her husband and son as they entered.

"We do no more knaw than you do, old woman," replied her husband; "we've
sarched everywhere we cud think upon, and now we've returned, like a bad
penny. Two glasses o' brandy toddy, Mrs. Brown, ef you plaise, for we've
had a bra' tramp."

"Iss sure," said the landlady, proceeding to execute the order; "you
must want somethin' to drink after your hard day's work; but you haven't
be'n to the right place, I reckon."

"No fie, we ha'n't be'n to the right place, sure nuff," said Josiah.

"You shud oft to ha' kept a sharper look-out, Siah," said Mrs. Brown,
taking a side glance at Josiah, as if she meant something more than she
said.

"Zackly like that," said he, looking very serious, as he sipped his
brandy and water; "'Needs must when the devil drives' es an old sayin'
and a very true one; and I tell 'ee, Mrs. Brown, you may laugh so much
as you will, and squinny up your eyes till they're so small as the
button-holes of my jacket; but 'tes my belief that the Devil es at the
bottom of et all. He put me to sleep, and fastened the door, so that I
cudn't get out; and he took away 'The Maister' to have his
desarts,--that's my belief, down sous; and now you've got it all."

Mrs. Trenow looked very serious at her son's earnestness; for she
herself held the same opinions, although she didn't express them;--but
Mrs. Brown continued to look at Josiah in her sarcastic way, without
uttering a word.

"Where's Alice Ann, mother?" asked Josiah, at length breaking the
silence.

"She's gone up to her aunt's again for a bit," replied Mrs. Trenow; "the
ladies wanted her to stop over to Pendrea-house too, I b'lieve; but she
thoft that one stranger wor enough for them to take in; and they wor
very kind to take in the one that wanted it most. Poor Miss Reeney!
she's worth her weight in gold. Talk about Cornish diamonds, soas! why,
she's a Cornish diamond, every inch of her, and a bright one too. But
where ded 'ee lev the young gentleman, 'Siah, boy?"

"Aw! he's right enough, I reckon," replied Josiah; "I thoft how 'twould
be. When we went to sarch for 'The Maister,' he went to sarch for
somebody else, I reckon; and I s'pose he found her, for we nevar seed he
no more for the day."

"That's very well!" chimed in poor Mr. Brown, from his seat in the
chimney-corner. "We sarched for the boy everywhere; but the mare came
home safe. Wo! ho! my beauty; she shall be rubbed down, she shall! The
boy came back at last, f'rall, zackly to the time,--dedn't aw, Peggy, my
dear?"

"John Brown!" cried his wife; "hould your tongue!"--which had the
desired effect of stopping that unruly member, and bringing John Brown
back to the contemplation of the fire on the hearth--and nothing more.

Early the next morning--very early indeed--almost before the sun had
taken down his shutters, Mrs. Brown was awoke from a sound sleep by
someone, as she thought, knocking gently at the front door. She
listened, and heard the same sound again, rather louder than before. At
first she thought it might be some sailor or fisherman who had been out
fishing all night, and wanted his morning's dram to warm him.

"You must wait, whoever you are," said she to herself, as she turned
round to have a second nap. Still the knocking continued at intervals,
and prevented her from indulging in her morning's nap. "Whoever can it
be?" said she, as she sat up in the bed and listened; "I don't think it
can be any of the sailors; for they'd have rapp'd the door down by this
time, or else have gone away. I'll see who it es, at any rate." So she
went to the window, and, drawing back the blind a little, saw a figure
standing under the window which very much astonished her. It was not a
sailor, certainly. She put on some of her clothes, and went down as
quietly as she could, and opened the door to----Alrina!

"Why, wherever ded you come from?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown; "why, you're
mazed, to be sure, Come in, do, and sit down, while I do light the fire
and fit a cup o' tea for 'ee. Dear lor'! wonders will nevar cease. Miss
Reeney here this time in the mornin'!"

It was indeed Alrina, exhausted and hungry. She had walked all the way
from Pendrea-house to St. Just through the night. Her father's death she
had borne bravely, after the first shock, and she intended to have
remained at Pendrea-house until after the funeral, and then to have gone
into some respectable service to gain her own livelihood, as companion
to some invalid lady, or nursery governess. She was very grateful to her
kind friends, but she could not impose on their good nature. Then came
that cruel treatment which she supposed Frederick had planned, in order
to be revenged for the coolness she had shown towards him. She deserved
it,--she knew she deserved it; but it was hard to bear. Then came
Blanche's discovery of her secret love, and, to crown all, the news of
the mysterious disappearance of her father's body. Her friends would
still be kind to her--she knew that--and would pity her, and alleviate
her painful position as much as lay in their power. Of this she was
quite sure: but this was repugnant to her feelings;--she would rather
die, than live to be pitied,--she could not bear to think of it. She
requested to be left alone for the night, as she was tired and wanted
rest.

What should she do? If she remained there till the morning, and named
her intention of leaving, the family would not hear of it; they would
compel her to remain, and would probably watch her, in their kindness.
After thinking over her position for some time, she made up her mind
that she would leave at once, or at least as soon as the house was
quiet. She would find her way to the road as well as she could; and then
she would go direct to St. Just, where she would be able to learn the
full particulars of this mysterious affair.

The house was not quiet until late. Miss Pendray's adventure caused
great commotion, and kept the servants up late; but the interest they
took in their young mistress's adventure, and their concern for her, and
joy at her narrow escape, drove all thoughts of their visitor out of
their heads, and she was left quite undisturbed. She wrote a letter to
Mrs. Pendray, thanking her for all her kindness, and saying that
circumstances compelled her to leave; and when the house was perfectly
quiet, she put on some of the warmest clothing she had with her, and
went out into the cold night. She missed her way several times, but at
length got into the broad road, which she knew pretty well, and arrived
at Mrs. Brown's house, where she knew she would meet with a hearty
welcome, before any of the inhabitants of St. Just were astir.

It was early, too, when Frederick Morley arrived at Pendrea-house that
morning in search of Alrina. In his haste and excitement to communicate
the delightful intelligence he had just learned to the one nearest and
dearest to his heart, he quite forgot the carriage which was waiting in
the lane, so that he was some time in reaching the house; and when he
arrived at the door, he was exhausted and out of breath, and totally
unfit for the duty which he had come there to perform. So he thought his
best plan would be to have a private interview with his brother, and ask
him to be the bearer of the message to Alrina from her supposed aunt.

Mr. Morley was very much surprised at the tale his brother told him. He
could hardly believe it could be true; but as Frederick said that Mrs.
Courland seemed satisfied that Alrina was her daughter, and was at that
moment receiving more proofs of it, he felt bound to adopt the belief
too, and promised to see Alrina at once, and induce her to go to the
cottage to see her aunt.

Frederick thought that, after what had occurred, it would be better for
his brother to see Alrina alone; for, although he had started with the
full determination of seeing her himself, and bringing her with him to
the cottage to hear the welcome and delightful news, yet, when he
considered the manner in which she had treated him in their former
interviews, and remembered also that he had solicited an interview with
her the day before, and had not kept his appointment, his heart failed
him, and he proposed that his brother should see her alone, and he would
wait his return.

After some little time, Mr. Morley returned, saying that he had sought
an interview with Alrina through her friend Blanche, who immediately
went to her room, and found no one there. On the table she found a
letter, expressing her deep gratitude to Mrs. Pendray and all the family
for the great kindness they had shown her in her distress, but stating,
at the same time, she could not, after all that had occurred in
connection with her and her's, trespass on their kindness any longer.
She knew that their goodness and kind hospitality would not permit her
to leave them, she went on to say, if she remained to take leave of
them; and, therefore, to avoid pain to all parties, she had taken this
step, which she felt seemed like ingratitude,--but it was not so. From
her heart she thanked them all; and should she succeed in getting into
some situation, whereby she could gain her own livelihood honourably,
they should hear from her. If not,--God only knew what might become of
her.

Mr. Morley read this much from the letter which he held in his hand, and
then handed it to his brother.

"Gone!" cried Frederick, at length; "gone! just as the dark cloud was
being lifted, which had obscured her so long! Can it be possible? Gone!
But where can she have gone to? She had no friends--she has often told
me this--no friends but her father and aunt."

"She is most probably gone to her father's house, to enquire for herself
into this mysterious affair," said Mr. Morley.

"Yes," exclaimed Frederick; "she is gone back to the old house, no
doubt. I will go there immediately, and seek her."

"Stay," replied his brother; "let us first consider what is best to be
done. I think I had better go to St. Just in search of Alrina, while you
return to the cottage to inform our aunt of her sudden disappearance."

"That, perhaps, will be the best arrangement," said Frederick; "I will
be guided by you, for I know not what to do or say,--I am quite beside
myself. My brain seems bewildered; I cannot think steadily on any
subject. Let us go at once; I shall not rest till she is found. She is,
perhaps, even now, out on the cold bleak common. The whole country shall
be roused to search for her. Oh! why did I permit myself to be led away
by that wretched scarecrow;--but he said she was there,--yes, he told me
Alrina was at that cottage awaiting my arrival, and the letter he
brought confirmed his statement. Oh! cruel, cruel fate!"

"It will doubtless turn out all for the best," said Mr. Morley. "Had you
neglected the message of that unfortunate woman, she might have died,
and then her secret would never have been told, and Alrina would have
lived on, believing herself still the daughter of that guilty wretch."

"True," replied his brother; "I will believe in the wisdom of Divine
Providence. We see His hand in all things. I will trust, and all things
may yet be well."

The brothers did not think it advisable to tell Squire Pendray's family
anything respecting their aunt in connection with Alrina;--they merely
expressed their great concern at her abrupt departure.

Sir. Morley had not an opportunity the night before of seeing Miss
Pendray alone,--indeed, she was too much excited and overcome by her
late adventure, to receive his addresses with composure, and he was too
much rejoiced at her safety, and anxious that she should seek repose
after the terrible shock she had undergone, to think of himself. She saw
how anxious and concerned he was, and she was pleased at it. Her object
was gained; for she saw that he was feeling more than he could express
on her account.

Lieut. Fowler was prevailed upon to stay and partake of their evening's
meal: for, although the squire had not forgotten his former opinion of
the lieutenant, which he in a measure still entertained, yet he had been
the means of preserving the life of his favourite daughter; and
ingratitude was not one of the squire's failings. Fowler would not,
however, intrude on the squire's hospitality longer than politeness
compelled him, but took his leave of them as soon as he possibly could
after supper.

Mr. Morley had arrived some time before; and nothing was talked of but
Miss Pendray's accident. Almost immediately after Fowler left, Miss
Pendray rose from the table also, and, pleading fatigue, retired for the
night, leaving the others to entertain their visitor. Soon after she
left the room, a message was brought, that the squire was wanted on
business.

"Dear me," said he, "who can want me at this time of night: it can't be
to tell me that the conjuror is found, I suppose."

It was no stranger that wanted him. Miss Pendray had sent for him to
explain and atone for the injury she had done her sister and Lieut.
Fowler by her mischievous tale-bearing: she felt that she could not rest
until she had made that atonement which was due to them both.

The squire was astonished to hear the confession of the proud and
haughty Maud, and, had it been at any other time, he would have been
very angry; but the recollection of her late sufferings and miraculous
escape, and the preservation of her life by Lieut. Fowler, subdued him,
and he promised to forget and forgive, provided he found that all was
straight and above board. But he was determined that he would not be the
first to invite him back to his house; for he still believed that Maud
had exaggerated a little in her estimation of Fowler's conduct, out of
gratitude for her own preservation. However he returned to the
supper-table a happier man then he had been for many a day, and paid
more than usual attention to Blanche, who could not understand the
change.

Mr. Morley determined that he would not leave that house again without
knowing his fate; and, when breakfast was over, he told Frederick that
he had something of importance to settle there before he could leave,
but that if he would go back to the cottage, and relieve their aunt's
anxiety and send her back to Penzance in the carriage, he would meet him
at the cottage as soon as he had finished his business, and they would
then go on to St. Just together.

This pleased Frederick very much, for he wished to go with his brother,
but did not press it before, as Mr. Morley seemed to think he had better
go alone: Frederick, therefore, returned at once to the cottage, where
he found his aunt and Miss Freeman anxiously waiting his arrival with
Alrina, and they were very much distressed when they heard that she had
left Pendrea-house unknown to the family. Mrs. Courland had received
sufficient proofs to satisfy her, she said, that Alrina was her
daughter, and she was most anxious to see her, that she might have the
further test of the likeness. As that was impossible, at present,
Frederick persuaded her to return to Penzance at once, fearing Captain
Courland might return before her and might be angry at her absence,
which she could not at present explain to him.

Mr. Morley did not keep his brother waiting very long, for his business
was soon over. Miss Pendray knew quite well what he wanted, when he
requested an interview with her; for she saw by his manner the night
before, and from the tender concern he appeared to take in her
miraculous escape, and the expression of his fine handsome countenance
when he looked at her, that he felt a deeper interest in her than she
had before supposed from his seeming-indifference to her during the past
few months. Perhaps she measured his feelings by her own, and when they
met, each being anxious for the other's love, and well-knowing their own
feelings, and each being ready and willing to meet the other more than
halfway, the betrothal was soon settled, and Mr. Morley left the house a
happy man.

Horses were procured, and the two brothers were not long in reaching St.
Just. They put their horses in Mr. Brown's stable, and went in to
consult Mrs. Brown. She had heard Alrina's account of her having left
Pendrea-house without taking leave of the family, and her reasons for
doing so, and she also knew her determination as to the future, and her
wish to avoid being seen by any of her former acquaintances at present.
Mrs. Brown listened attentively to the tale the two gentlemen
told:--that Miss Freeman, Alrina's supposed aunt, was lying at a cottage
near Pendrea-house on her death-bed, and wished to see her niece before
she died.

This was very "whisht" Mrs. Brown thought, and Alrina ought to go and
see her aunt; for, however wicked "The Maister" had been, she never
heard that Miss Freeman had been concerned in his wicked doings, so she
determined that she would persuade Alrina to go. After thinking
therefore for some minutes she said,--"I was tould not to let anybody
knaw where Miss Reeney es, but in a caase like this, when a relation es
upon her death-bed, I think she oft to go.--Stay here, gentlemen, for a
few minutes, and I'll go and fetch her."

"I think we had better accompany you," said Mr. Morley, "for I fear she
will take alarm and be off again."

"As you plaise, gentlemen," she replied, "you may go by yourselves if
you like: she es now in the ould house trying to find out the mystery:
you are gentlemen and men of understanding, and your judgment, perhaps,
es better than mine."

So they went to the old house, where so many scenes of different kinds
had been enacted within the last few months. Here they found Alrina,
wandering through the rooms alone. She was perfectly calm, and talked
to them both in a quiet and dignified manner. She looked pale and
care-worn, and bowed down with grief and suffering. The beautiful
roseate hue which formerly gave such a charm to her delicate complexion
was gone, and her bright laughing eye was now cold and stern. Frederick
could scarcely trust himself to speak,--the change which had come over
Alrina within the last few days quite shocked him. Mr. Morley took her
hand gently and led her to a seat, while he told her of the illness of
her whom she had been taught to call aunt: he then imparted to her the
tale he had heard his brother relate. She seemed like one in a dream
while he went on unfolding the dark cloud, and displaying, by degrees,
the silver lining; and when he had finished his tale, she looked from
one to the other of the visitors, without uttering a word; she seemed to
be trying to realize it all. At last she burst into tears,
exclaiming,--"Oh, Mr. Morley, can this be true?--Can it be really
true?"--and, giving way again to a burst of hysterical tears, which she
seemed to have no power to control, she rose and hurried out of the
room.

The brothers heard her go upstairs; and there they sat in silence:
neither of them spoke for several minutes; at length Mr. Morley
said,--"Poor girl! how sensitive she is!--the prospect of a happy future
has affected her more than the misfortunes to which she had almost
become reconciled before. I hope it will not have any serious effect on
her: but what can we do?"

"I'll go for Mrs. Brown," said Frederick, whose feelings were ready to
burst forth also; and, had he not thus escaped into the open air, he
felt that he should have been unmanned, and have made a fool of himself
before his sterner brother.

Mrs. Brown readily accompanied Frederick, and by the time they arrived
at the deserted house he had recovered something of his former spirits.
Mr. Morley told Mrs. Brown that Alrina was overcome at hearing the news
they had communicated, and had gone upstairs in hysterics. They did not
tell her the extent of the news, so she naturally concluded it was
hearing of the serious illness of her aunt that had so affected her.

Mrs. Brown went upstairs, and remained there so long with her charge,
that the gentlemen began to think it was a more serious matter than it
really was: at length they came down together. Alrina was still very
pale, and her eyes were swollen with weeping; but she was tranquil and
more composed,--almost cheerful. She was leaning for support on Mrs.
Brown, who looked on her sweet face and smoothed it with her hand
caressingly, as ladies will sometimes smooth and caress a favourite
lap-dog, playing with it as it were, and fondling it, while she
expressed her love by kissing the smooth white forehead. It was a
touching scene,--that kind, good, old woman leading in her whom she
loved and respected so much, and caressing her as if she were a little
child, while she looked up so lovingly in return, thanking by that look
her kind friend who had been to her a second mother, and feeling that to
express her gratitude in any other way would be more than she could do.

Mr. Morley, at that moment, thought he had never seen so lovely a
creature before; and Frederick,--we will not tell his thoughts,--we
cannot.

Alrina had told her kind friend all, and now Mrs. Brown wished to hear
it all over again from Mr. Morley, who told his tale once more; and,
with Frederick's assistance, a little more was added which he had not
before remembered.

Alrina had not yet begun to realize her position:--her thoughts seemed
to be wandering; her brain was bewildered, and she knew not what to say;
her future had seemed before obscured by a dark cloud,--she could see
nothing but gloom before her; now the cloud seemed brighter, but it was
not quite dispelled. She had met with so many disappointments in her
short life, that she feared there might be a greater one than she had
hitherto felt still in store for her. What, if this tale should turn out
to be a fabrication of her aunt's,--and after she had buoyed herself up
with the hope of future happiness, it should be discovered that she was
not Mrs. Courland's daughter after all? This overthrow of all her hopes,
after having tasted of their pleasures, would be worse than remaining as
she was. All these thoughts, and a thousand others, passed through her
mind in rapid succession as she sat listening to the tale for the second
time, and hearing questions asked by Mrs. Brown which the two young men
could not answer; for Frederick knew nothing more than what he had heard
Miss Freeman relate to his aunt: he had seen no proof; all he could say
was, that his aunt seemed perfectly satisfied when he returned to take
her to the carriage, and was most anxious to see Alrina, that she might
judge of the likeness, as far as a person can judge of her own likeness.

Mrs. Brown thought that, at all events, it was Alrina's duty to go and
see her aunt at once: but she could not go alone, nor could she go with
the gentlemen without some female companion. Mrs. Brown could not leave
her husband so long, nor the business; she suggested, therefore, that
Alice Ann should be sought,--she was in the neighbourhood she knew.
"Josiah will find her," said she, "if one of the gentlemen will run down
to Captain Trenow's house and ask him."

Frederick volunteered to go; for although he was happy at having Alrina
to gaze upon, yet he was not comfortable, nor was she, evidently; for
neither knew how the other felt. They had both done violence to their
feelings,--the one intentionally, the other unwittingly, and a mutual
explanation was necessary before they could be certain how they now
stood towards each other. Frederick could scarcely bring himself to
believe that Alrina really meant that she had ceased to love him;--he
could not think that, after what had passed between them. But she had
told him so, and was he not bound to believe her? If so,--if that was
really true, he must try and win her love back again. He could not give
her up,--he would not. These were his reflections as he hastened on his
errand.

Josiah was gone to Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station, Mrs. Trenow said, in
search of his young master. He must have gone the other road, and so he
had missed him.

Frederick told Mrs. Trenow his errand, saying that Miss Alrina had come
back to see the old house once more, and she wanted Alice Ann.

"I'll run up for her myself, sar," said she, "tesn't very far. I'll just
clap up my 'tother cap fust. Where shall I tell her she'll find her
missus?"

"I think you had better tell her to come to Mrs. Brown's," replied
Frederick.



CHAPTER XLV.

AN AWFUL CATASTROPHE.


Mrs. Trenow was not long in executing her errand, and Alice Ann was
quite delighted at the thoughts of being once more in attendance on
Alrina.

There were no conveyances to be had, so that the gentlemen were puzzled
how they should convey Alrina and her attendant across the country to
the place of rendezvous. Alrina had already walked from thence to St.
Just, that morning, or rather in the course of the night; so that,
although the distance was not more than six or seven miles, her walking
back there again was quite out of the question. It was decided that
Frederick should ride straight to Penzance, as fast as he could, to
inform his aunt that Alrina had been found, and to send a carriage for
her if his aunt wished it; and Alice Ann proposed that Alrina should
ride on the other horse to the cottage, while Mr. Morley and herself
walked by her side. As no better plan could be thought of, Alice Ann's
suggestion was adopted, and the party set out at a slow pace, which gave
them time for reflection and conversation on the road. Alice Ann could
tell them many a legend connected with the different places they passed,
and especially about Chapel Carn-Brea, where many a terrible deed had
been done, she said, in times past, and where ghosts might be seen
walking now, if anyone had the courage to go there at the midnight
hour. "That boy, Bill could tell a sight of stories about this and
that," said she, "I b'lieve he and 'The Maister' ha' be'n there brave
an' often together."

"I wonder what has become of that boy?" said Alrina, joining for the
first time in the conversation, "I am sure he knows a great deal about
many things that are mysteries to other people."

"He do so," replied Alice Ann, "he wor the cutest chap for his size that
evar I seed; and as for tongue, why, he would turn 'ee inside out in a
minute, ef you dedn't keep your eyes abroad. What's become of he I
caen't tell; but I can give a purty near guess, and so can Mrs. Trenow
too, so she do say."

"Who was this boy?" asked Mr. Morley, "where did he come from?"

"I can no more tell than you can, sar," replied Alice Ann, "he wor found
one night when he wor a cheeld, outside the workhouse door, an' wor
broft up by the parish, so I've heard; for tes a bra' many years
ago,--f'rall he's so small."

"Do you think he knew anything of my fa----, of Mr. Freeman's mysterious
doings?" asked Alrina, who seemed now to take more interest in the
conversation than she had done during the first part of the journey.

"Do I think?" replied Alice Ann, "I do knaw that he ded. 'Siah have seed
that boy up to Chapel Carn-Brea in the middle of the night, when he ha'
ben coming home from Bâl, and 'The Maister' havn't ben very far off, an'
he whistling like a black-bird, that time o' night. I tell 'ee Miss
Reeney, that boy Bill wor no good. What's become of the boy? says
you.--What's become of 'The Maister?' says I. Find the one, and you'll
find the t'other; that's my b'lief."

Thus they wiled away the time during the journey, until they arrived at
the brow of the hill which overlooked the cottage to which they were
directing their steps. Mr. Morley had turned round when they arrived on
this eminence in the morning, to view the surrounding neighbourhood, and
to mark the spot, that he might be able to find it again easily, for it
was situated in rather a secluded valley, the approach to which was by a
narrow path branching off from the main road. Everything looked serene
and calm then, and, but for a thin jet of smoke rising from one of the
chimneys and curling up against the clear blue sky, the cottage and its
locality would have passed unobserved by a casual traveller; for it
stood very low, as we have said before, all the rooms being built on the
ground-floor: the walls were rudely built of clay--earth and straw
wetted and well mixed together,--called in Cornwall, "Cob;" the roof was
thatched with straw; and the partitions, inside, were made of thick
wood, collected, from time to time, from the wrecks of vessels, with
which that part of the coast of Cornwall abounds in the winter season.

As the party halted now on the top of this eminence, to enable Mr.
Morley to reconnoitre and take his bearings, to guide him in the
selection of the right path leading directly to the cottage, he saw,
instead of a thin curl of smoke, such as he had seen in the morning, a
large volume of black smoke rising from the spot, almost darkening the
sky; and, at short intervals, a long tongue of fire would rise into the
air above the smoke, and disappear again, as a darker and more dense
volume of smoke issued forth.

"The cottage is on fire!" exclaimed Mr. Morley. "Follow me, as well as
you can; take the second turning to your right:" and away he ran,
leaving the two females to take care of themselves and the horse, and to
find their way to the cottage as well as they could.

When Mr. Morley arrived at the spot, an awful sight presented itself to
his view. The cottage was in flames, which the straw roof and wooden
partitions were feeding most bountifully; and, as they consumed the dry
conbustible on which they were feeding so greedily, their long tongues
would issue, in fantastic spurts, from the doors and windows on the
leeward side of the building. It was a fearful sight; a good number of
men and women were already there, attracted by the smoke, which could
now be seen far and wide. Josiah had been there some little time: he had
received intelligence of the fire, as he was returning from the
signal-station, and he hastened down to the spot at once, having sent a
messenger on to Lieut. Fowler with all speed. Josiah, and the few
persons who were there when he arrived, did all they could in carrying
buckets of water from a well at a short distance off; but their efforts
seemed at first to be increasing the fire rather than abating it. They
continued however to pour water into the rooms on one side of the
building which seemed the most likely to be inhabited, and, by opening
the doors and windows on the other side, they, in a measure, diverted
the fire to that side; but whether they were doing right or wrong they
could not tell; they could only conjecture on which side the inmates, if
any, were located.

Lieut. Fowler and his men, followed by a number of people from the
surrounding neighbourhood, had just arrived, and the lieutenant was in
the act of marshalling his men, when Mr. Morley rushed down among them,
in the greatest excitement, asking all sorts of questions, as to how the
fire had originated, and if there were buckets enough, and if the
inmates had been got out; but instead of replying, Fowler took him by
the arm, saying, "Take half a dozen men to the well, Morley, with
buckets and ropes, and keep them there. Let them fill the buckets as
fast as they can, and I will organize a double row of men and women from
thence to the cottage to pass the full buckets up and the empty ones
down; and my men and Josiah will then pour the water where it will be
most available for extinguishing the flames." And to Squire Pendray, who
also arrived about the same time, he allotted the task of keeping the
double row of men and women steady at their work.

The commanding voice of the officer, and the example of his men,
accustomed to obey, very soon restored order, where there was nothing
but confusion before; and, by his judicious management, and the courage
and bravery of his men, assisted by the strong arm of Josiah, the flames
were soon got under sufficiently to enable some of them to enter the
house. Fowler set a guard outside each door to prevent the mob from
entering, and then, taking Mr. Morley and the squire with him, they
entered the house followed by Josiah, and opened some of the inner-doors
to let out the smoke, when something flitted by them and rushed into the
interior of the house; but whether it was a man or a woman they could
not make out. Josiah however, seemed to know what it was, for he
followed immediately in full chase, leaving the others behind, who
thought their most prudent plan was to emerge into the air to refresh
themselves, and be prepared for anything that might turn up; for, in a
very short time, the smoke would have evaporated sufficiently to enable
them to go through the house with ease and impunity. Josiah did not
return; so after a few minutes, the three gentlemen entered the house
again. The entrance-rooms were not very much damaged; but as they
proceeded, the ravages of the fire were fearful. The straw roof was
entirely destroyed, from one end to the other. They passed into one
room, if a room it could be called now, where the fire seemed to have
raged in its greatest fury, and, looking into what was once another
room, divided from the place where they stood by a thick wooden
partition, they beheld a sight which made them shudder. The door, which
was not so thick as the partition, was burnt to ashes, and a portion of
the thick partition was also burnt: it was evident that the interior of
the room had been partially preserved by the water which Josiah and the
first comers had thrown in when they first arrived; but it had been the
scene of a great conflagration, and the smoke had hardly cleared away
yet: the walls were blackened, and the ornaments and pictures which hung
against them had dropped off with the heat. It had evidently been a
well-furnished room, the remains of which were still to be seen. The bed
was reduced to ashes, and it seemed as if the flames from the bed had
communicated to some inflammable substance in the room, and thence to
the straw roof which was not protected or covered on the inside, and was
at no great distance above the head of the bed. But their attention was
not long confined to the destruction of the bed and the other furniture
of the room; for a more awful spectacle presented itself to their view.
On the floor, in a corner of the room, lay two females, the elder one
having her hand entwined in the long hair of the younger, who grasped
the elder woman's arms in a strong determined grip. That it had been a
death-struggle there could be no doubt; but how they got there, or what
the struggle was about, neither of the three gentlemen could divine. But
there they lay, behind the door, dead!--They had been suffocated, no
doubt by the smoke: their clothes were burnt and their flesh had been
scarred by the fire.

The younger of the two, seemed well dressed, as far as they could judge
by the little that was left of it, and she must have been a well-formed
comely figure, in the hey-day of youth: the elder was an emaciated
figure, evidently the occupant of the bed which had once stood in the
middle of the room. It was a dreadful sight, and the three gentlemen
left the room in search of information as to their identity, when they
met Josiah, holding a boy by the arm. Mr. Morley pointed to the room
from which they had just retreated, and looked enquiringly at Josiah.
"Iss, sure I've seed them!" said he, "and 'tes a whisht sight, sure
'nuff; but there's a whisheder sight for 'ee to see yet. This way ef you
plaise, gen'lemen:" and he led the way, still holding the boy by the
arm, till they came to a room at the other end of the house, which
seemed to have suffered more from the fire than any they had yet seen;
for this end had been neglected by them all, supposing that nothing of
any consequence would be found there.

This part seemed more securely built, and to have been better furnished
than any of the other rooms. The partitions were of thicker wood, and
the doors and windows were better finished with bolts and locks: the
door had not been burnt through, as the other doors and partitions had
been. Josiah said he had burst open the door from the outside, and it
now stood wide open. On the floor lay the body of a man, whose lower
extremities were literally burnt to a cinder; but his features, although
blackened by the action of the fire, were still discernible. One look
was enough! The whole party hurried from the scene with horror depicted
in their countenances, and it was not until they got out into the open
air, that either of them could find words to express their horror and
dismay at what they had just witnessed.

Josiah still held the boy by the arm, who seemed very much distressed.
Outside the door they encountered Alrina and Alice Ann, who were most
anxious to hear all particulars.

"You shall know all, after we have made the necessary enquiries," said
Lieut. Fowler.

At this moment a carriage drove up to the scene, and the post-boy handed
a letter to Mr. Morley: it was from his aunt, begging him to bring
Alrina to Penzance at once; he therefore told the squire and Lieut.
Fowler that he was obliged to go to Penzance, but would be back again
immediately; so the squire requested all the others of the party to go
on to Pendrea-house and wait until Mr. Morley's return; for he said they
must need some refreshment after the fatigues of the morning. Josiah
took charge of the boy; for they all believed he could enlighten them on
all that had happened. Alice Ann accompanied her mistress and Mr. Morley
in the carriage to Penzance.



CHAPTER XLVI.

THE DREADED INTERVIEW.


Her husband had not returned when Mrs. Courland reached their lodgings
after her early journey to that ill-fated cottage.

This was fortunate, in many respects: it gave her a little time to
reflect on the events of the morning, and to prepare herself for the
ordeal she had yet to go through. Had Captain Courland returned before
her, she must have accounted, in some way, for her absence, and that
might have led to a premature confession, which she thought had better
not be made until she had seen Alrina, and been fully convinced that the
likeness could not be mistaken. She had received quite sufficient proof
from Miss Freeman of the identity of the child, and she had, moreover,
received from her a sealed packet, which she said would reveal all more
clearly, and other mysteries besides; but she made her promise, most
solemnly, that the packet should not be opened until after her death,
which she knew could not be far distant, she said.

While Mrs. Courland was deliberating on these important matters, her
nephew, Frederick Morley entered the room in great haste, telling her
that he had found Alrina, and that she was gone on with his brother to
see Miss Freeman, and he was to send a carriage for her if his aunt
wished it.

"That is my first wish, at present," replied Mrs. Courland; "I must see
Alrina before I confess my life of deception to my husband. Oh, how can
I tell him that I have been keeping this secret from him and deceiving
him for so many years! How could I have deceived him, who has been so
kind and good to me! It was his goodness that made me keep it from him:
I didn't like to wound his feelings: he will never forgive me--he
cannot! Oh, Frederick, how can I look into his honest face, and confess
my guilty secret!" and burying her face in the soft cushions of the
couch on which she had been reclining, she burst into tears.

"My dear aunt," said Morley, "you are wrong to meet trouble half-way: my
uncle's goodness of heart will forgive all; and, when he sees Alrina, he
will take her to his heart as if she had been his own child:--I know he
will!"

"No!" replied Mrs. Courland, "--you don't know him: he has the most
utter abhorrence of deception--he hates secrets and mysteries: he
expressed his opinion, in the severest manner, on this subject, only a
few days ago. Oh, I cannot--I cannot go through with it! Should he even,
in kindness, forgive the deception, he would look upon me with scorn and
suspicion during the remainder of my life: oh, that would be
terrible!--I could not bear it!--I could not live in such a state!--I
should be wretched and miserable!"

"But consider, aunt," urged Frederick, "if you believe Alrina to be
really your daughter, what injustice you will be doing her by
withholding this confession.--What is to become of her? Would you send
your daughter out into the world a houseless wanderer? Think of this, my
dear aunt; oh, let me beg of you to think of this poor girl! Will you
spurn her from your door, after permitting her to know what has been
told her to day?--It would be cruel--most cruel! Uncle Courland must
know it then; although Alrina would rather die than tell it herself;
this I am sure of; but others would not be so scrupulous. Consider,
aunt,--consider, before you send your daughter out unprotected into the
wide world; those she once looked to for protection are gone,--scattered
abroad on the face of the earth. Consider, Aunt Courland, her position
and yours."

Frederick spoke with energy and warmth; for, in pleading the cause of
Alrina, he was pleading his own cause too.

For some minutes after he had finished Mrs. Courland remained with her
face buried in the cushions; at length she rose and wiped her eyes,
which bore evidence of the tears she had shed, and the hard struggle
that had been going on for the last few minutes in her breast, to subdue
her haughty, proud, spirit to the task of making this humble confession
of guilt, which she now felt she must and would make, whatever the
consequences might be. Frederick had touched a tender chord in the
mother's breast, and, rising with calm dignity, she approached the table
and wrote a brief note, which she desired Frederick to send to his
brother at once, with a carriage to bring him and Alrina to the hotel to
wait the result of her dread interview with her husband: but whatever
that result might be, she said her daughter should be cared for as her
daughter.

Frederick lost no time in despatching the carriage, and waited
impatiently its return to the hotel, where Alrina would remain until
after Mrs. Courland's interview with her husband, the result of which
Frederick still seriously feared and doubted. For although he could
scarcely believe that the captain would refuse to take in this poor
wanderer as one of his household, yet he knew his temper was sometimes
hasty and impetuous, and he might say things in the first burst of
passion, which he might be sorry for after, but which would decide his
aunt in her course; for she possessed the haughty pride of her
aristocratic ancestors, and would never bend to ask, as a favour, that
which, in a hasty moment, might be denied,--even though the denial were
made madly, in the heat of passion. Frederick, therefore, although he
had urged the confession, and painted its reception by his uncle in as
mild colours as he could, still dreaded the meeting of two such spirits,
for such a purpose. But it must be done: and he thought "If it were
done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."

Captain Courland returned soon after Frederick left, disappointed and
out of spirits: they had not succeeded in discovering the slightest
trace of the fugitive.

Julia was not satisfied with the search that had been made the night
before, and she was gone to some houses a little way out of the town,
which she knew Flora was fond of visiting sometimes; so the captain
returned alone. He observed that his wife's spirits were unusually
depressed. She had been weeping, evidently; but he imputed it to her
anxiety for their poor afflicted protegè. She was sitting on the couch,
resting her arm on a table, and supporting her throbbing brow with her
hand.

Her husband seated himself by her side, and, taking her other hand in
his, affectionately, tried to comfort her by saying that he had no doubt
Flora had wandered out into the country and missed her way, and, from
her infirmity, she could not, perhaps, make anyone understand who she
was nor where she came from. "So cheer up my dear," said he, "all will
turn up well in the end, no doubt."

"My dear husband," said she, withdrawing her hand, "I am not worthy that
you should treat me so kindly: I have a dreadful secret to unfold to
you, which I feel I have kept from you too long."

"A secret!" exclaimed her husband, rising hastily, "I tell you I don't
like secrets: everything right and straight and above-board--that's my
plan! I don't want to hear any secrets! Who says that my wife has been
keeping a secret from me? I don't believe a word of it! Who says it, I
should like to know? I'll have him strung up to the yard-arm!"

He seemed in such agitation, as he hurriedly paced the room, that his
poor wife trembled for the result. She saw that a crisis was close at
hand, and probably her happiness was gone for ever: but she had made up
her mind to tell her secret, and she was determined to go through with
it, let the consequences be what they would. So she asked her husband,
in as calm a tone as she could command, to sit and listen for a few
minutes to what she had to say, and then she should throw herself on his
mercy, and would submit to any punishment he might think she deserved;
but she begged him to hear her tale to the end before he judged her.

This serious appeal took the captain quite by surprise. He didn't know
what to do or say, so he took a chair, and prepared for the worst.

With averted eyes, his guilty, trembling wife commenced her tale and
told all: her former marriage, the birth of her daughter, and the
concealment of the child by Miss Fisher: her treachery and heartless
importunities for money, and threats: and, above all, her own weakness
and guilt in keeping the secret from her good, kind husband.

When she had finished, she leaned her head on her hands, and burst into
a torrent of tears. She had been keeping her feelings under control
during the recital, that she might not interrupt the narrative which she
had to relate. She could not restrain them any longer; and now she
expected a terrible outburst of passion from her husband. The crisis was
at hand. She waited the awful doom which she felt she deserved; but it
did not come. She dared not look at her husband.

He had sat perfectly still and silent all the time she had been
speaking, and after she had finished he was silent still. At length he
rose, and approaching the couch seated himself by the side of his poor
weeping, trembling wife; and, taking her hand as he had done before, he
said,--"I knew my darling wife had no secrets that her husband was not
cognizant of."

"No secrets!" she exclaimed, looking up in astonishment,--"I have been
confessing the knowledge of a secret that I have been keeping from you
for years and years, to my sorrow and shame!"

"I heard what you have been telling me," replied her husband, "but you
have told me nothing that I didn't know before. Why I have known all
that for years."

"You have known it!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, in amazement. "How is it
possible! Who can have told you!"

"Well, now 'tis my turn to spin a yarn, as we sailors say," replied the
captain. "Your first husband's name was Marshall, he had a brother in
the Indian army. After your poor husband was killed, his brother came to
England. He had been informed of the secret marriage; and he had been
enjoined by his brother, in his last letter, after he received the wound
of which he died, that when he came to England, he would see his wife,
and do all he could for her. He came to England in my ship, and he saw
you."

"He did," replied Mrs. Courland.--"It was soon after the birth of my
little girl. He came to Fisher's cottage. Miss Fisher told him a
plausible tale, saying his brother wished that the marriage should never
be known until he came home to claim me as his wife. As the marriage had
been kept secret so long, it was thought best to keep it so entirely. I
was sent for to come home to my father's house, where I found you
waiting my arrival. You paid the most devoted attention to me.--You were
rich.--My parents and all my friends urged it, and we were married. I
was persuaded by Miss Fisher not to tell my secret, and so it was kept;
and it has been a burden on my mind from that time to this."

"My beautiful wife," said the captain, kissing her affectionately,
"Marshall returned with me to India, after our marriage, and he told me
the secret, so that you see I have known it almost as long as you have
known it yourself; but I never mentioned it, fearing to distress you,
well-knowing that you had been imposed upon by a designing avaricious
woman."

"My good, kind indulgent husband!" exclaimed his wife, caressing the
bluff old sailor, as if he had been a little spoiled child.

"And now that we have had all these explanations," said the captain,
"and might be happy with our daughter, she is lost!"

"She is found!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland: "our nephews have found her,
and by this time she is in Penzance; we will send for them."

A servant was despatched to the hotel, which was very near, and in a few
minutes, Mr. Morley appeared with a beautiful girl leaning on his arm.

Both the captain and Mrs. Courland were struck with her extreme beauty,
and the captain at once exclaimed,--"Isabella Morley the second, by all
that's beautiful!"

"No, sir!" replied Mr. Morley,--"not Isabella Morley, but Alrina
Marshall!"

"My long lost child!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rushing towards Alrina,
and embracing her tenderly, "I see the likeness myself!"

"Good heavens!" cried the captain, "is this our daughter? Then what has
become of the other?"

"What other?" exclaimed Mr. Morley and Mrs. Courland in a breath.

"Why, the poor girl we have been in search of all night," replied the
captain: "I concluded she was the lost child!"

"Alas!" said Mr. Morley,--"she is indeed lost!" And he briefly related
the dreadful catastrophe which he had witnessed so recently, which threw
a gloom over the whole party. They soon recovered their spirits,
however, and, leaving the newly-formed family group to enjoy their
unexpected happiness in quietude, Mr. Morley accompanied by Frederick,
who had remained at the hotel while his brother took Alrina to her
newly found parents, hastened, as fast as possible, back to
Pendrea-house, to assist in unravelling the mysteries connected with
that ill-fated cottage and its unfortunate inmates.



CHAPTER XLVII.

MYSTERIES EXPLAINED.


Josiah did not let go his hold of the boy until they were safely seated
in a room at Pendrea-house. And, even then, he would not let him go
until the door was bolted, and he had seen that all the windows were
fastened, and had even looked up the chimney.

"He ha' ben in queer places in his time I reckon," said he, "and seed a
bra' many things: he ha' gov'd us the slip oftener then he will again."

Refreshments were ordered in and done justice to by all; and, when Mr.
Morley and his brother arrived, the squire requested all the party to
attend him in his library or Justice-room, as the domestics persisted in
calling it.

Josiah still kept the boy in custody, and when all were assembled,
Squire Pendray said, addressing the boy,--"It appears that you can
enlighten us on all we want to know respecting the inmates of this
house, and we wish you to relate all particulars respecting them. You
can gain nothing, now, by keeping anything back; but may benefit
yourself a good deal by confessing everything, and informing us who were
there, and how they got there, and the origin of the fire, if you know.
Fear nothing: I tell you, in the presence of these gentlemen, that you
shall not suffer, in any way, for what you may reveal to us. If you do
not tell us the truth, and we think you are concealing anything that you
ought to reveal, you must suffer the consequences."

The boy looked from one to the other, and seemed to hesitate for several
minutes before he spoke. His eyes were directed more than once towards
the door, as if he expected to see someone enter to relieve him of his
perplexity; no one came, however, and he seemed to feel that he was
standing alone in the world. His old friends (if friends they were)
could help him no longer, and his shrewdness told him he had better make
a virtue of necessity; so after a short pause, as if collecting his
scattered thoughts, he began his confession. He had been too much mixed
up with the conjuror to have imbibed very much of the Cornish dialect,
although he sometimes used it. Thus he began in very intelligible
English,--"'The Maister' saved my life, gentlemen, by his knowledge in
medicine, and I was grateful for it. He took a liking to me, and I
helped him in his business: call it what you will,--conjuring if you
like. I never grew after he took me into his service at eight years old:
perhaps I don't look more than that now, but I am eight-and-twenty. I
was useful to 'The Maister' on account of my size: I could worm out a
little secret by hiding in odd corners, and I never forgot what I heard;
I liked the post, and gloried in seeing the astonishment of some of the
people to whom 'The Maister' told some secrets he had heard through me,
which they thought no one else knew but themselves. Our adventures were
varied and frequent; the last was an awful one, when we came on shore
under St. Just in a vessel bottom uppermost. 'The Maister' persuaded me,
when I went to see him at his house afterwards, that he had been the
means of saving my life again, in return for which he wanted my
services. He expected the officers of justice. He was not so ill as he
pretended; but it would not have been safe for him to be taken away by
his friends then, nor to be supposed to have escaped in the ordinary
way; he would have been traced at once. I had the means of getting into
his room at anytime from the back premises, through a passage that no
one knew but ourselves. He had some drug by him which would cause the
party taking it to appear dead for a short time. I was in the room when
the constable and some of you gentlemen were below entreating Miss
Reeney to take you up into his room. We heard you coming: I gave the
mixture to 'The Maister,' and crept under the bed, and when you entered
you pronounced him dead, and left almost immediately. Another mixture,
which he had previously prepared, and which I had ready to give him,
restored him at once; and that night, with the assistance of our
friends, whose names I need not now mention, whom I had communicated
with by means of the poor fellow commonly called 'Mazed Dick,' whose
swiftness of foot is well known, we got 'The Maister' away, and the
report that he had been taken away by the spirits favoured us. We
brought him to the cottage that was burned down to-day, where we knew
Miss Freeman had been for some weeks confined through illness, brought
on by exposure to the cold; she fell and fractured a limb, in walking
from Penzance to Lieut. Fowler's station, where she was going on some
errand in connexion with that dumb girl--what it was I don't know. She
slipped her foot and fell and broke her leg, and there she lay, on the
cold ground, all night, until she was discovered by 'Mazed Dick' in one
of his rambles, and was taken to his brother's cottage. I could not
desert my master; I believed in his power, and do still. He was
recovering fast: he could get up and walk about his room, and intended
being off in a few days; I was to have gone with him. This morning, to
my surprise, I saw the dumb girl come out of a room at the further end
of the house; the mistress of the house, and her son, 'Mazed Dick,' were
gone away, and the outer door was locked: I watched her, but was not
seen by her. She peeped into several rooms, and tried the door of the
one in which 'The Maister' was; but that was always kept locked and
bolted on the inside. She then went on to the room in which Miss Freeman
lay in bed. She seemed to know her at once; for she darted into the
room, and drew something from her bosom; it seemed like an ear-ring, as
well as I could see it; and she pointed and made signs, which Miss
Freeman seemed to understand, and which seemed to irritate her very
much. Miss Freeman had a lighted candle, on a small table, by her
bedside, for the purpose of reading some papers. The room was very dark,
although it was early in the morning, but the windows were small, and
half-hid by the thatch of the roof, which hung down over them. She tried
to snatch at what the girl held in her hand; and, in doing so, she
overturned the candle on the bed, when a bottle of something inflammable
fell with it, and the bed in an instant, was in a blaze. She seized the
girl by her hair, and dragged her on to the bed, when they both caught
fire, and the poor girl seized the woman by the arms to make her let go
her hair, and so she pulled her out of bed, and they both fell together
on the floor, a mass of flames. I could not assist them, so I ran out
through a side-door which I knew how to open, in order to call
assistance, when I met Josiah, and he sent me on to Lieut. Fowler, but I
believe Josiah didn't know who I was, he seemed so frightened at what I
told him. When I met him again, it was at the door of 'The Maister's'
room. He had followed me when I ran through on my return from Lieut.
Fowler's. The door was locked and bolted on the inside. I told Josiah
whose room it was, and he forced the door open; for the wood in which
the bolts were fixed was still burning, and easily gave way: the fire
had reached this room and blazed in all its fury; and I suppose, from
the burning of the roof and the wood all round, the bolts of the door
soon became too hot for 'The Maister' to touch them, and so he was burnt
to death. That is my tale, gentlemen, and all I have spoken is the
truth."

So saying, the boy or man which ever he might be called, placed his
hands before his eyes and awaited the result of his communication:
whether the thought of the awful death of "The Maister," whom he seemed
to have looked up to with fear and gratitude, drew a tear from his eyes
or not, was not known. His tale was believed; and, after a consultation
among the gentlemen present, it was agreed that something should be done
for the poor fellow, on his promising to lead a new life and give up all
evil practices in future. This he very readily and sincerely
promised,--and the party separated for the present, as Mr. Morley said
he must return to Penzance to see his uncle and aunt previous to his
commencing, in company with his brother, the search after the wretches
at whose hands his poor father had suffered such grievous wrong, and
which had been retarded by the occurrence of recent events. Now they
would have nothing to retard their search, he said,--and he would not
rest until he had found them and brought them to justice or confession.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

A BRILLIANT CORNISH DIAMOND DISCOVERED AND PLACED IN A GOLDEN CASKET.


Julia was very glad, when she returned, to find her old schoolfellow
Alrina with her uncle and aunt; and astonished beyond measure, when she
learned that she was also her cousin. The story, altogether, was so
romantic, she said, that it reminded her of something she had read a
long time ago in one of the old Romances at Ashley Hall; and she was so
interested in it, that, when her aunt had finished her recital, she
begged her to repeat it over again; but this she was prevented from
doing, even had she intended it, by the arrival of Mr. Morley and
Frederick.

Julia had not seen much of her brothers lately; she received them,
therefore, with warmth, especially Frederick, whom, being nearer her own
age, and better known to her from their having been thrown together in
their childhood, she loved with the tenderest affection. She saw that
the meeting between him and Alrina was not what it ought to have
been,--nor did the coolness wear off: so she took Alrina out of the
room, on some pretence, and asked her the reason; for she knew that two
fonder hearts never pledged their troth to one another than those two.
Alrina hesitated, at first, and seemed at a loss what answer to give,
until Julia reminded her that they were now not only old friends and
schoolfellows, but were near relatives, and, unless there was some
secret that could not be revealed, she should feel very grieved if her
newly-found cousin could not place sufficient confidence in her as a
friend, to tell her what had caused the coolness between two, who, but a
short time ago, seemed so devoted to each other. "If Frederick has said
or done anything to annoy or displease you," she said, "I am sure it was
unintentional on his part; and, if you will tell me, in confidence, I
will do my best to set all things right."

Still Alrina hesitated, and Julia began to suspect that the coolness she
had observed was caused by something more serious than she had at first
imagined; but, whatever it was, she thought it had better be explained,
and, as Alrina did not seem inclined to speak, she went on with her
persuasive arguments. "Consider, Alrina dear, what years of pain and
mental suffering my poor aunt endured on account of her reticence. Had
she revealed her secret in the beginning, she would have been much
happier, and your life would not have been subject to so many changes
and vicissitudes as you have experienced. If your secret is not one that
you cannot reveal, pray unburden your mind to me, as your near relative
and dearest friend."

Thus importuned, Alrina felt that she could not any longer refuse her
confidence to her friend, and, putting her arm round Julia's waist, she
led her into her own little room, which had already been prepared for
her, and there she told her all, as they sat folding one another in a
fond sisterly embrace.

"You noble girl!" exclaimed Julia, when her cousin had finished the
recital of her troubles, and had told with what bitter pain and anguish
she had done violence to her feelings, by telling Frederick that she
could not love him, in order to save him and his family from marrying
one whose father's evil deeds must throw disgrace and shame upon all
connected with him.

"I would rather have died than brought this disgrace on Frederick and
his family," cried Alrina; "and, having thus discarded him who is dearer
to me than my life, how can I think that he will ever look upon me again
in any other light than as a fickle wayward girl: he can have no further
confidence in me;--indeed, I will not ask it; I do not deserve his love
or confidence after my cruel treatment of him."

"We shall see,"--replied Julia, smiling and kissing her friend
fondly,--"We shall see, my sweet cousin."

While the two cousins were having their confidential chat, Captain and
Mrs. Courland and their two nephews were talking over the events of the
past few days, and Mr. Morley related to his uncle and aunt the boy's
confession.

"Before you leave us to prosecute the search you are so anxious about,"
said Mrs. Courland, addressing the two young men, "I should like to open
the packet entrusted to me by Miss Freeman (or Miss Fisher as I always
called her): she is dead now, poor woman; so that my promise is at an
end."

"Yes!" said the captain, "let it be opened, now,--we won't keep any more
secrets or mysteries here."

The packet was therefore produced and opened. It contained a long
manuscript, written in a neat hand, and was headed,--

     "_The Confession of Maria Fisher, alias Freeman_":--

and Mr. Morley, being requested to read it, read as follows:--

"I, Maria Fisher, alias Freeman, being on my death-bed, make this
confession as the only atonement and reparation I can make for the evil
deeds I have done during my life: I have injured almost beyond
reparation, the whole of the Morley family.

"First Isabella Morley was the victim of my avarice. I kept her little
daughter, to serve my own ends, and palmed off the poor dumb girl (of
whom more anon) on her as her child. Alrina, whom I called my niece, is
Isabella Morley's daughter. Proofs sufficient can be found.--The Coopers
know all: and my sinful brother knows all.--Sift it out. That poor dumb
girl was found by Cooper, washed on shore from a wreck: he picked her up
and carried her to his house. She had a peculiar pair of ear-rings in
her ears, very handsome and costly: I have one in my possession now--the
other I have missed. Her linen was marked '_Fowler_.' We have since
learned that Lieut. Fowler's brother and his little daughter were
wrecked on this coast on their voyage from India. He was drowned; the
child was saved. The Coopers know more;--my brother knows all. This
child's infirmity was useful to us: she was kept at the Coopers'. Sift
this out to the bottom to: here is the clue:"--

"Oh, miserable woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland,--"what a life of sin and
wickedness she must have led!"

"Yes!" replied Mr. Morley.--"but that is not all: let me go on. The
remainder of the manuscript is not quite so legible: it seems to have
been written under the influence of stimulants: it is blotted, and some
words are erased with the pen and written over again: I will read it as
well as I can, but you must give me time." And, having smoothed out the
manuscript, and turned his chair, so as to let the light fall full on
the paper, he resumed his task. There were many stoppages in the course
of the reading, and many exclamations of surprise and horror, which we
will not notice here, but let the confession go on smoothly, to avoid
confusion and tediousness.

"If the first part of my confession has startled the reader (whoever he
may be)" it went on, "let him close the MS.--What has been told, is as
nothing to what remains. How to approach this part of my confession I
know not. Brandy will assist me. Brandy! Brandy! That will drown my
better thoughts, and bring me back to that dread night, and help me to
tell my tale as fearlessly and heartlessly as the deed was committed.

"Now I can go on again. Mrs. Courland, the once beautiful Isabella
Morley, had returned to Ashley Hall. My brother and myself followed, and
took a lone cottage near the sea-coast.--Our father lived with us. He
was a rover, though an old man: unsteady and intemperate in his habits:
he was useful to the smugglers, and they paid him well for his
assistance. My brother took a higher walk in the smuggling line. He got
connected with some of the Cornish smugglers,--Cooper among the rest;
and they bought a little vessel of which Cooper was the captain; and my
brother, living at a distance, and being connected with merchants, sold
the goods. One night!--I shall never forget that night!--a gentleman was
driven to seek shelter in our cottage from the snow: he had missed his
way.--My father and brother were both out. My father's bedroom on the
ground-floor, was vacant: I did not expect him home that night, so I put
the gentleman there to sleep.--To sleep! Yes!--It might indeed have been
a long sleep!

"My brother returned. I told him Mr. Morley had entrusted me with his
name;--he had money, too, he told me,--a large sum. My brother hated the
name of Morley: he had been spurned by a Morley:--his love had been
rejected with scorn:--he was a man of strong passions. The brother of
her whom he now hated as much as he had loved before,--the man who had
introduced the rich captain to Isabella, and so overturned his hopes of
marriage with the lovely creature he had so passionately loved, was in
his power. Revenge seized hold of him. He called for brandy: he drank
deeply, and raved like a madman; then he became more calm. He took Mr.
Morley's stick and examined it: it was a curious stick. I left him still
drinking, and retired to my bedroom.

"I knew not the extent of that night's work until the morning; when, oh,
horror!--my brother had murdered our father instead of ----! What was to
be done? My brother's ready wit hit on a plan. The intended victim was
gone; perhaps to inform the authorities. He had worn away the murdered
man's hat. His hat with his name in it, was left: it was with his stick
the murder had been committed: he was accused and committed. My brother
found the bag of money; we fled into Cornwall, changed our names to
Freeman, and took up our abode at St. Just: that money enabled us to
live comfortably. My brother was clever, and earned money in other ways
easily. My confession is finished. My conscience is satisfied. The minds
of the Morleys are relieved. When this is read I shall be no more, and
my brother and the Coopers will be out of your reach. Search,--sift as
you will, you can know no more!--We have outwitted you!--Ha! ha! ha!"

The latter part of the manuscript was blotted and stained, as if brandy
had been spilt over it, and the writing was almost illegible, indicating
the unsteadiness of the hand that wrote it.

When Mr. Morley had finished he threw the MS. on the table and
exclaimed,--"I had my suspicions of that fellow from the first. Our
minds are now set at rest, and we can publish this document to satisfy
the public of the perfect innocence of our father, and the double guilt
of those wicked, lawless people."

"I think," said Captain Courland, "that it is sufficient that you are
satisfied, yourselves, and that the guilty parties have confessed:--the
public have forgotten all the circumstances long ago, and stirring it up
again, now, can answer no good end."

"Perhaps you are right sir," replied Mr. Morley, "the guilty wretches
have had their reward in this life!"

"What a shocking death it must have been," said Mrs. Courland, with a
shudder: "torture and pain the most acute and agonizing. How rarely the
guilty escape punishment, even in this life."

"I should like our good friends, the squire and Fowler, to hear this
confession," said Frederick, "for they knew the story of the murder, and
all the circumstances connected with it, and felt, I am quite sure, a
deep interest in our search after the guilty parties."

"Of course," said the captain;--"they ought to be informed at once; and
I have been thinking of inviting them all here. What do you think of it,
my dear?" he continued, addressing his wife. "We cannot have so large a
party to dinner at our lodgings, of course; but there is no reason why
we shouldn't ask them all to dine with us at the hotel."

"I should like it above all things," replied Mrs. Courland, "and, if
Frederick will undertake to deliver the invitations, I will write them
at once, and invite the whole party for to-morrow. The ladies must come
also, or I shall have nothing to do with the party."

"The ladies, by all means," said the captain, as his wife opened her
writing-desk.

"I really think I must petition for Josiah to be invited, to be
entertained by Alice Ann," said Mr. Morley, smiling.

"Of course," said the captain, in high glee: "and that poor boy mustn't
be left out. Shiver my topsails!--young sirs--we'll have a jovial party!
I'll go down to the hotel myself in the morning and superintend the
selection of the wine: we'll have the very best the landlord has in his
cellar.--and plenty of it too.--The squire is a two-bottle man--I'll
take my Solomon Davey to that!"

While Mrs. Courland was writing the notes, Mr. Morley took up the MS.
again, and, on turning over another sheet, he exclaimed,--"here's
something more!"

All ears were instantly attentive, and he read on:--

"I, Maria Fisher, alias Freeman, as an atonement, in some degree, for my
sinful conduct towards her, give and bequeath to Alrina Marshall,
formerly known as Alrina Freeman, the daughter of Mrs. Courland of
Ashley Hall, all my worldly goods and moneys now in my possession or in
the possession of my brother, John Fisher, alias Freeman, belonging to
me, and all property of any kind which I may possess at my death; and I
hope I shall be pardoned for my sins."

This document was written in a legible hand, as if after due
deliberation, and properly signed and executed. It, however, gave very
little pleasure to the parties concerned, except that it shewed a shadow
of proper feeling on the part of Miss Freeman to make amends for past
misconduct.

The notes were at length written, and Frederick was despatched with
them. The captain thought they might have been sent by a servant, but
Frederick would not hear of it. He wished to be the bearer of the
welcome news to Fowler, he said, with whom he should remain for the
night, as he had had riding and excitement enough that day already.

When Alrina and Julia returned to the drawing-room after their
tête-à-tête, Frederick was gone: it was evident, therefore, Alrina
thought, that he didn't care for her now: she had offended him beyond
forgiveness, and he had given her up; she felt that she deserved it, and
that feeling made her more wretched than ever; she had treated him
shamefully, and had, she thought, wounded his feelings unnecessarily.
Had he treated her cruelly, she could, and would, have forgiven him; but
she could not seek him out, and ask him to forgive her. No, she could
not do that--besides, he seemed to avoid her. What could she do? She
must endeavour to bear it. She slept very little that night;--her
thoughts were too much occupied. The pleasure and happiness she felt at
the course events had taken in her worldly career, were quite absorbed
and overbalanced by the painful reflections she experienced with regard
to the hidden secrets of her heart. In the midst of all the newly
acquired pleasures of birth and fortune, and a happy home, her heart was
crushed and sad.

Mrs. Courland could not make it out. She thought her daughter would have
been to her a delightful companion, and she had looked forward to years
of happiness; but she found Alrina silent and reserved. She asked Julia
if she knew the cause, and she told her aunt all. They both honoured and
respected Alrina for her noble conduct:--they both knew, very well, that
it only required a kind friend to explain to Frederick the state of
affairs, and all would be well.

Mrs. Courland took the first opportunity of telling her husband how
nobly their daughter had acted (for she kept nothing from him now), at
which the old gentleman expressed the highest gratification. "We have
found a treasure, my dear;" said he, "many have searched among the
Cornish mines, and spent their all in the search, without finding such a
precious jewel as we have discovered here:--we will preserve her as the
most valued diamond that ever was discovered in Cornwall."

"Don't be so absurd," replied Mrs. Courland, smiling, "I'm really
afraid our long-lost child will be spoiled if she remains with us."

The captain's dinner-party was a right jolly one: and, soon after the
desert was set on the table, and the servants had withdrawn, he
said,--"I am not in the habit of throwing a wet blanket over any
company, especially when I have invited the party to my own table; but I
am sure you will all like to hear what these wretches say for
themselves: so, before we begin to enjoy ourselves, I will ask Morley to
read the confession which was placed in Mrs. Courland's hands a few days
ago."

Mr. Morley, accordingly, read Miss Freeman's confession, at which all
the party were horror-struck, although several of them had heard it
before.

Lieut. Fowler was perfectly astounded to learn that the dumb girl was
his niece, and was grieved at her sad end.

"Now," cried the captain, when Mr. Morley had finished, and all had made
their remarks on the sad fate of the inmates of the cottage, "splinter
my topmast! but we'll have no more of this! Pass the bottle, squire, and
we'll drink to the health of my newly-found daughter:--she's a noble
girl! we have found her among the Cornish mines, and so we'll christen
her _The Cornish Diamond_!--ha! ha! ha!" and the old gentleman leaned
back in his chair and laughed right merrily. It was one of his old,
hearty laughs, such as he used to indulge in when he was in Flora's
room, and thought no one heard him;--a sort of exhilarating laugh, which
no one could help joining in, without great difficulty: and all, except
two of the party, did join in it,--even the glasses on the sideboard
echoed their sympathy. There were only two who did not join in the
laugh, and they were Alrina and Mrs. Courland. The former felt that it
tended to make her more conspicuous than she wished just at this time,
and she blushed up to the very roots of her hair, as we have seen her
blush before; while the latter was shocked at the vulgarity (as she
deemed it) of her husband, and dreaded lest he should expose his free
and easy manner still further to the Pendray ladies; so, in order to
check it, as she thought, she said, with quiet dignity, when the
merriment had a little subsided, "My dear, you really must remember that
you are not on board ship.--What will the ladies think?"

"I tell you what it is, Mrs. Courland;" he replied, in perfect good
humour, "you've had it your own way a long time, and have put a stopper
on my lingo often enough; I mean to steer the ship my own way for once,
and to-morrow you shall take the helm again if you like. So, drink my
toast, ladies and gentlemen:--'The Cornish Diamond!' and a brighter one
was never discovered in the best of our mines. No heeltaps, mind! Fill
what you like; but drink what you fill!--that's my rule."

Many other toasts were drank, and everyone except the party most
concerned and one other, spent a right merry evening. These two
melancholy ones were Alrina Marshall and Frederick Morley.

Julia saw how unhappy they were, and, in the course of the evening, she
took Frederick aside, and told him (in confidence) the state of Alrina's
mind, and explained to him her reasons for saying that she could not
love him. He fully believed it, he said; for there was nothing too noble
and disinterested to believe of Alrina; and he only wanted an
opportunity to throw himself at her feet, and beg her to recall the rash
declaration she had made.

"Come with me, then," said Julia; and she conducted him into a small
room, in which Alrina was sitting waiting for her cousin, who had
excused herself for a moment, having this object in view; and the
mischievous creature, having brought the two glumpy ones together, as
she called them, left them to fight it out in their own way. There was
no fighting, however; for, when they appeared again, they were the
merriest of the party.



CHAPTER XLIX.

THE WEDDING BELLS.


The next morning gossip was rife in Penzance: nothing was talked of but
the captain's dinner-party, and the circumstances connected with it.

Three pairs of lovers walked out from the hotel in different directions,
while Julia took a quiet walk with her uncle and aunt, who pretended to
pity her, because she was not so fortunate as the other three young
ladies of the party. They little knew what was going on behind the
scenes; for, if the truth must be told, Julia had received a letter,
that very morning, from the most devoted love-sick swain that ever wrote
sonnets to the moon, or vowed eternal constancy to the most lovely of
her sex. So Julia was perfectly happy, whatever her good uncle and aunt
might think.

It was very hard, Captain Courland said, to be obliged to give up his
daughter again, as soon as he had found her, but Frederick was a good
fellow, and he should have her; and to enable him to procure a suitable
casket to keep the precious _diamond_ in, the captain gave him a
handsome sum as a wedding present.

Maud was so happy in the consciousness of having gained the affections
of the only man she had ever known who possessed a congenial spirit with
her own, that she used all her persuasion with her father, in favour of
Lieut. Fowler's hopes with regard to her sister. The squire was taken by
surprise he said: to lose one daughter was bad enough, but to lose both
at the same time, was more than he could consent to. However, he
promised to talk it over with the captain over a bottle of wine after
dinner: and, either the wine had a peculiarly persuasive flavour, or the
captain was more than usually eloquent; for the consent was given the
next day, and it was agreed that the three weddings should take place at
Penzance on the same day; as soon as the necessary preliminary
preparations could be made.

Josiah and Alice Ann had not been idle. Perhaps love-making is
infectious; if so, they caught the infection from their betters; for
Josiah popped the question, and was accepted, about the same time that
their master and mistress (Mr. Frederick and Miss Alrina) were making up
their little imaginary differences at the hotel.

While the ladies were making their preparations for their weddings, the
gentlemen, finding time hang heavily on their hands, proposed going to
the conjuror's house, at St. Just, and having a regular overhaul, as
Lieut. Fowler expressed it.

Alrina's consent was asked, and granted, as a matter of course; for what
had she to do with the conjuror's house now? So they went, and in their
search, they found money and jewels of great value; for, in his haste to
get away, the conjuror had not taken very much with him;--the belt was
gone, and this had, no doubt, been refilled. There was no one to claim
the property, nor to hinder them in their search, so they made a minute
investigation; and that nothing might escape them, where they supposed
or imagined there was a secret drawer, they did not hesitate to break
the piece of furniture in which they suspected it into a thousand
pieces. There could be no doubt, now, as to the disposition and
ownership of the property. The conjuror's nearest relative and
representative was his sister, and she had disposed of all her property
to Alrina. But Alrina, fortunately didn't want it now; so, after
consulting her good friends on the matter, it was decided that Squire
Pendray should lay out a portion of it for the benefit of the boy Bill,
and Mazed Dick and his mother, according to his judgment; and that the
remainder should be given to the poor and for charitable purposes.

There was nothing wanting that money could procure to render the wedding
everything that could be desired by the most fastidious of gossips.

Mr. Morley and Frederick presented Josiah and his wife with a handsome
sum of money on their marriage, which took place soon after their own,
to enable them to purchase a farm, to which the happy couple retired
after their wedding.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown continued to keep the "Commercial" hotel for several
years, and were visited, frequently, by Mr. Morley and his brother and
their wives. But, of all her friends and customers, Mrs. Brown often
declared that she never loved anyone half so much as she loved Miss
Reeney, who was worthy, she said, of the name Mrs. Trenow had given
her,--"THE CORNISH DIAMOND!"

[Illustration: FINIS]

PRINTED BY W. CORNISH, THE LIBRARY, PENZANCE





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